Indigo: The Saving Bailey Trilogy #2 (18 page)

I smell the fire and gasoline now and it makes me dry heave.

“You know what she said before we got out of the car? My mom said, ‘This is the last time you’re getting back in this car! You’d better take your stuff with you, because we’re going to New Mexico and we won’t be back for a
long
time! Have fun living with each other’…or something to that affect.”

Angel doesn’t look at me sympathetically like other people do when I tell them how my parents died; instead, he looks intrigued, like this is the best story anyone has ever told him.

“It wasn’t the last time we got in that car,” I say. “The last time was when Aleck and I were fighting the flames, struggling to pull my mom out of the crushed and twisted metal.”

“So, what happened after the both of them died? Foster homes?”

“Aleck got custody of me. We kept the house through help with the government and Social Security checks.”

“
Did
you guys have fun living together?”

“We learned to get along. And love each other. We were all we had. Now she’s all alone.”

“That’s awful,” he says, in all sincerity. “I gotta go to work. Stay out of trouble, kid.”

“I will,” I say, holding my chin in my hand, my fingers resting on my bottom lip. “I’m going to paint.”

“Paint what?” he asks, feigning interest.

“Not what, who,” I say. “Bailey. So you will have a current picture of her.”

I pull out my paint and brushes; luckily, the men in black didn’t take them. I set up my drawing pad on the floor and lie down on my stomach.

I start with her hair; cascading down the length of the page. I mix different shades of blues and violets for her eyes. Her face appears on paper like she’s in the flesh, staring back at me. I hold my brush above her face, stopping, because it doesn’t look right. It fails to capture how I am seeing her now, in this very moment. I tear the page out and start afresh.

I think I am going to start on her hair again, but then a long rectangular shape forms beneath my brush. I dip my brush in ivory and paint a gown on the shape of a girl, following the curves of her body.

Eyelashes and bright red lips appear. Flowers and satin, slim fingers, and pearls. I work at an unwavering, breakneck pace, right through chow time and into the evening. I don’t stop until the painting is finished and every single flower petal has been made to look as real as if you could pluck the flowers right out of the painting and put them in a vase of water.

I lean my painting against the bunk bed. And I am looking at it enthralled, when Angel walks in. He stares at it quizzically not seeing my vision.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to the painting, although we are both clearly eyeing it.

“I think,” I say, “it’s Bailey.”

“Why is she in a coffin?”

“Maybe she’s a vampire.”

“She’s dead,” he says acerbically. “You painted my daughter as a corpse.”

“I guess that’s how I see her a lot of the time. But she’s beautiful, is she not?” I say, captivated with how I have managed to paint my nightmare to life.

Angel crosses his arms and then uncrosses them. He seems to be fighting with himself over something. He walks up to a can of red paint and brings it to my painting. I leap into action as soon as I realize what he’s about to do, but I’m not quick enough. He splashes the paint across my painting, smearing it with his hand, a thick, red streak blotting out Bailey in her coffin.

“Stop it!” I bellow, snatching the paint from him. But it’s too late; the damage has already been done.

We both stare at each other, angrily.

“Don’t ever paint my daughter again. Dead or alive!”

Red into black, venom lack; red into yellow, kill a fellow.
The Allies chant, clapping their hands in rhythm.

A small fire, lit between the dumpster and alley walls, highlights their faces. Just normal kids having a good time, until I notice Cai with a cat in his hands, turning it over the fire like a roasting pig.

“Hey, guys,” I say, timidly.

“Indigo!” They greet me like we’re old pals.

I dare to smile. “What are ya up to?”

“The Apocy cat crossed territory,” Cairen says, lifting the cat over the fire again. It screeches horribly and claws at Cairen’s hands, to no avail.

“Never cross territory,”
Ashten and I say in unison.

I look over the scant group of Allies and make out a few familiar faces, Holden, Cairen, Don, Ashten,
Alana
.

Alana.

Sitting right next to Holden with her eyes avoiding me.
Alana, an Allie.

“Are you serious?” I ask incredulously.

“’Bout what, the cat?” Cairen says. He puts it down, releasing it.

“Alana.” I acknowledge her with a nod.

