 
# The Saving Bailey Trilogy:

The Bullet List

By Nikki Roman
© 2012 Nikki Roman. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. This novel is a work of fiction, Other than where some historical figures have been named, all names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner.

## Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Excerpt from Indigo

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## 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. Apparently the idea of dissecting dead baby animals isn't very appealing.

"I guess everyone is trying to avoid you. Sorry, baby," Mr. Wiggan says, patting the back of one of the pigs. "Don't take it to heart. If it makes you feel any better, I still think you're cute."

I can't figure out what is creepier, Mr. Wiggan talking to a dead pig, or that he considers it cute. "Okay, enough of that," he says, breaking his chat with the piglet. "Team up into groups of five please."

"You and me?" Clad asks, pointing between us.

"Not a chance in hell," I mutter.

"What did you say?"

"I said yeah that would be swell."

It's hard not to tease Clad. We have been friends for as long as I can remember, as far back as kindergarten. He's made it very obvious on more than one occasion that he's attracted to me. It's not that I don't like him, nor is it that he's unattractive. I actually quite like his lively green eyes and almond-brown hair. The six-pack doesn't hurt either. But right now I can't imagine being anything more than friends with him, because we are as close as a brother and a sister.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" Clad asks suddenly.

I snap out of it. "I'm just spacing out. Okay, you can be in my group."

He snickers, "I don't think you have a choice. Everyone else skipped out on you."

My smile fades. He puts his hand on my shoulder and I shudder beneath his touch. "You intimidate them," he says in an effort to comfort me.

His gentle squeeze of my shoulder feels wrong. Like he has stepped over a line. I want to tell him not to touch me again. However, if I do, I run the risk of upsetting him.

"Leggo," I say, "there's a baby pig with your name on it back there!"

When we get back to the lab tables, everyone is already well into the dissection process. Some of them have finished the required dissecting and have resorted to poking the pig's eye out of boredom. Don't gag, don't breath through your nose, I repeat over and over again in my head. Luckily, Clad is into to the whole dissecting thing and digs right in.

"Let's name him Bacon," Clad suggests.

I nod. "That's a nice name," I say.

Clad hands me a scalpel, and I instantly drop it. I use my bandaged hands as an excuse to skip the dissection. I let Clad finish up while I lie my head on the desk and concentrate on not throwing up.

Somehow I fall asleep. I dream that I am in an empty slaughterhouse with Miemah and her follower Cecil; they are standing about ten feet in front of me, with a pile of the dead baby pigs at their feet.

"Here comes Bacon!" Cecil shouts and throws a pig at me.

I try to run but my feet are stuck. I try to scream but my voice won't work. The pig hits me and knocks me down, but only for a second. I pop back up and find a gun at my feet. Mom's. I load it, cock it, and say, "You're about to be Bacon," and shoot.

The glass windows, interconnected circles like stencils, vibrate from the gun-shot. The bullet strikes Miemah in the stomach and she screams 'Wake up!' repeatedly at me as she falls to her knees.

My eyes flutter open. Clad's hand is on my back.

"Don't touch me," is the first thing that comes out of my mouth.

Clad pulls back his hand. "You fell asleep, I was only trying to wake you up," he says so softly that it is hard to make out.

"I know," I say, trying to shake the bad dream. "Where's Bacon?"

"In the trash. Why, did you want to say goodbye?"

"No, it's better this way."

## 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 t-shirt as quickly as I can to avoid coming into contact with Miemah and Cecil. My dream has not faded completely; it has only taken a few steps back.

I struggle to tie the laces of my sneakers; the dangling bandages on my hands keep getting in the way. The locker room doors are 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're already late," Miemah says. Then in a louder voice, "We'll deal with the little trash-talking whore later."

I dumbly look around to see if they could be talking about someone 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 say. "They don't like me."

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," Mrs. Stewart informs us.

Everybody moans 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."

Mrs. Stewart rolls her eyes. "Six minutes, Bailey. You have 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 it feels 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 but she's not the only one. A tall boy with platinum blond hair 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 on 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."

Trenton 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 trust 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?"

Trenton nods. "Sure thing boss. I'm on top of it." He pulls me in closer to his chest and carries me to the door. His chest rises and falls against the right side of my body and I feel strangely at ease in his arms. "How much do you weigh?"

"One hundred and four," I say.

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

"My mom hit me," I say unabashedly.

"That's messed up," Trenton says, sounding genuinely upset. "How could anyone hit a pretty girl like you?"

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. Trenton 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 Trenton 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?"

"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 am 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," Trenton 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 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. But I keep coming to the same conclusion: I am dead.

The locker room is silent, as dead as I am about to be. 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 with Nessa, satisfied with the job she's done on me.

Alana comes to my side. "Are you inured? What did she do?" 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.

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 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 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?"

"You have about 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 get up and slam her against the lockers. Her hand shoots to the back of her head and she rubs a sore spot where it hit the 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 janitor's 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 fluorescent light.

There is a small cot with a thin mattress and 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 sit 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 drowsiness. 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."

Clad 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 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."

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." 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 who?"

"Alana. Who else?" says Clad.

"She pissed me off," I say.

"What'd she do?" prompts Clad.

"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 hope 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 sighs, and relaxes his hands.

"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. "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 comes up to Clad and me, and he stands with us. Corey 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 grabs me by my elbow. "What's his issue?" he asks, staring after Clad as 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, 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 pops a wheelie 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's not plugged in, but I am able to make the conveyor belt move if I push my feet against it with extra force. I hope 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've 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. The 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," Clad says.

"So are you," I say.

When the applause dies down, Mrs. Herrera comes over to us. "I think you've earned your participation grade for the day!" she says.

"Go Rejects," we cheer.

## Chapter 5

Shortly after our dancing ends, the final bell rings and we depart for buses, cars, and for me, the sidewalk. Clad catches me right before I leave the building and asks, "Do you ever go clubbing?"

"Yeah, why?" I ask. I've never stepped foot in a club.

"Have you heard of Indigo? It's a bar and club in Fort Myers," he says, a nervous twinge in his voice.

"Heard of it? My mom works there!"

"That's awesome, want to come dance sometime? I have a truck and I could pick you up."

"That's not a bad idea," I say, switching shoulders with my tote bag. "Except I'm illegal."

"Your mom could get you in," Clad suggests.

"Mom would kill me if she knew I was at Indigo. How do you get in?"

"Fake ID," he says trying to sound slick. "I can make you one."

"That'll work, text me on the details," I say.

"See ya' around kid," he says and raises his hand to wave but perhaps thinks better of it.

"See ya' around." I salute him like a soldier.

The sidewalks wind nearly all the way from the school to our apartment in Parkway Village; they are safe even for an assailable kid like me. The sun is shining brightly, warming the top of my bruised head. It makes me sleepy and I can't stop yawning.

I don't ride the bus home because I would rather be running or strolling, alone with my thoughts. I am never able to think on the bus, with its loud air conditioning and the driver's radio blaring country music. I do, however, take the bus each and every morning for Mom's sake.

"I could walk to school," I had proposed at the beginning of freshmen year. Her face had washed out in horror. "It will be dark outside that early in the morning. Someone might kidnap you, or you could be hit by a car. What if you get lost?" She tightened her lips into a thin line of worry. "I might never see you again."

It was settled then, I could walk home in the daylight, but in the morning I was to take the bus.

School has never been an easy thing for me and I don't just mean academically. Whether it is the teachers or the students, going to school has always been like digging in a cereal box for a prize: the further you dig and the more cereal that piles onto your table and in bowls, the more hope you have that you are closer to that prize. I keep getting myself further into trouble while at school, only going because my mother makes me and because I blindly hope there will be some prize for the brutality that is being inflicted on me. Were it up to me, I would have given up on it years ago.

Today, I am relieved that it's over. If only I didn't have to come home to Mom and face the reality that I forgot her birthday and made her promise to purge the house of her precious spirits.

She and I both know that the alcohol is her life-line. Without it, she would surely slip into oblivion; and I have seen it happen once before when she tried quitting cold-turkey. The ache in my feet as I walk reminds me that although it is her medicine, it is also her poison.

Before Dad got himself locked away in the slammer, Mom was a pretty happy-go-lucky person. She would spend all day in the kitchen with an apron tied around her waist making pies and stews. She was a natural Caroline Ingalls, right out of a Little House on the Prairie book. When she wasn't in the kitchen or tidying up the house, she would dress me up to look like a china-doll, bows and all. Family would come to visit, bringing me presents and fawning over how picture-perfect I looked.

I was content with the way things were. Alana would come over for play dates and Mom was an important part of the community's social circle.

Then, one night she wanted to go out and party. She had given birth to me at such a young age—just after her eighteenth birthday—she had yet to let go of her teenage partying years. Dad was beyond that; he thought it was outrageous, and told her that she should stay at home and devote her life to taking care of me and him.

"That's what a good wife would do." I remember him saying.

She left that night; she had had enough of him forcing her to the play the role of a 1950s sitcom wife. She was young and free at heart and Dad couldn't comprehend how a woman with a child and husband could want one night to herself.

Human beings are a strange type of animal; they could be one way, stagnant for many years, and then one day something stirs inside them, a natural instinct to move on, to change. This is what happened to my parents, all at once. Both of my parents snapped and neither of them thought it would cost a person their life. My dad killed four people that night, whether he knows it or not.

Later, Mom told me why dad had come apart. After she left, it dawned on Dad that he was sick of Mom's taunting him; and he was tired of sitting at home drinking a cola in front of the 6 o'clock news, every single night. Oh, things had been close to perfect for me: I had the perfect parents and the perfect home. No one thought how I would be affected; they didn't stop to think that their decisions would ultimately fall on me.

On that night, Dad acquired a spontaneous thirst for alcohol. With none in the house, and alone with me, he did the only thing any sensible dad would do with a five-year-old child: Unbeknownst to Mom, he set out in his 1940s Ford pickup truck and he took me to a bar. I nestled in the back seat on top of dirty towels and shirts that he used during the day while working on various construction sites.

We arrived at a run-down little bar and once talking his way into getting me in, we found a spot away from the raucous of drunken men playing pool.

"Stay right here little lady," Dad said and placed me on a bar stool that was too high for me to possibly get down from on my own. "I am going to get you a soda, don't leave this stool."

I nodded obediently. "Okay Daddy, I want a Coke please," I said.

"Coke it is sweetie," he said tweaking my nose.

Dad walked into the crowd at the bar and I lost sight of him. Many minutes passed and I became restless and fidgety. I needed to use the bathroom, but I could not climb down from the stool. I turned to a lady sitting next to me and tugged on her shirt to get her attention. "Could you please get me down?" I asked her.

She plucked me off the seat and lowered me down.

"Thank you," I said, remembering my manners.

As soon as my feet touched the ground I was swept up by huge arms. Dad was gripping me tighter than usual and his eyes were bulging, his teeth barred like an angry pit-bull.

"Let's take this outside," a man said to my dad in an angry tone. I smelled the alcohol on his breath.

"What about my Coke?" I asked, my tiny voice being drowned by the angry words tossed back and forth between my dad and the man.

"Come on punk, I ain't scared to fight your ass. There will be nothing but bones left when I'm through with you," my dad said, with me trembling under his arm.

I envisioned my dad turning the man into a skeleton, the kind you see hanging from haunted houses on Halloween.

The man walked outside of the bar and Dad followed, with me still tucked under his arm. I saw the dingy tile change to black asphalt.

"You sure have a big mouth for someone who can't bench more than two pounds," the man said, spitting on the asphalt of the parking lot.

My dad put me down roughly.

"You're mean!" I shouted at the man who was drunk and swaying where he stood.

"I'll eat that pretty little girl of yours for breakfast after I take care of you. Or maybe I'll sell her on the market, got to be worth a couple grand," he sneered drunkenly.

My dad struck him in the face for saying so. This punch was the first of many to be laid into the poor body of Jack.

Jack. That was his name; people have names so you don't forget they aren't just skeletons, wrapped in casings of skin. Jack had feelings; he had a little girl like me, and a wife and two boys. Dad didn't care to know that as he repeatedly pulled back his fist like a slingshot, slamming it again and again into Jack's head.

Apart from a few random grunts of protest and obscenities passed between them, the fight was silent. The punching stopped and the world seemed to be holding its breath, right along with me.

Jack lay lifeless, his head resting on a yellow concrete parking block, underneath the orange glow of a lamp-post. My dad walked over to me and bent down on one knee. He was covered in blood, his shirt tattered and tears running down his face. He plopped me on to his lap and whispered, "I killed him."

I didn't understand the full impact of his words, I was just happy he was alive.

"It was an accident," he sobbed. "I did it for you angel cake. I did it for you."

Mom says I could never have been able to remember the incident in such vivid detail; she believes I made up the conversation between Dad and I. I wish it was make-believe. Sometimes I press my hands firmly against my temples trying to extinguish the memory, but it won't leave me.

## Chapter 6

I lift a potted plant outside the apartment door and retrieve the key. I unlock the door and step inside cautiously, a quick scan of the apartment suggests that Mom isn't home. First thing I do is throw open the cabinets to see if she has kept her promise. Sure enough, the bottles are gone.

I go to the bathroom to inspect the damage done by the school day. I pull my shirt over my head and prod a long bruise below my ribcage. I am wincing in pain, and trying to bend to see if my ribs are broken, when Mom walks in the doorway.

"Where the hell did you come from?" I ask.

"I just got home from work, didn't you hear me come in the door?"

"No..." I say. Work? In the early afternoon? I can smell the alcohol on her breath when she speaks.

Mom runs her hand over my bruise.

"A girl kicked me in the stomach," I say.

"You told the principal right? Your teacher? Or somebody?" Mom asks. I get another whiff of musty liquor and cigarette veiled breath. I think about calling her out for drinking and not being at work, but I still feel bad for the trouble I caused yesterday.

"Mhm," I say.

"You're lying," she says.

"I'm too scared to, she would kill me if I told someone," I say.

"That's serious, Bailey. She could have really hurt you and she may have," Mom says, taking a severe tone with me.

I pull my shirt back on. "I'm all right, Mom, just a little cat fight. You know how teenage girls are."

Then to change to topic I say, "Enough about me. Yesterday was your birthday and I didn't even wish you happy birthday. I was downright awful." And in a quieter voice I say, "I ruined it. I'm sorry."

She squints at me like she is focusing a camera. "I ruined it with my sour attitude," she says. "I drank a bottle of vodka when I could have spent the night with my beautiful daughter, and then I proceeded to strike you down for reprimanding my reckless drinking. You didn't ruin my birthday." She smiles, though it seems out of place on her weary face.

I open my mouth to say something but she cuts me off. "I'm sorry about last night, maybe we can just forget about it and move on," she says.

You mean forget about it the same way you forgot I saw my father kill a man at the tender age of five? Move on, as in sweep it under the doormat, but never deal with it properly?

I smile a fake smile and say, "Yeah let's do that."

"Great, I'm going to cook spaghetti for dinner, I hope you are hungry," she says cheerfully.

Once Mom has left me alone, I close the bathroom door with my foot, and take a good long look into the mirror. What is it that makes everyone hate me? I ask myself, searching for the answer in my reflection. Is it my dark, misty eyes, my pink and full lips; perhaps it is my small waist, or long hair? The answer escapes me, because I can't fathom how someone could despise me only for my looks.

Mom knocks on the bathroom door. "Is everything okay in there, sweetie?" she asks.

I turn the sink on and rub my hands beneath the water to trick her, "Yep I'm just washing my hands."

"How are they, and your feet?"

I stare down at my hands and yelp. The glue of the bandages has dissolved in the hot water, and the exposed cuts are red and stinging from the heat.

"Not good," I mutter, trying to remove the bandages to dry them.

"Let me see," she says, waiting for me to open the door.

I open up, being careful with my hands. "Maybe I should have gotten stiches," I say, holding my upturned palms out to her.

"Maybe," she says, cradling my hands in hers. "Well, I better put some fresh gauze on them." She has a look in her eyes that says she is not yet over last night.

She wraps them up yet again and I sigh as the pain begins to diminish. "I don't want you to keep kicking yourself over what happened," I say sternly. "You couldn't have helped it, you said it yourself you don't even remember."

"I know you're right," she says to please me. "I'm your mom though; there are precautions I should have taken."

"You're never gonna let it go," I say, pulling my hands from her lap.

"I don't want to make that mistake again," she says, caressing my cheek. "The sauce is going to burn I need to go watch the food." She excuses herself from the bathroom.

I'm sitting on the rug, the day's events returning to my mind, when tears come to my eyes. The Bullet List. I don't know how else to deal with Miemah and her crew and I want to get even so badly. It's not just from the torture she has been putting me through in high school, it goes much further back than that, all the way to elementary school. She spotted me then, and sunk her teeth into me, refusing to let go. Like a parasitic killer, she has stayed with me and slowly sucked away my life. At this point, I feel like my only choice is to off her, and hey, if I'm going to off one person I might as well off a few others too.

"Bailey, dinner is done!" Mom hollers, a stitch of excitement in her voice. She hasn't cooked a proper dinner in years.

I pick myself up off the floor and amble sullenly into the kitchen. The aroma of fresh tomatoes and garlic enters my nostrils, perking me up. There is a pot by the sink, big enough to be a baby's bathtub; it is filled to the brim with pasta. I laugh.

"You want me to eat all that?" I ask my mom, mid-laughter.

"Well," she says thoughtfully, "I did make a little extra on account of you being so skinny and all."

"I've always been skinny, why the effort to fatten me up now?" I ask taking my place at the table.

"You look sickly," she says.

I'm too hungry to be angry with her, so I grab a plate and pay no mind to her slight.

"I'm starving," I say, shoving a gigantic forkful of spaghetti into my mouth.

I realize now that the last time I ate was two days ago. Maybe I am looking sickly.

"Eat up, I made plenty," Mom entices me.

I polish off one plate and Mom serves me another, thrilled to have me eating. The idea of killing my classmates has given me an appetite.

"Mom, can I ask you something?" I say, my interest turning to the night of Jack's death.

"Sure, anything baby," she says, unsuspecting of the topic I'm about to unbury, like a gravedigger scavenging for gold off the bodies of the dead.

"Did you ever say sorry to Jack's family?"

She drops her fork in her spaghetti, causing sauce to splatter up and hit her in the face. I would laugh but it causes me to think of Jack's blood, all over Dad's shirt and face.

"Why would you say a thing like that?" Mom asks, her voice sounding like she is far away from me. Her eyes are distant too, as she remembers the night.

"Don't you think we owe them an apology for Dad?"

"We are not talking about this right now," she says, sipping her grapefruit juice.

"We are," I counter. "We must."

"No," she says, the corners of her mouth drooping.

"Mom, just please hear me out," I plead. "They deserve at least a sorry; he had kids, what if someone had killed Dad?"

"They did," she squeaks. "Jack and his family killed your dad. Let me ask you something, when was the last time you saw your father?"

"Eleven years ago," I say.

"That was the last time Jack's family saw him too," she expels. "So tell me then, are they any worse off? Just who deserves the sorry?"

I push my chair out from the table, rise, and leave her.

I slam my bedroom door, because the feelings are coming back again; that night is pushing through the fog and I can see it as a dark figure advancing on me.

Mom knocks on my door; I push my hands against my head, and close my eyes tightly. "Go away!" I scream. "Go!"

I stop screaming only when I hear her heavy footsteps retreating to the kitchen.

Mom is so twisted. If I knew how to find them, I would hunt down Jack's family and apologize until I'm blue in the face, because regardless of who started the fight, my dad is the one who ended it.

I let go of my head and slump against my bed, heart pounding, head throbbing. I sit like this for a long while before Mom finally returns and says through the door, "Come eat, you need to eat."

I pick up one of my boots and throw it at the door. "I already ate!" I howl at her.

"You're acting crazy," she says. "You're going to starve yourself and die if you keep not eating like this." She jiggles the door knob.

I pick up my other boot to throw when an idea rises in my mind. "I'm killing myself," I whisper, because the idea is not yet fully formed, and I feel that this phrase could bring it to life. I am killing myself.

That's it. Why take the lives of Miemah, Nessa, and Cecil, when I could just take one? If I die, then they can't torture me anymore and I won't have to shoot them. There's my escape route; myself. If I ended my life, then I would never have to remember Jack's death again. I wouldn't have to see the hurt in Clad's eyes when I confess that I don't love him; Miemah could no longer touch me, and Mom could drink all she wants.

"You're too quiet," Mom says, standing stationary outside my door. "Let me in." She pounds her fists on the door. "Damnit Bailey, let me in! I didn't mean to upset you; all I wanted was to have a nice dinner. Should have known that wouldn't be possible with a daughter like you."

"Me too," I say softly.

"What?" Mom asks.

"Me too. I just wanted to have a nice dinner too," I repeat.

"We're a mess," she laughs, though her heart is not in it.

"One big wreck," I agree. "At least we have each other."

At least we have each other, until I take my life.

## Chapter 7

I am curled up in a ball, lying next to my mom on her couch. I say 'her couch' because it is where she has slept every night since we moved here. She gave me the only bedroom.

"I want to pack you a lunch for tomorrow, is that okay?" Mom asks while a reality show plays on TV.

"Yeah, I'd like that," I say.

"Good," she says, kissing the top of my head.

And just like that, the incident never happened. Just that easily, it is buried. Unfortunately, I still have the stolen gold of the dead in my clutches and still I am haunted.

I fall asleep on the couch and don't wake up again until about three in the morning. Mom has fallen on to the floor, passed out, without a blanket. I casually shake her awake and tell her to take the couch back; I am going to my bed.

Somehow I end up in bed, though I think I must have sleepwalked to it. The sheets are cold and I am having a hard time keeping warm. As soon as I am comfy enough and have tossed all my pillows to the floor, I fall asleep again.

The moonlight is shining down on my face. I realize it is the only light in the apartment while drifting in and out of sleep. Once conscious enough, I comprehend why the darkness is especially bothering to me tonight. My bedroom lamp is off. Through my window, the stars are vacant from the clear night sky, just like they were the last time I saw my dad. I let out a scream. The kind of scream that wakes my mom out of her slumber and sends her into a panic, turning almost all of the lights on in our apartment.

"My lamp isn't on," I say alarmed, and throw my hand at it, searching for the switch. I hit its neck and it falls, the glass base of the lamp shattering into pieces. Mom flicks the bathroom light on, making it just bright enough for her to see the terror in my eyes and the lamp broken by my bedside table.

"Darn it," she says, spotting the broken glass. "I turned off all the lights when you went to bed. I forgot. I'm sorry."

"You can't ever turn them off," I say thoroughly terrified.

"I know that by now sweetie, I was half-asleep when I did it," Mom says, her voice lined with exhaustion. "And you were sleeping so peacefully, I didn't want the light to wake you."

I wonder how it could have looked peaceful to her, when I could barely keep my eyes shut or open for more than five minutes at a time.

"I'll leave the bathroom light on," she says. "And I'll clean up your lamp in the morning. Just don't step in it when you get out of bed."

I nod and pull my blanket up to my chin, trying to warm up again. I stay awake until dawn breaks and grey early morning light fills my bedroom. I step out of bed on the opposite side from the glass and tip-toe to the bathroom, so as not to wake Mom.

I turn the shower on as hot as the water can go and stare in the mirror as the steam erases my reflection. The bruise has faded significantly, but my eyes have dark circles around them from my sleepless night.

I step into the scorching hot water, letting it clear my mind and wash away the two-day-old grime. I think about how I am going to have to face Miemah today in gym, and Clad in three of my classes. Maybe I'll catch up on some Z's in the janitor's closet. Bring it on.

I step out of the shower, my hair smelling of strawberries and the circles around my eyes lightened. I dry myself off with a towel and with my hair dripping all over the place, walk back to my room.

I gather up a shirt, skinny jeans, and jacket to wear. When I walk back to the bathroom to dress, I see Mom is awake, sipping a cup of orange juice, her stare fixed on the dirty dishes piled up in the sink.

"I'll clean them when I get home," I offer.

"That's okay sweets. I'll do them. I think I have today off."

I dress myself, have Mom put new bandages on me, and get my bag ready for school. It smells something awful from the shirt covered in milk that I'd left in it. I pull it out and throw it in my clothes hamper. I then find my Bullet List crumpled at the bottom of the bag, and take it to my room to hide in the sock drawer of my dresser.

I return to the kitchen and take a sip of Mom's orange juice, not feeling hungry enough to eat breakfast. The orange juice burns my throat; I spit it out, and cough.

"What is this?" I croak, smelling the glass. Mom looks gutted.

"Vodka," she says reluctantly.

"You said you got rid of it all!" I tip the glass into the sink. "You lied to me. Why do I always have to be the parent around here? Who's the fifteen-year-old, you or me? Cause you act like a damn child, sneaking your alcohol around like a delusional baby, thinking I wouldn't find out," I rave. "Do you take me for a fool? Where is it, Huh? Where have you stashed it?"

Mom looks like a puppy being scolded for peeing on the carpet. "It was only a small bottle," she says. "It's gone already."

"Prove it," I say, motioning for her to hand it over.

"It's gone," she says stressing her words. She walks toward the trashcan, and pulls out a tiny glass bottle then places it in my hands.

"Hiding it from me will only make it harder for you to quit," I scold her.

"You are right. No more. I'm through with drinking," she says.

I leave the bottle on the counter as a reminder for her. I am about to walk out the door to get on my bus when she says, "Oh, the school called yesterday, I forgot to tell you." I hold my breath. "They said you are failing in all your classes, especially in Mrs. Latcher's class. They say you have a real bad attitude."

"So?" I ask, testing the waters.

"So, if you don't get those grades up I'm going to punish you."

"What are you going to do?" I ask nervously.

"Turn the lights off every night for a week straight."

"You can't do that! That's a line you can't cross, Mom!"

She frowns. "I'm afraid it's a line I will have to cross if you don't get those grades up, young lady."

I slam the door so hard that the apartment shakes and I half expect it to collapse with Mom inside, crushing her beneath its rubble. It is so cold that I can see my breath as I walk to the bus stop. I constantly look over my shoulder to see if Mom is watching me, as she usually does, to be sure I make it safely on the bus. But she is not at the window or door; she is probably inside the apartment seething, with the sight of the empty vodka bottle mocking her.

The bus rolls to my stop, looking like it's on its last legs. I step into the warmth and take my seat, the third one on the right. The sun is deceiving as it rises over the trees making them look ablaze; its glow suggests that the weather is cheery and warm outside, when it is actually wet and freezing.

I brood over my conversation with Mom as the bus arrives at school. My grades? Mom had never cared about them before; they have plunged many times in the past. My attitude? Well, she had attested to that one herself a good number of years ago, with my sixth grade math teacher.

I can still hear the haggard lady's scratchy voice: "Mrs. Sykes, Bailey, is a problem child."

"You are a math teacher aren't you? If she is a problem, then solve her," Mom had said to my absolute pleasure. No, grades and attitude were certainly not a part of my mother's agenda, but it is all she could pick at after being put to shame by her too witty daughter.

We are the last bus to get to school. I disembark and follow the crowd of students into the building. When I get inside, Alana immediately spots me.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, picking up where we left off yesterday.

"Not well," I say, shivering from the cold.

"Here, take my jacket," she says unzipping her coat.

I grab it and manage to force one arm in before saying, "Alana this jacket is two sizes too small. You are just so tiny."

"I thought I was lumpy, like a sack of potatoes," she says, her eyes narrowed. "Or at least that's what a good friend told me."

"A good friend wouldn't say that," I say. "I'm sorry."

Alana giggles as I try to slide my other arm into her coat.

"And I'm sorry for being a pervert and commenting on your body," she says.

"You were a pervert," I decide.

"Totally," she says without shame. "Now that's behind us, I must tell you some wonderful news. Miemah isn't here today."

"Wow, that really is some wonderful news," I say, relieved. "I need a break from her."

"I think the whole school does," she agrees.

I hand her jacket back and we part ways to our first period classrooms.

Mrs. Latcher looks extremely annoyed when I walk through the door and even more so when Clad arrives right behind me. I'm too emotionally and physically drained this morning to raise hell, luckily for her. Clad, however, looks like he's been rolling around in a bed of daisies, with the sun beating down its hot rays, and warming him from the inside out.

"Why so chipper?" I ask.

"Chipper? I don't know. I'm just in a really good mood. I'm really looking forward to going clubbing with you," he says, revealing the truth behind his jubilant expression. Uh-huh. I knew something was up.

"It's no big deal," I say, making light of it. "I dance all the time, so what's so huge about dancing with a best friend of mine?"

His cheery face falters. "Yep, just two besties dancing the night away," he says caustically.

Mrs. Latcher calls my name for attendance.

"Present," I say, like a smart-ass.

"Present as well," Clad says when his name is called.

Mrs. Latcher stacks a bunch of tests together in a neat pile and drinks some coffee before starting class. "Good morning class," she says in a matronly tone. "I have graded your tests from last week; many of you did not receive above a sixty, which is really disheartening for me because I thought I taught the chapter very well."

"You did do a very good job of teaching it," Nessa speaks out of turn. "It's just that some people don't know how to respect a well-taught lesson and would rather sleep through class."

Mrs. Latcher nods her head at Nessa. "Very right you are," she commends her, and passes me my test.

At the top of the paper circled in red, is a whopping thirty-two percent mark. I could throw up. My grade is definitely slipping, and with it my much-needed light. I can't sleep when it's dark, I can't eat, drink, think or breathe when it's dark.

I turn around and ask Clad, "What grade did you get?"

He smiles peevishly. "A negative five."

"Is that even possible?" I ask in bewilderment.

"It is when you don't write your name," he says.

"You didn't put a name on your paper?" I giggle.

"I forgot, I was so nervous I was going to fail," he says staring at his paper with hatred in his eyes.

"Well, you had good reason to be nervous then," I say.

Mrs. Latcher finishes passing out all the tests, and the class finishes moaning over their grades. The rest of the period passes slowly by with Latcher ranting about our low test grades, and how if we don't all get higher than a B on our next test, we are going to have to do loads of homework every night. Fantastic, I never do the homework anyway.

I pack my bag up a couple of minutes before the bell rings and Mrs. Latcher throws me a warning glare. Clad taps me on the shoulder to show me he is laughing at how stupid her face looks.

"Such a grouch," he says when we are walking to Biology.

"She needs to take a chill pill," I grump.

Mr. Wiggan is standing outside his classroom door and waving happily as kids pass him by. He looks pleased to see Clad and I.

I have one foot in the door when someone shoves me from behind, so hard that I fall, spilling my bag's contents.

"Hey!" Clad and Mr. Wiggan yell out together.

I look up just in time to see Cecil and Nessa laughing their way down the hall.

"What the fuck!" Clad yells, forgetting he is standing only two feet from the teacher.

"Watch it," Mr. Wiggan says, before letting him off with a warning.

Clad helps me up by my arm, then picks up the scattered books from my bag. "You all right?" he asks.

My knees and elbows are bruised and my ego as well, but I am still intact.

"Yeah, I didn't see them coming," I say, brushing my hair back from my face.

"Me neither." He hands me an armful of my belongings and I drop them back into my bag.

"They've got it out for me."

"Yeah, they do," Clad says, scowling.

Mr. Wiggan lets the door shut behind him, takes in the number of kids in the room and exhales. "Well, more than last time," he says looking on the bright side. "You okay? That was a bad fall."

"Yep, I'm like rubber," I say.

I am fond of Mr. Wiggan because he is the only teacher who has ever taken a liking to me. I think he looks forward to seeing Clad and I each day; he calls us 'the Dynamic Duo.'

"Alrighty then..." Mr. Wiggan fretfully shuffles through the mess of papers on his desk. He gives up. "I really need to get organized," he says trying to be funny. No one laughs.

He has been teaching biology for over twenty years and every time he stands in front of us he shakes like a leaf. Mr. Wiggan excuses himself to the bathroom and the few of us actually in the class begin to chat.

"Will you go with me tonight?" Clad asks.

"Go where?" I say.

"Indigo. I can have a fake ID made up for you tonight and then we can drive on down."

I consider. Mom won't be at work today so I don't have to risk her seeing me. "Okay, sounds fun."

"Really?" he asks in disbelief.

"Yes," I say trying to not be put-off by his excitement.

"Me going clubbing with Bailey Sykes, imagine that," he says, his lips forming into a faint smile.

## Chapter 8

The locker room buzzes with gossip of the confrontation between Miemah and I yesterday. I try to hide the bruise on my stomach by dressing with my back to the other girls, but Nessa pushes me, exposing the purple and yellow bruise.

"Look guys! Bailey has a stomach disease," Nessa shouts and the girls train their eyes on my stomach. I'm past crying, past emotional breakdowns.

"Her stomach looks fine to me," one girl says and turns back around.

"She's got a pretty body," another says, complimenting me.

"You guys are dumbasses, I was talking about the giant bruise. You can't miss it, and Miemah gave it to her, because she's a boyfriend stealer," Nessa says.

But they have all stopped listening and have returned to dressing for gym. I do the same. I am fortunate that Nessa has no one to back her up; Cecil must be in the bathroom.

It is raining when we step outside: raining and cold, the perfect combination. Mrs. Stewart likes to work us hard. She starts us off with a half-mile run and then we are to do the plank.

"I want to time you Bailey, can you run a mile today?" Mrs. Stewart asks, stopwatch in hand.

I raise my heels off the ground feeling the pain of the cuts on the bottom of my feet. I look at the dreary track, being pelted with icy drops of rain, and I think, I've run under worse conditions.

"Yeah," I say, up for the challenge. "I can."

"Okay. Go when you're ready," Mrs. Stewart says.

I break into a run before she says the word "when." My feet feel like they don't even touch the track, I'm soaring through the mile like it is nothing. My peers are struggling to just walk their half-mile. I make it around the track twice and pass Trenton on my third lap. He smiles and winks at me. I slow down a bit to return a smile.

The fourth lap is trying, but I make it through. My feet are searing, my hair and clothes are drenched, but if feels good to prove myself.

"Whoa," Stewart says as if she is reigning in a horse. She reads the stop-watch. "Five minutes and thirty seconds exactly."

"Told ya'," I laugh, and head to the drinking fountain.

Stewart follows me.

"Will you join the track team? We'd be really happy to have you," she says.

I gulp down the water too fast and it makes my stomach hurt.

"Sorry, I stopped running competitively a few years ago. I just do it for fun," I say.

"Please. We really need a runner like you, especially because you are such a fast female runner. You would be a very valuable asset to the team."

"I don't want to be somebody's asset. That's why I stopped track in the first place. It became less about the joy of running and more about me being a winning streak for the team."

Her expression hardens. "Whatever, Sykes. You're turning down a good offer," she says. Her tone is teetering between threat and malice, sending chills down my spine.

Trenton jogs over to me, his shirt off, abs exposed. "You are like a bullet," he says. "You whizzed right by me, I barely had the chance to smile."

"Thanks, what happened to your shirt, did the rain melt it?" I jest, pointing to his rippled stomach.

"It could have," he says cunningly. "You're soaked to the bone. You'll catch pneumonia if you don't go inside and get dried off."

"Want to come with me?" I dare to ask.

He spins around like he is looking for the person I am talking to, then points to his self. I nod.

"I would like that," he says.

Trenton puts his arm around my waist and tows me to the gym's entrance. His arm leaves my waist for a moment to hold the door open.

"Your mom taught you well," I say approvingly.

"I'm going to fetch us some towels. Be right back," he says, galloping away.

I sit on the bleachers, shaking head to toe from the cold. He comes running back, two large white towels in his grip. He drops one on my head and then playfully wraps it around me.

"You're so cold," he says as he embraces me.

"You too," I say, my teeth chattering.

"You're adorable," he says.

I stare shyly at my feet. I hardly know him, but I feel so close to him, like he has been my friend as long as Clad. I've got to stop comparing him to Clad, I think, as he picks me up and spins me. We both laugh when his foot slips in the water we've tracked in and he almost drops me.

"You know if you would stop hanging around those losers, you could be something, Bailey."

I'm caught off guard. "Losers?"

"Yeah, that boy what's his name, Iron? And Alana," Trenton says.

"They aren't losers, they are my friends," I say.

"Hey, I didn't mean to make you angry," he says, his voice smooth. "I just think you could do better. I mean, look at you, you've got it all. The looks, the brains, the personality, and you run like a pro. What more could a person want?"

I don't know how to answer him, or what to think. Is it a compliment that he thinks Clad, and Alana are unworthy of my friendship?

"It's just something to think about, Bailey," he says, running his finger along the outline of my lips. "You and I, maybe we could have something. Think about it, the hottest guy in school with the most gorgeous girl in school. Like a match made in heaven," he continues. "Two beautiful angels, sharing each other's love."

He leans in for a kiss, but I back away and slip off the bleacher.

"Maybe next time," Trenton says.

The doors open and the class comes in looking like a pack of drowned rats. We sneak our way to the locker rooms, unspotted by Mrs. Stewart. I can't stop smiling from my encounter with Trenton.

My smile vanishes, though, when Cecil whispers in my ear, "I saw you and Trenton together. Miemah will kick your ass when I tell her."

"We were only talking," I say quickly, my heartbeat speeding up.

She digs her nails into my side. "I saw you almost kiss him. You're lying through your teeth!" She drags her nails down my side before walking away. There are long bloody streaks imprinted in my side, left by her nails. Vicious, plain vicious.

I dress, being extra careful to not get blood on my shirt. I put my thick grey hoodie on to help with my stinging side. I can't take much more of this, so right then I decide to not keep it hidden anymore. Today I'm going to tell somebody: a counselor, a teacher, a random kid in the hallway. Anyone.

This is when the thought of killing myself becomes a bad idea, and the Bullet List is put back into action. It would make Miemah and her minions all too happy to see me dead. I'll be damned if I'm going to give them that satisfaction.

I close my locker and run a brush through my damp hair in an attempt to look a little less disheveled. I'm missing lunch but I don't care, Mom forgot to give me my lunch bag anyway. I'm thinking that I might go to the janitor's closet, when Clad walks into the locker room.

My eyes light up. "What are you doing in here? I could have been undressing."

"That's a risk I just had to take." Clad grins, his eyes twinkling. "Why aren't you at lunch?"

"I was just thinking." I bend down to pick up my tote bag, and my side stings in response. "Ah," I accidently groan.

"You're hurt," he says, sensing I am hiding something. Without asking he pulls up my shirt, but only high enough to see the scratches. "Who did this to you?"

"None of your business and don't ever pull up my shirt again," I say, yanking it down.

"You can't just let her get away with it like that. Who was it, Cecil? Nessa? Miemah?" I start for the door, but he blocks me. "You're not going anywhere until you tell me who did that."

I punch him in the stomach but he flexes just in time.

"I want to go eat," I say.

He pulls a bag of Cheez-Its from his pocket and thrusts it into my hands. "There you go, eat. Now tell me who did it," he says.

"Cecil," I say, caving in.

He lets his arm fall from the door and hooks it around me. "That makes me so angry."

"She dug her nails in me, because—" I forget that he might be upset for me flirting with Trenton. "Because she's a demon," I say.

He looks heartbroken. "Someone has to stop her, has to stop all of them. It's gotten out of hand. What comes next, gouging your eyes out? I won't stand for it!"

I bury my head in his chest. "They aren't going to stop, ever!" I cry. "Not you or anyone else can stop them. They want me dead!"

Clads hands comb through my hair. I'm weak and want to sit down, but leaning against him is making me feel better. He is so strong and unmoving; like the Great Wall of China he could stand here and bear all my weight and sorrow for centuries.

"Shhh," he says, "don't cry. You will make me cry, and Cecil shouldn't have that kind of power over you."

I'm trying to hold it in, but what's the use?

"I can't," I sob.

"No, don't." Clad says, his voice cracking. "God, don't sob,"

"I'm not God," I say, and laugh through my tears. "And he is not crying."

"You don't think that God and all the angels are crying to see one of their own weeping?" he says, pulling me in tighter.

Lunch passes, and part of fourth period too. Clad stays with me until I am composed again. His forehead is lined with worry; his eyes red and strained. I have put him through too much, yet I don't know how to survive without his support.

I hand over his bag of Cheez-Its unopened but its contents crushed from my clutch.

"You eat it," he says, pushing it back into my hands. "You need it more than I do."

I pop open the bag and they all spill out from a hole in the bottom. Damnit, I am so hungry I could eat them off the floor.

Clad beats me to it. He puts one in his mouth and says, "Yum. Five second rule."

## Chapter 9

Both fourth and fifth period pass uneventfully. A weight has been lifted off my chest from me allowing myself to cry openly. Maybe Clad's right. Maybe I can do it. This new flower springing up in my garden of hope inspires me to stop outside the counselor's door. I can do this, I think.

"Come in, honey," the counselor Mrs. Bracker says after I knock once.

I lay my heart out on the table. My mouth is running and words are flowing from it like the steady flow of a river. The more I talk the easier it is to continue.

"I'm going to talk to your gym teacher Mrs. Stewart. She should be held accountable for the actions of the girls, if what you say is true, that most of these incidents occurred in the girls' locker room," Mrs. Bracker says. She leans against her desk and scratches some words onto a sticky note, her bulging body threatening to break out of the sausage casing that is her dress.

"Yes, all the time. They won't leave me alone. And I can't take them on by myself or I would have by now." I play with a tear in the seat. "This could back-fire terribly if they find out I told you, but I had to do something."

She nods, and I think I hear her dress cry out in desperation from the slight movement.

"I'm a counselor and it is my job to protect you; everything you say in here is confidential," she assures me.

"I hope so," I say as I stand up.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it. Have a nice day," she says with a less-than-genuine smile.

I feel uneasy about her, it doesn't seem like her heart is really in it.

I've managed to slip past lunch and two periods; now all I have to sit through is U.S. History and Drama. The rest of the day should go smoothly. I join a group of four desks, with Trenton and Holden.

Trenton muffles a snigger when Alana sits next to me and I almost want to kick her out of the group. Holden is cool, one of the popular kids, he can sit wherever he wants. From the way he is chatting with Trenton, I assume they are good friends.

"What happened with Miemah?" I ask Trenton as a conversation starter.

"What do you mean? She dumped me, you heard her yourself," he says, his voice acidic.

"Oh, I just thought—" I say.

"Well, you thought wrong," Trenton interrupts.

"Sorry," I say.

His expression softens. "It's okay. I'm not over her yet. We dated for years. Then you come along, and she just assumes we are up to something."

"She never trusted you. Why would you want to be in a relationship like that?" I ask, testing my boundaries with him.

"You think so logically," he says with a smile.

I'm not logical when I am screaming my head off because the lights have been turned out, or when I'm writing a Bullet List and putting your ex-girlfriend's name on it.

"Miemah torments Bailey, isn't that right?" Alana suddenly chimes in.

Is it too late to ask her to leave?

"Not much," I lie and kick her under the table.

"I know," Trenton and Holden say together.

"Everyone knows. My girlfriend is a straight up bitch. I'm sorry if she's giving you hell now. I've talked to her about it," Trenton says.

"You just called her your girlfriend; I thought she was your ex? And what did she say?"

"Oops, I meant ex. And she threatened to rip my balls off if I ever asked her to leave you alone again," Trenton says. "I really like you Bailey, but a guy's balls, that's like his whole manhood."

"You are a whole lot of man Trenton and you could go with just one I bet," Holden says.

We are all in stiches when Mr. Davis enters the room and turns the projector on. There is a map of the United States on the screen in front of us. "You are each going to pick a state and study on it for the rest of the school year. You will draw numbers from this hat and go in that order." He passes around a baseball cap, and I pick my slip. It is number one.

"I know what state I'm picking," I say aloud.

"Which one, Bailey?" Mr. Davis asks.

"California."

Groans erupt from the class. I'm not the only one interested in California.

"Nice pick," Mr. Davis says.

Alana picks Tennessee, Holden picks Virginia, and Trenton picks New York. We are instructed to draw out a color-coordinated map of our state, but my group goes back to our conversation.

"You're brave, standing up to Miemah," Alana says to Trenton. "Bailey is a coward; she went to the counselor for help."

Trenton looks wigged out and Holden is waiting for a reaction out of me.

"H-how did you know that?" I ask, my mouth open in shock.

"It's not like I was spying," Alana says. "I just happened to be in the office at the same time..."

"I'm not a coward. I put up with a lot of abuse from her, but I needed help. That's what school counselors are for, right?" I say, looking around the group for encouragement.

"You shouldn't have told anyone," Trenton says.

"She is going to nail you now," Holden says.

I stare at the desk and say, "I didn't know what to do. The counselor said everything I tell her is confidential."

"Counselors say a lot of things, Bailey," Trenton cautions me. "I'm scared for you now."

"They will just tell her not to mess with me," I say, still unsure of how sincere the counselor was.

