Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (16 page)

Since she and Macy had tried to kill one another, I’d only exchanged one or two words with her. Macy was a good friend, and I didn’t want to miff her by becoming chummy with the enemy.

Francine stopped dead center in the hallway. Her territorial maneuver created a moment of hesitation between us. Halloween had turned my head loopy. Even though, Easter was months away, I said, “Hey Francine, big night with Roger Rabbit?”

She broke her vexing glare, shook her head, and began swatting imaginary flies. “Rachael O’Brien,” she said, “You’re a corked bottle of crazy and I admire you for it.”

Before I answered, I heard the shrill ring tone I recognized. I raced past her. “That’s for me.”

Fumbling to unlock my door, I jumped to answer the phone.

“You sound out of breath. Is everything okay?” Mom asked.

The stagnant air in my dorm room suffocated my brain. Cradling the phone, I distanced it from my face and moved it as far as my arm would stretch. In a state of disbelief, I fought a natural instinct to drop it and run. “Rachael, are you there?” she called.

Mothers have remarkable powers.  Their voices are engrained in children’s memories, and when they say certain words, they can extract compassion even when they don’t deserve any. I reminded myself that I’d become a responsible adult, living on my own. What if she was calling to say she was in trouble, or that she’d made a mistake? “Hi mom.”

“Rachael, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine. How is your freshman year going?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “Why haven’t you called Dad or me?”

“I know you must think I’m horrible for leaving.”

The mini fridge motor hummed. I couldn’t think of, I didn’t want to think of any words to make what she’d done okay.

“Channeling is something I was called to act upon. When I met Betts, everything clicked. And with you off at college, well.”

Dad and I had worried and had lost a lot of sleep fretting over her physical and mental well being and an incinerator of anger combusted inside me. “Betts? Who’s Betts?”

“Oh she’s marvelous. Betts is the most seasoned trance medium in our celestial cluster. She’s helped me to understand that there isn’t one creator, but an omnipotent God. We’re all living in a multi-layered dimension of consciousness and …

“You’re kidding,” I said, irritated that my mom was more interested in converting me than finding out how I was adjusting to being away from home, and dealing with her disappearance.

“I couldn’t be more serious. It took me months to work up the courage to follow the inner me. If I hadn’t, I would’ve ended up with regrets. Regrets are missed opportunities--harder to live with than mistakes.”

“Is this some sort of midlife thing, or have you lost it?”

She sighed. “Betts suggested I wait to call until Orion moves southward. The planets under your star aren’t in alignment.”

“In case you’ve forgotten it’s me, your daughter, and I’m not interested in your extrasensory, planetary bullshit. I liked my old mom, the one that raised me. If you find her, will you tell her to give me a call?”

I hung up. In my fury, I hadn’t noticed Katie Lee. Before she asked, I said, “Mom.”

Katie Lee hugged me. “What did she say?”

Forgetting my irritation with her for ditching me last night, I vented, “A bunch of clairvoyant crap, I’d feel better if I knew she was on drugs or hypnotized. She wanted to tell me all about the multi-dimension, and some Betts person who’s a master at transcending through the light and fluffy phyllo dough layers of the other side.”

“Is Betts a pastry chef or her boyfriend?”

“Neither. Betts is a she. The head crazy.”

“I take it the conversation was short.”

My head spun. Sitting on my bed, I cradled my face in my hands. “Katie Lee, my mom’s orbiting her own planet.”

“Are you going to tell your dad she called?”

“She hasn’t changed her mind. She didn’t say she missed either of us.”

A LIBRARY CHAIR IS one of the best places for head-time. Staring at a plastic coated, three-sided cubicle provided controlled quiet and anonymity. Inhaling musty paper and bound-leather scented air, I neatly sorted and shelved the emotional leftovers that lingered. The conversation with my trippy mother didn’t deliver a meaningful prophecy. I rolled our chat into a tight ball, tucked it into a dusty corner of my inner closet, and slammed the door shut.

