Buried (8 page)

T
e
n

I
f that's true, I'll drink a cockroach slushie,” Rune says
when I confess what I've done. We're lunching on the steps behind the cafeteria, where a faint aroma of ripe garbage always assures us of privacy. K.C. hasn't shown up yet today, and since Amerie is busy with the contest, it's just Rune and me.

“Serve up the cockroach.” I hang my head. “I'm the new fourth member of the Cotton Candy Cowgirls.”

Rune's dark eyes glitter angrily, as if I've betrayed something important between us. “Who
are
you? What have you done with the real Thorn?”

“I kidnapped her and she's locked in a trunk in the cellar.”

“Seriously, Thorn.” Rune stomps her high-top black boots on the lower step. “How did Amerie convince you to do this? Blackmail you with a horrible secret?”

“How else could I keep her from telling the world that I'm secretly a psycho mass murderer?”

“I'll mass murder you if you don't me why you really entered the contest.”

“It's just something I need to do.”

“But you hate contests.”

I shrug. “Not so much any more.”

She moves her bag lunch off her lap and looks deep into my eyes. “I can't believe you entered.”

“Neither can I,” I sigh.

“I won't lie and say I understand this insanity, but I'm your best friend and even if I don't like what you're doing, I'm all about support.”

“Thanks,” I say with a wry smile.

“I'll even go to the contest and applaud crazy loud when you win.”

“Win? I don't think so.” I shake my head. If things work out, I'll never even make it onto the stage.

“If you don't expect to win, why join such a ridiculous group? Excuse my gag reflex, but really, Thorn—
The Cotton Candy Cowgirls
?”

I cross and uncross my black-netted legs as if I can't get comfortable on the cement steps. I should have stuck with the psycho-killer story. A lie would be more believable than the truth. Now the best I can do is a half-truth.

“I'm just playing guitar and singing background. Amerie begged me to step in after their guitarist quit.”

“You agreed as a favor to Amerie?” Rune's brows knit together like she's trying to wrap her brain about weird facts.

I shrug like it's no big deal. “You know how persuasive Amerie can be.”

“Yeah. She usually gets what she wants. And who else can wear wings to school and get away with it? Teachers don't get on her case. Even the worst of the bullies leave her alone. Amerie is an unstoppable force of nature. But I don't think that's the real reason why you agreed to be in the contest.”

“You don't?” I look down at the lunch I haven't opened, avoiding her gaze.

“Don't con me. You're using Amerie as an excuse because you love to play guitar and have been dying to enter the contest. I'm right, aren't I?”

“Well … music is important to me.”

“I knew it.” She lifts her energy drink as if congratulating herself.

I let her think she's right, although it bugs me that she believes I'd sell out my convictions. I want to assure her I'm still for individuality and against commercial corruption, but instead I ask her for her weird fact for today.

“A girl not much older than us was engaged to this amazing guy she totally loved and their future together looked great until her parents told her a horrible secret.”

“That fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce?”

“Worse. That she'd been born a boy and she could never have kids.”

“A boy? Wouldn't she know?” I glance down. “That's kind of hard to miss.”

“Snip, snip.” She pantomimes scissors cutting. “She had surgery as a baby and everything looked normal. How tragic—she never knew she wasn't completely a
she
. Can you imagine telling that secret to your boyfriend?”

I shake my head. “FYI, I don't have a boyfriend.”

“Neither do I—although if you find the Reaper, I'm up for the challenge.” She flashes me a wicked grin. “I'll let him know I'm all girl.”

I grab my apple and take a bite, chewing so I conveniently don't have to reply. I refuse to get into an argument over that jerk Reaper.

Rune launches into another weird fact about an obscure South Pacific island where all the animals have multiple heads.
Humanity is so strange
, I think.

When I get to my Spanish class, the door is locked. Just great; Se
ñ
or Rojas is running late again. Students gather by the door, waiting. Two girls I recognize from homeroom huddle close like they're telling secrets, only they're talking so loud everyone can hear. I'm not interested until I hear the word “bones.”

