Shade 01 - Shade

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Shade 01 - Shade Page 11

by Jeri Smith-Ready


  “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 the 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.”

  “Won’t they pay for yo­ur col­le­ge?”

  “That ma­kes me even mo­re sus­pi­ci­o­us. If it was such a gre­at job, the go­vern­ment wo­uldn’t ha­ve to bri­be us.”

  “It’s not bri­bery. It’s pa­ying for so­met­hing they think is im­por­tant. Li­ke te­ac­hers in po­or ne­igh­bor­ho­ods.”

  “I gu­ess.” I swis­hed a French fry thro­ugh a pud­dle of ketc­hup. “Me­gan’s brot­her John ma­de a de­al whe­re the go­vern­ment wo­uld pay off so­me of his med scho­ol lo­ans if he’d be a doc­tor in Now­he­re, North Da­ko­ta.” Or may­be it was So­uth Da­ko­ta. All I knew was that he sa­id the­re was only one bar in the who­le town, and in the win­ter so­me pe­op­le left the­ir cars run­ning all night to ke­ep the en­gi­nes from fre­ezing.

  A cold bre­eze ca­me up, as if I’d co­nj­ured it with my tho­ughts. I shi­ve­red so hard, the cof­fee splas­hed out of the lit­tle ho­le in the lid.

  Zac­hary un­zip­ped his dark brown le­at­her jac­ket. “He­re, ta­ke this.”

  “No, you’ll fre­eze.”

  “Don’t in­sult my rug­ged he­ri­ta­ge.” He sho­ok out the co­at and sco­oted over to me. “I’d be a re­al wal­lo­per if I let you shi­ver.”

  My eyeb­rows pop­ped up. “A re­al what?”

  “Ne­ver mind.” He dra­ped the co­at over my sho­ul­ders. I tremb­led aga­in from the sud­den he­at. “Put yo­ur arms in. Don’t ma­ke me dress you li­ke a we­an.”

  I co­uldn’t even ask what a “we­an” was, be­ca­use my bra­in was stuck on the scent of the warm le­at­her. The jac­ket’s col­lar ca­me up aro­und my chin. Was that how his neck smel­led?

  “Thanks.” I cle­ared my thro­at. “I’ll dress war­mer next ti­me.”

  “Me too.” He tug­ged the cuff down over my wrist, his fin­ger brus­hing the back of my hand. “Just in ca­se.”

  I tri­ed to fo­cus on the star chart in front of me ins­te­ad of the boy to my right. When Lo­gan di­ed, I’d stop­ped no­ti­cing Zac­hary’s hot­ness, as if all my sen­ses had switc­hed off. Now that Lo­gan was back (sort of), I’d be­co­me Lit­tle Miss Ho-Bag aga­in.

  “Um.” I tur­ned on the flash­light, cas­ting a red glow over the bo­ok in my lap. “It says he­re to start by mar­king north, and not to che­at with a com­pass.”

  “Ye­ah, the way you do that is-”

  “I know that much.” I po­in­ted to the Big Dip­per and fol­lo­wed the last two stars to find the North Star, Po­la­ris.

  The pad was clip­ped to the bo­ard, which was go­od, be­ca­use the wind was pic­king up. I sup­pres­sed anot­her shi­ver-I did not want Zac­hary ta­king off any mo­re clot­hes on my ac­co­unt.

  We mar­ked the ot­her three di­rec­ti­ons, then fo­und the ce­les­ti­al equ­ator and the ec­lip­tic, which la­id out the ap­pro­xi­ma­te path of the zo­di­ac, the sun, and the pla­nets. Eowyn had gi­ven us lists of cons­tel­la­ti­ons to find and draw each month. Af­ter I did the first two, I let Zac­hary ta­ke over whi­le I fi­nis­hed the go­o­ey re­ma­ins of my che­ese-ste­ak.

  Over the next ho­ur, we to­ok turns eating and drin­king and fil­ling out the map. As our eyes grew adj­us­ted to the dark, mo­re stars be­ca­me vi­sib­le, which wo­uld’ve be­en an­no­ying had it not be­en so ut­terly gor­ge­o­us. No ga­rish sun­set co­uld com­pa­re to this pu­re, still bril­li­an­ce.

  “We don’t ha­ve to put every star on the map,” Zac­hary re­min­ded me as he chris­te­ned the grass with his so­da’s lef­to­ver ice. “Just the brigh­test ones.”

