Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “It’s a shit­ho­le by de­fa­ult, for be­ing in Dun­dalk.”

  She smac­ked the ste­ering whe­el. “God, Lo­gan, you are such a prin­cess. Ever sin­ce you guys mo­ved out to the Co­unty, sud­denly you’re all picky abo­ut whe­re we hang out.”

  I bent over to re­tie my sho­ela­ces, hi­ding my smi­le. They used to ha­ve this sa­me ar­gu­ment when Lo­gan was ali­ve. He­aring it aga­in, he­aring her spe­ak of him in the pre­sent ten­se, ma­de things fe­el nor­mal.

  “I’m just sa­ying,” Lo­gan went on, “when you’re a pub­lic fi­gu­re, you got­ta be ca­re­ful whe­re you’re se­en.”

  We both la­ug­hed at that. “Who’s a pub­lic fi­gu­re?” Me­gan as­ked. “You?”

  “Ye­ah, me,” he sa­id. “Be­ca­use of the band, and now be­ca­use of this stu­pid law­su­it. Ot­her pe­op­le are cons­tantly me­asu­ring our co­ol­ness. If you think that’s bul­lshit, you’re li­ving in a dre­am­world.”

  I ha­ve a boyf­ri­end who’s a ghost, I tho­ught. Of co­ur­se I’m li­ving in a dre­am­world.

  “But if you’re co­ol eno­ugh,” I po­in­ted out, “anywhe­re you go is auto­ma­ti­cal­ly co­ol.”

  Lo­gan con­si­de­red this for a mo­ment. “I don’t think any of us are that co­ol. Yet.” He lo­oked out the front win­dow, then le­aned for­ward and po­in­ted ac­ross Me­gan’s fa­ce. “The­re’s a spot. Pull in the­re.”

  “Fi­ne. Stop shi­ning on me.” She put on her turn sig­nal, but as she ap­pro­ac­hed the stre­et whe­re he was po­in­ting, she flic­ked it off and gun­ned the en­gi­ne.

  “What are you do­ing?” Lo­gan sa­id. “That was a per­fect par­king spot. Half a block from Fa­ces.”

  “We’re not go­ing to Fa­ces.”

  “But Dork Squ­ad is pla­ying.”

  “And you can go see them yo­ur­self. Co­ol part is, I don’t even ha­ve to slow down for you to get out of the car.”

  I pus­hed on the back of the dri­ver’s se­at. “Me­gan, co­me on.”

  “Aura, we’re go­ing to a new pla­ce in Can­ton. Jen­na sa­id it was to­tal­ly be­yond.”

  I co­uldn’t re­mem­ber ever go­ing to that part of Bal­ti­mo­re with Lo­gan. It was just a few blocks east, but un­til re­cently, it hadn’t had any clubs we wo­uld’ve li­ked.

  “I’ve ne­ver be­en the­re,” Lo­gan grow­led. “I’ve ne­ver even be­en past Ches­ter Stre­et.”

  She pa­used. “I know.”

  My thro­at tigh­te­ned. “Me­gan, don’t do this to me.”

  “I’m do­ing this for you.” Just as we ap­pro­ac­hed the in­ter­sec­ti­on of Ali­ce­an­na and Ches­ter, the light tur­ned gre­en. “Sorry, Lo­gan.”

  “No!” he and I sho­uted.

  The car sped for­ward, and he di­sap­pe­ared.

  “Turn aro­und!” Thro­ugh the back winds­hi­eld I saw Lo­gan stan­ding in the mid­dle of the ro­ad, wa­ving his arms. A whi­te SUV bo­re down on him, not even slo­wing. “Stop!”

  Be­fo­re I co­uld co­ver my eyes, the SUV zo­omed thro­ugh Lo­gan’s body.

  “He didn’t fe­el it.” Me­gan’s vo­ice had sof­te­ned. “He’s fi­ne.”

  “He’s not fi­ne!” I grip­ped her se­at. “He’s all alo­ne.”

  “Ple­ase. Lo­gan’s ne­ver alo­ne for long. He’ll find a party if it-” She cut her­self off. “Sorry.”

  “If it what?” I snap­ped. “If it kills him?”

  “I sa­id I’m sorry.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “Do you see me la­ug­hing?” Me­gan ac­ce­le­ra­ted, tos­sing me back aga­inst the se­at.

  “Pull over.”

  “No.”

  “I want to mo­ve to the front se­at. I fe­el stu­pid sit­ting he­re by myself.”

  “Now you know how I fe­el.” She tur­ned on­to a si­de stre­et and eased the car to the curb next to a fi­re hydrant be­fo­re put­ting on the flas­hers.

  I un­buck­led my se­at belt and yan­ked the do­or hand­le, but it wo­uldn’t go. “Unlock it.”

