Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  But he was go­ne.

  The pa­ra­me­dics ma­de ever­yo­ne but Mic­key sit downs­ta­irs in the li­ving ro­om, out of sight but not qu­ite out of ears­hot.

  On the ot­her si­de of the wi­de, empty spa­ce whe­re an ho­ur ago I had dan­ced with Lo­gan, Si­ob­han sat cur­led up in Con­nor’s arms, her te­ars sta­ining his ma­ro­on T-shirt. Con­nor stro­ked her back and sta­red at the flo­or, which was still strewn with be­er cups.

  Bri­an pa­ced be­ne­ath the wi­de arch­way le­ading to the di­ning ro­om, crump­ling his ba­se­ball cap in his hands, then un­fol­ding it and put­ting it back on his he­ad.

  Instinct told me to ke­ep my mo­uth shut ins­te­ad of scre­aming at him. It felt li­ke my fa­ult, any­way, not Bri­an’s. If I hadn’t yel­led at Lo­gan for drin­king the Li­qu­id Stu­pid, he’d still be ali­ve. May­be pas­sed out or pu­king up his guts, but de­fi­ni­tely not lying on the car­pet ups­ta­irs sur­ro­un­ded by EMTs mur­mu­ring words li­ke “synergy” and “vent­ri­cu­lar fib­ril­la­ti­on.”

  “Synergy,” Me­gan scof­fed as she rub­bed my cold hands bet­we­en hers. “I ha­ven’t he­ard that word sin­ce fifth gra­de. What’s the po­int of te­ac­hing a bunch of ten-ye­ar-olds not to mix co­ca­ine and al­co­hol? We for­got all abo­ut it by the ti­me we tur­ned ele­ven, much less se­ven­te­en.”

  “Oh God.” My own he­art felt li­ke it wo­uld twitch and halt. “Lo­gan di­ed on his birth­day.”

  “No, no, no.” Her vo­ice pitc­hed up, li­ke she was chi­ding a dog. “Lo­ok, it’s al­re­ady Sa­tur­day.” She po­in­ted at the grand­fat­her clock in the cor­ner.

  One fif­te­en.

  “Isn’t the­re a song abo­ut one fif­te­en on a Sa­tur­day night?” Me­gan as­ked, ob­vi­o­usly trying to dist­ract me.

  “Ten fif­te­en. By the Cu­re.” My lungs se­ized in a sob. Even mu­sic wo­uld hurt now wit­ho­ut Lo­gan. Mu­sic, fo­od, tex­ting, shop­ping, the In­ner Har­bor, the Oce­an City bo­ard­walk. I wan­ted to mo­ve far away, ta­ke so­me­one el­se’s past and fu­tu­re. It wo­uld hurt too much to be me now.

  Me­gan cram­med anot­her tis­sue in­to my hands just as Aunt Gi­na wal­ked thro­ugh the front do­or.

  Gi­na lo­oked up the sta­irs at the pa­ra­me­dics, po­li­ce, and what used to be Lo­gan. Her fa­ce re­ma­ined still, li­ke she had re­he­ar­sed this mo­ment to stay calm. But the un­der­si­de of her jaw twitc­hed as she swal­lo­wed.

  Gi­na tur­ned to the li­ving ro­om. “Oh, swe­et­he­art.” She hur­ri­ed over, and I re­ali­zed she’d be­en wa­iting up for me. Her ma­ke­up was still on, and her short blond wa­ves hadn’t be­en com­bed out.

  So­me­how I ma­na­ged to stand so she co­uld hug me. “I’m so, so sorry,” she whis­pe­red. “You ha­ve no idea.”

  She held me tight for se­ve­ral se­conds, mur­mu­ring words I co­uldn’t ma­ke out. I wan­ted to beg her to ta­ke me ho­me, but she still had a job to do.

  Gi­na kis­sed my che­ek. “I’ll be right back.” She stro­de in­to the fo­yer and hust­led up the sta­irs. As if from a dis­tan­ce, I he­ard her ask in her law­yer vo­ice, “Who’s the of­fi­cer in char­ge?”

  “No, it’s not an emer­gency.” Sit­ting in the cor­ner armc­ha­ir, Dylan spit his words in­to the pho­ne re­ce­iver. “I’m cal­ling at one a.m. be­ca­use I ha­ve a tum­myac­he and I want my mommy.” He pa­used. “Well, you’re, li­ke, the fo­urth per­son I’ve tal­ked to, and ever­yo­ne asks the sa­me thing, so ob­vi­o­usly I do ne­ed to get sar­cas­tic. Tell them to call ho­me. Now.” Dylan hung up. “It’s such bul­lshit we can’t get Mom and Dad.”

