Breaking Bailey Page 21

  Warren is going to be here in ten minutes to take me to dinner at a swanky place in the country. . . . He said it’s somewhere his dad used to take his mother for anniversaries. I hope he won’t be uncomfortable there because of that family history. Anything that reminds him of his parents usually is upsetting to him. But this seems like a good memory, and I won’t lie, I want to try this chocolate dessert he was raving about. I’ve gained some of my appetite back.

  Speaking of, Katy and I are going to breakfast tomorrow morning. (She’s thinking IHOP or even a Waffle House. “Slumming it,” she says. I just shook my head. Those are normal breakfast places for me and my family. At least they were before Isa.) Then we’re off to shop. She reminded me that I need a dress for the formal, not that Warren has asked or I’ve even thought about it.

  If I’m being honest, getting dressed up to go out in public and act like everything is great with me and Warren, or just ME, is the last thing I want to do.

  May 18, later!

  Okay, just writing to say that Warren has now officially asked me to the formal. He did it tonight at the restaurant. It was like a marriage proposal. He literally got down on one knee and asked, and he had a bracelet for me in a pretty turquoise box. The bracelet was gorgeous. White gold, with his birthstone, a sapphire, in a very delicate filigree link. I put it on, since at that point everyone in the restaurant was watching, but I took it off immediately when I got home. It feels so . . . permanent. And public, maybe? Like this is a symbol to everyone that I’m Warren’s. Really, the whole “proposal” felt like it was just for show. At least it was for me, and I have to wonder if it was for him, too. A way to show everyone what an upstanding guy he is.

  Katy texted while we were at dinner. It seems the boys had planned it: Drew asked Katy as well.

  So tomorrow we’ll get our dresses, and I’ll smile and laugh with her and act like I’m so, so happy that Warren Clark is taking me to formal, and I’m the luckiest girl alive to be in their group and have all this money.

  May 19

  Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.

  I don’t know what to do. I can’t . . . I can’t even think. I’m trapped in a nightmare.

  I came home from shopping with Katy, and Emily was in her bed, taking a nap. Or I thought she was. But then I realized that she was in a weird position. I turned her over and her lips were blue. HER LIPS WERE BLUE.

  I screamed for help down the hallway. I screamed for the dorm mom. Then I called 911. I don’t even remember what the person on the phone said to me. I think she got my address and asked if Emily had a pulse. I couldn’t find one. Oh my God, I couldn’t find a pulse. The woman on the phone made me keep talking to her until the paramedics arrived, and my dorm mom came in and was trying to do CPR for a while, but it wasn’t working. Other girls were gathered in the hallway, whispering and scared. I just sat by Emily, my whole body shaking, hoping to feel a pulse.

  The paramedics arrived and put her on a stretcher. I couldn’t stand, I was shaking so badly. When they laid her down . . . it was like she didn’t have any bones. Her arms hung down . . .

  Lifeless. She was lifeless.

  I think she’s dead.

  I wanted to go to the hospital with her but everyone told me to stay there. To go back in my room and wait. So that’s where I am. I’m all alone, sitting on Emily’s bed. I haven’t heard from anyone yet. I don’t know what caused this and I have no idea if she . . . if she made it or not.

  I didn’t tell Warren. I didn’t want to hear him talk about Emily negatively, not now. And also . . . I can’t explain it, but my gut was telling me to keep this from him for now.

  I have buried myself in blankets and I’m going to stay here until I stop shaking or until I warm up or until someone comes to talk to me. I don’t know what else to do. I’m just so, so cold. . . .

  May 19, later

  About two hours later someone knocked on my door. It was a woman and a man, both police officers in uniform. They flashed their badges to me and wanted to know if I could answer a few questions for them.

  I told them yes, even though at that point I was close to throwing up or passing out from fear. What were POLICE here for? What was going on?

