by Nikki Roman
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.
Chapter 3
Humans are not related to monkeys, we are related to flowers. Yes, flowers. Growing from a tiny, insignificant seed, and then spending the rest of our days struggling for nourishment from the soil and breath from the sun, pushing between sidewalk cracks, bricks and mortar, to be seen. We are all flowers, on the surface thin and frail, the petals and stem. But beneath the soil we have strong roots buried deep, mooring us down.
•••
I wanted to be dead; I lamented that I had not died when Trenton drowned me in the retention pond. I stumbled through the door a zombie, covered in blood, clothes falling off my body like rotting skin.
Mom was in my bedroom making the bed; I dropped her Walther to the ground and went down with it. Bullets clinked as they rolled out of Clad’s hoodie, stopping at her feet.
“What have you done?” Mom asked, quietly at first. “What have you done? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” Her voice grew louder and louder, like the siren of an ambulance, urgent and demanding.
I lay on the ground, my breathing ragged, eyes trying hard to stay open. I had lost so much blood. The cut on my thigh could not clot because I had kept running.
She saw the blood on me and thought it belonged to someone else. “Who did you kill? You’re not my daughter! I don’t even know who you are, anymore!” Mom said, shaking me. She removed her trembling hands from my shoulders and covered her face.
“It’s my blood, Mommy,” I said in-between restricted breaths. “Only my blood… I didn’t hurt anyone.”
She flipped me over, saw the long gash on my thigh and dissolved to tears. “Why didn’t you kill them?” she demanded. “You should have killed them!”
I should have, but he stopped me. My mind slowed down and trickled out on the floor with my blood, leaving me breathless. Mom grew fuzzy and grey around the edges, and then everything went black like I had closed my eyes.
Mom would later tell me they were still open.
I was airlifted to Lee Memorial Hospital. “I’ve never ridden in a helicopter before,” I can recall Mom saying thoughtfully, as a paramedic pumped air into my body.
•••
As soon as I came to, I was bombarded with questions from men in black and women bleached white. My head spun, dizzy at all the questions. How was I to answer?
How could I tell the police about Miemah and Trenton without fear of revulsion from the Allie? Without fear of being arrested for assaulting Miemah with a broken golf club?
Sure, I could easily argue self-defense, but couldn’t Miemah argue the same? And what if she had seen me in the hallway at school with a gun in my hand…and then, there was Clad to worry about—he knew I had gone to school with a gun, even if Miemah didn’t.
I decided it would be so much easier to just tell them I had no clue what happened. That I barely knew my own name, let alone how I had ended up on a stretcher, tubes invading my every body cavity.
I faked amnesia, which wasn’t so hard because I really had blocked out most of the ordeal from memory. When their questions started to flood me, I made my eyes grow large and rested my head in my hands, pretending to know nothing of what they asked. I told them that I was Bailey Angel Sykes, and that I was in a lot of pain. Upon seeing my distress, the nurses would shoo the investigators away.
In the time I spent in the hospital recovering, my case seemed to drop away from everyone’s minds. I threatened Mom that I would let the officers in on her abuse if she pressed the case or gave any information other than that I had miraculously showed on our doorstep half-dead and bloodied.
If investigators did go to Surfside High, I’d bet money that none of the counselors, teachers or students admitted to knowing I had been viciously bullied before this most recent attack. That would make them liable for not believing me in the first place, all of them except one. The bird lady. I can’t remember her name now, but I could never forget her gentle touch, kind face, and sincere voice: I believe you.
But, did I believe myself? Did I really believe that I was pretending to not know of what happened for fear of revulsion? Not a snowballs chance in hell.
I couldn’t decipher the cause of my silent mouth. Maybe fear, but fear of what? If not of revulsion… then what? The more I thought about it, the more confused I became.
It was like Miemah’s attacks had been salt: you keep sprinkling it on your food not knowing you have until that first salty bite, and then you are forced to finish your meal one salty bite at time. The attacks kept coming and I tasted them, all right.
With my suffering came a sick sense of pride; I was an unbreakable superhuman, having survived not only Mom’s beatings, but Miemah’s too. I had become the strongest girl alive. No one was going to take that away from me, pinning me as a helpless, shattered victim. After all, Miemah had collected many victims. I wanted to be her first survivor.
