The Bullet List (The Saving Bailey Trilogy, #1) (12 page)

Miemah, Cecil, Nessa
. It is missing a few names
. Stewart, Bracker,
and
Latcher
I write in fancy cursive writing like that you would find on a tombstone, because to me this is their first official gravestone. This one piece of crumpled paper is more terrifying than a knife or gun. It is as if by writing their names down, I have already taken their lives.

I feel more normal and clear-headed than ever when I read over my Bullet List. I have used nothing but logic to create it, and what is more logical than abolishing the things that hurt you the most?

There is a creak outside the door, and I jump, letting the Bullet List fall to the floor. It lightly floats to the ground, and I push it under my bed with the tip of my foot. Alana is standing right next to me, her expression intent.

“The door was unlocked, so I let myself in.” Just like her to not bother knocking; she has no sense of privacy or personal space.

“You should have knocked,” I say and sit on my bed, mussing up the sheets my mom worked so hard to straighten.

“Sorry. Sorry about that and everything,” she says, and hesitantly sits next to me. “I had no right telling Trenton that you went to the counselor, and I shouldn’t have invited myself to the bonfire. I just really wanted to hang out with you; we haven’t hung out outside of school in such a long time. I felt like we were growing apart and it looks like I was right. Now we aren’t even friends.”

“I’m too high-strung with all that has been going on; you of all people should know that,” I say.

“I do, I just forget it sometimes. Can we be friends again?”

“Sure,” I say, giving in.

“Great.” She touches my hand.

“I have an idea. That’s why I came here,” she says, a spark returning to her eyes.

“I know how we can get back at Miemah. Want to hear?” she asks, her voice rising in excitement.

“No, but you are going to tell me anyway, so shoot,” I say indifferently.

“I know where she lives. Nessa told me. We can go to her house, and get footage of her doing embarrassing things, like going to the bathroom or undressing.”

I sigh heavily. “Alana that is probably the dumbest idea you’ve come up with yet. But what have we got to lose?”

“So you’ll do it then? I already have my video camera with me.” Her voice has not lost its enthusiasm.

“After I get something to eat, yeah, we can do it.”

I leave her in my bedroom, go to the kitchen, and open the fridge in the hopes of finding a yogurt, or anything edible. It is empty aside from a gallon of orange juice. Alana comes up behind me.

“Your mom needs to go grocery shopping.”

I go to the cupboards and find a single, lone bag of Doritos. “This will have to do,” I say.

“So, what do you want for your birthday tomorrow?” Alana asks all of the sudden.

“Food,” I say jokingly. “Is it really my birthday tomorrow? I’ve been so caught up with school it had completely slipped my mind.”

“It is,” she assures me.

“Then I want food, any kind,” I say.

“Okeydokey, I think I can manage that,” she says.

I rip open the bag of chips and offer some to Alana. She shakes her head no. “I’m full.”

I munch on them while she goes outside to retrieve her video camera from the clutter of her car. As she shows me how to work it, some of her excitement begins to rub off.

“Where does she live?” I say between bites of chip.

“Across from Four Freedoms Park, in a banged-up one story.”

“You been there?”

“Only once, yesterday, when Nessa showed it to me.”

“Does she know what we are going to do?” I ask, the thrill wearing down.

“No, but she wouldn’t care anyway. She’s tired of being Miemah’s lap dog. So is Cecil.”

I’m a little on edge about her knowing so much of Miemah’s posse:
it is like she has become one of them.

“Don’t worry, I don’t work for Miemah,” she says, sensing my uneasiness.

“I hope not,” I say.

I toss the chip bag in the trash, put my jacket and boots on, and we go outside into the frigid air. Alana’s car, a red Kia, is parked on the opposite side of the street.

“Why didn’t you park in the lot?” I ask.

“Because I suck at parking and I didn’t want to hit any cars.”

I sit in the passenger side, and she starts up the car. We are on our way to Miemah’s house.

