The second performer, Veronique, plays a mean keyboard while she sings. The audience and judges obviously love her. I notice fairy wings at a corner of the stage near the judges; Amerie sits two chairs away from Philippe. She applauds, but her gaze shift over to Philippe, luminous and adoring. She’s totally into him … does he feel the same way?
Next up is Jessika, who sings a duet with a perky red-haired girl all dressed in green like a leprechaun. They harmonize well and I’m sure they’ll make the finals.
Several more solo singers go on and only one of them is any good—Ruby. But the song she picked is for a soprano; it’s totally wrong for her, and she’s off-key. It’ll be a crime if she doesn’t make the finals because of poor song choice. After finishing she runs offstage, her face red with shame. When I realize she’ll come past me, I stand up and step into the aisle, blocking her.
“Wait, Ruby.” I gently take her arm.
She stares at me with astonishment. “You again.”
“Yeah.” I smile wryly. “Just saying good luck.”
“Don’t bother. I totally blew it.” Her face reddens and her eyes glint like she’s close to crying. “Missed the high note completely. I’m such a loser.”
“No, you’re not.” I walk with her out of the auditorium. “You were one of the best. I think you’d do better with the right song.”
Sniffling, she shakes her head. “You keep showing up and doing things that help me. What are you? My fairy godmother? Are you going to give me the perfect song with a twist of your magic wand?”
“Sorry, no wand.” I shrug. “But I can suggest some songs.”
“What’s the use? I’ll never make the finals.”
“You don’t know that. If you do make it, switch things up. Sing something deep and soulful.”
“I hate depressing songs. Upbeat songs are more fun.”
“Listen to them, then, but don’t sing them. You need a bluesy song to really belt out and show your range.”
“Like what?”
I try to think of songs, but nothing fits. Then my own melody, “Pest,” jumps into my head, refusing to leave. Ironically, it would be a great match for Ruby, except for small details like there are no lyrics and I never share my songs. But Ruby is looking at me so miserably, and I feel guilty for grilling her earlier, accusing of something far worse than she knows. So I start humming “Pest.”
When I finish, she flashes a smile that lights up her face like a spotlight shining on a diva. “Oh. My. God. That’s so … so amazing. Where can I download it?”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not a real song … I mean … ” I suck in a deep breath and blow it out. “Okay, if you must know—and don’t repeat this or I’ll have to kill you—I wrote it. But I can’t tell you the lyrics because there aren’t any.”
“Oh … wow. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I can’t even write words for my own songs.”
“Lyrics aren’t hard, but creating a song like that is brilliant.”
“It’s nothing.” I glance down at my army boots.
“Can I hear it again?”
“Well … okay.”
I hum my song a few more times until the final bell rings and kids pour out from the auditorium. I wish Ruby good luck again and hurry toward the parking lot to get my guitar.
The main walkway is crowded so I cut down another path. I take the long route, behind the cafeteria—and glimpse a long black jacket and dark ski mask up ahead. My breath catches. There’s no mistaking the yellow smile on the Grin Reaper’s ski mask.
I start after him, my backpack jostling against my shoulders. I have a good idea what Jay’s up to.
He turns left toward the staff parking lot, where Philippe’s bus is parked. I was right—he’s still out to get revenge on Philippe.
I reach open pavement and see the gleaming tour bus. But I don’t see the Reaper. Could he already be on the bus? But there hasn’t been enough time for him to pick the lock again. Where did he go? I scan the lot for hiding places. I remember him saying that last time, he left an “explosive” DVD for Philippe. What does that mean?
I wait forever—or about five minutes, according to my watch.
But there’s no sign of Jay.
Shrugging, I give up and head toward the student parking lot to meet K.C.
As I approach, I hear shouts and notice a crowd gathering. I wonder if there’s a fight. I don’t want to get near that kind of drama, but I have to go that way to get to K.C.’s car. As I’m wondering how long I’ll have to wait for K.C. to show up and unlock the doors, I see that he’s already there. His back is turned to me, but I know immediately that something is wrong.
Then I see his beautiful rebuilt Ranchero, slashed with ugly smears of paint.
Dark bloody letters drip crude ugly words.
Spelling hate.
Fifteen
Irun to K.C., who is staring at his car in shock, and put my arm around him. His face is pale as a corpse, as if he’s dead inside. He gently traces his finger along the broken wing of the hood eagle. “She’ll never fly again.”
“The wing can be fixed,” I assure him. “And so can the car.”
Around me I hear murmurs, mostly of sympathy, but one guy laughs and I turn around furiously, ready to rip out his tongue and twist it around his neck. When I see his blue letter jacket, I think it’s Jay—until he lifts an arm and I see a rattlesnake tattoo. Wiley nudges his buddy and laughs again.
Furious, I start to go after him, but K.C. jerks me back. I hear Wiley laugh again and murmur two words that rock me with outrage: Grin Reaper.
Did Jay do this? Is there a smiley sticker stuck somewhere on K.C.’s car? Now I’m so mad that I really might rip out Wiley’s tongue. I want him to suffer a horrible death—and Jay, too.
