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Shade 01 - Shade

Page 7

by Jeri Smith-Ready


  “You’re so sen­sib­le.” She stro­ked my ha­ir, pic­king out the gel-encrus­ted tang­les. “And now you can’t ob­sess over tho­se li­es.”

  I put my fa­ce in my so­da-sticky hands. “They’ll be tal­king abo­ut it at scho­ol Mon­day.”

  “I know, but you can’t say anyt­hing, okay? Gi­na told me that the Ke­eleys cal­led right be­fo­re I got he­re. They might sue the guy who ga­ve Lo­gan the co­ca­ine. They might even sue the re­cord com­pany.”

  “But wit­ho­ut Lo­gan, it’s just the band’s word aga­inst the com­pany’s, and War­rant will ha­ve a who­le te­am of law­yers.”

  “You ne­ver know. Lo­gan might still show up.”

  It was wrong to wish it, wrong to ho­pe I’d ever see his smi­le aga­in. I sho­uld’ve be­en pra­ying for the pas­sa­ge of his so­ul, as Aunt Gi­na was pro­bably do­ing downs­ta­irs, with a ro­sary and cand­les and an al­tar to Sa­int Pe­ter.

  But I co­uldn’t help it. I wan­ted Lo­gan back, even in vi­olet.

  Chapter Six

  Lo­gan didn’t re­turn that night in any co­lor, not even in my dre­ams. Pro­bably be­ca­use I was se­da­ted.

  Gi­na tho­ught Va­li­um wo­uld help my “con­di­ti­on.” I didn’t bot­her tel­ling her that Lo­gan was the only cu­re for my con­di­ti­on. I just shut up and to­ok the flat yel­low pill. It hel­ped, if only by get­ting her off my ca­se. Her eyes we­re full of gri­ef, li­ke she’d lost the lo­ve of her li­fe.

  I didn’t wa­ke up on Sun­day un­til my cell pho­ne rang. I pic­ked it up off my nights­tand, dre­ading the gos­sip se­ekers.

  The glo­wing scre­en sa­id ZAC­HARY M. The na­me was va­gu­ely fa­mi­li­ar, and con­nec­ted with so­met­hing im­por­tant.

  “Hel­lo,” ca­me a de­ep lil­ting vo­ice. “I ne­ver ga­ve you my ad­dress.”

  “Ohhh, no.” Fri­day se­emed li­ke it was three ye­ars ago. “I for­got abo­ut go­ing to Col­le­ge Park to­day. I sho­uld’ve can­ce­led.” We we­re sup­po­sed to be the­re in an ho­ur.

  “Why?” he sa­id. “What’s wrong?”

  This guy was out­si­de my uni­ver­se. He didn’t know. “My boyf­ri­end di­ed.” An ima­gi­nary kni­fe twis­ted in my chest-a sign the se­da­ti­ves we­re fa­ding.

  “Christ, I’m so sorry. What hap­pe­ned?”

  “I don’t want to talk abo­ut it.”

  “Okay.” He wa­ited a few se­conds. “What’s the na­me of the pro­fes­sor we’re sup­po­sed to me­et with?”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll lo­ok up the num­ber and ring them for you, to can­cel.”

  My aunt ope­ned the do­or a crack wit­ho­ut knoc­king. “Who’s on the pho­ne, hon?”

  “So­me­one from scho­ol.” When she didn’t ret­re­at, I sent her a blank lo­ok. “This con­ver­sa­ti­on is of an aca­de­mic na­tu­re.”

  “No ne­ed to get snippy. I’m le­aving.” Ex­cept she didn’t. “You su­re I can’t get you so­me so­up? I ma­de es­ca­ro­le. You lo­ve es­ca­ro­le.”

  I tur­ned my he­ad away from her scrunc­hed-up Sympathy Fa­ce. “Ye­ah, I’ll be down in a mi­nu­te.”

  When Gi­na di­sap­pe­ared-le­aving my do­or open, of co­ur­se-I put the pho­ne back to my ear. “What did you ask me?”

  “The pro­fes­sor’s na­me. Or num­ber, if you ha­ve it. But I don’t mind lo­oking it up.”

  The tho­ught of spen­ding anot­her day lying in bed crying, or ta­king pho­ne calls, or re­ading ru­mors on the In­ter­net (assu­ming my lap­top hadn’t suf­fe­red De­ath by Gin­ger Ale), ma­de me shri­vel up in­si­de.

