Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  Bri­an lum­be­red ons­ta­ge alo­ne and ca­su­al­ly pic­ked up his drums­ticks. He flip­ped one of the sticks, end over end, then rat­tled off a ste­ady, su­per­fast be­at, sto­king the crowd in­to a frenzy.

  The ten­si­on in my sho­ul­ders lo­ose­ned. I co­uld tell by Bri­an’s rhythm that he was so­ber.

  Con­nor and Si­ob­han ca­me on next, ta­king the­ir swe­et ti­me pic­king up the­ir bass gu­itar and fid­dle on op­po­si­te si­des of the sta­ge, whi­le Bri­an bro­ke in­to a se­ri­o­us swe­at.

  When they we­re in po­si­ti­on, Bri­an hit the sna­re to sig­nal them to start. Si­ob­han do­ve in­to the int­ro to the Po­gu­es’ “Stre­ams of Whis­key.” Con­nor’s tall, thin fra­me bob­bed in ti­me, his bass gi­ving her me­lody a thrum­ming backd­rop. The tem­po was even fas­ter than the al­bum ver­si­on, and I pra­yed Lo­gan had do­ne his ton­gue warm-ups.

  The Ke­eley brot­hers them­sel­ves swag­ge­red ons­ta­ge, arms aro­und each ot­her’s sho­ul­ders, the energy bet­we­en them crack­ling. They ga­ve the crowd a qu­ick fist-wa­ve, then Mic­key pic­ked up his whi­te Fen­der from its stand.

  Lo­gan le­aped stra­ight for the mic­rop­ho­ne. The first song was al­ways vo­cals only-partly to calm his ner­ves, but al­so to mark his ter­ri­tory as the front man. He sent me a bri­ef smirk, as if he knew I was even mo­re sca­red than he was. Then he be­gan to sing.

  He clutc­hed the mi­ke and sta­red stra­ight ahe­ad du­ring the ra­pid, ton­gue-twis­ting ver­ses. Lo­gan told me on­ce that sin­ging this song was li­ke trying to run whi­le ti­ed to a car bum­per-one mis­step and the­re’s no re­co­ve­ring, just gra­vel up yo­ur no­se.

  But Lo­gan let lo­ose on the cho­ru­ses, bo­un­ding ac­ross the front of the sta­ge li­ke his high-top Vans had springs in them, wa­ving the crowd to sing along. With just a lit­tle less con­vic­ti­on, he wo­uld’ve lo­oked li­ke a comp­le­te as­shat. But he sold it, and they bo­ught it, lap­ped it up, and beg­ged for mo­re.

  Me, I didn’t dan­ce or even clap. My fin­ger­na­ils dug in­to the black dra­pery tac­ked to the front ed­ge of the sta­ge. Every musc­le was fro­zen ex­cept my he­art. It throb­bed in sync with the song un­til I tho­ught I’d pass out.

  When it was over, Lo­gan ra­ised his fists to the scre­aming crowd, then win­ked at me, sha­ring my re­li­ef.

  As he tur­ned and knelt to pick up his gle­aming black gu­itar, I tho­ught I saw him cross him­self-eit­her to say, Thanks, God, for not let­ting me screw up or to ask for­gi­ve­ness for the song cho­ice. His pa­rents ha­ted when the boys “explo­ited the drun­ken Irish ste­re­oty­pe,” as if the­re we­re a hu­ge se­lec­ti­on of Cel­tic mu­sic not abo­ut al­co­hol.

  But Mr. and Mrs. Ke­eley we­re cur­rently on a cru­ise to Aru­ba. So Lo­gan co­uld sing what he wan­ted-and la­ter, with me, do what he wan­ted.

  “Thank you,” Lo­gan sa­id in­to the mic­rop­ho­ne, eyes gle­aming at the vo­lu­me of the shri­eks. “Best crowd ever. Thank you.” He so­aked in the­ir at­ten­ti­on anot­her mo­ment, gi­ving Mic­key a chan­ce to tra­de his own gu­itar for a man­do­lin. “We’re the Ke­eley Brot­hers, and this is one of ours.”

  Bri­an co­un­ted off, and they slam­med in­to “The Day I Sa­iled Away.” I for­ced my fin­gers to let go of the sta­ge.

  “They’ve got it to­night,” Me­gan yel­led in my left ear. “Co­me dan­ce!”

  “I’m too ner­vo­us!” I clas­ped my hands be­hind my he­ad and tur­ned back to the sta­ge, my el­bows bloc­king out everyt­hing but Lo­gan.

