Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  Eowyn he­si­ta­ted, her eyes no lon­ger spark­ling. “Well, it do­es ha­ve a tho­ro­ugh bib­li­og­raphy. Pri­mary so­ur­ces, many of which we ha­ve he­re in the de­part­ment.” She tap­ped the co­ver in a qu­ick stac­ca­to. “Things you’ll ne­ver find on the In­ter­net.”

  “Thank you.” I slid the bo­ok to­ward my chest, re­sis­ting the ur­ge to hug it.

  “Let me get you a bag.” She ope­ned a dra­wer. “No of­fen­se, but I’ve se­en in­si­de te­ena­gers’ back­packs, and it’s not exactly a ste­ri­le en­vi­ron­ment.” She slip­ped a plas­tic bag over the he­avy bo­ok and held it out for me.

  In my eager­ness to grab the bo­ok, I le­aned for­ward and let go of the purp­le fol­der on my lap. It tip­ped, spil­ling my mot­her’s pho­tos on the flo­or. I let out a pa­nicky gasp be­fo­re re­ali­zing they’d fal­len fa­ce­down. Whew.

  “He­re.” Zac­hary slid out of his cha­ir to help me.

  “I’ve got it!” I scramb­led to gat­her the pi­le of slick whi­te squ­ares.

  “You mis­sed a co­up­le.” He re­ac­hed un­der the desk and ext­rac­ted the ru­na­way pho­tos. As he pul­led them out, he tur­ned them over. One was of the bright whi­te do­or­way of Newg­ran­ge; the ot­her, of a yo­ung Eowyn Har­ris.

  Zac­hary ra­ised his ga­ze to me­et mi­ne. A flash of he­at spar­ked bet­we­en my sho­ul­der bla­des.

  Eowyn ro­un­ded the desk. “Everyt­hing okay?”

  Zac­hary flip­ped the pho­tos over and slid them in­to my fol­der. “We’ve got it.” He win­ked at me, then sa­id to Eowyn, “You we­re tel­ling us abo­ut Cha­co Can­yon.”

  “Right!” Eowyn clo­sed the Newg­ran­ge mo­del and set it back on her shelf. “It’s in New Me­xi­co, and it marks the sum­mer sols­ti­ce…”

  I tri­ed to pay at­ten­ti­on-or at le­ast lo­ok li­ke I was-as she desc­ri­bed how the Ana­sa­zi pe­op­le used the prog­ress of a “sun dag­ger” ac­ross a spi­ral car­ving to know when to har­vest. In the cor­ner of my eye, the Newg­ran­ge mo­del glo­wed whi­te, the dark eye of its do­or bec­ko­ning my ima­gi­na­ti­on.

  At the end of our me­eting, she told us to re­turn the first we­ek in Janu­ary, af­ter our next two star maps we­re fi­nis­hed and we had de­ci­ded which me­ga­liths we wan­ted to fo­cus on. May­be I was pa­ra­no­id, but Eowyn se­emed ner­vo­us as she sho­wed us to the do­or, as tho­ugh she we­re a mot­her sen­ding kids off to army bo­ot camp.

  Zac­hary sta­yed qu­i­et be­si­de me as we exi­ted the bu­il­ding and wal­ked to the par­king lot. The ten­si­on was kil­ling me.

  “Why don’t you just ask?” I sa­id as we ap­pro­ac­hed my ra­in-so­aked car. “You know you want to.”

  “Be­ca­use I’m trying to de­ci­de if you’ll re­al­ly ans­wer. Ot­her­wi­se the­re’s no po­int, aye?”

  I grit­ted my te­eth. “You’re in­fu­ri­atingly pa­ti­ent.”

  “You ha­ve no idea.” Zac­hary smir­ked at me over the ro­of of the car. “Yet.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Li­ke most post-Shif­ters, Me­gan and I usu­al­ly avo­ided the Free Spi­rit Cafй. The Char­les Vil­la­ge cof­fee shop’s ghost gim­mick held no ap­pe­al for tho­se of us who saw spi­rits on a re­gu­lar ba­sis. Most of its cus­to­mers we­re twenty- and thirty­so­met­hing pe­op­le who tho­ught it wo­uld be co­ol to vi­sit a “ha­un­ted” res­ta­urant and ha­ve the­ir kids wa­ited on by fri­endly ghosts.

