Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  Lo­gan was sit­ting on the ed­ge of my bed.

  “Hi.” He sto­od qu­ickly as I mo­ved in­si­de the ro­om. “Did you think I’d for­get?”

  I shut the do­or be­hind me. “Do I lo­ok wor­ri­ed?” I whis­pe­red.

  “You lo­ok as ner­vo­us as I fe­el.”

  I went to the win­dow, partly to hi­de my smi­le. If Lo­gan co­uld fe­el, he co­uld li­ve, sort of.

  I lo­we­red the blinds to block out the light from the stre­et. In the to­tal dark­ness, the de­ta­ils of Lo­gan’s fe­atu­res sho­ne bright.

  “I’m glad you ca­me,” I told him, ho­ping he gras­ped the for­ce of my un­ders­ta­te­ment.

  “This is gon­na be gre­at.” Lo­gan rec­li­ned on the bed, tho­ugh the mat­tress didn’t comp­ress with any we­ight. “Li­ke when we we­re kids, re­mem­ber? When we’d all camp out in our ba­se­ment and pre­tend we we­re in the mo­un­ta­ins?”

  I hur­ri­ed over to the ot­her si­de of the bed, al­most skip­ping in my gid­di­ness. “Didn’t we play ‘doc­tor’ for the first ti­me on one of tho­se cam­ping trips?”

  Lo­gan la­ug­hed. “Ye­ah, that was be­fo­re I fo­und out abo­ut girl co­oti­es.”

  I slip­ped un­der the co­vers next to him. He rol­led on­to his si­de to fa­ce me.

  “Ni­ce she­ets,” he sa­id, and be­fo­re he co­uld see my gu­ilt, his ga­ze tra­ve­led down the front of my shirt. “Ni­ce out­fit, too.”

  I felt sud­denly shy. “Thanks.”

  “How was yo­ur sky ga­zing?”

  “I wasn’t sky ga­zing.” I fa­ked a play­ful punch. “I was wor­king.”

  “Did he ma­ke you see stars?”

  I sup­pres­sed a cack­le. “Don’t be a dick. And don’t ma­ke me la­ugh, or Gi­na’ll he­ar.”

  “Sorry.” Lo­gan bent his arm and res­ted his che­ek on it. “I’ll do the tal­king, so you don’t get in tro­ub­le.”

  I nod­ded, swal­lo­wing a squ­e­ak of ex­ci­te­ment. Lo­gan was he­re. In my bed. He co­uld talk the who­le night abo­ut gu­itar strings and amp brands, for all I ca­red. I just wan­ted to he­ar his vo­ice.

  The li­nes of his fa­ce smo­ot­hed so­lemn. “I’m so sorry abo­ut Fri­day night. Not just for dying, but for get­ting so was­ted we co­uldn’t ma­ke lo­ve. It’s li­ke that De­ad Ken­nedys song, ‘Too Drunk to Fuck.’ That’s be­en run­ning thro­ugh my he­ad all day.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t ask for it to be pla­yed at the fu­ne­ral lunc­he­on.”

  He snor­ted. “What’d you think of my picks?”

  “It was a kick-ass mix. Ex­cept for ‘The Par­ting Glass.’”

  “Hey, that’s a tra­di­ti­onal Irish fu­ne­ral song.”

  “And drin­king song,” I snap­ped back. “Con­si­de­ring it was al­co­hol that kil­led you-”

  “The co­ca­ine kil­led me.”

  “It pro­bably wo­uldn’t ha­ve if you we­ren’t so drunk. That’s what the pa­ra­me­dics sa­id. It was the in­te­rac­ti­on that ma­de yo­ur he­art go hay­wi­re.”

  “Oh. Wow.”

  I clo­sed my eyes and held back a gro­an. Lo­gan had ma­de a mis­ta­ke that had ta­ken his li­fe, and all he co­uld say was “Wow”?

  “Dylan told me Mom and Dad are su­ing the re­cord com­pany.”

  “I know.” I kept my eyes shut, wor­ri­ed I wo­uld re­ve­al my own ho­pes and fe­ars.

  “I can’t get up on that stand and tell them everyt­hing. I don’t ca­re abo­ut my own re­pu­ta­ti­on-I’m de­ad, af­ter all-but you ha­ve to de­al with the pe­op­le who’ll talk shit abo­ut you.”

  “My aunt sa­id it wo­uld help you mo­ve on.”

