Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “It’s comp­li­ca­ted. Lo­gan’s still aro­und.”

  “I know. My lit­tle brot­her’s se­en him in the ne­igh­bor­ho­od, ne­ar his old ho­use.” She pic­ked up her empty glass as she sto­od. “I’m go­ing back over the­re so Zach can co­me talk to you wit­ho­ut le­aving Bec­ca alo­ne. He’s so po­li­te. Must be a Bri­tish thing.”

  “Don’t let him he­ar you call him Bri­tish,” I cal­led af­ter her.

  Rac­hel slid in­to the­ir bo­oth, and Zac­hary wa­ved at me. But when Bec­ca’s hand went un­der the tab­le in­to his lap, I cut short my ans­we­ring wa­ve. Far be it from me to ke­ep my “fri­end” from get­ting so­me to­night.

  Just then Me­gan stom­ped up, te­ars stre­aming down her fa­ce. “You’re right. I suck!”

  “What hap­pe­ned?”

  She drop­ped in­to the cha­ir. “He kis­sed me.”

  “Who?”

  “Eric, that guy I was dan­cing with. We we­re slam­ming, to­tal­ly in sync, and it just hap­pe­ned.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I kis­sed him back. A lot. I can’t be­li­eve I did that.” She slum­ped to rest her chin on her fist. “I know Mic­key ne­eds me, even tho­ugh he do­esn’t show it. But I wan­ted to fe­el ali­ve. Everyw­he­re el­se, I’m sur­ro­un­ded by de­ad pe­op­le, or li­ving pe­op­le ob­ses­sed with de­ad pe­op­le.” She put a hand over her mo­uth. “Sorry, I don’t me­an you.”

  “Yes, you do, but don’t be sorry. And don’t worry, I won’t tell Mic­key abo­ut Eric.”

  “Thanks, but we we­re right in front of Con­nor. He’ll tell Si­ob­han and then she’ll tell Mic­key.” Me­gan snif­fled as she pul­led out her pho­ne. “I bet­ter tell him myself. His fri­ends co­uld be he­re, tex­ting him right this se­cond.” Her thumb ho­ve­red over the key­pad. “What sho­uld I say?”

  “How abo­ut, ‘I just kis­sed a guy at Black We­eds be­ca­use you’ve be­en ig­no­ring me. P.S. I lo­ve you.’”

  Whi­le she tex­ted ra­pidly, I won­de­red what Lo­gan wo­uld do in Mic­key’s pla­ce. As a ghost he wo­uld pro­bably fre­ak, se­e­ing it as a sign I was mo­ving on wit­ho­ut him. When he was ali­ve… well, I co­uldn’t ima­gi­ne, be­ca­use Lo­gan ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve shut me out in the first pla­ce. He wasn’t the bro­ody type.

  Me­gan la­id the pho­ne on the tab­le. “One way or anot­her, things’ll chan­ge now.”

  I rat­tled the ice in the bot­tom of my empty glass. “So this guy was a go­od kis­ser?”

  “Be­yond go­od. Es­pe­ci­al­ly for a first ti­me.”

  I tri­ed to re­mem­ber my first kiss with Lo­gan. But my me­mory co­uld only co­nj­ure up that last cold, numb kiss at his bed­ro­om do­or­way.

  I for­ced myself back to the pre­sent. “So­met­hing Wic­ked so­unds awe­so­me,” I told Me­gan. “The drum­mer is ama­zing.”

  “You know who it is, right?”

  “No, I can’t see the sta­ge from he­re.”

  “It’s Bri­an. Eric sa­id the band ne­eded a sub, and I gu­ess Con­nor got Bri­an in.”

  Gre­at, I tho­ught. So­me­one el­se who’s mo­ved on.

  The song en­ded. Bec­ca sto­od on the se­at of the­ir bo­oth, the hem of her black span­dex mic­ros­kirt abo­ve Zac­hary’s eye li­ne. She che­ered and whist­led as she hop­ped up and down.

  Then Bec­ca “acci­den­tal­ly” slip­ped, fal­ling aga­inst Zac­hary’s sho­ul­der so he had to catch her. La­ug­hing, she slid down aga­inst his body, en­ding up in his lap, in a gra­ce­ful mo­ve that wo­uld’ve lo­oked go­ofy if an­yo­ne el­se had tri­ed it.

