CHAPTER EIGHT

BAILEY

 

 

 

 

 

 

Woo! Yeah!

Whoops, hollers, and applause erupted as Melissa Kraft landed gracefully on the rub board. She shook out her glorious locks, brown with blond highlights, and strolled the narrow catwalk back towards the bow without so much as holding the hand rail. Her shoes hadn’t skidded once on the wet pier. She hadn’t fumbled for a second with the mail or the mailbox. Was it really as easy as she made it look? Then again, she was a junior in college who’d been jumping mail for six years. There was a good chance she actually knew what she was doing.

The other candidates sat in a cluster of white plastic chairs in the middle of the deck, Baron among them. Sitting crooked, he used an armrest for a backrest and the backrest for an armrest. He looked all casual. Assured. Confident. Like Melissa, it was inconceivable he wouldn’t make the team. But he listened to the other kids cavort without joining the conversation. The veterans verbally jockeyed for the worst prank ever played on a jumper: mailboxes tied shut with rubber bands, obstacle courses built out of deck furniture, and piers covered in fresh, white paint—not really a prank, but not fun, either, if you slipped and ended up with a white bum for the rest of the day.

The first-timers listened wide-eyed. Maybe mail jumping was more hazardous than we thought.

Sitting at the rear of the group, my back against the side of the boat, I listened and pretended to text on my phone. Hopefully no one knew I had no one to text with. But none of them noticed me. Thank God. Between Baron and tryouts, my brain was silently trying to explode.

The TV reporter, the one who had talked to Tommy, scanned the group and noticed I wasn’t busy yammering with the others. He slipped into a chair beside me. “Tim Fairchild, WISN12,” he said, sticking out his hand. “What’s your name?”

I eyed his hand suspiciously but wasn’t quite rude enough to reject it. Still, I didn’t put any heart into my grip—if you could call it that. “I’m Bailey,” I said.

“Is this your first time?” he asked.

I glared at the mic in his other hand, wanting to say no just so he’d go away. But given a direct question, I was pathetic at giving cagey answers. “Y-y-yeah?” I dragged the word out like a question, and that was the best I could do.

His grin spread ear-to-ear, like he’d struck gold or something. “Is it okay if we get an interview?”

“Uh…” I lifted a shoulder in a shrug, waiting for my brain to drum up an excuse.

But the reporter mistook the shrug for an okay. “Great, thanks. Clint!”

The cameraman scurried over, popped out a tripod, and secured his electronic contraption to the top. “Rolling,” he muttered, his face glued to an eyepiece.

The reporter pushed his mic next to my mouth. “What’s your full name?”

“Um… Bailey Johnson.”

“Will you spell it for the camera, please?”

I did.

“Bailey, this is your first time trying out. What are you feeling?”

I stared blankly at Tim Fairchild, wondering why the universe was such an asshole. Out of all the questions he could have asked, why the one I was in no mood to talk about? With anyone? Much less with half the population of Wisconsin?

Well, Mr. Fairchild, I kind of feel like tying dumbbells to my ankles and throwing myself into the deepest part of the lake. I’m sure that’s a normal feeling for first-time mail jumpers, right?

Fortunately, none of that was what came out of my mouth.

“A little nervous,” was what I said.

“What’s your biggest fear?”

How about suffering through three more years of high school with the stigma of having ratted out the most popular boy at Badger High? I could already see it now: The hate notes slipped into my locker. The books being knocked out of my hands on my way to every class. The grassroots campaign to make every minute of my life as miserable as possible. The fact that literally everybody would know who I was. Would be staring at me, noticing me, and while they were at it, hating me. I would be as un-invisible as a pile of dog poo in the middle of a banquet table.

But no. Being noticed, known, and hated by my whole school wasn’t even the thing I feared most right now. I glanced up the boat at Tommy, standing at the helm, his back to me. That’s what I was afraid of. I was afraid of Tommy standing with his back to me for the rest of the summer. For the rest of my life. I was afraid of being completely, utterly alone. A piece of forgotten driftwood. The unwanted kid. Like I had been my whole life.

Tim Fairchild’s question was still waiting for an answer.

“I mean, slipping and falling off a pier would be pretty bad,” I lied.

“Oo, yeah, that would hurt,” the reporter said.

Yeah. Sure. But not as bad as the stuff I was actually afraid of. Not as much as the life I’d already been living for fifteen years.

“How do you think you’ll do today?” the reporter went on. “Are you going to make the team?” He cocked his head towards the starboard side of the boat, where another jumper was getting ready out on the catwalk, an envelope in his hand.

Quit making it sound like it’s so much fun, I wanted to snap. This is hard. I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t make the team. But an answer like that wouldn’t have made any sense.

I shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

The reporter lowered the mic, giving me hope this interview of torture was over. “Well, good luck today, Bailey.”

I forced a smile. “Thanks.” Personally, I thought all my answers—the out-loud ones—were boring and dumb. Maybe I’d be lucky and they’d toss the entire interview on the cutting room floor instead of putting it on the evening news.

