Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (2 page)

Seven-hundred-seventeen had to be next. Like a can of shaken soda, the pressure inside me was ready to burst. The hallway bustled with students, siblings, parents and grandparents; their voices seeped through my headphones and garbled in a mix with my Dépêche Mode cassette playing in my Sport Walkman. The lid on the baked goods box edged off, and I secured it with my chin.

Weaving around a cluster of bodies, I used tunnel vision to count down the room numbers. In a blink, something zunged my ankles and yanked my feet from under me. My teeth clipped the edge of my tongue, and I lobbed the box toward the ceiling. Lemon bars and brownie bits rained down in a hailstorm of baked goods, and the bags on my shoulders went splat-o. In a domino effect, I toppled into two bystanders, and the three of us nosedived until we made intimate contact with the green and white linoleum floor.

My headphones twisted, and one pirated my left eye. In a tangle of limbs and snarled hangers, an uncradled telephone rested between my thighs and a voice called out, “Katie Lee?”

Nobody spoke until a New York accent near my ear clipped, “Get the fuck off me.” Her red-polished index finger propelled into the air. “God damn it, I broke a nail.” Her face wasn’t visible, but her liberal cussing clued me into her coordinates below me.

In a body snarl that rivaled a collapse in a game of Twister, a moaning noise reverberated, “With cussin’ like that, it’s no wonder we’ve been stricken down. The Lord is sayin‘ somethin’.” An unshaven leg, the color of chocolate syrup you drizzle on top of ice cream, rose an inch off my shoulders before clunking back down. Her bedazzled canvas slip-ons dangled from her foot. “That mouth is going to send us all into the eternal inferno.”

“Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck.” The New Yorker wiggled below me. “Don’t Bible-belt me. I’ve been assaulted with baked goods.”

Now feeling unsafe, I pushed preachy sparkle shoes off my neck and rolled off the profanity princess. This was not how I envisioned meeting new friends in the dorm.

A medium-build brunette, who smelled as though she’d bathed in Lauren perfume, peered down at the three of us. Her brunette bob haircut cradled her face. Like a page out of
The Preppy Handbook
, she wore green madras Bermuda shorts that she coordinated with a pink polo. She looked like a slice of watermelon who wore its collar up. Sucking wind, she gasped and with linguistic precision, spoke in rhythm to her exhale. “Y’all dropped like a spare. I don’t see blood. Are-all-y’all okay?”

As far as I could tell the only things injured were Mom’s baked goods, and the bathroom supplies that littered the hallway outside the dorm room I’d yet to see.

“Katie Lee? Katie Lee?” the phone chirped.

The standing southerner stared at the phone that had landed between my legs. She squatted beside me and her cheeks flushed. “Pardon me,” she said and tugged at its cord. Sandwiching the telephone between her reddened earlobe, and neck, she whispered, “Gotta go,” and hung up.

The girl in the sparkly shoes propped herself up on her elbows. Under her breath, she garbled “P-shwank. Do you have a license to talk and walk?”

The walking watermelon removed a chunk of brownie from my hair. Tucking her chin into her neck, she creased her eyes, like a mother composing herself to do battle with unruly children. “Where are my manners? Y’all, I’m Katie Lee Brown. I didn’t catch your name,” she said to sparkle shoes.

Sparkle shoes’ voice dipped. “Francine Battle.”

Delicately pointing at Francine’s left breast, Katie Lee shielded a side of her mouth. “You’re leaking lemon curd.”

Tilting her gaze down her shirt, Francine used her thumb to wipe yellow glop from her chest and touched it to her tongue. “Personally, I prefer coconut cream.”

Busying herself collecting the panty liners that had exploded from someone’s open bag, Katie Lee stuffed them in the outside pocket of an oversized fringed purse that I didn’t recognize.

Francine tugged the shoulder bag from Katie Lee. “Lord girl, I’m not a mini kind of woman. Those don’t belong to me.”

The New Yorker, still on the floor, opened her palm and Katie Lee handed over the stack of feminine care pads. “I was talkin’ with my boyfriend. Nash and I are missin’ each other somethin’ terrible. I heard voices out here and thought one of you might be my roommate, Rachael O’Brien.”

Brushing crumbs off her black designer jeans, the New Yorker stood. She raised her chin to the ceiling and mouthed, ‘thank you.’ “You got the wrong girl. I’m Macy Stephen.”

