Buried by Linda Joy Singleton Page A

cake, and a twenty-foot-tall cornstalk.
    I purposely avoid talking about the Grin Reaper.
    Sabine fills me in on our mutual friend, Penny-Love, who is always at the center of some romantic drama. Her latest drama involves three new boyfriends who don’t know about each other.
    â€œWhat about your boyfriend?” I ask Sabine.
    â€œDominic is great.” Her voice softens. “His farrier business is keeping him super busy.”
    â€œToo busy for you?”
    â€œNever. We schedule a date night at least once a week.”
    â€œI’m glad. You two are like the perfect couple,” I say enviously. I wonder what it would feel like to love someone so much—and have him love me back.
    When we hang up, I’m empty and aching inside. I miss Sabine and my old life, but it’s deeper than that. I have a sense of foreboding, like a dark wind is sweeping me toward the edge of a steep cliff and I may not survive the fall.
    The locket taunts me. I have no idea what map to follow. How am I supposed to know what that means? The closest thing to a map in my room is a basketball-sized globe on my desk. I flick a finger at the globe and watch it spin. My vision blurs as I wait for magic to happen. But nothing does.
    I cross over to my trash can and dangle the locket, tempted to toss it away forever.
    But once again, I can’t.
    I try to push the locket out of my mind. I open a book that Rune loaned me, Candle Burning Rituals: Spells for Every Purpose . I can’t find any spells for dealing with haunted lockets, so I perform a basic spell warding off dark spirits. I gather red votive candles, an athame (sharp pin), smooth rocks, anointing oil, and herbs. I arrange them on an altar (end table), then anoint the candles with oil. I sprinkle the herbs at the base of the candles, then set the stones facing south to increase energy. I murmur words that I don’t understand, but which sound very mysterious, as I use the athame to carve words of protection into the candles.
    When I finish, I blow out the candles and close the spell book.
    Doors bang. Voices rise from downstairs. Mom is back from church.
    But Mom doesn’t come to my room. What’s going on? Are my parents waiting till after dinner to confront me about the letter? I mentally rehearse my defense, pointing out that it’s unfair to punish me because of one bitchy person. My grades (except for History) aren’t that bad. And no one has the right to criticize my friends.
    All through dinner, I’m on my best behavior. I say “please” and “thank you,” even to the twins who just grab what they want, even if it’s on my plate. And when my youngest sister Meg spills milk in my mashed potatoes, I don’t slap her.
    I wait and wait, wondering when the accusations will come.
    Only they never do.
    That night I’m tormented by uneasy dreams, in which squiggly lines curve and shape into roads that lead nowhere and I’m lost in a nightmare fog of despair. The next morning, I take a look in the mirror and groan at the dark circles under my eyes. I won’t need much makeup to look like a ghoul today.
    I glance over at my wig shelf, debating which one to wear. I’d dye my hair like most goths except for my weird allergy to hair dye. My natural hair is a drab dark-blond and makes me look like I’m twelve instead of seventeen, so wigs aren’t a choice but a necessity. I choose a spiked, devil-red one.
    Next comes my three-step routine:
    Step 1: I smooth on a pale ivory foundation, around my face and down my neck. Instead of concealing my black circles, I exaggerate them, smearing on velvet-black eye shadow for hollow “dead” look. Then I slash a bruise of blood-red blush down my cheek. Black eye-pencil darkens my blond brows. And my lips bleed red gloss inside a dark outline of midnight black.
    Step 2: I choose jewelry, putting studs in my eyebrows and multipierced ears. Metal chains go around