Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) Page 9

  The catalyst for their dislike grew from something seemingly small, a fingernail and a picture frame. When the three of us landed on the floor that first day, both chipped. Macy had blamed Francine’s clumsiness, as the reason we toppled, and Francine accused Macy’s abusive mouth of sending down bad karma.

  They loathed each other. It wasn’t black versus white distaste. I knew this since the graffiti on Francine’s door had infuriated Macy. The bristly animosity stemmed from equally strong temperaments that bubbled from deep beneath the skin. Francine eyed Macy as though she were foreign food, masterfully adorning an array of contorted facial expressions, in the form of high arched brows and exorcist-rolling eyeballs. Macy had an extensive assortment of finger, wrist and arm signals she used to insult Francine.

  From behind my desk, I stood and pretended to search for a missing book. Francine tapped a pink-furry slippered foot and shouted, “Turn that whiney music down.”

  Macy relaxed on her bed wearing men’s plaid boxers and a wife beater tank top. A contraption that looked like brass knuckles, only Styrofoam separated her toes. She capped a bottle of polish, most likely her signature color--Smok’n in Havana--before adjusting an oscillating fan. “Francine, go back to your cave.”

  On tiptoes, Francine stood five feet tall max. Being short in stature made her voluptuous-curves all the more intimidating. She wore a permanent scowl and didn’t walk, but strutted in a motion that mimicked the swish-swish of maracas in a samba. Francine grew up Baptist on the Louisiana Bayou and used Ragin Cajun when she threw out insults. Marching back to her room, she returned to the hall with her boom box on a long extension cord. Strategically aiming the speaker at Macy’s open door, she pushed play. The speakers thumped a gospel-choir-musical-selection, “Take Me to the River,” which rhythmically conflicted with the B52’s, “Rock Lobster” playing on Macy’s machine.

  I considered shutting my door but didn’t. As the two moved the dispute into the common corridor, I put my eyes into my open book and froze.

  Macy, apparently unable to control herself, poked Francine in the shoulder. Beginning round one of verbal assault ping-pong, she shouted, “I’ll listen to whatever I want.”

  Batting Macy’s hand aside, Francine growled, “Don’t poke me with those hooker nails.”

  Shoving and jabbing evolved into a wrestling match that rivaled Hulk Hogan versus The Undertaker, landing them in my room.

  From under Francine’s armpit Macy squeaked, “Help?”

  “Francine. Let go of her.”

  “Rachael, keep your gumbo out of this. Miss Filth Mouth needs a lesson on respect.”

  Knotted together, Macy hooked her leg around Francine, and repeatedly tried to throw her off balance. Momentum moved them backward into the built-in dresser, capsizing Katie Lee’s perfume bottles and my cosmetic containers. I jumped on my bed and warned, “Someone’s going to get hurt.”

  Grappling out of the elbow hold, Macy paused to catch her breath while Francine rested her hands on her knees.

  “Truce?” I pleaded.

  Macy positioned her hip sideways and extended her butt. “Listen here, Mama,” she said before slapping her ass with a whack sharp enough to send any four-legged animal into a gallop. “You-can-kiss this.”

  “Your Crisco’s gone rancid,” Francine shouted.

  I was born with the non-confrontational gene and vehemently avoided situations where mental or physical injury seemed likely. I would’ve bolted but Francine blocked the doorway when she bulldozed Macy into my desk. I leapt from my bed to Katie Lee’s side of the room, and cringed when my mug of cider tipped over onto my Psych book, before puddling to the floor. “See what you’ve done,” I spat on deaf ears.

  In a defensive counter maneuver, Macy launched gourds and pumpkins at Francine. One ricocheted off her chest, causing her to wince and take refuge. Katie Lee’s closet door provided cover from exploding squash grenades and a trail of seedy-pulp mush.

  When Macy ran out of ammo, Francine came out of hiding. “So, that’s how you want to play.”

  The two circled each other in a game of chicken. “Rach,” Macy said, “back me up.”

  Not exactly sure what Macy expected me to do, I crouched an arm’s length away, dodging and shuffling around them in a caveman dance.

  Francine’s Louisiana drawl misted the air with every “s” sound she uttered. “You,” she told Macy, “are pissing me off, and I am going to report your biscuit ass and get it kicked outtahere.”

