I think that Ruby is the guilty one.
When I get home, I open my email and study the photos again. Based on the apparent pregnancy timeline and the other photos I’ve seen, I can eliminate all of the suspects now except for Ruby and striking, dark-skinned Jessika. I don’t know Jessika, since she’s a sophomore and we don’t share any classes, but in the photos she’s always dressed in stylish layers that could hide a possible baby bump. I circle her name as a “maybe,” but Ruby is now Suspect #1.
Sunday afternoon, I rehearse with the CCCs at Skarla’s house. When we break for lunch, I steer the conversation to our competition and subtly ask about Ruby and Jessika. The CCCs don’t know Ruby, but Micqui and Barbee live next to Jessika. Micqui confides that Jessika is into girls, not guys. I cross Jessika off my list.
While I’m washing dinner dishes, staring at my own reflection in a darkened window, I think about Ruby. She must have found out she was pregnant not long before school started last year, then faced months of fear and hiding until denial turned into tragedy. That would explain her transformation. Not only her drastic weight loss since last spring, but why she’d switched to snug, sexy clothes.
But how can I convince Ruby to confess? Stealing the locket back shows she’ll go to drastic measure to hide her secret—she’ll never confess unless I can show her undeniable proof or trick her. And I need to do it soon. If I don’t prove my innocence before the news leaks that I’m the girl who found the grave, there will be rumors blaming me and Mom could lose her job.
Monday morning I’m not only ready for school early, I’m ready with a plan. A simple deception. I’ll confront Ruby with a handful of dark hair snipped from one of my wigs. I’ll say I cut the hairs from the curl in the locket, and I’ll threaten to turn it over to the sheriff if she doesn’t admit the truth. She’ll be too shocked to come up with a lie. I’ll borrow the electronic voice recorder Mom uses to practice her sermons and record Ruby’s confession, then play it back later for the sheriff.
“Why up so early?” K.C. asks when I come downstairs for breakfast and find him eating alone.
“Um … I need to talk with someone before class.”
“I’m leaving early for a make-up quiz. Want a ride?”
“That would be great,” I tell him. I turn to grab a cereal bowl but notice he’s just standing there, almost bursting with an odd grin. “Why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re dying to tell me?”
“Because you’re psychic.”
“Not me. That would be Sabine.”
“If you say so.” But he gives me a knowing look.
“So what’s up?” I ask.
“I finally finished!” he announces, as if proclaiming he’s solved world problems like starvation and global warming. Despite usually being so quiet and ordinary that he blends in with the ozone, K.C. is extraordinary when his eyes shine like this and energy sizzles in his attitude.
And just like that, I know what’s he’s going to say. I’m not psychic; I simply know his deepest passion.
“The Ranchero is done!” I exclaim.
He nods proudly. “After two months, it’s ready to roll. And I’m inviting you to be my first passenger. Want to ride to school in style on my inaugural ride?”
A 1965 Ranchero won’t impress our classmates, especially cowboys with jacked-up pickup trucks, but K.C. has at least one fan: me. His car shines with its new metallic red paint, the dents are pounded out, and there are sleek silver hubcaps and an eagle hood ornament with wings spread ready for flight. The engine roars to life at a twist of a key. It’s hard to believe this junker he bought for fifty bucks runs like new, but K.C. pampers it like a million-dollar baby.
When we get to school, he parks it at the edge of the parking lot away from other cars. He pats the winged hood eagle, then strides off with a new sense of pride.
I pull my folder out of my backpack to check Ruby’s schedule, then determinedly head to her first class. I try not to prejudge her, even though I know it’ll be hard to feel sorry for her if she cold-bloodedly killed her own baby. It’s more likely the baby died naturally, and she was alone and panicked.
I go into the classroom and find Ruby, who’s looking even thinner than she did in the photo taken on stage with Philippe. Too thin, I think, frowning. She’s wearing a silk sea-green top, a sea-blue mini-skirt, and knee-high suede boots. When I call her name she looks me up and down, brows raised. “What do you want?”
