I ope­ned the ba­se­ment do­or, re­le­asing a blast of gu­itar chords, then slip­ped off my sho­es so I co­uld walk downs­ta­irs wit­ho­ut no­ise.

  Half­way to the bot­tom, I pe­ered over the ba­nis­ter in­to the left si­de of the un­fi­nis­hed ba­se­ment. Lo­gan was fa­cing away from me, strum­ming his new Fen­der Stra­to­cas­ter and watc­hing his brot­her Mic­key work out a so­lo. The mo­ti­on of his sho­ul­der bla­des rip­pled his ne­on gre­en T-shirt, the one I’d bo­ught him on our last trip to Oce­an City.

  When he ang­led his chin to check his fin­gers on the fret bo­ard, I co­uld see his pro­fi­le. Even with his fa­ce set in con­cent­ra­ti­on, his sky blue eyes spar­ked with joy. Lo­gan co­uld play gu­itar in a se­wer and still ha­ve fun.

  Lo­gan and Mic­key we­re li­ke yin and yang, in­si­de and out. Lo­gan’s spiky ha­ir was ble­ac­hed blond with black stre­aks, whi­le Mic­key’s was black with blond stre­aks. Lo­gan pla­yed a black gu­itar right-han­ded, and his brot­her a whi­te one left-han­ded. They had the sa­me lanky bu­ild, and lots of pe­op­le tho­ught they we­re twins, but Mic­key was eigh­te­en and Lo­gan only se­ven­te­en (mi­nus one day).

  The­ir sis­ter, Si­ob­han-Mic­key’s ac­tu­al twin-was sit­ting cross-leg­ged on the rug in front of them, her fid­dle res­ting aga­inst her left knee as she sha­red a ci­ga­ret­te with the bas­sist, her boyf­ri­end, Con­nor.

  My best fri­end, Me­gan, sat next to them, kne­es pul­led to her chest. She wo­ve a lock of her long, dark red ha­ir thro­ugh her fin­gers as she sta­red at Mic­key.

  The only one fa­cing me was Bri­an, the drum­mer. He spot­ted me and promptly mis­sed a be­at. I crin­ged-he was so­me­ti­mes bril­li­ant, but he co­uld be dist­rac­ted by a stray dust ball.

  Mic­key and Lo­gan stop­ped pla­ying and tur­ned to Bri­an, who adj­us­ted the back­ward whi­te ba­se­ball cap on his he­ad in em­bar­ras­sment.

  “Jesus,” Mic­key sa­id, “is it too much to ask for a fuc­king back­be­at?”

  “Sorry.” Bri­an twir­led his stick in his thick hand, then po­in­ted it at me. “She’s he­re.”

  Lo­gan spun aro­und, and I ex­pec­ted a gla­re for in­ter­rup­ting-not to men­ti­on lef­to­ver hos­ti­lity from last night’s fight. Ins­te­ad his fa­ce lit up.

  “Aura!” He swept the strap over his he­ad, han­ded his gu­itar to Mic­key, and le­aped to me­et me at the bot­tom of the sta­irs. “Oh my God, you won’t be­li­eve this!” He grab­bed me aro­und the wa­ist and ho­is­ted me up. “You will not be­li­eve this.”

  “I will, I swe­ar.” I wrap­ped my arms aro­und his neck, grin­ning so hard it hurt. Cle­arly he wasn’t mad at me. “What’s up?”

  “Hang on.” Lo­gan lo­we­red me to the flo­or, then spre­ad my arms to exa­mi­ne my su­it. “They ma­ke you we­ar this to work?”

  “I didn’t ha­ve ti­me to chan­ge.” I ga­ve him a light punch in the chest for tor­tu­ring me. “So what won’t I be­li­eve?”

  “Si­ob­han, get her so­me clot­hes,” he bar­ked.

  “Cho­ice,” she sa­id. “Say ple­ase or kiss my ass.”

  “Ple­ase!” Lo­gan held up his hands. “Anything to ke­ep yo­ur ass in the sa­fe zo­ne.”

  Si­ob­han ga­ve Con­nor her ci­ga­ret­te and got to her fe­et. As she pas­sed me, she squ­e­ezed my el­bow and sa­id, “Boy thinks he’s a rock god just be­ca­use so­me la­bel pe­op­le are co­ming to the show to­mor­row.”

