Buried Page 10

  At least I have a place to start, which feels good.

  There’s a knock at my door and Amy shouts my name.

  “Go away,” I call out.

  “Phone.” Amy smacks the door.

  I jump for the door, snatching the phone because I’m sure it’s Manny with more information. I thank Amy then shut the door before she can ask noisy questions. I glance at Caller ID and only find “Unknown Caller” flashing on the display.

  “Is this Thorn?” There’s nothing familiar about the whispery girl’s voice. All I can tell is that she’s someplace with lots of background noise.

  “Yeah,” I answer cautiously. “Who’s this?”

  Another whisper. “You have my locket.”

  “Maybe I do.” I don’t want to scare her off. She has no way of knowing her locket led me to the grave. She only knows I found her locket. “But I can’t just hand it over to anyone. Can you prove it’s yours?”

  “I saw you … wearing my gold … ” I can’t make out the rest of what she’s saying over loud music and someone shouting in the background.

  “Who are you?” I ask again.

  “Bring it … to … ” Background sound drowns out her words.

  “Speak louder. I can’t hear you.”

  “Meet me … Stardust … ”

  “Stardust Mall?” I guess. Amerie is always raving about the great discounts she finds at the mall and asking me to go with her. I always decline. Not a fan of malls.

  “Yes,” the caller says. “Tomorrow at noon.”

  “Why not wait till Monday at school?” I ask. This is a logical question, although I’m so curious to meet her that I’d find a way to get to the mall tonight if she asked.

  “Can’t wait,” she admits, her voice strangely garbled. Is she trying to disguise it? Does that mean I’d recognize her voice if she spoke normally?

  “All right,” I say as if this was a hard decision. “I’ll meet you. Where at the mall?”

  “The arcade.”

  “How will I know you?”

  “I know you.”

  “That’s not good enough. If I go out of my way to meet you at the mall, I deserve to know who I’m meeting.”

  “I’ll explain when we meet.”

  Frustrated, I consider telling her I opened the locket, but that might scare her off. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll be there.”

  There’s a long pause and if there wasn’t so much noise around her, I’d think she hung up. But then she whispers, “Wear the locket.”

  The phone goes dead.

  I oversleep, and when I wake up Mom has gone somewhere in her Jeep. Dad’s car is in the driveway, but no way am I asking him for a ride. That leaves one person.

  “K.C., can I borrow your car?” I ask when I find him tinkering on his vintage 1965 Ford Ranchero (he calls it a “classic”). He’s been fixing it up since he bought it on Craigslist last month, but I have serious doubts that the clunker will ever leave our garage.

  “Why?” He puts down a wrench and gives me a suspicious look.

  “I just need it for a while. I won’t be gone long. Please.”

  “Not without knowing what you’re up to.”

  “Me?” I feign innocence. “I just want to go to the mall.”

  “You hate shopping.”

  “I’m meeting someone.”

  “A guy someone?” he teases.

  “No. A girl.”

  K.C. pushes his hair from his face, leaving a grease streak across his forehead. “So why can’t your friend pick you up?”

  “She’s not exactly a friend,” I admit.

  “So why meet her?” He rubs his chin, smearing more grease.

  I hesitate. “It’s the girl who lost the locket.”

  “Cool!” Excitement rises in his voice. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

  “Did I invite you?”

  “I’m inviting myself. Any complaints?” He says it like he’s joking, but I know his feelings will be hurt if I admit I don’t want him to come along. Although he’s a few months older than me, he acts more like a younger brother.

  I grab a rag and toss it to him. “Wipe the grease off your face.”

  Grinning, he wipes his face, then takes his keys from his pocket and leads me over to his dented brown Toyota. He opens the door for me. Hinges creak loudly and the seats have rips covered with tape, but at least this car runs.

  “So how’d you find her?” K.C. asks as we drive off.

  “She called me—but she wouldn’t tell me her name. She insisted on meeting at the mall.”

  “Strange. Why is this girl so secretive? If she wants her locket back, why not wait and get it at school? And why not tell you her name?”

  I shrug. “I’ll find out soon.”

  “You’re not meeting a psycho chick alone. I’m sticking close to you.”

  The car jerks to a stop at a red light. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

  “Well, you got one.”

  He’s trying to sound tough, which makes me smile because he’s so not the bodyguard type. But he can be stubborn and there’s no changing his mind.

  Walking through the mall a short while later, I hear the electronic booms and blasts of the arcade before I see the flashing lights of the games.

  “Don’t follow me,” I tell K.C.

  “I’ll be over there.” He points to a NASCAR racing game and goes off to play.

  I look around, fidgeting with the gold locket around my neck. There are more guys here than girls, so finding the caller shouldn’t be too hard. I wander around, peering into faces and waiting for a look of recognition.

  It’s frustrating to meet someone I don’t know. I’m not afraid—I mean, it’s just a girl from school and I feel safe in a public place. She only wants her locket, which I can understand and even sympathize with, if her baby died naturally. But if the baby’s death was deliberate, she deserves to rot in jail.

  I walk through the arcade three times before I give up. She’s not coming. I was stupid to trust an anonymous voice on the phone. Angry at myself, I find K.C. in a crowd watching a kid slaughtering on House of the Dead. There’s shouting and applause when he shoots zombies. I join him and watch too.

  “He’s almost beat the top score,” K.C. yells in my ear, since that’s the only way I can hear him.

  I gesture that I want to leave.

  “Just a minute,” K.C. says, turning back to stare at the game.

  The gamer kid is racking up his score when suddenly the screen goes black.

  “What happened?” someone shouts.

  “The game imploded!”

  “Sabotage!”

  But it’s K.C. who moves over to the wall and lifts up a limp electrical cord. “The plug fell out,” he says with a shrug, plugging it back in.

  Instead of thanking him, the crowd turns on itself—arguing, shouting, and flinging accusations like pinballs gone wild.

  I try to escape the mayhem but get a hard shove from behind. Someone pulls my hair and I cry out, stumbling sideways into a wall of bodies. It’s all fast, and a blur of riotous gamers. Then there’s a tug on my arm, and I look up to find K.C. pulling me out of the chaos. We push through bodies until we come out into the bright mall lights.

  “What happened in there?” I bend over to catch my breath.

  “That kid was just about to break the zombie-killing record. Probably whoever had the top score unplugged it. I can’t believe how serious those guys get.”

  I point to his arm. “You’re bleeding.”

  He touches a scratch on his neck and comes back with a blood-stained finger. “Those gamers are more dangerous than flesh-eating zombies,” he jokes.

  “Another reason to avoid mal
ls,” I say wryly. “Coming here was a waste of time.”

  “Psycho chick stood you up?”

  “You may be right about her. Damn. I really expected to find out who owns the locket.”

  K.C. points at me with a curious expression. “I thought you were wearing it.”

  I reach up around my neck.

  The locket is gone.

  Thirteen

  The 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.