“Hi, Bailey,” she says, her eyes still refusing to meet mine.

“Fuck this,” I grumble and start to turn away. But as I do so from the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of an empty shell of a car at the very end of the alley.

“Stay,” Cairen says, “we want you here.”

I resist for a moment longer and then give in. I figure I can hide out in the car at least. Then I won’t have to speak to Alana or participate in the sacrificial Apocy cat roasting.

“I’m going in the car,” I say heading toward it.

Cairen leaves his spot at the fire and trails behind me.

The car’s paint has been sanded off in large patches and crudely sprayed over with red and yellow spray-paint; the windshield and tires are long gone.

“We used a piece of one of the tires to start our fire,” Cairen says.

I open the door and sit inside the driver’s seat. The seat cushions are slashed and flaking from the Florida sun. It smells like dirty underwear and weed.

“We parted it out for cash,” Cai says, lying down on the front hood of the car, his hands tucked beneath his head.

“Whose car was it?”

“Guess,” he says, grinning mischievously.

I take in my surroundings, searching for clues. I’m starting to think that the car is too empty when suddenly I notice a slip of paper underneath the glove compartment on the passenger side. It’s a drawing of a black eagle, identical to the one I have seen tattooed on Miemah’s wrist.

“Miemah’s,” I say.

“Yep.”

“How did you get it?”

“He didn’t.
I did
,” A boy says, walking up and slapping the car door, a crooked golden-toothed grin on his face. He has the darkest hair and skin I’ve seen in the Allie yet. He nods his head and his afro jiggles with it.

“This is Shaq.”

I pretend not to see him. “Why is it red and yellow?”

Cairen lifts up his shirt, turns around, and points to a tattoo on his left shoulder. In the faint light from the moon and fire a curled up Coral Snake flicks his tongue at me with black, needlepoint eyes. “It’s our symbol,” he says rolling his shirt back down.

“You should get it, too,” Shaq says. “It’s pretty much a rite of passage. I can give it to you right now, I brought my stuff.”

I shake my head tersely. “Mom would kill me if she found out I got a tattoo.”

Shaq reaches through the car door and grabs my hand, attempting to pull me out. “Come on, it’ll be quick,” he says. His hands feel like snake skin, clammy and shedding.

“No, not now,” I say.

“You have to,” Cairen says. “You’re an Allie. You need your symbol, so the Apocys know not to fuck with ya’.”

I’m lifted out of the car by Shaq and pulled to the fire, screaming and resisting him, to no avail, like the Apocy cat. The Allies all start to hoot.

“A coral snake on her wrist…
so she can hide it from her mommy
,” Cairen says.

Shaq pushes me down and my shoulder knocks into Alana’s back. He tugs on my wrist with his gritty hands, twisting it so my palm is facing up. I still fight him, even as he dips his needle into black ink.

“Stay still or you’ll fuck it up!” Shaq screams in my face. He yanks my wrist so hard I feel like my arm might pop from it’s socket.

Finally, I jerk my wrist free, right before the needle makes contact with my skin. I jump up and run for my car without uttering a single word.

I fumble with my keys as someone advances on me. “Go away,” I say, panicking as I try to fit the key in the lock.

“No, I’m not going anywhere until we talk,” Alana says.

I get the door unlocked, crawl in, and then lock all the doors again to keep her out. I start to roll the window up too, but she sticks her head in; her vibrant red hair spilling into my car.

“It’s been long time since we last saw each other,” she says, her voice lighter than I remember it, not as squeaky and nasal.

“Why did you do it? You didn’t have to join,” I say. “I was
forced
to.”

“I like feeling strong.” She shrugs.

“There is
nothing
strong about a bunch of kids who kill people and torture animals for fun. They’re sick, sadistic people, and now you’re one of them!”

“You’re one of them, too.”

“That’s different and you know it! I didn’t
choose
this,
you
did.”

“Look, I’m sorry for what I did to you and for what I said. I know I say sorry all the time and it doesn’t mean anything, when by the time you get around to forgiving me I make the same mistake again… but I love you and you’ll always be a sister to me, whether you accept it or not.”

