The Bullet List (The Saving Bailey Trilogy, #1) (5 page)

Chapter 7

I am curled up in a ball, lying next to my mom on her couch. I say ‘her couch’ because it is where she sleeps every night since we moved here. She gave me the only bedroom.

“I want to pack you a lunch for tomorrow, is that okay?” she asks while a reality show plays on TV.

“Yeah I’d like that,” I say.

“Good,” she says, kissing the top of my head.

And just like that the incident never happened. Just that easily, it is buried. Unfortunately, I still have the stolen gold of the dead in my clutches and still I am haunted.

I fall asleep on the couch, and don’t wake up again until about three in the morning. Mom has fallen on to the floor, passed out, without a blanket. I casually shake her awake and tell her to take the couch back; I am going to my bed.

Somehow I end up in bed, though I think I must have sleepwalked to it. The sheets are cold and I am having a hard time keeping warm. As soon as I am comfy enough and have tossed all my pillows to the floor, I fall asleep again.

The moonlight is shining down on my face. I realize it is the only light in the apartment while drifting in and out of sleep. Once I become conscious enough, I comprehend why the darkness is especially bothering to me tonight. My bedroom lamp is off. Through my window the stars are vacant from the clear night sky, just like they were the last time I saw my dad. I let out a scream. The kind of scream that wakes my mom out of her slumber and sends her into a panic, turning almost all of the lights on in the apartment.

“My lamp isn’t on,” I say alarmed, and throw my hand at it, searching for the switch. I hit its neck and it falls, the glass base of the lamp shattering into pieces. Mom flicks the bathroom light on, making it just bright enough for her to see the terror in my eyes, and the lamp broken by my bedside table.

“Darn it,” she says, spotting the broken glass.

“I turned off all the lights when you went to bed. I forgot. I’m sorry,” she says. “You had me scared shit-less, screaming like that.”

“You can’t ever turn them off,” I say thoroughly terrified.

“I know that by now sweetie, I was half-asleep when I did it,” Mom says, her voice lined with exhaustion. “And you were sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t want the light to wake you.”

I wonder how it could have looked peaceful to her, when I could barely keep my eyes shut or open for more than five minutes.

“I’ll leave the bathroom light on,” she says. “And I’ll clean up your lamp in the morning. Just don’t step in it when you get out of bed.”

I nod and pull my blanket up to my chin, trying to warm up again. I stay awake until the dawn breaks, and grey early morning light fills my bedroom. I step out of bed on the opposite side from the glass and tip-toe to the bathroom so as to not wake Mom.

I turn the shower on as hot as the water can go, and stare in the mirror as the steam erases my reflection. The bruise has faded significantly, but my eyes have dark circles beneath them from my sleepless night.

I step into the scorching hot water, let it clear my mind, and wash away the two-day-old grime. I think about how I am going to have to face Miemah today in gym, and Clad in three of my classes. Maybe I’ll catch up on some Z’s in the janitor’s closet.
Bring it on
.

I step out of the shower, my hair smelling of strawberries, and the circles around my eyes lightened. I dry myself off with a towel and with my hair dripping all over the place, walk back to my room.

I gather up a shirt, skinny jeans, and jacket to wear. When I walk back to the bathroom to dress, I see Mom is awake, sipping a cup of orange juice, her stare fixed on the dirty dishes piled up in the sink.

“I’ll clean them when I get home,” I offer.

“That’s okay sweets, I’ll do them. I think I have today off.”

I dress myself, let Mom put new bandages on me, and get my bag ready for school. It smells something awful from the shirt covered in milk that I’d left in it. I pull it out and throw it in my clothes hamper. I then find my Bullet List crumpled at the bottom of the bag, and take it to my room to hide in the sock drawer of my dresser.

I return to the kitchen and take a sip of Mom’s orange juice, not feeling hungry enough to eat breakfast. The orange juice burns my throat; I spit it out, and cough.

“What is this?” I croak, smelling the glass. Mom looks gutted.

“Vodka,” she says reluctantly.

“You said you got rid of it all!” I say, tipping the glass into the sink. “You lied to me. Why do I always have to be the parent around here? Who’s the fifteen-year-old, you or me? Cause you act like a damn child, sneaking your alcohol around like a delusional baby, thinking I wouldn’t find out,” I rave. “Do you take me for a fool? Where is it, Huh? Where have you stashed it?” She looks like a puppy being scolded for peeing on the carpet.

