Buried (3 page)

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.

T
h
r
e
e

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 to 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.

Besides, I may not look strong, but I can defend myself. I glance down at the third finger on my right hand. The gold and metal ring there is more than a wicked accessory—with a flick of my touch, the prong will stick up into a sharp sword-like spike. A gift from my honorary brother, K.C., who survived living on the streets until my family took him in. People underestimated him, too.

Masked Guy shakes his head. “That guy isn't going to be hurt—but I can't promise what'll happen if you don't get out of here. I don't have time for this.”

“I got loads of time.” I glance at my clock-ring. I've been gone for over twenty minutes. Between Mr. Sproat, the freaky necklace, and worrying about the letter hidden in my backpack, I'm already buried in trouble without a shovel to dig myself out. A little more won't matter. I refuse to back down to this jerk.

“Nice mask,” I say with thick sarcasm. “Did your grandma knit it for you?”

“Gran doesn't knit—she's too busy kickboxing.”

“Does she fight your battles for you when you're not hiding under a mask?”

I expect him to get mad, but he chuckles. “Most girls would be scared and run away. But you're different. I don't know if that's a good thing or bad.”

“Bad news for you if you don't let that guy go.” I gesture toward the gym. “You could get arrested for kidnapping.”

“So call the cops—just do it somewhere else.”

“If you won't let him out, then I will!”

I lunge forward but he's faster, an impassible wall blocking my way back to the gym. “Don't even try. Turn around and go back to school like a smart girl.”

Being threatened is bad enough, but being patronized is worse. Now I'm really pissed off.

“Who is the guy you've got in there?” I demand, lifting my chin to meet his narrow-slit gaze.

“Someone who deserves worse than I'm giving him. If you knew what he did, you'd lock him in a cage too.”

“I seriously doubt that.” I kick at a weed that's snagged a shoelace hanging from my boot. “Is this some dumb initiation into a Masked Geek Club, or is that guy hurt? What did you do to him?”

“Me?” He points to himself with a fake innocent tone, and I'm sure he's grinning underneath his black mask. “Don't you know that making such a serious accusation is slanderous? I could sue you and financially ruin your family.”

I almost laugh. “If my family had anything worth suing for, I wouldn't be stuck living in this brain-numbing hellhole.”

“Not a fan of Nevada Bluff High?”

“Not a fan of Nevada.”

“Those are fighting words at a school where school pride runs high. Haven't you heard NB is number one in the high school football league and the alma mater of the last five county rodeo champions?”

The dry irony in his tone makes it impossible to tell if he's poking fun at the school or at me. “I don't give a crap about this school or you. I wouldn't bother with that guy if I knew he'd be okay. I have enough troubles already.” I glance uneasily at my backpack.

In the distance, a bell announces the end of the school day.

Masked Guy lifts his head so I know he heard the bell, too, and he tenses as if growing anxious. “This ends now,” he says roughly. “You're leaving.”

“Sure.” I smile like I'm sweet and gullible.

“Then get moving.”

“Whatever you say.” I take a step toward the gym.

“Not in there!” he shouts.

“Putting someone's life in danger is just stupid and dangerous.” I race toward the gym door but before I can make it, Masked Guy's gloved hand springs out. He grabs my arm and spins me around, pinning me against his chest.

“Let me go!” I squirm, kicking his leg and feeling some satisfaction when I hear him grunt in pain.

“I've played nice until now,” he growls. “No more.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I never threaten.” He's close enough for me to feel his hot breath on my neck and catch a whiff of musky cologne. “I act,” he says.

Then he yanks my backpack from my shoulder and shoves me roughly to the ground. “You'll find this in the Dumpster by the library,” he says. “But you'd better hurry because someone else may find it first—and you know how dishonest students can be in this hellhole.”

Then he strides off with my backpack.

I stumble to my feet, shaking with fury, and see the back of his head—and the bright yellow design on his ski mask.

A cheerful smiley face.

Mocking me.

F
o
u
r

G
ive me my backpack!” I shout, but my words drift away like dead leaves in the wind.

I look at the gym, wanting to rescue the kid trapped inside, but I'm sure his cage is locked and I'd end up going for help anyway.

So I take off down the rough terrain after the Masked Guy. He's moving fast, like he's part goat and part track star. I shout after him again but he's so far away that all I can make out is a dark blur. My army boot smacks a boulder and I stumble, somersaulting onto prickly weeds. My jeans rip and my knees sting, but my pride hurts worse.

Panic grows because I can
not
lose my backpack. Not only does it have expensive-to-replace school books, but I'd die if anyone—especially a masked jerk—read the letter. There's the heart-shaped necklace, too, which I don't want to keep but ache at the thought of losing.

So I run like I'm in a life-or-death race. The terrain rises, then drops at a steep angle. I veer around a large rock, then peer down the hill at the school; it seems as small as a string of toy blocks linked together. I don't see Masked Guy.

He's probably already at the Dumpster
, I think with a new burst of anger. My lungs ache as I leave the rocky dirt and sprint on the smooth school pavement.