  They came in, standing awkwardly in the neutral space between my and Emily’s desks. It was the woman cop who talked to me most. They asked for my name and age, and I could barely remember. I asked them if Emily was okay.

  Cop: They’re working on her at the hospital right now, but that’s why we wanted to talk to you.

  Me: Okay. Sure.

  Cop: So can you tell us what happened?

  I told them all I could remember, that I’d returned home from shopping with a friend and thought nothing of Emily sleeping until I realized she looked weird. Then I called 911.

  Cop: Are you and your roommate close?

  Me: Um, not really, I guess. We’re only kind of friends. Sometimes we didn’t get along too well. She had, um, dated my boyfriend last year so there was a bit of jealousy and tension sometimes.

  Cop: Are you aware of any mental health issues such as depression? Anxiety?

  Me: Emily is kind of off sometimes. I don’t know how to describe it. Like sometimes she gets really angry and upset but other times she’s completely happy and fun to be around.

  Cop, scribbling on a pad of paper: And how would you describe her mood lately?

  Me, shrugging: She seemed better than usual, I guess. I don’t know. She’s not home much.

  Cop: Where is she when she’s not here?

  Me, feeling suddenly guilty: I’m not sure, honestly. I assumed she was with her friends or the AV club. She was really into movies. IS. Sorry. She IS really into movies.

  Cop: How often would you say she’s gone, and for how long?

  Me, suddenly feeling chilly: I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy myself that I haven’t really kept up with her. She seems to be gone a lot in the evenings. She gets back later than me and sleeps later. I sometimes have to wake her up so she doesn’t miss class.

  Cop: And when you wake her up, how does she seem? Moody and confused? Or lucid and calm?

  Me: Very moody. Sometimes like she doesn’t know where she is. She’s always pretty mean when I get her up. She’s a heavy sleeper. She usually just barks at me to get her water and leave her alone.

  Cop: How often do you have to wake her?

  Me, shrugging: Once or twice a week.

  Cop: Do you have any reason to believe that Emily may have been under the influence of illegal drugs?

  Me, my heart dropping into my stomach: What? No. Emily was a good student. IS a good student. I don’t think she ever missed school unless she was sick.

  But as I was giving the cop my answer, things started locking together in my brain like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Her near-instant switch of moods, her restlessness, irritability, odd hours, lack of a social life here at Prescott . . .

  Her always wanting to know where Warren is. How she seemed to find him out of the blue, usually where they could be alone. Her exaggerated need to see him. Her angry accusations that he’s basically the devil incarnate.

  Just be careful. He’ll get you hooked, she’d said.

  My whole world shrank down to the realization:

  It was Warren. Warren gave her meth. Warren probably got her started on drugs, just like he gave me the Adderall, then the Percocets. He probably told her how much he cared about her, swore that it was okay, she wouldn’t get addicted . . . they would help . . . and maybe, when he broke things off and no longer gave her Adderall for free, maybe she started using meth. And where else would she have gotten that? The ex-boyfriend that was still playing her every emotion and vulnerability like a violin, naturally.

  Panic seized me; bile rushed up my esophagus. I tried hard to focus on the policewoman.

  Me: You think Emily was on drugs?

  Cop: We have reason to believe so, and that’s the reason for her medical condition.

  Me, thinking of
Warren’s brother: Like an overdose? Heroin?

  The cops looked at each other, then back at me, communicating something silently. The cop who wasn’t talking to me walked slowly around my dorm room.

  Cop: No. Not heroin.

  Quiet Cop: Hey, Gina. Look at this.

  The cop named Gina nodded and walked over to where he was, and I could see they were holding a small plastic bag in their hands, which the male cop had pulled from behind Emily’s desk. They shook out something from the bag and it landed in Gina’s palm. I knew instantly what it was.

  I knew instantly because I’d made it.