“It was only a small bottle,” she says. “It is gone already.”

“Prove it,” I say, motioning for her to hand it over.

“It’s gone,” she says stressing her words. She walks toward the trashcan, and pulls out a tiny glass bottle then places it in my hands.

“Hiding it from me will only make it harder for you to quit,” I scold her.

“You are right.
No more
. I’m through with drinking,” she says

I leave the bottle on the counter as a reminder for her. I am about to walk out the door to get on my bus when she says, “Oh, the school called yesterday, I forgot to tell you.” I hold my breath. “They said you are failing in all your classes, especially in a particular Mrs. Latcher’s class. They say you have a real bad attitude.”

“So?” I ask, testing the waters.

“So, if you don’t get those grades up I’m going to punish you.”

“What are you going to do?” I ask nervously.

“Turn the lights off every night for a week straight.”

“You can’t do that! That’s a line you can’t cross, Mom!”

She frowns. “I’m afraid it’s a line I will have to cross if you don’t get those grades up, young lady.”

I slam the door so hard that the apartment shakes and I half expect it to collapse with Mom inside, crushing her beneath its rubble. It is so cold that I can see my breath as I walk to the bus stop. I constantly look over my shoulder to see if Mom is watching me, as she usually does, to be sure I make it safely on the bus. But she is not at the window or door; she is probably seething inside the apartment with the sight of the empty vodka bottle mocking her.

The bus rolls to my stop, looking like it’s on its last legs. I step into the warmth and take my seat the third one on the right. The sun is deceiving as it rises over the trees making them look ablaze; its glow suggests that the weather is cheery and warm outside, when it is actually wet and freezing.

I brood over my conversation with Mom as the bus arrives at school. My grades? Mom had never cared about them before; they have plunged many times in the past. My attitude? Well she had attested to that one herself a good number of years ago, with my sixth grade math teacher.

I can still hear the haggard lady’s scratchy voice: “Mrs. Sykes, Bailey, is a problem child.”

“You are a math teacher aren’t you? If she is a problem, then solve her,” Mom had said to my absolute pleasure. No, grades and attitude were certainly not a part of my mother’s agenda, but it is all she could pick at after being put to shame by her too witty daughter.

We are the last bus at school. I disembark and follow the crowd of students into the school; warm air seeping out through the doors. When I get inside, Alana immediately spots me.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, picking up where we left off yesterday.

“Not well,” I say, shivering from the cold.

“Here, take my jacket,” she says unzipping her coat.

I grab it and manage to force one arm in before saying, “Alana this jacket is two sizes too small. You are just so tiny.”

“I thought I was lumpy, like a sack of potatoes,” she says, her eyes narrowed. “Or at least that’s what a good friend told me.”

“A good friend wouldn’t say that,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

She giggles as I try to slide my other arm into her coat.

“And I’m sorry for being a pervert and commenting on your body,” she says.

“You were a pervert,” I decide.

“Totally,” she says without shame. “Now that, that’s behind us, I must tell you some wonderful news. Miemah isn’t here today.”

“Wow, that really is some wonderful news,” I say, relieved. “I need a break from her.”

“I think the whole school does,” she agrees.

I hand her jacket back and we part ways to our first period classrooms.

Mrs. Latcher looks extremely annoyed when I walk through the door, and even more so when Clad comes in right behind me. I’m too emotionally and physically drained this morning to raise hell, luckily for her. Clad, however, looks like he’s been rolling around in a bed of daisies, with the sun beating down its hot rays, and warming him from the inside out.

“Why so chipper?” I ask.

“Chipper? I don’t know. I’m just in a really good mood. I’m really looking forward to going clubbing with you,” he says, revealing the truth behind his jubilant expression. Uh-huh.
I knew something was up
.

“It’s no big deal,” I say, making light of it. “I dance all the time, so what’s so huge about dancing with a best friend of mine?”

His cheery face falters. “Yep, just two besties dancing the night away,” he says caustically.

Mrs. Latcher calls my name for attendance.

“Present,” I say, like a smart-ass.

