Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles)

by Paisley Ray

  On a final detour through the halls of Moore dorm, I stopped to see Hugh. “Hey Rach,” he said, giving me a hug. Pulling darts out of the target that hung on his door, he handed them to me.

  “How was your ho, ho, ho?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “I take it your dad is still seeing Trudy.”

  I snarled my face as an answer. Standing behind a piece of duct tape Hugh had adhered to the linoleum I launched my darts and wondered why I’d come for a visit, cause it wasn’t to talk about my father’s girlfriend.

  “God damn, you throw like a marksman. Did you hear from your Mom over break?”

  I hit two bulls’ eyes. “Are you trying to distract me with unpleasant conversation?”

  “Rach, your family doesn’t come close to my family’s wackadoo. I just figure that stuff is, you know, better when it’s out.”

  Releasing a sigh, I settled on his desk chair. “Mom sent a package postmarked from Sedona and called, once.”

  Throwing a horrible round, he asked, “What was it?”

  “Tarot cards and celestial earrings.”

  “Do you think she’s really psychic? Cause if she is, maybe she can tell me when I’ll beat her daughter in a game of darts. Are you thirsty?”

  “Parched. I need to grab a jacket from Grogan.”

  “We can collect the girls and head to the yellow house.”

  A brisk wind kicked up leaves, and I tucked my hands deep into my jeans pocket. Hugh and I didn’t pass anybody on our walk to Grogan. Things on campus were quiet. Too quiet. So I asked, “Are you ever going to make a move on Macy, or is she too much throttle?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Come on. It’s obvious.”

  Hugh stared at a squirrel that raced past us. “Rachael, men don’t discuss men moves. It’s against code.”

  I scoffed. He didn’t fool me. Terminating the discussion about Macy sent my bullshit meter swinging from rabbit to bull and I wondered if tonight would be a game changer.

  “Did you stay busy over break?” Hugh asked.

  “Ate, drank and slept.”

  “Come on. You had to have done something interesting.”

  My teeth chattered against the chill that crept under my clothes. “I refurbished a Quesnel Portrait at Dad’s shop.”

  “How does it look?”

  “Amazing. Cleaning and glazing the piece brought out the facial shadows and deepened the colors. My dad’s going to give me 10 percent commission when it sells.”

  Hugh opened Grogan’s lobby door. “You saved a masterpiece.”

  “My first one.”

  THE TIPS OF HUGH’S COWBOY BOOTS were silver and scraped the asphalt with each step he took. He led Katie Lee, Bridget, Macy, and me through an eclectic neighborhood of 1950s two-story, vinyl-sided homes that bordered campus. Dormant grass had turned dull, and patches of brown butted against the street. I’d endured a winter break with Dad and his new friend Trudy. Bridget now slept in our room, and as far as I could tell, she didn’t have immediate plans to move back to hers. I couldn’t tolerate living with her and had to say something.

  “Almost there,” Hugh said.

  “None of these houses are yellow,” Macy said. “Are you sure you know where you’re going?”

  “How far is this place?” Bridget asked. “My feet are killing me.”

  Hugh stopped and leaned forward. His black and red check shirt tail dangled over his jeans. “Hop on,” he said, offering a piggyback, and Bridget accepted.

  “Are you sure the house doesn’t have yellow trim,” Katie Lee asked. “Like that one?”

  “I’m thirsty,” I said.

  “Y’all settle down.” He pointed. “The yellow house is just ahead.”

  “That color is fuckin’ revolting,” Macy said.

  Beyond a fence with missing pickets rested the yellow house. I had to agree with Macy. The yellow I stared at wasn’t pastel as I’d imagined. The vinyl siding was golden, and the shutters, gutters, trim and front door had been painted chocolate brown. Buckled steps led us to a recessed door where I tripped over a raised floor plank. Hugh caught me by the arm before I ate wood. Tonight I’d be partying inside a collapsing sunflower.

  Hugh made introductions and handed me a plastic cup. “Follow me.”

  We tailed him along a hallway lined with framed Bob Marley posters.

  “Cool,” Hugh said, stopping to look at the three still-shot, enlarged photographs of Bob Marley.

