The Bullet List (The Saving Bailey Trilogy, #1) (3 page)

Chapter 3

After pushing my way through the crammed hallway, I enter the gym. The sickly sweet smell of cheap perfume scarcely covers the odor of sweat that pervades the girls’ locker room. I change into my gym shorts and tee shirt as quickly as I can to avoid coming into contact with Miemah and Cecil. My dream has not faded away; it has only taken a few steps back.

I struggle to tie the laces of my sneakers; the dangling bandaging on my hands keeps getting in the way. The locker room doors are suddenly thrown open and Miemah with Cecil march in. My heart stops. I needed to be faster in order to dodge them; now I am sitting duck trying to tie my shoes with sweaty shaking hands.

“Should we confront her now?” I hear Cecil ask Miemah.

“No we are already late,” Miemah says. Then in a louder voice, “We will deal with the little trash-talking whore later.”

I dumbly look around to see if they might be talking about somebody else.

“Gross, she’s looking at me!” Cecil scoffs.

Miemah is too busy with primping her hair to take notice of the statement. I thank my lucky stars for that one, and slink past them.

The boys have all made it out of their locker room already and are leaning against the wall, looking bored. Mrs. Stewart, the gym teacher, is tapping her pen against her clipboard, running out of patience with Miemah and Cecil, who are still in the locker room prepping.

“Bailey, can you go get them?” she asks, pointing her pen at me.

“What me? Why me? I can’t,” I stammer. Fear pumps through my veins.

“Are you giving me an attitude?” Mrs. Stewart asks me.

“N-no,” I stutter.

“They don’t like me,” I say.

She makes a whistling noise with her lips, and rocks on her heels before finally saying, “Okay, Nessa you go get them.” A girl with curly blonde hair and bright green eyes hops forward and skips off to the lockers; she is also a minion of Miemah’s. She returns with Miemah and Cecil, their arms locked in an alliance. Mrs. Stewart gives them a nasty look, but only for a moment.
She must be frightened of them too
.

“We’re going to be running the mile today,” she informs us.

The boys and girls moan in protest. I would normally be thrilled to run the mile, but today it is a sort of curse with my feet being sliced up as they are.

“Get to it,” Mrs. Stewart says, and claps her hands for motivation.

We lazily step out of the gym door and into the fresh air. A rubber quarter-mile track encircles a spongy football field of grass. We line up on the track, and Mrs. Stewart starts her stopwatch. “Go now,” she says.

I break into a run and immediately take the lead. The wind blowing through my long jet-black hair is rejuvenating, but it can’t make up for the excruciating pain in my feet. I halt as it becomes insufferable. Mrs. Stewart makes her way over to me, curious as to why I have suddenly stopped.

“You better hurry up if you want to make that twelve minute mark,” she says coaxingly.

“I can make it,” I pant. “I can make it in half that time.”

She raises her eyebrows. “If you plan on running it that fast you’d better get started.”

“I’m in too much pain,” I sputter. “I hurt my feet last night.”

She rolls her eyes. “Six minutes, Bailey, you got six minutes to run the mile or I’m giving you a zero.”

“What! But that’s unfair, everyone else gets twelve!” I yell, outraged.

She looks down at her timer and says, “It’s already been two minutes.”

I grit my teeth against the pain and begin to run again. The rubber track eagerly accepts the beaten down soles of my sneakers.
This is where I belong
, I think. The track. I haven’t run competitively since the seventh grade, but running has been a long-standing passion of mine.

When not at school, I run to the bus stop, to the store, to the park, and up the stairs. I’m always running from everything and to everything. Today is different, though. As I run I feel as if the skin on my feet is unraveling from the bone. I need to rest. I turn back to see if Mrs. Stewart is paying attention to me: she is, and she’s not the only one. A tall platinum-blond-haired boy is standing next to her watching the timer as the seconds tick by. He smiles and waves.

