Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “My mom di­ed just af­ter I tur­ned three. Can­cer. I don’t know my dad.” I kept my vo­ice ca­su­al as I un­fol­ded the port­fo­lio. “I don’t even know who he was. Or is, if he’s still ali­ve.”

  “No clue at all, then?”

  “Just that he has brown eyes.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I ha­ve brown eyes and my mom had blue. Brown’s do­mi­nant ge­ne­ti­cal­ly, so if I ha­ve them, it me­ans my fat­her did. Do­es. Wha­te­ver.” I rep­la­ced the top she­et in the port­fo­lio-last month’s star map-with a blank one. “Oh, and he might be Irish.”

  “Re­al­ly?” Zac­hary sa­id with a no­te of cu­ri­osity-or may­be dis­be­li­ef.

  “I think my mom was in Ire­land when I was con­ce­ived.” I ges­tu­red to my fa­ce. “I know, I don’t lo­ok it, right? My grand­mom al­ways jokes that I lo­ok mo­re Ita­li­an than the rest of my fa­mily put to­get­her. Her pa­rents ca­me from Tus­cany, which is in nort­hern Italy.” I to­ok a bre­ath to pa­use the bab­ble. “Which I’m su­re you, uh, al­re­ady know, be­ing from Euro­pe.”

  “What was yo­ur mum do­ing in Ire­land?”

  I’d sa­id too much al­re­ady. “Just tra­vel. So what abo­ut you? I know you don’t ce­leb­ra­te Thanks­gi­ving, but did you do anyt­hing fun on yo­ur days off?”

  Ugh. I so­un­ded li­ke the pe­op­le at Gi­na’s of­fi­ce, who wo­uld ask each ot­her how the­ir we­ekends we­re, wit­ho­ut so­un­ding li­ke they ca­red abo­ut the ans­wers. But I felt a gre­at ne­ed for a su­bj­ect chan­ge.

  “My dad co­oked a tur­key. When in Ro­me, he says. It was blo­ody aw­ful. I did li­ke the pump­kin pie, tho­ugh.”

  “That re­minds me.” I dug in­to my bo­ok bag and pul­led out a whi­te card­bo­ard box ti­ed with a string. “I bro­ught the­se back for you.”

  He lo­oked at the box, then at me, be­fo­re slowly re­ac­hing out. “What are they?”

  “Po­iso­no­us sna­kes. Open it.”

  Zac­hary un­ti­ed the string. “They se­em li­ke very qu­i­et sna­kes.”

  “They’re ste­althy. Or may­be de­ad.”

  He ope­ned the box, and his fa­ce mel­ted in­to a smi­le. “You bro­ught me bis­cu­its?”

  “Ita­li­an co­oki­es. My grand­mom has a ba­kery that’s kin­da fa­mo­us-in Phi­la­delp­hia, at le­ast.”

  He pic­ked out a cres­cent-sha­ped co­okie and bit in­to the end. Pow­de­red su­gar ma­de a small bliz­zard on the front of his brown swe­ater. I had a sud­den im­pul­se to dust it off.

  “Mm, al­mond,” he sa­id. “And-is it rum?”

  “Yep, but don’t worry. The al­co­hol ba­kes off. And be­si­des, I’m yo­ur de­sig­na­ted dri­ver to­night.”

  “It’s pu­re braw. De­li­ci­o­us, I me­an.” He set the box bet­we­en us. “Thanks very much.” His vo­ice was mu­ted and a lit­tle stra­ined. He sta­red in­to the dis­tant wo­ods as he munc­hed the ot­her half of the co­okie.

  I won­de­red if I’d ma­de so­me hu­ge cross-cul­tu­ral fa­ux pas. “Are you okay?”

  “Hmm? Ye­ah.” Zac­hary rub­bed his thumb and first two fin­gers to­get­her, as if to ma­ke the pow­de­red su­gar part of his skin. “My mum used to ba­ke a lot.”

  Ah. I fid­ge­ted with my pen­cil, de­ci­ding whet­her to le­ave the to­uchy su­bj­ect alo­ne or push for­ward. Eit­her way, things wo­uld be ten­se.

  I cho­se tal­king-ten­se ins­te­ad of si­lent-ten­se. “You don’t ha­ve any idea whe­re she went?”

