Buried

by Linda Joy Singleton

  “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; Señor 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.”

  Señor 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.

  Increasing my pace, I reach the auditorium and grab for the door. But I hear a sound behind me. I whirl, and see dark clothes and a ski mask over dark eyes. He’s leaning against the whitewashed wall, one gloved hand casually resting on the rough surface and the other tucked into his jacket pocket. I can’t see his face, but I know he’s grinning.

  “What did you do?” I demand accusingly. I take a step forward, careful to keep an arm’s distance between us. I doubt he’s dangerous, but I don’t trust him.

  “Whatever do you mean?” he says in a mocking voice.

  “You know exactly!” I’m furious he’s not taking me seriously. “I saw you sneak inside Philippe’s trailer.”

  “Delusional much?”

  I glare. “You were carrying a knife when you went into the trailer but I didn’t see anything in your hands when you came out. What have you done?”

  “You thought that was a knife? It wasn’t.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Have you always been such a skeptic?” he asks. “What do you think I did? Vandalized the big famous star’s bus? Sorry, but you’re wrong.”

  “I don’t care what you did. But the principal will.”

  “I’m sure he will. Be a good little girl and go tattle to him.”

  “You want to get rid of me and it won’t work.”

  “Your obsession with me is flattering, but you’re not my type.”

  “Egotistical jerks aren’t my type,” I retort. And I can’t believe I ever thought Wiley was hot (I’m ninety-five percent sure that’s who this is). He’s smug and too sure of himself. He’s purposely baiting me because he wants me to leave so he can ditch his Reaper clothes and retreat back into obscurity.

  “Shouldn’t you report me?” he taunts. “What if I planted a bomb on his bus?”

  “Did you?” I demand.

  He shrugs. “Find out for yourself. Or wait around for the big kaboom. Hurry, time is running out.”

  I glare at him, then turn like I’m going to leave. Mid-turn, I whirl back and lunge for him, hands reaching, grabbing the edge of his ski mask, pulling it off …

  Revealing the Grin Reaper.

  Eleven

  Not Wiley, or even a Jay-Clone. It’s the original.

  “Jay Blankenship!” I shout.

  I’m grinning as wide as his trademark smiley face. The infamous vigilante is the preppy, popular, egotistical son of the most respected judge in town. I love the irony! And I’m going to love exposing him.

  His dark eyes, even when glaring, are softer now than when viewed through a slit in a ski mask. His blond lashes are long, curled, and almost girly, at odds with the hard lines of his cheekbones. When I’ve seen him around school, he always has an arrogant lift to his chin—he’s handsome and he knows it. But up close, I can see the rough edges in his face and a small scar above his right eyebrow. Not so perfect now, I think.

  “Give me my cap!”

  “Of course,” I say. With exaggerated politeness, I hold it out. His murderous glare doesn’t scare me.

  He snatches the mask roughly, then shoves it into his pants pocket.

  “Aren’t you going to put it back on to hide your identity?” I say, amused.

  “There are other ways,” he says mysteriously, peeling off his gloves and shoving them into his coat pocket.

  Then he takes off the long coat and turns it inside out—revealing royal blue fabric hidden beneath the midnight black. He folds up the yards of excess fabric, transforming the concealing coat into his preppy letter jacket. He drapes it over his arm as if this is a new fashion style his Jay-clone followers will emulate. Whipping out a comb, he smooths back his blond hair, then parts it off-center, a wave falling across his forehead and softening the hard edges of his face. The Reaper is transformed back to the Prep.

  I’m not sure who disgusts me more, the smug rich kid or the vandal. I touch a stained corner of my backpack—a reminder of his theft and brutal actions.

  “You don’t need to hide your identity anymore,” I say coolly.

  “Why not?” he demands.

  “Figure it out.”

  “Are you threatening to expose me?”

  I give a thin smile. “The word ‘threat’ implies that I might not go through with it. But I will.”

  He frowns. “You can’t tell anyone.”

  “I’m going to tell everyone,” I say, as if making a solemn promise.

  “That would be a very bad idea.”

  “People will want to know the truth—especially your father.”

  His brows knit together, his faint scar stretching like a scowl. “Don’t you understand that I’m helping people? Let’s talk this over.”

  “I have nothing to talk about with you. But I have lots to tell the principal.”

  “Don’t do that.” He bites his lip. “Please.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because you’re not the hard-hearted bitch that some people think you are.”

  “Sweet-talking me won’t change my mind.”

  “Then I have no choice.” His gaze shifts into a mask, something dangerous glittering behind his wry smile.<
br />
  I continue to face him confidently. “You can’t stop me from telling everyone,” I say. “What a joke! The Grin Reaper is the son of the honorable Judge Blankenship. After my talk with the principal, I’ll tell my friend Amerie. She loves dramatic news like this and will text it to the world.”

  He leans close to my face, his frown deepening like a dangerous line no one should cross. “You are not going to tell anyone.”

  “Oh?” I say, amused. “Why won’t I?”

  “Because everyone has secrets—including you.”

  “Yeah, right,” I scoff.

  “Find any dead bodies lately?” He leans close to ear and adds in an ominous whisper, “Beth Ann.”

  His hot breath burns my skin, his words a wildfire out of my control. “How—how did you … ?”

  “How did I find out your real name? And about your odd discovery in the hills?” He smiles wickedly. “I have my ways. Are you ready to negotiate now?”

  His tone and expression are so cocky I want to slap him. But hearing my real name from his lips has stolen my voice. I simply nod.

  “There’s a storeroom around the corner. Come on.” He glances up and down the path and over at the auditorium, then turns, gesturing me to follow.

  I hesitate, not wanting to go anywhere with him. But he knows too much.

  So I follow him to a door I’ve passed many times before but have never really noticed. He pulls a key ring from his pocket and tries a few keys until the door opens. I don’t ask how he has keys to private school rooms. I have too many questions already.

  He flips on a light as we enter. The room reeks of ammonia and lemon; metal shelves crammed full of cleaners and other materials line the walls. Brooms and mops lean in a corner like lazy sentries.

  He turns toward me. I take a step back. We’re so close in this small confined space that I can feel the heat of his energy. His smile is cool but his body is tense, a wild beast ready to pounce if I turn my back or show fear.

  “How did you find out about me?” I fold my arms over my chest.