Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “Oh!”

  My lifelong neighbor and former friend Rachel Howard stood with her arms out, her (thankfully) brown Wilco T-shirt soaked in rum and Coke.

  “Sorry,” was all I could say. “I gotta go.”

  “No.” She touched my arm. “I’m sorry. That’s what I came over to tell you.” Rachel let go of my sleeve and sat down, her eyes pleading with me.

  I took my seat again. “Sorry for what?”

  “I was such a crappy so-called friend after Logan died. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.” Rachel hunched her shoulders. “My sister, she works at the hospice over at Sinai. She said that when someone’s grieving, saying nothing is even worse than saying the wrong thing.” She clutched her hands together on the table. “Can you forgive me?”

  “Of course.” I sopped up the puddle of condensation with the sleeve of my hoodie. “The whole thing is too bizarre for anyone to deal with.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Thank you.” She lifted the wet part of her shirt to her nose. “You have rum?”

  “Megan has it. She’s dancing.” I folded the paper coaster into a half circle. “Are you here with Becca and Zachary?”

  “Yeah, and Jenna and Christopher.” She leaned in. “It’s not what Becca’s making it look like. We’re here as a group. No one’s hooking up.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t care. We’re just friends.”

  “Riiight.” Rachel slurped the last of her soda, then wiped her dark, sweat-damp bangs out of her eyes. “If you wanted Zach, all you’d have to do is this.” She curled her index finger. “No wait, this.” She did the same gesture with her pinky. “And it’s not like he’ll be here forever. He’s going back to Hotland in June.”

  “It’s complicated. Logan’s still around.”

  “I know. My little brother’s seen him in the neighborhood, near his old house.” She picked up her empty glass as she stood. “I’m going back over there so Zach can come talk to you without leaving Becca alone. He’s so polite. Must be a British thing.”

  “Don’t let him hear you call him British,” I called after her.

  Rachel slid into their booth, and Zachary waved at me. But when Becca’s hand went under the table into his lap, I cut short my answering wave. Far be it from me to keep my “friend” from getting some tonight.

  Just then Megan stomped up, tears streaming down her face. “You’re right. I suck!”

  “What happened?”

  She dropped into the chair. “He kissed me.”

  “Who?”

  “Eric, that guy I was dancing with. We were slamming, totally in sync, and it just happened.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I kissed him back. A lot. I can’t believe I did that.” She slumped to rest her chin on her fist. “I know Mickey needs me, even though he doesn’t show it. But I wanted to feel alive. Everywhere else, I’m surrounded by dead people, or living people obsessed with dead people.” She put a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, I don’t mean you.”

  “Yes, you do, but don’t be sorry. And don’t worry, I won’t tell Mickey about Eric.”

  “Thanks, but we were right in front of Connor. He’ll tell Siobhan and then she’ll tell Mickey.” Megan sniffled as she pulled out her phone. “I better tell him myself. His friends could be here, texting him right this second.” Her thumb hovered over the keypad. “What should I say?”

  “How about, ‘I just kissed a guy at Black Weeds because you’ve been ignoring me. P.S. I love you.’”

  While she texted rapidly, I wondered what Logan would do in Mickey’s place. As a ghost he would probably freak, seeing it as a sign I was moving on without him. When he was alive … well, I couldn’t imagine, because Logan never would have shut me out in the first place. He wasn’t the broody type.

  Megan laid the phone on the table. “One way or another, things’ll change now.”

  I rattled the ice in the bottom of my empty glass. “So this guy was a good kisser?”

  “Beyond good. Especially for a first time.”

  I tried to remember my first kiss with Logan. But my memory could only conjure up that last cold, numb kiss at his bedroom doorway.

  I forced myself back to the present. “Something Wicked sounds awesome,” I told Megan. “The drummer is amazing.”

  “You know who it is, right?”

  “No, I can’t see the stage from here.”

  “It’s Brian. Eric said the band needed a sub, and I guess Connor got Brian in.”

  Great, I thought. Someone else who’s moved on.

