Buried (9 page)

Increasing my pace, I reach the auditorium and grab for the door. But I hear a sound behind me. I whirl, and see dark clothes and a ski mask over dark eyes. He's leaning against the whitewashed wall, one gloved hand casually resting on the rough surface and the other tucked into his jacket pocket. I can't see his face, but I know he's grinning.

“What did you do?” I demand accusingly. I take a step forward, careful to keep an arm's distance between us. I doubt he's dangerous, but I don't trust him.

“Whatever do you mean?” he says in a mocking voice.

“You know exactly!” I'm furious he's not taking me seriously. “I saw you sneak inside Philippe's trailer.”

“Delusional much?”

I glare. “You were carrying a knife when you went into the trailer but I didn't see anything in your hands when you came out. What have you done?”

“You thought that was a knife? It wasn't.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Have you always been such a skeptic?” he asks. “What do you think I did? Vandalized the big famous star's bus? Sorry, but you're wrong.”

“I don't care what you did. But the principal will.”

“I'm sure he will. Be a good little girl and go tattle to him.”

“You want to get rid of me and it won't work.”

“Your obsession with me is flattering, but you're not my type.”

“Egotistical jerks aren't my type,” I retort. And I can't believe I ever thought Wiley was hot (I'm ninety-five percent sure that's who this is). He's smug and too sure of himself. He's purposely baiting me because he wants me to leave so he can ditch his Reaper clothes and retreat back into obscurity.

“Shouldn't you report me?” he taunts. “What if I planted a bomb on his bus?”

“Did you?” I demand.

He shrugs. “Find out for yourself. Or wait around for the big kaboom. Hurry, time is running out.”

I glare at him, then turn like I'm going to leave. Mid-turn, I whirl back and lunge for him, hands reaching, grabbing the edge of his ski mask, pulling it off …

Revealing the Grin Reaper.

E
l
e
v
e
n

N
ot Wiley, or even a Jay-Clone.
It's the original.

“Jay Blankenship!” I shout.

I'm grinning as wide as his trademark smiley face. The infamous vigilante is the preppy, popular, egotistical son of the most respected judge in town. I love the irony! And I'm going to love exposing him.

His dark eyes, even when glaring, are softer now than when viewed through a slit in a ski mask. His blond lashes are long, curled, and almost girly, at odds with the hard lines of his cheekbones. When I've seen him around school, he always has an arrogant lift to his chin—he's handsome and he knows it. But up close, I can see the rough edges in his face and a small scar above his right eyebrow.
Not so perfect now
, I think.

“Give me my cap!”

“Of course,” I say. With exaggerated politeness, I hold it out. His murderous glare doesn't scare me.

He snatches the mask roughly, then shoves it into his pants pocket.

“Aren't you going to put it back on to hide your identity?” I say, amused.

“There are other ways,” he says mysteriously, peeling off his gloves and shoving them into his coat pocket.

Then he takes off the long coat and turns it inside out—revealing royal blue fabric hidden beneath the midnight black. He folds up the yards of excess fabric, transforming the concealing coat into his preppy letter jacket. He drapes it over his arm as if this is a new fashion style his Jay-clone followers will emulate. Whipping out a comb, he smooths back his blond hair, then parts it off-center, a wave falling across his forehead and softening the hard edges of his face. The Reaper is transformed back to the Prep.

I'm not sure who disgusts me more, the smug rich kid or the vandal. I touch a stained corner of my backpack—a reminder of his theft and brutal actions.

“You don't need to hide your identity anymore,” I say coolly.

“Why not?” he demands.

“Figure it out.”

“Are you threatening to expose me?”

I give a thin smile. “The word ‘threat' implies that I might not go through with it. But I will.”

He frowns. “You can't tell
anyone
.
”

“I'm going to tell
everyone
,
” I say, as if making a solemn promise.

“That would be a very bad idea.”

“People will want to know the truth—especially your father.”

His brows knit together, his faint scar stretching like a scowl. “Don't you understand that I'm helping people? Let's talk this over.”

“I have nothing to talk about with you. But I have lots to tell the principal.”

“Don't do that.” He bites his lip. “Please.”

“Why shouldn't I?”

“Because you're not the hard-hearted bitch that some people think you are.”

“Sweet-talking me won't change my mind.”

“Then I have no choice.” His gaze shifts into a mask, something dangerous glittering behind his wry smile.