“To talk.”
“Why? I don’t know you.” Her tone is more curious than rude. “Although I’ve noticed you—you’re the new goth girl. Isn’t it painful to wear a barbed wire belt?”
“The barbed wire looks sharp but it’s not. I’m Thorn.”
“Weird name. Is it real?”
“Real enough.” I’m not good at casual chit-chat, so I hold up the folder and pull out the photo of her where she’s almost twice the size she is now. “This is you, isn’t it?”
“Not any more, thank God.” She grins. “Can you believe how fat I was?”
“I wasn’t going to … um … say fat.”
“Go ahead, say it. Fat, fat, fat. I’ve slammed the door on that phase of my life. It seems like years ago.”
“Not that long.” I know the date by memory. “Only last April.”
“Well, it seems like a lifetime. But why do you have a photo of me?”
“I know how you lost the weight,” I say, in a solemn way like I’m proclaiming the end of the world. Her world, anyway.
“Who doesn’t?” Ruby rolls her eyes. “Not a big secret. I mean, I lost sixty-five pounds.”
“I’m more interested in how you gained it,” I say, then gesture around the room. “Let’s move away from everyone else. You don’t want others to hear this.”
“Why not? I’m proud of my weight loss,” she says with a sway of her slim hips. “I worked my butt off—literally—to drop three dress sizes. I worked out three hours a day, cut back on carbs, and gave up soft drinks.”
“You gave up much more,” I say sadly. “Stop lying.”
Her expression goes from friendly to hostile. “What are you talking about?”
I meet her gaze. “I just want to know the truth.”
She lowers her voice so only I can hear. “You can’t prove anything. Besides, it’s my business. Not yours or anyone else.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Her lower lip trembles. “Why do you care? You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know that lies hurt people. How did you really lose the weight?”
“As if I’d tell you something I haven’t even told my best friend!”
I shake my head at her. “You’ve lied to your best friend?”
“I couldn’t tell her … but if she finds out, she’ll hate me.”
“Not if she’s a real friend,” I say gently. “Be honest or you’ll regret it forever.”
I stare her down, unblinking, determined to break her—and it works.
Her slim shoulders sag. “I—I’ve wanted to tell Gabrielle, but she wouldn’t understand. And it’s been cool how everyone says I look way better. Gabrielle thinks it was from exercise and dieting … but it wasn’t. I—I lied to my own best friend. I’m the worst person in the whole world.”
“Not the worse,” I say, in a suddenly generous mood. This is going much easier than I expected. “Everything will be all right if you’re honest.”
“I have no idea how you found out or why you even care, but it’s a relief that someone knows,” Ruby said, sighing. “Lying to Gabrielle sucks. I die whenever she compliments my new figure. She’s going to hate me when she finds out.”
“Admitting what really happened is the only way to get on with your life. Be honest with everyone—including the sheriff.”
&
nbsp; “Sheriff?” Her eyes widen.
I nod solemnly. “He needs to know the truth.”
“You’re flipping crazy!” She steps away from me, shaking her head. “I didn’t break any laws. My mother signed the papers and took me to the clinic. Lying about having stomach surgery wasn’t honest, but it was totally legal.”
“You had stomach surgery?” I stare at her, startled.
“Well, duh. Isn’t that what we’ve been talking about?” She gives me a curious look. “I mean, get real! Sixty-five pounds in six months? How else could I lose that much weight so fast?”
Fourteen
Minutes later I’m in homeroom, pretending to work on a history assignment but actually sneak-reading my notes. No matter how many times I calculate the dates and names, I come to the same conclusion.
Ruby has to be guilty.
Only she isn’t …
How could I make such an epic mistake? I go through the list again, but the dates don’t fit any of the other girls—they were all too thin last spring. Yet someone is guilty. It’s no accident that the day after I flaunt the locket, it gets stolen. The hidden curl is more than a memento; it’s evidence.