“Clad still angry with you?” she asks, and a dull ache returns to my chest.

“More than angry. He wants nothing to do with me.” The ache throbs.

“Sorry. Maybe I can talk him into forgiving you,” she offers.

“Don’t bother. He is too stubborn,” I say, scowling.

She pulls out a cigarette and lights it, the smoke trailing out the driver side window like the tail of a kite. We are nearing the park, and I’m thankful because the smoke is making my stomach twist.

“Just down this street…” she says, as we pull down Palm Tree Blvd.

“Have the video camera ready. Right here, see the big window in front? That’s her room. And look there is a car in the driveway. She is home.
Perfect timing
.”

There is something thrilling about being able to catch my terrorizer in a vulnerable pose. This is the most excited I have been in ages, and I am hopping in my seat as we drive past the house a little distance, and park in an abandoned field.

“If anything happens we can just drive away,” Alana says.

If anything happens? Like Miemah coming out with a chainsaw, ready to slice and dice?
But I can’t be afraid and back out now. The plan is being put into action already, and I need something to hold on to besides my Bullet List.

The dead brown grass in the field crunches beneath my every step. A chill runs down my spine; I have this feeling that Miemah can sense my movement. That she knows we are on our way up to her house.

Alana runs up beneath the window, and I follow. It is cracked halfway open, and there is loud music playing. We look in. Miemah’s room is not at all what I expect it to look like: it is a bright orange, there are a couple posters, and an outline of a woman’s face on the walls. The room is spare and tidy. I expected to see a dungeon or Grendel’s Lair from
Beowulf
.

Maybe we are at the wrong house, I start to think, but then Miemah comes through the door, and shuts it behind her.

“There she is, there she is!” Alana whispers.

She presses record on the camera and holds it up to the window. Miemah pulls out a cigarette, lights it, looks around the room cautiously, and then takes a few huffs. I am beginning to think that we should abandon the blackmailing idea altogether when her dad steps in the room.

“What are you doing now you little whore? Smoking in my house! MY HOUSE! Where are they? Give them to me before I smash your teeth in!” he yells at her, his portly belly jiggling, his yellowed, crusty wife-beater singlet incapable of containing it. He has a full beard, and is obviously of Puerto Rican descent. He looks like an obese, hairier version of Miemah.

“Dad, no! I need them. Just a couple, please. They aren’t even mine, they belong to Cecil, she will be so pissed with me if she finds out you threw them away!”

“I said no smoking in dis’ house, hand them over, or I’m going to beat you senseless. You’re a little bitch just like your mother,” he says and reaches for the pack.

She spits something out in Spanish and his face turns beet red with rage. He smacks her across the face, and she spins once and lands on her bed.

“Go, go, we have to go,” I tell Alana, grabbing her arm, but she doesn’t budge.

“No, I’m getting something.”

I tug her harder, but she is cemented to the ground.

Miemah gets off the bed, and for a moment I see her face, mouth bleeding, and lip cut. I feel a pang of pity for her.
I can kill her, but I can’t stand to see her with a busted lip
.

Her dad leaves the room, cigarettes in hand, muttering something in Spanish. She is shaking, and checking out her injured mouth in her vanity mirror, when something catches her eye. She stops and twists her head around, her beady black eyes meeting mine.

Chapter 16

I am paralyzed. Alana has already left her spot, and is halfway to the field by now. I can’t move, even though I hear the screen door slam, and can see Miemah advancing on me. My eyes flash to her hands, and I catch a glimpse of something shiny.
Her knife
. My knees unlock and I fly from the window. I zip across the yard and onto the street. I am going to run to the field, when I see that it is empty.
Alana has abandoned me
.

I hightail down the street. She is gaining on me and both my shoes have come untied.

“I’m going to slice your face so bad; no one will recognize you at school tomorrow!” she snarls at me breathlessly.

