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

Saving Bailey

The Trilogy

The Bullet List

by

Nikki Roman

Copyright

ISBN:

Copyright © 2012. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. This novel is a work of fiction, Other than where some historical figures have been named, all names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner.

Chapter 1

The hallways are so quiet, I’m afraid my thoughts will be overheard. I walk their paths and turn their corners with the echoing footsteps of a killer. My mom’s Walther, a shiny death toy in my hand, promises vengeance. I am stroking its cool metal when the bell rings, signaling it is time for my classmates to come out and pay for what they’ve done. In one swift motion I spray bullets over the students, painting them red. The kids don’t run or scream. All is silent, except for the rapid firing of my gun.
Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Are my lessons really so boring that you can’t stay awake for them?”

My head pops up, the whole class is staring me down, and Mrs. Latcher is holding a textbook in her hands.

“They’re nothing compared to the things I dream up while sleeping through them,” I say, slowly pulling out of the haze of my slumber.

The class gasps. Wrong answer, Bailey.

“Jeez this ain’t a soap opera,” I blurt out. If it were, Mrs. Latcher’s estranged lover would burst through the door right now, proclaiming his undying love just before shooting her dead. Instead, I’m going straight to detention.

“I can walk on my own thank you,” I mutter, trying to shake my arm from Mrs. Latcher’s grip as she accompanies me to detention.

“I am sick of your attitude young lady. No one is going to talk to me like that in front of my class. Is that clear?”

“Clear as mud,” I whisper so she can’t hear.

When we reach the detention room, she pushes me through the door and says to the supervising teacher, “Watch this one, she’s been very fresh with me.”

I take a quick scan of the room and am not surprised by what I see: the usual troublemakers, the type of kids you expect to see fleeing from the police on the TV show
Cops
someday. All except for one, that is. Clad is twiddling his thumbs and leaning his chair so far back he seems to defy gravity. I sit beside him and kick his chair from under him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, picking himself off the floor.

“Didn’t you hear? I’m fresh.”

“Yeah fresh, that’s dope.” We share a laugh, and he sits down again.

“Seriously how did you end up in here? Get on Latcher’s bad side, did you?” He pushes his feet off the ground and tips his chair back again.

“I guess I’ve always kind of been on her bad side,” I say, realizing it myself for the first time.

“I don’t think there’s a good side to her,” Clad reassures me.

I nod. “I fell asleep in class and pretty much told her to cool her jets.”

I have not yet mastered the technique of entertaining myself in a room with bare walls, so I resort to making friends with the ceiling. I count the black, moldy tiles that are buckling out from the force of a water leak. The room is quiet enough that I can count Clad’s breaths and hear the ticking of the clock as the minutes wear on and turn into hours. I try to sleep the time away but as soon as my head hits the desk I am jostled awake by Clad.

“The teacher is eyeing you, stay awake. You want to be in detention another day?” he says.

“It’s not your problem,” I answer. “Besides, being here is better than dealing with Latcher.”

Clad looks me over, as if he’s searching for an answer to a question. “You don’t take crap from nobody, do you?” he asks.

“I wouldn’t−” I begin but the lunch bell rings mid-sentence, and Clad leaves his chair before I can finish.

I rise much slower. Clad’s question lingers in my mind, threatening to break me like I am a tight rope be walked on by an elephant. You don’t take crap from nobody, do you? I laugh. Everyone says what they want about me, and to me, why shouldn’t they? I’ve never tried to stop them. Their hateful words come so freely out of their mouths, like moths fluttering out of an old opened trunk. If I were strong enough I could close that trunk and lock it.

I catch up with Clad and say, “No one messes with me.”

He smiles. “That’s what I thought,” he says, seeming to believe my lie.

We reach the cafeteria. Clad holds the door open for me. The instant my foot crosses the threshold somebody squeals in delight, “Hey Bailey!” I swing my head around looking for a friend or familiar face.

“Hey whore, over here,” Miemah screeches.

“What did she just call you?” Clad asks, his face scrunched up in disgust.

“You heard her. Everyone did,” I sigh.

The entire lunchroom turns to me, watching intently for a reaction.

“She treats me like a dog,” I tell him.

“Bitch, what you saying to that little boyfriend of yours? Wanna come over here and say it to my face?” Miemah continues.

“See, I’m a female dog,” I whisper.