  Me­gan jab­bed her thumb over her sho­ul­der. “Aura, you ha­ve got to do so­met­hing the­re. How long do you ex­pect Zac­hary to ig­no­re the ‘Screw Me’ sign on Bec­ca’s fo­re­he­ad?”

  “As long as he wants.”

  She pic­ked up her pho­ne and sta­red at the empty scre­en. “You sho­uld ask him to dan­ce.”

  The tho­ught ma­de me qu­e­asy. “If he sa­id no, I’d lo­ok li­ke a lo­ser. If he sa­id yes, Bec­ca wo­uld lo­ok li­ke a lo­ser, and Mon­day mor­ning I’d get a world-re­cord-si­ze bitch-slap.”

  “Wha­te­ver.” Me­gan’s pho­ne buz­zed in her hand. “Mic­key!” She tap­ped the scre­en, then squ­e­aked. She tur­ned the pho­ne so I co­uld see:CO­ME OVER HE­RE. PS I LO­VE YOU MO­RE.

  “Do­esn’t he ha­ve the SATs to­mor­row too?”

  “Ye­ah, and he’s pro­bably re­al­ly stres­sed.” She ga­ve me a wic­ked grin. “I can help with that.”

  Re­li­eved to ha­ve an ex­cu­se to le­ave, I as­ked, “Drop me off at ho­me on yo­ur way?”

  “We can stay un­til the set’s over. I don’t want to ru­in yo­ur night.”

  I ma­de for the do­or be­fo­re she co­uld stop me. “Too la­te.”

  Lo­gan was sit­ting on my bed when I got ho­me.

  I shut the do­or softly and went to him, brus­hing my hand thro­ugh his in our new ro­uti­ne gre­eting. “I’m so sorry for le­aving you.”

  “It wasn’t yo­ur fa­ult. And Dork Squ­ad was bet­ter than ever. Li­onel kic­ked ass.”

  So I’d spent all night fe­eling gu­ilty for not­hing. “Who?”

  “The bass pla­yer, the one who was in that mo­torcyc­le ac­ci­dent? He had this one so­lo whe­re he was just wa­iling.” Lo­gan held his hands in a per­fect mi­me, his fin­gers slap­ping the thick strings of an in­vi­sib­le bass. “Bow-did­da-bow-did­da-bow-bow. But he had to be kin­da prop­ped aga­inst the spe­aker for the last co­up­le songs, and they cut the set short.” He shif­ted to “his” si­de of the bed and stretc­hed out his legs. “Whe­re’d you go?”

  “Black We­eds. You wo­uld’ve li­ked it.” I de­ci­ded not to men­ti­on that two-fifths of the Ke­eley Brot­hers we­re in the band. “It wasn’t the sa­me wit­ho­ut you.”

  Lo­gan was qu­i­et for se­ve­ral se­conds. “I’m re­ady to tell you my plan now.”

  My he­art­be­at stumb­led. I slip­ped off my sho­es, then sco­oted up the bed to sit be­si­de him.

  He sta­red at his hand lying next to mi­ne. “Pro­mi­se you won’t cry?”

  “I pro­mi­se I will cry.”

  His smi­le was sad, crink­ling the cor­ner of just one eye. “You know I lo­ve you.”

  I nod­ded, not trus­ting myself to spe­ak.

  “And that’s why I ha­ve to le­ave,” he sa­id.

  “No.” I still co­uldn’t ima­gi­ne a world wit­ho­ut him.

  “I can’t get on that stand and tell ever­yo­ne what hap­pe­ned the night I di­ed. I can’t put you thro­ugh that.” Lo­gan bo­wed his he­ad. “So I’m go­ing to pass on.”

  I gul­ped a ri­sing clump of te­ars so I co­uld push out one word. “When?”

  “Be­fo­re the tri­al. I’d lie on the stand if I co­uld, to pro­tect you. I’d tell them I to­ok the co­ca­ine for the thrill of it. God knows I’ve do­ne eno­ugh stu­pid things for that re­ason. Re­mem­ber when I bro­ke my arm ska­te­bo­ar­ding, trying to ol­lie that do­ub­le set of sta­irs by the lib­rary?” He rub­bed the spot be­low his el­bow whe­re the bo­ne had pi­er­ced the skin. “But I can’t lie. And I can’t run away. They’ve al­re­ady tag­ged me with that sub­po­ena thing, so if I don’t show up, the DMP will track me down.”

