Indigo: The Saving Bailey Trilogy #2 (4 page)

We are eating dinner, or should I say Mom, Sarah, and I are eating dinner. Bailey is staring at her chili like it’s a rare species of fish.

“What’s wrong, don’t like Chili?” Mom asks.

Bailey jerks her head up. Staring at my mom with intense eyes, she says, “My stomach’s queasy.”

I stretch my hands out underneath the table, fighting the urge to knock Bailey’s chili off the table. I’m not the type to lose control of my emotions, but I feel she is being disrespectful to herself and my mother. And she’s going to die if she doesn’t start eating again.

“Would you like me to make you some soup?” Mom asks, trying her best to keep calm.

Say, yes
.

“No, thank you. I think I just need to lie down for a little while. May I be excused?”

“Of course.” Mom stares at her chili like she has done or said something wrong. “She can lie in your bed, can’t she, Sarah?” she asks, her eyes still concentrated on the chili.

“Sure,”
Sarah says begrudgingly.

Bailey gets up from the table, taking her chili with her.

I grind my teeth as beans and meat slop into the sink; the loud roar of the garbage disposal coming on. Bailey cleans her bowl and moves on to the remaining dishes in the sink. Drying her hands on a dishtowel, she shoots me a look, and walks away.

“That was
weird
,” Mom says.

“You should have made her eat it,” Sarah says.

“It’s not my place to make her eat,” says Mom, her voice indicating that she wishes it
was
her place.

“She’s going to starve to death,” says Sarah.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” I grumble. “I’m done.”

Bailey is lying on the floor in Sarah’s bedroom, playing with her fingers. I shut the door behind me, and she jolts. She is afraid of me, afraid of all that I’m about to say.

“Why won’t you eat anymore?” I say. “Who are you helping by starving yourself? That won’t get Clad out of jail.”

“I’m not trying to get him out of jail,” she says icily.

“You need to start eating again. You’re too thin. You. Are. Going. To. Die.”

“I’m not too thin. This is how I am, how I’ve always been. I’m not going to force feed myself, just because my body doesn’t please you.”

“You’re selfish, you know that?”

“Leave me alone, Spencer.”

“No. I’m not going to leave you alone. That’s what everyone does and it’s
killing
you,” I say. “Sit up!”

She presses her back against the wall, as if she is the only thing keeping it from falling over. Her eyes are dilated in fear, her face worn out by the day.

“You’re very lucky to be here. You wouldn’t be, if Clad hadn’t gone to prison for you.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she croaks. “I beat myself up for it every day!”

“Then you should know he isn’t getting five star meals, if any.”

“You don’t even like him!” she screams at me.

“No, but I like you—
love
you—and if it takes him to make you eat, then so be it. I’m not going to watch you starve yourself to death.”

She backs up in the corner between the nightstand and the wall, a rattlesnake ready to strike. “It makes me sick when I eat.
Honest
.”

“Why would food make you sick?”

“Because I take too many Vicodin. I know I shouldn’t, but it takes away the pain.”

“You’re still taking Vicodin? I thought you got weaned off those a while ago.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t stop taking them. I
need
them.”

“You have to stop, do you understand? You could be causing irreversible damage to your body. No wonder you won’t eat. No more, got it?”

“But Spencer—”

“NO! You have to stop.”

“You don’t just stop cold turkey.”

“You better, Bailey, or we won’t be together. I’m not going to lose another girlfriend, especially if it’s due to her own stupidity.”

The expression on her face changes three times in a matter of seconds: rage, defeat, and then it settles on heartbreak. “You’ve been yelling at me all day!” she says, trying to hold back tears that have gathered in her blue, blue eyes.

I hate her, right now. She is Lydia. I’m in her room, begging her to not give up in her battle against cancer. I see her eyes not as blue as Bailey’s, but lighter, her hair blonde not black. She’s arguing with me about whether she should be allowed to die and have her suffering end. I gave in because I didn’t love her enough to continue the argument. I still cannot forgive myself for ending the debate with saying, “It’s your body, you do what you want.” Well, she did what she wanted and it hurt everyone, especially me.

“You will eat! And stop the drugs!” I yell even louder this time, grabbing Bailey’s arms.