  “Just climb bet­we­en the se­ats.”

  “Unlock the do­or, Me­gan! I’m not a lit­tle kid.”

  “Re­al­ly?”

  We sat the­re for a mi­nu­te, may­be mo­re. Me­gan ret­ri­eved an emery bo­ard from the sto­ra­ge spa­ce bet­we­en the se­ats and star­ted fi­ling her na­ils. I sta­red at the ho­use ac­ross the stre­et, co­un­ting the fa­ke bricks on its Forms­to­ne fa­ca­de.

  Fi­nal­ly Me­gan’s stub­born­ness over­ca­me mi­ne. I squ­e­ezed bet­we­en the two front se­ats and plop­ped in­to the pas­sen­ger si­de. Then I snap­ped on my se­at belt with an angry click. “You. Suck.”

  * * *

  Fri­day was ap­pa­rently Un­de­ra­ge Night at the Black We­eds club, so I sho­wed my re­al ID for a gre­en hand stamp, which got me un­li­mi­ted no­nal­co­ho­lic drinks for a fi­ve-dol­lar co­ver char­ge. Me­gan had a flask of rum in her pur­se if the sce­ne tur­ned out to be tra­gic. The li­ne out­si­de was a pro­mi­sing length, tho­ugh, and I didn’t see an­yo­ne le­aving as we en­te­red.

  We wal­ked down a gre­en-car­pe­ted hal­lway il­lu­mi­na­ted by blin­king te­al, tur­qu­o­ise, and la­ven­der ce­iling lights. It lo­oked li­ke the Eas­ter Bunny had pro­j­ec­ti­le-vo­mi­ted a Christ­mas tree.

  “This pla­ce bet­ter not be glam,” I sa­id to Me­gan.

  “Jen­na sa­id they we­re re­mo­de­ling. Be­si­des, Si­ob­han sa­id Con­nor’s the new bas­sist for this band So­met­hing Wic­ked.”

  I stop­ped. “Is that the re­al re­ason we’re he­re?” I co­uldn’t fa­ce se­e­ing parts of the Ke­eley Brot­hers scat­te­red all over the city.

  “Not the only re­ason. But Si­ob­han has to get up early for the SATs to­mor­row, so she wan­ted me to see if they’re any go­od.” Me­gan tug­ged on my arm. “Co­me on, let’s gi­ve it a chan­ce.”

  We went thro­ugh the wi­de wo­oden do­or in­to the club, and I knew I was the one with no chan­ce.

  It was li­ke any ot­her in­die/emo/punk club, trying too hard with the stark­ness. The walls we­re dull brown wo­od pa­ne­ling, splas­hed with pa­per flo­wers stra­ight out of a first-gra­de art class (but too per­fect to ha­ve be­en ma­de by re­al child­ren). They might as well ha­ve be­en cap­ti­oned, “Check out our irony!”

  Lo­gan wo­uld ha­ve lo­ved it. I wo­uld ha­ve lo­ved it, if he’d be­en he­re. If he’d be­en he­re, the thump of bass gu­itar and the crash of drums wo­uld ha­ve fil­led me with so­met­hing ot­her than knee-we­ake­ning, so­ul-rip­ping an­gu­ish.

  Me­gan saw the lo­ok on my fa­ce and se­ized my hand. “Bar.”

  I fol­lo­wed, wil­ling my fe­et not to stumb­le over what sud­denly se­emed li­ke a very lumpy car­pet.

  “Two Co­kes!” Me­gan sho­uted at the bar­ten­der, hol­ding up our gre­en-stam­ped hands. Then she pluc­ked two red straws from the dis­pen­ser and bent one in half. “Short straw equ­als de­sig­na­ted dri­ver.” She put them be­hind her back for a mo­ment, then held them up in one fist.

  I saw the long one stic­king out from un­der her thumb. I pul­led on the short one.

  She didn’t let go. “No, you ne­ed to drink mo­re than I do to­night.”

  “The rum’ll just ma­ke me cry.”

  Me­gan’s fa­ce crump­led. “Aura, I’m so sorry. I tho­ught co­ming he­re wo­uld get yo­ur mind off Lo­gan.”

  “I don’t want to get my mind off Lo­gan.”

  “But you ha­ve to mo­ve on.” She nod­ded to the bar­ten­der as he slid our so­das ac­ross the bar. I held her glass un­der the clo­sest tab­le whi­le she unsc­re­wed her flask and dum­ped the con­tents in­to the Co­ke. “You su­re you don’t want a sip?”

  “It’s no fun drin­king wit­ho­ut him. It’s no fun lis­te­ning to
mu­sic wit­ho­ut him.”

