Buried

by Linda Joy Singleton

  “She should be. But you can see how amazing Philippe is and understand.” Her gaze sweeps over to the spiral-haired heartthrob kneeling on the edge of the stage to sign autographs. “I still can’t believe he loves me.”

  “Yeah,” I say, with a completely different meaning. I want to drag her away and slap some sense into her love-struck head. But tact is required. So I tell her about Manny’s interview questions and ask for an introduction to Philippe.

  “Sure!” Amerie says enthusiastically. “I’ve already told him about you.”

  “Nothing good, I hope.”

  “The worst.” She grins. “He’s super sweet and he’ll answer your questions if I ask him. We have about fifteen minutes before the contest starts.”

  Amerie drags Philippe away from the mob of squealing fans (mostly girls, but also a few guys and even a teacher). We move to a corner of the stage, out of the bright lights.

  He introduces himself. “I’m Philippe.”

  “Yeah … I know. I mean, who doesn’t? I’m Thorn.” I’m struck by sudden shyness. It’s his grin, I realize with a traitorous heart-flutter. Even I am not completely immune.

  “I’ve never met anyone named Thorn. Cool name.”

  “My real name isn’t Thorn, and yours isn’t Philippe.”

  “So you’ve discovered my deepest secret,” he says, in a teasing flirty way.

  “Not a big secret. I saw your junior-year yearbook photo.”

  “Hideous photo.”

  “Hideous is a prerequisite for school pictures.”

  “So true.” He grimaces. “If it were possible, I’d burn every yearbook from that forgettable part of my life.”

  “School can’t have been all bad,” I say, leading into Manny’s first question. “Did you have a favorite teacher?”

  “Teachers had it out for me. I skipped school more than I showed up. But there was one teacher who was cool. We talked about big-band era musicians and he was blown away when I showed him my collection of vinyl. He’s still working here, too.”

  “Who?” I ask taking out a pen and paper from my backpack so I don’t miss any details for Manny.

  “Mr. Sproat.”

  I nearly fall off the stage. “No way!”

  Amerie gasps. “He’s the nastiest, rudest teacher ever. He’s like the Professor Snape of our school. Everyone hates him.”

  “Exactly why we got along.” Philippe flashes his mega-watt smile. “Next question.”

  “Make it quick,” Amerie tells me, pointing to her Tinker Bell watch.

  Manny’s second question has to do with boxers or briefs, which is boring. So I mentally scratch that question. I watch Amerie touch Philippe’s arm, her face luminous with trust and vulnerability. She needs to know that Philippe will crush her heart and devour her like a whipped-cream dessert.

  “My next question,” I say with a misleading smile, “has to do with your romantic reputation.”

  “Don’t believe trashy tabloids,” he tells me.

  “Everyone knows you’ve gone out with gorgeous actresses and singers. Weren’t you engaged to the last American Idol winner?”

  “No engagement. But if the right girl comes along, you never know what could happen.” He looks meaningfully at Amerie, who blushes happily.

  “I heard you had over thirty girlfriends last year?”

  “Paparazzi exaggerate everything. If I’m photographed with a girl, it’s suddenly all over the news that we’re engaged. But I’m very picky about who I go out with and only want to be with someone special like Amerie.” He gives Amerie another of those smoldering looks that seems to suck out her brains.

  “Was Rebecca special, too?” I say this more like an accusation than a question. He’s too perfect to be real. I don’t trust him.

  “Rebecca?” He pushes his spiral curls behind his shoulders. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Rebecca Moreno. You met her at a concert in Ohio.”

  “Nope.” He shrugs. “Never heard of her.”

  “Really?” I say with sharp skepticism. “Even though she traveled on your tour bus until you dumped her and—”

  “Philippe!” A woman interrupts with the force of a hurricane.

  We turn as Collette sweeps between us with a warm smile, but her icy green eyes are fixed on me. She’s been listening and isn’t happy with my question.

