Buried

by Linda Joy Singleton

“Duh. Haven’t you heard anything I said?” Amerie purses her glossy-peach lips. “If you’d just listen—”

  “We’re trying,” Rune insists. “But you’re not making any sense.”

  “Okay … I’ll … go … slooooow. One word: Philippe.”

  “Philippe?” I repeat, sure I’ve heard wrong. “Not the Philippe?”

  It’s embarrassing to admit, but when Amerie nods, my mouth falls open. I usually mock the chronically music-impaired who listen to pop rock, but I’d have to be living in an alternate universe not to recognize the name. Philippe. Tall, bronzed, smoldering, with intense blue eyes and a wry charismatic smile. But what everyone really notices is his long, spiraling black hair. I heard his barber sold his hair cuttings on eBay for over five hundred dollars.

  When I look at Rune, her mouth is open, too.

  “At last I have your attention.” Amerie smirks. “Philippe isn’t his real name. He changed it and never talks about living here. But I checked my brother’s yearbook from two years ago, and he’s in there. Page thirty-two.”

  “Philippe went to our school?” I say incredulously.

  “Shocking, huh?” Amerie nods. “Of course he looked way different, with wild dreds and baggy clothes. But I’d know his smile anywhere.”

  “Undeniably hot smile,” Rune agrees. “Still, I can hardly believe a celebrity came from our hick school.”

  “When he went here, his name was Phil Wilkinson and he was a bad-ass, always getting into fights and expelled. Then he dropped out.”

  “And signed on with Montage Records.” I remember seeing him on E-TV (not what I’d choose to watch, but I’m outvoted by my sibs) and crediting his stardom to being a Good Samaritan. He was discovered after helping a woman stranded on the road with a flat tire; she turned out to be the girlfriend of the cousin of a big-shot at Montage. Phil must have reformed from being a bad-ass or, more likely, the stranded woman was really hot and he’d hoped to hit on her.

  “It’s a real success story,” Amerie says with a blissful sigh. “I’m thrilled Philippe is going to judge the Singing Star competition.”

  “Wow!” Rune shakes her head in awe. “Have you met him?”

  “Why do you think I’m late? Today has been amazing crazy.”

  “You mean he’s here?” Rune jumps up from her chair. “Today?”

  “Right here, on this stage this morning.” Amerie gestures to the chairs grouped together center-stage. “I’d heard we were going to have a guest judge, but had no idea who until he showed up during registration and offered to sign autographs and answer questions.”

  “And you didn’t text me?” Rune gripes. “What kind of friend are you?”

  “How could I? It was a mob scene. Besides, I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously. You never do.”

  “You usually don’t have anything interesting to share—not like my weird facts. You missed the one today about this girl marrying a dog.”

  While Rune fills Amerie in on the canine nuptials, I think fast, the stud in my tongue playing on my teeth. I stare at the chair where I found the necklace. The golden heart warms my pocket, but I resist the urge to touch it again. I don’t want to freak out in front of my friends. I wonder who lost the necklace and why it triggered my radar. Not that anyone here knows what I can do. I mean, I don’t want kids bugging me to find every little lost item or acting like I’m something special. Revealing my finding skill would be a no-win situation.

  Still, I can’t get the nightmare vision out of my head, so I ask Amerie if she remembers who was on stage with Philippe.

  Amerie turns away from Rune. “I don’t know exactly. Most of the girls in drama and even some guys. I was busy signing up talent. Speaking of which … ” She looks at us both pointedly.

  “NO!” Rune and I both say before she can ask. I tell her firmly I don’t do contests. And Rune chimes in with her claim of “no talent.”

  “It’s your loss,” Amerie says. “Only contestants get to meet Philippe.”

  Disappointment flickers on Rune’s face, but she quickly hides it by picking up her backpack and slipping the strap over her shoulder. “I never download his sappy songs anyway. We better go, Thorn—I want to stop by my locker before next class.”

  “Yeah … but wait.” I’m compelled to reach into my pocket. I wind my fingers through the shoestring cord and slowly pull out the golden heart.

  “What’s that?” Rune asks.

