The Bullet List (The Saving Bailey Trilogy, #1) (11 page)

“I’ll stay with you until you do, and hold your hand. Will that make it easier?”

“Yes,” I yawn, a wave of sleepiness crashes over me.

He sings me an unfamiliar lullaby, a tune that is soothing and airy. I am swept up in a current of drowsiness, and am put to sleep by his melodic voice.

Chapter 14

Spencer’s head is resting on my stomach, his body curled up on the floor. Sarah is already up and dressed. At first I believe that I am here because Sarah is actually my friend, and we are having a sleepover, but then I remember sobbing on their rug, my heart broken. It is all too real, and it takes my breath away.

Spencer jolts awake from my sudden exhale.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, rubbing a kink from his neck.

“Like a baby, too bad it had to end.”

“It will be okay, you’ll see,” he says, and ruffles my hair.

He pushes my legs aside and sits down. “Sarah will be getting on the bus to school soon,” he whispers.

Spencer pulls me into him, resting his chin on my head.

“Did you really tell your mom that I am the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen?” I ask.

“That was before you busted your lip and was pushed down a flight of stairs, honey.”

I know he is only joking, but my head is still fuzzy from the night before, and tears well up in my eyes.

“No,” he says, realizing I have not understood his sarcasm. “It was a joke. Shhh, no more crying.” He rocks me in his arms.

“I know it,” I say. “My emotions are all jumbled up.”

“I’m going to take you home this morning; do you think you can face your mom?”

“I have to,” I say, knowing that I am trapped. She will kill herself if I don’t go back and show her I am alive.
Alive, but as shaken as a maraca
.

“Okay better get up then. My dad will be expecting me at work soon,” he says, and stands me up like I am a Barbie doll.

“I need my shoes,” I say, and look around the room for them.

“They are by the front door, and your clothes are in the dryer. I will bring them to you later. Is that okay?”

“Yes, I would appreciate that, thank you.”

I shuffle to the door and slip my feet into the squishy, wet insides of my black, leather boots. The laces are wide, and colored a dull orange like that of candy circus peanuts; the supple leather is peeling away from the lining.
Vintage
, mom called them when she brought them home from a garage sale.

Spencer is brushing his teeth in the guest bathroom, so I sit on the red couch and wait for him. It is hard to believe that last night I was weeping on this same couch, feeling like the world had stopped spinning for me, and that I would not be able to face my mother ever again. Now here I am, the world tilting, and twirling beneath my feet as if nothing ever happened.

“I’m ready,” Spencer says, dressed in his black Goodwill shirt. “But are you?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say.

Spencer spins his car keys on his finger as we both walk out the door. I stare out at the new day that has come, and the new sky that has been polished blue by yesterday’s rain. The downpour has watered the lawn leaving it a deeper shade of green.

I try not to drag Sarah’s pants through the puddles that have been left behind by the storm, but they are three sizes too big, so this is a challenge.

“Don’t worry, we can wash them later,” Spencer says, laughing at my attempts to hop over the shallow pools of water.

I climb into the truck and kick my shoes off. They are beginning to rub blisters onto my feet.

“Parkway Village, right?”

“Yep,” I say.

The ride home is unbearably silent. When Spencer pulls into the parking lot he lets out a heavy sigh: there is blood and glass still at the bottom of the staircase that leads up to our apartment on the second floor.

“I am guessing Mom didn’t sober up enough to clean that. I apologize,” I say, my words all rushing together.

“Let me walk with you to the door at least,” Spencer says, cutting the engine.

I hold my boots in my left hand and Spencer grabs my right one. I have no idea what I will find behind the door: Mom could be dead for all I know.

“I can take it from here,” I say to Spencer, who is peering through our living room window.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you then.” He puts a hand on the back of my neck, and pulling my face close to his, plants a kiss on my cheek.

I run my hands across the door, as though I can feel what has happened behind it. I take a deep breath, one so deep my lungs feel like they might burst, and then push the door open.

