Buried

by Linda Joy Singleton

  I’m hit with a strong grease-and-oil smell as I stare into a vast room that’s more spacious and loaded with equipment than the auto shop K.C. works at. There are work tables covered in tools, a mechanical lift fixed to the ceiling, and in the center, like a prize on display, Clive’s gleaming truck.

  Even if Jay hadn’t already told me, it’s obvious that this truck is Clive’s heart. Excitement rips through me as I anticipate Jay’s next move. I’m puzzled, though, because he doesn’t have any paint, knives, or bomb-making equipment with him. I follow him slowly, only able to make out vague shapes in the darkness.

  “How strong are you?” Jay asks when he reaches the truck.

  “Stronger than I look.”

  “You’ll need to be.”

  He climbs up on the driver’s side of the truck and swings open the door. A light flashes. I worry someone will see us, but Jay turns off the inner light and we’re enveloped in blackness.

  I can’t see what he’s doing, but he’s done before I can ask. He jumps out of the truck and goes to the large entry doors, pushing them wide open.

  “Jay!” I call out, alarmed. “Someone might see us!”

  “The house is dark, and the porch light faces the other direction. Besides, we’re going to be quiet. I’ve fixed the steering wheel and the truck ready to roll. All we have to do is push it out of here and once it’s far enough away from the house, I’ll start the engine.”

  “Are you totally insane? Grand theft auto!”

  “We’re not stealing the truck, just borrowing it.”

  “Of course. That makes it okay,” I say sarcastically.

  “Chill. We won’t get caught.”

  Easy for him to say, with his rich daddy to bail him out and arrange to have all charges dropped with a magic-wand-wave of a checkbook—while I’d still be in jail. I’m ready to refuse until I remember K.C. and the sick slurs on his car. When Jay leads me to the back of the truck and says “Push,” I don’t argue.

  Every creak and groan of the truck sounds a thousand times louder. And I imagine sirens blaring on their way to arrest us. But I push on, the wheels rolling smoothly on concrete, then more slowly on hard dirt. I’m sweating now, too, pushing with all my might.

  We pause when the truck starts to veer the wrong direction, and Jay jumps back inside (the light no longer flashes on). He’s back out quickly and we push until the truck sinks into darker shadows. The ground dips and the truck rolls faster—much too fast! My hands slip and I half-stumble to the ground, then hurry to catch up. The truck levels out and we’re closer to the livestock gate.

  “This should be far enough,” Jay says, then he jumps inside the truck, gesturing for me to join him. He keeps the lights off but fiddles with some hanging wires and the engine starts up with a powerful purr, like a caged tiger released into the night. We’re through the gate and out onto the main road.

  We return to Jay’s car and he tosses me the keys, then tells me to follow while he drives the truck to the high school.

  The main part of town is quiet, with only a few cars on the road and most businesses shut up for the night. The high school parking lot is locked and has security lights. Jay flips a U-turn, directing me to park on the street near the school entrance. I climb up next to him in the truck and we leave his car behind.

  We ride in silence for about a mile, questions about his plan screaming in my head. But I’m more curious about him. What turns a rich kid into a vigilante?

  So I ask him.

  I think he’s going to pretend not to hear me, but then he says, “It just happened.”

  “What exactly?” I persist. “How did it begin?”

  He gnaws on his lower lips, staring out across the dashboard as if seeing into the past instead of the deserted road ahead. “I’ve never told anyone.”

  “I’ve never committed grand larceny. But I’m here.”

  The scar on the corner of his mouth deepens when he grins. “I find that really hot in a girl.”

  “You know what I find hot in a guy?” I look him directly in his dark eyes. “Honesty.”

  “Good luck with that,” he says bitterly.

  “So don’t tell me anything. I didn’t think you would anyway.”

  He stares ahead as if totally focused on driving. But his fingers grip the steering wheel, both hands tight in a strangle hold as if he’s wrestling with himself.