“Present as well,” Clad says when his name is called.

Mrs. Latcher stacks a bunch of tests together in a neat pile and drinks some coffee before starting class.

“Good morning class,” she says in a matronly tone. “I have your tests graded from last week; many of you did not receive above a sixty, which is really disheartening for me because I thought I taught the chapter very well.”

“You did do a very good job of teaching it,” Nessa speaks out of turn. “It’s just that some people don’t know how to respect a well-taught lesson, and would rather sleep through class.”

Mrs. Latcher nods her head at Nessa. “Very right you are,” she commends her, and passes me my test.

At the top of the paper circled in red, is a whopping thirty-two percent mark. I could throw up. My grade is definitely slipping, and with it my much-needed light. I can’t sleep when it’s dark, I can’t eat, drink, think or breathe
when it’s dark
.

I turn around and ask Clad, “What grade did you get?”

He smiles peevishly. “A negative five.”

“Is that even possible?” I ask in bewilderment.

“It is when you don’t write your name,” he says.

“You didn’t put a name on your paper?” I chuckle.

“I forgot, I was so nervous I was going to fail,” he says staring at his paper with hatred in his eyes.

“Well, you had good reason to be nervous then,” I say.

Mrs. Latcher finishes passing out all the tests, and the class finishes moaning over their grades. The rest of the period passes slowly by with Latcher ranting about our low test grades, and how if we don’t all get higher than a B on our next test, we are going to have to do loads of homework every night
. Fantastic, I never do the homework anyway
.

I pack my bag up a couple of minutes before the bell rings, and Mrs. Latcher throws me a warning glare. Clad taps me on the shoulder to show me he is laughing at how stupid her face looks.

“Such a grouch,” he says when we are walking in the hall to Biology.

“She needs to take a chill pill,” I grump.

Mr. Wiggan is standing outside his classroom door, and waving happily as kids pass him by. He looks pleased to see Clad and I.

I have one foot in the door when someone shoves me from behind, so hard that I fall, spilling my bag’s contents.

“Hey!” Clad and Mr. Wiggan yell out together.

I look up just in time to see Cecil and Nessa laughing their way down the hall.

“What the fuck!” Clad yells, forgetting he is standing only two feet from the teacher.

“Watch it,” Mr. Wiggan says, before letting him off with a warning.

Clad helps me up by my arm, then picks up the scattered books from my bag.

“You alright?” he asks.

My knees and elbows are bruised, and my ego as well, but I am still intact.

“Yeah, I didn’t see them coming,” I say, brushing my hair back from my face.

“Me neither.” He hands me an armful of my belongings and I drop them back into my bag.

“They’ve got it out for me.”

“Yeah they do,” Clad says, scowling.

Mr. Wiggan lets the door shut behind him, takes in the number of kids in the room, and exhales. “Well more than last time,” he says looking on the bright side.

“You okay, that was a bad fall,” he asks me.

“Yep, I’m like rubber,” I say.

I am fond of Mr. Wiggan because he is the only teacher who has ever taken a liking to me. I think he looks forward to seeing Clad and I each day; he calls us ‘the Dynamic Duo.’

“Alrighty then,” he says fretfully shuffling through the mess of papers on his desk. He gives up. “I really need to get organized,” he says trying to be funny. No one laughs.

He has been teaching biology for over twenty years, and every time he stands in front of us he shakes like a leaf. Mr. Wiggan excuses himself to the bathroom, and what class there is, Clad, me, and a few others, begin to chat.

“Will you go with me tonight?” Clad asks.

“Go where?” I say.

“Indigo. I can have a fake ID made up for you tonight, and then we can drive on down.”

I consider. Mom won’t be at work today so I don’t have to risk her seeing me. “Okay, sounds fun.”

“Really?” he asks in disbelief.

“Yes,” I say trying to not be put-off by his excitement.

“Me going clubbing with Bailey Sykes, imagine that,” he says, a faint smile forming on his lips.

Chapter 8

The locker room is buzzing with gossip of my and Miemah’s confrontation yesterday. I try to hide the bruise on my stomach by dressing with my back to the other girls, but Nessa pushes me, exposing the purple and yellow bruise.