  “They don’t ha­ve cell to­wers in the mid­dle of the oce­an,” Me­gan po­in­ted out.

  “Call Aunt Je­an,” Si­ob­han sa­id, snif­fling. “Or Aunt Ro­se­mary. They’ll know what to do.”

  “No way.” Dylan clas­ped the pho­ne to his chest. “Mom and Dad sho­uld find out first. And the cops won’t call an­yo­ne, sin­ce you and Mic­key are eigh­te­en. You’re ta­king ca­re of us.” He flinc­hed. “Of me, I me­an.”

  Si­ob­han mo­aned, bur­ying her fa­ce in Con­nor’s chest. Dylan sank de­eper in the cha­ir and co­ve­red his fa­ce with the end of a Hal­lo­we­en throw blan­ket. Its black and oran­ge tas­sels flut­te­red as he bre­at­hed out a he­avy sigh.

  “Do­es an­yo­ne want a drink?”

  We all sta­red at Bri­an, who sho­ved his hands in his poc­kets.

  “I don’t me­an-je­ez, I me­ant li­ke so­da or so­met­hing.”

  “I’ll help you.” Me­gan ga­ve me a wor­ri­ed glan­ce and fol­lo­wed Bri­an to­ward the kitc­hen.

  I sat back on the so­fa. My hand slid over so­met­hing cold and wet. I lif­ted it to see a brown-yel­low sta­in on the cre­amy be­ige cus­hi­on. Spil­led Gu­in­ness, no do­ubt. My che­eks fla­med at the me­mory of Lo­gan’s last se­ve­ral drinks.

  I ex­cu­sed myself with a mumb­le, then slunk away to the downs­ta­irs bath­ro­om.

  Loc­king the do­or, I left the light off be­fo­re re­mem­be­ring that, li­ke all bath­ro­oms, it wo­uld be Black­Bo­xed. That’s why Lo­gan wasn’t in he­re. If he was a ghost, he’d co­me back to me, right?

  I splas­hed cold wa­ter on my fa­ce un­til my con­tact len­ses stung from the sme­ared eye­li­ner. I dri­ed my fa­ce and hands, avo­iding the mir­ror. One glimp­se wo­uld start me sob­bing aga­in.

  I ope­ned the bath­ro­om do­or and step­ped in­to the fo­yer. From abo­ve my he­ad ca­me the no­ise of a he­avy zip­per.

  I lo­oked up the sta­irs, then wis­hed I hadn’t.

  The pa­ra­me­dics had pla­ced Lo­gan’s body on­to a stretc­her. One of them was se­aling a long, gre­enish black bag.

  I ima­gi­ned the last glimp­se of Lo­gan, his ble­ac­hed-blond ha­ir, di­sap­pe­aring in­si­de. My kne­es tur­ned li­qu­id, and I let out a lit­tle cry.

  He can’t bre­at­he in the­re.

  “Aura.” My aunt wa­ved her hand over the ba­nis­ter as if to shoo me. “Swe­etie, you sho­uldn’t see this. Go wa­it in one of the ot­her ro­oms.”

  I wan­ted to la­unch myself up the sta­irs, rip open the bag, and cling to the only part of Lo­gan I co­uld still to­uch. I wan­ted to scre­am at the pa­ra­me­dics not to ta­ke him. Not yet.

  Inste­ad I ran in­to the den and slam­med the do­or.

  Light from the stre­et fil­te­red thro­ugh the she­er cur­ta­ins, glo­wing sil­ver on the desk and bo­oks­hel­ves, and the glo­be that Mr. Ke­eley had in­sis­ted on bu­ying, even tho­ugh it was out­da­ted by the ti­me it ar­ri­ved.

  But it was dark eno­ugh for ghosts. “Lo­gan,” I whis­pe­red. “Don’t let me re­mem­ber that. I want to see you the way you are now. Ple­ase co­me back.”

  Not­hing to he­ar but the pul­se po­un­ding in my temp­les. Not­hing to see but am­bu­lan­ce he­ad­lights swe­eping ac­ross the win­dow.

  Not­hing to fe­el but alo­ne.

  Chapter Five

  In my dre­am, Lo­gan was red.

