Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  Dylan gro­aned and drag­ged his fin­gers aga­inst the bu­il­ding’s ro­ugh sur­fa­ce. “So it’s our fa­ult.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Then it’s my fa­ult. I sho­uldn’t ha­ve let him try to pass on if he wasn’t re­ady.”

  “It was his cho­ice, so stop it.” I pus­hed Dylan’s arm. “Lo­gan wo­uld be pis­sed if he he­ard you bla­ming yo­ur­self.”

  “You know what? Fuck him.” He slam­med the he­el of his hand aga­inst the brick wall. “Fuck you, Lo­gan.” Dylan po­un­ded with the si­des of his fists, li­ke a child ha­ving a tant­rum. He punc­hed the bu­il­ding in ti­me to the words. “Fuck. You. Fuck. You. Fuck. You. Fuck you!” The last one ca­me out as a long howl.

  I didn’t lo­ok to see who might be sta­ring. I just to­ok Dylan’s hand and fol­ded it in­si­de my own.

  He stop­ped, pan­ting, his fo­re­he­ad still pres­sed aga­inst the wall. I rub­bed his knuck­les and felt his blo­od sme­ar warm aga­inst my palm.

  Fi­nal­ly Dylan ang­led his he­ad to­ward me, a wa­ve of brown ha­ir fal­ling over his eye. “What do we do now?”

  “This ti­me we don’t lis­ten to Lo­gan.” I drop­ped his hand. “We wa­it.”

  * * *

  I rid my ro­om of red. I dum­ped the flan­nel she­ets on­to the Go­od­will pi­le in the ba­se­ment and rep­la­ced them with the purp­le-black ones, tho­ugh they we­ren’t as warm. I ga­ve my ob­si­di­an neck­la­ce to Me­gan for sa­fe­ke­eping. Li­ke Aunt Gi­na sa­id, I wo­uld want it one day, but not to­day.

  Two nights af­ter the tri­al-the night be­fo­re scho­ol star­ted aga­in-Gi­na drop­ped me off out­si­de Zac­hary’s apart­ment bu­il­ding whi­le she went to pick up ta­ke­o­ut for din­ner. I didn’t want to ha­ve this con­ver­sa­ti­on in his­tory class or the ca­fe­te­ria, or over the pho­ne. I owed Zac­hary that much.

  When he ans­we­red the do­or, I han­ded him a shop­ping bag con­ta­ining two whi­te bo­xes-a long one and a squ­are one.

  “Which sho­uld I open first?” Zac­hary sa­id as he sho­wed me in, hol­ding the do­or wi­de for my crut­c­hes.

  “The small one is co­oki­es. My grand­mom sent me a bunch for New Ye­ar’s.” I glan­ced aro­und at the small apart­ment he sha­red with his dad. The li­ving ro­om was spar­se and ne­at. I co­uld see in­to the kitc­hen, whe­re a te­aket­tle rat­tled on the lit front bur­ner of a gle­aming whi­te gas sto­ve.

  “You didn’t ha­ve to do that, but thanks very much.” He set the small box on the squ­are di­ning tab­le, then ope­ned the long box. “Oh.” He to­uc­hed the red ro­ses, the­ir dri­ed pe­tals rust­ling un­der his fin­ger­tips. “You’ve de­ci­ded, then.”

  My he­art twin­ged at the di­sap­po­int­ment in his vo­ice. “You we­re right.”

  He pres­sed the lid back on­to the box. “I ha­te be­ing this sort of right.” A low whist­le ca­me from the kitc­hen, qu­ickly bu­il­ding in pitch. “Do you want tea?”

  I sho­ok my he­ad. “I can’t stay.”

  He went in long eno­ugh to turn off the sto­ve, then ca­me back to stop at the ed­ge of the kitc­hen. “What was I right abo­ut, exactly?”

  “You we­re right when you sa­id he’d ta­ke a pi­ece of me with him when he left.”

  Zac­hary nod­ded and ga­ve a sympat­he­tic scoff. “Espe­ci­al­ly the way he left.”

  I glan­ced in­to the dark hal­lway le­ading to the bed­ro­oms. Zac­hary had sa­id we’d be alo­ne, and I trus­ted him. “I think I can bring Lo­gan back.”

  He lo­oked at me sadly. “I know you want to be­li­eve that, but-”

  “It hap­pe­ned be­fo­re.”