“She didn’t say a damn word, so shut your mouth before I shut it for you,” Clad yells at her, sending the lunchroom into an uproar. Kids lob “Ooh!” and “Burn!” in Miemah’s direction.

I should be happy that I’ve one-upped her, but the reality is I just took ten steps back into a pit of hungry she-lions. Miemah sends a death-stare my way.

Clad pulls me into the lunch line. “No need to thank me,” he grins.

“I won’t,” I say bitterly. All I can think about is the hell I will have to endure, because he just had to put his two cents in.

“What’s your problem?” he asks, shocked by my frigid tone.

“You shouldn’t have said anything! She will never let it go now! And what’s worse is, now she thinks you’re my boyfriend.”

“What’s wrong with her thinking I’m your boyfriend?”

“Everything. For one, you aren’t, and for another, now she’ll target you too.”

Clad stares at the back of the head of a girl in front of us, thinking.

“You don’t want to be her target, she’s like a missile, and she never misses,” I say. Clad looks like he’s about to cry.

“I was trying to stand up for you, and you don’t even appreciate it,” he says with confusion.

“You made things worse,” I say, walking away, leaving him standing alone in line.

I try with great effort to avoid Miemah’s gaze for fear I will turn to stone. Just when I think I have made it into the clear, something wet and cold hits my back. I don’t even have to turn around to know that it is chocolate milk. I stare deeply at Miemah who is now laughing like a wild hyena. I want to run, but I am overwhelmed by the outburst of laughter from her and her minions. I search for Clad’s face and find it. He is not laughing.

“I told you,” I mouth to him and run out the door.

My shirt is soaked and reeks of sour milk. I bust through the doors of detention, snatch my bag, and sprint to the bathroom. In the only decent stall I can find, I rip off my ruined t-shirt and put on my hoodie.

I can’t even start to process what has happened until later, when I am sitting back in my chair in detention with Clad’s eyes piercing me. I bury my head in my arms to block out his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

I want to forgive him. I want to tell him that I know he only wanted to help me, but I can’t. The fact is, sorry is not enough, and it can’t negate what just happened. I couldn’t care less that Miemah threw a carton of milk at me. However, I am keenly aware of the fact that it won’t end there. That it is only the beginning.

My dream in Mrs. Latcher’s class suddenly resurfaces and hits me with the intensity of a mile-high wall of water. I can’t take Miemah on, but Mom’s Walther sure as hell can.

“Are you crying?” Clad asks, startling me.

“Huh? What?” I say, my attention still focused on the dream. “No, I’m not crying.”

“Then why are there tears in your eyes?” he asks in a smart-alecky tone.

“Oh,” I say wiping them away. I was so consumed by the idea of offing Miemah that I hadn’t noticed the tears.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have said anything. I was wrong, and I am sorry. Forgive me?” he pleads.

“Yeah, I forgive you. But Miemah won’t,” I say knowingly.

“I don’t want her to. Your forgiveness is the only thing that matters to me. I hope she’s still reeling from being told off at lunch.”

I shake my head. “You don’t get it,” I say.

“Oh I get it, Bailey, she’s a worthless piece of garbage, who will do anything in her power to make your life a living hell,” he says. “If I hadn’t said anything in your defense, who would have?”

He makes it sound as if I have no friends, as if I’m too weak to stop Miemah and all her trash-talking minions. He’s right.

“I mean, besides me, who else would ever stand up for you like that?” Clad says.

No one, I think. He turns back around in his chair, obviously feeling like he has given me enough to think about. I stare at my desk for the next few hours, waiting for the last bell to ring. It is clear that Miemah was not phased one bit by Clad’s words. I am the one he has left reeling.

The bell rings breaking the monotonous silence of detention, and I make my way out of the building, keeping an eye out for Miemah and her crew. On the way home I put my dream on rewind, playing the scenario in my head. By the time I reach the door of mine and my mom’s apartment at the Parkway Village complex, I have decided that my dream is nothing more than just that – a dream.

I push open the door, and find Mom waiting for me in the kitchen, perched in her favorite chair, vodka in hand. I kick my shoes off.

“The school called,” she says, her speech slurred.

“You’re drunk,” I say.

“You were in detention for being a smart-ass,” she retorts.

“I’m going to my room,” I huff, annoyed with her drunken state.