  So red and so de­ep, I co­uld see him in full suns­hi­ne. We lay on the be­ach, fa­cing each ot­her, with no to­wels bet­we­en our bo­di­es and the sand.

  “You lo­ok li­ke blo­od,” I te­ased him.

  He la­ug­hed, his mo­uth a dark chasm. “That’s be­ca­use I’m ma­de of blo­od.”

  He stro­ked my fa­ce. His fin­ger­tips we­re warm and way too soft. He wasn’t so­lid li­ke a per­son, or air li­ke a ghost. He was li­qu­id-li­qu­id that now drip­ped from my che­ek and chin.

  “Don’t,” I told him.

  “What are you af­ra­id of?” Lo­gan drew his hand over the strap of my bi­ki­ni and down my arm, le­aving a glis­te­ning scar­let tra­il. “I won’t hurt you. I just ne­ed to to­uch you aga­in.” His slip­pery-slick hand t
o­ok mi­ne. “Don’t you want to to­uch me, Aura?”

  I let out a whim­per that ver­ged on a mo­an. “You know I do.” To pro­ve it, I re­ac­hed for­ward. My hand plun­ged in­to Lo­gan’s chest.

  His limbs spas­med, and he threw back his he­ad. “Not the­re!”

  So­met­hing pul­sed in my grip. It was li­ke sho­ving my hand aga­inst a Jacuz­zi noz­zle. Then the cur­rent re­ver­sed, suc­king me in.

  “I can’t let go!” My he­els kic­ked at the sand, trying to ga­in trac­ti­on. “Lo­gan!”

  His li­qu­id fin­gers clutc­hed my sho­ul­ders. My body slip­ped for­ward as if sli­ding down a ste­ep hill.

  Be­hind me, so­me­one pul­led. So­me­one as strong and so­lid as the earth it­self.

  But it wasn’t eno­ugh. Ca­ught in gra­vity’s grasp, I cras­hed in­to Lo­gan’s body of blo­od.

  My eyes ope­ned. Fla­iling my arm, I rol­led over, ex­pec­ting to see Aunt Gi­na stan­ding over my bed af­ter sha­king me awa­ke.

  “Swe­et­he­art?”

  Her vo­ice ca­me from the do­or­way, not my bed­si­de.

  “It’s al­most no­on.” Gi­na en­te­red and sat next to me, then brus­hed the swe­aty bangs off my fo­re­he­ad. “Can I get you so­me so­up?”

  Warm li­qu­id. En­te­ring my body. Thro­ugh my mo­uth.

  I lun­ged over Gi­na’s lap and bar­fed in­to the trash can.

  “I gu­ess not,” she mur­mu­red as she pul­led back my ha­ir.

  When I stop­ped retc­hing-which didn’t ta­ke long, sin­ce the­re was not­hing in my sto­mach-she han­ded me a tis­sue. I was al­re­ady sick of tis­su­es.

  Gi­na pic­ked up the pu­key trash can. “I’ll bring you so­me so­da.” The ho­use pho­ne rang, and she hur­ri­ed out be­fo­re I co­uld ple­ad, “No li­qu­ids!”

  A few mi­nu­tes la­ter the do­or­bell so­un­ded. I had the ur­ge to run, or at le­ast hi­de, but my limbs felt li­ke rub­ber.

  So­on the­re was a soft knock on my bed­ro­om do­or. Me­gan shamb­led in, car­rying a pla­te of sal­ti­nes and a fiz­zing glass of gin­ger ale.

  “I tho­ught abo­ut cal­ling first,” she sa­id, “but I was af­ra­id you’d tell me not to co­me. So I just ca­me.”

  “Thanks.” I sat up to ta­ke the crac­kers. The sto­ne­wa­re pla­te was co­ol and so­lid. “Put that drink whe­re I can’t see it, okay?”

  Wit­ho­ut qu­es­ti­oning, Me­gan set the glass on my desk, then ope­ned my cal­cu­lus bo­ok and set it on its ed­ge, as if the gin­ger ale we­re get­ting chan­ged be­hind one of tho­se old-fas­hi­oned dres­sing scre­ens.

  “How’s Mic­key?” I as­ked her.

  “Hor­rib­le.” She slo­uc­hed over from the desk and sank on­to the ed­ge of the bed. “They fi­nal­ly got hold of Mr. and Mrs. Ke­eley on the cru­ise. They’re flying back to­night when the ship stops in the Cay­mans.” She rub­bed her chap­ped no­se. “A co­up­le of aunts are al­re­ady at the ho­use, which pis­ses Mic­key off. He says he can ta­ke ca­re of the fa­mily un­til the­ir folks co­me back, but of co­ur­se he can’t.”