I pushed to my feet, stepped out of the remnants of the confectionary cyclone and offered my hand. “I’m Rachael O’Brien.”

Swaddling me in a hug, Katie Lee swooned, “So glad to finally meet you.” She released me but held onto my wrists. “This year is going to be amazing.” 

Francine gripped her back and moaned. Katie Lee let go of me to lend a hand to her while Macy and I sorted our belongings. I rescued an antique gilded frame from the floor and blew crumbs off a black and white photo of a toddler in cornrows. The child’s plump fingers clutched the hand of a gray-haired woman in a cotton dress. Francine snatched the frame from my grip, her stare softened as she became lost in the memory she held. Meeting my eyes, she spoke under a light breath. “My great memaw. She’s an artist you know. Pushed me to get the education she never had.”

Macy leaned her head in toward us. “I’m hopeful that this is the start to nine months that’ll make
Animal House
look like a fucking retirement home.”

Wiping the humidity from my hairline, I twisted my head to make sure my PUs hadn’t appeared. “Me too.”

NOTE TO SELF

Getting rid of the PUs--glorious.

2

T
wenty-
O
ne-
Y
ear-
O
ld
F
reshman

I’d
been away at school for one week. My body hadn’t adjusted to the southern climate’s secret whammy, heat n’ humidity. Between classes, I skirted into the shadows cast by campus buildings. The blocks of shade didn’t help much. My legs dragged like telephone poles, and my crevasses were like trees that leaked sap. During peak heat, I conserved words, not responding when a head nod sufficed. A newly purchased mini- plastic fan rested on my desk shelf, and it blasted recirculated hot air onto my face. It dried the sweat off my eyebrows, but my thighs still stuck to my shorts and my T-shirt to my back. The heat wave that started the day I’d arrived was relentless and unbroken. 

Early Wednesday morning, I was still in bed when there was a knock on our door. Katie Lee asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s Macy. Come out here, quick.”

Katie Lee looked at me. I threw off the covers and followed her into the hallway. “What’s going on?” I asked.

Macy nodded her head toward Francine’s door, and Katie Lee gasped, “Holy shit.”

Spray-painted letters that spelled DAN dripped down her doorway. “Who’s Dan?” I asked

Macy rolled her eyes. “It’s no ex-boyfriend.”

Before Katie Lee knocked on Francine’s door, she whispered, “It’s an abbreviation. Dumb-ass-nigger.”

The only thing mixed in Canton, Ohio, was the bi-color corn that grew in the fields. I almost didn’t believe what Katie Lee told me until Francine opened her door. Her hand flew to her mouth, and the corners of her eyes became glossy.

Macy put an arm around Francine’s shoulder, guiding her back into her room.

“Do you have any paper towels?” I asked. “I think we can wipe it off.”

“No,” Macy said, “don’t touch it. Call campus security.”

Across the hall, our phone rang, and Katie Lee jogged to answer it.

I sat on Francine’s unmade bed while she fumbled to find the number for campus security. Like Macy, Francine had a single room, smaller than Katie Lee’s and mine. She chose lavender for her bedding, desk cushion and rug and had installed a shelf above her bed for framed photos. I gazed at the faces. Big smiles and equally big hugs at an outdoor picnic, an older man in a boat holding a grouper and the photo of Francine and her great memaw in the frame that I’d rescued from the hallway pileup.

Francine’s voice rasped as she spoke into the phone. “Racial graffiti has been spray painted on my dorm door. This is Francine Battle, Grogan Hall, 7
^th
floor.”

As Francine hung up, Katie Lee shouted, “Rachael, it’s your daddy on the phone.”

Mom and Dad had arranged to check on me on Sunday afternoons. They referred to it as a weekly social call, but I knew better. It was a make-sure-you’re-not-partying-too-hard call since you’ll be hearing from us every Sunday. I’d been away for less than a week, and had already spoken to them on Sunday. Getting an additional call midweek irritated me. A once a week check up was plenty, and I almost asked Katie Lee to tell Dad that I’d dashed off to class, but reconsidered.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Of course I am,” I said, keeping my voice sharp so I’d pass his sneaky surprise inspection. I watched Katie Lee leave the room with a towel and shampoo caddy. She said something about showering before campus security showed up.