  My mind spun as it ab­sor­bed my big­gest ho­pe and fe­ar. “Is she kid­ding?” I as­ked Lo­gan.

  “No,” he grow­led. “Thanks for blo­wing the surp­ri­se, hor­se fa­ce!” he yel­led as she slo­uc­hed up the sta­irs, snic­ke­ring.

  I tug­ged on his shirt. “Who’s co­ming?”

  “Get this.” He grip­ped my sho­ul­ders. “A and R du­des from two dif­fe­rent com­pa­ni­es. One’s an in­de­pen­dent-Li­an­han Re­cords-”

  “That’s the one we want,” Mic­key in­te­rj­ec­ted.

  “-and the ot­her is War­rant.”

  I gas­ped. “I’ve he­ard of War­rant.”

  “Be­ca­use they’re part of a ma­j­or, ma­j­or, ma­j­or hu­mon­go­us la­bel.” Lo­gan’s eyes rol­led up in ecs­tasy, li­ke God him­self was han­ding out re­cord cont­racts.

  “We’ll use War­rant to ma­ke Li­an­han je­alo­us,” Mic­key ad­ded. “But we’re not sel­ling out.”

  Lo­gan pul­led me to the back si­de of the sta­irs, whe­re the ot­hers co­uldn’t see us. “This co­uld be it,” he whis­pe­red. “Can you be­li­eve it? It’d be the most ama­zing birth­day pre­sent ever.”

  I ste­adi­ed my bre­ath so I co­uld get the words out. “Ho­pe­ful­ly not the best pre­sent.”

  “You me­an the Strat from my folks?”

  “Not that, eit­her.” I re­ac­hed up un­der the back of his T-shirt and let my fin­gers gra­ze his warm skin.

  “Is it so­met­hing you-wa­it.” His eyes wi­de­ned, ma­king the sil­ver ho­op in his brow glint in the over­he­ad light. “Are you sa­ying-”

  “Yep.” I sto­od on tip­toe and kis­sed him, qu­ick but hard. “I’m re­ady.”

  His gold-tip­ped las­hes flic­ke­red, but he ang­led his chin to lo­ok at me si­de­ways. “You sa­id that be­fo­re.”

  “I sa­id a lot of things be­fo­re. So­me of them we­re stu­pid.”

  “Ye­ah, they we­re.” His eyes crink­led, sof­te­ning his words. “You know I’d ne­ver le­ave you over this, eit­her way. How co­uld you even think that?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” He tra­ced my jaw with his thumb, which al­ways ma­de me shi­ver. “I lo­ve you.”

  He kis­sed me then, drow­ning my do­ubts in one warm, soft mo­ment. Do­ubts abo­ut him, abo­ut me, abo­ut him and me.

  “He­re you go!” Si­ob­han cal­led from the sta­irs, a mo­ment be­fo­re a clump of de­nim and cot­ton fell on our he­ads. “Oops,” she sa­id with fa­ke surp­ri­se.

  I pe­eled the je­ans off Lo­gan’s sho­ul­der and held them up in sa­lu­te. “Thanks, Si­ob­han.”

  “Back to work!” rang Mic­key’s vo­ice from the ot­her si­de of the ba­se­ment.

  Lo­gan ig­no­red his brot­her and ga­zed in­to my eyes. “So… may­be to­mor­row night, at my party?” He hur­ri­ed to add, “Only if you’re su­re. We co­uld wa­it, if you-”

  “No.” I co­uld ba­rely ma­na­ge a whis­per. “No mo­re wa­iting.”

  His lips cur­ved in­to a smi­le, which promptly fa­ded. “I bet­ter cle­an my ro­om. The­re’s li­ke a one-fo­ot path thro­ugh all the old Gu­itar Worlds and dirty la­undry.”

  “I can walk on a one-fo­ot path.”

  “Screw that. I want it to be per­fect.”

  “Hey!” Mic­key yel­led aga­in, lo­uder. “What part of ‘back to work’ is not in Eng­lish?”

  Lo­gan gri­ma­ced. “We’re switc­hing out so­me of our set list-less co­vers, mo­re ori­gi­nal stuff. Pro­bably be up all night.” He ga­ve me a kiss that was qu­ick but full of pro­mi­se. “Stay as long as you want.”

  He di­sap­pe­ared aro­und the sta­irs, and im­me­di­ately Me­gan rep­la­ced him at my si­de.

