Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

He to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, which still so­un­ded so re­al I co­uld al­most be­li­eve he was ali­ve. “He­re go­es. It’s cal­led ‘Fo­re­ver.’”

  Lo­gan be­gan to sing, a lil­ting tu­ne I didn’t re­cog­ni­ze. At first I won­de­red if we’d se­en the band in con­cert to­get­her or had lis­te­ned to it on one of our first da­tes.

  Then he re­ac­hed the cho­rus, and the words we­re us.

  All my in­se­cu­ri­ti­es, all his ex­ces­ses, all the ways we fo­ught and pus­hed and pul­led. And how it all didn’t mat­ter. Tho­se things that to­re us apart we­re no match for fo­re­ver.

  Te­ars flo­wed from be­ne­ath my clo­sed lids and tick­led as they trick­led down my che­eks. Lo­gan must ha­ve se­en them, but he didn’t let on. He just kept sin­ging his last en­co­re-his grand fi­na­le, all for me.

  I’d be­en so wrong abo­ut us. If he’d li­ved, we wo­uld’ve be­en happy. Not every day, but over the span of ti­me that ma­de up fo­re­ver.

  But he hadn’t li­ved.

  A ho­le ope­ned up in­si­de me, so raw I had to curl up on my si­de away from his light, pul­ling my go­od knee to my chest to ease the ac­he. The ho­le ga­ped so big it se­emed li­ke I co­uld crawl in­si­de, let the dark­ness swal­low all tho­ughts of the fu­tu­re that on­ce stretc­hed be­fo­re us. We had lost fo­re­ver.

  When Lo­gan fi­nis­hed my song, he re­ma­ined for se­ve­ral si­lent se­conds. I he­ard not­hing but my own shaky bre­ath.

  Then he sa­id, “That’s all.”

  And di­sap­pe­ared.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Me­gan sat with me the next day in the co­urt­ro­om, in the back row, away from the Ke­eleys.

  “I’ll be so glad when this is over.” She fan­ned her­self with the ma­gen­ta flyer for Lo­gan’s “Pas­sing On” party. “Mic­key’s a to­tal mess. I wish his pa­rents hadn’t drag­ged out ever­yo­ne’s pa­in with this tri­al. Gre­edy lit­tle mo­fos.”

  “It’s not abo­ut the mo­ney.” I dab­bed my runny no­se with a rag­ged tis­sue. “Gi­na says they want to ma­ke su­re it ne­ver hap­pens aga­in.” I lo­oked at the clock. Two mi­nu­tes to ni­ne.

  “Right. They’ll chan­ge the world with one law­su­it. Re­cord com­pa­ni­es will all be­co­me sa­intly and nonp­ro­fit and stop dest­ro­ying the li­ves of star­ry-eyed dumb shits li­ke Lo­gan.”

  “He’s not dumb. He had go­od gra­des.”

  “Be­ing smart do­esn’t ma­ke so­me­one un­dumb.”

  I sig­hed, too ti­red for one of Me­gan’s rants. I’d sta­yed awa­ke most of the night af­ter Lo­gan left, won­de­ring whet­her to call him back to my si­de. To ma­ke mat­ters wor­se, the co­urt­ro­om was over­he­ated to­day, inc­re­asing my ex­ha­us­ti­on.

  The ba­iliff en­te­red, and we all sto­od for the jud­ge. With my bad knee, by the ti­me I sto­od, ever­yo­ne el­se was sit­ting down.

  Be­fo­re my aunt to­ok her se­at, she tur­ned to find me. I ga­ve her a we­ak thumbs-up. From whe­re I was sit­ting, I co­uldn’t see her op­po­nent, Har­ri­et Sto­ne, but I knew the de­fen­se at­tor­ney wo­uld be we­aring a mo­re mu­ted co­lor to­day. I ho­ped her ar­ro­gan­ce wo­uld be si­mi­larly to­ned down.

  The first wit­ness for the de­fen­se was the to­xi­co­lo­gist who wor­ked for the me­di­cal exa­mi­ner’s of­fi­ce. His tests sho­wed that the qu­an­tity and pu­rity of co­ca­ine in Lo­gan’s system wasn’t eno­ugh to kill a he­althy yo­ung man on its own. Even if he’d snor­ted the en­ti­re samp­le the A and R rep had gi­ven him, he sho­uld’ve ex­pe­ri­en­ced only a qu­ick, in­ten­se high.

