Buried (17 page)

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.

T
w
e
n
t
y

S
karla, 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.

“Where?” I arch a brow.

“To the cafeteria with your frilly pink friends. You deserve each other.”

“Don't be a jealous bitch.”

“Did you just call me jealous?” she exclaims, her hands on her hips in outrage. “I am not even a tiny bit jealous. What I am is disgusted. You keep secrets from me, and you traded in your soul for fluff-brains. I thought being goth meant more to you than a fashion choice—that you really cared about deeper things.”

“If I didn't care, I wouldn't be here.”

“So leave. I don't want to be seen with you—it's bad for my reputation.”

“Afraid my new popularity might rub off on you?”

“You're not
that
popular.”

“I hope so.” Then I laugh, although I'm really not sure why. But then my laughter sparks Rune's. Her mouth twitches like she's fighting to hold on to her scowl, but then she's laughing, too.

“Okay,” she says with a shrug. “I'll eat with you. But you can't make me talk.”

“Fine. We'll eat our lunches in total silence. Don't say anything.”

“I won't!”

We reach the stairs and sit on different steps. I dig my lunch out of my backpack and she flips open her vintage Addams Family lunch box. She peels an orange, the sweet scent swirling in a chilly breeze. I sip pomegranate-flavored water and glance at my watch, wondering how long Rune can go without talking.

Three minutes and seventeen seconds.

“You missed yesterday's
Weird News
.” Rune opens her notebook of weird facts. “Want to hear it?”

“Sure. Bring on the weirdness,” I say, smiling.

“A thirty-two-year-old woman breastfed her dog.”

“Sick!” I almost spew pomegranate water. “That image has scarred my brain forever.”

“Kids marrying dogs. People getting naked in strange places. Why do people do such gross stuff?” Rune gives a grim shake of her head. “The world is insane.”

“Except for us,” I say.

“Of course.” We both nod solemnly, understanding each other.

I don't see her again until after school, when I find her waiting by my locker.

“You're coming with me and I won't take no for an answer,” she says, tugging my arm once I've shut my locker. “I have someplace amazing to show you.”

“I want to go but I have practice.”

“It won't kill you to be late.”

“Skarla might.”

“Then I'll conjure a magical blood spell to bring you back to life.”

“Okay, I'll go,” I say. I'm sick of rehearsing anyway, and since my parents will think I'm with the CCCs, that whole grounding issue won't come up. “But keep the blood spell handy,” I add. “I may need it later.”

I borrow Rune's phone and tell Skarla I'll be late because of a test I have to make up (lying really is kinder than the truth). Then I climb into Rune's car and she zigzags down narrow roads I've never been on before, parking in front of a ramshackle shop with a crooked sign that says simply,
JUNK
.

The store is a treasure trove! It's like someone opened a crypt of wicked-cool stuff and priced everything ridiculously low. Costumes, makeup, jewelry, and a giant skeleton of a grizzly bear that's freaking scary.

Rune and I “ooh” over a bin of wigs in every color and style imaginable. We try most of them on, modeling in our own twisted fashion show. A green wig transforms me into an alien, a long-black-braid wig wriggles like a snake against my legs, and when we try on skull caps we call it “bald chic.”

“Let's go to school bald,” Rune suggests as she taps her black-painted nails on her plastic-smooth head.

“We should paint fake blood dropping from our bald heads,” I say.

“Check out these tombstone earrings.” She hands them to me and digs into a box of old jewelry.

I nod. “Wicked brilliant.”

Then Rune lets out a shriek. “Ohmygod, Thorn, you have to buy this!”

She's dangling a midnight blue wig, edged in black, in front of me. It's love at first look-in-the-mirror. The price isn't bad either (thanks Dad for the twenty!). Then Rune discovers a box of leather pants, tops, jackets, and even whips. We snap whips at each other until a store clerk gives us the evil eye, then we haul our purchases up to the counter. Rune buys tight leather pants, dragon earrings, and fishnet nylons, and I buy the blue-black wig, the tombstone earrings, and a Halloween zombie makeup kit. We both buy a whip.

Rune and I squeeze into a changing room and come out of the store wearing our purchases—we look very different than we did when we came in. When Rune tempts me with the offer of a donut at The Whole Truth, who can resist? Not me, that's for sure.

Over two double whipped-cream nut bars, Rune apologizes.

“It wasn't right for me to insist you break a promise,” she says. “Although I'm dying to know who the Reaper is.”

“I'll tell you when I can,” I promise.

“Yeah. I know you will.”

“I messed up, too,” I add, licking cream off my upper lip. “I never should have ditched you. The CCCs are okay, but I can't really talk to them. Not like with you.”

Rune takes a sip of iced tea. “Amerie is cool, but you're my kindred spirit. I'm so glad you moved here.”

“I hated moving,” I confess. “I still miss the color green, but I'm beginning to like cactus. And I never expected to find a best friend.”

“It takes a rare soul to appreciate my coolness,” she says with a pat of her skull cap. “It's like I can totally be myself with you.”

“Yeah. Me too. Except lately I haven't felt like myself.” I touch my eyebrow, smooth without its usual piercing. The CCC pink skirt rustles like a snake in the grass sneaking up to bite me.

Rune deserves the truth, I realize guiltily. I can't tell her about Jay, but I can share my own secrets. My three deepest secrets.

“Since I really trust you, I'll tell you three things about myself.”

“Sure. What?” Rune's silver bangles clank as she leans across the table, her expression solemn.

“The first thing is my name,” I confide. “It's not really Thorn.”

“Well, duh, I guessed that. What's your real name?”

“My first name—don't you dare laugh—is Beth Ann.”