Spotless
. The apartment smells and looks as clean as it has ever been. The only thing messy about it is the kitchen, where plates and bowls of food are sprawled across every inch of table and counter space. Food that has been prepared with care and then left untouched.
Dinner and desert.
I gulp, remembering Mom’s promise to make a big dinner, and even desert. She made it after all.

I step in slowly, careful not to make the rotting floorboards creak beneath my bare feet. As I walk through the living room and kitchen, I notice that every picture frame has been flipped over.
Pictures of me and Mom, our faces hidden by the wood of the coffee-table
.

I hear a muffled cry come from my bedroom. I pick up my pace, certain that Mom will be there. My assumption is confirmed when I nearly step on her, crumpled up on the floor, sobbing. I nudge her with my foot, like she is road kill. She lifts her head off the floor, and screams in relief when she sees me.

“I didn’t, thank God I didn’t,” she says between sobs.

“Didn’t do what?” I ask, feeling nothing.

“Kill you.” She spreads her hands out, to show me my blood, but they are clean.

“I couldn’t wipe the blood away,” she says staring at her hands.

“There is none,” I say coolly.

She grabs my ankles, and uses me to pull herself off the floor. Her hands tug at Sarah’s sweat-shirt, and pull it up over my head.
The bruises
. The tips of her fingers run across my body, the bruises telling her a story she doesn’t want to read.

“I did this,” she croaks, pointing to herself.

“Guess how,
let’s make it a game
. Did you beat me with a broom, hire a hit man to do it for you, or push me down the stairs?” I say.

“Do you know what hell I have been going through trying to figure that out?” she bellows at me. “I can’t even explain to you how it feels for a mother to think she has lost her child! I spent all night and morning looking for your lifeless body.”

I’m not moved.

“I, I, dug up the grass and dirt, thinking maybe I killed you, got scared, and buried you. I checked the pool, the refrigerator,
everywhere, anywhere
. Do you know where I ended up at? The canal. And that’s where I broke down, because that would be the safest place to dispose of a dead child.
A child that I killed
. Only here you are, and I was so sure you were gone. Well, say something. Please, let me hear your voice.”

I consider what to say. “Never ever again will I believe in you,” I decide is the best sentence to describe how I feel.

“Let me hold you,” she says, trying to embrace me.

“No!” I scream.

“Is that how it’s going to be? I can’t even hug you?” she asks, speechless.

“Mom, last night you hit a point of no return. Nothing you do will make me forget the fear I felt when you were threatening to slice open my throat.” I push my hair away from my neck and display the wound.

“I am so, so, so sorry,” she says, clasping her hands together and pressing them to her lips.

“Sorry is just a word, Mom. It holds no meaning. It is an empty word.”

“I can prove to you that I will be better. I can make it up to you,” she says hopefully.

I am not cruel enough to shake my head. So I say nothing. I am as rigid as a statue, as emotionless as a serial killer.

“The house is clean, it is always clean after you drink,” I say and catch a glimpse of my made-up bed. Something about the sight of freshly laundered sheets sends me on a rampage.

“Why do you always make the damn bed!” I scream, my eyes popping out of my head. I tear the sheets and pillows off the bed and throw them at my dresser, knocking over framed pictures, a jewelry box, and piggy bank.

“We are not fucking perfect! We are a wreck, a disaster, so then why do you try so damn hard to make it look perfect?” I kick the bed, and it thumps into the wall. If the neighbors below us weren’t already awake, they are now.

“How come you have to hit rock bottom before you decide it is time to turn things around again?” I ask.

“You’re acting crazy,” she says quietly.

“The apartment is so clean,” I say, tears cascading down my face.

“When the bed is made and the dishes cleaned, you know it is safe to come home,” she says, her eyes failing to make contact with mine. “When everything in the apartment is tidied up and is as it should be, you know that mommy is back. I won’t hurt you then.”

She is right and I can’t believe I never made that connection.

