The Bullet List (The Saving Bailey Trilogy, #1) (8 page)

I nod; the Mothers Day cup is clean and on the shelf where it belongs.

“Go take a shower, and I’ll make you something to eat,” Mom says.

Once in the shower, the water and suds wash away the bonfire smoke and sand from my hair. The scratch marks left behind by Nessa are still pronounced against my creamy skin. Clad comes to mind, for no apparent reason. His words, and embrace, from the day before returning. My feeling of utter despair washes down the drain with the sand and salt.

I had spent all night with Trenton, even made out with him, and all I can think about is the comfort of Clad’s arms. Sure, kissing Trenton was the highlight of my day, but the way Clad was able to break down my defenses, and comfort me resonates more deeply
. Just a friend thing or more?

Bacon and eggs are sizzling on the stove and the smell wafts into the bathroom. I am famished.

I towel-dry my hair, and step out of the bathroom in search of some decent clothes to wear. Mom has laid out a long-sleeve teal-colored shirt spotted with white flowers, and a pair of new jeans. I pull them on. I take a look in the mirror: my eyes are still bloodshot, but my skin is glowing, the bruise on my face almost unnoticeable. My lips are stained red from my convenience-store lipstick. My hair is scrunched in stiff curls from the ocean water. The shirt makes me look elegant, I haven’t dressed like this since middle school, but it gives me a feeling of self-worth all the same.

“Come eat!” Mom hollers happily from the kitchen. I plop in a chair and shovel the hot eggs and bacon into my mouth. Mom is famished as well, but she takes smaller bites, her appetite still waning from being scared sick and hung-over.

“I’m not going to again. I promise.
Never, ever again
. No, more bringing home drunk men, no more drinking, no more drugs. I’m going to go to work every day and make money to take care of you. You are all I need,” she says, placing her fork neatly on a napkin.

“You can do it, Mommy, I know you can. I’m strong because of you,” I say to boost her.

She grabs my hand. “We can make it without him. We have already for so long, so why fall apart now?”

I finish off three plates of food, and having eaten my fill, place my napkin on my plate.

“I should be going to work,” Mom says holding her car keys.

Work in the early morning? Why couldn’t she just tell me the truth? I had known she’d been sneaking off to sleep with men, when I was as young as eight. But only now did it start to bother me. Only now that I am old enough to realize sex isn’t a game of tickle monster between two adults who love each other.

Only recently have I figured out that instead of laughter, sex brings intimate feelings, and instead of stiches in your stomach from laughing, you need stiches in your heart to repair it when the person you gave it to decides to rip it apart.

I put on my navy pea coat and a pair of boots to combat the cold that is not only right outside my door, but forming in me as I think deeper into my situation with Mom.

Chapter 12

“I want to go for a walk,” I say. “Maybe I’ll check out Walgreens or Goodwill.”

Mom nods, and digs in her purse for a few crumpled five-dollar bills.

“Here, take this, it is all I have. Get yourself some lunch at McDonalds.”

“Thanks Mom,” I say and kiss her cheek.

“I’ll be home by ten, baby, okay? Don’t go anywhere without calling me,” Mom says.

Her hair is curled and her face is done up, her makeup dramatic. I see myself in her, but only for a moment, because when I look deeper her wrinkles show themselves, and the dark circles appear through a disconcerting amount of foundation.

“What? Do you like my hair? I get more tips this way,” she says playfully.

“You look nice,” I say.

I follow her out the door. She pulls out of the driveway, and I watch her until the car is a silver speck on the road, like a piece of glitter.

I speed walk to Camelot Park. It is a beautiful winter’s day; one can hardly tell the air is frosty, the way the sun is shining.

Alana and I used to come here when we were small, back then it only had a few swings, slides, and a tunnel. The tunnel was a target of teen graffiti; we would climb on top of it, and jump down to the sand below. There wasn’t much to do, but we always found some way to enjoy ourselves.

Alana could climb trees like nobody’s business; she would scare Mom half to death by shimmying up the thin branches and propping herself at the top of an oak tree. One time she fell, and broke her arm. Her mom wouldn’t speak to mine for weeks.

During those weeks, I would come to the park alone, with my dolls, and sit them on the swings. And with my feet and hands buried in the hot sand, stare and stare at them. I didn’t know what to do with myself without Alana. I had been using her as a crutch, as a way to forget my dad, and that unmentionable night.

Mom took me to counselors, but I wouldn’t talk to anyone. I was living in my own lonely world, unreachable by those who thought they could help me forget my dad, and forget Jack, and forget that my mother used to be happy.
We all used to be so happy
.

There are twice as many swings now, and slides so tall I wonder if they are even safe. I usually come here to swing in silence; it is almost always empty. I could swing for hours and hours, daydreaming. Today that is what I do. I have conveniently left my cellphone at home,
there will be no distractions
. I need all the concentration I can muster up to sift through my thoughts.

