Buried

by Linda Joy Singleton

  “Unforgivable,” Micqui echoes, with a stomp of her foot.

  “Told you so,” Barbee adds smugly. “You can’t trust girls like her.”

  “Leave, Thorn.” Skarla points to the door. “You’re no longer welcome in my house.”

  “What about rehearsal?”

  “Rehearsal is over for you.” She hugs the photo album to her chest. “Return the hat and costume tomorrow. You’re out of the group.”

  Twenty-Two

  I’d been dreading the finals, but now that it’s over for me, I’m

  numb. I totally screwed up. I was wrong about Skarla like I was wrong about Ruby. I should leave the investigating to Sheriff Hart.

  And I don’t even have a ride home. My humiliation worsens when I have to ask to use the phone to call Mom.

  She doesn’t say anything until she pulls into our driveway and turns off the car. Then she turns to me and asks what happened. I thought I was hiding my emotions well, but her mom radar surpasses my sixth sense. And I cringe inside, knowing what I have to tell her. Mom was so proud of my being in the contest—the disappointment will cut deep. But by tomorrow night everyone will know anyway, when the Cotton Candy Cowgirls take the stage without me.

  Staring at a ragged scratch on the corner of the leather seat, I tell her. I omit a few details, and just say that there was an argument and I got kicked out of the group.

  “Oh, honey,” is all she says, reaching over to squeeze my hand.

  “Do you hate me?” I ask. Stupid tears spill from my cheeks. Damn.

  “Of course not. You’re talented and I’m proud of you.”

  “But I won’t—” My throat tightens. “I won’t be able to help with the money.”

  “What money?”

  “If we won the $5,000, I was going to give my fourth to you and Dad.”

  Mom shakes her head. “No, you would not. Any money you earn goes to a college fund.”

  “But our family needs it and I want to help out.”

  “Your job is to go to school. If you want to help out, wash the dishes more often. Amy hates that job and I get sick of hearing her bitch.”

  “Mom! You swore!”

  “So what? I’m a minister, not a saint.”

  “But you’re always so … so good. Not like me.”

  “You’re not so bad,” she says, with a playful tug on my blue wig.

  “Then why did a stranger write letters complaining about me?”

  “For your information, that busybody only used you as an excuse to stir up trouble. She hoped to get me fired so her husband could take the position.”

  “You know who wrote the letters!” I jump, bumping my elbow against the car door. “How did you find out?”

  “Her husband brought her over to apologize. He caught her writing another letter and was furious. We all had a long talk and I’ve promised not to reveal their names. But I want you to know that this was never about you. You were only a victim of church politics. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “Sorry enough to unground me?” I ask.

  Mom laughs, then says, “Maybe.”

  The next morning, I fold the western fringed skirt and blouse into a box. I set the pink hat on top of the box. I’m still not sure if I’m more disappointed or more relieved about not being in the contest anymore. Maybe someday I’ll play my guitar in offbeat pubs for small audiences. But for now, I have no aspirations for fame.

  Pink is out. Black is back.

  I zip into leather-studded pants, then drape a velvet black cape over a beaded blue top. Then I open the Halloween zombie makeup I bought yesterday and paint my face wicked shades of pasty white and bloody crimson. Slashes of dark blue eye shadow match my eyes and the midnight blue wig.

  I survey myself in the mirror. Gothtastic.

  K.C. and I leave for school early in order to drop off the CCC costume at Skarla’s. When Skarla’s grandmother answers the door, I shove the box and hat into her arms and hurry back to the car. The costume originally belonged to Priscilla anyway, and now she can wear it again. It never did fit right.

  Lunch on the steps with Rune is the same yet different. She has her usual weird fact (a woman lost her toes due to frostbite and strung her toe bones into a necklace). But we have moments of silence, too. We’re just comfortable hanging together and don’t need to fill the space with words.

  Then Amerie rushes up like a sudden wind storm, fluttering down to the middle step between us.

  “I can’t stay long,” she says, her face shining as if she’s glowing inside. “I have so much to get ready for tonight. But I wanted to see you both before … well … before everything changes.”

  “What’s going to change?” Rune asks with sharp suspicion.

  “If you’re going to say something snarky about Philippe,” Amerie threatens, “I’m leaving right now.”

  “Fine.” Rune sighs. “He’s perfect and I have nothing evil to say about him. Can we get past that now?”

  “Of course! I can’t stand it when we fight.”

  “You’re the one who stopped talking to me,” Rune reminds her.

  “I know, and it felt awful. So much is going on and I want to share it with my best friends.” She looks at me, her expression sobering. “Oh, poor Thorn. I heard what happened with the Cotton Candy Cowgirls. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m okay,” I tell her.

  “Don’t pretend with me. You must be utterly devastated! How awful to be kicked out of your own group.”

  “It was never my group. And I’m not devastated.”

  “I tried talking sense to Skarla.” Amerie rushes on as if she didn’t hear me. “I asked her to take you back, but she already has a replacement.”

  “Priscilla,” I add. “Yeah, I know.”

  “It’s so unfair! What did you do to piss Skarla off?”

  “My tactful personality.”

