Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  After a mi­nu­te or two of tu­ning, Lo­gan shif­ted his po­si­ti­on and ga­ve me the shy smi­le I hadn’t se­en sin­ce we we­re ten. “Re­ady?”

  As so­on as he hit the first jang­led chord, we knew so­met­hing was wrong.

  “Huh.” Lo­gan fle­xed his fin­gers, then did anot­her qu­ick strum. “My hands are tingly.” His spe­ech was slo­wer than usu­al. “May­be worn out from the show. Sorry abo­ut that.”

  “Just play what you can. It do­esn’t ha­ve to be per­fect.”

  “Yes, it do­es.” His vo­ice ga­ined a hard ed­ge, ob­li­te­ra­ting the slur. “I pro­mi­se to­mor­row night it will be. The song, I me­an.” He switc­hed on the CD pla­yer with the re­mo­te cont­rol. “Go pick so­met­hing whi­le I put this away.”

  I fis­hed out the first non­punk CD I co­uld find, one from a new Da­nish band with fuzzy gu­itars and a lum­be­ring be­at that ec­ho­ed in my gut. The mu­sic ma­de the ro­om fe­el li­ke it was on a dif­fe­rent pla­net from the rest of the ho­use. I clo­sed my eyes for a mo­ment and let the wall of so­und so­ot­he my mind.

  Lo­gan snap­ped the catc­hes on his gu­itar ca­se, then sto­od, wa­ve­ring as his kne­es stra­igh­te­ned.

  “I ha­ve a pre­sent for you.” He glan­ced down at his body. “And you get to unw­rap it.”

  Ew, I tho­ught.

  Then his eyes wi­de­ned. “No, I don’t me­an that!” he sa­id. “Well, ye­ah, that too, but not yet.” He to­ok my hands and pla­ced my fin­gers on his shirt’s top but­ton. “Re­ady, go.”

  I tri­ed to ke­ep my hands from sha­king as they un­but­to­ned his shirt. His lips fol­ded un­der his te­eth, and I knew he was as ner­vo­us as I was.

  I re­ac­hed up to push the shirt off his left sho­ul­der. That’s when I saw it.

  Over his he­art, a tat­too with fo­ur let­ters writ­ten in a Cel­tic font:

  AURA.

  My hand fro­ze. “God.”

  “Do you li­ke it?”

  I co­uldn’t bre­at­he. It felt li­ke I’d ne­ver bre­at­he aga­in. “When did you get this?”

  “Last we­ek. It was my birth­day pre­sent to myself. And no, I don’t ex­pect you to get a matc­hing one. Yo­ur aunt wo­uld ha­ve a stro­ke. Af­ter she fi­nis­hed kil­ling me.”

  I tra­ced the smo­oth black li­nes whe­re my na­me met his flesh. “Do­es yo­ur mom know?”

  “No one knows, ex­cept me and you. My dad’ll pro­bably ha­ve a he­art at­tack when he finds out, but that’s why we ha­ve the de­fib­ril­la­tor.”

  I didn’t la­ugh. Mr. Ke­eley had had too many clo­se calls. This cru­ise had be­en on his car­di­olo­gist’s or­ders.

  “I know you’re wor­ri­ed,” Lo­gan sa­id. “You think the se­cond I sign a de­al, I’ll turn in­to so­me kind of man-slut.” He put his hands over mi­ne, pres­sing my palms aga­inst his chest. “You’ve al­ways be­en the only one, and you al­ways will be.”

  I knew I sho­uld step away, tell him he was crazy, that we we­re too yo­ung to talk li­ke that. But I wan­ted this crazy mo­re than anyt­hing.

  “I lo­ve you, Lo­gan.” I bre­at­hed in his scent, swe­et and he­ady as hot ci­der. “Happy birth­day.”

  “So far, ye­ah.” He bent over, pic­ked me up, and stumb­led to the bed. He knoc­ked his shin aga­inst the fra­me, and I spil­led out of his grip. I was la­ug­hing be­fo­re my fa­ce hit the pil­low.

  By the ti­me I flip­ped on­to my back, he had cras­hed next to me, arms and legs everyw­he­re. “Sorry,” he sa­id. “I suck at this.”