My skin goes hot then cold. I step closer, listening.

“ … that poor baby,” I hear the chubby girl with braces say.

“How could anyone do something so hideous?” her friend replies, with a grim headshake that sends her long black ponytails flying.

“I can't even imagine! But I've heard that it's a girl from this school, only the sheriff can't release her name because she's a minor.”

“No freaking way! Who could it be?”

“I don't know. But when she's arrested, we'll find out.”

Se
ñ
or Rojas arrives and they move their conversation inside the class. I hang back, letting everyone else go in before following.

Rumors and whispers are already spreading. I should have known drama like a buried baby would get out. Not that anyone would connect it to me—at least not yet. But if the sheriff leaks my name, everyone will assume I know who did it even though I didn't live here when the baby died. “We knew she was bad news,” kids will say. Adults will shake their heads and say how sorry they are for my parents. While I don't care who likes or dislikes me, I don't want to be the hot topic at school.

Finding the locket's owner is more urgent than ever.

I struggle through my last two classes, doing enough to get by. But I'm not really there. My thoughts are far away, on a deserted hill with small bones and the ragged remains of a baby blanket.

How did the baby die? Was it an accident?

Or murder.

I can't even go directly home after school since I have to meet the Cotton Candy Cowgirls for rehearsal. I enter the auditorium with the enthusiasm of someone walking to the guillotine. Off with my head, please. It would be less painful.

Noisy chaos explodes in the cavernous room. A swarm of excited kids (mostly girls, but I see a few guys too) surround the stage. Is Philippe up there? I strain my neck for a better look. The crowd shifts, and the figure at the center of the excitement is a pretty woman in her thirties waving a clipboard and barking out orders. The business manager Collette, I guess.

I'm hoping Amerie can introduce me to the girls who were on stage the day I found the locket. Only I don't see fairy wings anywhere. I do spot a trio of pink hats and sigh with resignation. Guillotine, here I come.

The pink trio welcomes me with fake smiles. They're as eager to work with me as I am to wear a pink western hat. Guess that makes us even.

“Where's your guitar?” Barbee asks.

“At home. I didn't know about all of this when I left the house this morning.”

Micqui frowns. “How can we rehearse without music?”

“We can't,” Barbee says. “It's like we're cursed. First Priscilla quits, and now we can't rehearse.”

“Let's rehearse at my house,” Skarla says, pushing between the sisters like a referee. “It'll be quieter there too, not noisy like here.”

“With her in our group, we'll need extra rehearsals.” Barbee turns to me. “We're scheduled to audition next Tuesday—that's only four days away! No offense, but that doesn't leave us much time to find a replacement if you suck.”

“Or, you could suck. If you don't want me here—” I start to say.

“Of course we do!” Skarla intervenes, hooking her arm through mine like we're BFFs. “Amerie says you're really talented. That's so cool. Will you have any trouble meeting at my house at seven tonight? And be sure to bring your guitar.”

Three stares under pink hats study me, like I've been given a test and they doubt I'll pass.
Whatever
.

I say I'll be there.

They leave the auditorium but I linger, gazing purposely around. The locket, which I've been wearing under my shirt, has grown warmer since I entered the room. It's uncomfortably hot now. Could it be sending me a message? That seems crazy even to me. Still, this is where it was found, so it makes sense the owner could be nearby.

So, instead of hiding the locket, I flaunt it around my neck. I hold the shoelace in a very obvious way, wiggling it so the golden heart jiggles above my breasts.
Everyone look!
I want to shout. A few do, but most are too busy singing or reading music or playing instruments. I run my fingers over the smooth locket and linger on the point, which is sharp but not enough to draw blood. I think of the fragile curl tucked inside and study the girls suspiciously.
Which one of you hid a pregnancy and then buried your secret in a shallow grave?

But no one seems startled by the locket.

I'd ask Amerie to announce that a locket was found, except I don't see her anywhere. She's obsessed with this contest, so it's strange she'd leave early.

