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I jerked my head to look at her bag. It wasn’t big enough for papers. “Where are they? Can I have them now?”

“I promised to wait until you were eighteen, or until I could no longer personally protect the information.”

Great. I wouldn’t be eighteen for seven months. “Promised who?”

She squared her shoulders and faced me head-on. “Your mother.”

“I was right.” I kicked a stone down the sidewalk ahead of me as Zachary and I walked toward the university’s visitor parking lot. “My mom was hiding secrets from me.”

“Not
from
you,” he said. “
For
you.”

I kicked the stone again, with more force. “But not until I’m eighteen! What’s so horrible that I can’t handle it now?”

“Maybe it’s a legal matter. What can you do once you turn eighteen?”

“I can use my cell phone while I’m driving. I can vote. I can buy cigarettes and lottery tickets and porn.”

“It’s probably not one of those. Don’t you become an official adult at eighteen?”

“Duh.” I kicked the rock, but it spun off the side of my foot. Zachary saved it from shooting off the sidewalk.

“So think. What would that mean for your mother, you being a real person?”

I stopped. “Oh my God. I think that’s the age when adopted kids can hunt down their birth mothers.”

“You know who your mother is.”

“But I don’t know my father.” I grabbed his arm. “Maybe that’s what’s in the documents—my dad’s name. Which means I can find him!”

He gave a wistful smile. “I hope so.”

“I will.” I tilted my head back in triumph. The sky suddenly looked bluer, the clouds puffier.

I noticed I was still holding on to Zachary’s arm. I dropped my hand but didn’t move away. My excitement gave me a shot of courage.

“Please tell me what your voice mail said. The part I missed.”

His gaze dropped to the notebook I was gripping, the one with the stickers for Logan’s bands. His smile disappeared, making my heart plummet to my shoes.

“Sorry.” He turned and gave the rock an extra-hard kick, shooting it across the street. “Not today.”

I gave a defeated sigh and followed him toward the parking lot. As we walked, we divided our thesis into sections, each of us choosing the parts we would polish into a final form.

When we reached my car, he said, “I’ll send you the outline and maybe we can meet next week?”

The thought of spending more time with Zachary, seeing up close the hands and mouth that had been all over Becca—and trying to decode his mixed signals—sounded downright masochistic. I had to get over him.

“There’s a lot going on right now.” I scraped my shoe against the mud splash on the bottom of the car door. “With finals and band rehearsals and all of Logan’s interviews, plus the show next month.”

“And?”

“In my aunt’s firm there are these two guys who work down on the Eastern Shore.” To avoid Zachary’s narrowing eyes, I stuffed my notebook back in my bag, which I took my time refastening. “We hardly ever see them, but they do a ton of work for us by e-mail and videoconferencing and remote desktopping. Maybe you and I could do that, so we wouldn’t have to—”

“See each other?”

Exactly.
“No, it’s not that. I just think, with our crazy schedules, it would be—”

“Brilliant. Let’s do it.”

I watched him walk away, trying to convince myself that this was easier. If it was just a matter of time before I could read my mother’s secrets, then I didn’t need Zachary to help me figure things out.

I turned back to my car, fumbling with the keys on Gina’s giant metallic Italian flag key chain. I couldn’t look at Zachary and think of my birthday—either the last one, when we had first kissed; or the next one, when I had hoped we’d go to Newgrange for the solstice.

Another dead dream.

T
he school year ended, and I officially became a senior—a senior who could look forward to an entire year without calculus. With Logan’s help, I’d aced the class final.

It was the least he could do, since wrangling him and Tabloid Decoys had become my part-time job, one that was interfering with my real job, which actually paid me. The band members—Josh, Heather, and Corey—agreed to give me a portion of their CD sales for the next year. Since their previous year’s sales only reached mid-double digits, I figured my royalty checks would maybe buy me lunch. At McDonald’s.

But the money wasn’t the point. As always, I needed to monitor Logan to keep him from spilling my secrets. Plus, I needed to wring every moment out of his time on Earth.

Because this time, I knew it was ending. This time, I knew he was ready.

