The Bullet List (The Saving Bailey Trilogy, #1) (6 page)

Chapter 9

Both fourth and fifth period pass uneventfully. A weight has been lifted off my chest from me allowing myself to cry openly. Maybe Clad’s right. Maybe I can do it. This new flower springing up in my garden of hope inspires me to stop outside the counselor’s door.
I can do this
, I say.

“Come in, honey,” the counselor Mrs. Bracker says after I knock once.

I lay my heart out on the table. My mouth is running and words are flowing from it like the steady flow of a river. The more I talk the easier it is to continue. I end with the story of my dad.

“I’m going to talk to your gym teacher Mrs. Stewart. She should be held accountable for the actions of the girls, if what you say is true, that most of these incidents occurred in the girls’ locker room,” Mrs. Bracker says. She leans against her desk and scratches some words onto a sticky note, her bulging body threatening to break out of the sausage casing that is her dress.

“Yes, all the time. They won’t leave me alone. And I can’t take them on by myself or I would have by now.” I play with a tear in the seat. “This could back-fire terribly if they find out I told you, but I had to do something.”

She nods, and I think I hear her dress cry out in desperation from the slight movement.

“I’m a counselor, and it is my job to protect you, and everything you say in here is confidential,” she assures me.

“I hope so,” I say, and stand up.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. Have a nice day,” she says with a less-than-genuine smile.

I feel uneasy about her, it doesn’t seem like her heart is really in it.

I’ve managed to slip past lunch and two periods; now all I have to sit through is U.S. History and Drama. The rest of the day should go smoothly. I join a group of four desks, with Trenton, and Holden.

Trenton muffles a snigger when Alana sits next to me, and I almost want to kick her out of the group. Holden is cool, one of the popular’-s, he can sit where-ever he wants. By the way he is chatting with Trenton, I assume they are good friends.

“What happened with Miemah?” I ask Trenton as a conversation starter.

“What do you mean? She dumped me, you heard her yourself,” he says, his voice acidic.

“Oh, I just thought-” I say.

“Well, you thought wrong,” Trenton interrupts.

“Sorry,” I say.

His expression softens. “It’s okay. I’m not over her yet. We dated for years. Then you come along, and she just assumes we are up to something.”

“She never trusted you. Why would you want to be in a relationship like that?” I ask, testing my boundaries with him.

“You think so logically,” he says with a smile.

I’m not logical when I am screaming my head off because the lights have been turned out, or when I’m writing a bullet list, and putting your ex-girlfriend’s name on it
.

“Miemah torments Bailey, isn’t that right?” Alana suddenly chimes in.

Is it too late to ask her to leave?

“Not much,” I lie, and kick her under the table.

“I know,” Trenton and Holden say together.

“Everyone knows. My girlfriend is a straight up bitch. I’m sorry if she’s giving you hell now. I’ve talked to her about it,” Trenton says.

“You just called her your girlfriend; I thought she was your ex? And what did she say?”

“Oops, I meant ex. And she threatened to rip my balls off if I ever asked her to leave you alone again,” Trenton says. “I really like you Bailey, but a guy’s balls, that’s like his whole manhood.”

“You are a whole lot of man Trenton, and you could go with just one I bet,” Holden says.

We are all in stiches when Mr. Davis enters the room and turns the projector on. There is a map of the United States on the screen in front of us. “You are each going to pick a state and study on it for the rest of the school year. You will draw numbers from this hat and go in that order.” He passes around a baseball cap, and I pick my slip. It is number one.

“I know what state I’m picking,” I say aloud.

“Which one, Bailey?” Mr. Davis asks.

“California.”

Groans erupt from the class. I’m not the only one interested in California.

“Nice pick,” Mr. Davis says.

Alana picks Tennessee, Holden picks Virginia, and Trenton picks New York. We are instructed to draw out a color-coordinated map of our state, but my group goes back to our conversation.

“You’re brave standing up to Miemah,” Alana says to Trenton. “Bailey is a coward; she went to the counselor for help.”

Trenton looks wigged out, and Holden is waiting for a reaction out of me.

