Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “I think so. He sa­id go­od-bye, and I ne­ver saw him aga­in.” She swept her blond bangs off her fo­re­he­ad as if the ro­om had tur­ned hot. “After you we­re born, I ne­ver saw any ghosts aga­in.”

  “So you get it,” I sa­id gently. “You know what I’m go­ing thro­ugh.”

  “Mo­re than an­yo­ne.” She lif­ted her he­avy ga­ze to mi­ne. “I al­so know how fu­ti­le it is to cha­se a ghost, how they can bre­ak yo­ur he­art.” Gi­na pla­ced a co­ol hand aga­inst my che­ek. “Zac­hary se­ems li­ke a go­od guy.”

  I fo­ught the ur­ge to pull away. “I’m sorry abo­ut-abo­ut that man.” She hadn’t men­ti­oned his na­me, may­be be­ca­use it wo­uld ma­ke her cry. I co­uldn’t be­ar to see that, so I didn’t ask. “And yo­ur hus­band, too.”

  “Thank you.” Gi­na sat back with a sigh. “Ah, well, may­be it was all for the best. Be­ing sing­le fre­ed me up to mo­ve he­re to ta­ke ca­re of you and yo­ur mot­her when she got sick.”

  She lo­oked at the pho­to on the wall next to the mir­ror, of her and Mom on the Phi­la­delp­hia wa­terf­ront, mug­ging for the ca­me­ra with the­ir arms aro­und each ot­her. Gi­na was se­ven­te­en, sle­ek and blond; my mot­her was still a tom­boy at twel­ve, her frizzy dark ha­ir co­ming lo­ose from her pon­y­ta­il.

  Gi­na la­id her hand on mi­ne. “It will al­ways be the most im­por­tant thing I’ve ever do­ne.” Her eyes went ro­und and wet. “Wha­te­ver you de­ci­de-abo­ut Lo­gan, abo­ut yo­ur fu­tu­re-I want you to know that I’m very pro­ud of you. Yo­ur mot­her wo­uld ha­ve be­en pro­ud too, to see what you’ve be­co­me.”

  My eyes he­ated. I don’t know what I’ve be­co­me.

  “Thank you.” I fid­ge­ted with the ob­si­di­an pen­dant thro­ugh my swe­ater. I sud­denly re­mem­be­red why I’d wan­ted one for my six­te­enth birth­day-I’d just had my first en­co­un­ter with a sha­de, at the Arun­del Mills Mall be­fo­re a mo­vie. They’d had to shut down the the­ater for the night, so many cus­to­mers we­re sick. I’d he­ard that one kid had pas­sed out and fal­len down the es­ca­la­tor.

  “Back when you co­uld see ghosts,” I as­ked Gi­na, “we­re any of them sha­des?”

  She sho­ok her he­ad emp­ha­ti­cal­ly, swin­ging her dangly gold ear­rings. “It’s all dif­fe­rent now. Ghosts we­re in full co­lor, as you know, not in vi­olet, and they just lo­oked li­ke wispy ver­si­ons of li­ve per­sons. So­me of them we­re angry, but they ne­ver lo­oked li­ke dark sha­dows or ma­de me fe­el sick and dizzy.”

  “I won­der why no one ever saw any sha­des un­til the last co­up­le of ye­ars.”

  “My the­ory? It’s that Black­Box tech­no­logy. When the ghosts can’t ha­unt the pla­ces and pe­op­le they lo­ve, they get bit­ter.” She held up a fin­ger. “Mark my words, one day stu­di­es will show it twists them in­to sha­des, and by then it’ll be too la­te. Everyt­hing’ll be Blac­k­Bo­xed.”

  I to­uc­hed the cha­in aro­und my neck. “If you think that stuff is so bad, why did you gi­ve me this?”

  “Be­ca­use I’m a hypoc­ri­te, and I lo­ve you.” She to­uc­hed my wrist. “I want you to be sa­fe, Aura.”

  “I lo­ve you, too.” I smi­led at her, but my ga­ze trip­ped past her to the sta­irs.

  “Well, I ha­ve so­me work to do, and I know you’re ti­red, so…” Gi­na sto­od and drew my he­ad to her chest so she co­uld kiss the top of it. “Happy birth­day, swe­etie,” she whis­pe­red. Her hand tigh­te­ned on my sho­ul­der, eno­ugh to ma­ke me win­ce.