  “It’s because of my father,” Jay blurts out.

  I nod for him to continue.

  “The Honorable Justice Blankenship was never very honorable, but my mother was like his conscience, and so he was a good judge until she died.”

  I want to say “I’m sorry” only it doesn’t seem like enough, so I say nothing.

  “My father turned bitter and got sucked into the power of his position. I became just another asset to him, like black ink instead of red on his financial accounts. He gave me anything I asked for—private instructors in martial arts, guitar, golf, fencing, and more. I thought this was his way of showing he cared, and I pretended not to notice his dishonest dealings. But then that kid hurt the school dog.”

  “Rune told me about that.”

  “Everyone knew who did it, and he even got caught on a security camera. But his dad knew my dad and the charges were dropped. I went to my father and accused him of being bought. You know what he said?”

  I shake my head.

  “He bragged about it, saying it was easy money. When I called him corrupt, he told me this was a valuable lesson about how things worked in the adult world. ‘You’re a spineless bleeding heart just like your mother,’ he said. That night, the Grin Reaper struck for the first time. Martial arts training made it easy to overpower the little dog-abuser creep. I wanted to kill him—I really did. Lucky for him, I only wrote on his head.”

  “And left a smiley face sticker.”

  “About that sticker … ” Jay chuckles darkly. “I didn’t leave it.”

  “What? But then who did?”

  “I don’t know how it got there—probably dropped by a little kid. But when rumors spread and someone came up with the name the Grin Reaper, I started leaving the symbol on purpose.”

  “Big bad Grin Reaper,” I say with a teasing shudder.

  “You’d better believe it.” He flashes me an exaggerated grin. “Hold on, things are going to get interesting very soon.”

  The truck jerks right as he makes a sudden turn onto a road that’s familiar, although I don’t place it at first. We’re surrounded by rugged hills, dipping and curving along high desert. A faint moon peaks out from clouds, slicing a silvery trail across cactus, rocks, and weeds with mysterious beauty that touches something deep inside me. My gaze is drawn to a lone barn in the horizon, its steeply pitched roof sparking my memory. This is the same route I took a few days ago—when I found the grave.

  I tense, anticipating a left turn through the pale skeletons of the housing development, but Jay takes a right onto a darkened road and slows to a stop. Nearly finished homes rise around us. I can make out a few streetlights, but they’re dark. The street dead-ends; it’s an empty, unfinished cul-de-sac, very private with no nosy neighbors.

  Jay reaches in the back for a bag that clatters metallically as he jumps onto the road. “Come on, Thorn,” he calls. “We’ve got to do this fast.”

  “Do what?” I ask, coming around to stand beside him. I eye the bag curiously.

  “Give Clive’s truck a new paint job.” He opens the bag and pulls out a can of spray paint. “What do you think of the color pink?”

  We work under the soft glow of a flashlight Jay has propped up on the pavement. The paint smell is strong but not unpleasant. Jay’s thought of everything, and even has coveralls and latex gloves ready.

  He shows me four cans of pink paint, plus a yellow
and black. Tossing me a pink can, he says, “Go for it!”

  Paint hisses like angry snakes shooting from our fingers. Jay starts at the front so I go to the back, flourishing pink across the truck bed, tires and windows. I’m on my second can when I feel something smack my arm and look up to find Jay grinning at me, armed with a paint can. “Oops,” he says with a laugh.

  “You did that on purpose!” There’s a bright pink streak on my coverall.

  “Me?” He says in mock innocence.

  He’s such a liar, and I’m laughing as I spray him back. Bull’s eye! A pink heart across his chest!

  “That gives me an idea!” I say, and end our paint war by turning back to the truck. Almost ever inch of it is covered with pink, but that’s not good enough. I pick up a can of black paint and spray a heart on the driver’s side door.

  “Nice touch,” Jay approves. “But don’t forget the other side.”