  “All I know is that she left on pur­po­se. My dad’s job is-I can’t tell you what it is exactly, and I sort of li­ed when I sa­id he was a po­li­ti­cal sci­en­ce pro­fes­sor.” Zac­hary lo­oked at me out of the cor­ner of his eye. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. A lot of pe­op­le aro­und he­re ha­ve clas­si­fi­ed jobs.”

  “Anyway, it’s the kind of ca­re­er that ta­kes over yo­ur li­fe. Mum got ti­red of pla­cing se­cond to his work. She ha­ted mo­ving aro­und all the ti­me, and when Dad got as­sig­ned he­re in the Sta­tes, I gu­ess that was the last straw. She left.”

  “Why didn’t she ta­ke you with her?” I win­ced as so­on as the qu­es­ti­on left my mo­uth.

  “I didn’t want to go.” Zac­hary cre­ased the cor­ner of the ba­kery box lid. “I tho­ught if I went with her, she wo­uld ne­ver co­me back to him. So I sa­id I wan­ted to stay with Dad.”

  “Was that true?”

  “Not re­al­ly. He’s not bad or anyt­hing, just ob­ses­sed with his job. And they’re still mar­ri­ed, so may­be one day…” He fol­ded his lips in, as if af­ra­id to vo­ice the ho­pe.

  “What hap­pe­ned when you told her you wan­ted to stay?”

  Zac­hary didn’t spe­ak for se­ve­ral se­conds. “She cri­ed.”

  I had the worst de­si­re to hug him. Even tho­ugh I so­me­ti­mes won­de­red if my fat­her had left be­ca­use of so­met­hing I did, I knew it was crazy, sin­ce I hadn’t be­en born at the ti­me. But Zac­hary had to li­ve with the fact that he’d ma­de his mot­her le­ave him.

  “You ha­ven’t tal­ked to her sin­ce?”

  “No’ exactly.” He scratc­hed his ear. “I get e-ma­ils so­me­ti­mes, but they co­uld be co­ming from anyw­he­re.”

  “Why do­esn’t she want to be fo­und?”

  He le­aned back on his hands and scan­ned the sky. “Bol­locks. The­re’s clo­uds mo­ving in.”

  I lo­oked to the east, whe­re a sing­le thin, stringy cir­rus clo­ud stretc­hed over Ori­on’s Belt. That was all. It was Zac­hary’s turn to chan­ge the su­bj­ect.

  May­be his sec­recy had to do with his dad’s clas­si­fi­ed de­alings. It se­emed li­ke half the pe­op­le I knew had pa­rents who wor­ked at NSA or DMP or so­me ot­her se­mi­co­vert agency. May­be Zac­hary’s mom-whet­her she was an agent her­self or not-wo­uld be in dan­ger if an­yo­ne, even her son, knew whe­re she was.

  “We can work aro­und the clo­ud,” I told him. “Let’s start be­fo­re it gets wor­se.”

  Surp­ri­singly, it wasn’t as cold that night as it had be­en on our first sky-map­ping trip in Oc­to­ber. But it was just as hard not to shi­ver every ti­me Zac­hary le­aned in clo­se to add anot­her star. I tri­ed not to no­ti­ce the way his dark las­hes flic­ke­red as his eyes se­arc­hed the pa­ge, or the way he bit his lip as he fi­gu­red out the per­fect pla­ce­ment. I tri­ed not to sta­re at the cur­ve of his neck as he cra­ned it to ga­ze at the sky, and won­der what it wo­uld fe­el li­ke to kiss it, right at the hol­low of his thro­at.

  I fa­iled.

  May­be it was the su­gar rush of eating all tho­se co­oki­es, but my hands we­re tremb­ling so hard I had to draw su­per slowly to ke­ep the li­nes stra­ight. It was ta­king fo­re­ver to fi­nish this stu­pid map.

  “Wa­it a mi­nu­te.” I flip­ped the she­et to lo­ok at last month’s chart of the so­ut­he­as­tern sky. “That bright yel­low one wasn’t the­re be­fo­re. May­be it was too hazy that night?”

  “May­be. Let me see the ot­her pa­ge.”

  I mo­ved the flash­light clo­ser and bent low over the chart. “It sho­uld ha­ve be­en he­re, in Ta­urus.”

  “Let me see.”

