Buried Page 4

We don’t say anything for a block. When we stop at a crosswalk, waiting for traffic to pass, Rune studies me with an odd expression. “I should have been more supportive. Sorry.”

  “You should be—supportive and sorry.”

  She gestures to my jeans. “I never liked those jeans anyway. Let’s hit the thrift stores and find some seventies bell bottoms. My treat for being a sucky BFF.”

  “Thanks.” I offer a small smile. “And you don’t suck. It’s my whole day that sucks. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

  “You shouldn’t,” she agrees. “But friends should support each other and I’m always here for you. I hope you’d do the same for me.”

  “Always,” I promise.

  “Even if I ask a favor that you won’t like?”

  My silver bangles jingle as I fold my arms across my chest, eyeing her suspiciously. “Depends on what you’re asking.”

  “This might make you mad, but I have to know.”

  “What?”

  “Would you recognize his voice?” By the hero worship in her tone, I know exactly who she’s talking about. I’m disgusted she’s so obsessed with this guy, but she’s my friend and I did promise to be supportive.

  I think for a moment, then nod. “Yeah. I won’t forget his voice.” Or forgive him, I vow to myself.

  “So, if you hear his voice again and figure out who he is, you’ll tell me?” Rune’s practically begging. “Please.”

  “Well … yeah.” I shrug. “I’ll tell you.”

  Then she grins—so sappy and silly I want to hurl—and I realize she’ll want me to listen to every guy at school until I find the Grin Reaper.

  It’s not such a bad idea, I decide, but for a completely different reason.

  When I find the Grin Reaper, I’ll reap my own justice. He won’t need to hide behind a mask, a concealing jacket, and gloves anymore. I’ll make sure everyone at school knows exactly who he is—his admirers and his enemies.

  Revenge.

  Five

  I drop Rune off at her house and continue on to mine.

  Not that I want to go home. More than anything, I long to climb on a bus and return to Sheridan Valley, maybe hide out at my friend Sabine’s house until I graduate high school and can live my own life.

  Dread twines through me like a taut rope, tugging in different directions. I have to go home; I don’t want to go home. I want to be honest; I can’t tell the truth. I need to be myself; my family needs me to be someone else.

  It’s not the wrath of Mr. Sproat or even the weird necklace that worries me.

  It’s the crumbled paper at the bottom of my backpack.

  The letter.

  When I saw my name in the first line, I got a sick feeling. But it was the last paragraph that shot fear through me, as if by reading it I’d unleashed a Pandora’s box of evils on the world.

  On my family.

  There’s no closing the lid once truth is uncovered. I think of lame sayings like “knowledge is power” and “ignorance is bliss.” I’d give anything for blissful ignorance instead of knowing what’s written in there. Even more, I wish my parents didn’t know. How can I face them? I think the letter must have arrived yesterday, given the date on it, but Mom worked late at the church so there wasn’t a chance to talk. Are my parents waiting until after dinner tonight, to talk to me alone? Or will they confront me when I walk into the house? I don’t want to hurt them … but I don’t want to change who I am, either.

  I leave the sidewalk for a graveled road that leads to an older section of Nevada Bluff, then up a steep hill to the few farm houses that belonged to the original residents of the town. Perched on the top of the hill is our white three-story house. It’s not much to look at, and the plumbing is so ancient you have to flush twice. There’s no dishwasher, which is a tragedy in a house with six kids—well, seven kids if you count K.C., who sleeps in a room over the garage.

  The wooden gate creaks as I enter the yard, setting off the yapping of Mom’s pom-poo Sassy. Her barking sets off shouts of “Quiet, Sassy!” from inside the house. I recognize Dad’s voice and nerves knot in my stomach.

  Avoidance is my best—my only—defense. So I sneak around to the back and reach into thick ivy for the almost invisible string that dangles from my third story balcony. I yank on the string and a roll of fabric tumbles down into my hands. It’s a silken ladder, originally from Japan, but a great find in an antique shop for $4.99.

