Bridge: A Shade short story

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Bridge

  About Bridge/Shade, with links

  Interview with Mickey and Logan

  Lyrics to “Forever”

  Logan’s songwriting journal

  Deleted scenes from Shift

  A brief “Thanks!” to readers

  Copyright

  Praise for “Bridge”:

  “Intense and earnest…” –Kirkus

  “A must read for any Shade fan.” –Bookhounds

  Praise for the Shade series:

  “Smith-Ready changes the world simply by changing our ability to see.” – Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “One of the best, most refreshingly original YA debuts I ever read.” – Book Smugglers (8 out of 10 stars)

  “Not just my favorite paranormal YA ghost story, it’s my favorite ghost story ever.” – All Things Urban Fantasy

  Dedication:

  For Karen and Brooke,

  who loved Logan as much as I.

  Bridge

  Everyone knows

  Elvis died in the bathroom.

  Thanks to the internet,

  everyone knows

  that I did too.

  But at least I was wearing pants.

  My favorite Quiksilver cargo shorts,

  which I’ll wear every moment

  that I stay in this world.

  No laundry needed,

  because ghosts never sweat

  or piss

  or anything.

  I’m as dry as the bones

  crumbling in my casket.

  ♪

  “Must be nice,”

  Aura mumbles into her pillow

  when I tell her

  I’m going to meet George Clooney.

  That’s our code

  for “the beach,”

  because when lifelong Baltimoreans

  say “down to the ocean,”

  it sounds like,

  “Danny Ocean.”

  When we were kids,

  our gang of friends

  pretended we were in Oceans Eleven.

  My big brother Mickey was Clooney,

  and I was Brad Pitt.

  We’d stroll down the Ocean City boardwalk,

  not nearly as slick as we imagined.

  Our illusion of cool would crumble

  whenever Aura or anyone younger

  had to dodge the dead.

  “Post-Shifters,” they call themselves,

  the generation who sees ghosts.

  I’d be one

  if I’d been born two months later.

  I’m glad I wasn’t,

  since ghosts can’t see each other,

  not even the ghosts of post-Shifters.

  It was bad enough to lose the living

  without losing the dead, too.

  “Senior Week trip,”

  I remind Aura.

  She opens her

  espresso-drop eyes.

  And though the morning light

  washes out my violet glow,

  making me invisible,

  those eyes find mine.

  Aura never looks through me.

  She whispers, “Good luck,”

  and reaches out her hand.

  I cover it with my own,

  wishing I could hold it.

  I’d pull it to my lips,

  against my cheek,

  around my waist,

  down my back.

  Both hands

  squeezing,

  sliding,

  stroking.

  It never ends,

  this desire.

  Not for me.

  But Aura dreams of other hands.

  In her sleep

  she whispers his name.

  I wonder how much is hope

  and how much is memory.

  I don’t want to know.

  Because whether she sighs for the past

  or sighs for the future,

  she sighs for him.

  ♪

  “It’s sooooo hot.”

  My sister, Siobhan, winds her hair

  into a purple-streaked black knot,

  then cranks up the car’s air conditioning.

  I can’t feel the breeze,

  but the rattle and hum of the compressor

  sounds comfortingly normal

  to this paranormal dude.

  We’re stuck bumper to bumper on the

  Chesapeake Bay Bridge,

  just like old times.

  In the driver’s seat,

  Mickey turns the AC knob back down.

  “It spits out hot air

  when you put it on max.”

  Siobhan scuffs her Skechers

  against the Corolla’s frayed blue floor mat.

  “When are you getting rid of

  this old piece of shit?”

  “When I can afford

  a new piece of shit.”

  She stretches her neck—

  a fiddler’s habit,

  but she does it when she’s stressed.

  Her mouth opens, ready to shout,

  “You can afford it!”

  But Mickey won’t spend a penny

  of what he calls my “blood money.”

  The millions our folks won

  from the record company,

  who sold me a dream

  and gave me the bullet

  that took my life.

  In the backseat beside me,

  Siobhan’s boyfriend, Connor,

  sleeps,

  lips pale and slack.

