“Pizza’s okay. But we have the best stromboli in the state.”
Family pride overcame my hunger. “Please. My grandmother’s a baker in Philadelphia. Her dough is—”
“Spare me, okay?” He pulled a set of keys out of his jeans pocket and unlocked the glass door between the store and the pizzeria. “We don’t open until one, but I make an exception for city skeptics.”
As I followed, I peeked at Zachary, who stood at the far end of the aisle with his back to me, gripping the edge of the pay phone. He slammed down the receiver but didn’t move.
In the pizzeria, Alexei flicked on the light, then the oven, then pulled two balls of dough from a stainless steel refrigerator. “I’ll do one veggie, one meat, so yinz can appreciate the full spectrum.”
I mentally translated the Pittsburghese “yinz” to “y’all,” then sat at one of the tables near the window to keep an eye on the road. I wanted desperately to call Aunt Gina and Megan to let them know I was safe, but the act of calling could take away that safety—and maybe even endanger them.
But what would Logan do if I wasn’t there in time? Could he turn solid without me? If not, he’d miss his last chance to play guitar in front of a crowd before he passed on.
Unless he decided to stay another three months, hoping for the chance to become human on the September equinox. I didn’t even want to think about that.
Zachary came through the door from the shop. “Our ride will be here in six hours.”
“Six hours?! It’s noon. We need to be in Baltimore for Logan’s concert by ten fifteen. It starts at ten thirty.”
“It’s not six hours each way. Our ride’s not coming from Baltimore.”
“Who’d you call? Was that the phone number you were trying to remember?”
“One of them. Come here.”
I followed him through the outer door and into the parking lot. “Everything okay?”
“It’s more than okay.” He placed his hands on my shoulders. “Aura, I spoke to Eowyn. Remember she’d written her new number on the note with your mother’s journal?”
“And you memorized it? Did you tell her what we found?” I would’ve bounced on my toes if he weren’t holding me down.
“I didn’t need to, because I’ll see her next week when I’m home.” His eyes sparked. “Where she’ll give me her copy of your mum’s journal pages.”
I stared at him. “Wait—what copy?”
“Eowyn’s not stupid. She wouldn’t let something so important be so easily lost.”
“But my mother sealed the envelope. She wrote across the opening.”
“No, Eowyn did, faked the handwriting. She only promised your mum she wouldn’t read them. She kept that promise.”
I uttered the new truth in a trembling whisper, afraid to believe. “So it’s not lost.”
Zachary smoothed back my hair. “No’ at all.”
I gave a triumphant laugh and threw my arms around him. He lifted me off my feet, squeezing me tight.
By instinct I moved to kiss him. He jerked back just in time.
“Oops.” I covered my mouth. “Don’t want you turning me red before the concert.”
“Right. Afterward, though . . .”
“Definitely afterward.” I took his hands. “This is the last time Logan will ever come between us.”
“I know.” The heat in Zachary’s gaze said that like me, he couldn’t stop thinking about last night. About everything we’d done, in and by the river. About everything we had yet to do . . . somewhere, sometime.
The door swung open behind me, and Alexei called out, “Okay, people. Time to eat your words.”
After six hours of fretting and eating (the best stromboli in the state), I was a complete stress mess by the time our ride arrived.
Zachary was stationed outside to flag down the driver. Through the glass front of the pizzeria, I saw his back stiffen at the sight of a black sedan speeding down the highway. I rose from my seat, waved good-bye to Alexei, and pushed open the door.
My fingers froze on the handle when I saw that the black car was a BMW. Convertible. Just like the one driven by. . .
You didn’t.
Becca Goldman pulled up alongside us. With one long, French-manicured fingernail, she tilted down her sunglasses and looked at Zachary. “Now you owe me.”
She switched off the engine, slid out of the car, and brushed her hand over Zachary’s arm as she swept past us into the store.
Zachary gave me a sheepish look. “Sorry.”
“What were you thinking? Becca hates me! She’d happily deliver me to the DMP.”