  A secret back way into the house.

  I climb up the swaying ladder, balancing carefully so I don’t fall. When I reach the balcony, I grasp the rail and heave myself over onto the wooden deck, which is old and in need of a paint job like the rest of the house. But the third floor is blissfully all mine. For the first time in my life I have a room to myself—practically a suite, with a large bedroom and kitchenette and bathroom. There’s no closet, only a large wardrobe, which is fine with me since it’s the reason my three sisters chose rooms on the second floor. My twin brothers are only five, so they share a room on the ground floor near my parents. And K.C. has a private apartment in the backyard garage.

  I roll the ladder back up and dangle the string down into the ivy before I go inside and toss my backpack on the floor. I stare at it for long minutes before finding the courage to reach inside for the letter. My parents are sure to come to me tonight for a grave discussion and I need to be prepared.

  Dear Minister Matthews,

  I’m writing to discuss the serious and alarming matter of your eldest daughter. As a parishioner of your church, I admire your dedication and hard work, but I am very concerned about Beth Ann. I am in close contact with teachers at Nevada Bluff High, so I am aware of the truth of her behavior. The issue is not only her shocking appearance, but her consistently rude treatment of authority figures as well as her classmates. She is a poor reflection on her parents—and on the Church of Everlasting Hope.

  Beth Ann, who insists on going by the crude name of Thorn, disregards rules and is in danger of failing at least one of her classes. She only associates with disorderly students. Her contempt for other students is evident in her refusal to volunteer for campus organizations.

  If I did not have such high respect for you, Minister Matthews, I would go straight to the Church’s board of directors with my concerns. But as a parent, I realize it’s a challenge to control a difficult teen. Still, you must control Beth Ann before irrevocable damage is done to your reputation and, by association, to the reputation of the church and its members.

  If Beth Ann’s behavior continues on its deteriorating course, I will have no choice but to recommend that the Church board of directors find a new minister. I would deeply regret having to do this, but it will be my duty.

  Sincerely, Your Concerned Friend

  The anonymous signature is a mask hiding a coward’s identity. The letter writer is no friend of my mother’s; it’s a bully wielding threats instead of fists. And the threat is clear. Either I give up everything goth, including my friends, or my mother loses her job. And with Dad out of work, Mom is the sole support for our large family.

  There’s a knock at my door.

  I shove the letter into my sock drawer and brace myself to face the wrath of “concerned” parents. Dad’s been ill-tempered anyway since losing his job and makes no secret that he doesn’t approve of me. But Mom prides herself on being fair and says I’m free to express myself. Although she forbids tattoos, she was cool about my pierced tongue, belly button, and eyebrow.

  Still, with her job at stake, can she afford to be fair?

  “Thorn. You in there?”

  Not Mom or Dad. Thank God.

  I release the breath I’ve been holding and jump up to open the door for my honorary brother, K.C.

  K.C. wipes his hands on his grease-stained overalls and waits for me to invite
him in before entering my room. Although taller than me, he seems shorter, his shoulders slightly hunched as if wary of the world. He’s a gentle soul, average and overlooked in shades of brown and quiet. After having had some bad breaks, he’s my mother’s latest do-good project.

  “Where were you at lunch today?” he asks as I shut the door behind him. “I waited on the steps, but you never showed.”

  I bristle because I don’t owe him an explanation. But his tone isn’t angry or critical, just curious. His brown eyes are wide with trust, and I feel a bit guilty for ditching him. It wasn’t intentional. I just totally forgot.

  “Sorry, K.C.,” I say as I pick up my guitar out of habit and sit at the edge of my bed. I gesture for him to sit beside me, but instead he pulls out a chair from my desk close to my bed. “Something came up with Amerie.”

  “The singing competition?” K.C. guesses. “I heard a wild rumor that Philippe was here, but who can believe something that ridiculous?”