“You were the one crying when she kicked me in the stomach,” I remind her. “And I’m not a coward. I put up with a lot of abuse from her, but I needed help. That’s what school counselors are for, right?”

“You shouldn’t have told anyone,” Trenton says, his tone suggesting that he is scared.

“She is going to nail you now,” Holden says.

I stare at the desk and say, “I didn’t know what to do. The counselor said everything I tell her is confidential.”

“Counselors say a lot of things, Bailey,” Trenton cautions me. “I’m scared for you now.”

“They will just tell her not to mess with me,” I say, still unsure of how sincere the counselor was.

“She’s going to come back with a vengeance. Has she ever pulled her knife out on you?” Holden asks.

“She brings one to school?” I ask, disconcerted.

“Last year she sliced Cecil on the cheek,” Trenton says. “I felt so bad for her, but I couldn’t help. Miemah has a bad temper.”

“Or a murderous streak,” I say.

“I’ll try to keep her off your back,” Trenton says.

And my stomach too?
I think.

“I don’t mean to scare you. Anyway, let’s talk about something else,” Trenton says, his tone dropping.

“Like what?” I ask, perplexed.

“Like, would you like to go to Fort Myers beach with Holden and me tonight and have a bonfire?” he asks.

This peaks my interest: a romantic night at the beach snuggling up to Trenton. How could I pass that up? Never mind that Miemah would most definitely drive a knife through my back for it.

“Is that even legal?” I ask.

“In my world it is,” Trenton says.

“Everything goes, in Trenton’s world,” Holden says, backing him up.

“I’ll go,” says Alana.

“Okay…” Holden says, irked by Alana inviting herself

“I’ll go too. I’m excited. I’ve never done a bonfire on the beach,” I say, ignoring Alana.

“I’ll bring the booze,” Holden pitches in.

I should have known they would want to get drunk. I mean, what did I think would happen, that they would sing campfire songs and roast marshmallows?

I text Alana, even though she is sitting right next to me, and ask her to meet me in the girls’ bathroom in five minutes. We need to talk.

I ask Mr. Davis if I may use the bathroom, and once given a hall pass, I leave.

I am standing at the end of the bathroom, near the handicap stall, piecing together what I am going to say to Alana when she walks in and says, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

I know what I am going to say now it comes to me all at once.

“What’s wrong?” I say flailing my arms. “You just told the boy I like that I’m a coward that I had to tattle-tell to get rid of his ex. What do you think is right about that?”

She narrows her eyes. “It’s the truth isn’t it?” she says.

My mouth unhinges. “It’s the truth that you are an awful friend, and a loser, who I let follow me around because I feel sorry for you. It’s the truth that no one wants to come within ten feet of you because you are like an annoying bug they want to crush. It’s the truth that you told all of that to Trenton so that he wouldn’t like me.” I slow down my words. “And it is the truth that you enjoy Miemah kicking my ass, and are friends with her minion Nessa. It is the truth, that the truth shouldn’t be spoken sometimes because it can drastically hurt a person.”

It’s Alana’s turn to hang her mouth open. Tears roll down her cheeks and into her open mouth, she is crying so hard. I don’t feel the least bit sorry for her. She put me in a lot of danger by letting Holden and Trenton know I tattled. If Miemah finds out, I may just ‘make friends’ with that knife of hers.

“You really think all that?” she asks, her voice quivering.

“I mean every word of it,” I say, not backing down. Then I lift up my shirt and show her the cuts and bruises. “They did this to me. What do you think they will do next?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I hope they chop your head off and feed it to hungry cannibals. We are not friends anymore Bailey.”

“I was hoping you would say that,” I respond, detached. My heart is pounding in my ears.
Alana my best friend, no longer
. I want to call after her, but she is already out the door.

Chapter 10

Trenton and I exchange numbers before I go to seventh period. I could sit this one out in the janitor’s closet, moping about how Alana and I have ended our friendship, but Shay is here today and I have a feeling that she will be hooking her iPod up for another go. Dancing calms me in a way that no janitor’s closet can.

Clad is fronting a happy face to cheer me up when I sit next to him. I front one too for the same reason.

“You feeling a little better, love?” he asks.