"She's going to come back with a vengeance. Has she ever pulled her knife out on you?" Holden asks.

"She brings one to school?" I ask, disconcerted.

"Last year she sliced Cecil on the cheek," Trenton says. "I felt so bad for her, but I couldn't help. Miemah has a bad temper."

"Or a murderous streak," I say.

"I'll try to keep her off your back," Trenton says.

And my stomach too?

"I don't mean to scare you. Anyway, let's talk about something else," he says.

"Like what?" I ask, perplexed.

"Like, would you like to go to Fort Myers beach with Holden and me tonight and have a bonfire?" he asks.

This peaks my interest: a romantic night at the beach snuggling up to Trenton. How could I pass that up? Never mind that Miemah would most definitely drive a knife through my back for it.

"Is that even legal?" I ask.

"In my world it is," Trenton says.

"Everything goes, in Trenton's world," Holden says, backing him up.

"I'll go," says Alana.

"Okay..." Holden says, irked by Alana inviting herself. –

"I'll go too. I'm excited. I've never done a bonfire on the beach before," I say, ignoring Alana.

"I'll bring the booze," Holden pitches in.

I should have known they would want to get drunk. I mean, what did I think would happen, that we would sing campfire songs and roast marshmallows?

I send a text to Alana, even though she is sitting right next to me, and ask her to meet me in the girls' bathroom in five minutes. We need to talk.

I ask Mr. Davis if I may use the bathroom and once given a hall pass, I leave.

I am standing at the end of the bathroom, near the handicap stall, piecing together what I am going to say to Alana when she walks in and says, "Hey, what's wrong?"

I know what I am going to say now it comes to me all at once.

"What's wrong?" I say flailing my arms. "You just told the boy I like that I'm a coward that I had to tattle-tell to get rid of his ex. What do you think is right about that?"

She narrows her eyes. "It's the truth isn't it?" she says.

My mouth unhinges. "It's the truth that you are an awful friend and a loser, who I let follow me around because I feel sorry for you. It's the truth that no one wants to come within ten feet of you because you are like an annoying bug they want to crush. It's the truth that you told all of that to Trenton so that he wouldn't like me."

I slow down my words. "And it's the truth that you enjoy Miemah kicking my ass and you're friends with her minion, Nessa. It's the truth, that the truth shouldn't be spoken sometimes because it can drastically hurt a person."

It's Alana's turn to hang her mouth open. Tears roll down her cheeks and into her open mouth, she is crying so hard. I don't feel the least bit sorry for her. She put me in a lot of danger by letting Holden and Trenton know I tattled. If Miemah finds out, I may just 'make friends' with that knife of hers.

"You really think all that?" she asks, her voice quivering.

"I mean every word of it," I say, not backing down. Then I lift my shirt and show her the cuts and bruises. "They did this to me. What do you think they will do next?"

"I don't know," she says. "I hope they chop your head off and feed it to hungry cannibals. We are not friends anymore Bailey."

"I was hoping you would say that," I respond, detached. My heart is pounding in my ears. Alana my best friend, no longer. I want to call after her, but she is already out the door.

## Chapter 10

Trenton and I exchange numbers before I go to seventh period. I could sit this one out in the janitor's closet, moping about how Alana and I have ended our friendship, but Shay is here today and I have a feeling that she will be hooking her iPod up for another go. Dancing calms me in a way that no janitor's closet can.

Clad is fronting a happy face to cheer me up when I sit next to him. I front one too for the same reason.

"You feeling a little better, love?" he asks.

"A little. I talked to the counselor. She says she will handle things, but I don't know, she seemed a little fake," I say.

"All counselors come off that way; sometimes us kids build up walls and don't tell them everything we should, so yeah, they can come off as fake."

I never considered that. Clad has always been a deep thinker, maybe even a little philosophical. I envy that in him.

"You have a guarded heart. It's been broken too many times and you've put up electric fences and guard dogs," Clad says.

"How come I never realized you knew so much about me?" I ask.

He shrugs. "You never paid any attention to me. I watched you like a hawk since the day I set eyes on you," he says.

"Why?" I ask, a little put off by the idea of him stalking me.

"Your eyes."

"What about 'em?"

"We were in kindergarten. During nap-time, you had your mat next to mine and you were sleeping. It must have been the first day, because I hadn't noticed you before," Clad tells me. "I was watching you sleep and I reached out to touch your hair, because it was so curly and shiny." He touches the tips of my hair like we are back in kindergarten. "I liked shiny things. Anyway, I did and you woke up, and I was blown away by your eyes. They were so blue and deep. I wanted to be your best friend so I could see them smile at me."

"And that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship," I say sarcastically.

"I know it sounds cheesy, but I was mesmerized," Clad admits. "Why did you become my friend?"

I blush. "Because you would follow me around on the playground and give me your cookies from lunch. I guess I was more simple-minded back then."

"You still are," he says, tousling my hair.

Music seeps out of the large speaker at the front of the room. Shay is dancing—or rather—dubsteping. She looks ridiculous, with her body convulsing to the music.

"That girl just can't dance," Clad says.

I agree with him. "Maybe we could teach her," I say, tugging on his hand. "Come on."

We flip through the songs on Shay's iPod until we come across one that suits both our tastes. We start dancing. Mrs. Herrera, though she has just started the class, doesn't seem to mind.

Like a chain reaction, the joy Clad and I feel when dancing spreads through the class. It is contagious.

Clad clears a few chairs and a piano from his way, does backflips the length of the room, and break dances. Finally, I can do something better than him. I do twice as many back flips. As I do, I feel my shirt slipping, threatening to show my cuts and bruises. I don't mind. I consider them battle scars; they are a part of me and they show how strong I am as a person.

Benny Benassi's song "Cinema" plays and Clad lip-syncs it to me. The tempo drops and Clad does the windmill. He's got me, because I haven't done that move in years, and I don't plan on risking it in front of the class now. I choose some simpler yet still enticing moves, and when the chorus comes back Clad goes back to lip-syncing.

The class is clapping; there is a connection between Clad and I that no one could deny.

On the break down we do a few moves in unison. I am worn out from the dancing. The song ends to applause so loud it wakes Ashten up.

"You are both extremely talented, I only wish you would participate in our plays," Mrs. Herrera says.

"I don't like acting," I say, breathing heavily.

"Neither do I," Clad says.

"Well, just the same, you guys have a wonderful gift for entertaining," she says, not at all upset by our refusal.

We return to our seats with Ashten and Holden.

"You guys are great," Holden says. "Too bad Trenton doesn't like you or I would let you come to the bonfire tonight."

"I'm busy tonight," Clad says with a wink that is meant for me. I'm baffled as to why he winks. "Why doesn't he like me?"

"He calls you Iron Boy, but after what I just saw, I think he should change it to Elastic Boy."

"Iron Boy, real funny. He's a jokester," Clad says coldly.

"Honestly, I think he doesn't like you because he thinks that you and Bailey are a thing," Holden says, coming clean.

"We are," Clad says. "A friend thing. What, is Trenton stuck in his preschool days, doesn't know how to share friends?"

Holden gnashes his teeth. "He's my homeboy, so don't say nothin' 'bout him, got it?"

Clad puts his hands up. "Whoa, whoa, no need to get feisty with me. I'm just tellin' you like it is."

"Shut up Holden, Clad has no reason to be scared of you, you're all talk," I say, defending Clad, because I owe him at least that.

"You better watch your mouth little girl, because I could crush you with one hand," Holden advises me.

I'm livid and Clad is reeling from the threat.

"You wouldn't touch a hair on my head, because you are Trenton's little bitch, and he would smear you," I say without fear.

Holden looks ready to smack me, but I don't worry. He would never even attempt to do so in front of Clad.

"Don't even think about it," Clad says, lightly punching Holden's arm.

"Can you guys cool it? I'm trying to fucking sleep down here and I can't with your stupid bickering," Ashten says, stirring from her slumber. "Holden, don't smack Bailey, she's a girl and that would just make you a wimp. And Clad, don't be a dick about Trenton, because he might just kick your ass. I'm going back to sleep, good night!"

Ashten's rant settles things right before the final bell.

"Forget about it," Holden says.

"Already forgotten," Clad says and they bump fists. "I'll text you later," he says to me and gives me a parting hug.

Strange, he almost never texts me and I can't think of a reason why he would choose to now.

The grey skies and rainclouds have cleared, leaving the air smelling fresh and the skies blue and bright. I am walking home, thinking of what Mom will do when she finds out I failed my math test. I look up at the sky and say out loud, though there is no one to hear, "Please don't leave me, light!"

I don't know how I would handle a week in darkness. It is worse torture than anything Miemah could think up. Mom can be so cruel sometimes. Or maybe she doesn't understand the way it will affect me.

I would rather be burned alive than to have to go one night without my lamp shining while I sleep. If she does choose to punish me in that way, I will have seven very sleepless nights.

There is a strange car parked beneath our apartment, a silver junker. The passenger side door is held on by duct tape and plastic covers the place where a back windshield used to be. I ascend the stairs and trot up to our door. It is unlocked and I push it open. Cigarette smoke comes billowing out; Mom is sitting on the couch, with a guy. They are both smoking from two packs of Marlboros set on the coffee table. Mom has been putting her cigarette butts in a plastic cup I gave her for Mother's Day. NUMBER ONE MOM is printed on the side, decorated by pink flowers.

"Who's this?" I ask.

"Don't be rude," Mom says. "His name is Saint."

I laugh because I think she is joking. "He doesn't look like a saint," I say, my eyebrows perking up.

Saint tips the Mother's Day cup, and spits a wad of chewed tobacco into it. He smacks his lips together. "Wise ass," he says.

"Sleazebag," I rejoin.

It is not uncommon for Mom to bring home guys like Saint after a drunken work-night at Indigo. Saint is one of the worst I have seen yet. He is a grease ball, if I ever saw one. Hair slicked back in its own natural oil and an odor wafting off him like that of a decaying animal wafting off him.

"You just gonna' let her talk to me like that, babe?" he asks, turning to my mom, who is twirling her hair, in her own world.

"Go to your room, Bailey," she orders me when she comes to.

"No, this is my house. Make him leave," I say. I've played this game before and I know the outcome. If I go to my room, Mom and the dirtball will drink up and smoke till they pass out. Meanwhile, I will be locked up, starving, and in need of the bathroom. Not this time, I think.

Saint launches from his chair, his face so close to mine that my body tilts backwards, the back of my knees hitting the coffee table. He grabs my arm so I won't fall.

Mom's eyes are huge round saucers, her mouth hanging open, her cigarette drooping. "Don't touch my daughter," she says robotically.

He lets go of my arm and raises his fist at me. "I beat my son Alex, daily, and he would never talk to me like that," he spits out.

"Leave her alone! She's only a kid," Mom bellows, and pulls him back down by the belt holding his pants up.

I'm stunned. When the fear of being punched dissipates, I yell at him, "Get the fuck out of my house you dirt bag or I'll call the cops! Who do you think you are trying to strike a girl? You ain't shit. Someday your boy will grow to be bigger than you and I hope he returns every beating you ever laid on him!"

Mom gives me a look that says Thank you.

Saint reaches for me, but I'm quick and am in the kitchen gripping a steak knife before he has the chance to whack me.

"Your daughter is a psycho bitch," he says to Mom, picks up his cigarettes and walking out, leaving the door swinging wide open behind him.

I put the knife back. "You put us both in danger," I say.

Mom cackles hysterically, disregarding the comment. "Psycho," she says cracking up, "You really are a psycho. You were gonna' stab him!"

She takes a swig of a beer on the table then spits it out again because she is laughing so hard.

"You shouldn't waste good beer," I say caustically, taking the bottle. "You're so drunk you don't even know who I am."

"Sure I do! Ha! You're a girl, you have nice hair. You must be my friend," she says, her voice rising in pitch.

"Not even," I say and retreat to my room. She must be rolling on something, too.

I crawl into my bed, but it lacks the security and comfort I am longing for. If Dad were here, he would have killed Saint. It wouldn't be the first time he killed a man for bad-mouthing me.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pluck it out, and answer.

"Hello?" I ask.

"Hey, Bailey. It's Trenton. Your voice sounds shaky, is everything all right?"

I position my arm under my head and turn to face a picture of my dad on my nightstand.

"Yes," I lie, tears springing into my eyes.

"You sound scared, sweetie," Trenton says.

"I'm not," I say, trying to control my voice.

"Okay, if you say so. I wanted to see if I could come pick you up in a few, so we could go to Fort Myers and have that bonfire we talked about."

Don't cry. His voice is so cool, so relaxing. I wish I could wrap myself up in it and receive the solace I need so badly.

A tear rolls down my cheek. "Yep, that would be great. I live at Parkway Village by the Camelot Publix. My apartment number is two nine six. Second story."

"I should be able to find that no problem," he says, a hint of uncertainty in his tone.

"It's a blue building; all the apartments have red doors," I say.

"Are you sure nothing is bothering you? I know what you sound like when you are crying. I've heard it."

"It's the phone Trenton," I say, my voice on the verge of breaking.

"Okay, well, be ready. I'll be there soon," he says.

"Goodbye."

"Oh, and, Bailey? I can't wait to see you," Trenton says before I hang up.

I stare at my phone a moment longer and see that I have two text messages and a phone call from Clad. I'll call him back later. I turn my phone off. No distractions tonight, just me and Trenton and the ocean lapping at our feet. I stretch and pick myself off the bed. I sulk into the living room, to see if Mom has come down from the drugs and booze yet. She is asleep with her eyes open.

"Mom," I say and shake her.

She grunts and closes her eyes. She is still alive.

I am just about to go to the bathroom to get ready, when she leans over the couch, and vomits on the carpet. "I love you," she says, and wipes her mouth with the back of her shirt sleeve.

I shake my head at her, and set off to the bathroom to fix my hair.

I comb out all the tangles, and pull part of my bangs into a waterfall braid running along the left side of my head. Next, I spray some vanilla scented perfume on myself, in case the rain at gym today wasn't enough to wash away my sweat.

A car horn blares, outside the apartment. Trenton.

I look down at myself: my stomach is showing some and I'm wearing the same jeans I wore to school. I dig in my pocket and find a tube of bright red lipstick. I swipe it across my lips and hope I look decent enough.

I give a quick glance to Mom, checking if she has heard the honk. She is knocked out, sleeping on her side, a pool of vomit under her face. I kiss her on the forehead and walk out the door.

Trenton dons a leather bomber jacket, a collared long-sleeve shirt, and tight dark-wash jeans; his hair is in a faux-hawk. I look and feel like crap, but still he raises his eyebrows approvingly when I slip into the passenger seat of his black 2012 Camaro.

"You look hot," he says.

"You do too," I reply.

"You think I'm a hot guy?" he asks, bringing his hand across the spikes of his faux-hawk.

"Who doesn't?" I say. "You think I'm a hot girl?"

"Who doesn't?" he says, and we both laugh at our conceitedness.

The windows are down and the cold air blows my hair back.

"You are stunning," Trenton says.

I shiver. It must be thirty degrees out and I'm only wearing a small t-shirt. Trenton reaches into the backseat and retrieves his hoodie. He puts it around my shoulders.

"Wear it. You are shaking like a Chihuahua," Trenton chortles.

I pull it on and zip it up. I'm still shaking so he rolls up the windows.

"Who else is going?" I ask.

"Ashten and Holden, and who knows, Alana might randomly show up too."

"Sorry about that. She's a pest. She won't be coming, we aren't friends anymore," I say.

"That was quick." He blinks, surprised.

"It's a long story," I say, not wanting to explain.

"Is that why you were crying over the phone?"

"No," I say, slipping up.

"Oh, so you were crying then?" he says smugly. "I knew it."

I wrap the ends of his hoodie sleeves around my hands in a nervous gesture. "My Mom is drunk and I think she took acid," I say looking out the window.

"Your Mom is a druggie and an alcoholic? Nasty combination," Trenton says. "That's it?"

"No, she invited a guy over," I say. "His name is Saint."

"That's funny. Was he nice to you and your Mom?" he says, pressing me.

"No, he wanted to punch me in the face. I pulled a knife out on him and made him leave," I say with trepidation.

"Wow," he breathes. "All by yourself? And you can't stand up to Miemah?"

Miemah is different.

"So he didn't hit you?" Trenton asks.

"Does my face look all bashed up to you?"

"Your eyes are red. Did you take some acid too?" he says lightly.

My blood simmers.

"No! I was crying. There, I admit it. I'm a stupid, scared little girl, and I was crying because that man almost beat me."

"You are not stupid and even I would've been scared. You are very brave, Bailey. Alana was wrong about you. You are no coward," Trenton says to console me.

I bury my eyes in the sleeve of the hoodie.

We are at a red light. His hands are cool to the touch when they pull my face out of the darkness of the sleeve. He makes me look him in the eyes and I am ashamed that he can see the tears forming in mine.

"You are so strong. Listen to me," he says, when I try to bury my head again. He pulls my face back up gently. "It's okay to be frightened; no one deserves what you went through just now. Especially not a fifteen-year-old kid. Don't be embarrassed by your tears. That's what I'm here for, to wipe them away."

He lets my face go and my heart warms. It pumps the warmth throughout my body, like sinking into a hot bath. My tears recede. In Trenton I find solace that not even my mother could supply.

It is nearing six o'clock, and the traffic to Fort Myers beach is in full swing now. As soon as we get moving again, we must stop. Our conversation follows suit, pausing and playing at these intervals.

The sun drops behind the palm trees, and the moon and stars takes its place. The air grows colder and Trenton puts the heat on high.

"Do you model?" he asks during a stop in the stunted flow of traffic.

"Nope. I dance and I can run fast as hell," I say, taking pride in my talents.

"I heard. Ashten told me you are a mad dancer," Trenton says.

"What about you?" I ask.

"I used to do baseball. I was good at it, but I only did it because my dad liked it so much. When I was four he signed me up. He never got to see me play though, because he was killed shortly after," he says somberly.

"I'm sorry," I say, and we both clam up.

"Where is your dad?" he asks.

I am too humiliated to admit that he is in prison, so I fib. "He died too."

"I'm sorry," he says. The silence returns. The traffic-jam begins to thin out and I can see the beach from where we are. Trenton pulls into the parking lot and feeds quarters into the parking meter.

"Let's go start that fire, if Holden hasn't already. And then we can drown our sorrows with some alcohol," he says. The offer is tantalizing but sickeningly ironic considering Mom is rolling in the stuff.

Trenton holds my hand in his, which is warm from gripping the steering wheel. We trudge through the shells and sand together, finding Holden and Ashten sitting with one another in folding chairs. There is a pile of rocks and driftwood that will soon become the bonfire.

"Glad you could make it Sykes," Ashten says, handing me a beer.

With his teeth, Trenton pops open two for himself, then opens one for me. We are in a secluded area, far from the occasional couples walking along the edge of the waves.

I take a sip and cough. It is my first drink. The beer has the bubbliness of soda, but is sour and bitter. I drink it down fast to get it over with. Ashten, Trenton, and Holden, are looking at me quizzically with their beers only half finished. I toss the empty bottle in the sand.

"I didn't think you were the drinking type," Holden says.

I glare at him, the anger from earlier in the day rising back in my chest, threatening to escape through my mouth in the form of vile words.

"She's whatever type she wants to be," Trenton says and hands me another beer. I drink it faster, chug it down, to show Holden I'm no stereotypical good girl. Ashten tosses me another one and Trenton catches it before it reaches me.

"She's a lightweight. Two is enough for now," he says.

## Chapter 11

I have drunk three beers and am starting to feel light. My head has stopped swimming, and the earlier incident of Saint and Mom becomes a distant memory. Holden is playing music from his boom box; he and Ashten are dancing. Trenton is leaning in for a second try at a kiss.

His lips brush against mine as he presses closer. Our bodies link together and I grab the back of his head for support, there is no way I'm going to fall this time. One of his hands is on the small of my back and the other is entangled in my hair.

I can't say how long we make out for, only that afterwards, Holden and Ashten are grinning like bobcats, having stopped dancing. There is a smile on my lips and I'm floating in ecstasy.

"You are much prettier when you smile," Trenton says, his own smile lighting up his face and dancing in his blue eyes.

The fire throws a beautiful glow on Ashten and Holden and they look like a drunken king and queen, seated on their foldable thrones.

"You two make a cute couple," Ashten says.

I sink like a brick in water, my body and mind no longer levitating. We can't be a cute couple, I think, how would Clad feel? Betrayed? Angry? It would not go over well with him.

"It's getting late," Trenton says, checking the time on his cell phone. "One o' clock."

We all agree to spend the night on the beach because it isn't safe for any of us to be driving and we are all dog-tired.

Trenton finds a shell-free spot in the sand and lies underneath the inky sky. He sighs contently and his breath comes out as wispy clear mist. I scuttle over to him and lay down beside him, but not too close, I don't want to encroach on his territory. He snakes an arm beneath my back and tugs me closer to him, so close that I am nearly on top of him.

"Lay your head on my chest, I'll keep you warm." I do as Trenton says and feel his heart beating in time with the crashing waves. I curl against him, at war with the cold; fighting to keep the little warmth I have within me. He puts both arms around me and rubs my shoulders.

"So cold," he says, "my little ice-cube."

I fall asleep, with the picture of him and I frozen together in ice embedded in my mind. I sense that he is awake the whole time, watching me.

My feet are numb, is the first thing I realize when I am woken up by a ghastly scream. I then pinpoint the location of the scream: the fire. It is still blazing, with Ashten sleeping within inches of it. Her eyes are wide with fear, there is fire licking at her hair and arms. Ashten is on fire. Because I am half asleep, it isn't registering in my numb limbs that they should be moving.

"Ashten is on fire!" I scream scrambling to my feet. She screams in agony and I set myself into action. I pull her away from the fire, the heat emitting from her flaming body licking at my face.

I drag her into the ocean and watch as she sinks, gurgling in the water. I hold onto her as the waves crash over us, she is sobbing and swallowing salt water.

"Are you okay?" I yell above her sobs, and the sound of the waves.

"Nooo," she whimpers. Her hair has been singed off by the fire, and in the moonlight I can see the charred skin on her arms. My heart is racing and adrenaline is warming me even though I am submerged in the icy water with her. The ocean is turbulent, the water spinning and sloshing onto shore, it is like being in a giant washing machine.

I wrap my arms around her tightly. "It's okay," I soothe her. She is inconsolable, her tears unyielding and glistening in her eyes. Trenton, who has finally woken up, rushes over to us.

"What are you guys doing?" he asks groggily.

"The fire," I say. "You guys didn't put out the fire. Ashten got burned, she was on fire." I stare out at the ocean and try to calm myself. Ashten's sobs have died down to whimpers. "She's burned badly," I say, rubbing Ashten's shoulder.

"Oh my God, Ashten I am so sorry," Trenton says, his hands on his head, at a loss as to what to do. "Is the water helping?"

Ashten shakes her head and Trenton helps me pull her out of the ocean. I take off his hoodie, which is only a little wet, and put it on her. I collapse in the sand, exhausted and sore.

"We have to go," I say.

Trenton nods. Ashten cries out in anguish, and I stroke what is left of her hair.

Trenton climbs back up the sand and wakes Holden. The two of them clean up the area and pack away the folding chairs into Holden's van.

"Bailey, do you have a license?" Ashten asks over her weeping.

"No, but I can drive," I say.

"You need to drive my car, okay? The keys are in my front pocket." I reach into her pants pocket and pluck them out.

Trenton returns and picks her up. He places her in the passenger seat of her Mazda. Her arm hits the door and she howls "Damnit!"

Her charred arms make my stomach churn, the mix of alcohol, the smell of burned flesh, and salty sea-water.

"You look green," Ashten says, settling in the seat.

"I'm gonna' be sick," I say leaning over and spewing out the contents of my stomach. Trenton holds my hair.

"Feeling better now?" he asks, handing me a bottle of water.

"I'm still nauseous but I'll be okay. Let's get Ashten to the emergency room."

I sit in the car as the sun begins to unsheathe itself like a piercing golden sword. I realize that my head is pounding. I have a hang-over from just three beers. Lightweight.

"Are you too sick to drive?" Ashten asks, worried.

I gulp fresh air to ease my queasy stomach and take tiny sips of water. "I'm going to be just fine, don't you worry about me." I start the car up and drive out of the parking lot, my cold hands shaking on the steering wheel.

"How many times have your driven?" Ashten asks, obviously skeptical of my ability to get us all the way back to Cape Coral without crashing.

I tilt my head and say, "A few times."

"You're not bad," she says, encouraging me.

I loosen my grip a little, try to focus on the road, and the repercussions of drinking last night as my body is ravaged by the alcohol and lack of sleep.

"How did you catch fire?" I ask.

"I was sleeping pretty close to it because it was freezing last night. You had Trenton holding you; I bet you didn't even notice the cold." She looks out across the morning traffic, reliving the horrifying moment. "I was awake the longest; I was watching you and him sleep. So peaceful, so beautiful. I think he loves you."

My throat tightens. He can't love me.

"I did eventually fall asleep, but the night got chillier and the fire was still hot, so I rolled closer to it. I guess I thought I was getting close to Holden, a person, not a fire. Then I woke up, my throat and eyes stinging from the heavy smoke, and I realized that I was on fire. Roasting like a marshmallow and you woke up about the same time. You saved my life."

"No." I shake my head repeatedly. "I didn't." I don't want her to bear the burden of repaying me her life. I should be taking lives, not saving them. "I panicked. You were on fire, anyone would have saved you."

"Anyone could have, but you were the only one who woke. The only one who dragged me into the freezing water, not thinking of catching hyperthermia, the only one who held me when I was crying in pain."

I grip the wheel tighter and almost slam into the car in front of me. My heart flutters from the near accident.

"I had to," I say quietly. She turns her attention back to the burns on both of her arms. The skin blackened and oozing. Bile rises from my stomach, trying to force its way out my throat.

"I will be scarred for life. I'm hideous now," Ashten says. "I bet you don't know what that's like, huh? To feel despicably hideous. Like a creature who's crawled out of a swamp, green and slimy. No you are just the opposite, like a butterfly, surfacing from a cocoon. Life must come so easy for you."

"Life doesn't come easy for anyone," I say, and then add, "You are beautiful, your arms will heal and your hair will grow back, and you will be the same pretty girl you were before the fire."

I think of her as a plot of land; its trees and foliage being burned to ashes, thus creating nutrient-rich soil for flowers and other plant life to thrive in.

"I'm beyond repair," she says in a childish voice. I place a hand on her knee.

"You'll be okay. I know it," I say. She sighs, tears in the corners of her large tawny colored eyes.

"You're a really smart kid. Which makes me wonder, why are you hanging out with people like us? You're going to be something. And us, well, we'll just be lucky to not die of a drug overdose," Ashten says.

"Don't be fooled," I say. "I'm like a present: shiny and sparkling on the outside, maybe even a little thrilling, but when you tear off the paper, there is something rotten underneath, maybe a pair of socks, or underwear. The gift that no one wants on Christmas morning." I expect her to laugh but she just looks more depressed.

The heavy traffic disperses as we pull into the Lee Memorial Hospital. The emergency parking lot is empty and I park as close to the building as possible.

"My mom is probably worried sick about me. She hasn't known where I've been all night. It'll be a wonder if she hasn't sent the cops looking for me yet," I say, putting the keys back in Ashten's pocket, knowing it would hurt too badly for her to hold them. "I would love to stay with you, but I got to get back home."

I open the door and help her out. She gives me a light hug, careful not to put too much pressure on her damaged arms.

"Thank you," Ashten says, and I give her a weak smile.

Holden and Trenton have just arrived, their eyes red, and their faces worn out from the night. I follow Trenton back to his car and Holden stays behind with Ashten.

I sit down and put my seatbelt on. "Rough night," I say.

"My night was great," Trenton boasts, stretching. "I had a pretty girl sleeping on me."

"Ashten is burnt beyond repair," I say, using her exact words. "And all you can think about is how you enjoyed sleeping with me?"

"I was only saying. I didn't know it was so bad. In case you've forgotten, I was asleep when it happened," Trenton says, wounded by my words.

"I didn't forget. How could I forget that I was the only one who gave a damn to get up and help her?" I say, recalling her scream. It would have been impossible to have slept through it, unless by choice.

"Don't be so modest. I would have jumped right in and saved her if I had woken up," he says defensively.

"I screamed too. We were both screaming loudly. You didn't get up," I argue.

"I'm a heavy sleeper," Trenton says as we reach my apartment.

"It doesn't bother you that she'll be scarred for life?"

"It's not my problem."

I slam the car door when I get out, fuming from his lack of sympathy.

"Ah, come on baby, don't I get a goodbye kiss?" he asks, leaning his head out the window. I push his head back in as I pass him to the stairs.

Mom is sitting outside the door, her face red, puffy, and tear stained like a flash-steamed tomato. There is a box of Kleenex on her lap, and she is in a stupor. I run to her.

"Mom, I'm home," I say softly and throw my arms around her neck.

"God, Bailey. You scared me to death. You don't know what was going through my head all night. I haven't slept a wink." She pushes me away, to look me in the face. "It really is you," she laughs, tears returning to her eyes.

"I'm here Mom," I say and sit on her lap.

"I thought... I don't even want to say it. I thought Saint kidnapped you or something, or hurt you or killed you."

"But he left before I did," I say.

"I didn't know that. I was tripping on acid. Might as well come out with it, you already know, I'm sure." She tosses the Kleenex box to the floor and pulls me tighter to her chest. "Oh sweetie, I thought you were gone. I almost called the police, but I could never bring myself to admit that I didn't even remember you leaving the apartment. I was so out of it."

"What do you remember?" I ask, a sob rising in my own chest.

"Now, don't you cry too. I'm not sure. I had nightmares. I kept dreaming about you being hit by Saint and I was laughing, couldn't stop laughing." She tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "But he didn't hit you did he? Your face is untouched."

"I pulled a knife on him and made him leave. He only threatened me, Mom," I say.

"I'm so sorry. I have made you be so grown up, taking care of me all the time. And the choices I make put us both in danger, I could get you killed. If that happened, I couldn't live with myself, I love you so much," Mom says reverently.

"I'm too strong," I say, remembering Trenton's words. "I'm so strong nothing is going to bring me down, especially no druggie with a temper. My dad killed a man and I'm not the least bit afraid to do the same, if it comes down to it."

"I hate to hear you talk like that. Those words are so unnatural coming from my little girl. You're only a little girl, why should you think that you could be like a man and fight anyone?" Mom asks.

"If I didn't think that where would we be? What would Saint have done? Someone needs to be the man of the house."

"I just wish it wasn't my baby," she says, kissing my cheek. "You're soaked. Where have you been?"

"The beach," I say.

"Overnight? You're such a strange kid. Let's go inside and you can take a shower."

The apartment is warm and clean. The dirty dishes have all but vanished from the sink, and the coffee table is flipped up against the wall.

"I kept seeing you fall over it. I couldn't take it anymore so I moved it," Mom says. I nod; the Mothers Day cup is clean and on the shelf where it belongs. "Go take a shower, and I'll make you something to eat."

In the shower, the water and suds wash away the bonfire smoke and sand from my hair. The scratch marks left behind from Nessa are still pronounced against my creamy skin. Clad comes to mind, for no apparent reason. His words and embrace from the day before returning. My feeling of utter despair washes down the drain with the sand and salt.

I had spent all night with Trenton, even made out with him, and all I can think about is the comfort of Clad's arms. Sure, kissing Trenton was the highlight of my day, but the way Clad was able to break down my defenses and comfort me resonates more deeply. Just a friend thing or more?

Bacon and eggs are sizzling on the stove and the smell wafts into the bathroom. I am famished.

I towel-dry my hair and step out of the bathroom in search of some decent clothes to wear. Mom has laid out a long-sleeve teal-colored shirt spotted with white flowers and a pair of new jeans. I pull them on. I take a look in the mirror; my eyes are still bloodshot but my skin is glowing, the bruise on my face quickly fading. My lips are stained red from my convenience-store lipstick. My hair is scrunched in damp curls.

The shirt makes me look elegant, I haven't dressed like this since middle school, but it gives me a feeling of self-worth. Bailey—the girl who could be something.

"Come eat!" Mom hollers happily from the kitchen. I plop into a chair and shovel hot eggs and bacon into my mouth. Mom is famished as well, but she takes much smaller bites, her appetite waning from being scared sick and hung-over.

"I'm not going to again. I promise. Never, ever again. No more bringing home drunk men, no more drinking, no more drugs. I'm going to go to work every day and make money to take care of you. You are all I need," Mom proclaims, placing her fork neatly on a napkin.

"You can do it, Mommy, I know you can. I'm strong because of you," I say.

She grabs my hand. "We can make it without him. We have already for eleven years, so why fall apart now?"

I finish off three plates and having eaten my fill, place my napkin on my plate.

"I should be going to work," Mom says, getting up from the table and grabbing her car keys.

Work in the early morning? Why couldn't she just tell me the truth? I had known she'd been sneaking off to sleep with men when I was as young as eight. But only now does it start to bother me. Only now that I am old enough to realize sex isn't a game of tickle monster between two adults who love each other.

Only recently have I figured out that instead of laughter, sex brings intimate feelings, and instead of stiches in your side from laughing, you need stiches in your heart to repair it after the person you gave it to decides to rip it apart.

I put on my navy pea coat and a pair of boots to combat the cold that is not only right outside my door, but forming inside me as I think deeper into my situation with Mom.

## Chapter 12

"I want to go for a walk," I say. "Maybe I'll check out Walgreens or Goodwill."

Mom nods, and digs in her purse for a few crumpled five-dollar bills. "Here, take this, it's all I have. Get yourself some lunch at McDonalds."

"Thanks Mom," I say and kiss her cheek.

"I'll be home by ten, okay baby? Don't go anywhere without calling me," Mom says.

Her hair is curled and her face is done up, her makeup dramatic. I see myself in her, but only for a moment, because the longer I look, the more her wrinkles show themselves and the dark circles appear through a disconcerting amount of foundation.

"What? Do you like my hair? I get more tips this way," she says playfully.

"You look nice."

I follow Mom out the door. She pulls out of the driveway and I watch until the car is a silver speck in the distance.

I speed walk to Camelot Park. It's a beautiful winter's day; you can hardly tell the air is frosty, the way the sun is shining.

Alana and I used to come here when we were small, back then it only had a few swings, slides, and a tunnel. The tunnel was a target of teen graffiti; we would climb on top of it, and jump down to the sand below. There wasn't much to do, but we always found some way to enjoy ourselves.

Alana could climb trees like nobody's business; she would scare Mom half to death by shimmying up the thin branches and propping herself at the top of an oak tree. One time she fell and broke her arm. Her mom wouldn't speak to mine for weeks.

During those weeks, I would come to the park alone with my dolls and sit them on the swings. And with my feet and hands buried in the hot sand, stare and stare at them. I didn't know what to do with myself without Alana. I had been using her as a crutch, as a way to forget my dad, and that unmentionable night.

Mom took me to counselors, but I wouldn't talk to anyone. I was living in my own lonely world, unreachable by those who thought they could help me forget my dad, Jack, and how my mother used to be happy. We all used to be so happy.

There are twice as many swings now and slides so tall I wonder if they are even safe. I usually come here to swing in silence; it is almost always empty. I could swing for hours and hours, daydreaming. Today that is what I do. I have conveniently left my cellphone at home, there will be no distractions. I need all the concentration I can muster to sift through my thoughts.

I think about Ashten and how she will never be the same again after last night. My stomach goes queasy at the thought of her burns. I don't want to throw up my breakfast, so I force my thoughts down another path. A path called, I kissed Trenton and Clad is never going to forgive me. No, forget Clad, what about Miemah? What will she do to me when she finds out?

I imagine the scenarios: a death match with her knife, perhaps, or maybe her fists. If she really wanted to spice things up she could use the brass knuckles she wears around her neck at all times. That would be interesting...

A kid hops onto the swing beside me and I lose my concentration. I leap off the swing mid-air and with mulch sneaking its way into my shoes, exit through the park gate. I am off to pay a visit to the Goodwill; it is only a few streets away.

This is pretty much as boring as it gets, a normal Saturday in Cape Coma. It's as if the whole city has been put under a sleeping spell. Only A few cars pass by me on my way to the thrift store, but I do notice an ominous white truck lurking behind me.

I turn a corner, it turns a corner.

I go straight, it goes straight.

The driver is following me. Trying to lose him, I scramble across the meridian and bolt into Goodwill, not checking to see if the driver is still hot on my trail. I am breathless when I enter.

There is a young man, maybe twenty years old, at the cash register looking at me questioningly.

"A man was following me," I say, looking over my shoulder, the white truck now idling in the parking lot.

"Stay here I'll go check it out," he says calmly.

I tap my fingers on the glass of the counter, not daring to turn around.

A couple minutes pass, and I am growing nervous, when the bell hung above the door dings.

"Bastard," I hear the boy say under his breath, while rolling down his sleeves.

"What did he want?"

"You, he says he was looking for a girl like you."

I am baffled. "What for?" I ask innocently.

He smiles, and then the smile fades as quickly as it came. "Nothing good," he says, busying himself with organizing jewelry beneath the counter.

"Thank you." I swallow hard. "For dealing with him."

"Not a problem, hun," he says, flashing his pearly whites at me. "So, besides pedophiles, what brings you here?"

"I came to look," I say, dragging my finger across the dusty glass.

"Shouldn't you be at the mall?"

"Shouldn't you be working?" I ask with a raised eyebrow.

"Very true." He chuckles.

I wander through the racks of musty clothes and tinker with the shelf of mugs, plates, and candle holders.

"What's your name?" I ask, while spinning a top that has made its way onto the wrong shelf.

"Spencer, you can call me Spence."

"Okay, Spence. You can call me Bailey," I say, using my bubbly voice for the occasion.

"How old are you?" he asks, pretending to polish the jewelry.

"Fifteen, and you?"

He lets out a whistle. "You're so young. I have a little sister your age. I'm nineteen."

"I thought you were older," I confess. "We both know you aren't working."

"Shhh," he chuckles, "my boss is in the back. Do you live close to here?" He tries on a gold watch with a cracked face.

"At Parkway Village... Do you have any books?"

Spencer comes out from around the counter and I notice he's a looker. Golden brown locks and copper eyes that shine like pennies hot off the press. He's tall, maybe a half foot taller than I am, perhaps six-foot-one. And is wearing a black t-shirt with the Goodwill logo printed in white ink. He doesn't belong here either, I think.

"Here you go, Bailey. We have lots of novels," he says, directing me to a bookcase filled with stained yellowing books. My name sounds strange being pronounced in such a deep, hunky voice.

"Thanks," I say.

"I'm going to sweep in the back, just ring the bell if you need anything," Spencer says.

I'm irked by the vast amount of romance novels; I know they are without even reading the titles because they have pictures of a single rose, or a romantic-looking, robust man on the front cover.

I'm not the least bit interested in the books, my real intention was to seem like I might purchase something. Truth be told, there is nothing that catches my eye, nothing except Spence.

"That one is about a woman who kills her husband to take his fortune for herself," he says. Having come from the backroom, he rests an arm on my shoulder. "I've read them all. It can get pretty boring around here. On weekdays no one comes in."

I replace the book.

"I have a sister, Sarah. Maybe you know her, she goes to Chiquita High."

"No, I go to Surf Side," I say sourly.

"What's wrong with Surf Side?" he asks.

"What isn't wrong?"

"Are you a freshman?"

"Sophomore, are you in college?"

"Naw, this is it," Spence says, sweeping his arms across the store. "Chipped cups, broken children's toys, and clothes that haven't been worn since the 80s."

"But you don't like it. What do you really want to do?"

"I want to be a doctor," he says, his eyes lighting up then going lifeless, like a robot that has been turned off.

"You can do anything you want to do," I say.

"My pop says I have to work here, and he doesn't have the money to put me through college. This is where I am; for now, anyway."

"I'm sorry. I have to be going now, it's lunch-time and I'm starving. It was nice meeting you though," I say and stick out my hand.

He stares at my hand and then runs his fingers across the front of my palm. How strange, I think.

"Pretty hands," he says, as if waking from a daydream. "Lovely meeting you." He touches my hand against his lips for a moment.

"You as well, kind sir," I say, playing along and curtseying.

We fall into a fit of laughter, but are interrupted by a harsh voice from the back. "Get your ass to work you son of a bitch! I am not paying you to flirt with the customers!"

"Bye," I say.

Spencer goes back to working, bending over a tray of hoop earrings like a wilted flower.

I push open the door, and the bell rings again, announcing my departure. Spencer watches as I leave.

A motorcycle whizzes past me as I'm about to step off the sidewalk to cross the street, but instead of being petrified by the near collision, I am reminded of my dad. My nose buried in the smooth leather of his riding jacket, my feet hanging off the sides, my legs too short to reach the foot rests, I would ride with him on his Harley to the beach. It was a short ride, only minutes, and it always ended too quickly. But if I was lucky, he would zip around the streets heading to no particular place and the stars would come out to greet us and light the way home. "Keep going Daddy, take us to the moon," I used to say. I would go anywhere if it meant I could stay on his motorcycle with him.

That is what I miss most about my dad: his bike. It seemed like I was once alive, stars twinkling, sun shining, wind blowing, and music sounding, but it has all died away since.

My stomach is set on food and my body needs a warm place to sit. I enter McDonalds, the sound of bubbling oil, and the sizzle of meat patties inviting me.

"Hi I'm Hickory, what can I get you?" a uniformed worker says. His finger hovers over the buttons on the register, as does his lazy eye, impatiently waiting for my order.

"Like the bacon?" I ask sardonically.

"Huh? What do you want to eat? You know, like, food?" he asks.

I order a Big Mac, small fries, and a large Coca-Cola.

He gives me my receipt and my food is set on the counter. I grab the tray and bring it to a table that looks like it has suffered from the least amount of spilled soda and ketchupy-hand abuse.

I chew my hamburger and fries slowly, savoring each bite. Hickory, while working the cash register, is eyeing me. I want to enjoy my meal, but his lazy eye is suddenly energized and focused on me.

My appetite gone, I toss the food in the trash and step out into the nippy air. I return home just in time to curl up on the couch and get in a long nap before Mom can come home, drunk and satisfied from wherever she has been.

The temperature in the apartment is not much warmer than outside; the thermostat is set at 76 degrees, but it has been stuck on that setting for years. In the winter, depending if it is a harsh one or not, Mom and I sleep fully clothed to fight the cold during the nighttime hours.

I throw myself on the couch and huddle in between the cushions, too lazy to get up and find a blanket. I take the decorative pillows and lay them across my legs as a substitute. I change sides twice and find the most comfortable way to lie; I pass out in an instant.

During my heavy sleep, the sun sets and the temperature drops. Mom comes home, exhausted as usual and smelling of liquor. I woke with a jolt at the sight of her standing in the space between the door and the kitchen, which is not quite big enough to call a hallway.

"How did your day go?" I ask her, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

"Crappy," she grunts and unloads a pocket of quarters onto the table. So, maybe Mom did go to work after all, but certainly not before a pit stop at some random man's house.

"I'm sorry Mom, maybe tomorrow will be better," I say.

"I should have worn less clothing," she says on second thought. "Denise had her boobs hanging out all night and she walked away with a hundred fifty dollars in tips."

"Denise is an exotic dancer," I point out. Denise has been Mom's friend since her high school days, when neither of them thought they would end up broke, working at a nightclub with a child to support.

"Ella works there too, now. She's eighteen and wears less clothing then her mother," Mom says.

"Maybe I'll go join her after I graduate high school," I kid her.

Mom's eyes grow wide.

"If I ever found out you were trying to get a job at any club, I'd beat you silly," she says. "You're going to college; I don't know, how but you will. You are really smart."

"My grades say otherwise..."

"You'll pull them back up, I know it, and then you will receive all kinds of scholarships for universities," Mom says, her voice ringing with hope.

"Uh-huh," is all I say, trying not to make a mockery of her hopes.

There are a bunch of plastic bags on the counter and my stomach is growling. They must contain food.

Mom shakes her head, reading my mind. "I didn't have money for food, sweetheart. I never make enough money." She picks at the soft wood of the kitchen table, ashamed.

"That's okay Mom. I ate a lot at McDonalds and you can have the money left over. Tomorrow we can buy food," I say, and give her a hug.

She reluctantly takes the two five-dollar bills from me and pats my head.

"Thank you. Yes, tomorrow I'll make a big dinner and desert too," she says, pocketing the bills.

"Sounds great. I'm going to hit the hay now."

"Why so early? It's only eleven. You usually stay up past twelve."

"That nap threw me off. I am beyond tired," I lie.

I edge towards my bedroom, anticipating a lecture on how I should brush my teeth and shower, but instead she just follows me, saving the lecture for another night.

