Shift

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  I gaped at her. “You knew he’d do this.”

  Gina arched a thin blond eyebrow. “Logan Keeley never met a spotlight he didn’t love.”

  The pub began to play recorded music over the speakers. It was a festive song, matching the joy of the Keeleys as they hugged one another, then their friends, then total strangers.

  In the center of the celebration, Logan stood with his head bowed, on the spot where he had exited and re-entered the embrace of his family, friends, and fans. He looked humbled rather than triumphant, as if he thought he might slip away again.

  Then he lifted his gaze over the crowd to meet mine. In his eyes I saw an almost desperate gratitude. He’d come back for me, and maybe I’d made it possible. In his mind—and maybe in reality—I’d saved his soul.

  So what did I owe him now?

  “What was it like to be a shade?”

  “It was hell.” Logan stood beside me on the Green Derby stage and spoke to the crowd of reporters. “Like a tornado in my head. No one should have to go through that.”

  He paused while I translated for the pre-Shifters—everyone but Dylan, who stood off to the side with his family. He was the only Keeley I could see from here, thanks to the television crews’ lights, which were bright enough to wash out Logan’s violet glow.

  Megan had left at Gina’s request—my aunt thought it would be safer if Logan had fewer potential mouthpieces. Since I worked as a ghost-translator at Gina’s law firm, no one questioned why I spoke for him.

  Ryan Robertson from the eleven o’clock news said to me, “Ask him how he turned back into a ghost.”

  “He can hear you,” I said. “So ask him yourself.”

  The reporter next to him smirked. Robertson scratched his head with the capped end of his ballpoint pen, then adjusted his stance. “Logan, how did you make the unprecedented transformation from a shade to a ghost?”

  Everyone pressed in to hear the answer, and I resisted the urge to step back.

  “I couldn’t have done it without Aura,” Logan said.

  I angled my head, wondering where his answer was going. If he makes this about me, I’m doomed. He couldn’t lie, but the fact that he was here, putting himself out for public consumption, endangered all my secrets.

  I kept my face blank, hoping Dylan was doing the same so the reporters wouldn’t know Logan had spoken.

  Logan kept going. “She always believed. For eleven weeks, she called to me. She waited. She pulled me out of hell.” He paused. “Aura, what are you waiting for? Tell them.”

  I turned to the reporters. “He says he came back for me.”

  They frowned, no doubt noticing my use of the third person rather than a direct translation, not to mention the difference in length between Logan’s answer and my own. They knew I was leaving something out.

  I added, “It was our connection that made it possible. A one-time thing. The miracle of love.” I tried not to wince. Logan would never say that.

  But scattered “awww’s” confirmed my hope: The media were suckers for a love story. I shot him an affectionate gaze, even as my frustration with his selfishness scorched the very love I was touting. If they thought our bond had brought Logan back—which might be the case—maybe they would overlook the weirdness of my own personal history. Like my birthday.

  Logan’s voice came closer. “That’s not what I said. Why won’t you tell them what I said?”

  “We’ll talk later,” I told him without moving my lips.

  A blond reporter with a shag cut muscled her way in front of Robertson. “Logan, what are your plans? Will you try to pass on?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “First I need to get the word out about shady ghosts—I mean, at-risk ghosts. I’m proof that they’re not hopeless, that they shouldn’t be locked up in little boxes. It’s fucking cruel.”

  I repeated his exact words, including his self-correction and profanity, hoping to earn back a little cred with the reporters—not to mention my professional integrity.

  Sweat trickled over my ribs, from the heat of the lights and the fear that any moment, my cover as the First would be blown.

  “I also want to form a new band,” Logan added, “with post-Shifters. I’m dying to make music again. Um, no pun intended.”

  I recited what he’d said, then realized that his new singing career would bring even more scrutiny. He’d be the subject of interviews and exposés, and sooner or later he’d let something slip. Someone would dig up my records and learn I was born at the Shift. Maybe they would arrive at the same conclusion I had: that my birth might have caused it.

