The Bullet List (The Saving Bailey Trilogy, #1) (23 page)

“No one cares about you either, Bailey,” she says, her voice nasally. “Your so-called friend Alana, she helped me clean up your blood, and get rid of all the evidence.”

Her admission doesn’t dig into me like it should. I already know Alana isn’t on my side;
heck, maybe she even told Miemah I’d be in the locker room maybe that is how she knew where my apartment was.

“Your nose is crooked,” I say.

Cecil and I share a smile before two rough hands pin my arms together, and pull me from the hallway, and down the stairs.

“Let go of me! Cecil needs my help!” I shout at the hairy arms that are latching onto me like I am an escape artist who could vanish at any second.

“I knew you were trouble, Bailey!” Mr. Stickler growls. “You will be sent to ALC for this. I am sick of hearing about you bullying my students!”

“I did it to protect Cecil!” I yell at him.

He kicks open the office door, and tosses me into a leather chair inside Mrs. Flores’s office. She is one of the many school counselors.

“Stay here, and don’t you move a muscle, young lady!” he says, his face beet red, and finger wavering at me.

I stare down at the armrests on the chair, and notice the yellow stuffing spilling out like maggots from slashes that have undoubtedly been made by nervous fingernails. I wonder how many other kids have sat in this same chair, pulling out the stuffing.

Mrs. Flores ambles in gracefully, and then slams the door behind her, indicating that she means business.

“Is Miemah in the office too?” I ask, before she even sits down, and fixes herself like a bird in her nest ruffling her feathers. She kind of looks like a bird too, with a large pointed nose, and tiny glassy eyes.

“I don’t believe so. Anyway that is none of your business,” she replies.

“You have to keep her away from Cecil, she wants to kill her,” I say.

“Mrs. Stewart informed me of multiple times that you bullied Miemah and other girls. Is it true you punched Miemah in the face just now?”

“Is it true that her blood is splattered on my cast?” I ask and shove my arm in her face. “Is it true that soon Cecil’s blood will be spilling from her body because no one is taking care of her?”

“You are a troubled little girl.”

“You’d be too, if you’d seen a person’s life taken before your eyes.”

“You need counseling,” she says, and pushes my broken arm off her desk, afraid I will stain the wood with Miemah’s blood.

“At least send someone to bring Cecil down here, or to check on her,” I say, ignoring the rude observation.

“I’m afraid I cannot, and I have plausible reason to assume that your story is fabricated. Why would you try to protect someone you viciously bullied?”

“I never bullied her. Stewart made that all up! She bullied me, and that is why I don’t want her to get the living day-lights beaten out of her, because I know what it feels like.
It is not a pretty experience.
”

“I could send you to ALC for punching Miemah. Tell me three good reasons why I shouldn’t,” Mrs. Flores says, cupping her hands together.

“I only did it to protect another student, and she beat me up many times before, and, and…for my third can I plead insanity? You said it yourself:
I need counseling
.”

She laughs, her beak of a nose snorting and honking. “I think you could plead insanity.”

“Okay then, I’m a lunatic,” I say.

“How did you break your arm?” she asks.

“Can’t say.”

“Will you whisper to me, tell me how it happened?” she says, making a
come hither
motion with her finger. I look around the room both ways like one would do before crossing traffic, then lean over the desk and whisper, “Miemah pushed me.”

“Why didn’t you tell the principal, or a teacher?”

“They would never believe me. No one believes me when I tell them the truth.”

“Did you really bully Miemah, Cecil, and Nessa? Or was it the other way around?” she asks.

“The other way.”

“Bailey,” she says coming away from her desk, and bending down, an arm around my shoulders. “
I believe you
.”

I notice as I am leaving, her eyes are the color of autumn leaves, and her hair is as golden as honey.
She is the prettiest bird I have ever seen.

Chapter 30

Blood on the walls, blood on the floor, blood on the cot, and quilt. Blood on a yellow crowbar lying in the middle of the closet.
I am too late
.