“I’m safe now,” I say, and drop a pillow that I have been clutching in my hands.

“I’m not going to hurt you, baby. I am sober, I promise.”

“I almost called them,” I say like a zombie.

Her eyes widen. “That would have been very, very bad.”

I don’t need to say who, she knows exactly, I have hung the threat above her head since the first time she abused me.

“Not for you, though. You really are a loyal daughter to come back to me after all that I’ve done to you.”

My stomach churns. “I shouldn’t but I am lost without you, and Dad is not here to comfort me. It is sick though, isn’t it? Twisted how you cause me so much physical and emotional pain, yet I inevitably come crawling back.”

“It won’t have to be like that anymore,” she says, sounding sure of herself.

“I hope so,” I sniffle.

“Do you want me to fix your bed while you are at school?” she asks.

School
. I had forgotten today is Monday.

“No, that’s okay,” I say flatly.

Mom opens my sock drawer, looking for clothes to dress me in, and my heart pounds against my ribs:
the Bullet List
.

“Socks,” she says, closes it, and opens the next drawer.

Socks
, I think.
Yes just a drawer full of socks, no list damning all the wrong-doers
.

She pulls out a shirt and jeans, and dresses me like I am three years old again.

“I will drive you to school, sweetheart.”

I nod. That is all my body can do. My voice is caught in my throat, being restrained by my shattered heart; my limbs have gone rubbery and useless.

Mom feeds me small bites of food, like I’m a bird. It is tasteless; I don’t know what I am eating. She puts my bag on my shoulder and combs my hair, all the while I am wishing I could be with Spencer and Sarah, or asleep.
Anything to forget the desolation where my heart should be.

“Can you
try
, just
try
to forgive me Bailey. I know you have been torn apart, and I don’t expect you to turn around and pick up the pieces instantly, but if you could make even the smallest of efforts, it would hurt me just a little less.”

I nod.

“Good as new,” she says, admiring me.

I will never be new again. I can’t fathom where she has gotten this ridiculous idea:
is she blind to all the bruises and cuts, the vacant look in my eyes?

I step into the car, stare out the window, sneeze, cough, nod to everything Mom says. I do all that is expected of me even though I am barren inside.

The car pulls up to my school. I reach for the door handle but Mom doesn’t unlock it.

“I want to talk,” she says.

I roll my eyes.
Not now
, I think,
or
I will fall apart
.

“I am going to pay back every penny I spent of your college fund, no matter what,” she says.

“Okay.” I sigh, because if I nod one more time my head might roll off my shoulders.

“Do you know why you have never met Grandma Mable?” she asks, her voice breaking.

“No,” I admit.

“Because, Bailey, my mom was just like me.”

I should be shocked, but to be honest, I am not; it seems only natural that Mom would have learned how to abuse from her own mother. Abuse is like a family tradition, it carries on through the generations, and no one forgets to observe it.

“I don’t care for the sob story, Mom. If she really did abuse you, as you claim, then you wouldn’t have dared lay a finger on me. But we both know that is not the case,” I say bluntly.

“Perhaps you enjoyed the abuse, that is why you inflict it on me, because you wish to have me share the joy,” I say bitterly.

“You are clever, Bailey, but you can’t possibly understand how much pain it causes me to see you suffering, and know I am the cause of it.”

“Maybe so, but just the same, it doesn’t hurt you enough that you want to stop, does it?”

Chapter 15

I begrudgingly kiss Mom goodbye and enter the school, a new shell hardened over my weak and frail persona. It is eleven o’ clock, and Lunch B, my lunch session, is already underway in the cafeteria.

I sit at a table by myself – this being the first time I have been to lunch in a long while. I spot Trenton in line, purchasing a crispy chicken sandwich. I can’t find Clad though. I am wondering if he is even here, when I see him loitering in the hallway as if he is unsure whether or not he should come to eat lunch. I wave him over; he scowls and turns his back to me.