I find a nightgown to wear, a silky striped one that was my mom's when she was a young girl. I have a bunch of her lightly worn nightgowns, all of them made of silk and other luxurious fabrics. I slip the nightgown on and crawl under the covers. Mom pulls the covers up around me and kisses my head. "Sweet dreams," she whispers, and places something cold and metallic in my hand. "A flashlight, so the dark won't frighten you."

A lump forms in my throat, something as simple as this gesture brings tears to my eyes. Mom has never paid so much attention to my fear of the dark; mostly she would just tease me about it, or tell me to get over myself. This flashlight gives me hope that maybe she does love me more than her spirits, more than her cigarettes, and acid.

"Don't cry, baby, I just wanted to make sure you felt safe, and I couldn't afford a new lamp. Sleep tight."

Mom stands from the bed and it rises, free from her weight. I feel like I am rising in the same way when I flick on the flashlight and cut through the darkness with the thin stream of light.

## Chapter 13

The batteries die sometime during the night, but I don't wake. By the time I do, I have slept so much that my head is heavy and pounding. Outside my window, the wind is howling and rain is pelting the glass. I groggily roll out of bed and check the time on my cell phone: two PM. "Wow," I say aloud.

A familiar clink! clink! comes from the living room and my stomach drops. I twist the doorknob, take a deep breath, and push the door open. What I didn't want to see is sitting right in front of me, and I can't deny that I've seen it, can't trick my mind to think I've seen something else.

Mom thirstily chugs from a bottle, her head tilting back to get every last drop. My knees go weak, because there are so many bottles, too many to smash. What a big pile of glass that would create. It would slice me into a million pieces.

"Oh, good morning honey, see you decided to finally get your lazy, good-for-nothing ass out of bed," Mom slurs.

This is not my mother, I think, and cover my eyes with my hands, wishing the demon would disappear and be replaced with the mom I knew last night. The one who gave me the flashlight. But just like the flashlight, my rightful mom has run out of batteries.

"We didn't have enough money for dinner, but you managed to scrape up enough for five bottles of vodka?"

"No, no, no," she cackles. "Goodness no! I used your college fund, sweetie."

I disregard the comment. She must be drunk out of her mind.

"Your daddy and I saved up thirty thousand dollars before you were even born, to send you to college. Thirty thousand." She coughs, as a gulp of Smirnoff vodka goes down the wrong pipe. "You know how much alcohol that can buy? Not enough!"

I am beginning to think that a college fund really did exist; it seems implausible that Mom could think up a story like that while drunk as a sailor.

"Oh, and you'll get a kick out of this, honey bunches, guess how much is left in that account?"

I stare at her frozen, my arms glued to my sides.

"Twelve dollars and seventy six cents! Ha!"

This is the tipping point for me. I slide into my boots, grab every unopened bottle of liquor that I can fit into my arms and kick open the front door.

"I didn't spend it all in one sitting! I have been buying drugs and alcohol with it since your dad left," she calls after me as I step into the rain. "Hey, what are you doing with those?" she asks, finally noticing that I have taken away her precious loot and am approaching the stairs. The thought of her alcohol being poured away registers in her mind and she lurches from the couch, coming at me so quickly that I don't have time to escape.

I gasp as she presses against me, her dead weight making me lose my footing. Both my feet leave the top step and I am sent tumbling down the flight of concrete stairs. Each hit feels like a bag of bricks being slammed into my helpless body.

My back smashes into a step, and the wind is knocked out of me. I am still clutching onto a couple of the bottles, though a few have broken, and as a result, I have rolled over some shards. They stab into my back and arms.

Imagine falling from a fifty-story building and even though the fall is terrifying you can't catch your breath to scream. That is what I am going through as I tumble down the stairs.

My head bashes into the last step, and I momentarily see stars. Regretfully, the hit is not enough to knock me out. "Mom," I cry out.

Except this is her fault: she pushed me down the stairs, why would she come now and comfort me?

Mom comes hurdling down the steps, her face radiating pure rage. She pounces on me, like a cat on a mouse, pinning my elbows into the rough gravel. "All of it gone!" she screams into my face.

I am beside myself, I want to sob and reach out to her, but at the same time I know I should be trying to escape her. "Mom my college fund! How could you?" I yell back.

Her hair is dripping rainwater down my face, mixing with my tears.

"I could kill you!" she growls, grabbing a shard of glass from one of the broken Smirnoff bottles and holding it to my throat.

"Mom," I sob.

"What kind of daughter does that? Huh? One who doesn't give a shit about—" she starts.

"Please! Stop! Don't!" I plead with her. This isn't my mom, I keep repeating in my head.

The shard presses into my skin and I can hear it tear. "Mommyyy, I am sorry, don't. Please don't. Forgive me."

She drops the glass and lifts herself off of me. A thin bloody line has formed on my neck, but it is not deep, and I am still breathing.

Mom's mouth is wide open like a crocodile preparing to clamp down. Thinking quickly, I wipe the blood from my neck and grab her hand. This way when she sobers up, and I am gone, because I will be so long gone, she will see my blood, and have a nightmarish time trying to remember what she did.

Mom steps backwards from me, her eyes unblinking as she stares at the bloody piece of glass. This is my only opportunity to get away and I take it. I crawl at first, and then when my knees have stopped shaking, stand up and sprint away.

It is not easy to run while hyperventilating, pushing forward a body that is on the brink of giving out and collapsing. My mom just tried to kill me. A string of sobs follow this thought, and slow my running for a moment. I taper off the road and scramble over to a green dumpster. There, I lean against its rusty surface, trying to suppress the screams that are fighting to escape me. I bite my arm and release them.

My gown is soaked through from the downpour, and the cold is numbing me from head to toe, sucking the pain out of my bruised limbs. When I have finished screaming, I rise again; my legs more steady this time.

The only nearby person I can think of who might help me is Spencer. Sure, Clad would hold me and protect me, but there isn't a way for me to get to him, and my phone is still at the apartment.

I am no longer able to run; it is too draining in the state that I'm in. My back aches every time I take a step forward; it feels like I've been run over by a steamroller, all my bones crushed.

The streets are flooded from a storm that was brought on by a cold front. The temperature has dropped at least ten more degrees since yesterday. I am shivering and my teeth are chattering uncontrollably when I walk into the Goodwill. The store lights are dim, casting eerie shadows on all the dilapidated furniture and tattered toys. I force myself to take three giant strides to the counter where I first met Spencer. He is nowhere in sight, so I pound the bell.

No one comes.

I hit the bell a few more times before picking it up and throwing it against the wall in frustration.

Spencer emerges from the back room just as I am about to pick up the bell to throw a second time. I clench my fists, terrified of what he will think of me. I wanted Spence to think I was a gorgeous girl, someone worth dating, someone worth loving. By the look in his eyes I am positive that will never be.

He is looking at a girl who is soaked to the bone, clothes sticking to her thin frame, blood dripping down her neck, and eyes hollowed out in fear. Not a bomb-shell beauty. But the aftermath of a bomb exploding.

"What happened?" Spencer asks, jaw unhinged.

I could faint from the expression of sadness that is in his eyes and I almost do, but he grabs me by my waist and holds me up. He leans me against the counter, and goes to the bedding section of the store, retrieving a red flannel blanket. He then dries me off and drapes the blanket over my shoulders. I stare at him, my teeth chattering from the cold, and my vision veiled by a stream of tears. His face is beautiful, even when it is pulled into lines of worry and concern.

"Come outside," he says, steering me to the door.

No, I think, he's going to make me leave. He doesn't want anything to do with me!

"Please! Don't make me go! I can't, I can't," I say franticly.

"Calm down," Spencer says in a relaxed voice. "I'm going to take you to my house, okay?"

I nod, relieved that he has not yet been repulsed by me.

Spencer opens the passenger door to his truck and lifts me like a toddler into the seat. He turns the heat up to warm the truck, but it cannot compete with the paralyzing ice that is traveling through my body.

"It's okay," he simply says, resting his large hand on my knee. "I will take care of you."

Those six words are all I need to hear. Fresh tears course down my face.

"What happened? Why are you so upset? You can trust me, Bailey," Spencer says at the sight of my tears.

I am crying because he cares, this boy who doesn't even know me, cares about me more than my own mother. A complete stranger is going out of his way to console me.

"You're a great guy," is all I can manage.

He laughs. "Thank you. Is that why you're crying?"

I shake my head.

"What's wrong?" he tries again. I pull the blanket tighter around my neck, it covers my cut. "Cold?"

I avert my eyes. Glue them on trees and people we pass by on the way to his house. We pull into the driveway of a one-story, sky-blue house; a carbon copy of all the homes in Cape Coral.

"My sister Sarah should be home," Spencer says as he lifts me out of the truck and sets me down in a puddle, "you can meet her." I take a few steps forward before I slip on the wet concrete. Faster than a whip, Spencer grabs me by my arm, preventing me from falling. He stands me up straight.

He guides me to the door, with an arm around my waist. And when he reaches for the doorknob to open it, a young girl with shoulder length, dirty blonde hair, and the same copper eyes as Spencer, swings it open before he can. She looks disappointed, then shocked all at once.

"Bailey, this is Sarah. Sarah, this is Bailey," Spencer introduces us.

"Your eyes are pretty," Sarah says, trying to shake my hand. I pull away from her, I don't know why.

"That's okay," Spencer says, closing the door behind us. "She's not feeling well, Sarah."

Sarah nods thoughtfully and I feel a pang of remorse for not greeting her properly.

"Sorry we had to meet like this," I say, my voice quivering.

"Oh, don't worry about it. Here why don't you sit down?" Sarah shows me to their couch. It is a shocking red, blood red. Great, I won't have to worry about staining it with my blood.

I sit on the opposite side from Spence and Sarah.

"Don't sit so far away," Spence says and I scoot even farther from him. "Okay, I'll come to you." He bends down on his knees so our eyes meet, and then holds both my hands in his. "Tell me, what happened?" he asks, his voice soft, almost like the purr of a cat.

"I can't," I say, my gaze turning from his.

"Please, so I can help you. All I want to do is help you," he pleads with me.

I have never told anyone besides Trenton and Alana about Mom's abusive ways. Would Spencer think less of me if he knew that I am my mom's punching bag?

Spencer strokes my cheek. "Don't be scared," he says.

I look past him at Sarah who is on the edge of her seat, waiting for me to spill all that has transpired. She wants to crack me open like an egg. The combination of Sarah's prying eyes and Spencer's gentle words force me open.

"My mom," I say. Sarah draws in a breath and Spencer squeezes my hands tighter; their reactions seeming somehow scripted. "She cut my throat, she pushed me down the stairs at our apartment, and she pushed me into a pile of broken glass." I show them my palms. "She slapped me and it left a bruise on my face for days." I am not stopping, because it feels so good to finally share everything that I have been through with someone. "When I was little she burnt my hand with her cigarette lighter because I flushed a whole pack of Marlboros down the toilet." My palm stings, as I recall the moment. "That's not all, but I can't say anymore. It hurts," I finish.

Sarah is speechless and Spencer looks sickened. Spencer's hands drop mine and he stands up. He squints his eyes, thinking about what he should do next.

"I am so sorry," Sarah says at last.

Spencer has left the living room and is rummaging around in the kitchen for something. Sarah knows what he's searching for apparently, because she tells him to, "Look on the counter closest to the fridge."

"Got it," Spencer says triumphantly, returning to my side with a telephone and a slip of paper. I catch a glimpse of what is written on the paper, as I reach for it.

"No!" I scream at Spencer who is about to call Children and Families to report my story of abuse.

"I have to," he says, dialing the number. "She will kill you and you're only a little girl, you can't handle her on your own. They will help you; they will give your mother the help she so desperately needs."

"They will cast me out on the streets! They will take me from her, and then where will I go?" I say, hoping to level with him. Doesn't he realize the repercussions of getting these people involved? It will cause more harm than good, of that I am certain.

"You can go with your dad." He stops dialing.

"My dad is in prison! He killed a person," I say.

"They will find a safe place for you. Anywhere is better than being with your mom, right?"

I jump from the couch, even though every bone in my body is protesting and I grab for the phone. Sarah sits bolt upright, startled. I lean against Spencer and try to knock the phone from his hands.

"Stop! I'm trying to help you!" he growls at me.

"Nooo. You will hurt me worse. My mom loves me, and if she loses me she won't be able to stand it!" With a quick upwards punch, I push the phone from his grip and send it flying across the room.

"You don't know love. You've never had someone who really loved you. Your mom doesn't, she tried to kill you."

While he is talking, I crawl to where the phone has landed and hold onto it with an iron grip. I am bawling from the thought of never seeing my mom again. She tried to kill me, yes, but she has been here from the start, and when things seemed unbearable, she was there to make them tolerable.

"Don't call them," Sarah says.

Spencer pays her no mind though; he wants the phone badly. At first he tries to gently loosen my fingers one by one, but I am holding onto the phone like it is a lifeline. When being gentle won't work, he resorts to digging his sharp nails into my knuckles, confident that this small amount of pain will loosen my grip. Not a chance.

Spencer is stubborn, like Clad, like Trenton, like every boy I have ever met, as unrelenting as the sun that rises every morning. He is digging so far into my skin that blood is pooling up around his nails. Sarah is stunned by Spencer's brute force, but does little to stop him.

"Come on, give me the damn phone, I don't want to hurt you. Give it to me!" He says, still struggling with me. I can't take the pain any longer; I relax the muscles of my hand. Spencer has been pulling on the phone with such vigor that it pops out of his grasp and falls somewhere behind him.

I rub my hand for a few seconds, only long enough to recover from the stinging sensation of the tiny gashes. I can't spend long though, because Spencer is halfway to the phone. We both dive for it, and as I am bending down to pick it up, Spencer's head bonks me in the face. I jerk back my head, hand covering my mouth. Suddenly, the room goes black and I am face down on the floor.

"Spencer, stop! Just stop. You hit her in the face!" I hear Sarah crying. My resolve is broken. Forget the phone, forget Mom, let Spence do what he wants—I am too weak to continue on fighting him.

"Oh, my God, are you okay?" Sarah asks, crouching down next to me, her face in front of mine. My body shudders from sobbing.

"I- I- just don't want to lose her," I stammer.

"Shhh," Sarah says, and pulls my hair away from my face. She is crying too, and it makes me weep even harder to know that it is because of me. Spencer lays a hand on my head, in an effort to comfort me, but it is futile. My face is busted and my heart is like a broken vase held together with tape; one that won't hold together for much longer.

I eventually cry myself to sleep on their "welcome" rug.

I wake in a strange room, weighed down by a mass of blankets. I struggle to free myself. Light leaks in through the door as it opens and Spencer lets himself in. The darkness returns as he shuts the door, blocking out the light. He sits next to me and I can hear him taking in uneasy breaths. "Sarah hates me for making you upset," he says.

"I couldn't help myself," I say, tracing swirls in the bedding.

He catches my hand and rubs his thumb over the cuts left by his finger-nails.

"I thought it would be the right thing to do. You know, trying to let Children and Families in on what your mom did. But you have proven me wrong." He kisses my hand. "Forgive me, sweetheart?"

"I forgive you," I say, and nestle my head against his chest.

"Your lip and nose was bleeding. I saw when I picked you up to put you to bed. Sarah wiped away the blood. She's like a little nurse."

"You knocked me pretty hard," I say.

"It was completely an accident. I feel awful for it. I just wanted to get the phone. Like I said, I thought it would help you, and I was wrong."

"It's all right," I say, twisting his shirt in my hands. "I need something to hold onto, I need to get a grip on reality. Please tell me everything that happened was a dream."

"No, it wasn't a dream. I wish I could lie to you and say that it was though."

"I want to stay here, against your chest forever. Can you make time stop?"

Spencer chuckles and traces my face with his finger. "For you I would find all the clocks in the world and break them. I would find all the calendars and shred them; anything to make people believe that time is gone. I wouldn't just stop it; I would make it vanish altogether, like it never existed."

"Then daytime would never come, and my mom would have no sense of hours and wouldn't be counting them off on her fingers, waiting for my return."

Spencer encloses me in his arms. "I will stay here and hold onto you until you believe you are safe, until you believe that I won't let anyone or anything harm you."

"Then we will have to stay like this for all eternity," I say.

"So be it."

Eternity is cut short though, because Sarah peeks in the door, and seeing me awake, rushes in. "How is your face? Your mouth, does it hurt really bad?"

"I'm fine," I say.

"Sarah can put Band-Aids on your cuts. I need to go tell my mom we have company," Spence says and leaves the room.

"Can you walk? Do you need help getting to the bathroom?" Sarah asks, placing a hand under my arm to help me up.

"I can walk, I can get there," I say, pushing away her arm.

The bathroom adjoins the guest bedroom. A thick layer of pink carpet runs across the entire floor. This part of the house looks as if it is stuck in the 80s.

I sit on the pink toilet and pull my hair back so Sarah can clean the cut on my throat.

"This might sting...oh, who am I kidding, this is going to hurt like hell!" she says, dabbing rubbing alcohol on the small cut.

"Oww!" It feels like my flesh is sizzling from the burn of the alcohol.

"Okay, give me your hand. Now this I really worry about," she says, pouring the alcohol over my knuckles. "Spencer never washes his nails; I hope you don't get an infection." She rips open more Band-Aids with her teeth.

I think what I should really be worried about is an infection from her saliva.

Sarah frowns as she places the Band-Aids as best she can over my cuts. "I'm sorry," she says. "I should have stopped him, I was scared." A tear slides off her cheek and lands on the box of Band-Aids.

I force a laugh to show her I am fine, but the effort is weak, it comes out sounding more like a gasp. "Cuts heal, Sarah," I say.

"I could never be as brave as you," she says, looking into my eyes. "How do you put up with it all?"

"I don't, I crumble—you saw me. I was a mess," I remind her.

"I've never seen a person cry that hard," she acknowledges.

My face flushes. "Sorry."

"Don't be, it just made me sad, is all."

Spencer knocks on the door with a hand over his eyes. "Is it safe to come in?"

"No, I'm changing," I joke, and his hand falls from his eyes in a flash.

The three of us laugh heartily.

"What if she had been?" Sarah says.

Spencer smirks. "Well, then my eyes would have been in for a treat."

The blood beneath my cheeks is as hot as a house fire.

Spencer is shirtless, in his boxers. Locks of his hair are sticking straight up, and he is leaning against the door, modeling like he is in the middle of a fashion shoot for Calvin Klein.

"Mmm, I think Spence likes you," Sarah says.

A smile shows up on my face.

"You have a beautiful smile," Spencer says, lifting up my head. I had been trying to hide my face from him. "Mom is making dinner, and wants me to help, so I'll leave you two alone," he says, escaping the mounting tension.

"He definitely likes you," Sarah says and rolls her eyes.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," I say, grinning.

"Your clothes are damp, would you like to borrow some of mine?" she offers, changing the subject.

"Yes, please, anything will do."

"Yeah, you could wear a paper bag and still look attractive," she mumbles under her breath as she exits the bathroom.

I peel off my wet clothes and put them in the sink. In the mirror I can see how much of a mess I really am—countless bruises from my tumble down the stairs and the Band-Aids placed crookedly on my knuckles. I look pitiful.

The door is shut but not locked. Sarah comes in, not realizing that I am undressed, and before I can say anything, she notices the bruises on my back. "From the stairs?"

I reach in the sink, for my nightgown to cover up with.

"We're both girls," Sarah says.

Girls who hardly know each other. Besides, underneath her clothes her skin isn't riddled with bruises and cuts. "I'm going to take a shower, if that's all right?" I ask, slipping behind the shower curtain, not waiting for permission.

"Okay, here are the clothes; I'll lay them on the counter. And there are towels under the sink. Let me know if you need anything."

"Thank you," I say as she is retreating to the door. "And wait, Sarah, promise not to tell your brother about the bruises?"

"I won't," she says, and shuts the door.

I sit in the shower, too tired to stand and let the hot water spray over me. I am trying to think, because I'm sure this is the only time I will have to myself for the rest of the night.

My head is sore from hitting the steps; there is a large knot under my skin. I have a headache that could make even the strongest of men pass out. There is no way I will be able to organize my thoughts tonight.

Though, I am able to look back on my meltdown and pick away at it like a scab; Spencer holding me against his chest, like I was a bird with a broken wing, and me accepting the gesture, needing it as much as I need a shot of morphine for the pain in my bones.

I used to recoil from touch, like a feral child. Now, I find myself falling into any arms that will take me, accepting touch by any hands that promise no pain. This is probably why I have taken to Spencer so quickly, but it can't explain why he has done the same.

I let Spencer and Sarah knock on the door a few times before I rise from the shower and dry off. With Sarah's sweatshirt and pajama pants on, and my hair wrapped in a towel, I lean against the sink. My hands squeeze the granite. I need to think, have to think, but it won't happen. It's like trying to force a grapefruit through a straw, my head is just not in the right place.

"Are you okay?" Spence asks, jiggling the door-knob.

"Yes, I'm fine." I sigh deeply.

"Just checking," his voice rings.

I compose myself and step out of the bathroom. My hands are shaking, but I can't explain why.

"You look...clean," Spence says. "We're going to act like you're a friend of Sarah's and that you two are having a sleepover. You don't want to go back home do you?"

"That'll work," I say, and stuff my hands in the sweatshirt so they can't see them trembling.

"Come into the kitchen and meet my mom," Sarah says, slipping her arm through mine and steering me in the direction of their kitchen.

Their mother is cheery, but not the fake plastic kind of cheery that my mom used to be. She looks sincerely thrilled to be in the kitchen, cooking a homemade supper for her family. Someone call Betty Crocker and let her know she has competition.

"Oh, hi!" She waves her hand furiously in front of my face. "You must be Sarah's little friend. Oh, aren't you guys cute!" she says. "Spencer has told me so much about you, how you are just the prettiest girl he has ever seen and that you actually enjoy reading, just like he does. A-dorable."

Fantastic, now Spencer think's I'm a bookworm. I haven't touched a book since the sixth grade, when I was forced to do a book report on Where the Red Fern Grows.

"Mommm, okay. I think you've embarrassed me enough now. Can we eat?" Spencer says agitated.

I scoff down bowl after bowl of soup. Spencer's mom can really cook, not like my mom who just puts boxed pasta in hot water and heats up a jar of Ragu for dinner.

After we have finished eating and Sarah has washed the dishes (I offered to help, but upon seeing my hands, her mom objected) she shows me to her bedroom at the end of the hall.

There are about a hundred soccer trophies and medals lining the walls on oak shelving. Sarah's bed has a pink flowery spread and the room is a little unkempt. An average teenaged girl's room, aside from the massive amounts of trophies.

"Soccer, huh?" I ask.

"My life, I live and breathe it," she says, dusting one of the many trophies. "You can share my bed tonight."

I waste no time slithering under the covers. I need this day to end as soon as possible.

"It's been rough, I know," Sarah says, sliding in next to me. She stretches her arm out to flick her lamp off and I let out a throaty shriek.

"Leave it on, please," I say.

"How the heck am I supposed to sleep—"

Spencer walks in, and gives her a look.

"She can leave it on for you, if it will make you feel better," he says.

Sarah rolls over in bed, her back to me.

Spencer sits with his back supported by the nightstand and holds one of my hands in his. I thought I would pass out in no time, but this is not the case. Sarah, however, is snoring as soon as her head hits the pillow.

"I've been thinking," Spence says, massaging my hand.

" 'Bout what?" I ask.

"About how to stop time for you and make everything go away, like a dream."

"Did you find a way?" I ask optimistic.

"Yes, in sleep you will forget all that has happened and maybe you can dream of something sweet. It is in sleep that you can escape reality, so close your eyes and doze off," he says, and gently closes my eyes with his thumbs.

"I can't," I whine.

"I'll stay with you until you do and hold your hand. Will that make it easier?"

"Yes," I yawn, a wave of sleepiness crashing over me.

He sings me an unfamiliar lullaby, a tune that is soothing and airy. I am swept up in its' current and am put to sleep by his melodic voice.

## Chapter 14

Spencer's head is resting on my stomach. The rest of his body is curled up on the floor. Sarah is already up and dressed. At first I believe that I am here because Sarah is actually my friend and we are having a sleepover, but then I remember sobbing on their rug, my heart broken. It is all too real and it takes my breath away.

Spencer jolts awake from my sudden exhale.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks, rubbing a kink from his neck.

"Like a baby, too bad it had to end."

"It'll be okay, you'll see," Spencer says, and ruffles my hair. He pushes my legs aside and sits down. "Sarah will be getting on the bus to school soon."

"Did you really tell your mom that I am the prettiest girl you've ever seen?"

"That was before you busted your lip and was pushed down a flight of stairs, honey."

I know he is only joking, but my head is still fuzzy from the night before and tears well up in my eyes.

"No," Spencer says, realizing I have not understood his sarcasm. "It was a joke. Shhh, no more crying." He pulls me into him, resting his chin on my head.

"I know it," I say. "My emotions are all jumbled up."

"I'm going to take you home soon; do you think you can face your mom?"

"I have to," I say, knowing that I am trapped. She will kill herself if I don't go back and show her I am alive. Alive, but as shaken as a maraca.

"Okay, better get up then. My dad will be expecting me at work soon," he says, standing me up like I am a Barbie doll.

"I need my shoes," I say, and look around the room for them.

"They are by the front door and your clothes are in the dryer. I will bring them to you later. Is that okay?"

"Yes, I would appreciate that, thank you."

I shuffle to the door and slip my feet into the squishy, wet insides of my black, leather boots. The laces are wide and colored a dull orange, like candy circus peanuts; the supple leather is peeling away from the lining. Vintage, Mom called them when she brought them home from a garage sale.

Spencer is brushing his teeth in the guest bathroom, so I sit on the red couch and wait for him. It is hard to believe that last night I was weeping on this same couch, feeling like the world had stopped spinning for me and that I would not be able to face my mother ever again. Now, here I am, the world tilting and twirling beneath my feet, as if nothing ever happened.

"I'm ready," Spencer says, dressed in his black Goodwill shirt. "But are you?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," I say.

Spencer spins his car keys on his finger as we both walk out the door. I stare out at the new day that has come, and the new sky that has been polished blue by yesterday's rain. The downpour has watered the lawn, leaving it a deeper shade of green.

I try not to drag Sarah's pants through the puddles that have been left behind by the storm, but they are three sizes too big, so it's a challenge.

"Don't worry, we can wash them later," Spencer says, laughing at my attempts to hop over the shallow pools of water.

I climb into the truck and kick my shoes off. They're beginning to rub blisters on my feet.

"Parkway Village, right?"

"Yep," I say.

The ride home is unbearably silent. When Spencer pulls into the parking lot he lets out a heavy sigh—there is blood and glass still at the bottom of the staircase that leads up to our apartment on the second floor.

"I am guessing Mom didn't sober enough to clean that up. I apologize," I say, my words all rushing together.

"Let me walk with you to the door at least," Spencer says, cutting the engine.

I hold my boots in my left hand and Spencer grabs my right hand. I have no idea what I will find behind the door. Mom could be dead for all I know.

"I can take it from here," I say to Spencer, who is peering through our living room window.

"Okay, well, I'll see you then." He puts a hand on the back of my neck and pulling my face close to his, plants a kiss on my cheek.

I run my hands over the door, as though I can feel what has happened behind it. I take a deep breath, one so deep my lungs feel like they might burst, and then push open the door.

Spotless. The apartment smells and looks as clean as it has ever been. The only thing messy about it is the kitchen, where plates and bowls of food are sprawled across every inch of table and counter space. Food that has been prepared with care and then left untouched. Dinner and desert. I gulp, remembering Mom's promise to make a big dinner and even desert. She made it after all.

I step in slowly, careful not to make the rotting floorboards creak beneath my bare feet. As I walk through the living room and kitchen, I notice that every picture frame has been flipped over. Pictures of me and Mom, our faces hidden by the wood of the coffee-table.

I hear a muffled cry come from my bedroom. I pick up my pace, certain that Mom will be there. My assumption is confirmed when I nearly step on her, crumpled on the floor, sobbing. I nudge her with my foot, like she is road kill. She lifts her head up, and screams in relief at seeing me.

"I didn't, thank God. I didn't," she says between sobs.

"Didn't what?"

"Kill you." She spreads her hands out, to show me my blood, but they are clean. "I couldn't wipe the blood away," she says staring at her hands.

"There is none," I say coolly.

She grabs my ankles and uses me to pull herself off the floor. Her hands tug at Sarah's sweat-shirt, and pull it up over my head. The bruises. The tips of her fingers run across my body, the bruises telling her a story she doesn't want to know.

"I did this," she croaks, pointing to herself.

"Guess how, let's make it a game. Did you beat me with a broom, hire a hit man, or push me down the stairs?"

"Do you know what hell I've been going through, trying to figure that out?" she bellows. "I can't even explain to you how it feels for a mother to think she has lost her child! I spent all night and morning looking for your lifeless body."

I'm not moved.

"I, I, dug up the grass and dirt, thinking maybe I killed you, got scared and buried you. I checked the pool, the refrigerator, everywhere, anywhere. Do you know where I ended up at? The canal. And that's where I broke down, because that would be the safest place to dispose of a dead child. A child that I killed. Only here you are and I was so sure you were gone. Well, say something. Please, let me hear your voice."

I consider what to say. "Never ever again will I believe in you."

"Let me hold you," she says, trying to embrace me.

"No!" I scream.

"Is that how it's going to be? I can't even hug you?" she asks, speechless.

"Mom, yesterday you hit a point of no return. Nothing you do can make me forget the fear I felt when you were threatening to slice open my throat." I push my hair away from my neck, rip off the Band-Aid, and display the wound.

"I am so, so, so sorry," she says, clasping her hands together and pressing them to her lips.

"Sorry is just a word, Mom. It holds no meaning. It is an empty word."

"I can prove to you that I will be better. I can make it up to you," she says hopeful.

I am not cruel enough to shake my head. So I say nothing. I am as rigid as a statue, as emotionless as a serial killer.

"The house is clean; it's always clean after you drink," I say and catch a glimpse of my made-up bed. Something about the sight of freshly laundered sheets sends me on a rampage. "Why do you always make the damn bed!" I tear the sheets and pillows off the bed and throw them at my dresser, knocking over picture frames, a jewelry box, and my piggy bank.

"We're not fucking perfect! We are a wreck, a disaster, so then why do you try so damn hard to make us look perfect?" I kick the bed and it thumps into the wall. If the neighbors below us weren't already awake—they are now. "How come you have to hit rock bottom before you decide it is time to turn things around again?"

"You're acting crazy," Mom says quietly.

"The apartment is so clean," I say, tears cascading down my face.

"When the bed is made and the dishes cleaned, you know it is safe to come home," she says, her eyes failing to make contact with mine. "When everything in the apartment is tidied up and is as it should be, you know that Mommy is back. I won't hurt you then."

She is right. I can't believe I never made the connection before.

"I'm safe now," I say, and drop a pillow that I have been clutching in my hands.

"I'm not going to hurt you, baby. I'm sober, I promise."

"I almost called them," I say in a zombie voice.

Her eyes widen. "That would have been very, very bad."

I don't need to say who, she knows exactly, I have hung the threat above her head since the first time she abused me.

"Not for you, though. You really are a loyal daughter, to come back to me after all that I've done to you."

My stomach churns. "I shouldn't be, but I am lost without you and Dad isn't here to comfort me. It is sick though, isn't it? Twisted how you cause me so much physical and emotional pain, yet I inevitably come crawling back."

"It won't have to be like that anymore," Mom says, sounding sure of herself.

"I hope so..."

"Do you want me to fix your bed while you are at school?"

School. I had forgotten today is Monday.

"No, that's okay," I say.

Mom opens my sock drawer, looking for clothes to dress me in, and my heart pounds against my ribs—the Bullet List.

"Socks," she says, closing it and opening the next drawer.

Socks, I think. Yes, just a drawer full of socks—no list damning all my wrong-doers.

She pulls out a shirt and jeans, and dresses me like I'm three years old again.

"I'll drive you to school, sweetheart."

I nod. That is all my body can do. My voice is caught in my throat, restrained by my shattered heart; my limbs have gone rubbery and useless.

Mom feeds me small bites of food. It is tasteless; I don't know what I'm eating. She puts my bag on my shoulder and combs my hair, all the while I am wishing I could be with Spencer and Sarah, or asleep. Anything to fill the empty void where my heart should be.

"Can you try, just try to forgive me? I know you have been torn apart and I don't expect you to turn around and pick up the pieces instantly, but if you could make even the smallest of efforts, it would hurt me just a little less."

I nod.

"Good as new," she says, admiring me.

I will never be new again. I can't fathom where she has gotten this ridiculous idea. Is she blind to all the bruises and cuts, the vacant look in my eyes?

I step into the car, stare out the window, sneeze, cough, and nod to everything Mom says. I do all that is expected of me, even though I am barren inside.

The car pulls up to my school. I reach for the door handle but Mom doesn't unlock it.

"I want to talk," she says.

I roll my eyes. Not now, I think. I will fall apart.

"I am going to pay back every penny I spent of your college fund, no matter what," she says.

"Okay." I sigh, because if I nod one more time my head might roll off my shoulders.

"Do you know why you have never met Grandma Mable?" she asks, her voice breaking.

"No," I admit.

"Because, Bailey, my mom was just like me."

I should be shocked, but to be honest, I'm not; it seems only natural that Mom would have learned how to abuse from her own mother. Abuse is like a family tradition, it carries on through the generations, and no one forgets to observe it.

"I don't care for the sob story, Mom. If she really did abuse you, as you claim, then you wouldn't have dared to lay a finger on me. But we both know that is not the case," I say. "Perhaps you enjoyed the abuse, and that is why you inflict it on me, because you wish to have me share in your joy."

"You're very smart, Bailey, but you can't possibly understand how much pain it causes me to see you suffering and know that I am the cause of it."

"Maybe so, but just the same, it doesn't hurt you enough that you want to stop, does it?"

## Chapter 15

I begrudgingly kiss Mom goodbye and enter the school, a new shell hardened over my weak and frail exterior. It is eleven o' clock, and Lunch B, my lunch session, is already underway in the cafeteria.

I sit at a table by myself—this being the first time I have been to lunch in a long while. I spot Trenton in line, purchasing a crispy chicken sandwich. I can't find Clad though. I am wondering if he is even here, when I see him loitering in the hallway, as if he's unsure whether or not he should come to eat lunch. I wave him over. He scowls and turns his back to me.

I drop my hand, shocked. What did I do to make him so angry? Surely he hasn't heard about the kissing already?

Trenton places his tray on my table and pulls up a chair. He rolls his orange over to me.

"Girls like fruit right? You should eat something."

I pick up his fork, stab it in the orange, and sigh.

"Why is Clad pissed off with me?" I say, asking myself more than him.

"I dunno. You must have done something wrong, because I ran into that little sprite Alana and she said that I was dirt for taking you away from him."

"She isn't my friend... anymore. Probably just running her mouth."

"That might be so, but weren't you supposed to go somewhere with Clad the night we went to the beach? I remember him talking to Holden about it, where was it...oh, yeah, clubbing."

I hit the table with my fists. "I completely forgot. Damnit, he must be pissed. I told him I would go to Indigo with him."

Trenton smiles like he is hiding something. "Does he know we made out and went to the beach?"

"Probably, word gets around quick," I say solemnly. "Clad will never forgive me."

Trenton stuffs a tater tot into his mouth, and while chewing says, "You're not his property. You can do what you want."

"That's the thing, I actually kind of owe him, more than I can deal out. He has been there backing me up every time someone has tried to bury me into the ground."

"He's a fag," Trenton snickers.

I pick up the orange connected to the fork and fling it, hitting him in the eye. "He is more of a man then you could ever hope to be!" I say fuming.

"Ow, that stung. I was just saying he acts like a queer."

"You're the one spending all this time doing your hair and dressing like a metrosexual or something. Clad doesn't give a crap what he looks like. Seems to me like you are the one hiding in the closet."

He lurches across the table and grabs both my wrists so tightly I think my bones might break. "Let go of me!" I scream.

Clad passes by; he has been pacing back and forth in the same hallway since I sat down. He looks up, but only for a second, and then returns his attention to the floor.

"Listen here, you don't talk like that to me, got it? You're just a girl. What in the world makes you think you can talk to a man like that?" Trenton says, pulling my face closer to his.

His breath is hot and smells of stale beer.

"You're not a man. Clad has more masculinity in one pinky finger than you have in your whole body!"

Trenton lets go and pushes me away. I collapse in my chair, frustrated for being chastised, but not the least bit frightened.

"I'm sorry," he says, unexpectedly. I rub my wrists, where red marks in the form of fingerprints now appear. "I just feel sensitive about being called a queer. You're not the first girl to call me that and it hurts. I don't like guys, I like girls, and I like you. It's hard always having to prove it to people."

I'm not convinced that he is sincere. I think he regrets that I won't be giving him any more kisses, that maybe I might even leave him eating lunch alone. No girl does that to Trenton. But just the same, I feel that I should be the first.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks.

"I'm not made of glass, I'll be okay. But you shouldn't have grabbed me like that. Clad saw you. He already has it out for you. Why make it worse for yourself?"

"I'm not worried about him; he couldn't fight a teddy bear if he had to."

"You're wrong. You don't know anything about him."

"I think I know enough," Trenton responds.

"No, you don't." I push my chair from the table. "I've got to be going, see ya' later."

Trenton stops stuffing his face long enough to say, "Okay, I'm sorry again about grabbing you."

I acknowledge the apology but don't accept or reject it. I leave him and make my way down the hall to where Clad is standing by his locker, debating on whether he should open it or not.

"Hey," I say.

"What do you want?" he says. "Why aren't you eating lunch with your abusive boyfriend?"

"I know I'm a jerk. I totally forgot. I'm so sorry, Clad," I say. "He's not my boyfriend. He is barely a friend."

Clad nods, staring at his locker. "So do you make out with all your acquaintances or just the ones who try to break your wrists?" He opens the locker, pulls out a couple of paintbrushes and slams it closed. I flinch—it is a centimeter away from hitting me in the face. "Get out of my face, I don't even want to see you right now," he says.

I blink at him, unmoving. He can't be serious. Not Clad, not the boy who would give everything up just to be with me.

"Go! Now!" he screams, spit spraying from his mouth. I raise my arm and cover my face; this is usually the point where someone hits me.

Clad pulls my arm down gently. "No, I'm not going to hit you. You are not worth the energy it would take. And besides that, I would hate to give you a reason to feel less guilty after ditching me for Trenton."

He takes off down the hall and around the corner. I lean against the lockers, thinking. I have never seen him so angry, but I know it took a lot for me to bring him to this. I try to remember Trenton's blissful kiss, to justify my making Clad so upset with me, but all that comes to mind, is Trenton's sour breath. The bliss I felt has dissipated. I'm not quite sure when it happened, only that the kiss will never hold the same feeling that it did at that moment on the beach. It wasn't worth it.

A boy comes up to me and darts his gaze back and forth between the locker and me. I am leaning against his locker and he wants me to move.

"What are you, a mute? You could have just asked me to move," I say, taking my anger out on him, before departing for class.

I should be heading to fourth period, but at the last minute I turn around and breakaway, heading to my safe place. The janitor's closet is open; the blanket is on the cot, the same way I left it days ago. I lock the door behind me, and lie down, losing myself in the cot's familiar comfort.

I curl into a ball, like a centipede that has been poked with a stick. I'm exhausted and have too much on my mind. I pray for no nightmares as I slowly drift off to sleep, because I know Clad will not be coming to my rescue today.

My sleep is dreamless, but I keep waking up feeling that something is wrong. My heart aches for Clad. I know that before today I hadn't given him a second thought, but that is how it always is—you don't realize what you have until it's gone.

If I go to Mrs. Herrera's class, I could recover from last night's events, but seeing Clad and knowing he won't dance with me will only make the ache in my heart hurt worse. Trenton will be in History along with Alana. Going to any class at all feels like a waste.

I'm lost in a dream world of rough blue cotton and rocky seas, when a knock comes at the door. I awake.

I open the door, and Holden steps in. He hands me a blue slip with my name on it.

"The counselor wants to see you," he says in monotone.

I am just about to ask him how he found me, when I come to the conclusion that Clad or Alana must have disclosed my location. "Thanks," I say, my voice tired.

"No prob." He sticks his hands in his pockets and whistles as he walks away.

I turn the light off and shut the door behind me, surrendering to the harsh world of crowded halls and people who want me dead. I am in a fog when I reach the counselor's dim office; I just want to get in and out as fast as possible.

"Come in," she says in a tone less inviting than that of days before.

I sit in the ripped chair without being asked. She clears her throat, crosses her hands, and leans against the desk. "I talked to Mrs. Stewart and Miemah," she says.

Miemah! I hadn't known she would be calling Miemah down. My pulse races. "What have you done?" I want to yell at her, but I pull myself back together and ask, "What did she say?"

Mrs. Bracker chews on the end of a pencil and shifts her gaze to a paper on her desk. "That you harassed Cecil and Miemah on multiple occasions and that she didn't want to say anything because she felt you were doing it as a cry for help."

"No!" I say, unable to stop myself.

"You are a bully, from what I've heard. From the students and Mrs. Stewart," she says.

"They're liars!"

"Ms. Sykes, you do realize that accusing a teacher of lying is a great offense. And in this case, I do not deem you to be in the right. Mrs. Stewart has a very reputable standing. Your standing is sketchier, however. With a little digging I have discovered that your grades are atrocious."

"What does this have to do with my grades?" I ask, pulling at my hair. Is this some kind of sick joke?

"Yes, you have a temper, all right. I don't appreciate the attitude, Ms. Sykes."

I dig my fingers into the rips of the chair and clench my jaws, trying to control an outburst that is coming on. "I never did anything to them," I say. "I don't know why Mrs. Stewart would tell you that."

"I'm going to let you off with a warning Sykes, but if I hear about you bullying anyone again, I will be forced to take some serious action. All students should feel safe here and they shouldn't have to worry about a troublemaker like you jeopardizing that safety."

"I-I- didn't," I stutter. I'm no longer angry. My body has relaxed, limp in defeat.

"You may return to class, Bailey," she says, dismissing me with a wave.

I reach for the doorknob but pause before turning it. "I thought you were going to help me," I mutter. "If you won't then I'll just have to help myself." I open the door and slip out in one breathless motion.

The Bullet List makes a re-appearance. Like light at the end of a dark tunnel, it is my only salvation. I will kill them all. They will pay for what they have done. I am lower than bed-rock. They can't walk free with their crimes.

I return to the closet and lock the door again. The cot is calling my name and I need to sort through the odds and ends clouding my mind. First, Mrs. Stewart has retaliated for me turning down her offer of a place on the track team. Next, Miemah knows I told the counselor about her acts of cruelty, and I am sure things will escalate with her, and lastly, Clad wants nothing to do with me. If only I could turn back time so as not to have gone to the beach with Trenton and to have avoided talking with the counselor.

The white paint on the walls is chipping away; I strip it with my fingernails and begin to feel a little better. It's like peeling away the affliction surrounding my heart and mind. I peel more rapidly until my fingernails start to bleed.

I have cleared a good portion of the wall, concrete showing through where the paint once was. I cup my fingers against my chest, the beating of my heart calming me. I could stay like this forever, my body contorted in a fetal position and my mind blank, staring at the wall. Like this, I am not expected to do anything. I don't have to follow through with my Bullet List, I don't need to make Clad love me again, and best of all, Miemah can't hurt me. I am as safe as a baby in her mother's arms.

Like a reservoir, my head fills back up with the worries and regrets; I know I can't stay this way. I stretch out and turn from the wall completing my return to normalcy. I can only lose myself so long before life comes hurtling back and hits me like a brick in the face.

The final bell is ringing; it is time to go home, time to fall back into reality. I pick up my tote bag, but stay sitting on the edge of the cot, not wanting to leave. Outside the door, there is a shuffling of feet and exchanging of voices. I wait out the first stream of students before discreetly slipping out and dawdling to the sidewalk outside.

The sun makes my head swim. I run home as fast as I can. It was useless to try to come to school, I think. I only did it to please Mom. She dropped out of high school to have me and start a family. Her dream has always been to go back and get her diploma, but we both know with our tight budget that will never happen.

Of course, I did have a hefty college fund, one that could have fed us both for years. I stare at the ground, trying to force back tears. God, how I want to forgive my mom. Oh, how badly I want her to hold me and make everything okay again.

I've been picked back up, held, and my cuts and bruises treated, but what if Mom had no one there for her? What if she was all alone, bleeding in her bedroom, crying her eyes out? She asks for her daughter's sympathy and she only gets coldness. I was wrong. She needs comfort and understanding too, the same kind that Spencer and Sarah gave me last night. This is how I can forgive her, knowing that she has been through the abuse and that without my forgiveness, she cannot move on and forgive herself.