“A little. I talked to the counselor. She says she will handle things, but I don’t know, she seemed a little fake,” I say.

“All counselors come off that way; sometimes us kids build up walls and don’t tell them everything we should, so yeah, they can come off as fake.”

I never considered that. Clad has always been a deep thinker, maybe even a little philosophical. I envy that in him.

“You have a guarded heart. It’s been broken so many times, and you’ve put up electric fences and guard dogs,” Clad says.

“How come I never realized you knew so much about me?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You never paid any attention to me. I watched you like a hawk since the day I set eyes on you,” he says.

“Why?” I ask, a little put off by the idea of him stalking me.

“Your eyes.”

“What about ‘em?”

“We were in kindergarten. During nap-time, you had your mat next to mine, and you were sleeping. It must have been the first day because I hadn’t noticed you before,” Clad tells me.

“I was watching you sleep, and I reached out to touch your hair, because it was so curly and shiny,” he says, touching the tips of my hair like we are back in kindergarten.

“I liked shiny things. Anyway, I did and you woke up, and I was blown away by your eyes. They were so blue and deep. I wanted to be your best friend so I could see them smile at me.”

“And that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” I say sarcastically.

“I know it sounds cheesy, but I was mesmerized,” Clad admits.

“Why did you become my friend?” he asks, suddenly.

I blush. “Because you would follow me around on the playground and give me your cookies from lunch. I guess I was more simple-minded back then.”

“You still are,” he says, tousling my hair.

Music plays over the large speaker at the front of the room. Shay is dancing – or rather – dubsteping. She looks ridiculous with her body convulsing to the music.

“That girl just can’t dance,” Clad says.

I agree with him. “Maybe we could teach her,” I say, tugging on his hand. “Come on.”

We flip through the songs on Shay’s iPod until we come across one that suits both our tastes. We start dancing. Mrs. Herrera, though she has just started the class, doesn’t seem to mind.

Like a chain reaction, the joy Clad and I get from dancing spreads through the class. It is contagious.

Clad clears a few chairs and a piano from his way, does backflips the length of the room, and then break dances. Finally I can do something better than him. I do twice as many back flips. As I do, I feel my shirt slipping, threatening to show my cuts and bruises. I don’t mind. I consider them battle scars; they are a part of me and they show how strong I am as a person.

Benny Benassi’s song “Cinema” plays and Clad lip-syncs it to me. The tempo drops and Clad does the windmill. He’s got me, because I haven’t done that move in years, and I don’t plan on risking it in front of the class now. I choose some simpler yet still enticing moves, and when the chorus comes back Clad goes back to lip-syncing.

The class is clapping; there is a connection between Clad and I that no one could deny.

“You are a cinema I could watch you forever, action thriller I could watch you forever,” Clad sings to me. On the break down we do a few moves in unison. I am worn out from the dancing. The song ends to applause so loud it wakes Ashten up.

“You are both extremely talented, I only wish you would participate in our plays,” Mrs. Herrera says.

“I don’t like acting,” I say, breathing heavily.

“Neither do I,” Clad says, less sympathetically.

“Well, just the same, you guys have a wonderful gift for entertaining,” she says, not at all upset by our refusal.

We return to our seats with Ashten and Holden.

“You guys are great,” Holden says. “Too bad Trenton doesn’t like you or I would let you come to the bonfire tonight.”

“I’m busy tonight,” Clad says with a wink at me. I’m baffled as to why he winks. “Why doesn’t he like me?” he asks.

“He calls you Iron Boy, but after what I just saw, I think he should change it to Elastic Boy.”

“Iron Boy, real funny. He’s a jokester,” Clad says coldly.

“Honestly, I think he doesn’t like you because he thinks that you and Bailey are a thing,” Holden says, coming clean.

“We are,” Clad says. “A friend thing. What, is Trenton stuck in his preschool days, doesn’t know how to share friends?”

Holden gnashes his teeth. “He’s my homeboy, so don’t say nothin’ ‘bout him, got it?”

Clad puts his hands up. “Whoa, whoa, no need to get feisty with me. I’m just tellin’ you like it is.”