My beautiful sanctuary is painted with Cecil’s blood. I can’t breathe in here, my safe spot. I could run after them, try to find Cecil, but what would be the use? Miemah has a car. Moreover, even if I did find Miemah, I wouldn’t be able to take her.

I take a stack of folded washcloths, gallon of bleach from the janitor’s supplies, and start cleaning the little closet, rendering it free of all traces of blood. That is what friends do for each other,
clean up one another’s blood after it’s been spilled by Miemah.

This is how Mom must feel when she goes on one of her cleaning rampages after abusing me. Scrubbing away the bad memories and drowning out the voices in her head with the smell of Clorox. My hands turn raw and red, the skin soft and tight. I put gloves on and continue the cleanup. The blood on the walls is a particular pain, but luckily I find a bucket of white paint and after many coats it is hardly noticeable. I dispose of the crowbar, and quilt.

The blood on the metal legs of the cot sticks on like jelly.
Strawberry jelly,
I think,
not blood
. Red food dye and corn syrup, not real blood.
Certainly not Cecil’s blood.

The vapors trapped in the closet have nowhere to go but inside me, filling my head and lungs with paint fumes, bleach fumes, and Windex fumes. I remember my mom once telling me that when you clean a bathroom you should never mix bleach and Windex. I am beginning to feel lightheaded, so I lie down on the freshly mopped floor and close my eyes.

The bleach and paint is making my throat scratchy, and burning my eyes. I try to fall asleep and ignore it. But when I drift into sleep, I get pulled out of it by the wetness on my face from tears trying to wash my stinging eyes.

I can’t easily get over the fact that my safe haven has been breached by unthinkable evil. People say
I will sleep when I’m dead
, but I think they have it all wrong, because the best sleep is the kind you can get while alive, your mind formulating dreams. A world of dreams can only be entered through sleep, but when you are dead, there are no dreams, and you don’t need them, because all is well. What would you dream of
? Being alive and being able to dream again?

I think my ears are playing tricks on me when I hear the jangling of keys, and the turn of a lock. Footsteps and the roll of a cart, the sounds of Chewy, but I don’t want to open my eyes to confirm it. The door clicks shut, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Chewy has not discovered what has happened here, he still thinks it is my safe place.

I sit up, too fast, and faint back to the floor. The fumes have evaporated, but my head is heavy and achy.
I have spent all night in the closet
, I realize with horror. Mom must be having a heart attack wondering where I am. I dial her number on my cell, and tap my fingers on my knee as it rings and rings, Mom picking up on the last ring.

“Bailey?” she says, her voice tired.

“Mom, I’m okay.”

“Where have you been?” she asks.

“At a friend’s,” I say.

“And you didn’t even tell me?” she says, unbelieving.

“Mom, I was going to, but we fell asleep early. I’m sorry.”

“Are you at school?” she asks.

“No, I’m not feeling well. Can I stay home today?” I say, with a cough that I meant to be fake, but turns out to be real from the irritation in my throat.

“Sure honey, do you have a way home?”

I nod, and then realizing she can’t see me through the phone, I say, “Yes.”

“Your voice sounds hoarse,” she says.

I don’t tell her it is because my throat has been scratched dry by the bleach.

“I have to go, I will be home soon. Bye, Mom.”

“I love you,” she says before I hang up.

I swing my head up, and see that my paper is still taped up to the back of the door. Underneath what I’ve written, someone else had added a few words in red pen. ‘
There is hope still.’
Chewy
. I smile to myself.
That guy is alright
, I think, as I peel it off the door and stuff it in my bag. I give the room one quick look over to be confident that it is free of blood, then blow a kiss, and let the heavy door fall shut behind me.

The school is fairly empty, and I judge by the sparseness of students in the hall that it is still quite early in the morning. I go out the back door, down the stairs, and escape to the gym where there is a door that leads to the track. Once I am on the track, amongst a group of students taking an early run, I climb over the chain-link fence, and this is how I make my way out of the school without being noticed.