There are no junkers this time when I return to our apartment. However, Mom's car is not there either. I unlock the door. The apartment smells like lemons and Windex. Mom's couch is backed up into one corner and the rug is rolled up and propped against the kitchen table. She went on a cleaning trip again while I was at school.

I go to my room and see that my sheets are clean and the bed is made. It irks me to see the apartment like this; it hasn't been this clean since we moved in. I open my drawers and there are clean folded clothes in the place of soda cans and other pieces of trash I kept there. I open my sock drawer next and find my Bullet List. There it is, scrunched up, just the way I left it. I unfold it, careful not to tear the paper, and place it on my bed in front of me.

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 my bedroom 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 down 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 anymore."

"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 sigh.

"Great." Alana squeezes 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?"

"No, but you're going to tell me anyways, so shoot," I say.

"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," she says, her voice rising in excitement.

"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 hope 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," she says.

I go to the cupboards and find a 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 Miemah it had completely slipped my mind."

"It is," she assures me.

"Then I want food, any kind."

"Okeydokey, I think I can manage that."

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 on me.

"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 off.

"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 follow Alana out 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 take my seat on the passenger side and Alana starts up the car. She pulls out of the field where we are parked.

"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's too stubborn."

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 get scared 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 expected it to look like: it is a bright orange, there are a couple posters, and the silhouette 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 into 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. 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," she says.

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 could kill her, but I can't stand to see her with a busted lip.

Miemah's 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 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 into 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. Miemah 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.

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 hoping to shake her, but she is steady on my path. I trip on my shoelace and crash to my knees. I'm dead.

"I'm going to perform plastic surgery on your face, Sykes!" Miemah says, laughing.

She is right behind me. Then, out of nowhere, I see Alana's red Kia speeding towards me. I hold my ground as the brakes squeal, and the car shudders to a halt. Alana leans across the seat opening the passenger side door and I throw myself in. I swing the door shut as Alana takes off.

"Damn that was close! Did you see how close that was?" Alana says.

My heart is racing. Miemah almost had me. "Real close, too close for comfort. What would you have done if she caught me? She had a knife."

"Nothing...I wouldn't have done anything. Every man for himself, right?"

"You would just let her...kill me?" I ask, feeling utterly small and ignorant for even thinking that my life meant something to Alana.

"Well, only if I hadn't gotten to the car in time. Then, I probably would have just ran away. But you would have done the same, right?"

"No," I say in a hollow voice, "I would have saved you. Car or not."

"It's not like I left 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 torso cut up by Cecil's nails. 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 that I do have left.

"Home sweet home," Alana says. Mom's car is parked in the lot.

"Walk with me to the door," I say. Maybe if she sticks around Mom won't ask too many questions about where I have been.

I take the stairs first with Alana dragging behind me. When we get up to the door it is already open and Mom is leaning out of it. She has that look on her face that says she knows I've been up to something.

"Hello Mrs. Sykes," Alana says, waving and taking off before Mom can invite her in.

"Thanks," I call after her, sarcastically. I close the door, take off my shoes, 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, pulling things out of one of the mysterious bags and putting them away.

"Stuff," she says nonchalantly.

"What kind of stuff?"

"Birthday stuff." She fills a glass with tap water and hands it to me. I sip slowly. "I'm making dinner," she says.

I put the empty glass on the coffee table. Stretching out on my side I peel my pants off. I am exhausted from outrunning Miemah. I can't even begin to think about what she has planned for 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 flew 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." She pulls out a box of Kraft mac and cheese 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. But she is boiling water on the stove and humming to herself 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 cake decorating show; even a little pleasure such as a birthday cake seems too much to ask for these days. Vanilla icing, sprinkles and frosted flowers, is the cake I would pick—simple yet delicious.

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

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

"Thank you," I say.

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

"That's all right, Mom. You got all that you could," I console her, because it is my job to keep her from falling apart.

"Yes, I guess you're 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. I was a toddler. So I don't feel like I'm missing out on anything."

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 mentally exhausting 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.

Mom 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."

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

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

I am relieved and alarmed all at once. So that's 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 sleeping. Can we step outside to talk?" Mom says, saving me from the humiliation of having to talk to two grown men in my underwear.

They chat for a few minutes and then Mom steps back in, shutting the door. "Go to your room, you are grounded."

"Okay," I don't argue.

She follows me and sits on the edge of my bed. "Why did you go to Miemah's house?"

"Alana and I were looking for a way to blackmail her; she is the girl who gave me trouble at school," I confess.

"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 and Alana both could have been." She closes my door quietly.

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

On my hands and knees, I retrieve my Bullet List from under the bed. 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 finds 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 my 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. In front of me is the table Trenton and I sat at during lunch today, 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's 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 pig 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 ready to strike again 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. 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, looks straight at me, and says, "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 to the floor, screaming. I scramble to my feet slipping on the sheets and bolt from my room and out the front door.

The cold air whips through me and I realize I walked out the door without pants on. I gasp, and let the fresh air fill my lungs. Confused and still panicking from the dream, I hurry down the stairs and take off to the park.

It's calming to run, but I slow to a jog as I become winded. 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 with my bare feet anyway. When I am on top I can see the whole park before me: the tennis courts, 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.

I climb down and trample through the mulch to the swings. The playground equipment is slick and wet with morning dew. I balance on the swing, pumping my legs furiously in an attempt to clear the trees. Soon, I am so high the swing might flip around the pole, tossing me out of it, but still I want to go higher. Back and forth, back and forth. The motion is disorientating in a good way, and for a minute I forget who I am, where I am. I arrive at a state of peacefulness.

I stop pumping my legs, slowly lose momentum, and soar back down to earth. The sun rises, putting my fears to rest—it races across the landscape, fighting every inch of darkness and ultimately winning, everything it touches brightening.

It's officially my birthday and I am swinging in an empty park, at the break of dawn, in my underwear. If this is a precursor to how the rest of my day will go, I'd rather crawl into the tunnel slide and sleep it away.

I drag the heels of my feet in the mulch, bringing the swing to a stop. Mom will be worried if she wakes and sees that I am gone. So, I sprint home. The sweat on my skin dries in the cold air, and my hair sticks straight.

My legs are tired and sore as I pull myself up the stairs. I twist the doorknob and quietly push the door open. Mom is still passed out on her sofa. I tiptoe back to bed.

I shiver under the covers, finally allowing myself to feel the cold. My feet are numb.

My dream has not yet been shaken. I let its horror resurface in my head, because I think I have gained control over it and that I will not have such an extreme reaction the second time around.

"He's more than just a friend, but you don't love him enough to save him," echoes in my mind. I try to dissect it and figure out its meaning. It is true that I am beginning to view Clad as more than a friend, though it is also true that I don't love him as much as he loves me. I couldn't stop Miemah from cutting him because I didn't care enough to, but that sounds so wrong.

There is something about knowing I could not save him in my nightmare, which digs into my soul. Clad would do anything in his power to keep me safe, but I can't even protect him inside my head, so what would happen were he in real danger? I open my eyes and let the nightmare fade to the back of my mind. Mom is preparing breakfast in the kitchen. It is time to get up and face the day, whatever it may hit me with.

Mom pops into my bedroom, her expression cheery and warm. "Happy Birthday, darling! Sweet sixteen, how exciting!" I force a smile and give her a hug.

"Yep, real exciting," I say, my forced smile inverting.

"I'm making pancakes for breakfast right now and I'm going to curl your hair if you don't mind, so you can feel extra pretty on your birthday."

"Am I still grounded?" I ask before she returns to the kitchen.

"No. That was stupid of me. You're ungrounded," she says, her voice airy and sweet.

I stare lasers at my sock drawer for a moment, reciting the Bullet List in my head. Miemah... Miemah. She's number one. Top dog on my list. She would take pride in knowing that. Even if it means that my first bullet is for her.

Without a doubt she'll be at school today, and without a doubt she is going to beat me up. I just hope she gets it over with quickly. The idea of her slowly torturing me makes my heart jump. She threatened to reconstruct my face with her knife and Miemah always makes good on her threats.

These thoughts are too heavy for a birthday, so I reluctantly store them away. I slide off my bed and go into the bathroom to get ready for school. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and put on some clean clothes. By the time I am done, Mom has finished making breakfast and has set the table.

She helps me into my seat and pours a generous amount of syrup on my pancakes. I dig in, while she stands behind me, curling and pinning my hair.

"You should eat, Mom." She leans over my shoulder, still holding my hair, and I feed her a bite of pancake from my fork.

"Yum," she says. "Thank you, sweetie, but I'll eat after you get on the bus. And then I'll bake your birthday cake."

"Can it be vanilla?" I ask.

"Of course, that is your favorite flavor. Didn't you think I would already know that?"

I shrug, and the curling iron hits my shoulder. It burns for a second, but I say nothing about it. I don't want Mom to feel guilty.

"When can I have my presents?" I ask with a giddiness that is unusual for me.

"Hold your horses! I want to wait until you get back home from school," Mom says with a wink.

"I have no clue what you got me," I say earnestly, because I have not asked for anything in particular and aside from her Walther and some bullets, I don't really need anything.

"Be patient and you'll see when you come home," she says, pulling my bangs out of my face with yet another bobby pin. "Finished, let me see."

I turn around for her and smile widely.

"Beautiful, absolutely beautiful. Happy birthday, baby. Now go get your bag, the bus will be here any minute," Mom says. I think I see tears forming in her eyes. Tears of joy.

I should be crying too, I think. Soon I'll be at school and will have to face the wrath of Miemah.

I fetch my bag and sling it over my shoulder. Mom gives me a quick peck on the cheek. I hurry out the door and to the stop sign at the end of the street where the bus is waiting for me. I board the bus and the door closes behind me—sealing my fate.

## Chapter 17

I can't help but notice the looks I receive when I walk into school with my hair curled and pinned. The attention is daunting and unwanted. The last thing I need is people thinking I am beautiful and made up on the outside, when inside I am ugly and gutted.

It is like walking through a maze to get to my first period, as if every clique of students has conspired to block my way. I weave in and out of the groups and finally end up at Mrs. Latcher's room. For once I am not completely dreading her class. I am counting on Clad apologizing for giving me the cold shoulder yesterday and us becoming good pals again.

Clad is sitting behind me and I sense that he is staring at my hair. I turn, and smile at him, but he frowns. I wave and he rolls his eyes. "Why are you trying to look nice?" he finally says.

"I'm not," I squeak.

"You are ugly inside and out, happy birthday!" Clad says.

"Thank you," I croak, and face straight ahead fighting the urge to run out of the room.

Latcher hands me a piece of paper before she takes attendance. It is a note for my mom, probably to tell her what an awful student I am. Thanks for the nice birthday present.

"You look pretty today? Is there a reason?" Latcher asks.

"My birthday," I say numbly.

"Happy birthday," she says, and smiles at me.

Mrs. Latcher just smiled at me? What has the world come to when Mrs. Latcher smiles at me on my birthday and Clad won't?

I open the note and skim it over. "Bailey has an attitude, she is rude, she talks back to me, and she is failing, lowest grade in the class, drama queen."

Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday! My head is screaming. I tear the note into minuscule pieces, like I am a human paper shredder.

"Stop that!" Latcher hollers at me, when she sees the mess I've made of her note.

I push the pieces of paper off my desk and watch them sprinkle to the ground like birthday confetti.

"Fuck you!" I spit at her, then turn to Clad and say, "You too. Trenton's right, I am not your property I can do what I want!" I dart out of the room.

That's how it is, I make a scene and people take the paper bags off their faces, and suddenly I am there, alive and screaming, thrashing, and they can't help but notice.

I speed down the halls to the janitor's closet, throw open the door, and hit the cot so hard it trembles. I toss and turn, praying that somehow I will be able to fall asleep for a very, very long time.

I tear open the cot's thin mattress with my nails, and pull out the stuffing. This is as bad as it gets—my mind is wandering in places I didn't know existed. This is how it feels to be insane. I toss the fluff in the air and watch it land. Amusement. To take the edge off the hysteria that is taking over every part of me.

Sleep doesn't come. Of course not, why would it? After all, I am Bailey Sykes, and I have lost all control over myself.

I lie here, staring up at the ceiling, holding my breath for lengthy intervals, trying to stop my heart. There is a knock, two knocks, three knocks, a pounding fist, a shout, at the door. I get up and open it. Clad is there foaming, at the mouth like a rabid squirrel.

"Latcher will have you expelled for what you did!"

I step back—don't want to get rabies.

"Wonderful," I say, and look past him. "Where is she?"

"In the classroom, duh. You think I would let her follow me here? This is your safe haven."

"What do you want?" I ask suspiciously.

"I came to say that I am sorry."

"I must be dreaming," I say, and collapse on the cot.

Clad pushes the door closed with his foot and lies down beside me, our noses touching.

"You're right. If you want to kiss Trenton, that is your business," he says, and pushes a curl from my eyes.

"I flagged on you," I say.

"That hurt, yes. But, Bailey, I think you honestly forgot. In all my years of knowing you, I have never seen you tell a lie."

"I did forget and I thought that spending time with Trenton would be amazing. Thought he was hot shit."

"Was it? Is he?"

"No. Ashten's hair caught on fire. The whole night went up in flames, literally."

"Trenton is a player—he just wants you for your body. Want to know how I know?"

"How?" I ask, dreading his response.

"I was in the hallway this morning and overheard him—"

"You were definitely listening in," I interrupt him.

"Okay, I was listening in, but I heard him say how he is going to do it with you the next time you guys hang. Then he went into great detail about your make-out session at the beach."

"Shit-head," I say, scowling.

"He was telling Nessa and a couple of his guy friends all about it."

"Nessa?" I ask. Is there anyone who is not friends with that girl?

"Yeah," he says tweaking my nose. "But no more bad news, it's your birthday."

"I pulled the tiger's tail yesterday and she's going to turn around and bite me for it. I guarantee it," I say of Miemah.

"What did you do?"

"Went to her house and she caught me and Alana looking through her bedroom window. She chased me down the block with a knife."

"She was going to bite you whether you rattled her cage or not, Bailey, all you did was make it happen a little faster," Clad says.

"That's true." I sigh.

"It's like we're back in kindergarten," he says, and laughs. "Oh, my God, us lying down, and me wanting to touch your shiny curls." He pulls one, like a spring. "Looking into your eyes entranced."

"Where's my cookie?" I giggle.

"I don't want to give you one," he says grimly.

"Why?" I ask confused.

"Your eyes don't smile at me."

"What do they do now?"

"Nothing, I used to look into them and see contentment. They glittered with life, but now they are empty, like I am looking into the eyes of a corpse. Dead."

My dead eyes cry and cry and cry. Clad wipes away my tears, but he can't keep up with them, there are too many.

"Why do you stick around?" I ask.

"I want to bring you back from the dead, Bailey. I need to see you be who you were when we first met. The girl with rosy cheeks and starry eyes."

"Are you well-experienced in the process of resurrecting the dead?" I sniffle.

"I will be. Whatever it takes."

"Stay here and don't let go of me," I say, my eyes wide with fear. "In just a couple of hours I will have to suffer at the hands of Miemah. Stay with me until then, so I don't go crazy."

"There's no place I'd rather be." He kisses my forehead.

My tears mingle with his, my legs twine with his, and our arms wrap tightly around each other. He passes out and I watch him sleep. I kiss his lips lightly and he flinches. They are salty from our tears and even though he doesn't kiss back, I can feel the love he has for me radiating from them.

I am like a killer on death row, pacing in his ten-by-ten jail cell, trying to imagine what it will feel like when he takes his last breath. What will Miemah do? Gouge my eyes out, burn me with acid, light me on fire, or chop off my limbs? Not in the locker room, not in front of so many girls who will undoubtedly report it. Or will they? Maybe they will be too scared to tell.

Clad's eyes flutter open and he untangles his body from mine. "It might be time for your gym class," he says.

"I don't want to go, I can't. I'm serious," I say, the words rushing from my mouth.

"Bailey, a coward dies a thousand deaths; a brave man dies but once."

I've heard the saying many times throughout my life, but this is the first time it sinks in. I rise to my feet. I grab my tote bag and open the door before my courage can leave me.

"Good luck. Remember, she's just a teenaged girl, like you. How much damage can one girl possibly do?"

"I will fight back this time," I say. "I am not going down easy."

"Good girl, Bailey. Kick her ass, I know you have it in you," he encourages me.

I walk to gym slowly as if I am strolling through a garden, admiring the flowers. I won't let my nerves get to me and make me overreact. Plenty of kids get beat up every day at school and they all make it home, crawl into their beds, sleep it off, and return to school the following morning. Why should I be any different?

I am early for class. The locker room is still empty, so I use this opportunity to take a shower without anyone watching me. I strip myself naked and pull the curtain closed behind me. I intend on washing out my curls—I don't want to be prepped up like a pig fattened for slaughter when Miemah comes.

The water is cold and feels like needles going into my body. I soak my hair and comb away the curls until there is nothing left but a slight wave. I hear the door to the locker room open and close. I turn off the water, clip on my bra, and just as I pull my underwear on, the curtain is yanked open.

Miemah springs on me, jerks me by my shoulders, and I lose my balance, my feet slipping on the slick tile. The ground rushes up to meet me and I throw my arm behind my back to catch myself. My head bashes into the corner of the metal bench right outside the shower, and the arm twisted behind my back snaps like a twig. I open my mouth to cry out in agony, but the combination of the pain in my arm and head causes me to black out.

Colors swirl before my eyes, like I am looking into a kaleidoscope. Red, blue, pink, nauseating colors. Voices, are trying to reach me, but it is like my ears are stuffed with cotton—all the words are coming through as static.

I make out the voice of Cecil. She is screaming.

I am beginning to come around and then I hear Miemah cackle like a witch. I keep my eyes closed, like playing dead in front of a bear that might attack. But showing no mercy, Miemah lifts my head off the ground and smashes it into the tile. The pain forces my eyes open.

Cecil is crying now, her face hidden behind a video camera.

"You think it's funny to record people getting beat up? Now you can be the star," Miemah says, banging my head into the tile again. I slip into unconsciousness.

Hands are tearing at me, pulling me underwater, and drowning me. There is too much screaming, agonized screaming. It is bubbling up inside of me, gurgling out of my mouth. My head is like a coconut that has been cracked in two as I am pulled from the water, and when my mind re-surfaces, the pain hits me.

Like nothing I've ever felt before, like a hatchet is digging into my skull.

I try to make myself black out again, to make the colors come back. There are yellow dots through the darkness, but nothing more. If I could find my voice I could cry for help, but my head doesn't know where my vocal cords are, has forgotten how to navigate my body, as if the nerves have been severed.

There is a click. A shriek. Someone is in the room with me.

Wake up, Bailey, Wake up, Bailey, I say to myself. Wake up, and get out, Miemah has come back to cause more damage.

I manage to lift my arm and pull it to my head, though even this simple movement is exhausting. I reach for my head, but miss, and my hand falls in a puddle of water from the shower. I place my wet hand on my eyelids, and push them open.

Red, a beautiful rose red. My hand is caked with blood; it was not a puddle of water I realize, and scream.

"She's awake!" I hear Clad yell. "Alana, help me!"

I see his face and then slip under again. I am in darkness, like the night Jack died, no stars in the black sky, only a shining moon. I am standing there, watching my dad check for life in Jack, seeing the paramedics cover his face with a blanket.

Something soft rubs across my eyes, and I gasp. I am dead and being zipped up just like Jack! I moan, because my voice won't allow me to scream again.

"The towel!" I hear Alana say.

"Sorry," Clad says, placing his hands on either side of my head.

"Clad," I cry out. My voice has returned.

"It's okay," he says, his words quivering like the plucked string of a guitar.

"Am I going to die?" I ask my voice tiny and barely audible.

Clad wraps a towel under my head and places my broken arm on my chest.

"No-o." His voice breaks, and I know he doesn't believe it. "Call her mom," he orders Alana.

"Am I bleeding?"

Clad laughs through his tears, "Only a little, babe, just a little." He falls silent when my mom's voice comes on the phone. Alana has her on speaker. I can just imagine her serving drinks at the bar, trying to scrounge enough tips for dinner tonight, and what she will feel like when Alana tells her that I am hurt. Hurt bad, I think.

"Mrs. Sykes, it's Alana," she says.

"Alana? what is it? Is everything all right?"

Alana breaks down in tears. "No, Bailey is bleeding...some girls they...really hurt her. You need to get to the school now, drop whatever you are doing." The tone of her voice indicates that I am worse off than I suspected. "There is so much blood..." she trails off.

Clad slaps her shoulder. "You'll scare her," he says.

Too late. I am already terrified.

"Are there any teachers involved yet? Is she in the clinic?" Mom asks.

"No, we're in the locker room. We should tell someone," Alana says.

"Don't," Mom says. "I am coming to get her. I'll take her to the hospital. Bring her outside to parent pick-up."

"Okay, Mrs. Sykes we will." Alana ends the call and looks at Clad for guidance.

"We have to dress her, so we can take her through the halls," Clad says, unzipping his hoodie.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry you have to see me like this," I apologize.

"Shhh," Clad says, placing my arm in the sleeve of his hoodie. He grabs my fingers and pulls my injured arm through the second sleeve carefully, but I still howl out from the gentle touch. "I'm so sorry." He kisses my head, trying to make the pain go away. "Hand me those gym shorts," he says to Alana, who is vomiting from the sight of all my blood. The smell of her putrid vomit, and the metallic odor of my blood, mixes with the sweat that hangs in the air.

Clad tugs a pair of shorts up my legs and over my thighs.

"Do I look decent?" I ask, my sense of humor intact.

Clad covers my head with the hood and says, "Keep your eyes closed; the lights will be bright. I will carry you now." He lifts me off the tile and cradles me in his arms. I catch a glimpse of the spot where I was lying, and see a pool of my blood—it is everywhere, running towards the shower, and dripping from the corner of the bench.

Alana opens the door for us, and leads the way to parent pick-up. I am squinting, I don't want to close my eyes fully for fear that I will fall unconscious again. Head injuries can do that to you, I remember my mom once telling me, when I had suffered a concussion from falling off a playground swing.

A door swings open, and another, and then we are outside. I think I might have lost consciousness again because we make it outside in what seems like only a matter of seconds.

"Your mom is here, sweetheart. She's going to take you to the hospital and then you won't hurt anymore," Clad says and kisses me on the lips.

"How bad?" my mom asks. "Hey baby, I'm going to take you to the emergency room, okay? Mommy's here, don't worry." She squeezes my hand.

"I will follow in my truck," Clad says as he places me in the back seat of my mom's Pontiac.

Another kiss on my lips, then he slams the door and Mom speeds away from the school zone. "Mommy, don't worry," I say, because I can hear her sobbing. "Clad says, a brave man dies but once."

## Chapter 18

Clad

Sleeping beauty is what I thought Bailey would look like in her hospital bed, knocked out with drugs. In reality, she looks washed-out and lifeless, with her black hair spilling over her bony shoulders and standing out in stark contrast against her pale complexion. She looks like the Corpse Bride—not sleeping beauty.

Six staples are holding the skin on her head together. Wrapped in layers of gauze, her arm looks twice its size against a splint.

I stand by her bed, breathing quietly so as not to wake her and slip my warm hand into her tiny cold one that has wires and tubes twisting out of it. It is strange to be holding someone's hand so tightly and not have them squeeze back.

Bailey's chest rises ever so slightly and I know she is breathing, but barely. Her hospital gown is falling off her petite frame so I pull it back up on her shoulder. I tuck the blankets around her tighter and after that, all I can do is wait.

I want her to wake up, but then again I hope she never does, because I won't be able to ignore her crying in pain. I would harass every nurse in the hospital if she was feeling even the slightest of pain, because this girl has been through enough. Don't be stingy with the morphine.

Bailey's mom is in a chair, rocking to and fro. I try to hug her, but she starts to shake and I think better of it. I love your daughter, I tell her. She nods, and says she loves her too. That's how far our conversation gets before a boy walks into the room carrying a bouquet of flowers. He looks lost.

"Can I help you?" I ask him as he edges closer to Bailey.

"I am here to visit Bailey," the boy says.

"I don't think she is up for a visit, maybe you two can meet up later when she's not dying and have tea," I say.

"That is not what I meant; I came to be with her. I have already lost one girl and I am not about to lose another." His voice is too loud; I am worried he will wake her.

"Lower your voice damnit, we aren't at a football game. And what do you mean by 'girl'?"

"I lost my last girlfriend, she passed away from cancer. I really like Bailey, if she ...you know, then I don't know how I could go on."

I laugh at him; this stupid boy with ugly cropped hair and tacky clothes is in love with Bailey, my Bailey.

"Are you laughing at me?" he asks, putting the flowers down by Bailey's broken arm.

"It would appear so, yes," I say deftly. "When did you meet her?"

"A couple of days ago," he says with trepidation.

"A couple of days? And you are in love with her?" His puppy love amuses me.

"How long have you known her?"

The question is set up perfectly.

"Eleven years," I say.

"I bet you loved her from the first day," he says.

And I am speechless. I did love Bailey the first time I saw her, who wouldn't?

He tousles the hair that is poking out of her head bandage and become territorial. "Leave her alone, she's sleeping. If you wake her up, I will beat the shit out of you," I say.

"Oh hush, Lover Boy, she'll be fine," he says, moving his hand across hers.

There are four tiny red gashes, across her knuckles. Like she has been clawed. Then I notice that the boy's nails, sharper than hers even, longer, line up with the gashes. "You hurt her!"

The boy looks down at his hand and swiftly shoves it in his pocket. "It was an accident," he says defensively.

"You accidently dug your nails into her skin? What did you think her hand was, fucking Play-Doh or something? Huh, jackass?"

"She did this. I know it," he says swinging his head in the direction of Bailey's mom.

"Whoa, buddy, don't go blaming people for things they haven't done when you've been caught red-handed."

"I'm not. Bailey came to me the night her mom abused her, showed me the cuts and showed my sister the bruises. I did cut her hand with my nails, but it was only to get the phone from her because she wouldn't let me call Children and Families."

"I..." Mrs. Sykes says.

"You should be in prison, abusing your kid like that. In fact, even being in your company is difficult, but I'm here for your daughter not you. She needs me," the boy says.

Mrs. Sykes says something and scuttles out of the room.

"Her mom didn't do this though, a girl at school did. Miemah. She has been bullying Bailey since kindergarten," I inform him.

"The world is out to get her." He sighs. "Look at what her mom did," he says, brushing aside her hair and showing me a thin healing cut across her throat. I don't say anything, I am uncertain as to whether or not he is being honest.

"And pushed her down the stairs," he adds when I fail to respond. He reaches for her blankets, and pulls them down.

"What are you doing? Don't, she's cold," I say, grabbing the blankets from him.

"I have to show you. I can tell by the look in your eyes, you don't believe me."

I release the blankets, giving him the benefit of a doubt.

"Okay, help me put her on her side," he says, and my doubt resurfaces.

"This is so unethical," I say turning her.

"What do you care about ethics? She's on more drugs than Bob Marley, nothing could wake her."

He reveals the small of her back, just above her underwear line, and I see it, a bruise twice the size of my hands. "Oh," I say, shocked.

He fixes her gown and layers the blankets back on her.

"She told you this? And what else did she tell you?" I say, disgruntled.

"Her mom is an alcoholic, has been abusing her since she can remember, her dad is in jail, and that's it," he says.

Bailey has told this guy more in two days than she has to me over the period of eleven years.

I am about to go on a rant when Bailey whimpers. Actually whimpers like a baby that is falling in and out of sleep. Her brow furrowed in pain. Out of nowhere the boy starts singing a lullaby. Bailey quiets down as he sings on and her face relaxes. He has sung her back to sleep.

"What is the extent of her injuries?" he asks, breaking the soft tune that has me swaying where I stand.

"She broke her arm...I don't know how," I say.

"What happened to her head?" he asks, pointing to the bandaging that is wrapped like a helmet on her head.

"I think the bully bashed it into the ground. I'm not sure because Bailey wasn't conscious enough to tell us." His face drains of all its color and I feel bad for speaking of her injuries in such a blasé fashion.

"Why do they do this to her?" he asks, pushing his fists into the bed, his face twisted in sorrow and rage.

They? I wonder who they are.

"Isn't that how the world is?" I say, realizing who he means. "The minute it finds something beautiful and precious, it destroys it."

"My girlfriend was in this same hospital the last time I saw her. The only difference between her and Bailey is that Bailey can be saved. My girlfriend was a lost cause," he says holding back tears.

"Do you always give up on people like that? Your girlfriend probably didn't think of herself as a lost cause."

"At first she thought she would live." He laughs. "Her skin was yellow, her hair was gone, every aspect of who she once was had disappeared. Her soul was gone before her heart stopped beating."

"That doesn't have to happen again," I say. "You have a second chance; do with it what you want. But me, I'm in the business of saving Bailey."

Bailey's mom returns, her back hunched and her body quaking. Right on cue, Bailey moans in pain. "It's okay to wake up, Bailey," I say, and rub her shoulder.

Her eyes fly open and my heart flutters as their deep blue takes effect on me. She tries to sit up, so urgently that it takes both me and the boy to pin her to the bed.

"Stay down, rest your head," the boy says, and all at once I see what a big mistake we've made. She vomits all over herself and the bedspread. The boy runs out of the room to get help.

Bailey's mom and I try to comfort her, and keep her from rising again. The boy comes back with a nurse carrying a bucket of water, new sheets, and sponges.

"Choking on your own vomit is a fun way to wake up," I say, and cringe. "Sorry, sweetie, we didn't know."

The boy is either stifling a laugh or a sob, I can't tell which. The nurse pushes us aside and starts to pull off her gown and blankets. I take that as my cue to exit. As I head towards the door, the boy is not far behind.

We sit in green plastic chairs, opposite of each other.

"What's your name?" I ask, in an attempt to make small talk.

"Spencer."

"Clad."

"What were our parents thinking?" he says, and we both crack up.

"I think we should only be in the room one at a time, I don't want her getting overwhelmed," I suggest.

"You're right, that's a good idea," he agrees.

I see the nurse exit Bailey's room.

"I'm going first," I say. I have known her longer, and I feel that entitles me.

"Suit yourself," Spencer says.

"Oh, and there's something you should know," I say right before I leave him.

"Yeah?"

"It's her birthday, Singer Boy."

## Chapter 19

I am like a cartoon character that has just bonked his head, except instead of stars and squiggles encircling me there are teddy bears and sailboats.

"Oh, make them stop spinning," I moan to Clad when he walks back in the room.

"Heyyy," he says softly. "All better now?"

"No," I mumble, and hold my head in my hands. "Teddy bears and sailboats are harassing me!"

He chuckles. "It's a pediatric room. The wallpaper is a bit obnoxious."

"Oh, they are on the walls?" I ask, rubbing my palms against my eye sockets.

"Uh, yeah." Clad grins.

"This morphine is making me so sick. I feel like I am tripping."

"I know, honey, but it is taking the pain away. You need it," he says.

"And I am so cold," I complain. My skin feels like ice, but my head is pounding hot, like I have a fever.

"They only left you with one blanket," Clad says. "Here take this." He lifts his shirt off and lays it over me.

"No, keep it," I say. "You need to be warm too."

"Use it please, you are shaking. I'll get more blankets."

I think he leaves the room, but I keep dipping in and out of consciousness, so I can't remember. The pain floats up through the dissipating fog of morphine. "Ahhh," I howl.

Mom approaches my bed, taking tiny steps, hesitating, as if she thinks I am an apparition that might vanish into thin air. "Honey," she coos.

"M-om." My head is processing the words I want to say in a delayed matter. "I don't want—" I swallow. It is so hard to articulate what I want to say—my throat closes around each word. "No morphine," I force out.

Mom reaches for the black button at my wrist, disobeying my request. "Nooo," I shriek.

The medication takes away all the pain, but at the same time it cages me in a place so stifling it feels like bricks have been laid on my chest. I can't breathe, leaving me in that type of darkness in which you can't even see your hands. Only after an uphill battle can I break out of it and enter an animated world, where everything pops out at me and objects like the telephone come to life.

"Okay," Mom says, and hooks her hands together.

I bite my bottom lip, suppressing a scream. The pain is unbearable.

I don't recall coming here. I do, however, remember being in the locker room and seeing what seemed like buckets and buckets of blood, surrounding the imprint of where my head had been, like a tiny island in an ocean. An ocean of blood.

I guess I let the scream out, because Mom is kissing my head and squeezing my hand all of the sudden. When you are drugged this heavily, everything seems to hang in suspension. My mind tells my body to do something and it responds, but it takes too long. My body decides to do something, but my mind doesn't know it until it has already happened.

"Baby, please take the medicine. You won't feel anything anymore. What is the point of making yourself suffer like this?" Mom asks, stroking my arm.

I need a flashlight inside my head and then I could go into the darkness knowing I am safe.

"Hurts," I mumble.

Clad bursts through the door, a stack of pink and blue blankets in his arms. He spreads them over me like a parachute. 'It's a girl!' is written on the pink one, and 'It's a boy!' is inscribed on the blue one. I would laugh but I feel too rotten.

"I bought them in the gift shop," he says.

They are thick, much thicker than the flimsy hospital blankets. "Thank you," I manage to choke out. Then I erupt into tears.

"Try and convince her to take the morphine," Mom pleads with him. "She is in so much pain and I can't understand why she doesn't want to."

"Why, Bailey? Why won't you take your medicine?" Clad asks, his voice tender.

I can't vocalize the reason, so I let out another sob instead.

He rubs the hand to my un-broken arm between both of his. "Is it scary?" he asks me in a whisper.

I nod, and I feel my head go light, my mind go blank, and that I very well might pass out again.

"Ohhh," Mom laments. "It is dark, isn't it?"

I kick my leg to say 'yes.' Nodding and speaking are out of the question.

"She's so afraid of the dark, she has panic attacks from it," Mom says, staring at her feet.

Clad nods. "But I can't make it go away, Bailey."

"Maybe if she takes a large dose, she won't be in limbo. Instead of drifting in and out of sleep, it will be like she is in a coma," Clad theorizes.

"A drug-induced coma," Mom adds.

"But what if she doesn't wake up?" he asks fretfully.

"She will. You can only press the button so many times, and the IV will only let a safe amount of morphine into her system. It's a good idea, Clad. Thank you."

"Welcome," he says, and turns his attention back to me. "Soon you'll be asleep and it will be as if you are in your bed at home, like normal, your head not bleeding and your arm not broken, like it is nighttime and you are simply going to sleep."

"Where Spencer?" I slur. I am talking like a drunk person, my tongue too big for my mouth.

"He's in the waiting room. He will come in soon," Clad says.

I lift my heavy arm and pick one of the flowers off the bouquet Spencer has left for me; I put it in Clad's hand.

"Thank you, darlin'," he says and picks some flowers off too. He strategically places them in my hair as I drift off to sleep.

"Clad," I stammer. "I didn't fight back."

"I know, or you wouldn't be in this bed right now," he says.

"I couldn't... my head," I say and raise my hand to my head, but find only gauze.

"Did you hit your head before you could fight back?" he asks, trying to piece together what went down.

"Video," I murmur.

"No," he gasps.

"Yesss," I hiss, angry tears springing to my eyes. Yes, they taped it, soon the whole school will be watching my head crack open like an egg.

"That's...evil," he says. "Illegal too. Surely the cops will take it from them?"

"No," I say.

"They have to," Clad insists.

"No."

"Bailey—"

"No!" My throat is sore from screaming. "They can't know."

"Enough!" Mom butts in. "The police have not been notified, and neither has the school. You will keep out of it and not speak of it again."

"I wasn't going to—" Clad starts, but Spencer comes through the door. Clad's hand shoots to the morphine button. He presses it one, two, three...ten times. My eyelids grow heavy, but I am able to keep them up just long enough to see Spencer's face.

"Lydia," Spencer says.

"Bailey," I say.

Who is Lydia? Did I hear him wrong because of the drugs?

"Oh my, God," Spencer says. "I said that, yes, Bailey."

His voice is choppy like my thoughts are. I search for his hand and loop our fingers together. "Happy sweet sixteen," he says and starts to sing. "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear..."

A black stormy cloud gathers over me, and I am sucked into its ominous billows.

## Chapter 20

Spencer

Lydia held no resemblance to Bailey, only that they both lay in hospital beds, bodies weak, bundled in blankets and twisted in wires, machines hooked up to them, playing a heartbeat that was anything but regular. Small like a child, helpless and defenseless, I wanted to comfort Lydia, wanted to hold her in my arms, wipe away the pain and despair.

I tried not to think of her as an empty shell, as someone who was not strong enough to carry on, because it made my heart splinter.

Lydia was beautiful before cancer invaded her body, but chemotherapy yellowed her skin, shed her hair, and made her fragile. Her hair was the same color of sand, speckled with flecks of brown; her eyes the ocean, a turquoise blue with white-capping waves. Her voice the sound of a well-played violin, high-pitched and spellbinding. We used to sit in my front yard; legs tucked beneath us, singing whatever song that came to mind.

She created soft breezy melodies, light as particles of dust filtered through sun-light—lullabies that would melt me like a chocolate in a toddler's fist. I sang one of these lullabies to Bailey, the same one I sang to Lydia the day she passed away.

I had been in her hospital room, in the intensive care unit. She was struggling to breathe, her eyes tightly shut; I knew they would never open again, not unless I pried them loose. I had my hand resting on her chest. Her skin was translucent, and her body stiff. Her heart had stopped, only I didn't realize it. I was so scared, shaking, could not control myself, her heart fluttered like a butterfly trapped beneath my palm, and all at once gave out. "Goodbye, may wherever you go be better than this horrible place," I whispered to her, and kissed her cold, blue lips.

I knew it, knew she had cancer when I started dating her, but I had not been fazed, just captivated. To have known such a beautiful person, even if it was only for a year is an honor.

Now there is Bailey and although she can never be Lydia, I feel she might be able to fill the void that has been causing me so much heartache. She isn't like every other girl: she is dainty yet durable; you think she will rip like paper, but instead she is everlasting, like diamonds.

I have seen her at her worst and even then she seemed untouchable, a display case of broken bones and tattered skin. I see Lydia's weakness in her, in her struggle to cling to life when it is slipping through her fingers. Hang in there Bailey, I think, because we could have something here. Kill two birds with one stone, and fill each other's voids.

I doubt Clad has a void. He's a cocky son-of-a bitch who seems too full of himself and his obsession with Bailey to feel anything. I think he needs Bailey, not because she needs him, but because he would cease to exist without her. Like a crack addict needs a fix, he's got Bailey.

"Is she asleep?" Clad asks, his expression full of concern.

"Yes, I sang to her," I say proudly.

Clad's face clouds over. "It was just the morphine," he says. "Did she cry? Was she in pain?"

"Clad, she fell straight to sleep as soon as you left the room. Stop freaking out, she is going to be all right," I say, worn out by his possessive anxiety.

"Easy for you to say, you're not the one wearing a shirt stained with her blood. If you had seen her lying on the tile, dripping wet, and practically swimming in her own blood, you wouldn't be so blasé."

"You are such a hypocrite," I say.

"How so?" he challenges me.

"Listen, I'm only here to comfort Bailey. If that is also your intention, then maybe you should stop bickering with me and let her sleep in peace."

"She can't hear us!" he yells at me.

"Of course she can! Her ears aren't broken, just her arm and head. If you did give half a shit about her you wouldn't keep going on like this. She likes me! And whether your warped mind can grasp that concept or not, and I am near positive she does not think highly of you belittling me all the time!"

"What are you, a little bitch?" Clad snickers.

"Are you serious?" I scream at him, forgetting about Bailey. "At least I genuinely care for her. You just see her as a prize to be won. She's a girl, Clad, not a trophy. When are you going to wake up and realize that? She could never love someone who sees her in that light," I say.

"Asshole," he mutters.

"Well, it's good you're not denying it," I say acerbically.

"Dick!"

"Good one. Why don't you go play in the sandbox now with all your preschool buddies, okay?"

"Bailey doesn't like you," he says sharply.

"I can see you still don't care about her."

"I dare you to say that one more time. Go ahead, and you will end up on a gurney like Bailey. It's a damn good thing we're already in a hospital," Clad says, threateningly.

I make a move for the door but before I leave, I say, "Tell Bailey I love her, but not the possessive, constricting type of love that you have for her."

## Chapter 21

A nurse is washing my body with a sponge, I feel like a sports car. The water is cold and I shiver each time the sponge makes contact with my skin.

"Cold, sweetums?" the nurse asks, continuing with the sponge bath.

"Cold chills," I say. A fever is raging through my already fragile body.

"Yes, you do have a temperature. I'll be back in a jiffy with a thermometer," she says, dropping the sponge in the bucket, leaving me exposed and naked on my bed.

The door opens; thank God it is only my mother carrying a tray of food. "I brought you some lunch, if you're feeling up to it," she says, placing the tray on a table by the window.

Though my mouth waters, my stomach turns sour as curdled milk. "No, I'm not up to—" I put a hand to my mouth, and Mom races for the bedpan before I can retch on myself again. She gets to me just in time, and I gag up bile and the water I sipped just minutes before.

"Poor baby," Mom says, rubbing my back.

"I hate the morphine," I say bitterly and wipe my mouth.

The nurse returns and sticks a thermometer under my tongue. Ten seconds later it says my fever is at a one hundred and three. I sink back into my pillow, feeling sorry for myself.

"Infection," she says.

"Oh," I moan.

The nurse unfolds a dinosaur-decorated gown, and dresses me. This is as degrading as it gets, I think to myself. A child's hospital gown, puking on oneself like a newborn and being bathed like an elderly person.

"You have an infection from your head-wound, Bailey," Mom says, emphasizing each word.

"Yes," I say, and cover myself with the baby blankets Clad bought for me. "Is my birthday over?" I have lost track of time. All the days have begun to melt together for me.

"Yes, but we'll still celebrate it. Today, if you are well enough."

"It's just you and I here," I point out sullenly.

"Clad and Spencer will be coming soon. They have gifts for you," she says, beaming.

"That's nice of them," I say, and try to keep my eyes open, because I am still on a high dosage of morphine.

"You are lucky to be alive. The doctor says because you are young, your body will heal fast. And you will be good as new."

Good as new: Mom's favorite saying, except her definition of 'new' is like a used car, dented but still running.

I raise my head off my pillow ever so slightly; if I do so too quickly I become dizzy. At the foot of my bed are two neatly wrapped packages.

"Birthday presents," Mom says and hands them to me.

"Thank you, Mom." I rip at the wrapping paper with my good arm. One is a small box, like a jewelry box. I open it first. "M-om," I say taken aback. In my hand is a golden locket suspended from a chain.

"Open it," she says, biting her nails in nervous anticipation.

My fingers tremble. The locket falls and gets lost in the blankets. Mom retrieves it, and opens the hook for me.

"Here, baby, I hope you like it," she says, dangling it from her hand.

"Daddy," I cry. In the locket is a picture of my mom, young and beautiful, and a picture of my dad, rough and charming. I haven't seen a picture of him since that night when Mom burned them all in our fireplace. "Where did you get it?"

"I have been holding on to it," she says nonchalantly.

"Thank you!" I say and open my arms for a hug.

We embrace for what seems like forever and a day, and then she puts the necklace around my neck. It covers my cut.

"Pretty as can be," Mom says. "Open the next one!" She shoves the larger gift into my hands. I eagerly tear off the paper, and see it is a shoe-box. I lift the lid to reveal a pair of white wedges. "Aren't they fashionable? I've been dying to get rid of those nasty boots you keep walking around in!"

"Thanks, Mom," I say, much less enthusiastically.

"I was going to let you go shopping with a friend...but now I have a large hospital bill to pay. It'll be a miracle if we don't go bankrupt..."

"I'll get well quickly. In no time I will be walking and then I can leave early, that will cut down the bill," I promise her.

"No, no, no, you to stay in that bed until you're feeling perfectly fine and maybe then you can go home. I don't want you faking that you're better just to save my wallet."

There is a rhythmic knock at the door and I turn my head too suddenly. "Ohhh," I heave.

"They're here!" Mom chirps, not bothering to see if I am all right. She opens the door and a group comes flooding in: Clad, Spencer, and Sarah.

"Wow, you look so much better!" Spencer says, happily surprised.

"Oh, your head," Sarah says, averting her eyes to the present in her hands. "How bad does it hurt, Bailey? On a scale of one to ten."

"Eight," I say, resisting the desire to sit up.

"I bet. You look like a wreck...I mean you must feel awful, you're pretty as always," she says, flipping the gift in her hands.

"I got you something," Clad pipes up.

"Thanks guys, it means a lot to me you being here and celebrating my birthday," I say, smiling feebly.