Her eyes flicker at me, then down at the grip I have on her and back up. “Okay.” I let go and she retracts back into the corner. “I want to go home.”

How could I let my anger get to me like this? Never in a million years would I imagine I’d be so forceful with Bailey and that she’d be shuddering in a corner, terrified of me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you. I’m sorry I keep yelling.”

I put a hand out to her, and she looks at it like a dog sniffing a stranger’s palm, rejecting it. “Please,” I say, “I only said those things because I’m so scared I’ll lose you.” I scoop her up, even though she resists me. “I do love you, so much. I just want you to be happy and healthy.”

“I want that for myself, too,” she whispers.

“Can you forgive me for being so harsh?”

“Always,” she says, kissing me.

Sarah bursts through the door; just as Bailey’s lips leave my neck.

“What are you crying about now? You’re going to ruin my carpet with your tears,” Sarah huffs, rolling her eyes emphatically.

“Shut your trap,” I say.

She and Bailey have a love-hate relationship; Sarah loves Bailey only when she’s hanging outside with her playing soccer, basketball, or running, and then hates her every other second of the day.

“It’s okay, we were just leaving,” Bailey says.

I narrow my eyes at Sarah. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

Bailey follows me to my bedroom; at my heels like a puppy.

“It’s kinda’ messy,” I say.

She sits on my bed, keeping her feet off the floor.

I rifle around in my dresser and find a large, black T-shirt for her to wear; I toss it and it lands on her head. She giggles a little, and then composes her face to a statuesque repose; her cheek bones jut out in a way that I have never seen on her before.

I turn around so she can dress. Listening to her unzip her pants, kick them off, and pull my shirt over her head, I resist turning back around—but barely.

“Okay, I’m dressed,” she says at last. “Will your mom let me sleep with you?”

She kneels on my bed and bounces on her knees. The T-shirt that would cling to me could be a tent for her. “
She’d better
,” I say under my breath.

I throw my shirt off and pounce on the bed, sending Bailey into the air. “Come here, you crazy girl,” I say, grabbing her by her hips and pulling her into my lap. I tickle her until she’s in stitches, her laughter filling every corner of the room and all the empty space of my heart.

“It hurts, it hurts!”

“In a good way?”

“In the best possible way.”

I pick her up, and throw her onto the bed. Free-falling backward, I land next to her. “There is no sound more beautiful than your laughter.”

“Yes, there is,” she says, a smile still shining on her face, laughter playing on her lips. “Your voice.”

“
Your laughter makes me sing
,
your smile makes my heart pounddd!
” I serenade. Someone knuckles the door. “Go away, Mother!”

Ignoring my request, Mom opens the door. “What are you two doing?” she asks, then looks at Bailey smiling and changes her mind about kicking her out of my room. “Go to sleep soon, okay? Don’t stay up to late and…”

“We won’t do anything, Mom, promise.”

She hesitates to close the door.

“Goodnight, B.B.” Bailey pipes up.

“Goodnight.” The sweetness of her voice wins Mom over and she finally shuts the door.

I turn my lamp off and pull the covers over Bailey and I. She curls up with her hands against my chest and her head buried beneath the comforter.

Her breath warms my chest and melts the ice around my heart. “Can you breathe okay, under there?”

“Yes,” she says, her voice made quiet by the comforter.

“Let me see your face.”

She moves her hands from my chest, and kicks the comforter off. Her hair sticks up, and she smiles at me like a kid who has gotten into the cookie jar. I run my finger across her belly, and her heart races; her eyes electric in the dark. “Does this feel good?”

She closes her eyes and nods.

“Lie on your stomach,” I say. She flips over and I roll her shirt up. I knead my hands into her back and write words on it with my fingertips.

“Love… Goodwill,” she mumbles. “
Take off your bra
.”

Her back tenses beneath my hands, I bite my lower lip. She lifts up and I move away.

“Don’t look,” she says. I hear a snap, and then she is lying back on her stomach, her head turned sideways on the pillow. “Okay, continue.”

I massage her shoulders and glide my fingers over the bumps of her spine.

“Bailey?”

She doesn’t answer.

I roll off her back, my head spinning because I want to go further.