I had an overly active memory. Mom and Dad said it was a gift, but I didn’t always agree. I could recall images of symbols and names, the details of the loop size, any ink stains or drags of the pen with exact accuracy. I still had to read to learn stuff, but my ease with recalling information made fill in the dot tests a breeze. Once other kids found out, they treated me like a toy that they expected to recite answers to the questions they asked, especially homework. After learning the hard way, I kept my head-camera to myself.

Penning a plot summary of Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night
, I read over my notes. Olivia, enamored by Cesaro, doesn’t realize that he is really Viola. In an emotional irony, Olivia falls for a female impersonating a male. Studying the Bard of Avon has a way of prying at inner-closets, and mine crept open, clouding my focus. Did my mom truly believe she had extrasensory abilities, or was she bluffing? What was Stewart Hayes doing with eighteenth and nineteenth century canvas oils in a fraternity house? He was from New Bern, so was Nash. Maybe Stewart and Nash were entrepreneurs who transported drugs inside of canvases?  Last night--how could I have been ready to sleep with someone who wasn’t what he’d seemed? Laying my head down on the library desktop, I wondered;
Had I missed a life lesson on faking it?

A student threw a backpack down in the cubicle next to mine. Opening one eyeball, I held my Swatch in front of my flattened face. My neck cramped and drool had puddled under my cheek. It was nearly five-thirty. I’d slept for two and a half hours. Coming out of a dead sleep, I stood to stretch my stiff neck, and the plot summary I’d worked on stuck to my cheek. Peeling the paper from my face, I stared down an aisle of ceiling-height, gray metal bookshelves. A green jacket moved toward me. It was the guy who sat in the nosebleed section of my Psych class. The one who’d rescued She-Devil. He exited the section labeled nine-hundred to nine-hundred-fifty, History and Geography, two topics I’d like to explore with him, and said “Hey.”

Like a discus champion, I swiveled to see if anyone else was around. I was alone, and by the time I composed myself, he’d disappeared between another set of shelves. I wiped saliva off my chin and ran a hand through my hair. “Please let this one be heterosexual.”

NOTE TO SELF

Checked Katie Lee’s closet, and under her bed. No black suitcase.

Parent = sensible. My mother ≠ sensible.

Green jacket is smoking hot. There’s probably a BBQ sauce named after him. Would love to marinate in that.

17

O
ught
O

I pondered the last sentence of the phone call with Dad. He had been evasive when he said, “I’ve invited someone over for Thanksgiving that I’d like you to meet.” The thought of my Dad and me alone for the holiday was depressing. The thought of him setting me up was frightening. With the break two weeks away, I didn’t want to go home, but didn’t have any other offers.

Hugh’s voice lured me across the hall and into Macy’s room. He lounged on top of Macy’s chenille bed throw and picked at one of the appliqués. Macy’s grandmother had handsewn decorative jewel-tone flowers onto the quilt. My grandparents had passed before I was old enough to remember them, and my mother left after eighteen years. Tempted to wallow in melancholy, there was no chance with Hugh around.

Macy shouted, “You’re going to stretch that out,” and rescued her silk eye mask that he wore as a headband.

Under the false pretense of studying, Katie Lee used a book as a prop in her lap. “This weekend was social suicide. We spent the entire time investigating non-happening, hearsay parties.”

“We’re not in the know,” I said.

We all heard Francine clear her throat at the doorway.

Hugh fished through Macy’s plastic tackle case that held polishes and nail gadgetry. He found a pair of clippers large enough to contour troll nails and slipped his boot off. Scissoring the clippers through the air, he asked Francine, “Can I help you?”

Anxious to begin exercising her courtroom intimidation tactics, before she had a degree, Francine announced, “Visiting hours are over.”

Macy grabbed her nail case from Hugh. “Francine, don’t you have anything better to do than play policewoman?”

“I’d like to play with a police woman,” Hugh said.

“You need to be locked up.” Francine said

Hugh looked from Francine to Macy, “That sounds like somethin’ pent up.”

Macy escorted Hugh by the arm to her door. “Out.”

Francine inflated her chest and motioned her arm as a directional exit guide for him to follow.

Hugh wiped a fake tear. “Y’all are cruel to tease me with talk of locking me up only to send me packin’.”

A shrill ring echoed from the hall and in a blur, Katie Lee brushed past him.

