Chasing Shadows Page 8

  "His name is Schuyler."

  Qasim moves forward. "Are you seeing him?"

  I shrug. "I just met him."

  "You only just met me." He mumbles.

  Ashley turns on him. "Who the hell are you anyway?" she asks.

  Qasim looks shocked. "I'm Qasim, Doug's friend.

  "Huh." Ashley sniffs.

  "Look guys," I say. "This is weird okay? I don't know why you're both mad at me. Well, I guess that's a lie. Ashley for the fifth time, I'm sorry. Qasim for the second time, don't sweat it. I'm going to get some coffee." I edge around them and head for the cafe.

  I don't make it past the newspaper stand. There she is, on the front page. It's not the main spread, just a little black and white picture to the side referencing a page number, but that's her. It's the girl I saw die. The bold print says: Local student found dead, Story 3C. I feel my knees go weak and I stoop to pick up the paper.

  Vaguely, I register Ashley's smooth voice and Qasim's high one, but I don't catch what they're saying and I don't care. I smack the newspaper down on the counter and order something. I pay, tape the receipt to the paper, and look around for a table, a nice big one I can spread the paper out on. As fast as I can, I grab a seat and flip it open to 3C. There's not much detail. It doesn't say her face was beaten off. It doesn't specifically say murder. 'Suspicious circumstances' is what it says. Holy hell, can they write an understatement. I slide my phone out and send a text to Schuyler, letting him know the paper and the page number. I hope he can read the panic in my text. Little gray spots are ruining the print. What the hell is that? Am I crying? Christ. I look up to find Qasim and Ashley staring at me, Qasim with concern, Ashley with mild horror.

  "I didn't know you could cry." Ashley says.

  Since there isn't much else I can do about it, I decide to use the waterworks to my advantage. "If you're going to be a mean cunt, please save it for when I'm on the clock. Someone who knew me died, and this is not a good time."

  Qasim's eyebrows crinkle. "Someone who knew you? That's an odd way to put it."

  "She does that." Ashley says, but her voice is softer. Really? This is the type of Lifetime Original moment it takes to get Ashley to cut me some slack? Qasim reaches for my hand. I don't know what I think about that.

  "Who did you text?” He asks softly.

  Oh my God! Douche bag! I narrow my eyes at him. "Okay Qasim, I lied."

  Relief floods his face, odd.

  "I am mad at you." I continue. "And other than that, nothing else is different. I'm still the same girl, with the same issues, I was Saturday. If you're feeling bad it's not because you know me well enough to miss me." I shake my head. "You should've hit it when you had the chance. The moment is passed. Leave me alone." I withdraw my hand from his, but my eyes are slow to relinquish his hair, his skin, and those eyes. Ah Fuck! Stop it already!

  Ashley nods her head. "That's the Meegan I know." she says, and she stands up to leave.

  "Whatever." I mumble to myself. I go back to the article about the dead girl. It says her name was Madeline Cross. It doesn't mention anything about her long, lost friend Kelly, so no help there. She went to Loyola for law school before being dropped from the program following an 'ethics scandal' this spring. Hmm, that could be something. Sounds like code for 'sex crime'. Her family lives in Evanston which is like saying north, north side as far as I'm concerned. They're holding a memorial Friday and the funeral Saturday morning. I check my phone. Yeah, I thought so, I'm off Friday. Guess I know where I'm going. Briefly I wonder if her killer will be there. The thought makes my blood run cold. That's just a chance I'll have to take I suppose. I almost have to go and see if anyone there knows about her or me. What if they recognize me?... I'll say I'm my cousin. Ha.

  I'm staring out the window thinking these thoughts when a shade materializes in front of me. Nope, correction, there's two of them. I've never seen more than one at a time before. I feel a little tickle on my neck and it sooths me. I smile at them. There's a red one and a gray one. I wonder how they work. Does it take a lot of energy to materialize? To touch me? Can the same one look different when it wants to? Are they ghosts? Spirits? Fairies? I chuckle. "Better go to work." I whisper, and the shades twinkle themselves into nothing.