The sun is low in the sky, so I guess the time is about 6:45. The buses are just rolling in. I walk in the opposite direction of the kids who are on their way to school. I pass the little wooded area with a retention pond; the flat car tire that Trenton sometimes sits on, looking lonely by itself, having fallen over in the rotting leaves. I breathe in the fresh air.

I try to imagine a trail of blood on the sidewalk, a trail I could follow that would lead me to Cecil, but I can’t see it. No matter how hard I squint my eyes, I see only the grey porous concrete.
She must be okay
, I tell myself. Certainly by now she has made it to a hospital… unless, unless she isn’t here anymore.
Who’s to say she isn’t buried beneath a blanket of dirt?

My heart thuds in my chest, I run home faster. I need nothing more than to be locked in my mother’s arms, and Angel lapping my face with his tongue. My legs propel me forward, even though my mind is lagging somewhere on the sidewalk just outside of school.

I haven’t truly prayed to God since I was five, but now is as good a time as ever to begin again, so while I am running, my voice shudders as I say a little prayer for Cecil. It sounds stupid, I know, me praying for one of my greatest enemies. But maybe that is what justifies the prayer. I learned in Bible School, that when you pray you should pray for anyone who has done you injustice, because those are the people who need God most. With this in mind I pray for my wretched little heart too.

Mom is at the table, drinking coffee, and twisting her hair between her fingers when I come through the door.

“Mommy,” I say, my body and mind weak.

“Whatever is the matter, darling?” she asks, her voice serene.

I take my bag off my shoulder, and in one big stride I am in the warmth of her body. Her hand is in my hair, and on the back of my neck, her kisses on my cheeks.

“Mom,” I say again. I can’t tell her what has happened, if I do she will send me away, or we will have to move. We don’t have the money for that. “I just missed you.”

She laughs happily and takes my face in her hands. “You always were the type to get homesick,” she says.

I piece myself together, get Angel from my room, sit him in my lap, and listen as Mom instructs me on how to microwave the food she has made me for lunch.

“You will stay out of trouble while I’m at work, won’t you?” she says, kissing my head.

“I will be good, Mom.”

“Will you be safe here alone?” she asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and looking at the front door nervously, like a burglar might bust through at any moment.

“I have Angel to protect me,” I say, and lift him as a visual.

After Mom has left, I pull my cellphone out of my bag and call Alana. She answers in a voice that is at once bitter and hushed, “What do you want Bailey?”

“I need Cecil’s number,” I say.

“What makes you think I have it, and that if I did, I would even give it to you?”

“You are friends with them: Miemah, Nessa, Cecil. Didn’t take me long to catch on.”

“Why do you want her number?” she says, toying with me.

“Is she at school today?” I ask.

“No…”

“That’s because Miemah beat her within an inch of her life yesterday. I need to call her and see if she is still alive, Alana, because what if Miemah didn’t bother to leave an inch this time?”

I hear her sigh, and can envision her rolling her eyes.

“Fine,” she says. “Got a pen and paper?”

“Yes, I’m ready.” She rattles off the number. I can’t write it down fast enough, but it is fixed in my mind. “Thank you,” I say.

“Don’t mention it…” she says. “Really,
don’t mention it
.”

“I won’t,” I say, and end the call.

I gain my wits, and dial Cecil’s number.

It rings but no one picks up. So I try one more time, and a woman’s voice answers, “Hello?”

“This is Cecil’s friend, Bailey. Is she … home?”

“Didn’t you hear?” the voice says. “She is in the hospital. She was hit by a car.”

“A hit and run?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Will she… you know…”

“She will be okay. God is watching over her. Keep her in your prayers please; she will have a long recovery.”

“I will,” I say. “Goodbye.”

My heart feels so much lighter knowing that she is not dead. I think about my Bullet List, and many other things, every thought colliding until my mind is one massive knotted ball of confusion and disorder. I watch the television to ease my thoughts, but I can’t focus on what the people are saying. I watch their lips moving but hear no sound.

Angel scratches at my arm, begging for me to take him outside. I lock the door, as if to say,
no Angel we can’t go out there, it is too dangerous
.
Miemah knows where we live
.

