Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (24 page)

“Everyone feels the same,” Katie Lee said. “It’s one big cram session. You’ll get through freshman year. We all will.”

NOTE TO SELF

Clay Sorenson is hot and when he talks, he’s even hotter. I need a plan of action.

24

S
ub
Z
ero
I
dling

The
early rain had cleared and left puddles in the parking lot. I squinted against the sun that reflected off the wet asphalt. I’d finished my first semester at college, and to quote Macy, “What was done, was fuckin’ done.” Knots disappeared from my muscles, and my head had cleared. Now I’d wait. In a few weeks, my grades would turn up in the mail.

Bridget, Macy and I helped pack Katie Lee’s belongings into Big Blue. “I’m really looking forward to the break. Spendin’ some quality time with Nash and seein’ all my friends back in The Bern.” I wished I felt the same about going home. Dad hadn’t mentioned Trudy on the last phone call. Figuring,
No news is good news,
I assumed the two had ended their thing, but avoided asking. I considered his dating a non-safe topic and didn’t like delving over the line that he and I avoided.

At the mention of Nash, Macy, Bridget and I kept silent, each for our own reason.

“Promise you’ll call me if anything monumental happens,” I told Katie Lee. “And be sure to let Patsy and Mitch know that I wish them a fabulous holiday.”

Macy cooed at the mention of Mitch. “Come on,” I said. “It’s Christmas, the season of care and joy.”

Katie Lee put the key in Big Blue. “I bet Mitch would prefer your gift of goodwill in person.”

Bridget saved me from additional verbal abuse. “Should be interesting to see who my roommate is next semester.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“My roommate isn’t coming back to Grogan.”

“What’s up with that?” asked Macy.

Bridget shrugged. “She’s moving off-campus with some friends.”

“That sucks,” Katie Lee said.

“I just hate the thought of adjusting to a new roommate. If anyone’s interested, I have space available.”

“I like my privacy,” Macy said.

“Rach and I are staying put. Ask around and see if anyone is interested.”

Bridget rolled a rock around under her shoe. “If none of y’all want to switch, the best I can hope for is that I don’t get assigned a roommate.”

“I’m sure it‘ll work out,” I said, not caring if it did.

“But look at Mama,” Bridget said. “What if I get a roommate like her?”

I’d seen Macy and Francine in the take down and wasn’t overly sure who clinched that battle. Clicking her red nails, Macy said, “If that happens, you’d have to kill her.”

Katie Lee and I laughed at Macy’s suggestion while Bridget stared, not finding humor in the sarcasm.

Big Blue’s engine turned over, and Katie Lee said, “Merry Christmas y’all.”

KATIE LEE PHONED MY HOUSE after Christmas. “I’m havin’ a fabulous break. Lots of parties and I’ve been out on the boat a few times.”

From under my electric blanket in Canton, I said, “I’m jealous.”

“Guess who was askin’ about you.”

“Mitch?” I asked.

“Besides Mitch.”

“I don’t know.”

“Billy Ray. Wanted to know your home phone number.”

I choked. “Please tell me you didn’t give it to him.”

Katie Lee laughed. “Don’t worry, I made up an excuse.”

I closed my eyes in relief.

“I broke the news to my parents about the anniversary wine.”

“Are you grounded for a year?” I asked.

“Na, they were cool. Didn’t make too big deal of it.”

“You never cease to amaze me. What else is going on in The Bern?”

“Nash and I are spendin’ a lot of romantic time together.”

Romantic time with you and how many others?
The thought made me want to yak. “Make sure you take precautions. You don’t need a love child.”

“Don’t worry, we’re careful.”

“How are the McCoys?” I asked.

“Daddy reminded Patsy and me that we’ll be muckin’ barnacles off fiberglass when I get home from the spring semester. I was hopin’ they’d forgotten about that.”

Katie Lee didn’t mention Mitch. Not wanting to seem overly interested, I didn’t ask.