"Not to rush you or anything, but she's still in critical condition. She needs to get back to sleep," Mom says, sounding snappish.

"Sure, Mrs. Sykes," Spencer says, handing me his present. I unwrap it and discover a thick purple quilt. "To keep you warm, because you're always so cold. And this hospital is like living in an igloo!" He takes the quilt from my hands and gingerly spreads it over me. "Snug as a bug in a rug," he says and pats my knee.

"Thank you." My mouth is growing dry from thanking so much.

"Okay, mine next," Sarah says, pushing Spencer aside. I let her unwrap it for me because my arms are too tired. "It's a soccer ball, so you can play soccer with me!" She giggles and places it in my lap.

"I would love to, as soon as I'm on my feet," I say and roll it to the end of the bed.

"Now mine, I saved the best for last," Clad says arrogantly. "Be careful, it might...jump out at you."

He hands me a box with holes in it, the kind of box that exotic snakes are shipped in. "Will it scare me?" I ask worriedly.

"No, I don't think so," he says with a mysterious grin.

I take a deep breath and pop the box open. A black-haired puppy wriggles his way out and immediately licks my face. "Clad!" I shriek with delight. "A puppy! I love him! But you can't bring dogs into a hospital!"

"Shhh, if you lower your voice to a scream maybe the nurses won't find out." He chuckles.

"I love him, he is so precious!" I squeal, scratching the puppy behind his ears. "I already know what I'll name him. Angel."

Clad considers the name.

"It's my father's name," I say.

"That's a very nice name," Clad says approvingly.

"He is so cute!" Sarah oozes.

"Come on you little rascal, give mommy a kiss goodbye, she needs her rest," Clad says, scooping Angel up.

"Will you bring him back again? I'll die if we are separated for too long! I love him already," I say.

"I will try; it isn't easy to sneak him in. But I will try. Now please rest your head, sweetheart." He bends down to kiss my cheek, "You're burning up," he notes.

"I know, my head is infected, or something. I still am not thinking correctly," I say.

"It's okay," Spencer says. "You'll be better in no time, just keep sleeping and taking your medicine."

"And don't forget to eat," Clad interjects.

I nod my head, which is feeling as large as a beach ball and heavy as a bucket of cement.

"Sleep tight, Bailey," Spencer says, and straightens my blanket. "Dream of something sweet."

"Thank you all for the gifts," I say with what little energy I have left.

"Of course," Sarah says and kisses my cheek. "You are very feverish."

Clad, Spencer, and Sarah wave as they head out the door. I raise my hand to wave back but it gets caught on the wires and I see Spencer frown.

"A puppy, who would've thought? And you have wanted one since you could walk! I'm so happy for you," Mom says.

"Can you push it?" I ask her, and she gladly presses the morphine button three times.

I swallow hard, as I feel my consciousness ebbing away. Soon the darkness will engulf me, soon my heart monitor will beep wildly and the nurses will come rushing in and, sigh, it is only the girl with achluophobia.

This is not the drug-induced coma I was hoping for, I think, as fragmented images of creatures with too many legs, or too many eyes flash through my mind. When the parade of these beasts subsides, I find myself awake and staring at the ceiling in what I assume is my hospital room, only the paint isn't white anymore and there isn't kiddy wall-paper.

I roll over on my side and am alarmed to see Ashten's face staring back at me, her rabid eyes framed by the blackened strands of what is left of her hair. I dig for her hand in the blankets, to comfort her, but I grasp a stub instead. She has no arms, no hands.

"They chopped them off," Ashten says, lifting her stubs in the air.

I choke on a scream, but can't fully suppress it.

"They couldn't be saved." She shrugs, and her tree-stump arms lift unnaturally along with her shoulders. "I can dig so much better, like shovels!"

I shake from fear. Why does she have to be so loud? And why is she so thrilled to have lost her arms?

"Sorry!" she yelps.

With narrowed eyes I peer at a light that is interrupting my sleep. "Sorry," a male doctor says as he prods my arm.

"Bad dream," I stammer.

"Your arm is healing nicely. I think it's time for a cast, don't you?" I stare down at the black and blue swollen mass of flesh that was once my arm.

"Yeah, let's cover it. I don't want to see it like this anymore," I say sourly.

He begins to mold a cast over my arm. "It feels weird, doesn't it?" he smiles, as the plaster dries.

"Yes, a bit," I say turning my eyes to the window, but it is closed. "Maybe we can have the window open. It's beginning to feel stuffy in here."

"That's a good idea, if your head is feeling up to it. The sunlight might bother you."

I'm not a vampire, besides it couldn't hurt any worse than the darkness I keep succumbing to.

"There," the doctor says, putting my arm on my stomach.

The cast is traffic-cone orange. My stomach kinks up at the sight of the detestable color. "It's ugly, can we take it off?" I cringe.

"Not for another two or three months," the doctor grins. "Can I take a peek at your head now?"

"Mhm," I say.

For some reason I keep thinking that he will unwrap the bandages and I will literally see my skull bashed in, my head misshapen.

"Beautiful, healing very nicely. And the infection is almost gone," he says.

"Can I see?" I ask.

"Yes," he says putting a mirror in my hand, and holding another mirror facing the back of my head.

There is an "S" shape of staples. They look like the kind you use to hold paper together with, but are twice the size. I can see my scalp because the doctors shaved parts of my hair when they were putting my head back together. My scalp is a bright purple.

"It looks good," I say, amazed by how decent my head looks, when only days ago it had been brutally smashed into tile.

"Yes, it really does," the doctor agrees. "I'll open the window and then leave you to rest."

He props open the window, and my room is suddenly full of light and energy. I no longer feel like a caveman sheltered in the dark of his cave.

"A friend of mine, Ashten, she is supposed to be at this hospital. She's a burn victim, do you know of her?" I ask before he walks out the door.

"Two badly burnt arms, and hair singed off?" he says thoughtfully.

"That's the one," I say.

"Yes, then. Yesterday she had two skin grafts to replace the damaged skin on her arms. Did you want to visit her when you're well enough to be put in a wheelchair? I could have a nurse take you."

"Yes! I would really, really like that. I just want to see that she is okay. I saved her from burning to death."

"What a coincidence. You must be a good friend," he says, and then the door clicks shut.

I lift my cast-swaddled arm and flop it back down again—it must weigh three pounds. I am feeling extremely confined and bored. I'm itching to get out of bed, and the soccer ball Sarah gave to me is screaming to be kicked.

Before I realize what I am doing, my feet touch the heavily waxed linoleum and I am trying to keep my balance with my head spinning dizzily. I grab onto the side of my hospital bed and make my way to the soccer ball, which someone has rolled into a corner of the room. I kick it out of the corner and bounce it on my knee.

There are the muffled sounds of rubber-soled nurse's shoes coming down the corridor, but I don't hop back into bed. I kick the ball and it bounces off the cabinets and hits the door just as it is being opened.

"What in Jesus' name are you doing up?" a stout nurse bellows.

She doesn't like me. When she gives me my sponge bath, she does it too roughly and tells me not to whine about the cold.

"Playing soccer," I say and stare at the ball that is now at her feet.

"Get into bed now! If I see you out of that bed again without the doctor's permission, I am going to put you in restraints!"

She grabs for my wrists to show me back to my bed, but I resist. "No, I want to go for a walk," I protest.

"Get into that bed this instant! Child, you must be delusional, with the way you hit your head and all! You're not well enough to be up!"

"What's all the fuss about?" Spencer asks, looking in through the open door. "Bailey, what are you doing out of bed! You'll faint, or fall and hurt your head again."

"Not you too!" I say drily. "I am well enough, I want to go outside."

Spencer and the nurse come at me, hands out to catch me if I should faint.

"No," the nurse says, pushing me back towards the bed.

"Listen to the nurse, Bailey, she knows what she is doing," Spencer says.

"I don't want an altercation," the nurse says when I swat her hands away.

"Leave me alone! All I want to do is stand! Is that so much to ask for?"

"I'm going to have to put you in restraints if you will not comply," she says.

"No need for that, she's probably just tired of lying around all day is all. I can get her to go back to bed," Spencer says hurriedly as she advances on me with outstretched arms and clawed fingers. "Bailey, please get back into bed."

I don't like the idea of this bitter old lady bossing me around. I should be able to walk if I feel like it. After all, my mother is paying thousands to have me here. Shouldn't that count for something?

"Help me, boy," the nurse commands.

"Nooo," I yelp, as Spencer and the nurse firmly pin me down to the bed.

"I'm sorry," Spencer says as he holds me down.

"Spencer, I hate you!" I spit at him.

"I'm sorry. I'm doing it for your own good. Now you can sleep," he says and rapidly presses my morphine button until it beeps.

"Hate!" I slur as the medication takes effect. "Nursh, Spence, Jergs!"

"You'll be okay, sweetheart," he says and sings me my lullaby.

Don't! I want to yell at him, his voice like the screech of tires against asphalt. I hate him to infinity right now and I hate even more that his singing is lulling me to sleep.

## Chapter 22

Thieves hide in the dark, Rapists, kidnappers, and serial killers hide in the dark. I am tearing at the air, reaching for something—a rope, a ladder, anything to pull me out of this dark abyss. Spencer did this. Spencer, who is supposed to love me, and care for me, sent me to this black hell.

My eyes pop open and I see Spencer bent over me, holding my arms crossed over my chest like a mummy.

"I thought you were going to hurt yourself," he says, letting go.

No, I think, I have you to do that.

I sit up, and even though my head is tender, I smack his head with mine. "That'll teach you to put me to sleep!" I think as flashes of light cross my field of vision. The hit is too much for my sensitive head.

"Oh my God!" Spencer screams in outrage and cups his forehead in his hand.

There is a stabbing sensation in my own head and then I pass out. After what feels like only seconds, I wake with blood on my lips, and can taste it on my tongue.

"Hey there," Spencer says, his voice subdued. "You knocked yourself out."

He takes a damp washcloth and wipes off the blood from my face. "I hit you too hard," I say, regretfully.

"Yes, you did," he says and sympathetically kisses my forehead. "Don't worry, I'm not upset with you. It was wrong of me to help the nurse."

"Do you think she's done?" I ask.

"Who, the nurse?" Spencer asks tilting his head.

"Miemah," I say.

"She did a lot of damage, so yeah, she should be satisfied. And maybe she'll be caught now—from what Clad told me you left behind evidence, blood."

"It doesn't matter. Mrs. Stewart would act like she had no idea, even if she saw it happen. And she may have. Besides, I don't want Miemah getting caught because she would retaliate."

"I'm sure she is done," he says, combing his fingers through his hair.

The doctor walks in, wearing a grave expression. "Hello, Bailey, do you remember me?" he asks.

"Yes. My memory is fine," I say.

"Well, you had a pretty nasty fall down all those stairs. Sometimes concussions can interfere with your memory." The doctor winks at me. "How are you feeling?"

Spencer gives me a look. So, that's the cover up story? Good one, Mom.

"Sickly. I think I bit a hole through my tongue," I finally answer.

"I see your humor is unaffected. Nurse Coledia told me what happened. You could have severely hurt yourself," the doctor says in a steady tone.

"I just wanted to walk, and I could have if she hadn't stopped me," I say annoyed with him.

Spencer arches his eyebrows at me, warning me to turn the attitude down a notch. He's right; if I am going to convince the doctor to let me see Ashten, then I need to be on his good side.

"If you don't give your body ample time to heal, it will take even longer for you to be released. You could set yourself back a few days by pushing yourself beyond what your body is capable of right now," the doctor says.

"Can I see Ashten now? Please?"

"I'm afraid I think its best that you stay in bed."

I turn the water works on. I must see Ashten, must see for myself that her arms have not been amputated.

"Don't cry," he says, unsure of what to do.

I cry harder and throw in a few fake coughs for good measure.

"I just don't think—" he begins, and I sob louder. "Maybe I could get a wheelchair up here."

"Oh, could you? That would make me feel so much better," I say, turning off my tears.

"Yes, I'll see what I can do about it, okay?"

"That was disgusting," Spencer says once the doctor has left the room.

"I need to see Ashten, and when I cry I get my way," I say, unabashed.

"Crocodile tears don't fool me."

"I didn't need to fool you, silly! Just the doctor! And listen, here he comes with my wheelchair."

The doctor returns, and then helps me into the chair.

"Spencer can take me," I say. "What room?"

"Last one on the right, Burn Unit."

Spencer reluctantly pushes me down the hall and into the Burn Unit.

The tile of the Burn Unit is a royal blue, speckled with pieces of glitter; the walls have paintings of jungle scenes and underwater murals. They give me a headache.

"Is that your friend?" Spencer asks, as he pushes my chair into a room where Ashten is sleeping peacefully in her bed, her arms wrapped in pillows of gauze.

"That's her," I say.

I was afraid she would be unrecognizable. The ends of her hair are still blackened, and I can see a burn healing on the side of her neck. With Spencer's assistance, I get out of my chair and lean on her bed.

"Ashten," I whisper. She mumbles something. "Ashten, it's Bailey."

She opens her eyes. "Bailey?"

"It's me. I'm in the hospital too."

"Oh, I haven't had any visitors!" she says, sitting up.

"How do your arms feel?"

"They're numb. The surgeons took skin from my thighs and back, and put it on my arms. Isn't that crazy?"

"Ludicrous," I say, embracing her.

"What happened to you?" she says, running the tip of her finger across the staples in my head.

"Miemah happened," I say, my arms still locked around her.

"No, she did this to you?"

"And my arm," I say pitifully, and show her my hideous cast.

"I'm so sorry."

"I'm sorry too, because now, she's going to have to deal with me. As soon as I leave this hospital she will get all she deserves, and more."

"Sit," Ashten says, patting the bed. Spencer picks me up. "We can be hospital buddies."

"Yeah, we can," I say. "I have a puppy."

"That's nice," she giggles.

"A birthday present from Clad," I explain.

"Was it your birthday when Miemah... you know?"

"Yep," I say.

"That's awful."

"Miemah is pure evil," I say.

"Bailey, we should be going now," Spencer tells me.

I look down at Ashten's arms for a final confirmation that they have not been turned into nubs and then allow Spencer to take me back to my room.

"Happy now?" he asks.

I get situated in my nest of blankets and pillows. "No, my head is pounding and my stomach is empty, but even the sight of food makes me retch."

"I'll tuck you in." Spencer pulls the blankets up to my chin.

Clad's baby blankets sit on the guest chair, and I am using the one Spencer got me for my birthday, because it is not itchy and covers my entire body, even my freezing toes.

"There," Spencer says lovingly. "Will you sleep?"

"It will be dark," I say.

"I will hold you and sing."

"I don't know if that will be enough, Spencer."

"My voice will illuminate the dark—you can find it in your subconscious and swim to it, like a lighthouse. It will steer you away from the rocky seas and velvety black skies."

A new song emerges from his juke-box lips. I follow it, like bread crumbs in Hansel and Gretel, a beaten path down which my mind can travel.

When I wake I find that it is early morning. The sun is sending horizontal stripes of light down my blanket as it is filtered through the window blinds. I have been asleep for hours and hours.

My saliva tastes like I have been sucking on a jar of pennies: copper and rust. There is a tray of food on my lap. The macaroni and cheese looks about as tasty as Barbie food.

"Morning," Mom says wearily. She is clearly exhausted from having to sleep in a chair for several nights.

"This tastes like glue," I say and spit out the noodles I have taken.

"That's all they had. It was that or the beef patty that looked like it might grow legs and crawl away."

I take a few more small bites, my stomach and mouth not agreeing with each other.

"I'm so hungry, but it tastes so bad." I sigh, resting my spoon on the tray.

"Want me to feed you?" Mom asks, looking up from the book she is reading.

Wait. My mom is reading a book? This can't be.

"Please tell me I am hallucinating," I say.

She glances up, and squints at me through her reading glasses. I didn't even know she had reading glasses.

"You are not," she says and goes back to the book.

"What are you reading? Does it have lots of pictures?"

"Very funny. No, it's Alcoholics Anonymous."

"Thank you," I say, knowing she is only reading it for my sake.

"You're welcome. I should have picked it up a long time ago. I guess I just needed a push in the right direction."

"Or the wrong direction. That seemed to get you moving," I say, my words laden with sarcasm.

"Yes," Mom says, closing the book and coming to my bedside. "Eat." She coaxes, holding a spoonful of the cheesy, gummy pasta to my mouth.

I open my mouth and let her feed me half the portion, before my stomach refuses anymore.

"The nurse shouldn't have held you down like that yesterday. She says she felt threatened. A weak little girl playing soccer, is threatening? It's a wonder she isn't fired. She is too harsh to be taking care of the sick."

I nod my head in agreement. The doctor says I am making a speedy recovery and can go home tomorrow, but I must be watched closely because of my head injury.

"I will get to see Angel? We can keep him, can't we?" I ask Mom.

"Yes, he's your present. Take good care of him... water, food, walks."

"Runs, Mom. I run." I smile as big as the sky.

"You love that puppy," she says, returning the smile.

"More than anything. Best gift I ever got...besides my beautiful locket. Dad will always be here, even though he's behind bars, won't he?" I wrap my fingers around my locket; a heavy sob rises in my chest. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.

"Don't be upset. Oh, your father loved you, worshipped you. I know it's hard for you to have not had him in your life. You've not had it easy, but you are so much stronger for it."

"I know," I croak, twiddling the locket between my fingers. "Maybe, someday, I can visit him."

"When you're older, sweetheart," Mom says, though I know the truth is I will never see him.

"Yes," I say.

I try to imagine what it would be like, going to the federal prison and seeing my dad behind a three-inch thick wall of glass, my heart aching to be close to him. To feel his hand through my hair, his arms wrapped around me, to be his daughter again, not some teen girl living in this harsh world without a father.

"Not once has Alana called to check up on you!" Mom says, furious. "Let alone visit! What a one-sided friendship."

"There's something off about her, Mom. I don't know what it is," I say, although I do have an inkling.

"Why can't I tell the police about Miemah? Tell me once more. It would be nice to have her parents paying your hospital bills."

"It will make things ten times worse for me. This is it, she is done, I know it," I say, my voice so convincing that I almost believe it myself.

"If she touches you one more time, I'll break every finger she has!"

"She won't," I say. "Besides, we both know you're never going to pay the bills."

Mom shrugs in agreement.

Later in the day, I visit Ashten again. She is on her bed, pushing a pencil through her cast, her new skin itching.

"Trenton didn't care." I toss my soccer ball in the air.

"I like your gown," she says, amused by the ballerinas on it.

"Yours is better," I say, laughing at the sight of the Dalmatian puppies on hers.

"Why would he care that I got burned? I don't think he likes me." Her voice hints at something.

"Why shouldn't he like you? You're nice... and kind."

"Trenton isn't into nice and kind."

"Right," I say and spin the ball in my hands.

"Your head hurt?"

"It's bearable," I say. "Your arms hurt?"

"No, they're funneling morphine into me like it's going out of style. My head is in the clouds so bad I can't even remember my own name. What is it again? Asher?"

"I'm not up for jokes," I say, pushing the soccer ball off the bed.

"Fine, I know my name. But I really am high as a kite." She winks at me.

"When do you get out?"

"I don't know, the doctors haven't said. How about you?"

"Tomorrow. If I eat today. They want me to eat."

"You are too thin," she says.

"The food tastes like crap."

We share her bed and watch cartoons until we both fall asleep to the hum of the machines she is hooked up to. When I wake, she is clinging to me, as if I might leave and never come back, as if she is terrified of something.

Her eyes spring open and startle me.

"I shouldn't have gone to that bonfire with them," she says, her voice hushed. "I didn't roll into that fire. Bailey, you can keep a secret, can't you?"

I nod my head and she continues.

"Trenton wasn't by your side all night," she says, her voice suggesting something more sinister.

"Where was he?" I ask confused.

"Tossing me into the fire."

"No," I gasp. "Stop! That isn't funny!"

"Shut up! Listen, I am telling the truth!" she hisses at me.

When I try to get up, she sinks her nails into my arm.

"Don't," she says. "Trenton wanted to kill me, I think."

"That's insane, Ashten, it's the drugs talking!"

"Is it? Did I really imagine Trenton lifting me and throwing me into the bonfire? How strange... I could have sworn I felt my flesh melting from the flames!"

"Why though? What's his motivation?"

"My brother might have something to do with it."

"How?"

"My brother, Cairen, he is a part of a gang, the Allie. He is the leader and I am next in line for the throne," she says.

"Throne?" I smirk.

"Figure of speech, dork. My brother is in charge of the gang, he runs it. Trenton is a member."

"He's envious," I say as it sinks in.

"Yes. He wants the position."

"But he can't have it, because after your brother, you take on the gang? Yes?"

"Correct. Cairen will resign his position to me when he comes of age. Trenton could never kill him off anyway, guess he thought it would be an easy task to remove me from the picture, only he didn't count on you waking up and saving me."

"A gang? Like with guns? Does your brother kill people?"

"I just told you that Trenton wants to murder me and you are more concerned on the details of our gang?"

"I guess we all have someone who wants to kill us, right? No biggie."

"Yes, biggie. This isn't Miemah we're talking about here. Trenton is trained to fight. Miemah is like a loose rocket, but Trenton has direction."

"This is too much to take in all at once," I say and stare at her fingers, waiting for them to release my arm. "Please, stop, you are hurting me."

"Ooh sorry. I am just so...frightened," she says, letting go of my arm.

"Your brother is the leader, so why can't he deal with Trenton?"

"It's against the Allie Rule Book. The Allie has a book of written rules that we all must abide to. Never kill another Allie without reasonable cause. We share each other's blood. A bond that can only be severed through...death."

"It's clear that Trenton burned you, isn't that a good enough reason to kill him?" I say. "So, Cairen can kill him—" I begin. "Never mind."

"Can't believe you just suggested that," Ashten says.

"It seems so easy. Like he isn't Trenton, just some boy who tried to kill you. Like Miemah..." I bite my tongue.

"I could never kill a person."

I could, I think. I will have to.

"I bet it's easier than you think. Look at Miemah. She practically murdered me and thought nothing of it."

"I'm not mental, Bailey, and I don't get off on the act of torturing people."

"So, what do you do in the Allie? And how come I've never heard of it before?"

Ashten fixes her blankets, and clears her throat. "Drug dealing, stealing, murder, that kind of thing. Ya' know typical gang violence. And I don't know...maybe because it's in Fort Myers, not a lot of Cape Coral kids have heard of it."

Murder? The Allie sounds anything but typical.

Mom walks in, a halfhearted smile on her face, pushing my wheelchair.

"Hey girls, how is it going?" she asks.

"You say a word to anyone and I will strangle you!" Ashten whispers to me.

"Everything's fine Mom, we just slept and watched cartoons."

"Well, I'm going to sleep some more," Ashten says, hugging me goodbye. "Sleeping is my favorite thing to do."

I blink at her, trying to comprehend—How does one sleep when they know it could be their final rest?

"Mom, do you believe in heaven?" I ask when we are out of Ashten's room.

"Why do you ask that?"

"If you die, where does your soul go? Heaven, right?"

"I don't think so, Bailey," she says.

"Mom, where do you go?"

"Heaven isn't real. When you die... it's like when you pull the plug on a television, it just stops working. The TV is there, and you can imagine what the shows look like on it, but the screen is black."

"If I died, what would my mind think? Would it be lost in darkness?" I ask, shivering from the thought of having to live inside my dark head for all eternity.

"Probably, but then again, you wouldn't be able to think."

"I believe in heaven," I say. "I believe in angels, I believe there is a hell, I believe in it all. Want to know why?"

"Why?"

"Because we need angels to protect us and guide us, and we need hell to serve as a prison for those who lead a bad life, and we need heaven so that people like me, who are afraid of the dark, don't have to exist in it ever again when they die."

## Chapter 23

Dad was a Christian. Mom was once a Catholic. Dad killed somebody. Mom died inside. They both lost faith.

Every Sunday morning, Mom would curl my hair, tie it with ribbons, and we would go to the local church. I was too young to understand what the preacher was rambling on about, but from what I could absorb, I came to the conclusion that bad people go to hell, and good people go to heaven. I got the idea in my head that if I was a good person, I would fall upon good fortune.

Boy was I wrong.

The truth is, life is like a bag of Chex Mix: every handful uncertain, each scoop a little different. I expected my life to be fated, every year, every month, and every second of every day, set in stone, like the Ten Commandments. I have come to the realization that every day is a tossup; I could get hit by a bus, struck by lightning, or my head bashed in by a demonic girl. The only stable belief I have, is that when the torture is through and my body gives out, my soul can rest in heaven, with God.

"Are you excited to get home and play with Angel?" Mom asks, helping me dress.

"I owe Clad a new hoodie," I say, remembering that it was stained with blood and cut from my body when I was brought into the emergency room.

"You are so silly," Mom says while packing up my gifts.

"Yes, I am excited to see Angel. And eat real food."

"If you mean ramen noodles, and Spaghetti O's? I hate to break it to you, Bailey, but that is not real food."

"It tastes more real than anything I've tried to stomach here."

"The doctor will be in soon. Go and put your shirt on," she says.

I walk to the bathroom by myself, unchained from wires and plastic tubes. I take a good look in the mirror, and greet this new girl that I have become. Pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, hair lackluster, teeth yellow from not being brushed in days, and bones poking out from beneath my skin.

"You'll look better once you've been back home for a while," Mom says, catching me staring at myself.

"I'm gross," I say, and pull my shirt on to hide my ribs.

"No, you were in the hospital, stop beating yourself up for how you look; you have come a long way. The doctors and nurses are amazed with how quickly you recovered."

"Yes, we are," the doctor says jumping into the conversation. "Children heal in a way that is quite astonishing. You just never know."

"What were you expecting? For me to become an invalid?" I say bitingly.

"Close to it." He picks at the latex of his glove. "God must have had other plans," he says with an impertinent smile.

Mom discreetly rolls her eyes. "God had nothing to do with it," she says. "Do you really think if God had anything to do with what happened to my daughter that he would have let her arm break? That he would make her go through so much pain?"

"I didn't mean to offend—"

"Where was God when my daughter was lying in a pool of her own blood?" she snaps.

Has she been drinking?

"You will have to excuse my mom, she's insane," I say, and pull her away before she can claw at him like a scratching post. "Do you happen to have a straitjacket or room with padded walls? I bet that would make her feel right at home!"

Mom pushes me gently into the chair that she has been sleeping in for the past week.

"I just don't think you should bring God into this. She got well on her own accord."

"Well, just the same, I am glad to see you up and on your feet, Bailey," the doctor says to me in aside. "I brought you a wheelchair. It is by the door and you can leave as soon as the nurse gets here and your mom finishes up signing the last of the release papers."

"Thank you," I say, and shake his gloved hand before he departs.

"You take care," he says, keeping one eye on Mom.

"Are you out of your mind?" I say.

"Don't be fresh with me, Bailey," Mom says.

"He was just wishing me well!"

"Enough!" she says and pulls out a cigarette.

I snatch it from her hand and break it in two before she can light it.

"If we weren't in the hospital and you weren't ill, I'd slap you," she says, staring at the broken cigarette.

A nurse is waiting patiently by the door; I don't know for how long she has been standing there or how much of Mom's threat she has heard.

"I knew it!" I yell at Mom. "You're still the same abusive person you've always been! Alcohol or not."

I sit down in the wheelchair, aware of the fact that Mom cannot hit me in front of the nurse.

"Okay, are you ready, sweetie?" the nurse asks.

"Yeah, let's get out of here," I say.

"Ma'am, smoking is not allowed in the hospital," the nurse says, pushing me down the hall.

Mom is lighting up a second cigarette.

"Oh, screw you!" she says. "We'll be outside in a second."

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to put out that cigarette right away or I will call security. And I bet the doctor would like to hear about your threat to hit your daughter."

"Threat?" I ask. "More like a promise."

"We have a word for your kind Mrs. Sykes: child abuser. You know what happens to parents who abuse their children?"

"I wasn't going to hit her!" Mom huffs, and tosses the cigarette in the trash. "And that's two words. It's a wonder you ever made it out of medical school!"

"My mom is an alcoholic," I say. "She hasn't drunk in a week, and I guess it must be getting to her."

"I can speak for myself, thank you," Mom says. "I'll take it from here." She jerks the wheel chair from the nurse's hands, and all but flings me out of it.

The nurse glares at her, but says nothing.

"Let's go, kid," Mom says. We walk to the car and I hesitantly step into the passenger side.

"Remember Ma'am," the nurse says, leaning her head in the driver's side window. "You can go to jail for—"

"Move it before I run your feet over," Mom screeches, and speeds away from the hospital, narrowly missing the nurse. "You make me look like I am some kind of fool!" Her hand comes down hard across my cheek.

Just like old times.

My fingers shoot to the welt that is forming, and my eyes water.

"You are!" I scream at her, hiding my tears. "You are an idiot, and an ignorant person, to keep hitting me and think you will get away with it!" She raises her hand again. "Do it! I fucking dare you, Mom. I will call the police on you quicker than you can light a cigarette."

"Don't threaten me," she says coolly.

"Just leave me alone," I cry at her. With shaky hands I find Spencer's quilt in my hospital bag, and bury my face in it. "Leave me alone!"

"Wipe your tears; I have a surprise waiting for you at home."

"No," I say.

"Bailey, we have guests!"

"Good, let them see what you've done."

"Bailey!"

"No!"

I yank my head out of the blanket to show her my swollen cheek, which I bet will be bruised by tomorrow morning.

"Please?" she begs me.

"No, I'm upset and hurt, why shouldn't I cry? You made me. You think I wanted to get hit and burst into tears the minute I left the hospital? I just wanted to go home and be with you. I know I am the real fool, Mom, because I always forgive you, always think you will change."

"I will change, honey, it just takes time," she says, wringing her hands over the steering wheel.

"No, it will never happen. You will kill me before that happens."

We are at the apartment. Spencer's black truck is parked in the lot, as is Clad's navy blue Toyota. "Oh great, Spencer will have a field day when he sees my face."

"I can put makeup on it," Mom offers.

"No. I want them to see."

Mom's forehead is throbbing, her eyes shooting bullets.

"Beat me," I say. "Go ahead."

"Don't tempt me like that," she says and slams the car door.

I wipe most of my tears away with the back of my hand. My head is hammering, and my eyes sting from the blazing sun.

When Mom opens the front door, everyone cheers, happy to see me. I burst into tears and run to the bathroom.

"Um, the morphine is wearing off. She's in a lot of pain," Mom says.

I peel off my clothing and step into the shower, careful not to get my cast wet. I start off standing, but as the water becomes hotter, I slide further and further down into the tub until I am drowning in the sudsy water, my casted arm hanging over the side.

Wash away the pain and the hurt and the broken expectations.

I stay submerged until I feel my lungs might burst from the lack of oxygen and my mind goes fuzzy.

"Are you okay?" Spencer's sweet voice reaches me through the water that is filling my ears and mouth, gagging me. "Do you want me to come in?"

"No," I gurgle.

"Are you sure?"

"Spencer," I say.

"Aww, Bailey, let me in. It's not the medicine, is it?" he whispers.

"No, it's not." I turn off the faucet and stand on my quivering legs, wrapping myself in a towel. "Come in," I say.

Spencer rushes through the door. "Where?" He grabs my face and turns it to the left and right, looking for the mark Mom has made. "Bitch," he says when he discovers the welt.

"Spencer," I say, my voice muffled with tears. "I can't take her anymore."

He pulls me to his chest and kisses the top of my head, his lips pressing against my staples. "Shhh, you don't have to."

"I do. She's my mom and I can't just rat her out!"

"Maybe you have to, Bailey. What will it take to make her stop? Your mom is sick, she needs help."

"Maybe this was it, maybe she was just upset because she hasn't been drinking lately," I say, my voice rising and falling as I try unsuccessfully to control sobs.

"Shhh," Spencer soothes me. "Don't cry, dear heart."

"Who else is here?" I ask, hoping it is just him and Clad.

"Sarah and Clad is all. Do you want me to make them leave?"

"No, I don't want anyone being angry with me. Just tell my mom to get me some clothes and I will be out soon."

"Okay, honey," he says, and walks out of the bathroom, leaving the door open behind him.

I can hear Sarah guessing as to what is wrong with me, and Clad demanding to see me. Then come footsteps light as a feather, and Spencer returning with my clothes.

"Can you dress yourself?"

"I can manage," I say.

"Clad is getting to be a real pain."

"Tell him I will be out in a moment," I say, and shut the door to dress.

After I have stretched out my shirt by trying to shove my cast through it, I put my jeans on and drag a comb through my hair. There's no time to brush my teeth, everyone is waiting on me.

I open the door and step out cautiously; Clad is sitting at the table staring intensely at Spencer.

"Hey guys," I say, feeling suddenly shy.

"Thank God! What were you doing in there, getting ready for a photo shoot?" Clad says, rising, then wrapping an arm around my waist he guides me to the table. "We bought you a cake."

There is a white frosted cake sitting on the table, written in pink frosting it reads: Get well soon! Welcome home!

"It looks delicious," I say, even though the very sight of it makes me want to vomit.

Angel sits at my heels wagging his tail, patiently waiting for some love. I bend down and scratch his head, then behind his ears, and let him lick my hand till it is wet with his warm saliva. "Oh, you missed me, didn't you baby?" I say as he rolls over and offers his stomach for rubbing.

"The dog gets more attention," Clad says under his breath.

I baby-talk to Angel and let him curl up in my lap.

"We could play soccer, if you want," Sarah says and Spencer shoots her a look. "...Or not."

"I'm not feeling too hot Sarah, or I would. I promise to play with you sometime," I say quickly, trying to repair her hurt feelings.

"Oh, that's all right," she says, looking crestfallen.

"I have to go to work now," Mom says. "Can I have a kiss, baby?"

I stare at Angel's pink little tongue as it laps my hand, silently praying that I won't have to kiss her.

Mom grabs my chin, gently, and kisses me anyway.

"Will one of you stay with her today? I don't want her to be home alone, in case she gets sick, or forgets to take her medication," Mom says.

"I will!" Clad eagerly volunteers.

"Thank you—" Mom says, forgetting his name.

"Clad," he says.

"Yes, Clad. Well, I'll be going, see you kids later."

Spencer raises his hand as if to wave goodbye, but brushes it through his hair instead.

"You guys can go now," Clad says as soon as the door clicks shut.

"Clad!" I say.

"I'm just saying you need your rest. You can see Spencer any day."

"Spence don't listen to him he's just—"

"No, no, no, that's okay, Bailey. Lover Boy wants us to leave. Sarah and I will see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Spence," I say, biting my lower lip.

"Don't worry 'bout it, angel face," he says, grabbing Sarah's hand and leaving me alone with Clad.

"Damn, Clad. Why do you have to be so jealous?" I snap at him.

"Jealous of what? Singer Boy and his bad taste in clothes? Or maybe it's his wonky haircut, yep that must be it."

I squeeze Angel too hard and he squeals.

"Enough, Clad. I don't feel like listening to you insult the only person who was there for me when I needed him most."

"Excuse me? He wasn't in the locker room."

"Clad, you know what I mean," I say with narrowed eyes.

"No, Bailey, I don't. Spencer comes into your life for two days, and suddenly, he's hot stuff. I have been here since the beginning and what credit do I get?"

I open my mouth to answer but he cuts me off.

"You sleep with his blanket, as if it is the only thing you've ever known. He sings you to sleep and you are at peace with the world, as if it never did you any wrong. And every rehearsed word that leaves his mouth has you head over heels. All I ever did was be real with you, Bailey, but you want nothing to do with me."

Yes, you have been real, I think to myself, real obsessed.

## Chapter 24

Clad

In fifth grade, there was this boy—we called him T-Rod. His full name was Rodney Tyler. T-Rod had the ugliest face you ever saw. It was cherubic, like a baby angel's, but with eyes too close together, and a nose smashed down in the middle, like he had run into a wall real hard.

He was the biggest fifth-grader in the school, even taller than Bailey. He made his reputation by pestering and bullying anyone he could get his hands on: boys, girls, teachers, he would even spit gum into the class fish tank. Goldie, our class fish, didn't stand a chance; he was floating at the top of the tank before we had even decided who would get to take him home first. We ended up letting T-Rod do away with his dead, scaly body. I hate to think what happened to him.

Bailey had this habit, still does, in fact, of molding people into what she thought they should be, and how they should act. She didn't see Rodney as being exempt. Bailey, hard-headed as she was, took a special disliking to T-Rod, because he refused to walk in a straight line.

He'd weave in and out of the line to recess every day and that irked Bailey in a way one cannot imagine. Shaking her curls at him, fists rolled into tiny balls, she would shout things like, "You're mean!" and "What, do you have two left feet?" or "You walk like you're a drunken hobo!" The last one always cracked me up.

One day, coming from lunch, T-Rod left his spot behind Bailey in line and placed himself in front of her. He then zigzagged the whole way to the recess field, like he was being chased by a crocodile. By the time we got outside, Bailey and I were fuming. Trying to lose him, we went to the swings. I thought we had lost him, when all of the sudden I saw his frizzy hair and his eyes, the color of split-pea soup, fixed on Bailey.

Before I could warn Bailey, he came up behind her, and slammed his foot into her back. She flew from that swing and ate mulch, her face buried in it, her knees scraped. I was about to break out in laughter when she lifted her head and I saw blood on her lips.

A feeling like nothing I had ever felt before swept through my body, like suddenly I could fight anyone, or anything. My blood pumped hot through my veins, my hands clenched into fists. I pummeled T-Rod, his body like a soft pillow, my fists kneading into him like dough. Bailey grinned so wide that day—I thought her face would crack.

T-Rod and I got referral slips for fighting, and my dad beat my butt when I came home. T-Rod already had so many referrals, I bet he had them stacked up in his bathroom as toilet paper. I got in a lot of trouble for defending Bailey, but her smile of approval made it all worth it. There are more times than I can count on my fingers and toes that I kept Bailey safe throughout elementary and middle school. It's like she had a target on her back.

I lived for this girl, gave so much up, suffered so many beatings for her because I loved her, truly loved her, and I still do. She couldn't do anything to make me stop loving her; she could slit my throat and I would still try to comfort her as I bled to death.

Now this Spencer comes along, his heart ripped out after losing his girlfriend to cancer, thinking Bailey can replace her. His longing for another girl, creating a rift between Bailey and I. Up until now, I had always been okay with Bailey not acknowledging all that I have done for her, but with Spencer receiving so much attention, my heart is beginning to feel raw. It's like Bailey has taken an eraser and rubbed it across my heart, back and forth, leaving it bright red and stinging.

Bailey is on the couch, holding onto Angel's paws, making him stand up on her knees. Her eyes are glossy and I worry my words have upset her.

"Bailey, you okay?" I ask, kicking the rug.

"I'm sorry, Clad," she says, tucking Angel under her chin. "I don't know what's gotten into me. I do appreciate you. I know I never say it, Clad, but I really do appreciate you."

My stomach has butterflies. "Ya' mean it?" I ask, trying hard not to smile.

"Of course, Clad, I'm not so ditzy or thoughtless that I would suddenly forget everything you ever did for me." A smile crosses her cherry lips. "Remember T-Rod? Remember how you pounded him after he pushed me off the swing?"

I nod, thinking that are minds are so in sync.

"How could I forget?" I say, and pick her off the couch.

She giggles and clutches Angel tighter, so he won't fall off.

"We could dance," I say.

Her eyes light up. "Could we? Did you bring your radio?" she asks, suddenly hyper.

"Mhm," I say, and put her down.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" She starts to push the coffee table into the kitchen.

"It's in my truck, I'll be right back," I say and skip out the door.

Spencer can sing to Bailey all he wants but she will never sing back. If I do a step, she returns it. If I spin on my head, she spins on her toes. If I hold out my arms, she leaps into them and arches her back like a purring cat.

When I stroll back into the apartment Bailey is already spinning around the room. She stops and falls on the ground laughing, because I have caught her twirling like a ballerina. "Sorry, just felt like spinning," she says, holding her stomach from laughing so hard.

"You're very graceful," I say, and turn my radio on. "Is there a song you prefer?"

She shakes her head no, so I put my iPod on shuffle, and connect it to the radio. A song plays and I kick my shoes off. "I can't dance with my shoes on, can I? Huh, my little Tinker Toy?" I ask as she spins. She reminds me of the ballerina in my sister Alec's jewelry box that twirls when you open it. A real living doll. "I don't think I can do that one!" I try to copycat the airy twirls.

"You are so robotic," she says. "Loosen up, do some stretching."

"Stretching is for squares." I grin and kick my leg over her head. "How's that for stretching?"

"Impressive," she says, and lays down a few hip-hop moves to follow suit with the song that is playing. I freestyle in the corner of the room, worried I will kick or hit her.

"Join me," she says, placing her small hands in mine.

"Okay," I say, and follow her to the middle of the room.

We are two spinning tops, pulling into one another and spinning away from each other once our bodies collide. Bailey can't be without me, I realize with a smile. Spencer is attractive to her, like a shiny toy, but I am like food – nourishment – she can't live without me.

Sweat rolls down her forehead and her hair becomes tangled, her cheeks flushed from dancing. She is a vision.

"I'm tuckered," I say breathlessly, and let her bend over my arm.

"Ta-da," she breathes.

I stare at her, and she stares back, and we don't break our gaze for the entire rest of the song. "Those eyes," I finally say. "They got me."

"Your eyes got me too, Lover Boy," she says using Spencer's pet name for me.

"Lover boy and Tinker Toy," I say and push my head closer to hers, our lips and noses pressing against each other. "Would you kiss me?"

She shivers against my arm.

"I would, Lover Boy," she says, and locks her lips on mine.

She wraps her legs around my waist, pushes hands beneath my shirt, and I smash my lips against hers. "Trenton was right, you kiss like an angel," I say and reach for her shirt.

My heart-beat accelerates. I am making out with Bailey, how did this happen? My stomach is knotted like a string in the hands of a boy scout.

I start to lift her shirt up. "No, I'm gonna' be sick," she says. She pulls away from me and scrambles to the toilet.

"Are you serious?" I say, my hands frozen in their position. I almost had your shirt off, I think to myself. "Hold on, I'll hold your hair!"

"It's weaning off the morphine that's doing this," she says as I gather her hair in my hand.

"Maybe we shouldn't have been doing so much, I mean you did just leave the hospital this morning."

She nods and gags.

"You haven't even been eating," I say and rub her back.

"That's why," she says and flushes the toilet. She slumps against the cool porcelain of the tub, her face bleak. She looks as pale and fragile as she did in the hospital.

"I'm going to get you some ice water, just stay here," I say, and hand her a towel to wipe her mouth with.

I was going to take her clothes off. What was I thinking?

She sips the ice water slowly and gives the glass back to me with shaking hands. "You wouldn't have been pleased," she says.

"With what?"

"My body."

"Are you kidding me?" I say, chuckling incredulously, before placing Spencer's blanket around her delicate shoulders.

"I lost a lot of weight in the hospital."

"So? You're still pretty and as attractive as ever. And we will fatten you up, don't worry." I squeeze her sides to tickle her, but she doesn't laugh.

"I need my medicine, it's on the counter in the kitchen. Will you get it for me, please?"

"Yeah, Bailey, sure," I say.

When I return, I place two tiny white pills in her hand. She gobbles them down like Skittles. "The pills will make me really drowsy," she says.

"Can I carry you to the couch?"

"Yes, please do," she says, her eyes closing automatically.

I lay her head on the armrest, and help her kick off her jeans. "There, is that better?" I ask, smoothing her hair.

"Much better," she mumbles.

Angel hops onto the couch and crawls onto her chest, curling up for a nap.

"I would sing you to sleep, but my singing wouldn't do much good."

"Will you talk me to sleep, then?"

"Yes, what do you want me to talk about?"

"School."

"That won't be much of a lullaby," I say sardonically.

"Talk about the video, Clad, what has Miemah done with it?"

"You won't sleep easy once you know."

"Tell me."

"Okay. She has posted it on YouTube and people are commenting on it like crazy. You have over two thousand views," I say.

She swallows hard. "What do they say?"

"The people who comment? Nasty things I won't repeat."

"I got to get that tape and destroy it," she says, pounding her fist into her cast.

"It will get taken off YouTube eventually."

"Then she will still have the tape, Clad. I have to get it," she says stubbornly.

"Please tell me you don't plan on going into the lion's den again? She really will kill you this time."

"I don't plan on getting killed." Her eyes start to close again. "I will get it," she murmurs as she falls to sleep.

"Sleep tight, Bailey," I say, and kiss her forehead.

Angel and Bailey sleep with their heads touching, her black hair mixing with his disheveled mass of fur. I gently shake her, and when she doesn't stir I get up and go into her bedroom to explore.

