Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) by Paisley Ray Page A
Authors: Paisley Ray
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you going to do about Nash?”
Staring across the river, she didn’t answer.
The tide was low, and Patsy stripped empty barnacle shells from the underside of a dock plank. “I’m telling you this as a friend. The kind who looks out for ya. Word is Ray’s are purchasing old man Wright’s place. Billy just pulled a permit to break ground on a huge home. We’re coming out of a summer drought, and the economy is moving into a recession, but it’s raining cash at the Rays. If Nash is dealing with the Ray’s, sooner or later, someone’s gonna end up with a turd in their punchbowl.”
“Y’all, are making a fuss over nothing. Nash just moved some business papers around is all.”
“Come on, Katie Lee,” Patsy said.
I tipped my head back and let sunshine warm my neck. “Nash isn’t being honest with you.”
Katie Lee turned on her heel. “Y’all can just fuck off.”
NOTE TO SELF
Persistence is critical to a successful wear-em-down. Katie Lee secured the keys to the blue Olds.
I like Katie Lee, Patsy, and New Bern with a “What’s next?” kind of infatuation.
Five weeks in and my roommate and I aren’t speaking –- going to be difficult to convince her to fess up to her PUs about the van.
OCTOBER 1986
10
D on’t M ess W ith M ama
If I were asked to dress as my favorite season, I’d roll in red candy apple coating then jump into a pile of autumn leaves. Humidity indexes had dropped, the days grew shorter, and the murmur of cicadas now hummed later in the afternoon. Fall had arrived.
Katie Lee had secured the blue Oldsmobile and a gas card from her parents. Riding back from The Bern, our sentences were short and without substance. I knew she held a grudge, and I was doing my best to ignore the knots it put in my stomach. If she was looking for an apology, she’d have a long wait. When I’d told her to lose Nash, I’d meant it. The little I knew about the black cases was more than enough to make me nervous. Being arrested as a co-conspirator wasn’t high on my to-do list. I didn’t want to be linked, in any way, to her boyfriend.
I’d finished stringing paper bats and Jack O’Lanterns above our dorm beds. I began decorating the flat surfaces with speckled gourds and cheese-wheel pumpkins. Leaving our door open, Katie Lee had strayed down the hall to nuke a bag of popcorn. Nibbling candy corn can make you thirsty, and I had a craving for fresh apple cider. Improvising, I crumbled a cinnamon stick in the coffee machine filter and brewed apple juice that I’d smuggled from the cafeteria self-serve station. It needed something more, so I added a shot of mandarin-flavored wine cooler I borrowed from Macy. Sipping the warm apple bite, I concentrated on Chapter Eight in my Psych book. I’d just read, “The winner of a mind game is the person that returns to the adult-ego stage first,” when I heard shouting from across the hall.
Seated at my desk, I had a panoramic view of two other open doors. Francine’s shadow loomed in Macy’s room. Normally the two stayed away from each other, separated by a block wall.
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
Staring across the river, she didn’t answer.
The tide was low, and Patsy stripped empty barnacle shells from the underside of a dock plank. “I’m telling you this as a friend. The kind who looks out for ya. Word is Ray’s are purchasing old man Wright’s place. Billy just pulled a permit to break ground on a huge home. We’re coming out of a summer drought, and the economy is moving into a recession, but it’s raining cash at the Rays. If Nash is dealing with the Ray’s, sooner or later, someone’s gonna end up with a turd in their punchbowl.”
“Y’all, are making a fuss over nothing. Nash just moved some business papers around is all.”
“Come on, Katie Lee,” Patsy said.
I tipped my head back and let sunshine warm my neck. “Nash isn’t being honest with you.”
Katie Lee turned on her heel. “Y’all can just fuck off.”
NOTE TO SELF
Persistence is critical to a successful wear-em-down. Katie Lee secured the keys to the blue Olds.
I like Katie Lee, Patsy, and New Bern with a “What’s next?” kind of infatuation.
Five weeks in and my roommate and I aren’t speaking –- going to be difficult to convince her to fess up to her PUs about the van.
OCTOBER 1986
10
D on’t M ess W ith M ama
If I were asked to dress as my favorite season, I’d roll in red candy apple coating then jump into a pile of autumn leaves. Humidity indexes had dropped, the days grew shorter, and the murmur of cicadas now hummed later in the afternoon. Fall had arrived.
Katie Lee had secured the blue Oldsmobile and a gas card from her parents. Riding back from The Bern, our sentences were short and without substance. I knew she held a grudge, and I was doing my best to ignore the knots it put in my stomach. If she was looking for an apology, she’d have a long wait. When I’d told her to lose Nash, I’d meant it. The little I knew about the black cases was more than enough to make me nervous. Being arrested as a co-conspirator wasn’t high on my to-do list. I didn’t want to be linked, in any way, to her boyfriend.
I’d finished stringing paper bats and Jack O’Lanterns above our dorm beds. I began decorating the flat surfaces with speckled gourds and cheese-wheel pumpkins. Leaving our door open, Katie Lee had strayed down the hall to nuke a bag of popcorn. Nibbling candy corn can make you thirsty, and I had a craving for fresh apple cider. Improvising, I crumbled a cinnamon stick in the coffee machine filter and brewed apple juice that I’d smuggled from the cafeteria self-serve station. It needed something more, so I added a shot of mandarin-flavored wine cooler I borrowed from Macy. Sipping the warm apple bite, I concentrated on Chapter Eight in my Psych book. I’d just read, “The winner of a mind game is the person that returns to the adult-ego stage first,” when I heard shouting from across the hall.
Seated at my desk, I had a panoramic view of two other open doors. Francine’s shadow loomed in Macy’s room. Normally the two stayed away from each other, separated by a block wall.
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
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