I stop staring at my hands, wrapped around the steering wheel, long enough to take in her face. Why I hadn’t seen it before I don’t know, but she has two black eyes and red, busted lips.
“What happened to your face?”

“I could ask the same about yours.”

“Cairen molested me and then punched me,” I say, with as little emotion as possible.

“I was jumped in,” she says. “Hey, I’m sorry he did that. Holden told me about it…”

“Oh, please,” I say, disgusted with her, “don’t act like you give a shit about me, now. Just because we’re in the same gang doesn’t mean I have to be friendly.”

“If I didn’t give a shit, then why would I be trying so hard to be like you? I didn’t even cry when they beat me.”

“Congratulations,” I say. “Just remember, one day you’re going to have to wake up from this illusion you’ve created and realize you’re in a dangerous gang that honestly could not care less if you are dead or alive. Alana, even
you
can’t hide from that truth.”

“They love me, Bailey!” she says with wide, convincing eyes.

For a minute, I almost believe her, but then I remember that they are the same people who gave her a split lip and black eyes; that and you can never really believe anything that comes out of Alana’s mouth. She’s such a compulsive liar even
she
can’t tell when she’s lying.

“They live in a dumpster,”
I say, inching the car forward until she gives me enough space to drive away.

I’m blowing smoke like a rolled up blunt between an Allie’s lips as I drive deeper into the night without a destination. Mom will be at risk of losing the baby the way she’s probably worrying about me now. Fine, let her lose it.
Let her lose the child
—he was damned the moment he came into creation.

I slow down. There’s no one on the road but me and I’ve always liked the way you can hear the crunch of seashells beneath your tires on the streets of Fort Myers. It’s in everything; sand and shells for miles out. I crawl along to Fort Myers Beach.

The shoreline is empty, save for a small figure sitting in the sand looking out over the black ocean as it rolls ashore.

I trudge through the sand and sit equidistant from the figure. I dig my fingers into the cold, wet sand, the rising tide washing over my boots. I want to have a good cry, but I’ve always had a hard time letting go around strangers. Even with the dark night concealing my identity, my emotions are shut off.

The moon hangs in the sky like a sixth grader’s art project, a large white ball against a black construction paper background, swinging on fishing line. The clouds are ghosts, sweeping around it.

The ocean creeps up on us; the figure and I don’t move as it seeps into our shoes and wets the cuffs of our jeans.

I turn my head to the person, trying to make out if it’s a boy or girl. But whoever it is has gotten up and is now doubled over writing something in the sand with a stick. A hood falls over the person’s face as he or she drops an object into the sand.

I wait until whoever it is is stumbling back up the sandy hill to see what is written.
I’M SORRY.

“Wait!” I yell, stepping forward to chase after him, but my boot slips on something and I tumble. “Who are you!”

I pick up the object that caused me to slip, turning it over in my hands.
“Who are you?”
I whisper to myself, my locket unraveling in my palm.

I pop it open and make out my parents smiling faces. Sand is caught in the hinges it grinds as I force it closed. The smooth metal is cold, like it has been kept in a freezer; I press it against the cut on my stomach and it dulls the pain.

Who are you
?
And why are you sorry?

Trenton. He took my locket and had now returned it, but why? Why the sudden change of heart? Had guilt eaten at his core, the same way remorse eats away at mine?

I rise and find the stick Trenton used to carve out his apology.
I forgive you
, I write beneath his apology. There’s a lot that needs forgiving. But forgiveness means letting go, no expectations attached.

“Are things okay between us? Bailey, are you angry with me? Please, pick up. Please, Bailey? Bailey? Bailey? Bailey!”

“Who’s that?” Mom asks, holding her toothbrush out of her mouth, dripping toothpaste on my bedroom floor. “Spencer?” She spits foamy white saliva at me.

“Yes,” I say.

“Give me the phone,” she says, her voice suddenly stern.

“No,” I say clutching it to my chest.

“I read it, Bailey. You left it on my bed and I read it.” She exhales. “You’re not going.”

My heart skips a beat. “What?” I ask, even though I know exactly what she means.
You can’t go
.
I won’t let you see your father
. She had read it, Clad’s note. “You can’t stop me.”