  I ha­ted the tho­ught of Lo­gan be­ing “tag­ged” li­ke a dog. On a jud­ge’s or­ders, the uni­que “vib­ra­ti­on sig­na­tu­re” of each ghost co­uld be used to sum­mon them, but only for spe­ci­fic ti­mes and pla­ces. The DMP didn’t track Lo­gan’s every mo­ve-that wo­uld be il­le­gal and ex­pen­si­ve-but if they tho­ught he wo­uldn’t show up in co­urt, they’d de­ta­in him un­til af­ter the tri­al.

  My chest grew tight, trap­ping the ur­ge to ut­ter his only al­ter­na­ti­ve: tur­ning sha­de. It wo­uld chan­ge his sig­na­tu­
re and free him from the re­ach of the DMP, but he wo­uld be fo­re­ver lost to me in the worst way.

  “I’m not as­ha­med to tes­tify,” I told him. “I don’t ca­re what pe­op­le think.”

  “That’s bul­lshit, and you know it.”

  “Don’t you da­re do this just for me.”

  “I’m not. Mostly for you, but-” He for­med a fist as his vo­ice ro­ug­he­ned. “I wan­ted so much in li­fe. I wan­ted to play mu­sic, con­nect with pe­op­le. Now I can’t hold a gu­itar, and most pe­op­le can’t even see me, much less he­ar me.”

  “You can still sing. And as ti­me go­es on, mo­re pe­op­le will be ab­le to see and he­ar you. The A and R reps at yo­ur show we­re what, twenty-two, twenty-three? In six or se­ven ye­ars, post-Shif­ters will ha­ve tho­se jobs.”

  What was I sa­ying? Did I re­al­ly want Lo­gan to stick aro­und that long?

  “I can’t wa­it six ye­ars,” Lo­gan sa­id. “I can’t wa­it six we­eks.” He cur­ved his hand over mi­ne in our fac­si­mi­le of to­uch. “I ha­ve to let you go, so that one of us can li­ve.”

  “I fe­el ali­ve with you.”

  “It’s not fa­ir. You’re li­ving li­ke a nun. I can’t kiss you. I can’t to­uch you.” His whis­per fil­led with pa­in. “God, I want to to­uch you so bad. Everyw­he­re, li­ke be­fo­re. I want to ma­ke you fe­el li­ke I used to.”

  I fin­ge­red the zip­per of my ho­odie. “May­be you still can.” My pul­se po­un­ded in my ears. “Tell me what you’d do.”

  He suc­ked in a bre­ath, which so­un­ded re­al eno­ugh to ma­ke me ac­he. Lo­gan re­ac­hed out, and his hand gu­ided mi­ne to draw down the zip­per, re­ve­aling the black crop top I on­ce lo­ved to dan­ce in. The co­ol night air ma­de go­ose bumps on the ba­re skin of my belly, il­lu­mi­na­ted by his vi­olet glow.

  “Ta­ke the­se off.” His palm mo­ved to the top of my je­ans. “I want to see all of you.”

  I fol­lo­wed his le­ad, un­til my clot­hes we­re in a pi­le on the flo­or, and I lay na­ked on top of the co­vers. I wasn’t cold an­y­mo­re.

  Lo­gan pla­ced his hand over mi­ne aga­in. “Shut yo­ur eyes.”

  He spo­ke to me, low and bre­ath­less, desc­ri­bing how he wo­uld to­uch me. With my eyes clo­sed and my me­mo­ri­es open, I co­uld al­most fe­el his hands and mo­uth on my skin.

  It was only my own fin­gers circ­ling, stro­king, exp­lo­ring. We didn’t mo­ve to­get­her in a qu­ic­ke­ning rhythm. He co­uldn’t fe­el my ri­sing ten­si­on or its exp­lo­si­ve re­le­ase.

  But with Lo­gan’s vo­ice in my ear, we co­uld pre­tend.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Des­pi­te an ever-de­epe­ning sta­te of sle­ep dep­ri­va­ti­on, I ma­na­ged to ma­ke it thro­ugh the next three we­eks wit­ho­ut fa­iling tests or for­get­ting to buy Christ­mas pre­sents. As if watc­hing an ac­tor ons­ta­ge, I wit­nes­sed myself go thro­ugh the mo­ti­ons and mar­ve­led at my abi­lity to ma­in­ta­in ab­so­lu­te nor­malcy.