  “I’ll de­ci­de when I mo­ve on.” Lo­gan’s vo­ice snap­ped li­ke a fi­rec­rac­ker. “I don’t ha­ve to lis­ten to an­yo­ne now. I can do what I want.”

  As long as what he wan­ted didn’t in­vol­ve to­uc­hing anyt­hing, or go­ing anyw­he­re he’d ne­ver be­en be­fo­re.

  “Hey, did you get to see my corp­se?”

  I ope­ned my eyes. “I wish I hadn’t.”

  “Was I still splotchy? I tho­ught they co­uld fix that.”

  “No, yo­ur co­lor was fi­ne.”

  “So how did I lo­ok?”

  “You lo­oked hand­so­me.”

  His lip cur­led. “Hand­so­me?”

  “Ye­ah.” I gig­gled. “Li­ke a hand­so­me shoe sa­les­man.”

  “Aww, man.” He rol­led on­to his back and co­ve­red his fa­ce. “They put me in that dark blue su­it, didn’t they?”

  “That wasn’t the worst part.” I pus­hed out the words. “They dyed yo­ur ha­ir.”

  Lo­gan jer­ked to fa­ce me. “Li­ke what Mic­key did to his ha­ir?”

  “I don’t know who­se idea it was.”

  “I’ll ask Dylan. If it was Mic­key, I’ll kill him.”

  “Just let it go. He’s mad eno­ugh at him­self as it is. So’s Si­ob­han.”

  “No.” Lo­gan po­un­ded a fist aga­inst the mat­tress and ut­te­red a gro­an that wasn’t qu­ite hu­man. “It’s not the­ir fa­ult, and it’s not yo­ur fa­ult. I’ll ma­ke it up to all of you. So­me­how.”

  The words ca­ught in my thro­at, the words I knew my aunt wan­ted me to spe­ak. That the only way he co­uld ma­ke things right was to mo­ve on, set his so­ul to rest.

  But the tho­ught of lo­sing him aga­in, this ti­me fo­re­ver, smot­he­red all the words. I star­ted to cry.

  “Aura, ple­ase don’t.” Lo­gan re­ac­hed for my che­ek. “Je­ez, I can’t even com­fort you any­mo­re. I’m so fuc­king help­less.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am.” His whis­per grew sharp and ur­gent. “I’m out the­re on the stre­ets at night, and I see folks in so­me se­ri­o­us shit. Ho­me­less pe­op­le dying in al­leys, ho­okers get­ting the crap be­aten out of them, ten-ye­ar-olds de­aling crack. And that’s not even in the re­al­ly bad ne­igh­bor­ho­ods, sin­ce I can’t go in­to tho­se.” He swept his hand to­ward the win­dow. “You see this on the news, and you for­get abo­ut it, be­ca­use re­al­ly, what can any of us do, and we all ha­ve our own prob­lems, right? But the­re was so much I co­uld’ve do­ne, com­pa­red to now. I co­uld’ve ma­de a dif­fe­ren­ce.”

  I tho­ught of how one day, when post-Shif­ters be­ca­me cops, ghosts re­al­ly co­uld ma­ke a dif­fe­ren­ce. They wo­uld be the ul­ti­ma­te Ne­igh­bor­ho­od Watch. I was abo­ut to po­int that out when Lo­gan spo­ke aga­in.

  “Aura,” he whis­pe­red, “I wish I co­uld wi­pe away just one of yo­ur te­ars. Then I’d fe­el li­ke a per­son aga­in. Li­ke I’m so­met­hing mo­re than a bunch of light.”

  “You can.” I re­ac­hed in­to the spa­ce bet­we­en our bo­di­es. “Just fol­low me.”

  He pla­ced his left hand be­hind my right hand, cre­ating a vi­olet sha­dow. To­get­her, slowly, we to­uc­hed my fa­ce. The wet­ness so­aked in­to the tip of my mid­dle fin­ger.

  “I lo­ve you so much,” he sa­id. “I wish you ne­ver had to be sad.”

  The te­ar my fin­ger had ta­ken was rep­la­ced by anot­her. “Let me cry, Lo­gan. I ne­ed to.”

  He bro­ught his fa­ce ne­ar mi­ne, so bright I had to squ­int, and pla­ced his he­ad on my pil­low, clo­se eno­ugh that if he’d had bre­ath, it wo­uld ha­ve ca­res­sed my eye­las­hes. “I’ll stay un­til you sle­ep, and I’ll co­me back to­mor­row. If you want.”