  “Hey, Col. What’s up?” Philippe sounds relieved as he turns to his manager.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but we’re starting soon.” She tugs on his hand. “Come with me.”

  Philippe reaches out to caress Amerie’s cheek, then walks off with his manager to a table and chairs at the edge of the stage.

  “What was that about, Thorn?” Amerie turns on me. “Why were you being so rude to Philippe?”

  I glance down at the wooden floor as if the scuff marks are suddenly fascinating. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, yes you do. You’re trying to break us up! You don’t approve of my going out with Philippe.”

  “You’re right. I don’t,” I admit.

  “I knew it! You’re as bad as Rune.”

  “We don’t want you hurt. Philippe is a player and he’s too old for you. You deserve better.”

  “No one is better.” She glares. “You and Rune think I’m a stupid little girl who doesn’t know anything, but I know that Philippe loves me.”

  “He’s loved a lot of girls and it never ends well.”

  “It’s different with us.” Her tone dares me to argue.

  I want to argue, but there’s no winning when she’s blinded by her heart. So I reach out and squeeze her hand. “I just want you to be happy,” I say quietly.

  “I am very happy—with Philippe,” she insists. “Later I’ll tell you some of the sweet things he’s said to me and you’ll understand. But there’s no time now. Five minutes! I’ve got to hustle. I’m rooting for you. Good luck, Thorn. I’ll be crossing my fingers that the Cotton Candy Cowgirls makes the finals.”

  I watch grimly as Amerie flutters back to Philippe.

  After that everything is a blur of pep talks and anticipation, waiting for the audition to start. I’m sitting beside Skarla and only half-listen as she goes over the clog sequence with Micqui and Barbee. My guitar is propped between my knees next to my shiny pink boots. I drum my fingers on my metal chair, impatient to get this over with. There are eight acts auditioning today. We’re number eight.

  First up is Christiana Lee, a tiny freshman who speaks in a squeaky baby-mouse voice, then bellows out like Aretha. Wow, I think. She’ll be hard to beat. I’m not sure how I feel about this. Am I hoping to win or lose? I honestly don’t know.

  The next three groups are forgettable. Already forgot their names. Don’t care.

  Then Jaden Ming struts out dressed like a very tall Elvis. He’s in my Spanish class and I purposely always choose the seat behind him because I’m rarely called on to answer questions when hidden from the teacher’s view. Jaden rocks out an Elvis song that causes the audience to clap and stomp, including me.

  After him is another forgettable act.

  Skarla nudges me—the cue that it’s time to go backstage. I pick up my guitar and follow the girls around to a side entrance, then we wait in the wings.

  I don’t see the group before us until we’re in position in the wings. When I do see them—four guys wearing blue shirts and pressed dark slacks—I gasp.

  The Jay-Clones! I briefly wonder why Jay isn’t with them. And of course, they don’t call themselves the Jay-Clones. When Collette announces them as “Four Play,” the audience explodes in laughter. Some teachers look angry but no one drags the guys off the stage.

  Wiley is on electric guitar, and the brute with the bad temper (what was his
name?) plays the drums. And they’re good. I mean, really, hot, sizzling, oh-my-sweet-eardrums good.

  “We’re dead,” Barbee whines.

  “Dead and buried deep,” Micqui groans.

  But Skarla says firmly, “We will win. Be positive. Be stars.”

  When the applause fades for Four Play, the Cotton Candy Cowgirls are on.

  I can’t say exactly what happens next because I’m in the moment, focused on the music and shutting out the audience. Skarla’s powerful voice rings pure and sweet even while she clogs. I harmonize some “la la’s” and “ohhhhh’s” while strumming. The other girls kick up their clogging heels and my fingers fly. Barbee does a gymnastic flip as a finale, flashing her pink ruffled pettipants, then landing in the splits. The audience roars with applause and gives us a standing ovation.