  But it tur­ned out, I was only fo­oling myself.

  On the last day of scho­ol be­fo­re win­ter bre­ak, I sat in world his­tory class, sta­ring thro­ugh the Spre­ad of the Black Pla­gue map at the front of the ro­om, when Bri­an ca­me in just as the bell rang. He hur­ri­ed for his desk, wal­king with his he­ad down and his jac­ket col­lar tur­ned up.

  As he pas­sed me, Lo­gan’s for­mer fri­end and drum­mer ang­led his fa­ce away, but not be­fo­re I saw the bru­ise for­ming un­der his left eye.

  Ne­ar the win­dow, Zac­hary was watc­hing the se­ason’s first snow flurry. He tap­ped his pen aga­inst his text­bo­ok in an ab­sent­min­ded rhythm, which drew my at­ten­ti­on to his ban­da­ged right hand.

  As I gat­he­red up my bo­oks af­ter class, Zac­hary slid be­hind the desk next to me. “I ha­ve a re­qu­est you can’t re­fu­se.”

  I frow­ned, won­de­ring if it was sup­po­sed to be a God­fat­her re­fe­ren­ce. “You me­an an of­fer I can’t re­fu­se?”

  “I pro­mi­sed no Ita­li­an jokes, re­mem­ber? To­mor­row’s my birth­day, and I want to go dow­n­town.”

  “Why do you ne­ed me for that?”

  “I don’t ne­ed you. I want you.” Af­ter a blink, he ad­ded, “To ta­ke me to the In­ner Har­bor. You pro­mi­sed.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, not out lo­ud. Lo­ok, I’ll pay for everyt­hing, in exc­han­ge for a to­ur.”

  I tri­ed to think of an ex­cu­se ot­her than the truth-I wan­ted to spend my birth­day with my de­ad boyf­ri­end. “My aunt’s ta­king me out to din­ner to­mor­row night.”

  “Spe­ci­al oc­ca­si­on?”

  I still hadn’t told him that we sha­red a birth­day, and not­hing in his eyes sa­id he knew. “Early Chris­t­mas.”

  “We’ll go du­ring the day, then.”

  “We will, huh?” I slap­ped down my pen. “May­be I don’t want to be told how I’m spen­ding my first day of bre­ak. May­be I don’t want to be pus­hed.”

  “Aura.” He le­aned in clo­se, his fa­ce se­ri­o­us now. “You ne­ed pus­hing, and it lo­oks li­ke most ever­yo­ne el­se has gi­ven up.” He to­uc­hed my el­bow. “You’re tur­ning in­to a ghost.”

  I jer­ked away, my fa­ce bur­ning. “I don’t ne­ed yo­ur pity.” I po­in­ted to his ban­da­ged hand. “Or yo­ur pro­tec­ti­on.”

  “Fi­ne.” Zac­hary snatc­hed up his bag. “For­get it. Happy Christ­mas.” He wor­ked his way bet­we­en the se­ats to­ward the clas­sro­om do­or.

  His ho­li­day gre­eting re­min­ded me of my mot­her’s Ire­land jo­ur­nal-and her se­ize-the-day at­ti­tu­de. If she we­re he­re, wo­uld she let me turn down a re­al li­ve hot guy who ac­tu­al­ly se­emed to ca­re abo­ut me?

  “Wa­it.”

  I’d spo­ken softly, but Zac­hary stop­ped and tur­ned.

  “I ne­ver sa­id no.”

  De­cem­ber 21 was not kid­ding abo­ut be­ing the first day of win­ter. I bund­led up li­ke a kid on a snow day, my hat and ho­od flat­te­ning my ha­ir in a ne­ces­sary sac­ri­fi­ce to stay warm. It was only twenty deg­re­es in the sun-not that Bal­ti­mo­re has much sun in De­cem­ber.