  “What star wo­uld be that bright? How co­uld we ha­ve mis­sed it last month?”

  “Aura.”

  Out of the cor­ner of my eye, I saw Zac­hary’s hand ne­ar my fa­ce. Slowly he brus­hed back my ha­ir, sli­ding it be­hind my sho­ul­der. His fin­ger­tip gra­zed my ba­re neck right un­der my ear.

  My en­ti­re body ten­sed. I held my bre­ath to ke­ep from gas­ping.

  “Sorry.” He qu­ickly tuc­ked the ends of my ha­ir in­si­de my ho­od. “It was in the way. I co­uldn’t see.”

  I sta­red at the pa­ge in front of me. If I tur­ned to lo­ok at him, it wo­uld be a
ll over. I’d ask him to do it aga­in. This ti­me, put all ten fin­gers in my ha­ir and on my neck and my sho­ul­ders and-

  This was de­fi­ni­tely not the su­gar tal­king.

  “What do you think it is?” I he­ard the hus­ki­ness of my vo­ice.

  “I know what it is,” Zac­hary sa­id softly. “But I think you sho­uld fi­gu­re it out yo­ur­self.”

  I tri­ed to for­ce my mind back to the pro­j­ect ins­te­ad of co­un­ting how many we­eks it had be­en sin­ce an­yo­ne had to­uc­hed me-re­al­ly to­uc­hed me, the way I wan­ted Zach to. I me­an, the way I wan­ted Lo­gan to.

  Bre­at­he. Blink. Fo­cus.

  Okay. A star whe­re the­re hadn’t be­en one be­fo­re. A su­per­no­va? A co­met?

  I smac­ked my fo­re­he­ad. “Duh.” I chec­ked the ste­ady yel­low-whi­te glow in the sky. “It’s Jupi­ter.”

  “Is that yo­ur fi­nal ans­wer?”

  I fi­nal­ly da­red to lo­ok at him. “It’s my fi­nal ans­wer.”

  In the fa­int red flash­light glow, his gre­en eyes had tur­ned al­most black. “I think you’re right.”

  “Go­od.” I la­ug­hed a lit­tle, to re­li­eve the ten­si­on.

  “Ye­ah. Go­od.” Zac­hary shif­ted, pul­ling one knee up and res­ting his el­bow on it. I won­de­red if he knew this was one of his hot­test po­ses.

  “Yo­ur turn to draw.” I tos­sed the pen­cil at his chest.

  “At le­ast my ha­ir won’t block yo­ur vi­ew.”

  “No, but yo­ur big he­ad might.” I craw­led be­hind him so he co­uld ta­ke my pla­ce in front of the chart.

  “I’ll ha­ve you know, my he­ad is a per­fectly ave­ra­ge si­ze.” He spre­ad his fin­gers. “My hands, tho­ugh, are enor­mo­us, and you know what they say-”

  “Shut up and draw, lad,” I sa­id in my best at­tempt at a Scot­tish ac­cent.

  “Ouch.” Zac­hary co­ve­red his ears. “Don’t try this at ho­me, child­ren.”

  “I tho­ught it so­un­ded go­od.”

  “In yo­ur he­ad, may­be.” He put down the pen­cil. “A few po­in­ters on tal­king li­ke a Scots­man. First, you don’t trill yo­ur r’s, you gently roll them. Try it. Say ‘no trill, just roll.’”

  “No trill, just roll.” I bit my lip. I had tril­led. Pos­sibly even spit on him.

  “No, no, it’s not Ita­li­an or Spa­nish. Don’t blud­ge­on that po­or r with yo­ur ton­gue.”

  “I can’t help it.” Must chan­ge to­pic from what ton­gu­es sho­uld do. “I to­ok Spa­nish. And my fa­mily’s Ita­li­an.”

  “They tell you to re­lax yo­ur mo­uth and let it go, right?” When I nod­ded, he rep­li­ed, “That’s the thing, then. Ke­ep in mind, my pe­op­le are ext­re­mely up­tight. So to talk li­ke a Scots­man, you’ve got to ke­ep that mo­uth un­der cont­rol.”

  “That’s no fun.”

  Zac­hary clo­sed his lips. He blin­ked and lo­oked to the right, then blin­ked aga­in and lo­oked back at me, as if pre­pa­ring to sha­re a sec­ret. His vo­ice ca­me low and growly. “You’d be surp­ri­sed how much fun it can be.”