“But she likes me slightly more than she hates you, so we come out ahead.” When I didn’t even crack a smile, he said, “Look, she’s the last person anyone would expect us to call for help. The DMP has our phones, and her number isn’t in mine anymore.”
“But you remembered it.”
“Eventually.” He took my hand. “Aura, I’m not happy about this either, but I thought it was our best chance. She came all the way from Ocean City to help us.”
“Why?”
“Because we need her.”
I scowled at him. “Out of the goodness of her nonexistent heart?”
“Exactly.” He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “Sometimes we help ourselves, and sometimes we get help from ghosts in the woods and bampots in BMWs.”
The cowbell clanged as Becca swept out of the store. “Look at this!” She held out a small can of power drink. “I haven’t seen Red Devil in four years. Apparently, the entire national supply is here in Where-the-Fucks-ville, Pennsylvania. I bought three—two for me, one for you.” She pulled another can from a plastic bag and gave it to Zachary. “Let’s go see this stupid concert.”
“Two requests,” he said. “One, stop pretending Aura isn’t here. Two, put the top up on the car. We’re hiding from the authorities, remember?”
Becca glanced at a spot above my shoulder, then hit the remote for the convertible top, which arced over the car’s interior. “Let’s go, Zachary and other person.”
Though Zachary offered to let me sit up front next to Becca, I refused, preferring to huddle in the back and pretend that Becca’s wish—that I wasn’t here—was actually true.
Her energy drink took effect right away, and I wondered if it had disappeared from the mainstream market because it had been made from the pituitary glands of deposed dictators and executed serial killers.
After three and a half hours of crappy dance music and Becca’s babbling about who was screwing who at Hailey’s stepdad’s beach house, we reached the Baltimore Beltway. Despite Becca redlining the Beemer’s tachometer, we were running late.
She turned down the volume to near silence. “Here’s the deal,” she said. “Tyler has been texting his brother Eric, who’s been texting his girlfriend, Alicia, who’s been texting her best friend, Heather, the girl who plays bass in Logan’s band. Logan knows you’re coming, which means his brothers and sister and that bitch Megan know, too. They’ll be looking for someone wearing that.” She jutted her thumb behind her. “Zachary, tell your girlfriend to put it on.”
I opened the plastic bag that had been shoved under the driver’s seat. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I pulled out a wig with three-foot blond ringlets, along with a pair of plastic black-framed glasses. “How does this make me inconspicuous?”
“What about me?” Zachary asked Becca. “Won’t I need a disguise?”
“No, silly. You’re the diversion. You’ll stay near the cameras, and if the DMP threatens you, you’ll tell the whole story, adding the part where your girlfriend was tragically mauled by a pack of bears. It’ll throw them off her trail.”
“How official is this plan?” I pulled the wig over my head and began to tuck my dark waves underneath the elastic.
“I’ll work on my story.” Zachary turned to me. “Hmm.”
I put on the glasses. “How do I look?”
“Gorgeous.”
“Figures,” Becca said. “I should’ve sprung for the fake warts.”
“Becca,” I said, trying to sound as sincere as I felt, “thank you for all you’ve done for us today.”
“I did it for Zachary, not—”
“Bullshit. You’re not even hot for Zach anymore since you got back with Tyler. You did it because you don’t completely suck, and I appreciate that.”
Glancing at the side mirrors, she switched lanes approaching the exit. Then she tapped her long nails on the steering wheel. “You’re welcome.”
Six minutes before Logan’s concert, Becca pulled up in front of his former high school in Hunt Valley. Camera crews from the local news stations were parked near the front entrance, and I saw a van with the logo of one of the big Hollywood media shows as well. I was glad Becca was going to drop me off around back, where no one would see me.
“Stay near the cameras,” I told Zachary as he got out of the car, “in case the DMP tries to take you. But don’t talk to the media if you don’t have to. Remember, they are not your friend.”