  Zac­hary was his usu­al flirty self, tho­ugh a lit­tle dist­rac­ted. When our light-ra­il tra­in stop­ped at each sta­ti­on, he’d get qu­i­et, exa­mi­ning every per­son en­te­ring and le­aving. When we had lunch, he cho­se the cha­ir with his back to the wall, wit­ho­ut even as­king which se­at I wan­ted. When we went up to the Tra­de Cen­ter ob­ser­va­ti­on deck, his eyes scan­ned the si­de­walks be­low us ins­te­ad of lo­oking out in­to the bay or ac­ross the city.

  I won­de­red if he was wor­ri­ed we’d run in­to Bec­ca Gold­man. They’d be­en eating lunch to­get­her every Fri­day (not that I no­ti­ced-much), and Me­gan had he­ard that last we­ek he’d go­ne to one of Bec­ca’s exc­lu­si­ve par­ti­es. If my aunt ever he­ard the sto­ri­es that ca­me out of tho­se par­ti­es, she’d or­der me a cus­tom-bu­ilt chas­tity belt, on the mic­ros­co­pi­cal­ly slim chan­ce I was ever in­vi­ted.

  Or may­be Zac­hary was trying re­ver­se psycho­logy-dra­wing me out by be­ing er­ra­ti­cal­ly alo­of. Li­ke most re­ver­se psycho­logy, it wor­ked.

  “Let’s go see San­ta,” I told him as we pas­sed Kris Kring­le’s pa­vi­li­on dra­ped in whi­te lights and fa­ke holly. “It’ll be warm in the­re. And you can vo­uch for me.”

  “Huh?” he as­ked, drag­ging his at­ten­ti­on from the crowd ne­ar the wa­ter­f­ront.

  “You can tell him if I’ve be­en na­ughty or ni­ce.”

  This got a smi­le. “A wee bit of both, I think.”

  “Which one mo­re?” Hands in my poc­kets, I bum­ped him with my sho­ul­der.

  Zac­hary thre­aded his arm thro­ugh mi­ne and le­aned clo­se. “I think it wo�
�uld be ni­ce if you’d let yo­ur­self be na­ughty.”

  I shi­ve­red, and not from the cold. He’d spo­ken li­ke we we­ren’t in the mid­dle of a crowd. He’d spo­ken li­ke we we­re alo­ne, and de­fi­ni­tely not we­aring fo­ur la­yers of clot­hing.

  Once I fo­und my bre­ath, I sa­id, “Now I know which list you’re on.”

  “No, you don’t know.” He stop­ped. “You don’t know me at all.”

  His exp­res­si­on was so se­ri­o­us and in­ten­se, I tho­ught for su­re he was go­ing to kiss me. I step­ped back as I re­ali­zed Lo­gan had be­en to the In­ner Har­bor a hund­red ti­mes-he co­uld be watc­hing us right now, hid­den by sun­light.

  “But I’m go­ing to chan­ge that,” Zac­hary sa­id. “Right now.”

  I fol­lo­wed his ga­ze ac­ross the wi­de brick si­de­walk, to the lit­tle hut on the wa­ter­f­ront.

  “Per­fect,” he whis­pe­red.

  “Pad­dle­bo­ats? Pad­dle­bo­ats are per­fect?”

  “They are.” He he­aded down the ramp to­ward the tiny ves­sels-few of which, not surp­ri­singly, we­re dep­lo­yed.

  “Are you crazy?” I ran to catch up. “It’s fre­ezing. It’ll be even col­der out the­re.” I po­in­ted to the har­bor’s murky wa­ter, which the wind was rip­pling in­to choppy gray wa­ves.

  “But it’s my birth­day,” he sa­id as he kept wal­king.

  I’d had eno­ugh. We’d eaten crabs (I ha­te se­afo­od), go­ne up in the Tra­de Cen­ter (I ha­te he­ights), and vi­si­ted the Na­ti­onal Aqu­ari­um (did I men­ti­on I ha­te se­afo­od?)-all be­ca­use Zac­hary kept pla­ying the birth­day card.

  “Damn it,” I yel­led af­ter him. “It’s my birth­day too!”

  “I know.”

  I stop­ped short. I swe­ar the sky dar­ke­ned at that exact mo­ment. A clo­ud pas­sed over the low-han­ging sun, blot­ting out the we­ak light.

  Zac­hary ap­pro­ac­hed the small whi­te shed whe­re an old man hud­dled be­hind a smud­ged win­dow.