Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

“In my bed, even. Once.”

  “I wonder why he hasn’t visited you?”

  “Aura.”

  Zachary’s voice startled me. I turned to see him walking toward our table, accompanied by the quartet of smitten kittens.

  “Hi.” I looked up at the girls, all seniors, two of whom I’d considered my friends last week. This week everyone was avoiding me at school but Megan and Zachary. “Hey.”

  “Love your sweater, Aura.” Becca Goldman (not a friend, former or otherwise) swept a mocking gaze over me. “Interesting color choice for someone your age.”

  “You look good in black,” Zachary told me with a straight face.

  “Thanks.” Though black didn’t do anything to deter ghosts, it was still the traditional color of mourning. Besides, it matched my mood.

  “Feeling better today?” Zachary asked.

  “A little.” I rubbed one of my eyes, which were finally letting me wear contacts again.

  Becca swished her hair conspicuously. “Zach, lunch’ll be over in ten minutes.”

  “Can I sit down?” Zachary widened his eyes as if to plead with me to rescue him from the sea of shallowness. But I was too exhausted and confused to have a normal conversation.

  “Sorry,” I told him, “it’s kind of a bad time.”

  He glanced at Megan, then back at me, looking slightly stunned. “I’ll see you in history, then.”

  Zachary proceeded to the other end of the long, empty table. The girls followed like geese in formation. One of them, my neighbor and old friend Rachel Howard, gave me a quick look over her shoulder. Her forehead creased when our eyes met. I wondered if it was a frown of sympathy or disgust, then decided it would be easier not to care.

  “Why didn’t you want Zachary to sit here?” Megan said.

  “What if they came with him? I don’t have the energy to gush over Becca’s new Coach bag or snark on last night’s Get a Life loser.” The reality show about families living with their loved ones’ ghosts was now officially off my must-see list.

  “If those bitch-faces had tried to sit here, I’d just show them this.” She rummaged in her jacket pocket, then brought out her hand clad in a black glove with skeleton bones on it. In the design, all the finger bones folded into a fist except the middle one, which stuck straight up. It looked like a skeleton was flipping me off.

  My eyes bugged out. “That is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Good. I got you a pair.” She tossed them at me. “Found them at this shop in Hampden last week. I was going to save them for Halloween, but you clearly need them now.”

  I did. I needed them for every person who stared as I walked past, who whispered when they thought I was out of range, who acted like having a dead boyfriend was a contagious plague. I needed to give the finger to the whole world, minus three people (maybe four, including Gina).

  Number One was sitting across from me. Number Two was at the other end of the table, glancing my way every minute or so. Number Three was—

  I didn’t know where Number Three was. Ireland? Disney World? The skate shop on Harford Road?

  All I knew was that based on the look on Logan’s face last night, he wasn’t leaving this world any time soon. He’d been born into a new life, one of almost limitless adventure.

  If only I knew which part of that adventure included me.

  The funeral made no sense.

  The priest did his best, remarking on the unbearable tragedy of losing such a young life and how it wasn’t always easy to understand God’s plan. But then he went on to say how Logan’s spirit was now in “a better place.”

  Seriously.

  Maybe the Keeleys hadn’t told Father Carrick that Logan was a ghost, but you’d think he would’ve asked. He’d known Logan for more than a year, since they’d moved to Hunt Valley. Besides, priests always ask for details so they can make their remarks sound personalized.

  As Father Carrick droned on, I looked over at Dylan, who sat on the end of the pew. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees and his reddening face planted on his fists. The younger cousins stared up at the stained-glass windows, ignoring the priest. Megan sat with her mom several pews behind me, and I didn’t dare turn toward her for fear of making an inappropriate face. I wished so bad I had those skeletal-middle-finger gloves.

  So I just sat, eyes burning. Gina stuffed a tissue into my hand, but I didn’t use it.

  What would it take for the pre-Shifters to understand? Someday we’d figure out how to teach them, if they wanted to learn. Until then, all we had were people like Gina, people who squashed their own fear long enough to help us cope.