I drop my hand, shocked:
what did I do to make him so angry
?
Surely he hasn’t heard about the kissing already?

Trenton places his tray on my table and pulls up a chair. He rolls his orange over to me.

“Girls like fruit right? You should eat something.”

I pick up his fork, stab it in the orange, and sigh.

“Why is Clad pissed off with me?” I say, asking myself more than him.

“I dunno. You must have done something wrong, because I ran into that little sprite Alana and she said that I was dirt for taking you away from him.”

“She isn’t my friend, anymore; she’s probably just running her mouth.”

“That might be so, but weren’t you supposed to go somewhere with him on the night we went to the beach? I remember him talking to Holden about it, where was it…oh yeah, clubbing.”

I hit the table with my fists. “I completely forgot. Damnit, he must be pissed. I told him I would go to Indigo with him.”

Trenton smiles like he is hiding something. “Does he know we made out and went to the beach?”

“Probably, word gets around quick,” I say solemnly. “Clad will never forgive me.”

Trenton stuffs a tater tot in his mouth, and while chewing says, “You’re not his property; you can do what you want.”

“That’s the thing, I actually kind of owe him, more than I can deal out. He has been there backing me up every time someone has tried to bury me in the ground.”

“He’s a fag,” Trenton snickers.

I pick up the orange that is connected to the fork, and fling it, hitting him in the eye.

“He is more of a man then you could ever hope to be!” I say fuming.

“Ow, that stung. I was just saying he acts like a queer.”

“You’re the one spending all this time doing your hair and dressing like a metrosexual or something. Clad doesn’t give a crap what he looks like. Seems to me like you are the one hiding in the closet.”

He lurches across the table and grabs both my wrists so tightly I think my bones might break. “Let go of me!” I yell at him.

Clad passes by; he has been pacing back and forth in the same hallway since I sat down. He looks up, but only for a second, and then returns his attention to the floor.

“Listen here, you don’t talk like that to me, got it? You’re just a girl. What in the world makes you think you can talk to a man like that?” Trenton says, pulling my face closer to his.

His breath is hot and smells of stale beer.

“You’re not a man. Clad has more masculinity in one pinky finger than you have in your whole body!” I shout at him.

He lets go and pushes me. I collapse in my chair, frustrated for being chastised, but not the least bit frightened.

“I’m sorry,” he says, unexpectedly. I rub my wrists, where red marks in the form of fingers now appear.

“I just feel sensitive about being called a queer. You are not the first girl to call me that, and it hurts. I don’t like guys,
I like girls
, and I like you. It’s hard always having to prove it to people.”

I’m not convinced that he is sincere. I think he regrets that I won’t be giving him any more kisses, that maybe I might even leave him eating lunch alone. No girl does that to Trenton. But just the same, I feel that I should be the first.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks.

“I’m not made of glass, I’ll be okay. But you shouldn’t have grabbed me like that. Clad saw you. He already has it out for you as is. Why make it worse for yourself?”

“I’m not worried about him; he couldn’t fight a teddy bear if he had to.”

“You’re wrong. You don’t know anything about him.”

“I think I know enough,” he responds.

“No,” I say. “You don’t.” I push my chair from the table. “I’ve got to be going, see ya’ later.”

Trenton stops stuffing his face long enough to say, “Okay, I’m sorry again about grabbing you.”

I acknowledge the apology but don’t accept or reject it. I leave him and make my way down the hall to where Clad is standing by his locker, perhaps debating on whether he should open it or not.

“Hey,” I say.

“What do you want?” he says in disgust. “Why aren’t you eating lunch with your abusive boyfriend?”

“I know I’m a jerk. I totally forgot. I’m so sorry Clad,” I say. “He’s not my boyfriend. He is barely a friend.”

Clad nods, staring at the locker. “So do you make out with all your acquaintances or just the ones who try to break your wrists?”

“I knew you saw.”

He opens the locker, pulls out a couple paintbrushes, and slams it closed. I flinch; it is a centimeter from hitting me.

