I stood in front of the row of photos. Mick’s ten sets of lips glimmered, wet and soft-looking in the red safelight.
Nico came to stand next to me. “That one.” He pointed to the middle one, the one I’d manipulated with dodging and burning to set her eyes into deeper shadow. It gave her a haunted beauty. She looked otherworldly.
I pulled the print off the line and followed Nico out into my bedroom. I held the photo at arm’s length in the soft evening light that streamed through my window.
“Jesus,” Nico said. His eyes were fixed hungrily on Mick’s face.
“Ew, stop.”
“No, not like that! I’m saying Jesus about your skills, girl. Fuck nature photography. You should be doing portraits. Look at this!”
I flushed. Nico was the most talented person I knew, although I’d never have admitted it to his face. “Thanks.”
A smile spread across his face. He was reading my mind. “You’re welcome.”
As I set the photo on my desk, my eyes landed on a large silver object on my bed. “Is that the chicken?”
“Yes!” He leaped to the bed and hefted the object. It was a chicken-sized silver sculpture. He handed it to me and I almost dropped it. It must have weighed twenty pounds at least.
“What is this made out of? Solid steel?” I tried to get a better look without dropping it. It was impressive, definitely photorealistic. I could see every detail of every feather. As I admired the realism, something dawned on me. “Did you cast this using a real chicken, Nico?”
He cackled. “Yup! I got one from a family down the street from the warehouse. They have a little farm in their backyard. The mom showed me how to kill it.”
“Oh, gross!” I cried, dropping the thing onto the bed. Now that I knew he’d used a dead chicken, I noticed its pose: limp-necked with toes sort of dangling and eyes half shut.
He gave me a condescending look. “It was much more humane than industrial farming. People all over the world slaughter their own animals. Anyway.” He plopped down next to the chicken and picked it up. “I used a new technique to pour in the molten steel, but yeah, I did a plaster cast of the chicken.” He grinned at me, waiting to be praised.
“Everything you’re saying is the worst thing I have ever heard,” I told him. “Like, I’m on the verge of stealing your DNA and sending it to the FBI. What the fuck is actually wrong with you?”
He cracked up, laughing so hard he fell back onto the bed. “I knew you would hate it,” he gasped.
“It’s disgusting!” I cried, smacking his leg. “You’re so creepy!”
“It’s just a chicken! You ate chicken with me yesterday.”
“That’s different from using a dead chicken to create this serial killer art project! You’re like those weirdos who taxidermy roadkill!”
He curled into the fetal position, laughing and crying and holding his stomach. I said, “Don’t even think about bringing that thing with us tonight. Worst conversation starter ever.”
“But, darling, I made it as a gift for you.”
“I don’t want it! Get it out of here!”
His laughter rose an octave, and he almost fell off the bed rolling around, emitting a loud snorting sound that made me giggle along.
He sat up, wiping his eyes. “Can I take a shower and get ready here?”
“Of course. Go ahead.” His living arrangements did not include a shower, so it was my house or the gym.
He grabbed his backpack and let himself out. I picked up the photo of Mick and considered what I was going to do. I had to show it to her. It was too good not to.
She was going to be pissed that I’d taken her photo without telling her. Maybe I could lie and pretend I didn’t know there was film in the camera? That didn’t feel right.
No. I’d tell her the truth.
I imported the print into my iMac and uploaded it to Photoshop. I killed a few glares in her eyes and upped the highlights on her cheek and hair. Then I exported the photo to PNG and messaged it to myself.
I opened the photo on my phone and looked at her face.
Wow.
If a photographer saw her, they’d immediately think high fashion. Her sharp cheekbones were prominent, her brows straight and strong. The geometry of her bones set against the softness of her skin and wispy, brown-blond hair was breathtaking. She was living, breathing art.
I remembered how self-conscious she was. Maybe this photo could be a gift for her, something she could hold on to and refer back to, like an anchor to remind her that she was beautiful.
There was still a chance she’d be mad at me. But I didn’t have a choice.
The photo already had its hooks in me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MICK
A gray sedan with an Uber sticker on the windshield pulls up to the curb in front of the public pool. I’m not sure it’s Veronica until she rolls down the passenger side window. Her eyes are hidden behind large cat-eye sunglasses. “Hey, miss. You want a ride?”
“I’m not supposed to take rides from strangers.” The words sound flirtatious and bolder than anything I’d normally say.
She grins. “Get in, Jagger.”
I let myself into the coconut-scented interior and pull the door shut behind me. Veronica says, “This is Nico. Nico, this is Mick. Don’t be weird around her.”
Nico is a tall, lanky guy a little older than us. He’s handsome, with olive skin and a shock of dark hair that flops over one of his eyes. He turns to look at me, a brief but intense scan that makes my cheeks hot. “Hi, Mick.”
“Hi,” I reply shyly.
To Veronica, he says, “She’s too good for you. I can already tell.”
“I will cut your face off.”
He hisses out a little mocking laugh, and she smacks his deltoid. The way they are with each other reminds me of siblings.
I busy myself putting on my seat belt, and then I remember my manners. “Thank you for picking me up.”
“No problem.” He pulls out onto the street.
“What are you doing in La Mesa?” Veronica asks me.
“I just got off work. I lifeguard at a few different public pools.”
“Nice,” Nico says, and Veronica hits him again.
“So tell me about this art show,” I say, to get the conversation off me.
Veronica says, “It’s the opening of an exhibit by a group of installation artists. It should be super weird.”
“Eclectic,” Nico corrects her. “Avant-garde. Experimental.”
Veronica rolls her eyes at me. “The main artist suffers from delusions of grandeur.”
Nico snorts.
“Will it be … crowded?” I ask. “Like a party?”
“Yeah, but not like the party we were at. Much more fun.”
Oh God. I shouldn’t have come. I should have said no. I lace my fingers together and squeeze hard. The street is flying by out the window, headlights and lamp posts and neon signs.
“Mick?” Veronica is turned around in her seat, face concerned. “You okay?”
Embarrassment. I force a smile that has to look like a grimace. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
“I’m sorry. You hate parties. We can have Nico drop us off somewhere else.”