  My head filled with a roar of panic. I didn’t even hear the next question and answer.

  “Aura,” Logan said. “Did you hear me? Are you okay?”

  I shook my head, wanting to beg him to pass on now before he ruined everything.

  “Excuse me.” A tall woman with a sleek brunette twist sidled between me and the reporters. She pulled a badge out of her black pin-striped suit and displayed it to them. “I’m Nicola Hughes from the Department of Metaphysical Purity’s Office of Public Affairs. Any questions for the Salvatore or Keeley families will henceforth be submitted through me.”

  One of the reporters raised his hand. “Why can’t we—”

  “I’m sorry,” Nicola said, “no questions at this time.” Smiling, she handed a stack of business cards to the reporter on her left. “Be a dear and pass these out? Thank you.” Then she turned to me, Gina, and the Keeleys. “Believe it or not, I’m here to help.”

  We sat at the long wooden table in the Green Derby’s private party room. Logan took his place between me and his brother Dylan on one side of the table, with the rest of their family—all pre-Shifters—lined up on the other side. I resisted the urge to move away from Logan, since the depth of my anger could raise suspicion.

  Nicola stood at the door, ushering in the waiter, who paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkened room before he started serving drinks.

  “This round is on me,” she said. “I’m sure you all need refreshment after that episode.”

  Logan rested his chin on his hand, watching the waiter serve his father a pint of Guinness. He’d once told me that perpetual sobriety was one of the worst parts of being dead, ignoring the fact that it was a combination of alcohol and drugs that had killed him.

  After the waiter left, Nicola shut the door. “Now.” She strutted to the head of the table. “The last thing you want is more DMP bullshit, am I right? So I’ll be as frank with you as I am obscure with the press.”

  “Hmph,” Gina said to my left.

  “The department suffered a public relations nightmare when Logan shaded at this bar on January third. And we deserved all the blame. The Obsidian agents who assaulted Aura and Dylan have been disciplined, but the tarnish to the department’s image was significant. After all, everyone—not just post-Shifters—can see Aura and Dylan in the online videos.”

  Yep. Over one hundred thousand views, with five thousand comments, mostly thumbs-up for our flailing attempt to stop the Obsidian agents from locking Logan in a tiny black box.

  Nicola continued. “So what better way to boost our image than to help the very ghost we’re famous for persecuting?”

  “Help him how?” Mrs. Keeley twisted the silver chain of her Celtic cross necklace. “The only thing he needs is to pass on.”

  “Until he’s ready to pass on,” Nicola said, “he needs protection from the paparazzi. The media have no regard for the privacy of ordinary citizens.”

  I wrinkled my nose at her hypocrisy. Still, I would do anything to protect my deepest secrets from mass consumption. As much as I wanted to resist Nicola’s help, she might be just the shield I needed.

  “So let’s formulate a strategy,” Nicola said, “to decide the nature of Logan’s public persona.”

  “Hang on.” Logan put out his hands. “Don’t I get a say in it?”

  I repeated his words to Nicola, who nodded vigorously.


  “This will all be under his direction. If there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that no one tells Logan Keeley what to do.”

  He smiled. “Awesome. So I can form a new band?”

  “He wants to form a new band,” I said, “with post-Shifters.”

  Mickey snorted. “He’s serious about that?”

  Siobhan glared at her twin. “I think it sounds cool.”

  “It’ll get attention, and that’s all he cares about.”

  “Mickey, that’s enough,” Mr. Keeley growled.

  I looked at Logan. His expression reminded me of a day at the Keeleys’ house just after Mickey had started high school, and Logan, Megan, and I were only twelve. We were annoying Mickey, and he’d slammed his bedroom door in our faces, calling us “stupid kids.” In the instant before Logan shot back a better insult, his eyes had turned as hurt as a kicked puppy’s.

  Nicola clapped her hands once. “A new band is a fabulous idea. It’s the perfect platform to show the world, especially post-Shifters, that the DMP is ghost-friendly.”

