by Paisley Ray
“What do you mean by lately?”
“In the last hour?”
“I may have. Why you askin?”
“Did you see Bridget?”
Francine feigned interest in Katie Lee’s class notes. “Not sure.”
“She and Katie Lee had a blowout. I was wondering if Bridget was okay.”
Francine closed the notebook. “You and I both know that you don’t give a baboon’s ass about the girl that ran over you in Big Blue. Are you plann’ a hair pullin,’ fist slappin’ biscuit fight?”
“Me?”
Francine locked my door, unplugged the phone and positioned herself like a construction zone roadblock. “Flap those lips if you ever want to see Clay again.”
I bit the pencil then spilled my guts.
NOTE TO SELF
Francine Battle = PP = Persuasion Perfectionist.
45
Bunny Boiler Goes Bizerk
Francine left Chantel’s door cracked open. A slice of her orange attire loomed behind the seam of the door. I had my hand on Bridget’s door and whispered. “If you see her coming, divert her.”
“Just be quick. My outfit is fresh, and I don’t want to have to smear no Oreo filling on it.”
Francine had seen Bridget leave with a laundry basket. I had maybe ten minutes, more if she started talking along the way. This was stupid, I knew it. I wasn’t sure what details Katie Lee had told her about the Easter weekend. Bureaucratic organizations tended to act slowly, and I preferred immediate gratification. I should’ve left the snooping up to the FBI, but Nash’s parting words haunted me. I didn’t want to see or speak to Bridget. I just needed a quick peek to satisfy my curiosity, and she’d be just a faint memory.
Out of habit, I called, “Bridget?” as I walked in. The only person that greeted me was Lynyrd Skynyrd who played from the cassette deck. As a bonus, dorm rooms were small, and unlike the McGee’s home, there weren’t many places to hide things. Opening her dresser drawers, I slid my hands under her clothing then checked the underside, in case she’d taken the painting out of the frame. Nothing.
Bridget’s closet door rested partially open. My eyes drifted to a foil-covered shoebox on the top shelf. It was too small to hold a painting, and I should’ve moved on. It was probably some keepsake from her childhood. I pulled her desk chair over and reached for the box. When I lifted it off the shelf the lid, plastered with photos, fell off. Some of the photos I recognized since I had copies. But in my set, all of us were in the photo. All of these photos were of Katie Lee. I didn’t know what I was looking at, and it seemed peculiar.
Stepping off the chair, I lowered the box. Inside was a hairbrush, Carolina Tarheel pen, hair clips. Gingerly I pinched the waistband of purple bikini underpants off the half-used bottle of Lauren perfume Nash had given Katie Lee for Christmas.
“What are you doing in here?” Bridget asked.
I pressed my palm to my chest and gasped.
Bridget pulled the alter box from my hands. “You aren’t capable of keeping out of my business, are you?”
“You’ve been stealing from Katie Lee. What are you doing? Making a voodoo doll for some sort of sick vendetta?”
Bridget opened her top dresser drawer. She spun around with a handgun and pointed at my chest.
“What are you doing?”
“What I should’ve done a long time ago.”
I shuffled backwards until I became pinned at the foot of her bed. “This is mental. Put that down.”
“Hugh was kind enough to lend it to me. A girl needs to protect herself from lurking vandals.”
Not thinking that she’d really fire a gun at me, I scoffed. “Are you accusing me of vandalizing your stinking room? We both know you did that yourself.”
“You can’t prove it.”
“Bridget, you’re venting at the wrong person. Are you stressed over finals or something?”
She unlocked the safety. “I’m about to feel a lot less stressed.”
“Don’t you think someone is going to hear a gunshot?”
Keeping her eye on me, she turned up the stereo volume.
If she was fooling around, she didn’t show it. Bridget drilled her eyes into mine and pursed her lips thin, like stale rope licorice that would break if you flexed it. Moisture beads of panic grew under my hairline. “Why are you doing this?”