A pint of Kentucky bourbon arrived from Travis. The note read, “Thought you could use something to survive the Canton winter.” Travis and I had spoken a few times since Halloween and become kindred hearts. I wished for more. If he ever became disgruntled with his current sexual preference, I’d enthusiastically volunteer myself to bring him back to team female. For now, we were just friends.

A postcard with an “I love NY,” tattooed on a voluptuous ass arrived a few days into the New Year. Luckily, Dad was at his shop, and I’d brought the mail in.

Happy New Year!

Hanging out with the old crowd in Queens.

Rang in “87” with a ball drop (the one in Times Square).

Vaguely recall the night. Will share what I remember.

See you in a fucking few.

-M-

OVER BREAK I PRAYED FOR divine intervention. Anything would do, a lightning bolt that erased Trudy’s memory of Dad, a torn gluteus maximus to keep her in her apartment. I was open to options, but nothing extraordinary happened. The novelty of Trudy lasted the entire break. In addition to her, Dad found a new obsession. Locks. He rekeyed the house and the shop. Each night, I heard him turn the deadbolts on the front door and slide the chain. Then he moved to the back door. I wondered if he found it therapeutic. I guessed he worried that Mom would just show up and let herself in. His worst fear was my wish.

Scumbling and glazing the Francois Quesnel portrait kept me busy. I spent more time with my father than I ever remember, and during the day the meticulous detailing kept my mind from overly obsessing about Mom, Bridget, Nash, Patsy, Mitch and Clay. In the evening, when I snuck in my room to sip bourbon and smoke ciggies, I pondered all of them.

The night before I was due to leave, Mom called. She and Dad didn’t say much. I wondered if they’d spoken before about what she was doing, if she needed money and when she was coming back, but dad hadn’t shared anything with me. Mom asked me about my first semester, and I gave standard answers to her standard questions. After I hung up, I found myself staring at the clothes that still hung in her wardrobe. Dad didn’t know what to do with her things and neither did I. As much as she hurt us, it didn’t seem right to throw them away or give her stuff to charity. Not yet. Gripping a handful of fabric, I pulled it to my face, drinking in the only touchable thing left of the mother that raised me. Standing in her closet, I realized even though I considered my dad overly neurotic and annoying, he loved me. I could easily read his emotions, they weren’t hidden or complicated. Sometimes you don’t realize what you have until it’s gone. I wasn’t ever going to let go of him.

NOTE TO SELF

Working in Dad’s shop took off the monotonous edge of being at home and fattened my wallet.

Trudy is like a rash – infectiously annoying.

I made zero progress with Clay. Not sure if I’ll get another chance next semester.

JANUARY 1987

25

W
hat
T
he
T
arnation?

Having
one semester under my belt, I’d learned a few things:

1. Avoid wet riverbanks —- breeding grounds for chigger patches. And chiggers can lead to a whole lot of trouble.

2. Don’t fool around with Mitch. Despite his cute looks and smooth talking southern, he’s too young.

3. Never sip a drink Bridget offers.

4. Avoid contact with Nash Wilson and Billy Ray.

5. Refocus on Clay Sorenson.  

Being a seasoned freshman, I was ready to navigate my way through semester number two.

Gray clouds collected in the Carolina winter sky casting gloom onto the campus landscape. Handing the taxi driver a crisp twenty, I slid off the plastic taxi seat and stood in front of Grogan dorm. Carrying a duffel on my shoulder, I raced down the twenty-six steps toward the lobby. I’d missed the girls and wanted to hear details about their holiday breaks.

Inside the dorm elevator, I pressed number seven and wondered what my chances were of having another class with Clay. Probably the same odds as winning the jingle-bell, scratch card jackpot.

With a jolt, the metal doors opened, delivering a rancid stink. I double-checked the hallway, hoping it was the wrong floor. It wasn’t. I hustled toward my room, searching my database of disgusting to identify the smell. My best match: old tennis shoe inserts splashed with sapsago cheese. Some aspects of dorm life I hadn’t missed.