  They were destroying my room, and I tried to think of something to diffuse their tempers. Before anything appropriate popped into my head, Macy flipped a double-fisted-bird. Her painted nails glowed like sparkling roman candles, and she told Francine, “Smoke these.”

  When Macy turned to give me a wink, Francine snatched her ponytail and yanked. “Listen, you cracker. Out of respect to your neighbors, you-need-to–control-your-volume.”

  I stood in shock at this brazen assault while Macy reached to rescue her hair.

  Chucking the scrunchie into the hallway, Francine spat out “Dumbass,” before storming off and slamming her door.

  The neck of Macy’s Tank-top had stretched, and her hair took on a bed-head-esk style. “I’m gonna kill her.”

  I grabbed her arm. “Leave it.”

  Hearing the click of a lock enraged Macy. She shook loose and pounded her fists, careful not to damage her nails, on Francine’s oak veneer door.

  “Come on, Macy,” I said tugging her arm again.

  I smelled popcorn before I saw Katie Lee and Bridget. “What’s all the yelling? What’s goin’ on?” They asked.

  Signaling my thumb at Macy, I asked Bridget, “Why is it you only show up after a fight?”

  She curved her mouth in a closed smile. “Katie Lee and I had the munchies.”

  Macy pressed her lips into the seal of the doorframe. “Mama, get your bayou butt out here. I’m not finished with you!”

  “Mama?” Katie Lee mouthed.

  The three of us huddled around Macy and forcefully escorted her into her room.

  Katie Lee, Bridget and I mowed through the bag of popcorn while Macy spewed insults that referenced the inbreeding of Francine and her extended family.

  “You need to calm down,” Katie Lee said.

  To settle Macy’s nerves, I offered to brew an apple bite. As the coffee maker sputtered, I picked up pieces of broken pumpkin and squashed gourd. Sticky goo had smeared down Katie Lee’s closet, and I opened her wardrobe to give the door a wipe. Under a stack of sweater bags was a black suitcase I’d never seen before. I didn’t think much of it until I glimpsed dried paint on the handle. My mind rewound to the diner in New Bern where Katie Lee told Patsy and I about her fight with Nash. I worked hard to convince myself, it couldn’t be.

  Katie Lee stood behind my back. “What are you doing in my closet?”

  Like a hound flushing out a quail, I dug deep to contain my nervous energy. I held my stance and pointed. “Is that Nash’s?”

  She moved toward the closet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  It wasn’t my business, but I couldn’t stop myself. I was furious that she hid something for him in our room. For all I knew, he was a serial killer and body parts were fermenting in Katie Lee’s closet. Before she could slam the door, I pulled on the suitcase, tumbling the plastic zip bags that rested on top.

  She grabbed the side handle. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m opening it.”

  She hung on. “It’s not yours to open.”

  In a tug of war, I yanked then released. Katie Lee toppled to the floor and clunked her desk leg.

  Macy appeared in the doorway. Not sure how much she’d seen, I didn’t care. Katie Lee wasn’t bleeding and even if she was, I wouldn’t have noticed. I was obsessed with the case that lay equidistant between us.

  I dove on top of it and applied pressure, squeezing until the lock clicked. Katie Lee sat on the floor and shot me a look of pissed off d
efeat. Macy looked intrigued. She didn’t interfere or pick sides, but stood behind my shoulder, amused.

  Turning the heavy case to face me, I slid the zipper around the track. Macy pitched a shrill whistle. Bridget joined the gawking audience and yelled, “Holy shit.”

  Seeing all the twenties neatly stacked and bound by rubber bands, I smacked my forehead. “Katie Lee, this is a problem.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Apple Bite. One third mandarin wine cooler and two thirds apple juice brewed through a coffee maker. Can crumble cinnamon stick in the filter. Warning, more than two mugs will put you to sleep when studying.

  Studying in the dorm is not an option as long as Macy’s subwoofer is in operation.

  Katie Lee is hiding a stash of cash--accessory to a crime?

  11

  Dirty Green

  Autumn air from Big Blue’s open window fanned my face. Katie Lee fumbled with the radio dial as she drove down the I-40 East. “Y’all, Franklin Street is completely crazy on Halloween. Chapel Hill is one of the best party places in the state.”

