Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  That sta­te­ment sho­uld’ve ma­de me shi­ver. This was my boyf­ri­end we we­re tal­king abo­ut, not so­me anony­mo­us vi­olet spec­ter flo­ating in the sha­dows of the fo­od co­urt.

  But Lo­gan didn’t fe­el de­ad any­mo­re. I’d ne­ver to­uch him aga­in, but I’d see him and he­ar him. I was gra­te­ful that Me­gan al­so didn’t re­fer to him as “ex-Lo­gan.” May­be she was just be­ing ni­ce, or may­be he se­emed too ali­ve to be an “ex.”

  “I wish he’d co­me see me,” I sa­id.

  “Ye­ah, he’s be­en in yo­ur ro­om a ton of ti­mes.”

  “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-”