I’ll get revenge on the king of getting revenge. I suspected Jay was up to trouble when I saw him sneaking around, but I thought his target was Philippe.
Why go after K.C., who is kind and gentle and never would hurt anyone? Unless this isn’t about K.C. Could the vandalism be a warning from the Reaper? Keep my secret or next time will be worse.
There is no worse, though, I realize as I look at K.C.’s stricken face. Hurting the Ranchero was cruel. The car can be repaired, but the pride and joy K.C. felt this morning has been destroyed.
When a teacher shows up and orders the crowd to clear out, I stay with K.C., still holding his hand for support. Someone must have called 911, too, because police lights swirl red and blue.
Sheriff Hart doesn’t react when he sees me. He’s all business, working with his deputy to ask questions, take photos, and write up a report. I’m wondering why the sheriff came in person for a minor crime (minor to them, anyway). I find out when he pulls me aside.
“A moment of your time, Miss Matthews,” he says politely, shutting his notebook and tucking it into his pocket.
“Uh … sure.”
“Is that young man your beau?” he asks with a glance over at K.C., who is still giving a statement to the deputy.
“He’s just a good friend.”
“But he lives with you?”
“He’s staying with my family.” I explain how K.C. was living on the streets until we took him in.
“How convenient for you,” he says, with a sly arch of his brows. He can’t possibly think that K.C. and I had anything to do with the grave. But I can tell by his expression that this is exactly what he’s thinking.
“K.C. is like another brother to me,” I insist. “We have never been … like that.”
“Duly noted.” His tone is professional but it’s obvious he doesn’t believe me.
“If you think I had anything to do with the … the grave, you’re wrong.
I’ve only lived here a few months, and you said the … um … bones had been there six to eight months.”
“That was only a calculated guess. I never assume anything until I have all the facts.”
“What about the DNA results?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Unlike what you see on TV shows, lab results can take weeks, even months.”
“So until then I’m your only suspect?”
“Actually, I don’t suspect you.”
I stare at him, surprised. “Then why are you still questioning me?”
He purses his lips, regarding me thoughtfully. “Your version of events doesn’t add up with the facts. I am not a believer in coincidence. It’s unlikely you randomly drove to the remote spot and just happened to dig up a grave.”
“I didn’t dig it up!” I say indignantly. “A wild animal must have done that.”
“But a wild animal didn’t bury that body, and I think you know who did. Why else would you drive to the exact spot? Someone must have told you how to find that grave.”
“No one told me anything.”
“I admire loyalty among friends, but your friend isn’t being fair to you.” He leans closer. “If you tell me who she is, I can help. It’ll be easier on you both and save everyone time. Lots of girls get in trouble, then panic and do things they regret later, but as long as they’re truthful, they can usually avoid a prison sentence.”
Prison! I think of Skarla, who has been so cool to me. She’s trying to make something of herself despite a dead father and a mother in jail. If I tell the sheriff what I suspect, Skarla could end up in prison, too.
I fold my arms across my chest. “That’s all I have to say.”
“We’ll talk again soon,” he says politely, but it feels like a threat. Then he joins his deputy.
From behind me, a familiar voice asks, “Why was the sheriff talking to you?”
I turn to find Skarla. She shifts her feet nervously and is jerky like she’s hopped up on energy drinks … or scared.
“He was asking about K.C. because of what happened to his car.” I point to the Ranchero.
“I didn’t realize that guy was your friend,” Skarla says with a sympathetic glance at K.C., who is now being questioned by Sheriff Hart. “I don’t remember seeing him around.”
“K.C. gets that a lot. He’s one of those average guys no one notices.”
“He’s getting noticed now—but not in a good way.” Skarla frowns. “That’s horrible about his car. The tagger can’t even spell. They forgot the ‘c.’ ”
I ball my fists. “Of course the idiot, ignorant, stupid-ass tagger can’t spell. If I find who did this, I’ll kill him.”
“You don’t mean that.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “There’s nothing else you can do here. Sorry about your friend’s car, but I’m guessing this means you need a ride to my house.” She hooks her arm through mine. “Come on.”
I don’t want to leave K.C., but when he tells me his auto shop boss is coming to tow the Ranchero to his shop and fix it free of charge, I grab my guitar.
On the drive to Skarla’s house, I borrow her cell to call home. Mom is overjoyed, as usual, when she finds out who I’m with. Apparently Skarla’s grandparents attend Mom’s church and are “delightful people.” Mom doesn’t even give me a curfew. I try Rune’s cell, but she’s not taking my calls.
Barbee and Micqui are already waiting at Skarla’s and we get right to work. Fortunately I don’t have to sing the sappy new lyrics. I don’t have to participate in the clogging lesson, either. Barbee is really good, but Micqui nearly trips over her feet. When Micqui accidentally kicks Barbee, I cover my mouth to hide my laughter.
After an hour of kicks and swearing, the clogging routine fits smoothly into our act. We open with strums of my guitar, then sing a few stanzas and finish with the clogging. I have to give Skarla credit because she’s right—singing and dancing could push the Cotton Candy Cowgirls into first place.