  “Has Dylan se­en-I me­an, has Lo­gan-”

  “No one’s se­en Lo­gan.” She squ­e­ezed my knee thro­ugh the red she­et. “I think he’s re­al­ly go­ne.”

  I slum­ped back on my pil­low, kno­wing I sho­uld be re­li­eved ins­te­ad of crus­hed. “But it was so sud­den. Most pe­op­le li­ke that stay ghosts for lon­ger than ten mi­nu­tes. No way was he al­re­ady at pe­ace.” I re­mem­be­red Lo­gan’s fa­ce as his brot­her scre­amed at his de­ad body. Anot­her te­ar drib­bled out. “May­be Lo­gan’s mad at us.”

  Me­gan gro­aned. “You too? Mic­key bla­mes him­self. You bla­me yo­ur­self. No­ne of what they say is true. You know bet­ter than an­yo­ne.”

  I shif­ted my he­ad on the pil­low. “What who says?”

  Her mo­uth for­med a tiny O. “Um, not­hing. Pe­op­le on­li­ne are, you know, bul­lshit­ting abo­ut last night.”

  I got so cold, it felt li­ke my mat­tress had be­co­me a block of ice. “Whe­re on­li­ne?”

  “Do not stress, okay? It’s co­ve­red. I told them whe­re they co­uld stick the­ir stu­pid ru­mors.”

  I sat up fast, my sto­mach so­mer­sa­ul­ting. “What ru­mors?”

  “Aura…”

  “If you don’t show me, I’ll lo­ok it up when you le­ave.” I rol­led off the ot­her si­de of the bed.

  “Okay, okay!” Me­gan fol­lo­wed me to my desk and sto­od be­hind me as I ope­ned my lap­top. “Start on Amy Ko­el­ler’s pro­fi­le.”

  “Amy?” Our class pre­si­dent, fu­tu­re Pe­ace Corps vo­lun­te­er, was gos­si­ping abo­ut me? She was al­ways so swe­et to ever­yo­ne. I bro­ught up my fri­ends list and clic­ked on her pro­fi­le.

  At the top of her pa­ge, her sta­tus re­ad, OMG Aura Sal­va­to­re’s boyf­ri­end Lo­gan di­ed of car­di­ac ar­rest last night. We sho­uld send flo­wers or so­met­hing.

  “That’s ni­ce.” I scrol­led down to see a link that sa­id, Vi­ew all 152 com­ments. I clic­ked, then scrol­led, and scrol­led, and scrol­led so­me mo­re.

  Me­gan tri­ed to clo­se the lap­top scre­en. “Aura, one last ti­me. Ple­ase don’t re­ad this.”

  I sho­ved her hand away and ang­led the scre­en so I co­uld see. The first co­up­le of do­zen res­pon­ses we­re sympat­he­tic or shoc­ked, lots of pe­op­le re­mem­be­ring Lo­gan from when he went to Rid­ge­wo­od be­fo­re his fa­mily mo­ved out to the Co­unty. The­re we­re of­fers to pitch in fi­ve bucks for flo­wers, then an ar­gu­ment abo­ut whet­her they sho­uld do­na­te the mo­ney to a cha­rity in Lo­gan’s na­me ins­te­ad.

  Then Ca­sey Craw­ford sa­id, You know it was drugs, right? He­ard Aura ga­ve them to him.

  “What?” I sho­uted.

  La­uren Bank­ford: No way. Aura pre­tends she’s all ba­dass, but she’d ne­ver ha­ve co­ca­ine.

  Ca­sey:It’s what I he­ard.

  Mi­ke Bru­ba­ker: I co­uld to­tal­ly see Lo­gan OD’ing. I knew a guy who used to get high with him in eighth gra­de. Du­de al­ways had to ta­ke mo­re hits off a jo­int than an­yo­ne el­se.

  La­uren: You ‘knew a guy,’ huh, Mi­ke?;-)

  Amy: Pe­op­le, can we get back to the cha­rity to­pic? May­be we sho­uld do­na­te it to a drug awa­re­ness gro­up.

  Mi­ke:You me­an tho­se re­tards who put on skits for as­semb­li­es? I’ll fe­ed the mo­ney to my dog ins­te­ad-his turds are bet­ter qu­ality than tho­se plays.