  Katie Lee had invited Bridget, Macy and me to spend the ghoulish holiday at UNC-Chapel Hill. Not wanting to stay on campus alone, I accepted her peace offering invite. Maybe getting away was what I needed to forget about the insane amount of cash stashed in our room, and about the fantasy guy that sat thirty rows above me every Friday in Psych lecture. We hadn’t exchanged actual words. Sneaking glances when I arrived and left was as brave as I’d been. I didn’t know his name, what dorm he lived in, or if he was single. My crush was like with one I had with The Hardy Boys TV series as a kid, only ten times worse. Two months at university and I hadn’t fooled around. This weekend, I counted on my luck changing.

  Claiming susceptibility to carsickness, Bridget rode in the front. She pulled her blonde hair back in a flawless ponytail, except for one strand of hair wrapped around the rubber band. Tall and curvy, her makeup made her eyes sultry and her lips, plump and rosy. Her jaw was tightly aligned, like a puzzle, and when she smiled, I found myself self-consciously stretching my tongue over my crooked eyetooth.

  Lately, Katie Lee mostly hung out in Bridget’s room. I didn’t take it personally. I liked Bridget. Besides, one more person to distract her from Nash would keep us all out of trouble.

  “Katie Lee, did you remember to lock our door?”

  “I remembered.”

  Macy blew a bubble and pinched it between her teeth. “If anyone breaks into your room, it’d be as good as hitting the lotto.”

  “I’m hoping that stash was from a Monopoly marathon.”

  “Sorry Rach,” Bridget said, “there weren’t any candy bar- sized pink or yellow bills in that suitcase.”

  Katie Lee turned up the radio. “Y’all, can we talk about something else?”

  For high school graduation, Mom had given me gold-rimmed Ray Ban sunglasses. The lenses were algae colored and oversized. Everything about them spoke vintage-cool. My mother told me, she’d worn them at the Ohio State fair the day she met Dad. Despite my father’s fear of heights, the two had soared in a hot air balloon. I hadn’t heard from my mom since she’d flown the coop with a bunch of wanna-be-psychics to find her inner tarot card. Regardless, I still treasured the glasses. From under them, I surveyed the moving sky. They dulled the brightness and softened the edges of the landscape. Maybe if I’d worn them when I opened the suitcase, the contents wouldn’t have seemed so illegal.

  Macy whispered from across the back seat, “Did you or Katie Lee touch any of the money?”

  “I didn’t. I’m not sure about Katie Lee. Why?”

  Macy lowered her voice. “Fingerprints.”

  I felt sickish and again questioned Katie Lee’s judgment. She’d convinced herself, and worked hard to convince me, that the little favor she was doing for Nash was no biggie. Like hiding a suitcase full of a gazillion dollars happened every now and then. Katie Lee was book smart, and boyfriend challenged. I wondered how long she was going to continue to involve herself in something that was sure to spiral into the ground.

  “What’s your friend’s name?” Bridget asked.

  “Meredith McGee. Rachael met her at Billy Ray’s.”

  “I met so many people at Billy Ray’s,” I said, “I’m not sure I remember her.”

  “She remembers seeing you shag with Billy Ray.”

  I cringed at the memory.

  Glancing at me, Macy cracked a smile. “What’s the plan?”

  Katie Lee merged into the slow lane and followed the sign to Hwy 54 West/Chapel Hill. “We’ll pre-party at McIver Hall, head to State Street, then over to fraternity row for the battle of the bands.”

  Bridget flipped the visor down. “Do you need me to look at a map?”

  “I had four years of family visits when my sister went here. I know my way around.”

  Navigating past one-way streets lined with ivy-clad buildings, Katie Lee parallel parked in a metered spot off Franklin. It was a tight spot; she maneuvered the Olds carefully, barely tapping the bumper on the car in front, twice. Across the street, a restaurant with a red neon sign read, “Hector’s. Always Open.”

  I asked Katie Lee, “Is Meredith cool with all of us sleeping in their dorm?”

  “Of course.”

  SLIDING INTO A RED, plastic-booth, Macy contorted her neck at an unnatural angle to stare at a waiter dressed in chaps, a western shirt and a cowboy hat. “I’d like to saddle him.”

  Katie Lee tipped her head. “Y’all look at that GI Joe behind the counter.”