  I flexed every muscle in my body to keep myself from vomiting, and tried to steady my breathing, hoping the cops wouldn’t see how panicked I was. This couldn’t be happening. Meth didn’t hurt people like this. It made them hallucinate, maybe. Made them addicted and they committed crimes, but it didn’t make people’s lips turn blue.

  Cop, to me: Is this yours?

  Me: No.

  Cop: Do you know what it is?

  (I shook my head, afraid to speak in case they could tell I was lying.)

  Cop to the other cop: Call the chief. We’re definitely going to need some help from narcotics. (Turning back to me.) Ma’am, we need to hold this room for search. You can either consent to a search of the room or we’ll need to obtain a search warrant. Either way you’ll need to be removed and detained during its duration.

  Me, thinking quickly: Oh, um, you can search. It’s fine. Could I take some books and my purse? I need to do homework, and I’ll probably get something to eat while I’m out.

  The cops looked at each other, then the woman nodded.

  Cop: Normally we wouldn’t, but if you give us consent to search now, we can oblige, since you’re cooperating so well. Give us about an hour? And here’s my card. If you can think of anything that may help us, please call. Anytime.

  Me: I will. Thanks. Is Emily okay? Is she going to make it?

  Cop, patting me on the shoulder: She’s in a coma right now. And I don’t know. I’m sorry.

  I quickly grabbed my purse (with all my money and my pills tucked safely inside) and a few books, including this diary, then left as quickly as I could. Outside the building, I headed around the corner, waiting only until I was out of sight to lean up against the wall and let myself fall apart. I cried and cried, until the nausea hit, then I vomited too. I don’t know how long I stood there, hidden by the sophomore girls dorm, crying and vomiting bile. Long enough that I was truly dehydrated, but I was, remarkably, starting to think more clearly. Then I headed to the coffee shop, forced myself to drink some herbal tea, and sat down to write and think.

  I don’t know what to do, but I do know one thing: I have to tell the club.

  May 20

  It’s Sunday. Really early in the morning. I can’t sleep. Not even the Percocet helped. The headmaster called. He said there’s been no change in Emily’s condition and her parents have arrived. He told me to please come forward with any information I may have about Emily. It felt . . . accusatory.

  But I’ve had some time to pull myself together. To think. And here’s what I’ve decided:

  I have to get out of the Science Club. Somehow. I can’t wait until school is over anymore. I don’t have that much time.

  The Club may or may not be responsible for Emily. As the articles in the paper said, meth is really common around here. And I know we have competitors locally. There’s a small chance that it wasn’t us. Until I talk to Warren, there’s no reason to believe definitively that Emily had the meth I’d made.

  I won’t tell anyone here about the Club, not even Mr. Callahan. I certainly will not tell the police. If I do, the Club will just give the police my collateral, which is a video in which I take the blame for everything and confess to blackmailing the rest of the Club into working for me. I’ll go to prison; they’ll get off scot-free. If we’re going down, we’re all going down together. That was our whole philosophy. That’s what they tried to teach me.

  But . . . I think I need to tell my dad. Or maybe just Isa? She could help me, legally, if it comes to that. And I’ve heard for a long time about how she’s the best. She could help. It’s a terrifying thought, but I don’t know where else to turn.

  I’m going to try to sleep some more. Then I’m going to call my dad. Warren’s been texting, but I don’t know what to say yet. I need a plan on my own before I can talk to him. I need . . . well, I need someone I can trust helping me right now and I’m afraid Warren would only look out for himself. Apparently the rumors haven’t spread too far. Prescott staff must have threatened my dorm mates to remain silent.

  I’ll have to talk to Warren soon. Very soon. But first . . . I’m calling home.

  May 22

  I told my father about Emily, and then about Science Club. Everything. About how they approached me, how I was fascinated by them and felt so amazing being part of their group, how I’m in love with Warren, what I do know about the group and their business actions, and what I’ve purposely avoided knowing, even how much money I’ve been making. I told him about the collateral, too. At some point, probably when he realized just how deep in trouble I was, he put me on speaker, and I could hear Isa humming as she took in the facts.