  Bowing, my heart thumping and my head spinning, I realize that I’m smiling. A thrill of pride rushes through me. What an amazing feeling! We leave the stage, jumping and hugging each other. Then we take our seats while the judges consult.

  Philippe and Collette huddle at their table, writing and whispering. Five minutes feels like fifty years, but finally Collette stands and walks to the edge of the stage. Amerie hands her a microphone.

  “The results are in,” Collette announces.

  A hush settles over the audience.

  “After watching all your spectacular performances,” Collette says dramatically, “we’ve narrowed it down to the top entrants from both days of auditions. These ten groups will perform one last time on Friday evening—for the grand prize.”

  The audience titters with squeals and whispers. I’ve forgotten how to breathe, leaning forward on the edge of my seat.

  “The finals will be televised,” Collette declares. “The winning performer or group will be awarded five thousand dollars and the chance to perform as the opening act for Philippe’s concert in Las Vegas.”

  Thunderous stomping, clapping, whistling, and screaming. The images whirl through my head. TV! Las Vegas! My mind boggles and I can’t even imagine what stardom would be like. I’m terrified … but tempted.

  One-fourth of five thousand dollars would really help my family out.

  And when nine groups have been announced, with only one spot remaining, I hold my breath, afraid to think or hope or breathe.

  “And the final group to compete is … ” Collette pauses dramatically. “The Cotton Candy Cowgirls!”

  We made it.

  Twenty

  Skarla, Barbee, and Micqui throw their pink hats in the air and catch them like prizes. Crazed screaming and applause erupts around me. People I don’t even know rush over, hugging, congratulating, smothering. It’s like I’m starring in a movie about someone else’s life. Why is being hugged by strangers a good thing? It’s overwhelming and I don’t know what I’m feeling—except a strong urge to escape.

  So I do.

  Slinging my guitar over my shoulder, I go to find my mother. When I was onstage I scanned the audience for her, but with the blindingly bright lights in my eyes all I saw were faceless shadows. Making my way down the center aisle, I search the mob scene for Mom. I don’t see her, but who I do see makes me stop.

  And stare.

  Why is Jay Blankenship coming out from backstage? No one is up there anymore.

  He isn’t wearing his letter jacket or his Reaper mask, just black jeans and a blue button-down shirt. Clothes that don’t draw any attention. My suspicion sharpens when he glances around as if he’s guilty of something. He has no official connection to the contest, and his Jay-Clone pals left the stage before our group performed. So why was he there?

  Before I can decide whether or not to follow him, someone grabs me from behind in a tight hug.

  “We made it!” Ruby’s long black hair flies around her face as she jumps up and down excitedly. “Isn’t this like the best moment in your whole life?”

  I hardly know what to say, but I manage a smile. In all the craziness, I didn’t realize until now that her name was one of the ten announced. I’m genuinely happy for her—only I’m bummed, too, because when I turn back to look for Jay, he’s vanished into the crowd.

  Did he have a legitimate reason for being backstage, or was he trying to cause trouble for Philippe again?

  “Thorn, you were amazing!” Ruby exclaims. “I’m so glad we both made finals.”

  “Way cool. You deserved to make it.”

  “I didn’t think I would. I nearly fell over when my name was called.”

  “I wasn’t surprised. Just be sure to pick the right song for finals.”

  “Oh, I will. I already have something special picked out,” she says in a mysterious tone. She doesn’t reveal what song and I don’t blame her, since we’re competitors.

  “Good luck.” I smile. “You’re really talented.”

  “That’s what we told her,” a slim man standing behind Ruby says proudly. He has a shaved head and a reddish-blond goatee. Beside him, a husky man wearing glasses nods enthusiastically.

  “But you’re prejudiced, and I love you both even more for it.” Ruby gives them each a kiss. She introduces them to me as her two fathers, and I’m a little envious because she has two supportive fathers while I have minus one. But at least I have my mother, who finds me a few minutes later and gives me a congratulatory hug.