  Her comment surprised me, and I wondered if she was examining her relationship. “Since you have Nash, I didn’t think you looked at butts.”

  “The opinions I provide are from the goodness of my heart, to help steer you away from any assholes.”

  Bridget giggled, “Around her, there’s sure to be plenty of butts to fall in love with.”

  “Fuck falling in love. I just want sex with someone hot.”

  “Macy,” Bridget teased.

  I kept quiet not admitting that I wanted sex too, but with the romance part.

  “Order me a sweet tea,” Katie Lee said, before she left to cash dollars for the coin meter.

  Bridget tilted forward and asked, “Everything patched up between you two?”

  “We’re not in agreement about Nash, but we’re speaking.”

  “There had to be ten thousand dollars in there,” Macy said.

  Bridget toyed with her straw. “If that much money was stashed in my room, I’d do some serious shopping.”

  “That loot is funny money obtained from somewhere or something illegal. It won’t buy anything but headaches.” I looked at Katie Lee and said, “I want it gone.”

  “Is it drug money?” Bridget asked.

  “What else could it be?” Macy asked.

  I pulled out a pack of Rolaids. “That’s my guess.”

  “Has she confronted him?” Bridget asked.

  With all the time she and Katie Lee spent together, I thought she’d have more insight than I did. “She called him. He said he didn’t know what was inside. He’s keeping it safe for someone.”

  Macy corrected me. “You mean Katie Lee’s keeping it safe for someone.”

  I popped two antacids, then a third.

  Macy examined the wrapper. “Since when do you take Rolaids?”

  “Since I met Katie Lee.”

  The cowboy waiter dropped off four ice waters. Bridget waited for him to leave our table before she asked, “When is Nash coming to get it?”

  “I don’t know the exact plan, just that she promised she’d move the green out of our room.”

  “Like where?” Macy asked.

  “I don’t care. I just want it gone.”

  Katie Lee took off her denim jacket and slid into the booth next to Bridget. “Bring on the goons and goblins y’all. I can’t think of a better place, or better Halloween company to be with this holiday.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Spending Hallowee
n on a campus of eighteen-thousand students. That can’t be bad.

  Can you become addicted to Rolaids?

  12

  Scouts Honor

  McIver Hall’s architecture dripped old southern. The three-story, Brunswick red brick exterior sprawled across a freshly mowed lawn. Formal white columns that held up a portico provided a sense of syrupy, Gone With the Wind romantic sensation over me. Before we left Greensboro, I borrowed half a dozen condoms from Macy in case any malfunctioned. Tonight, I was getting D-virginized.

  Tromping through doublewide doors, Katie Lee veered past the front desk and headed left toward a staircase. Reapplying lip-gloss, Bridget followed while Macy and I trailed behind. On the second floor, Katie Lee walked into an open door. A kaleidoscope of olive-green, mustard-yellow and orange peace signs leapt from Meredith’s twin-comforter. Egg-shaped, swivel chairs on metallic silver bases perched on either side of a two-seater faux fur sofa. Macy leaned into my ear, “It looks like Brady Bunch throw-up in here.”

  Katie Lee made introductions. “This is Bridget, Macy and…”

  “Hey Raz,” Meredith greeted me. There was no use correcting her. Thanks to Billy Ray, the nickname stuck to me like a new freckle. Since she wasn’t privy to the “van incident,” I made a mental note to keep quiet. Tonight we’d be on foot, so I didn’t have to worry about alcohol-induced driving mishaps.

  Meredith wore pink low-rise hot pants, love beads and had a peace sign painted on her cheek. “Everyone, will be completely outrageous on State Street. What are y’all’s costumes?”

  Settling into one of the egg chairs, Katie Lee gestured a three-finger salute. “Girl Scout troop three-forty-six reporting for collegiate mayhem.”

  “I’m friends with some guys in Alpha Delta,” Meredith said. “The bands they’ve lined up are local.”

  Bridget began separating pieces of Katie Lee’s pencil straight, shoulder-length hair. “Why don’t I French-braid your hair? It’ll add authenticity to your scout image.” Bridget suggested as she meticulously danced her fingers down the back of Katie Lee’s head. Admiring her work, she pulled a ponytail holder out of her hair and twisted it into Katie Lee’s.