I think about Ashten, and how she will never be the same again after last night. My stomach goes queasy at the thought of her burns. I don’t want to throw up my breakfast, so I force my thoughts down another path. A path called,
I kissed Trenton, and Clad is never going to forgive me.
No, forget Clad, what about Miemah?
What will she do to me when she finds out?

I imagine the scenarios: a death match with her knife, perhaps, or maybe her fists. If she really wanted to spice things up she could use the brass knuckles she wears around her neck at all times. That would be interesting…

A kid hops onto the swing beside me and I lose my concentration. I leap off the swing mid-air, and with mulch sneaking its way into my shoes, I leave the park. I am off to pay a visit to the Goodwill; it is only a few streets away.

This is pretty much as boring as it gets, a normal Saturday in Cape Coma. It is as if the whole city has been put under a sleeping spell. Only A few cars pass by me on my way to the thrift store, but I do notice an ominous white truck lurking behind me.

I turn a corner, it turns a corner.

I go straight, it goes straight.

The driver is following me
. Trying to lose him, I scramble across the meridian, and bolt into the Goodwill, not checking to see if the driver is still hot on my trail. I am breathless when I enter.

There is a young man, maybe twenty years old, at the cash register looking at me questioningly.

“A man was following me,” I say, looking over my shoulder, the white truck now idling in the parking lot.

“Stay here I’ll go check it out,” he says calmly.

I tap my fingers on the glass of the counter, not daring to turn around.

A couple minutes pass, and I am growing nervous, when the bell hung above the door dings.

“Bastard,” I hear the boy say under his breath, while rolling down his sleeves.

“What did he want?” I ask anxiously.

“You, he says he was looking for a girl like you.”

I am baffled. “What for?” I ask innocently.

He smiles, and then the smile fades as quickly as it came.

“Nothing good,” he says, busying himself with organizing jewelry that is beneath the counter.

“Thank you.” I swallow hard. “For dealing with him.”

“Not a problem, hun,” he says, flashing his pearly whites at me. “So, besides pedophiles, what brings you here?”

“I came to look,” I say, dragging my finger across the dusty glass.

“Shouldn’t you be at the mall?” he asks.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

“Very true,” he chuckles.

I wander through the racks of musty clothes and tinker with the shelf of mugs, plates, and candle holders.

“What’s your name?” I ask him, while spinning a top that has made its way onto the wrong shelf.

“Spencer, you can call me Spence.”

“Okay, Spence. You can call me Bailey,” I say, using my bubbly voice for the occasion.

“How old are you?” he asks, pretending to polish the jewelry.

“Fifteen, and you?” I say.

He lets out a whistle. “You are so
young
. I have a little sister your age. I am nineteen.”

“I thought you were older,” I confess.

“We both know you aren’t working,” I say, shooting him a look.

“Shhh,” he giggles, “my boss is in the back. Do you live close to here?” he asks trying on a gold watch with a cracked face.

“At Parkway Village. Do you have any books?” I ask.

Spencer comes out from around the counter, and this is when I first notice, he is a looker. Golden brown locks and copper eyes that shine like pennies hot off the press. He is tall, maybe a half foot taller than I am, perhaps six-foot-one. He is wearing a black tee with the Goodwill logo printed in white ink on the front.
He doesn’t belong here either
, I think.

“Here you go, Bailey, we have lots of novels,” he says, directing me to a bookcase filled with stained yellowing books. My name sounds so strange coming from such a deep, hunky voice.

“Thanks,” I say.

“I’m going to sweep in the back, just ring the bell if you need anything,” Spencer says.

There are many paperbacks by Danielle Steele and few young adult novels. I am irked by the vast amount of romance novels; I know they are without even reading the titles because they have pictures of a single rose, or a romantic-looking, robust man on the front cover.

I am not the least bit interested in the books, my real intention was to seem like I might purchase something. Truth be told, there is nothing that catches my eye, nothing except
Spence
.

“That one is about a woman who kills her husband to take his fortune for herself,” he says having come from the backroom, and resting his arm on my shoulder. “I have read them all. It can get pretty boring around here on weekdays if no one comes in.”

I replace the book.

“I have a sister, Sarah. Maybe you know her, she goes to Chiquita High.”

“No, I go to Surf Side,” I say sourly.

“What’s wrong with Surf Side?” Spencer asks.

“What isn’t wrong?” I say.

“Are you a freshman?” he asks.

“Sophomore, are you in college?”

“Naw, this is it,” Spence says, sweeping his arms across the store. “Chipped cups, broken children’s toys, and clothes that haven’t been worn since the 80s.”

“But you don’t like it. What do you really want to do?” I ask him.

“I want to be a doctor,” he says, his eyes lighting up then going lifeless as if he is a robot that has been turned off.

“You can do anything you want to do,” I say.

“Naw, my pop says I have to work here, and he doesn’t have the money to put me through college. This is where I am for now, anyway.”

“I’m sorry. I have to be going now, it’s lunch-time and I am starving. It was nice meeting you though,” I say and stick out my hand.