  As al­ways, he wo­re the wrist­band with the black-and-whi­te tri­ang­les-the one I bo­ught him last ye­ar du­ring my pyra­mid ob­ses­si­on. In the whi­te sta­ge light, the wrist­band blur­red gray as he strum­med the Fen­der Strat with a new fe­ro­city. His calf musc­les twitc­hed and stretc­hed as he kept ti­me with his he­el.

  Swe­at stre­amed down my back, tick­ling my spi­ne. Aro­und me, pe­op­le bo­un­ced and swa­yed, but I kept still, as if I co­uld shat­ter the pul­sing per­fec­ti­on by bre­at­hing too hard.

  The set con­ti­nu­ed. The band was li­ke a thun­derc­lo­ud of cha­in light­ning, each mu­si­ci­an’s energy fe­eding off the ot­hers’ un­til it felt li­ke the sta­ge co­uldn’t hold them. I tho­ught the strings of Si­ob­han’s fid­dle wo­uld catch fi­re, and for a bri­ef se­cond, that all three gu­itars we­re do­omed to be slam­med in­to Bri­an’s drum set.

  But even Mic­key’s bril­li­ant so­los co­uldn’t ste­al the fo­cus from my boy. Lo­gan’s vo­ice switc­hed from a growl to a scre­am to a se­duc­ti­ve whis­per from one song to the next. As each new tu­ne be­gan, his fa­ce lit up, as if it was the first ti­me he’d he­ard it. He lo­oked li­ke he was ha­ving a re­li­gi­o­us ex­pe­ri­en­ce, one he wan­ted us all to sha­re.

  Was it be­ca­use the A and R guys we­re watc­hing that he had such in­ten­sity? Or was it so­met­hing el­se?

  All I know is that I was ecs­ta­ti­cal­ly, pa­in­ful­ly in lo­ve with him, wa­iting for him to slip away, le­aving me with my palms sin­ged from clutc­hing a blue-hot star. No mat­ter how many ti­mes his eyes fo­und mi­ne, or how bril­li­antly he smi­led at me, I co­uld still tas­te the bit­ter­ness on the si­des of my ton­gue. Be­ca­use he lo­ved the crowd mo­re than he lo­ved any one per­son, even me. He al­ways wo­uld.

  After the last song, Mic­key and Lo­gan bo­wed to­get­her. Then Mic­key sho­uted in­to the mi­ke, “Happy birth­day to my lit­tle brot­her!”

  That was our cue. All of us up front re­ac­hed un­der the black dra­pery and bro­ught out the plas­tic shop­ping bags we’d hid­den the­re. Then Mic­key held Lo­gan in pla­ce as we pel­ted him with hand­fuls of mul­ti­co­lo­red birth­day cand­les. Con­nor and Si­ob­han tos­sed them back in­to the crowd so we co­uld hurl them aga­in.

  Once all se­ven­te­en hund­red cand­les had be­en thrown (most of them two or three ti­mes), the band wa­ved and drag­ged Lo­gan away.

  Me­gan and I and a few ot­her fri­ends scramb­led on­to the sta­ge to col­lect the cand­les. The vi­ew from be­hind Lo­gan’s mic­rop­ho­ne sho­wed a dar­ke­ned ro­om ab­la­ze with cell pho­nes and ligh­ters-and along the ed­ges, mo­re than a few ghosts.

  The Ke­eley Brot­hers ca­me back for an en­co­re, a co­ver of blink-182’s “Dam­mit,” with Mic­key sin­ging the cho­rus. Then the­ir own “Ghost in Gre­en,” which ga­ve ever­yo­ne a chan­ce to so­lo whi­le Lo­gan crowd-sur­fed, and en­ding with Flog­ging Molly’s “De­vil’s Dan­ce Flo­or”-the hot­test, fas­test song yet, as if to pro­ve they had the sta­mi­na to start over and go all night long.

  Fi­nal­ly they to­ok one last bow, then sprang offs­ta­ge, this ti­me with the­ir inst­ru­ments.

  Me­gan pul­led me in­to a long, tight hug. “Aura, they did it, they re­al­ly did it. That was the­ir best show ever by a hund­red ti­mes.”

  Over her sho­ul­der I got a glimp­se of Lo­gan backs­ta­ge. He wa­ved at me, then flas­hed both palms wi­de to sig­nal ten mi­nu­tes. Then Mic­key wal­ked up and spo­ke in his ear. Lo­gan’s smi­le wi­de­ned, then he sig­na­led to me twenty mi­nu­tes.