  I remembered what an Obsidian agent had said last year when he warned me to make sure Logan passed on. Recruitment is our number one priority. In nine months, the first post-Shifters would turn eighteen. Old enough to be dumpers.

  So the DMP needed to look good to young people. They would use Logan’s band to advertise their own coolness.

  “What’ll they actually do for me?” Logan said, and I relayed his question to Nicola.

  She finally looked in his direction. “We’ll manage your PR, handle all your media contacts, and drum up publicity for your gigs.” Her smile slid across her face, smooth as a serpent. “You make the music, and we’ll make you famous.”

  I expected Logan to spark with his usual ambition and lust for the limelight.

  Instead he seemed to fold further into himself, shrinking under the gazes of those who could never see him.

  “I want to talk to Aura and Dylan,” he said. “Alone.”

  The three of us stood on the sidewalk outside the pub, near the place where Dylan had raged and mourned Logan’s shading a few months before. I wondered how long the bricks had held the bloodstains from his fists pounding the wall.

  “I’ve got a weird feeling about this,” Logan said.

  I nodded. “It’s too easy. But we need the DMP to protect us from the media.” And from your big mouth, I wanted to add, but couldn’t without triggering Dylan’s curiosity. He must’ve already wondered why I’d mistranslated Logan’s answer to the reporters.

  The younger brother leaned against the building. “It makes sense they’d want to look better after what happened when you shaded. There was a ton of bad publicity.”

  “But nothing changed,” I pointed out. “They still treat at-risk ghosts the same way. And by February the media got bored, so the public stopped screaming for reforms.”

  Logan thumbed his lip, looking pensive. “Maybe if I stay in the spotlight, people won’t stop thinking about it.”

  Dylan chuckled. “You’d be like a poster child for at-risk ghosts.”

  “Is that a good thing?” I said.

  “Yeah, people’ll see Logan and think, ‘He’s not so bad. Maybe we should give them all a second chance.’”

  “You believe that?” Logan asked Dylan. “I’m not so bad?”

  “Of course, dipshit. You’re my brother.”

  “I’m Mickey’s brother, too. Look what that gets me.”

  “Mickey’s a douche,” Dylan said. “Just forget him.”

  “I can’t forget him.”

  “Right, ’cause he’s the cool brother.” Dylan looked past me. “Uh-oh. Aura, don’t turn around.”

  Of course I turned around, then quickly averted my eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  The ghost of the naked man raised his arms. “It’s not like I can put on clothes.” He dodged a pedestrian, stepping closer to me.

  Since ghosts are frozen in the happiest time of their lives, a lot of men appear in sports or military uniforms—or nothing at all. At least this one was wearing socks.

  “What’s wrong?” Logan asked his brother. “Is there another ghost here?”

  “Yeah, and he’s hung like a hippo.”

  “What? Aura, don’t look.”

  I ignored them both. “What do you want?” I asked the man.

  “Simple. I need to know the score of the Orioles-Yankees game. They were in extra innings when I had a heart attack.”

  “It’s preseason,” Dylan said. “Who cares?”

  “Not tonight’s game. Last year, July eighteenth. Rivera was on the mound at the bottom of the tenth.”

  I kept a straight face. “All this time, you haven’t found anyone who could look up the score for you?”

  The ghost put his hands on his hips. “It wasn’t my only unfinished business. How pathetic do you think I am?”

  “Sorry.” I waved my hand in the direction of the city. “Try one of the big sports bars. Did you go to them during your life?”

  The ghost nodded, then gazed up at the Green Derby’s worn wooden sign. “I always liked this place.” He disappeared.

  “He’s gone,” I told Logan. “Where were we?”

  He stared sadly at the part of the sidewalk I’d been talking to. “I wish I could see them.”

  I wished he could, too. If ghosts could hang out together, they’d be less lonely, and they wouldn’t be so desperate for living company. Then again, they might stick around that much longer.

  “Let’s do this,” Logan said with quiet determination. “I want my afterlife to be more than a rehash. I want it to mean something, and not just for me. But it’s gotta be all on my terms, like that lady promised. No DMP recruitment commercials, just our own music and the covers we pick.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?” Dylan asked.