  My he­art slam­med in my chest so hard, I tho­ught it wo­uld pop open my ribs. “Surp­ri­se me.”

  Whe­re had that co­me from?

  Zac­hary he­si­ta­ted, li­ke he was wa­iting for me to ta­ke it back, then shif­ted so he was sit­ting in front of me. He to­ok my fa­ce in his hands-which ac­tu­al­ly we­re pretty big-and pla­ced his thumbs un­der my che­ek­bo­nes, his lit­tle fin­gers un­der the cur­ve of my jaw. “Now say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Anything,” Zac­hary whis­pe­red.

  My bra­in scramb­led for a sen­ten­ce that was su­itably se­duc­ti­ve, or at le­ast funny. But at that mo­ment of sup­re­me pa­nic, the only thing whir­ling aro­und my mind was the Get­tys­burg Ad­dress.

  “Fo­ur sco­re and se­ven ye­ars ago, our fat­hers bro­ught forth on this con­ti­nent a new na­ti­on, con­ce­ived in li­berty.”

  Zac­hary’s grip kept my mo­uth from ope­ning too far. The r’s rol­led out softly, tap­ped by my ton­gue with a gent­le rest­ra­int.

  “And de­di­ca­ted to the pro­po­si­ti­on that all men are cre­ated equ­al.” I switc­hed back to my re­gu­lar ac­cent. “I for­get the rest.”

  “That was per­fect.” He sta­red in­to my eyes, bre­aking our ga­ze only to glan­ce at my lips. His warm hands still held my fa­ce, and the energy from his to­uch sent shocks zin­ging down my spi­ne and out in­to my limbs.

  An ext­ra-strong vib­ra­ti­on ca­me from my left si­de, ne­ar my he­art. I clo­sed my eyes and lif­ted my chin.

  “Aura.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Yo­ur, uh, yo­ur chest is hum­ming.” He let go of me.

  “Huh?” I blin­ked at the sud­den loss of his to­uch. “Oh, my pho­ne!” I un­zip­ped my jac­ket and fumb­led in the in­si­de poc­ket.

  It was my de­ar aunt and her im­pec­cab­le ti­ming.

  “What’s wrong?” I ans­we­red.

  “I’m just chec­king in,” Gi­na sa­id. “Ma­king su­re you ha­ven’t be­en eaten by wol­ves or hit by a stray bul­let from a hun­ter.”

  “I’m on a farm, not in the Yu­kon.”

  “You know me. I ha­ve to be Tur­bo God­mot­her so­me­ti­mes.”

  “It’s fi­ne. I’m fi­ne.”

  “You su­re? You so­und out of bre­ath.”

  “Ye­ah! I me­an, we just mo­ved our stuff be­ca­use of the-uh, the smell. Of cows.”

  “Ew. Are you al­most fi­nis­hed?”

  Zac­hary was al­re­ady bent over our map, ad­ding stars with a new ur­gency.

  “Yes,” I told her thro­ugh grit­ted te­eth. “I’ll be ho­me so­on.”

  When she sa­id go­od-bye, I clic­ked off and put the pho­ne back in my jac­ket.

  “I al­so fo­und Mars,” Zac­hary sa­id. “In Ge­mi­ni.” He po­in­ted to the so­ut­he­ast wit­ho­ut lo­oking at me. “See the red­dish oran­ge one? It’s ba­rely ri­sen.”

  “I see it.” I flip­ped the pa­ge in our bo­ok to a new qu­ad­rant of the sky, my hands still sha­king. I hadn’t felt li­ke this sin­ce the night Lo­gan and I had first kis­sed, af­ter his first con­cert a ye­ar ago.

  A ye­ar ago to­mor­row, I re­ali­zed. I’d al­most kis­sed anot­her guy a few ho­urs from our an­ni­ver­sary. Sha­me flus­hed my che­eks and fo­re­he­ad.

  At le­ast, I tho­ught it was sha­me.

  The mo­ment I pul­led away from Zac­hary’s apart­ment bu­il­ding, I he­ard a vo­ice be­si­de me.

  “La­te for a scho­ol night, isn’t it?”

  My fo­ot jam­med the bra­ke pe­dal in ref­lex. “Damn it, Lo­gan! Not whi­le I’m dri­ving.”