I continue to face him confidently. “You can't stop me from telling everyone,” I say. “What a joke! The Grin Reaper is the son of the honorable Judge Blankenship. After my talk with the principal, I'll tell my friend Amerie. She loves dramatic news like this and will text it to the world.”

He leans close to my face, his frown deepening like a dangerous line no one should cross. “You are
not
going to tell anyone.”

“Oh?” I say, amused. “Why won't I?”

“Because everyone has secrets—including you.”

“Yeah, right,” I scoff.

“Find any dead bodies lately?” He leans close to ear and adds in an ominous whisper, “Beth Ann.”

His hot breath burns my skin, his words a wildfire out of my control. “How—how did you … ?”

“How did I find out your real name? And about your odd discovery in the hills?” He smiles wickedly. “I have my ways. Are you ready to negotiate now?”

His tone and expression are so cocky I want to slap him. But hearing my real name from his lips has stolen my voice. I simply nod.

“There's a storeroom around the corner. Come on.” He glances up and down the path and over at the auditorium, then turns, gesturing me to follow.

I hesitate, not wanting to go anywhere with him. But he knows too much.

So I follow him to a door I've passed many times before but have never really noticed. He pulls a key ring from his pocket and tries a few keys until the door opens. I don't ask how he has keys to private school rooms. I have too many questions already.

He flips on a light as we enter. The room reeks of ammonia and lemon; metal shelves crammed full of cleaners and other materials line the walls. Brooms and mops lean in a corner like lazy sentries.

He turns toward me. I take a step back. We're so close in this small confined space that I can feel the heat of his energy. His smile is cool but his body is tense, a wild beast ready to pounce if I turn my back or show fear.

“How did you find out about me?” I fold my arms over my chest.

“My contacts keep me informed,” he says mysteriously.

“Who are they?”

“No one at this school.”

“Someone at the Sheriff's Department?” I guess.

“I never reveal my sources. You're still a minor, so your name won't be released to the public. All anyone knows is that a teenager found a grave of a baby.”

I close my eyes, remembering the ragged blanket … the tiny fingers …

When I open my eyes, Jay a.k.a. Reaper is studying me.

“That must have been hard,” he says quietly.

“As if you care?” I snap.

“So I'm not allowed to have feelings?”

“If you did, you wouldn't hurt people. You're all about revenge and punishment. Maybe some people deserve it, but who said you get to decide? Your father is a judge—
not you.”

His dark eyes narrow. “You don't know anything about my father.”

“If he's anything like you, I don't want to!” I meet his angry gaze with one of my own. “Why are you going after Philippe anyway? He doesn't even go to this school.”

“But he did.”

“You can't possibly hold a grudge against him from back then.”

“The grudge isn't for me. He stole something from a friend who trusted him.”

“But it was at least two years ago. Isn't it kind of sick to hold onto a grudge like that? Philippe has reformed and made something of himself. All you've achieved is revenge, hiding behind a mask. When everyone finds out who you are, it'll be over.”

“They won't know if you don't tell. This is my last year here, and when I leave, the Reaper goes too.” He rakes his fingers through his blond hair. “I'm the only one at school who knows it was you who found the body. I've known since last night, but I kept it to myself. I wasn't going to tell anyone.”

“How big of you,” I say sarcastically.

“I'm a good guy even if you don't believe me.”

“Good guys don't plant bombs.”

“There isn't a bomb. I only said that to get rid of you. I'm for getting justice, not destroying stuff. All I left on the bus was a DVD. I promise it won't go boom—at least not in a physical way. I also promise to keep your secret.”

“If I keep yours,” I say angrily.

“A mutual agreement.”

I clench my hands so I won't smack him with a broom or squirt lemon-scented air freshener into his eyes. I want to lash out because no one has ever made me feel so defeated.

He knows about me. I know about him. Damn.

“Okay.” I hang my head. “You win.”

“I always do,” he says. “But to make this official, swear that you won't tell anyone who I am. I know you won't break a solemn swear.”

“You mean because my mother is a minister?” I demand.

“No. She isn't you.”

“Then how can you trust me?”

He tilts his head, studying me. “Even when you glare like that, your eyes give you away. You're trustworthy, honest, and loyal.”

“A regular Girl Scout.” I glance away because he's staring at me like my soul is naked. “But you're right—I won't go back on a promise. If you swear to keep my secret, I'll swear to keep yours.”

“Fair enough. Shake on it.” He holds out his gloved hand, waiting.