  “No pinholes or creases. The color hasn’t faded, and they’re signed with a sharpie. That’s key. If the signature is authentic, these are keepers.”

  Hugh wrapped his arm around my neck and guided me to the back porch where someone had already tapped a keg. “My art connoisseur. How much should I offer for them?”

  “Wait til the end of the year. Maybe they’ll be tired of them. Start at seventy five dollars.”

  The drinking started as it always did, slow and steady. Tapping a pack of Benson and Hedges on my palm, I relished kicking back without a thought of things in Ohio, looming papers, and Mom. My second cup, chilled my throat and warmed my face. The guys in the house weren’t cigarette smokers, so I ended up out back in a circle of empty plastic chairs. Southern winters were more civilized than the ones in Ohio, and I didn’t mind.

  I lifted my heels onto a cracked plastic chair, wrapped my arms around my legs, trapping heat between my chest and knees. I pondered trivial things like getting a head start reading my textbooks, and whether I should’ve worn socks. The squeaky storm door slammed shut, and Bridget appeared double-fisted, with a third cup clenched between her teeth. She mumbled, “Help.”

  Rescuing the two cups out of her hands, I set them down. If this was her peace offering, she could forget it. After blacking out in New Bern, I’d never drink a beer she handed me. She settled into the chair next to me, and I wished we weren’t alone. She and I rested on the perimeter of a superficial friendship. She had an agenda that I didn’t understand, whereas mine was simple. She needed to remove herself and Hugh’s gun from my room, and I decided to address the topic. “Looks like you have a single room this semester.”

  Bridget drained one beer and stacked the empty cup under another. “Things seem to be working out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Katie Lee called housekeeping. Tomorrow, they’re scrubbing my walls and bringing a new mattress. A crew is painting on Sunday. You and Katie Lee have been really sweet to let me stay in your room. Is it okay if I bunk with you two more nights?”

  I thought no, but my lips said, “Yeah.”

  Bridget’s camera hung on a strap around her neck. Setting down the beer, she adjusted the lens and peered through it. “The room trashing was the last thing I needed after a brutal holiday.”

  The froth relaxed on Bridget’s second cup and she nearly emptied it before setting it down.

  “What happened?”

  “Christmas hasn’t been easy since my mom passed away.”

  A soft current blew over my face brushing the strands of hair that fell out of my ponytail. A crow cawed. Bridget and I both had lost our mothers, but there was a chance that I’d get mine back.

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  Bridget pointed the camera at me. “Can I take your picture?”

  I shrugged. It ground in a continuous click, four or five times. She rested it on her neck and picked up her beer cup.

  “It’s been ten years since she took all those pills. You never get comfortable with the hollow feeling. The last few years, my dad’s become a habitual dater. Sharing Christmas with someone who won’t be around by Easter is annoying. If I could’ve stayed at school over break, I’d have seriously considered it.”

  My beer had gotten warm, but I finished it anyway. “I get what you’re talking about.” I didn’t understand why my mom left. If she hadn’t figured out who she is in forty years, the chances of having a cosmic revelation had to be slim.

&n
bsp; “I think it helps being away from home,” Bridget said. “Classes keep me busy, and I’m not around the reminders.”

  The back door creaked open. I didn’t recognize the girls who came outside for a smoke.

  “Reminders?” I asked.

  Bridget stacked another empty cup under her third beer. “It’s hard being around the objects that carry memories. The smaller they are, the bigger the trigger. I can’t go near Mom’s jewelry. She used to wear a locket around her neck. When I sat in her lap, I always opened and closed it, peeking at the picture of her and Dad before they were married. It conjures images in my head, and I daydream about what she’d look like, what she’d say if she were still around.”

  Muffled voices inside the sunflower house grew louder as more people arrived, but outside the air hung still. I lit a cigarette, not sure what to say. I liked denial and hadn’t shared the internal raw with anyone.

  Bridget leaned toward me and whispered, “Do you think we can ever be who we were, you know before we were abandoned?”

  I crushed my empty cup. Abandoned wasn’t a word I liked. All this time I’d told myself that Mom was on an extended vacation, exploring a hobby with a group of new friends. It helped me deal. Bridget’s comment stung my heart. I didn’t want to talk about my mom anymore. I hadn’t forgotten the betrayal Bridget had performed with Nash. Bridget hadn’t ever been interested in my family, and I wasn’t going to open up to her.

