Buried (11 page)

T
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T
he anonymous caller tricked me!

She must have unplugged the zombie game, then snuck up behind me during the chaos, cut the shoelace, and stolen the locket. But why steal her own locket when I was going to give it to her anyway? Was it so I wouldn't see her face? Or maybe she'd lied about owning the locket and had planned to steal it all along. I knew it was risky to meet an unknown person but I did it anyway, letting her pick the place and obediently wearing the locket like she asked. And now I'd lost my only proof of another girl's guilt.

K.C. drives us back home, turning on the radio and purposely singing the wrong words in an off-key tone. I know he's trying to make me laugh, to distract me. But when one of Philippe's songs comes on, I turn the radio off.

My bad mood worsens when I enter the house and find Mom and some church ladies sitting around in the dining room, sipping tea and eating petite sandwiches. Why hadn't I remembered that Mom was having a tea social today?

Mouths pucker with disapproval at my army boots, barbed-wire belt, and black-streaked red wig. Mom stops talking with a chubby woman in a feathered yellow hat to turn toward me. I wait, hoping she'll offer me a cup of her delicious spiced-herbal tea. That's what she would have done at our old church, where the ladies had watched me grow up. But Mom blushes with embarrassment and gestures for me to leave.

I lift my chin like I don't care and stomp off in my army boots.

I go to the family room, hoping for an email from Manny. But my little brothers are blowing up alien dinosaurs and refuse to get off the computer. I ask nicely. I even say please. When that doesn't work, my short fuse explodes. I call them “spoiled greedy bloodsuckers,” which makes Larry cry. Our arguing brings Dad in. He takes their side (of course) and orders me to my room to “contemplate my inconsiderate behavior.”

I go to my room, but damned if I'm going to stay there like an obedient little girl. Climbing down my silk rope ladder, I sneak through the back yard. I consider hanging with K.C., but the smell of paint wafting from the garage means he's spray-painting his Ranchero. He's picked out a wicked shade of metallic ruby.

Aimless, I don't choose a destination.
Away from here
, that's where I want to go. Not only in miles but in time—back to Sheridan Valley where I felt in control of my life. I miss hanging out with Sabine, Manny, and my goth friends (there were more than two in the school!). I also miss the philosophical talks I used to have with Velvet, the owner of a cool New Age/candy shop. Velvet respected me like an adult, unlike my own parents.

Gray-black clouds boil over the western mountains and an acrid scent in the chilled air warns of rain. Brittle autumn leaves crunch under my boots as the wind shivers through my jacket, but I hardly notice the cold. I'm striding fast, heated by anger—not only at my brothers and my parents, but at myself for losing my temper. I have no idea where I'm headed until I turn onto Rune's street.

“About time you showed up,” Rune says, her raven-black hair tucked under a scarlet scarf in a gypsy style, her face shades of crimson and lavender. A gathered skirt sways above red slippers as she shuts the door behind us.

“Did we have plans?” I raise my voice slightly to be heard over her wriggly pit bull, Casanova, who barks and wags a welcome.

“Not officially.”

“So how did you know I'd come?” I bend down to scratch Nova behind his ears where he likes it, and he slobbers love all over my arm.

“It's Saturday.”

She's right. Her home has become my weekend sanctuary.

“If you had a family like mine, you'd ditch home too.” I follow her past the kitchen, dining room, and empty living room, Nova slurping at my heels.

“What's wrong with your family? I like them,” Rune says.

“So take them—please. K.C. is the only one who doesn't drive me crazy.”

“But he's not actually a blood relative.”

“My point exactly.” I blow out a long-suffering sigh.

I follow Rune into her bedroom. Casanova chases behind us, then jumps up on pillows in the window seat, curling into a ball like he's part cat.

We don't shut the door because there's no one else around. Rune's an only child, with ultra-busy Realtor parents who spend more time showing other peoples' homes than living in their own. In the couple of months I've known Rune, I've only seen her parents once.

Rune doesn't turn on the ceiling light; instead she lights incense candles that flicker shadows onto her lavender walls. “Admit it, Thorn,” she says, settling down on a plush blue pillow. “You came over because you can't resist my twisted humor.”

“You're twisted all right—in a good way.” I inhale a faint scent of sandalwood, already starting to relax. “Is that a new shade of lip gloss?”