  “Gi­ve me yo­ur ad­dress.”

  * * *

  I pic­ked Zac­hary up in front of his apart­ment bu­il­ding, on the ot­her si­de of the Johns Hop­kins Uni­ver­sity cam­pus from my Char­les Vil­la­ge ne­igh­bor­ho­od.

  He set his bo­ok bag on the pas­sen­ger’s se­at flo­or and slid in­si­de. “Bril­li­ant, right on ti­me.”

  “I’m al­ways on ti­me.”

  “Me too. I ha­te when-” He stop­ped when he saw my fa­ce. “Blo­ody hell. You all right to dri­ve?”

  “Yep.” I adj­us­ted my glas­ses, the fra­mes cro­oked from the ti­me I’d sat on them. “The Va­li­um’s worn off.” I pul­led out in­to traf­fic, pro­bably a lit­tle fas­ter than I sho­uld ha­ve. “If we ha­ve to get to­get­her to work on this pro­j­ect, we co­uld me­et on cam­pus half­way.”

  The car be­si­de me hon­ked, and Zac­hary grab­bed the arm­rest as I swer­ved back to the cen­ter of my la­ne. Then he qu­ickly let go and scratc­hed his chin, as if to pro­ve my dri­ving didn’t sca­re him.

  “We’re in a tem­po­rary let,” he sa­id, “whi­le my dad gets set­tled at Hop­kins. It’s just one ro­om, plus a wee kitc­hen.”

  “He’s a gu­est lec­tu­rer?”

  “So­met­hing li­ke that.”

  “Which de­part­ment?”

  “Po­li­ti­cal sci­en­ce,” Zac­hary sa­id qu­ickly, as if he’d be­en wa­iting for me to ask. “We’re he­re for two se­mes­ters.”

  “Is that what you want to do too? Po­li­ti­cal sci­en­ce?”

  He pres­sed his fo­ot to the flo­or as we ap­pro­ac­hed the stop­light, ap­pa­rently too fast for his tas­te. “No, I co­uld ne­ver do what he do­es.”

  “So three of you in a stu­dio apart­ment? Or do you ha­ve sib­lings, too?” I didn’t know why I ca­red. Trying to avo­id si­len­ce, I gu­ess.

  “It’s just me and him.”

  I stop­ped the car at the light and adj­us­ted my pas­sen­ger si­de mir­ror (I al­ways for­get that one). “Yo­ur mom’s back in Scot­land?”

  “Er, may­be.”

  “Is it a sec­ret? She’s a spy or so­met­hing?”

  Zac­hary fol­ded his arms and ga­ve me a bit­ter lo­ok. “If it’s a sec­ret, I’m no’ privy to it.”

  “Sorry.” I pro­bably sho­uld ha­ve re­ve­aled my own pa­ren­tal lack, so we co­uld bond over the vo­ids in our res­pec­ti­ve li­ves. But my ner­ves we­re too raw from lo­sing Lo­gan for me to talk abo­ut my mom and dad.

  We both fell qu­i­et un­til we got to the fre­eway and the sun ca­me out.

  “Don’t la­ugh.” I put on a pa­ir of sung­las­ses in front of my re­gu­lar glas­ses, of­fi­ci­al­ly be­co­ming a gold-me­dal dork.

  Zac­hary didn’t la­ugh. “How do you see li­ke that?”

  “Bet­ter than squ­in­ting and get­ting a he­adac­he.”

  “Why not get presc­rip­ti­on sung­las­ses?”

  “They’re ex­pen­si­ve, and I ne­ver we­ar my glas­ses out of the ho­use.”

  “Did you lo­se a con­tact lens, then?”

  “No, they wo­uldn’t fit.” May­be be­ca­use my eyes we­re al­most swol­len shut from crying.

  “Ah.” Zac­hary shrug­ged out of his dark brown le­at­her jac­ket, tug­ging it from un­der the se­at belt’s sho­ul­der har­ness. I chec­ked out his clot­hing in my pe­rip­he­ral vi­si­on. Just a few days ago, I wo­uld’ve en­vi­ed his black shirt. Pre-Shif­ters had no idea what it was li­ke to ha­ve to cho­ose bet­we­en we­aring red or suf­fe­ring ma­j­or ghost ha­ras­sment.

