The Bullet List (The Saving Bailey Trilogy, #1) (2 page)

She finishes bandaging my feet the same way she did my hands. The pain subsides.

“Okay, I’ll do it.” She lets out a heavy breath. The impact of being asked to live without her beloved alcohol is almost too much to bear.

“Do it for me,” I say.

“I do everything for you, Bailey. You are all I got,” Mom says.

I think back to a time when I was not the only person in her life, a time when she was happy and sober. Before dad went to prison, and before we moved to Cape Coral.

“I miss him too,” I say, knowing she is also remembering how things used to be.

“It’s been a rough eleven years raising you by myself,” she confesses. “But he made a bad decision, and he belongs behind bars for it. I just wish he hadn’t hurt us both to do it.”

“I hate him. He never cared about us, or he wouldn’t have done it,” I say without much emotion. “It is as simple as that.”

“Maybe,” Mom says, her mind elsewhere. “You look just like him. You have the same dark blue eyes and shiny black hair.” She ruffles my hair.

“Except, his is curly,” I say.

“Yep, it was,” she agrees, talking as if he has passed away.

The sun peeps through the small bathroom window, and reminds me it is time to go to school.

“School,” Mom and I say in unison.

“Don’t shower, you’ll ruin the bandages,” Mom warns me.

I get up, and limp into my bedroom, looking for some new clothes to wear. I am still wearing my hoodie and jeans from yesterday. My stained chocolate-milk shirt is buried somewhere in my tote bag beneath a clutter of books and papers. I pull on a white tank top, black skinny jeans, my sneakers, and a different hoodie. I go back to the bathroom to see Mom sitting on the rug, staring at the shower curtain but seeing nothing.

“I can’t cry anymore. Stop feeling guilty,” I beg her.

She doesn’t budge from her place. I roll my eyes and decide I don’t have time to deal with her. Soon, my bus will be at the stop sign waiting for me whether I’m there to get on it or not.

I take a hasty look in the mirror and am horrified by my reflection. The bruise is more prominent on my face than I had expected. Makeup could never hide it. My hair is a wreck, and my eyes are darker than ever, they resemble a roadmap from being blood shot.

“I look like crap,” I grumble, but shrug it off when I hear the creaking bus pull up to my stop. I drag myself outside. The air is wet and sticky with morning dew, and my feet sting with every step. I turn to wave goodbye to Mom before I get on, but she is nowhere in sight.

Chapter 2

I am dreading walking into the school when the horn blares, allowing us to go inside. My bandages are coming apart, and with my awkward gait, and red sleepless eyes, I look like a zombie. The last thing I want is to interact with any form of life. Nonetheless, Alana comes up to me with her usual sprightly bounce.

“What happened to you?” Alana squeaks.

“A semi ran me over on my way to school,” I say nonchalantly.

“Yeah, funny. What really happened? Did Miemah beat you up?” she asks.

“No, but my mom did,” I say.

“She got drunk didn’t she?” Alana asks.

“You know her so well,” I say.

“I really got to tell my mom to stop giving her bottles of vodka as presents,” she says in all seriousness.

“What!” I shriek.

“You didn’t know? My mom gave your mom a huge bottle of vodka for her birthday yesterday. She must have drunk it all up at once,” Alana laughs hysterically.

“Are you serious? That’s not funny!” I punch her on the shoulder.

“Oww!” she whimpers, and rubs where I hit her.

How could I have forgotten Mom’s birthday? An unwanted feeling like fingers creeping up my throat comes over me.

“Some birthday,” I croak to Alana.

“What you didn’t get her anything?” she asks innocently.

I grit my teeth and snarl, “You are so damn stupid.”

I walk away.

“What? What did I say?” she calls after me.

I can’t believe that I made my mom feel so lousy on her birthday.
She was drunk because she was celebrating
. I could have told her happy birthday and given her presents, but I chose to be selfish and reprimand her for being drunk.
I broke her only birthday present
, I realize with a sinking feeling.

Alana catches up with me, out of breath. “She hit you because she was drunk, right?” she asks.

“Ding, Ding, we have a winner!” I say.

