Buried

by Linda Joy Singleton

  “My contacts keep me informed,” he says mysteriously.

  “Who are they?”

  “No one at this school.”

  “Someone at the Sheriff’s Department?” I guess.

  “I never reveal my sources. You’re still a minor, so your name won’t be released to the public. All anyone knows is that a teenager found a grave of a baby.”

  I close my eyes, remembering the ragged blanket … the tiny fingers …

  When I open my eyes, Jay a.k.a. Reaper is studying me.

  “That must have been hard,” he says quietly.

  “As if you care?” I snap.

  “So I’m not allowed to have feelings?”

  “If you did, you wouldn’t hurt people. You’re all about revenge and punishment. Maybe some people deserve it, but who said you get to decide? Your father is a judge—

  not you.”

  His dark eyes narrow. “You don’t know anything about my father.”

  “If he’s anything like you, I don’t want to!” I meet his angry gaze with one of my own. “Why are you going after Philippe anyway? He doesn’t even go to this school.”

  “But he did.”

  “You can’t possibly hold a grudge against him from back then.”

  “The grudge isn’t for me. He stole something from a friend who trusted him.”

  “But it was at least two years ago. Isn’t it kind of sick to hold onto a grudge like that? Philippe has reformed and made something of himself. All you’ve achieved is revenge, hiding behind a mask. When everyone finds out who you are, it’ll be over.”

  “They won’t know if you don’t tell. This is my last year here, and when I leave, the Reaper goes too.” He rakes his fingers through his blond hair. “I’m the only one at school who knows it was you who found the body. I’ve known since last night, but I kept it to myself. I wasn’t going to tell anyone.”

  “How big of you,” I say sarcastically.

  “I’m a good guy even if you don’t believe me.”

  “Good guys don’t plant bombs.”

  “There isn’t a bomb. I only said that to get rid of you. I’m for getting justice, not destroying stuff. All I left on the bus was a DVD. I promise it won’t go boom—at least not in a physical way. I also promise to keep your secret.”

  “If I keep yours,” I say angrily.

  “A mutual agreement.”

  I clench my hands so I won’t smack him with a broom or squirt lemon-scented air freshener into his eyes. I want to lash out because no one has ever made me feel so defeated.

  He knows about me. I know about him. Damn.

  “Okay.” I hang my head. “You win.”

  “I always do,” he says. “But to make this official, swear that you won’t tell anyone who I am. I know you won’t break a solemn swear.”

  “You mean because my mother is a minister?” I demand.

  “No. She isn’t you.”

  “Then how can you trust me?”

  He tilts his head, studying me. “Even when you glare like that, your eyes give you away. You’re trustworthy, honest, and loyal.”

  “A regular Girl Scout.” I glance away because he’s staring at me like my soul is naked. “But you’re right—I won’t go back on a promise. If you swear to keep my secret, I’ll swear to keep yours.”

  “Fair enough. Shake on it.” He holds out his gloved hand, waiting.

  I’m reluctant to touch him, as if even a brief contact will somehow change me. But I’m no coward so I hold out my hand. He meets mine with a firm grip; I feel callused skin against my palm. I’m a little dizzy and blame it on the strong odors from the cleaning supplies. He holds on longer than necessary, but I remind myself why I hate him and that he’s the total opposite of my type. Then he releases my hand, whirling for the door.

  He leaves so fast that I blink and he’s gone.

  I look down, aware of something in my hand. Unclenching my fingers, I find a tiny yellow circle clinging to my skin.

  A smiley face sticker.

  I’ve made a pact with the devil.

  This realization pounds in my head with each footstep as I walk home from school. I’m angry, but also feeling something close to excitement. It’s not like I’m suddenly a fan of the Grin Reaper, but we’ve established an odd alliance … one of mutual mistrust and dislike.