  “Sorry.” He la­id his arm along the pas­sen­ger-si­de win­dow. “I got wor­ri­ed.”

  “You too? Gi­na thinks I’ll be eaten by boll we­evils or so­met­hing.” I got the car mo­ving aga­in. “I’m pro­bably a lot sa­fer the­re than I am on my own stre­et.”

  “I bet it’s ni­ce out in the co­untry.”

  “It’s gor­ge­o­us. I can’t get over how qu­i­et it is.”

  He snor­ted. “Mr. Ed do­esn’t say much whi­le you’re ma­king yo­ur maps?”

  I squ­in­ted at him, not get­ting the joke. “Mr. Ed?”

  “I sa­id, ‘Mr. Red.’ Yo­ur fri­end or wha­te­ver he is.”

  “Zac­hary? Why do you call him that?”

  “I can’t even lo­ok at him. Du­de we­ars red shirts li­ke they’re go­ing out of style. Which un­for­tu­na­tely they ne­ver will,” he grumb­led.

  “What are you tal­king abo­ut? Zach ne­ver we­ars red. He do­esn’t ha­ve to, be­ca­use he’s a pre-Shif­ter. I told you that.”

  “So now he’s ‘Zach’ to you? I ne­ver got a nick­na­me.”

  I tho­ugh
t of se­ve­ral nick­na­mes he wo­uldn’t li­ke. “Watch it, Lo­gan. The je­alo­usy ro­uti­ne do­es not gi­ve me warm fuz­zi­es.”

  “I don’t know anyt­hing abo­ut this guy. May­be if you fil­led me in, I wo­uldn’t be so-I don’t know-”

  “Thre­ate­ned?”

  “I’m not thre­ate­ned.” His vo­ice ro­se, and the ed­ges of his form flic­ke­red and fa­ded. The sight sent a chill ri­coc­he­ting thro­ugh me.

  I had to calm him down. “The­re’s not much to tell,” I sa­id as I tur­ned on­to the park­way, which this la­te at night held no­ne of its usu­al traf­fic. “He’s a juni­or, he’s in my his­tory class. Oh, and he’s from Scot­land.”

  “Did you know bag­pi­pes we­re ac­tu­al­ly in­ven­ted in Ire­land?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Lo­gan snic­ke­red. “Ye­ah, we ga­ve them to Scot­land as a prac­ti­cal joke. They still ha­ven’t fi­gu­red it out.”

  I chuck­led, if only to in­dul­ge him. I co­uldn’t ex­pect him not to be je­alo­us-after all, Zac­hary co­uld to­uch me, and Lo­gan co­uldn’t. All I had to do to get rid of Lo­gan, even now, was ta­ke a turn down a new ro­ad. If I we­re stan­ding in his sho­es-his vi­olet high-top Vans, to be exact-I’d be exp­lo­ding with fe­ar and frust­ra­ti­on.

  We re­ac­hed a stop­light. “Lo­gan, do you ever think abo­ut plans?”

  “Plans for what?”

  “For the fu­tu­re. Be­yond next we­ek or next month.”

  He didn’t reply at first. The traf­fic light tur­ned gre­en be­fo­re he spo­ke.

  “I do ha­ve a plan,” he sa­id qu­i­etly, but didn’t ela­bo­ra­te.

  “Can you tell me?”

  “I don’t want to ru­in the ti­me we ha­ve to­get­her. Can we just enj­oy this for now?”

  My fin­gers grew cold on the ste­ering whe­el. “What are you plan­ning? Are you go­ing to-chan­ge?”

  “Huh?” Lo­gan so­un­ded ge­nu­inely con­fu­sed. “Chan­ge how?”

  “I don’t know.” I tur­ned on­to my stre­et a lit­tle too fast, and the ti­res ma­de a tiny squ­e­al. “Into a sha­de?”

  “What?” Lo­gan’s sho­ut ec­ho­ed in the car. “Are you kid­ding? Aura, I wo­uld ne­ver in a mil­li­on ye­ars. That’s in­sa­ne.” He le­aned to­ward me, his glow al­most bur­ning my eyes. “How can you even think it? Why wo­uld I want to be a”-his vo­ice plum­me­ted to a whis­per-“sha­de?”