Kids cram the walkways after the final bell, and I weave through the crowds murmuring “sorry” whenever I bump someone. What Dumpster did he say? Oh, yeah, the library. Only I'm going the wrong direction, so I turn around and take a sharp right down a narrow path. The
Library
plaque flashes by and I keep going until I reach the Dumpster.

I reach out and lift up the lid, holding my breath as I stand on my toes to peer inside. Yes! Exhaling, I rescue my backpack.

Immediately, I check inside and am relieved that nothing is missing. Wallet, keys, gold necklace, and the letter I found in Mom's desk. I sling my backpack over my shoulder then turn around and head for Ms. Chu's classroom. She's the only teacher who will believe me when I tell her a masked guy kidnapped someone—probably a student from our school—and locked him in a cage.

But as I pass the quad, which offers a view back up the hill, I see several distant figures hurrying toward the old gym. At least one person is an adult, probably a teacher or the principal. Help is on the way for the trapped guy, which is a huge relief. He'll be rescued—and I won't have to deal with telling Ms. Chu a bizarre story.

After a quick stop at my locker, I walk past buses spewing
diesel fumes and cars jam-packed on the street to meet Rune at our usual place by the school flagpole.

Rune takes one look at me and points. “Why is there a banana peel on your backpack? Are bananas the latest in goth fashion?”

“Not funny.” Angry all over again, I yank off my backpack to grab the strip of banana peel. Then I stomp over to a nearby trash can and toss the offending bits of brown and yellow away.

“Were you attacked by a banana-flinging monkey?” When I glare at her, she grins. “Did you know that in Alabama there's a grave where people leave bananas instead of flowers? It's for a space monkey that returned alive. But now she's dead and all those bananas just rot on the grave.”

“Rune, I've had a crappy day and if you want to survive long enough to hear about it, you will shut up right now. Let's just go somewhere to talk.”

“Okay—what's going on?” She frowns at my dusty, ripped jeans. “Did you get run over by a truck or something?”

“Or something,” I say wearily.

Instead of walking home (a mile to her house together, then a mile to mine alone), Rune leads me to our favorite hangout,
T
he Hole Truth
donut shop.

“SOS! Donut crisis,” Rune calls out as we enter the shop. The Hole Truth doubles as a thrift store, its shelves full of glass figurines, bobble heads, and holiday decorations. The linoleum floor is faded and the ceiling leaks during rain. But it's a haven for us, and the owner, a half-Mexican/half-African American elderly man named Antonio, always knows exactly what his customers need, prescribing the right donut like a doctor prescribes pain-killers.

Antonio takes one look at me and shakes his balding dark head, then leads us to our usual booth in the back underneath a shelf of Halloween decorations. “Rough day?” he asks me sympathetically.

“Apocalyptic.” I nod, sitting across from Rune on a cracked leather seat.

“She'll need a double dose,” Rune says grimly. She reaches for the napkin container and peels off a napkin for me.

I murmur “thanks” and wipe banana mush from my hands.

“I have the perfect remedy,” Antonio says in a rolling Spanish accent. “You sit here and I'll bring it out pronto.”

When he's gone, Rune takes off her studded leather jacket and flips her braids back. “Tell me everything.”

I bite my lip, not sure where to start and wishing I could just forget about it.

“Come on, Thorn, let go of negativity. Don't hold it inside and pollute your psyche.” Rune is hardcore into alternative thinking and holds unique views on life, connected to nature. I've learned a lot from her. But I'm reluctant to admit a masked guy made a fool of me.

I get a temporary reprieve when Antonio sweeps toward us balancing a vintage Care Bear metal TV tray on one hand. He slides the tray onto the table with a dramatic flourish.

“Antonio's pastry prescription to vanish the bad-day blues,” the old man says with a pearly white grin. “Take two glazed cake donuts filled with whipped cream and sprinkled with caramel. Enjoy!”

Donuts soothe better than mind-numbing drugs, and when I'm finished licking whipped cream off my lips, I'm finally ready to talk.

So I tell Rune everything: the hike to the old gym, the guy trapped in a cage, masked dude stealing my backpack, and the group of rescuers headed to the gym. When I finish, Rune stares at me, her mouth hanging open with utter shock.

“I should have gone back to help the trapped guy,” I add guiltily. “But I'm sure he's okay now. I handled everything really stupidly. Don't hate me.”

“OMG! I don't hate you—I want to be you!” she exclaims, her kohl-shaded eyes almost popping out. “Do you have any idea who you just met?”

“I have no idea who was in the cage.”

“Not him! The masked dude.”

I stare at her like she's deranged and wonder if it's possible for someone to get high on donuts.

“You really don't know?” Rune asks incredulously.

“Know what? That my best friend is loco? Yes, I do know that. But I never realized it was this bad.”

“Thorn, seriously, you don't get it.” She's practically jumping in her chair. “That masked guy is legend! I'm shocked you don't know. Everyone at school does.”

“He was wearing a mask. How was I supposed to know?”

“Of course he wears a mask. That's how he got his nickname.”

“Huh?” I blink, confused.

“Everyone calls him the Grin Reaper.”

“Isn't that the mythological devil dude who foretells deaths?”