  Prob­lem was, Lo­gan had a crap-lo­ad of al­co­hol in his system at the ti­me, and the com­bi­na­ti­on had trig­ge­red sud­den car­di­ac de­ath thro­ugh vent­ri­cu­lar fib­ril­la­ti­on-Lo­gan’s “worms in the chest.”

  Gi­na cross-exa­mi­ned the wit­ness, po­in­ting out the ob­vi­o­us fact that wit­ho­ut the drug, Lo­gan wo­uld still be ali­ve. “Isn’t it true that any amo­unt of co­ca­ine, when mi­xed with al­co­hol, can be de­adly?”

  “It has be­en fa­tal in so­me ca­ses,” the to­xi­co­lo­gist sa­id, “espe­ci­al­ly if the user has an un­di­ag­no­sed car­di­ac con­di­ti­on. But the man who ga­ve him the subs­tan­ce co­uldn’t ha­ve ex­pec­ted-”

  “Doc­tor, I’m not as­king you to re­ad a drug de­aler’s mind. I’m as­king if co­ca­ine mi­xed with al­co­hol can trig­ger sud­den car­di­ac de­ath. Yes or no.”

  The doc­tor he­si­ta­ted. “Yes.”

  I sag­ged in my se­at, wis­hing I co­uld box up that tes­ti­mony and send it back in a ti­me mac­hi­ne as a se­ven­te­enth birth­day pre­sent for Lo­gan. Such a small sli­ce of know­led­ge co­uld ha­ve sa­ved his li­fe.

  After a few mo­re wit­nes­ses for the de­fen­se, we to­ok a qu­ick lunch bre­ak; then the tri­al re­su­med at two o’clock.

  When ever­yo­ne was se­ated, so­me­one dim­med the lights. The Black­Box in­di­ca­tor glo­wed red abo­ve the re­ar do­or.

  Next to the wit­ness stand, two kids sat back-to-back with a blue light next to each. The wit­nes­ses wo­uld switch off from qu­es­ti­on to qu­es­ti­on, each of them ans­we­ring for Lo­gan in turn.

  One of them was a slim Af­ri­can-Ame­ri­can boy of abo­ut fif­te­en; the ot­her, a lit­tle blond girl who lo­oked abo­ut ten ye­ars old, tho­ugh she must ha­ve be­en at le­ast fo­ur­te­en, sin­ce that was the mi­ni­mum age for this work. They both se­emed sca­red, and I felt a tug of sympathy.

  The jud­ge nod­ded to the ba­iliff, who hit anot­her switch on the wall. The Black­Box lights win­ked out.

  Lo­gan ap­pe­ared on the wit­ness stand, sum­mo­ned by the cle­ar qu­artz disc. Out of pla­ce in his un­but­to­ned shirt and baggy ska­te shorts, he scan­ned the co­urt­ro­om, as­to­nis­hed.

  Me­gan le­aned clo­se and whis­pe­red, “The di­va in him is to­tal­ly lo­ving this.”

  I tri­ed to smi­le. She had no idea what was at sta­ke. I le­aned over the arm­rest in­to the ais­le so Lo­gan co­uld see me.

  When our eyes met, the rest of the ro­om se­emed to dar­ken. It felt li­ke a spot­light was shi­ning down on each of us. My chest hurt, just as it had when he’d sung to me last night.

  I wrap­ped my arms aro­und my wa­ist. Ple­ase end this, Lo­gan. Ple­ase na­il this ca­se so you can le­ave.

  Har­ri­et Sto­ne wal­ked up to the wit­ness stand. She spo­ke softly to the kids, then hit the switch un­der the boy’s blue light, ma­king it glow. Fi­nal­ly she fa­ced Lo­gan, tho­ugh she co­uldn’t see him.

  “Ple­ase sta­te yo­ur na­me for the re­cord.”

  “Lo­gan Pat­rick Ke­eley.”

  The boy re­pe­ated what he’d just sa­id. Sto­ne as­ked ba­sic qu­es­ti­ons li­ke Lo­gan’s age and ho­me­town, which he ans­we­red with an ed­ge of bo­re­dom in his vo­ice. Af­ter each res­pon­se from the trans­la­tor, the kid who hadn’t trans­la­ted wo­uld nod to con­firm.

  Fi­nal­ly the law­yer prog­res­sed to the mat­ter at hand. “Ple­ase tell us how you be­ca­me per­so­nal­ly ac­qu­a­in­ted with War­rant Re­cords.”

