The Bullet List: The Saving Bailey Trilogy #1

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 there.

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’s 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?

I wouldn’t— I begin but the lunch bell rings mid-sentence, and Clad leaves his chair faster than I can finish.

I rise much more slowly. Clad’s question lingers in my mind, threatening to break me like a tight rope being traversed by an elephant. You don’t take crap from nobody, do you? I laugh. Everyone says what they want to me and about 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 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.

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

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?

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 in line alone.

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 intently 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 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? My attention is 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? Clad pleads.

Yeah, I forgive you. But Miemah won’t.

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 just 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? he says.

No one, I think. Clad 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 fazed 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 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, Mom 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 try to move past her, but she leaps up and shoves me. Don’t you dare fucking touch me!

Mom’s eyes might as well be glowing 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 spilled 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, her mouth hanging open like a marionette.

What the fuck is your problem? 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. By the time I have removed all the glass, a small puddle of blood has formed on the wooden floor of my bedroom. 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. The memory of yesterday resurfaces like a bad dream 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 Mom is 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, even though 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 go to my room but 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. Mom 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 has found the kit and has gone into full nurse mode now.

Why would you push me into a pile of broken glass?

Mom 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.

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.

Mom 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’re 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.

Mom finishes bandaging my feet the same way she had my hands.

Okay, I’ll do it. She lets out a heavy breath. The impact of being asked to live without her beloved alcohol is almost too much to bear.

Do it for me, I say.

I do everything for you, Bailey. You are all I got.

I think back to a time when I was not the only person in Mom’s life, a time when she was happy and sober. Before dad went to prison and before we moved to Cape Coral.

I miss him too, I say, knowing she is also remembering how things used to be.

It’s been a rough eleven years, raising you by myself, she confesses. But he made a bad decision and he belongs behind bars for it. I just wish he hadn’t hurt us both to do it.

I hate him. He never cared about us, or he wouldn’t have done it, I say. It is as simple as that.

Maybe, Mom says, her mind elsewhere. You look just like him. You have the same dark blue eyes and shiny black hair. She ruffles my hair.

Except, his is curly, I say.

Yep, it was, she agrees, talking as if he has passed away.

The sun peeps through the small bathroom window and reminds me it is time to go to school.

School, Mom and I say in unison.

Don’t shower, you’ll ruin the bandages, Mom warns me.

I get up and limp into my bedroom, looking for some new clothes to wear. I am still wearing my hoodie and jeans from yesterday. My stained chocolate-milk t-shirt is buried somewhere in my tote bag beneath a clutter of books and papers. I pull on a white tank top, black skinny jeans, my sneakers and a different hoodie. I go back to the bathroom to see Mom sitting on the rug, staring at the shower curtain but seeing nothing.

I can’t cry anymore. Stop feeling guilty, I beg her.

She doesn’t budge from her place. I roll my eyes and decide I don’t have time to deal with her. Soon my bus will be at the stop sign, waiting for me whether I’m there to get on it or not.

I take a hasty look in the mirror and am horrified by my reflection. The bruise is more prominent on my face than I had expected. Makeup could never hide it. My hair is a wreck, and my eyes are darker than ever; they resemble roadmaps from being blood shot.

I look like crap, I grumble, but shrug it off when I hear the creaking bus pull up to my stop. I drag myself outside. The air is wet and sticky with morning dew and my feet sting with every step. I turn to wave goodbye to Mom before I get on, but she is nowhere in sight.

Chapter 2

I dread walking into the school when the horn blares, signaling that we are allowed to go inside. My bandages are coming apart and with my awkward gait, and red sleepless eyes, I look like a zombie. The last thing I want is to interact with any form of life. Nonetheless, Alana comes up to me with her usual sprightly bounce.

What happened to you? Alana asks.

A semi ran me over on my way to school, I say nonchalantly.

Yeah, funny. What really happened? Did Miemah beat you up?

No, but my mom did, I say.

She got drunk didn’t she?

You know her so well.

I really got to tell my mom to stop giving her bottles of vodka as presents, she says in all seriousness.

What! I shriek.

You didn’t know? My mom gave your mom a huge bottle of vodka for her birthday yesterday. She must have drunk it all up at once. Alana laughs hysterically.

Are you serious? That’s not funny! I punch her on the shoulder.

Oww! she whimpers and rubs where I hit her.

How could I have forgotten Mom’s birthday? An unwanted feeling like fingers creeping up my throat comes over me. Some birthday, I croak to Alana.

What you didn’t get her anything? she asks innocently.

I grit my teeth and snarl, You are so damn stupid.

I walk away.

What? What did I say? she calls after me.

I can’t believe that I made my mom feel so lousy on her birthday. She was drunk because she was celebrating. I could have told her happy birthday and given her presents, but I chose to be selfish and reprimand her for being drunk. I broke her only birthday present, I realize with a sinking feeling.

Alana catches up with me, out of breath. She hit you because she was drunk, right?

Ding, ding, we have a winner! I say.

What happened to your hands?

I don’t want to talk about it, I choke, tears surfacing in my eyes. I got to get to class, we’ll talk later.