A stitch forms in my side and my mouth goes dry like I have eaten spoonfuls of sand from Fort Myers Beach.
She will catch me
, I think. I can envision the knife digging into my cheek, slicing my face into a million long gashes.

I turn the corner in hopes of shaking her, but she is steady on my track. My foot catches a pothole in the road and I crash to my knees.
I’m dead
.

“I’m going to perform plastic surgery on your face, Sykes!” she says, laughing.

I get back up, but now she is only a few feet off from me, and I know my effort is in vain. Then, out of nowhere, a red Kia speeds towards us. I pause for a minute, expecting Alana to skid to a halt, but she only decelerates the car’s speed a little. The car hits me going about fifteen miles an hour, before screeching to a halt. My hip takes the full brunt of the one-ton metal beast. The pain is so bad I almost black out, but then I remember that Miemah is right behind me, just waiting to destroy my face.

I hobble to the passenger side where Alana has thrown open the door. I barely get it closed before she takes off.

She pounds the steering wheel and hoots, “Damn that was close! Did you see how close that was? I can’t believe I ran you over
! Hi-larious
!”

I ball up my fist, and bite on it. A stifled scream escapes me.

“I guess I hit you pretty hard,” she says, patting my back. I slap her hand away.

“You broke my fucking hip!” There are four bite-marks on my knuckles, oozing blood.

I find a towel on the floor, and resort to screaming in that.

“No way! Really? Do you think it’s broken?”

I kick the car beneath the dashboard, to release some of the pain that is racking my body.

“I think you messed it up pretty bad. Might be broken,” I say once I catch my breath.

“I’m sorry; you just kind of leapt in front of me. What was I supposed to do?”

“Stop the car! Have you ever been hit by two thousand pounds of metal going over fifteen miles an hour? It doesn’t feel too good.”

“You can ice it when we get to your house.”

“
Ice it
? That should heal the bone. Because everyone knows, ice regenerates bone mass.”

“
Okay! Enough!
It’s not like I hit you on purpose! It’s your fault you didn’t leave when you should have.”

“I couldn’t move,” I say.

I let my head fall against the window. “You don’t know what she has done to my psyche.”

“You whine too much about her. So you got banged up a bit, so she pulled your hair, and? You need to be stronger.”

I was kicked in the stomach, my hair nearly ripped out of my head, and my stomach cut up by Cecil’s nails, not to mention just being run over. I need to be stronger, does she mean Superman strong? Or not letting Miemah get into my head strong?
I don’t think I can be either type, because I am having a hard enough time just holding onto the sliver of strength I do have left.

“Home sweet home,” Alana says. Mom’s car is parked in the lot.

“Help me up the stairs. I don’t think I can walk.”

She opens the door and helps me out of the car, then lets me lean on her as we awkwardly stagger up the staircase.

“Oh yeah, something is broken,” I say as I wince and limp step by step.

Alana opens the door and leans me against its frame for support.

“Hello Mrs. Sykes,” she says, waving and taking off before Mom can ask her about what happened.

“Thanks,” I call after her, sarcastically.

I limp across the room and collapse on the couch.

There are a bunch of shopping bags on the table and they have me curious:
Mom never goes shopping.

“What did you buy?” I ask Mom who is busy in the kitchen, putting away a bag of groceries.

“Stuff,” she says nonchalantly.

“What kind of stuff?”

“Birthday stuff.”

I peel off my pants, to examine the damage done by the car. My hip is swollen and red, and a bruise is forming. I draw in a jagged breath, catching Mom’s attention.

“My God, what happened now?”

“Alana hit me with her car.”

“
That girl
, I swear her head is in the clouds,” she says pulling out an ice pack from the freezer and placing it on my hip. “Was she going fast?”

“Over fifteen. I think it’s broken,” I whimper.

“Maybe... here hold this on it, and I’ll get you a couple Advil to help with the pain.”