  “I know.” I ad­ded anot­her tiny po­int of light that didn’t se­em to be­long to any cons­tel­la­ti­on. “But I’m ho­ping if we ma­ke this in­sa­nely full of stars, we won’t ha­ve to do it aga­in.”

  “It’s no’ that bad, is it? Fre­ezing our bums off to cre­ate so­met­hing comp­le­tely po­int­less?”

  I la­ug­hed. It wasn’t that bad to spend ti­me with Zac­hary. The le­vel of not-bad­ness was al­most scary.

  “I’ll sur­vi­ve. I ho­pe Eowyn lets us mo­ve for­ward with our re­se­arch next month.”

  “With yo­ur re­se­arch, you me­an.” Zac­hary stuf­fed his empty cup in the fast-fo­od bag. “Which you still ha­ven’t told me much abo­ut.”

  “I did tell you.” I spo­ke for­ce­ful­ly to co­ver up my va­gu­eness. “It’s on me­ga­liths.”

  “What abo­ut them?”

  “I don’t know yet. I ha­ve to re­ad mo­re be­fo­re I can fi­gu­re out the qu
­es­ti­ons, much less the ans­wers.”

  “May­be I can help.”

  I stra­igh­te­ned my pos­tu­re and mas­sa­ged my neck, which was stiff from lo­oking at the sky. “I’ll let you know.”

  “I’m yo­ur part­ner, re­mem­ber. Not yo­ur blo­ody as­sis­tant.” He to­ok the pen­cil out of my hand. “And as yo­ur part­ner, I say we stop for the night, whi­le you can still fe­el yo­ur fin­gers.”

  I put my ne­arly numb hands in my (his) jac­ket poc­kets be­fo­re he co­uld of­fer to warm them for me. “Fi­ne. We can fi­nish la­be­ling the stars be­fo­re our me­eting next month.”

  As we pac­ked up our stuff, Ori­on ro­se over the ho­ri­zon, which me­ant it was get­ting re­al­ly la­te.

  “It’s funny,” I told Zac­hary. “I al­ways he­ard that stars we­re dif­fe­rent co­lors. That Be­tel­ge­use was a red gi­ant and Ri­gel was a blue gi­ant. But I’ve ne­ver ac­tu­al­ly se­en the co­lors be­fo­re.” I zip­ped up the bag of sup­pli­es and set it on the fol­ded port­fo­lio.

  “You don’t get out of the city much, do you?”

  “Not at night.” I hug­ged my kne­es to my chest to ke­ep warm, not wan­ting to le­ave qu­ite yet. “I don’t usu­al­ly li­ke the dark.”

  “I can un­ders­tand why.”

  We we­re whis­pe­ring now, be­ca­use even the cric­kets had go­ne to bed. “I ha­ven’t se­en a sing­le ghost all night.” Ex­cept Lo­gan, I ad­ded men­tal­ly.

  “That’s not true. Lo­ok at the Milky Way.” Zac­hary le­aned back on one hand and swept his ot­her over his he­ad. “So­me of tho­se stars are al­re­ady de­ad. In the tho­usands of ye­ars it ta­kes the­ir light to re­ach us, they co­uld’ve exp­lo­ded or bur­ned out.”

  I ga­zed up at the long, blurry stretch of sil­ver that co­uld’ve be­en mis­ta­ken for a high clo­ud. “So we’re se­e­ing them the way they we­re, not the way they are now.”

  We sat for a few mo­re mi­nu­tes in si­len­ce, and I be­gan to un­ders­tand why Eowyn was ma­king us do this exer­ci­se. Three tho­usand ye­ars ago, pe­op­le pro­bably co­uldn’t ima­gi­ne the birth and de­ath of stars. Tho­se po­ints of light we­re cons­tant, de­pen­dab­le, eter­nal. Must ha­ve be­en com­for­ting.

  We pac­ked up my car and dro­ve ho­me, un­der a sky full of ghosts.

  Chapter Ten

  Aunt Gi­na was al­re­ady in bed when I got in at ele­ven o’clock. She’d left a no­te prop­ped up aga­inst the cof­fe­ema­ker.

  Long day ahe­ad to­mor­row, so I tur­ned in early.

  Po­ke yo­ur he­ad in my ro­om when you get ho­me, okay?

  Lo­ve, Gi­na.

