Chapter Text
Aloneness
is the first hygienic measure.
Aloneness
will enlarge the walls of the room,
I will open the window
and the large, frosty air will enter,
healthy as tragedy.
-Anna Swir
for freshness, I've plucked my eyeballs out, one by
one by one, & dropped them into clay jars next to
the heart-shaped shard framed on the wall.
My masterpiece. My late blue period. I'll call it
faith because I won't need my senses in this
new world. I pledge to ascertain with just these
desiccating devices; logic & fact, I'm decapitating
myself to see everything brand new.
-Nate Pritts
When her father asks her what her life is like, out there in Palo Alto, Veronica’s first thought is, Clean.
She lives in a one-room apartment on the ground floor of a converted warehouse. It’s a far cry from Stanford’s sandstone arches and copper-tile roofs, but she prefers to be off-campus, away from parties and post-adolescent drama. The upper stories are artists’ studios, and she likes watching the painters come and go: the brunette whose batik skirt flutters like moth wings, the pixie blonde in the stained white overalls and sheer bra, the boy who rolls his own cigarettes, clad in all black, as moody and graceful as a Nouvelle Vague star. But she pretends not to see them when they wave hello.
Her place is sparsely furnished, but she has everything she needs: her bed, with its slate blue quilt and single pillow; her grey chair, which she rolls across the room when she’s pondering her thesis; and the walnut desk where she eats, reads, writes, and studies. In lieu of a nightstand, she has a stack of textbooks. Her wall clock, shaped like a barn owl, was left by a previous tenant, but she was too charmed by its sleepy eyes to throw it out.
There is no TV, but she watches movies on her laptop every once in a while. Her walls are decorated with movie posters—Maude from The Big Lebowski in her gold armor and horned helmet, Sam Spade in a pinstriped suit, holding the Maltese Falcon, a cop car driving past bloody snow in Fargo— and vintage maps of Palo Alto. She takes comfort in the lines on the maps, which appear, at first glance, to stagger and twirl like a drunkard, but are in fact in perfect order. Veronica knows how to get where she needs to go.
She keeps the remnants of her old life on the inside of her closet door, where she’s tacked up snapshots like it’s a high school locker. There are only three: Wallace and Mac, high-fiving at the arcade; Veronica and Lily, dancing at pep squad practice; and her dad, blue cotton candy in one hand, the other holding her younger self steady on his shoulders at the county fair.
Veronica has worked hard to turn herself into someone new. Palo Alto Veronica certainly looks different, with her blunt bob haircut and sleek, dark clothes. She traded in tie-dye t-shirts and utility jackets for blouses and slacks at the Buffalo Exchange. Still, it stung to let go of her combat boots, the ones Logan called “butch”—first as an insult and then as a term of endearment. “It’s always business with you,” Logan used to say. It wasn’t, back then, but it is now, and everyone can tell.
After their break-up, Veronica was heartbroken, jealous, and sick, every nerve in her body sparking “Logan.” She told her friends the split was her idea, explaining, “It’s impossible to make A’s when you’re taking care of a drunk with a death wish.” To save herself—and save her pride—she had to bring up her GPA.
So Veronica returned to the doctor, who prescribed a new drug to treat her headaches and insomnia. It cost more, but it was well worth it: her appetite returned, and she could pay attention to her professor’s meandering lectures. The doctor recommended psychotherapy, too, but Veronica had no interest in talking to strangers. He warned, “You can’t heal if your life is in chaos. If you aren’t going to tackle your stress at the source, you at least need a healthy routine.”
It had been years since Veronica had followed any sort of routine. As Keith Mars always said, “Crime keeps its own time.” In high school, Veronica had to question suspects in the girl’s bathroom during lunch, then scarf down her sandwich in study hall or skip it altogether. When stakeouts lasted until dawn, she napped in her car so she wouldn’t miss homeroom.
It took practice to adjust to a regimented life, but she's mastered it. Wake up at seven. Run in the park. Eat three square meals and two snacks—plenty of vegetables and healthy fats. Fall asleep by eleven.
Maybe her life is blander now. Maybe she is. Mac certainly thinks so. But Veronica got back on the Dean’s list, and she made it to her dream school, so she has no regrets. She’s not sure exactly where she’s headed, but she knows it’s safer than the town she left.