I try to move past her, but she leaps up and shoves me.

“Do not touch me!” I growl.

Her eyes might as well be growing red for the look she is giving me right before she slaps me. My cheek is on fire, and my eyes water. Without thinking I rip the bottle of vodka from her grasp and smash it into the linoleum of the kitchen floor. She stares at me, then at the spilt vodka and broken glass in disbelief.

“Woops,” I sneer.

“Fuck you!” she snarls yanking my wrist hard. I trip, and stumble forwards, falling. I yelp in pain as the shards of glass dig into my feet and hands. Mom is unmoving with her mouth hanging open like a marionette.

“Oh my God!” I scream at her.

I rise, ignoring the throbbing pain in my feet, and hobble to my bedroom. I slam and lock the door, then crumble into a pile on the ground. I don’t dare look at my feet and hands.

“Why would you do that?” I cry out to her, even though I am sure she has already found herself another bottle of alcohol, and is curled up on her couch, ignoring me. I prop myself up on my elbows, and attend to my hands and feet. Glass pokes from my wounds like tiny bloody icicles.

I pull each piece out quickly, and painfully. By the time I have removed all the glass a small puddle of blood has formed on my wooden bedroom floor. I am astonished that Mom hasn’t come in to help me. Exhausted, unable to bear the pain, I crawl into bed and pass out.

For once I don’t dream. I sleep fourteen hours, and only wake because I sense a presence in my room. Mom is standing over me in tears. I remember yesterday like a bad dream surfacing through the grogginess of my wonderful sleep. Detention, Clad, Miemah, the glass, and the blood. All of it must have been one awful nightmare, the only thing is, if it was really a dream, how come my hands are covered in dry blood, my feet are killing me, and why is Mom crying?

“I’m sorry. I don’t even know what happened, sweetie, I was drunk when you came home,” Mom says. She surveys the room, trying to piece together actions she cannot recollect.

“Tell me what happened, although I don’t want to know. Tell me.” She exhales dragging her fingers through her tangled blond hair.

“You yelled at me, so I broke your vodka, and then I tried to leave to my room, and you pushed me into the glass of the broken bottle. Then I don’t know what you did, I came here and passed out.” My stomach churns, it all sounds so much worse when I say it out loud. She reaches out to hug me, but I instinctively pull away.

“I messed up big time. Huge,” she admits. “I’m really sorry kiddo, I would never want to hurt you like that, yet I did.” She picks at a loose string on my blanket. “I’m a terrible mother!” she sobs.

I start crying too, I hate to see people cry.

“Can I help you clean up the cuts, please?” Mom asks.

I nod amidst my tears.

In my heart the only person I blame for this wreck is me. If I hadn’t gone to detention Mom wouldn’t have been upset with me. Maybe she wouldn’t have drank, maybe I wouldn’t have broken her vodka bottle, maybe my feet and hands wouldn’t be sliced up, and maybe we wouldn’t both be sitting here dissolving into tears.

“It’s going to be okay.” She smiles in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Come to the bathroom, and I’ll clean you up.” She hugs me lovingly, and I don’t pull away this time. I need a hug after all I have been through.

I stagger into the blinding light of the bathroom, and settle myself on the rim of the bathtub. Mom scavenges through drawers and cabinets desperately looking for a first aid kit. I try to make sense of the bloody mess that is now my palm.

“Why?” I ask.

“Why, what?” she says. She has found the kit, and has gone into full nurse mode now.

“Why would you push me into a pile of broken glass?” I ask, my voice intensifying.

She pulls out a stack of gauze and medical tape.

“I don’t know. I was really drunk. I know it’s not an excuse, but I don’t even remember doing it,” she says.

“You’re right, it’s not an excuse. Being hammered is never an excuse to hit your daughter and push her into shattered glass.”

“I said I’m sorry,” she says, trying to conceal the irritation in her voice.

She cleans my palm, and wraps it up tightly.

“It’s not enough,” I say. “You’ll do it again.”

“I hit you?” she asks, all of a sudden spotting the giant bruise beneath my left eye.

“I’m lucky you didn’t kill me,” I mumble. “
You’r
e lucky you didn’t kill me.”

“I will never stop feeling like crud for what I did. But is there anything I can do to make it up to you?” she asks sincerely.

“Throw it away.
All of it
. Don’t ever drink like that again,” I demand.