Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (15 page)

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about. You’re a great guy. The best one I’ve found.”

He kissed my forehead, “You’re the best girlfriend I’ve ever found.”

“If you want to experiment.”

He put his hand on my mouth. “Goodnight.” 

Travis fell asleep, but I couldn’t. I didn’t see this one coming, obviously. He’d rejected me, and I questioned the validity of his claim.
Gay, or faking it?
I’ll admit a hesitation swirled inside me when I realized his room was full of people. But that wasn’t the point. Women were supposed to have the option of rejecting a man’s sexual advances, not vice versa. I’d need to schedule therapy sessions when I got back to campus, and decided I’d send Travis the bill.

Dozing in and out of consciousness, I pondered the disturbingly high number of students that sleep on flimsy dorm mattresses. I never slumbered into the dreamy REM stage, and by midmorning, my headache was the size of Texas. Trying to connect dots around last night, my mind couldn’t draw more than a scribble. Why was there rolled artwork in a frat house? Was disappearing Katie Lee’s and Nash’s turn on? And most importantly, how had Macy managed to fool around with two guys in one night, while I bunked with one that was gay?

I stared at the frame on the underside of the upper mattress as sun began to streak through the mini blinds and warm my face. By the time I heard muffled voices from the hallway, my aching back felt like I’d slept in a tent and I was sure I smelled outdoorsy. If I stuck around, conversation with Travis was bound to be awkward, so I climbed over him until my hair caught in the underside of the top bunk springs. Reaching to rescue my hair, I mouthed “Shit,” and ended up leaving behind a tangled hair memento.

Travis opened his eyes, “Where’re ya headed?”

Straddling him with one foot on the floor and a knee still on the bed, I said, “Couldn’t sleep.”

He helped unhook my hair, and I planted both my feet on the floor. “Let’s get some breakfast. My treat.”

I scribbled on a Post-it,
Out for breakfast, meet you at McIver
. With fairy godmother-like fingers, I adhered the sticky note to Macy’s forehead. With my back facing Travis, I rescued the warm condom packages out of my bra and tucked the packets under the red comforter. She’d probably make use of them once Travis, and I left.

“I was hoping to stop by the Ackland Museum.”

“Research for a class?”

“Research to spot a fake.”

Travis held the door for me. “How do you tell if something’s a fake or the real deal?”

NOTE TO SELF

Getting D-V’d is proving to be complicated.

Suitcases, money and art. Something is going on.

15

E
veryone
A
ccounted
F
or?

Across
a lawn dotted with aged oaks, I glimpsed McIver. “Thanks for breakfast,” I told Travis, “and for going with me to the Ackland.”

Travis rubbed his hands together in a quick burst, like he was starting a fire. “If I hadn’t met you, I’d never have gone in there. I’m sorry you didn’t find what you were looking for.”

“They were really sweet to let us search the encyclopedia of paintings for Clementine Hunter. I’ll have to ask my dad when her first works were sold.”

It bummed me out that I didn’t get to see an original Clementine Hunter. I’d locked the image of her signature in my head and wanted to compare it to an original. Maybe I was way off, but I was obsessed with a need to know. I’d have to wait for another opportunity to make the comparison. As we neared McIver, I pulled Travis behind a broad oak tree trunk.

Travis asked, “Am I missing something here?”

I pointed to a parking lot and whispered, “Nash.”

“Who’s Nash?”

“Katie Lee’s boyfriend.”

“The one who’s running drugs?”

I swung the back of my hand into Travis’ shoulder. “Remember, act natural, and don’t mention my suspicion.”

“Got it.”

“Look, his tailgate’s down.”

“Is that code for something?” Travis asked.

“As a forensic scientist, aren’t you supposed to pay attention to the details?”

“Now Rachael, play nice.”

“Sorry. Look, that’s Bridget.”

“I thought you said Katie Lee was his girlfriend.”

“She is.”

Travis raised his sunglasses. “Well then, this just got interesting.”

My hand pressed against fleecy moss, and I leaned around the right of the trunk, southward while Travis crouched to the left. Beyond the shade of the tree, I watched Nash light two cigarettes. Bridget’s hair hung down her back, and she dangled her legs in a soft swing off the edge of his flatbed. Pinching a cigarette from Nash’s grip, greedily she inhaled.

