What We Buried by Kate A. Boorman

Author:Kate A. Boorman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co. (BYR)

JORY

I HURRIED BACK to the pump for my hoodie and then headed to the highway. Liv couldn’t have gotten far. I broke into a run. The sun beat down unrelentingly, and the heat clung to me like an extra layer of clothes. The hill in the distance seemed, for an alarming second, to stay the same distance away. No. I was getting closer to that damn curve—it was not part of this stupid infinite loop.

How far could I run without water? That was a good question. I was in better shape than lots of guys my age, but not Death Race in shape. If I didn’t find Liv right away, I’d be seriously screwed.

But so would she.

And then all at once I was upon the hill and rounding the curve. The walls of rock were hugging the highway here, almost like they were trying to squeeze it out. There was a series of curves, though she would’ve had to have been moving fast to be beyond my sight already.

“People would be happy if you disappeared.”

“Liv!” I increased my pace, heading for the far curve, but I rounded that and … no Liv. Maybe she was faster than I thought.

I sped up again, gaze fixed on the far turn, which shimmered in the heat. As I came around the corner, the hills dropped away completely and I found myself staring at the flat desert again. The road was a straightaway. Nothing for miles. No rocks, no mountains, not even a cactus of any sizable sort. No Liv. I clenched my mom’s necklace in my hand.

Why had I let her go?

I stood in a corner of the living room, listening to Mark Mietzka ramble on about the importance of opening images and watching my sister sit on the couch and pretend to be engrossed in her phone.

I’d watched her drift around the party for the better part of an hour, trying to look as though she belonged here. Everywhere she went, girls eyed her up and down and talked under their breath. Guys made lewd gestures behind her as she walked by. She was like a designer-jeaned antelope wandering through a bunch of scornful lions: tiaras didn’t matter here, and Princess Liv was definitely out of her element.

But I’d expected that.

Earlier in the week I’d overheard her on the phone with one of her pageant friends, talking about the party and trying to convince whoever it was to come. Two girls from her English class had invited her, which was what caught my attention and made me linger in the kitchen, listening in.

Unsurprisingly, Liv hadn’t noticed. Even people who don’t assume I can’t understand often still assume I’m not paying attention. It’s a strange misconception of people who don’t talk very much, as if constantly giving your two cents affirms your existence.

Liv and my mom had been arguing a lot. Liv had been spending more and more time online and on her phone, outright refusing the auditions my mom was booking for her with advertising and modeling agencies.

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