  So I paint more black hearts.

  And while I’m doing this, Jay takes a yellow can to the front of the truck. He aims at the hood, drawing a giant circle. Then he switches to black paint for the inside of the circle.

  “Perfect! A smiley face,” I say, laughing.

  My laughter dies like a vampire with a stake through its heart when I glance over Jay’s shoulder and see bright lights. There’s something familiar about the shape of the distant vehicle. “It’s the sheriff’s car!” I exclaim.

  Jay only pauses long enough to swear then he’s moving fast, tossing near-empty cans back in the bag and scrambling to the truck. “Hurry! Get in!” he calls to me.

  Then we’re off.

  I’m turned around, staring out the back window (although it’s very hard to see through the pink), watching the far-away lights. They don’t come closer, so maybe I was wrong about it being the sheriff. Regardless, we got away.

  A short while later, we reach Nevada Bluff High. We glance around furtively to make sure no one is watching, then leave the truck just far enough away from the security cameras but close enough that no one can miss the bright candy pink. We’re back in Jay’s car and out of there so fast my head spins.

  Adrenaline rushes through me, and I look over at Jay. He’s nothing like I expected, and I have a crazy urge to reach over and grasp his hand. Then I realize how dumb this is—he’s not any more my type than I’m his. Sure, he’s cool, wanting to help people in sort of a Zorro way. But he’s rich, too, and he lives in a gated area of Nevada Bluff that would never invite me in.

  Still, I like being near him, and it was exciting breaking the law with him. I wonder what a real date with Jay would be like … would he want to kiss me when he dropped me off? My friends and his friends would be shocked to see us together: Popular Prep + Goth Girl. For shock value alone, it might be worth trying.

  When we turn onto in driveway, I notice that my house—which was dark when I left—is now ablaze with lights.

  I’m in deep, deep trouble.

  Eighteen

  Jay drops me off a short distance away and I walk slowly

  to my doom. I could sneak around the back, but what’s the use? Bracing myself, I enter through the front door.

  I expect it to be bad. It’s worse.

  While Mom looks upward and mouths, “Thank God,” she doesn’t move to hug me. Dad steps forward, his face mottled with fury as he wags a pointed finger in my face and shouts, “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”

  What am I supposed to say? I was out with the Grin Reaper. We trespassed, broke into a building, stole a car, then spray-painted it pink. Dad would probably haul my ass off to jail before I could wipe the tiny specks of pink off my boots.

  So I refuse to answer.

  Mom’s eyes are red-rimmed. She steps forward and puts her hand on my arm. “Are you okay? You can tell us anything,” she assures me.

  No, I can’t. Not even when I’m old and have kids of my own.

  “Honey, this is serious.” Mom sounds emotionally and physically drained. “We didn’t know who to call—you never bring friends home. We were going to call the sheriff if you didn’t show up. We were so worried.”

  I try to hide my gasp at the thought of another encounter with Sheriff Hart. The seriousness of what almost happened makes my legs weak.

  Dad doesn’t look worried, only furious. Since I still won’t talk, he starts shouting again. When he says he called Skarla’s house looking for me and woke up her grandparents, I’m mad, too.

  “I can’t believe you did that!” I exclaim. “This is exactly why I don’t tell you who my friends are. I’m not a little kid who needs to be checked up on. I’m almost eighteen! I’m sorry I lost track of time, but I was safe and you should trust me.”

  “You’ve proved you can’t be trusted,” Dad retorts. “Even K.C. didn’t know how to contact your friends. Another five minutes and we would have reported you missing. This type of irresponsible, secretive behavior ends now.” He gets close to my face. “You will give us a list of your friends, with their phone numbers. If your friends want to see you, they can damn well come here. You will be driven to and from school every day. And your driving privileges are suspended indefinitely. Do you understand?”

  I want to argue, but I’ve never seen Dad this mad, not even when he lost his job. He doesn’t wait for my answer anyway, whirling away and storming out of the room.