  I nod­ded, then shut my eyes aga­inst his light.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lo­gan spent every night with me for the next month. Not un­til mor­ning, of co­ur­se. He wo­uld le­ave af­ter I do­zed off, be­ca­use to him, watc­hing me sle­ep was (a) bo­ring and (b) cre­epy.

  If I cal­led for him, he’d re­turn, but I didn’t un­less I’d had a bad dre­am. It was eno­ugh to know he’d c
o­me aga­in the fol­lo­wing night.

  Usu­al­ly we lis­te­ned to mu­sic to­get­her. Sin­ce Lo­gan co­uldn’t use ear­buds any­mo­re, I’d pull my MP3 doc­king sta­ti­on un­der the co­vers and play it at low vo­lu­me. Or we’d re­ad bo­oks or ma­ga­zi­nes by the light of his glow. If I had a test, he’d help me study, but sin­ce he co­uldn’t turn the pa­ges, this didn’t al­ways work.

  When I got ti­red, Lo­gan wo­uld sing me to sle­ep, so­me­ti­mes a pa­in­ful­ly ap­prop­ri­ate song li­ke Flog­ging Molly’s “If I Ever Le­ave This World Ali­ve” or Snow Pat­rol’s “Cha­sing Cars.” So­me­ti­mes he’d pick a lil­ting Irish lul­laby, or even a song he’d writ­ten him­self.

  But ne­ver the song he’d me­ant to sing for me the night he di­ed. Even Lo­gan had his li­mits.

  Mostly we tal­ked. It felt li­ke we we­re kids aga­in, with a sle­epo­ver every night. When I la­ug­hed too much, Aunt Gi­na wo­uld knock on the do­or to see what was up, but I al­ways told her I was watc­hing a funny vi­deo. It wasn’t li­ke she co­uld ever pro­ve Lo­gan was the­re.

  Every Sun­day mor­ning be­fo­re Gi­na did la­undry, I chan­ged my she­ets back to red and hid the dark purp­le ones in a sec­ret com­part­ment un­der my bot­tom dra­wer. I spil­led drops of so­da and scat­te­red crac­ker crumbs over the red she­ets so they’d lo­ok used.

  Even if she had sus­pec­ted, how co­uld she comp­la­in? I was happy. My boyf­ri­end was de­ad, but in a way, he was with me mo­re than ever.

  Du­ring the day he ha­un­ted his yo­un­ger brot­her Dylan, and so­me of our ot­her fri­ends, es­pe­ci­al­ly if they we­re ha­ving a party. But the nights we­re all ours, and Lo­gan was all mi­ne.

  Zac­hary and I wa­ited for Eowyn in her of­fi­ce be­fo­re our se­cond me­eting. No tea was on the lit­tle tab­le, so we sat in pad­ded wo­oden cha­irs in front of the desk. The bo­ok fort was go­ne, rep­la­ced with une­ven stacks of pa­pers, a scat­te­ring of gna­wed pen­cils, and a pa­ir of lap­top com­pu­ters.

  “Almost ten mi­nu­tes la­te,” Zac­hary sa­id. His cell pho­ne went off with a text mes­sa­ge-I’d be­en aro­und him eno­ugh to know his as­sig­ned ring to­nes-and his exp­res­si­on brigh­te­ned. “Excu­se me for a se­cond?” He flip­ped open the pho­ne and star­ted tex­ting. At le­ast he was po­li­te abo­ut it.

  To oc­cupy myself, I pul­led my fol­ders out of my bo­ok bag and star­ted flip­ping thro­ugh the­ir con­tents. As al­ways, I star­ted with the purp­le fol­der, the one con­ta­ining the jo­ur­nal and pho­tos my mot­her had left.

  The se­cond pa­ge of that day’s entry had be­en torn out mid-sen­ten­ce. I ran my fin­ger over the jag­ged ed­ge left be­hind.

  “Sorry I’m la­te!” Eowyn swept in, her sho­es scuf­fing the car­pet. She had dark circ­les un­der her eyes, and her long blond curls we­re swept back in a glit­tery blue scarf. But her fa­ce lo­oked bright, li­ke it had just be­en splas­hed with cold wa­ter.