The ice pack only covers a small area of the bruising and it is ineffective in bringing down the swelling. Mom hands me a glass of water and three tiny red pills. I take them, and then sip the water slowly.

“I’m making dinner,” she says.

I stretch out on my side. I am exhausted from outrunning Miemah. I can’t even begin to think about what she will do to me at school tomorrow.

“Can I have a blanket, please?” I ask.

“Sure, sweets.” Mom unfolds an old quilt and spreads it over me, tucking me in like she used to when I was little. “I can hardly believe you are going to be sixteen tomorrow. The years just fly by in a blur. I still remember when you were sitting in your stroller,” she says, becoming sentimental. “Is macaroni and cheese okay for dinner? I’m too tired to make a big production of it,” Mom says, pulling a box of Kraft mac and cheese out from the cupboard.

“Yes, please.”

I find the TV remote and flip through the channels, expecting Mom to yell at me, like she often does when I cannot settle on one channel. She is boiling water on the stove and humming to herself, however, and my channel changing doesn’t seem to bother her now.

I am having memories from when she would prepare dinners, before Dad ended up in prison. She would sing and dance around the kitchen, her apron and skirt swaying.
Fairy-tale perfect
. Now this off-pitch tune is all she can muster, because we have been through too much to still be singing like happy songbirds.

I fixate on a show about cake baking; even a little pleasure such as a birthday cake seems too much to ask for these days. Vanilla icing, sprinkles, and frosted flowers, would be the cake I would pick: simple yet delicious.

“Done,” Mom says, and sets the table with two bowls and spoons.

Mom pours only a small portion of the macaroni and cheese in her own bowl and gives me the rest.

“Thank you,” I say humbly.

“I forgot to buy more juice, and I took the last glass full that was in the refrigerator. All we have is tap water,” Mom says somberly.

“That’s alright Mom, you got all that you could,” I say to console her, because it is my job to keep her from falling apart.

“Yes, I guess you are right. I just hope tomorrow will be a pleasant birthday for you. I’m sorry we can’t have a party and loads of presents like we used when you were younger, before-” she stops.

“I don’t even remember those birthdays, Mom. I was a toddler. So I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything, and I am sure everything will work itself out.”

Dinners, are beginning to take too much of an emotional toll on me. They have turned into pseudo-therapeutic sessions for Mom, and while that is beneficial for her, it is too trying for me.

I lick my bowl clean, and Mom grins satisfied that I am eating again. She rises to clean the dishes, but before she can get to the sink there is a knock at the door.

She unlocks the deadbolt, and opens it.

“Are you Mrs. Sykes, ma’am?” One of two police officers asks.

“Yes,” Mom says, her face grave.

“Are you the mother of Bailey Sykes?”

“Yes,” Mom answers.

A knot forms in my throat, and a score of ideas passes through my mind as to why they would be here looking for me.

“She was caught trespassing in the yard of Miemah Valdez. Can we speak with her?”

I am relieved and alarmed all at the same time
. So that is the game you want to play, Miemah. How about I let them in on a few of our other secret encounters? Like the one where you violently pulled my hair and jabbed your foot in my gut.

“She is badly injured at the moment. Can we step outside to talk?” Mom says, saving me from the humiliation of talking to two grown men in my underwear.

They chat for a few minutes, and then Mom steps back in, shutting the door. She is pale, and exasperated.

“Go to your room, you are grounded.”

“Okay,” I don’t argue.

She follows me and sits on a corner of my bed.

“Why did you go to Miemah’s house?” she asks wearily.

“Alana and I were looking for a way to blackmail her; she is the girl who gave me trouble at school,” I confess, because there is no point in hiding it.

“Revenge is never the answer,” Mom says.

It is if you have a reason
. I have a reason,
I think.
A damn good reason too
.

“Okay,” I say, only because I know it is what she wants to hear.

“Stay in here and think about it. You could have been arrested. You could’ve been killed by Alana’s car.”