  Chapter Five

  My knees are cold. I'm standing on my front stoop waiting for Schuyler. I'm wearing a khaki skirt with a blue button down blouse and my dress boots. The outfit's not for Schuyler, well not entirely. It's Friday night and we're headed to a memorial service in Evanston. Big partiers, that's us. I can think of other things I'd rather be doing. I'm nervous. Oh yeah, and my knees are cold.

  I'm busy watching my breath fog, trying to think of it as steam, when I see the mother ship round the corner half a block down. Here comes my ride. I smile. I don't know if I ever went to a prom, but it might have felt something like this. I hop in place as Schuyler eases the boat onto the curb. I hear the lock release. Oh hell, how do I climb into this beast with a skirt? Carefully, that's how. I'm buckling my seat belt when I catch Schuyler's eyes on my knees; they're nice knees.

  "I didn't figure you for the skirt wearing type." He says as he pulls back out onto the street.

  I smile. "Any girl is the skirt wearing type in the right circumstances. I thought my hair is a bit harsh so maybe I should dress respectfully to balance it out."

  Schuyler nods. "Should I change?" He asks, eyes on the road.

  I check out his gear. "Nah you're fine." He's wearing dark jeans and a sweater, almost universally appropriate for a guy. "Don't want to be late." He nods again. I notice his knuckles are white from the death grip he has on the wheel. Traffic's not that heavy. "You Okay?" I ask.

  Schuyler sighs. "Yeah, I guess so."

  I feel my forehead crinkle with concern. "If you don't want to go to this..."

  He interrupts me. "It's cool." He says. "We have to go. You saw her die."

  Now I'm nervous again. "We're not going to tell any of them." I say.

  "What if they recognize you?"

  I nod. "I thought about that too. If they think I'm Kelly, then I'll just tell them I'm her cousin and use my real name. That way there's only one lie to keep track of."

  Schuyler looks at me sideways. "Okay." He says but he still seems edgy.

  So I say: "You seem edgy. Wanna talk about it?"

  "Uh..." Schuyler taps out a rhythm on the steering wheel. "Nah, I just need music." He says reaching one incredibly long arm over to adjust the center console which I don't think is necessary. I'm pretty sure the Escalade has stereo controls mounted on its huge, tricked-out steering wheel. This car makes me want to learn to drive. Now my thought is obliterated by the Red Hot Chili Peppers who come on half way through a song. And I burst out singing along. Who doesn't know all the lyrics to "Suck my Kiss"? Schuyler laughs and I feel good to have caused it. We drive on listening to almost all of Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magic and singing along with the parts we know. I feel I should say that, for me, this is all relatively new music. I like the sweet nostalgic looks people get on their faces when I tell them what I'm listening to. It makes me feel like I've tricked them. Since I was discovered naked on the beach, I've given myself a crash course in pop culture. Thank God for the internet. I just learned about the Chili Peppers six months ago. I'd had no idea that the band on the radio singing Hey-oh and Danni California was the same one I'd discovered under some subset of nineties rock that played Give it Away Now and that song about fucking a female cop. It makes me laugh. I think the aging process is ridiculous. I look forward to it. Maybe I'll cuss less. Needless to say, by the time we reach Evanston, we're both way too jolly for a memorial. Good thing we have to drive around for a while to find the place. After we’ve located the funeral parlor, and found our parking spot, Schuyler cuts the engine, kills the stereo, and turns to face me. That tense look is back, so I brace myself.

  "Meegan." He says.

  "Schuyler." I say.

  Now he looks at the cup holder. "I don't want t
o be your boyfriend."

  I feel my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. "Okay." I say like, no big deal.

  "It's not that I don't like you." He says.

  "Okay."

  "It's just that I don't want to have a kid that has schizophrenia. Not there's anything bad about schizophrenics, but it's a hard thing sometimes, and anyway there's evidence it's hereditary... Well not evidence, but sometime's there's a correlation. I think the likelihood increases and if both parents have, like, issues then...” He trails off looking lost.

  I laugh. This causes Schuyler to look me in the eye. "Geeze Schuyler, I appreciate that you've thought this through but, kids? Yikes." I shake my head. "Don't worry. We don't have to be boyfriend and girlfriend. You still want to hang out though, right?"

  He nods vigorously. "Yeah, just no..."

  I cut him off. "No kids, gotcha." I smile.

  He shakes his head. "No sex or anything close, because, obviously..."