He stares at it and then runs his fingers across the front of my palm.
How peculiar
, I think.

“Pretty hands,” Spencer says, as if he has just woken from a daydream.

“Lovely meeting you,” he says with a grin, touching my hand against his lips for a moment.

“You as well, kind sir,” I say, playing along and curtseying.

We fall into a fit of laughter, but are interrupted by a harsh voice.

“Get your ass to work you son of a bitch! I am not paying you to flirt with the customers!” his dad barks from the back room.

“Bye,” I say.

Spencer goes back to pretend working, bent over a tray of hoop earrings like a wilted flower.

I push open the door, and the bell rings again, signifying my departure. I can see in the reflection of the glass door that Spencer is watching as I depart.

A motorcycle whizzes past me as I am about to step off the sidewalk while crossing the street, but instead of being petrified by the near collision, I am reminded of my dad. My nose buried in the smooth leather of his riding jacket, my feet hanging off the sides, my legs too short to reach the foot rests, I would ride with him on his Harley to the beach. It was a short ride, only minutes, and it always ended too quickly. But if I was lucky, he would zip around the streets heading to no particular place, and the stars would come out to greet us and light the way home.
Keep going Daddy, take us to the moon
, I used to say. I would go anywhere if it meant I could stay on his motorcycle with him.

That
is what I miss most about my dad: his
bike. It seemed like I was once alive, stars twinkling, sun shining, wind blowing, and music sounding, but it has all died away since.

My stomach is set on food, and my body needs a warm place to sit. I enter McDonalds, the sound of bubbling oil, and the sizzle of meat patties inviting me.

“Hi I’m Hickory, what can I get you?” a uniformed worker says. His finger hovers over the buttons on the register, as does his lazy eye, impatiently waiting for my order.

“Like the bacon?” I ask sardonically.

“Huh? What do you want to eat? You know, like,
food
?” he asks.

I order a Big Mac, small fries, and a large Coca-Cola.

He gives me my receipt and my food is set on the counter. I grab the tray and bring it to a table that looks like it has suffered from the least amount of spilled soda and ketchupy-hand abuse.

I chew my hamburger and fries slowly, savoring each bite. Hickory, while working the cash register, is eyeing me. I want to enjoy my meal, but his lazy eye is suddenly energized and focusing itself on me.

My appetite gone, I toss the food in the trash and step out into the nippy air. I return home just in time to curl up on the couch and get in a long nap before Mom comes home, drunk, and satisfied from wherever she has been.

The temperature in the apartment is not much warmer than outside; the thermostat is set at 76 degrees, but it has been stuck on that setting for years. In the winter, depending if it is a harsh one or not, Mom and I sleep fully clothed to fight the cold during the nighttime hours.

I throw myself on the couch and huddle in between the cushions, too lazy to get up and find a blanket. I take the decorative pillows and lay them across my legs as a substitute. I change sides twice and find the most comfortable way to lie; I pass out in an instant.

During my heavy sleep, the sun sets, and the temperature drops. Mom comes home, exhausted as usual and smelling of liquor, even though she assures me she has not taken a drop. I wake with a jolt at the sight of her standing in the space between the door and the kitchen, which is not quite big enough to call a hallway.

“How did your day go?” I ask her, wiping the sleep away from my eyes.

“Crappy,” she grunts, and unloads a pocket of quarters onto the table.

“Cheapskates, don’t know how to tip right,” she scowls. So, maybe Mom did go to work after all, but certainly not before a pit stop at some random man’s house.

“I’m sorry Mom, maybe tomorrow will go better,” I say.

“I should have worn less clothing,” she says on second thought. “Denise had her boobs hanging out all night, and she walked away with a hundred fifty dollars in tips.”

“Denise is an exotic dancer,” I point out. Denise has been Mom’s friend since her high school days when neither of them thought they would end up broke, working at a bar, with a child to support.

“Ella works there too now. She is eighteen and wears less clothing then her mother,” Mom says.

“Maybe I’ll go join her after I graduate high school,” I kid her.

Mom’s eyes grow wide.

“If I ever found out you were trying to get a job at any bar, I’d beat you silly,” she says. “You are going to college, I don’t know how but you will. You are really smart.”

“My grades say otherwise…” I say.

“You will pull them back up, I know it, and then you will receive all kinds of scholarships for universities,” Mom says, her voice ringing with hope.

“Uh-huh,” is all I say, trying not to make a mockery of her hopes.

There are a bunch of plastic bags on the counter, and my stomach growls in hunger, thinking they must contain food.

Mom shakes her head, reading my mind. “I didn’t have money for food, sweetheart. I never make enough money.” She picks at the soft wood of the kitchen table, ashamed.

“That’s okay Mom. I ate a lot at McDonalds, and you can have the money I have left over. Tomorrow we can buy food,” I say, and hug her.

She reluctantly takes the two five dollar bills from me and pats my head.

“Thank you. Yes, tomorrow I’ll make a big dinner and desert too,” she says, pocketing the bills.