  “Did you ma­ke up? You did, didn’t you?”

  “We ma­de up.” I sat on the co­uch to re­mo­ve my stoc­kings, chec­king over my sho­ul­der to ma­ke su­re the guys we­re out of sight on the ot­her si­de of the sta­irs. “I told him I’m re­ady.”

  Me­gan slum­ped next to me and res­ted her el­bow on the back of the so­fa. “You don’t think you ha­ve to say that to ke­ep him, do you?”

  “It’s so­met­hing I want too. Any­way, who ca­res, as long as it works?”

  “Aura…”

  “You know what it’s li­ke, go­ing to the­ir gigs.” My whis­per tur­ned to a hiss. “Se­e­ing all tho­se girls who’d pro­bably pay to get na­ked with Mic­key or Lo­gan. Or even with Bri­an or Con­nor.”

  “But the guys aren’t li­ke that-well, may­be Bri­an is, but he do­esn’t ha­ve a girlf­ri­end. Mic­key lo­ves me. Lo­gan lo­ves you.”

  “So?” I slip­ped on the je­ans. “Plenty of rock stars ha­ve wi­ves and girlf­ri­ends, and they still screw the­ir gro­upi­es. It co­mes with the ter­ri­tory.”

  “I find yo­ur lack of fa­ith dis­tur­bing,” she sa­id in her best Darth Va­der imp­res­si­on, for­cing a smi­le out of me.

  I un­but­to­ned my whi­te silk blo­use. “What sho­uld I we­ar?”

  “Sa­me stuff as al­ways, on the out­si­de. That’s the way he li­kes you.” Me­gan snap­ped the strap of my pla­in be­ige bra. “But de­fi­ni­tely do bet­ter than this un­der­ne­ath.”

  “Duh,” was my only res­pon­se as I slip­ped Si­ob­han’s black-and-yel­low Dis­til­lers T-shirt over my he­ad. I’d ma­de a co­vert trip to Vic­to­ria’s Sec­ret we­eks be­fo­re-the one way up in Owings Mills, whe­re no one wo­uld re­cog­ni­ze me. The matc­hing black la­ce bra and un­der­we­ar we­re still in the ori­gi­nal bag, with the­ir tags on, in the back of my bot­tom dres­ser dra­wer.

  “The first ti­me do­esn’t ha­ve to suck,” she sa­id, “not if you go slow.”

  “Okay,” I sa­id qu­ickly, in a de­ep sta­te of not wan­ting to talk abo­ut it.

  Luc­kily, at that mo­ment Bri­an tap­ped his sticks to mark ti­me, and the band la­unc­hed in­to one of the­ir ori­gi­nal tu­nes, “The Day I Sa­iled Away.”

  The Ke­eley Brot­hers wan­ted to be the pre­mi­er Irish-fla­vo­red rock band in Bal­ti­mo­re. May­be one day go na­ti­onal, be­co­me the next Po­gu­es, or at le­ast the next Flog­ging Molly, with a he­avy do­se of Ame­ri­can ska­te-punk ’tu­de.

  As Lo­gan be­gan to sing, Me­gan’s fa­ce ref­lec­ted my bliss and awe. With that vo­ice le­ading the way, the Ke­eley Brot­hers didn’t ha­ve to be the next an­yo­ne.

  Two re­cord la­bels. I clo­sed my eyes, ig­no­ring the way my sto­mach tur­ned to le­ad, and sa­vo­red the so­und that Me­gan and I wo­uld so­on ha­ve to sha­re with the world.

  I knew then that everyt­hing wo­uld chan­ge the next night. It was li­ke ti­me had fol­ded in on it­self, and I co­uld re­mem­ber the fu­tu­re.

  A fu­tu­re I al­re­ady ha­ted.

  Chapter Two

  Ooh, that’s a new one.”

  Me­gan po­in­ted ac­ross the scho­ol co­urt­yard at the tall, le­an man’s vi­olet out­li­ne. In the suns­hi­ne he wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve be­en vi­sib­le, but he­avy clo­uds ma­de the af­ter­no­on lo­ok li­ke eve­ning.

  The ghost circ­led the fo­un­ta­in, stop­ping every few fe­et to pe­er in­to the wa­ter.