“Not the
Grim
Reaper—the
Grin
Reaper because of the smiley face on his mask and the smiley face stickers he leaves with his victims.”

Now I know my best friend has completely lost it. “You're punking me, right?”

“He's for real, and last year the whole school was buzzing about him. He only goes after students who deserve it. The Grin Reaper is like the best bad dude ever.”

“You admire him? Even after he attacked me and threw me on the ground?”

Rune frowns. “He isn't usually violent.”

“Well, he was with me. I can't believe you're defending him.”

“If you'd gone here last year, you would too,” she tells me. “Everyone is sure he's a student here but no one has a clue who he really is.” She looks down at the table, her purple-tipped fingers twining together. “He's the only non-boring guy at school. Ever since I heard about him, I've thought … well … it would be cool to see him.”

“You've never seen him?”

“No one has—except his victims.”

“That would include me.” I hold out my wrists, which are red and starting to bruise.

She purses her black-shimmered lips and pauses as if thinking deeply before lowering her voice to a whisper. “I doubt he meant to hurt you. You were just in his way. The guy in his cage was his target. The Grin Reaper is all about getting justice.”

“Justice?” I laugh bitterly. “You can't be serious! That dude is dangerous.”

“Dangerous is my flavor of hot.” Rune sighs in this dreamy way which is so not like her. “We'd be great together—but his identity is a huge mystery. Sometimes I dream we're alone together and he's taking off his mask just for me. I'm excited that I'm finally going to see his face. Only I wake up. I'd give anything to know what's under that mask.”

“An arrogant, domineering, egotistical jerk,” I rant. “He locked a guy in a decaying gym, attacked me, then threw my backpack in a Dumpster.”

“I'm sure he had a good reason.”

I toss my crumpled napkin at her. “Is there ever a good reason for kidnapping and violence?”

“He's not like that,” she says defensively. “The Grin Reaper only goes after people who deserve to be punished. Last year, a senior named Clem shaved the fur off a stray dog that hung around school. When Principal Niphai found out, instead of punishing Clem he called the pound on the dog. Next day, Clem was attacked by a guy in a smiley face ski mask and two words were written in indelible ink on his forehead:
Dog Abuser
.”

“So?” I raise my brows.

“That was the first time. A month later, a soccer coach kicked a kid off the team because he'd come out as gay. Next day, there were Photoshopped pictures all over school of the coach wearing only a pink bra and lace panties. On the back of each photo was a smiley face sticker. After that the smiley faced vigilante became known as the ‘Grin Reaper.'”

“Okay, so maybe those guys deserved it, but that doesn't make up for what the masked guy did to me. You wouldn't make excuses for him if you'd been there.”

“I wish I had been,” Rune says wistfully. “Except for his victims, you're only person who's actually heard his voice.”

“Lucky me,” I say sarcastically. I've never seen Rune so brain-scrambled over a guy and frankly, it's disturbing. “Snap out of your twisted hero worship and accept that the guy is a menace. I may be okay, but I have no idea how the caged guy is doing.”

“I can find out.” Rune fishes her phone from a pocket in her oversized black-sequined sweater. “News spreads fast, so half the school will know by now.”

I watch over her shoulder as she texts Amerie. I should have thought of calling Amerie. Our fairy-winged friend devours gossip blogs and knows everything practically before it happens.

“Good news, Thorn,” Rune says a short while later, after her phone beeps with a new text. “The caged guy is fine.”

My guilt eases. “I'm glad that poor kid is okay.”

“That ‘poor kid' is Brute—I mean, Bruce—Gibson,” Rune tells me as she pays the check and we leave the donut shop. “He's built like a wrestler and a loyal Jay-Clone—our favorite subhuman group.”

I cringe at the mention of the preppy crowd that sucks up to Jay Blankenship because his father is Judge Blankenship, whose wallet funds school programs. The five guys strut around in fancy blue letter jackets—not for real sports like basketball or football, but for golf. Spoiled rich brats who think they own the school.

“This morning, Brute pranked a freshman from the Special Ed class,” Rune continues as we wait on the curb for traffic to pass. Her gaze is half on the road and half on her phone. She texts
Thx
back to Amerie, then slips her phone in her pocket. “Shoved the freshman into a locker and left him there for over an hour. Brute got off as usual, since he denied it and his Jay-Clone pals backed him up.”

“They're the worst,” I agree.

“The Grin Reaper's justice was perfect.” Rune grins. “I'm glad he's back in action. I thought maybe he'd graduated or dropped out since he hadn't struck this year—but now I think he must still be a student here. I'd give anything to meet him.”

“Don't talk stupid.”

“So he's a little unorthodox in his methods.”

“He attacked me.” I lift my bruised wrists to remind her that he's not a good guy.

“I'm willing to forgive him for that.”

“Oh, you are?” I say sarcastically. “What a loyal best friend.”

“Oh, please. Your ego is more bruised than your wrists,” Rune says as we cross the street. “And your backpack only has minor banana-peel damage. Admit it—you're mad because he stood up to you and won.”

“He did
not
win anything!”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Then I believe you.” But I know she doesn't.

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.”