Buried (2 page)

T
w
o

A
slammed door shudders like thunder through the auditorium, and I hastily slip the necklace into my pocket.

Amerie skips down the aisle, glittery pink wings fluttering behind her. Yes, wings. Weird but true fact: lithe and petite Amerie would seem naked without her wings. She's into faeries and all things fantastical, and today she's wearing dance slippers and a loose cotton tunic over pink tights. She's so anti-goth, you'd think Rune and I would want nothing to do with her. But anyone who wears wings to school deserves props for bravery.

“Are you dying and totally miserable to find out my news?” Amerie exclaims as she pulls up a chair beside Rune. She tucks in her lacy wings so that only the glittery tips show behind her short, frizzy, light brown curls.

“Oh?” I say in this uber-bored tone as I sit down. Amerie means well but is prone to exaggeration. “You have news?”

“I never would have guessed,” Rune adds as she slips off her headphones.

“Liars! It's obvious you're both ill with curiosity. And you should be, because what I have to tell you is going to blow your minds. I can't believe no one ever told me, or maybe they just didn't know. Who could have guessed this could happen at this nowhere-nothing school? And don't bother trying to guess, it's too incredible.”

Rune turns to me with a long-suffering sigh. “She's babbling again, Thorn. Any idea why?”

“No clue.” I shrug.

“Sounds like a serious malady that may need medical attention.” Rune shakes her head gravely. “Babbling is an early sign of acute delusion.”

“We could stage an intervention,” I suggest. “I'll bring the straitjacket.”

“Oh, stop.” Amerie pinches fairy dust (glitter) off her wings and flicks it at me. “I should leave right now and not tell you anything, but you'll find out anyway because it's all over school. I mean, someone like that coming here is the hugest news in the universe. I'm still jazzed. He's going to be a judge and I'm on the audition committee.”

As I shake the glittery dust from my wig, Rune and I exchange glances. You'd think we'd be used to Amerie's flights into fantasyland, but she doesn't make it easy. She's cool most of the time, but other times I just want to slap duct tape over her mouth.

“Is this about the singing contest?” I guess.

“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 Se
ñ
or Rojas hammers Spanish phrases into our heads. My gaze shifts to my backpack just as Se
ñ
or 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,” Se
ñ
or 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 Se
ñ
or 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.