  “Aura.” Logan’s disembodied whisper came from the aisle beside me.

  My aunt must’ve thought my gasp was a stifled sob, because she dispensed another tissue.

  “I thought of a place we can be alone,” he said. “In the dark, so you can see me.”

  I glanced around, but all the people in the nearby pews were older. It was too bright for other post-Shifters to see Logan—he was hiding in the light.

  “Go out to the vestibule,” he said, “and take a left. Third booth.”

  I nodded, then coughed to hide the threat of a smile. As soon as everyone stood for the communion rite, I let go of Gina’s hand.

  “Stay here,” I whispered to her. “I need a break.”

  She patted my cheek. I kept my face down as I walked past the jam-packed pews. His school must have declared his funeral an excusable absence. I wondered if they would’ve done that for a less popular student.

  They were singing the slow and lilting Sanctus by the time the vestibule door swung shut behind me, muffling their voices. On the left sat a row of confessional booths. Dark confessional booths.

  With a yip of anticipation, I dashed for the third one and opened the door. Logan was sitting on the gold velveteen cushion inside, looking pleased with himself. I slipped in and shut the door behind me.

  “Finally,” he said. “Being away from you was killing me.” He frowned. “Sorry, bad choice of words.”

  I laughed for the first time since he’d died. In the dark booth, I could see every detail of his features—each hair on his head and even the touch of stubble that had appeared by Friday night. “You look great. For a ghost, I mean.” I covered my mouth to stifle another burst of laughter.

  He gestured to the cushion. “Sit down.”

  I squeezed in beside his violet form, noticing my strange aversion to touching him. When he was alive, I would’ve just sat on his lap.

  “Have you been around?” I asked him. “Watching me when I can’t see you?”

  Logan shook his head. “That would be kinda stalker-ish, huh?”

  “Not even a little?”

  “I did come to your room once. I swear I was going to say something to wake you up, not just stand there staring.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I had to leave. The red sheets made me dizzy, like my brain wanted to spin out of my ears.”

  I gasped. “I forgot about that. I’ll buy new ones, swear.”

  “That’d be awesome.” He shifted on the cushion to face me, brushing his knees through mine without touching. “I wanted to tell you about everything I’ve been through. It’s amazing and horrible and bizarre and beautiful.”

  “What did it feel like to die?” I reached toward his chest, but not all the way. “Did it hurt?”

  “No, it was so fast. I took the—the cocaine.” He stumbled over the word. “I know, I’m an idiot. Anyway, I was getting ready to do another line, and then my heart started to flutter. It felt like my chest was full of wriggling worms.”

  “Ew.”

  “Then everything went dark. Next thing I know, I’m standing there looking down at my body. Because of the BlackBox, I couldn’t get out of the bathroom until Mickey opened the door. I was stuck with myself.”

  Logan fell silent, staring at the floor, like he could see his corpse again. I waited for him to continue.


  Finally he said, “I didn’t feel dead. My mind was the same. I still had that song running through my head, the one on the stereo when I walked out the door.” He touched his mouth and lifted his gaze to mine. “I thought I could still taste your skin.”

  My heart pounded at the thought of our last moments together. I’d called Logan stupid.

  I swallowed, wanting to bury my darkest fear deep inside me instead of sharing it with the one it would hurt most. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. If I hadn’t, you would’ve just passed out.” The truth burned my tongue as I released it. “You’d still be alive.”

  “No!” His face twisted into a mass of violet. “Aura, don’t you dare blame yourself. It was my choice. It was dumb, and it killed me, and I own it, okay?”

  “Okay, okay.”

  He breathed hard, or at least made a sound like he did. “Please promise me you won’t blame yourself.”

  I’d never lied to him. “I can’t promise you.”

  “Spider-swear.”

  “Logan …”

  “Do it.” He held his hand out, four fingertips pointing at me. “Or I’ll never haunt you again.”