  By now, music blared, and the house was full of people. The storm door continually slammed, and I wished I had a can of WD-40. I hadn’t seen Macy, Katie Lee and Hugh for ages. I stood to move inside when the door partially opened then shut. No one came out. It happened again. The third time a foot I recognized kicked it off its bottom hinge. Katie Lee and Macy had arms wrapped around one another. I didn’t know who led who until Katie Lee said, “Can someone help me out?”

  Bridget and I escorted Macy to a chair.

  “I found this New Yorker wearing a lampshade and holding a toilet brush torch, posin’ as the Statue of Liberty at the top of the stairs.”

  “Is that the shirt you wore over here or have you borrowed someones?” I asked.

  Macy pinched my cheeks. “Raz, you’re so cute when you’re drunk.”

  The Macy magic show climaxed when she pulled her bra out of her sleeve and threw it in the bushes.

  I left the backyard burlesque show to find a bathroom, and a can of WD-40 to stifle the squeak. I had a feeling this was going to be a long night and looked forward to the evening in a “what’s next” kind of curiosity.

  Pushing past a hallway packed with bodies, I didn’t immediately recognize the southern drawl that said, “Rachael O’Brien, you weren’t going to pass by without saying hey, were you?”

  INSIDE THE SUNFLOWER HOUSE, speakers pulsed a Van Morrison song about a moon dance. I gawked at the guy who had called my name. Clay Sorenson’s dark tousled hair gave his good looks a boyish charm, and the green jacket he wore matched his eyes. As he closed the gap between us, my chest exploded as though Pop Rocks had been sprinkled into my vital organs. My mind went momentarily static, ruining any clarity I may have summoned for clever conversation. If Clay hit on me, I’d gladly lose my virginity on the spot.

  Since he’d seen me and said hello first, I guessed he’d broken off whatever had been going on with the She-Devil. The last I saw of her, she threw a hissy fit, kicking her espadrilles under Clay’s arm as he removed her from the Holiday Inn. I would’ve considered it heavenly if I never blinked in front of the redhead again.

  “What classes did you register for?” he asked.

  “Art history, literature two, biology and --”

  “Art history? Hope you don’t have Professor Schleck.”

  “I do. What do you know about her?”

  Clay choked. “I had her last year. Her blue book essays are notorious. She pulls questions out of the indexes and fine print footnotes. No one has ever gotten an A. You might want to drop and pick another elective.”

  “I can’t drop. Art history is my major, and Professor Schleck is my advisor.”

  “Art history? Do you want to work in a museum?”

  “For a few years.”

  “Then what?”

  “I want to discover new artists.”

  “You want to fill your world with masterpieces? Rachael O’Brien, you’re full of surprises.”

  I thought modest amounts of alcohol relaxed you. It didn’t work that way for me when Clay was around. He and I shouted above the party noise, and when he led me into the kitchen, my eyes darted, I shuffled my feet, and fumbled with my hands, not sure where to keep them. With my back to the kitchen sink, he stood inches in front of me. He rested his empty cup on the counter and brushed my arm. “Hold still,” he said, smoothing an eyelash off my cheek. I worked hard to extinguish untrained field dog behavior that threatened to sabotage the moment.

  From behind, someone squeezed my arm. As I turned and held my breath. Bridget flicked highlighted blonde wisps that fell against her face. Her intentions concerned me. I didn’t need company around Clay, and I didn’t introduce her.

  “Rach, we’re heading back.”

  “Already?”

  “Macy keeps taking her clothes off. Katie Lee and I are walking her to Grogan.”

  It had taken me an entire semester to find some quality, alone time with Clay, and I hesitated.

  “Not sure if we’ll make it back,” she said.

  “What about Hugh?” I asked.

  “Haven’t seen him.”

  “You’re not leaving, are you?” Clay asked.

  Not wanting to end my Clay encounter, I squashed the little voice that told me not to walk back alone. He possessed a magical force that I longed to encounter. Gambling that I’d have someone tall and heavenly to escort me back, I told Bridget, “I’ll see you at the dorm.”

