The Bullet List (The Saving Bailey Trilogy, #1) (18 page)

“No, Bailey, I don’t. Spencer comes into your life for two days, and suddenly he is hot stuff. I have been here since the beginning, and what credit do I get?”

I open my mouth to answer but he cuts me off.

“You sleep with his blanket, as if it is the only thing you’ve ever known. He sings you to sleep, and you are at peace with the world, as if it never did you any wrong. And every rehearsed word that leaves his mouth has you head over heels. All I ever did was be real with you, Bailey, but you want nothing to do with me.”

Yes you have been real
, I think to myself,
real obsessed
.

Chapter 24

Clad

In fifth grade, there was this boy – we called him T-Rod. His full name was Rodney Tyler. T-Rod had the ugliest face you ever saw. It was cherubic, like a baby angel’s, but with eyes too close together, and a nose smashed down in the middle, like he had run into a wall real hard.

He was the biggest fifth-grader in the school, even taller than Bailey. He made his reputation by pestering and bullying anyone he could get his hands on: boys, girls, teachers, he would even spit gum into the class fish tank. Goldie, our pet fish, didn’t stand a chance; he was floating at the top of the tank before we had even decided who would get to take him home first. We ended up letting T-Rod do away with his dead, scaly body. I hate to think what happened to him.

Bailey had this habit, still does, in fact, of molding people into what she thought they should be, and how they should act. She didn’t see Rodney as being exempt. Bailey, hard-headed as she was, took a special disliking to T-Rod, because he refused to walk in a straight line.

He’d weave in and out of the line to recess every day, and this irked Bailey in a way one cannot imagine. Shaking her curls at him, fists rolled into balls, she would shout things like,
“You’re mean!”
and
“What do you have two left feet?”
or
“You walk like you are a drunken hobo!”
The last one always cracked me up
.

One day, coming from lunch, T-Rod left his spot behind Bailey in line and placed himself in front of her. He then zigzagged the whole way to the recess field, like he was being chased by a crocodile. By the time we got outside, Bailey and I were fuming. Trying to lose him, we went to the swings. I thought we had lost him, when all of the sudden I saw his frizzy hair and his eyes, the color of split-pea soup, fixed on Bailey.

Before I could warn Bailey, he came up behind her, and slammed his foot into her back. She flew from that swing and ate mulch, her face buried in it, her knees scraped. I was about to break out in laughter when she lifted her head and I saw blood on her lips.

A feeling like nothing I have ever felt before swept through my body, like suddenly
I could fight anyone, or anything
. My blood pumped hot through my arms, my hands clenched into fists. I pummeled T-Rod, his body like a soft pillow, my fists kneading into him like dough. Bailey grinned so wide that day, I thought her face would crack.

T-Rod and I got referral slips for fighting, and my dad beat my butt when I came home. T-Rod already had so many referrals, I bet he had them stacked up in his bathroom as toilet paper. I got in a lot of trouble for defending Bailey, but her smile of approval made it all worth it. There are more times than I can count on my fingers and toes that I kept Bailey safe throughout elementary and middle school. It’s like she has a target on her back.

I lived for this girl, gave so much up, suffered so many beatings for her because I loved her, truly loved her, and I still do. She couldn’t do anything to make me stop loving her; she could slit my throat and I would still try to comfort her while I bleed to death.

Now this Spencer comes along, his heart ripped out after losing his girlfriend to cancer, thinking Bailey can replace her. His longing for another girl, creating a rift between Bailey and I. Up until now I had always been okay with Bailey not acknowledging all that I have done for her, but with Spencer receiving so much attention, my heart is beginning to feel raw. It is like someone has taken an eraser and rubbed it across my heart, back and forth, leaving it bright red and stinging.

Bailey is on the couch, holding onto Angel’s paws, making him stand up on her knees. Her eyes are glossy, and I worry my words have upset her.

“Bailey, you okay?” I ask, kicking the rug.

“I’m sorry Clad,” she says, tucking Angel under her chin. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I do appreciate you. I know I never say it, Clad, but I really do appreciate you.”

My stomach has butterflies. “Ya’ mean it?” I ask, trying hard not to smile.

“Of course, Clad, I am not so ditzy or thoughtless that I would suddenly forget everything you ever did for me.” A smile crosses her cherry lips. “Remember T-Rod? Remember how you pounded him after he pushed me off the swing?”