“Right.” He grasped my hand through my open window and whispered, “I wish I could give you a good-luck kiss, but that would cause problems.” He winked.
“It would also make me vomit,” Becca said.
He gave Becca a brief salute. “Thanks.”
She grunted, then slammed the car into drive. Zachary had to leap back to save his toes from being crushed.
“God, this place looks like a prison.” Becca tore through the bus lane at thirty miles an hour, even though there were cars parked on both sides. “I always thought the Keeleys were cool,” she said. “Sucks that they had to move to Hunt Valley and end up in public school. It would’ve been awesome to have a famous person from Ridgewood.”
“Look, there’s Megan.” My friend was standing near one of the school’s back doors, her foot propping it open.
Becca started to slow down. “About what happened prom night, with Zachary’s phone? I’m really sorry.”
I was too stunned to find the words. But as soon as I opened my mouth, she added, “I’m sorry it didn’t work.” She jerked to a stop and pointed at me. “You better be worthy of Zach, or I will fly home from UCLA and personally kick your ass. Now get out, and good luck.”
I didn’t bother with a retort. She had saved the day, after all, and besides, it was impossible to out-Becca Becca.
“Thank you.” I opened the door and leaped out of the car.
Megan greeted me with a quick, hard hug, sweeping me inside the building. “Where have you been?” She led me down a dim hallway, past a door marked DRAMA, toward the backstage area. “We got the message you were on the way and you would look like a blond Little Orphan Annie. What happened?”
“Short version: The DMP picked up me and Zach. We escaped, so they’re probably looking for us.” We passed under a clock that read 10:25. “Long version later.”
“Mickey’s waiting for you off stage,” she said as we rounded the last corner. “You should see his hair all bleached and spiked. He looks just like—”
We stopped. Standing in front of the door between the hallway and the backstage area was a uniformed DMP agent.
Watching us.
On reflex, I checked my wig, then realized that looked suspicious.
“Follow my lead.” I took her arm and scurried up to the agent. “Um, hi? We’re supposed to meet the singer backstage. You know, for after the show.” I bit my lip and giggled.
He looked down his long, crooked nose at us. “I’ve heard about you ghost groupies. That’s necrophilia, you know.”
“Necro-what?” Megan piped, her eyes as wide as a manga heroine’s.
“Never mind,” he said. “Look, no one’s allowed backstage but the band, and they’re already there. The show starts in two minutes.” He squared his stance in front of the door, to drive home his point.
Megan sidled forward, stroking her hair in front of her shoulder. “You know, if you let us in, we could find a way to thank you. Later.”
“Miss, I am not some bouncer you can flirt your way past. I am a law enforcement official.” He pointed to the hallway behind us, like he was banishing a pair of naughty dogs. “Out.”
In the auditorium on the other side of the wall, the PA music faded out, and the crowd started to roar.
I’d have to find another way.
Megan and I squeezed through the mass of flesh to the front row. I hugged Siobhan and then Dylan, who tapped his watch and raised his eyebrows at me. Ten thirty. He didn’t know that we had twenty-one minutes until the solstice—twenty-one minutes until his brother would be solid again.
The three human members of Tabloid Decoys came onstage, looking slightly terrified at the size of their audience. Logan’s high school auditorium was the largest venue he’d ever played during his life, which was why he’d chosen it. Like most public schools, it wasn’t BlackBoxed.
Corey, the drummer, sat behind his kit, while Heather and Josh picked up their bass and electric guitars. Logan’s black Fender sat on a rack behind Josh. No one would think anything of it, since lots of guitarists switched out instruments mid-show.
The center of the stage went dark, like a reverse spotlight. The crowd screamed in anticipation, but my own throat trapped every sound. All I could do was stare.
And then, Logan appeared.
He glowed brighter than ever, as if the light inside him understood that this was the last night to burn.
Without taking my eyes off him, I slid my arms around the waists of Megan and Dylan. As we held tight to one another, I understood deep down that this was good-bye.