  The song ended. Becca stood on the seat of their booth, the hem of her black spandex microskirt above Zachary’s eye line. She cheered and whistled as she hopped up and down.

  Then Becca “accidentally” slipped, falling against Zachary’s shoulder so he had to catch her. Laughing, she slid down against his body, ending up in his lap, in a graceful move that would’ve looked goofy if anyone else had tried it.

  Megan jabbed her thumb over her shoulder. “Aura, you have got to do something there. How long do you expect Zachary to ignore the ‘Screw Me’ sign on Becca’s forehead?”

  “As long as he wants.”

  She picked up her phone and stared at the empty screen. “You should ask him to dance.”

  The thought made me queasy. “If he said no, I’d look like a loser. If he said yes, Becca would look like a loser, and Monday morning I’d get a world-record-size bitch-slap.”

  “Whatever.” Megan’s phone buzzed in her hand. “Mickey!” She tapped the screen, then squeaked. She turned the phone so I could see:COME OVER HERE. PS I LOVE YOU MORE.

  “Doesn’t he have the SATs tomorrow too?”

  “Yeah, and he’s probably really stressed.” She gave me a wicked grin. “I can help with that.”

  Relieved to have an excuse to leave, I asked, “Drop me off at home on your way?”

  “We can stay until the set’s over. I don’t want to ruin your night.”

  I made for the door before she could stop me. “Too late.”

  Logan was sitting on my bed when I got home.

  I shut the door softly and went to him, brushing my hand through his in our new routine greeting. “I’m so sorry for leaving you.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. And Dork Squad was better than ever. Lionel kicked ass.”

  So I’d spent all night feeling guilty for nothing. “Who?”

  “The bass player, the one who was in that motorcycle accident? He had this one solo where he was just wailing.” Logan held his hands in a perfect mime, his fingers slapping the thick strings of an invisible bass. “Bow-didda-bow-didda-bow-bow. But he had to be kinda propped against the speaker for the last couple songs, and they cut the set short.” He shifted to “his” side of the bed and stretched out his legs. “Where’d you go?”

  “Black Weeds. You would’ve liked it.” I decided not to mention that two-fifths of the Keeley Brothers were in the band. “It wasn’t the same without you.”

  Logan was quiet for several seconds. “I’m ready to tell you my plan now.”

  My heartbeat stumbled. I slipped off my shoes, then scooted up the bed to sit beside him.

  He stared at his hand lying next to mine. “Promise you won’t cry?”

  “I promise I will cry.”

  His smile was sad, crinkling the corner of just one eye. “You know I love you.”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  “And that’s why I have to leave,” he said.

  “No.” I still couldn’t imagine a world without him.

  “I can’t get on that stand and tell everyone what happened the night I died. I can’t put you through that.” Logan bowed his head. “So I’m going to pass on.”

  I gulped a rising clump of tears so I could push out one word. “When?”

  “Before the trial. I’d lie on the stand if I could, to protect you. I’d tell them I took the cocaine for t
he thrill of it. God knows I’ve done enough stupid things for that reason. Remember when I broke my arm skateboarding, trying to ollie that double set of stairs by the library?” He rubbed the spot below his elbow where the bone had pierced the skin. “But I can’t lie. And I can’t run away. They’ve already tagged me with that subpoena thing, so if I don’t show up, the DMP will track me down.”

  I hated the thought of Logan being “tagged” like a dog. On a judge’s orders, the unique “vibration signature” of each ghost could be used to summon them, but only for specific times and places. The DMP didn’t track Logan’s every move—that would be illegal and expensive—but if they thought he wouldn’t show up in court, they’d detain him until after the trial.

  My chest grew tight, trapping the urge to utter his only alternative: turning shade. It would change his signature and free him from the reach of the DMP, but he would be forever lost to me in the worst way.

  “I’m not ashamed to testify,” I told him. “I don’t care what people think.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

  “Don’t you dare do this just for me.”