  “I he­ard the ser­vi­ce he­re sucks,” Me­gan sa­id as we squ­e­ezed in­to a tiny tab­le by the win­dow, which was pa­in­ted over with swir­ling black stro­kes to ke­ep the pla­ce dark. “I he­ard the ghosts pre­tend to ta­ke yo­ur or­der and then just di­sap­pe­ar.”

  “At le­ast they ha­ve an ex­cu­se. So­me pla­ces, the li­ving wa­iters do that.”

  A mu­ral co­ve­red the wall abo­ve Me­gan’s he­ad. On a night-sky backg­ro­und, the vi­olet ghosts of fa­mo­us pe­op­le flo­ated to­get­her, dan­cing or tal­king. Pe­op­le who ne­ver co­uld’ve hung out: El­vis and Soc­ra­tes; Ben Frank­lin and Juli­us Ca­esar.

  Li­ke most pre-Shif­ters’ ide­as abo­ut ghosts, it was cu­te but inac­cu­ra­te. First of all, they co­uldn’t in­te­ract with each ot­her, only with the li­ving. Se­cond, fa­mo­us pe­op­le usu­al­ly got sick of af­ter­li­fe on Earth pretty fast-after the fu­ne­rals and TV ret­ros­pec­ti­ves, the twenty-fo­ur-ho­ur ad­mi­ra­ti­on stop­ped, so the­re wasn’t much po­int in han­ging aro­und. Most of them mo­ved on, but a few tur­ned sha­de. Or so I’d he­ard, but I’m skep­ti­cal. Sha­des tend to be dark, se­et­hing, va­gu­ely hu­man-sha­ped mas­ses, which wo­uldn’t do much for a ce­leb­rity’s ima­ge.

  “Spe­aking of li­ving, or not so much,” Me­gan sa­id, “how are you sle­eping the­se days?”

  “Fi­ne.” I stif­fe­ned my pos­tu­re to si­mu­la­te alert­ness.

  “Re­al­ly? Be­ca­use I was thin­king we wo­uldn’t ne­ed to-go bags for our muf­fins. We can just use the ones un­der yo­ur eyes.”

  “I don’t ha­ve muf­fins un­der my eyes.”

  “Dork.” She sho­ved her sung­las­ses on top of her he­ad. “If I bo­ught you a new red top, wo­uld you we­ar it?”

  “Sorry, got plenty of tho­se.” I pic­ked at the gray fuzz balls on the sle­eve of my car­di­gan.

  “I ne­ver see you we­ar them any­mo­re.”

  “I may ha­ve gi­ven them all to Go­od­will.”

  “What abo­ut the ghosts?”

  “They don’t bug me as much as they used to.” I held up my hands to cut her off. “So­me of them re­al­ly ne­ed help.”

  “If you want to ta­ke on cha­rity ca­ses, you co­uld start with the li­ving.”

  “Did you not just he­ar me say I do­na­ted a bunch of clot­hes to Go­od­will?”

  “Just be­ca­use you’re the girlf­ri­end-or wha­te­ver you are-to a ghost do­esn’t me­an you ha­ve to be­co­me a cham­pi­on for them all.” Me­gan jer­ked the zip­per open on her pur­se. “You’re tur­ning in­to yo­ur aunt.”

  “Ouch. If I we­re da­ting a black guy, wo­uld you comp­la­in if I star­ted ha­ving mo­re black fri­ends?”

  “The­re’s no com­pa­ri­son. Ghosts aren’t pe­op­le.”

  “Hel­lo!” Next to our tab­le ap­pe­ared the ghost of a pony­ta­iled wo­man in her early twen­ti­es. “I’m Step­ha­nie. Is this yo­ur first ti­me he­re?” When we nod­ded, she con­ti­nu­ed. “Okay, the way it works is I ta­ke yo­ur or­der back to Jus­tin in the kitc­hen, and then he brings out yo­ur fo­od and drinks.” She be­amed at me. “He’s a li­ver.”

  “Li­ver?” I crink­led my fo­re­he­ad. “Oh. Li­ve-r. I get it.” I hadn’t he­ard that term used to desc­ri­be we who bre­at­hed. I didn’t think it wo­uld catch on.

  Ex-Step­ha­nie ges­tu­red to the black­bo­ard abo­ve the co­un­ter. “As you can see, our spe­ci­al des­sert to­day is the whi­te cho­co­la­te che­ese­ca­ke. I’m told it’s to die for.” She let out a string of gig­gles, and I jo­ined in to be po­li­te.