  Now I'm squinting at him. "So you never have sex with someone you don't want to have kids with?"

  He swallows. "I'm Catholic."

  I don't get it. "I don't get it." I say.

  "We don't believe in birth control."

  Whoa, I think, weird. "Ahh." I say. "And you never plan to have kids."

  Schuyler nods.

  "Sounds to me like you're believing yourself right into a corner there, honey." I hold up my hands, palms out. "Not that I'm pressuring you. I'm just really glad you're here right now."

  He nods again, wide eyed. "Yeah me too."

  "Cool."

  "Cool."

  "So." I ask. "If I was normal, you'd want to?"

  Schuyler's eyebrows rise. "Oh definitely, sure." Now he catches himself. "Uh... I mean..."

  I roll my eyes. "Its cool, no worries." I shake my head. "I'm glad you'd want me to have your babies if I didn't see shit." I say and pop open the door. I get out leaving my bag in the car.

  "Hey!" Schuyler hurries around to my side. "Are you mad at me?"

  I pause to think about it. "No." and its true. "I was afraid you were gay anyway, so I'll just pretend that you are."

  "What?" his voice squeaks. "I'm not gay."

  "Bi?" I shake my head. "No, of course not. It's just that, I like you, and usually when I like someone there's something wrong, you know. Not that gay is wrong," I backpedal, just in case. "It’s just a big fat reason why it'll never work out."

  "Huh, so mental illness isn't a big fat reason for you?" He smiles.

  I smile too, and we start walking slowly towards the funeral parlor. I lower my voice. "So... are you a virgin? I mean since you don't do it if you're not prepared to procreate."

  Schuyler sighs. "I started having episodes when I was pretty young." He says. "No, I'm not a virgin but I've never done it when I was fully medicated."

  "Really."

  He runs his hands through his hair, and I notice how blond it looks next to the dark blue sweater. “The church... I mean, when you're raised Catholic..." He doesn't seem to know how to finish.

  I take his hand. "Don't worry, Schuyler." I whisper. We're getting close to the mourners now and I don't want to be over heard. I look around. I'm becoming increasingly agitated the closer I get to all these people who knew Madeline and maybe know me. I wonder who's who. Should I walk up and talk to people? Never my strong suit. Will they come up and talk to me? Also not my forte.

  "I spent the entire year I was seventeen believing I was Jesus." Schuyler says.

  "Whoa!" I gasp. I release his hand and wrap my arm around his waist. Poor dude. What a let down. My problems are silly. "Hey I'm gonna ask my shades to show me who... never mind okay? Just ignore me for a second." I pull us to a stop about twenty yards from the entrance. Most of the other people are already inside. I clear my throat. "If you're listening, and I know you are, please help me to know who to talk to." I say in a normal tone. A lady in black gives me a look.

  "She's praying." Schuyler says.

  "We're Catholic." I nod. The woman smiles politely and precedes us up the walk into the funeral home.

  Inside we are herded into a cream colored room to our left. The place is full, but it’s not as packed as I'd expect, considering the youth and relative beauty of the departed. There's a podium at the front, next to a big glamour shot of Madeline Cross. Schuyler and I take seats in the middle of the back row. I feel appropriately dressed and almost no one looks at me. There are a number of other women in my age range present. One of them is a red headed girl with glasses who takes the seat next to mine.

  She looks at me solemnly. "I'm Amy." She says. "I grew up with Mads."

  I nod. "I'm Meegan. I only met her recently but she made a big impression."

  At this Amy stiffens. What did I say? She turns her attention forward. We still have a few minutes before its set to begin. I'm busy scanning the room for shadows, when the tension seems to get the better of the girl and she decides to play hostess. "Up front." She points. "That's Mr. and Mrs. Cross, Tom and Sally, and the blond next to Sally is Mads' little sister Gwen. They were only two years apart. I heard Gwen was applying to transfer to Loyola with Mads before the scandal broke out. Now I don't know what she'll do." Amy says the word scandal like I should know something about it. Must be the ethics thing mentioned in the paper.

  “Mmm.” I say noncommittally, trying for solemn and sympathetic. “What was Mads like as a girl?” I ask this more to keep Amy talking than anything else.