I nod, thinking that are minds are so in sync.

“How could I forget?” I say, and pick her off the couch.

She giggles and clutches Angel tighter, so he won’t fall off.

“We could dance,” I say.

Her eyes light up. “Could we? Did you bring your radio?” she asks, suddenly hyper.

“Mhm,” I say, and put her down.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asks, pushing the coffee table into the kitchen.

“It’s in my truck, I’ll be right back,” I say and skip out the door.

Spencer can sing to Bailey all he wants but she will never sing back
. If I do a step, she returns it. If I spin on my head, she spins on her toes. If I hold out my arms, she leaps into them and arches her back like a purring cat.

When I stroll back into the apartment she is already spinning around the room.

She stops, and falls on the ground laughing because I have caught her twirling like a ballerina.

“Sorry, just felt like spinning,” she says, holding her stomach from laughing so hard.

“You are very graceful,” I say, and turn my radio on. “Is there a song you prefer?”

She shakes her head no, so I put my iPod on shuffle, and connect it to the radio. A song plays, and I kick my shoes off.

“I can’t dance with my shoes on, can I? Huh, my little tinker toy?” I ask as she spins. She reminds me of the ballerina in my sister Alec’s jewelry box that twirls when you open it.
A real living doll,
I think.

“I don’t think I can do that one!” I say, trying to copycat the airy twirls.

“You are so robotic,” she says. “Loosen up, do some stretching.”

“Stretching is for squares,” I grin, and kick my leg over her head.

“How’s that for stretching?” I tease her.

“Impressive,” she says, and lays down a few hip-hop moves to follow suit with the song that is playing. I free style in the corner of the room, worried I will kick or hit her.

“Join me,” she says, placing her small hands in mine.

“Okay,” I say, and follow her to the middle of the room.

We are two spinning tops, pulling into one another, and spinning away from each other once our bodies collide.
She can’t be without me
, I realize with a smile. Spencer is attractive to her, like a shiny toy, but I am like food – nourishment – she can’t
live
without me.

Sweat rolls down her forehead and her hair becomes tangled, her cheeks flushed from dancing.
She is a vision
.

“I’m tuckered,” I say breathlessly, and let her bend over my arm.

“Ta-da,” she breathes.

I stare at her, and she stares back, and we don’t break our gaze for the entire rest of the song.

“Those eyes,” I finally say. “They got me.”

“Your eyes got me too, lover boy,” she says using Spencer’s pet name for me.

“Lover boy and tinker toy,” I say and push my head closer to hers, our lips and noses pressing against each other.

“Would you kiss me?” I ask, and she shivers on my arm.

“I would,” she says, and locks her lips on mine.

Her legs are wrapped around my waist, her hands beneath my shirt, and my lips smashed against hers.

“Trenton was right, you kiss like an angel,” I say and reach for her shirt.

My heart-beat accelerates.
I am making out with Bailey, how did this happen?
My stomach is knotted like a string in the hands of a boy scout.

“No, I’m gonna’ be sick,” she says as I pull her shirt up.

She pulls away from me and scrambles to the toilet.

“Are you serious?” I say, my hands frozen in their position.
I almost had your shirt off
, I think to myself.

She vomits, which shows me just how serious she is.

“Hold up, I’ll hold your hair!” I say, leaving my spot on the couch.

“It’s weaning off the morphine that is doing this,” she says as I gather her hair in my hand.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have been doing so much, I mean you did just leave the hospital this morning.”

She nods and gags.

“You haven’t even been eating,” I say and rub her back.

“That’s why,” she says and flushes the toilet. She slumps against the cool porcelain of the tub, her face bleak. She looks as pale and fragile as she did in the hospital.

“I’m going to get you some ice water, just stay here,” I say, and hand her a towel to wipe her mouth with.

I was going to take her clothes off.
What was I thinking?

She sips the ice water slowly, and gives the glass back to me with shaking hands.

“You wouldn’t have been pleased,” she says.

“With what?”

“My body.”

“Are you kidding me?” I say, chuckling incredulously, before placing Spencer’s blanket around her delicate shoulders.

“I lost a lot of weight in the hospital,” she says in dismay.

“So? You are still pretty, and as attractive as ever. And we will fatten you up, don’t worry.”