I whispered, “Do you see Katie Lee?”

“Around the corner. Is that her, with the fast food bag?”

“Bingo.”

Travis tipped his head back behind the tree. “Remind me what we’re spying on?”

“We’re not spying, we’re sightseeing.”

“Right.”

I tugged his arm. “Come on. Let’s find out what’s going on. Remember, act normal.”

“Rachael.” Katie Lee called out, “I’m glad you turned up. Sorry we lost you last night.”.

“You remember Travis?”

Bridget stroked a piece of hair from her face and pushed it aside. “Of course.”

Under a breath of irritation, I asked, “Where did you go?”

Katie Lee leaned her head on Nash’s shoulder. “Look who’s in town.”

Grinning, he nodded his chin at me. I interpreted the silent gesture as hello, nice to see you again.

“Did you see him,” Bridget asked, “playing drums last night?”

I hopped onto the tailgate next to Bridget, and she patted a spot on her other side for Travis.

“I didn’t know you were in a band,” I said.

Under a maze of red veins, the whites of Nash’s eyes had disappeared and darkened circles shaded the paper-thin skin below his lashes. He yawned, “This gig came up last minute.”

Nash gave Katie Lee a bear hug, “I’m heading out.”

With the door to the Dodge open, Katie Lee scurried to his side, sharing private words and collecting a goodbye kiss. “Call me.”

Nash closed the tailgate. Travis, Bridget and I meandered near Katie Lee and with the driver door open, I had a view of the truck’s interior. I did a double-take when I caught sight of a suitcase identical to the one that I’d found in Katie Lee’s closet.

My face was reflected in the polished chrome trim. I didn’t want to be involved and tried to keep the discovery off my face. “Nice truck,” I told Nash. “But I thought you drove a Chevy.”

“Traded it in,” he said, pleased I noticed.

Travis nodded approval. “Custom chrome wheels, kick steps. You must play a lot of gigs.”

Nash slid into the truck and pulled a lighter out of the console. “It was a demo. Got a killer deal.”

Katie Lee’s boyfriend had more layers of bullshit than the mystery casserole served on Fridays at the cafeteria. Turning over the ignition, he reached out the window and knocked the door with his palm. “See y’all around,” he said, and burnt rubber skid marks across the parking lot on his way out. My connection with the suitcase, although brief, was over.

“Any idea where Macy is?” Katie Lee asked.

Travis looked at me. “We have an idea.”

KATIE LEE SHOUTED INTO the oversized burger intercom, “Four large Pepsis.” From the front seat of Big Blue, Bridget handed Macy and me sodas. “Nash oozes potential. He is an awesome drummer. He so carried the band last night,” she said.

Macy held the wax coated plastic cup on her forehead. “Lower your decibels.”

Flipping the visor down to reapply blush Bridget winced, “Sorry Macy. Don’t Katie Lee and Nash make a cute couple?” She laid her hand on Katie Lee’s shoulder. “He’s lucky to be in a relationship with you.”

Macy spoke with closed eyelids. “Why did you two smoke screen us? For all we knew, you were dead.”

My pounding head whirled with opposing emotions. I was also miffed at Katie Lee and Bridget for taking off, but relieved that the suitcase found its owner. My anger was a wash.

“I didn’t mean to blow y’all off. It’s just that I spotted Nash before his set and flipped out. I didn’t know he’d be here, and I reamed his ass. Once I calmed down, he explained that the drummin’ gig was spur of the moment. Bridget joined me by the stage to hear him play and we ended up hanging with the band. The guys wanted to grab a bite to eat, when we came back, frat row was deserted. I looked for y’all, but never found ya.”

I leaned back and glimpsed Macy without moving my head. “Someone found a distraction in the frat house.”

Macy leaned in to tell me. “That weed I smoked with Stewart baked me.”

Katie Lee lifted her eyes into the rear view mirror. “Wait a minute, Stewart Hayes?”

“Yeah, that’s him,” Macy said. “Said he knew you and Meredith.”

She turned left. “He’d be a good catch. His daddy runs an exporting company. I’m surprised he smoked. I thought he steered straight.”