  I co­uldn’t stop la­ug­hing, mostly at myself for be­ing so af­ra­id. This was Lo­gan, af­ter all, the boy I’d thrown snow­bal­ls at and cha­sed ice cre­am trucks with. Not Lo­gan the rock star.

  He stretc­hed out be­si­de me, his eyes shar­per now. “Don’t tell me no this ti­me, Aura. Ple­ase. Don’t ma­ke me stop.”

  As my la­ugh­ter di­ed, my thumb tra­ced a tremb­ling li­ne along his bot­tom lip. “I won’t.”

  Lo­gan kis­sed me, be­fo­re and af­ter re­mo­ving my shirts, and told me I was be­a­uti­ful. Un­li­ke the last ti­me, he was slow and pa­ti­ent, and when his fin­gers brus­hed my skin, I mel­ted ins­te­ad of fre­ezing. I co­uld fe­el our hap­pi­ness ra­di­ating off each ot­her in wa­ves, li­ke the mu­sic pul­sing from Lo­gan’s spe­akers.

  But then his to­uch grew he­avy and his kis­ses sloppy, ma­king me squ­irm.

  “What the hell?” he mut­te­red as he fumb­led with my bra clasp.

  “I think you twist it. The lady at Vic­to­ria’s Sec­ret sa­id it was easy.” I exa­mi­ned it in the dim light, trying to re­mem­ber how I’d put it on.

  But Lo­gan was sta­ring at his hand, not at the clasp.

  “What’s wrong?” I as­ked him.

  He wig­gled his fin­gers. “I can’t fe­el my fa­ce.”

  “Oh my God, are you sick? Sho­uld I get Mic­key?”

  He la­ug­hed. “No, no, no-de­fi­ni­tely no.” He slum­ped back on­to his pil­low. “I’m just was­ted. It’s re­al­ly hit­ting me.” He lo­oked at the ce­iling, then shut his eyes hard. “Wow.”

  “How was­ted?”

  He spo­ke slowly. “I ha­ve ab­so­lu­tely no fe­eling in my ext­re­mi­ti­es.”

  A hor­rib­le tho­ught hit me. “All yo­ur ext­re­mi­ti­es?”

  Lo­gan ga­ve me a gu­ilty lo­ok. “Sorry. I gu­ess that’s why they call it Li­qu­id Stu­pid.” His las­hes flut­te­red. “Man, this is hard-co­re.” He la­ug­hed aga­in-high-pitc­hed, li­ke a sto­ner.

  “How co­uld you do this to me?” I sat up, af­ra­id I wo­uld punch him if I didn’t get out of ran­ge. “I was re­ady. Ye­ah, I was sca­red, but I was re­ady, Lo­gan. And now you can’t even-”

  “We can try aga­in to­mor­row.” He to­uc­hed the half-empty glass on the nights­tand. “Hey, you sho­uld ha­ve so­me too, get flo­aty with me.” His vo­ice drif­ted off. “I bet this is bet­ter than sex.”

  “Well, I wo­uldn’t know, wo­uld I?” I kic­ked his fo­ot. “They don’t call it Li­qu­id Stu­pid be­ca­use it ma­kes you stu­pid. It’s what you ha­ve to be to drink it in the first pla­ce.”

  “Sa­id I was sorry.” Af­ter a mo­ment, Lo­gan’s eyes ope­ned wi­de, li­ke he was for­cing them. “I ha­ve an idea. Help me up.”

  I pul­led his arm un­til he was sit­ting on the si­de of the bed.

  “I’ll ta­ke a sho­wer,” he slur­red, “wa­ke myself up.” He pus­hed him­self to his fe­et and stag­ge­red to the dres­ser. “I’ll ma­ke it all bet­ter. We are not do­ne he­re yet.”

  “Do you want me to co­me with you?” I as­ked, ho­ping he’d say no.

  “No! I me­an, it’ll be a cold sho­wer. Not fun for you.” He withd­rew so­met­hing small from his top dra­wer, which he slip­ped in­to the front poc­ket of his baggy shorts.

  “What’s that?”

  “Not­hing. New sham­poo, samp­le pack.” He ruf­fled his ha­ir. “Sup­po­sed to be go­od for get­ting all this spiky gel crap out.”