  But I wasn’t en­vi­o­us any­mo­re. I twis­ted the hem of my rasp­ber­ry-co­lo­red swe­ater and tho­ught abo­ut its bur­gundy twin (or trip­let, if you co­unt the scar­let one too). May­be so­me new clot­hes wo­uld bring Lo­gan back.

  My hands tigh­te­ned on the ste­ering whe­el. Get re­al, Aura. He’s not co­ming back, not for clot­hes, not for an­y­t­hing.

  As we pas­sed the In­ner Har­bor, Zac­hary cra­ned his neck at the US­SCon­s­tel­la­ti­on out the back win­dow. “That ship’s hu­ge. Was it used for bat­tles?”

  “It’s got can­nons, so I gu­ess so.” Ap­pa­rently, the tes­tos­te­ro­ne-y ob­ses­si­on with
we­apons wasn’t just for Ame­ri­can guys.

  “Ha­ve you be­en in­si­de?”

  “Ugh, not sin­ce I was a kid.” I rub­bed the brid­ge of my no­se, al­re­ady so­re from the we­ight of two pa­irs of glas­ses. “It’s ter­mi­nal­ly ha­un­ted.”

  “Oh, right. I gu­ess they can’t Black­Box it wit­ho­ut te­aring it apart.”

  I shrug­ged. “That, and it helps sell tic­kets.”

  On the in­ters­ta­te I chan­ged the su­bj­ect to our pro­j­ect. Zac­hary to­ok no­tes on the re­se­arch I’d do­ne so far, which wasn’t much. But I had set out the sco­pe and di­rec­ti­on, and I wasn’t abo­ut to let him drag me off co­ur­se.

  I didn’t tell Zac­hary how I’d fo­und our ad­vi­ser, Dr. Har­ris. That sum­mer I’d dis­co­ve­red a loc­ked box at the back of my aunt’s clo­set. The key was in her bot­tom dra­wer with a bunch of ot­her fa­mily ke­ep­sa­kes. When I un­loc­ked the box, I fo­und a jo­ur­nal and a pi­le of old pho­tos from the Newg­ran­ge me­ga­lith in Ire­land, inc­lu­ding one of a girl my age-Eowyn Har­ris. All da­ted a ye­ar be­fo­re my birth. All writ­ten in my mot­her’s handw­ri­ting.

  By this po­int, I had me­mo­ri­zed Mom’s jo­ur­nal ent­ri­es.

  Thur­s­day, De­cem­ber 20

  It’s true what they say abo­ut Ire­land-this pla­ce is ma­gic. I ne­ver be­li­eved in any of that mysti­cal crap be­fo­re, not even Gi­na’s sup­po­sed “ghost sight,” but now I won­der. It fe­els li­ke I was me­ant to co­me he­re, li­ke my so­ul is ho­me.

  Nah, I’m pro­bably just jet-lag­ged. Get­ting up early for the sols­ti­ce sun­ri­se to­mor­row-woo-hoo!

  Fri­day, De­cem­ber 21

  The­re are no words to desc­ri­be what hap­pe­ned this mor­ning in Newg­ran­ge. But so, so, SO many qu­es­ti­ons.

  So­me­one had torn out De­cem­ber 22’s entry, but who? My mom? Aunt Gi­na?

  Rat­her than ma­king me fe­el glo­omi­er, thin­king abo­ut my mot­her and the stuff she left be­hind cal­med the cyclo­ne in my he­ad. I was on my way to fi­nish her qu­est.

  Zac­hary and I ar­ri­ved at the Uni­ver­sity of Mary­land fif­te­en mi­nu­tes early-go­od thing, be­ca­use it to­ok ten mi­nu­tes of dri­ving aro­und the hu­mon­go­us Col­le­ge Park cam­pus to find the right bu­il­ding.

  I re­ac­hed bet­we­en the se­ats to get my bo­ok bag, then ca­ught a glimp­se of myself in the re­ar­vi­ew mir­ror. Mis­ta­ke.

  “Gross, I’m so zom­bi­efi­ed.” I pul­led my mat­ted ha­ir for­ward to co­ver my puffy eyes. “Dr. Har­ris’ll think I’m strung out or hun­go­ver. Gre­at first imp­res­si­on.”

  “Ama­zing, tho­ugh.”

  “What?”

  Zac­hary star­ted to ans­wer, then brus­hed his lips with the si­de of his fin­ger. “No, it’s stu­pid.”

  I’d ne­ver se­en so­me­one use so much of the­ir mo­uth for that word. “What’s stu­pid, be­si­des yo­ur mind ga­mes?”

