Read Shattered: A Shade novella Online
Authors: Jeri Smith-Ready
Shattered: A Shade novella (24 page)
Kilt and
Keeley
(SHADE fan site)
Copyright
This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Digital
Edition 1.0 © 2013 by Jeri Smith-Ready
Cover
design by Reece
Notley
© Jeri Smith-Ready
ISBN-10:
1940607000
ISBN-13:
978-1-940607-00-9
All
rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof
in any form whatsoever. Where such permission is sufficient the author grants
the rights to strip any DRM which may be applied to this work.
Read on for a special sneak peek at Jeri’s next YA novel,
This Side of Salvation
, coming April 1,
2014!
Chapter One
Now
If
this were the last night of my life, I could be at peace with that.
That,
and everything else, as I walk hand-in-hand with Bailey out of the pool house
and back into the blare of the party. Her long hair brushes my elbow, stirring
memories of reaching, fumbling in the dark, memories so fresh they feel more
like dreams, not etched as events in my past, but posed as possibilities in my
future.
Future.
A word that stumbles off my tongue lately, like a phrase in a new foreign
language.
The
sandstone clock on the side of the pool house shows four minutes after two. The
final hour.
I try
to put myself in the place of my parents and the others who think the Rapture
will take place in fifty-six minutes. They’re waiting for that moment when the
true believers, living and dead, will be raised up from earth before all hell
literally breaks loose.
Are
they scarfing their favorite foods—pizza, cheesesteaks,
TastyKakes
—or are they already dreaming of that
heavenly banquet? Are they playing their favorite tunes on infinite loop, or
are they dreaming of that angelic choir? Are they having sex (not my
parents—the thought makes me gag), or are they dreaming of that divine
embrace?
Part
of me wishes I’d never lost that all-consuming hunger. My soul still craves the
unseen, unflinching love that was there for me in my darkest hours. Sometimes
my lungs still need it to breathe. But even the sweetest faith can taste sour
when it’s used as poison.
Bailey
and I return to our towels, spread on the lawn not far from the gazebo where
three seniors are karaoke-
ing
the prom’s theme song.
It’s a bouncy, triumphant tune that idolizes our bright future.
End
of the world or not, things change tonight. I can feel it in my bones, in my
skin, and every cell in between. The future is mine again.
Bailey
stretches out beside me, then slips on the corsage I gave her. The red rose
doesn’t match her pink-and-blue paisley bikini, but she doesn’t care. As she
inhales the rose’s scent, her blue-gray eyes smile at me through the sprigs of
baby’s breath.
On my
other side, my best friend, Kane, is too preoccupied with his prom date to
notice we’ve returned. Or maybe he knows that anything he said right now, after
where Bailey and I have been, would embarrass us (by “us,” I mean me).
I lie
down on my back and take Bailey’s hand, feeling the itch of flowers against my
wrist. I should tell her I need to leave soon, but this moment’s fragile
perfection won’t allow words, especially not those that speak of limits.
So I
close my eyes as sounds of the night wash over me. In the gazebo, my sister,
Mara, belts out a Florence + the Machine song, to the delight of the crowd. To
my right, Bailey hums along softly. To my left, Kane and Jonathan-not-John
laugh together, then kiss, then laugh again. It feels like the whole world is
happy.
*
*
*
*
I
hear the
wahp-wahp
of sirens, see the
blue-and-red flash of lights through my eyelids, and realize that I am dead.
Not heaven-bound dead, cashing in on my undeserved eternal ecstasy. Dead as in,
if I’ve missed curfew—and therefore the non-end of the world—my dad
is going to kill me.
Here
on Stephen Rice’s lawn, “busted” echoes in a dozen panicky voices. I sit up
quickly as barely dressed juniors and seniors scurry past, tripping over
scattered beach towels, pouring out the contents of their plastic cups. I pity
the grass its imminent hangover.
“David,
the cops are here. Are you sober?”
I
turn to blink at Kane, sitting beside me. His sharp blue eyes examine my face.
On his other side, Jonathan-not-John looks ready to run, but for Kane’s
reassuring hand on his arm.
Bailey
asked me that same question earlier. I’d said yes, when it was most important.
It’s
still true. “Yeah, I fell asleep.” I fumble for my phone, before remembering I
didn’t bring it with me. “What time is it?”
“A
little after three.” His eyes widen. “Uh-oh. Were you supposed to be home
at—”
“Two thirty.
In time for—wait.” I look down at my hand, palm pressing grass that’s
still green and alive. In the clear sky above the pool, stars are shining, not
falling.
No
trumpet blasts. No demon locusts from hell. No horses with lion heads and
serpent tails shooting flames and smoke and sulfur from their mouths. My
parents’ dream of the End Times—and my recurring nightmare—is a big
fat no-show.
Hallelujah.
But
I’m still late. I twist to my right to kiss Bailey goodbye, since I’ll probably
be grounded for weeks.
She’s
gone. Her abandoned corsage lies in the middle of her bright yellow towel.
“Where’s
Bailey?” I ask Kane.
“Maybe
in the bathroom? I didn’t see her leave. Hey, don’t panic. There’s no law
against being at a party that has booze if they can’t prove you drank it.”
“I
had one sip an hour ago.”
He
laughs at my concern. “By this point, that’s the same as none.”