So which girl is guilty?
I read through the list again, swearing, crossing each name off until there’s no one left. But how is this possible? And I have a feeling, like an itch I can’t reach, that I’m missing an important clue …
The first batch of Singing Star auditions are today, and Amerie is a blur rushing through halls. While she doesn’t have time for friends, I’m sure she’s making time for Philippe. I’m relieved we don’t have to audition until tomorrow. If we make it, we’ll perform in the finals on Friday.
Word must have leaked that the “freaky goth” is now a Cotton Candy Cowgirl. Kids and teachers stop me in the halls to wish me luck in the contest. When I see Ruby studying in the library with a chubby blond girl wearing pink braces, she tilts her head toward her friend (Gabrielle, I assume) and gives me a thumbs-up. My comforting status of “outsider” has shifted to “involved.”
But the weirdest moment occurs between classes. When I’m crossing the quad, I pass five guys in blue letter jackets. Wiley doesn’t even notice me, or maybe he’s forgotten we met in detention. But Jay’s dark eyes find me. He offers me a gloating smile and a sly wink. Then he swaggers down the walkway with his friends.
I’m sweating, even though the weather is close to freezing and I’m bundled in layers. My emotions tumble in a landslide of confliction. I’m intrigued, disgusted, insulted, and yet oddly excited. Jay is so arrogant, assuming I’m no threat to him. But no one controls me.
The Grin Reaper better watch out.
When the bell rings for lunch, I hurry to meet Rune. But I don’t make it far before I hear my name. I look up just as a rush of pink enthusiasm shoves papers into my hand.
“I’ve rewritten the lyrics,” Skarla announces proudly. She’s wearing her CCC outfit even though our group isn’t scheduled to audition today.
“No way!” I object. “We’ll only have a day to practice this.”
“A day is enough. I changed the first and last stanzas so they make more sense.”
“We can’t change everything at the last minute,” I tell her.
“A lot can get done in a day.” Skarla’s smile never falters as she points to the paper in my hand. “Don’t you love these new lyrics?”
I skim the sheet music, groaning because if our song was sappy before, now it’s sappy enough to be bottled and poured over pancakes. I tell Skarla I prefer the old version, but she waves away my objections and insists on a group vote right now.
“Can’t,” I say. “I’m meeting a friend for lunch.”
“This won’t take long,” she insists.
“Five minutes,” I concede, then I reluctantly follow her into the cafeteria.
We join Micqui and Barbee at a back table and immediately get into a heated argument about whether the word “heart” can be rhymed with “breath.” No, the answer is no. But does anyone listen to me? Nope.
By the time I escape to finally join Rune, I can’t find her.
Just great, I think in frustration. Rune will be mad I stood her up. She has a short fuse and can hold grudges forever. I want to explain, but she isn’t by her locker. It’s better to let her cool down, anyway. After watching the auditions, I’ll find Rune and sweeten my apology with donuts.
The auditions are held after school so that everyone can come and cheer on the contestants. When I enter the auditorium, the vast room is packed and echoing with noisy voices. I’m straining my neck looking for the CCCs when they find me.
“Wait till you hear our brilliant new idea!” Skarla’s wearing her pink hat and the brim bounces over her shining eyes.
“What?” I brace myself, still annoyed by her last “brilliant” idea.
She glances around, then tucks her head to whisper, “Too crowded here. Someone might overhear and steal our idea. I’ll explain everything at my house.”
“I thought we weren’t meeting until seven?” I frown.
“Change of plans. We have so much to do we’re practicing right after auditions. My grandparents are making dinner. I assume you like Italian. We have to whip our act into shape, which means working extra hours to win.”
Not so interested in winning, I think. More interested in repairing any damage to my friendship with Rune. But I give up and agree to come.
“I’ll give you a ride, and we can stop by your house to pick up your guitar,” Skarla says.
“I brought my guitar along. It’s in a friend’s car.”