  I tip­to­ed up the cre­aky wo­oden sta­irs, brus­hing my fin­ger­tips aga­inst the fra­mes of my mot­her’s pho­tos-her first day of kin­der­gar­ten ne­ar the bot­tom step, her high scho­ol gra­du­ati­on in the mid­dle; and the third one at the top, a month be­fo­re she di­ed, with me in her lap in front of the Christ­mas tree.

  In every pho­to, her eyes glin­ted with go­od-na­tu­red de­fi­an­ce. Gi­na sa­id that Mom had ne­ver let ru­les get in the way of ha­ving fun. Un­til now, I’d as­su­med this was a bad thing.

  I snuck past Gi­na’s ro­om and in­to my bed­ro­om be­fo­re pul­ling the she­ets from the bag.

  The la­bel on the pac­ka­ge sa­id, WASH PRI­OR TO FIRST USE. I won­de­red why, un­til I un­zip­ped it. The she­ets we­re stiff and scratchy and smel­led li­ke the plas­tic ca­sing. I cal­cu­la­ted how long it wo­uld ta­ke to wash and dry them. Too long.

  Stop­ping to think abo­ut it ma­de me-well, stop to think.

  How co­uld I sle­ep on the­se she­ets with Lo­gan, when Zac­hary had not only pic­ked them out, but hel­ped pay for them? It felt al­most li­ke che­ating. But on which guy?

  A soft knock ca­me at my do­or, and I sho­ved the she­ets and bag un­der my bed. “Co­me in.”

  Gi­na crac­ked the do­or open. “Hi, hon, how was it?”

  “Cold. But we got it do­ne.”

  “It was chilly to­night.” She le­aned on the do­orj­amb, her gre­en silk ro­be han­ging lo­ose aro­und her fle­ece pa­j­amas. “You sho­uld bring this boy by so I can me­et him.”

  “It’s not li­ke that. Zac­hary’s just a fri­end.”

  “A fri­end you’re sit­ting alo­ne with in a dark fi­eld. I ne­ed to me­et him.”

  “He only se­ri­al-kil­led me a lit­tle bit, I swe­ar.”

  She chuck­led. “You se­em bet­ter sin­ce the fu­ne­ral yes­ter­day.”

  “Ye­ah.” I sat on the bed and to­ok off my sho­es. “Clo­su­re, you know.” My vo­ice so­un­ded too ca­su­al-I suck at lying even wor­se than dra­wing.

  “Aura.” Gi­na’s vo­ice was the op­po­si­te of ca­su­al. “Ha­ve you se­en Lo­gan sin­ce the wa­ke? Are you spen­ding ti­me with him?”

  I pul­led off my sock and exa­mi­ned it for ho­les. “I’ve run in­to him. But you know Lo­gan, he ne­ver stays in one pla­ce for long.”

  Gi­na ca­me to sit be­si­de me. I held my bre­ath as the he­el of her emb­ro­ide­red slip­per brus­hed the shop­ping bag hand­le un­der the bed.

  “Swe­etie,” she sa­id, which me­ant a lec­tu­re was co­ming. “I know it’s hard. You tho­ught you’d lost Lo­gan fo­re­ver, and then sud­denly he­re he is aga­in. It’s con­fu­sing and ago­ni­zing and thril­ling. It ma­kes it very hard to ac­cept re­ality.”

  “Uh-huh.” I let my bra­ce­let fall to the flo­or, pre­ten­ding to ac­ci­den­tal­ly drop it. When I bent to pick it up, I pus­hed the shop­ping bag with the she­ets fart­her un­der the bed.

  “But Aura, Lo­gan is de­ad.” She emp­ha­si­zed the last word. “He do­esn’t be­long he­re.”

  Then I don’t be­long he­re, I tho­ught, re­ali­zing how crazy that so­un­ded, even in my he­ad.

  “You ne­ed to help him un­ders­tand that,” she con­ti­nu­ed, “so that he can mo­ve on.”

  “What if he do­esn’t want to?”

  “He will.” She smo­ot­hed down her springy blond bangs. “He do­esn’t know it yet, but he’s very angry. At him­self, but al­so at the pe­op­le who enab­led this.”

  I enab­led this.

  Aunt Gi­na drop­ped her hands in her lap, as if they we­re sud­denly too he­avy to hold up. “The Ke­eleys ha­ve as­ked me to fi­le a wrong­ful de­ath su­it aga­inst War­rant Re­cords.”