  When I pass The Hole Truth donut shop, I think guiltily of Rune. I’ve ditched her after school two days in a row. It’s taken a while to develop our friendship; we’re both blunt, with an honesty that borders on rudeness, but these traits that might have pulled us apart have bound us closer together. I decide that I’ll make things up to her tomorrow. She’s going to be shocked when I tell her about Amerie and Philippe. Sneaking off together, holding hands, kissing!

  Amerie takes everything so seriously that I worry she’ll think Philippe’s really interested in her, not just flirting. He’s a pop star, after all, with lots of groupies chasing after him.

  When I get home, I find K.C. tinkering in the garage. I’m relieved he’s not working tonight. He says “okay” when I ask for a ride to Skarla’s later. He even knows who she is, explaining that he has a few classes with her.

  I avoid my parents by saying I have homework (true, but I’m not doing it yet) and retreating to my room. I pull out folders of music I’ve written, feeling critical of my songs. A few are okay, but I’m no professional and would die rather than show them to anyone. I don’t really know why I write songs; it’s a weird compulsion. A melody gets stuck in my head and the only way to let it go is to put it on paper. My latest song, untitled so I just call it “Pest,” plays in my mind. I reach for my guitar.

  Even after K.C. drops me off at Skarla’s, “Pest” is still running through my head. I don’t realize I’m humming it until Skarla invites me in and asks me the name of the song.

  “It’s nothing,” I say.

  “Really? Well it should be.” Then she invites me to join the other girls in the family room.

  Barbee and Micqui are wearing similarly styled dark jeans and sweatshirts. Micqui calls out my name in a friendly welcome. Barbee merely shrugs; it’s clear she doesn’t want me here.

  Skarla’s in charge and gets straight to business. She hands me a sheet of music. I study the arrangement, noticing how the lyrics mostly repeat lame words like “Giddy-up!” and “Sweet, Sweet, Sweetheart” for a song called “Giddy-up Sweetheart.” I strum a few notes on my guitar and feel like my ears are bleeding in protest.

  Apparently I’m a minority of one, though, because the other girls love the song. When Skarla’s parents come in with sodas and a tray of chips and cookies, they applaud enthusiastically. “Brava, brava!” says her father. And the way he’s looking at her, supportive and proud, kills me. I can’t remember my dad ever looking at me that way.

  We go through the song about five hundred times, until it’s running through my fingers and head. The words are sappy and the melody sucks, but a few note changes would help immensely. I consider suggesting this, but ultimately say nothing.

  We take a break, and Skarla leans close to her friends, whispering. Immediately I’m on guard. Are they talking about me?

  “I’ll be right back,” she announces loudly.

  Micqui and Barbee share a look that shuts me out. I knew this would happen. You just can’t trust people.

  I set my face into a mask and mentally rehearse my reaction to being kicked out of the group. A shrug and smile to let them know I don’t care. “I only did this as a favor for Amerie,” I’ll say.

  Then Skarla comes back, her hands tucked behind her back. She tips her head to the side in a gesture that signals the other girls. They come beside her; unified against me. Why are they smiling?

  “What’s going on?” I ask cautiously.


  “Surprise!” Skarla exclaims, reaching toward me with a bright pink hat in her hand. “A gift for you! You’re one of us now.”

  They all look at me, waiting for my reaction.

  I’m not a fan of western hats. And pink!? I don’t think so.

  But I’m relieved they didn’t kick me out of the group—at least not until I find out who owns the locket. So I take the hat and even put it on my head. “Thanks,” I say.

  “You’re welcome!” Skarla rushes to grab me in a warm hug. “I’ll give you the rest of the costume as soon as I get it back from Priscilla. We’re so glad to have you in our group. Thanks!”

  “I haven’t done much.” I squirm out of her grasp.

  “How can you say that?” Skarla is like a balloon of joy that’s been popped on me. “After Priscilla quit, we didn’t have a chance of winning. But you rescued us. And your playing is amazing. You’re really talented.”

  I shrug, uncomfortable with praise.

  When Skarla leaves the room, I turn to the Micqui and Barbee. “Is Skarla always so cheerful?”

  “Always.” Barbee takes a cookie from a tray on the coffee table.