“Good thinking.” Skarla nods in approval. “I hope you’re a quick learner, because I’ve come up with a fantabulous idea. We’ll dazzle the judges by doing more than singing.”
“What?” I ask suspiciously.
Skarla folds her arms to her chest and kicks up her feet. “Clogging.”
I stare at her like she’s talking in a strange language.
“Haven’t you heard of clogging?” Skarla asks. “It’s like tap dancing, country-style. Barbee performs at festivals with a clogging group and she taught me. It’s easy-peasy! You’ll pick up the steps quick like I did.”
“Not going to happen.” I purse my lips together.
“Why not?” Skarla’s hands fly to her cheeks.
“I signed on to play the guitar. Period.”
“But playing the guitar while you clog will wow the judges.”
I want to “wow” her—right in her mouth with my fist. That would be the quickest way to end this torture. And why am I even standing here? I only joined the CCCs to find out which contestant owned the locket. But I haven’t been accused, or arrested for a crime, and only one person at school knows I found the grave. And now I don’t even have the locket anymore.
So I tell them I quit.
“I knew you’d bail on us,” Barbee says angrily.
Micqui gently touches my arm. “Please reconsider. Your playing makes everything sound so good. We need you. you,” she begs. “Please don’t go.”
“You need someone who can play guitar and dance too,” I say. “That’s not me.”
“You’re better than Priscilla,” Micqui says. She looks over to Skarla for help. “Tell her she can’t go. You told me yesterday how impressed you were with her playing and that her talent could help us win.”
Skarla nods. “It’s true. You’re an amazing musician, Thorn. With you playing for us, our chances of winning are huge. I’ll do whatever it takes to win.” The desperation in Skarla’s voice surprises me; it’s like winning the competition is life-and-death important to her.
Something clicks in my head.
I visualize the photograph of the seven fan girls sitting on stage around Philippe. I started off
with those seven suspects: Barbee, Micqui, Jessika, Amerie, Ebony Mae, Veronique, and Ruby. Each one has been crossed off my list. No one is left.
But I overlooked someone. How could I miss something so obvious?
There was another girl on stage with Philippe that day, but she wasn’t in the photo—she was behind the camera.
I study Skarla in a new way. She’s friendly, but she’s guarded when it comes to her personal life. I wouldn’t even know that she had a bitter breakup with her boyfriend last year or that her mom’s in prison and her father is dead if Barbee and Micqui hadn’t told me. Skarla is much deeper and more secretive than people know, I now realize. Her cheerful smile is a mask hiding her pain, like the Grin Reaper’s ski mask hides his identity.
“I’ll stay,” I announce abruptly, without actually thinking it through. I just know I need to find out more about Skarla.
“Great! Unlike some people who have no faith, I knew you wouldn’t really quit.” Skarla glances triumphantly at Barbee, who turns away with a scowl.
“But I absolutely positively refuse to dance,” I add firmly.
“As long as you play your guitar, we’ll do the clogging.”
Would she look so relieved if she knew I was only staying in the group to spy on her? If she’s hiding the golden locket and a tragic baby secret, I’ll find out.
Skarla, Barbee, and Micqui take seats close to the stage, but I stay in the back, away from the noisy hustle. Collette, wearing her usual red suit, comes to the podium.
“Welcome to the first round of auditions for the Singing Star contest,” the manager announces. “Philippe and I are honored to be here among all you fine young people.”
She’s not that much older than us, I observe wryly. Maybe ten years, tops.
“As you all know, this fine school is Philippe’s alma mater.” She sweeps her hand to gesture at Philippe, who flashes his mega-watt smile. The audience screams and shouts “Philippe!” so loudly I have to cover my ears.
Collette waves her hands for silence, then wishes all the contestants good luck.
Overhead lights flash, then dim, and the first entrant goes on—a girl with long black braids that she twirls nervously as she squeaks out a Mariah Carey song. And I do mean “squeaks.” The audience groans and there’s silence instead of applause. The girl runs offstage in tears.
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