Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (26 page)

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.

“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.

The exit door at the stairwell clicked, pulling me out of my head. Two shadowy figures, one short and plump, the other slim and tall thumped against the wall. They rotated toward me like soft serve ice cream filling a cone. In daylight, they would’ve noticed me, but in the gray hallway, I blended into the wall. They’d suctioned themselves together in a lip-lock, and slowly covered the space between the stairwell and their destination. Patting my pockets, I searched for my room key. Why was it that couples got to naked-business when I was around? Once again, I was trapped. If I stood, they’d notice me, and if I stayed put I’d see an overprescribed amount of exhibitionism. Hoping they wouldn’t christen the hallway, I froze and did my best to meld into the wall. 

Francine’s late night dessert fumbled with her door lock. He held her hand and moved backwards into her room. Before Francine had both feet over her threshold and spotted me. She slung her hand to her chest and hissed. “Lord girl, you look like a corpse that’s gone stiff. How long you been sittin’ there?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“Are you gonna report me?”

“About what?”

Francine sighed. “I owe you.”

It was good to be back.

NOTE TO SELF

Abandonment issues? Bridget and I have more in common than I knew.

Difficult to control the urge to throw myself into Clay’s arms. With She-Devil lurking, I didn’t.

Francine’s found herself a little something, something.

FEBRUARY 1987

27

T
he
S
outhern
S
torm

A
biting wind stirred campus, and by late afternoon the sky coughed a wet sleet. I hadn’t worn a pair of socks since my senior year in high school. During the Ohio winter, it drove my father nuts. I’d done it as a rebellious payback for keeping my curfew at ten. It had given me pleasure to irritate him as much as he irritated me. Being four-hundred miles away from home, with Mom gone, the things I’d done and said in high school now seemed childish. When you think you know it all, you really don’t know shit. I thought I wanted to sleep with Clay, but I had competition, and now I wasn’t so sure. I wished I was as experienced as Macy. Maybe then my head wouldn’t spin in analysis-paralysis. To clear my head of Clay, I needed fresh air and broke my self-imposed sock abstinence to trek to the campus bookstore.