His name is Trenton. I don’t know him personally, but like everybody else in the school, I know
of
him. I have paid close attention to his penetrating blue eyes, white picket fence smile, and pantherlike body. He is the hottest guy in school, possibly the hottest guy in all of Cape Coral. He makes Clad look like an ugly clown.

I veer off the track and collapse in the grass. Mrs. Stewart and Trenton rush to my side.

“Are you okay?” Trenton asks. “You sure were going fast.”

I reach down and pull my shoes off, and am alarmed to see the bandages have all but peeled away. The long gashes, three on my right foot, and two on my left, have opened up, and are dripping blood on the grass.

“Holy crap!” Trenton says, biting his knuckles.

“I stepped in a pile of broken glass last night and sliced them up. It hurts so bad,” I manage to say before my voice is obscured by a surge of tears.

Mrs. Stewart frowns. “I owe you an apology Sykes, I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay.” I swallow back a sob.

“You are the fastest runner I have ever seen,” she concedes. “Trenton, pick her up.”

He bends down and effortlessly lifts me up. “Light as a feather,” he chuckles. “Don’t you ever eat?”

Mrs. Stewart hands me my sneakers and gives a set of keys to Trenton.

“I am trusting you,” she tells him. “These are the keys to my office. Get the first aid kit and help her bandage up, think you can do that?”

He nods. “Sure thing boss. I’m on top of it.”

Trenton pulls me in closer to his chest and carries me to the door. His chest rises up and down against the right side of my body, and I feel strangely at ease in his arms.

“How much do you weigh?” he asks.

“One hundred and four,” I say.

“Wow, lightweight,” he hisses. “So, I understand how you hurt your feet, but what about the bruise?” he asks.

“My mom hit me,” I say unabashedly.

“That’s messed up,” he says, sounding genuinely upset.

“How could anyone hit a pretty girl like you?” Trenton asks.

I shrug. “I’d like to know the same thing.”

He kicks open the door with his foot and for a minute I envision him as a firefighter kicking down the door of a burning building.

The gym is empty. He finds a chair and puts me down, then goes to hunt for the first-aid kit. He sings a tune while he searches.

“Found it,” he says in a sing-song voice. “Let’s fix you up now.”

When he reaches for my foot, I grab his wrist. “It’s okay, I can do it,” I say self-consciously.

“No, let me,” he insists, peeling my fingers off his wrist one by one. He unwraps the old bandaging and throws it away in a nearby trashcan. My cheeks burn red at having the cutest guy in school touching my feet.

“Your mom didn’t take you to a doctor?” Trenton asks.

“Well, she kind of is a doctor,” I say. It is partially a lie because my mother has never been to medical school; however she has been my personal doctor since age five.

“I see. There you go; one more and you’ll be back on your feet no problem,” he says and reaches for my other foot. “You know what; you have some really nice feet.” He chuckles. “Well besides the blood and cuts, I mean.”

I don’t know how to respond. “Do you have a fetish for feet or something?” I ask and regret it as soon as the sentence escapes my lips.

He laughs politely. “No. I’ve just never seen such pretty feet.”

“Thanks, I think,” I say, unsure if I should be weirded out by his potential foot fetish, or relieved that he doesn’t find my feet gross.

“I’m done,” he says, and releases my foot. He then leans over me and wipes the remaining tears from my eyes with his thumbs. “Does it still hurt?” he asks, and opens his arms for a hug.

“Not anymore,” I say, and fall into his arms. A hug never felt so good. I think how funny it is that I can’t stand Clad’s hand on my shoulder when I’ve known him so many years, but an embrace from Trenton feels so right.

Trenton is about to let go, and I am pulling out of his warm chest, when Miemah throws open the office door.

“Trenton, we are over!” she shrieks at him, on the verge of breaking down in tears. She then turns to me, and growls, “You are dead.”

“She’s your girlfriend?” I ask Trenton, my eyes widening in terror.

“Not anymore,” he declares.

I rack my brain for a way to escape Miemah’s attention before I enter the girls’ locker room to change. However, I keep coming to the same conclusion:
I am dead
.