  “You looked lovely and played your guitar like a professional,” Mom says with tears in her eyes. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Really?”

  “I had no idea you could play that well without any lessons.”

  “Guitar’s easy.” I shrug. “Anyone can figure it out.”

  “You’re wrong about that—it takes an ear for music. You’re a natural, honey. Once your father gets a job—and he had an encouraging interview today—we’ll check into lessons. I feel like a terrible mother, though, not giving you music lessons or buying you a modern guitar. That old thing isn’t even electric.”

  “Don’t knock my instrument,” I tease, giving my guitar a fond pat. “I got this for a steal at a garage sale and it suits me fine. I just play for fun.”

  “You impressed the audience—especially me. How about we go out to celebrate? Feel like a triple-scoop ice cream sundae at Mel’s?”

  No one ever turns down Mel’s ice cream, and I’m no exception.

  But that’s only the first celebration of the evening. Mom must have called home, because when I walk in the door the whole family is waiting with balloons. Our family bakers Amy and Meg present me with a strawberry cream cake with sliced strawberries spelling out CONGRATS!

  My sisters have colored a large banner with pictures of a stick-figure girl (me) holding something that must be a guitar but looks more like a giant potato. Even Dad seems in a good mood and surprises me by slipping me a twenty dollar bill. I try to return it, but he won’t take it back.

  K.C. gives me the gift of a ride in his newly repainted Ranchero to Skarla’s house, where the celebrating continues with music, dancing, and enough food to feed the entire state of Nevada.

  I don’t get to sleep until very late and wake up the next morning groggy. Stumbling out of bed, I reach for my zippered leather pants but then change my mind. I slip on a pleated sky-blue skirt and a white blouse my grandmother gave me for my sixteenth birthday, which I’d shoved to the back of my closet, planning never to wear.

  At school, signs are posted all over announcing the big Singing Star competition on Friday evening, inviting the community at large to attend and displaying photos of the finalists. I stare at our Cotton Candy Cowgirls photo, captured during the audition. I barely recognize myself. The differences go deeper than just hair color and the cheesy western clothes. I am not there. Not the real me, anyway. So why does everyone—including my own family—like this fake me better?

 
Rune isn’t waiting at my locker. Guess she’s still angry that I wouldn’t tell her who the Grin Reaper is. She’s totally not being fair. She should understand that this isn’t easy for me. I need her support, not her sour attitude.

  At lunch, I go directly to the cafeteria and sit with the CCCs.

  With five thousand dollars and a shot at performing with Philippe at stake, rehearsing is critical. After school I catch a ride with Skarla to her house; she chatters excitedly about how great it will be to win and perform in Las Vegas. Nerves knot up like fists in my gut. I remind myself how much that money could help my family. So I play guitar until my fingertips feel raw. Our group sounds better than ever, and I have to admit (although not out loud) that the clogging is a good gimmick.

  For being grounded, I’ve never spent less time at home.

  By Thursday I’m exhausted, and my face aches from pretending to be interested when my bandmates talk about people I don’t know, stores I don’t shop, and TV shows I don’t watch. Am I bored out of my brain by their conversation? You bet I am. I long for a heated debate about the lack of rights for migrant workers or how the government is using social networks to subliminally brainwash teens. I really, really miss Rune.

  When best friends fight, no one wins.

  So when the lunch bell rings, I ambush Rune outside her class.

  “Hey, Rune,” I say casually as I step in front of her.

  She glares at me like I’m her worst enemy. “Get out of my way.”

  “No.” I stand firm.

  “What are you doing here, Thorn?”

  “We’re going to have lunch together.”

  “Sorry, but you have me confused with someone who doesn’t hate you.”

  “Hate?” I snort. “That’s harsh and really juvenile. Can’t you do any better?”

  “I could, but I’m refraining from swearing.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Move aside now.”

  I don’t budge an inch. “We have lots to discuss. Let’s go to lunch.”

  “I’ll tell you where to go!” she threatens.