  “The la­bel guys.” I let go of Me­gan, swe­at ma­king our shirts stick to­get­her. “This is it.”

  “Don’t worry, they can’t sign anyt­hing un­til they’re all eigh­te­en, or Mr. Ke­eley will di­sown them. No car, no col­le­ge, no fo­od.”

  I watc­hed Lo­gan fa­de in­to the dark­ness, his gol­den ha­ir catc­hing the last shred of sta­ge light. Ad­re­na­li­ne cras­hed thro­ugh my ve­ins, ma­king the blo­od po­und in my rin­ging ears. The last song ran thro­ugh my he­ad, back­ward and for­ward.

  I knew Lo­gan wo­uld gi­ve up cars, col­le­ge, and fo­od for a chan­ce to be a rock star. He’d sell his so­ul and wo­u
ldn’t miss it for a se­cond. Be­ca­use un­til ever­yo­ne in the world lo­ved him, he’d ha­ve no use for that so­ul any­way.

  My boyf­ri­end’s ons­ta­ge in­vin­ci­bi­lity was a pa­le pre­vi­ew of his birth­day party.

  The news was go­od-both re­cor­ding la­bels wan­ted to sign them, and they we­re wil­ling to wa­it un­til the Ke­eleys (and Bri­an’s pa­rents, sin­ce he was a mi­nor too) co­uld call the­ir law­yers. I was glad the boys and Si­ob­han had pla­yed hard to get. I’d he­ard sto­ri­es abo­ut bands get­ting crappy cont­racts that wo­uld ne­ver ma­ke them mo­ney no mat­ter how many re­cords they sold.

  The reps’ at­ten­ti­on ga­ve Lo­gan eno­ugh ego ju­ice to act li­ke he was tur­ning se­ven ins­te­ad of se­ven­te­en that night. He se­ri­o­usly pro­po­sed to Mic­key and Si­ob­han that they fi­nish off the night by ma­king a mu­sic vi­deo in the lo­cal gra­ve­yard.

  “I’m tel­ling you, it’ll be hu­ge.” Stan­ding in the downs­ta­irs hal­lway, Lo­gan lo­oped an arm aro­und each of the­ir necks, ba­rely hol­ding him­self up. “For ‘Ghost in Gre­en,’ right? I got it all plan­ned out. We go up to Sac­red He­art, okay, and just sho­ot the vi­deo li­ke re­gu­lar.” He flap­ped his hand in my di­rec­ti­on. “Aura and Bri­an can let us know when the ghosts show up, and tell them to jam with us. Li­ke, not for re­al or anyt­hing, ’ca­use they can’t hold inst­ru­ments. I me­an dan­ce along. It wo­uld be”-his ga­ze ro­amed the ce­iling, lo­oking for the per­fect word-“tre­men­do­us.”

  “Ye­ah, tre­men­do­us,” Mic­key sa­id, “and we still wo­uldn’t be ab­le to see them, even on film.”

  “That’s not the po­int, dumb-ass.” Lo­gan flic­ked the si­de of Mic­key’s he­ad. “Post-Shif­ters’ll see them. You got­ta think for­ward.”

  I snag­ged a blue corn chip from Si­ob­han’s pa­per pla­te. “But ghosts don’t hang out much in gra­ve­yards,” I told Lo­gan, “We’d find mo­re in­si­de the church it­self.”

  “Aw, ye­ah! Let’s do it! Fat­her Car­rick wo­uld go for it, right?”

  “Su­re he wo­uld.” Mic­key pat­ted Lo­gan’s hand. “How many drinks ha­ve you had?”

  “No­ne.” Lo­gan sho­ok his he­ad emp­ha­ti­cal­ly. “No­ne drinks. Of­fi­ci­al­ly.”

  I held up a half-empty pint of Gu­in­ness. “Offi­ci­al­ly this is mi­ne, even tho­ugh it’s ne­ver to­uc­hed my lips.”

  “She’s lying,” Lo­gan told them. “Ne­ver trust a girl who ha­tes Gu­in­ness.”

  “And how many of tho­se ha­ve ‘you’ had?” Si­ob­han as­ked me, with air qu­otes.

  “This is his fo­urth-I me­an, my fo­urth.”

  “Right.” Mic­key snatc­hed the glass from me. “You’re cut off.”

  “Thank you.” I to­ok Lo­gan’s hand and tri­ed not to yank him in my an­no­yan­ce. “Co­me dan­ce with me.”