  “How can you be so casual? If it were me, I’d be in tears. Your chance for fame and money is destroyed. You’re so brave.”

  “Really, I’m not. I’d rather watch the show from the audience.”

  “So you’ll be there?” Amerie asks hopefully. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come. It’s such a historic event and it would be tragic to miss it. Tonight is going to be life-altering amazing.”

  “But it’s also the end for you and Philippe.” Rune raises her brows as she studies Amerie. “When the contest ends, he’ll leave.”

  “It’s not the end for us. Tonight is going to be the best night of my life.”

  “What are you planning?” Rune asks suspiciously.

  “I’ll never tell,” Amerie answers, in a way that’s very telling. Then she jumps to her feet, her gauzy wings unfolding so they peek out over her shoulders, and rushes off.

  Rune’s gaze follows her until she flies around a corner and out of sight. “It’s obvious what she’s planning.”

  “I know,” I say softly.

  “She’s going to be with Philippe tonight. Then, he’ll leave tomorrow and she’ll be destroyed.”

  “You can’t stop her,” I warn.

  “I know, and it sucks.”

  The warning bell rings, and Rune balls up her lunch bag and tosses it toward the Dumpster. She misses and tries again.

  “She’ll survive.” I shoot a high shot and my bag sails in.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a group of guys in blue letter jackets moving down a walkway. Even from this distance, I recognize Jay’s confident stride. I think back to auditions and how he moved much more furtively, sneaking out from backstage.

  And I think to myself, Amerie’s not the only one hiding secrets.

  The Singing Star contest finals begin at seven p.m.

  Just enough
time to go home, check email, and have dinner.

  I delete spam, postpone reading the email from a goth friend back in Sheridan Valley, and click open an email from Manny. It’s a photo of Skarla, looking svelte in a Lycra mini-dress last March. I groan. Now he sends me this? No wonder I didn’t find the locket in Skarla’s room.

  The phone rings. It’s usually one of Mom’s parishioners calling for her, so I continue reading email until Mom comes into the family room holding out the phone.

  “It’s your friend,” she says, then leaves.

  Does Skarla want me back in the group? I think for a wild moment. Instead of being excited by the thought, I’m slammed with anxiety. My misgivings about losing my chance for fame are gone, now. Being kicked out was a good thing. I’m just not the diva type.

  “Thorn, I can hear you breathing, so I know you’re there.”

  “Sabine?” I smile. “How’s everything?”

  “I’m great, but what about you? I’m getting a weird vibe from you.”

  I switch the phone to my other ear and lean back in the chair. “Tell your psychic vibe to chill. Things have been crazy, but I’m okay.”

  “Good.” There a rush of relief in her voice. “My spirit guide told me to warn you not to go anywhere tonight. I’m glad to find you at home and safe.”

  “No worries. The most dangerous thing I’m going to do tonight is watch a school singing contest.”

  There was a pause. “You’re going out tonight?”

  “Only to school.”

  “Don’t go.” She sounds so worried. I imagine her in her attic bedroom, holding the phone with one hand and twirling a curl of her long blond hair with the other.

  “The only danger tonight is being bored by a few singers that stink.” I chuckle. “Tell your spirit guide that I’ll be fine.”

  “Seriously, Thorn, stay home. Opal saw danger from a gun.”

  “Get real, Sabine. We both know your spirit guide is all drama and doom. Why can’t she predict good news?”

  “She did have some good news for you,” Sabine says defensively.

  “What?”

  “That you will ‘soon achieve the highest success and ascertain a prosperous name in competition.’”

  “Impossible. I was involved in one of the singing groups, but that’s over now. There’s absolutely no chance for me to ‘achieve the highest success.’ If she’s wrong about that, then I’m safe from bullets. ”

  “I hope so,” Sabine says. “But Opal’s predictions have a weird way of coming true. So be careful.”

  “Aren’t I always?” I’m chuckling as I hang up the phone.

  As if anything dangerous could happen at a school singing contest.

  Twenty-Three

  In the auditorium, the crowd is insane. I’m no longer seated up front with the contestants but in the back, where a guy with linebacker shoulders blocks my view. I can only see if I lean into Amy, who’s sitting on my right. K.C. is on my left, and he’s straining his neck to get a good view too.

  The seats are hard metal and press uncomfortably against the steel studs in my jeans pockets.

  “Can’t you sit still?” my sister asks when I bump her with my elbow.

  “No.”

  “These seats are hard as rocks,” K.C. puts in diplomatically.

  “Harder.” I cross my legs, then uncross them and stand up to stretch. Among the frenzy of people moving down the aisles, a familiar figure startles me.

  I start to wave at Jay but stop myself. No one even knows we’re sort of friends. But I lean sideways to watch him. He’s wearing formal black slacks and a navy blue dress shirt and walking beside a distinguished-looking, salt-and-pepper-haired man who holds himself with the stiff bearing of a military officer. I don’t need to be told this is Jay’s father, the (not-so) Honorable Judge Blankenship.

  “Who are you looking at?” K.C. asks.

  “No one.” I turn back to K.C., my cheeks warm.