  “Go­od night.” I drag­ged myself to my fe­et, then trud­ged ups­ta­irs, fe­eling inc­re­dibly old. The ob­si­di­an aro­und my neck se­emed to we­igh twenty po­unds.

  I ope­ned my bed­ro­om do­or. No Lo­gan.

  I tip­to­ed in­si­de and softly drop­ped my pur­se on the flo­or, as if trying not to wa­ke so­me­one, then switc­hed on the nights­tand lamp.

  Red she­ets.

  The soft fle­ece felt warm aga­inst my palm as I stro­ked my pil­low. I re­ac­hed ac­ross the bed and to­uc­hed Lo­gan’s pil­low, the pla­ce whe­re he’d la­id his he­ad, on­ce for re­al and many ti­mes un­re­al.

  The pil­low was cold. Ins­tinc­ti­vely I drew it in­to my lap. I clutc­hed it aga­inst my chest and rub­bed my chin over the se­am of the flan­nel ca­se.

  His na­me ca­ught in my thro­at. If I cal­led to Lo­gan and he ca­me, the red wo­uld hurt him. I’d be not­hing but ba­it for a trap of pa­in.

  But may­be I al­re­ady was. Lo­gan co­uld see and he­ar me, but ne­ver to­uch me. How long co­uld we pre­tend? How long co­uld we for­get the world?

  My fin­gers dug in­to the soft ma­te­ri­al, sin­king and stro­king the way they co­uld ne­ver do with his skin aga­in.

  Then I no­ti­ced that my la­undry ham­per’s lid was slightly as­kew, as if the bin we­re overs­tuf­fed. I slid off the ed­ge of the bed and crept over to it, still clutc­hing the pil­low.

  I lif­ted the lid. Purp­le-black she­ets. Aunt Gi­na had left them he­re on pur­po­se, let­ting me cho­ose.

  I pul­led out the fit­ted she­et. It wo­uld’ve ta­ken only two or three mi­nu­tes to switch the she­ets back and ma­ke the bed­ro­om a sa­fe, happy pla­ce for Lo­gan on my bir­t­h­day.

  But I used that much ti­me, may­be twi­ce as much, to stand the­re thin­king.

  Thin­king how Lo­gan’s fin­gers clenc­hed when he tal­ked abo­ut his gu­itar. Thin­king how Mrs. Ke­eley’s back had sto­oped when she sto­od by Lo­gan’s gra­ve-a gra­ve that might as well be empty.

  Thin­king how Zac­hary’s lips had felt on mi­ne.

  Thin­king. De­ci­ding. Cho­osing.

  I stuf­fed the she­et back in­to the ham­per and tam­ped it down so that the lid wo­uld clo­se.

  “I’m sorry,” I whis­pe­red, my fa­ce al­re­ady damp. I was ti­red of te­ars, ti­red of the cons­tant he­at be­hind my eyes, ti­red of my che­eks fe­eling stretc­hed and dry.

  I set the pil­low ca­re­ful­ly on the bed, then chan­ged in­to a mis­matc­hed pa­ir of flan­nel pa­j­amas. I just wan­ted to be warm.

  The she­ets pres­sed he­avy aga­inst my skin when I slid bet­we­en them, my back to the win­dow. I shi­ve­red as my own he­at wrap­ped aro­und me li­ke a co­co­on in the dark. Li­ke the arms of a re­al li­ve boy.

  The te­ars ca­me har­der, but for the first ti­me, they felt so­met­hing less than en­d­less.

  “Aura.” Lo­gan’s vo­ice was stra­ined.

  I rol­led on my back. He sto­od by the win­dow, shim­me­ring.

  “Aunt Gi­na knows,” I told him. “She chan­ged the she­ets.”

  “Can you chan­ge them back?” he as­ked qu­ickly.

  “Um…” I fumb­led for an ans­wer. “The thing is-”

  “Happy birth­day,” he sa­id. “I’m sorry I don’t ha­ve a gift or a card or an­y­t­hing.”

  “You ha­ve a go­od ex­cu­se.”

  He ga­ve a la­bo­red la­ugh. “True. I gu­ess you he­ard abo­ut the tri­al. The­re’s no way we can stop it now. Ever­yo­ne will know what hap­pe­ned.” He stag­ge­red for­ward, his mo­uth twis­ting li­ke he was wal­king on hot co­als. “I ha­te my pa­rents.”

