Shade 01 - Shade Read online

  “Oh.” He shif­ted his bo­oks un­der his ot­her arm. “Mrs. Ric­hards sa­id you ne­eded help with yo­ur the­sis.”

  My mo­uth drop­ped open.

  Me­gan snor­ted. “Uh-oh.”

  “I don’t ne­ed help with anyt­hing,” I told him.

  “But ever­yo­ne el­se has a part­ner for-”

  “Ever­yo­ne el­se is re­se­arc­hing easy to­pics li­ke the French Re­vo­lu­ti­on or the Bo­er Wars. I’m wor­king on-” I pul­led my bin­der to my chest. “So­met­hing im­por­tant.”

  “Me­ga­liths,” he of­fe­red. “Li­ke Sto­ne­hen­ge. I know a bit abo­ut them.”

  I frow­ned. No way his “know­led­ge” wo­uld ha­ve anyt­hing to do with the ans­wers I was se­eking. I’d spe­ci­fi­cal­ly told Mrs. Ric­hards I wan­ted to do my re­se­arch alo­ne. Any part­ner wo­uld think I was crazy for in­ves­ti­ga­ting whet­her the me­ga­liths we­re con­nec­ted to the Shift.

  “Are you a Dro­id?” Me­gan as­ked him. “Li­ke the ones who bu­ilt it?”

  Zac­hary’s che­eks dimp­led as if he was trying not to la­ugh. “You me­an a Dru­id. No, I’m af­ra­id not.”

  “Be­si­des,” I told her, “Dru­ids didn’t bu­ild Sto­ne­hen­ge. It’s way ol­der than them. They just say they bu­ilt it so they can ha­ve the­ir lit­tle fes­ti­vals the­re. It’s to­tal bul­lshit.”

  Me­gan coc­ked her he­ad at Zac­hary. “Su­re you’re man eno­ugh to work with this girl?”

  “She’ll tell me if I’m not.” He win­ked at her, and I felt we­irdly je­alo­us.

  Me­gan sha­ded her eyes to pe­er up at the clock to­wer. “Aura, as­sembly’s in ten, and I got­ta pee li­ke crazy. Sa­ve you a se­at?”

  “Thanks.”

  She sent me a sly glan­ce over her sho­ul­der as she wal­ked away. Zac­hary to­ok her spot be­si­de me.

  “So what do you know abo­ut me­ga­liths?” I as­ked him. Ugh, I had to cle­ar my thro­at aga­in. I pro­bably so­un­ded li­ke a pack-a-day smo­ker.

  “Well, be­fo­re I mo­ved he­re last we­ek? I ne­ver li­ved mo­re than an ho­ur’s dri­ve from stan­ding sto­nes.”

  The back of my neck ting­led at the tho­ught. “Wow. In Scot­land?” I re­ali­zed how stu­pid that so­un­ded, but he sa­ved me.

  “Right, and Ire­land, Wa­les, Eng­land. Ot­her pla­ces I’ve li­ved.”

  “Are the sto­ne rings-you know, cre­epy?”

  “You me­an ma­gi­cal?”

  I nod­ded, en­co­ura­ged by his se­ri­o­us fa­ce. “Do you ever get used to it? Is it ever li­ke se­e­ing, I don’t know, a gar­ba­ge truck?”

  “A gar­ba­ge truck?”

  “Ordi­nary. Or do the sto­nes ha­ve all this we­ird energy zin­ging off them?”

  “It de­pends.” Zac­hary pul­led one fo­ot on­to the bench and res­ted his el­bow on his bent knee.

  “De­pends?” I tri­ed not to check out his cu­te ank­le pe­eking thro­ugh his san­dal. (What kind of dork no­ti­ces ank­les?) His fa­ce was just as dist­rac­ting, so I fo­cu­sed on an ima­gi­nary po­int over his left sho­ul­der. “De­pends on what?”

  “The­ir ar­ran­ge­ment. The ti­me of day. The we­at­her. At sun­ri­se or just be­fo­re a thun­ders­torm, they al­most lo­ok ali­ve. Li­ke they’re wa­iting for so­met­hing to hap­pen, you know?” Zac­hary rub­bed his chin, then spre­ad his fin­gers as he lo­oked at me thro­ugh his thick, dark las­hes. “But mostly it de­pends on yo­ur mo­od.”