I want Clad or Spencer to come over, and watch me, see me sleeping, assure me that I am alive because my body doesn’t feel right. Sometimes I think I am not breathing, or that I have been sitting one way for three hours when it has only been three minutes.

I fear that if I fall asleep, I might never wake up again. For this reason, I don’t take my medication: it makes me too drowsy.

I uncurl my legs, and check that Mom’s Walther is still in the kitchen drawer, amongst knickknacks we can’t seem to find a place for.
Safe and sound
. The bullets lay next to it, as a companion, married in merriment. I hold it in my hand; feeling the cool metal beneath my fingers, and how my wrist sags beneath its weight.

I try to familiarize myself with the weapon, because I know it is the only thing I have left to hold onto in this world. Yes, Chewy, there is still hope.
Hope that Miemah, and all the people that hurt me, will perish.

I recall a verse I read in the Bible once,
‘vengeance is mine saidth the lord.’
If that is true, then how come Miemah is still breathing? If I take vengeance, will God not let me into heaven? Will my name be erased from the Book of Life for evening out the odds? The thought rattles me. I place the Walther back in the drawer and close it, wondering if I will ever open it again.

I sit on the braided rug in the living room, and teach Angel a few new tricks. How to give me his paw, beg for food, and fetch his squeaky ball. The time is passing by slowly, and normally it would be delightful to be at home alone with Angel, but I know the feeling can’t last.

I want to guard myself against becoming too happy, or content, because when something happens to shatter that feeling it will be more devastating for me to come down from. I think of my emotions as climbing up a ladder, the higher I climb, the farther I will have to fall to meet the ground. The harder the impact will be.

I stretch out on the rug, my arm beneath the coffee table and my feet against the wall, just to rest my head. Soon enough I am asleep, though, deep in the lulls of REM sleep. The jiggling of the front door and Angel’s incessant barking is what it takes to pull me out of it. I struggle to my feet, and unlock the door, allowing Mom in.

“Did you eat your lunch?” she asks before she is even halfway through the door.

“I fell asleep,” I say with a wide yawn.

“Sleepyhead, if you don’t eat then your bones won’t heal. You have to be healthy so your body can heal itself faster.”

“I know, I’ll eat it for dinner,” I say.

She slams three cartons of Coca Cola on the table and says, “Phew! Those were heavvvyyy!”

“Soda?” I ask. “Since when do you buy soda?”

Tap water, or orange juice, has been the only thing to drink around here since we moved to Cape Coral.

“Well, now that I’ve stopped buying liquor…” she says, letting me figure the rest out for myself.

“Can I have one?” I ask eagerly.

“They are warm,” she says.

“I don’t mind.
Can I
?”

“Sure, sweetie, catch,” she says, and tosses one at me.

I catch it but fumble with my cast getting in the way.

“Guess who is outside,” she says.

“Spencer?”

“Is that his name? The dreamy-looking one?” Mom says with a grin.

“Tell him I’ll be out in a sec, I’m going to change my clothes.”

I leave my soda can on the table, and rip my clothes off in a flurry. In the very back of my closet, never having seen the light of day, is a sun-dress, the same color blue as my eyes. I put it on. I have Mom zip the back up for me.

“So beautiful,” Mom breathes.

I do a spin for her with my arms in the air, and she claps.

“So graceful, and yet I can’t get you out of those ripped jeans, and worn-out t-shirts.”

The statement is pointless, because we don’t have money for anything nicer then ripped jeans and t-shirts, and for another, that is all I would wear if even we could afford nicer clothes.

“Hop along, don’t forget your soda. It is a nice sunny day out; fresh air will do you good!”

My cheeks flush as I come out the door and see Spencer grinning at me wider than the Cheshire cat.

“Aren’t you prettier than a picture,” he says, his dimples visible.

I curtsey and give him my hand.

“Excuse me, young gentleman could you show me the way to the park?” I ask, rising from my curtsey.

“Well, a fine lady like you should be guarded by a burly man like myself. I will take you there. Here, put your arm around mine,” he says, and delicately lays my arm over his.