She closes my door quietly.

Think about it
?
As if I haven’t been thinking about my predicament with Miemah all day.

On my hands and knees I go under the bed and find my Bullet List; I return it to its rightful place in the back of my sock drawer.

The sun is setting in a breath-taking array of oranges, purples, and pinks. Florida sunsets are always stunning. I open my window and sit on the ledge dangling my feet over the side. The ground is about twenty feet below me, but I think I would survive if I fell.

I daydream about Clad, pretending that he still loves me. We walk on the beach, our fingers intertwined, the last of the seagulls settling in for the night, squawking with the waves crashing in harmony.

Clad says something about how he thinks I am beautiful, but not so smart. I laugh and say something clever.

We stop, as the sun begins to set, and look into each other’s eyes, both searching for something different. I am hunting for the part of him that isn’t hypersensitive, the part that I rarely see. He is looking for love and passion in me. Neither of us finding what we are looking for.

We give up on the search, having realized that although we cannot satisfy each other’s needs, we are no worse off for it. Clad combs his hand through my tangled, wind-swept hair, pulling my head closer to his for a kiss.

That is as far as the daydream goes, before I have to retreat from the ledge, fearful of falling asleep and dropping out the window to my death.

I rub the sheets between my hands, my bed feeling cozier than I remember. As soon as my head touches the pillow, I am drifting into the dream world, my body light as a feather.

I am at school, in the cafeteria, searching for a place to sit. The fluorescent lights are the color of a sunset. I walk, even though I don’t feel my legs moving, and can’t feel the pain that I should in my hip. In front of me is the table Trenton and I sat at, on it is a single orange, and Trenton is sitting with his arm around Miemah.

I am infuriated to see her in my seat, at my table, but my rage turns to shock when I notice the orange is changing. It morphs to a kiwi-green color, and forms into the shape of a body, Clad’s body. He is lying across the table, shirtless. I find it odd that he is undressed but then I understand why, because Miemah leaps from her chair, knife in hand, and cuts a line down his torso. She cuts him open the same way we do in frog dissections for Mr. Wiggan’s class. Blood runs thick from the laceration.

I have to save him, but once again I don’t feel my legs responding when my brain tells them to move. I am like a statue, helpless to protect him. I open my mouth and scream, the sound of a bird’s song has replaced my voice though, and no one pays me any attention.

Miemah draws back the knife again ready to strike, and I am wishing that she would stab me instead of Clad. As if she has heard my thoughts, she turns from Clad’s bleeding body, and jabs the knife into my side, in my chest, and anywhere she can find flesh. I look to Clad for comfort, but his eyes are two black holes. I now take note that Miemah’s eyes have also gone through a change: they are scarlet.

Miemah is about to slash my throat when Trenton puts his hand up and says to me, “He’s more than just a friend, but you don’t love him enough to save him.”

I wake up entangled in my sheets, having fallen onto the floor, screaming. I scramble to my feet slipping on the sheet, and bolt from my room and out the front door.

The cold air whips through me and I realize I have left home without pants on. I gasp, and let the air fill my lungs. My hip is radiating pain, and the measly Advils have done nothing; I might as well have eaten candy for all the good they did me. Confused and still panicking from the dream, I hurry down the stairs and take off to the nearby park.

It is calming to run, but I slow to a jog as my feet and hip begin to feel the strain. I need to scream, but not the stifled inside kind of scream,
it needs to be free
. I speed walk past a couple of small trees and find a picnic table. The wood is sharp and splintered, but I stand on the table anyway. When I am on top I can see the whole park before me: the tennis court, bathrooms, and curving sidewalks.

I cup my hands around my mouth and scream as loud as I can. The sound is clear and strong, releasing all my pent-up emotions. The sleepy park seems to echo with it, the sound-waves bouncing off the slides, swinging on the swings, and rustling the leaves of the trees.