Tim Fairchild and his cameraman stood up. “Here,” Tim said, “Why don’t we get some shots of this…?” They walked away.

When I looked around, Baron Hackett was staring right at me. His face was blank. He’d probably just been watching the interview. But I felt as if I were made of glass and he could see every angle of my soul—including all the answers I’d kept to myself.

I jumped out of my chair and hurried toward the back, pretending I had to go to the bathroom. I tucked myself into the tiny closet, pulled the pocket door shut behind me, and latched the hook and eye lock. I closed the lid to the toilet and sat on it, burying my face in my hands. I let the tears fall. This was too hard. And I was so alone.

No, I wasn’t. The engines of the Mailboat rumbled below my feet. I could feel them through the floorboards, a great purr like a lion wrapping me up in its velvety paws, nesting my head in its silky mane. There, there, child. I’m here. I’m always here.

When I was down to only sniffles, I pulled the square of paper out of my pocket. Unfolded it. Stared down at the phone number written in Tommy’s blocky handwriting. It was so dumb, how badly I just wanted to be around him more. To always feel the way I did when he was near. Calm. Happy. Peaceful. Not terrified of literally everything. As courageous as a child wrapped safely in a lion’s paws.

You should call the police station, he’d said. His tone had left no room for argument. This was what he expected of me. He would have told me it didn’t matter what the other kids at school thought of me, turning in their favorite classmate. It didn’t even matter if the teachers were mad, digging up the dirt on their star pupil. Tommy expected me to do the right thing, no matter how hard it was.

I pulled out my phone, woke it up, and checked my reception, which was always spotty on the lake. If I had two bars or less, I wouldn’t do it.

There were three bars. Dumb phone.

I glared daggers at the treacherous little icon in the upper right corner. Then I locked my jaws and pulled up the call app. I typed in the number and hit send before I could stop myself.

The line picked up almost immediately. “Lake Geneva Police Department,” a woman’s voice said on the other end.

Butterflies raced in giddy circles round and round my stomach. “Um, hi. I wanted to call in… um… It’s something to do with the break-in the other night. At the police station.”

“You wanted to report information?” the woman asked. Without losing the professional overtone, she sounded the tiniest bit eager.

“Yeah.”

“One moment. Let me put you through to the detective’s bureau.”

No, don’t put me on hold, I wanted to say. What if I hang up before you guys pick up again? Do you have any idea how hard it was to work up the nerve?

But instead, I heard myself say, “Thanks.”

The line clicked subtly, rang twice, then clicked again.

“Detective Steele.”

It was another woman’s voice. This one was brusque. Clipped. The voice of someone who’d worn the badge of authority long enough to have zero tolerance for bullshit. Someone who would tan Baron Hackett’s hide, hang it out to dry, then go grab a sammy for lunch—no chips, but I’ll take avocado.

“Uh, hi.” I stared at the bathroom door, suddenly finding the flowy patters of the woodgrain fascinating. Behind me, tiny raindrops tapped on the window. The engines continued to hum, offering their unwavering support, as if Tommy himself were watching over my shoulder, encouraging me on. “I wanted to report something about the break-in at the police station.”

“Who am I speaking to, please?”

I bit my lip. “Can I, like, report anonymously?”

“Absolutely,” the woman said. “Your name will be withheld from public record. However, I need your name and contact information in case I need to follow up with you after this phone call.”

“Oh.” Her assurance that no one would know I was the one who’d tattled didn’t help. I couldn’t erase the images of the whole school staring me down in the hallways, glaring, turning the cold shoulder. I didn’t think I could survive being hated by literally everyone.

I took a deep breath and did one of the few daring things I’ve ever done. I ignored the detective’s instructions and skipped ahead to the important part.

“You need to talk to Baron Hackett,” I said, my voice wavering. “He’s a student at Badger High. Oh, and he works at the cruise line. He…” He has a key card. He broke into the police station. I couldn’t bring myself to say any of that. “He knows stuff,” I finally settled, my voice nearly breaking in two. “’Kay, that’s it.”

“Wait—”

But I’d already taken the phone away from my ear. I stared at the little red phone icon, telling myself not to do it. And then I did it. I punched the button and ended the call.

And then I just sat there shaking, my stomach doing back flips. Thank God the toilet was handy.

A rap sounded on the door.

My eyes shot to the latch. My brain conjured images of Baron pounding on the other side. Bailey Johnson, I know what you’ve done!

But the voice that called through the door wasn’t Baron’s.

“Yo, Bailey, you’re up!”

It was Melissa Kraft.

“I’m coming!” I called back, my voice shaking, relief and fear hitting me at once. Thank God, Baron didn’t know. But I was supposed to go out there now and not kill myself delivering mail. Maybe I should just fall in the lake and never come up.

Melissa’s footsteps walked away.

I folded in half over my arms and let the shudders run up and down my body. What had I done? How was I supposed to get through what I had to do next?