The locker room is silent, as dead as I am about to become. I scramble to get my locker open and dress myself before Miemah can have the chance to confront me. Just as I am pulling my gym pants off, someone comes up behind me and sharply pulls my hair.

“Ah,” I scream.

“Quiet or I’ll kill you,” Miemah says, hushing me. “You’re going to pay for flirting with my boyfriend.”

Miemah pulls on my hair harder, and I grasp the edges of the bench I am seated on to prevent myself from falling backwards.

“I wasn’t flirting with him,” I say between clenched teeth. “He was trying to make me feel better because I was crying.” Letting her know that I was crying makes me feel uncomfortably vulnerable.

“Not all the comforting in the world is going to make you stop crying when I’m through,” she spits out. “I’m having your grave dug as we speak, Sykes. Is it with two i’s or one?”

“It’s a ‘y,’ bitch,” I sneer, falling off the bench as she gives my hair one final yank. I’m on my knees when she jabs me in the rib cage with her foot. All the air releases from my lungs. At that moment, Alana and Nessa come through the door.

Miemah pulls back her leg to kick me in the face. Alana lets out a breathy scream.

“Don’t! Don’t kick her!” Alana pleads, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Alana, don’t stand up for me, she will beat you too,” I warn her.

“Alana’s right, wait till she’s healed again, then you can tear her down real good,” Nessa chimes in.

Miemah drops her leg and strolls out of the room, satisfied with the job she’s done on me.

Alana comes to my side. “Are you inured? What did she do?” she asks.

Her chest is heaving. I refuse to make eye contact because I can’t stand to see her crying.

“She kicked me in the stomach,” I say, breathless.

“God,” I moan.

Alana puts her arms around my torso to hug me. I am not consoled though, because I can feel her body trembling while she cries soundlessly.

“I’m okay. Don’t cry,” I command her. I smooth her fire-engine-red hair, like Mom does to me when I’m upset. She relaxes.

“I’m blubbering like a baby, and you are the one who got kicked. I’m ridiculous,” she says and laughs half-heartedly.

“I think that went well,” I say and brush myself off. “Considering the fact that I was hugging her boyfriend.”

“Trenton?” Alana asks, awe-struck. “No way! You hugged Trenton Alexander?”

I grin sheepishly. “Actually
he
hugged me,” I say.

I sit back on the bench to put my clothes on. Alana looks me up and down.

“Of course he did,” she says solemnly. “Look at you.” She waves her hand at me. “You belong on the front cover of
Playboy Magazine
.”

I pull my shirt on, trying to evade her prying eyes. “You’re rude,” I say coldly.

“You have a perfect body, you shouldn’t care if people want to look at it,” Alana says.

“You’re twisted, you know that?” I say furiously. “I guess if you had a nice body you wouldn’t say shit like that.”

“What’s wrong with my body?” she says.

“You have as much shape as a sack of potatoes,” I say viciously, and zip up my pants. “You’re real selfish, trying to make me feel sorry for you, when I almost got the life beat out of me,” I say, slamming her against the lockers. Her hand shoots to the back of her head, and she rubs a sore spot where her head hit a locker. I look her over to make sure she isn’t about to burst into tears, and then I leave her in a flurry.

This time, she doesn’t chase after me.
Good riddance
, I think, feeling smug. I need to clear my head, so I end up slipping into an abandoned janitors closet that I visit frequently at times like this. I let the heavy door click behind me and search for the light switch. I am able to breathe again when I find it and flood the room with surreal fluorescent light.

There is a small cot with a thin navy blue quilt in one corner of the room, I toss my bag to the floor and drop down onto it. I desperately need a way to free myself from Miemah, and am trying to think of how I could go about doing so when an idea comes to mind.
My dream
. It has been haunting me since that morning in Latcher’s class, and now I know why. I’ve seen Miemah’s face in my dream; I have sprayed her with bullets. I killed her. This is the answer to all my problems:
a school shooting
.