  “Believe it. Amerie met him.”

  “He’s really going to be a judge?”

  “Yeah. Amerie practically flew to the moon with excitement.” The news about Philippe seems like it happened weeks ago. Weird to realize it was only this morning.

  “What’s a big star doing at our little school?”

  “He used to go here. But it’s just a publicity stunt.” I hold my guitar tight and strum a few clashing chords. “I bet the principal gives him an honorary diploma even though he didn’t graduate.”

  “I’d ask you if you’re going to enter, but you’d probably smack me.”

  “No probably about it. Contests are an unfair measure of humanity and bring out the worst in people.”

  “Yeah, yeah … but they’re fun, too,” he says.

  “Not interested.” I curl my fingers around my guitar.

  “Did you hear about the other excitement today?” K.C. asks, wisely switching the subject. “Bruce Gibson locked in the old gym?”

  I hesitate, then nod. “Yeah, I heard. Rune called him ‘Brute.’”

  “Bruce’s mother would have, too, if she’d known how big and mean he’d turn out,” K.C. jokes. “He was lucky to be found so quickly. I wouldn’t want to get stuck in that creepy gym. How’d a wrestler over six feet tall get squeezed inside a locker anyway?”

  “Not a regular locker, an equipment locker,” I say, before realizing I might be giving myself away.

  But K.C. just nods. “Bruce deserved it after picking on that freshman. Always going after easy targets. I say justice was served for once. It’s great the Grin Reaper is back.”

  “You sound like you knew about him before today.”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  I lift my hand.

  “No way!” His jaw sags open.

  “We’ve only been at Nevada Bluff a little over a month.”

  “So? You’d have to be dead and buried under a mountain of rocks not to hear about the Grin Reaper. Everyone’s been wondering if he graduated or moved away. But it looks like he was just waiting for a good reason to strike.” K.C. grins in a hero-worshipping way that makes me want to puke.

  “Never trust anyone wearing a mask.” I scowl at the purple-yellow bruise on my wrist. “If he was such a good guy, he wouldn’t hide his identity.”

  “It’s better if no one knows it. But that doesn’t mean kids don’t talk a lot, trying to guess who he might be.”

  “What have you heard?” I set aside my guitar and lean closer. K.C.’s talent for blending into the background unnoticed means he learns interesting things.

  “The Reaper is a junior or senior, a rule-breaker, and cuts class a lot. He probably has identifying marks or jewelry on his hands, since he hides them in gloves.”

  “That describes half the guys at school—even you.”

  K.C. lifts his hands. “No tattoos or rings.”

  “But you have a scar there.” I point at his thumb knuckle. “And you usually have grease under your fingernails from working on cars. Hands give away a lot.”

  “So the Reaper is smart to hide his hands, or his secret would be out and he couldn’t help anyone.” K.C. glances toward the balcony window at the endless gray-blue sky. “I wish I had the guts to do what he does.”

  “Kidnapping, assault, and public humiliation? That’s not bravery, that’s brutality,” I scoff, annoyed. “The guy isn’t any better than his victims.”

  “But he does it for justice.” K.C. tilts his dark head at me. “Like Spiderman or Robin Hood. I thought you’d respect him, since he’s breaking rules to help people.”

  “By hurting others,” I point out. Then I tense because I hear voices coming from downstairs. “Who’s home?”

  “Only your father and Amy.”

  Dad hardly ever goes out, holing up in his “office” and saying he’s researching the job market. But Amy, a popular seventh grader, is always busy and so studious she makes Hermione Granger look like a slacker.

  “Your mom drove the kids—except Amy because she’s doing an extra credit project—to church for a Youth Group meeting,” K.C. explains.

  “Oh, yeah, it’s Wednesday.” Mom urged me to join the church’s weekly Youth Group but I refused. I read metaphysical and theological books and have deep discussions (sometimes arguments) with Rune, so that’s enough religion for me.