  Zac­hary sta­red at me, then snatc­hed up a set of keys and led me in­to the apart­ment bu­il­ding’s hal­lway. He didn’t spe­ak as he gu­ided me down the cor­ri­dor to an un­mar­ked do­or. He in­ser­ted the key in the knob and us­he­red me in­si­de.

  In the bright la­undry ro­om, a was­her chur­ned. Next to it a dryer hum­med and thum­ped, li­ke it was tumb­ling a pa­ir of sne­akers.

  “Why is this ro­om loc­ked?” I as­ked Zac­hary.

  “Ke­ep the folks from the next bu­il­ding from using our wash, I sup­po­se.” He le­aned back aga­inst the wall, cros­sing his arms. “This is whe­re my dad and I co­me to talk abo­ut anyt­hing im­por­tant. We as­su­me the DMP bug­ged our flat.”

  Stan­ding clo­se so he co­uld he­ar me over the no­ise of the mac­hi­nes, I told him everyt­hing. Abo­ut that night at my win­dow, how Lo­gan had sha­ded in re­ac­ti­on to my ob­si­di­an pen­dant (and my bre­aking up with him), how the DMP agents had war­ned me to warn him, and fi­nal­ly, what had hap­pe­ned Fri­day night at the Gre­en Derby.

  Zac­hary lis­te­ned with fur­ro­wed brows, tap­ping his he­el aga­inst the wall. When I fi­nis­hed, he exa­mi­ned me for a long mo­ment.

  “Every post-Shif­ter in that pub saw Lo­gan turn sha­de,” he sa­id. “If you bro­ught him back aga­in, it co­uld bring ho­pe to a lot of pe­op­le. And fe­ar to a lot of ot­her pe­op­le. It co­uld chan­ge ever­y­t­hing.”

  “I know.” My hands we­re clo­se eno­ugh to to­uch him, but I kept them wrap­ped aro­und the grips of the crutc­hes. “That’s why it’s not just for Lo­gan.”

  Zac­hary’s eyes sof­te­ned. “It starts with him. He ne­eds you.”

  “I know I can’t sa­ve him, and I can’t chan­ge him. But may­be I can gi­ve him the strength to chan­ge him­self.”

  “By be­li­eving in his light.”

  I wan­ted to hug him. “You re­al­ly, re­al­ly get it. You’re so ama­zing.”

  “I just pay at­ten­ti­on.” Zac­hary slid his hands in­to the poc­kets of his gray Rid­ge­wo­od swe­ats­hirt. “You’re no’ go­ing back to him. As a girlf­ri­end, I me­an.”

  I blin­ked in surp­ri­se. “How can you tell?”

  “Sa­me way I co­uld tell it wasn’t over when you we­re in hos­pi­tal. You co­uldn’t lo­ok me in the eye when you sa­id his na­me. And now you can.”

  He saw me so cle­arly, I wan­ted to back away-run away, even. “I can’t be with an­yo­ne right now. If you get sick of wa­iting, I’ll un­ders­tand. Li­ke you sa­id, you’re no’ a blo­ody sa­int.” I tri­ed to rep­li­ca­te his ac­cent to re­li­eve the ten­si­on.

  “So­met­hing tells me I won’t ne­ed a sa­int’s pa­ti­en­ce.” His smi­le ver­ged on a smirk, then fa­ded back to sin­ce­rity. He re­ac­hed out and co­ve­red my hand on the grip of my crutch, gi­ving me plenty of ti­me to shift away. “I no­ti­ced the­re we­re only fi­ve red ro­ses in that box, not six.”

  My thumb cur­led over his. “I kept one. As a re­min­der.” I pic­tu­red it in its va­se on our di­ning ro­om tab­le, dri­ed to a de­ep bur­gundy.

  “Of the past?” Zac­hary held my ga­ze. “Or the fu­tu­re?”

  He­at rus­hed to my fa­ce and fin­ger­tips. “Both.”

  I pul­led my hand out of his be­fo­re we co­uld go any furt­her. A mo­ment la­ter the dryer buz­zer went off. We both start­led, and I al­most lost my ba­lan­ce. He ste­adi­ed me as the ro­om qu­i­eted ex­cept for the shush-shush of the was­hing mac­hi­ne.

  I ga­ve a ner­vo­us la­ugh. “I gu­ess our ti­me’s up.”