“Get out of my face, I don’t even want to see you right now,” he says.

I blink at him, unmoving. He can’t be serious.
Not Clad, not the boy who would give everything up just to be with me.

“Go! Now!” he screams, spit spraying from his mouth. I raise my arm and cover my face; this is usually the point where someone hits me.

He pulls my arm down gently. “No, I’m not going to hit you. You are not worth the energy it would take. And besides that, I would hate to give you a reason to feel less guilty after ditching me for Trenton.”

He takes off down the hallway and around the corner. I lean against the lockers, thinking. I have never seen him so angry, but I know it took a lot for me to bring him to this. I try to remember Trenton’s blissful kiss, to justify my making Clad so upset with me, but all that comes to mind, is his sour breath. The bliss I had felt has dissipated. I’m not quite sure when it happened, only that the kiss will never hold the same feeling that it did at that moment on the beach.
It wasn’t worth it
.

A boy comes up to me and darts his gaze back and forth between the locker and me. I am leaning against his locker and he wants me to move.

“What are you a mute? You could have just asked me to move,” I say, taking my anger out on him, and then I depart for class.

I should be heading to fourth period, but at the last minute I turn around and break away, heading to my safe place. The janitor’s closet is open; the blanket is on the cot, the same way I left it days ago. I lock the door behind me, and lay down, loosing myself in the cot’s familiar comfort.

I curl into a ball, like a centipede that has been poked with a stick. I’m exhausted, and have too much on my mind. I pray for no nightmares as I slowly drift off to sleep, because I know Clad will not be coming to my rescue today.

My sleep is dreamless, but I keep waking up feeling that something is amiss. My heart aches for Clad. I know that before today I hadn’t given him a second thought, but that is how it always is: you don’t realize what you have until it’s gone.

If I go to Mrs. Herrera’s class, I could recover from last night’s events, but seeing Clad, and knowing he won’t dance with me will only make the ache in my heart hurt worse. Trenton will be in History along with Alana. Going to any class at all feels like a waste.

I’m lost in a dream world of rough blue cotton and rocky seas, when a knock comes at the door. I awake. I open the door, and Holden steps in. He hands me a blue slip with my name across it.

“The counselor wants to see you,” he says in monotone.

I am just about to ask him how he found me, when I come to the conclusion that Clad or Alana must have disclosed my location.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice tired.

“No prob.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and whistles away.

I turn the light off and shut the door behind me, surrendering to the harsh world of crowded halls and people who want me dead. I am in a fog when I reach the counselor’s dim office; I just want to get in and get out as fast as possible.

“Come in,” she says in a tone different from that of a few days before.

I sit in the ripped chair without being asked. She clears her throat, crosses her hands, and leans on the desk.

“I talked to Mrs. Stewart and Miemah,” she says.

Miemah!
I hadn’t known she would be calling Miemah down. My pulse races. “What have you done?” I want to yell at her, but I pull myself back together and ask, “What did she say?”

Mrs. Bracker chews on the end of a pencil and shifts her gaze to a paper on her desk.

“That you were harassing Cecil and Miemah on multiple occasions, and that she didn’t want to say anything because she felt you were doing it as a cry for help.”

“No!” I say, unable to stop myself.

“You are a bully from what I’ve heard from the students and Mrs. Stewart,” she says.

“They are liars!” I shout in disbelief.

“Ms. Sykes, you do realize that accusing a teacher of lying is a great offense. And in this case, I do not deem you to be in the right. Mrs. Stewart has a very reputable standing. Your standing is sketchier, however. With a little digging I have discovered that your grades are atrocious.”

“What does this have to do with my grades?” I ask, pulling at my hair.
Is this some kind of sick joke?

“Yes, you have a temper alright. I don’t appreciate the attitude, Ms. Sykes.”

I dig my fingers into the rips of the chair and clench my jaws, trying to control an outburst that I feel coming on.