“What happened to your hands?” she asks.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I choke, tears surfacing in my eyes. “I got to get to class, we’ll talk later.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but I lose her in the crowded hallway. It is probably for the better. She reminds me of the pixie from a book my mom once read to me; a red-headed spirited pixie who got herself lost in a shroud of weeds and couldn’t get back to her pixie clan. She eventually wandered too far, and came across a hungry Bulldog in a family’s back yard. She reached out to pet him and he ate her up in one bite. Oh, how, I wish this would happen to Alana too.

I find my seat at the front of Mrs. Latcher’s class and sit down pretending not to notice the eyes burning holes in my back. Mrs. Latcher walks in, and inconspicuously looks in my direction. I give her an impish grin. I know she is secretly wishing that her laser eyes could spontaneously make me erupt into flames. Too bad I have grown so used to her gaze that it has no effect on me anymore. I’m flame resistant

“Well class, good morning. I’m going to take attendance now, no talking while I’m talking.” She rattles off the names, but when she comes to mine she draws it out in a defeated groan. “Baileyyy Sykesss.”

I lift my battered hand into the air, making a show of how I could not care less that everyone is staring and whispering behind my back.

“Yes, yes, you are all here,” she intones. “Let’s begin.”

After checking to make certain that we have all done our homework and lecturing me for not doing mine, she rambles on about triangles and the Pythagorean Theorem.

I am about to lay my head on the desk to get in my routine mid-morning nap when something lands in my hair. It is a piece of crumpled-up paper. I smooth it out to discover a note from Clad. He is siting two seats behind me. I lift my head up to read it. Scratched in red colored pencil the note reads:

Bailey what happened to your
face
head? Where did that bruise come from? The bandages on your hands? Are you okay? Please tell me Miemah and her posse didn’t get ahold of you. I would die if I knew she did that because of my big stupid mouth. Okay, maybe I wouldn’t die. Maybe I would just wish that I could die. I’m really sorry about yesterday. Clad.

I crumple it back up and shoot it flawlessly into the trashcan. I can hear Clad gasp from behind me. I twist my head around and observe his massive kiwi-green eyes glaze over.

“Bailey, what are you doing? Trying to hold a conversation with the wall?” Latcher smirks.

“No. I’m trying to stay awake through your lecture,” I snap back. “So far, it isn’t working.”

Her mouth drops. “You got some nerve talking to me like that!” she squawks, jabbing a wrinkled leathery finger at me.

“I was just being honest,” I say.

“Well you can just take your ‘honesty’ and get out of my class, Ms. Sykes,” she commands.

“Fine,” I say under my breath. I gather my things, and walk out.

As soon as I get outside the door I stop and listen to what she might be saying about me to the class. Instead I hear Clad speak up, “Mrs. Latcher, you can’t keep throwing her out of class like that. We all know you hate her, but give her a break. She’s obviously been going through a lot lately.”

Mrs. Latcher draws in a big breath before saying in a markedly defensive tone, “Clad, I don’t hate her. She needs to learn to have respect for her teachers. Discussion over.”

“No. You need to learn how to respect your students. Discussion over!” Clad fires back. I am almost pushed over backwards by Clad as he comes stomping out the door.

“Come on, let’s get away from here,” he says. He’s shaking with adrenaline. “I really can’t stand that damn lady and the way she treats you. Someone had to put her in her place.”

I shake my head at him. “Can’t you just stay out of my business and leave me alone?”

“No I don’t think I can,” he admits. “I’m like your only friend; it’s my job to be here for you.”

“It’s not your job to do anything for me. And I do have other friends. For instance Alana,” I say.

He chuckles. “Alana is not much of a friend. Plus, she’s very obnoxious.”

“So are you!” I wisecrack.

“You may not have many friends, but aside from Miemah and her followers, you are the most popular girl in the school,” Clad says.

“And what makes you think that?” I ask skeptically.

“Don’t act like you don’t know.” He smiles in amusement. “You are unbelievably gorgeous and everyone is jealous of you for it,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone.

“No, everyone just hates me,” I clarify for him.

“Miemah only despises you because every day she wakes up praying that she could be blessed with just one ounce of the beauty you possess-” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Instead she grows uglier with every word of hatred she tosses your way.”

“That’s touching really, but I don’t believe you,” I say slyly.

“I can’t make you believe, I can only tell you how it is.” He shrugs.

We exit the math hallway and make our way to the main staircase. The bell will ring for next period soon and we figure we can wait outside the door to our next class until then.

“Hey, I never realized this, but you have far too many classes with me,” I say.

“It’s like I did it on purpose or something,” Clad suggests jokingly.