The
cops enter the backyard through the front gate of the tall wooden privacy fence
and onto the patio through the sliding glass door, blocking off two escape
routes.
Not
the third, though. The partygoers stream toward the back gate, where I came in,
behind the pool house.
“David!”
Mara lurches toward me in her short black prom gown, silver sequins flashing in
the light from the
tiki
torches. “We need to go.
Now!”
No
need to ask why. It’s obvious where my sister got the courage for that
balls-to-the-wall karaoke performance that was thrilling the crowd when I fell
asleep. Mara is hammered. She may be a year older than I am, but at seventeen
she’s still way underage. If I don’t get her out of here, we’ll have bigger
problems than angry parents.
But
I’m barefoot and wearing borrowed swim trunks. “My clothes are in the pool
house.”
“I’ll
bring them to you tomorrow.” Kane hands me his sandals. “These’ll help you get
through the woods without slicing your feet.”
“Thanks.
If you see Bailey, tell her I’ll call her.” Assuming Mom and Dad don’t end my
communication with the outside world.
“Hurry!”
Mara huffs. Strands of brown hair flop in her face, remnants of her fancy prom
do. She’s joined by Sam Schwartz—her date and my left fielder—who’s
trying to walk and pull on his shoes at the same time.
I
tighten the sandal straps and stand quickly but calmly.
No sudden moves.
With one last glance toward the patio, where a trio of cops are delivering
Breathalyzer tests, Sam, Mara, and I slip away like ninjas.
Behind
the pool house, a crowd of about a dozen swimsuit-clad prom goers are trying to
cram themselves through the narrow back gate all at once.
“Stop
pushing!” someone whispers.
“You
stop pushing first!”
“Everyone
stop pushing,” I urge through gritted teeth, checking behind me. We’ll be the
last ones out—if we get out.
The
crowd surges forward suddenly. In five seconds we’re at the gate and—
“You
there,” a voice behind us commands. “Stop!”
Mara
stops, because deep down, she’s still a good girl. I, on the other hand, have
been in this situation before. I push her forward ahead of us as the literal
hand of law enforcement brushes the back of my shoulder.
I don’t
show the cop my face, figuring in the dark I probably look like any
brown-haired guy in blue swim trunks. Without turning, I shove the gate shut
behind me until the latch catches, bracing my feet against the ground.
Sam helps me hold it closed against the
cop. One of his friends joins us, a burly guy whose name I forget.
“Give
me that branch!” I tell Mara, pointing to the closest of the two dozen limbs
lying here on the edge of the woods.
I wedge
the narrow end of the thick branch under the gate to make it stick. It won’t
hold for long, but it’ll buy us a head start. The privacy fence’s wooden slats
are too tall and tight for the cops to see over or between.
Sam
takes Mara’s hand to follow the rest of the students, who are plunging blindly
into the stand of trees in front of us.
“No,”
I tell her. “This way.”
Mara
gives Sam a quick kiss and a wistful whispered, “Bye!”
We
run to the right, past three high-fenced backyards until we reach Kane’s house.
There’s a well-worn path between his home and mine on the other side of the
woods. It’s a path I could walk in my sleep—and did, in fact, walk in my
sleep a few times when I was eight.
I
keep my drunk sister upright as we hurry down the hill, my feet sliding in
Kane’s too-big sandals. These suburban woods are as much like a real forest as
a golf course is like a real meadow, so there’s no underbrush to hide behind.
My bare, pale torso is an
arrest me
beacon in the night.
At
the stream, Mara turns on her phone’s flashlight app so we can see where to
step across. The makeshift bridge Kane and I built years ago—three planks
of plywood nailed together (high-tech, we are)—is barely visible, dark
gray against the black water beneath.
Just
as we reach the other side and pass under my tree house, a shout comes from
behind us, up the hill. The cops must have broken out of the
Rices’
backyard.
We
run toward our house. The strap of Mara’s little silver purse is wrapped around
her wrist, and the bag flashes in the porch light as she wobbles on her high
heels.
Please
let the cops follow the other students. If you keep Mara’s record clean, I
swear I’ll never sneak out again. Amen.
The
house looks dark inside. Mom and Dad must be lurking in the living room, waiting
to pounce.
We
creep up to the patio door that leads into the sunroom. Mara unlocks it,
clutching the rest of the keys together to keep them from jingling. Then she
opens the door—slowly, so its full-length shade doesn’t rattle—and
tiptoes across the stone tiles.
In
the kitchen, the only light shines over the gleaming stainless-steel sink. The
counter is clear, but there’s a lingering scent of fresh-baked bread and
sautéed onions. My stomach growls, and I jerk open the fridge, forgetting fear
in favor of food.
Inside
lie the remnants of what Mom and Dad thought was our last meal: homemade pizza.
I can’t hold back a “Yes!” of triumph.
“
Shh
!” Mara creeps through the arched doorway into the
living room.
I
silence myself by stuffing a slice of onion pizza in my mouth, using its
Tupperware container as a plate. The sauce is sweet and tangy, the way I love
it and Mara hates it. But she got to go to prom, so we’re even.
“No
lights on upstairs,” Mara whispers as she comes back into the kitchen. “It’s
weird they’re not waiting up for us.”
“They’re
probably embarrassed the Rush didn’t happen.”
“You
think tomorrow they’ll pretend they never believed?”
“How
can they?” I swallow my bite of pizza. “It meant everything.”