  “No, that’s ex-Jared,” I told Me­gan. “He gra­du­ated from Rid­ge­wo­od ni­ne ye­ars ago. Di­ed in the war.”

  “What’s he lo­oking for in the fo­un­ta­in?”

  “Go ask him.”

  “No way.”

  “He’s not me­an or anyt­hing. But if he starts in abo­ut his unc­le Fred, chan­ge the su­bj­ect. Un­less you want to see yo­ur lunch aga­in.”

  Me­gan gri­ma­ced as a pa­ir of se­ni­ors wal­ked right thro­ugh ex-Jared.

  “I ha­te that,” she whis­pe­red. “I can’t wa­it till we’re se­ni­ors and ever­yo­ne will be li­ke us.”

  “Except the te­ac­hers. And the jani­tors. And the lib­ra­ri­an and the sec­re­ta­ri­es.” My butt hurt on the iron bench, so I unc­ros­sed my legs and rec­ros­sed them the ot­her way. “Fa­ce it, when ever­yo­ne is li­ke us, we’ll be old.”

  She frow­ned and twis­ted the eme­rald pen­dant Mic­key had gi­ven her for her six­te­enth birth­day. “So how much are you dre­ading this as­sembly?”

  “Let’s just say I’d rat­her ta­ke the PSATs aga­in than he­ar so­me go­vern­ment wor­ker bee tell us how we can ser­ve our co­untry by loc­king up ghosts.”

  I jab­bed my thumb at the trio of whi­te vans pul­ling in­to the scho­ol par­king lot. Each bo­re the lo­go of the fe­de­ral De­part­ment of Me­taphy­si­cal Pu­rity.

  Me­gan sa­id, “I he­ard the DMP has a spe­ci­al for­ces unit, the Ob­si­di­ans. They’re li­ke Navy SE­ALs. They’re the ones who, you know, ta­ke ca­re of the sha­des.” She ma­de a slas­hing mo­ti­on ac­ross her thro­at.

  “Aunt Gi­na wo­uld kill me if I did anyt­hing re­mo­tely an­ti-ghost.” Back be­fo­re the Shift, Gi­na was one of the few pe­op­le who co­uld see and he­ar the de­ad. Now she can’t, but she still has a thing for them.

  Me­gan bit the cu­tic­le of her thumb. “Still, I bet the uni­forms are co­ol.”

  The pho­ne in my hand buz­zed. Lo­gan had just tex­ted I LO­VE YOU-so cu­te how he ne­ver ab­bre­vi­ated it. It had be­en mo­re than a ye­ar sin­ce his fa­mily mo­ved out to Bal­ti­mo­re Co­unty, but I still mis­sed him li­ke crazy du­ring the scho­ol day.

  The sun bro­ke thro­ugh the clo­uds, war­ming the top of my he­ad and dim­ming the scre­en. Ex-Jared fa­ded in the full light of day.

  As he di­sap­pe­ared, my eyes re­fo­cu­sed on a boy I’d ne­ver se­en be­fo­re, chat­ting with my his­tory te­ac­her, Mrs. Ric­hards, ac­ross the co­urt­yard.

  “Who’s that?”

  Me­gan gas­ped and grab­bed my arm. “Scot­tish exc­han­ge stu­dent. In my ho­me­ro­om.”

  “But it’s the mid­dle of Oc­to­ber. I tho­ught exc­han­ge stu­dents ca­me at the be­gin­ning of the ye­ar.”

  “The mo­re im­por­tant qu­es­ti­on is, who did we exc­han­ge him for, and can Scot­land ke­ep them?”

  I nud­ged her si­de with my el­bow. “Aw, I’m tel­ling Mic­key.”

  “Go ahe­ad.” Me­gan pul­led her sung­las­ses from her bag. “This cle­arly falls un­der our Lo­ok-Don’t-To­uch po­licy.” She put on her sha­des. “Spe­aking of lo­oking, he’s sta­ring at you.”

  The boy sto­od alo­ne now, hands on his hips, exa­mi­ning me. A bre­eze blew a splash of dark bangs ac­ross his fo­re­he­ad, and his pos­tu­re ma­de his fa­ded blue T-shirt stretch ac­ross his bro­ad chest.

  I sta­red back, and he til­ted his he­ad as if surp­ri­sed. Guys are li­ke ghosts that way-when they check you out, they ex­pect you to glan­ce away all me­ek and flirty-girly. Ye­ah, right.