However, his band—and its new “lead singer”—were not. Tabloid Decoys had only two rehearsals left before their big solstice concert. Logan and Mickey—finally communicating—had figured out the ultimate fake magic trick, one that would make Logan’s return to solidity less believable and thus less likely to cause a universal freak-out.

Now they just had to get it right.

“If you want to be me,” Logan told his older brother at the end of the song, “you have to be less cool.”

Sitting beside us in the second row, Megan repeated his words toward the stage.

Mickey glared at the ceiling of the high school auditorium, where he was rehearsing the finale. “I can’t help it if I’m naturally cooler than he is.”

“For the fortieth time,” I said, “don’t talk about him like he’s not here.” I gestured to my left, where Logan sat with his feet propped on the seat in front of him.

Mickey’s hand tightened on the neck of the black Fender. “What do you mean by ‘less cool,’
Logan
?”

“Try smiling for once in your life. And bounce more. Work those Vans.”

After I translated, Mickey frowned at the blue-and-black-checkered high-tops on his own feet, but thankfully made no comment. He and Logan had been bickering all afternoon, as they had when Logan was alive. But at least they were speaking again.

We’d found an outfit that matched what Logan had been wearing the night he died, and which he still wore, as it was apparently the
happiest moment of his life. The day after tomorrow, on the morning of Logan’s solstice show, Mickey would get a temporary Aura tattoo over his heart, then bleach his hair blond with black streaks. Their faces and lanky builds were so similar, people used to think they were twins.

After Logan’s death, Mickey had rejected his own punk image. He’d dyed his jet-black hair back to its natural medium brown and stopped spiking it. He’d also abandoned the electric guitar.

Seeing Mickey plugged in again was like bringing a piece of Logan back to life—and Mickey with him.

Mickey turned to his temporary bandmates. “Let’s take it two measures before the first bridge. Josh, watch your tempo—you sound like you’re on crack heading into that chorus.”

Corey, the drummer, counted off, and they crashed into the rolling, swerving bridge, my favorite part of “Shade,” Logan’s new tune. If he became human again on Friday night, he would play it himself. It would be his swan song.

Logan watched intently as Mickey tried to mimic his frenetic onstage energy, transforming from his own dark, cool, brooding self into Logan’s passionate, boisterous, heart-on-his-sleeve persona. As Mickey made the Fender wail, Logan played along, his fingers forming the chords and picking out the solo.

But he hid his hands below the seat in front of us so his band-mates couldn’t see. Like the public, the members of Tabloid Decoys thought Logan would run offstage and Mickey would take his place in a “magic trick” made to look like a miracle. Only Megan, Logan, Mickey, and I knew that the miracle would be real.

All this so that Logan could play guitar one last time. I glanced over at his violet hands, weaving a spell on an imaginary instrument, and knew it was worth it.

The song ended, flawlessly this time. We hooted and cheered.

“Very nice!” came a voice from the back of the auditorium. Nicola Hughes strode down the aisle, clapping as she walked. She was more casually dressed than on her usual visits to rehearsal, in a pair of jeans and a tight top that showed off her skinniness. “Are we all ready for Friday?” she asked me and Megan. “Anything I can do?”

Logan beamed at her, though she couldn’t see him. “Ask her which radio stations are coming.”

We shared his question, and she replied, “The three major rock stations from Baltimore and DC, plus one each from Frederick and Harrisburg. I’ve also got calls in to the punk, indie, and alternative satellite radio stations.”

“Tell her she rocks,” Logan said to me, then faced the stage. “Let’s round out the set list. Which two songs should Mickey play after ‘Shade’?”

Josh said, “Why not play the other songs first and end with ‘Shade’? It’s our big number.”

“Yeah, but I know from experience, shit happens. If things get wild after my alleged transformation, and they shut us down, I want to make sure that song’s been played.”

“Who’ll shut us down?” Heather turned to Nicola. “The DMP? I thought you said all this was approved.”

“Of course. There’ll be plenty of security.” Nicola looked at me. “Does Logan have a concern?”

“My only concern,” he said to me, “is not screwing up that solo. Be right back.” He disappeared, then reappeared onstage.

“He’s fine,” I told Nicola. “You can go.”