I leave, too, heading for the office to call K.C. for a ride home. But he doesn't answer his cell. Asking my parents is out of the question. Not because they'll refuse but for the opposite reason. Mom will be thrilled I'm involved in school activities and hanging out with “normal” girls—which is exactly why I won't tell her. Guess I'm walking home.

I'm passing the staff parking lot when I notice a ginormous, gleaming silver bus. Unlike the yellow clunk-mobiles students ride in, it's sleek and luxurious with reflective tinted windows glittering like mirrors. This has to be Philippe's tour bus.

My guess is confirmed when the door opens and automatic stairs unfold to the ground. Out steps gorgeous Philippe. And he's not alone. His arm is draped around the petite shoulders of a girl with light brown hair and some sort of sparkly hat on her head. No … not a hat. A winged headband!

Amerie? With Philippe?

Disbelief stuns me. Amerie never said anything about going out with Philippe. Not one word from the girl who usually spills volumes of gossip. I stare, even more shocked when Philippe stops to face Amerie and pulls her tight to his chest, his infamous long black curls spiraling over her shoulders as they embrace.

Are they kissing? Oh. My. God. Unbelievable!

I'm still gaping in shock as they stroll away, hand in hand, back toward campus, probably headed back to the auditorium.

Now I know why Amerie wasn't at rehearsal.

How did she work so fast? Sure, she admitted lusting after Philippe, and even I have to admit he's hot. But Amerie deserves a sweet guy who will cherish her, not someone who sold out creativity for commercialism. Amerie is selling out also, becoming a Philippe groupie. He's too old for her, too, and she's so gullible. He'll break her heart, and guess who will be left to pick up the pieces? This cannot end well.

I'm so lost in my thoughts that I almost miss movement by the silver bus. A shadowy figure creeps close to the tires. Curious, I crouch down by an SUV to watch. The shadow pauses to furtively glance around, as if sensing he's being watched. He's draped in all black: long jacket, western boots, and a ski mask pulled low over his face.

The Grin Reaper!

Could it be Wiley?
I feel strangely excited, but remind myself that he's no friend. I have a score to settle with the Reaper. No one tosses me to the ground and dumps my backpack in the garbage.
You're through, Reaper,
I vow.
I'm going to find out who you are and make sure everyone at school finds out too.

This is a new twist to my finding skill, I observe with a wry grin.

Ducking behind cars, I move closer to the bus. At less than fifty feet away, there's no mistaking the furtive movements of the Reaper. He's creeping beside the tires, clearly intent on trouble. He lifts his hand and something silvery flashes. A knife? Is he going to slash the tires?

Sprinting forward a few cars, I duck behind a silver Prius, watching. The Reaper nears the door of the bus, his head tucked low. He stops, climbs up the steps, and reaches for the knob, but it doesn't open. He withdraws something the size of a pencil from his pocket. His back blocks my view, but when the door falls open, I know he's picked the lock. Wait till I tell Rune! Her hero is nothing more than a criminal.

He enters the bus, the steps folding up behind him.

What's he doing in there? Nothing good, that's for sure. I wait, not sure what to do. I could run get a teacher. But what if he leaves before I get back and I end up looking like a fool? Still, if I do nothing, he could trash Philippe's bus. And that's just wrong after Philippe generously donated his time to the school.

And why would the Reaper go after Philippe, anyway? Curiosity itches like a bad rash I shouldn't scratch. But I've never been good at doing what I'm supposed to, which is my only excuse for heading to the bus.

But as I get close, the door swings open. The automatic steps unfold again as if obeying the Grin Reaper's command. He hits the ground running, his feet flying.

Instinct takes over and I go after him. He heads back toward the school, turning down a path leading to classrooms. He pauses, glancing around, then disappears around a corner.

When I reach the walkway, he's gone. I keep running, straining my neck looking for him. As I near the cafeteria, I hear the hum of voices from the Singing Star rehearsal. The Reaper could easily slip inside and vanish into the chaos.