The science room is stinking up the entire sophomore hallway with the smell of preserved pig carcasses.

“I don’t get it,” Clad says. “We’re not butchers. This is science class, so then why are we handling dead pigs?” he says, trying to be funny.

I’m not entertained. The stench is wreaking havoc on my nose, and I’m overcome with a fit of coughing. Clad tries to stifle his laughter.

“I’m gonna throw up if I have to even see a dead baby pig, let alone dissect one!” I manage to cough out.

“You’ve got a weak stomach, kid,” Mr. Wiggan comments as he opens the door to let us in. I hadn’t seen him coming down the hallway.

“Yeah I do,” I admit.

I find a desk far from the carcasses of the dead swine, but no desk is far enough to escape the foul air. Clad sits next to me up front, reluctantly, because he dislikes sitting close to the teacher.

“He won’t bite,” I say.

“It’s not him I’m worried about.” Clad giggles and pushes me.

“You’re a riot,” I say back.

Half the class is missing when the tardy bell rings. Apparently the idea of dissecting dead baby animals is not very appealing to anybody.

“I guess everyone is trying to avoid you. Sorry baby,” Mr. Wiggan says, patting the back of one of the pigs. “Don’t take it to heart. If it makes you feel any better, I still think you’re cute.”

I can’t figure out what is creepier, Mr. Wiggan talking to a dead pig, or that he considers it cute. “Okay enough of that,” he says, breaking his chat with the piglet.

“Team up into groups of five please,” he says as more of a suggestion than a command.

“You and me?” Clad asks, pointing between us.

“Not a chance in hell,” I mutter.

“What did you say?” he asks.

“I said yeah that would be swell.” It’s hard not to tease Clad. We have been friends for as long as I can remember, as far back as kindergarten. He has made it very obvious on more than one occasion that he is attracted to me. It’s not that I don’t like him, nor is it that he’s unattractive. I actually quite like his lively green eyes and almond-brown hair. The six-pack doesn’t hurt either. But right now I cannot imagine being anything more than friends with him because we are as close as a brother and a sister

“Why are you staring at me like that?” he asks suddenly.

I snap out of it. “I’m just spacing out. Okay, you can be in my group,” I say.

He snickers, “I don’t think you have a choice. Everyone else skipped out on you.”

My smile fades. He puts his hand on my shoulder and I shudder beneath his touch.

“You intimidate them,” he says in an effort to comfort me.

His gentle squeeze of my shoulder feels wrong. Like he has stepped over a line.

I want to tell him not to touch me again. However, if I do, I run the risk of upsetting him.

“Leggo,” I say. “There’s a baby pig with your name on it back there!”

When we get back to the lab tables, everyone is already well into the dissection process. Some of them have finished the required dissecting, and have resorted to poking the pig’s eye out of boredom.
Don’t gag, don’t breath through your nose
, I repeat over and over again in my head. Luckily, Clad is into to the whole dissecting thing and digs right in.

“Let’s name him Bacon,” he suggests.

I nod. “That’s a nice name,” I say.

Clad, hands me a scalpel, and I instantly drop it. I use my bandaged hands as an excuse to skip the dissection. I let Clad finish up while I lay my head on the desk and concentrate on not throwing up.

Somehow I fall asleep. I dream that I am in an empty slaughterhouse with Miemah and her follower Cecil; they are standing about ten feet in front of me, with a pile of the dead baby pigs at their feet.

“Here comes Bacon!” Cecil shouts and throws a pig at me.

I try to run but my feet are stuck. I try to scream but my voice won’t work. The pig hits me and knocks me down, but only for a second. I pop back up and find a gun at my feet.
Mom’s
. I load it, cock it, and say, “You are about to be Bacon,” and shoot. The glass windows, interconnected circles like stencils vibrate from the gun-shot. The bullet strikes Miemah in the stomach, and she screams ‘Wake up!’ repeatedly at me as she falls to her knees.

My eyes flutter open. Clad’s hand is on my back.

“Don’t touch me,” is the first thing that comes out of my mouth.

He retracts his hand. “You fell asleep, I was only trying to wake you up,” he says so softly that it is hard to make out.

“I know,” I say, trying to lose the bad dream.

“Where’s Bacon?” I ask.

“In the trash. Why, did you want to say good bye?” Clad asks.

“No, it’s better this way.”