  His pa­in and ra­ge ma­de my he­art fold in­ward. “You can still le­ave. Sa­ve yo­ur­self.”

  “No! I won’t let you go thro­ugh it alo­ne.” Lo­gan’s out­li­ne flic­ke­red aga­in. “We’ll do this to­get­her. We’ll ha­ve each ot­her’s backs, li­ke al­ways. I may be de­ad, but I’m still yo­ur boyf­ri­end.” He to­ok anot­her he­avy step. “Right?”

  Every word I ne­eded to say jumb­led up in­si­de my he­ad. Words li­ke “bre­akup” and “over” and “go­od-bye.” But how co­uld I hurt him when he was such a wreck?

  I sat up and re­ac­hed for him. “Lis­ten-”

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nbsp; He duc­ked, as if from a punch. “Shit, the red is so much wor­se than be­fo­re. Fe­els li­ke I’m di­sin­teg­ra­ting.” He tri­ed to stra­igh­ten up aga­in and fa­iled. “We ne­ed to talk. Co­me out­si­de.”

  Lo­gan di­sap­pe­ared. I threw back the co­vers. Out­si­de, whe­re he wasn’t in pa­in, I co­uld tell him it was over, that he had to mo­ve on wit­ho­ut me, for both of us. But the tho­ught of bre­aking up with Lo­gan ma­de my in­si­des twist and tang­le li­ke a set of ear­bud wi­res.

  I put on a car­di­gan and sne­akers, then ope­ned my bed­ro­om do­or. Down the hall, Aunt Gi­na’s do­or was aj­ar. The so­unds of shuf­fling pa­pers and tap­ping lap­top keys ca­me from her ro­om. Who el­se wo­uld be wor­king at ele­ven o’clock on a Sa­tur­day night?

  I clo­sed the do­or, then ope­ned my win­dow. Lo­gan was pa­cing in front of the ho­use, his form slightly fa­ded in the glow from the stre­et­lights.

  “Hey.” I spo­ke qu­i­etly. “She’s still up, so I can’t co­me out thro­ugh the do­or.” I ho­is­ted myself thro­ugh the win­dow and set my fo­ot on the gent­le slo­pe of the porch ro­of we sha­red with our next-do­or ne­ig­h­bor.

  “Be ca­re­ful,” Lo­gan sa­id.

  “I’ve do­ne this a hund­red ti­mes, re­mem­ber?”

  “I know, but I can’t catch you an­y­mo­re.”

  I pe­ered over. It was too far down to jump, and even if I co­uld, I’d be loc­ked out of the ho­use. So I swung my legs over to sit on the ed­ge of the ro­of abo­ve the front wal­k­way.

  “How was yo­ur birth­day?” Lo­gan shif­ted his no­ne­xis­tent we­ight from one fo­ot to the ot­her. “Did you guys ha­ve din­ner?”

  “We did.” My fin­gers tigh­te­ned on the shing­les as I re­ali­zed he co­uld ha­ve shown up at the res­ta­urant to­night. He’d ta­ken me the­re be­fo­re the ho­me­co­ming dan­ce, so it wo­uld be part of his ghostly ha­bi­tat. “But not at Chi­ap­pa­rel­li’s.”

  “I know. I lo­oked for you. Whe­re did you go?”

  “To so­me­one’s ho­use.”

  “I went everyw­he­re I co­uld think of.” Lo­gan fla­iled his arms. “The who­le day, I lo­oked all the pla­ces you co­uld’ve go­ne, but whe­ne­ver I tri­ed to get to you, so­met­hing fre­aky wo­uld hap­pen.”

  My pul­se skip­ped. “Re­al­ly?”

  “Ye­ah, re­al­ly.” He swag­ge­red up to the ed­ge of the grass. “It’s that guy, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t-”

  “What is his de­al?” Lo­gan’s vo­ice crack­led. “Why is he so fuc­king bright I can’t lo­ok at him?”

  I sho­ok my he­ad, but the mo­ti­on ma­de me so dizzy, I had to blink hard to cle­ar my vi­si­on.