  “Funny,” Me­gan sa­id thro­ugh tight lips as she pul­led out her wal­let. “I think we’ll just or­der at the co­un­ter.”

  I flap­ped my me­nu. “Oh, co­me on, this is co­ol.” I tur­ned to ex-Step­ha­nie. “Do they pay you?”

  “Under the tab­le.” She flip­ped the end of her pony­ta­il. “My so­ci­al se­cu­rity num­ber ex­pi­red when I did. The mo­ney go­es to my kid.”

  I told Me­gan, “Ma­ke su­re we le­ave a big tip.”

  She rol­led her eyes and sa­id to the ghost, “Two skinny moc­has, ext­ra whip­ped cre­am on mi­ne.”

  “And the che­ese­ca­ke,” I ad­ded.

  “So­unds gre­at. Thank you!” Ins­te­ad of wal­king away, ex-Step­ha­nie va­nis­hed.

  Me­gan drag­ged h
er­self out of her cha­ir. “I’ll go see if she re­al­ly put in our or­der.”

  My cell pho­ne vib­ra­ted, still in si­lent mo­de from wor­king that af­ter­no­on at the law of­fi­ce. I pe­eked at the cal­ler ID and was surp­ri­sed at the num­ber.

  “Hel­lo?” I ans­we­red, half ex­pec­ting to he­ar Lo­gan’s vo­ice.

  “Aura.” Dylan spo­ke in a hus­hed to­ne. “Whe­re are you?”

  “I’m at Free Spi­rit with Me­gan. I just got off work, so I’m des­pe­ra­te for su­gar.”

  “Ha­ve you se­en Lo­gan?”

  “Last night. Why?”

  “I fi­gu­red I sho­uld tell you first-his he­ads­to­ne is al­most re­ady. My mom sa­id she was go­ing to call yo­ur aunt so we co­uld all go out to­get­her next we­ek to see it.”

  My fin­gers tur­ned cold at the tho­ught, as if they we­re al­re­ady ca­res­sing the hard gra­ni­te pro­of of his de­ath. “I don’t want to see it,” I sa­id flatly.

  “Me ne­it­her.” The­re was a brus­hing no­ise, li­ke he was shif­ting the pho­ne to his ot­her ear. “So when he co­mes over, what do you guys do? I me­an, do you, you know…”

  His imp­li­ca­ti­on ma­de my fa­ce flush. “No. Mostly we just talk.”

  “Abo­ut what?”

  “Everyt­hing. Old ti­mes, I gu­ess.”

  “Hey, you re­mem­ber when we all went cam­ping in Har­pers Ferry, and my dad told ghost sto­ri­es?”

  I chuck­led. “Ye­ah, I think I was what, se­ven? And you we­re six.”

  “I gu­ess.” His vo­ice fa­ded for a se­cond, then brigh­te­ned. “Anyway, then re­mem­ber me and you pre­ten­ded the­re we­re re­al ghosts at the camp­si­te and fre­aked ever­yo­ne out?”

  “And they ma­de us pack up all the tents and go to a mo­tel? That was awe­so­me. Ex­cept that the­re we­re ac­tu­al ghosts in the mo­tel.”

  “It was worth it, tho­ugh, to see ever­yo­ne get sca­red. I ha­ted all the bugs out­si­de, any­way.”

  A few si­lent mo­ments pas­sed. “Well, thanks for cal­ling,” I sa­id. “I gu­ess I’ll see you at the ce­me­tery.”

  Dylan pa­used, and I chec­ked the pho­ne to see if it had cut off. Fi­nal­ly he sa­id, “I’m in the bath­ro­om.”

  I scrunc­hed up my fa­ce. “I didn’t ne­ed to know that.”

  “I me­an, I’m in the bath­ro­om be­ca­use I don’t want Lo­gan to he­ar.”

  The Black­Box, of co­ur­se. “Wa­it, is it… that bath­ro­om? In the ups­ta­irs hal­lway?”

  “Ye­ah. Kin­da funny, huh? A ghost who can’t ha­unt the pla­ce he di­ed? Ever­yo­ne el­se is too cre­eped out to use it. Si­ob­han and Mic­key star­ted sho­we­ring in Mom and Dad’s bath­ro­om. So it’s pretty much all mi­ne now. Which is co­ol. But I had to use the old land pho­ne with the long cord to call you.”