  “It is.” Zac­hary let go of me and ope­ned the la­undry ro­om do­or. “For now.”

  Days tur­ned in­to we­eks as I wa­ited. I pla­yed every bit of mu­sic Lo­gan lo­ved. Band af­ter band, the do­zens of play­lists he’d bu­ilt for me over the ye­ars, stretc­hing back to the mix CD “Songs to Ska­te Yo­ur Ass Off (To),” from when we we­re thir­te­en. I even tri­ed the Black An­gels’ Di­rec­ti­ons to See a Ghost, thin­king he might find it funny (plus, I re­ad on­li­ne that the song “Ne­ver/Ever” re­so­na­tes at a de­ad-fri­endly fre­qu­ency).

  I beg­ged. I thre­ate�
�ned. I cri­ed.

  No one saw him, in any form. The Ke­eleys used the­ir mul­ti­mil­li­on-dol­lar award from War­rant Re­cords to buy a new, fully Black­Bo­xed ho­use in the sa­me scho­ol dist­rict. The­re was no po­int in mo­ving far away, sin­ce as a sha­de, Lo­gan co­uld go an­y­w­he­re.

  Janu­ary bro­ught moc­kery and mid­terms, but I sur­vi­ved both. Feb­ru­ary iced the stre­ets, si­de­walks, and tre­es, po­uring on la­yer af­ter la­yer of sil­ver, tha­wing each day only to fre­eze aga­in, thic­ker, each night. Still I wa­ited.

  Until, on the first night of spring, when March had mel­ted the sil­ver in­to go­opy gray slush, I had no mu­sic left. I’d pla­yed it all.

  So I sto­od in si­len­ce by my open win­dow, watc­hing the cars drift by, the­ir ti­res swis­hing thro­ugh dirty pud­dles.

  Fi­nal­ly I co­uldn’t ta­ke any mo­re wa­iting.

  “Lo­gan, whe­re are you?” I ba­nis­hed all fe­ar and an­ger and pity from my vo­ice. “I know you don’t want to be li­ke this. I know you want to co­me back. So ple­ase co­me back.”

  And then it hit me. My hands tur­ned cold on the win­dow­sill, tho­ugh the bre­eze thro­ugh the scre­en held mo­re than a hint of spring warmth.

  “Are you happy this way? Do you want to stay a sha­de?” My vo­ice bro­ke. “If you want me to gi­ve up on you, just say so. Show me a sign.”

  I clo­sed my eyes, ex­pec­ting mo­re of the sa­me. Ex­pec­ting not­hing.

  The shri­ek ca­me from a dis­tan­ce, qu­i­et at first, then spi­king in vo­lu­me li­ke a song cran­ked up at a party.

  “No…”

  The blast of black shot thro­ugh my win­dow, stra­ight thro­ugh my body. My kne­es ga­ve way. I col­lap­sed on the flo­or, every musc­le qu­aking. My sto­mach twis­ted and fol­ded.

  “AURA!!” Lo­gan’s vo­ice crack­led li­ke fe­ed­back in a mic­rop­ho­ne. “I TOLD YOU NOT TO WA­IT!!”

  “I don’t-lis­ten-to sha­des.”

  Lo­gan’s scre­am slur­red his res­pon­se. The ro­om se­emed to roll and pitch. I clutc­hed the ed­ge of my bed­ro­om rug to ke­ep from sli­ding in­to ob­li­vi­on.

  With all my will, I wrap­ped my mind aro­und the DMP’s pho­tog­raph of him-his eyes lif­ted to the sta­ge lights, his hand stretc­hed out to the world that ado­red him. His fa­ce full of the fu­tu­re.

  Lo­gan wa­iled, squ­e­ezing his light from my me­mory. But I wo­uld ne­ver let go.

  “You can’t fo­ol me.” My jaw loc­ked up, but I for­ced out the words. “You burn too bright for this.”

  The sud­den si­len­ce was mo­re de­afe­ning than the scre­ams. I kept my eyes clo­sed, af­ra­id they wo­uld show me the sa­me dark, empty ro­om I’d se­en for three months.

  But be­yond my lids, a vi­olet glow emer­ged.

  I ope­ned my eyes.

  In front of me, cle­ar and crisp as a cold night sky, sto­od a pa­ir of chec­ke­red high-top Vans.

  Then, soft as a pra­yer, Lo­gan whis­pe­red one word.

  “Wow.”

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  8/5/2010