  “Is that why you li­ke him, Aura? He’s all red and shiny?” The ed­ges of Lo­gan’s ima­ge fiz­zled black, li­ke he was be­ing swar­med by a tho­usand gnats. “Or is it the ac­cent? I me­an, what’s he got that I don’t-no, don’t ans­wer that. Duh. A body.”

  “Lo­gan, ple­ase calm down.”

  “Are you go­ing to chan­ge the she­ets or not?” He lo­oked at the front do­or, then up at me. “Do you want me to co­me back?”

  I sta­red in­to his eyes for a long mo­ment. I co­uld al­most ima­gi­ne them blue as a Sep­tem­ber sky.

  “Aura.” His whis­per se­emed to be right at my ear. “Do you still lo­ve me?”

  It was the wrong qu­es­ti­on, be­ca­use boy or ghost or sha­de, the­re wo­uld al­ways be only one an­s­wer.

  “Yes.”

  Lo­gan’s dark out­li­ne brigh­te­ned to pu­re vi­olet aga­in, and I let myself bre­at­he.

  “I lo­ve you, too.” He bo­un­ced on his to­es. “So we’re co­ol, then? I’ll co­me over to­mor­row af­ter you put the ot­her she­ets on. You le­ave for yo­ur grand­mom’s on Mon­day, right?”

  “I do, but-I don’t think you sho­uld co­me he­re… to­mor­row night.” I cur­sed myself for wus­sing out at the end of the sen­ten­ce. I’d ne­ver bro­ken up with an­yo­ne be­fo­re Lo­gan. I’d ne­ver lo­ved an­yo­ne be­fo­re Lo­gan.

  “When are you get­ting back from Philly?” he as­ked me. “I’ll stop by then.”

  “I-no. I don’t want you to co­me he­re.” I shud­de­red at the so­und of my words. “I can’t see you an­y­mo­re.”

  Lo­gan went very still, as if ca­ught in a fre­eze-fra­me. “You sa­id you lo­ve me.”

  “I do lo­ve you.”

  “But you’re le­aving me.”

  “It’s the only way to-”

  “I’ve lost you.” He step­ped back and lo­oked up and down the si­de­walk. “Be­ca­use I di­ed, I’ve lost you.”

  “Lo­gan, don’t-”

  “God, this isn’t hap­pe­ning. It was one thing to lo­se my li­fe, but this.” He drag­ged his hands up his fa­ce, in­to his ha­ir. “What can I do, Aura? Tell me what to do.”

  “The­re’s not­hing you can do.”

  “No!” He lun­ged thro­ugh the iron ga­te in­to the yard, then stop­ped with a hiss, li­ke so­met­hing had pus­hed him back. “The­re’s got to be so­met­hing. Got to be!”

  Black light­ning shot thro­ugh his body, rip­ping him apart.

  “Lo­gan?” I re­ac­hed for him. “Lo­gan, don’t!”

  So­met­hing slit­he­red over the back of my neck as I mo­ved. The cha­in of the ob­si­di­an pen­dant. I wrenc­hed my body to ke­ep the sto­ne in­si­de my shirt, but it swung out, dang­ling in the air be­fo­re him.

  Lo­gan hur­led a gurg­ling, sta­ticky shri­ek. “THE­RE MUST BE SO­MET­HING!”

  My bra­in til­ted. I grab­bed for the ed­ge of the ro­of, but my hands went in the wrong di­rec­ti­on. Up was down and down was up.

  As the world drop­ped away, I saw Lo­gan’s sha­dowy fi­gu­re stre­ak to­ward me.

  “AURA!”

  Then I was twis­ting, slip­ping, scram­b­ling.

  And fi­nal­ly, fal­ling.

  In the long, gray mo­ments that fol­lo­wed, I he­ard Lo­gan cal­ling for help. He scre­amed my aunt’s na­me, but of co­ur­se she co­uldn’t he­ar him. I lay on the cold conc­re­te walk­way, trying not to let the des­pe­ra­ti­on in his vo­ice ma­ke my own lungs se­ize. It hurt to bre­at­he.

  “Aura.” Lo­gan knelt be­si­de me, sob­bing. His vo­ice had lost its crack­le. “I’m gon­na get Me­gan. I’ll be right back. Don’t mo­ve, okay?” When I didn’t res­pond, he sho­uted in­to my ear. “Aura! Can you he­ar me?”