Alana opens her mouth to say something, but I lose her in the crowded hallway. It’s probably for the better. She reminds me of a pixie from a book my mom once read to me; a red-headed spirited pixie, who got herself lost in a shroud of weeds and couldn’t get back to her pixie clan. She eventually wandered too far and came across a hungry Bulldog in a family’s back yard. She reached out to pet him and he ate her up in one bite. Oh, how I wish this would happen to Alana too.

I find my seat at the front of Mrs. Latcher’s class and sit down, pretending not to notice the eyes burning holes into my back. Mrs. Latcher walks in and inconspicuously looks in my direction. I give her an impish grin. I know she is secretly wishing that her laser eyes could spontaneously make me erupt into flames. Too bad I have grown so used to her gaze that it has no effect on me anymore. I’m flame resistant.

Well class, good morning. I’m going to take attendance now, no talking while I’m talking. She rattles off the names, but when she comes to mine she draws it out in a defeated groan. Baileyyy Sykesss.

I lift my battered hand into the air, making a show of how I could not care less that everyone is staring and whispering behind my back.

Yes, yes, you are all here, Mrs. Latcher intones. Let’s begin.

After checking to make sure that we have all done our homework and lecturing me for not doing mine, Latcher rambles on about triangles and the Pythagorean Theorem.

I am about to lay my head on the desk to get on with my routine mid-morning nap when something lands in my hair. It is a piece of crumpled-up paper. I smooth it out to discover a note from Clad, who is sitting two seats behind me. I lift my head up to read it. Scratched in red colored pencil the note reads:

Bailey what happened to your face head? Where did that bruise come from? The bandages on your hands? Are you okay? Please tell me Miemah and her posse didn’t get ahold of you. I would die if I knew she did that because of my big stupid mouth. Okay, maybe I wouldn’t die. Maybe I would just wish that I could die. I’m really sorry about yesterday. Clad.

I crumple it back up and shoot it flawlessly into the trashcan. I can hear Clad gasp from behind. I twist my head around and observe his massive kiwi-green eyes glaze over.

Bailey, what are you doing? Trying to hold a conversation with the wall? Latcher smirks.

No. I’m trying to stay awake through your lecture, I snap back. So far, it isn’t working.

Her mouth drops. You got some nerve talking to me like that! she squawks, jabbing a wrinkled leathery finger at me.

I was just being honest, I say.

Well, you can just take your ‘honesty’ and get out of my class, Ms. Sykes.

Fine, I say under my breath. I gather my things, and walk out.

As soon as I get outside the door, I stop and listen to what she might be saying about me to the class. Instead I hear Clad speak up, Mrs. Latcher, you can’t keep throwing her out of class like that. We all know you hate her, but give her a break. She’s obviously been going through a lot lately.

Mrs. Latcher draws in a big breath before saying in a markedly defensive tone, Clad, I don’t hate her. She needs to learn to have respect for her teachers. Discussion over.

No. You need to learn how to respect your students. Discussion over! Clad fires back. I am almost pushed over backwards by Clad as he comes stomping out the door. Come on, let’s get away from here. He’s shaking with adrenaline. I really can’t stand that damn lady and the way she treats you. Someone had to put her in her place.

I shake my head at him. Can’t you just stay out of my business and leave me alone?

No, I don’t think I can, he admits. I’m like your only friend; it’s my job to be here for you.

It’s not your job to do anything for me. And I do have other friends. Alana, for instance, I say.

He chuckles. Alana isn’t much of a friend. Plus she’s super obnoxious.

So are you! I wisecrack.

You may not have many friends, but aside from Miemah and her followers, you are the most popular girl in the school, Clad says.

And what makes you think that? I ask skeptically.

Don’t act like you don’t know. He smiles in amusement. You are unbelievably gorgeous and everyone is jealous of you for it.

No, everyone just hates me, I clarify for him.

Miemah only despises you because every day she wakes up praying that she could be blessed with just one ounce of the beauty you possess— He pauses for dramatic effect. Instead she grows uglier with every word of hatred she tosses your way.

That’s touching, really, but I don’t believe you, I say.

I can’t make you believe, I can only tell you how it is. He shrugs.

We exit the math hallway and make our way to the main staircase. The bell will ring for next period soon and we figure we can wait outside the door of our next class until then.

Hey, I never realized this before, but you have far too many classes with me, I say.

It’s like I did it on purpose or something, Clad says.

The science room is stinking up the entire sophomore hallway with the smell of preserved pig carcasses.

I don’t get it. We’re not butchers. This is science class, so then why are we handling dead pigs? Clad says, trying to be funny.

I’m not entertained. The stench is wreaking havoc on my nose and I’m overcome with a fit of coughing. Clad tries to stifle his laughter.

I’m gonna throw up if I have to even see a dead baby pig, let alone dissect one! I manage to cough out.

You’ve got a weak stomach, kid, Mr. Wiggan comments as he opens the door to let us in. I hadn’t seen him coming down the hallway.

Yeah I do, I admit.

I find a desk far from the carcasses of the dead swine, but no desk is far enough to escape the foul air. Clad reluctantly sits up front with me, he hates sitting close to the teacher. He won’t bite, I say.

It’s not him I’m worried about. Clad chuckles and pushes me.

You’re a riot, I say.

Half the class is missing when the tardy bell rings.