  Amy purses her lips. “Smart, fun, kind of a rebel.” On the word rebel she chokes up and hides behind a tissue. I fold my hands in my lap. I don’t know how to do consoling. Maybe if I did, Ashley would still be talking to me. Suddenly I miss Ashley very much. Flash: what if this were Ashley’s memorial? Would I be the red head in back crying at a stranger? Probably. I never met her family. I spend a few minutes worrying about what to say to this Amy person, and now the funeral director steps up to the podium. The service can begin, thank God.

  He gives some words about youth and sorrow and he makes explanatory statements. The funeral tomorrow is a private affair. This is the time for friends and acquaintances etc. Good thing we came tonight. Sweet of the family to plan this around my day off. I almost snicker but manage to hold it back. The service continues and I tune it out. I’m looking diligently for any signs of shades, lights, birds, anything to give me a direction that will mean this wasn’t a wasted trip. At last I decide, if I’m going to have a shot at being productive, I need to see people’s faces. There’s an exit by the front. I figure I’ll get up and leave that way ’looking for the bathroom’. My return should give me a few seconds to scan the crowd. As quietly as I can, I stand up. Schuyler gives me a questioning look that seems tinged with panic. I pat his shoulder on my way to the aisle. I walk slowly forward. All is going as planned so far. But now I look up and see the funeral director is looking at me. What the hell? How have I messed up a bathroom break? I raise my eyebrows, and am about to break eye contact all together, when the snarky little man steps to the side, clearly offering me the podium. Oh fuck. Vaguely I remember him saying something about friends and relatives... what was it? Oh no! I have timed my actions sooo badly.

  “It’s okay.” The director says softly. “I know it’s hard to be first, but I’ll thank you right now for starting us off. I for one am glad to hear what you remember about Madeline.”

  Oh man. I look over my shoulder at the people gathered. They look encouragingly back at me. Awesome. I take my place behind the podium. Aw hell... looking down, I wrack my brain for what to say. I cross myself because it seems like the thing to do. I raise my eyes, find Schuyler’s and open my mouth. “I haven’t known Madeline very long.” I say. “But she really impressed me.” I suck in my breath and straighten my shoulders. “She was brave and strong. From the first moment we met, she treated me as if she’d known me for years.” Here I choke up, a little embarrassing but seemly. “I could tell she was in trouble, as I’m sure any of us could. I wish I’d don
e something to help her, but the last time I saw her she was trying to help me. Madeline was reckless, maybe, but she had a lot of tenacity. She said what she wanted to say, even if the consequences were going to be bad. I admired her. I can still see the way she’d stick out her chin. She was defiant, and maybe that put her in a bad position sometimes, I don’t know. But to me, that’s what defined her, and what was so inspiring about her.” I dare a look at the family. Tom and Sally are staring numbly ahead, but Gwen is nodding at me. “I am so sorry she’s gone.” I say. “I know I will never forget her. Mads’ face, that expression of victory in the middle of defeat, it’s burned in my brain.” I sniffle. “She was really someone to know.”

  Wow, that was inane. I look over the small crowd, might as well get what I came up here for, as I do I see it. A swirl of light is hovering around the shoulders of a bright eyed girl seated midway towards the back on my left. She’s staring at me with recognition.

  “Thank you.” I say and I leave to take my seat. Hot damn, that was stressful. I do the awkward, scoot-over-other-attendants thing to re-claim my spot next to Schuyler. He’s looking at me with a carefully controlled expression. I sit down and whisper in his ear. “Found her.”

  “Found who?" He whispers back.

  I nod at the curly haired girl mid way up on our right. She’s turned in her seat to get a better look at me. “The person to talk to.” Now I can clearly see the swirling, glowing nimbus of color around her head.

  I have no idea what Schuyler sees. Probably nothing because he asks, “How do you know?”

  I shrug. “I see it.”

  “A shadow?” He asks.

  I cringe at the growing inaccuracy of the term but I nod anyway. I’m still making eye contact with the girl. She looks like a fountain head, turning every few seconds to check me out. Other people have started to line up to take their turns speaking about Mads. I try to listen, but find it impossible to focus. The girl looks back, looks back again, looks back once more, and this time she’s not looking at me. She’s looking past me and her face is angry.