  My neck war­med at the way his lips puc­ke­red with the oo so­und, and then the way his ton­gue tag­ged the d. This was Bad with a ca­pi­tal Hell No. Lo­gan was the only guy who’d ever ma­de me fe­el li­ke this, li­ke I had a caf­fe­ine over­do­se and a se­cond-deg­ree sun­burn. Get a grip, Aura. It’s just the ac­cent.

  “Ha­ve you ne­ver se­en any, then?” he as­ked me.

  “Just pic­tu­res.” I twis­ted the zip­per at the end of my jac­ket sle­eve. “I’ve ne­ver be­en out of the co­untry, ex­cept to Italy for my gre­at-grand­mot­her’s fu­ne­ral.”

  “Oh, you sho­uld go so­me­day. Es­pe­ci­al­ly sin­ce the sto­nes are so im­por­tant to you.”

  A sud­den chill flo­wed over me, li­ke I’d be­en strip­ped na­ked. “They’re not im­por­tant to me.”

  “Then why did you pick this to­pic?”

  “I just think they’re co­ol, okay?” I slap­ped my bin­der shut. “And I don’t ne­ed help stud­ying them.”

  “Mrs. Ric­hards sa­id you’d say that. She al­so sa­id to tell you that you ha­ve no cho­ice.” He whip­ped out his pho­ne li­ke he was dra­wing a we­apon. “Gi­ve me yo­ur num­ber. How’s Sun­day?”

  I didn’t hi­de my gro­an of dis­may, but exc­han­ged my in­for­ma­ti­on for his and ope­ned the ca­len­dar app on my pho­ne. “Sun­day I ha­ve my first me­eting with my ad­vi­ser at Col­le­ge Park.” For our the­ses, we we­re re­qu­ired to ha­ve ex­pert gu­idan­ce from so­me­one out­si­de our scho­ol.

  “Bril­li­ant. I’ll go with you. Pick me up at no­on? I can’t dri­ve he­re yet, and this city’s pub­lic trans­port is crap.”

  I he­si­ta­ted, won­de­ring if I sho­uld be alo­ne in a car with this stran­ge guy. I de­ci­ded to check him out with Mrs. Ric­hards. If he se­emed the le­ast bit se­ri­al kil­ler-ish, I’d ask for a new part­ner.

  “You’re just he­re to help,” I sa­id. “I’ve al­re­ady star­ted this pro­j­ect, and I know whe­re I want it to go.”

  “And whe­re’s that, Aura?” Zac­hary met my gla­re with a co­ol ga­ze. “What do you ho­pe you’ll find?”

  “That is not yo­ur bu­si­ness.” I sto­od and snatc­hed up my bag be­fo­re he co­uld see the flush on my fa­ce.

  “You’ll ne­ed my ad­dress to pick me up.”

  “Gi­ve it to me at the as­sembly.” I stal­ked to­ward the do­ub­le do­ors un­der the pe­aked sto­ne arch­way. “We’ll be la­te.”

  “I’m no’ go­ing to the as­sembly.”

  I stop­ped and lo­oked at him. “I tho­ught you we­re a juni­or.”

  “I am, but I was born pre-Shift.” He slid off the bench, his long legs un­fol­ding in a flu­id mo­ti­on. “Only by a mi­nu­te, tho­ugh,” he sa­id as he pas­sed me.

  My bag slid out of my hand and thud­ded on­to the pa­ve­ment. Zac­hary kept wal­king.

  I sat in the audi­to­ri­um, clutc­hing my se­at’s arm­rests, as the DMP agents-or “dum­pers,” as we call them-led what sho­uld ha­ve be­en the most bo­ring lec­tu­re of my li­fe.

  The blon­de in the stark whi­te uni­form po­in­ted her re­mo­te at a lap­top on the pro­j­ec­tor, ta­king us to the se­cond Po­wer­Po­int sli­de. Then she con­ti­nu­ed her spi­el.

  “As far as we can tell,” she sa­id, “the Shift to­ok pla­ce du­ring that ye­ar’s win­ter sols­ti­ce. De­cem­ber twenty-first, oh-eight-fifty Uni­ver­sal Ti­me. That wo­uld be three fifty a.m. lo­cal ti­me.”

  I glan­ced at Me­gan be­si­de me, slo­uc­hed in her se­at, jac­ket shrug­ged up to her ears. She was one of the few pe­op­le who knew that that was the mo­ment of my birth.