I squeeze her sides to tickle her, but she doesn’t laugh.

“I need my medicine, it’s on the counter in the kitchen. Will you get it for me, please?”

“Yeah, Bailey, sure,” I say, feeling pity for her.

When I return, I place two tiny white pills in her hand. She gobbles them down like Skittles.

“The pills will make me really drowsy,” she says.

“Can I carry you to the couch?” I ask.

“Yes, please do,” she says, her eyes closing.

I lay her head on the armrest, and help her kick off her jeans.

“There, is that better?” I ask, smoothing her hair.

“Much better,” she mumbles.

Angel hops onto the couch and crawls onto her chest, curling up for a nap.

“I would sing you to sleep, but my singing wouldn’t do much good.”

“Will you talk me to sleep, then?”

“Yes, what do you want me to talk about?”

“
School
.”

“That won’t be much of a lullaby,” I say sardonically.

“Talk about the video, Clad, what has Miemah done with it?”

“You won’t sleep easy once you know.”

“
Tell me
.”

“Okay. She has posted it on YouTube and people are commenting on it like crazy. You have over two thousand views,” I say.

She swallows hard.

“What do they say?”

“The people who comment? Nasty things I won’t repeat.”

“I got to get that tape, and destroy it,” she says, pounding her fist on her cast.

“It will get taken off YouTube eventually,” I say.

“Then she will still have the tape, Clad. I have to get it,” she says stubbornly.

“Please tell me you don’t plan on going into the lion’s den again? She really will kill you this time.”

“I don’t plan on getting killed,” she says, as her eyes grow too heavy to keep open.

“I will get it,” she murmurs as she falls to sleep.

“Sleep tight, Bailey,” I say, and kiss her forehead.

Angel and Bailey are sleeping with their heads touching, her black hair mixing with his ruffled mass of fur. I gently shake her, and when she doesn’t stir I get up and go into her bedroom to explore. Her bedroom smells like flowers and fresh laundry. Her bed is perfectly made up, like the barracks of a soldier. I go to her dresser and open up the top drawer. I am expecting underwear, maybe bras, but I get socks. White tube-socks.
Sexy
, I think. I start to close it when the runner gets stuck on something; I push my hand to the way back of the drawer and find a balled-up piece of paper. It tears a little when I free it. Angel whines, and I jump, the paper tightly fitted in my fist. Maybe it is just trash, but what if it is a love letter? A letter from Trenton, or worse,
Spencer
.

I smooth out the paper on top of her dresser and read it to myself:
THE BULLET LIST.
Certainly not the romantic love letter I was expecting. I read on, my curiosity piqued.
Miemah, Cecil, Nessa, Stewart, Bracker, and Latcher
. Names of people she hates, it is a list of everyone who has done her wrong.

“Bullet list, bullet list,” I say aloud, trying to comprehend what it means. Bullets go in a gun. Guns are used to shoot.
To kill
.
Bailey want’s to kill everyone she hates
.

I drop the paper and let out a screech. Bailey stirs on the couch, I hear Angel leap to the floor.

“No,” I say shaking my head. “This can’t be.”

Where is the gun?
I return to the drawer and search inside of it, but all I come up with is socks. I hurriedly open up her other drawers before she can wake. Panties, jeans, shirts, hair-brushes, school folders. No gun, no bullets.

Perhaps I am letting my mind get ahead of me. It is possible that she wrote out the list in a fit of rage, not really planning on murdering all these people.
That must be it
, she would never actually kill someone. I look at her asleep on the couch, sweet, and innocent.
No, not Bailey
. She is an angel.

I close all the drawers, and return the list to its spot, buried in the socks. I can only hope I’m right, that Bailey has no intentions of killing anyone, that she was only upset when she wrote it.

She is talking in her sleep when I get back to the living room, struggling with the quilt, as if it is attacking her. I jostle her awake, and she lets out a scream.

“Why were you shaking me?” she asks.

“It looked like you were having a bad dream,” I say, and hug her.

“I was,” she says, and latches onto me like a cat being dunked in water.

“You will be okay, it was only a dream,” I say and kiss her. “Dreams can’t hurt you.”

“Yes they can, sometimes they can become
real
.”

“Yours won’t,” I say, and lift her onto my lap.

“What if they do?” she asks, her voice meek.

“Then I will be here to cast them away, like I have always been.”