Free Buried by Linda Joy Singleton

act professionally or leave. But I can’t blame her—he’s so cool, and super nice, too.”
    â€œHis fans can have him. I came to talk to you.”
    â€œReally?” She lights up like I’ve given her a gift. “About what?”
    I hesitate, because Amerie worked hard to buy her car. She has personalized plates that say FAREGRL and speaks of her car like it’s a real person. But I can’t think of another way to get to Stallion Creek. So I flash the closest thing to a sweet smile … then I beg.
    And it works.
    I must have said “please” a dozen times and promised to be back in one hour. Amerie isn’t happy about loaning FAREGRL to me, but she’s too nice to refuse a desperate friend.
    So, with keys bouncing on a pink rhinestone Tinker Bell key ring, I hop in Amerie’s car and follow the map that’s fixed firmly in my head. I don’t actually visualize the map; it’s more a sense of directions and distances. The route is easy enough, and I have a way of finding places even if I’m given the wrong directions. I don’t need street names; the black penciled X calls to me. And I can feel energy pulsating from the heart-shaped necklace in my backpack.
    Still, I worry I’m doing something dumb. Turn around and forget all about this , I tell myself as I leave the school parking lot. But I keep driving, past the football field, and turn right onto a road that seems to disappear into the ragged, yellow-brown hills.
    Based on the map, I know I’m supposed to go in this direction for about five miles, then wind through a canyon until I reach Stallion Creek. Then I’ll make a left up and over a hill until I dip down into a valley. My internal map will let me know when to stop.
    Amerie’s car radio is fixed on a country station. The dash has so many buttons and dials that I can’t figure out how to turn the music off, although I do manage to turn it down. But I can still hear the twangs and ballads of lost loves and heartbreak. A song about someone dying of a broken heart seems foreboding, as if the universe of Station KWIT is sending me a warning.
    As the hills climb higher and thicken with wild brush, my uneasiness grows. No one knows where I am. I don’t have a cell phone, since my family can barely afford the one Mom and Dad share. If I could call someone, I’d choose Sabine. I’d feel a lot better if I could hear her say I’m doing the right thing.
    I slow when I see the Stallion Creek sign on a partially finished housing development. There are a few completed houses perched on a hillside with cars and signs of life, but on this eerie street wooden frames stick up like gravestones; houses that may never be homes.
    A ghost neighborhood.
    The only sign of life is a sheriff’s car parked by a portable potty. Is he taking a break or patrolling the housing development? I slouch in my seat, not wanting to be noticed, and keep driving. When I reach a dirt road, I make a sharp left. Dust flies by my window and gravel rumbles beneath the tires. I cringe, knowing Amerie’s car is getting filthy. I’ll promise her a car wash when I’m finished here.
    Finished doing what? I’m afraid to find out the answer.
    After following a dried creek bed for over a mile, I pull off the side of the road by a lone oak tree, its limbs gnarled and a burn mark scarring its trunk. This is it . No way to explain how I know; I just know.
    I step out of my car, into an icy wind that rips through the canyon and chills me to my bones. The terrain is rough—uneven, and with dips and rises that stretch beyond the hills. I feel small and not sure what I’m supposed to do now. Something has been calling to me, and since it all started with the locket, I dig into my backpack for it.
    Is it my imagination, or is the locket shining as if glowing from the inside? How could I ever think it was ugly? It’s golden and glorious. I caress