Breaking Bailey
Quotes from the book of a young girl trying desperately not to lose who she really is.
Dear Diary, Does anyone actually say that anymore? Maybe some fifth-grade girls. The type who has a unicorn and rainbow diaries with easily picked locks and “I heart Billy” drawn on every page. This one doesn’t have unicorns, which is surprising since it’s from Dad. He probably thinks I still play with Barbies. It’s not that he doesn’t care about me. Just more like he doesn’t notice me anymore. He hasn’t since he started dating Isa. Truthfully, he hasn’t really noticed me since Mom died, but I can’t blame him for that. The past couple of years have been a giant blob of suck. At least Dad has Isa, though I guess one of us should have someone.
The classes aren’t as hard as I expected, either. It’s also a lot more work than my old school, and I feel like all I do at night is homework, but it’s not harder, really. It’s just like they expect more. It’s kind of weird not having parents around. You’d think everyone would slack off with no one telling them what to do. But everyone seems to try harder because of it. I even keep my side of the room clean. Well, sometimes.
Before we hung up, Bex told me she wishes she could tell Mom about Campbell. I told her to tell Mom anyway. Is it silly to think she listens? Probably. Probably cliched too. I don’t think there’s anything about Prescott I want to tell Mom yet, but I did put her picture in this journal. There’s a little pocket on the inside of the back cover where I can keep it safe and sound. Maybe, in a way, I am telling her things.
As Warren explained the chemicals, the reactions, and the methods of what he was doing at each station, I realized something: This is just chemistry. All of it. I could almost forget what we were making, and what it was meant to do when we were talking about formulas and ratios. It’s actually fascinating. The things I’d done for Miss Beverly were like this, but making meth is even more involved. More nanced even. Warren talked about how he’s constantly coming up with new ways to produce it more efficiently or more cleanly, and I could feel myself getting excited too. His passion was contagious, and it was the same passion as mine. This is what I like to do. It’s what I want to do with my life, really. I want to make the world a better place, one ion at a time.
Loyalty is something I need, I think. After Mom’s death, some friends fled from my grief, and some stuck around for a while but ultimately couldn’t handle it, even my own father abandoned me. Knowing that this group wouldn’t do that, even if the reason has to be kept a secret, it’s so tempting.
Dad was kind of like me, too. He’d be better around Bex because Bex needed both of us to show her that we were okay, that we were all okay, or we were going to be. But when it was just us, Dad and I were the same. Until Isa came around. Then Dad wasn’t just pretending that things were fine. He pulled himself out of the hole we’d made for ourselves and cleaned up the house, bought new furniture, and got rid of Mom’s clothes, and I noticed he took down the pictures of Mom in his room. Meanwhile, I kept the picture by my bed and slept with her pillowcase on my pillow, still deep in the grieving hole. And I guess that’s what I’m mad about most. Not that Dad found someone new or that he’s even over Mom. Just that he left me behind, and not it feels like I’m the only one still grieving.
I might actually check with Katy to see if I can tag along wherever she’s going. Even if Dad was happy about me coming home, I’m not sure I’d want to go. It hasn’t been the same without Mom. She’d always insist on letting us open one present on Christmas Eve, usually something she’d picked out herself, especially for us. The year before she died, she got us matching pajamas. The year before that, glass ornaments we could paint. But of course, it was never about the gift it was just that we did something together, just us girls.
And is it…is okay to be this happy? I mean, this is what I’ve often wondered about Dad and Isa. I know Mom would be happy that I’m happy, but I don’t know. It feels somewhat disloyal to Mom to be smiling when she’s gone.
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It was kind of weird (and awesome, really) to see how much Bex looks up to me. She clearly had heard my friends' names before, so now I’m the coolest ever in her eyes. But I could see it even more when I told her I was thinking of doing a summer program at Princeton. I always think of her as naturally so much cooler and social than me, so it never occurred to me that she would admire me for anything other than being older.
I feel bad that I haven’t written in a while, but I’m not really sure why. I guess because Dad got this diary for me, I feel like it’s an obligation to him, even though he’ll never read it. It’s not like he feels any obligation to me.
Inside the bathroom, I slipped one pill out of the bag and into my hand. I looked at myself in the mirror, like I was asking for permission from myself or something. Or maybe advice. My reflection offered neither, the Bailey who stared back at me looked exhausted and scared, terrified of failing, and barely hanging on. I wanted to help her.
In most cases, giving someone something they need is a good thing. But… maybe in this case, it’s the worst thing you could do for someone, and Warren had just done it to me. And what about his own habit? If he’s doing these, what else is he doing? Could it be that there’s more he not telling me?
I’m such a mess. God, it’s like I cannot keep it together at all. The Adderall helps me with energy and focus, but how do I get rid of paranoia and jealousy? Do they make a drug for that?
I looked over at Warren. H was smiling, and I think he must have said something funny because the people around him laughed. He seemed calm, happy, even animated, and I had to wonder sardonically what chemical I had to thank for that.
The suggestion from him made me mad. He wants to fix me with pills like I need fixing instead of support. I’d be easier to deal with to him on a drug.
I drew in a breath sharply. It wasn’t just that Drew had never spoken to me like that before, it was the question itself. And I knew the answer: Yes, Yes, I do doubt everything I do. It’s not just Mom dying or Warren’s games that have me so off, it’s Prescott, not feeling like I’m on top of things for once in my life. And joining Science Club. I don’t know who I am anymore. That is the reality of it. And if I don’t know who I am, how can I trust myself?
It wasn’t just the change in his demeanor that bothered me, the obvious shift in his motor skills, or the intensity of him with the high, it was something else. I watched him talk to our friends, trying to figure out what it was, exactly, that bothered me so much, and it hit me like a freight train: This was the most satisfied I’d ever seen him. I can’t put into words how much that hurt, how much it felt like a betrayal that he needed a high and craved a high more than he did me, but there was no denying that it seemed in that moment he finally had what he’d been longing for.
He kissed me sweetly, and my heart ached. For him. For us. The truth was that maybe loving each other isn’t all that matters. Not when we’re hurting others. Not when he really needs help, and I do too. Not when we’re in so deep that we might all end up in prison. Some things are bigger than even love can handle.
I’m in my room now. Emily’s room. I wish I’d been a better friend to her. I wish I’d listened to her. Maybe then I would have understood that the girl who was bitter and jealous sometimes was a product of Warren Clark.
