Shift

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  The top container was overstuffed, its lid askew. I peeked in to see action figures lying in a haphazard jumble. The people-pile reminded me of a mass grave I’d seen in a documentary.

  “Why are you packing these up?”

  “I’m not a kid anymore.” He shoved the lid down on the container until it snapped shut.

  “Plenty of grown-ups have collectible action figures.”

  “I haven’t liked this stuff for a long time, but I didn’t feel like taking it down. Plus, my friends would be all, ‘What’s up? Don’t you like Naruto anymore? Who the fuck are you?’ Not like they don’t ask that already.”

  “So why are you getting rid of them now?”

  “Duh,” he said softly as he turned away.

  I noticed his walls were painted the same dark, rich blue as Logan’s old room, the color of the sky at dusk. Dylan’s room in their last house had been a bright, Tweety Bird yellow (or what he probably would’ve called a Wolverine yellow).

  “I wanted to show you something.” He reached into a half-open drawer and pulled out a spiral notebook with a black cover. “You should probably sit down.”

  I glanced at the bed. Dylan turned his desk chair around and dropped the notebook on it. Then he sat on the edge of his bed, hunched forward, arms folded.

  I opened the notebook, angling it toward the sunlight coming through the window.

  Logan’s name and phone number were scrawled on the inside front cover, along with a note: If this is found by a total stranger, please, please, PLEASE call me. I’ll give you any reward you want. But if you throw it away or keep it, your soul is TOAST.

  The first page read, in neat letters: This page left blank on purpose.

  The date and time on the second page made my eyes blur with tears. October 17, eleven thirty p.m., the night before his last birthday. The night before he died.

  Fame Journal, Volume 1

  I’m starting this tonight so I can look back someday and remember what life was like before It happened. It might not happen tomorrow when those label guys come to our show, but it will soon. My life is going to change.

  And then, my life is going to end.

  A chill seeped up my fingers into my arms, as if the notebook were made of ice.

  It’s a fact: when guys like me get famous, they fall apart. They forget who they are. (Maybe because there’s nothing to remember. Outside of the music, I don’t know if there is such a thing as me.)

  It’ll be great at first. Everyone will love me. But eventually “everyone” won’t be enough. And the more they love Onstage Logan, the more they’ll hate Offstage Logan. Especially people who really know me.

  (It’s already started. Mickey thinks I’m a poseur. Siobhan thinks I’m a diva. Aura thinks I’m a slut-in-waiting. Dylan’s the only one who still thinks I’m a hero. I guess that’s what little brothers are for.)

  So I’ll fill the place that used to have a real me with whatever I can drink or snort or shoot or smoke, until one night I’ll be too wasted to remember how much of each I’ve done.

  My sob hitched at the image, but I couldn’t lose control. Not yet.

  I can tell myself and everyone else that I’ll be different from all those other rock star losers who burned out and one day instead of waking up in a puddle of their own puke and piss, just didn’t wake up at all. But that last page will come. Way too soon.

  Anyway, if anyone’s reading this after I’m dead (and that should be the only reason why you’re reading this, okay? If I’m still alive, put this down or I swear I will punch you in the teeth), I just want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry I turned out to be such a total fucking asshole.

  After a space of four blank lines, he wrote:

  I love you all, so much more than you should ever love me.

  I turned the page, knowing what I would find.

  Emptiness.

  Logan ended as soon as he started.

  I searched the blank pages faster and faster, finally thumbing the edges like a flip book. “That’s all?”

  “No.” Dylan knelt before me and opened the notebook from the back. He flipped forward three pages, then pointed at a list in the left margin, between the middle and bottom holes.

  Aura Keeley

  Aura S. Keeley

  Aura Salvatore Keeley

  Aura Salvatore-Keeley

  Aura Keeley-Salvatore (??)

  My tear fell onto the list, blurring the months-old ballpoint-pen ink.

  “When did you find this?”

  “The night he died. It was in his desk. After the cops left, I snuck into his room to look for stuff he wouldn’t want Mom and Dad to find.”

  “Was his ghost there to tell you what to hide?”

  “No, but this was pretty obvious. I asked him later, though, and he said not to show anyone.”

  “Why are you showing me now?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked up at me, eyes shining with tears. “I hate this house, Aura. He’s never been here. Sometimes it’s like he never existed, and this stupid piece of shit”—he gripped the sides of the notebook, his fingers touching mine—“is the only thing that makes him feel real to me. Except for you.”

  I pulled my hands off the notebook, wanting to tuck them away. But instead they reached for Dylan, sliding over his cheeks and into the flop of silky brown hair.

  As he knelt frozen under my touch, I studied his face, searching for some shadow of Logan. Every edge of Dylan was softer—cheekbones, mouth, jawline—as if he’d been carved from wax instead of stone.

  His eyes were a deeper blue, like the walls of this room, the kind of blue that slips you into a dreamless sleep. Logan’s eyes always made me want to stay up and party; even after death, they sparked with endless light and life. I could fall into Dylan’s eyes and never get up.

  “It’s a bad idea,” he said, and kissed me anyway.

