Buried (6 page)

“A roach slushie! Anyone got a straw and a roach?” K.C. says, which makes us all laugh.

Even through my laughter, a worry ticks within me as my internal clock warns that in just over an hour, I'll have to face my history teacher. And while Principal Niphai was cool, Mr. Sproat definitely won't be.

My prediction is dead-on right.

Mr. Sproat calls me to the front of the class and asks me to match each major war to the U.S. president at that time. Of course, he knows I don't know. I admit this and he gives me a look like I'm the stupidest student in the world. Then he assigns extra homework for the whole class, evilly shifting the blame onto me. When the bell rings, my classmates swear and shove, and one crude guy even spits on my boot.

When I show up for detention, my English teacher Ms. Chu is the not-so-lucky teacher assigned guard duty this week. I look around and count seven other students: five guys and two girls. I head for a desk away from everyone else until I get a thought that changes my direction: detention may be punishment, but it could also prove very educational—and I don't mean in a book-learning way. I remember K.C. saying the Grin Reaper is a habitual rule breaker.

And I stare at the five guys serving detention, wondering.

Is one of them the Grin Reaper?

S
e
v
e
n

S
it down, Thorn,” Ms. Chu says with a smile. She's cool for a teacher, twenty-something with purple streaks in her super-short, bleached-blond hair.

“Sure, Ms. Chu.” I nod at her, but my gaze still sweeps from guy to guy.

“Pick any seat, then pull out homework to do quietly for the next hour.”

“And if I don't have any homework?”

“The white board needs to be cleaned.”

“Just remembered some assigned reading,” I say quickly.

I scoot into a seat beside a shaved-head guy with mocha skin and a ruby ring on his pinky that sparkles too brightly to be authentic. He's camouflaged in a baggy black jacket and hunched over a book, so I can't tell if he's ripped with rock-hard muscles or flabby like a dough boy.

When I stare at Shaved Head, he glances up at me, his dark-chocolate eyes flaring with something that could either be curiosity or annoyance.

“You come here often?” I ask, like I'm making a joke. All I care about, though, is hearing his voice.

He rolls his eyes like that's the stupidest question ever uttered in the universe, then calls me a name that would shock even Rune. He returns his attention to the graphic novel hidden covertly inside his textbook.

Rude jerk! I think of all the words I want to call him. But he's not worth my breath. Besides, I found out what I wanted. His voice is definitely not the Reaper's.

I contemplate the four other guys in the room. They're familiar in a seen-around-school way but I don't know their names. One is young, with a boyish face that won't see stubble for a few years, so I figure he's a freshman. There's a skinny guy with hair springing out all over, like he's feral, but he has blue eyes. Another guy is about the right age, but he's stocky and missing a neck.

I scratch them off my mental “Reaper” list.

Swiveling to my right, I shift my interest to the last guy, and am unable to take my gaze off the rattlesnake tattoo winding from his wrist up to his black-polished thumbnail. He looks older than a senior (held back a few times?).

He's a definite for my “Reaper” list. I appreciate his fine muscled shoulders, snug Levi's, and the snake design on his dark-brown western boots. But I also notice the royal blue jacket slung on the back of his chair. He's a Jay-Clone? Hard to believe, since he's wearing black nail polish. I'm intrigued, wondering if we're kindred rebels.

When Ms. Chu nails me with a stern frown and gestures toward my book, I flip to a random page. But I'm sneaking glances sideways, thinking.

Rattlesnake Tat is muscular enough to have shoved me to the ground and stolen my backpack. But did he do it? He's definitely the type: intelligent with an edge of subversive, and tapping his boot like he has better things to do than waste time in detention. And he has a good reason to hide those black-painted fingernails in gloves.

Still, the real test is his voice.

Only how do I get him to talk? My oh-so-smooth attempt with Shaved Head completely bombed.

I consider slipping him a note. Only what would I say? I can't bluntly ask if he's the Reaper, and something like “Hi, I'm Thorn” would sound too lame. Worse, he might get the wrong idea and think I'm hitting on him—which is so not me. I have enough stress in my life without adding some guy. And even if I'm intrigued by his dark mysterious eyes and rebel vibe, he
could
be the Reaper. I glance down at the purplish bruises on my wrists and grit my teeth, determined. If he's the Reaper, he's going to pay for what he did to me. Call it justice or revenge. I won't only tell Rune his identity, I'll tell Amerie, which is like texting the news to every kid in Nevada.