  “I’m not. Mostly for you, but—” He formed a fist as his voice roughened. “I wanted so much in life. I wanted to play music, connect with people. Now I can’t hold a guitar, and most people can’t even see me, much less hear me.”

  “You can still sing. And as time goes on, more people will be able to see and hear you. The A and R reps at your show were what, twenty-two, twenty-three? In six or seven years, post-Shifters will have those jobs.”

  What was I saying? Did I really want Logan to stick around that long?

  “I can’t wait six years,” Logan said. “I can’t wait six weeks.” He curved his hand over mine in our facsimile of touch. “I have to let you go, so that one of us can live.”

  “I feel alive with you.”

  “It’s not fair. You’re living like a nun. I can’t kiss you. I can’t touch you.” His whisper filled with pain. “God, I want to touch you so bad. Everywhere, like before. I want to make you feel like I used to.”

  I fingered the zipper of my hoodie. “Maybe you still can.” My pulse pounded in my ears. “Tell me what you’d do.”

  He sucked in a breath, which sounded real enough to make me ache. Logan reached out, and his hand guided mine to draw down the zipper, revealing the black crop top I once loved to dance in. The cool night air made goose bumps on the bare skin of my belly, illuminated by his violet glow.

  “Take these off.” His palm moved to the top of my jeans. “I want to see all of you.”

  I followed his lead, until my clothes were in a pile on the floor, and I lay naked on top of the covers. I wasn’t cold anymore.

  Logan placed his hand over mine again. “Shut your eyes.”

  He spoke to me, low and breathless, describing how he would touch me. With my eyes closed and my memories open, I could almost feel his hands and mouth on my skin.

  It was only my own fingers circling, stroking, exploring. We didn’t move together in a quickening rhythm. He couldn’t feel my rising tension or its explosive release.

  But with Logan’s voice in my ear, we could pretend.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Despite an ever-deepening state of sleep deprivation, I managed to make it through the next three weeks without failing tests or forgetting to buy Christmas presents. As if watching an actor onstage, I witnessed myself go through the motions and marveled at my ability to maintain absolute normalcy.

  But it turned out, I was only fooling myself.

  On the last day of school before winter break, I sat in world history class, staring through the Spread of the Black Plague map at the front of the room, when Brian came in just as the bell rang. He hurried for his desk, walking with his head down and his jacket collar turned up.

  As he passed me, Logan’s former friend and drummer angled his face away, but not before I saw the bruise forming under his left eye.

  Near the window, Zachary was watching the season’s first snow flurry. He tapped his pen against his textbook in an absentminded rhythm, which drew my attention to his bandaged right hand.

  As I gathered up my books after class, Zachary slid behind the desk next to me. “I have a request you can’t refuse.”

  I frowned, wondering if it was supposed to be a Godfather reference. “You mean an offer I can’t refuse?”

  “I promised no Italian jokes, remember? Tomorrow’s my birthday, and I want to go downtown.”

  “Why do you need me for that?”

  “I don’t need you. I want you.” After a blink, he added, “To take me to the Inner Harbor. You promised.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, not out loud. Look, I’ll pay for everything, in exchange for a tour.”

  I tried to think of an excuse other than the truth—I wanted to spend my birthday with my dead boyfriend. “My aunt’s taking me out to dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Special occasion?”

  I still hadn’t told him that we shared a birthday, and nothing in his eyes said he knew. “Early Christmas.”

  “We’ll go during the day, then.”

  “We will, huh?” I slapped down my pen. “Maybe I don’t want to be told how I’m spending my first day of break. Maybe I don’t want to be pushed.”

  “Aura.” He leaned in close, his face serious now. “You need pushing, and it looks like most everyone else has given up.” He touched my elbow. “You’re turning into a ghost.”

  I jerked away, my face burning. “I don’t need your pity.” I pointed to his bandaged hand. “Or your protection.”

  “Fine.” Zachary snatched up his bag. “Forget it. Happy Christmas.” He worked his way between the seats toward the classroom door.