  I moved forward into his arms, faster than he seemed to expect. We lost our balance and tumbled onto the floor.

  “Are you okay?” he gasped.

  “Uh-huh.” I pulled him to kiss me again. He rolled half atop me, crushing my right thigh. I curled my other leg around his to bring our bodies together.

  Our mouths melded, as if we’d die without each other’s breath. Unlike Zachary, who had been careful and deliberate, Dylan was raw, reckless, his hands everywhere.

  And unlike with Zachary, this felt nothing like love. It felt like lust and sorrow rolled into one. It terrified me, and the only way to fight the fear was to kiss Dylan harder, hold him tighter, let my own hands roam farther.

  I shoved aside every thought—of Logan, of Zachary, of our friends and families. It was time to stop feeling guilty.

  Stop feeling angry.

  Stop feeling.

  Time to stop.

  “Stop.” I think we both said it, and we did.

  Stopped making out, at least. And started crying (again), and talking, and holding each other, lying on our sides on Dylan’s checkerboard rug.

  “He knew, didn’t he?” I sobbed against Dylan’s shirt. “When he wrote that note. He knew he would die.”

  Dylan wiped his eyes. “He just didn’t think it’d be so soon. He must’ve figured he’d at least get through four or five notebooks.”

  I thought of the pages of white space, nothing but one sheet of doubt and self-loathing, and one tiny hope in a margin.

  “You guys never did it.” Dylan said it like a statement, not a question, so I guess Logan had told him. “Are you still—”

  “Pretty much. No, not pretty much. I’m still a virgin.”

  Dylan’s gaze traveled down the front of my half-open shirt.

  “I know,” I said. “You’re thinking we could change that in about ten minutes.”

  “More like two minutes.”

  I snickered, then fell silent. Why were we still lying on the floor, clinging to each other? Was it because we couldn’t cling to Logan? Or was there something more between us, something that made us
want nothing between us but skin and sweat?

  I tried to lower the tension. “You probably don’t have any condoms, anyway.”

  “I have half a box left.”

  “Are these hand-me-downs from Mickey?”

  “No, they’re mine.”

  “What happened to the other half of the box?”

  He laughed. “You know, just because I’m a total dork doesn’t mean I’ve never gotten laid.”

  “By who?”

  “You don’t know them. They’re from my school.”

  I snorted. “How convenient. When was this alleged laying?”

  “Last fall. After—you know. Girls felt sorry for me.”

  “You used Logan’s death to get sympathy sex?”

  “I didn’t use it, it just happened. He was happy for me, said he was glad he could do some good in this world. But after he shaded I felt too shitty to talk to anyone, especially girls.”

  “Except me.”

  “Except you.” His face turned thoughtful as his hand drifted down my back. “I could always talk to you.”

  I became intensely aware of the trail of heated skin his hand was leaving. I angled my head to look at his model airplane mobile hanging in the corner. “You brought girls here?”

  “No way, not with all the action figures.” His hand left my back and stroked my hair. “You’re the first.”

  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to mean something special to him, or if that would be the worst thing possible. But I was almost sure that if Dylan kissed me again, I would shut off my mind and give him my body.

  And I was absolutely positively sure that later, alone, I would hate myself.

  We lay intertwined, chest-to-chest, for more heartbeats than I could count. Finally Dylan took a lock of my hair and pulled it forward, running his fingers all the way to the end, until their tips stopped above my heart.

  “Aura, what do you want me to do?” he whispered.

  I wrapped my hand around his, fighting the urge to move it lower. “Be my friend.”

  He closed his eyes and let out a long, hard breath. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  I laughed, feeling the pain and tension loosen their hold.

  “’Cause frankly,” he added, “I really suck at sex so far. I’d hate to suck at sex with you.”

  “Not that I’d know the difference.” I focused on slowing my own breath. Panting would send the wrong signal. “Do you want to go watch TV or something?”

  “Yeah.” Dylan rolled on his back, wincing. “Soon as I can stand up without hurting myself.” He nudged me with his elbow. “Maybe in a few months, if you change your mind—”

  “We’ll see.”

  He stood slowly, pulling down his shirttail, like I didn’t know what he was hiding.

  I picked up the black notebook from the floor where it had spilled.

  “Do you want to keep that?” he asked.

  I longed to tear out the page with all the iterations of my married-to-Logan name, maybe preserve it for the day he’d left this world for good. But it was a future that belonged to the past.

  “No.” I pushed the notebook into Dylan’s hands. “He didn’t even want me to read it.”

  “Are you sorry you did? Are you sorry . . .” He looked at the rug where we’d lain entangled.

  I smiled up at him, feeling oddly light and free. “I’m not sorry for anything.”

  Using the curve of my arm to hide my writing, I scrawled the solution to the final calculus problem across the page. With one last eraser-chewing scan, I checked my work. Yep. If this wasn’t correct, I was never in a billion years going to understand the subject, which meant I would never be an astronomer.

  I lifted my arm, letting Logan’s violet glow spill over the page. “How’s that?”

  He leaned forward, so bright in the dark bedroom I had to squint.

  “Perfect.” He smirked. “Told you it was easy.”