  I hesitated. Spider-swear was sacred. “We’re not six anymore. And besides, I can’t—” A sob bubbled up inside my chest. “I can’t touch you.”

  “It’s okay.” He glided his hand closer, like an airplane coming in for a landing. “Just pretend.”

  I remembered how cold his fingers had felt the last time he touched my face, before he walked down the hall to the end of his life.

  Wait for me, he’d said.

  Holding my breath, I spread my fingers, then slowly slid them between his, trying not to push through his ethereal flesh.

  Our palms tilted down, so that if we were both solid, they would’ve pressed against each other. Our thumbs angled out to form the spider’s antennas. Then we wiggled our eight fingers.

  “Spider-swear,” we said together, holding back our laughter long enough to get the words out.

  “There, it’s official,” he said. “No more guilt.”

  “He says, sitting in a confession booth.”

  Logan laughed again. Our hands were still intertwined.

  “Can you feel me?” I whispered.

  He gazed down at me. “I’ll always feel you, Aura.”

  I closed my eyes as Logan kissed me. This time, in my soul, I felt everything.

  Chapter Nine

  The next night I went to pick up Zachary at his apartment for our first star-mapping venture. When I arrived in front of his building, I put on my flashers so I wouldn’t get a ticket, then fished in my bag for my phone.

  Logan was sitting behind the passenger seat.

  I yelped. “Don’t scare me like that!”

  “I’m a ghost. It’s my job.”

  “No, it’s not. Especially not me.” I softened my voice. Just seeing Logan took away the heaviness in my heart. “But thanks for waiting until I put the car in park.”

  He leaned forward. “Did you get the sheets yet?”

  “I’m getting them tonight. This was my first chance to use the car.”

  Logan peered out the window. “Why are you at the Broadview?”

  “I have to pick up a classmate for a school project.”

  “Oh.” He cleared his throat, though he certainly didn’t need to. “What’s her name?”

  “His name is Zachary. It’s for our history thesis.” I finally found my phone. “We have to do star charts.”

  “Like astrology?”

  “Like the constellations. We draw what we see.”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” Logan put out his palms. “You have to sit in the dark under the stars with some random guy?”

  “It’s for school.”

  “Can I come?”

  “I don’t think you’ve been there. It’s a farm up near Pennsylvania.” I hit the number for Zachary’s cell.

  “You have him on speed-dial?” Logan said. “Who is this guy?”

  “I told you, he’s in my class.” I thought of Monday morning, when Zachary and Megan had stood up for me in the courtyard. “And he’s a friend. One of the few I have left.”

  Zachary picked up the phone. “I’m on my way down. Sorry I’m late.”

  “No, I’m early. See you in a minute.” I hung up and looked at Logan. “I’ll get some sheets tonight, and then you can come over.” My hands trembled at the thought of him lying next to me in any form. “Wait until Gina goes to sleep, so she doesn’t hear me talking to you.”

  “Uh-huh.” He didn’t move, just stared out the window and twitched his knee back and forth. “What store are you going to? Maybe I could help pick out the sheets.”

  “How rude would that be? Zachary’s a pre-Shifter. He can’t see or hear you. It’d be like when my aunts and uncles start speaking Italian around me.”

  “All right, I get it.” He sat, twisting his lips. “Can I just see what he looks like?”

  “Logan …”

  “I’m going, I’m going.”

  But he didn’t. He glued his gaze to the front door of Zachary’s apartment building.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” I told him. “Later.”

  Logan disappeared without saying good-bye or even acknowledging my words.

  The passenger door opened, startling me. Zachary slid in, out of breath. He smelled of soap and shampoo.

  “Sorry. Football match went into extra time.”

  “You play football?”

  “Soccer. Nothing official, just mucking about with a group of Hopkins students from the building.” He pushed a lock of damp, dark hair off his cheek. “They killed me. I’ll never take the piss out of American players again.” At my confused look, he said, “Make fun of them, I mean.”