“Shut up Holden, Clad has no reason to be scared of you, you’re all talk,” I say, defending Clad, because I owe him at least that.

“You better watch your mouth little girl, because I could crush you with one hand,” Holden advises me.

I’m livid, and Clad is reeling from the threat.

“You wouldn’t touch a hair on my head, because you are Trenton’s little bitch, and he would smear you,” I say without fear.

Holden looks ready to smack me, but I don’t worry. He would never even attempt to do so in front of Clad.

“Don’t even think about it,” Clad says, lightly punching Holden’s arm.

“Can you guys cool it? I’m trying to fucking sleep down here, and I can’t with your stupid bickering,” Ashten says, stirring from her slumber. “Holden, don’t smack Bailey, she’s a girl, and that would just make you a wimp. And Clad, don’t be a dick about Trenton, because he might just kick your ass. I’m going back to sleep, good night!” she glowers.

Ashten’s rant settles things right before the final bell.

“Forget about it,” Holden says.

“Already forgotten,” Clad says, and they bump fists.

“I’ll text you later,” Clad says and gives me a parting hug.

Strange, he almost never texts me, and I can’t think of a reason why he would choose to now.

The grey skies and rainy clouds have cleared, leaving the air smelling fresh and the skies blue and bright. I am walking home, thinking of what Mom will do when she finds out I failed my math test. I look up at the sky and say out loud, though there is no one to hear, “Please don’t leave me, light!”

I don’t know how I would handle a week in darkness. It is worse torture than anything Miemah could think up. Mom can be so cruel sometimes. Or maybe she doesn’t understand the way it will affect me.

I would rather be burned alive than to have to go one night without my lamp shining while I sleep
. If she does choose to punish me in that way, I will have seven very sleepless nights.

There is a strange car parked beneath our apartment, a silver junker. The passenger side door is held on by duct tape, and plastic covers the place where a back windshield used to be. I ascend the stairs and trot up to our door. It is unlocked and I push it open. Cigarette smoke comes billowing out; Mom is sitting on the couch, with a guy. They are both smoking from two packs of Marlboros set on the coffee table. Mom has been putting her cigarette butts in a plastic cup I gave her for Mother’s Day. NUMBER ONE MOM is printed on the side, decorated by pink flowers.

“Who is this?” I ask.

“Don’t be rude,” Mom says.

“His name is Saint,” she says, and I laugh because I think she is joking.

“He doesn’t look like a saint,” I say, my eyebrows perking up.

Saint tips the Mother’s Day cup, and spits a wad of chewed tobacco into it. He smacks his lips together. “Wise ass,” he says.

“Sleazebag,” I rejoin.

It is not uncommon for Mom to bring home guys like Saint after a drunken work-night at Indigo. Saint is one of the worst I have seen yet. He is a grease ball, if I ever saw one. Hair slicked back in its own natural oil, and an odor wafting off him like that of a decaying animal.

“You just gonna’ let her talk to me like that, babe?” he asks, turning to my mom, who is twirling her hair, in her own world.

“Go to your room Bailey,” she orders me when she comes to.

“No, this is my house. Make
him
leave,” I say. I’ve played this game before, and I know the outcome. If I go to my room, then Mom and the dirtball will drink up and smoke till they pass out. Meanwhile I will be locked up, starving, and in need of the bathroom.
Not this time
, I think.

Saint launches from his chair, his face so close to mine that my body tilts backwards, the back of my knees hitting the coffee table. He grabs my arm so I won’t fall.

Mom’s eyes are huge round saucers, her mouth hanging open, her cigarette drooping. “Don’t touch my daughter,” she says robotically.

He releases my arm and raises his fist at me. “I beat my son Alex, daily, and he would never talk to me like that,” he spits out.

“Leave her alone! She’s only a kid,” Mom bellows, and pulls him back down by the belt holding his pants up.

I’m stunned. When the fear of being punched dissipates, I yell at him, “Get the fuck out of my house you dirt bag or I’ll call the cops! Who do you think you are trying to strike a girl? You ain’t shit. Someday your boy will grow to be bigger than you, and I hope he returns every beating you ever laid on him!”

Mom gives me a look that says
Thank you.