Bailey's bedroom smells like flowers and fresh laundry. Her bed is perfectly made up, like the barracks of a soldier. I go to her dresser and open up the top drawer. I am expecting underwear, maybe bras, but I get socks. White tube-socks. Sexy.

I start to close the drawer but the runner gets stuck on something; I push my hand to the way back of the drawer and find a balled-up piece of paper. It tears a little when I free it. Angel whines, and I jump, the paper tightly fitted in my fist. Maybe it's just trash, but what if it's a love letter? A letter from Trenton, or worse—Spencer.

I smooth the paper out on top of her dresser and read it to myself: THE BULLET LIST. Certainly not the romantic love letter I was expecting. I read on, my curiosity piqued. Miemah, Cecil, Nessa, Stewart, Bracker, and Latcher. Names of people she hates, a list of everyone who has ever done her wrong.

"Bullet List, Bullet List," I say aloud, trying to comprehend what it means. Bullets go in a gun. Guns are used to shoot. To kill. Bailey want's to kill everyone she hates.

I drop the paper and let out a screech. Bailey stirs on the couch, I hear Angel leap to the floor. "No," I say shaking my head. "This can't be."

Where is the gun? I return to the drawer and search inside of it, but all I come up with is socks. I hurriedly open up her other drawers before she can wake. Panties, jeans, shirts, hair-brushes, school folders. No gun, no bullets.

Perhaps I'm letting my mind get ahead of me. It's possible she wrote the list in a fit of rage, not really planning on murdering all these people. That must be it, she would never actually kill someone. I look at her asleep on the couch, sweet, and innocent. No, not Bailey. She is an angel.

I close all the drawers, and return the list to its spot, buried in socks. I can only hope I'm right, that Bailey has no intentions of killing anyone, that she was only upset when she wrote it.

She is talking in her sleep when I get back to the living room, struggling with the quilt, as if it is attacking her. I jostle her awake and she lets out a scream.

"Why were you shaking me?" she asks.

"It looked like you were having a bad dream," I say, and give her a hug.

"I was." She latches onto me like a cat being dunked in water.

"You'll be okay, it was only a dream," I say and kiss her. "Dreams can't hurt you."

"Yes, they can, sometimes they can become real."

"Yours won't," I say, and lift her onto my lap.

"What if they do?" She looks at me with large childish eyes.

"Then I will be here to cast them away, like I have always been."

"Clad, I'm scared to go back to school."

"God, Bailey, If I could take away all your pain and worries, I would. But the reality is I can't and you are bound to feel scared, no matter what I say."

"You're right. Just hold me. I feel like I might fall apart."

"I'll hold you together. And, Bailey, it isn't a bad idea to fight back for once. Miemah could benefit from a decent pummeling."

"I can't fight her, she's indestructible," she says, bowing her head.

"She's only human, Bailey. Her bones break as easily as yours do."

"Are you suggesting I break her bones?" she asks with a crooked smile.

"I'm just saying, it might be a thought. You are bigger than her...and feistier. You could take her."

"You think I'm feisty?"

"Yes," I say in earnest. "You are clever, and fierce. You can do anything you put your mind to, even if that thing is demolishing Miemah. Be a wrecking ball."

She pets Angel and stares off into space, deep in thought. I can hear the faucet dripping in the kitchen and the grumble of Bailey's empty stomach. I exhale sharply to bring her back down to Earth, but she is gone, frozen in a different dimension.

"Bailey, what are you thinking about?" I say after the silence becomes agonizing.

"About how good it would feel to kill Miemah," she says, and stares down at her hands, which have begun to tremble.

## Chapter 25

Clad's kiss is fresh in my mind when I open my eyes to the dull light making its way through the window above the couch. Bliss—it's like my heart stopped and restarted as Clad's lips left mine. I almost let him undress me, almost let him go further, he would have if I hadn't gotten sick. How far would we have gone?

"You sure look cheerful this morning," Mom comments, while sipping a glass of orange juice and reading her Alcoholics Anonymous book.

"It's like a bible for alcoholics," I say, of the blue leather cover on her book.

"That's why I'm reading it on Sunday morning," she says. "How does your head and arm feel?"

"My head and arm?" I ask, forgetting of the recent pain they have caused me.

"I guess that answers that."

"I don't feel a thing. This medicine is great, what is it again?"

"Vicodin," she says. "It'll be a bitch to wean yourself off of. We'll both be detoxing at the same time."

"How long do I take it?"

"A week."

Angel is awake and stumbling around in my blankets. "He's hungry," I say, and scoop him into my arms for a cuddle.

"Then let him down, he has a bowl of food underneath the table."

I kiss him between the eyes and set him on the rug. All night he kept my stomach warm and my thoughts from wandering too far into the darkness.

"Spencer said he would come by today," I say and sit bolt upright. "Maybe I will play soccer with Sarah..."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Bailey. You're still recovering."

"I feel fine," I argue.

"You need to stay in bed for a while."

"I don't want to. I feel peachy. I could definitely kick a ball around," I say, and flex my legs to show her they are in working order.

"Don't argue with me, Bailey," Mom says, her eyes flashing me a warning. The removal of her booze has shortened her fuse to almost nothing.

"I am well, Mom. I will play soccer if I want," I say, regretting the sentence, as soon as it leaves my mouth.

"No, you will not," she says, and slams her book closed. "Why do you have to argue everything I say?"

"I guess I just don't respect you anymore," I say honestly. But my mom doesn't like honesty. Her eyes flicker and I feel my cheek burning. "How can I respect someone who doesn't even respect themselves?" I dig myself into a deeper hole. I will kick myself later for my audacity, but right now it feels amazing, leaves me feeling as light and wispy as angel wings.

"Excuse you?" Mom says, getting up from her chair.

"It's the truth. No one is paying me to lie to you."

"If my mom was here, she would have back handed you for talking like that!"

"Is that who you want controlling your daughter? Your abusive mother? You want her to reign over you till the day you die?" I say, my voice rising. The back of her hand is ready to come down hard on my temple, but I grab it first. Be a wrecking ball, rings in my ears.

"No, Mom, you will not hit me," I say, forcefully pushing her hand back. "Lock me in my room, lecture me on how I should be more respectful, or kick me out, but don't you ever lay another hand on me again, or you will be in prison, keeping Dad company."

Mom backs off. "Get out of here!"

"Gladly," I say.

I shove my feet into my boots, and saunter out the door.

I won.

I won.

No one can touch me. I am like fire and she is ice.

I hurry down the stairs, skipping two or three steps at a time. I need to run. My feet skid on the asphalt when I jump from the last step, and I take off down the road.

My heart is pumping overtime, and my brain is spinning like a whirly amusement park ride. I am passing cars, everything becoming a blur as I run.

I have finally gotten somewhere with Mom. She did not get to hit me. It's not the alcohol. It never has been.

I arrive in front of Goodwill, staring at myself in the shiny black paint of Spence's truck. Decent, I think. Made up enough to go inside a thrift store, anyway.

I open the door, and the bell chimes. I get the feeling that it hasn't been ringing much today, because Spencer rushes from the back with such vivacity that he trips over his own feet.

"Good morning, you're early. Sarah and I were going to come to your house later."

"I had to leave," I say, rubbing my arm shyly. "Mom made me."

"Did she? What happened?"

"Nothing. I didn't let anything happen." Tears of victory spring into my eyes, Mom did not hit me. Mom will not hit me.

"I'm proud of you," Spencer says.

"Thank you," I say, blushing because I don't know what to do with myself. I have never stood up to someone like I did with Mom this morning and to have Spencer's support means the world to me.

"I was going to do this later, but now seems like the perfect time," Spencer says.

"Do what?"

"Follow me to the back," he says, not answering my question. "But first, grab those plates." He points to a stack of mismatched ceramic plates on his worktable.

I pick them up, and stare at him, waiting to be told what to do next. "You're making me work? Am I getting paid?"

"No, come with me outside."

Why so serious? I want to ask.

We step outside and are met with a gloomy grey sky. "It's gross out," I say.

Spencer nods his head.

I have resorted to commenting on the weather? Suddenly, things seem awkward between Spencer and I.

"Read them," he says, and smiles at the ground.

"Read what?" I too stare at the ground.

"The plates, honey. Read the plates."

I sift through them, and a warm feeling rushes through me. "Anger, hate, abuse, loss, bullied," I read each word aloud and my whole body tremors. "They describe everything I have felt, everything I am. Five little words."

"I want to help you, Bailey. I have been thinking on how to unload all this baggage off you. And this is my solution. God, I hope it works."

"Now what?"

"Break them."

I stare at the one that reads abuse. On it, there is an intricate portrait of a happy little home, a cabin like from the 1800s, when times were simpler. This is the happy little home I wish I lived in, that I had always dreamt of, everything I have never had but always wanted. I toss it and it hits the dumpster, shattering in a fireworks display of ceramic. The happy little home in pieces.

"How did that feel?" Spencer asks, as I pick up the one that reads anger and chuck it.

Release the feelings, Bailey.

I pick up the one that reads bullied, and right then, Spencer hands me a hammer. I break it slowly, torturously, because this is what bullying does to you: chisels away at you until you break and splinter into a million pieces. Angry tears are spilling over my cheeks.

Hate. Hate can tear a person apart like a semi-truck running through a puppy. I get on my knees and break it by bashing it into the concrete, over, and over again, the rim chips, until a spider web of cracks form and it is shattered in my hands.

"Let me help you with this one," Spencer says, handing me loss. There is an angel on it, a handsomely decorated Christmas plate.

"I can't," I say, and hug the plate to my chest.

"You have to," he says, and gently pries it from my grasp.

"I can't let him go."

"If you don't, you can never heal," he says, raising the hammer. "What are the chances you will ever see him again?"

"Slim." I wince as he lowers the hammer, chipping the angel's face.

"What did he do?"

"Killed Jack," I exhale.

"Will Jack come back?"

"Not a chance." I exhale.

"Then I think it's time to let go of both of them, don't you?"

"Yes." I sigh, and take the hammer from him.

"I have another," he says.

We both go at the plate together. I have not lost something, but gained a new friendship, another truss of support.

"I know things seem bleak now, but you'll see the sun will rise, and the birds will sing again. The world stops for no man."

We cut our hands as we carelessly pick up the sharp broken pieces of ceramic, and dump them in the trash. We both have blood running down our wrists. Never has someone joined in my suffering.

"Do you feel at least somewhat better?"

"No. I feel tons better," I say, relief washing over me as I come to terms with what I have let go of and what I have gained in return. "Clad is wrong about you. He thinks you only like me because you miss Lydia, but I think you like me, because you feel I am worth saving."

"If you saw a dying rose, would you trample it, or water it?"

"I would give it sunlight and good soil," I say.

"And then it would turn out to be the prettiest rose you ever saw." Spencer winks at me.

We enter the flickering fluorescent light of the back room; he straightaway fishes out a wet dish-towel, and wipes the blood from my hands and wrist.

"I'm sorry about your hands," he says.

"Don't be, these are cuts I'm glad to have."

"Why is that?" he asks, wiping his own hands of blood.

"Because I got them with you."

"Awe shucks, Bailey. You are the sweetest," he says, and we both laugh.

"Can I tell you anything, Spence?" Our laughter subsides.

" 'Course. What do you want to tell me?"

"Promise you won't be mad?"

"Promise, Bailey, spit it out."

"I kissed Clad yesterday," I say, my words nervously running together.

"I see," Spencer says, and grimaces as he rubs his cuts in the wrong direction, exposing the red flesh underneath the blood. "Did you enjoy kissing Clad?"

I think about it, and think hard, because I don't want to answer incorrectly.

"I'm not sure," I say honestly. "Something in the back of my head kept holding me back. Like, it was wrong to be kissing him. Is that how it should feel?"

"Not if you two truly love each other," he says.

"We've been friends for a very long time; maybe that's why the kiss seemed wrong."

"That should have nothing to do with it; you should feel most comfortable expressing your love to someone who cares about you, right?"

"Why you gotta be the wise owl?" I ask.

"'Cause you keep playing the role of the turkey."

We both snort with laughter.

"A turkey?" I guffaw.

"Yeah, you would drown in the rain if I wasn't here to rescue you. You would drown in your own tears."

I smile at him, the corners of my mouth tilting to the ceiling.

"Let's go to my house, turkey. It's time for my lunch break." He grins, and puts his arm around my waist, leading me out the door. "Look at that," he says.

I squint as the sun shines too brightly in my eyes; I can hear a bird chirping nearby.

## Chapter 26

"You remember Bailey, don't you Mom?" Spencer says as he re-introduces me to his mother, who is stirring a pitcher of homemade lemonade.

"Yes! How could I forget such beautiful eyes," she says.

"Thank you," I say, tracing the tile with my foot.

"That and how you don't shut up about her, in your sleep," she says to Spence.

"You sleep talk?" His face flushes red. "About me?"

"Gee, Mom, you really know how to help me out with the ladies," he says.

"Oh, as if you need any help. You're such a charmer; why, you could charm a snake out of hiding if you had to."

I have stepped out of the conversation. I busy myself with examining their refrigerator. I have always thought that a person's refrigerator is the key to their soul. There are wallet-sized school pictures of Spencer and Sarah and faded crayon drawings of dogs and trees, held on by ABC magnets. On my refrigerator, there are two things: a Smirnoff vodka magnet, and beneath the magnet, a coupon for Charmin toilet paper.

"I look like a dork right?" Spencer says, resting his arm on my shoulder and pointing to a picture of him with bucked teeth, freckles, and a shaved head.

"Adorable," I say.

Sarah come's galloping in, soccer ball under her arm, face pink with exertion. "Please tell me you'll play today?"

"I'm dying to!" I say, and snatch the ball from her. "Try and catch me!" I fly through the door, and down their driveway.

"Wow," Sarah says, as she chases me up and down the road.

"Come on, Sarah, got to be faster than that if you want the ball!"

My shoe-lace comes untied and gets caught underneath my boot. I face-plant it on the road, shells and pebbles dig into my skin.

Sarah is trying—without much luck—to contain hysterical laughter as she helps me up.

"I'm usually more graceful," I say and toss her the ball.

"That fall was the epitome of grace, Bailey."

"I hope Spencer didn't see," I say with an off-kilter smile and pick gravel out of my palms.

"No, he's inside with Mom, making sandwiches. Come on; show me how well you can kick." She kicks the ball to me, and I let it roll to a stop before I kick it far above her head, and we both watch it sail through the sky. "Okay, you can kick well," she says, hands on her hips.

"Want to see what else I can do?" I ask, feeling alive with energy.

"Yes, but does it involve seducing my brother? Because if so, I think you got that under wraps!"

"No, watch me," I say.

I do two flips in the air, stopping only because I might hit Spence's truck.

"I can do a cart wheel," she says, shrugging. She flips in the grass once and falls on her butt. "I used to be able to."

She remains stretched out in the grass, like a little caterpillar, her neck craned, surveying the landscape. "It's a beautiful day out, reminds me of Lydia," she says, her voice faltering.

I plop down next to her, and pick out a handful of grass, then sprinkle it over her knee. "Spencer told me about her in the hospital. Actually, he told Clad. He thought I was knocked out, but I remember him talking about her. Did you love her too?"

"Yes, I did. My whole family did. Even my dad," she says, and wipes a tear away. "She never played soccer with me though; she would just sit up there, on the front porch singing with Spencer."

"Lydia would belt out a tune and weave flowers together; she made a crown for her head. Then one day she lost her hair, from the chemo. Pulled it out in tufts and Spencer had to hold her to make her stop crying. She had such pretty hair..."

My throat is tightening around every comforting word I think to say. Lydia was a goddess to Spencer and his sister...I hate to think what I am.

"Spencer isn't over her. Don't think he ever will be," she says, brushing the grass off her pants.

"I'm so sorry, Sarah. I'm a sad excuse for a replacement."

Her eyes flicker at me. "A replacement?"

"I-I," I stumble with my words, scared that I have said the wrong thing.

"Spencer likes you because you are not Lydia," she says, the cheeriness returning to her voice. "If you reminded him of Lydia, he would be trying to stay away from you, not get closer. It would hurt too much."

I hold her hand. "Sarah, she's still with you."

"How do you know it?" she sniffles.

"I can feel it." I squeeze her hand tighter.

"I feel her too," she says, her gaze falling on a batch of pink and yellow pansies, choked by weeds. "Those are her flowers. The weeds tried to kill them and they are still alive, stubborn as can be."

Spencer raps a spoon against the door and hollers, "Soup's on!"

"No more crying," I say and quickly wipe away Sarah's tears. "You'll make Spencer sad."

She nods and we trek up the hill of crabgrass, hand in hand.

There is a tray of turkey sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade set out on a blanket for us. The three of us sit crisscross and chew on large bites of the thick sandwiches piled with onions, tomatoes, and avocado. I could be eating my brother, or cousin, I kid myself as I eat.

"Thank you Mrs...." I say, as Spencer's mom comes out to fill up the pitcher with more lemonade.

"Mrs. Wild."

"Awesome last name," I titter.

"Bailey Wild," says Spencer.

"It has a nice ring to it doesn't it?" says Sarah.

"It is pretty. Bailey is such a unique name," Mrs. Wild says.

"Mom, what's that smell?" Sarah says, breathing in deeply.

"Smells like cookies," I say.

"It is, I baked cookies for desert!" Mrs. Wild exclaims. "I have to take them out of the oven before they burn!" She skitters to the kitchen, her long bohemian skirt swaying behind her.

"Your mom is so nice," I say and Spencer nearly chokes on his sandwich.

"She can be," he says, dislodging the blob of food from his esophagus. "I think that she could tone it down a bit."

Spencer picks a flower from one of the many rose bushes dotted along his house. He is tearing off the petals when his mom returns with a plate of steaming hot chocolate chip cookies.

"Oh, don't ruin the flowers, Spence!" his mom scolds, taking the damaged flower from his hand. "You act like a little boy sometimes."

"Lydia used to gather the petals of a flower in her palm and then she would blow them at my face." He blows the petals at me. They flutter down in a shower of pink and white, landing in my hair and lap. "There, that looks nice," he says, pleased with himself.

"Take a cookie, Bailey; take as many as you want," his mom says, laying one in my open palm.

"Thank you, Mrs. Wild," I say and nibble the cookie's edges.

"Call me B.B.," she says, and hands me a napkin.

"Okay, B.B.," I say.

"Bailey, can I talk to you about something?" B.B. says, her voice as gentle as if she were talking to a toddler.

I lick chocolate off my fingers. "What about?"

"Your mom," she says, squatting down so we are at eye level.

I look at Spencer, alarmed. You told, I mouth to him.

"Mom! She wasn't supposed to know I told you! What the hell are you thinking?" he yells at her.

"Don't use that kind of language around the girls! I had to say something. I'm a mother, I can't let a child slip through my fingers, even if she isn't mine!"

"I'm not your child! You're correct about that. And you have no right to talk about my mother," I say.

"Oh hush, all I wanted to say is that if things ever become too rough at home, you're welcome here, anytime."

"Oh," I say regretting my harshness.

"I'm sorry about your mom, Bailey, and you know what? I think she really loves you; there is a bond between a mother and daughter that can't be severed. She carried you in her belly for nine months; you were a part of her before she even knew what you looked like."

"I know she loves me," I say and put my cookie down, my appetite gone.

"I think she's a little confused, maybe lost. It's not your fault she hits you, she just needs a little direction."

"Yes," I say and it feels like a rock is lodged in my throat.

"You are welcome here always, okay?" She gives me a hug and my cookie falls on the sidewalk. The petals loosen from my hair, and fall into her golden locks. "I'll let you three finish up. I'm going to get a plate of cookies ready for you to take home with you, Bailey. Your mom would like some fresh-baked cookies, wouldn't she?"

"Sure she would," I say, and pick up my cookie, now covered by a small army of red ants.

I watch her moccasin-clad feet as they scrape over the welcome mat and a feeling of belongingness enters me. I am welcome.

"I'm sorry I told," Spencer says and hands me a fresh cookie. "Peace offering?"

"Don't be sorry. I needed to hear that."

For every bad person like Miemah, there are countless good ones, I realize. For every splinter of lost hope, there is a sea full of dreams, and for every dreary day there is a sun to light the sky and chase away the despair.

"Here, take this home with you," B.B. says after she returns, thrusting a plate of saran-wrapped cookies in my hands.

"Thank you," I say, standing up. I bend down to kiss her cheek. She is short, shorter than Sarah, but in her small body she holds so much wisdom and passion. She is momma owl and I can tell who Spencer gets his knowledgeable ways from.

"I'm going to drive her home and then go back to work, Ma," Spencer says, and gives her a parting hug. We get into the truck and he asks, "You really like my mom, huh?"

"She's a great mother. I would trade her for mine in a heartbeat."

"No, you wouldn't," he says, and puts the truck in gear. "Don't say that."

"I mean it though," I say.

"You only get one Mom, don't take her for granted."

I can hardly believe he is telling me not to take Mom for granted, when that is what she has been doing to me for years.

We come to Parkway Village. I climb down from the truck and look to see if Mom is home. There are four indentations in the dirt and gravel where her car usually sits.

"Good bye," Spence says, and backs his truck from the lot.

"Good bye!" I shout at him as he zips down the road. "Let the fun begin."

I push my face against the glass of the living room window. The house looks as sterile as a hospital. It is safe again. I step inside and put the plate of cookies on the counter. I pop the top off the bottle of pills that Mom has strategically placed on the table, so I would not forget to take them. I drop four pills in my mouth in the hope that a double dose will knock me out.

I strip myself down to my bra and underwear and stretch out on the couch, my arms above my head and my feet atop the arm rest. Angel scrambles up and kneads his tiny paws into my stomach, circling to find a comfortable spot to lie.

"Hey, boy," I say, and scratch his head. "Will you keep me company while I sleep?"

Angel yawns, exposing the insides of his pink cave-like mouth. My chest rises beneath him, like the roll of a gentle ocean and my quiet breathing eases him into a land of dreams. I imagine his heart fusing with mine and our bodies becoming one, his soul diminishing the darkness that has stalked my mind for years.

There is a knock at the front door, no, a pounding. A rapping that sends a chill down my spine as it pulls me out of a paralyzed state, brought on by the Vicodin. Angel bounds off the couch and barks at the door. I sloth to the door and open it, forgetting that I am undressed.

"Hey, Bailey! Oh, where are your clothes? Is this a bad time?" Alana asks and looks over my shoulder.

"There never is a good time for you to come knocking on my door," I say, and motion for her to come in.

"You and clothes must have a bad relationship," she says, putting a gaudy-looking basket of food on the coffee table. "For your birthday."

"You're a little late," I say. I sit back down on the couch and she stays standing, close to the door. Good, I will probably be kicking her out soon anyway. "You never came to see me."

"I'm really sorry about that, Bailey. I just couldn't, not after I saw you in the locker room, battered and bleeding. I thought it would be too traumatic to see you hooked up to machines, and wrapped in gauze like a mummy."

"That's the story you're going with?" I ask, taking a bag of Doritos from the basket.

"It's not a story, Bailey, it's the truth. It's much better this way; you're practically healed aren't you?"

I crack a chip with my front teeth. "You could say that."

"I really wanted to see you, but it would have been too much for me. I hope you can understand."

"I understand," I say nonchalantly. "Is that all?"

"Is this Angel? Clad told me about him at school. Cute puppy." She gets on her knees to pet him.

My heart speeds up. "Don't touch him!" I scream, as if he is a bomb ticking away on the carpet.

"Wows, Bailey, I was just going to pet him," she says, stunned. "You sure are uppity now."

"I don't want you petting him."

"Yeah, why not?" she asks through clamped jaws.

"Because you didn't have the decency to check up on me when I was lying in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, alone with my hallucinations."

"You're such a bitter bitch," she says, stomping one foot in frustration.

"I'm bitter, but I'm no bitch. Would you not be bitter if someone tried to kill you?"

"I would get over myself, build a bridge and get over it, Bailey. I told you my reason for not visiting."

"I don't think our friendship is the same as it used to be," I say, and put the bag of chips on the table. They have begun to taste like cardboard in my mouth.

"Me neither," she says.

"I think you had better go now," I say, and scoop Angel up.

"Put some clothes on slut," she says, turning for the door. She always has to say that one little thing that will push me over the edge.

"That was completely uncalled for," I say, remaining patient. "Just because we aren't best friends, doesn't mean we have to be enemies."

"Here," she says, and throws a rectangular, black piece of plastic at me.

"I thought that if I gave you Miemah's tape, you would feel better about the fact that she has yours. Have a good life, Bailey," she says, and flips her hair.

I finger the tape, considering whether I should post it on YouTube or not. Let the whole student body see Miemah's hard shell cracked.

"What do you think, Angel, should I do it?" I ask him. He licks my face in response. "You're right; it would only give Miemah more of a reason to hate me."

I take the tape with me to my bedroom, squeezing it like a stress ball, and open my sock drawer. The Bullet List is lonely in a spider-web ridden corner of my drawer, an odd-ball amongst a crowd of socks. I set the tape next to it so that it can have a friend, someone to share the spiders with. Next, I put on an extra-large t-shirt that reads "Fort Myers Beach," and a pair of jean mini-shorts.

I comb my hair, and mess up the sheets on my bed before Mom comes home. By the time I have finished mussing up the last pillow, she is coming through the door, groceries and cup of tea in her arms.

"Bailey?" Mom calls out.

"I'm in my room, Mother," I call back.

"What are these?" she asks.

I walk into the kitchen to see her taking the saran wrap off of B.B.'s cookies. There is a pink little note on the plate. I can see it is addressed to her.

"Dear, Mrs. Sykes, please accept these cookies as a token of my family's gratitude for you allowing Bailey to spend time with us. She is a real joy to be around, you should be very proud to have raised such a beautiful young lady, love, B.B.," Mom reads aloud. "Who the fuck is B.B.?"

"Spencer's mom," I say.

"Who does she think she is, making cookies and telling me how I should be proud of you, as if I didn't know it myself? I can bake just fine, thank you. What, does she think I don't feed you?"

"Mom, it was a friendly gesture, we are practically neighbors," I say, surprised by how poorly she is receiving the kind gift.

"We don't need FUCKING hand-outs! We are not a couple of starving pigeons!"

"Mom, are you drunk?" I ask.

"Drunk? Why no, I'm not! But that is exactly my problem! At least when I was drunk I didn't feel so goddamn depressed!"

She takes a bite of one of the cookies and spits it on the ground. "Trash!" she yells, and to my horror, lets the plate fall and crack on the floor, cookies falling underneath the oven and table.

"No!" I cry out in distress. I throw myself on the ground and quick as I can, start gathering the cookies into the protection of my arms. "She was just trying to be nice, Mom; she cares about me, cares about us."

"Niceee?" Mom taunts. "It is my job to care about you! Not some crazy Betty Crocker bitch!" She lifts her foot and I flinch, thinking she will kick me in the face. Instead, she violently stomps the remaining cookies into the tile.

"Please, Mom," I wail. My fingers are stepped on as I try and save what is left of the cookies.

They are not just cookies—they are a symbol of hope, a symbol of love, and sympathy. Mom could never comprehend that in her flipped mind, could never know how badly I needed these cookies to keep me from fading into the darkness again.

"Garbage! Filth! Throw this mess away!" Mom shrieks and pulls at her hair.

I pick up the crumbs, my fingers swelling and turning red as chili peppers. "You're so cruel!"

I retreat like an injured animal to the safety of my room. I let the cookie crumbs sprinkle from my hands and lie with my face against the cool wood of my floor, staring at the sad little bits of cookie. When Mom comes to my door, I kick it closed before she can apologize.

I hold my locket in my hands, press it against my forehead, my eyes closing around a swell of tears. "Daddy," I croak. "I don't want to be strong anymore."

## Chapter 27

Angel's fur is damp from my tears when I wake up on the floor, my body aching. The cookie crumbs are gone; Angel must have eaten them while I slept. The sun is up, but is masked by an ominous-looking wall of purple clouds.

Angel scratches at my door to be let out and empty his bladder. I reluctantly get up and open it for him. He races to the front door, running between Mom's legs as she stirs a cup of coffee.

"Morning," Mom says.

I open the refrigerator and take out a yogurt.

"I said, 'Morning,'" she repeats.

"I heard you," I say, annoyed with her.

"I'm sorry for crushing the cookies last night," she says, as if she is doing me some big favor by apologizing. "Sweetie, it breaks my heart seeing you lying on the floor like that, after crying yourself to sleep. I wanted to wake you up and hold you."

"Then why do you keep doing it?"

"I can't help myself. I'm like a runaway train, I need someone to steer me back on the tracks," she says and opens the yogurt for me, licking the top clean. "I don't know how to function without my alcohol, it's like my brain has been scrambled."

"Don't take it out on me, Mom," I say simply, as if she could suddenly stop.

"I try not to, but it hasn't worked yet." She pulls me to her chest and showers me with kisses.

"You have to keep trying," I say, and bury my face deep into her shoulder.

"Please, don't be so sad, Bailey. It's tearing me apart to see you like this always. What happened to my happy baby? The one who giggled at the very sound of my voice."

She's gone, I think. I can't pinpoint the time she died, but one day I just woke up and the Earth felt stagnant. My burdens too heavy on my shoulders, my feet sinking into soft mud, sucking me down like quick sand.

"That was before I knew how messed up the world is," I say, and take my yogurt from her.

"It won't always be like this," she says.

"That is what everyone keeps saying, Mom; only try as I might, I can't see the end of it all."

Is this just the beginning, or is it finally the end? Please, let it be the end. Sixteen and I am already fed up with life.

I eat my yogurt, pretending I can't hear Mom as she speaks. I zone out, let my mind meander as the morning light brightens the small apartment and tells us both it is time to go to school and work.

"Are you ready to go back?" Mom asks.

"Ready as I'll ever be," I say and put on my boots.

My dad used to wear steel-toed boots whenever he would go out to beat somebody up. One day, I asked him why and he said, "Because then I can smash their heads like pumpkins." As soon as he said it, I was begging Mom for a pair of my own. Soon after, Mom bought me a pink pair of cowgirl boots, hoping that would curtail my obsession for the manly steel-toed ones, but it only made me yearn for them more. Now I'm allowed to wear leather boots, but under no circumstances can they be steel-toed. I wear my boots when I feel a fight in the air.

"Call me if anything happens, okay? I'll be at work but I'll haul ass to school if you're in trouble."

"I should be fine," I say, and drive my casted arm into the sleeve of my pea coat.

"I hope so," she says.

I kiss her, then fling open the door, and beat feet to the bus before it can pull away without me. It is muggy out, warm, but I need my coat to make me feel safe—it holds me together like a straitjacket does a mental person. Come to think of it, a straitjacket would feel pretty good right about now.

When the bus rolls to a stop, I lose myself in the wave of students crashing towards the school's entrance. I pull the hood of my jacket up, covering the staples that are clearly visible in the back of my head.

The whole school has watched my naked, broken body beaten into the ground, they have heard my screams of pain, and now they look at me like I am an alien. Who is this girl? Their faces say. Why should we give a damn about her? And that's it, they shouldn't. No one should have had the desire to see the video, to see Miemah annihilate me, but I know that hasn't stopped anyone. Heck, if I were them, I would want to see the video too, what's more exhilarating than watching a girl get the shit beat out of her?

Going to Latcher's class is not even an option at this point. I make a beeline for the janitor's closet on the second floor, but as I am pushing past patches of my peers, I spot Cecil. She is alone by her locker, I glare at her and she averts her eyes. I have spotted my kill and I go after it at top speed. She closes her locker and gets ready to make a break for it, but she is too slow.

"I'd like to have a word with you!" I say, and grasp Cecil's neck in my hands, a task made difficult because of my broken arm. I push her up against the lockers until her feet no longer touch the ground. She thrashes around, her hands grabbing at the smooth metal of the lockers. "Do you want me to snap your neck?"

She shakes her head quickly.

"Then, listen very carefully to what I'm about to say." I tighten my grip on her throat. I will not be pushed around anymore. Clad was right, they are human, their bones can break like chalk beneath my brutal fingers.

"Okay," Cecil chokes out.

"You are to get that tape from Miemah—you are the one who recorded me, and you are the one who's going to make things right. Is that clear?" I loosen my noose-tight grip on her neck and she gasps. A large group of students encircles us.

"Yes," she says and I let her drop.

The crowd flees—scared I will wring their necks, too.

I turn to leave but Cecil calls after me, "Bailey, I'm sorry I recorded you. I didn't want to, I was scared of Miemah. Everyone is scared of her."

"I've heard that excuse before," I say and walk away.

When I come to the janitor's closet, I try to open the door, but it is locked. I knock on it. Someone knocks back. I step backwards from the door shocked that someone has taken my place of refuge. The door swings open, and Clad yanks me in.

"Thank God," I say. "I thought Miemah had found my hiding spot."

"Nope, no Miemah here. But I did see her walking around the hallways; you need to keep an eye out for her."

"No, I don't," I say. "Because I don't plan on leaving this closet all day. Not until the last bell rings."

"Why do you even bother coming?"

"Better than being at home with Mom," I say.

"Has anyone mentioned the video yet?"

"Not a soul."

"That's a relief. Did you like our kiss?" he asks, twisting the edge of the cot with his lanky hands. His fingers are slim and I can see the veins in them as he works at the flimsy mattress.

"I didn't not like our kiss," I say with a small smile.

Clad's hands push into the mattress, deeper and deeper. I hear the soft sound of paper being crinkled and then his hands leave the mattress altogether. I am suddenly disgusted with him for not bothering to throw away whatever he is storing. Something as small as a gum wrapper maybe, but still I abhor the deed.

"Ah, double negatives. In math, two negatives make a positive, so I take it you enjoyed the kiss."

"It was like kissing my brother," I blurt out. The closet suddenly feels too small for the both of us and with the space my words are creating, I have less and less room to move or breathe. This must be what claustrophobics feel like.

"Oh, great, my kiss reminded you of incest." His hand flops over his knee like his wrist has turned to rubber. It is a slight gesture, but a defeated one nonetheless. I stare at him, breathe him in, my whole self taking in his Mexican poncho sweater, and khaki board shorts.

"I don't know why I did it," I confess, and sit down beside him.

"I know why. The music, the dancing, it got your heart racing, made you light headed and you weren't thinking straight. Nobody in their right mind would kiss me," he says sorrowfully.

I push a wavy strand of hair from his eyes. "The kiss was amazing; just wish it hadn't come from a brother," I say and kiss his chin.

"Don't tease me, Bailey." Clad's hand claws into the small of my back.

"I'm not," I say and kiss him full on the lips.

"Why do you have to be so irresistible?"

I back off from him, just a few inches, but the impulsive move creates a vast distance between us. "I'm not trying to, it just happens."

Clad picks at the sole of his checkered Vans sneakers. "The blood was gone when I came back to the school," he says. "All the evidence gone."

"Why are you just now telling me this?"

"I wanted to wait until you were well. Didn't want to put too much on your mind at once."

"Who do you think disposed of the evidence?"

"Probably Miemah herself," he says flatly.

"She cleaned up my blood after she was through with me," I say, my voice level. "I bet she wishes she could have had a body to bury, too."

I peel Clad's fingers off me and slide over to the wall.

"Bailey, she's done now. I promise you are safe," he says, and puts a hand on my knee. It flops the same way it did on his own knee and I know it's because he doesn't believe what he says.

"What if I'm not safe, Clad?" My voice crackles like I am talking through a crinkling piece of aluminum foil. "What if she won't stop until I'm dead?"

"I won't let her, okay? I will be watching over you always. She won't get the chance."

I run my fingers along my scalp, feel the staples and stop my breathing. The scene from the locker room flashes in my mind, the memory sends shocks along my scalp, and I hear the snap of my arm, smell the blood flowing from my head. I forget to breathe. I keel over, my body making a sickening thud against the linoleum.

Clad cradles my head in his hand, pulls the itchy quilt from the cot over my shaking body. "There, there," he comforts me. "Don't let her get into your head."

"I can smell it," I say. "All the blood, it's filling my lungs like poison. Clad, I can't breathe."

I grab his arm the same way Ashten grabbed mine in the hospital, terrified.

"Feel my heart, Bailey," he says, placing my hand over his heart. "Breathe with me." He exaggerates his breathing like a woman in the throes of labor.

My breathing evens out and I am left feeling extremely dizzy and disorientated.

"Just like that, you got it," he says and lowers my head. "I have to go to class."

Clad awkwardly hugs me.

"Don't worry, I will be okay by myself," I say, hoping I don't make him feel guilty for leaving me.

I stay this way—alone—for hours, my mind flipping through topics like a jukebox through songs. I lift the quilt over my face, let my breathing push it up and down. This is how Jack's spirit must have felt when the paramedics zipped his cold body up in a bag: wrapped up like a burrito, material too dark to see through.

When you die, can you still recognize where you are? Or do you lose all sense of being? Mom says your mind can't think anymore. I believe that your mind can still think, but on a different level. The way a blind person can sometimes see gold lights, or outlines of objects. Jack must have known they were zipping him up; maybe it hurt when the tip of his beard got caught in the zipper.

Death is lonely. Life is lonelier. Though I am unable to grasp the idea of my mind slipping into a vortex of solitude; every fiber of my being knows that death can't be any worse than being alive. If through the darkness I could still see bits of light, I would be at peace with myself.

I rock back and forth on the ground, under the blanket, trying to rest my mind. I let the quilt to remain over my face, because I can see the light shining through the thin fabric.

I am guilty. Guilty of bullying Cecil, and for what? She won't get the tape for me. Then, I will have to snap her neck, or drive a bullet into her skull.

The fear sweating off her like the release of a bad sickness taints my dreams. I see her walking down the halls, her head dramatically tilted, touching her left shoulder. Those fearful eyes wandering. I am staring at my hands, the hands of a farmer, maybe, not a delicate girl. Rough large hands creased with wrinkles, and gashed to the bone, nails as sharp as knives, dirty as rusted screws.

"I got the tape," Cecil says. Her eyes don't blink and they hold the same expression they did when I had my hands around her neck.

I wake with a start, fighting free from the quilt like it is a spider web. The bell is ringing, and students are going home for the day. I have slept through yet another day of school. Only two more years to go, I think forlornly.

I put my hood on as I walk out of the building, to shield my eyes from the relentless sun. There is a chill in the air, but nothing is harsher than the Florida sun.

I walk past the small patch of woods on the opposite side of the school where my Environment teacher once had the class pick up garbage. There is an old tire propped up against a tree; some of the populars, like Miemah and her crew, come to this spot after school to hang out. In fact, I once saw Trenton roosting on the tire, smoking a cigarette.

I can't blame Trenton for taking a liking to Miemah; after all she is a Spanish beauty. Dark brown hair and tight jeans that show off her curves. I do wonder how he got past the look of pure evil that shows in her eyes. One would think that her ugly personality would take away her sparkly appeal, but maybe that is what he liked most about her.

I toss my hoodie and bag on the couch. Mom is in the kitchen fixing an early supper. I whistle for Angel to greet me, but he doesn't come. "Mom, where's Angel?"

She is stirring a pot of stew, throwing in pinches of this spice and that spice, like she is Emeril Lagasse or something.

"Oh, your friends stopped by looking for you and they offered to take him on a walk. They should be back soon."

I don't have any friends. I'm like the kid on the playground who eats his own boogers.

"What friends?" I ask, my throat tightening.

"Mm, one of them was named Nessa. They said they go to school with you. I didn't know you had girlfriends besides Alana," Mom says thoughtfully.

"I don't." I burst out the door. "Angeeelll!" I holler as I tumble down the stairs and into the street. Gone. Abducted by Miemah and her crew.

I scream his name as I run to the bridge that daring kids sometimes jump from. A bridge that Clad and I used to crawl under and draw graffiti pictures with Sharpies. All my organs are in my throat. My boots slap against the concrete and my breath comes out in staggered gasps.

"Angelll!" I cry out once more.

If Miemah hurts him, I will shoot her until she looks like a piece of bloody Swiss cheese.

There is a green Subaru parked beside the bridge. Miemah is leaning against it, a black plastic trash bag in her hand. She is laughing when I come up to her.

"Where's my dog?" I pant. "What did you do with him? I swear I'll fucking kill you if you've touched him!"

The bag in her hand wriggles and whimpers—Angel.

I lurch at her, my hands prepared to wrap around her throat and choke the life out of her.

Just as my nails touch her skin someone pulls me backwards, and I fall hard on my tailbone.

"Crazy bitch!" Miemah snickers and punches the bag.

"I will kill you!" I scream. "I will murder you!"

I scramble to my feet, the gravel slick beneath my boots, and deck her in the throat. Then, while she is still coughing and sputtering from that hit, I knee her in the stomach and grab for the bag. My fingers rip at the plastic as Nessa comes up behind me and lifts me off my feet. She tosses me over the bridge railing, dangling me like a rag doll.

The water looks unforgiving beneath my feet. Kids have died from jumping off this bridge and smacking the water in the wrong way, breaking their necks or backs.

"I'll get you my pretty," Miemah taunts in a witchy voice. "And your little dog too!"

I swing my legs, trying to pull myself back over the railing; Nessa is straining not to drop me, my weight too much to hold. "Please!" I beg.

Nessa finally lifts me over the railing and throws me back onto the sidewalk. I gain my balance and look for Miemah. She is leaning over the bridge, Angel in her wicked hands.

Nessa doesn't try to stop me when I run to him, my arm outstretched. I have the bag in my hands and am bewildered as to why Miemah would surrender Angel, until I look into her crow-like eyes and see they are sparkling demonically. I am shoved, my stomach hitting the ledge, my body tipping over and flailing to the water below. One thing goes through my mind as I am falling, moments away from meeting the water: If Miemah told you to jump off a bridge would you?

## Chapter 28

Running head-on into a sliding glass door because someone has used too much Windex on it. That's what it feels like when I smack the water, the air in my lungs press out of me like squeezing juice from an orange. My two front teeth bite straight through my bottom lip and blood colors the water like food dye. Once I recover, I realize that I am no longer clutching Angel; he must have fallen from my hands when my face hit the water.

"Angeeelll!" I scream out in anguish. He is probably sinking to the bottom of the canal, dead in his plastic bag grave. Puppies can't swim. Puppies can't breathe underwater. Puppies' tiny claws can't rip through plastic.

I kick my legs, thrashing, and screaming until my voice is hoarse, then I hit something slippery, like seaweed. It catches on the tip of my boot and I raise my leg steadily to the surface to retrieve it. The bag. I tear it open and raise Angel above my head. He coughs and whines.

"You maniac!" Nessa screams from above the bridge. "You love that stupid dog enough to die for him." Her and Miemah get in the Subaru and drive away.

I kick myself to a ladder hanging over the side of the bridge, and with my soggy casted arm I hold onto Angel, using my other arm to help me climb up the ladder.

My chest aches and my boots keep slipping on the metal rungs, but I have to make it up. I swing my leg over the edge and place Angel on the sidewalk. He is shaking from fear, and cold water is dripping off his fur.

I slump against the bridge, my heart pounding so fast that it might jump out of my chest and run down the street. I am drenched in the icy water, my clothes heavy and clinging to my skin.

"I'm sorry, boy," I say and scratch Angel's ears. He shivers under my icy fingers and withdraws from them. "Even you aren't safe from Miemah's evil."

I catch my breath and tucking Angel under my shirt, start the long walk home. Blood fills my mouth and I swallow it, but it keeps coming. I poke my tongue around and find a sizeable wound just below my lip.

The wet leather of my boots rubs blisters against my heels, so I take them off and tie the shoe laces together, letting them hang over my shoulder. My cast is like wet paiper-mâché, falling off my arm in strips. I am reminded of my eighth birthday, when Alana and I made a piñata shaped like a princess, then painted it orange because that was the only color paint we had in the apartment, and Mom was too drunk to drive to the store.

Only Clad came to my party. I had invited the entire second grade class, but they were avoiding my party like a trip to the dentist. "They're just jealous of you," Mom had said to comfort me. Jealous of what? The beatings? Clad and Alana, my only friends? Or jealous of my inability to find happiness no matter how hard I sought it?

That day, I took off my party dress, brushed out my curls, and put on sweatpants and a sweater. Clad came into my room, took one look at me and smiled. "I like your outfit," he said, and handed me a crudely wrapped present.

I tossed it back in his face, saying, "You're just saying that because you like me!" He looked hurt, as a single tear crawled down his cheek.

"I do like you," he said, and left my room. He must have gone home, because when I finally came out of the shelter of my room, Mom was passed out on the couch, with a beer dangling in her hand and he was nowhere to be seen.

That's always been our relationship: me being acid and him being base. He takes the full brunt of all my cutting words, and returns them to me, after spinning them into something sweet.

Mom is standing at the door, her lips puckered around a menthol Marlboro. "Are you okay?" she asks and taps the cigarette against her thigh.