  Si­ob­han sid­led over to the ste­reo. “I’ll switch to so­met­hing slow so he do­esn’t pu­ke on you.”

  Lo­gan to­ok the le­ad, gu­iding me thro­ugh the scat­te­red part­yers to the cen­ter of the li­ving ro­om flo­or, whe­re he wrap­ped his arms aro­und me. The mu­sic’s be­at drop­ped to a slow throb.

  He ga­ve a warm sigh in­to my scalp. “This is bet­ter.”

  “Much.”

  “Let me know when I get too ob­no­xi­o­us.”

  “ ‘Too’?”

  “Okay, okay.” Lo­gan kis­sed my fo­re­he­ad. “This is such an ama­zing night, Aura. We did so­met­hing spec­ta­cu­lar on that sta­ge. I ne­ver felt that kind of energy be­fo­re.”

  “I know.”

  “But it wo­uldn’t me­an shit wit­ho­ut you the­re.”

  My he­art thud­ded. I wan­ted him to pro­mi­se he’d al­ways fe­el that way. But I co­uldn’t ask that of him, and even if he sa­id it, I wo­uldn’t be­li­eve.

  “Wow,” he whis­pe­red. “I’m sud­denly so­ber.”

  I tug­ged one of the black stre­aks in his spiky blond ha­ir. “You are not.”

  “Fe­els li­ke it.” Lo­gan slid his hand over my wa­ist, fol­lo­wing the cur­ve of my ribs. “I’m ner­vo­us. I’m af­ra­id I’ll do so­met­hing wrong aga­in to­night, li­ke I did a co­up­le we­eks ago.”

  “You didn’t do anyt­hing wrong then. It’s sup­po­sed to hurt a lit­tle the first ti­me. I sho­uldn’t ha­ve wus­sed out and ma­de us stop.”

  “It was my fa­ult. If I knew what I was do­ing, may­be it wo­uld’ve be­en easi­er for you.”

  “I was pro­bably just wor­ri­ed Aunt Gi­na wo­uld co­me ho­me early.” I res­ted my che­ek aga­inst his warm chest and watc­hed Me­gan and Mic­key dan­ce, the­ir bo­di­es in per­fect sync. “I just want to get it over with.”

  “Don’t say that.” Lo­gan pul­led away a few inc­hes, blue eyes ble­ary but de­ter­mi­ned. “I won’t be ab­le to go thro­ugh with it if I know you’re dying for it to end.”

  “Lo­gan, just shut up. It’ll be fi­ne. It’ll be gre­at.” I tri­ed to co­ax my mo­uth in­to a con­vin­cing smi­le.

  He lo­oked stran­gely vul­ne­rab­le. “You wan­na get out of he­re?”

  One last he­art-slam. “De­fi­ni­tely.”

  We he­aded for the sta­irs, ma­king su­re no one was fol­lo­wing.

  “Hey, birth­day boy.”

  Bri­an Knox sto­od in our path, flan­ked by Na­di­ne Ross and Emily McFar­land, girls I re­cog­ni­zed from Lo­gan’s scho­ol he­re in Hunt Val­ley. Bri­an held two glas­ses of a cle­ar drink.

  Na­di­ne to­ok one of the glas­ses and pres­sed it in­to Lo­gan’s hand. He held it up to the light.

  “What the hell is this?” he as­ked Bri­an.

  “My new in­ven­ti­on.” The drum­mer bo­wed. “I call it Li­qu­id Stu­pid.”

  Na­di­ne gig­gled. “Li­qu­id Stu­pid.”

  “Gu­aran­te­ed to lo­wer yo­ur IQ twenty po­ints with the first sip.” Bri­an put the ot­her glass in my hand. “Aura, why don’t you ta­ke fi­ve sips and co­me down to our le­vel?”

  “Who’d be dumb eno­ugh to drink so­met­hing cal­led Li­qu­id Stu­pid?” I tur­ned to Lo­gan, who was dow­ning the first half of his glass. “What are you do­ing? You don’t even know what’s in it!”

  Lo­gan swal­lo­wed, then who­os­hed out a hard bre­ath. “What’s in it?”

  Bri­an co­un­ted off on his fin­gers. “Gra­in al­co­hol, Af­ters­hock, and uh, so­me ot­her stuff. Gu­ess I sho­uld’ve writ­ten it down be­fo­re I drank so­me.”

  “You li­ke it?” Na­di­ne brus­hed her hand over Lo­gan’s arm in a way that ma­de me want to bi­te it off.