  “Ooh, you bro­ught me a pre­sent.” She un­ti­ed our port­fo­lio, then ope­ned our first star map and spre­ad it on the desk be­fo­re her. I pla­ced my purp­le fol­der un­der the yel­low one on my lap. My plan was to ad­van­ce my re­se­arch wit­ho­ut tel­ling an­yo­ne my exact the­ory. Not un­til I was su­re I was right, and may­be even then it wo­uldn’t be sa­fe.

  “Very ni­ce work,” Eowyn sa­id. “But not so ni­ce I’d think you we­re che­ating. You’ve de­fi­ni­tely na­iled the fun­da­men­tals, and the le­vel of de­ta­il is ad­mi­rab­le.” She sank in­to her cha­ir. “Cle­arly you don’t mind spen­ding ti­me to­get­her.”

  From the cor­ner of my eye I saw Zac­hary mir­ror my squ­ir­ming.

  “If we got it right the first ti­me,” I sa­id, “do­es that me­an we can stop?”

  “Is that what you we­re ho­ping?” Eowyn clo­sed the port­fo­lio. “The po­int is for you to see what chan­ges over ti­me and what stays the sa­me.” She fol­ded her hands, sho­ul­ders sag­ging from what lo­oked li­ke ex­ha­us­ti­on. “From ye­ar to ye­ar, the stars are the most cons­tant thing we know. But wit­hin that ti­me fra­me, they se­em down­right fick­le. So yes, you still ha­ve to do this every month. Plan to dress warmly.”

  My fa­ce he­ated at the me­mory of Zac­hary’s jac­ket aro­und my sho­ul­ders, des­pi­te the ca­su­al turn our fri­ends­hip had re­cently ta­ken. Our con­ver­sa­ti­ons had grown less per­so­nal over the last few we­eks. So­me­ti­mes he ate lunch with me and Me­gan and our fri­ends who we­re star­ting to act li­ke fri­ends aga­in, but it se­emed li­ke we we­re me­rely part of his so­ci­al ro­ta­ti­on. Zac­hary didn’t hang out with an­yo­ne so much as he hung out with ever­yo­ne.

  “What’s next?” he as­ked, and I re­ali­zed he was spe­aking to me.

  “I tho­ught it wo­uld be co­ol to study an­ci­ent ob­ser­va­to­ri­es that mar­ked spe­ci­al ti­mes of the ye­ar, li­ke equ­ino­xes and sols­ti­ces.” I ope­ned my yel­low fol­der on the desk. “I fi­gu­red we’d start with Sto­ne­hen­ge.” I lo­oked at Eowyn, then Zac­hary. “If that’s okay with you.”

  The pro­fes­sor ste­ep­led her fin­gers un­der her chin. “What exactly did you want to study abo­ut Sto­ne­hen­ge?”

  “How the an­ci­ent ast­ro­no­mers fi­gu­red it all out. How they de­ci­ded whe­re to pla­ce the slabs of rock. It’s so uni­que.”

  “Actu­al­ly, the­re are many si­tes li­ke it aro­und the world,” Eowyn told me. “Sto­ne­hen­ge is simply the most fa­mo­us be­ca­use its si­ze is so imp­res­si­ve and its struc­tu­re so dis­tinc­ti­ve.”

  I fe­ig­ned surp­ri­se. “But it’s the ol­dest, right?”

  “The pas­sa­ge tomb Newg­ran­ge is ol­der,” Zac­hary sa­id.

  “Whe­re’s that?” I as­ked him, ho­ping my ig­no­ran­ce was con­vin­cing.

  “In Ire­land. It marks the win­ter sols­ti­ce sun­ri­se.” He shif­ted to fa­ce me, his gre­en eyes spar­king with ani­ma­ti­on. “And up in the Ork­ney Is­lands in Scot­land, Ma­es­ho­we marks the sun­set on the sa­me day. You sho­uld see it.” He scratc­hed his jaw, as if re­ali­zing he’d lost his she­en of gu­ar­ded co­ol. “Be­ca­use it’s bril­li­ant.”

  My pul­se qu­ic­ke­ned from the way he’d lo­oked at me, li­ke he wan­ted to whisk me ac­ross the oce­an. “How do they mark it?”