I shove past her and head to the bathroom in search of towels for Angel. I take off my wet clothes and squat on the rug, swaddling Angel in towels. I press him against my chest and rock him.

"My cast is ruined," I say when Mom comes to the door, holding my nightgown. "And my lip needs stiches." I pull my lip down, and show her the gaping hole.

She sighs heavily. "Eat dinner, and then I'll take you to the emergency room."

I grab onto the counter to raise myself, my legs feeling unstable. I put my silk night-gown on and shiver. Angel shivers with me and barks.

Mom is setting the kitchen table, as if I didn't just fall off a bridge in an effort to save my dog that she let my enemies snatch from our own home.

"Different girls, this time," I lie and chew on a piece of beef.

"Mhm," Mom says, stuffing a potato in her mouth so she won't have to say anything more.

"I fell off a bridge, they were going to kill Angel."

Mom drops her spoon in her bowl of stew. "Sorry," she says, her voice reaching just above a whisper.

I grimace as the heat of the soup stings my cut.

"I'll put some broth in a cup for you," she says, catching sight of my pain-warped face. I sulk to the couch to relax and let Angel rest between my legs.

Later on, Mom wrestles Angel from me and locks him in my bedroom; we go to the emergency room and wait three hours to get stitches and a new cast.

Neon green. A small improvement on my last one, it is the color of a shirt I would choose to wear clubbing. Four black, hair-like stiches stick out from the cut inside my mouth, tickling my gums. My tongue runs across them, fascinated by this new addition to my mouth.

"We're broke," Mom says, hitting her head on the steering wheel.

"We've been broke."

"We're more broke," she corrects herself. "Why did they do it?"

"Beats me," I say.

Mom rolls her eyes and cuts the ignition. We are sitting in her car below the apartment, and she is refusing to go inside. "We need to talk through some things," she says.

"I'm tired," I say.

"Maybe you should consider homeschooling. These kids aren't going to stop, that much is obvious. You and Angel would be safer."

I draw in a breath. "Ha! And then they would come to the apartment and harass you, too."

"It was only a suggestion," she says, overwhelmed.

"A terrible one."

"What about the police?"

"No. We can't get them involved. They can't take Miemah down. No one can," I say. "And I've done things I shouldn't have, and so have you."

We are all criminals in this game called life. The least I can do is keep the playing field even. An eye for an eye. No one would miss Miemah.

"Can we go in now? I don't want to leave Angel alone any longer than I have to," I say.

"Fine," Mom says and unlocks my car door.

I leave her moping in the car, her eyes glowing in the dark like a bats eyes.

When I open my bedroom door, Angel comes barreling out, thrilled to see me. "Let's go to sleep, boy." I pick him up by the underside of his warm belly. His fur is still damp, so I let him come under the covers with me. "Now if only your fur glowed in the dark," I yawn. "Then it wouldn't be so dark in here."

The front door opens and shuts, Mom has finally left the car. She enters my room and kisses my forehead and Angel's too. Her face is wet with tears.

"You've been crying," I say, my voice quiet.

"What do you do, when you can no longer protect your child? I feel so helpless in defending you, Bailey."

"You don't have to," I say, and kiss her hand.

"When you were little, you would fall and scrape you knee and I could tickle and kiss the pain away. You would be all better. Now, I can only take you to hospitals, my broken doll, and ask the doctors to fix you back up. When did my hands, stop being able to heal you?" she says, another barrage of tears coming on.

"When the world decided I didn't deserve to live," I say.

"You have just as much right to be here as anyone else!" Mom says, at wits end. "Don't you let anyone make you think otherwise."

"Will we get through this?" I ask her, knowing she will answer as she always does: 'It will end.'

"I don't know," she says, surprising me. "Good night, sweetheart." She leaves my door open a crack so that a bit of light shines in from the kitchen.

Tonight I dream of mirrors. I am in a room of them, each one reflecting a different image of me at different points in my life. The reflection of my malnourished body in the hospital, Spencer's bathroom mirror reflecting my bruised body after my fall down the stairs, and before Miemah had done so much damage, my own mirror showing my skin glowing and beautiful, not a single scratch on it.

There is a fogged-up mirror and I wipe it with my hands franticly. Once it's clear, I stare at it, the back wall of the room reflected in it. My body doesn't show up. I am not there. I don't exist.

I am screaming when I wake. And vaguely aware of Angel's furry little body, being squeezed in my hands. I release him and let out a guttural noise.

Mom stumbles into my room waking from the sound of my choked screams. "What? What?" she says, searching the room for the cause of my distress.

"Bad dream, really bad dream," I say.

"You're sweating," she says, slapping a hand to her forehead, relieved I am unharmed. Well, for the most part, anyway.

I have sweated through my nightgown and sheets. "What time is it?" I ask, not able to tell by the moon outside my window, which shines just as brightly whether it is midnight or early morning.

Mom looks at the clock in the kitchen. "About five. You should get ready for school now."

I dress myself, sip on a glass of tea to soothe my lip, and get on the bus for school. My routine is becoming stale: wake up, dress, eat, go to school. I am chewing on it, like bread crust, rough, and tasteless. The same sun rises over the same trees, and the same school opens its doors to me. But beyond all the routine events of my morning, my bones can feel a change in the air: today I am going to play out a new script. I dread what the day will bring.

There is a thick-bodied little man with a cart of cleaning supplies blocking the janitor's closet. "Who are you?" I ask brashly.

"Chewy," the man says and holds his brown hand out to me.

I rub my sweaty palm against my jeans and shake hands. "Is this your closet now?" I ask, my words boomeranging back into my head: is this your closet now? As in 'no longer my refuge, no longer my rock to hide under, no more a pile of sand to bury my head in.'

"It is. The principal assigned it to me. Why you ask, girly?" Chewy says, his words tinged with a Spanish accent.

"Can I stay here when you aren't using it?" I ask, my words fast and pressing.

Chewy raises an eyebrow at me. "You mean so you can you skip class?"

I nod. "The kids hate me, they beat me up." I try to sound pathetic and sweet.

Chewy considers it, playing with a blue rag in his hands. "I guess so," he says. "But don't tell anyone I let you, K? I could get fired."

"Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye, should I dare tell a single soul!" I say.

"Yeah, okay..." Chewy says, clearly not getting the joke. He pushes his cart from the door and strolls down the hall. As he walks away, his cart in front of him, I hear him mutter, "Loco."

I shut the door, lock it, and take a seat on the cot. A couple weeks ago I was sitting on this same cot, writing out my Bullet List. Then it was just a question, an idea stashed in the back of my mind; now it is front and center, a tangible goal. The only question is: when will I go through with it? Tomorrow, ten days from now, twenty years?

I'm a serene body of water, just waiting for someone to walk by and toss a rock in me, causing me to ripple out, triggering a chain of events. I am about to pull out my binder and a piece of paper for sketching when my phone chimes. I am surprised at first, not having heard it ring in days. It's a text from Trenton. Talk about unexpected.

'Hey Sexy, I'm sorry about lunch a week back, and I heard about Miemah and the locker room. Hope all is well. Would you like to come to my house today after school?'

Trenton inviting me to his house? What could he possibly be planning? Then I remember Ashten in the hospital, and her confiding in me about Trenton's scheme to take over the Allie. I quickly type out a reply.

'Sounds good.'

I'm going to be shooting up the school soon, and then I will be in prison for the rest of my life like Dad, what do I have to lose? Trenton thinks his plan is failsafe: Kill the leader's little sister and take the throne. Real original, I think sarcastically. Except, he didn't count on Ashten telling anyone, or even on her discovering his plot to take over.

I can't sleep. My body is stiff. I wonder about Clad, Spencer, and Lydia. Think about Angel and wish he was here to snuggle up with. I wonder if I will break Spencer's heart when I go through with my Bullet List and end up in prison. Hasn't he suffered enough?

Be selfish, Bailey, I say to myself. If I'm not, then Miemah will never stop, not until I'm buried in the ground, or sunk in the bottom of a nearby canal with fish swimming in and out of my skull.

The idea of me being dead brings up a new thought: What if Miemah kills me before I can kill her? What will happen to my soul if I should die? Will it float out of my body, like an angel, and soar up to heaven? Or will it stay trapped inside me, forced to witness my body turning to dust, my hair losing its sheen, and my lips shriveling up and turning white?

"What is heaven?" I asked my Sunday school teacher once. Even when I was a toddler, I had a strong fascination for life and death, and the journey your body takes after your last breath.

"Energy," she replied. "Liquid gold and dandelions."

## Chapter 29

When I was ten, I received a letter from my dad. The only one my mom ever let me read, because I am sure my dad sent many more. I keep it in my dresser, in a drawer where I store all the things that I would save if the apartment caught fire.

Only me, him, and jack will ever know what happened that night.

The letter explained in great detail what happened, why Jack really lost his life. How he forfeited his life the minute he stepped outside the bar. My dad wasn't drunk, although he was accused of being so at the time of the murder. I know he wasn't, because he told me in his letter. Also, he had been getting me a Coke, like I asked for. There wasn't enough time for him to have absorbed much alcohol into his system.

Dad was minding his own business, asking the bartender for a Coke with a lid and straw, for me. Jack walked up to the bar for some whiskey. He made a comment about my dad ordering soda. "What are ya', some kind of queer?" Jack asked, as the bartender handed my dad the soda that was intended for me.

"It's for my little girl," My dad said.

"Yeah? I don't see a little girl around here. Just a bunch of men, do they turn you on?" Jack said, squeezing my dad's shoulders.

"Get your hands off me," Dad had said, fighting the urge to strike Jack down.

"Oh, you don't think I'm hot?" Jack sneered, shoving Dad into a bar stool. The stool tipped and my dad crashed to the ground. "Where's your little girl now, huh? She could probably fight me better."

"Don't you talk about my daughter!" Dad yelled. He socked Jack in the mouth.

"Take it outside boys!" the bartender barked.

"Oh, we'll take it outside all right," Jack said, raising his chin and pushing out his chest.

Dad stormed from the bar, but not before grabbing me. He was hoping that he could get outside, into his truck, and drive home for the night. But that was not to be, Jack had a different idea swarming inside his intoxicated head. He followed Dad outside and the real fighting began.

A few swings, that's what my dad was thinking. Hit him a few times, and get out of here, because my daughter is watching. When my dad hit the three-punch mark, he was ready to go, to get the heck out of there.

I kept thinking about your mom and you, Dad wrote. Just as he was pulling away from Jack, a knife was pulled. Dad's blood pumped like liquid steel, he needed to keep that knife away from himself, away from me. He stared into Jack's milky blue eyes, reflecting the malice and determination on his face, and with one swift blow to the temple, he, ultimately killed Jack. It wasn't self-defense, it was daughter-defense. Dad would never take a man's life over his own, but how else could he ensure my safety?

A Hawaiian girl in a hula skirt bobbles on the dashboard. That should be the first sign that Trenton is no good: what kind of person has a bobble head in their car? A serial killer.

The head bobbing in rhythm with the flow of the car, and bumps of the road, signifies that I shouldn't be in Trenton's car and I shouldn't be driving with him to his house.

"My family isn't home," Trenton says.

The hula girl smiles at me, a forced turning up of the mouth that warns me, "Don't go any further with this guy, he's a lunatic."

"So, have you heard from Ashten lately? Seeing as you two are buddy-buddy and all," Trenton asks.

"Yes," I say. "We were at the same hospital."

"I figured. And, uh, what did you guys talk about?"

"Stuff," I say.

"Like?"

"Like, what do you care what we talked about?"

"Sheesh, I was just asking," he says.

We pull into his driveway, the car lurching forward and coming to a sudden halt, hula girl crashing off the dashboard.

This is a mistake, I think.

"I took the liberty of getting the couch set up for us," Trenton says, putting his keys in a tray on a side table.

"So we could sit?" I ask dumbfounded.

"No?" he says. "You do know why I invited you over, right?"

I shake my head no.

His house is furnished with Ikea furniture, cream and beige the color scheme of his living room. On the side table there's a group of family photos, all in crystal picture frames: Trenton as a little boy, him at his first baseball game, his little sister at her ballet dance recital, and Jack. I would know that face anywhere.

The beard is flesh colored, just like Jack's, and his eyes are milky blue, just like Jack's, and his lips are thin, and his face is chiseled. Just. Like. Jack's.

"Who is this man?" I ask, pointing to the picture.

"He's my dad," Trenton says, and the room tilts, the floor rises, tossing me face down to the ground. "What's wrong?" His hand grabs my arm and lifts me to my feet.

"What was his name?" I ask not wanting to hear the answer.

"Jack."

"Let's step outside," I say as Jack did on his last night.

"Why?"

"I have to tell you something, and after I do, you aren't going to want me in your house."

We sit on the steps.

Where do I begin? I know you tried to kill Ashten, and oh yeah; my dad killed your dad.

"I saw your dad die," I say.

"That's not funny, Bailey."

"I know it's not, he's been haunting me since the night my dad killed him to protect me."

"No."

"Yes."

"You are the little girl?"

"Yes."

"What is your father's name?" Trenton says, beginning to make the connection.

"Angel."

Trenton thinks about it. His eyes grow huge. "Sykes. Angel Sykes. I'm a fucking retard. You have the same last name as him, and I never put two and two together!" he says. "I'm trying to hook up with the daughter of a murderer!"

"He did it in self-defense! Your dad had a knife!" I say.

"My dad was a good man, a good father! He was beaten to death, because your dad was a drunken prick!"

"Well, you're not any better!" I yell back at him.

"Yeah, how come? Enlighten me."

"Because you also tried to kill somebody. Ashten told me, she knows you tried to kill her at the bonfire! You won't get away with it. You'll never lead the Allie. Her brother will make sure of that."

Trenton looks combustible, his body is shaking. "She told you about the Allie? Then, you have to join now. Join or die." he says, his voice so calm it chills me. "It's simple, Bailey, you either become an Allie, or we have to kill you for refusing membership."

"Then kill me," I hiss, and get up from the steps. "Maybe you can avenge your dad by killing me."

I start off on the long walk home, irate and cursing under my breath. Join or die? Is the Allie a secret society, or a gang? I've never heard of a gang that forces membership. Well, let Trenton think he can kill me. He won't ever get the chance, because he has just made it onto the Bullet List.

It's a small world, I think. So small that the boy I kissed could end up being the son of Jack, so small that a gang and Miemah could both be out to kill me. So small that I could already have a list made out and a gun at my disposal, to kill every one of them before they get ahold of me.

"Did you have fun at your friend's house?" Mom asks when I enter the apartment.

"Loads," I say sarcastically and head straight for my room.

"Why don't you come watch a movie with me in the living room?" she says. "I made popcorn."

I stare at the bowl of popcorn in her hand as she shakes it, like I am Angel, and she is holding my favorite treat. "A gang wants to kill me," I say. "No, I don't want popcorn, or to watch a movie."

I shut my door. Angel is sleeping beneath my bed. I lie on the floor so that I can pet him while I try to fall asleep, too.

Surprisingly, the thought of the Allie seeking me out doesn't weigh too heavy on my mind. Miemah is more daunting than any gang, she has always been there, and with the gang I don't know what I'm up against, so I have no idea what to fear or not fear.

From the window, the moon shines down on my face. I want sleep, but it doesn't come. My mind is sluggish and my head aches. Through the night, I stare at the popcorn ceiling, discerning outlines of pigs and hot air balloons until the moon retires and the sun takes its place in the sky.

Mom tells me to get dressed and I mechanically put a shirt over my head and pull a pair of jeans over my legs. I don't know if what I'm wearing even matches, but it doesn't matter. I think I have reached the lowest point in my life. Let it all end. Let the world come crashing down around me so I can finally pick up the pieces and move on.

I write a poem on a sheet of paper and tape it to the door of the janitor's closet so I can read it while I lie on the cot.

I will live.

I will survive.

I will just get by.

I will not make it.

I will die.

I am dead.

Where are the letters? I think to myself. The letters that my father wrote me. I know he had time to kill, sitting in his ten by ten-by-ten cell, sleeping on a one-inch thick mattress, going to the bathroom in full view of his cellmate.

It still makes my heart ache when I think of him and how I have been cut off from him, severed like an umbilical cord. Someone raps against the door and I detach myself from the comfort of the cot to open it. Cecil tries to poke her head in, but I leave the door open only enough so that her voice can reach me.

"What?" I ask harshly.

"I got the tape," she says, pushing it through the door to me. "But, Bailey... Miemah, is...she... is... well, I think—"

"Well, what is it?"

"Miemah is going to kill me."

"So, she wants to kill everyone, what's new?"

"I mean it, Bailey! I'm... I'm scared."

"Serves you right," I say, closing the door on her and locking it.

Cecil knocks again and I try to ignore her. The knocking continues, so I take another sheet of paper out and write:

Knock. Knock.

Who's there?

Miemah is going to kill.

Miemah is going to kill who?

You.

And I slip it under the door to Cecil. I hear her gasp and crumple it up.

You made me like this, I think. You created me—a monster in disguise. I huddle in my lair, breathing heavily, waiting for my next victim.

Minutes pass, hours pass, no one else comes to the door. The last bell warns me that I should get the hell out of here before I am to be trampled on by hundreds of feet, all equally as eager as I am to end their day at this little piece of crap school.

I stumble into the brightly lit hall, my arm shielding my eyes. I usually leave through the back staircase because I am terrified of being caught by Miemah. However, this is no longer an issue for me now; I don't fear Miemah anymore then I would fear a kitten.

I turn down the main hallway and scope out Miemah, who's chatting it up with Cecil. Wants to kill you? More like wants to befriend you. Maybe it was just a ploy, maybe this isn't the real tape sitting in my pocket. I walk past them, training my ears on their conversation.

"Miemah, I'm sorry, please forgive me. I'll do anything. I'll get the tape back, I'll beat her up," I hear Cecil beg Miemah.

"No, that's my job," Miemah says, inspecting a chipped nail, unfazed by Cecil's pleas.

I am turning my back when my name is called out.

"Bailey," Miemah says. "What do you think we should do with Cecil? She's a dirty, lying thief. You don't like her, so what should we administer? Brass knuckles? Maybe we could pull her teeth out one by one, with pliers." She grabs Cecil's arm tightly, forcing her to look at me.

"I don't care what you do with her, just leave me out of it," I say staring at Cecil's feet because her eyes are too horrified to look into.

"Bailey, please!" Cecil cries. "Don't let them hurt me! I got the tape for you; doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"I'm no match for Miemah," I say, pretending she is not standing a couple of feet away from me. "You know that."

Leave, Bailey, I think. If I stay any longer Cecil's cries will convince me to help her. I turn on my heel and take slow steps forward.

"Bailey, remember how you felt in the locker room? All alone and in pain? You weren't alone though, because behind that camera I was dying inside too, as I watched it all happen through the lens. But I was disconnected. I could have helped you. Please don't make the same mistake I did."

Do I really want Cecil's blood on my hands? Seeping into my already traumatized mind? I could turn away now, leave and go home. Abandon Cecil to fend for herself, like she left me in the locker room.

"She don't give a damn 'bout you," Miemah says. "No one cares a bit for your sorry ass."

I clench my hands into fists, and turn back around. Cecil is shaking in Miemah's hands, and for a minute I see myself in her. "Be a wrecking ball," Clad's words surface.

I swing my cast with force at Miemah's nose and dark red blood comes squirting out. Miemah lets go of her grip on Cecil.

"You bitch! It's broken!" Miemah tilts her head back, trying to coax the blood back into her nose. "No one cares about you either, Bailey," she says in a nasally voice. "Your so-called friend Alana, she helped me clean up your blood and get rid of all the evidence."

Her admission doesn't dig into me like it should. I already knew Alana wasn't on my side—heck, maybe she even told Miemah I'd be in the locker room... Maybe she's the one who told Miemah where my apartment is.

"Your nose is crooked," I say.

Cecil and I share a smile before two rough hands pin my arms together and pull me out of the hallway, and down the stairs. "Let go of me! Cecil needs my help!" I shout at the hairy arms that are latching onto me like I am an escape artist who could vanish at any second.

"I knew you were trouble, Bailey!" Mr. Stickler, the school principal, growls. "You will be sent to ALC for this. I am sick of hearing about you bullying my students!"

"I did it to protect Cecil!" I yell at him.

He kicks open the office door and tosses me into a leather chair inside of Mrs. Flores's office. She is one of the many school counselors.

"Stay here and don't you move a muscle, young lady!" he says, his face beet-red as he waves his finger at me.

I stare down at the armrests on the chair and notice yellow stuffing spilling out like maggots from slashes that have undoubtedly been made by nervous fingernails. I wonder how many other kids have sat in this same chair, pulling out the stuffing.

Mrs. Flores ambles in gracefully and slams the door behind her, indicating that she means business.

"Is Miemah in the office too?" I ask before she even sits down, fixing herself like a bird in its nest, ruffling its feathers. She kind of looks like a bird too, with a large pointed nose and tiny, glassy eyes.

"I don't believe so. Anyway, that is none of your business," she replies.

"You have to keep her away from Cecil, she wants to kill her," I say.

"Mrs. Stewart informed me of multiple times that you bullied Miemah and other girls. Is it true you punched Miemah in the face just now?"

"Is it true that her blood is splattered on my cast?" I ask and shove my cast in her face. "Is it true that soon Cecil's blood will be spilling from her body because no one is taking care of her?"

"You are a troubled little girl."

"You'd be too, if you'd seen a person's life taken before your eyes."

"You need counseling," she says and pushes my broken arm off her desk, afraid I will stain the wood with Miemah's blood.

"At least send someone to bring Cecil down here, or to check on her," I say, ignoring the rude observation.

"I'm afraid I cannot and I have plausible reason to assume that your story is fabricated. Why would you try to protect someone you viciously bullied?"

"I never bullied her. Stewart made that all up! Cecil bullied me and that's why I don't want her to get the living day-lights beaten out of her, because I know what it feels like. It is not a pretty feeling."

"I could send you to ALC for punching Miemah. Tell me three good reasons why I shouldn't," Mrs. Flores says, cupping her hands together.

"I only did it to protect another student, she's beaten me up many times before, and, and...for my third can I plead insanity? You said it yourself—I need counseling."

She laughs, her beak of a nose snorting and honking. "I think you could plead insanity."

"Okay then, I'm a lunatic," I say.

"How did you break your arm?"

"Can't say."

"Will you whisper to me, tell me how it happened?" she says, making a come hither motion with her finger.

I look around the room both ways like one would do before crossing traffic, then lean over the desk and whisper, "Miemah pushed me."

"Why didn't you tell the principal, or a teacher?"

"They would never believe me. No one believes me when I tell them the truth."

"Did you really bully Miemah, Cecil, and Nessa? Or was it the other way around?"

"The other way."

"Bailey," she says coming away from her desk, and bending down, an arm around my shoulders. "I believe you."

I notice as I am leaving, her eyes are the color of autumn leaves and her hair is as golden as honey. She is the prettiest bird I have ever seen.

## Chapter 30

Blood on the walls, blood on the floor, blood on the cot and quilt. Blood on a pair of brass knuckles lying in the middle of the closet. I am too late.

My beautiful sanctuary is painted with Cecil's blood. I can't breathe in here, my safe spot. I could run after them, try to find Cecil, but what would be the use? Miemah has a car. Moreover, even if I did find Miemah, I wouldn't be able to take her on.

I take a stack of folded washcloths and a gallon of bleach from the janitor's supplies and start cleaning the little closet, rendering it free of all traces of blood. That is what friends do for each other, clean up one another's blood, after it's been spilled by Miemah.

This is how Mom must feel when she goes on one of her cleaning rampages after abusing me. Scrubbing away the bad memories and drowning out the voices in her head with the smell of Clorox. My hands turn raw and red, the skin soft and tight. I put gloves on and continue the cleanup. The blood on the walls is a particular pain, but luckily I find a bucket of white paint and after a few coats it is hardly noticeable. I dispose of the brass knuckles and quilt.

The blood on the metal legs of the cot sticks on like jelly. Strawberry jelly, I think, not blood. Red food dye and corn syrup, not real blood. Certainly not Cecil's blood.

The vapors trapped in the closet have nowhere to go but inside me, filling my head and lungs with paint fumes, bleach fumes, and Windex fumes. I remember my mom once telling me that when you clean a bathroom you should never mix bleach and Windex. I am beginning to feel lightheaded, so I lie down on the freshly cleaned floor and close my eyes.

The bleach and paint is making my throat scratchy. I try to fall asleep and ignore it. But when I drift into sleep, I am forced awake by the wetness on my face, tears are trying to wash my stinging eyes.

I can't easily get over the fact that my safe haven has been breached by unthinkable evil. People say I will sleep when I am dead, but I think they have it all wrong, because the best sleep is the kind you can get while alive, your mind formulating dreams. A world of dreams can only be entered through sleep. When you are dead, there are no dreams and you don't need them. What would you dream of? Being alive and being able to dream again?

I think my ears are playing tricks on me when I hear the jangling of keys and the turn of a lock. Footsteps and the roll of a cart, the sounds of Chewy, but I don't want to open my eyes to confirm it. The door opens and then clicks shut. I breathe a sigh of relief. Chewy has not discovered what happened here, he still thinks it is my safe place.

I sit up too fast and faint back to the floor. The fumes have evaporated, but my head is heavy and achy. I have spent all night in the janitor's closet, I realize with horror. Mom must be having a heart attack wondering where I am. I dial her number on my cell and tap my fingers on my knee as it rings and rings, Mom picking up on the last ring.

"Bailey?" she says, her voice tired.

"Mom, I'm okay."

"Where have you been?"

"At a friend's," I say.

"And you didn't even tell me?" she says, unbelieving.

"Mom, I was going to, but we fell asleep early. I'm sorry."

"Are you at school?"

"No, I'm not feeling well. Can I stay home today?" I say, with a cough that I meant to be fake, but turns out to be real from the irritation in my throat.

"Sure honey, do you have a way home?"

I nod and then realize she can't see me through the phone "Yes."

"Your voice sounds hoarse," she says.

I don't tell her it is because my throat has been scratched dry by bleach.

"I have to go, I'll be home soon. Bye, Mom."

"I love you," she says before I hang up.

I swing my head up and see that my paper is still taped up to the back of the closet door. Underneath what I've written, someone has added a few words in red pen. 'There is hope still. Chewy.' I smile to myself. That guy's all right, I think, as I peel it off the door and stuff it in my bag. I give the room one quick look over to be confident that it is free of blood, then blow a kiss and let the heavy door fall shut behind me.

The school is fairly empty and I judge by the sparseness of students in the hall that it is still quite early in the morning. I go out the back door, down the stairs and escape to the gym, where there is a door that leads to the track. Once I am on the track, amongst a group of students taking an early run, I climb over the chain-link fence and this is how I make my way out of the school without being noticed.

The sun is low in the sky, so I guess the time is about 6:45. The buses are just rolling in. I run in the opposite direction of the kids who are on their way to school. I pass the little wooded area with a retention pond; the flat car tire that Trenton sometimes sits on, looking lonely by itself, having fallen over in the rotting leaves. I breathe in the fresh air.

I try to imagine a trail of blood on the sidewalk, a trail I could follow that would lead me to Cecil, but I can't see it. No matter how hard I squint my eyes, I see only the grey porous concrete. She must be okay, I tell myself. Certainly by now she has made it to a hospital... unless, unless she isn't here anymore. Who's to say she isn't buried beneath a blanket of dirt?

My heart thuds in my chest. I run home faster. I need nothing more than to be locked in my mother's arms and have Angel lapping my face with his warm tongue. My legs propel me forward, even though my mind is lagging somewhere on the sidewalk just outside of school.

I haven't truly prayed to God since I was five, but now is as good a time as ever to start again, so while I am running, my voice shudders as I say a little prayer for Cecil. It sounds stupid, I know, me praying for one of my greatest enemies. But maybe that is what justifies the prayer. I learned in Bible School that when you pray, you should pray for anyone who has done you an injustice, because those are the people who need God most. With this in mind I pray for my wretched little self too.

Mom is at the table, drinking coffee and twisting her hair between her fingers, when I come through the door.

"Mommy," I say. My voice cracks and reveals my distress.

"What's the matter, darling?" she asks.

I take my bag off my shoulder and in one big stride I am against the warmth of her body. Her hands are in my hair and her kisses on my cheeks.

"Mom," I say again. I can't tell her what has happened, if I do she will send me away, or we will have to move. We don't have the money for that. "I just missed you."

Mom laughs happily and takes my face in her hands. "You always were the type to get homesick," she says.

I piece myself together, get Angel from my room, sit him in my lap, and listen as Mom instructs me on how to microwave the food she has made me for lunch.

"You will stay out of trouble while I'm at work, won't you?" she says, kissing my head.

"I'll be good, Mom."

"Will you be safe here alone?" she asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and looking at the front door nervously, like a burglar might bust through it at any moment.

"I have Angel to protect me," I say and lift him as a visual.

After Mom has left, I pull my cellphone out of my bag and call Alana. She answers in a voice that is at once bitter and hushed, "What do you want Bailey?"

"I need Cecil's number," I say.

"What makes you think I have it and if I did, why would I even give it to you?"

"You are friends with them: Miemah, Nessa, Cecil. Didn't take me long to catch on."

"Why do you want her number?" she says, toying with me.

"Is she at school today?"

"No..."

"That's because Miemah beat her within an inch of her life, yesterday. I need to call her and see if she is still alive, Alana, because what if Miemah didn't bother to leave an inch this time?"

I hear her sigh, and can envision her rolling her eyes.

"Fine," she says. "Ready?"

"Yes, I'm ready." She rattles off the number. I don't write it down, but it is fixed in my mind. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it..." she says. "Really, don't mention it."

"I won't," I say and hang up.

I gain my wits and dial Cecil's number.

It rings but no one picks up. So I try one more time and a woman's voice answers, "Hello?"

"This is Cecil's friend, Bailey. Is she ... home?"

"No, I'm sorry," the voice says. "She's in the hospital. She was hit by a car."

"A hit and run?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Will she... you know..."

"She'll be okay. God is watching over her. Keep her in your prayers please; she'll have a long recovery."

"I will," I say. "Goodbye."

My heart feels so much lighter knowing that Cecil is not dead. I think about my Bullet List and many other things, every thought colliding until my mind is one massive knotted ball of confusion and disorder. I watch the television to ease my thoughts, but I can't focus on what the people are saying. I watch their lips moving but hear no sound.

Angel scratches at my arm, begging for me to take him outside. I lock the door, as if to say, no Angel, we can't go out there, it's too dangerous. Miemah knows where we live.

I want Clad or Spencer to come over and watch me, assure me that I am alive because my body doesn't feel right. Sometimes I think I am not breathing, or that I have been sitting one way for three hours when it has only been three minutes.

I fear that if I fall asleep, I might never wake up again. For this reason, I avoid taking my medication—it makes me too drowsy.

I uncurl my legs and check that Mom's Walther is still in the kitchen drawer, amongst knickknacks we can't seem to find a place for. Safe and sound. The bullets lay beside it. I hold the gun in my hand—feeling the cool metal beneath my fingers and how my wrist sags beneath its weight.

I try to familiarize myself with the weapon, because I know it is the only thing I have left to hold onto in this world. Yes, Chewy, there is still hope. Hope that Miemah, and all the people that hurt me, will perish.

I recall a verse I read in the Bible once, 'vengeance is mine saidth the lord.' If that is true, then how come Miemah is still breathing? If I take vengeance, will God not let me into heaven? Will my name be erased from the Book of Life for evening out the odds? The thought rattles me. I place the Walther back in the drawer and close it, wondering if I will ever open it again.

I sit on the rug in the living room and try to teach Angel a few tricks. How to give me his paw, beg for food, and fetch his squeaky ball. The time is passing by slowly and normally it would be delightful to be at home alone with Angel, but I know the feeling can't last.

I want to guard myself against becoming too happy, or content, because when something happens to shatter that feeling, it will be more devastating for me to come down from. I think of my emotions as climbing up a ladder, the higher I climb, the farther I will have to fall to meet the ground. The harder the impact will be.

I stretch out on the rug, my arm beneath the coffee table and my feet against the wall, just to rest my head. Soon enough I am asleep—deep in the lulls of REM sleep. The jiggling of the front door and Angel's incessant barking is what it takes to pull me out of it. I struggle to my feet and unlock the door, allowing Mom in.

"Did you eat your lunch?" she asks before she is even halfway inside.

"I fell asleep," I say with a large yawn.

"Sleepyhead, if you don't eat then your bones won't heal. You have to be healthy so your body can heal itself faster."

"I know, I'll eat it for dinner," I say.

She slams three cartons of Coca Cola on the table and says, "Phew! Those were heavvvyyy!"

"Soda?" I ask. "Since when do you buy soda?"

Tap water or orange juice have been the only things to drink around here since we moved to Cape Coral.

"Well, now that I've stopped buying liquor..." she says, letting me figure the rest out for myself.

"Can I have one?" I ask eagerly.

"They're warm."

"I don't mind. Can I?"

"Sure, sweetie, catch," she says, and tosses one at me.

I catch it but fumble, my cast getting in the way.

"Guess who is outside," she says.

"Spencer?"

"Is that his name? The dreamy-looking one?" Mom says with a grin.

"Tell him I'll be out in a sec, I'm going to change my clothes."

I leave my soda can on the table and rip my clothes off in a flurry. In the very back of my closet, never having seen the light of day, is a sun-dress, the same color blue as my eyes. I put it on and have Mom zip the back up for me.

"So beautiful," Mom breathes. I do a spin for her with my arms in the air and she claps. "So graceful and yet I can't get you out of those ripped jeans and worn-out t-shirts."

Her statement is pointless, because we don't have money for anything nicer than ripped jeans and t-shirts, and for another thing, that is all I would wear even if we could afford nicer clothes.

"Hop along, don't forget your soda. It's a nice sunny day out; fresh air will do you good."

My cheeks flush as I come out the door and see Spencer grinning at me wider than the Cheshire cat. "Aren't you prettier than a picture," he says, his dimples visible.

I curtsey and give him my hand.

"Excuse me, young gentleman, could you show me the way to the park?" I ask, rising from my curtsey.

"Well, a fine lady like you should be guarded by a burly man like myself. I will take you there. Here, put your arm around mine," he says, and delicately lays my arm over his.

We stroll to the park, my dress blowing in the wind and my warm soda trickling down my scratchy throat.

"Your cast is new," Spencer says, breaking character.

"Yeah, I slipped in the shower and got the last one wet."

"I see," he says. "And are things well with you? Did your mother like the cookies?"

"Never been better, and she loved them."

We reach the park walkway and he leads me to a picnic table under a tree with ginormous roots. We lie on the table, staring up at patches of sky through the tree limbs.

"What about school?" he asks, fishing for something that could be wrong in my life.

"Good," I say. If these are the last moments he will be spending with me, I want them to be joyful, not troubled. I want to be here as a star, blazing, then in a flash gone. So quick he doesn't have time to feel any pain as I leave the Earth.

"I don't believe you, Bailey," he says.

"It's true," I say in a tone that I deem convincing.

"Something must be wrong." Apparently my convincing tone isn't fooling him.

"No," I say.

"Yes. Has Miemah started trouble again?"

"Not in the slightest," I say and blow away a leaf that has landed on my face. "Do you want something to be amiss?"

"No, it's just hard to believe... I like it though."

"Me too." I squeeze his hand.

We fall silent and let the wild things all around us do the talking. A high-pitched tweet tweet comes from above. I spot a little black bird. It's perched in its nest, singing away, a group of green and brown speckled eggs under his claws. Suddenly, I notice that amongst the twigs, pieces of yarn, and hair that makes up his nest, is a scrap of orange material. Not orange paper, I think, a piece from a cast. My traffic-cone orange cast. I smile at the sight of it; it suits the nest much better than it did my arm.

"Northern mockingbird, they chirp nonstop," Spence says. "If you listen closely, it sounds as if he is kissing someone."

I focus my attention on the song and find that it does sound like kissing.

"It's a male," Spencer says. "But I don't see his mate."

"Maybe she died," I say, my gaze falling on Spencer's copper eyes, flaked with gold. They shimmer in the sunlight, the same way a golden or diamond ring would if you held it up to the light.

"That's too bad," he says.

"Are you a Christian?" I ask at random.

I am mining for any form of confirmation that when I leave this Earth, my spirit will go to heaven. Otherwise, what is the point in dying? It would be worse to be stuck in perpetual darkness than to be a part of Miemah's torture.

"Catholic," Spencer says.

"Do you believe in heaven?"

"Well, I guess so," he says.

"What do you think it looks like?" I persist.

"Like you are standing on a stage."

"How do you get there?" I ask curiously.

"When you die and your eyes close for the last time, when your soul leaves your body, you end up in front of thick red curtains," he says, his eyes leaving mine, staring up to the sky as if he can see his heaven now.

"Like a classic theatre?"

"Yes, and when they open, the light shines down on you, and there is an audience of Angels to cheer you on."

"Then what do you do?"

"You sing, you dance, you laugh, whatever makes you happy. And it doesn't matter how bad you are at it, because the angels will all give you a standing ovation regardless. What do you think it's like?" he says, poking me in the side.

"I think it is subjective," I say. "Green grasses as far as the eye can see, sunny skies that never come to a close, and breezes perfumed with the nectar of wildflowers."

"It sounds lovely," he says with a sigh. He props himself on his elbow and stares into my eyes—I can see my smiling reflection in them. He shreds a leaf between his thumb and index finger. "I want to ask you something, but first you must promise to say 'yes'."

"How can I say yes, if I don't know what I'm saying yes to?"

"It's called faith, Bailey," he says.

"But what if the question is 'Can I kill you?' and I promise yes, then that would be bad."

He rolls his eyes. "Okay, just promise to consider yes more than no, because if you don't say yes, I will be heartbroken."

"Go on then, ask it," I say, likewise propping myself on my elbow, so our faces are close.

My hair blows against his neck. He stares at the thin strips of leaf and says in a low whisper, "Bailey, will you be my girlfriend?"

My face drops, as does his.

"I really, really like you," he says. "I thought you liked me too. Please tell me I was right?"

"I do like you," I say, my voice catching in my throat. "But I can't, Spencer."

"Why can't you?"

"I feel expendable, like at any moment I could be gone. I don't want you to lose two girlfriends, Spencer. You understand, don't you?"

Unexpectedly, he smiles at me and caresses my cheek. "Oh, Bailey, if you lived to be a hundred, or only an hour longer, my heart would beat for you just the same."

"But would you be able to go on if you lost me?" I say, tears in my eyes at the thought of his heart being ripped out of his chest and stomped on a second time.

"Love doesn't care how long it is attached to a living being—only that it exists."

"If you promise me that you will not give up on life after I have given up, then I will be your girlfriend," I say.

"You want me to promise that if you die tomorrow, I won't miss you so terribly that I will take my own life?"

"You said love doesn't need for me to be alive," I remind him.

"I promise," he says with a terse nod.

The sun is setting, obscuring our features in a slew of warm colors. Spencer looks as charming as ever, as if the sun has given some of its beauty to him.

"Spencer, I have to go back home, but first can I ask you one more question?"

"Sure, anything," he says, his face glowing as the sun fades into an array of pinks and oranges.

"Do good people who take their own lives still go to heaven?"

"Well, that depends. It is true that taking away God's gift to you, life, is the greatest sin and possibly unforgivable."

"What does it depend on?" I ask, holding my breath while I wait for his answer.

Will I shoot myself after going through with my Bullet List, or live on in prison?

"Some people are left with no choice. For example, those who were trapped in the burning Twin Towers on 9/11, it was either die from the fire and smoke, or jump from the building, passing away in the clear air."

"Isn't that more like choosing which death you prefer? Not exactly suicide?"

"If you are going to die either way, then yes, I would say so," Spencer says.

Then if Miemah is going to kill me either way, it won't be considered suicide if I shoot myself. But then, Miemah would be gone, no longer a threat to me, so maybe it would be suicide?

"Do you think that spending a lifetime in prison is comparable to death?" I ask, digging deeper.

"Yes. Wouldn't it be miserable to be alive, but not really living? Just existing so you can wake up each morning and stare at your cell wall?"

"Yes," I agree.

"Does that answer your question, baby?"

"Yes," I say. "Thank you, Spencer."

"You're welcome."

## Chapter 31

A week passes, the air settles, and the sky returns to a vast open cloudless blue, like the calm after a storm. My Bullet List gathers dust in the back of my sock drawer, but now Cecil's name has a red line through it, because I pity her. I thought about putting Alana on my Bullet List, but I have a picture of her and me as children on my dresser and my heart broke around the edges when I saw it. She means too much to me, and furthermore, killing Alana would be like killing a five year old, she is so naïve and innocent. The other names stay unchanged—they have not earned their lives back. The only thing they have in their favor is that I often forget about the list now, what with things being so quiet and all.

Quiet: a word that usually brings about a feeling of satisfaction, of pleasure, and of ease. In a normal person, a person who is sitting in the library and is trying to read a book, a person who is watching a bunch of rambunctious children, or someone who is studying a subject that demands all his concentration. But not in me. I feel the word like the point of a dagger against my throat. It is threatening, obtrusive, and unwanted. The ringing in your ears after an explosion, the kind of quiet that makes you think you will never be able to hear again.

Miemah has not been in school since she beat up Cecil. There are rumors spreading like the flu all around school. Abducted by Aliens, kidnapped, or murdered by her loyal followers, and other rumors that are just too silly to mention. But I know better when I see her in the hall today with a massive black eye and a fat lip—her dad beat her.

I don't feel a crumb sorry for her. I went to see Cecil in the hospital and she is by far the worst job Miemah has done on a person. Broken ribs, missing teeth, swelling on the brain. A grocery list of injuries, but still she spoke to me clearly and concisely.

"Miemah will stop at nothing to kill you," she said, her broken nose making it difficult for her to talk. "You need to get protection. What about that boy you're always hanging around?"

"Clad?" I asked.

"Yes, him, he looks strong enough. Have him take you home from school every day and cling to him whenever you are at school. Miemah is just dying for her chance to sink her talons into you again."

After that, I gave up walking home for the cool AC of Clad's Toyota. We chat, laugh, and share our favorite songs on the radio. I go on like I have finally pulled my life back together, but my conscious knows that things are brewing beneath the calm surface.

I don't return to the janitor's closet, because after Chewy started using it and Cecil was beaten in it, I feel that it is no longer secure, though I look longingly at its closed door when I pass it on my way to class.

Spencer is an amazing boyfriend and I am fortunate to have been able to have him for over a week straight without any interruptions from Miemah. He sings still, but now I dance when he does and he thinks we are the perfect combination.

I spend a great deal of time at his house, cooking with his mom, helping with the chores, and then I come back to my own messy home and sink into my bed, Mom already asleep.

Without the drinking and without the abuse, Mom has yet to feel the urge to tidy up, so I let the kitchen go to waste and the dishes pile up. I escape to Spencer's house when the clutter becomes too stifling and breathe a sigh of relief at the cleanliness of his home.

Today, I am sitting in Drama with Clad, and I decide it's time to tell him about Spencer.

"Spencer and I are dating," I say swiftly, like ripping off a Band Aid.

He laughs, then his face turns serious and he laughs again. "You are kidding?" he says, unable to gauge from the tone of my voice.

"Nope, we have been dating for a week now."

"And you didn't bother to tell me?" he asks. His eyes are two pieces of jade falling into my lap.

"I didn't feel the need to," I say.

"Didn't feel the need? Right after we made out, you hooked up with Singer Boy? Does he like my sloppy seconds?"

"It's not like that, Clad. Even when I kissed you, I wanted to be with him."

"So, I was just a tease, right? Just someone to play around with until Spence popped the question?"

I blink. "It does sound that way, but no. I was confused when we kissed and we did it in the heat of the moment."

"I mean so little to you, don't I? You could just throw me away, like a used napkin."

"No, Clad, you mean a lot. The kiss was wrong, it shouldn't have happened. I'm sorry."

"My passionate kiss was wrong? My heartfelt show of affection for you was wrong?" he says, his voice rising like the swells of a tempestuous ocean. "You think my feelings are just something to be played with? That I will come snapping back like a rubber band after you have stretched me too far!"

Clad's thundery ocean voice swallows me like I am a tiny ship, lost out at sea.

He rises from his chair, his teeth gritted.

"I wasn't trying to play you," I say in my final defense.

"Bullshit you weren't! Have fun with your gay little boyfriend. Maybe you two can prance around in leotards together like two sideshow freaks!"

He makes a break for it and where he goes I don't know. Ashten is lying on her stomach, texting, pretending she didn't hear the conversation, but I can tell by the laugh she is holding in that she has heard it completely.

"Am I wrong?" I ask her.