Before I went into my room, I knocked on Macy’s door. Giving her a hug, I asked, “What’s that smell?”

“It’s not me. We’re lucky we’re on the far end of the floor. It’s worse near the elevators.”

From behind us, Katie Lee said, “Y’all are lookin’ marvelous.” Out of breath, she asked, “Can I get a hand emptying my car? Mom sent me back with groceries, and I got a new boom box for Christmas.”

Near the elevator, Katie Lee pinched her nose. “Good lord, y’all.”

“Gross Grogan,” Macy said.

“Y’all, something is seriously decayed. Has anyone looked for a dead animal in the stairwell?”

“That’s creepy,” I said. “How would anything get past the lobby and into an enclosed stairway?”

“I don’t do basements or stairwells,” Macy said. “I’m certainly not checking.” 

  Katie Lee had brought back more than groceries and a boom box. Her stash also included an overstuffed upholstered chair, a beanbag, a coffee table and all her sweaters, coats and winter gear. The armchair, covered in a psychedelic stripe, poked out from a bungee-cord lock-system, meant to keep the trunk closed. It took Katie Lee, Macy and me three trips to unload. When we finished, you couldn’t see floor in our room.

Macy left, making an excuse about a phone call. “Good luck with all that,” she said.

Trapped behind a mound of stuff, I stated the obvious. “Katie Lee, we don’t have room.”

Leaving her coat on, she grabbed her car keys. “Raz, we need to build up.”

I looked at my chest. “Mine will never look built up.”

“Not boob implants, a loft. Come on.”

BEHIND A QUICKIE MARKET, Katie Lee kept the engine running while I stuffed milk crates into Big Blue.

“Try ‘n get all gray ones,” she’d said. I ignored her and rushed to fill up the car. I just wanted this loft built so I could get to campus and look for Clay Sorenson. He had to eat, and I guessed the cafeteria was the best location for a sighting. I had planned to linger there as much as possible, and building a loft cut into my surveillance work.

I’d filled the car with crates when the employee door of the convenience store opened. I leapt to the front seat. “If I’m going to get arrested, it better not be for this.”

Katie Lee jammed the gas pedal. “Buckle in,” she said, gunning us out of the alley.

It took three more car trips to carry the milk crates into our room. Somewhere in the hallway, I heard Hugh say, “Hey,” to Macy. A knuckle rap clunked our wood veneer, and we watched the door inch open a quarter of the way before it nailed the pile of furniture and crates.

Half Hugh’s face jutted around the door, and he shimmied into our room. “Y’all look hotter than jalapeño corn bread.”

I squealed, not recognizing him.

“Oh my Lord,” Katie Lee said.

“You shaved it off!” I shouted, unable to resist touching Hugh’s smooth upper lip.

“I like the look,” Katie Lee said, and his grin raised his cheeks.

We gave him respectable hugs in exchange for help to build the loft. By dinnertime, my bed towered above Katie Lee’s, on two, four–by-six pieces of lumber that rested on a foundation of vertically stacked milk crates.

“Is it sturdy?” I asked.

Lifting me over his head, he said, “There’s one way to find out.”

A muffled eeew and a scream erupted from down the hall.

Hugh lowered me to the ground, and asked, “Someone got a birthin’ goat?”

Macy bounded into our room. “That sounded like Bridget.”

Already in the hall, Katie Lee said, “C’mon.”

A herd of lookie-Lou’s, including Francine, had gathered outside Bridget’s room. Everyone held their noses. After a quick snoop, almost everyone made speedy exits. Bridget’s open door released an aroma that overpowered what had lingered in front of the elevators. Francine waved her hand in front of her face and said, “Lord, girl, your room has more stink than the public-park-porta-potties on the fourth of July.”

Bridget’s bags lay in a heap on her floor. Something I didn’t want to identify had been splattered across her baby blue, cement block walls. The cranberry and donut cream goo had dried in a design that reminded me of my dad’s painters apron. Paralyzed, she cupped her hands over her mouth and nose. Tears welled above her reddened cheeks.