  “The A and R rep cal­led us,” Lo­gan sa­id. “A fri­end of his had se­en one of our shows in Sep­tem­ber.”

  “When you say ‘our shows,’ you’re re­fer­ring to the band the Ke­eley Brot­hers, cor­rect?”

  “Ye­ah. So he co­mes to our gig at the com­mu­nity cen­ter on my birth­day. And sin­ce we to­tal­ly kic­ked ass-” He stop­ped and spo­ke to the girl, who­se turn it was to trans­la­te. “You can say ‘kic­ked butt’ if you want.”

  Me­gan la­ug­hed. She was the only one.

  The girl re­ci­ted Lo­gan’s words, and then he con­ti­nu­ed:

  “So af­ter­wards the rep co­mes up and int­ro­du­ces hi
m­self. Says he’s dying to sign us right away.” Lo­gan wa­ited for the girl to catch up. “But War­rant wasn’t our first cho­ice, and be­si­des, we pro­mi­sed our folks that we wo­uldn’t sign anyt­hing wit­ho­ut the­ir per­mis­si­on.” He be­amed at his pa­rents, as if ex­pec­ting them to pra­ise him. I gu­ess they didn’t res­pond as he’d ho­ped, be­ca­use his exp­res­si­on dar­ke­ned for a mo­ment.

  “Anyway, I saw the rep of­fer the drugs to Mic­key, who got so pis­sed-um, so angry that he told him to, um…” Lo­gan se­emed to fumb­le for a synonym for “fuck off.” “Well, he sa­id he wasn’t in­te­res­ted.”

  “What abo­ut you?” Sto­ne as­ked. “We­re you in­te­res­ted?”

  “I was in­te­res­ted in a cont­ract. So I wan­ted the guy to li­ke me, right?” He wa­ited for the trans­la­ti­on, this ti­me by the boy, who­se ner­vo­us­ness se­emed to be fa­ding. “My pa­rents al­ways ta­ught me that part of ma­king fri­ends is ac­cep­ting hos­pi­ta­lity. It ma­kes pe­op­le fe­el go­od when they can do things for you.”

  “Are you sa­ying you ac­cep­ted the co­ca­ine to ma­ke the de­fen­dant’s rep­re­sen­ta­ti­ve happy?”

  “Exactly. I ne­ver plan­ned to try it. I’ve se­en eno­ugh bur­ned-out mu­si­ci­ans. I even stop­ped smo­king pot to sa­ve my sin­ging vo­ice. No drugs for me, uh-uh.”

  I mir­ro­red Me­gan’s ye­ah, right glan­ce. No drugs, ot­her than eno­ugh al­co­hol to drown a wha­le.

  After the trans­la­ti­on, Sto­ne step­ped right up to Lo­gan’s box. “Then why did you ta­ke the co­ca­ine?”

  Lo­gan kept his fo­cus on the law­yer. “It was sup­po­sed to be our night. It was my birth­day, but I wan­ted it to be abo­ut us.” He po­un­ded his fist in­to the si­de of his leg wit­ho­ut a so­und. “And then I mes­sed up. Big-ti­me. I gu­ess I lost track of how many be­ers I’d had.” Af­ter the boy re­pe­ated his words, Lo­gan ad­ded, “Li­qu­id Stu­pid was ma­de for me.”

  Sto­ne be­gan to pa­ce. “Yo­ur girlf­ri­end tes­ti­fi­ed yes­ter­day that the al­co­hol ma­de you in­ca­pab­le of se­xu­al in­ter­co­ur­se. Why didn’t you just wa­it un­til anot­her night?”

  “I was af­ra­id.” He shut his eyes bri­efly, and when he ope­ned them aga­in they bur­ned stra­ight at me. “Afra­id of lo­sing her.”

  My mo­uth fell open. Lo­gan, lo­sing me? What kind of bi­zar­ro uni­ver­se had he be­en dwel­ling in that night?

  “I’d let her down be­fo­re, see. I wan­ted to ma­ke it up to her.” He pa­used, and I he­ard the sa­me words out of the mo­uth of the boy. “She was the most im­por­tant thing in the world to me. She still is. But she was lo­sing fa­ith.”

  I sho­ok my he­ad slowly, even tho­ugh I knew he was right. I’d had so many do­ubts.