I pop up and fumble through my bag looking for the black binder that I store loose-leaf paper in. I find a piece and tear it out of the prongs in an urgent manner. Next, I find a pen in a drawer amongst cleaning supplies. I scrawl in big bold letters, MIEMAH. Then beneath her name, CECIL, and NESSA. Three people have already made it onto my list of death. I grin so big I scare myself. My heart races. I’ve just written out a kill list.

The names are marked with small ovals shaped like bullets. Like the bullets I plan to drive through their cruel, icy hearts and suck the life from them with. It’s not my kill list I realize with a shock; it is my
Bullet List
.

Chapter 4

While stuffing my Bullet List as far down into the confines of my bag as I can, I am overcome with a sudden bout of extreme sleepiness. I crawl back onto the cot, kick the blanket off, and let my dizzy head spin.

I have a list, an actual list of people who deserve to die.
People that neither I nor anyone else would ever miss, without whom, the world would be a better place. It’s either me or them, because it is impossible for us to coexist.

I take my shoes off and exhale audibly. Today it was only a kick to the stomach, and a vicious hair pulling, but who knows what Miemah has up her sleeve for next time. I gulp, because with Miemah, there is always a next time, unless you’re dead.

I fall into a restless nightmarish sleep. A vision of the school’s sophomore hallway plays out in my head. My mom is standing in the middle of it, her head hung, and a bottle of SKYY vodka loosely gripped in her right hand. In her left is the Walther.

“Give it to me!” I yell at her. “I need the gun!” I reach for her arm, and she holds it out to forfeit the gun to me.

“Thank you,” I say, reaching out to take it.

She takes a swig of vodka and grips the gun tighter. It is clear that if I want it I will have to fight her for it. I grab the front of the barrel and pull. She aims it at my face.

“You want to kill those kids,” Mom says, her words garbled.

“They want to kill me,” I argue.

She pulls the trigger.

I wake up screaming, “Nooo!” Someone is on the other side of the door, pushing against it to break it open. I roll off the cot, and try to stand up, but my knees are shaking so violently that I disintegrate into a sobbing heap. The door swings open and Clad is standing there, bathed in light like a superhero.

“Alana told me I could find you here,” he says, nudging me with his foot. “Why are you on the floor?” My face is buried in my arm and he can’t see my tears.

“I had a nightmare,” my voice cracks. “You can touch me now.”

He starts laughing at me. “You’re crying over a nightmare?” He helps me off the floor.

“It was so real,” I say. “The realest one I’ve ever had.” I pat my face and forehead to verify that there is no bullet wound.

Clad puts an arm around my waist to steady me. “You are shaking like a leaf!” he proclaims.

“I can’t stop,” I say, and place his hand on my chest. “I think my heart is having a seizure.”

“You were really scared, huh? I heard you screaming, I thought-” he says pausing, not wanting to finish.

“You thought I was hurt.” I lean into him because he is the only thing not moving around me; the room is spinning.

“I was more scared,” he confesses, and sits with me on the cot. He pulls me onto his lap and I rest my head against his chest. His heart is beating ever so slowly; I try to emulate the rhythm with my own rapid heart-beat.

“What did you dream?” he asks, obviously pleased to have me so close.

“That my mom shot me with her gun,” I say.

Clad rubs my shoulders. “She wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

You don’t know my mom
, I think. “A bottle of vodka can change a person,” I say.

“Your mom drinks?” he asks, surprised.

“She’s an alcoholic. She doesn’t drink, she sucks it down,” I say. My heart finally returns to its normal rhythm.

I don’t want to talk about my mom anymore, so I change the subject. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” I ask him, raising one eyebrow.

“Yes, but I got worried, so I had to come find you first,” he discloses. “I heard about Miemah and the locker room.”

I flinch. “From whom?”

“Alana. Who else?” Clad says.

“She pissed me off,” I say.

“What’d she do?” he prompts.

“She was being a heartless dipshit,” I say sourly, and he laughs in response.