  La­uren:Shut up, Mi­ke. I think it sho­uld go to the an­tid­rug thing. When my grand­dad di­ed, pe­op­le ga­ve mo­ney to can­cer re­se­arch.

  Amy:Off to so­up kitc­hen. Back la­ter.

  Na­te Hof­s­tet­ler:May­be it sho­uld go to Vi­ag­ra sa­fety re­se­arch.

  Mi­ke:ROF­L­M­FAO @ Na­te.

  Ca­sey:Wa­it. What’s this abo­ut Vi­ag­ra?

  Na­te:Lo­gan had a he­art at­tack. Vi­ag­ra ca­uses he­art at­tacks.

  La­uren:Do­es not.

  Na­te:See the com­mer­ci­als? They say it at the end.

  La­uren:It’s bc old guys use it and the­ir he­arts exp­lo­de when they ha­ve sex, LOL.

  Sa­rah Gre­en­walt:I don’t think car­di­ac ar­rest is the sa­me as a he­art at­tack. I just lo­oked it up.

  Na­te:May­be it’s not only old guys who use Vi­ag­ra.

  Ca­sey:You are NOT sa­ying what I think you’re sa­ying.

  Mi­ke:I’d ne­ed Vi­ag­ra to get it up for Aura Sal­va­to­re.

  My sto­mach went cold, but I kept my fa­ce ri­gid so Me­gan wo­uldn’t shut my lap­top. I had to ke­ep re­ading, find out who had star­ted the­se ru­mors.

  Ca­sey:No way, man, she’s hot.

  Mi­ke:She’s, li­ke, three fe­et tall & she’s a to­tal bal­lbus­ter. Ita­l
i­ans yell all the ti­me.

  Ca­sey:Aura can yell in my ear all she wants whi­le I’m do­ing her.

  Na­te:Ye­ah, she’d be yel­ling, “IS IT IN YET?”

  Mi­ke:Plus, you can tell she’ll be fat in fi­ve ye­ars.

  Me­gan McCon­nell:YOU GUYS ARE SUCH AS­SHO­LES. YOU WE­REN’T EVEN THE­RE, SO YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT!! NO­NE OF YOU, SO STFU!!!

  La­uren:Srsly, let’s ta­ke this in­to chat. Amy’ll zap this thre­ad any­way when she gets ho­me.

  Ca­sey:Bit­c­hes.

  My fin­ger ho­ve­red over the ref­resh key.

  “Don’t do it,” Me­gan sa­id.

  I hit F5 to re­lo­ad the pa­ge. The thre­ad di­sap­pe­ared.

  “Thank God, Amy kil­led it.” Me­gan re­ac­hed for the lap­top lid. “Don’t worry abo­ut tho­se idi­ots.”

  I grab­bed the ba­se of the com­pu­ter. “No, I ha­ve to find out what they’re sa­ying now.”

  “What dif­fe­ren­ce do­es it ma­ke?”

  “What dif­fe­ren­ce?” I sho­uted. “Lo­gan’s de­ad, and they’re tel­ling li­es abo­ut him!”

  “What are you gon­na do, huh? Tell ever­yo­ne the truth?” She tigh­te­ned her hold on the lap­top lid. “Gi­na will kill you if you talk abo­ut this on­li­ne.”

  “I don’t ca­re!” I wrenc­hed the com­pu­ter to the left. Me­gan lost her ba­lan­ce and knoc­ked over my prop­ped-up cal­cu­lus bo­ok.

  The hid­den glass of gin­ger ale flo­oded my key­bo­ard. My lap­top siz­zled as the so­da so­aked in­to the fra­me.

  “Oh my God!” Me­gan yan­ked a tis­sue out of the box, then flip­ped it over. “It’s empty!”

  I pul­led the plug from the back of the lap­top and held down the po­wer but­ton un­til the scre­en went black. Then I tur­ned the com­pu­ter up­si­de down and prop­ped it up li­ke a tent so the li­qu­id wo­uld drip out.

  “Now what?” Me­gan dug her gre­en fin­ger­na­ils in­to the tis­sue li­ke it was the last one in the world.

  “Not­hing. It has to dry for at le­ast a day.”

  “How did you know what to do?”

  “Last ye­ar Lo­gan spil­led Co­ke on his lap­top and to­tal­ly fri­ed it. So I lo­oked up the pro­ce­du­re in ca­se it ever hap­pe­ned to me.”