Hugh asked, “Is that a fire alarm?”

“That’s our ring tone,” I said.

Hugh’s blond eyebrows were bushy like furry willow-tips against his tanned face. He raised and lowered his eyebrows with an air of mischief. Lazily thumbing a corner of his mustache he said, “If I hear of any extracurricular activities, I’ll be sure to call.”

Francine retreated to her room, and I shut Macy’s door before settling into the beanbag. “There’s a magnetism that you and Hugh exert like a competitive sport. You’re going to sleep with him, aren’t you?”

Macy shivered. “I can’t get past the hair growing above his lip.”

“Ask him to shave it off.”

She sorted her nail supplies into plastic compartments. “I think he’s hiding something under there. Besides, if he shaved it off for me, I’d be obligated to screw him, and I prefer to keep the power. Why don’t you have a go with Hugh?”

We both knew I was the one who needed the deflowering thing behind me. “You have a valid suggestion. The problem is, I’m obsessed with the guy in Psych class and anyone else will disappoint.”

Macy’s door handle twisted and we stopped talking. Katie Lee let herself in. She carried her arms like Lurch of the Addams Family and stood pencil straight at the foot of Macy’s bed, before tipping face first into the chenille quilt.

I held the beanbag to my backside, stood, and shuffled toward Katie Lee. Parking myself back down, I asked, “What’s Nash done?”

She rolled onto her back. “It’s not Nash, he’s fine. But I’m not. That phone call was from Mama and Daddy. Two police officers were at the house askin’ about a hit n’ run.”

“Shit.” After homecoming weekend, I never got around to convincing Katie Lee to fess up.

Macy shut the nail case. “I’ll get the cigarettes.”

Katie Lee’s voice crackled. “A police report had been filed back in September.” Macy and I joined her on the bed. We waited as she stared at the popcorn ceiling and blinked tears. “The bumperless car belonged to a student and word of the damaged vehicle Patsy hit spread around New Bern High. Recently, an anonymous witness came forward.”

Macy reached for a box of tissues and I held the garbage can. Wondering how much trouble we were in, I asked, “What did your parents say?”

She blew her nose. “They told the officers they had no idea what they were talkin’ about.”

Katie Lee deepened her voice to mimic her father. “Daddy told the officers, ‘surely if there had been an accident, we’d have known about it.’”

Macy pitched a whistle. “Your parents must be pissed,” which sent Katie Lee into rolling sobs. The kind where your nose reddens and runs like a broken pipe.

I swatted Macy’s back and speculated about whether being an accomplice would put the incident on my permanent record. Placing an arm around Katie Lee, I gave a light squeeze. “Tell us what happened.”

Katie Lee dabbed her eye ducts. “Daddy generously supports the department with a donation each year, so of course he cooperated. Mama fetched the van keys and Daddy told the police that it hadn’t been driven since the last time I was home.”

Moaning a long, low sigh, I deduced this was not good, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the rest.

“Nash’s expert parking didn’t impress Daddy. When he had to crawl from the passenger side to get to the driver’s seat, he figured something was up.”

“Wait a minute. Didn’t your dad get the van washed before his golf game when we were in town?”

Katie Lee shook her head. “He never got around to it.”

My teeth locked. “Did they notice anything?”

“They noticed. Dad blew a gasket over the phone, and Mama said, ‘they’re mortified at my lack of sense for not reporting the accident. I figured you two heard them in here.’”

“What did you say?” Macy asked.

“I zoned out while they were yelling. My mind flipped through strategies, and I was about to choose one, but held off when Dad mentioned two empty condom wrappers he found in the back of the van.”

Macy chortled, “Now they know you’re not a virgin.”

Katie Lee picked at Macy’s throw. “I said they were Rachael’s.”

“You did not!”

“Settle down. Daddy was more upset about the roach in the ashtray than the condom wrappers.”

“I hope you didn’t tell them that was mine.”

“Did you sell Patsy out?” Macy asked.

Katie Lee stood and walked to the window.

“I didn’t sell Raz or Patsy out. I told them I left the van unlocked at Billy Ray’s. The condom and the roach could have been anybody’s.”

Macy scoffed.