Onstage, Logan gave no fist pump, no cocky grin, not even a wave. When the crowd quieted, he stepped up to the microphone.
Clear and soft and sweet, he sang, a cappella, the first verse to the first song he’d written with the Keeley Brothers, “The Day I Sailed Away.”
It was like he’d never left the stage. The post-Shifters in the crowd took a collective breath at the end of each line.
As he sang, his eyes searched the front row. With the stage in lights, the crowd in darkness, and his nerves on edge, it had always been hard for him to find me during a concert. Before each Keeley Brothers show, I’d tell him which top I’d be wearing so he could pick me out. No way he could recognize me now, in this ridiculous blond wig and glasses.
On the first chorus, the other band members joined with instruments and voices.
I shifted over next to Siobhan. “This song sounds empty without your fiddle.”
Her eyes shone with tears. “It sounds empty without Logan.”
I gave her another hug. Soon she and the other pre-Shifters would see and hear him one last time. I hoped.
At the end of the song, Logan remained at the microphone until the cheering subsided. He glanced nervously backstage, probably wondering where the hell I was.
“Thank you,” he said. “Especially to you post-Shifters who came out to see a dead guy sing.”
Beside me, Dylan translated for Siobhan in a low voice.
“As for the rest of you, who can’t hear me,” Logan said, “well—stick around.”
With a nod of his head, he led Tabloid Decoys into one of their own songs. He screamed and crooned as the lyrics swung between tortured and seductive. During the interludes, he ran along the front of the stage, giving virtual high fives with his ethereal violet hands.
But the verses and chorus pulled him back to the center, like a dog on a chain too short. I closed my eyes, wanting only to hear him, not see him, trapped in front of a microphone he couldn’t touch.
Megan squeezed my elbow. “I didn’t think it would be so hard to watch him this way.”
“They’re loving it, all the people who never knew him alive. They think it’s cool that he’s a ghost.”
She rubbed soothing circles on my back as the song reached its final chorus.
Logan introduced each of the Tabloid Decoys. As they bowed and waved, he
said, “You gotta get their CD in the lobby after the show. They’re freakishly talented.” He grinned at his bandmates, then turned back to the microphone. “This next one’s for my family, and all the children of the Emerald Isle.”
With Corey’s quick count-off, they launched into a Keeley Brothers classic, “Ghost in Green,” bursting with Irish pride. The crowd sang along, and I finally let myself dance.
Afterward, as Logan conferred with Josh and Heather, I nudged Megan. “How close are we?”
“Ten forty-six. Five minutes.”
“I need to get backstage.” I craned my neck to see if I could sneak up the side stairs and behind the curtain. “Shit.”
Two dumpers stood in front of the stairs, impassively looking out at the crowd like Secret Service agents. I checked the other side—same thing.
Panic spiked my pulse. If I wasn’t backstage to help Logan turn solid, he would have to trade places with Mickey for real. After watching his big brother take the spotlight meant for himself, would Logan pass on? Or would he want another chance?
“This one’s for Aura.”
A hot shiver ran down my spine at the sound of my name from the speakers.
“You all know who that is by now. The only girl I’ve ever loved. I wrote her a song, but she’s the only one who’s ever heard it, or ever will.”
The crowd gave off scattered boos.
“Oh, just deal with it,” he said, smirking. “Anyway, this is by a band that used to be our favorite, Snow Patrol.”
Josh strummed a series of soft chords, joined soon by Corey tapping on the drums. Heather played the melody on the bass, which gave it an even more somber tone than the original lead guitar version.
“Run” was a song about grasping for happiness just out of reach, about endless, temporary good-byes. A song only a ghost should sing.
Tears stung my eyes. How could his death hurt as much now as it did the night his heart seized and stopped? The loss was so much more than mine, and yet it felt like I bore the sorrow of the whole world.
As Josh played the swelling, hypnotic guitar solo, Logan swept his gaze over the front row, searching for me. His eyes held a lost, despairing look, magnified by the heartbreaking chords.
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