Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  Halfway to the bottom, I peered over the banister into the left side of the unfinished basement. Logan was facing away from me, strumming his new Fender Stratocaster and watching his brother Mickey work out a solo. The motion of his shoulder blades rippled his neon green T-shirt, the one I’d bought him on our last trip to Ocean City.

  When he angled his chin to check his fingers on the fret board, I could see his profile. Even with his face set in concentration, his sky blue eyes sparked with joy. Logan could play guitar in a sewer and still have fun.

  Logan and Mickey were like yin and yang, inside and out. Logan’s spiky hair was bleached blond with black streaks, while Mickey’s was black with blond streaks. Logan played a black guitar right-handed, and his brother a white one left-handed. They had the same lanky build, and lots of people thought they were twins, but Mickey was eighteen and Logan only seventeen (minus one day).

  Their sister, Siobhan—Mickey’s actual twin—was sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of them, her fiddle resting against her left knee as she shared a cigarette with the bassist, her boyfriend, Connor.

  My best friend, Megan, sat next to them, knees pulled to her chest. She wove a lock of her long, dark red hair through her fingers as she stared at Mickey.

  The only one facing me was Brian, the drummer. He spotted me and promptly missed a beat. I cringed—he was sometimes brilliant, but he could be distracted by a stray dust ball.

  Mickey and Logan stopped playing and turned to Brian, who adjusted the backward white baseball cap on his head in embarrassment.

  “Jesus,” Mickey said, “is it too much to ask for a fucking backbeat?”

  “Sorry.” Brian twirled his stick in his thick hand, then pointed it at me. “She’s here.”

  Logan spun around, and I expected a glare for interrupting—not to mention leftover hostility from last night’s fight. Instead his face lit up.

  “Aura!” He swept the strap over his head, handed his guitar to Mickey, and leaped to meet me at the bottom of the stairs. “Oh my God, you won’t believe this!” He grabbed me around the waist and hoisted me up. “You will not believe this.”

  “I will, I swear.” I wrapped my arms around his neck, grinning so hard it hurt. Clearly he wasn’t mad at me. “What’s up?”

  “Hang on.” Logan lowered me to the floor, then spread my arms to examine my suit. “They make you wear this to work?”

  “I didn’t have time to change.” I gave him a light punch in the chest for torturing me. “So what won’t I believe?”

  “Siobhan, get her some clothes,” he barked.

  “Choice,” she said. “Say please or kiss my ass.”

  “Please!” Logan held up his hands. “Anything to keep your ass in the safe zone.”

  Siobhan gave Connor her cigarette and got to her feet. As she passed me, she squeezed my elbow and said, “Boy thinks he’s a rock god just because some label people are coming to the show tomorrow.”

  My mind spun as it absorbed my biggest hope and fear. “Is she kidding?” I asked Logan.

  “No,” he growled. “Thanks for blowing the surprise, horse face!” he yelled as she slouched up the stairs, snickering.

  I tugged on his shirt. “Who’s coming?”

  “Get this.” He gripped my shoulders. “A and R dudes from two different companies. One’s an independent—Lianhan Records—”

  “That’s the one we want,” Mickey interjected.

  “—and the other is Warrant.”

  I gasped. “I’ve heard of Warrant.”

  “Because they’re part of a major, major, major humongous label.” Logan’s eyes rolled up in ecstasy, like God himself was handing out record contracts.

  “We’ll use Warrant to make Lianhan jealous,” Mickey added. “But we’re not selling out.”

  Logan pulled me to the back side of the stairs, where the others couldn’t see us. “This could be it,” he whispered. “Can you believe it? It’d be the most amazing birthday present ever.”

  I steadied my breath so I could get the words out. “Hopefully not the best present.”

  “You mean the Strat from my folks?”

  “Not that, either.” I reached up under the back of his T-shirt and let my fingers graze his warm skin.

  “Is it something you—wait.” His eyes widened, making the silver hoop in his brow glint in the overhead light. “Are you saying—”

  “Yep.” I stood on tiptoe and kissed him, quick but hard. “I’m ready.”