The words Dad spoke into my ear hit me like a winter white out, and my head went blank. “Your mother has walked out after twenty years of marriage.” I’d heard his voice, but couldn’t digest the news.

My mother would never leave my dad. He must have done something. I wondered if he’d had an affair and asked, “Why would she do that?”

Dad cleared his throat. “She scribbled a note on a piece of planetary stationery. Your mother left to be with a group of healing psychics. Says she’s gone to find her inner-channel.”

My ears tuned out the hallway chatter and an icy chill froze my insides. I went into lockdown. “Mother. Psychic? Since when?”
She never knew I borrowed that twenty out of her purse or that I forged her name, so I didn’t have to dissect a frog in biology. Did she?

“Rachael, I didn’t phone until I was certain that this wasn’t a hoax. I hired an investigator. Your mom is staying at a private residence in Sedona, Arizona.”

“Arizona? We’ve never been to Arizona. Does this P.I. have a license? Why did she go there? What if she was kidnapped or drugged?”

The phone went silent. “Dad, are you okay?”

“Bear with me,” he said, his tone sounding small and distant. “What I’m about to tell you falls under the category of mumbo jumbo. I’ve done some research. The red rock that surrounds the town is known in certain circles for its vortex, ancient mystical frequencies, and healing power. There, I said it.”

“This is ridiculous. Have you called her? When are you going to bring her back?”

“Rachael, there are no phones and the property is surrounded by high walls and a guarded gate.”

“Are you sure the Moonies or the Mormons don’t have her?”

Dad sighed, and I heard ice cubes clank. To deliver this news, I guessed he’d upgraded from beer to something over ice. “I’m sure. I thought about marching out there to bring her back until I consulted a lawyer. He said, if I did, I’d probably be arrested. She has to come home on her own. Hopefully this craziness will wear off, and she’ll call one of us.”

After exhausting every explanation we could think of, our conversation dead-ended over Mom’s newfound calling. When I hung up the phone, my core rattled with an emptiness I’d never felt. Manic emotions floated inside me, and I didn’t know which to pick: Anger, guilt, fear. Disbelief of her abandonment fermented. It seemed so bizarre; my parents were diehard Sunday Mass patrons and we never even owned a Ouija Board.

Lying on my bed, I heard voices in the hallway. Someone from campus security named Tuke introduced himself to Francine. My mind was busy digesting the words Dad had spoken and I didn’t have an ounce of extra capacity to delve into the vandalism.

Quietly, I shut my door and pondered my mom. Why did she leave? Did I miss the signs?
Obviously.
Mom and Dad didn’t seem unhappy.
Freakin’
Psychic?
The only thing psychic about my mom was her ability to read my moods. But that was Mom 101 stuff. She’d started meditating. I thought that was just a stress relief thing. Except for the van, bible-burst moment, I couldn’t even remember them fighting. Was that it? They didn’t care enough to fight.

My mind drifted back to last week. I never dreamed the day she and Dad moved me into the dorm would be the last time I’d see her. The hug she gave me in the van, how it lingered. The gift. I’d completely forgotten to open it. I ran to my closet and dug around for the present. I untied the bow and peeled off the silver paper. It was a journal. A pen rested against the binding. I slid it out and tipped it upside down, gold moons and silver stars bobbed in a sea of glitter. My back crept down a wall as I sank to the floor. Mindlessly I flipped through blank pages. The second to last had a note in Mom’s handwriting. “Be true to yourself.”

What did that mean? How long had she been planning to go? I had lots of questions, but no answers. I wished I’d said how much I was going to miss her and all the nice things she did for me. Clean sheet Mondays, homemade mac ‘n’ cheese, buying me the ninety-dollar Gloria Vanderbilt jeans on the condition I didn’t tell Dad. I loved those jeans but would’ve traded them for Mom in a heartbeat. It was too late. She’d left, and I didn’t know how to get her back.

LEANING AGAINST MY OPEN DOOR, I batted my eyelids as fast as hummingbird wings to keep the stinging tears from forming. Francine held her arms crossed as she watched a man from the campus police take Polaroid photos of her door. The red stitched name embroidered on his shirt read,
Tuke Walson
. Tuke looked older than a graduate student but younger than my dad. He wore the kind of uniform that you see on security guards, dental assistants and electricians. His was navy blue and snug. “Looks like Dan has left his mark. How long you been datin’ this boy?”