Detention minutes are an anomaly of physics, moving slower than ordinary minutes. I'm so bored I actually read a chapter of my textbook. I look up at the clock, willing it to speed up. But time stops for all rule-breakers. I want to throw something to smash the stupid clock.

What I really want to do, though, is talk to Rattlesnake Tat.

Ms. Chu is busy on her cell phone and not watching me, so I purposely drop my pencil on the ground.

I swear under my breath like I'm annoyed with my own clumsiness.

My stealth pencil rolls right up to Rattlesnake Guy's foot. He glances down, then kicks the pencil back to me and grunts something like, “Hmmm.”

“Thanks,” I say softly, bending down to pick up the pencil.

“Hmmm,” he says again, not looking at me.

“I'm Thorn. And you're … ?”

Now he looks at me; dark brows knitting and a wisp of a smile curving into dimples. He glances over at the teacher's desk, then whispers, “Wiley.”

I smile back, thinking of the Cartoon Channel my sibs torture me with. “Like the coyote?” I say.

He nods, but then looks away quickly as Ms. Chu calls out, “Thorn! No talking.”

Damn, just when things are getting interesting.

“I dropped my pencil and was picking it up.” I wave the pencil, my expression all innocence. “The tip broke off so I'll need to sharpen it.”

I look hopefully at Wiley, willing him to loan me one. But he's returned to his book like I don't exist.

“You may use the sharpener,” Ms. Chu says, gesturing toward the back of the room.

I walk down the aisle, replaying Wiley's voice in my head and trying to match it to the Reaper. But “Hmmm” and “Wiley” isn't much for comparison. And with Ms. Chu watching so closely, I won't be able to talk to him until after class—assuming he'll talk to me. He smiled and told me his name, but then turned away … was he afraid of getting in trouble, or was he avoiding talking to me because we've met before? Like yesterday in the haunted gym?

I poke my pencil in the sharpener, trying to figure out what to say to Wiley when detention ends. Dropping a pencil was too subtle; I should have dropped a book or my backpack (on his head). Okay, that was my hostility reacting. Seriously, to get him talking, I'll need a cool topic, maybe tats. Rune and I talk about them all the time and sometimes go into the only tat shop in town,
Stuck For Life,
and plan the tats we'll get when we turn eighteen.

The pencil sharpener buzzes till my lead tip is sharp.

On the way back to my desk (not in a hurry), I get a weird feeling as I pass a bulletin board covered with educational posters, student projects, and flyers. One flyer stops me. It's a promotion for a new arcade, offering discounts with a student ID. The flyer is cut into the shape of a saddle, and it shows a map of the town with directions to the arcade.

A map on a paper saddle—just like Sabine said.

I'm not thinking or even realizing what I'm doing when I lift my hands. It's like my brain is under siege by a compulsion to touch the map. My fingers reach out and the pencil in my other hand rises to meet the paper.

When my head clears, I'm standing in front of the saddle-shaped flyer with my pencil marking a spot on the map. I've penciled a large black X beyond the boundaries of Nevada Bluff, on a place called Stallion Creek.

From my fingertips to toes, I begin to shiver because I know this is the locket's way of leading me to answers, or perhaps of helping someone in trouble.

X marks the spot.

And I have to go there.

Instead of waiting to talk to Wiley after Ms. Chu dismisses us, I grab my backpack, sling it over my shoulder, and jump out of my chair. With the image of the X blazing like a beacon in my head, I'm filled with an urgency that races along with me as I run down the walkway.

There's hardly anyone around, although as I pass the auditorium I hear singing. The Singing Star contest. I'm not interested until I realize that Amerie will be inside, and unlike me, she has her own car.

I push open a metal door, scan the auditorium, and see wings. Amerie stands on the stage talking to a thirty-something woman in a red business suit. Further back on the stage, surrounded by at least a dozen students and a hulky dude who I guess is a bodyguard, is Philippe—bronzed, tall, a wild black ponytail spiraling down his back.

My heart rushes, despite my logical brain reminding me that he's just another guy and being a super star doesn't make him special, any more than my finding things makes me special.

Still, he's really hot in snug jeans and a leather vest.

“Thorn!” Amerie lifts her arm to wave, her wings glittering under the bright lights and giving the odd impression that she's taking off for a flight. She murmurs something to the red-suited woman, then hurries over to me. “I knew it!” she tells me triumphantly. “You couldn't resist coming to see Philippe!”