  His gold-tipped lashes flickered, but he angled his chin to look at me sideways. “You said that before.”

  “I said a lot of things before. Some of them were stupid.”

  “Yeah, they were.” His eyes crinkled, softening his words. “You know I’d never leave you over this, either way. How could you even think that?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” He traced my jaw with his thumb, which always made me shiver. “I love you.”

  He kissed me then, drowning my doubts in one warm, soft moment. Doubts about him, about me, about him and me.

  “Here you go!” Siobhan called from the stairs, a moment before a clump of denim and cotton fell on our heads. “Oops,” she said with fake surprise.

  I peeled the jeans off Logan’s shoulder and held them up in salute. “Thanks, Siobhan.”

  “Back to work!” rang Mickey’s voice from the other side of the basement.

  Logan ignored his brother and gazed into my eyes. “So … maybe tomorrow night, at my party?” He hurried to add, “Only if you’re sure. We could wait, if you—”

  “No.” I could barely manage a whisper. “No more waiting.”

  His lips curved into a smile, which promptly faded. “I better clean my room. There’s like a one-foot path through all the old Guitar Worlds and dirty laundry.”

  “I can walk on a one-foot path.”

  “Screw that. I want it to be perfect.”

  “Hey!” Mickey yelled again, louder. “What part of ‘back to work’ is not in English?”

  Logan grimaced. “We’re switching out some of our set list—less covers, more original stuff. Probably be up all night.” He gave me a kiss that was quick but full of promise. “Stay as long as you want.”

  He disappeared around the stairs, and immediately Megan replaced him at my side.

  “Did you make up? You did, didn’t you?”

  “We made up.” I sat on the couch to remove my stockings, checking over my shoulder to make sure the guys were out of sight on the other side of the stairs. “I told him I’m ready.”

  Megan slumped next to me and rested her elbow on the back of the sofa. “You don’t think you have to say that to keep him, do you?”

  “It’s something I want too. Anyway, who cares, as long as it works?”

  “Aura …”

  “You know what it’s like, going to their gigs.” My whisper turned to a hiss. “Seeing all those girls who’d probably pay to get naked with Mickey or Logan. Or even with Brian or Connor.”

  “But the guys aren’t like that—well, maybe Brian is, but he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Mickey loves me. Logan loves you.”

  “So?” I slipped on the jeans. “Plenty of rock stars have wives and girlfriends, and they still screw their groupies. It comes with the territory.”

  “I find your lack of faith disturbing,” she said in her best Darth Vader impression, forcing a smile out of me.

  I unbuttoned my white silk blouse. “What should I wear?”

  “Same stuff as always, on the outside. That’s the way he likes you.” Megan snapped the strap of my plain beige bra. “But definitely do better than this underneath.”

  “Duh,” was my only response as I slipped Siobhan’s black-and-yellow Distillers T-shirt over my head. I’d made a covert trip to Victoria’s Secret weeks before—the one way up in Owings Mills, where no one would recognize me. The matching black lace bra and underwear were still in the original bag, with their tags on, in the
back of my bottom dresser drawer.

  “The first time doesn’t have to suck,” she said, “not if you go slow.”

  “Okay,” I said quickly, in a deep state of not wanting to talk about it.

  Luckily, at that moment Brian tapped his sticks to mark time, and the band launched into one of their original tunes, “The Day I Sailed Away.”

  The Keeley Brothers wanted to be the premier Irish-flavored rock band in Baltimore. Maybe one day go national, become the next Pogues, or at least the next Flogging Molly, with a heavy dose of American skate-punk ’tude.

  As Logan began to sing, Megan’s face reflected my bliss and awe. With that voice leading the way, the Keeley Brothers didn’t have to be the next anyone.

  Two record labels. I closed my eyes, ignoring the way my stomach turned to lead, and savored the sound that Megan and I would soon have to share with the world.

  I knew then that everything would change the next night. It was like time had folded in on itself, and I could remember the future.

  A future I already hated.

  Chapter Two

  Ooh, that’s a new one.”