  “We deserved that money,” she tells Mickey,

  “for what they put us through.”

  “We deserve nothing.”

  Mickey’s voice is as flat as the farmland

  beyond the bridge.

  “We were supposed to take care of him.”

  (They won’t say my name.)

  “Stop punishing yourself.”

  Siobhan sounds too scared

  to be mad,

  which is saying a lot.

  “Please.”

  “Spend the money,” Mickey says,

  “if it makes you feel better.”

  Our sister’s eyes fill with tears,

  and I want to kill him.

  “I hate you,” she whispers to her twin.

  “I hate you too,” her twin whispers back.

  I want to wake Connor,

  tell him to make peace.

  That’s what bass players are for, right?

  But he hasn’t been

  our bass player

  since the night I died

  and killed the Keeley Brothers

  forever.

  As the car creeps,

  and Connor sleeps,

  and Siobhan weeps,

  Mickey…

  Mickey exists.

  ♪

  Siobhan has to pee.

  But the truck stop is new,

  so I can’t follow them.

  Ghosts can only go in death

  to the places they went in life,

  like a hamster in a Habitrail.

  Mickey puts on his blinker.

  “Don’t leave me.”

  I lunge forward,

  grab for the steering wheel,

  hoping

  this time I’ll touch something,

  this time they’ll hear me.

  This time is like all the rest.

  The car turns,

  and I’m left standing in the highway.

  A red Jeep,

  the top down,

  full of blondes

  already sunburned,

  drives through me.

  I’ll neve
r get used to that.

  Screw this traffic.

  I can go anywhere in an instant.

  I can be Danny Ocean in three…two…

  ♪

  A seagull shits right through me.

  I wander the beach,

  the sun blaring my form

  into nothingness.

  Invisible, I can stare all I want.

  A girl with Aura’s dark wavy hair

  and bronze skin

  sips an iced tea,

  then sets the open cup on her belly.

  As she swallows,

  her throat bobs,

  then her tongue peeks through her lips,

  gathering the moisture she missed.

  Water beads on the cup,

  plummets fearlessly,

  like a skater on a half-pipe.

  When it reaches her skin,

  it joins her sweat

  and travels on,

  over her waist

  and under the string of her

  candy-striped bikini.

  I could write an entire song

  about the journey

  of that one drop of sweat.

  But I turn away.

  It feels wrong to watch.

  These girls are here to be seen,

  but not by someone they can’t see.

  So guilt keeps me from lingering.

  I may be dead,

  but I’m still Catholic.

  I head for the boardwalk

  to find someone

  who can speak my words to Mickey.

  I can’t use Aura

  or my little brother, Dylan,

  or anyone else I care about.

  Only a stranger

  won’t judge

  me

  or Mickey

  for letting this keep us apart.

  Only a stranger

  can hold up the wall

  we need between us.

  Until we’re ready to tear it down.

  ♪

  Occasionally,

  sometimes,

  —okay, usually—

  people ignore me.

  Post-Shifters pretend they can’t see

  the ghosts around them.

  It’s cool, I get it.

  They have lives that can’t stop

  every time a ghost needs help.

  (And we all need help.)

  They have lives.

  But after 233 days of death,

  I can tell the difference

  between being ignored

  and being invisible.

  The arcade is full of shadows.

  I’m standing in one now,

  next to the Skee-Ball court.

  But no one sees me.

  I step in front of a scrawny guy

  who looks fifteen or sixteen

  in his oversize D.C. United jersey.

  “Dude, help me out. I just need—”

  He walks through me,

  counting his tickets

  out loud to himself.

  A girl with blond pigtails

  sucking a green lollipop

  bends over to slip tokens into a driving game.

  Her jeans shorts ride up,

  giving a glimpse of pink underwear.

  I step up next to the game.

  “Sorry to interrupt,

  but I need a huge favor.”

  She plops her teeny ass

  into the driver’s seat

  without so much as a twitch

  at my voice

  or my semifamous face.

  As she starts to play,

  I wave my hand between her and the screen.