  Lo­gan was al­ways trying new ha­ir pro­ducts. He had mo­re styling go­ops than most sa­lons.

  “Lock the do­or af­ter me,” he sa­id.

  I sto­od be­hind him as he ope­ned the do­or slowly and pe­eked out. The up­per hall was empty, and so was the bath­ro­om half­way down on the left.

  Lo­gan kis­sed me, then tur­ned away. The so­les of his sho­es scra­ped the car­pet.

  I to­uc­hed my lips. His kiss had be­en clumsy and cold.

  Down the hall, Lo­gan slo­wed, fin­gers trick­ling along the wall to stop his mo­men­tum. With what lo­oked li­ke a gre­at ef­fort, he tur­ned, shuf­fled back to my si­de, and ca­re­ful­ly cup­ped my chin.

  This ti­me when he kis­sed me, his lips we­re still co­ol, but they felt li­ke his aga­in.

  He whis
­pe­red aga­inst my mo­uth. “Wa­it for me, Aura.”

  As so­on as he was go­ne, I shut the do­or and loc­ked it. Then I sat on the bed, cros­sing my arms over my chest.

  Now what? I felt kind of silly sit­ting the­re in my bra. I won­de­red if I sho­uld get dres­sed aga­in. Or may­be und­res­sed, wa­it for him un­der the co­vers. No, he pro­bably wan­ted to help with that. Be­si­des, then he wo­uldn’t see my matc­hing un­der­we­ar.

  So I pa­ced, rub­bing my arms to ke­ep warm, and every ti­me I pas­sed the nights­tand I lo­oked at that half cup of Li­qu­id Stu­pid. On the tenth lap I pic­ked it up and to­ok a swal­low.

  It bur­ned everyw­he­re-my no­se, thro­at, chest.

  When I fi­nal­ly stop­ped co­ug­hing and gag­ging, I he­ard sho­uts co­ming from the hal­lway. I mu­ted the ste­reo and lis­te­ned for Lo­gan’s vo­ice in the crowd.

  Inste­ad, I he­ard his na­me, shri­eked by Si­ob­han, fol­lo­wed by the word “de­fib­ril­la­tor.”

  “Oh God.” I grab­bed my shirt and ca­mi from the flo­or and yan­ked them both over my he­ad in one mo­ve­ment. My fa­ce was lost in­si­de as I tri­ed to find the right ho­le and not sho­ve my skull thro­ugh a sle­eve.

  My he­ad pop­ped thro­ugh, and I scre­amed.

  Lo­gan was stan­ding at the fo­ot of his bed, his shirt open and his ha­ir rump­led, just as he’d be­en a few mi­nu­tes be­fo­re.

  But now he was vi­olet.

  Chapter Four

  I tri­ed to say Lo­gan’s na­me. Not­hing ca­me out but a squ­e­ak, and then the te­ars flo­oded my eyes, blur­ring his ima­ge so that he lo­oked li­ke any ot­her ghost.

  “I’m sorry,” he whis­pe­red. “I did so­met­hing stu­pid.”

  “No!” I ran thro­ugh the mi­ra­ge. Had to find the re­al Lo­gan.

  The do­or was loc­ked. My cold, swe­aty fin­gers slip­ped over the slick brass switch.

  “It’s too la­te,” he sa­id be­hind me.

  I un­loc­ked the do­or and jer­ked it open.

  In the hal­lway out­si­de the bath­ro­om, Mic­key was scre­aming at so­me­one lying on the flo­or.

  I stop­ped at the thres­hold. That wasn’t the re­al Lo­gan eit­her. It didn’t mat­ter that the fe­et we­re we­aring his blue-and-black-chec­ke­red Vans, or that the chest Si­ob­han was comp­res­sing bo­re the AURA tat­too.

  “God­dam­mit!” Mic­key crump­led his hands in his jet-black ha­ir. “Don’t le­ave us. Don’t you da­re le­ave us.”

  Si­ob­han pa­used in her comp­res­si­ons, ke­eping her hands on the mo­ti­on­less chest. “Bre­at­he now.”

  “Co­me on, Lo­gan.” Pinc­hing the body’s no­se, Mic­key bent over and bre­at­hed twi­ce in­to its mo­uth.