•••
I remained in the hospital for a few weeks and had a lot of empty hours to ponder over the consequences of almost bringing my Bullet List to lif
e. I had essentially rid myself of Miemah, Cecil, Nessa, Latcher, Stewart and Trenton. However, in the process of doing so, I had accidentally rid myself of Clad, too. I prayed to God to bring all my tormenters back, just so I would not have to be without Clad. The thing is, I didn’t realize how much I had been leaning on him until he was gone and I dropped to my knees without his support.
He shot at the ceiling for me, drywall falling into his hair, his face clear of all emotion. I ran like there was a derailed freight train headed for me. He had no intention of shooting me. Of course not; he was too smart for that. Clad, with his huge heart and Einstein brain, had figured out a middle ground.
No one has to die. It was a win-win situation. He tricked me into thinking I’d die if I went through with my Bullet List. I was a turkey with its head cut off, running circles at the sight of his gun.
It took me until I got home to see through the plan he had negotiated with himself: scare Bailey off, then fire the gun, the SWAT team will come running in and she won’t be able to come back into the school.
Clad saved me from killing myself—from killing so many others—because I don’t think I honestly would’ve stopped at my Bullet List. Either way, I was going to die; so what did it matter how many people I took down with me?
Clad went to prison for me. That’s where he is right now, as I lie comfortably on the floor in Goodwill, with my boyfriend to keep me company. When I go back home tonight I will be thinking of Clad and how he gave up part of his life to save me. I will scream out, a werewolf in the middle of the night, calling for him and he won’t come. No one will come. Mom has earplugs that block out all my midnight howls.
•••
“I have to see him,” I say to Spencer, closing the romance novel we have been reading together.
On slow days, which is just about every day at the thrift store, we spread out on our stomachs, prop ourselves up with our elbows, and read through novels yellowed and aged by the sun. The man on the front cover of the one we are reading now reminds me of Clad, his long brown, wavy hair flowing in an invisible gust of wind.
“Do you think he even wants to see you?”
“He went to prison for me. I’m pretty sure he wants to see me.”
“He went to prison because of you,” Spencer corrects me. “Why have you waited so long?”
“I’m scared. Spence, what if he’s angry with me? I’ve just been putting it off because I’m terrified of what he might be thinking.”
“I bet he’s thinking, ‘Fuck, I shot the ceiling of our school for that girl and she hasn’t come ‘round once to visit! What a waste of good ammunition.’” He chuckles.
“I wish the situation was that light,” I say.
“Don’t worry; he could never stop loving you.”
“But I don’t love him the same way I love you, got it? He’s just a really good friend.”
“I got it,” Spencer says.
I lift myself off the ground, my elbows raw from propping me up on the threadbare carpet. It’s getting close to our lunch break, and I’m just about to ask Spencer if we can go early, when a man with an infant girl cradled in one arm walks through the door. Spencer jumps up to greet him.
“Hello, welcome to Goodwill. Is there anything I can assist you with, sir?”
The man is short and compact. He is dressed in a faded blue Hanes T-shirt, carpenter Levis, a plaid button up shirt tied around his waist, and uniform black Reeboks on his feet. The baby is swaddled in a white, pink and blue striped hospital blanket. I take a step back from the smell that is coming off them.
“I need a dress,” the hobo grumbles, “for the baby.”
I recognize him as the homeless man who sits outside Circle K with a cardboard sign that reads, ‘Have baby need money for formula and diapers.’
“How old is she?” I ask, stepping closer to catch a glimpse of the tiny face peering out at me curiously through the blanket.
“Ten months.” He shields the baby’s face with her blanket and walks toward the baby section of the store.
“I can find her a dress,” I say. “May I hold her?”
“Uh huh,” he says gruffly.
With reluctance, he places the baby’s warm little body in my arms. Her eyes are a steely grey and her hair is twisted in golden ringlets, like a baby angel. I’m in love with her from the moment she squeezes my finger with her hand no bigger than the size of a silver dollar.
“She’s beautiful,” I say, bringing her with me to a rack of infant dresses.
“She looks just like her mama,” the homeless man says, pulling out an ugly, frilly pink dress. “How about this?”
Spencer has pulled off to the side, recognizing that this is my field of expertise.
“I like this one.” I hold a white lacey dress up to the baby.
“It’s… very nice,” the man says, apprehension clinging to his voice.
“What’s wrong?”