“We should be in Drama now, will you come with me?”

I scoot off his lap and nod. He half smiles and says, “You let me hold you.”

My stomach does a backflip, and I understand what he is getting at. That maybe we could be more than just friends. I know he’s felt this way about me for a while, but I had always repelled his advances in the hopes that he would get over his silly little crush.

“You’re a really good friend,” I say casually.

Clad cringes. “And?” he prods me.

“Oh, and you are like the big brother I never had.”

His hands clench.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, and sighs.

“To be honest with you, I was so shaken that I would have gladly leapt into the arms of whoever came through that door. It didn’t matter that it was you,” I say, knowing I will hurt his feelings. I can’t let him think for even a second that we could be something.

“Oh,” he says, his eyes glistening. “I’d like to think I’m the only one who could have walked through that door and dried your tears and I’d like to think that no other person could have made you feel as good.” He gets up and leans against the wall, his face full of gloom.

“I’d like to think a lot of things, that I guess just aren’t true.”

“Sometimes I would rather believe in my own lies than believe in all your truths, because I don’t think I could stand the idea of you not loving me the same way I love you.”

“I do love you. As a friend. You are my best friend,” I say.

He slouches, dropping his shoulders in disgust. “I’ll take my lies,” he says.

I pull my shoes back on, letting Clad tie the laces for me. He hands me my tote bag and leads me out the door, then shuts off the light. Together we forge a path through a multitude of students to reach our last class of the day:
Drama
.

“Funny,” I say, “it feels like I have been taking this class all day long.”

Clad says nothing. I laugh to clear the silence, but my attempt is ignored − he is dead set on being miserable.

Corey Steele waves at me and I grin. He is wearing a gold-striped vest and black trousers, an outfit picked out by the costume department for an upcoming play. I hope that Clad’s lifeless attitude doesn’t infect the class.

“I don’t know what you want me to say to you,” I say to Clad, wanting his mood to brighten.

“You will never say what I want to hear,” he glowers, and sulks into the room.

Corey puts his hand on my elbow. “What’s his issue?” he asks, staring at Clad after he storms off.

“Who knows,” I fib, and take my elbow from him.

I join a group in the back of the room. Our four desks are strategically placed there so Mrs. Herrera cannot hear us speak, nor can she see us passed out on the carpet. We call ourselves ‘The Rejects.’ The name is fitting because we reject being a part of anything the class is doing. This includes but is not limited to: plays, improvisation, and any sort of stage work.

“I’m not participating in anything today, unless it involves sleeping,” Ashten says, stretching her arms.

“Me either,” Holden seconds.

“We don’t have to,” I rightfully say, because even though we’ve been in this class a semester already, we have spent every single day in this corner of the room stretched out on the floor, dozing.

“I took a long nap in the janitor’s closet, and science class, and a smaller one in Mrs. Latcher’s room too,” I muse to them.

“Janitor’s closet?” Holden says. “That’s genius. How did you get in there?”

“It’s not locked or anything, I just walk right in,” I say.

The class settles down as Mrs. Herrera walks up to the front of the room, demanding our attention.

“We are taking on a lot this year,” Mrs. Herrera says. “But I know we can do it. You guys are great. We have a show in just a few nights, and another we will be performing in March.”

I don’t know what she says next because Clad whispers in my ear, “I’m still mad at you.”

I roll my eyes.

“Go away,” I say, pushing his head from mine.

“I want to be a part of The Rejects too,” he says stubbornly.

Ashten gets off her chair and lays herself out on the floor, her head resting on Holden’s hoodie. Holden pushes his chair out, stands, and then paces around the room, too jittery to fall asleep.

“Let’s do something,” Holden whines, “I’m so bored.”

“We’ve only been sitting here a few minutes,” I say, astounded by his lack of patience. “Besides, I thought you wanted to sleep.”

“Forget sleeping, let’s go into the closet and mess around with the costumes. It’ll be fun,” he says.