  “What don’t you want Lo­gan to he­ar?”

  “Oh.” He con­ti­nu­ed in a ne­ar whis­per, “Do you ever wish he wo­uld le­ave?”

  A shi­ver ran up the arm that was hol­ding the pho­ne, as if his words car­ri­ed an elect­ri­cal shock. “You me­an for go­od?”

  “Ye­ah.”

  “No.”

  “Re­al­ly?”

  “Re­al­ly.”

  “Swe­ar?”

  “Why, Dylan? Do you wish he wo­uld le­ave?”

  “I don’t know.” He pa­used. “So­me­ti­mes. May­be not for go­od, tho­ugh. It’s we­ird, se­e­ing him li­ke that. All purp­le and shit.”

  “I’ve got­ten used to it.”

  “Me too. That’s what sca­res me.” He let out a hard bre­ath. “What if he stays a re­al­ly long ti­me? He di­ed when he was se­ven­te­en, right? What if one day se­ven­te­en ye­ars from now, he’s still aro­und? Then he wo­uld’ve be­en a ghost lon­ger than he’d be­en a per­son.”

  “He’s still a per­son.”

  “But did you ever think abo­ut that? What if one day we get mar­ri­ed? I don’t me­an me and you,” he rus­hed to add. “When we get mar­ri­ed to ot­her pe­op­le, will Lo­gan be at the wed­ding? Will he vi­sit our kids? Will he sit in his old ro­om every night, sta­ring at that fuc­king gu­itar?”

  A lump fil­led my thro­at at the ima­ge. “If yo­ur fa­mily wins the law­su­it in Janu­ary, he’ll pass on. That’s a long ti­me be­fo­re eit­her of us has kids.” I twis­ted my to­ne. “Unless the­re’s so­met­hing you’re not tel­ling us.”

  “We might not win,” sa­id Dylan, ig­no­ring my la­me at­tempt at hu­mor. “Dad says the­re’s a fifty-fifty chan­ce. Which me­ans the­re’s re­al­ly a thirty-se­venty chan­ce. And then what if Lo­gan-”

  I wa­ited a mo­ment for him to fi­nish his sen­ten­ce, dre­ading its end. “What if Lo­gan what?”

  Dylan’s vo­ice drop­ped to the fa­in­test whis­per. “He co­uld go sha­de.”

  “No!” I glan­ced at the ol­der co­up­le at the next tab­le, who we­re gi­ving me the evil eye for yel­ling, or may­be for exis­ting. “Dylan, he wo­uld ne­ver.”

  He snor­ted. “May­be Lo­gan’s all happy when he’s with you, but I see him the way he re­al­ly is. He’s pis­sed as hell-abo­ut dying, abo­ut this stu­pid co­urt ca­se, abo­ut everyt­hing he can’t do.” The pho­ne shif­ted aga­in. “So­me­ti­mes he ma­kes me so dizzy I think I’m gon­na hurl.”

  My pul­se sur­ged, and I fo­ught to ke­ep my bre­ath ste­ady. “That ne­ver hap­pens when he’s with me.”

  “Well, that’s just gre­at. For you.” Dylan’s vo­ice crac­ked. “Next thing we know, tho­se Ob­si­di­an Corps pe­op­le co­uld be af­ter him. They co­uld lock him up fo­re­ver.”

  “That won’t hap­pen.” I clutc­hed the pho­ne, swe­aty now aga­inst my che­ek. “What do you want me to do, Dylan? Con­vin­ce him to mo­ve on?”

  “He’ll lis­ten to you.”

  “Not abo­ut this.”

  “Aura, just try, okay?” He let out a long, his­sing sigh, li­ke it was co­ming thro­ugh his no­se. “It was fun at first, ha­ving Lo­gan back, me and him han­ging out. It was li­ke when we we­re kids and pe­op­le used to call us ‘the ot­her twins,’ be­fo­re he got in­to mu­sic with Mic­key and Si­ob­han. Now I just want to stay in the bath­ro­om all the ti­me.”

  I pic­tu­red Dylan hud­dled on top of the to­ilet se­at, wa­iting for his brot­her to get bo­red and go away. I won­de­red what it wo­uld ta­ke to put me in that des­pe­ra­te, sick-of-Lo­gan sta­te.