  “Okay, but if I start, you let me fi­nish.” He spo­ke to the ra­dio ins­te­ad of me­eting my ga­ze. “The pi­eces of you are comp­le­te shi­te to­day, the blo­ated eye­lids and splotchy skin and yo­ur ha­ir all”-he wa­ved his hand-“you know, and all to­get­her you sho­uld lo­ok pu­re hac­kit, but so­me­how you’re mo­re bon­nie than ever.”

  I re­wo­und his sen­ten­ce in my he­ad. Zac­hary’s eyes flic­ked up to me­et mi­ne, and I must’ve se­emed pis­sed, be­ca­use he sa­id, “Sorry,” and re­ac­hed for the car do­or hand­le.

  “Wa­it. What’s ‘hac­kit’? What’s that me­an?”

  “Ugly. But ‘bon­nie’ me­ans-”

  “I know what ‘bon­nie’ me­ans.”

  Zac­hary held up a hand. “I’m no’ flir­ting with you, not with yo­ur boyf­ri­end just pas­sing. I’m only ma­king an ob­ser­va­ti­on.”

  I to­ok off my sung­las­ses to see him bet­ter. He didn’t lo­ok li­ke he was trying to co­me on to me. He lo­oked kind of pat­he­tic, ac­tu­al­ly, for so­me­one who was him­self so, uh, bon­nie.

  “Thanks,” I sa­id, partly be­ca­use I knew it wo­uld shock him if I didn’t get of­fen­ded. But mostly be­ca­use his words ma­de me fe­el bet­ter, se­e­ing as I was, obj­ec­ti­vely spe­aking, pu­re hac­kit.

  We sto­od in the do­or­way of Dr. Har­ris’s va­cant of­fi­ce. A mid­night blue silk ta­pestry co­ve­red the ce­iling, speck­led with gol­den spots rep­re­sen­ting stars in the­ir cons­tel­la­ti­ons. An MP3 doc­king sta­ti­on on the win­dow­sill be­hind the desk pla­yed a hypno­tic synthe­si­zer tu­ne.

  Pos­ters and pa­in­tings of an­ci­ent me­ga­liths we­re stap­led or na­iled to the bo­oks­hel­ves, co­ve­ring all but a few spa­ces, which held mi­ni­atu­re rep­li­cas of stan­ding-sto­ne for­ma­ti­ons. The fa­mo­us Sto­ne­hen­ge sat next to the grassy do­me of Newg­ran­ge, which ga­ve me a shi­ver of re­cog­ni­ti­on.

  Do­zens of bo­oks we­re stac­ked on the flo­or next to the shel­ves. On the desk fa­cing the do­or, mo­re vo­lu­mes sto­od in fo­ot-high pi­les along the pe­ri­me­ter. It lo­oked li­ke so­me­one had star­ted to bu­ild a fort.

  I clutc­hed my bo­ok bag strap with swe­aty palms. I might ac­tu­al­ly get so­me ans­wers to­day, I tho­ught. I wish I still ca­red abo­ut the sa­me qu­es­ti­ons.

  Zac­hary chec­ked his watch. “We’re on ti­me,” he whis­pe­red. “Whe­re is she?”

  “If by ‘she,’ you me­an me”-a he­ad pop­ped up from be­hind the bo­ok fort-“I’m right he­re.”

  I al­most jum­ped at the sight of the… pro­fes­sor? She lo­oked only a lit­tle ol­der than her te­ena­ge pic­tu­re, and if she we­ren’t slightly shor­ter than my fi­ve-fo­ot-two, I wo­uld’ve be­li­eved she was a mo­del. Her blond ha­ir fell in wa­ves to her wa­ist. I’d ne­ver se­en curly ha­ir so long, and I won­de­red if it was a we­ave. But it mo­ved li­ke re­al ha­ir, and she wo­re hardly any ma­ke­up-not that she ne­eded it-so she se­emed li­ke a ge­nu­inely, obs­ce­nely, na­tu­re-is-so-unfa­ir-ly gor­ge­o­us wo­man.

  Be­si­de me, Zac­hary sto­od with his mo­uth half-open. “Er… ah…,” he sa­id, li­ke he was ha­ving his ton­sils chec­ked.

  I step­ped for­ward. “I’m Aura. We tal­ked on the pho­ne? And this is my new part­ner, Zac­hary Mo­ore. Mrs. Ric­hards as­sig­ned him to help me.”