Instead, she took a seat at the end of our row and pulled out her cell phone.

“She’s a hoverer, isn’t she?” Megan whispered to me.

“I’ll be glad to get rid of her, if we ever do. But she’s probably the only reason we’ve had any peace these last few months. She’s like a mother bear and we’re her cubs.”

Logan reappeared beside me. “We settled on ‘Little Lion Man’ by Mumford and Sons as an acoustic solo, then finish off with AFI’s ‘Bleed Black.’” He lowered his voice so only the two of us could hear. “That gives us a little cushion in the seventeen minutes.”

“Good,” Megan said. “It would suck if you dropped that expensive guitar when you turned back to air.” She smirked at him as she climbed over the seat to go talk to Mickey.

I watched Logan run through a series of chords, nodding his head and setting his fingers in the proper configurations.

“You’re ready, aren’t you?” I asked.

He looked up from his air guitar and gave me a serene smile. “Almost.”

I wondered how I would feel Friday night, seeing Mickey looking so much like the live Logan. If Logan failed to turn solid at the moment of the solstice, his brother would take his place onstage. He would sing the notes, play the chords, and touch the fans that were meant for Logan. Maybe Logan would still pass on, but he’d be doing it in sadness instead of triumph.

Since the band was on a break, I switched my phone back on. The screen told me I had a missed call from Eowyn.

Before I could dial my voice mail, the phone rang. Zachary. We hadn’t spoken since we’d turned in our paper almost two weeks ago, on the last day of school. We’d briefly discussed getting together before he left for the UK next Sunday. For research purposes on the Shift, I assumed. I didn’t dare to hope for anything more.

“Hey,” I said casually, as if it didn’t still hurt to hear his voice.

“Aura, Eowyn’s gone.”

Zachary and I met outside the computer and space sciences building on campus, then dashed up the stairs to Eowyn’s office.

My heart pounded from more than exertion. According to Eowyn’s hasty phone calls to me and Zachary, she’d had to leave the country quickly or risk having her research materials confiscated. The DMP was closing in.

At quarter to five, we ran into the astronomy office, where the department secretary, Madeline, was waiting for us.

“Just in time.” She opened the top drawer of her desk and pulled out a slim envelope and a set of keys. “Professor Harris said to let you alone in her office as long as you needed. But I have to lock up and leave at five. My kid’s day care charges extra if I’m late.”

“Thanks very much,” Zachary said.

Madeline gave me the envelope. Then she led us over to Eowyn’s door and unlocked it with a “Good luck.”

We turned on the light and shut the door behind us. I opened the envelope, my sweaty fingers catching on the slit.

Inside was a half sheet of notebook paper. In unusually shaky handwriting, it read,

A
URA AND
Z
ACHARY
,

T
HE TRUTH ISN’T ALWAYS BEAUTIFUL, AND IT’S

ALMOST NEVER KIND
. T
HE TRUTH JUST IS
. B
E AS STRONG AS
I
KNOW YOU ARE,
E
OWYN
H
ARRIS

I turned the paper over, her words filling me with dread.

#1 of 3: Beneath the tree we didn’t drink.

We stared at the paper for several moments.

Finally Zachary said, “Huh?”

“It must be some kind of scavenger hunt.”

“Seems like something she’d do. It would keep the DMP from finding whatever we’re hunting for. Of course, it might keep
us
from finding it, too.”

I repeated the clue under my breath. We’d drunk trees?

I scanned the office, hoping some detail would trigger a memory. Her books and papers were gone, but her decor had been left behind—the midnight blue ceiling tapestry with golden stars, the blue and lavender woven rug, the low, Japanese-style tea table. The room even smelled faintly of her honeysuckle perfume.

Wait—the table.

I remembered our first meeting, less than two days after Logan
had died. Eowyn had served us tea in mugs decorated with ogham letters from the old Irish alphabet, letters that each held a special meaning.

I flapped my hand. “The mugs! The symbols on them—they had something to do with trees, right?”

“They corresponded to different trees and meanings, I think. The clue says it’s the one we didn’t drink from.” He went to the table and stood next to the cushion we’d sat on together. “There were three of us that day. So there’s a fourth mug?”