  “Skarla’s cool,” Micqui says. “She never even complains.”

  “Complains about what?” I ask, gesturing at the spacious, artfully decorated room. “She’s popular, pretty, lives in a gorgeous house, and has supportive parents.”

  “Those aren’t her parents,” Micqui says. “Grandparents.”

  “So where are her parents?”

  “Don’t tell anyone at school,” Barbee says in a hushed voice. “Her mother is in jail and her father died of an overdose.”

  I can’t think of anything to say. I’m sobered and a little ashamed. Although I never said anything snarky, I’d mentally labeled Skarla as an over-bubbly fluff-brain. I judged her without looking any deeper, like most people do to me. I hate hypocrites—especially when I turn out to be one too.

  As an unspoken apology, I’m nicer for the rest of practice. I don’t even roll my eyes when I’m asked to hum the chorus of “Giddy-up Sweetheart.”

  When we finish, Skarla offers to drive me home. As I’m putting on my jacket, a button snags in my hair. I pull and tug until it loosens but it catches on the shoestring around my neck, sweeping the locket out from underneath my shirt. The plastic heart shines golden under the car’s dome light.

  “Pretty necklace.” Skarla nods at the necklace as she starts up the engine.

  “Pretty ugly is more like it.”

  “Depends on who gave it to you. Even tacky plastic is priceless if it’s a gift of love,” she replies philosophically. The car moves forward, the dome light softly fading until we’re in near darkness. “Did your boyfriend give it to you?”

  That question is wrong on so many levels that I almost laugh. “Not even close. This necklace isn’t mine. I found it on a chair on the stage, on registration day for the contest.”

  “Meeting Philippe that day was sooooo amazing,” she says, sighing. “Everyone gasped when he showed up in the auditorium. He signed autographs and posed for photos. Want to see one of us together? My skin still tingles where he put his arm around me. Then he led a Q and A session on the stage. Ohmygod. It was, like, amazing.”

  “You were on stage with him?” My brain clicks through events as she nods. “Then you must have seen whoever lost this.”

  She looks closer at the golden heart, then shakes her head. “Sorry. I’ve never seen it before.”

  “No one has,” I say in frustration. “But I’m sure whoever lost it was on the stage with Philippe. I’ve been really obvious showing it around, but no one has claimed it and I can’t think of any other way to find out.”

  “I can,” Skarla says.

  I raise my brows, surprised.

  “Maybe I took a picture of it,” she says. “I brought my camera that day, since I always post tons of pictures on my blog. I get hundreds of hits every day, which is so cool. I talk about where I went with my friends or what we’re wearing or what we ate for lunch.”

  Exactly why I don’t read blogs, I think. I gesture for her to go on.

  “Since Philippe coming here is the most interesting thing to ever happen at Nevada Bluff High—he even brought his tour bus!—I wrote a really long post and uploaded all my photos. You know, when I was helping Amerie set up the chairs on the stage, girls were fighting over who got to sit next to Philippe. It’s crazy the way girls freak out over him, but who can blame them?”

  “Philippe is just another guy,” I say, thinking of Amerie locking lips with him. She’ll want to be his “one and only,” not his “one of many.” If I try to warn her, will she listen? Probably not.

  “He’s way more than that—he’s perfect,” Skarla says with a sigh. “I got great photos of him, and of everyone else on the stage, too.”

  “Everyone?” My hopes rise. At the very least, this will narrow my search.

  “Yeah. Check it out.”

  Skarla hands me her cell phone.

  Twelve

  I click through about a hundred photos. I don’t see the locket, but I do find a clear shot of the people who went to the Q and A session. Seven fan girls and one guy sit in a circle of chairs surrounding Philippe and his manager. Amerie is so close to Philippe she’s practically in his lap. I also recognize Barbee, Micqui, and Jessika from English Lit.

  “Can you send me this picture?” I tap my finger on the camera.

  “Sure.” Skarla asks for my email. “I can include names, too, if you’d like.”