  “I’ll show you.” Eowyn sho­ved so­me pa­pers asi­de, then went to her bo­oks­helf. She to­ok down the mo­del of Newg­ran­ge, a glis­te­ning whi­te gra­ni­te half-ring top­ped by a grassy do­me, and la­id it on her desk. I exa­mi­ned it as if I’d ne­ver se­en it be­fo­re-which I hadn’t, in 3-D at le­ast.

  Back at the bo­oks­helf, Eowyn flip­ped up one of the pos­ters and pin­ned it to the fra­me of the shelf, which con­ta­ined old, le­at­her-bo­und, musty-lo­oking bo­oks, the kind that ma­ke you want to roll aro­und in them. (Well, that ma­ke me want to roll aro­und in them. But I’m we­ird.)

  She pul­led out an arm­ful of bo­oks and set them on a sto­ol, let­ting out a who­osh of exer­ti­on. In the spa­ce left be­hind, I no­ti­ced an odd nick in the bac­king of the bo­ok­ca­se. It al­most lo­oked li­ke a switch, the kind you press on to re­le­ase a ne­arby pa­nel. The Ke­eleys’ old ho­me in the city used to ha­ve hi­ding pla­ces li­ke that-sup­po­sedly the­ir ho­use had be­en a spe­ake­asy du­ring Pro­hi­bi­ti­on, and the sec­ret com­part­ments had held il­le­gal li­qu­or.

  Eowyn un­pin­ned the pos­ter, and it fell back in­to pla­ce, hi­ding the shelf. When she saw me exa­mi­ning the spot, I lo­oked away and pre­ten­ded to adj­ust the zip­per on my bo­ok bag.

  She ope­ned one of the bo­oks to a wrink­led, yel­lo­wed pa­ge fil­led with se­pia-to­ned pho­tog­raphs.

  “He­re’s what hap­pens.” She tur­ned the do­med mo­del so that the do­or fa­ced me,
and po­in­ted to a small rec­tan­gu­lar win­dow abo­ve the ent­ran­ce. “On the mor­ning of the win­ter sols­ti­ce, the ri­sing sun shi­nes thro­ugh this ro­of box in­to a cham­ber in­si­de.”

  She ope­ned the mo­del’s ro­of to re­ve­al a nar­row cor­ri­dor with a ro­und ro­om at its end, then in­di­ca­ted the first pho­to. “Over the co­ur­se of se­ven­te­en mi­nu­tes, the light tra­ces a pat­tern over the car­ved walls, thro­ugh three re­ces­ses.”

  I stu­di­ed the pho­tog­raph. A man sto­od be­si­de a spi­ral car­ved in­to the rock. I’d known abo­ut the sols­ti­ce sun­ri­se shi­ning in­si­de Newg­ran­ge, but I’d ne­ver he­ard of the­se re­ces­ses. They lo­oked li­ke ro­ugh ver­si­ons of tho­se cub­byho­les that rich pe­op­le use to disp­lay va­ses.

  “What do they me­an?” I as­ked her.

  “Archa­e­olo­gists be­li­eve that they sig­nify mot­her, fat­her, and child.” She tur­ned the pa­ge, re­ve­aling clo­se-ups of the three an­ci­ent marks.

  Zac­hary le­aned over. “Can an­yo­ne go in the­re?”

  “They gi­ve to­urs ye­ar-ro­und,” Eowyn sa­id, “but to be the­re on a sols­ti­ce you en­ter a lot­tery. Fifty na­mes are drawn, and each per­son can bring a fri­end.”

  I scan­ned the ima­ges with gre­edy eyes. Was this whe­re Mom had met my fat­her? Was that why she hid the pho­tos?

  Tur­ning the pa­ges ca­re­ful­ly, I sa­id to Eowyn, “Ha­ve you be­en the­re?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “When did you go?” Zac­hary as­ked her.

  “Well.” Eowyn spo­ke fas­ter, dra­wing my at­ten­ti­on back to her fa­ce. “I went se­ve­ral ti­mes for my work, but only on­ce for the sols­ti­ce. I can’t re­mem­ber which ye­ar.” She shut the bo­ok, al­most trap­ping my fin­gers. “The­re are al­so many ot­her si­tes you co­uld study. Zac­hary men­ti­oned Ma­es­ho­we, and he­re in the Sta­tes we ha­ve Cha­co Can­yon out in-”

  “Can I bor­row this?” I held on to the bo­ok’s ed­ge with fin­gers that felt li­ke claws. “I know it’s old, but I swe­ar I’ll ta­ke go­od ca­re of it.”