He looks away from me; fumbling with a baby coverall he sighs. “I… uh, don’t have money. I can’t afford it.”
“It’s free; I’ll even dress her for you.”
To my delight, his eyes twinkle; smiling broadly he shows me his decayed teeth and inflamed gums.
I lay the baby on the counter next to the cash register and remove her onesie. She gawks at me in wonder with her stormy eyes. I gently put her arms through puffed up sleeves that she is not chubby enough to fill out. The dress that would fit a Barbie doll hangs loosely on her. “It’s a little big, but she’ll grow into it,” I say, handing her back to the man.
He is all too happy with the ill-fitting dress. “Thank you so much. She looks like a doll.”
I look to Spencer for guidance but he is busy organizing the bookcase for the fifth time today, his back turned to me.
“Does she need food?” My voice catches in my throat. “Do you need money?”
“Oh, the dress is plenty. That’s all I could ask for; you’ve been so kind already.”
I dig into my pocket and find a wadded up ten dollar bill. Forcing it into his palm and closing his fingers around it, I say, “For the baby,” and kiss the baby’s curls.
“I’m forever grateful,” the man says, holding out his hand to me.
I shake it and smile. “I don’t think I got your name,” I say.
“Thomas,” he says.
“Bailey.”
Spencer exhales loudly as Thomas exits the store.
I turn to him. “That poor baby,” I gush, “she’s so frail. Do you think she’ll be okay?”
He blows dust off of a book jacket.
“Will she be okay?” I repeat myself.
“Reminds me of you.”
“Are you angry with me?”
“You can’t even afford to feed yourself and you just gave that drunkard all the money you have.”
“I don’t care if I eat. She’s a baby, she can’t fend for herself!”
“No, you can’t! Why do you worry about someone you couldn’t possibly help? Do you really think he’s going to spend your money on her, or do you think he’ll blow it on alcohol and drugs?”
I shake my head, holding back tears. Spencer has not been this harsh with me since the day I refused to let him call Children and Families.
“If I gave your mom ten dollars, what do you think she’d spend it on, you? Yeah, fucking right. She’d waste it on vodka and cigarettes. The only thing you’re feeding is that man’s addiction.”
“Addiction to what, homelessness? Just because he can’t afford food and a roof over his head doesn’t mean he’s an alcoholic or a drug addict!”
“Honey,” Spencer says, “I just don’t like you giving away your money to someone who’s going to waste it. I know you meant well.” He puts an arm around my waist, tugging me into him. “God will take care of the baby, she’ll be all right.”
“My mom hasn’t touched alcohol in half a year, Spence,” I say.
“I know, I know. Calm down.”
“Can we ea
t lunch now?” I ask, moving my head from under his chin.
He smiles at me and laughs. “Yeah, I’d say lunch is over-due.”
I linger at the front of the store, straightening the rack of baby dresses while Spencer goes to the back and retrieves our sandwiches.
“Your mom makes the best sandwiches,” I say, when he hands me mine.
“No doubt,” he agrees. “Why don’t we eat at the park? It’s too nice out to eat inside this moldy old store.”
We climb into Spencer’s truck, the dashboard and seats are covered with textbooks and binders, leaving no place for me to sit except on top of them. “What’s all this?”
“Nothin’ it’s just…oh, it’s nothing.” He pushes the books off my seat and onto the floor.
I pick one up and read the title, CPR.
“Medical textbooks?”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “I know my dad isn’t going to let me go to medical school, but I found these books in the dumpster, out back. Someone donated them and Dad just threw them away.”
“Why is he so against you becoming a doctor?”
“My mom and dad don’t believe in medicine…they believe in natural remedies to cure ailments.”
I flip through the pages, placing myself as the injured in each picture. Doctors and nurses demonstrating how to cast a broken limb or insert an IV. My bones ache, the needles slide into my veins, cold latex hands touch my body.
“You okay?” Spencer’s hand lands on top of mine and I jump.
“You could fix me up if you were a doctor. You’d be gentle, wouldn’t you? Everything would be practically painless.”
“Again?” he says between clenched teeth. “You think you’ll get hurt again? Bailey, I don’t know about you, but I, for one, cannot take anymore.”
“I just meant—”
“Don’t,” he cuts me off. “The idea of you getting hurt like that again makes me want to throw up.”
“I’m just saying, Miemah has been laying low for a while, what if she’s—”