  It wasn’t that Lo­gan had ne­ver pis­sed me off. I’d suf­fe­red thro­ugh his lo­udest pri­ma don­na fits, his he­avi­est drin­king bin­ges, his cra­zi­est thrill-se­eking stunts.

  But sit­ting in that cafй, sur­ro­un­ded by or­di­nary ghosts, I had a fe­eling that the world wasn’t do­ne with Lo­gan.

  And ne­it­her was I.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A new sky gre­eted Zac­hary and me the next ti­me we went to Far­mer Frank’s fi­eld.

  “I knew in my he­ad that things wo­uld chan­ge.” I cra­ned my neck as Zac­hary la­id the blan­ket down. “But so­me­how I’m still surp­ri­sed.” I ges­tu­red to Cygnus, the Swan, a lar­ge, po­inty cons­tel­la­ti­on that was di­ving he­ad­first be­ne­ath the wes­tern ho­ri­zon. “A month ago, that wo­uld’ve just be­en star­ting to set.”

  “Eowyn wo­uld say, ‘I told you so,’ but I won’t.” Zac­hary smo­ot­hed out the blan­ket’s cor­ners. “How was yo­ur Thanks­gi­ving?”

  I let my sho­ul­ders re­lax a notch. I’d be­en wa­iting for him to ask me why I’d li­ed abo­ut my know­led­ge of Newg­ran­ge. But if we we­re small-tal­king abo­ut ho­li­days, may­be he re­al­ly was let­ting the su­bj­ect go.

  “It was busy.” I set­tled on the blan­ket next to him. “We went to my grand­mom’s li­ke al­ways, in Philly. I ha­ve a mil­li­on co­usins up the­re that I only see a co­u
p­le ti­mes a ye­ar. They hang out to­get­her all the ti­me, so I fe­el kin­da odd when I’m with them. I don’t get the­ir in­si­de jokes, and they al­ways-” I ca­ught myself, re­mem­be­ring I was tal­king to a guy. “Ne­ver mind. It’s stu­pid.”

  “Tell me any­way.”

  I stu­di­ed my fin­ger­na­ils, whe­re I’d pic­ked off half of the black na­il po­lish. “They lo­ok so per­fect. The­ir ha­ir is all sle­ek and shiny and cut in new styles, whi­le mi­ne is ter­mi­nal­ly frizzy. My co­usin Ga­bi? She’s twel­ve, and her ma­ke­up lo­oks bet­ter than mi­ne.” I glan­ced over at him. “See, I told you it was stu­pid.”

  “I gu­ess I’m the stu­pid one, sin­ce you don’t se­em to va­lue my opi­ni­on.”

  “Opi­ni­on abo­ut what?”

  He un­zip­ped our pac­ket of pen­cils. “Re­mem­ber what I told you that first day we went to see Eowyn? What I sa­id in the par­king lot?”

  My che­eks war­med along my ha­ir­li­ne at the me­mory of his bon­ni­er-than-ever dec­la­ra­ti­on. “I tho­ught you we­re trying to ma­ke me fe­el bet­ter.”

  “I was.” Zac­hary fo­cu­sed on the dra­wing to­ols he was ar­ran­ging bet­we­en us. “Do­esn’t me­an it’s no’ true.”

  I let the si­len­ce we­igh he­avy for a few mo­ments, won­de­ring how to res­pond. If we star­ted flir­ting, it co­uld be a long, unp­ro­duc­ti­ve eve­ning. Not to men­ti­on frust­ra­ting, sin­ce I co­uldn’t ho­ok up with Zac­hary wit­ho­ut cont­rac­ting a ma­j­or ca­se of gu­ilt. Lo­gan and I we­re to­get­her, even tho­ugh we co­uldn’t be to­get­her.

  “Most of yo­ur fa­mily li­ves in the sa­me city?” Zac­hary as­ked.

  I nod­ded, re­li­eved to chan­ge the su­bj­ect. “The sa­me ne­igh­bor­ho­od, even. All but me and my aunt. Who wants to me­et you, by the way. She’s kind of overp­ro­tec­ti­ve.”

  “All right.” He ope­ned our cons­tel­la­ti­on bo­ok and switc­hed on the red-pa­in­ted flash­light. “You ne­ver men­ti­on yo­ur pa­rents.”