Buried by Linda Joy Singleton

can’t rehearse.”
    â€œLet’s rehearse at my house,” Skarla says, pushing between the sisters like a referee. “It’ll be quieter there too, not noisy like here.”
    â€œWith her in our group, we’ll need extra rehearsals.” Barbee turns to me. “We’re scheduled to audition next Tuesday—that’s only four days away! No offense, but that doesn’t leave us much time to find a replacement if you suck.”
    â€œOr, you could suck. If you don’t want me here—” I start to say.
    â€œOf course we do!” Skarla intervenes, hooking her arm through mine like we’re BFFs. “Amerie says you’re really talented. That’s so cool. Will you have any trouble meeting at my house at seven tonight? And be sure to bring your guitar.”
    Three stares under pink hats study me, like I’ve been given a test and they doubt I’ll pass. Whatever .
    I say I’ll be there.
    They leave the auditorium but I linger, gazing purposely around. The locket, which I’ve been wearing under my shirt, has grown warmer since I entered the room. It’s uncomfortably hot now. Could it be sending me a message? That seems crazy even to me. Still, this is where it was found, so it makes sense the owner could be nearby.
    So, instead of hiding the locket, I flaunt it around my neck. I hold the shoelace in a very obvious way, wiggling it so the golden heart jiggles above my breasts. Everyone look! I want to shout. A few do, but most are too busy singing or reading music or playing instruments. I run my fingers over the smooth locket and linger on the point, which is sharp but not enough to draw blood. I think of the fragile curl tucked inside and study the girls suspiciously. Which one of you hid a pregnancy and then buried your secret in a shallow grave?
    But no one seems startled by the locket.
    I’d ask Amerie to announce that a locket was found, except I don’t see her anywhere. She’s obsessed with this contest, so it’s strange she’d leave early.
    I leave, too, heading for the office to call K.C. for a ride home. But he doesn’t answer his cell. Asking my parents is out of the question. Not because they’ll refuse but for the opposite reason. Mom will be thrilled I’m involved in school activities and hanging out with “normal” girls—which is exactly why I won’t tell her. Guess I’m walking home.
    I’m passing the staff parking lot when I notice a ginormous, gleaming silver bus. Unlike the yellow clunk-mobiles students ride in, it’s sleek and luxurious with reflective tinted windows glittering like mirrors. This has to be Philippe’s tour bus.
    My guess is confirmed when the door opens and automatic stairs unfold to the ground. Out steps gorgeous Philippe. And he’s not alone. His arm is draped around the petite shoulders of a girl with light brown hair and some sort of sparkly hat on her head. No … not a hat. A winged headband!
    Amerie? With Philippe?
    Disbelief stuns me. Amerie never said anything about going out with Philippe. Not one word from the girl who usually spills volumes of gossip. I stare, even more shocked when Philippe stops to face Amerie and pulls her tight to his chest, his infamous long black curls spiraling over her shoulders as they embrace.
    Are they kissing? Oh. My. God. Unbelievable!
    I’m still gaping in shock as they stroll away, hand in hand, back toward campus, probably headed back to the auditorium.
    Now I know why Amerie wasn’t at rehearsal.
    How did she work so fast? Sure, she admitted lusting after Philippe, and even I have to admit he’s hot. But Amerie deserves a sweet guy who will cherish her, not someone who sold out creativity for commercialism. Amerie is selling out also, becoming a Philippe groupie. He’s too old for her, too, and she’s so gullible. He’ll break her heart, and guess who will be left to pick up