  I didn’t tell them about the Adderall or Percocets. I didn’t tell them about my abysmal grades.

  I’m completely surprised that my father revealed only a small amount of disappointment and frustration with me, and instead jumped into action alongside Isa, who was in full-blown lawyer mode by the time I finished my story. It makes my heart kind of break all over again, for even doubting that Dad was on my side and for thinking such awful things about Isa.

  Isa: Do you think your group has been selling to students at Prescott?

  Me: I don’t know. . . . We expanded recently, but I don’t know where or to whom. I . . . I once saw Warren make a deal with some students, but I’m not sure it was for meth.

  Isa: Good. It really is best that you don’t know much. Katy was right about that. But you need to distance yourself from them. All of them.

  Me, heart sinking: Even Warren?

  Isa, sighing loudly: I think maybe especially Warren. But if you care about them, you need to make sure they’re not selling to anyone on campus, and you need to try to make them see reason. They’ve got to stop selling, period.

  Me, near tears: I tried. No one wants to drop out. It’s like they see it as betrayal.

  Isa: You can only try, Bailey. But try, and then get away, you understand? This could really impact your future. And do what you can to remove any evidence that you were in that lab.

  Me: So . . . lie? I mean, what about the collateral? Even if I don’t tell the police about them, they could use that to frame me.

  Isa: I could get around that in court. I think. It’s coercion at the very least. But if you have any documentation that would prove otherwise . . . that would be extremely helpful.

  Me, remembering my idea about this diary: What about my diary? I’ve written about everything. Real names. I know it was probably stupid because it implicates me, but . . .

  Isa: No. If they do try to blame you for this, that would be a good tool to fight it. But . . . we have to keep it out of the hands of the police. For right now, we wait and see. If it’s meth that put Emily in a coma, they might try to trace it, but with the way things are in Wiltshire, it would be hard to trace back to one source. Emily could say who she got it from, though, and if it’s anyone from your group, we’d better pray they take the fall, as they so HONORABLY swore they’d do. But let’s not panic. Let’s wait and see.

  Me: Okay. Thank you, Isa. And Dad. I’m so . . . so sorry.

  There’s a pause, then only Isa answers.

  Isa: I know. We are too, Bailey. I’ll . . . I’ll tell your father.

  Me: Wait. Where is he? I thought he was listening.

  Isa: He was. I think he went outside. You know how he gets when he needs to cry. He can’t stand a
nyone else to see it. We were actually talking last night about how bad we feel about not being there for you this year, like we should have been.

  Me, stunned: . . . What?

  Isa: Your dad and I. We should have been more supportive. We know you’re still grieving for your mother, and with switching to a new school, a difficult school at that . . . we should have called more. Visited. I’m really sorry, Bailey. There’s no excuse. Your father is sorry too. More than I can tell you.

  Me, trying to make my voice neutral: It’s okay. Really. You two are really happy together, and I’m glad for that. I’m glad Dad has you, and you need some newlywed time. I understand.

  I told her that, but the truth was I didn’t really understand at all. I HAD felt unsupported, unloved, even. I’d wanted so badly for my father to call, to check in, just to talk. I’ve been so lost without Mom, and all the changes recently left me even more unmoored, if possible. The Science Club and Warren especially had helped fill the void. Until they hadn’t.

  My dad got back on the phone and told me he loves me and thanked me for coming to him and Isa about it. They promised to do all they could to help. I was so overwhelmed with gratitude that I sobbed out my good-byes.

  But as soon as I hung up the phone, the hope drained out of me. Isa had sounded so worried, like even she might have trouble in court with this. And Emily’s bed is still empty and mussed, from how she left it. There is still no word on her. What if she never comes back?

  What if what I made is the reason why? How am I ever going to forgive myself?

  May 23

  Emily is gone. She’s . . . dead.