  His holiday greeting reminded me of my mother’s Ireland journal—and her seize-the-day attitude. If she were here, would she let me turn down a real live hot guy who actually seemed to care about me?

  “Wait.”

  I’d spoken softly, but Zachary stopped and turned.

  “I never said no.”

  December 21 was not kidding about being the first day of winter. I bundled up like a kid on a snow day, my hat and hood flattening my hair in a necessary sacrifice to stay warm. It was only twenty degrees in the sun—not that Baltimore has much sun in December.

  Zachary was his usual flirty self, though a little distracted. When our light-rail train stopped at each station, he’d get quiet, examining every person entering and leaving. When we had lunch, he chose the chair with his back to the wall, without even asking which seat I wanted. When we went up to the Trade Center observation deck, his eyes scanned the sidewalks below us instead of looking out into the bay or across the city.

  I wondered if he was worried we’d run into Becca Goldman. They’d been eating lunch together every Friday (not that I noticed—much), and Megan had heard that last week he’d gone to one of Becca’s exclusive parties. If my aunt ever heard the stories that came out of those parties, she’d order me a custom-built chastity belt, on the microscopically slim chance I was ever invited.

  Or maybe Zachary was trying reverse psychology—drawing me out by being erratically aloof. Like most reverse psychology, it worked.

  “Let’s go see Santa,” I told him as we passed Kris Kringle’s pavilion draped in white lights and fake holly. “It’ll be warm in there. And you can vouch for me.”

  “Huh?” he asked, dragging his attention from the crowd near the waterfront.

  “You can tell him if I’ve been naughty or nice.”

  This got a smile. “A wee bit of both, I think.”

  “Which one more?” Hands in my pockets, I bumped him with my shoulder.

  Zachary threaded his arm through mine and leaned close. “I think it would be nice if you’d let yourself be naughty.”

  I shivered, and not from the cold. He’d spoken like we weren’t in the middle of a crowd. He’d spoken like we were alone, and definitely not we
aring four layers of clothing.

  Once I found my breath, I said, “Now I know which list you’re on.”

  “No, you don’t know.” He stopped. “You don’t know me at all.”

  His expression was so serious and intense, I thought for sure he was going to kiss me. I stepped back as I realized Logan had been to the Inner Harbor a hundred times—he could be watching us right now, hidden by sunlight.

  “But I’m going to change that,” Zachary said. “Right now.”

  I followed his gaze across the wide brick sidewalk, to the little hut on the waterfront.

  “Perfect,” he whispered.

  “Paddleboats? Paddleboats are perfect?”

  “They are.” He headed down the ramp toward the tiny vessels—few of which, not surprisingly, were deployed.

  “Are you crazy?” I ran to catch up. “It’s freezing. It’ll be even colder out there.” I pointed to the harbor’s murky water, which the wind was rippling into choppy gray waves.

  “But it’s my birthday,” he said as he kept walking.

  I’d had enough. We’d eaten crabs (I hate seafood), gone up in the Trade Center (I hate heights), and visited the National Aquarium (did I mention I hate seafood?)—all because Zachary kept playing the birthday card.

  “Damn it,” I yelled after him. “It’s my birthday too!”

  “I know.”

  I stopped short. I swear the sky darkened at that exact moment. A cloud passed over the low-hanging sun, blotting out the weak light.

  Zachary approached the small white shed where an old man huddled behind a smudged window.

  The man slid up the window’s bottom section. “Nice day for paddlin’,” he said with an ironic grin. “What’ll it be?”

  Zachary read the sign as he drew out his wallet. “What’s a Chessie?”

  “That’s Chessie the sea monster. Named after the Chesapeake Bay.”

  Zachary examined the group of boats shaped like purple and green dragons. “We’ll take a regular, without the monster. Please.” He held out a ten-dollar bill.

  The man squinted at him and shook his head. “Too tall. You’ll need a Chessie.”

  “What?” Zachary looked scandalized.

  “With the regular paddleboats, your knees’ll be at your ears the whole time.”