“Look guys! Bailey has a stomach disease,” Nessa shouts, and the girls train their eyes on my stomach. I’m past crying, past emotional breakdowns.

“Her stomach looks fine to me,” one girl says and turns back around.

“She’s got a pretty body,” another says, complimenting me.

“You guys are dumbasses, I was talking about the giant bruise. You can’t miss it, and Miemah gave it to her, because she’s a two-timing bitch,” Nessa says.

But they have all stopped listening, and have returned to dressing for gym. I do the same. I am fortunate that Nessa has no one to back her up; Cecil must be in the bathroom.

It is raining when we walk outside the gym: raining and cold, the perfect combination. Mrs. Stewart likes to work us hard. She starts us off with a half-mile run, and then we are to do the plank.

“I want to time you Bailey, can you run a mile today?” she asks, stopwatch in hand.

I look at the dreary track, being pelted with icy drops of rain, and I think,
I’ve run under worse conditions.

“Yeah,” I say up for the challenge. “I can.”

“Okay. Go when you’re ready,” Mrs. Stewart says.

I break into a run before she says the word “when.” My feet feel like they don’t even touch the track, I’m soaring through the mile like it is nothing. My peers are struggling to just walk their half-mile. I make it around the track twice, and pass Trenton on my third lap. He smiles and winks at me. I slow down a bit to return a smile.

The fourth lap is trying, but I make it through. My feet are searing, my hair and clothes are drenched, but if feels good to prove myself.

“Whoa,” Stewart says as if she is reigning in a horse. She reads the stop-watch. “Five minutes and thirty seconds exactly,” she says amazed.

“Told ya’,” I laugh, and head to the drinking fountain.

Stewart follows me.

“Will you join the track team? We’d be really happy to have you,” she says.

I gulp down the water too fast, and my stomach hurts.

“Sorry, I stopped running competitively a few years ago. I just do it for fun,” I say.

“Please. We really need a runner like you, especially because you are such a fast female runner. You would be a very valuable asset to the team.”

“I don’t want to be somebody’s asset. That’s why I stopped track in the first place. It became less about the joy of running, and more about me being a winning streak for the team.”

Her expression hardens. “Whatever, Sykes. You’re turning down a good offer,” she says. Her tone is teetering between threat and malice, sending chills down my spine.

Trenton jogs over to me, his shirt off, abs exposed.

“You are like a bullet,” he says. “You whizzed right by me, I barely had the chance to smile.”

“Thanks, what happened to your shirt, did the rain melt it?” I jest, pointing to his rippled stomach.

“It could have,” he says cunningly. “You’re soaked to the bone. You’ll catch pneumonia if you don’t go inside and get dried off.”

“Want to come with me?” I dare to ask.

He spins around like he is looking for the person I am talking to, then points to his self. I nod.

“I would like that,” he says.

Trenton puts his arm around my waist and tows me to the gym’s entrance. His arm leaves my waist for a moment to hold the door open.

“Your mom taught you well,” I say approvingly.

“I’m going to fetch us some towels. Be right back,” he says, galloping away.

I sit on the bleachers, shaking head to toe from the cold. He comes running back, two large white towels in his grip. He drops one on my head and then playfully wraps it around me.

“You’re so cold,” he says as he embraces me.

“You too,” I say, my teeth chattering.

“You’re adorable,” he says.

I stare shyly at my feet. I hardly know him, but I feel so close to him, like he has been my friend as long as Clad.
I’ve got to stop comparing him to Clad
, I think, as he picks me up and spins me. We both laugh when his foot slips in the water we’ve tracked in and he almost drops me.

“You know if you would stop hanging around those losers, you could be something, Bailey.”

I’m caught off guard. “Losers?”

“Yeah, that boy what’s his name, Iron? And Alana,” Trenton says.

“They aren’t losers, they are my friends,” I say.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to make you angry,” he says, his voice smooth. “I just think you could do better. I mean, look at you, you’ve got it all. The looks, the brains, the personality, and you run like a pro. What more could a person want?”

I don’t know how to answer him, or what to think. Is it a compliment that he thinks Clad, and Alana are unworthy of my friendship?

“It’s just something to think about, Bailey,” he says, running his finger along the outline of my lips.