  Des­pi­te the chilly air, he wo­re long kha­ki shorts and a pa­ir of san­dals. San­dals on fe­et that we­re now wal­king stra­ight to­ward us.

  Me­gan grab­bed my wrist un­der the open bin­der on my lap. “He­re he co­mes,” she sa­id, as if I co­uld’ve mis­sed it.

  He stop­ped in front of us and nod­ded at Me­gan, who dug her na­ils in­to my arm. Then he tur­ned the pu­rest gre­en eyes to mi­ne. “Excu­se me. Are you re­al­ly Aura?”

  I didn’t no­ti­ce the “re­al­ly,” be­ca­use my ears had he­ated at the so­und of my na­me spo­ken that way, his ton­gue cur­led aro­und the r li­ke it was a pi­ece of candy.

  “What?” I sa­id elo­qu­ently.

  “Aura,” he re­pe­ated, pro­no­un­cing it Oo­ora (aga­in with ton­gue curl). “That’s you, aye?” You li­ke a fe­ma­le she­ep. Wow, it’s true what they say abo­ut Scot­tish ac­cents.

  “Um. Ye­ah, I’m-” I co­uldn’t spe­ak my na­me wit­ho­ut so­un­ding la­me and Ame­ri­can. “That’s me.” I cle­ared my thro­at. “Why?”

  “Mrs. Ric­hards sa­id you we­re stud­ying an­ci­ent ast­ro­nomy for yo­ur the­sis.”

  “Uh-huh.” Too bad I’m an idi­ot sa­vant, emp­ha­sis not on the sa­vant. “Sort of.”

  He sho­ok his he­ad, a dark wa­ve of ha­ir las­hing his left che­ek. “Incre­dib­le.”

  Anot­her r, but his skep­ti­cism bro­ke thro­ugh my ha­ze. “Why, be­ca­use girls can’t be ast­ro­no­mers?”

  “Of co­ur­se they can, but the girls I know who li­ke sci­en­ce aren’t-” He cut him­self off and lo­oked away, drag­ging a hand thro­ugh his ha­ir. “I just met her,” he mut­te­red to him­self. “I’ll no’ say that.”

  “Cut the crap,” Me­gan sa­id. “Zac­hary Mo­ore, this is Aura Sal­va­to­re, and yes, she’s in­to sci­en­ce even tho­ugh she’s pretty. Shoc­ker. Get over it.” She tur­ned to me. “Show him how you can walk and chew gum at the sa­me ti­me.”

  I res­ted my el­bow on the back of the bench and ins­pec­ted Zac­hary in what I ho­ped was a ca­su­al way. “You don’t lo­ok much li­ke a sci­en­ce ge­ek eit­her,” I told him.

  He lif­ted one brow whi­le twitc­hing a cor­ner of his mo­uth. I re­ali­zed how my words so­un­ded-that I tho­ught he was pretty too.

  Unfor­tu­na­tely, I did. Not that it was a mat­ter of opi­ni­on, ex­cept may­be to the le­gal­ly blind.

  “Whe­re’s yo­ur kilt?” I as­ked him.

  Zac­hary lo­oked over my he­ad, and I got the fe­eling he was trying not to roll his eyes. Then he mo­ved clo­ser, put his hand on the back of the bench ne­ar my sho­ul­der, and le­aned de­ep in­si­de my per­so­nal spa­ce. “How abo­ut this,” he sa­id in a low vo­ice, “you don’t ask me abo­ut hag­gis and bag­pi­pes, and I won’t ask you abo­ut gar­lic and Go­od­fel­las.”

  Me­gan la­ug­hed out lo­ud. My fin­gers tigh­te­ned on the ed­ge of the bench to ke­ep from hit­ting him. Not that he didn’t ha­ve a po­int.

  “Okay, no ste­re­oty­pes,” I sa­id. “De­al.”

  “So do you ha­ve a kilt?” Me­gan as­ked him. When I gla­red at her, she sa­id, “What? He only sa­id you co­uldn’t ask.” She lo­oked at him. “So do you?”

  Stra­igh­te­ning up, Zac­hary rub­bed the back of his neck and smir­ked. “I might, I might.”

  God, he was gor­ge­o­us. And Scot­tish. But may­be kind of an ass.

  I cle­ared my thro­at aga­in. “So what do you want?”

 

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