Buried (15 page)

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.

E
i
g
h
t
e
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n

J
ay 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,” she 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.

After I put my guitar away and settle down in bed, my brain still won't shut off.

Does doing something bad for a good reason make me a bad or good person?

Maybe the real question is, what kind of person do I want to be?

A vigilante like Jay? No, definitely not. I only went out with Jay tonight because of K.C. It won't ever happen again.

I sink into a deep sleep. It doesn't last long, though, because I wake up early.

Studying myself in the mirror, I see a faint resemblance to Mom. Everyone says I take after her—in looks, anyway. We're both blue-eyed blonds with freckles and skin too pale to tan without burning. But Mom thrives on being with people and truly believes that everyone has some good in them. I limit my trust to a few friends. Mom trusts everyone—even me. She may not approve of my goth style, but she doesn't criticize. And as a reward for her big heart, she may lose her job.

I can't shake an uneasy guilt as I take a very hot shower and wash off specks of pink paint and faded makeup. Instead of taking out my makeup case and applying mascara, eyeliner, eyebrow pencil, foundation, blush, and dusky plum eye shadow, I only dab on peach frost lip-gloss. Then I blow-dry and brush my blond hair till it shines in waves to my shoulders.

Next I take off my piercings—tongue, ears, eyebrow—leaving only the tiny diamond in my belly button. I leave my army boots in my wardrobe and don't drape my wrists with silver bangles. Instead of midnight-black clothes, I slip into my fringed pink skirt, lace up my pink ankle boots, and tighten the peasant blouse with a plain white belt. Then I top it off with the pink cowgirl hat.

And when I look in the mirror again, I see Beth Ann.

There's no trace of Thorn.

Walking downstairs to breakfast, I'm holding my breath, nervous like when I first played my guitar in front of the CCCs. I'm relieved that only my father and K.C. are at the dining table. Dad is buttering toast and nearly stabs himself when he sees me.

“I—I hardly recognize you!” Dad's knife clatters on the table.

“Me either,” I say.

Dad puts down his half-buttered toast. “You look good.”

I'm relieved he's talking to me, so I just nod.

K.C. hasn't stopped staring. He stabs a chunk of frozen waffle with his fork and pops it into his mouth, wisely saying nothing.

“Skarla gave me the costume.” I pop a frosted tart into the toaster. “For the contest.”

“Oh, yes.” Dad smiles at me for the first time in months. “Your mother mentioned a singing contest.”

“I'm not really singing, only playing guitar and doing some harmonizing. We're auditioning today.”

“Well … good luck.” Dad clears his throat and looks away uncomfortably. “Your mother said she'd drive you home, so I'll drive you to school.”

“Why don't I take her?” K.C. offers. “My Ranchero is still at the shop but my other car works. No reason for you to drive when I have to go to school anyway.”

Dad hesitates, then nods. He has a soft spot for K.C.

A short time later, I slip into K.C.'s car, the door creaking a complaint, and when I catch a glimpse of myself in his rearview mirror, I think I've gone back in time and am twelve-year-old Beth Ann.

“I'm parking on the street,” K.C. says as we near the school. “I don't need a repeat of yesterday.”

“The tagger won't bother you again,” I say, then shut my mouth quickly.

“Why not?”

“He'd be stupid to try it.”

“Do you know something I don't?”

I twist a strand of blond hair around my finger. “I just think today will be full of surprises.”

He starts to reply—until he looks past me out my window. “Why are all those people crowding around that … ohmygod! That truck is pink!”

“Is it?” I peer out the window all casual-like. In the bright morning light, the truck is such a bright pink it's like it's blushing. And the round yellow smiley face sends a message that Clive won't easily forget.

“I recognize that truck!” K.C. exclaims. “It's Clive Farnway's! The tagger got him, too!”

“Or maybe he
is
the tagger,” I say mysteriously, but then I refuse to say any more.

“Why would he tag his own truck?” K.C. pulls into a parking spot on the street, a slow realization dawning on his face. “The smiley face! It was the Grin Reaper!”

“Wow. You think so?”

“You're not fooling me, Thorn.” K.C. points at me accusingly. “Does this have anything to do with why you were gone last night?”

“Don't be delusional,” I say, but I'm sure my cheeks are as pink as Clive's truck. I grab my guitar and escape before K.C. can ask me anything else.

When I meet Rune at my locker, she looks right past me without any sign of recognition. Then her gaze flickers back. Her mouth gapes open.

“Yeah, it's me,” I say.

“But you look … so pink! It's like a pink invasion! First Clive's truck, and now you.”

“Scary, huh?” I joke.

She plants her hands on her hips. “What's going on?”

“I'm wearing my CCC costume,” I tell her as I spin my locker combination.

“But why look like a bubblegum explosion all day? You could have changed into it right before you perform.”

“It's easier this way.”

She frowns. “You're not even wearing makeup.”

“Lip gloss,” I smack my lips. “And this is my real hair.”

“I prefer your wigs.”

“Wigs get old after a while. You know I'm allergic to hair dye.”

“Whatever.” She slams her locker shut. “Just so you know, I'm still mad at you.”

“You should be. I've been a horrible friend. I'm surprised you're still speaking to me.”

“I considered making you grovel and beg for forgiveness.”

“So why let me off so easily?”

“I can't afford to lose another friend.”

“Another?” I arch a brow.

“Amerie.” Rune rakes her fingers through her now jet-black hair. “I finally got her on the phone last night and warned her not to date Philippe. I did some online research and had a long list of girls he dated. The worst was a girl named Rebecca, who tried to commit suicide after he dumped her.”

“Seriously?” I can't imagine giving a guy so much power over my emotions.

Rune nods. “Rebecca spent months recovering in a mental health center—all because of Philippe. I warned Amerie not to trust him, told her he'll break her heart. I was trying to be a good friend, but you know what she did? Hung up on me! I'm through trying to help her.”

“Philippe will leave when the contest ends,” I say as we walk to the intersection where we'll go in different directions. “Then Amerie will return to normal.”