“You and I, maybe we could have something. Think about it, the hottest guy in school with the most gorgeous girl in school.”

“Like a match made in heaven,” he continues. “Two beautiful angels, sharing each other’s love.”

He leans in for a kiss, but I back away and slip off the bleacher.

“Maybe next time,” Trenton says.

The doors open and the class comes in looking like a pack of drowned rats. We sneak our way to the locker rooms, unspotted by Mrs. Stewart. I can’t stop smiling from my encounter with Trenton.

My smile vanishes, though, when Cecil whispers in my ear, “I saw you and Trenton together. Miemah will kick your ass when I tell her.”

“We were only talking,” I say quickly, my heartbeat speeding up.

She digs her nails into my side. “I saw you almost kiss him. You’re lying through your teeth!” she fumes.

She drags her nails down my side before walking away. There are long bloody streaks left by her nails imprinted in my side.
Vicious, plain vicious
.

I dress, being extra careful to not get blood on my shirt. I put my thick grey hoodie on to help with the stinging of my side. I can’t take much more of this, so right then I decide to not keep it hidden anymore. Today I’m going to tell somebody: a counselor, a teacher, a random kid in the hallway.
Anyone
.

This is when the thought of killing myself becomes a bad idea, and the Bullet List is put back into action. It would make Miemah and her minions all too happy to see me dead. I’ll be damned if I’m going to give them that satisfaction.

I close my locker and run a brush through my damp hair in an attempt to look a little less disheveled. I’m missing lunch but I don’t care, Mom forgot to give me my lunch bag anyway. I’m thinking that I might go to the janitor’s closet, when Clad walks into the dressing room.

My eyes light up. “What are you doing in here? I could have been undressing.”

“That’s a risk I just had to take.” Clad grins, his eyes twinkling.

“Why aren’t you at lunch?” he asks.

“I was just thinking.” I bend down to pick up my tote bag, and my side stings in response. “Ah,” I accidently groan.

“You’re hurt,” he says, sensing I am hiding something.

Without asking he pulls up my shirt, but only high enough to see the scratches. “Who did this to you?” he asks.

“None of your business, and don’t ever pull up my shirt again,” I say, yanking it down.

“You can’t just let her get away with it like that. Who was it, Cecil? Nessa? Miemah?” I start for the door, but he blocks me. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me who did that.”

I punch him in the stomach, but he flexes just in time.

“I want to go eat,” I say.

He pulls a bag of Cheez-Its from his pocket and thrusts it into my hands. “There you go, eat. And tell me who did it,” he says.

“Cecil,” I say, caving in.

He lets his arm fall from the door and hooks it around me.

“That makes me so angry,” Clad says.

“She dug her nails in me, because-” I forget that he might be upset for me flirting with Trenton.

“Because she’s a demon,” I say.

He looks heartbroken. “Someone has to stop her, has to stop all of them. It’s gotten out of hand. What comes next, gouging your eyes out? I won’t stand for it!”

I bury my head in his chest. “They aren’t going to stop, ever!” I cry. “Not you or anyone else can stop them. They want me dead!” His hands comb through my hair. I’m weak and want to sit down, but leaning against him is making me feel better. He is so strong and unmoving; like the Great Wall of China he could stand here and bear all my weight and sorrow for centuries.

“Shhh,” he says, “don’t cry. You will make
me
cry, and Cecil shouldn’t have that kind of power over you.”

I’m trying to hold it in, but what’s the use?

“I can’t,” I sob.

“No, don’t.” Clad says, his voice cracking. “
God,
don’t sob,”

“I’m not God,” I say, and laugh through my tears. “And he is not crying.”

“You don’t think that God and all the angels are crying to see one of their own weeping?” he says, pulling me in tighter.

Lunch passes, and part of fourth period too. Clad stays with me until I am composed again. His forehead is lined with worry; his eyes red and strained. I have put him through too much, yet I don’t know how to survive without his support.

I hand over his bag of Cheez-Its unopened but its contents crushed from my clutch.

“You eat it,” he says, pushing it back into my hands. “You need it more than I do.”

I pop open the bag and they all spill out from a hole in the bottom.
Damnit, I am so hungry I could eat them off the floor.

Clad beats me to it. He puts one in his mouth and says, “Yum. Five second rule.”