“Don't be dense. I'm so not interested.”

“Really? Isn't that why you're here?”

“Not even close.”

“Sure you wouldn't like an introduction?” Amerie asks with a wink of glitter lashes.

“What part of
not interested
didn't you understand? I am
not
a groupie.”

“Stick around and you will be. Just don't get ridiculous like some of the other girls. Ruby is supposed to be interviewing contestants for the school newspaper but she's only flirting with Philippe. I finally had to warn her to act professionally or leave. But I can't blame her—he's so cool, and super nice, too.”

“His fans can have him. I came to talk to you.”

“Really?” She lights up like I've given her a gift. “About what?”

I hesitate, because Amerie worked hard to buy her car. She has personalized plates that say
FAREGRL
and speaks of her car like it's a real person. But I can't think of another way to get to Stallion Creek. So I flash the closest thing to a sweet smile … then I beg.

And it works.

I must have said “please” a dozen times and promised to be back in one hour. Amerie isn't happy about loaning
FAREGRL
to me, but she's too nice to refuse a desperate friend.

So, with keys bouncing on a pink rhinestone Tinker Bell key ring, I hop in Amerie's car and follow the map that's fixed firmly in my head. I don't actually visualize the map; it's more a sense of directions and distances. The route is easy enough, and I have a way of finding places even if I'm given the wrong directions. I don't need street names; the black penciled X calls to me. And I can feel energy pulsating from the heart-shaped necklace in my backpack.

Still, I worry I'm doing something dumb.
Turn around and forget all about this
, I tell myself as I leave the school parking lot. But I keep driving, past the football field, and turn right onto a road that seems to disappear into the ragged, yellow-brown hills.

Based on the map, I know I'm supposed to go in this direction for about five miles, then wind through a canyon until I reach Stallion Creek. Then I'll make a left up and over a hill until I dip down into a valley. My internal map will let me know when to stop.

Amerie's car radio is fixed on a country station. The dash has so many buttons and dials that I can't figure out how to turn the music off, although I do manage to turn it down. But I can still hear the twangs and ballads of lost loves and heartbreak. A song about someone dying of a broken heart seems foreboding, as if the universe of Station KWIT is sending me a warning.

As the hills climb higher and thicken with wild brush, my uneasiness grows. No one knows where I am. I don't have a cell phone, since my family can barely afford the one Mom and Dad share. If I could call someone, I'd choose Sabine. I'd feel a lot better if I could hear her say I'm doing the right thing.

I slow when I see the Stallion Creek sign on a partially finished housing development. There are a few completed houses perched on a hillside with cars and signs of life, but on this eerie street wooden frames stick up like gravestones; houses that may never be homes.

A ghost neighborhood.

The only sign of life is a sheriff's car parked by a portable potty. Is he taking a break or patrolling the housing development? I slouch in my seat, not wanting to be noticed, and keep driving. When I reach a dirt road, I make a sharp left. Dust flies by my window and gravel rumbles beneath the tires. I cringe, knowing Amerie's car is getting filthy. I'll promise her a car wash when I'm finished here.

Finished doing what?
I'm afraid to find out the answer.

After following a dried creek bed for over a mile, I pull off the side of the road by a lone oak tree, its limbs gnarled and a burn mark scarring its trunk. This is
it
.
No way to explain how I know; I just know.

I step out of my car, into an icy wind that rips through the canyon and chills me to my bones. The terrain is rough—uneven, and with dips and rises that stretch beyond the hills. I feel small and not sure what I'm supposed to do now. Something has been calling to me, and since it all started with the locket, I dig into my backpack for it.

Is it my imagination, or is the locket shining as if glowing from the inside? How could I ever think it was ugly? It's golden and glorious. I caress it; it's so warm and alive, as if the heart is beating with life. When I slip the necklace on, I hear a plaintive cry—only it's not coming from the locket or inside my head, it's coming from the burnt tree.

The gnarled tree is tall and broken, as if abandoned by nature to a slow death. I move toward it cautiously, compelled by things I don't understand and afraid of what I'll find. I reach out with shaky fingers to touch the blackened trunk. I look from ground to branch, not sure what I'm supposed to find. There are no hidden holes or strange messages blazed into the bark.

“Why am I here?” I whisper to the golden heart that's resting against my chest.

I walk in a wide circle around the tree, and nearly trip over small piles of freshly dug dirt. There are also claw marks and paw prints. A wild animal, like a fox or coyote, was digging.