————————-
Veronica is too burnt out on violence and intrigue to join the FBI. But she’s still interested in profiling, in a non-professional capacity, so she’s taking a couple of psychology courses.
“Far be it for me to judge,” Mac says, her pixelated face dryly amused, “considering how loudly I’ve objected to getting my head shrunk. But it’s pretty weird to study psychology when you keep insisting that therapists are useless. Is your plan to psychoanalyze yourself? I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“The field is interesting, that’s all. I’ll learn how to read people better.”
Mac snorts. “You want to become a human lie detector? I guess it could come in handy, not having to rely on bugs. Speaking of, I figured out how to hack into Hearst’s system! Stanford uses the same program. So if you’re on a case up there, your trusty Q can help.”
Acid rises to the back of Veronica’s throat, and her voice is sharp when she says, “I don’t do that anymore.”
Mac raises both hands, palm out. “Alright, alright, if you say so.” There’s a long silence, and then she asks, “Want to help me pick a color for my hair? I’m trying to decide between Atomic Turquoise and Electric Lizard.”
Veronica smiles, relieved that Mac seems to be acting more like her pre-Beaver self. If they were the sentimental type, she’d tell her, but that’s never been their way. And Veronica is reluctant to start a conversation about feelings and friendship, because she’s not sure Mac has entirely forgiven her for being so distant at Hearst.
Those last months in Neptune, Veronica passed on every party and game night invitation. She listened with half an ear when Wallace recounted his date with the Lucy Liu look-alike in his physics class. She smiled vacantly when Mac joked about her math professor’s collection of Canadian tuxedos. Her friends tried to ask her about her own life, but her glare quickly shut them down. It’s easier now that she’s hours away. If she feels overwhelmed or under pressure, she ends the call and blames her building’s spotty electricity.
Her dad is off her back, too, now that Veronica’s out of Neptune, done with Logan, and up to a solid hundred-and-six pounds. She distracts him with stories about her classes. “My professor’s researching the neuropsychology of pro baseball players,” she says. “If I see any Padres around, I’ll get you an autograph.” And then he’s chattering about Mike Cameron’s Golden Glove.
Veronica tells herself she has everything under control.
——————
Later, she’s scrounging in her purse for a five-dollar bill when she spots a familiar face out of the corner of her eye. Sandwiched between mint peppermint patties and triple-A-batteries is a stack of US Weeklies with Logan’s mugshot on the cover.
“Like Father, Like Son? Logan Echolls Arrested For Misdemeaner Assault.”
He’s smirking like it’s all a grand joke, of course, but she can see the rage in his bloodshot eyes. Logan still looks handsome, somehow, even with a puffy jaw and bruised cheekbone. The precinct lights and the jumpsuit give his skin a sallow cast.
Veronica swallows a tearful laugh, thinking of all the times she tried to cull the orange from his closet. “It makes you look like a prison inmate,” she said.
Some days, he’d reply, “Might as well get used to it. I’m bound to be convicted eventually.” She’d put her hand to her chest in mock offense and say, “How dare you doubt my skills! Even if I couldn’t get the charges dropped—unlikely—you know I’d organize a jailbreak!”
Other days, Logan would laugh. “Put on your tightest pencil skirt, and you can play the lawyer. I’m ready to be cross-examined.”
When a shopping cart nudges her back, Veronica jolts out of her reverie.
“Oh, sorry. Daydreaming.” She swiftly hides the tabloid behind the April issue of Vogue: “Nobody’s Perfect!” the cover says, offering advice on how to hide flaws with fashion.
“Hey, don’t I know you? You work at the library, right?” the girl asks. Veronica recognizes her from Psych 201: Amelia, the field hockey phenom from Connecticut. She’s not surprised the other girl has trouble recalling her name; Veronica rarely speaks in class unless prompted by the teacher.
“That’s me. And we’re both in Edison’s Monday lecture.”
Amelia snaps her fingers. “Yeah, that’s right. I really liked what you said in class today. About how addiction affects everyone in the family.” Her expression is shrewd.
Veronica is horrified to realize that Mac might’ve been right. Am I working out my family drama in class? Can other people tell? When Amelia looks primed to say more, Veronica lies, “Gotta run. Busy night!”
As soon as she gets home, Veronica takes a shower, grateful for the broken water heater. The bracing cold feels like penance.