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Authors: Jeri Smith-Ready

Bridge: a shade short story

BOOK: Bridge: a shade short story
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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 never 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,

BOOK: Bridge: a shade short story
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