When Skarla’s grandparents announce dinner is ready, I set down my guitar and follow everyone into the dining room. The scent of tomato, cheese, spices, and sourdough bread makes my stomach growl. The lasagna looks homemade and delicious, but it will have to wait—this is my only chance to find out Skarla’s secrets.
After taking a few bites of Caesar salad, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. But I pass the bathroom and sneak into Skarla’s bedroom.
The few times I’ve been in it before were quick, and while I’d glanced at some photos on a cork board, I hadn’t seen any clues about a hidden pregnancy. I don’t have much time now, either, so I close my eyes and search inside myself for my finding radar. I’m tempted to open my eyes, but something tells me I’ll see more with my sixth sense.
So I move slowly, arms stretched and senses heightened. I touch a bed post, chair back, desk top, computer, door … and nothing unusual happens. I’m close to the window now, feeling the brush of curtains on my arm. My pulse quickens and I have a strong impulse to reach down. When I do, my fingers meet smooth curved wood and shivers tingle through me.
I open my eyes and stare down at a carved wooden trunk half-hidden underneath a quilt. I’m breathless like I’ve been running. Not much time, I think urgently, and worry the trunk will be locked. But the curved lid lifts easily.
What I see inside makes me gasp.
A neatly folded pile of clothes.
Tiny baby clothes.
I can hardly think about anything else during the rest of rehearsal. I stare at Skarla so intently that she asks if I’m okay. No, I think, and neither are you. But I say everything is fine, because it would be cruel to blurt out my suspicions in front of the other girls. Besides, what if I’m wrong? (Again!) I don’t want to make the same mistake I did with Ruby. Next time I accuse someone, I need to be one hundred percent positive, which means checking facts with Manny.
We practice so long that it’s dark when I finally get home. The house is strangely quiet except for a rumble of the television from my parents’ room. I head for the family room, glad my siblings are in bed so there’s no battling over the computer. There’s an email with an attachment from Manny. The attachment is labeled Justice Blankenship, which puzzles me at first because I asked for information on Jay, not his father. But when I read further, I find out Jay’s full name is Justice Hamilton Alexander Blankenship the Third. No wonder he prefers a nickname.
I skim through the file, noting Jay’s academic excellence, community service, and celebrated sport achievements. Blah, blah, boring. A few photos highlight his winning moments in soccer, wrestling, and track; he’s always grinning in that smug way that’s as fake as the grin on the smiley sticker. Yet I notice something deeper in one photo—a tightening of his jaw and a grin that doesn’t reach his dark eyes.
If you’re the one who vandalized K.C.’s car, I tell his photo, I will make sure you suffer in unimaginable, horrible ways.
Frowning, I close the file and return to my email.
I send a message to Manny, asking for information on Skarla and tell him about the baby clothes. Since it’s late, I don’t expect to hear back till tomorrow morning at the soonest. So I’m startled when a dialogue box pops open.
Hey, Bethie!
Manny, do not call me that!
It’s your name.
Do you have a death wish?
LOL. U R 2 funE
What do you want?
He would have just sent me another email if he didn’t want something. Manny’s generous soul often comes with a price.
Since U offered, I want 2 interview @ celebrity.
What celebrity?
Philippe.
U R nuts!!!!!
Only few ?’s
No can do.
Plllllllz!!!!
He’s 2 famous. I hav
en’t even talked 2 him.
What about your friends?
My hands pause over the keyboard. Amerie has done more than just talk with Philippe, but no way am I telling that to read all about it! Manny. I don’t tell him Amerie’s name, either, although I admit to having a friend on the contest committee and offer to ask one question for him.
Manny counters with three questions.
We compromise on two.
Then I close the chat window and reopen the attachment about Jay. I print out the one photo that’s different from all the others; it shows what I think is the real Jay. I study his face, seeing past the cocky grin to the dark depths of his eyes and wonder what he’s thinking, who he really is behind those deep eyes.
That familiar “finding” feeling hits me. There’s an internal tug, like a hand pulling me away from the computer and out of the room. Clutching the printout, I go with the feeling. I follow my unseen guide through the hall, up the staircase, and into my attic room.
When the door shuts behind me, the thud snaps me out of my trance.
What was that about? I sit on a stool by my bed. I’m breathing hard and sweating as if I’ve been running. I stare down at the printout, then shake my head, annoyed with myself. Why am I letting this guy get to me? He’s rude, arrogant, and a criminal.
As I’m wondering why he bugs me so much, I hear a noise outside my window. I’m on the third floor, so I assume it’s just a bird—until I look over through my sliding door. Someone is on my balcony.
It’s Jay.
Sixteen
Iresist the urge to throw something at him, because why break my own window?
Instead I stomp over and pull the door open with a fierce yank. “You have a lot of nerve coming here!” I say furiously.
“Hey, Thorn.” Jay is draped in his black Reaper clothes, except for the gloves and smiley face ski mask. “Nice room. Can I come in?”
Buried Page 12