  “Yes,” I whis­pe­red. “Go.”

  His vi­olet hands re­ac­hed for me, but then he snatc­hed them back as if I’d bur­ned them. “Don’t mo­ve. And don’t fall as­le­ep. Think of a song.”

  “A song?”

  “So­met­hing fast. Think of ‘De­vil’s Dan­ce Flo­or.’ Re­mem­ber?”

  He blur­ted out the first li­ne to jog my me­mory, then di­sap­pe­ared. A mo­ment la­ter I he­ard his vo­ice from two blocks over, sho­uting Me­gan’s na­me aga­in and aga­in.

  I tri­ed to turn my mind to the song, re­mem­be­ring how he wo­uld lock his ga­ze with mi­ne on the first ver­se, how he wo­uld pull each mu­si­ci­an in­to the in­ter­lu­de li­ke a wi­zard co­axing the fo­ur ele­ments, how he sto­ked the crowd thro­ugh the fren­zi­ed fi­na­le, ur­ging them to swing a lit­tle mo­re on the de­vil’s dan­ce flo­or.

  The song en­ded and he fi­nal­ly qu­i­eted, in both ima­gi­na­ti­on and re­ality. I clo­sed my eyes and let the gray turn to black.

  Chapter Twenty

  Wa­ke up, dork.”

  I ope­ned my eyes re­luc­tantly to see the pock­mar­ked ti­les of the hos­pi­tal ro­om ce­iling.

  “It’s be­en two ho­urs al­re­ady?” I as­ked Me­gan.

  “Yep. The nur­se is on her way to check on you aga­in. Fi­gu­red you’d rat­her wa­ke up to my pretty fa­ce than hers.”
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  I tri­ed to roll over in bed, but the sharp ac­he in my si­de stop­ped me. “Ow!”

  “Mo­re pa­in­kil­lers you ne­ed,” Me­gan sa­id, using the new Yo­da pup­pet she’d bo­ught for my bir­t­h­day.

  “Whe­re’s Gi­na?”

  “In the lo­un­ge she is, her mes­sa­ges, she is chec­king.” Me­gan co­ug­hed and lo­we­red the pup­pet. “It hurts to do that vo­ice. How do you fe­el?”

  Once aga­in my mind was slam­med by the events of the pre­vi­o­us night. Lo­gan shim­me­ring in pa­in. Lo­gan ra­ging over our bre­akup. Lo­gan tur­ning sha­de.

  “I just want to sle­ep.”

  Me­gan’s eyes wi­de­ned. “Uh-oh.”

  “No.” I grit­ted my te­eth as I used my one go­od hand to help myself sit up. “I’m sle­epy be­ca­use I fell off my ro­of and got po­ked at by doc­tors un­til fi­ve a.m. I’m not sle­epy be­ca­use my bra­in is slos­hed.”

  “Are you su­re? I can ring the bell and ha­ve the nur­se co­me qu­ic­ker.”

  “I don’t fe­el sick. I’m ac­tu­al­ly kin­da hungry.”

  “That’s sup­po­sed to be a go­od sign.” Me­gan stra­igh­te­ned the thin knit blan­ket over the she­ets. “You co­uld to­tal­ly use this he­ad inj­ury thing when scho­ol starts aga­in. If you flunk a test, just say you had me­mory loss from yo­ur con­cus­si­on.”

  Ha. If only the inj­ury co­uld cle­ar the me­mo­ri­es I dre­aded most. But I knew I’d ne­ver get that lucky.

  The nur­se ca­me in then, and I un­ders­to­od Me­gan’s po­int abo­ut not wan­ting to wa­ke up to that fa­ce. “Agat­ha” (accor­ding to her na­me tag) scow­led at me as she to­ok my blo­od pres­su­re and chec­ked my chart. She as­ked me se­ve­ral qu­es­ti­ons and se­emed di­sap­po­in­ted with my un­re­mar­kab­le an­s­wers.

  “The ne­uro­lo­gist will be in shortly to exa­mi­ne you. Un­til then, don’t mo­ve.” Agat­ha sho­ok her fin­ger at Me­gan on her way out, li­ke my fri­end might chal­len­ge me to a ga­me of one-on-one.

  “Do you want me to call Zach for you?” Me­gan sa­id. “You can’t use cell pho­nes in hos­pi­tal ro­oms.”