  So­me­body had to be first, right? Why not me? And so­me­body el­se had to be last, be­fo­re the Shift. Zac­hary. The­re we­re pro­bably hund­reds of ot­hers aro­und the world born du­ring our mi­nu­tes. It’s not li­ke I was the first-first, or he was the last-last.

  Still, what we­re the chan­ces we’d me­et he­re? We’re not exactly on top of an al­le­ged mysti­cal vor­tex li­ke Sto­ne­hen­ge or Se­do­na, Ari­zo­na. This is Bal­ti­mo­re. Ho­me of ste­amed crabs and big ha­ir. Even Ed­gar Al­lan Poe’s ghost ne­ver hung out he­re, and he di­ed right down on Fa­yet­te Stre­et.

  A fol­ded pi­ece of pa­per jab­bed my arm. I to­ok Me­gan’s no­te. (Low-tech, I know, but the Black­Box screws with elect�
�ro­nic sig­nals, so tex­ting and cell pho­ne calls in­si­de scho­ol are pretty much out.)

  What’s up, Pup?

  I wro­te, Zac­hary was born one mi­nu­te be­fo­re me, and pas­sed it back.

  Me­gan scrib­bled, LI­AR!!

  She me­ant him, not me. But why wo­uld he say that un­less it we­re true, and/or he knew when I was born and wan­ted to mess with my he­ad?

  Co­uld the­re be a de­eper ans­wer, so­met­hing that wo­uld un­lock the mystery of who (and why) I was?

  I smo­ot­hed out the wrink­les ne­ar the se­ams of my fa­ded je­ans, trying to calm my ca­re­ening ima­gi­na­ti­on. Zac­hary pro­bably didn’t know anyt­hing abo­ut me. The fact that he lo­oked li­ke he co­uld star in a James Bond Jr. film just ma­de him se­em mo­re exo­tic than the ave­ra­ge guy.

  The agent switc­hed off the pro­j­ec­tor, dar­ke­ning the scre­en. She sat on the ed­ge of the tab­le and le­aned for­ward, as if she we­re abo­ut to tell us a sec­ret. Mo­re li­ke gi­ve the clo­sing sa­les pitch.

  “A ye­ar and a half from now,” she sa­id, “the first class of post-Shif­ters will gra­du­ate. The De­part­ment of Me­taphy­si­cal Pu­rity ne­eds you-as trans­la­tors, en­gi­ne­ers, in­ves­ti­ga­tors… the list go­es on. With us, you co­uld ha­ve any ca­re­er track you want. And he­re’s the kic­ker: We’ll pay for yo­ur edu­ca­ti­on.”

  Most of my clas­sma­tes sat up stra­igh­ter at the men­ti­on of free col­le­ge. Our fa­mi­li­es al­re­ady had a mo­un­ta­in of debt from pri­va­te-scho­ol tu­iti­on. But my aunt wo­uld rat­her ha­ve a who­le mo­un­ta­in ran­ge of debt than let me be a dum­per.

  Me­gan po­ked my arm. She tur­ned her no­te­bo­ok to show me:

  YOU & ZACH = SECRET TWINS?!?

  I scow­led, and her eyes went wi­de as she re­ali­zed she’d step­ped in­to that su­bj­ect. She scratc­hed out the words and wro­te in big­ger let­ters, SORRY.

  I cur­led my arms aro­und my wa­ist, fe­eling cold. Ex-Ha­zel’s words ca­me back to me, abo­ut how I’d ne­ver lost anyt­hing im­por­tant. Sin­ce I was ba­rely three when my mot­her di­ed of can­cer, ever­yo­ne thinks I don’t miss her. But so­me­ti­mes I wish that if she had to die, she wo­uld ha­ve do­ne it sud­denly, so that at le­ast I co­uld’ve known her ghost. The­re’s so much I wo­uld’ve as­ked her.

  And it’s not li­ke I’d ne­ver tho­ught abo­ut what wo­uld hap­pen if my aunt or grand­mom di­ed and then ha­un­ted me. Part of me even wis­hed my fat­her’s ghost wo­uld show up one day.

  Be­ca­use at le­ast then, I’d find out who he was.

  Chapter Three

  The Ke­eley Brot­hers’ gig was at a north­west Bal­ti­mo­re Co­unty com­mu­nity cen­ter. Not the world’s most cut­ting-edge ve­nue, but it had an ac­tu­al sta­ge, and an ac­tu­al bac­k­s­ta­ge that led to a pri­va­te exit, which wo­uld add to the mysti­que, Lo­gan sa­id. The band mem­bers co­uld le­ave the bu­il­ding wit­ho­ut me­an­de­ring thro­ugh the crowd li­ke me­re mor­tals.