  At least with Mom gone, I have a reprieve. But when she returns, I know she and Dad will call me in for a “talk.”

  Running off to California is sounding better all the time.

  “You’re looking serious, Thorn,” K.C. says. “Something wrong?”

  “Frequently.” I give a wry grin. “But nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Okay, don’t tell me,” he says with an understanding look. It’s weird how he gets me, like he’s more of a brother than my blood brothers. Of course, Alcott and Larry are only in kindergarten. “Still, if you, well, need anything, I’m here.”

  “Thanks, but you’ve got enough going on with school and the auto shop. Speaking of which, don’t you have to go work on some cars about now?”

  He glances at his watch. “Shit. Yeah.”

  Then he jumps up, bumping into my backpack which I’d left on the edge of my desk. My backpack tumbles to the floor and the golden-heart necklace rolls out.

  When K.C. bends down to pick it up, a wild panic comes over me and I lunge down, grabbing the necklace.

  “What’s that?” K.C. asks, wrinkling his brow.

  “Just a necklace I found at school,” I say as I curl it in my palm, where it’s as soft and cool as a caress. “You better hurry or you’ll be late.”

  “So you’re keeping it?” He gestures to the necklace.

  “No.” I shake my head firmly, as if trying to convince myself. “Definitely not.”

  “You want help finding the owner?” K.C. offers. “I can get up early tomorrow to make a flyer to post around school.”

  “For an ugly necklace?” I snort. “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s not that ugly. It looks interesting. Can I see it?”

  I try to think of a reason to refuse, but come up blank. So I hand it over to K.C. My hand feels empty and cold. I fight an urge to snatch the necklace back.

  He holds it by the shoelace, squinting at the shiny yellow pendant. “There’s something written on the back.”

  “No way,” I insist, but when I look closely, I notice faint markings. How did I miss it before? “Can you read it?”

  “No.” He pushes brown hair from his forehead as he concentrates. “A, J, and M or N. I’ll need a magnifying glass to see more. Have you opened it yet?”

  “Opened it? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a locket. See the seam here?” He points to what looks like a scratch in the yellow pai
nt. “There must be some mechanism to pop it open.”

  Watching him mess with my necklace irritates me. I grab it from him. If there’s something hidden inside, I’ll find out on my own. “I’ll do it later.”

  “But I can help.”

  “I’ll figure it out on my own. And you’re going to be late if you don’t leave now.”

  “Fine,” he says, and by his tone I can tell I’ve pushed too far. He slams the door on his way out without saying good-bye.

  I’m glad he’s gone. I rub my fingers over the curved heart pendant … or I guess I should call it a locket. Does that imply something is “locked” inside? A precious memento of undying love, like a dried rose petal or tiny photo? Or more likely, K.C. is wrong and it isn’t hollow.

  But I can’t stop wondering, so I snap on the light over my desk. I hold the locket under the bright yellow bulb, twisting it at different angles until I see a faint indentation. My finger slides over the groove and I dig my purple-tipped nail inside, jabbing and twisting until I hear a click.

  The locket splits into two halves and swings open.

  I stare in astonishment as a silky black curl falls into my hand. I hear a plaintive cry that sounds as far away as a moment lost in time. I think of the sarcophagus and death closing in. My chest tightens with horror.

  And I know with certainty this curl was cut from a dead body.

  Six

  I return the curl to the locket, but the soft touch of the fine hair lingers on my fingertips like a ghost impression. Who did it belong to? What happened? A tragedy, I’m sure of that, although that flash of connection is already fading like waking up from a bad dream. Still, the certainty of death is so strong that my heart is haunted by half-remembered grief. I have to know more.

  I phone the one person who might be able to tell me.

  Sabine answers right away.

  “Thorn!” she exclaims before I even utter a word. Her voice is so sincere and warm that I ache for my life in California, and the friends I left behind even more.

  “How did you know it was me?” I ask. “A psychic vision?”