“Never mind the pot,” Bridget said. “Anything else happen?”

“Not really,” Macy said, and I made a mental note to remind her to get a penicillin injection. She subjected herself to way more contaminants than I did inside that frat house.

“Did you sleep with him?” I whispered.

Macy whispered back, “Which one?”

I pried Macy’s eyes open. “Dish it out.”

“He was cute. The attraction was mutual. We had sex.”

Bridget cocked her head. “With Stewart?”

Macy closed her eyes. “Ryder.”

Katie Lee squealed. “How was it? I mean with a name like Ride-her Ridgemont, one would have a lot of expectations.”

Macy pulverized a piece of ice from her to-go cup and garbled, “Good enough. Ryder was creative with the…” She paused. “Study pillow.”

Intrigued yet puzzled, I asked, “The what?”

“Are you tellin’ us,” Bridget said, “you had sex on a husband?”

I looked from Bridget to Macy. “What are you talking about?”

“You know. The study pillow. Like the one on my bed with arm rests. They’re called husbands.”

Giggles sent a stream of tears down Katie Lee’s cheeks, and I worried about her ability to steer Big Blue on the I-85 West.

“Isn’t that what y’all call them?” Bridget asked.

I worked hard to erase the visual that had dried like quick cement in my head.

“I suppose,” Bridget said, “the study pillows are called husbands because they’re sturdy and prop you up.”

“Oh stop,” I said.

Macy whispered, “Sure did.”

“What happened with Travis?” Macy asked.

Thoughts of Travis, sexually speaking, were confusing. I’d found the dessert with all my favorite ingredients, but it wasn’t available. Embarrassed at my judgment, I decided I’d keep that story, or lack of, to myself and refocus on the men on campus. “Nothing happened.”

“Come on Raz,” Katie Lee said, “you can tell us. Was it the night?”

NOTE TO SELF

I’m attracted to gay men. Hopefully a fluke.

Expect Houdini i.e.: Katie Lee to disappear when off campus.

Always keep a spare twenty and a back up plan.

Suitcases and New Bern. Something’s up.

NOVEMBER 1986

16

P
lanetary
D
isturbances

On
my way out of the parking lot, bright sunlight pounded at my head. Ghoulish drinking, high drama and a lack of sleep had me shattered. The duffel bag I carried weighed on my shoulder, and against an unearthly gravitational-pull, my feet slumbered up the dorm steps. The girls went to the cafeteria, but my stomach squirmed and I’d passed.

Always hopeful for some sort of care package or letter, I keyed open my lobby mailbox. Empty.

Dad and I checked in with each other every Sunday afternoon, and I hurried off the elevator toward my room. When he called, I’d ask all the usual questions, was he was eating right, getting out of the house and staying busy--my cryptic way of making sure that he didn’t obsess about Mom. 

We’d never been emotionally bonded. Conversations were discussions of facts, not feelings. My relationship with him was less problematic if I told him what I thought he wanted to hear. It was a functionally dysfunctional relationship that had worked, but my mother’s new physic calling disrupted the mechanics I’d spent years perfecting.

Dad didn’t spell it out, but I knew Mom’s abrupt departure had devastated him. Being away at school distanced me from reality. Back at home he endured physical reminders of her. The Quaker bench she’d refurbished, clothes still hanging in her closet, and framed photos - a flash through time - all reminders of a life no longer lived together. I sympathized, knowing I’d escaped the tangible memory triggers he awoke to every day.

Dad and I were survivors who had a new bond. He was the sane parent who cared enough to keep in touch with me. Our relationship hadn’t vortexed to discussions of personal business--I wouldn’t be asking his take on the Travis thing. But he and I now trod on unsurveyed territory, and I didn’t mind checking in with him.

A hallway roadblock blinded me. Francine a.k.a. Mama was dressed like a pastel spin art explosion. Sauntering in the direction of the communal bathroom, she wore a cotton lavender robe and adorned her feet in furry, egg blue slippers.
Was she celebrating Easter early, like a Christmas in July thing?
She must’ve had plans because under a shower cap, she had her hair rolled against her scalp in pink foam curlers. Next to her thigh, she swung a basket of beauty essentials.