“You’ve spent the entire year ruining my relationship with Katie Lee.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I wasn’t tracking on the Bridget radio wave. “What are you taking about?”
“Like you don’t know. I break up Katie Lee and Nash, and you keep them together. I give Katie Lee a reason to room with me and you convince her to stay with you. She and I are kindred spirits. I love her, and we belong together, forever.”
Bridget locked her arms and held the gun with determination. My minds lens retracted. I needed to stall, to distract her. Her door swung open, and at that moment I was thankful that southerners didn’t lock doors.
“That music is too damn loud.” Francine yelled. Bridget turned to face her, and I imagined my Aunt Gert’s advice. “Give a leapfrog-body-guillotine.” I improvised. Using my fists, I knocked the back of her knees with a Kung Fu karate chop. She folded like a crimped piece of dough, sending the pistol for a spin on the floor.
“Fry me a pickle. Blondie’s gotta gun.”
I launched to vice grip Bridget’s calves and feet, but she was a wiry kicker and wangled out of my grip. Snapping to her feet, Bridget charged the closet.
“The gun,” I warned.
Francine barreled in front of the open closet, maneuvering a block-position stance. Weighing options, Bridget made a split-second decision and in a seamless motion, walloped a smack across Francine’s face. Rage bulged from inside Francine and her switch flipped to pissed-off-hornets-nest.
Undeterred and brazen, Bridget dropped to her knees and reached her arms between Francine’s legs.
Francine squeezed Bridget between her knees like she was tube of toothpaste.
“Do you need a rabies shot?” Francine asked.
Popcorn rained in the air, and Katie Lee stood with an empty bowl. “Y’all stop that nowyahere.”
“Bridget’s got a gun. Dial 911.”
“Jesus,” Francine shouted, releasing her knee grip. “She bit me?”
I reached for Bridget’s ponytail, but before I pulled, Francine jammed her slipper-foot onto Bridget’s ass, pancaking her to the floor. Katie Lee sat on Bridget’s legs. Scampering over the body pile, I moved into the closet. “I got the gun.”
Empting bullets into my palm, I pocketed them and picked up the phone receiver. As I dialed, Francine filled Bridget ears. “Where were you raised? The zoo? Is that where your mama monkey taught you to bite?”
“This is Rachael O’Brien. We need a patrol car at North Carolina College. Bridget Bodsworth tried to shoot me with a pistol. Seventh floor, Grogan Residence Hall.”
Katie Lee had left Bridget’s door open. Catching my breath, I slid the snubnose pistol into a pillowcase. Macy and Chantal came in with our hall-monitor followed by Tuke Walson from the campus police. He tipped his baseball hat that read, Campus Security. I handed him the pillowcase and the bullets. He eyed the pile up of bodies.
“Ladies, you can get up now.”
Katie Lee stood, but Francine refused. “Houston,” Francine said, “I’ve got a slippery serpent flattened beneath me.”
Tuke pried Francine off Bridget then offered his hand. Bridget latched onto his middle finger and bent it backwards. He snapped his hand back, but she held firm, dislodging his finger from its socket. He hollered in pain. On her feet, Bridget darted out of the room.
She was out the door, and I panicked that she’d be like a centipede you saw in your room. The minute you went to get a Dixie cup to trap it, you lost sight of the creature. Now you couldn’t relax, let alone sleep for fear all those legs would scurry across you in the dark. “Someone grab her.”
Franc
ine led the chase down the hall. Bridget sprinted for the staircase until she crashed into two police officers. She grew turnip patches on her cheeks and neck. Pointing at Francine and me, she spewed vengeance. “They assaulted me. Those two. They’re the one’s you need to arrest. They broke into my room and hid until I came back from the laundry. It was an ambush.”
“She’s a liar. She was going to blow my head off.”
Showing the whites of her eyes, Francine told the policemen, “This Wonder Bread slice is missing her crust. She took a bite out my leg.”