  “Lo­vely.” Li­ke her ha­ir, Dr. Har­ris’s vo­ice re­min­ded me of li­qu­id gold, warm and soft and he­avy. “Call me Eowyn.” She held out her hands, one to each of us. I sho­ok the right one, sin­ce it was clo­ser to me.

  Zac­hary awk­wardly sho­ok her left hand with his left. “Eowyn? Li­ke the cha­rac­ter from Lord of the Rings?”

  Her he­ad pitc­hed back as she la­ug­hed. “My pa­rents we­re hu­ge Tol­ki­en fans.” She did lo­ok kind of li­ke the lady from the mo­vi­es. “It co­uld’ve be­en wor­se,” Eowyn sa­id to me. “If I’d be­en a boy, they wo­uld’ve na­med me Gan­dalf.”

  I tri­ed to re­turn her smi­le, but ap­pa­rently wasn’t suc­ces­sful.

  “Is so­met­hing wrong?” she as­ked me, the cor­ners of her de­ep blue eyes crink­ling with con­cern.

  I sho­ok my he­ad, then nod­ded. “Not­hing to do with the pro­j­ect.”

  “But you are the pro­j­ect.” Her smi­le wi­de­ned. “By that I me­an, you and yo­ur part­ner will po­ur yo­ur­sel­ves in­to the work, and what co­mes out will ref­lect yo­ur per­so­na­li­ti­es.” She glan­ced bet­we­en us, al­most slyly. “Which I sen­se are very si­mi­lar. Yo­ur stars may be clo­sely alig­ned.”

  Ple­ase don’t let her talk abo­ut as­t­ro­logy. This who­le se­tup was we­ird eno­ugh wit­ho­ut Zac­hary kno­wing we we­re born only a mi­nu­te apart. And if he knew al­re­ady, I didn’t want him to know I knew he knew.

  “How do we start, then?” Z
ac­hary as­ked.

  “The way every for­tu­na­te en­de­avor be­gins.” She un­fur­led her hand to ges­tu­re be­hind us. “With tea.”

  A small, low tab­le was set up in the cor­ner of her of­fi­ce. Two whi­te mugs sat next to a te­apot the blue of a twi­lit sky.

  “Sit,” she sa­id. “I’ll grab an ext­ra mug from the ca­bi­net he­re.”

  Zac­hary and I ma­ne­uve­red aro­und anot­her stack of bo­oks, then stop­ped next to the two ob­long cus­hi­ons, pla­ced on eit­her si­de of the tab­le.

  “Go on,” he sa­id. “I’ll ta­ke the flo­or.”

  “No, you won’t.” Eowyn gli­ded over with the third mug. “You two will be put­ting yo­ur he­ads to­get­her a lot this ye­ar. It won’t kill you to put yo­ur butts to­get­her now.”

  If I we­ren’t so numb, I might’ve la­ug­hed, or at le­ast blus­hed. But I just wan­ted to start this me­eting so I co­uld get so­me ans­wers, then end it so I co­uld be alo­ne aga­in. Fa­king okay-ness was ex­ha­us­ting me.

  Zac­hary and I sat with a few inc­hes bet­we­en our bo­di­es, on a sag­ging cus­hi­on that wan­ted to tumb­le us to­get­her. Eowyn lo­we­red her­self on­to the cus­hi­on ac­ross from us, using a gra­ce­ful, no-han­ded mo­ve that scre­amed of da­ily yo­ga prac­ti­ce. She pla­ced the pla­in whi­te mugs in a row on the tab­le. “Cho­ose one.”

  They all lo­oked the sa­me, but cle­arly this was so­me kind of test, jud­ging by the gle­am in her eye.

  I cho­se the one on the left, in front of Zac­hary, and he cho­se the one that had be­en in the mid­dle. For so­me re­ason it oc­cur­red to me that Lo­gan wo­uld’ve re­ac­hed for the one on the right, be­ca­use it was the fart­hest away. I rub­bed the achy spot on my chest.

  Eowyn po­ured the tea, and I no­ti­ced she was we­aring an ob­si­di­an ring in an oval set­ting. “Now watch.”

  Zac­hary re­tur­ned my skep­ti­cal glan­ce. Was she go­ing to re­ad our tea le­aves? What did this ha­ve to do with an­ci­ent ast­ro­nomy?

 

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