I'm reluctant to touch him, as if even a brief contact will somehow change me. But I'm no coward so I hold out my hand. He meets mine with a firm grip; I feel callused skin against my palm. I'm a little dizzy and blame it on the strong odors from the cleaning supplies. He holds on longer than necessary, but I remind myself why I hate him and that he's the total opposite of my type. Then he releases my hand, whirling for the door.

He leaves so fast that I blink and he's gone.

I look down, aware of something in my hand. Unclenching my fingers, I find a tiny yellow circle clinging to my skin.

A smiley face sticker.

I've made a pact with the devil.

This realization pounds in my head with each footstep as I walk home from school. I'm angry, but also feeling something close to excitement. It's not like I'm suddenly a fan of the Grin Reaper, but we've established an odd alliance … one of mutual mistrust and dislike.

When I pass The Hole Truth donut shop, I think guiltily of Rune. I've ditched her after school two days in a row. It's taken a while to develop our friendship; we're both blunt, with an honesty that borders on rudeness, but these traits that might have pulled us apart have bound us closer together. I decide that I'll make things up to her tomorrow. She's going to be shocked when I tell her about Amerie and Philippe. Sneaking off together, holding hands, kissing!

Amerie takes everything so seriously that I worry she'll think Philippe's really interested in her, not just flirting. He's a pop star, after all, with lots of groupies chasing after him.

When I get home, I find K.C. tinkering in the garage. I'm relieved he's not working tonight. He says “okay” when I ask for a ride to Skarla's later. He even knows who she is, explaining that he has a few classes with her.

I avoid my parents by saying I have homework (true, but I'm not doing it yet) and retreating to my room. I pull out folders of music I've written, feeling critical of my songs. A few are okay, but I'm no professional and would die rather than show them to anyone. I don't really know why I write songs; it's a weird compulsion. A melody gets stuck in my head and the only way to let it go is to put it on paper. My latest song, untitled so I just call it “Pest,” plays in my mind. I reach for my guitar.

Even after K.C. drops me off at Skarla's, “Pest” is still running through my head. I don't realize I'm humming it until Skarla invites me in and asks me the name of the song.

“It's nothing,” I say.

“Really? Well it should be.” Then she invites me to join the other girls in the family room.

Barbee and Micqui are wearing similarly styled dark jeans and sweatshirts. Micqui calls out my name in a friendly welcome. Barbee merely shrugs; it's clear she doesn't want me here.

Skarla's in charge and gets straight to business. She hands me a sheet of music. I study the arrangement, noticing how the lyrics mostly repeat lame words like “Giddy-up!” and “Sweet, Sweet, Sweetheart” for a song called “Giddy-up Sweetheart.” I strum a few notes on my guitar and feel like my ears are bleeding in protest.

Apparently I'm a minority of one, though, because the other girls love the song. When Skarla's parents come in with sodas and a tray of chips and cookies, they applaud enthusiastically. “Brava, brava!” says her father. And the way he's looking at her, supportive and proud, kills me. I can't remember my dad ever looking at me that way.

We go through the song about five hundred times, until it's running through my fingers and head. The words are sappy and the melody sucks, but a few note changes would help immensely. I consider suggesting this, but ultimately say nothing.

We take a break, and Skarla leans close to her friends, whispering. Immediately I'm on guard. Are they talking about me?

“I'll be right back,” she announces loudly.

Micqui and Barbee share a look that shuts me out. I knew this would happen. You just can't trust people.

I set my face into a mask and mentally rehearse my reaction to being kicked out of the group. A shrug and smile to let them know I don't care. “I only did this as a favor for Amerie,” I'll say.

Then Skarla comes back, her hands tucked behind her back. She tips her head to the side in a gesture that signals the other girls. They come beside her; unified against me. Why are they smiling?

“What's going on?” I ask cautiously.

“Surprise!” Skarla exclaims, reaching toward me with a bright pink hat in her hand. “A gift for you! You're one of us now.”

They all look at me, waiting for my reaction.

I'm not a fan of western hats. And pink!? I don't think so.

But I'm relieved they didn't kick me out of the group—at least not until I find out who owns the locket. So I take the hat and even put it on my head. “Thanks,” I say.

“You're welcome!” Skarla rushes to grab me in a warm hug. “I'll give you the rest of the costume as soon as I get it back from Priscilla. We're so glad to have you in our group. Thanks!”

“I haven't done much.” I squirm out of her grasp.

“How can you say that?” Skarla is like a balloon of joy that's been popped on me. “After Priscilla quit, we didn't have a chance of winning. But you rescued us. And your playing is amazing. You're really talented.”

I shrug, uncomfortable with praise.