  She walked away, but reappeared. “If you see Hugh, tell him we left.”

  Clay and I still had to shout at one another above the party chatter. “I’m bummed,” he said, “that we’re not signed up for any of the same classes.”

  He didn’t mention being engaged, betrothed or having a steady girlfriend who had violent tendencies and a hobby of lashing out on unsuspecting victims at bars. Giving him every ounce of my attention, I soaked him in like a fragrant petal. Clay Sorenson embodied everything I wanted in a lover.

  When I polished off my beer, a drip slid down my chin. This was not the way to get into bed with him. A large intake of beer had bedraggled me, and I needed to get a grip. Excusing myself for a moment, I left Clay to use the bathroom, check my hair and reapply lip-gloss.

  My bathroom karma could have been better. Upstairs I waited in a long line. It gave me time to have a lengthy conversation with myself. I needed to jail my nerves. If this was how I acted around men, I’d die a virgin. Shutting the bathroom door, I sucked wind from outside the window. After touching up my hair and reapplying some gloss to lips, I stiffened my back, ready to conquer.

  Crammed bodies in the kitchen made it impassable. It took a minute, but I spied Clay. Inhaling deeply, I unfastened button number two on my oxford shirt and navigated past the partiers who cluttered my path. Clay stood alone, his back facing me. I cleared my throat before I moved forward. From behind the refrigerator, perfectly sculpted nails glided across his arm and onto his stomach. The auburn hair on the girl wrapping herself around him triggered a warning. When the silhouette of her jaw turned my direction, my feet locked. The thought of confronting She-Devil without Grogan-girl backup scared me. A cold sweat erupted down my spine, and I started a round of rapid-fire hiccups.

  Pressing her chest to his back, she mouthed, “Hey baby,” below his earlobe. I held my hand over my mouth and pushed my way toward the squeaky storm door.

  Partygoers had overtaken the backyard and stood huddled in groups. With my back to the house, I rested my hands on my knees and swallowed hard. Clay and She-Devil were more than friends. If I’d known that
, I would’ve left with Bridget. I thought Clay and I had a connection. As soon as I stopped hiccupping, I planned to sprint the three miles back to the dorm.

  Breathing deeply, I kept my head focused on the ground. With a tunneled view of dirt, the tails of a red and black check shirt entered my peripheral vision. Before I saw his face, I knew it was Hugh.

  “Hey,” I hiccupped.

  Hugh squatted down and handed me his beer. “Where is everyone?”

  I took a sip. “They left awhile ago.”

  “What are you still doing here?”

  Peering around his shoulder, I checked the back door.

  “Rach, what’s going on?”

  “Do you remember the night we all met?”

  “How could I forget? I wore a beer down my pants.”

  “I just spotted the redhead who delivered that drink.”

  The memory stiffened his legs, and he crossed them. “Here?” Hugh asked, looking around.

  “In the kitchen.”

  “Rach, I’d do anything for you, but I don’t fight girls.”

  Handing him his cup, I asked, “Wanna head back?”

  Motioning for me to wait, he pounded the beer. Folding an arm around my shoulder, he said, “Let’s go.”

  From the street, I glanced back. A pocket of light flooded out from the kitchen window. Getting to know Clay was like riding the Twirly Whirly at the fair. My chest contracted, my nerves pulsed, and I wanted to scream until my stomach flip-flopped like I’d throw up. Was he a player, looking for a new harvest of flowers? Would I be just another conquest? I didn’t want to be easily forgotten.

  AT ELEVEN P.M. AN AUTOMATIC TIMER turned the hall lights inside Grogan off and only the exit signs glowed. Leaning against the wall just outside my doorframe, I felt like a numbnut for being attracted to Clay. He was handsome, witty and involved with a redheaded beauty who’d probably eat her young.

  Why didn’t I say something cutting to She-Devil instead of hiccupping? I could’ve told her, she had the greasy qualities of petroleum, and a rude, crude, unrefined personality to match. I’d ruined my chances with Clay. In the deserted dorm hall, I sank to the floor, reinventing a better ending to the one I’d run away from.