  “I co­uldn’t bla­me her for it. All I ever tal­ked abo­ut was pla­ying mu­sic and be­ing fa­mo­us.” He squ­ir­med whi­le the trans­la­tor ca­ught up. “I wan­ted to show her that no­ne of that mat­te­red com­pa­red to be­ing with her. I wo­uld’ve gi­ven it all up, Aura, I swe­ar.”

  My jaw tremb­led so hard, my te­eth star­ted to chat­ter. “No,” I sa­id in a whis­per that ver­ged on a squ­e­ak.

  “It was the hap­pi­est night of my li­fe.” Lo­gan ges­tu­red to his out­fit. “Pro­of, right?”

  After chec­king with the jud­ge, Sto­ne as­ked the girl trans­la­tor to desc­ri­be Lo­gan’s clot­hes, which be­ca­me part of the of­fi­ci­al re­cord.

  Then the at­tor­ney spo­ke to Lo­gan. “Do you tes­tify that you knew what you we­re do­ing when you in­ges­ted the co­ca­ine, that you un­ders­to­od the risks in­vol­ved?”

  My aunt shot to her fe­et. “Obj­ec­ti­on.”

  “Over­ru­led.” The jud­ge ga­ve her an odd lo­ok. “The wit­ness will ans­wer the qu­es­ti­on.”

  “But the wit­ness is in no po­si­ti­on-”

  “I sa­id, I’ll al­low it.” He nod­ded in Lo­gan’s ge­ne­ral di­rec­ti­on. “Ple­ase res­pond.”

  “Ho­nestly?” Lo­gan shrug­ged. “I didn’t know it co­uld kill me. If I’d ever he­ard that, I for­got it a long ti­me ago. But I knew it was dan­ge­ro­us.”

  “Then why ta­ke the risk?” Sto­ne as­ked.

  Lo­gan tur­ned his he­ad to lo­ok at me. “Be­ca­use she was worth it.”

  A buzz shot thro­ugh the co­urt­ro­om when the trans­la­tor fi­nis­hed the sta­te­ment. I co­ve­red my fa­ce, wan­ting to drag my skin off with my fin­ger­na­ils. Lo­gan’s de­ath re­al­ly was my fa­ult, and now with every word, he was lo­sing the ca­se and se­aling his eter­nal, Black­Bo­xed fa­te.

  “Thank you,” the law­yer sa­id. “No furt­her qu­es­ti­ons.”

  I un­co­ve­red my eyes and watc­hed Gi­na ap­pro­ach the wit­ness stand.

  “Lo­gan, you say that be­ing with Ms. Sal­va­to­re that night was worth the risk. The risk of what?”

  “Be­co­ming a co­ke ad­dict, mostly. In the long run.”

  “What did you think the drug wo­uld do to you that night?”

  “May­be gi­ve me a no­seb­le­ed. And in­som­nia, which was sort of the po­int.” Lo­gan til­ted his chin, thin­king. “I knew it co­uld ma­ke me dizzy and swe­aty.” He held up a fin­ger. “Oh, and horny.”

  The girl gig­gled as she re­ci­ted the last part.

  “Did it ever en­ter yo­ur mind,” Gi­na as­ked, “that ta­king this drug wo­uld re­sult in yo­ur de­ath?”

  “No!” Lo­gan’s brow cre­ased in­to se­ve­ral vi­olet li­nes. “Why wo­uld I want to die? I had a gre­at fa­mily, I had a fu­tu­re do­ing what I lo­ved, I had the best girlf­ri­end in the world. And it was my bir­t­h­day, for God’s sa­ke.” His vo­ice cho­ked with an­ger. “I had everyt­hing, and I lost it.”

  I clutc­hed my hands to­get­her so hard, my spra­ined wrist sent shocks of pa­in up my arm. Lo­gan, ple­ase don’t sha­de out.

  Gi­na step­ped clo­ser to the wit­ness box. “But as a ghost, you can ha­ve cer­ta­in ex­pe­ri­en­ces. You can ha­unt.”

  “Ha­un­ting, ye­ah. So much fun. If I want to be with my fa­mily, it me­ans watc­hing them cry. It me­ans kno­wing that I put tho­se te­ars in the­ir eyes.” He lo­oked at me ac­ross the co­urt­ro­om. “As for Aura, I hung out with her af­ter I di­ed, and even tho­ugh she ma­de me happy, it kil­led me not to to­uch her, it kil­led me to know we had no fu­tu­re. And now, be­ca­use I di­ed, I’ve lost her.” He wa­ited for the boy to trans­la­te, then ad­dres­sed the jury. “I can’t to­uch, but I can still fe­el. And I tell you, if this we­re my li­fe… I wo­uldn’t want to li­ve.”