  “Something I just found. Amerie, do you recognize it?”

  “No, and I usually notice jewelry, even poor-quality pieces like that.”

  “This isn’t real gold?” I trust Amerie’s opinion when it comes to jewelry because she really knows her stuff. She crafts her own line of silver and rock jewelry, selling it online and at Renaissance fairs.

  “Definitely not gold—shiny yellow paint.” She rubs her finger across the necklace. “Cheap metal, too, and hanging it on a shoelace instead of a chain is tacky.”

  “I found it on that chair over there. Any idea who was sitting there, Amerie?”

  “As if I could remember? It was way too hectic and I hardly knew where I was, much less anyone else.” Glitter sparkles in the air as Amerie shakes her head. “I mean, I was talking to everyone about the competition and explaining the sign-up procedures, when suddenly the door bursts open and Philippe, his manager, and a hulking guy who is obviously his bodyguard come in. Even my drama teacher begged for an autograph, and I nearly got trampled in the rush. Fortunately Philippe’s manager made everyone sit down so he could answer questions.”

  “Isn’t there any way of finding out who owns this?” I hold out my hand again; the gold-painted necklace looks plain and insignificant in my open palm. For a second I feel dizzy and smell the damp earth. I sense emotions, too; an overwhelming sadness, as if tragedy is connected to this necklace.

  Amerie gives me a curious look. “Why do you care anyway?”

  “Who said I cared?” I shrug. “Just curious who lost this.”

  Rune snorts. “That necklace is butt ugly. It wasn’t lost—it was abandoned.”

  “Even tacky jewelry has sentimental value to someone,” Amerie says. “Leave it with me, Thorn, and I’ll ask around. If no one claims it, I’ll drop it off at the Lost and Found.”

  This sounds sensible and I’m grateful to Amerie. But when I reach to hand the necklace over to her, my fingers cramp up and won’t release. I try to open my hand, but I just can’t do it.

  “Uh … maybe I better keep it for now.” I slip my hand into my jeans pocket, where my fingers loosen and the necklace slips out easily.

  “You sure?” Amerie asks.

  “You’ve got enough going on. You don’t need added stress.”

  The necklace wants me but I don’t want it.

  Finding is just something I can do; it’s not a real skill like music or singing. Sure, it’s come in handy a few times—once I even helped save someone from suicide—but being able to find things isn’t magic. It’s just a freaky trait, like wiggling your ears or touching your nose with your tongue.

  During my next class, Spanish, I put the necklace in a zipper pocket of my backpack. I force myself to concentrate while Señor Rojas hammers Spanish phrases into our heads. My gaze shifts to my backpack just as Señor Rojas asks me something in Spanish.

  Huh? My mind blanks and I stare at him, aware that the rest of the class is staring at me. Underneath my powder-pale makeup, I know my cheeks are burning.

  “Por favor, repita la pregunta,” I say.

  “Conteste a la pregunta, por favor,” Señor Rojas responds, not giving me a break.

  “¿Um … quién posee el collar?”

  Where did that come from? I wonder, having no idea what I just said.

  I touch the spiked collar around my neck, knowing by the
laughter spilling around me that I’ve said something dumb. I want to ask the teacher what I said, but Señor Rojas just shakes his head at me like I’m a hopeless waste of time. Then he turns to another student.

  It’s not until I’m leaving fifth period that I remember what collar means in Spanish: necklace.

  My last class, U.S. History, is my best and worst. Best because when it’s over, so is school. Worst because my teacher, Mr. Sproat, hates me. Nothing new really, since most adults are suspicious of teens wearing corpse makeup, black clothes, and metal spikes. But Mr. Sproat doesn’t scorn in silence, and since witch burnings haven’t been legal in this country since the 1700s, he’s found another way to torture me. On my first day in his class, he called me to the front of the room and asked loudly, “Isn’t it a little early to be costumed for Halloween?” I would have rather been burned at the stake. Ironically, Mr. Sproat is also an excellent teacher, bringing history alive with the skill of a born storyteller. I’d really like U.S. History if he weren’t such an asshole.