"Huh, what did you say? Sorry, I was busy texting."

"Cut the act, Ashten. I know you were listening," I say and cross my arms.

"I just don't understand why you would kiss him if you didn't like him."

"Experimentation," I say.

"That isn't true, 'cause you also kissed Trenton, so what could you have been experimenting? How fast it takes to break a guy's heart?"

"Who asked your opinion anyway?" I say, gnashing my teeth together.

She stares at her phone, then back up at me. "Bailey, you did."

I take off. I look down the halls and even yell Clad's name in the boys' bathroom, but he has disappeared as quickly as a whisper in a raging heavy metal concert.

I step out to the parking lot and search for Clad's Toyota among the pick-up trucks and old-fashioned sports cars. He must have picked up and left school, deserting me. I go back inside and as I am pushing open the door to enter Drama, Ashten comes out of it.

"The bell rang. Hey, have you seen Trenton around? I haven't seen him in school since first period, Miemah either," she says.

"Did you have class with them?" I ask.

"Yeah, and they both left the room together. I just think it's odd how they are hanging out, when they are supposed to be broken up."

"And you're just now telling me this?"

She shrugs. "I forgot."

"You forgot that my two worst enemies, who both want to put me on the dicing board, were conversing with one another?" I ask, my voice escalating with every word.

"Yes," she says, annoyed.

"I doubt they were talking finances, Ashten! Where did they go?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know? I have to go. My mom is waiting for me in her car."

I grab her arm as she is walking away, "Ashten, did they having anything on them?"

"Like what?" she asks.

"Like weapons."

"Miemah had her knife; she was cleaning her fingernails with it. But she always has that doesn't she?"

"Bye," I say and release her arm.

My flesh rises in little bumps at the idea of walking home alone when Miemah and Trenton are out to get me. Does she always have her knife? Or is it only for special occasions? Special occasions where friends who are supposed to protect you get pissy and run off, leaving you to fend for yourself.

I fight the fear and vomit that is rising in me as I step into the sunshine of a beautiful day. No one could be so bent on killing me when it's this nice outside, right? I walk along the sidewalk, out of sight from school, beads of sweat forming on my forehead, my palms becoming slick.

"See, Bailey. No one here, you are safe," I say to myself as I reach the retention pond. I turn my head slowly and from the corner of my eye, see Trenton sitting on the tire, a smoke in his hand.

"Hey, Bailey, come over here!"

I shake my head and walk faster.

"I have a deal to make with you!" he yells, jumping up and trailing behind me.

"No, stay away from me," I say as he catches up, grabs me and pins my arms behind my back.

"Just hear me out, Bailey; I have something to offer you," he says, his hot, smoky breath on the back of my neck. "You didn't join the Allie, did you?"

"I don't want to be a gang member. I'm not exactly thug material," I say, my voice under control, though my body is losing it.

"Okay, fair enough, it's your choice to make."

"Are you going to let go now?"

"No, by choosing not to join the Allie, you have chosen death."

My heart drops. This is it, Bailey, you are going to die. Right here, right now.

Trenton pushes me closer to the thicket of trees.

"Okay, what are you gonna do, shoot me?" I ask in an attempt to regain my composure. If I'm going to die, then I want to know how.

Trenton slowly shakes his head.

"That would be too quick," Miemah says, stepping out from behind a tree. "You sound brave, though." She presses the tip of her knife blade into her finger, drawing blood. "You wouldn't mind getting shot?"

"No," I say defiantly. "Would be better than dealing with you."

"Smartass," she says, staring at the blood trickling down her hand. "Wise-cracking won't help your case, Bailey. I'll give you one tip, only because I'm so nice. Keep your pretty little mouth shut!"

I try to wrestle out of Trenton's grip, but he is too strong.

"Tie her up," Miemah says and tosses Trenton a roll of rope that was hanging off her shoulder.

This is when I begin to scream, sharp and loud, so loud that the birds fly from the trees in a black mob.

"Cover her mouth!" she commands Trenton.

He places his hand over my mouth and nose; I bite down hard, forcing blood out of his palm. "She bit me!" he screams. Miemah pushes me down to my knees and ties my arms and ankles together.

"Don't worry, we'll make her pay for that, won't we boyfriend?" says Miemah with a devilish grin.

Trenton pushes my face into dirt. "Yes," he says with a similar grin.

I scream once more, though it is muffled by Trenton's hand and the mud. I imagine that knife in Miemah's hand ripping into me, slicing me open like gutting a fish. Then the worst thing possible happens—a blind-fold is tied around me eyes, pitching me into darkness.

"Let go of her mouth. If she screams, I'll deal with her," Miemah says.

Trenton removes his bloody hand and I keep screaming, at first it is without sound, the way you scream in a nightmare, then an Earth-shattering shriek for help. Something slams down onto both my hands—three times—and I lose my breath from the pain. Steel-toed boots, I think, breaking my hands.

"Scream again," Miemah says and I bury my face further into the dirt so she can't see the tears streaming down it. "Tell me why I hate you."

I am crying too hard to speak, so she kicks me in the stomach, making me sing out in pain.

"Why do I hate you? Say it!" she demands of me.

"I don't know, Miemah. I've never known!" I scream out.

"Take her blind-fold off," she directs Trenton. He loosens the knot, and it falls like a scarf around my neck.

Miemah makes eye contact with me for a split second, and I see remorse and sympathy in her black stony eyes, then they flash back to their maleficent appearance.

"What could I have possibly done?" I ask, breaking our gaze.

She pulls up her shirt and shows me her stomach, the skin patchy with scars. Burn scars, like on Ashten's arms.

"Follow along, Bailey. Pay close attention. You will take this story with you to your grave," she says.

I rub my arms up and down, loosening the ropes that bind them.

"Stop crying for a moment, be silent. I've been waiting ten years to tell you this story."

I sniffle.

"Think back," she says, toying with the knife, and pacing around the trees, speaking casually, as though over the phone to a friend. "To first grade, one day in art class. Do you remember we had art class together?"

I say nothing.

"Answer me!" she yells, coming at me with the knife.

"Yes! We had every class together!" I shriek, confused.

Trenton is resting his back against the tire, his mind lost in thought—totally useless.

"You, Clad, and I," says Miemah. "We were all painting a replica of Van Gogh's Starry Night. My masterpiece was nearly complete when all of the sudden, your hand slipped, knocking over the cup of water we were using to clean our brushes and spilling it on your painting and mine."

"Are you serious? You're going to kill me over something that happened in the first grade?!" I bellow at her.

My arms are loose from the ropes now, but I keep them on as a decoy.

"Shut up! This is my story! Let me finish, and then I will finish you! Now where was I? Oh, yes, you ruined our paintings and I was furious. I stomped right up to the teacher and told on you. What happened next? You say it."

I try to remember, but the moment is lost in my mind, and the pain in my hands overshadows everything. "I don't know," I sob.

She kicks the side of my head and I curse as the blow causes me to fall sideways and hit a tree. Double whammy. A thick glob of blood streams from the wound made by the sole of her boot.

"Trenton," I bawl. "Are you just going to sit there?" He looks me over, his eyes glazing at the sight of my blood. "You can't pretend my crying doesn't bother you."

"Go on," Trenton says to Miemah.

"You denied it. And you told the teacher it was me who had spilled the water. She didn't know who to believe, did she?"

I shrug.

"You know why?"

"I don't remember any of this," I scowl.

"Clad backed you up, he told the teacher that he had seen me spill the cup. The two of you lied through your teeth. It was all just an elementary lie, a fight in the sandbox, if you will, but it turned into something much worse!"

"So, I went home that day and my dad he got a call from the school. He was pissed. No, outraged. No, he wanted to kill me the same way I want to kill you."

"Because you spilled a cup of water?" I ask with a crooked smile.

She drives her boot into my ribcage, and knocks the wind from me.

"Because YOU spilled a cup of water, Bailey!" she barks. "He was boiling water for soup, or pasta, or rice, or who gives a fuck. He was just boiling water. He pushed me into the stove and the pot fell off, the scalding water landing on my torso, burning my stomach."

Tears appear in Miemah's eyes; they fall down her face. Her hand wipes at the tears as quickly as if they were made from the boiling water that burned her stomach years ago.

"I'm sorry." I wheeze. "I was only a kid."

"So was I," she says, and stares off into the distance, as if she has lost her will to continue the story. "That is why I hate you, Bailey. Because every day I have to look in the mirror and see these scars."

We both wake up every morning and are reminded of one another by our scars.

"So, you get back at your dad by beating me up?" I ask, and then turn to Trenton and say, "And by letting her kill me, you are avenging your dad?"

Trenton refuses to answer me; he locks his eyes on the tip of his cigarette, watching as the ash grows too long and then falls off.

"Beating up sounds too soft, like a black eye, or a fat lip. No, I get back at my dad by torturing you," Miemah says. And with that, she sends another blow to my ribs and I swear I can hear the bones crack beneath the crushing force of her boot.

I can't cry, breathe, or speak; my eyes are wide open in pain, like those of the severed head of a deer, mounted on a hunter's wall.

Trenton exhales sharply, as if maybe he isn't enjoying this anymore.

"I think I broke them that time," Miemah says, gripping the handle of her knife tighter.

Black orbs cross my vision, then the orbs grow wings and shift shape into vultures that fly at me and peck my eyes.

"Stay awake, I'm not through," she says, violently shaking me by my shoulders. When she's finished shaking me, my body gives out and slumps against a tree, my head resting against the silky bark.

"Stop," Trenton whispers. Whose ears it was meant for, I cannot tell. "I can't stand it anymore." He stands up and takes a few steps forward, blocking my view of Miemah. "Can we finish this?"

With their attention no longer on me, I franticly scan the ground for a weapon. A rod, a metal rod, is half-buried in the dirt, only a foot away. I slip my feet out of my boots, and let the ropes fall from my arms. In one swift motion I grasp the rod with the few fingers that Miemah hasn't broken and jump to my feet.

Trenton backs up, like he is an actor in a movie on rewind, away from Miemah, away from me, his hands up in surrender. The end of the rod is sharp, sharp enough to slice flesh; I can see now that it is the broken handle of a golf club.

"You never let me fight back," I say to Miemah and slap the rod against my cast. "You're a coward; you will go down like one!" I stab the rod into her face, just centimeters from her eyes and rip open a gash that sprays blood. Then, before she can recover from that strike, I cut open her stomach.

She has one hand on her forehead, the other pressed against her stomach and the tears she had tried so hard to wipe away, make a reappearance. For once, she is the one crying in pain.

The tables have turned in my favor and I realize I need to make a run for it, before Miemah recuperates. I turn to go, but am tossed to the ground by Trenton.

"She's my girlfriend, Bailey," he apologizes.

In the time it takes for me to scramble back up, Miemah is no longer stunned and has started at me once more, her knife raised. I dig my feet into the mud, trying to gain my balance, but I am too weak and injured.

My body freezes as her knife digs into my thigh. She drags it down in one plunging sweep, all the way to my knee. Warm blood flows from the wound and makes little puddles on the leaves, like red pools for the insects to swim in. I am blinded by the pain that radiates from my thigh. I stretch my hand out, franticly seeking the rod, but find only clumps of dirt.

"Just do it already!" Trenton yells at her. "Please!"

I black out, my mind receding to a place of numbness and green fuzzy edges, only to wake, drenched with blood, my eyes, nose, and mouth burning from being doused with gasoline. I feel like I have woken up as the engine of a car. Dirty and with a mechanically working mind, like rusty gears ticking against each other.

"Wait, maybe we shouldn't," Trenton says. He puts the container of gas down, his hand furtively brushing against my forehead.

"Why not?" Miemah asks, frustrated.

"Because if her body doesn't burn to ashes, they will find her bones, and then they will trace the murder back to us. It's too risky, Miemah. Let me drown her. Then they will never find the body."

I am off in another place, in the sky looking down, through the canopy of trees at my body, pulled apart like a thousand-piece puzzle. They can't be talking about me and they can't be deciding how to dispose of my body.

"Fine, dispose of it," Miemah says.

Am I dead already? Trenton's hands find their way under my body and he lifts me. A pain flashes through me and confirms that I am still alive.

"Go to sleep now," Trenton says, his fingers combing through my hair. "It won't hurt, I promise. Now, rest." In pieces, I think.

The water washes over my feet, wetting my socks, then my jeans and shirt, spreading over my face. I am being submerged in the retention pond, Trenton holding me down like I am a bag of kittens.

"You won't die alone," I hear him say.

I have never felt more alone than being here in his arms, underneath the water. I suck the water in; let it fill my lungs, because if I am going to go this way, I want it to be fast.

"One more thing," I hear him say. "Say hi to my dad for me."

When I come to the point that my lungs feel like balloons, stretched beyond capacity, begging for oxygen, and my head feels like it will explode, I struggle, but the effort is futile.

A hand grips the locket around my neck and yanks it off. I open my eyes, and stare at the murky green water; see tiny fish and plant debris floating in it, the clear fish bodies lit by sunlight. It is beautiful, especially with my blood turning the water pink, and the fish drinking it like strawberry-lemonade.

My eyes don't close; at least I don't think they do. Something as trivial as blinking your eyes holds no importance when you are dying. There is no bright light or red fiery hell; rather I am brought back to a memory.

It was Easter morning and I was a toddler. My parents and I were on the front lawn of our home. The grass was a bright moss-colored green; it had been freshly planted in neat rectangles the day before. Mom decided that our crab grass was not luxurious enough for her taste, or rather the neighborhood's taste.

I was dancing where the grass meets the road and picking up fistfuls of weeds. I thought they were flowers, so I lovingly dropped them in my mother's lap as an Easter gift and continued dancing.

Dad was dressed in his finest clothing: a pastel yellow shirt and white slacks. Mom was in a sky-blue designer dress. They both sat in the grass, talking, smiling, with my weeds in their hands, as I twirled before them. My dad lifted his finger and pointed at me, "Look at our little flower dancing in the wind."

## Chapter 32

Clad

My stomach feels the way it does after a roller coaster ride, not sure of its place inside my body. I am uneasy about letting Bailey walk home for the first time in a week, so drive by her apartment to make sure she has made it home okay. When I knock on the door, no one answers. It's a half-hour since school let out and I know that Bailey would have walked the short distance to her house by now. Something must have gone wrong. My heart plummets.

I drive up and down the roads she would have taken, and when I come to a small wooded area just outside the school zone boundaries, I spot her tote bag lying on the ground. So many things pass through my mind in the time it takes me to leap from my truck and run to the retention pond. There, I see Trenton, standing waist-high in the water.

What if he hurt her? What if he killed her? What if I'm too late?

Trenton takes one look at me and then springs from the pond like a gazelle at a watering hole spotting a lion. The water is tainted with Bailey's blood, its surface slick, like an oil spill. I can see her black hair, wispy as she floats at the top like a dead mermaid.

"Nooo!" I scream out in anguish and splash through the water to her.

I lift her cold body out of the water and realize she is not breathing, her chest is not rising, and her eyes are wide open, staring up at me, their blue core dead.

I lay her on the ground, rip her shirt off and press the heel of my palm into her sternum. I check for a pulse in between blowing air into her lungs. Tears flow from my eyes and into her mouth as I try to revive her. I feel like I am someone else, a different person trying to save Bailey, and save myself, because if she is gone I am also gone. Dead on arrival, I think.

I wail and scream her name. God, why did you have to take your angel back so soon?

"Wake up damnit! I don't believe you, Bailey, you are not gone!" I shriek at her, my voice tormented. "Wake up now!"

I wait for her eyes to blink, her head to turn and lift from the ground. She is as still as a puppet without its master.

"Wake up!" I scream again and again and again. "You can't leave me!"

I might as well, be yelling at the trees, for the response I receive.

My eyes blur with tears, I curl into myself with my face locked between my knees. A rustling of the leaves jars me from my stupor and I raise my head, not really seeing Bailey, because the idea of a dead girl unravels me. Not just any dead girl, my dead girl.

Bailey's hair moves and at first I think it is the wind blowing over her, but then I notice her eyes are shut, her lashes twitching. Her mouth is opening. Her hands are clawing at the ground.

I keep my distance, scared of the zombie she must be turning in to. I stay huddled against a tree, my knees knocking together until she coughs and moans my name. Then, I take baby steps to her, still in shock that she has come back from the dead.

"Clad," she says, her voice raspy and sounding much older.

"Bailey?"

"Did you die too?" she asks, flexing her hands, the motion seeming new to her, like a calf gaining its legs.

"Bailey!" I blurt out. "Oh, my God." I fall to her side and kiss her lips, her hair, every part of her, because she is not dead. I touch her wrists, lay my hand over her chest and feel the beating of her heart. I pull her tightly to me, my hands gripping the back of her head, her arms loosely wrapping around my neck.

"Clad, where are we?" she asks.

"By the school."

"Not heaven, not hell?"

"No, you're not dead," I say and pick her up.

I put Bailey in my truck; resting her head in my lap as I drive. This is better than Christmas, Easter, and Halloween combined—Bailey is alive.

I call my sister while I'm driving and tell her to get towels set up, because I'm bringing home Bailey and she is covered in blood. "I'm so sorry I didn't drive you home. Imagine how things would have turned out differently," I say.

"They would have done it anyway, Clad. It was inevitable," she says, her eyes moving back and forth spastically. Maybe she has brain damage.

"Just stay awake, okay? I'm taking you to my house and I will fix you up. You can rest when we get to my house."

She nods, and catches her breath.

"You won't let me take you to a hospital will you?" I ask, knowing the answer already.

"No. They will take me away from you and put me to sleep with drugs," she says, tears filling her eyes.

"It's okay honey, I won't take you there. I promise you will be all right." I brush my thumb across her cheek to wipe away a tear, while still keeping an eye on the road.

I pull into my driveway the same way I do every day, except this time is different. Bailey, bleeding in my arms, is all I can focus on. I carry her to the door, where Alec is waiting with a stack of towels, like we are at the gym and she is handing them out to wipe our sweat with.

"Are you crazy! Take her to the hospital, Clad!" Alec yells at me, as I sidestep her on the way to my bedroom. There, I place Bailey on my bed.

"Give me the towels," I say, ignoring her.

"Here," she says, holding them out of reach.

"Help me!" I bark. "Did she only cut you once?"

Bailey is squeezing her eyes shut in pain. "Yes," she murmurs.

Alec wraps towels around the cut on Bailey's leg while I gently wash away the dirt from her face.

"You're out of your mind, Clad. She needs serious medical attention," Alec says.

"Are you going to help me or not? Because if you're just going to keep criticizing me then you can get out."

"I'm going to help her," she huffs.

With scarves and bandannas, Alec ties the towels on like a bandage. I cover Bailey with three blankets because her teeth are chattering.

"I have to get her medication; she has a whole bottle of Vicodin that could really do some good. Will you stay with her while I get them?" I ask.

Alec shakes her head no, but says, "Yes."

"The key is under the pot," Bailey says.

I rush out the door.

The seat of my truck looks like something out of a horror movie, bathed in Bailey's blood. I keep my eyes on the road, trying not to allow myself to be distracted by everything that is cascading through my mind.

Once inside Bailey's apartment, I grab the bottle of pills. I pilot my truck down all the back roads at seventy miles per hour, going as fast as my mind is spinning. When I get back to the house, I turn the door handle and hurry inside.

I feed Bailey pills and then collapse onto the bed with her.

"He has my locket," she says, her hand rubbing the bare spot on her neck where it once hung. Alec has removed her wet clothes and her leg is neatly bandaged. There is a roll of duct tape at the foot of the bed—Alec's clever way to stop the bleeding.

"I'll get you a new one. Hush now, sleep, and when you wake it will all be just a bad dream."

"Because dreams can't hurt you, right?" Bailey asks, her voice choked with sobs.

"Unless they become real," I say, letting her hair fall between my fingers.

"Mine are real," she says, and nuzzles up to my shoulder, the pills working at putting her to sleep.

I stay awake, watching her breathe. I may never sleep again, now that I know what it feels like to lose her. Spencer has the right idea—I can't carry on without her. I'm not obsessed, I'm in love. Deeply, madly, truly in love with her. I love every strand of hair on her head, every single eye-lash that curls around her sparkling violet eyes.

I kiss her broken hand, and hold her fingers to my lips to warm them. She is everything I need, and everything I can't live without.

Having her in my bed next to me solidifies the fact that she is not dead, her soul is still trapped in her broken body. It isn't that I don't want her to go to heaven and have all her suffering ended, it is that I am too selfish to force myself to be without her.

Alec opens the door and smiles at the sight of us lying peacefully together, like two doves in a nest.

"Is she okay?" she whispers to me, nodding her head at Bailey.

"Not by a long shot," I say. "But she'll make it. I have faith."

"Is she your girlfriend?" Alec asks, shyly.

"In theory, yes."

"I remember when you guys were little," she says, coming into the room and sitting on the edge of the bed. "Chasing each other around the house and Mom would send you both outside because you guys were too wild."

"Do you remember when Mom made me a cake to give to Bailey on Valentine's Day?"

"Yes, and she dropped it on the ground, right in the middle of class; you ran out of the classroom crying!" She breaks out laughing. "She rejected you in so many ways, but you just kept trying to get through to her."

"That was our game though, always has been; I do something sweet and she repays me with bitterness. But it's not because she doesn't love me back."

"Then why does she do it?"

"She's playing hard to get," I snicker.

"More like impossible to get!"

"But that's the trick, you see," I say, "I already have her. I had her the very first day we met. Hook, line, and sinker, only she wasn't sly enough to recognize it."

## Chapter 33

The Vicodin is a life saver. It is sucking the pain away, like poison from a snake-bite. The only thing it can't seem to do is erase the memory of Trenton trying to drown me and Miemah trying to kill me, which is all written with permanent ink on the inside of my skull. But next to it, is my Bullet List.

Clad is snoring in his sleep and he looks to be at peace with the world. I untangle myself from his arms and the blankets, careful not to disturb him. Then I slowly put pressure on my injured leg. The pain is so bad that it takes me a minute to remember how to breathe again.

I limp to a pair of Clad's boots, lined up against his wall along with his skate shoes and Converse. This guy has got more shoes than I do, I think, as I ease my feet into the boots, the insides imprinted with the shape of his foot. I lace them up as best I can with my damp cast and broken fingers.

I open his drawers, the wood of them squealing, off their runners. I take a black hoodie and a pair of sweat pants. This isn't a fashion show, Bailey, I think to myself as I roll the pants up to keep them from slipping down.

The analog clock on Clad's dresser tells me it's seven in the morning. The sun has already made its debut and, more importantly, kids are just now arriving to school. I open his door quietly, and step into the hallway, creeping along the wall like a spy.

I slither into his living room and cross it on tip-toes. Alec must be asleep in her room, because when I open their front door and close it behind me, no one follows. I breathe a sigh of relief and clunk to my house, my feet almost coming out of the boots with every step I take.

I am calm and rigid on the outside, but my insides are melted like warm M&Ms. It will be a miracle if I can pull this off without anyone trying to stop me and even more so a miracle if Trenton and Miemah actually show up to school today. Then again, they would look suspicious if they didn't, seeing as I'm dead, and they have no reason to believe otherwise. This could work—for once, the odds could swing in my favor.

Mom isn't home, which is strange, considering it's early morning and she usually doesn't leave until later. I retrieve the key from the flower-pot, and unlock the door. Angel bounds up to me, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, and dripping saliva on my boot.

"Hey, baby. Miss me?" He whimpers and lays his head on my boot. "I'm sorry, I have something important to do, boy. Mom will take care of you when she gets back." I gently shake him off my boot and head for the gun and bullets.

The Walther had been patiently waiting for the time when it would be put to use, when I would trade in my dolls and crayons for its destructive powers. This is the only dream I want to be real, I think as I reach for the Walther and its bullets. I hide it in the folds of Clad's hoodie, the cold metal resting against my bruised stomach.

Angel is pacing around the living room; he can sense that I am about to do something terrible. I pick him up and lock him in the bathroom so he can't run to anyone and, like Lassie, spill my plan. He scratches at the door and barks at me, upset that I would lock him away. "It's nothing against you, Angel. I just have to be positive that my plan is...well...bullet proof."

I take a look around the apartment before I head out the door. I absorb it, the color of the carpet, the paint on the walls, the smell of lemon and Windex, because this is the last time I will ever get to see it. After the names on my Bullet List are crossed off—I can never come back.

The door clicks shut behind me.

I pass Spencer's house on the way to school, and see Lydia's little patch of flowers, sprinkled with morning dew in the corner of his lawn. I pick one for myself and then carry on. I twist the waxy stem between my fingers, then bite the stem with my teeth, letting the water stored inside of it drip onto my tongue. I taste the petals; they disintegrate in my mouth like toilet paper. I swallow them and they tickle the lining of my throat as they go down.

Now Lydia is inside of me, she is a part of me; maybe her angel can guide me. The sun beats down on my back and heats the leather of Clad's shoes, making my feet sweat and burn as they rub against the too spacious insides. The Vicodin is wearing off in a bad way and I have to grind my teeth just to keep myself from screaming out in pain.

I pass the retention pond, the scene of all my recent horrors, without so much as a glance. My bag is gone from the sidewalk, probably with Trenton, and now with my locket.

I walk through the student parking lot and have a student open the back doors for me. "Thank you," I say.

"Yep, welcome," he says, oblivious that he has just given me the means to kill everyone on my Bullet List.

I shuffle down the gym hallway, then the art hallway and stagger up the main stairs. My hand slides across the hand-rail, bringing my thoughts back to a lab we once did in Environmental class, to test the railings for germs. The results were alarming. I wipe my hands on Clad's hoodie and push open the door to the hallway with my elbow.

I pause, the hallway laid out in front of me. Soon, the bell ending first period will ring; Miemah will come out of the class that she shares with Trenton. Ashten will get to see me kill Trenton and she won't have to worry about her brother's gang anymore. Maybe they won't make me join, I think with a grin, or maybe I'll be an honorary member.

The bell rings, urging me forward. I robotically stride farther down the hall, my body feeling as though it is under someone else's control.

The students swarm out of classrooms like bees from a disrupted hive. I reach my hand inside my hoodie pocket and get a firm grip on the Walther. As I am about to reveal it from the confines of Clad's hoodie—Clad himself shows up.

He faces me and stands his ground—feet planted firmly, his hands on a 9-millimeter Berretta. Clad aims the Berretta between my eyes and I stare down its barrel, my soul knocking right into me and my body becoming mine again. The dream-state that I have held on to up until now dissipates like a morning fog, a new fear replacing it.

I see Miemah emerge from her class, chatting with Trenton like it is an ordinary day at school. Like they didn't just torture and murder a teenage girl yesterday. I flash my eyes between them and then to Clad. Let me kill them, I plead silently with my eyes.

"Please," I beg him out loud.

Clad rests his finger on the trigger, pressing the gun against my forehead. Then he says, in a voice so stern and yet soft, I wonder if I really heard him say anything at all, "Bailey, run!"

I turn and it's as if I can feel each strand of fiber in the carpet as my boots slide across them. I am wrapped up in a sense of heightened reality. My hair flips with the sudden twist of my body as I break for the double doors leading to the main staircase, the Walther still securely in my grasp. I push open the door and as my foot touches the first step—I feel the impulse to turn back around, but I continue on forward. The kids don't run or scream. All is silent, except for the rapid firing of Clad's gun: Bang! Bang! Bang!

If you enjoyed The Saving Bailey Trilogy 1: The Bullet List—and are dying to know what happens next—continue reading for a sneak peek at The Saving Bailey Trilogy 2: Indigo.

# The Saving Bailey Trilogy:

Indigo

By Nikki Roman
© 2014 Nikki Roman. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. This novel is a work of fiction, Other than where some historical figures have been named, all names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner.
Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.

—Mark Twain.

## Chapter 1

Music pulsates and vibrates through me, luring me to get up and dance. I tap my nails to the beat of the music on the tiny tempered glass table, watching my glass of Coke sweat. I could dance, I could join Ella on that stage, maybe earn a few bucks... if Mom wasn't Hawk-eyeing me.

Ella sets her feet shoulder-length apart. She whips her hair in a circle and slides down the pole, her spine and hands caressing it.

I could do that. It's not much different to ballet.

She clomps off stage in velvet blue high-heels; bra and G-string stuffed with dollar bills. Lowering herself on the lap of a man with a beer belly and scruffy facial hair, she grinds her body into his pelvic bone like a pepper mill, her face frozen in a grimace.

I can guess at what she is thinking: Anything for money. Anything so she can afford her Gucci purse and cigarettes.

She lifts herself off the man's crotch, and then holds her hand out for payment. He lounges back in his chair, a disgusting, satisfied grin on his face.

"Where's my dough?" she asks, hands automatically flinging to her hips, eyes narrowing into two thin slits.

"Your dough?" the man says with an exaggerated chuckle. "You're a hoe; I save my money for important things, like beer and burgers. Now, why would I want to put my hard-earned money in your sweaty tits?" He cocks his head at her, his eyebrows raised and his mouth pulled to one side in a half smirk.

Ella's face crumbles. No, don't cry.

In one cutting slap, she wipes the smirk right off his face. "Do you think I wanted to put my sweaty tits in your face for a measly dollar?" she says, her eyes burning with fury. "Keep your money."

Ella puts her back to him, as he lies there in endless contentment, helpless as a Raggedy Ann doll, arms hanging at his sides, legs wide open and jeans rumpled from her dance. She stabs the dance floor with her heels, coming toward me.

"Bailey, is that you? Bailey Sykes? You were so little, the last time I saw you." She pulls up a chair.

"You were too," I say.

"Wow, are you a looker or what? I always knew you were pretty but... Bailey, you're gorgeous, really. You could get so many tips here... unlike me." She rolls her eyes, and flips her hair behind her shoulders. "Did you see that?"

"Yeah," I confess.

"That guy comes here every Friday night, and every Friday night I give him a lap dance... he never pays."

"Then why keep doing it?"

"I guess I'm holding out hope. I need all the cash I can get. I'm almost twenty years old, I can't live off Mommy, like you do."

"My mom can't afford me either," I say, with a dismissive wave of my hand.

"Why don't you get a job?"

"Never put much thought into it... not a bad idea, though."

"How old are you babe, eighteen?"

Ella straddles her chair the same way she did the man. Her breasts sparkle under the misty neon lights, and I can't stop staring at them. "Sixteen," I say, breaking my stare.

"A baby." She takes a sip of my Coke and sticks her tongue out. "Soda. What, Mommy couldn't get you a shot?"

"I'm not a baby," I say.

She tugs on my hair, twisting it around her fingers. "Are you a virgin?" she says in a megaphone voice. The whole club goes quiet to hear my answer.

I glare at Ella.

"Ah, the virgin stare."

"Shut up," I say.

"You have to be eighteen to work here." And just like that the music picks back up again, my proclamation lost in a throbbing, techno beat. "Let me get you a shot."

My eyes follow the way she straightens her back, displaying her chest when she asks the bartender for a shot. He smiles and hands her two; she kisses him full-on, and then makes her way back to me.

"I got just what you need," she says pouring the shots into my Coke.

"I have to be eighteen to dance here?"

She snickers. "Your mom would never agree to it. Besides, you're too young and innocent."

"What does innocence have to do with it?"

Anyway, I really don't think I qualify as being innocent anymore, not after taking my mom's Walther to school in a botched attempt to gun down my classmates.

"I gotta get back on stage before the other girls start taking my men," Ella says. "It was nice seeing you again."

I sniff my Coke, the pungent smell of liquor wafts from it. Taking a tiny sip, I jerk my head back from the biting, sour liquid and push the glass away from me.

Mom, balancing a tray of empty shot glasses on one hand, comes to stand beside my table. "You didn't drink your Coke. What's wrong?" she says. "Do you want to go home?"

I look out at the gyrating bodies bathed in a flashing, neon haze, and realize that this is the last place on Earth I want to be. "Yeah, I'm out of here."

Mom reaches for my Coke, but I jump from my seat and remove it from the table before she can taste the liquor in it. "Mine," I jest.

Pushing the straw aside, I chug it down. It comes up my nose, the liquor burning me inside out. I cough and sputter. Mom blinks at me in concern; she sets her tray down.

"You're going to choke, slow down. I could have gotten another if you didn't want to share."

"No, I'm good," I cough out. "I'm gonna drive home now, okay? I'll probably be asleep when you come home, so I'll leave the door unlocked."

"Okay," she says. "Drive safe, there are a lot of drunks out there tonight." She picks up her tray and glances sideways at the empty shot glasses.

At least you're not one of them. I grab my purse and raise my hand goodbye.

*     *     *

I unlock my car, get in, and rest my head on the steering wheel. The horn goes off and I jump at the sudden noise.

I put the keys in the ignition and the car shudders to life, spitting out smoke. It rattles the whole way home, like a toddler's push toy.

I pull into the driveway of our new apartment at Bay Breeze Villas. I turn off the engine and place the keys on the passenger seat. This is my nightly ritual after having come home from a drive to the nearest gas station for chips and a soda. Except tonight I come from Indigo. It was Mom's way of getting me out of the apartment.

"I bet you even know his name," Mom said.

"His name? I think it's Mason...Grey...but really, that's just a guess."

To be honest, the cashier at Seven-Eleven and I are on a need-to-know basis, even though sometimes things I don't really need to know slip out, like how he always chews five pieces of gum in his mouth at once, or how he hasn't paid child support in over a year.

Mom took me to Indigo tonight, hoping that my strange affair with late night runs to the gas station – for everything but gas – would subside. However, after having my fill of spiked Coca-Cola, sweating bodies, and enough flashing lights to cause even a non-epileptic to seizure – I'm only left sitting here alone in my car with a late-night hankering for the salty, hydrogenated taste of powdered nacho cheese.

My stomach growling, I dig around in the backseat and fish out one of my precious orange lifesavers. I pop four little white pills into my mouth and wash them down with a swig of Sky Blue Vodka. I may hate the taste of vodka, but I certainly can't deny how wonderful it makes me feel after it has won the fight against my gag reflex. Couple it with Vicodin and I'm in heaven, floating on clouds. And without it, I wouldn't be here.

Without Clad I wouldn't be here, I think, my mouth opening in a short gasp. Without Clad. The wind is knocked out of me—a punch to the gut each time Clad manages to needle his way into my thoughts. The guilt washes over me, drowning me, and suddenly I am in the retention pond again—dying.

The bottle rolls out of my hand and under the seat. The outside of my sneakers become wet as it pours out. I slip the empty pill bottle into my pocket with the intention of adding it to my collection later.

I pick my head off the steering wheel. Through the windshield masked by the splattered corpses of love bugs, the apartment complex juts out in harsh, jagged lines; its obnoxiously bright colors made tolerable by the black sky.

I step out and carefully shut the driver's side door. Visions of my car falling apart from a single door slam enter my mind. I linger in front of it a moment longer, making sure it will stay intact, before taking the sidewalk up to the apartment.

I have traded my red door at Parkway Village for one the exact same pink as Pepto-Bismol—if only it could cure my nausea. I enter the space-ish apartment. There are two bedrooms; one for me and one for Mom. The couch Mom used to sleep on is rarely habited now. I stay in my room and she stays in hers. It's easier, this way, to pretend things are normal and that I didn't take her gun to school for a fieldtrip.

My room is nearest the bathroom, like it was in our old apartment. The bathroom is where I spend most of my time, the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl against my sweaty palms, the hot drizzle of the shower scorching bad memories and hectic thoughts away.

A bedroom usually consists of a bed, a dresser, and various knickknacks that define who its occupant is. My room has no bed, has no dresser, only a closet full of unworn clothes and a pyramid of prescription bottles below my always-open window. I have built a sanctuary, a new domain where I can be at peace with myself.

I peel my sneakers off my blistered feet and wriggle out of my pants. I lie down on the floor, my ear and cheek pressed against the cool wood. The floor is solid; when I knock there is a repercussion, a reply that assures me of its solidity. Not like my pillow, which my head would sink into and become lost in.

Angel scampers into my room, a ratty dishtowel held in his tiny, sharp teeth. He covers himself with it and lies down on my spread-out hair; the smell of my shampoo is comforting to him. I know he wonders what happened to my bed—his bed—but he couldn't possibly understand how the mattress and sheets felt like a swamp to me, sinking into warm mud bound by vines.

Through the window a cool breeze blows. The moon is a light orange color that it has borrowed from the sun. All is quiet, but not the tranquil quiet with chirping crickets in the background and croaking frogs. It is an eerie silence; I can make out Angel's shallow breathing and that's it. The silence puts me on edge because I know silence is the worst thing for me to hear. When the world has gone quiet it can only mean one thing – it is plotting a way to shake up my life and break me again.

The front door opens, and I hold my breath in waiting. Angel will bark if it is an intruder. His ears perk up; he opens one eye but holds back his bark. Mom puts her purse and keys on the kitchen table. Then she joins me on the floor. "How's my little floor dweller doing?" she asks. "Are you asleep yet?"

She pulls my hair out from underneath Angel, triggering a growl.

"Wide awake," I say.

"Want me to lie with you? I could play with your hair until you fall asleep, or rub your arm."

"No, you need your sleep... the baby needs his sleep."

Mom rests a hand on her round belly, a smile crossing her lips. "What do you think, boy or girl?"

"Definitely a boy," I say.

Her eyes turn down to her stomach as if she could see through it and know the sex of the fetus. "A girl...another beautiful baby girl."

"I hope not." I scowl. "I don't need a little sister pestering me all the time. And what kind of role model would I be for her?"

"Oh, you could teach her so many things. You've been through it all and still you are here."

"You didn't think I would be?"

"I thought I lost you so many times... sometimes, I still feel that you're gone. When you lie on your floor like this, or beg me to convince the doctor you need more Vicodin."

"I'm here physically."

"There are times I think you aren't here physically, either. Like you're invisible, just a ghost of who you used to be."

I lay my hand on top of her protruding stomach. "Like the baby, you can't see him but he's there. You know because your stomach is growing and you feel him kick sometimes. I'm like that, you see me and feel me in only small amounts, but I still exist... only on a lower level, now."

"You talk just like your father did. Always knowing the right things to say that will calm me."

There's a thump against my hand and I recoil. "Gas or baby?"

"Baby." Mom grins. She grabs my hand and places it over the spot where the baby is stirring.

Night owl, I think, we'll get along just fine. I keep my hand pressed against her stomach as my eyes start to close. The thoughts cluttering my mind blend together like every color of the rainbow and melt into a puddle of indistinguishable brown.

"Sleep well," Mom says quietly as I drift off to sleep.

*     *     *

A baby boy enters my dreams, a boy with grubby hands and green snotty nose, dressed in a soiled onesie. The spitting image of his father, possessing just my mother's eyes.

A wailing, ill-tempered infant that pulls on my hair when I hold him. I put him in his crib and sing him a lullaby, but his wailing persists and the more I sing, the louder it gets.

He cries all night, his tears somehow falling from his crib and wetting my own face.

I wake up with a throat sore from screaming and my cheeks damp with tears. The Vicodin and alcohol take the sharpness off my depression but can't clear it away completely. Every time I close my eyes, it rears its ugly head again.

Spencer is the only medication that can truly suppress the grim feelings. Spencer with his diaphanous voice and arms that tower over me when I need to feel safe again.

## Chapter 2

Miemah

I don't enjoy making Bailey cry. After hurting her I am always left with a feeling like my insides have been replaced with dirt and earthworms. But it has to be this way. I don't choose to be vicious or cruel, any more than one chooses what kind of family they are born into. My heartlessness is innate. I'm a monster, caged in a world full of humans. Loving, caring, feeling, despicable humans.

I need to be let free.

Free of my dad's abuse, free of my conscience, which tells me I should kill Bailey, free of my hands that break through bone and hardened exteriors like hollow chocolate bunnies. Free, the word I wrote on my wall in blood the same day Clad and Bailey came to school with loaded guns. A bullet for me. A bullet for Bailey.

I saw her in the hall, the barrel of Clad's gun pressed against her forehead. Hand buried in the front pocket of a black, over-sized hoodie, clutching what I believed to be a pistol. Hardly able to stand on her own, face drained of blood and eyes full of determination; she was on a mission—probably to kill me, probably to kill Trenton. Clad would have been a miniscule distraction if he hadn't pressed his Beretta between her eyes. Here was the boy that had been in love with her since kindergarten, ready to blow her head to bits.

At the time, I speculated what would happen if Clad were to pull the trigger, releasing the bullet that would shatter Bailey's skull and force her brain out her ears, like hamburger meat through a meat grinder.

I was ecstatic. Thrilled. For the moment, Bailey was alive. I had spent the previous night bawling in my bed, hyperventilating because I had killed her. Now, the breakdown was a far off memory as she stood before me. She looked at me for but a second; my eyes snapping a picture and inputting every detail of her. Sweatpants soaked through with blood, hand curled in an unusual fashion, knuckles purple and yellow. A beautiful wreck.

Her eyes were alight with a fire, ignited by me and so many others who had tortured her. How could people so cold spark such flames?

Kill me, I thought. Go ahead, put me out of my misery. Put you out of your misery.

She didn't see the pathetic expression on my face, or the tears pooled in my eyes. She could not hear my internal plea, screaming at her to end me. Bailey's fire-eyes were focused on Clad as if he were the only thing in this world she could see.

I balled my hand into a fist and bit my knuckles. I so desperately wanted to scream at Clad, "You love her, you fool! She's your everything!"

His lips moved, mouthing something to her, the gun leaving her face. She stared at him, her eyes and mouth open wide in shock. Taking one quick glance at me, she pivoted, bolted to the door and then threw herself down the main staircase. I watched her flowing black hair chasing after her, a black cloud of doom as she scrambled out of the school building. It took the sound of Clad's gun going off to wake me from my stupor.

Bang. I began to run full speed from its range. Fear seeped into me and ran cold through my body, screams of terror and the reverberation of gunshots pushing me, as well as everyone else, out of the school. I hit the back doors with my fists in panic before they opened up to the outside.

Spinning around, I tried to catch another glimpse of Bailey making off on her white horse of surrender, but we had exited the building opposite ways. My heart sank as it came to me that I would never see her again.

Choosing to also leave, I passed by the front of the school and witnessed a SWAT team burst through the front doors and swarm in like a militia of black sugar ants on a piece of unwrapped candy.

*     *     *

When I got home, my heart fell at seeing Papa's truck parked in the driveway.

Papa stood with his back against the front door. I immediately wished I could turn back and return to school, unseen.

"What are you doing home? You're supposed to be at school." His hardened face brightened at the prospect of beating me for playing hooky.

"I – we got let out early. There was a shooting."

He laughed at this, his stomach jiggling and his yellow, cracked teeth exposed as he threw back his head. Tears dotted the corners of his eyes, he laughed so hard. Tears dotted the corners of my eyes, too.

"Every time you get more creative with your lies."

"I'm not lying! It's true, turn on the news and you'll see." I fought him.

"Get inside, you little bitch!" He proceeded to pull me through the door and into the kitchen by my ponytail. Then he tossed me to the floor.

I picked myself off the ground, bringing a hand to my lips, I wiped at what I thought was spit. I looked down at my shirt stained with drops of red. Blood dripped from my chin.

Papa's strong hands gripped my shoulders, making me face him. "Go to your room," he said in a voice so cold that I shuddered as its iciness overcame me.

I stood my ground.

"Now!" He shoved me in the direction of my room. I picked up my feet and he followed.

With Papa only a step behind, I ran ahead and barricaded my bedroom door with spread-out arms. My gaze shifted to an empty pack of cigarettes that I had left laying on my vanity in plain view.

"They weren't mine, they weren't mine!" I screamed as Papa hoisted me up and removed me from the doorway. He picked up the empty cigarette box and chucked it across the room. Then he came back at me in a rage, shoving me backward into the vanity. My head broke the mirror.

"Just like your mother, smoking and lying all the time," Papa said.

I shook my head. "No, I'm not anything like Mom. Mom never put up with your bullshit, she had the balls enough to leave you."

"You ever try to leave," he said, his cheesy breath curdling as it hit the air, "and I will hunt you down!"

"I hate you! You fat, hideous jerk!" I screamed after him as he slammed my bedroom door shut.

I collapsed on my bed, the broken mirror reflecting my pitiful face in every fragment of glass. Two dozen crying, bleeding Miemahs. I could never hate the look of my face more than I did in that moment. Trapped and grotesque.

I ran my fingertips over my swollen lips, coating them with blood. Rising from the bed, I pushed my vanity aside to clear a spot on the wall. With bloody fingertips I wrote something I knew I could never be: free.

I pushed the vanity back into place.
Discover The Saving Bailey Trilogy:

The Saving Bailey Trilogy 1: The Bullet List

The Saving Bailey Trilogy 2: Indigo

The Saving Bailey Trilogy 3: Illumine
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