  She holds the wheel steady,

  pressing the accelerator,

  sucking the lollipop,

  which twists her muttered curses

  into drunk-sounding slurs.

  I step back.

  Survey the crowd.

  Try not to panic.

  Above us,

  a banner stretches the length of the arcade,

  The BEST WEEK EVER logo

  frames the words,

  Congratulations, Class of—

  “Damn it.”

  Senior Week.

  No one here is young enough to see me.

  I fly through the arcade,

  turning somersaults,

  flailing my arms like a clown,

  hoping someone brought

  their little brother

  or sister

  or niece or nephew

  or cousin.

  But who would bring a kid to Senior Week?

  Parents know better.

  They hear the stories.

  I am so screwed.

  ♪

  The boardwalk never seemed so loud,

  so bright,

  so complete

  as it does right now.

  I’m here

  but not.

  They stagger through me,

  drunk,

  half naked,

  high school behind them,

  the future ahead.

  Do they know how lucky they are?

  Some do,

  those who’ve lost a friend,

  a brother,

  a sister,

  a boyfriend,

  a girlfriend,

  or even a secret fuck buddy.

  But tonight they want to forget.

  Those who aren’t drinking,

  and some who are,

  take part in Ocean City’s

  “Play it Safe” activities—

  free fun in the form of

  midnight bowling,

  rock climbing,

  volleyball,

  karaoke,

  laser tag,

  etc.,

  etc.,

  etc.

  Things that won’t get you arrested

  or pregnant

  or killed.

  Three girls walk straight toward me,

  platform flip-flops thunking the boardwalk.

  The one on the right,

  with a dark ponytail and glasses,

  suddenly lags behind,

  pretends to focus on her

  giant tub of Thrasher’s fries.

  I pretend too,

  stepping aside,

  then,

  at the last second,

  I enter her path.

  She swerves.

  I point at her. “Ha!

  I knew you could see me.”

  “Go away.”

  The girl keeps walking.

  I zoom up to her.

  “I know this is weird,

  but I need your help.”

  She shakes her head,

  munches another fry.

  “I need you to talk to my brother Mickey.

  If it helps, he’s really cute—

  like me, only with dark hair and a pulse—

  and his girlfriend isn’t with him this week.”

  She rolls her eyes, like I’m a total asshole.

  (Which I am.)

  “I’m scared he might kill himself.”

  She stops.

  ♪

  Mickey drifts

  through our favorite cheesy gift shop,

  as always

  drawn to the aisle

  with the religious stuff.

  Candles for saints

  or Hindu gods

  or voodoo spirits.

  Light a match,

  summon the divine,

  like it’s that easy.

  Mickey stops,

  picks up a

  white

  porcelain

  Pietà—

  that Michelangelo statue

  of Mary cradling Jesus’s

  thin

  limp

  corpse.

  I tell Krista what to say

  so he’ll know she’s for real,

  so he’ll know I’m for real.

  She doesn’t sidle.

  She doesn’t shift.

  She sta
lks, right up to him.

  “It reminds him of you,” she says,

  “the way you held him the night he died.”

  The statue shatters on the floor.

  Jesus’s head pops off,

  shoots through my feet,

  rolls under the shelf across the aisle.

  Mickey brushes past Krista,

  making another escape.

  She grabs his wrist,

  her fingers a handcuff.

  “Look! I don’t have time to chase you

  while you pretend you don’t want to talk to him.

  So let’s just do this, okay?”

  He scowls down at her.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m no one.”

  She lets go of his wrist.

  “I think that’s the point.”

  ♪

  The ocean’s rhythm

  isn’t.

  I count the seconds between waves

  and realize that

  they crash when they crash,

  with no regular timing,

  like our ex-drummer

  when he was drunk.

  Like my heart’s final beats,

  1,000

  in three minutes.

  The waves’ arrhythmia

  is all I hear in my brother’s silence.

  We sit side by side on the pier,

  our legs dangling over the edge.

  He and Krista pass a cigarette

  back and forth

  through me.

  Mickey has quit smoking

  six times in two months.

  I splay my fingers,

  admiring how the smoke curls