  Me­gan and I got din­ner at the mall fo­od co­urt, but we only had eno­ugh ap­pe­ti­te to split a sa­lad and a yo­gurt. I was so ner­vo­us for Lo­gan, my sto­mach was le­aping and di­ving li­ke a kit­ten on spe­ed.

  I sip­ped my iced tea and watc­hed a wo­man in her twen­ti­es bring a strol­ler to a stop out­si­de the win­dow of Baby Gap. She spre­ad her hands in frust­ra­ti­on at the se­lec­ti­on, and I knew what she was thin­king. Ni­nety per­cent of the clot­hes we­re red this se­ason, just as they’d be­en every se­ason sin­ce we re­ali­zed the de­ad ha­te that co­lor. Un­li­ke ob­si­di­an, it’s not fo­olp­ro­of, but it’s bet­ter than not­hing. Me­gan and I ne­ver wo­re red to any pla­ce im­por­tant, li­ke a club or even the mall. No way we wo­uld ad­ver­ti­se the fact that we we­re only six­te­en.

  Whi­le we ate, we tal­ked abo­ut everyt­hing but the gig, and tri­ed to avo­id the at­ten­ti­on of ghosts, ba­rely vi­sib­le in the sha­do­wed cor­ners.

  They ne­ver spo­ke among them­sel­ves and, as far as I co­uld tell, didn’t know that ot­her ghosts exis­ted. Anot­her mystery, this one a tiny branch off the Big Qu­es­ti­on of why the Shift hap­pe­ned in the first pla­ce. If I knew that, I’d ma­ke it un­hap­pen.

  “So what are you gi­ving Lo­gan for his birth­day?” Me­gan as­ked me.

  I chec­ked my pur­se to ma­ke su­re it was shut, hi­ding the wrap­ped gift. “It’s per­so­nal.”

  “I al­re­ady know abo­ut the sex. What’s mo­re per­so­nal than that?”

  With me and Lo­gan? Mu­sic. I’d bo­ught him an autog­rap­hed copy of Snow Pat­rol’s Eyes Open CD off of eBay, but I wan­ted to gi­ve it to him alo­ne. Mic­key and Me­gan had this thing abo­ut “sel­lo­ut” bands-as so­on as an ar­tist had a Top 40 hit, they we­re eter­nal­ly un­co­ol. But all Lo­gan and I ca­red abo­ut was how the mu­sic ma­de us fe­el when we we­re to­get­her.

  “Ha­ve you se­en my baby?” a vi­olet wo­man as­ked us. She sto­od so clo­se to our tab­le she was prac­ti­cal­ly a part of it, but in the light we co­uld ba­rely see her shim­me­ring out­li­ne.

  “No, sorry,” we mumb­led, fo­cu­sing on our fo­od.

  “How do you know?” The ghost’s vo­ice shar­pe­ned. “I ha­ven’t even told you what he lo­oks li­ke.”

  I set down my spo­on. “Did you try yo­ur ho­me?”

  “Of co­ur­se I did, but they went and mo­ved. I know I sho­uld’ve sta­yed away, but I co­uldn’t. I ma­de him cry just by sit­ting on the end of his bed.” When we didn’t re­act, the wo­man mo­ved in­to our tab­le, stan­ding bet­we­en us. “I’m his mot­her, how co­uld he be sca­red of me? I pus­hed him out of the way of that car, and now he go­es run­ning to that who­re for com­fort. Calls her ‘Mommy’ now. Ung­ra­te­ful lit­tle be­ast.”

  “I’m su­re he’s gra­te­ful,” I told her, “or he will be so­me­day. But you’re de­ad. You’re not part of our world any­mo­re. On­ce you de­al with that, you can mo­ve on.”

  Me­gan slur­ped the last of her drink, then set her cup down in the mid­dle of the ghost. “Co­me on, we got­ta get re­ady.”

  The gig wasn’t for two ho­urs, but I nod­ded and pic­ked up my bag. We he­aded for the exit wit­ho­ut anot­her word for the ghost, even as she shri­eked be­hind us, “I don’t want to mo­ve on. I want my son!”