  Mom and I are left alone. She stares at me sadly. “Why do you make everything so difficult?” she asks softly.

  She looks so miserable that I long to put my arms around her and say I’m sorry. But I stand stiff, my anger sparking ugly emotions. “It just happens.”

  “This isn’t the first time you’ve disappeared with no explanation. Don’t you have anything to say for yourself ?” She rubs her forehead.

  “Not really.”

  “Can’t you at least try to be part of our family?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “There are always choices, Beth Ann.”

  “My name’s Thorn,” I say coolly. “That’s the real issue here, isn’t it? You can’t stand that I’m goth. You and Dad want me to be a perfect little minister’s daughter. I saw your expression when I interrupted your tea with the church ladies. You were ashamed of me.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “You didn’t introduce me and gestured for me to leave.”

  “We were busy discussing church business.”

  “You wanted me out of there because I embarrass you. I’m a disgrace to the family, just like that letter said.”

  Mom rocks back on her heels. “What letter?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know. I accidentally found it in your desk.”

  “You were snooping in my desk?” she accuses.

  “Add it to the list of how horrible I am, just like the letter said.”

  “There wasn’t only one letter—there were three. And for your information, I’ve thrown them away.” Mom’s swift fury surprises me. “I will not be threatened by an interfering busybody!”

  “But you could lose your job and the house.”

  “Then we’ll move again. No one tells me how to raise my kids.”

  “Even your most difficult kid?” I ask ruefully.

  “Especially her.” Mom’s face softens and she reaches out to stroke my hair; of course it’s not my real hair, but a black wig with red streaks. “I won’t say I agree with everything you do, but I respect your independence. Even as a toddler, you always did things your own way—climbing instead of crawling, running rather than walking, and once you started talking, there was no slowing your questions. You still question everything—which is a wonderful part of who you are.”

  “I thought you hated all this?” I gesture from my head to my army boots.

  “No—although I do miss your lovely blond hair,” sh
e says with a wistful sigh. “But it’s my job to raise you, not change you. And if anyone else tries, they’ll have to get past me first.”

  I’m touched by her words and feel closer to her than I have in a long time. Too bad I can’t be honest about where I was tonight. Instead I give her a hug.

  “You don’t hate me?” I ask softly.

  “I could never hate you.”

  “So I’m not in trouble any more?”

  “Don’t push your luck.” She playfully tugs a black strand of my wig. “Everything your dad says goes. You’re grounded until you’re at least thirty.”

  “Tomorrow I’m auditioning for the Singing Star contest,” I remind her. “I’ll have to stay after school.”

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  “Great, because I really—”

  “You didn’t let me finish,” Mom cuts in pointedly. “It won’t be a problem because I’m going to be in the audience. I can’t wait to see my daughter on stage.”

  Then she kisses my cheek and strolls casually out of the room.

  Just great, I think grimly. As if performing won’t be stressful enough, I’ll have a parental guard in the audience.

  I fall asleep to dreams of myself on stage completely naked with only my guitar to hide behind. Then my guitar vanishes—and I wake up dripping with sweat. I have to get out of the contest, I think desperately. Call in sick? Break my arm? Join the Marines?

  There aren’t any more nightmares, but I toss and turn until finally, at three a.m., I snap on my bedside lamp and pick up my guitar, strumming a bittersweet melody that would make a great ballad if I could actually write lyrics. I notice a speck of pink on my hand and wonder how it got through my gloves. My mind jumps from Jay to the pink truck to what my mother said, then circles back to Jay.

  I remember the warmth of Jay’s callused hands and how his dark eyes shone when he grinned. Will he even talk to me at school now, or stride by with his pals like I’m invisible? Not that I care … I’m just curious. It’s like Jay is two different people—the arrogant prep and the avenging Grin Reaper. But it’s this odd combination that intrigues me.