  “No one must be very interesting.”

  Very, I think as I swivel away from K.C. for another glimpse of Jay. But he and his father must have found seats. And why shouldn’t they be here? The Jay-Clones are in the contest, so of course Jay would want to watch.

  As long as that’s Jay’s only reason—and not to cause trouble for Philippe.

  Lights flash across the auditorium, then flicker and dim as someone takes the stage. There’s a hush, the audience eager for the star attraction. But it’s only boring introductions. The principal, school board members, parent club president, and finally Collette, shimmering in red, take the podium. When she introduces herself and then Philippe, the audience explodes with fandom screams, whistles, and applause.

  A spotlight shines golden on the star of the night. I smile, amused, thinking how only a few years ago he was just plain Phil, a troublemaker and dropout no one wanted around, but now people pay money just for a glimpse of him. Fame is like a mask, hiding realness beneath glamour. Not for me, I think, and I’m glad to be sitting in the audience. But stardom totally works for Philippe. He’s dramatic and really hot in his tight jeans, and the black shirt under his leather vest has the top buttons unfastened. His white teeth flash as he takes the microphone to welcome the audience. Then he steps aside for Principal Niphai, who announces the first act.

  Applause is muted for the first singer, Jaden Ming, then more enthusiastic for tiny, big-voiced Christiana Lee.

  The Jay-Clones go on third, and as they take the stage the applause is so deafening I have to cover my ears with my hands. They did okay in auditions, but tonight their harmony is off and their clunky notes make for horrible chords. After a few minutes I want to cover my ears again, for different reasons. When they finish, the applause is only polite.

  The next two acts are much better. Then the Cotton Candy Cowgirls are announced and I brace myself. My costume fits great on a taller, more full-figured girl with mocha skin and a big smile. Priscilla, the girl I replaced, has now replaced me. When I search myself for bitterness and find none, I realize with relief that I’m okay with this. Priscilla plays well … and loud. She rocks out on her electric guitar so passionately that I can barely hear the other girls sing.

  The big dude in front of me shifts, blocking my view. The clogging is coming up and I don’t want to miss it, so I lean into Amy. I still can’t see the stage, but I have a clear view of the aisle—and out of the corner of my eye, I see Jay.

  Why is he leaving in the middle of the CCCs performance? Where is he going? He’s moving fast toward the exit … then gone.

  Blast his conniving soul! He’s going to cause trouble for Philippe.

  I whisper to K.C. that I’m going to the bathroom, then I push my way down the row and exit the auditorium into the brisk autumn air. I look around the quad but don’t see Jay. Clearing my mind, I focus my finding energy on him. Even though I usually need to hold an object, I can visualize him so clearly it’s like I’m touching him with my mind

  I move without thought, following a mysterious compass that knows more about my destination than I do. When I see a flash of movement turn a corner toward the parking lot, my inner alarm goes off. And I switch from a walk to a run.

  In the minutes since Jay left the auditorium he’s changed his clothes, switching into a dark cloak, black boots, and a concealing ski mask with a smiley face.

  “Jay!” I call out.

  He stops as if my voice is lightning and I’ve struck a direct hit. He whirls around. “Shhsh! Someone might hear you! What are you doing here?”

  “I had a feeling,” I say with a coy smile.

  “Go back to the show,” he tells me, punching a button on his keys the makes the lights flash on a white truck. “I don’t have much time. My dad thinks I’m sitting with friends, but he’ll look for me when the show is over. So I have
to return before the last group finishes.”

  “Return from where?” I demand. “What’s the Reaper plotting?”

  “As if I’m going to tell you,” he says, snorting.

  “I already know your secret, so why not tell me more?”

  “You’ll tattle back to your winged girlfriend.”

  “I don’t tattle to anyone.”

  “You’d warn her.”

  “Why are you so sure what I’d do?” I ask accusingly. “Is this about Philippe?”

  “I should lie.” He lifts his mask to look into my eyes. “But I won’t. Not to you.”

  The sincerity in his tone softens my anger. And the way he’s staring into my face shoots electricity through me. I see past the pretty features that mask the intelligent and volatile soul hidden deep within.

  “What are you going to do to Philippe?” I ask.

  “I’m not going to kill him, or cut off his famous curls.”

  I almost smile. “Then what?”

  “Payback—that’s all. Well deserved.”

  “Your opinion,” I say, with heavy accusation.

  “Don’t try to stop me, Thorn. I don’t want to do anything to make you hate me.”

  “Why not? You only care about revenge.”

  “You’re wrong. I care about … .” He reaches out with his gloved hands and brushes a finger against my cheek; a touch as gentle as a feather, but it feels like sweet fire against my skin. “I care about more than you know. It’s why I have to even the score.”

  I should move away from him, yet I don’t. His gaze tugs and torments me with confusing emotions—curiosity, excitement, fear. As if he embodies the air at the edge of a cliff. What would it be like if I jumped?

  Crazy thoughts, I tell myself. I’m only here because whatever Jay has planned for Philippe could hurt Amerie, too.

  “Forget about revenge,” I say quietly.

  “Why should I?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know … maybe because I’m asking you.”