  He­ads tur­ned our way-not all of them, just the post-Shif­ters’. A fresh­man girl from my de­ba­te te­am ga­ve a sympat­he­tic wa­ve, which hel­ped ease the knot in my neck as I bra­ced for the ine­vi­tab­le tant­rum.

  “Don’t you walk away from me!” the ghost snar­led.

  A tod­dler in yel­low ove­ral­ls burst in­to te­ars. His mom pic­ked him up, lo­oking exas­pe­ra­ted at his chan­ge in mo­od.

  “Shut up!” the ghost shri­eked at the child. “You still ha­ve yo­ur mot­her, so-Shut! Up!”

  The tod­dler wa­iled lo­uder, and Me­gan and I hur­ri­ed to­ward the bright light of the exit.

  Out­si­de, we we­re alo­ne as so­on as the do­or clo­sed be­hind us. I gu­ess the ghost ne­ver used that ent­ran­ce when she was ali­ve.

  “Jesus, Aura,” Me­gan sa­id. “An in­ter­ven­ti­on in the fo­od co­urt?”

  “I can’t help it so­me­ti­mes.”

  “It’s less cru­el just to ig­no­re them.”

  “I don’t know, may­be.” One the­ory sa­id that “enga­ging” ghosts ac­tu­al­ly ma­de them hang out in our world lon­ger. The lon­ger they sta­yed-and sta­yed un­hap­py-the mo­re li­kely they we­re to be­co­me sha­des.

  But I co­uldn’t help ima­gi­ning how it wo­uld fe­el to be trap­ped he­re with no body, no way to chan­ge anyt­hing. How lo­nely it wo­uld be for no one to he­ar or see you, ex­cept lit­tle kids who cri­ed when you tal­ked to them, or pe­op­le me and Me­gan’s
age, who just wan­ted to be left alo­ne.

  I lo­oked back at the mall ent­ran­ce and saw the ghost watc­hing us from in­si­de the dar­ke­ned do­or­way. The mot­her with the scre­aming child wal­ked right thro­ugh her.

  Me­gan and I got to the com­mu­nity cen­ter in ti­me to chan­ge and find a spot up front. We’d mis­sed the so­und check on pur­po­se, sin­ce it usu­al­ly con­sis­ted of Mic­key yel­ling at Lo­gan, who wo­uld res­pond with si­lent obs­ce­ne ges­tu­res (to sa­ve his vo­ice).

  Be­fo­re long, the pla­ce was pac­ked and swe­aty, most pe­op­le al­re­ady bo­un­cing to the re­cor­ded mu­sic on the spe­akers.

  We bo­os­ted our butts up to sit on the ed­ge of the sta­ge so we co­uld scan the crowd.

  “What do re­cor­ding la­bel pe­op­le lo­ok li­ke?” I as­ked Me­gan. “They we­ar su­its?”

  “Not the in­die guy, I bet,” she sa­id. “He’ll pro­bably lo­ok hip­per than us.”

  “Easy, in my ca­se.” My aunt wo­uldn’t al­low non-ear pi­er­cings or funky dye li­ke the gre­en stre­ak in Me­gan’s red ha­ir, and my clot­hes had de­sig­na­ted no-rip zo­nes.

  I co­uldn’t hi­de ha­ir or pi­er­cings, but clot­hes co­uld be chan­ged. Hen­ce my sle­eve­less black Ran­cid T-shirt with the long di­ago­nal ra­zor cuts ac­ross the front and back. It lo­oked li­ke I’d be­en swi­ped by the claws of a twenty-fo­ot co­ugar. Whi­te ca­mi un­der­ne­ath, be­ca­use I’m not a to­tal skank, and be­si­des, I wan­ted Lo­gan to be the first to see the new bra.

  I swung my legs, knoc­king to­get­her the ins­teps of my black pinst­ri­pe cre­epers. I wan­ted to dan­ce, but even mo­re, I wan­ted them to get that first song over with. When they na­iled it, the rest of the night was he­aven. When it tan­ked-well, let’s just say Ca­in and Abel had not­hing on Mic­key and Lo­gan.

  The re­cor­ded mu­sic fa­ded as the ho­use dar­ke­ned. We jum­ped off the sta­ge, in­to a throb­bing mass of hu­mans. The­re co­uldn’t ha­ve be­en mo­re than a tho­usand pe­op­le, but the­ir ro­ar se­emed to ma­ke the walls pul­se.