  “Tas­tes li­ke Fi­re­bal­ls and bat­tery acid,” he sa­id.

  “The se­cond half is bet­ter, af­ter it kills yo­ur tas­te buds.” She lif­ted Lo­gan’s wrist to­ward his mo­uth.

  “Easy now.” He gently re­mo­ved her hand. “I want to re­mem­ber this night to­mor­row.”

  “I bet you do.” Bri­an threw a gre­edy glan­ce over my body.

  “Hey.” Lo­gan step­ped bet­we­en us and po­ked Bri­an in the chest. “Don’t ma­ke me lo­se tho­se sticks of yo­urs up yo­ur ass.”

  Bri­an bar­ked a la­ugh. “If an­yo­ne he­re has a stick up the­ir lit­tle di­va ass, it’s-”

  Lo­gan sho­ved him aga­inst the wall, knoc­king off his cap. The thud of Bri­an’s sho­ul­der bla­des ca­ught ever­yo­ne’s at­ten­ti­on.

  Bri­an lif­ted his hands in sur­ren­der, even tho­ugh with his be­efi­ness, he co­uld’ve slam­med Lo­gan in­to the flo­or. “Du­de, I’m kid­ding.”

  “Abo­ut what?” Lo­gan snar­led.

  “Everyt­hing. Anyt­hing. Wha­te­ver.” Bri­an se­emed amu­sed but a lit­tle wor­ri­ed, and I sen­sed so­met­hing was go­ing on that I wasn’t awa­re of, that may­be I didn’t want to know. Emily lo­oked as con­
fu­sed as I felt, whi­le Na­di­ne watc­hed the guys li­ke they we­re cha­rac­ters on her fa­vo­ri­te re­ality show.

  I put a hand on Lo­gan’s back. “Co­me on. Let’s get so­met­hing to eat.”

  He blin­ked at me. “Right.” He let Bri­an go with anot­her slight sho­ve. “Sorry, man.”

  “S’okay.” Bri­an pic­ked up his cap, avo­iding my eyes.

  I led Lo­gan thro­ugh the kitc­hen.

  “You still hungry,” he sa­id, “after all that piz­za?”

  “No, but you ne­ed a ti­me-out.”

  “I’m not a lit­tle kid.”

  “Ye­ah?” Wit­ho­ut lo­oking back, I wal­ked thro­ugh the si­de hal­lway to­ward the sta­irs. “Co­me pro­ve it.”

  “I wro­te a song for you.” Lo­gan pic­ked up his aco­us­tic gu­itar and sank on­to his bed with a whump! that ma­de the inst­ru­ment hum. “For to­night.”

  I sat be­si­de him. “A pri­va­te per­for­man­ce. I fe­el so pri­vi­le­ged.” I didn’t me­an it as sar­cas­ti­cal­ly as it ca­me out.

  He strum­med qu­i­etly with the pick, then adj­us­ted the pegs. I twis­ted my hands in my lap, knuck­les scra­ping my palms, wis­hing si­mul­ta­ne­o­usly that the night wo­uld end Now and Ne­ver.

  Lo­gan’s ro­om was spot­less-at le­ast as far as I co­uld see in the warm, dim light from his desk lamp. The Irish flag hung on one wall, a smal­ler ver­si­on of the one in the ba­se­ment. (The Ke­eleys’ an­ces­tors left Dub­lin in the 1840s, but they ac­ted li­ke they just hop­ped off the bo­at last we­ek. The­ir wet bar had a slow-po­ur keg tap spe­ci­al­ly de­sig­ned for Gu­in­ness, and Not­re Da­me fo­ot­ball was a se­cond re­li­gi­on.)

  Anot­her wall was all shel­ves-CDs and mu­sic bo­oks. The­re was no ob­vi­o­us or­der, but Lo­gan co­uld al­ways find what he ne­eded in two se­conds. In the far cor­ner, his bat­te­red ska­te­bo­ard sat aban­do­ned. I tho­ught I co­uld see a la­yer of dust on it, but that might’ve just be­en the ang­le of the light.

  On the wall abo­ve his bed hung pos­ters of his two he­ro­es-the en­ti­re li­ne­up of the Bal­ti­mo­re Ra­vens, and the Po­gu­es’ front man, Sha­ne McGo­wan. His pa­rents didn’t ap­pro­ve of the se­cond-anybody who co­uld get kic­ked out of an Irish punk band for drin­king too much was a bad ro­le mo­del, they sa­id.