  “But when he was ali­ve, we did tho­se things on our own, and you had fun.”

  “You’re not get­ting it.” The song en­ded, and I pa­used whi­le Me­gan bri­efly clap­ped and che­ered. “How wo­uld you fe­el if Mic­key be­ca­me a ghost?” I as­ked her.

  She ga­ve a bit­ter la­ugh. “Li­ke he’s not al­re­ady? I’ve se­en him, se­ri­o­usly, six ti­mes sin­ce Lo­gan di­ed, inc­lu­ding the vi­ewing and the fu­ne­ral. He’s al­ways got an ex­cu­se.”

  “He’s in mo­ur­ning.”

  “And I co­uld com­fort him. But he won’t let me.” She set down her drink. “He­re’s what he do­es. You’re me, and I’m him, okay?”

  “Huh?”

  “Pre­tend! It’s a dra­ma­ti­za­ti­on.” She po­in­ted to her chest. “Try to hug and kiss me. Don’t let go un­til I ma­ke you. Just be me.”

  I wrap­ped my arms aro­und her neck, mo­ving my mo­uth to­ward hers. She ang­led her fa­ce away so that my lips lan­ded on the cor­ner of her jaw. Her arms sta­yed limp at her si­de. I hug­ged har­der. Me­gan fi­nal­ly ga­ve me a qu­ick, im­pa­ti­ent back pat.

  “Oh God.” I let go of her qu­ickly and step­ped away. “A back pat?”

  “That’s when I get clo­se eno­ugh to hug him in the first pla­ce.” She pic­ked up her drink. “Usu­al­ly he shifts out of the way too fast.”

  I was spe­ech­less. What ca­ve had I be­en li­ving in, not to re­ali­ze how much Lo­gan’s de­ath had scre­wed up ever­yo­ne el­se?

  Me­gan to­ok a short sip. “We ha­ven’t even had a re­al kiss sin­ce Lo­gan di­ed. With ton­gue, I me­an.”

  The band had pa­used whi­le the le­ad sin­ger told a story abo­ut the girl he’d writ­ten the next song for, so I kept my vo­ice low and pri­va­te.

  “I’m sorry,” I sa­id to Me­gan. “Why didn’t you tell me you guys we­re ha­ving prob­lems?”

  “It se­emed me­an to comp­la­in abo­ut Mic­key to you. At le­ast he’s still ali­ve.”

  “Ye­ah, but-” I stop­ped myself from po­in­ting out that at the mo­ment, Lo­gan and I we­re a hap­pi­er co­up­le than Me­gan and Mic­key.

  “That guy be­hind you is chec­king us out.”

  A tall, skinny boy with swo­oping black ha­ir was stan­ding next to a pil­lar, abo­ut twenty fe­et from us. When he saw us no­ti­cing him, he step­ped back as if to hi­de be­hind the pil­lar.

  “He’s to­tal­ly yo­ur type,” I told Me­gan. “Go talk to him.”

  “I can’t.”

  I po­ked her arm. “You don’t ha­ve to spawn his child­ren. Just talk. Or don’t talk. Dan­ce.”

  “What abo­ut you?”

  “I don’t fe­el li­ke dan­cing.”

  Me­gan fid­ge­ted with the rag­ged si­de se­am of her black ca­mi. “Then what are you go­ing to do?”

  I saw a si­de ro­om with a small ar­ca­de. “Play ga­mes.”

  “Okay.” Ta­king a de­ep bre­ath, she han­ded me her drink. “He­re, I’ll dri­ve ho­me. I al­ways pu­ke when I drink and dan­ce, any­way.”

  I watc­hed her ap­pro­ach the boy, who tur­ned out to be re­al­ly cu­te when he smi­led. He must ha­ve gi­ven her a go­od ope­ning li­ne, be­ca­use she la­ug­hed and put a hand to her che­ek li­ke she did when she blus­hed. It was go­od to see her re­al­ly smi­le aga­in.

  The band star­ted a new song, and Me­gan led the guy to the flo­or ne­ar the sta­ge. I tur­ned away, sin­ce I didn’t want to see Con­nor pla­ying for so­me ot­her sin­ger not ne­arly as ta­len­ted as Lo­gan. Ins­te­ad I car­ri­ed both glas­ses to the dar­ke­ned back cor­ner of the bar area. A co­up­le we­aring Johns Hop­kins lac­ros­se shirts pop­ped up from a small tab­le and went off to dan­ce.

  Sco­re. I sat at the­ir empty tab­le and pla­ced one of the glas­ses in front of the ot­her cha­ir to pur­po­sely ma­ke it lo­ok li­ke I was wa­iting for so­me­one to re­turn any se­cond. That way no one wo­uld talk to me.

  “Hi.”