  I took one last glance into the empty backseat, then put the car in drive. “I have to stop at the mall.”

  “Good, we can eat. I’m starving.”

  I frowned. It already sounded too much like a date.

  We stopped at the department store first, so I could buy the sheets. It would be an excuse to make it clear that I was still Logan’s girlfriend.

  Then I saw the prices.

  “I can’t afford these.” I went from one display to another, examining the few non-red sheet sets. None of them cost less than fifty-nine dollars. “I only get to keep half my paycheck. The rest goes for college.”

  Zachary surveyed the wall-size display of red sheets. “It looks like a bordello.”

  “Welcome to my life.” Hmm, that didn’t come out right.

  “Why’s it so important you can’t wait for a sale?”

  Here was my chance to explain. I’d tell him that Logan’s death had not only not made me boyfriend-less, but it meant that said boyfriend would now be sleeping with me.

  But all that came out was: “It’s complicated.”

  “Sheets are complicated?”

  “When they’re not red.”

  Zachary looked at the soft white package in my hands. “Why would you want sheets that aren’t red? Don’t you want to keep the ghosts—oh.” His quizzical expression flattened into embarrassment. “I heard your boyfriend came back. I didn’t know you were …”

  “Yeah.” I ran my finger over the package’s zipper. “Like I said, it’s—”

  “Complicated. Right.” He shoved one hand into his pocket and pointed over my shoulder with the other. “Clearance.”

  “Huh?” It took a moment for my brain to translate his accent. “Oh. Thanks.” I went to the discount bin and was dismayed to find a choice between blue and beige stripes and a skyscape of cloud-hugging teddy bears. Sadness.

  “What about these?”

  Zachary held up a dark indigo sheet set. They were almost black, speckled with tiny yellow and light blue spots, like paint-flecked stars on a night-sky canvas.

  “Perfect!” I checked the price tag. “But thirty dollars too much. Figures.”

  He put the sheets in my arms. “I’ll give you th
e money.”

  “No.” I pushed them back. “I can’t take it.”

  “I owe you. I haven’t paid you for the petrol for all our trips.”

  “The what?”

  “The gasoline.”

  “I haven’t spent thirty dollars on gas.”

  “But you will.”

  “Zachary—”

  “It’s either this or I pay for the whole thing.” He headed for the register, the sheet set tucked under his arm. “You can’t stop me.”

  I trotted to keep up with his long, determined strides. “Yeah,” I muttered. “I’m starting to figure that out.”

  To save time, Zachary and I grabbed takeout from the food court. At Farmer Frank’s field, we set up a picnic next to our books, pencils, and giant pad.

  “Who’s going to draw this thing?” I asked him. “I suck at art.”

  “Me too.” Zachary fished a pair of ice cubes out of his cup and tossed them into the grass—apparently they don’t like super-cold soda in Europe. “It probably doesn’t matter. We’re just supposed to learn the process.”

  “I guess.” I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup without sipping it. I’d bought it more for warmth than anything. “Eowyn said she wanted us to put ourselves into this project. Sucking at art is part of who we are.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” We tapped our cups together. “Do you see any ghosts?” Zachary asked.

  “Not yet. Maybe no one ever visited here who died, or maybe it didn’t mean enough to anyone to haunt. Or we got lucky and hit a quiet night.”

  “This’ll help keep them away, aye?” He held up the flashlight. Its lens was painted over with red nail polish to protect our night vision. “They hate red?”

  “Most of them.” I remembered the crazy-mom ghost in the food court last week, then realized I hadn’t seen her or any others when we were there tonight. Maybe the mall had finally sprung for BlackBoxing. But you’d think they would’ve advertised it.

  “You’re so lucky not to see them,” I told Zachary.

  “I dunno.” He scooped out another ice cube. “I think it would be kind of interesting.”

  “Maybe, if it were just the ghosts. But then there’s the DMP, ready to pounce on us the second we turn eighteen. I’m sick of their ads and letters and now these stupid assemblies.”