“I’m all for it,” Clad pipes up. “There’s a wolf mask inside there from our last play that I have been dying to try on.”

“I guess so,” I say, giving in.

Ashten utters something unintelligible and rolls over on to her side; within seconds she has fallen into a deep sleep. Holden bounds to his feet and excitedly heads to the closet, Clad following behind.

“Don’t wait for me,” I say sarcastically and follow their lead.

When we flick the lights on the first thing I notice is a treadmill. Clad hunts around for his wolf mask, while Holden does pop-a-wheelies on an old skateboard.

“Look at this junk,” Holden says. “It’s like a thrift store.”

He’s right, the room is piled to the nines with elderly women’s clothing, oversized men’s Hawaiian flowered shirts, and an array of random objects like tennis rackets.

“So much stuff, and yet nothing they need,” I say and step onto the treadmill. It is not plugged in, but I am able to make the conveyor belt move if I push my feet against it with extra force. Hopefully, my new bandages will stay intact.

Clad has given up his rummage for the wolf mask and is busying himself with a ‘
Scream
’ mask instead.

“Real fun,” I say glumly. “At least my calves will get a good workout.”

“This skateboard isn’t half bad,” Holden says, while flipping it around in his hands.

Clad puts on a tuxedo and checks himself out in the mirror.

“You’re a handsome devil,” I joke. He sticks his tongue through the mask at me.

I am about to try on one of the ridiculous-looking old lady ensembles when Ashley walks in and says, “Me and Emily spent hours organizing this place, and you guys come in here and destroy it in a matter of seconds.”

Holden goes back to doing tricks on the skateboard. He loses his footing, and the board flings up hitting Ashley in the knees.

“Ugh,” she grunts.

“Mrs. Herrera says you have to get out,” Ashley’s friend Emily adds seeing the mess we’ve made.

“Mrs. Herrera says you have to get out,” Holden mimics Emily in a whiny child’s voice.

“Don’t you have a show to put on?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be rehearsing or something?”

“You guys suck,” Clad complains, tossing his ‘
Scream’
mask and tuxedo into a nearby box.

Ashten, her eyes half open from just waking up, pokes her head into the costume room, and says, “Hey, Shay and the girls plugged their iPods into one of the speakers, want to come dance?”

“Do I!” Clad rubs his hands together and dances out the door.

“Sure,” I say less enthusiastically.

Holden looks at the skateboard longingly then throws it down. “Yeah I can hang,” he says.

The DJ Skrillex is booming through the speaker and Shay is dubsteping to the song. Clad is bopping his head to the beat and waiting for an opportunity to jump in and join her.

“I can dance,” I say, crossing my arms.

“You can?” he asks, surprised.

“Yep, I took dance for ten years,” I say, finding it odd that my love for dance has never come up in all the years we have known each other.

“Will you dance with me?” Clad asks and holds out his hand.

I bite my bottom lip and smile. “Yep.”

We go to the front, and instantaneously steal Shay’s spotlight.

Clad breaks it down first, his body a well-timed machine to the beat of the music. Skrillex’s song
Twin Atlantic
comes on and I move in. Dub step is a far cry from ballet, but I can hang with the best of them. Mom always said I was a strange child the way I could move my body in the fastest of ways while still being graceful. The class cheers us on and for once I feel love emitting from my class-mates.
I could get used to this
.

Mrs. Herrera returns in the middle of our dance, she had been moving scenery around on the auditorium stage. She joins in on the clapping. I expect Shay to run up and turn her iPod off, but she is entranced with the rest of them. I know it can’t last, but for a moment I feel as if I could take my Bullet List and burn it, erase the names, and call the whole idea off. I don’t want anyone to die when I am able to feel this alive. The music ends and Clad lifts me up in a bear hug. Applauds ring out, and Clad and I share a grin.

“You are fantastic,” he says breathlessly.

“So are you,” I say.

When the applause dies down, Mrs. Herrera approaches us. “I think you’ve earned your participation grade for the day!” she says.

“Go Rejects,” we cheer.