  Megan pointed across the school courtyard at the tall, lean man’s violet outline. In the sunshine he would never have been visible, but heavy clouds made the afternoon look like evening.

  The ghost circled the fountain, stopping every few feet to peer into the water.

  “No, that’s ex-Jared,” I told Megan. “He graduated from Ridgewood nine years ago. Died in the war.”

  “What’s he looking for in the fountain?”

  “Go ask him.”

  “No way.”

  “He’s not mean or anything. But if he starts in about his uncle Fred, change the subject. Unless you want to see your lunch again.”

  Megan grimaced as a pair of seniors walked right through ex-Jared.

  “I hate that,” she whispered. “I can’t wait till we’re seniors and everyone will be like us.”

  “Except the teachers. And the janitors. And the librarian and the secretaries.” My butt hurt on the iron bench, so I uncrossed my legs and recrossed them the other way. “Face it, when everyone is like us, we’ll be old.”

  She frowned and twisted the emerald pendant Mickey had given her for her sixteenth birthday. “So how much are you dreading this assembly?”

  “Let’s just say I’d rather take the PSATs again than hear some government worker bee tell us how we can serve our country by locking up ghosts.”

  I jabbed my thumb at the trio of white vans pulling into the school parking lot. Each bore the logo of the federal Department of Metaphysical Purity.

  Megan said, “I heard the DMP has a special forces unit, the Obsidians. They’re like Navy SEALs. They’re the ones who, you know, take care of the shades.” She made a slashing motion across her throat.

  “Aunt Gina would kill me if I did anything remotely anti-ghost.” Back before the Shift, Gina was one of the few people who could see and hear the dead. Now she can’t, but she still has a thing for them.

  Megan bit the cuticle of her thumb. “Still, I bet the uniforms are cool.”

  The phone in my hand buzzed. Logan had just texted I LOVE YOU—so cute how he never abbreviated it. It had been more than a year since his family moved out to Baltimore County, but I still missed him like crazy during the school day.

  The sun broke through the clouds, warming the top of my head and dimming the screen. Ex-Jared faded in the full light of day.

  As he disappeared, my eyes refocused on a boy I’d never seen before, chatting with my history teacher, Mrs. Richards, across the courtyard.

  “Who’s that?”

  Megan gasped and grabbed my arm. “Scottish exchange student. In my homeroom.”

  “But it’s the middle of October. I thought exchange students came at the beginning of the year.”

  “The more important question is, who did we exchange him for, and can Scotland keep them?”

  I nudged her side with my elbow. “Aw, I’m telling Mickey.”

  “Go ahead.” Megan pulled her sunglasses from her bag. “This clearly falls under our Look-Don’t-Touch policy.” She put on her shades. “Speaking of looking, he’s staring at you.”

  The boy stood alone now, hands on his hips, examining me. A breeze blew a splash of dark bangs across his forehead, and his posture made his faded blue T-shirt stretch across his broad chest.

  I stared back, and he tilted his head as if surprised. Guys are like ghosts that way—when they check you out, they expect you to glance away all meek and flirty-girly. Yeah, right.

  Despite the chilly air, he wore long khaki shorts and a pair of sandals. Sandals on feet that were now walking straight toward us.

  Megan grabbed my wrist under the open binder on my lap. “Here he comes,” she said, as if I could’ve missed it.

  He stopped in front of us and nodded at Megan, who dug her nails into my arm. Then he turned the purest green eyes to mine. “Excuse me. Are you really Aura?”

  I didn’t notice the “really,” because my ears had heated at the sound of my name spoken that way, his tongue curled around the r like it was a piece of candy.

  “What?” I said eloquently.

  “Aura,” he repeated, pronouncing it Ooora (again with tongue curl). “That’s you, aye?” You like a female sheep. Wow, it’s true what they say about Scottish accents.

  “Um. Yeah, I’m—” I couldn’t speak my name without sounding lame and American. “That’s me.” I cleared my throat. “Why?”

  “Mrs. Richards said you were studying ancient astronomy for your thesis.”