  I sig­hed. No one ali­ve wo­uld talk to me.

  A vi­olet boy sto­od next to my tab­le. He was may­be two ye­ars yo­un­ger than me and wo­re a vin­ta­ge Cu­re T-shirt, the Di­sin­teg­ra­ti­on one that a lot of emo boys li­ke.

  “Hi,” I sa­id.

  “Co­ol.” He ga­ve a gi­ant ghostly grin. “Most girls pre­tend they can’t see me.”

  I tri­ed not to gri­ma­ce. I had a fe­eling girls had blown him off when he was ali­ve, too.

  “Can I sit down?” he as­ked.

  “Wit­ho­ut a re­al ass? Pro­bably not, but go for it.”

  He la­ug­hed as he sank in­to the cha­ir, which wasn’t even pul­led out. “You’re Aura, right?”

  I fro­ze in the mid­dle of a sip. “How do you know my na­me?” It wasn’t li­ke he co­uld’ve he­ard it-or he­ard anyt­hing-from anot­her ghost.

  “I was re­ading abo­ut you on­li­ne be­fo­re I di­ed. You help pe­op­le pass on, right?”

  I re­la­xed a lit­tle, glad he wasn’t re­fer­ring to my al­le­ged ro­le in Lo­gan’s de­ath. “Not di­rectly. I just trans­la­te for ghosts at my job.” I switc­hed my pho­ne to the ca­len­dar func­ti­on. “If you ne­ed help, we co­uld ma­ke an ap­po­int­ment.” Wha­te­ver it to­ok for him to go away be­fo­re pe­op­le saw me tal­king to a de­ad fresh­man.

  The ghost’s eyes bug­ged out. “That’d be awe­so­me!”

  “Let’s fi­gu­re out whe­re we can me­et clo­ser to my aunt’s of­fi­ce so she can he­ar yo­ur story. Ha­ve you ever be­en to-”

  “Wa­it.” He lo­oked con­fu­sed. “Can’t it just be you?”

  “Huh?” I put down my pho­ne.

  “Okay.” The boy pla­ced his hands on the tab­le. “The thing is… I di­ed be­fo­re I got to see re­al li­ve tits. Not just on the In­ter­net.” He hur­ri­ed to add, “I wo­uldn’t to­uch you or not­hing. Ob­vi­o­usly. But even if I co­uld, I wo­uldn’t do that to you.” He lo­oked at his hands as he drop­ped them in­to his lap. “I just want to see.”

  My mo­uth had fro­zen in an O. I co­uldn’t throw my drink in his fa­ce, or slap him, or knee him in the nuts. I co­uldn’t lo­se him wit­ho­ut run­ning to the bath­ro­om, and I was not abo­ut to le­ave this cho­ice tab­le and spend the rest of the eve­ning le­aning aga­inst the wall.

  “You want me to flash you,” I sa­id.

  He nod­ded vi­go­ro­usly, li­ke I’d as­ked if he wan­ted fri­es with that.

  “And then you’ll pass on.”

  “That’s all I want. So, ye­ah.”

  I co­uld al­most be­li­eve that a fo­ur­te­en-ye­ar-old boy co­uld find de­ep spi­ri­tu­al pe­ace from a pa­ir of re­al bo­obs.

  “What’s yo­ur na­me?” I as­ked him.

  “Jake. Sorry, I sho­uld’ve sa­id that be­fo­re.”

  “How did you die?”

  He frow­ned. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “My step­fat­her ran over me with his car.”

  I ga­ped at him. “You’re kid­ding.”

  “I was stan­ding in the ga­ra­ge when he pul­led in. He told my mom he me­ant to hit the bra­ke.”

  “Do you think that’s the truth?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t lo­ok re­al surp­ri­sed at the ti­me.”

  “May­be that’s why you’re a ghost. You ne­ed jus­ti­ce.”

  Ex-Jake se­emed to pon­der this for se­ve­ral se­conds, then sho­ok his he­ad. “Nah. I re­al­ly just want to see so­me tits.”

  I gro­aned and put my fa­ce in my hands. “Go. Away.”

  When I pe­eked thro­ugh my fin­gers, the boy had di­sap­pe­ared. But what I did see was even wor­se.

  Three tab­les over, Zac­hary was sli­ding in­to a lar­ge, se­mi­cir­cu­lar bo­oth with Bec­ca Gold­man. She crow­ded clo­se to
him, first flip­ping her dark brown ha­ir over her sho­ul­der, then twir­ling a strand aro­und her fin­ger.

  I was now wil­ling to gi­ve up my tab­le. I grab­bed my glass and sto­od up, tur­ning to flee be­fo­re he saw me. Un­for­tu­na­tely, I cras­hed in­to so­me­one so­lid.

  “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.”