  So I keep my head low and avoid all conflict. But when I hear a shrill cry like a child or animal in pain, I slap my hand over my mouth so I won’t gasp. When no one else seems to notice anything odd, I’m afraid I’m going crazy—especially since the sound came from my backpack.

  That damn necklace.

  Stealthily, I reach into my backpack. There’s another cry, like the necklace is calling to me, and I can’t resist lifting it, the golden heart warm against my palms. I’m overwhelmed with a desire to caress the glossy surface and slip the shoelace around my neck. But I don’t want to wear it—it wants to wear me.

  Delusional, I tell myself. Got to get out of here. Now.

  So I suck up my courage and raise my hand. I ask Mr. Sproat if I can go to the restroom. He taps his fingers on his desk and fixes me with a narrow stare. “If you’re not back in ten minutes,” he warns, “there will be dire consequences.”

  I grab my backpack when Mrs. Sproat’s back is turned, then go before he changes his mind.

  Once outside, inhaling deep breaths of crisp October air, I feel better. I don’t actually need a restroom but head for one anyway. My boots clomp-echo on the walkway, reminding me that I’m a square peg in this round world of gleaming windows and ultra-modern architecture. Nevada Bluff High, with its connecting rows of classrooms and open-air design, is more like an outdoor mall than a school. Everything has a western theme; bucking broncos are carved on columns, a rodeo mural trails across the outside wall of the administration building, and there’s a fountain shaped like a horseshoe. The unofficial uniform here is denim, cotton, and western hats. Even for the teachers.

  My last school, Sheridan High in California, wasn’t much to look at—boxy classrooms in need of new paint and out-of-date equipment—but there were lovely shade trees and emerald-green lawns. After living in Nevada these past few months, I’m longing for the color green. In the high desert it’s more common to see tumbleweeds cartwheeling across a patch of rocky weeds than grass or shade trees. Yards are creatively landscaped with cactus, driftwood, and rocks. Hardly anyone has lawn; it’s like it’s outlawed.

  Sometimes I feel outlawed too. My father still scowls when I leave for school in my wigs, piercings, and death-black clothes. When I first started NB High, kids pointed and snickered at me. I ignored them because, frankly, I don’t give a crap what they think. Why should I? Judgmental lemmings aren’t worth my brain-space. It’s funny, though, because the more I don’t care, the less they point. Some even wave.

  A strange feeling creeps over me and I walk right past the restroom. I don’t understand the compulsion that forces me to lift my gaze beyond the classrooms to the dark silhouette on the hill. The old gym. The decaying building is off-limits, dangerous, and completely forbidden to students.

  As a rule, I don’t follow rules.

  “Field trip,” I murmur, grinning as I step off the cement walkway.

  What did Amerie tell me about the old gym? It’s all that’s left from the original high school, which was demolished after a generous donation from Judge Blankenship funded the new high school. Oh yeah—the old gym is supposed to be haunted. Ha! Rune clued me in on this scare-tactic rumor. But even if the gym is haunted (which I doubt), I’ve seen ghosts before and they don’t scare me.

  Well … not much.

  Hiking up the hill is harder than it looks; the steep terrain is rough with rocks and scratchy bushes. Students back in the old-gym days must have been part mountain goat. Brittle weeds crackle under my feet as I near the crumbling foundation of the old building. A brisk wind slithers through my shirt and I tuck my hands into my jeans pocket for warmth. When my fingertips touch the necklace an eerie feeling steals over me. I take deep breaths to clear my head.

  What’s going on? I study the necklace. It’s cheap and ordinary yet it’s freaking me out. I don’t need this stress. My life has more than enough already since moving here (thank you very much, Mom!). For the first time ever, my two brothers and three sisters and I united in protest. None of us wanted to move. But it was useless. Dad’s unemployment checks were running out, so when Mom got the offer to be the minister of a small church in Nevada Bluff—a job that came with a large farmhouse, rent-free—she accepted without even holding a family meeting.

  Sucks, but I’ve adjusted. Still, the last thing I need is a tacky necklace messing with my head.