  “Uh-huh.” Too bad I’m an idiot savant, emphasis not on the savant. “Sort of.”

  He shook his head, a dark wave of hair lashing his left cheek. “Incredible.”

  Another r, but his skepticism broke through my haze. “Why, because girls can’t be astronomers?”

  “Of course they can, but the girls I know who like science aren’t—” He cut himself off and looked away, dragging a hand through his hair. “I just met her,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll no’ say that.”

  “Cut the crap,” Megan said. “Zachary Moore, this is Aura Salvatore, and yes, she’s into science even though she’s pretty. Shocker. Get over it.” She turned to me. “Show him how you can walk and chew gum at the same time.”

  I rested my elbow on the back of the bench and inspected Zachary in what I hoped was a casual way. “You don’t look much like a science geek either,” I told him.

  He lifted one brow while twitching a corner of his mouth. I realized how my words sounded—that I thought he was pretty too.

  Unfortunately, I did. Not that it was a matter of opinion, except maybe to the legally blind.

  “Where’s your kilt?” I asked him.

  Zachary looked over my head, and I got the feeling he was trying not to roll his eyes. Then he moved closer, put his hand on the back of the bench near my shoulder, and leaned deep inside my personal space. “How about this,” he said in a low voice, “you don’t ask me about haggis and bagpipes, and I won’t ask you about garlic and Goodfellas.”

  Megan laughed out loud. My fingers tightened on the edge of the bench to keep from hitting him. Not that he didn’t have a point.

  “Okay, no stereotypes,” I said. “Deal.”

  “So do you have a kilt?” Megan asked him. When I glared at her, she said, “What? He only said you couldn’t ask.” She looked at him. “So do you?”

  Straightening up, Zachary rubbed the back of his neck and smirked. “I might, I might.”

  God, he was gorgeous. And Scottish. But maybe kind of an ass.

  I cleared my throat again. “So what do you want?”

  “Oh.” He shifted his books under his other arm. “Mrs. Richards said you needed help with your thesis.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  Megan snorted. “Uh-oh.”

  “I don’t need help with anything,” I told him.

  “But everyone else
has a partner for—”

  “Everyone else is researching easy topics like the French Revolution or the Boer Wars. I’m working on—” I pulled my binder to my chest. “Something important.”

  “Megaliths,” he offered. “Like Stonehenge. I know a bit about them.”

  I frowned. No way his “knowledge” would have anything to do with the answers I was seeking. I’d specifically told Mrs. Richards I wanted to do my research alone. Any partner would think I was crazy for investigating whether the megaliths were connected to the Shift.

  “Are you a Droid?” Megan asked him. “Like the ones who built it?”

  Zachary’s cheeks dimpled as if he was trying not to laugh. “You mean a Druid. No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Besides,” I told her, “Druids didn’t build Stonehenge. It’s way older than them. They just say they built it so they can have their little festivals there. It’s total bullshit.”

  Megan cocked her head at Zachary. “Sure you’re man enough to work with this girl?”

  “She’ll tell me if I’m not.” He winked at her, and I felt weirdly jealous.

  Megan shaded her eyes to peer up at the clock tower. “Aura, assembly’s in ten, and I gotta pee like crazy. Save you a seat?”

  “Thanks.”

  She sent me a sly glance over her shoulder as she walked away. Zachary took her spot beside me.

  “So what do you know about megaliths?” I asked him. Ugh, I had to clear my throat again. I probably sounded like a pack-a-day smoker.

  “Well, before I moved here last week? I never lived more than an hour’s drive from standing stones.”

  The back of my neck tingled at the thought. “Wow. In Scotland?” I realized how stupid that sounded, but he saved me.

  “Right, and Ireland, Wales, England. Other places I’ve lived.”

  “Are the stone rings—you know, creepy?”

  “You mean magical?”

  I nodded, encouraged by his serious face. “Do you ever get used to it? Is it ever like seeing, I don’t know, a garbage truck?”

  “A garbage truck?”

  “Ordinary. Or do the stones have all this weird energy zinging off them?”