“Romany Rose. You can borrow it.” She opens her Celtic Knot rectangular wooden makeup box and sorts through tubes until she finds the right one. “We can try out different face-painting styles from my
Goth Craft
book.”

“Sure, why not?” I shrug. “Wanna invite Amerie to join us?”

“If we don't, we'll never hear the end of it. You know how she hates missing out and assumes we'll talk behind her back.”

“We might,” I say with a secret smile, thinking of what I know about Amerie and wondering if Rune knows, too. If not, should I tell her?

Rune hands me
Goth Craft
and I flip through it as I make myself comfy on a satin pillow. We never sit on her bed or in chairs, preferring the oversized pillows piled on the floor. Her room is decorated in a mix of goth and Arabian—moon signs painted on the ceiling, gauzy black curtains, and colored beads strung across her closet instead of a door.

“I'll text Amerie.” Rune reaches for her phone. “I tried last night but she hasn't replied. She's been super busy since the contest.”

“Not only the contest.” I press my lips together.

“Oh?” Rune scoots her pillow closer to mine. “What do you know that I don't?”

“News more shocking than a museum of cockroaches.”

“What? Tell me!”

“Yesterday I saw her in the school parking lot with—” I pause. “A guy.”

“A boyfriend! I knew it!” Rune's dark eyes shine. “I caught her texting all secret-like, then she hid her phone when she noticed me watching. I asked who she was texting and she said it was just contest stuff, but it was obvious she was lying—and I know why.”

“You do?” I arch a brow.

“She's going out with a contestant, which is probably against the rules, or maybe she's ashamed to tell us because the guy is a freshman. My theory is that it's Aidan Morgan.” Rune snaps her fingers like she's smarter than Sherlock Holmes and Einstein cloned together.

“Amerie is definitely
not
into Aidan,” I say with a firm head shake. Aidan's tall and awkward. His singing voice is good, but when he opens his mouth he makes weird expressions like a bird bobbing for worms.

Rune crosses her arms over her chest. “Why else would she keep it a secret?”

“Contestants aren't the only ones involved with the contest,” I point out.

“What do you mean?”

I hesitate. “I shouldn't tell you, since Amerie is my friend too, and if she doesn't want anyone to know, I should respect that.”

“Tell me or I'll smack you with a pillow.” Rune raises a wicked beaded pillow.

“Put down your weapon.” I throw up my hands in mock surrender. “But you can't repeat this to anyone.”

“As if I would!” she says indignantly. “Is the guy a volunteer like Amerie?”

I shake my head.

“A singer or musician?”

“Both.”

“Is he any good?”

“Really good.” I hide a smile. Rune isn't the only one who can dish out dramatic suspense. “Philippe.”

“No freaking way!”

“It's true.” I cross my heart with fervor. “I saw them coming out of his tour bus.”

“That doesn't mean anything. She's working on the contest.”

“They were kissing.”

Rune's mouth falls open, candlelight glinting golden off her tongue stud. “What were they doing on his bus? Do you think … ?”

“I hope not. He's not her type. Amerie's too trusting and he's too experienced.”

“For sure. Philippe's dating drama is infamous. He's always with a new girl.” Rune purses her black-lined red lips. “Don't get me wrong, he's hot and I'd jump his bones if he rattled them my direction. But I wouldn't take a player like him seriously. Not Amerie, though. She'll fall hard. She'll expect a formal engagement, marriage, kids, and to settle down in a Hollywood mansion. This is so not good.”

“I completely agree,” I say, frowning.

“So it's up to us to stop this.”

I give Rune an
are you crazy
look.

But I know that she is crazy, and stubborn too. She's determined to rescue Amerie by breaking up her romance. I'm skeptical, but talking about Amerie's problems does distract me from my own … for now. So we spend the next few hours coming up with wild ideas that won't work (kidnapping Amerie) and a few ideas that might (showing Amerie magazine photos of Philippe with other girls).

Before I leave, I check my email on Rune's computer. Manny has sent me some more photos, including a photo of Ruby taken at a school pep rally last April. I hardly recognize her—she has a double chin, round face, and chubby figure, drastically different from how she appears in the photo Skarla took a few days ago.

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.