  “My new band. Let’s put an ad online. Here, I’ll tell you what to say.” While Dylan scrambled for his phone, Logan barreled ahead. “‘Ghost front man seeking talented, all-post-Shifter band.’” He drew his hand across the air, as if the words would be written on a movie theater marquee.

  “Wait, wait.” Dylan thumbed the text into his notepad function.

  Logan started to pace and gesture, the old excitement returning. “Let’s say, ‘Preferably punk, but accept alt-rock or alt-metal. Covers, originals. Performance experience preferred.’ No—‘required.’”

  My stomach queased as I watched Logan plan his next leap into the public eye. He’d be dragging me with him again.

  Dylan spoke as he got it down. “Should I give them my cell number?”

  “No, some of them might be weird. Oh! You know what’d be better?” Logan jabbed his finger at Dylan’s phone. “Have them e-mail links to their clips or videos. That way we can tell if they suck, and I won’t have to reject them in person.” He bounced on his toes. “This’ll be so cool. I bet we’ll get a ton of auditions.”

  “E-mail them to who? Me or Aura?”

  “Aura, would you—” Logan stopped short when he saw the look on my face. “Dylan, go inside. Tell them we’ll be in soon.”

  Dylan sighed, then snapped his phone shut. “Send the kid away. What else is new?”

  I watch him go, then whirled on Logan. “Thanks for remembering your new career might have a teeny effect on me.”

  “You don’t have to be a part of this.”

  “Yes, I do! Everything you say to the press has to come through me. That DMP lady can keep things under control, but only I can keep you from ruining my life.” I slapped my hand against the brick building. “Great start, by the way, showing up here tonight. Why didn’t you warn me, or better yet, do what you were told and stay home?”

  “Because I didn’t—” Logan shoved his hands against his scalp. “Because I knew you’d tell me not to come.” He clasped his hands behind his head. “I’m sorry for dragging you into all this shit again. Let’s just forget it.”

  “No. This is too important, to you and all the gho
sts who need help.” I knew that not just any ghost could change the world. The same charm and energy that would’ve made Logan a rock star in life could make him a hero after death. “Besides, maybe you need to do this to pass on.”

  “I need to do something bigger than myself.”

  “Whoa, he finally admits there is such a thing. Alert the media.”

  “No, don’t alert the media.” He grinned at me. “Wouldn’t want to ruin my diva reputation.” When I didn’t return his smile, he dropped his hands to his sides. “I really screwed up tonight, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah.”

  He stepped closer, his violet form reflecting in the pub’s front window. “Can you forgive me?”

  I gritted my teeth. “You know not to ask me that while I’m still mad.”

  “Sorry.” He brushed his ethereal hand over my arm. “Do you still love me?”

  “I’ll always love you, Logan.” I moved around him, heading for the front door. “But right now, I don’t really like you.”

  I flopped into the low seat of Zachary’s Mini Cooper, collapsing under the weight of my layered clothing.

  “Warm enough?” he cracked as he examined my parka and heavy gloves.

  “They call it a killing frost for a reason.” I noticed his hands were bare, though the car’s heat was off. “It’s supposed to be spring, but this is colder than it was most of the winter.”

  “At least the sky will be clear.”

  Great, we’d been reduced to talking about the weather. I pulled up my hood, far enough so I couldn’t see him from the corner of my eye. As the drive passed in silence, I kept my hands folded in my lap to keep from switching on the radio. Even the Spanish-speaking GPS would’ve been a relief, but Zachary didn’t need directions to our monthly place of work.

  We didn’t speak again until we got to our sky-mapping site, a small grassy strip next to a field in northern Baltimore County. As we parked alongside the mile-long lane to the farmer’s house, I noticed that wheat was starting to shoot up from the field. I wondered if it could survive the freezing night—or if I could, for that matter.

  We laid out our blanket, then I opened our star map portfolio, my gloved fingers fumbling with the tie.