He reaches for me, but I’m quick and am in the kitchen gripping a steak knife before he has the chance to whack me.

“Your daughter is a psycho bitch,” he says to Mom, picks up his cigarettes, and walks out, leaving the door swinging wide open behind him.

I put the knife back. “You put us both in danger,” I say.

Mom cackles hysterically, disregarding the comment. “Psycho,” she says cracking up, “You really are a psycho. You were gonna’ stab him!”

She takes a swig of a beer on the table then spits it out again because she is laughing so hard.

“You shouldn’t waste good beer,” I say caustically, taking the bottle. “You’re so drunk you don’t even know who I am.”

“Sure I do! Ha! You’re a girl, you have nice hair. You must be my friend,” she says, her voice rising in pitch.

“Not even,” I say and retreat to my room. She must be rolling on something too.

I crawl into my bed, but it lacks the security and comfort I am longing for. If Dad were here, he would have killed Saint. It wouldn’t be the first time he killed a man for bad-mouthing me.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pluck it out, and answer.

“Hello?” I ask.

“Hey Bailey, it’s Trenton. Your voice sounds shaky, is everything alright?”

I position my arm under my head, and turn to face a picture of my dad on my nightstand.

“Yes,” I lie, tears springing into my eyes.

“You sound scared, sweetie,” Trenton says.

“I’m not,” I say, trying to control my voice.

“Okay, if you say so. I wanted to see if I could come pick you up in a few, so we could go to Fort Myers and have that bonfire we talked about.”

Don’t cry
. His voice is so cool, so relaxing. I wish I could wrap myself up in it, and receive the solace I need so badly.

A tear rolls down my cheek. “Yep, that would be great. I live at Parkway Village by the Camelot Publix. My apartment number is two nine six. Second story.”

“I should be able to find that no problem,” he says, a hint of uncertainty in his tone.

“It’s a blue building; all the apartments have red doors,” I say.

“Are you sure nothing is bothering you? I know what you sound like when you are crying. I’ve heard it.”

“It’s the phone Trenton,” I say, my voice on the verge of breaking.

“Okay, well, be ready. I’ll be there soon,” he says.

“Goodbye.”

“Oh, and Bailey? I can’t wait to see you,” Trenton says before I hang up.

I stretch and pick myself off the bed. I sulk into the living room, to see if Mom has come down from the drugs and booze yet. She is asleep with her eyes open.

“Mom,” I say and shake her.

She grunts and closes her eyes. She is still alive.

I am just about to go to the bathroom to get ready, when she leans over the couch, and vomits on the carpet.

“I love you,” she says, and wipes her mouth with the back of her shirt sleeve.

I shake my head at her, and set off to the bathroom to fix my hair.

I comb out all the tangles, and pull part of my bangs into a waterfall braid running along the left side of my head. Next, I spray some vanilla scented perfume on myself, in case the rain at gym today wasn’t enough to wash away my sweat.

A car horn blares, outside the apartment.
Trenton
.

I look down at myself: my stomach is showing some and I’m wearing the same jeans I wore to school. I dig in my pocket and find a tube of bright red lipstick. I swipe it across my lips and hope I look decent enough.

I give a quick glance to Mom, checking if she has heard the honk. She is knocked out, sleeping on her side, a pool of vomit under her face. I kiss her on the forehead and walk out the door.

Trenton dons a leather bomber jacket, a collared long-sleeve shirt, and tight dark-wash jeans; his hair is in a faux-hawk. I look and feel like crap, but still he raises his eyebrows approvingly when I slip into the passenger seat of his black 2012 Camaro.

“You look hot,” he says.

“You do too,” I reply.

“You think I’m a hot guy?” he asks, bringing his hand across the spikes of his faux-hawk.

“Who doesn’t?” I say. “You think I’m a hot girl?”

“Who doesn’t?” he says, and we both laugh at our conceitedness.

The windows are down and the cold air blows my hair back.

“You are stunning,” Trenton says.

I shiver. It must be thirty degrees out and I’m only wearing a small T-shirt. Trenton reaches into the backseat and retrieves his hoodie. He puts it around my shoulders.