  I to­ok a shaky step for­ward, then anot­her, then stop­ped and gras­ped the ra­iling over­lo­oking the fo­yer. One mo­re step and I wo­uld crumb­le in­to a hund­red mil­li­on pi­eces.

  At the ot­her end of the hall, Dylan burst out of the mas­ter bed­ro­om, clutc­hing the por­tab­le de­fib­ril­la­tor aga­inst his chest. “I got it! Whe­re do we-” He saw me and slid to a halt, al­most fal­ling back­ward on the plush car­pet. He ut­te­red an in­co­he­rent no­ise as the de­fib­ril­la­tor fell from his hands.

  Si­ob­han and Mic­key lo­oked up at him, then back at me. The­ir eyes bul­ged wild, con­fu­sed, whi­le Dylan’s bo­re eno­ugh pa­in for the three of them.

  Slowly, so I wo­uldn’t shat­ter, I tur­ned and lo­oked over my sho­ul­der. Lo­gan’s ghost sto­od the­re, sta­ring at his for­mer body. He lif­ted his ga­ze to me­et his yo­un­ger brot­her’s. “I’m sorry,” he cro­aked. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Dylan, co­me on!” Mic­key wa­ved his arm. “Bring it over be­fo­re it’s too la­te!”

  “It’s too la­te,” Lo­gan and Dylan sa­id.

  “Oh God.” Si­ob­han sank back on her he­els. “You can see him? He’s he­re? He’s a-”

  “No!” Mic­key fol­ded his hands on the body’s chest and star­ted pum­ping, co­un­ting un­der his bre­ath. “Si­ob­han, bre­at­he.”

  She mo­aned, then bent over and bro­ught her mo­uth to the li­fe­less lips. Af­ter two bre­aths, she stro­ked what used to be Lo­gan’s ha­ir. “Co­me back. Ple­ase co­me back.”

  “I can’t,” Lo­gan whis­pe­red be­hind me, his vo­ice twis­ted in pa­in. “Aura, tell her. Ma­ke them stop.”

  I cram­med my hands over my ears and sank to my kne­es. This isn’t hap­pe­ning. The Li­qu­id Stu­pid is ma­king me hal­lu­ci­na­te. Lo­gan and I are go­ing to wa­ke up and la­ugh abo­ut this, and then we’re go­ing to kill Bri­an.

  I roc­ked back and forth, ho­ping the mo­ti­on wo­uld knock me out of the night­ma­re.

  “Aura, co­me on,” Lo­gan ple­aded. “I can’t watch this.”

  I sho­ok my he­ad. Not hap­pe­ning. Not hap­pe­ning.

  NOT.

  HAPPENING.

  Then ca­me the scre­ams.

  The fo­yer be­low was fil­ling with the ot­her party­go­ers, many of them sta­ring and po­in­ting at Lo­gan’s ghost. So­me we­re crying, and so­me we­re pul­ling pho­nes out of the­ir poc­kets.

  “Si­ob­han, bre­at­he!” Mic­key se­ized his sis­ter’s sho­ul­ders. “Don’t you da­re gi­ve up. We we­re sup­po­sed to ta­ke ca­re of him!”

  The sta­irs thum­ped with ra­pid fo­ots­teps. Me­gan stop­ped on the lan­ding when she saw Lo­gan’s body at the top. “Oh my God.”

  “Don’t say it.” Mic­key tur­ned his te­ar-stre­aked fa­ce to her. “Don’t say it. Don’t say he’s de­ad.”

  Me­gan’s hand tremb­led as it po­in­ted at Lo­gan’s ghost. “But he’s-”

  “Don’t say it!” Mic­key wi­ped his no­se with the back of his wrist. “Don’t say it.” He went back to do­ing CPR, shut­ting out the world with his mut­te­red co­unt.

  Si­ob­han bu­ri­ed her fa­ce in her kne­es, swa­ying and sob­bing. Dylan sto­od the­re sta­ring at Lo­gan, slack jawed, li­ke he’d ne­ver se­en a ghost be­fo­re. The cord of the fal­len de­fib­ril­la­tor still dang­led from his fin­ger­tips.

  I dug my na­ils in­to the car­pet, to ke­ep the earth from slip­ping out from un­der me.