  Up close, the old gym looks less mysterious and more old and pathetic. When I glance at my clock-ring, I debate whether or not to go back to class. Twelve of my ten minutes are up. Trouble is no longer an option but a foregone

  conclusion.

  There’s nothing exciting here, so I start back. But I only take a few steps before something clangs, like metal smashing against a wall. Then a blood-curdling cry comes from inside the gym.

  At first I think the gym really is haunted—until I hear a very human voice shout “Help!”

  Gritting my teeth, I think of all the times I’ve been sucked into other people’s problems. I don’t want to get involved. But when a thundering crash echoes so loudly I nearly jump out of my army boots, I stare at the gym: its busted windows, sagging timbers, and peeling paint. My heart races as I imagine someone trapped inside.

  How can I just walk away?

  I creep up to a rusted door that’s hanging off its hinges. Leaning forward, I peer into gloomy darkness. Light streams down through holes in the ceiling, but I can’t see more than vague shapes of old furniture and what might have once been bathroom stalls.

  I hear “Help!” again and squeeze through the half-open door. Dust stirs under my shoes and my nose itches like I’m going to sneeze. The air stinks with decay and foul smells that make me think of dead things.

  Up ahead, a wall of silver gleams. Not a wall, I realize as I walk toward it, but a towering steel cage for gym equipment. Only instead of sports equipment, there’s a guy locked inside!

  Before I can help, I sense movement from a side corridor: a tall shadowy figure swathed in black jeans, boots, a long dark coat, and a black knit ski mask with eye slits. He looks so surreal that at first I think he’s a ghost who will float through me. But he radiates a powerful confidence that’s totally human.

  He swivels, slowly, his piercing black eyes fixed on me like a hunter sighting his rifle on his prey.

  I would have preferred a ghost.

  Three

  I spin around and run like crazy across the dusty floor,

  back through the half-hinged door and outside. Gulping fresh air, I don’t stop to look behind me when I hear a shout and pounding footsteps. If I can just get down the hill and back to school, then I’ll be safe and can get help for the kid trapped inside the equipment cage.

  The footsteps come closer. I hear my pursuer’s heavy breaths.

  Hurry, hurry! I urge myself.

  I’m nearly t
o the downhill stretch of smoother terrain when I stumble over a rock. My feet fly out from beneath me. I’m falling, falling—until a strong gloved hand grabs my arm. Jerked around, I face hostile black eyes.

  “Who the hell are you?” Masked Guy demands in a deep but young voice. It sounds like he’s my age.

  “Who’s asking?” I try to break free but his grip is steel.

  “If you haven’t figured it out yet, you will soon. You’re one of those goths—the new girl.” It wasn’t a question; more of an accusation. “What are you doing here?”

  Despite the sweat trickling down my back, I keep my voice calm like I’m lacking the fear gene. “I’d ask you that question, except I don’t care enough.”

  “You’re off-campus in a restricted area. Why?” A gust of wind flaps his coat, but he doesn’t loosen his grip on my arm. “Were you spying on me?”

  “Paranoid much?” I shake my head. “I don’t even know who you are.”

  “You don’t?” His tone is edged in suspicion like he’s calling me a liar.

  “Don’t know and don’t care.”

  “Didn’t you notice the ‘condemned’ signs?” He gestures toward signs on the sagging remains of a fence. “Even a new student should know this area is off-limits and extremely dangerous.”

  “You’re here. And so is that poor guy you locked in there.” I point to the old gym. “You’d better let him out.”

  “Don’t worry about him.” Masked Guy releases my hand and pushes me away. “Go back to class before you get in trouble.”

  I’m bristling inside, tempted to reach out and rip off his black mask.

  “Go on. Get out of here,” he orders.

  “I’m not leaving until you let that guy out of the cage.” I glare him down like we’re in a competition of wills.

  His black eyes glare even fiercer. “You have no idea who you’re messing with. I have urgent things to do. Leave now or—”

  “Or what? Are you going to do to me whatever you did to that kid in there?” I plant my hands on my hips, challenging him. Sure, he’s taller and stronger, but if he was a real threat he’d have done something already. I’m starting to think he’s just a student breaking rules. Like me.