“I never did anything to them,” I say weakly. “I don’t know why Mrs. Stewart would tell you that.”

“I’m going to let you off with a warning Sykes, but if I hear about you bullying anyone again, I will be forced to take some serious action. All students should feel safe here, and they shouldn’t have to worry about a troublemaker like you jeopardizing that safety.”

“I-I – didn’t,” I stutter. I’m no longer angry. My body has relaxed, limp in defeat.

“You may return to class, Bailey,” she says, dismissing me with a wave.

I reach for the doorknob, and turn it open.

“I thought you were going to help me,” I mutter. “If you won’t then I will just have to help myself.” I feel like the world has turned against me.

The Bullet List makes a re-appearance. Like light at the end of a dark tunnel, it is my only salvation.
I will kill them all
. They will pay for what they have done. I am lower than bed-rock.
They can’t walk free with their crimes
.

I return to the closet and lock the door again. The cot is calling my name, and I need to sort through the odds and ends that are clouding my mind. First, Mrs. Stewart has retaliated for me turning down her offer of a place on the track team. Next, Miemah knows I told the counselor about her acts of cruelty, and I am sure things will escalate with her, and lastly, Clad wants nothing to do with me. If only I could turn back time so as not to have gone to the beach with Trenton, and to have avoided talking with the counselor.

The white paint of the walls is chipping away; I strip it off with my finger and begin to feel a little better. It is like peeling away the affliction that is crowding my heart and mind. I peel more rapidly and my fingernails start to bleed.

I have cleared a good portion of the wall, concrete showing through where the paint once was. I cup my fingers against my chest, the beating of my heart calming me. I could stay like this forever, my body contorted in a fetal position, and my mind blank, staring at the wall. Like this I am not expected to do anything. I don’t have to follow through with my Bullet List, I don’t need to make Clad love me again, and best of all, Miemah can’t hurt me. I am safe as a baby in her mother’s arms.

Like a reservoir, my head fills back up with the worries and regrets; I know I can’t stay this way. I stretch out, and turn from the wall completing my return to normalcy. I can only lose myself so long before life comes hurtling back, and hits me like a brick in the face.

The bell is ringing; it is time to go home, time to fall back into reality. I pick up my tote bag, but stay sitting on the edge of the cot, not wanting to leave. Outside the door, there is a shuffling of feet and exchanging of voices. I wait out the first stream of students before discreetly slipping out and dawdling to the sidewalk outside.

The sun makes my head swim, and I run home as fast as I can.
It was useless to try to come to school
, I think. I only did it to please Mom. She dropped out of high school to have me, and start a family. Her dream has always been to go back and get her diploma, but we both know with our tight budget that will never happen.

Of course, I did have a hefty college fund
, one that could have fed us both for years. I stare at the ground, trying to force back tears. God, how I want to forgive my mom. Oh, how badly I want her to hold me, and make everything okay again.

I’ve been picked back up, held, and my cuts and bruises treated, but what if Mom had no one there for her? What if she was all alone bleeding in her bedroom, crying
her
eyes out? She asks for her daughter’s sympathy, and she only gets coldness.
I was wrong
. She needs comfort and understanding too, the same kind that Spencer and Sarah gave me last night. This is how I can forgive her, knowing that she has been through the abuse, and that without my forgiveness she cannot move on and forgive herself.

There are no junkers this time when I return to our apartment. Mom’s car is not here either. I unlock the door. The apartment smells like lemons and Windex. Mom’s couch is backed up into one corner, and the rug is rolled up and leaning against the kitchen table. She went on a cleaning trip again while I was at school.

I go to my room and see that my sheets are clean and the bed is made. It irks me to see the house like this; it hasn’t been this clean since we moved in. I open my drawers, and there are clean folded clothes in the place of the soda cans and other pieces of trash I kept there. I open my sock drawer next and find my Bullet List. There it is, scrunched up, just the way I left it. I unfold it, careful not to tear the paper, and put it on the bed in front of me.