I press my head against my pillow and stare up at the ceiling. The hole where my fan used to be chips away at me, until all I can think about is that one moment in time when things seemed so helpless that the only way out was to take my life.

She is going to be fine
; I wish I could have told myself then, could have shown myself how she is sleeping soundly next to me.

Suicide is permanent, but the circumstances surrounding it are usually fleeting. I’m glad I didn’t have to kill myself to figure that out, and I sure am glad Dad did a piss-poor job of connecting the fan to the ceiling.

I put my arm around Bailey and pull her close to me. I fall asleep with an everlasting smile on my face and electricity in my heart.

When I wake up, it is late morning. Bright sunlight reflects off my dresser mirror, blinding me. I squint at Sarah, who is standing by the door, her mouth hanging open. “Did you guys…” she says, motioning toward Bailey.

“What?” I look over at Bailey, sleeping dreamily.
“Oh.”

Her shirt has rolled halfway up her stomach, exposing the blue lacey band of her panties. I smile to myself. “In my dreams,” I say.

“Good,” Sarah says with relief. “Mom wanted me to tell you that breakfast is almost done.” She leaves the room, shutting the door behind her.

Bailey stretches her arms over her head and opens her eyes.

“Morning, beautiful,” I say.

“Morninggg,” she purrs.

“Breakfast is ready. Get dressed so we can eat.”

She rises, and then puts her pants on from the day before. Her hair is out of place from rolling around in her sleep.
Sex hair
.

“What about you?” she asks. “Aren’t you going to put a shirt on?”

I look down at my bare chest and back at her with a grin. “You’re wearing my only clean one.”

She blushes. “Oh, do you want it back?”

“Yeah, ‘cause Mom complains every time I walk around the house without a shirt on.”

She sighs. “Turn around again.”

Really, do I have to? What are you hiding under there? Gold bars, a map to buried treasure? I’ve seen breasts before; Lydia was not my first girlfriend. She was my ninth.

I cover my eyes with my hands. She tosses the shirt at me. When I uncover my eyes she is already dressed.

As I pull my shirt over my head, the smell of her is all around me, her perfume and the shampoo she uses.

“Let’s eat,” she says, skipping out my bedroom door.

I linger in bed a while longer, inhaling Bailey’s scent. And then, finding her bra underneath my bed, I hide it in my dresser.

On my lips, a grin as wide as the Kool-Aid man’s forms.

Surfside High was my domain. The blood of its students sprayed on its walls marked my territory, like a dog’s piss on a fire hydrant. With each beat down, the power I had grew. It grew, and grew, and grew. Until, its climax at the retention pond with Trenton and Bailey. My power ended there, hit its peak and plummeted off the cliff it had created on its rise.

A week after the shooting, most of the students returned to Surfside.
Most of them
. Bailey was M.I.A. I had scared the little chicken right out of her coop and she never returned. Nor Clad. There were pictures of his mug shot on the news and all over Facebook, but no mentioning of Bailey. The girl who’d started it all had fallen off the face of the Earth.

With my loss of power came new freedoms. The calluses on my knuckles turned to soft wrinkled skin, my classmates’ fear of me faded. I made friends outside my circle of minions and stopped beating the crap out of kids.

But something was missing.

I had friends, real friends, the kind who worried about me when I came to school with bloodshot eyes from crying, the kind who were soft and could talk with me forever about boys and life.

But something was missing.

I had Trenton, my dad’s abuse, and hidden packs of cigarettes under my pillows.

But something was
still
missing. Something
vital
. Something essential to my very existence…
Bailey.

All these years, I had wholeheartedly believed that Bailey’s existence depended on my own. Now that she had moved to another city, leaving her modest apartment and freshly built high school behind for the ocean, I realized it was I who existed because of her.

I was free in so many ways, yet I felt like I walked pathways bordered by electric fences, a shock collar around my neck. I was an animal, taught to rely on the safety of my cage and when Bailey left, I was sent into a free, open, wild place.

They call it freedom, that move to a larger less familiar cage lacking all securities. I was supposed to
adapt
. But animals don’t stock up on food due to the possibility of starving days ahead. I was ill prepared. What would have happened had she actually died that day, drowned in that pond?