  I felt my guts shri­vel. “Lo­gan will ha­ve to tes­tify.” My he­ad flas­hed hot as the worst part hit me. “Abo­ut what hap­pe­ned right be­fo­re he di­ed!”

  “Yes, and you’ll ne­ed to be one of the wit­nes­ses.”

  “Are you kid­ding?” I sprang off the bed. “Do you ha­ve any clue what kind of story will co­me out? Pe­op­le are al­re­ady gos­si­ping abo­ut me and Lo­gan.”

  “And this will gi­ve you a chan­ce to set the re­cord stra­ight. To tell the truth.”

  “The truth is just as bad as the ru­mors.” I clas­ped my hands to­get­her. “Ple­ase don’t do this to us. I know you’re wor­ri­ed you won’t be ab­le to af­ford my col­le­ge, but-”

  “You think this is abo­ut mo­ney?” She sto­od and wrap­ped her ro­be tight aro­und her­self. “This is abo­ut jus­ti­ce. That’s mo­re im­por­tant than a few nasty ru­mors that ever­yo­ne will for­get the mo­ment so­me ce­leb­rity gets a hang­na­il.”

  “Oh, so I’m sel­fish be­ca­use I don’t want our pri­va­te li­fe splas­hed all over the world?”

  “If you’re not thin­king abo­ut the big pic­tu­re, then yes, you are be­ing sel­fish. You’re for­get­ting what’s at sta­ke he­re.”

  “Ye­ah, mil­li­ons of dol­lars.”

  “No. Lo­gan’s eter­nal so­ul.”

  I tri­ed not to roll my eyes at her cru­sa­de. “He’ll pass on when he’s re­ady.”

  “What if he
can’t?” Gi­na sho­ok a co­ral-pa­in­ted fin­ger­tip at me. “What if he be­co­mes a sha­de?”

  “He wo­uldn’t.” My vo­ice crac­ked with the de­si­re to be­li­eve my own words. “Lo­gan’s a go­od guy.”

  “Plenty of go­od ghosts turn bad. They get bit­ter, watc­hing the world go on wit­ho­ut them. You know that bet­ter than I do.”

  I lo­oked past her at my bed, re­mem­be­ring the day Lo­gan lay the­re with me. The af­ter­no­on sun had slan­ted thro­ugh the blinds, glo­wing gol­den aga­inst his ba­re skin. The light had se­emed so much a part of him, I’d ima­gi­ned it shi­ning from wit­hin his body and stre­aming out the win­dow ins­te­ad of in.

  No one was furt­her from sha­de than Lo­gan.

  “I’m fi­ling to­mor­row,” Gi­na sa­id, “and we’ll see when the co­urts can put it on the doc­ket. It co­uld be months.” She ca­me over and grip­ped my hand in her co­ol, soft one. “If we win, Lo­gan will mo­ve on. He’ll be at pe­ace.”

  “And what if you lo­se?”

  “Then it’s up to him. But at le­ast we’ll ha­ve do­ne everyt­hing we co­uld.” She let go of me and went to the do­or. “If you think abo­ut it, you’ll re­ali­ze what’s right.”

  When she was go­ne, I chan­ged my she­ets at top spe­ed. Whe­re­ver they ca­me from, who­ever had cho­sen them, the­ir co­lor was all that mat­te­red. If Lo­gan’s ti­me with me was li­mi­ted, then I co­uldn’t was­te a sing­le night wit­ho­ut him by my si­de.

  I pic­ked out a de­ep purp­le but­ton-down silk nights­hirt that fell to the top of my thighs. It was so­met­hing I usu­al­ly wo­re in sum­mer, not on a cold night li­ke to­night. Lo­gan’s vo­ice wo­uld ke­ep me warm.

  I went to the bath­ro­om, whe­re I was­hed my fa­ce, to­ok out my con­tacts, and brus­hed my ha­ir for se­ve­ral mi­nu­tes. Lo­gan co­uldn’t to­uch it, but I wan­ted it to lo­ok soft. I even sha­ved my legs.

  My fo­ots­teps slo­wed as I re­tur­ned to my ro­om. What if he for­got? What if the world had dist­rac­ted him?

  I stop­ped at the thres­hold, whe­re my do­or sto­od slightly aj­ar. Hol­ding my bre­ath, I pus­hed it open.

 

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