  Me­gan crept up the rest of the sta­irs. “What’s that on the bath­ro­om sink?”

  “Shut up,” Mic­key grow­led.

  She sho­uted, “Lo­gan, what the hell we­re you thin­king?”

  He ra­ised his hands. “It was an ac­ci­dent. I wasn’t trying to kill myself.” Lo­gan re­ac­hed to to­uch me, then pul­led back. “Tell them what I just sa­id.”

  I re­pe­ated his words with a ne­arly numb ton­gue, then sa­id, “Kill yo­ur­self with what, Lo­gan?”

  He spo­ke to Mic­key and Si­ob­han. “I know you tur­ned yo­urs down, and so did I. But when he of­fe­red aga­in la­ter, I-I didn’t want to piss him off. I was just trying to be ni­ce. I swe­ar I was gon­na flush it, but when we got ho­me, pe­op­le we­re in all the bath­ro­oms, so I just stuck it in my dra­wer.”

  “Stuck what in yo­ur dra­wer?” I was yel­ling now, but Lo­gan sta­yed si­lent whi­le Dylan re­pe­ated what he sa­id in a hal­ting vo­ice.

  Si­ob­han co­ve­red her fa­ce with her arms. “But Lo­gan, why did you ta­ke it?” she shril­led.

  “Be­ca­use I was drunk and stu­pid, okay? I was trying to wa­ke myself up so I wo­uldn’t pass out on-” He glan­ced my way, then cur­led his arms over his chest. “Ne­ver mind.”

  Dylan re­ci­ted Lo­gan’s words slowly, as he re­ali­zed the­ir imp­li­ca­ti­ons.

  All three sib­lings tur­ned to lo­ok at me with the eyes of jud­ge, jury, and exe­cu­ti­oner. The ho­use had fal­len si­lent as the scre­ams be­low be­ca­me sobs. So­me­one had switc­hed off the mu­sic.

  When Me­gan drew me in­t
o a tight hug, I clung to her with arms I co­uld ba­rely fe­el. One pi­ece of my body af­ter anot­her se­emed to be fol­lo­wing Lo­gan in­to the cold, dark ob­li­vi­on.

  Then she whis­pe­red, “Yo­ur shirt’s in­si­de out and back­wards.”

  I slip­ped my hand bet­we­en us to to­uch the front of my neck. The tag was stic­king out, tel­ling the world the who­le story of Lo­gan’s de­ath, a story I didn’t un­ders­tand.

  I lurc­hed to my fe­et.

  “Aura, don’t!” Lo­gan cal­led, but no one el­se tri­ed to stop me as I stumb­led to the bath­ro­om. Grip­ping the do­orj­amb, I pe­ered in­si­de.

  No blo­od sta­ined the whi­te ti­le flo­or or pa­le blue walls. The only thing out of pla­ce was a fal­len hand to­wel. The mo­nog­ram­med let­ter K win­ked up at me in sil­ver thre­ad.

  But on the shiny marb­le sink, one li­ne of whi­te pow­der sa­id it all.

  “You’re such. A fuc­king. Idi­ot!”

  Mic­key was sha­king Lo­gan’s body by the sho­ul­ders. The he­ad lol­led to the si­de on a rub­bery neck.

  “How co­uld you do this to us?” he shri­eked. “How co­uld you do this to Mom and Dad?”

  Lo­gan’s ghost watc­hed Mic­key’s melt­down with wi­de ro­und eyes. “I didn’t me­an to. Swe­ar to God. Ple­ase don’t-”

  “Stu­pid. As­sho­le!” Mic­key’s mo­uth twis­ted in a si­lent howl. He pres­sed his fo­re­he­ad to his brot­her’s chest, then his arms sna­ked aro­und the limp body un­til he clutc­hed it in an emb­ra­ce. “Why?”

  Si­ob­han kept sob­bing. Dylan kept sta­ring. I just tri­ed to ke­ep bre­at­hing.

  Me­gan went to the ra­iling and sa­id, “Every­body go ho­me. Now.”

  I felt fo­ur tight walls emer­ge wit­hin me, thick and soft as cot­ton, mu­ting the no­ise and pa­in. Sa­fe in my co­co­on, and kno­wing it wo­uldn’t last, I tur­ned to com­fort Lo­gan.