  “Easy?” My laugh pitched up to a giggle, I was so giddy at my breakthrough. “If you still had eyes to poke out with this pencil, you’d be blind right now.”

  “So you’re set for the test tomorrow?”

  I slapped the book shut and rested the side of my head on it. “Think so. I’m glad finals aren’t until next month. No way I could fit parametric equations in my head along with everything else we’ve studied this year.”

  “You’ll ace it.”

  “Thanks to you.” I curled my arm under my head. “How’d you get to be such a math genius?” Usually only juniors and seniors took calculus—luckily for me, Logan had it last year as a sophomore.

  “Why are people so surprised when I know anything about anything?” He smoothed his hair and gave me a wicked grin. “It’s the cuteness, isn’t it?”

  I scoffed, even though that probably was the reason. Girls aren’t the only ones who have their smarts judged on looks.

  “Besides,” he said, “music and math have a lot in common. I read somewhere they use the same part of the brain.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded, giving a sullen frown that reminded me, disturbingly, of Dylan. I hadn’t told Logan I’d hooked up with his brother—and didn’t plan to. The confession would give me only a brief relief from guilt, but it would tear them apart for good.

  “I hate when people act like music is nothing but wild creativity,” Logan said. “That’s bullshit. It’s also about counting and measuring and calibrating. If you do it right.” He passed his hand over my MP3 player sitting on the bed between us. It was playing Mozart to help my concentration. “And if you do it really right, no one can tell how hard it is for you. You can let them believe it’s magic, because that means you must be magic. You’re worth worshiping.”

  His frown deepened, making him look much older than his frozen-at-seventeen.

  In the week and a half since the prom, Logan had fielded another flood of interviews (which meant I’d fielded a flood of interviews, hence my calculus panic). The reporters all asked the same questions, most of which had nothing to do with the music. They were more fascinated with Logan’s ghosthood and return from shade. They thought the music was just his “platform.”

  Logan was growing disillusioned with the attention. Nobody’d ever questioned his “motives” for writing a song, but once he started speaking out on behalf of at-risk ghosts, he got more politics than he’d bargained for. He was an artist, not a crusader.

  I had a question for him, sparked by his one-page journal that Dylan had shown me. A question no one had asked. “If you hadn’t died, and by some bizarre chance had not become a rock god, what would you have done?”

  I expected him to say “music producer” or “sound engineer,” something that would’ve kept him close to the famous.

  “Easy.” He patted my calculus book without sound. “I would’ve taught. Music, probably.”

  “At a high school?”

  “Or middle school. Probably not elementary—they’d fire me the first time I accidentally said ‘fuck.’”

  I laughed out loud. “On your opening day? Yeah.”

  His eyes literally gleamed, then faded. “Doesn’t matter, because it’ll never happen. I’ll leave college to Mickey. He can go get his PhD in Musical Twattage or whatever it is he thinks is good enough for him.”

  I cocked my head. “Didn’t Dylan tell you? Mickey’s not going to college next year.”

  “What? No. Why isn’t he?”

  “He says he doesn’t want to spend any of your blood money.”

  Logan’s face twisted. “So he’s missing college and using me as an excuse?”

  “I don’t think that’s how he sees it.”

  “Of course not.” Logan got off the bed and started to pace. “He probably thinks he’s being noble and superior.”

  “Have you talked to him at all since you’ve been back? Through Dylan or Megan?”

  “Mickey doesn’t want to talk to me.”

  “Maybe, but he needs to talk to you. Logan, I thin
k he wants to—” I wished I could swallow the words. “I think he might hurt himself.”

  Logan stopped pacing. He stopped, period.

  “No,” he whispered. “He can’t do that.”

  “Megan’s tried to help him, or convince him to get help, but—”

  “He can’t do that! With all he has to live for? Hell, he has life to live for. I’d do anything to have that! Even if it sucked every single day. At least it would be life.”

  He started pacing again, clutching the pale violet spikes of his hair. I noticed that despite his agitation, he showed no signs of shading—not so much as a flicker of black.

  “Let’s talk to Mickey,” I said.

  “Not you. I’ll find someone who doesn’t know us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’ll say things I don’t want you to hear.”

  “You mean like secrets?”

  “No, just—things. You remember the way he’d cut me down when I was alive. Can you imagine how he’ll be after seven months of sulking, when he can’t even see my reaction?”

  I had to admit, I didn’t want to be in the middle of that conflict. “I could ask one of the other translators at work.”

  “Maybe.” He wiped his hands on the sides of his shirt, and the motion seemed to calm him. “Siobhan’s not so bad. I should talk to her. Will you help me?”

  “Sure. That’s a good start.”

  “Start?”

  “You should settle things with your parents, too.”

  “My parents barely admit I’m a ghost. All they care about is me passing on.”

  “Because they love you. And part of them still can’t grasp the whole idea of ghosts without going totally batshit. A lot of pre-Shifters are like that. But I think we should try.”

  “Fine, fine. Set it up.” He sat on the bed and rubbed his arms. “Wow, I’m more nervous about that than any interview.”

  “You never know, it might be fun.”