  “Thanks.” I give her my email addy.

  As we turn up the street to my house, excitement rushes through me like when I’m in finding mode and close to a solution. All I have to do is find out which of the girls sitting in that circle was pregnant last year, then confront her with the locket. She’ll confess about the grave, and then my parents and Sheriff Hart will know I’m not involved.

  When I get home, I’m lucky—no one is using the computer in the family room. It’s a clunky older model, but it works most of the time. I’d rather have my own personal computer, of course, but that’s not going to happen. My parents offered to buy me a laptop for my seventeenth birthday if I improved my GPA. I improved it, but by then Dad’s job was history and so was my hope for a laptop.

  I power up the clunk-puter and check my email for one from Skarla. I open the photo, comparing the faces to the names she included in her email. I enhance it to a larger size and study each person. Jessika and the guy, who’s named Aidan, are both wearing necklaces—but not a gold heart hanging on a black shoelace.

  I glance at each suspect, mentally crossing off Aidan, Philippe, and Philippe’s manager Collette. I narrow my suspicions to the seven girls: Amerie DuPrau, Barbee Kingrey, Micqui Kingrey, Jessika Schillard, Ebony Mae Alexander, Veronique Samoun, and Ruby Rodriquez.

  One of you lost the locket—and a baby, I think grimly.

  But how do I find out which girl? I’ll need more than suspicions and a photo to prove anything. I only know three of the girls: Barbee, Micqui, and Amerie. I start to cross off Amerie but then pause … what do I really know about her? She and Rune have been friends forever, which is how I got to know each her, but I’m not close with her like I am with Rune. I’ve been to Amerie’s house a few times and met her stay-at-home mom, who sells Tupperware, and her kindergarten teacher dad. She jokes that her parents are so normal, she must be a changeling switched at birth. I don’t doubt it—there’s more to her than wings and a sunny nature. Her rendezvous with Philippe proves that she can keep a secret.

  If I still lived in Sheridan Valley, I’d ask Manny De­Vries for investigative help. He’s editor of the school newspaper and can find out anything. His brains are his best asset; his ego his worst. He’s a brilliant computer geek, sexy in black dreds and
he knows it. He’s also a dating addict, going through girlfriends like it’s a sport and he’s aiming to medal. When I refused to date him we became friends instead, which is a better deal since he’s unreliable as a boyfriend but amazingly loyal as a friend.

  Why not ask him anyway? Being geographically apart doesn’t end a friendship. So I shoot off a quick email—and get a reply within a minute:

  Send me the names and what you need to know.

  Will get on it ASAP.

  PS—How’s it going in NV?

  I reply:

  THX.

  Not great but not boring.

  I forward the photo and the names and explain how I suspect one of the fan girls had a baby but hid the pregnancy. I added what the sheriff said about the bones being six to eight months old. I start to hit send, then think of someone else I’d like to know more about.

  PS. Need info on Jay Blankenship.

  Then I hit send before I lose my nerve.

  I play a computer game while I wait for his reply. As usual, Manny isn’t just fast—he’s accurate. He sends me pages of info including photos and school records (how does he get those?). I lean close to the computer screen, studying each photo. Most come from blogs and I jot down the dates they were taken, searching for a tell-tale baby bump. It’s hard to tell, since most are face-shots. There’s one of Micqui from last February and she looks heavier, but then another shot shows her skinny at a pool party over spring break. Barbee is at the same party, but all I can see is her face.

  By the time I’ve gone through all of them, my eyes are blurry and I haven’t found even have a hint of a baby bump.

  While there are lots of photos of six of the girls, Manny forwarded none of Ruby Rodriquez. I only have Skarla’s photo of her sitting on the stage with Philippe—she’s thin, with black hair long enough to sit on. I search through school records (thanks Manny!) and check out her class schedule. She’s a senior, and off-campus the second half of the day for a regional nursing program. There’s no more information on her.

  I have her schedule, though, so it’ll be easy enough to find her at school on Monday. I may know more by then.