Buried Read Online Free

When no one else seems to notice anything odd, I’m afraid I’m going crazy—especially since the sound came from my backpack.
    That damn necklace.
    Stealthily, I reach into my backpack. There’s another cry, like the necklace is calling to me, and I can’t resist lifting it, the golden heart warm against my palms. I’m overwhelmed with a desire to caress the glossy surface and slip the shoelace around my neck. But I don’t want to wear it— it wants to wear me.
    Delusional , I tell myself. Got to get out of here. Now.
    So I suck up my courage and raise my hand. I ask Mr. Sproat if I can go to the restroom. He taps his fingers on his desk and fixes me with a narrow stare. “If you’re not back in ten minutes,” he warns, “there will be dire consequences.”
    I grab my backpack when Mrs. Sproat’s back is turned, then go before he changes his mind.
    Once outside, inhaling deep breaths of crisp October air, I feel better. I don’t actually need a restroom but head for one anyway. My boots clomp-echo on the walkway, reminding me that I’m a square peg in this round world of gleaming windows and ultra-modern architecture. Nevada Bluff High, with its connecting rows of classrooms and open-air design, is more like an outdoor mall than a school. Everything has a western theme; bucking broncos are carved on columns, a rodeo mural trails across the outside wall of the administration building, and there’s a fountain shaped like a horseshoe. The unofficial uniform here is denim, cotton, and western hats. Even for the teachers.
    My last school, Sheridan High in California, wasn’t much to look at—boxy classrooms in need of new paint and out-of-date equipment—but there were lovely shade trees and emerald-green lawns. After living in Nevada these past few months, I’m longing for the color green. In the high desert it’s more common to see tumbleweeds cartwheeling across a patch of rocky weeds than grass or shade trees. Yards are creatively landscaped with cactus, driftwood, and rocks. Hardly anyone has lawn; it’s like it’s outlawed.
    Sometimes I feel outlawed too. My father still scowls when I leave for school in my wigs, piercings, and death-black clothes. When I first started NB High, kids pointed and snickered at me. I ignored them because, frankly, I don’t give a crap what they think. Why should I? Judgmental lemmings aren’t worth my brain-space. It’s funny, though, because the more I don’t care, the less they point. Some even wave.
    A strange feeling creeps over me and I walk right past the restroom. I don’t understand the compulsion that forces me to lift my gaze beyond the classrooms to the dark silhouette on the hill. The old gym. The decaying building is off-limits, dangerous, and completely forbidden to students.
    As a rule, I don’t follow rules.
    â€œField trip,” I murmur, grinning as I step off the cement walkway.
    What did Amerie tell me about the old gym? It’s all that’s left from the original high school, which was demolished after a generous donation from Judge Blankenship funded the new high school. Oh yeah—the old gym is supposed to be haunted. Ha! Rune clued me in on this scare-tactic rumor. But even if the gym is haunted (which I doubt), I’ve seen ghosts before and they don’t scare me.
    Well … not much.
    Hiking up the hill is harder than it looks; the steep terrain is rough with rocks and scratchy bushes. Students back in the old-gym days must have been part mountain goat. Brittle weeds crackle under my feet as I near the crumbling foundation of the old building. A brisk wind slithers through my shirt and I tuck my hands into my jeans pocket for warmth. When my fingertips touch the necklace an eerie feeling steals over me. I take deep breaths to clear my head.
    What’s going on? I study the necklace. It’s cheap and ordinary yet it’s freaking