  The co­urt­ro­om was fro­zen in si­len­ce, lis­te­ning to the trans­la­tor’s hal­ting re­ci­ta­ti­on. My he­art felt li­ke it wo­uld le­ak its li­feb­lo­od if I lo­oked at Lo­gan anot­her se­cond.

  “So did I know I co­uld die?” he sa­id. “Abso­lu­tely not. With all I had, with all I co­uld’ve had-” He ga­zed at me for what felt li­ke an eter­nity. “Why wo­uld I ever ta­ke that chan­ce?”

  As the jury de­li­be­ra­ted, I sta­red at the Black­Box in­di­ca­tor light, glo­wing red aga­in. Lo­gan had left the ro­om, and so had his trans­la­tors, who we­re pro­bably enj­oying a co­up­le of piz­zas and ice-cre­am sun­da­es. That had al­ways be­en my post-tri­al ri­tu­al. I ne­ver wan­ted to spe­ak for a ghost aga­in, now that I knew first­hand the pa­in that lay be­hind a ca­se.

  “Aura.”

  Mr. Ke­eley was stan­ding in the cen­ter of the ais­le next to my se­at. He’d spo­ken qu­i­etly, not in his usu­al bo­oming vo­ice.

  I sco­oted over to gi­ve him ro­om to sit. He grun­ted as he eased his burly fra­me in­to the se­at, and I wor­ri­ed abo­ut his he­art. The stress of the ca­se, on top of lo­sing his son, must ha­ve had his car­di­olo­gist on red alert. I re­
mem­be­red last New Ye­ar’s Eve, sit­ting in the hos­pi­tal with the rest of the Ke­eleys, wa­iting to see if Lo­gan’s fat­her wo­uld sur­vi­ve his first he­art at­tack at the age of fifty.

  Mr. Ke­eley used a hand­kerc­hi­ef to wi­pe the she­en of swe­at from his ruddy fa­ce. “I don’t know what to say, ot­her than I’m sorry.”

  My thro­at thic­ke­ned. “That’s plenty.”

  “I wan­ted to say it right, but I don’t know how.” He sat per­fectly still, as if one wrong mo­ve wo­uld col­lap­se him.

  “I gu­ess that ma­kes two of-”

  “I don’t bla­me you for what hap­pe­ned.”

  “Uh, thanks.” I no­ti­ced he didn’t say “we” didn’t bla­me me, the­reby not inc­lu­ding Lo­gan’s mom. “I don’t bla­me you, eit­her.”

  He flas­hed me a shoc­ked lo­ok, then smi­led in a way that re­min­ded me so much of Lo­gan that I co­uldn’t help but re­turn it. It hit me that Lo­gan wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve Mr. Ke­eley’s thick sil­ver ha­ir, or the la­ugh li­nes at the cor­ners of his blue eyes.

  “To­uchй.” Mr. Ke­eley smo­ot­hed the cre­ases of his tro­users, re­la­xing a bit. “I miss him. I’d gi­ve anyt­hing to spe­ak to Lo­gan di­rectly. Or even in­di­rectly. He won’t talk to us any­mo­re, or at le­ast Dylan won’t tell us what he says.”

  “That might be for the best.”

  “I know Lo­gan’s angry with me,” he sa­id in a low vo­ice. “But he’ll see, all this pa­in will be worth it if we win.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then Lo­gan will mo­ve on.” He fol­ded his hands. “And may­be, one day, so will we.”

  I sta­red at the scuf­fed-up rub­ber knob at the bot­tom of my crutch and tho­ught of everyt­hing that had hap­pe­ned sin­ce Lo­gan’s de­ath. “Mr. Ke­eley, one day we’re all go­ing to mo­ve on, even if he do­esn’t.”

  Nod­ding slowly, he sat back in the se­at, eyes fi­xed on the red Black­Box light. “That’s what wor­ri­es me the most.”

  Me­gan ca­me back down the ais­le from vi­si­ting Mic­key. She stop­ped when she saw Mr. Ke­eley. “Oh. I tho­ught you went to the men’s ro­om. No, don’t get up!” she ad­ded as he sto­od to le­ave.