With his unharmed hand, Tuke dangled the gun by its trigger guard. “Ladies, ladies. Harboring a firearm is against dorm policy. We’re going to need statements from y’all.” He secured Bridget’s wrist in his good hand and moved her forward. The two policemen escorted Francine and me back to Bridget’s room.
We waited around in Bridget’s room while the police interviewed us one at a time in the hallway. Bridget went first.
Tuke stayed in Bridget’s room with us, and Katie Lee asked where he was from.
He rocked on heels and told her, “Hickory.”
“What’s in Hickory?” Macy asked.
His eyes glistened. “Furniture and hops.”
While he mentioned the finer points of his hometown, I took the liberty of crawling onto the closet floor. Francine saw me and scrunched her eyebrows. I pushed past shoes, and a dirty clothes pile. Running my hand against the back wall I braved roaches and splinters.
More officers arrived in the room. “Greensboro police,” I heard a woman say. Touching a slim cardboard box and my heart palpated with anticipation, and I exited ass first. Still on my knees, I tipped the box upside down and a bubble wrapped painting slid out. Francine sidestepped toward me.
“Hey now,” Tuke said, “What are y’all doing?”
In unison Francine and I spoke. “Clementine Hunter.”
“How do you know it’s a Clementine Hunter?” I asked Francine.
Pulling the painting from my grasp, Francine said, “Don’t you ask me what I should be askin’ you.”
“My dad restored two of them, including this one.”
Francine straightened her back and bore her eyes into mine as though she was summoning truth-detection-powers to measure the sincerity of my words. “Clementine Hunter is my great memaw. She painted this after I was born.”
MACY POKED AT HER BAKED ZITI with extra cheese. “I’m not going to miss this.” I looked closely. A hair nested in her pasta.
“That’s gross,” I said, pushing my taco salad aside.
Macy slurped a Diet Coke. “When are you and Clay gonna do it?”
“I’ve been distracted lately, and now the year is over.”
She pointed a red nail and spoke in a disciplinary tone. “It’s all in the attitude.”
Katie Lee’s backpack clunked onto the floor. “Look who I bumped into outside.”
Tuke tipped his hat. “Ladies.”
He focused on my untouched taco salad, and I pushed it toward him. “Help yourself.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, unfolding a napkin and tucking it in his shirt neck. “Been busy this morning and I haven’t had a break.”
Katie Lee nudged his hand. “Tuke, tell them what you know.”
“You girls don’t have to worry about your safety. Ms. Bodsworth has been put on probation pending charges. The Greensboro police coordinated with FBI in the Clementine Hunter art forgery. I have it from a source that your hallmate co-conspirited with Jack Ray. Phone records show that she’d been in contact with him since November. Looks like she brought that painting back from New Orleans. Planned on selling it to Ms. Stein, the art curator, then planned to switch it with a fake.”
My brain ticked and hummed.
Macy clicked her nails. “Are you fucking telling us that Jack Ray had known Bridget before he sat at out table in New Orleans?”
Tuke swallowed a forkful of meaty bean mixture and nachos. “Look I shouldn’t say anything else until the case is closed. I’m sure the FBI will want to speak to all of you.”
BIRDS CHIRPED OUTSIDE MY WINDOW. Not in a sweet, songful way but in a clatter that may as well have been the stroke of the New Year’s pot and pan drumming. With only finals week left, I’d started to pull posters off the wall and pack some things in my suitcase. Macy lay sprawled on my bed with an open book. “I can’t study with that clatter.”
“Call Hugh. He can come over with his bow and take care of things.”
Macy and Katie Lee shot me evil glances. Macy started to click her red nails. “What?” I asked, “Have I done something?”
“No,” Macy said.
I looked from Katie Lee to Macy. “Is something going on with Hugh? Please don’t tell me you had a threesome, ‘cause if you did,’ I don’t want to know about it.”
“Raz,” Macy said, “that’s gross.”
“Macy and I have talked it over. We’ve given him up.”
“Does he know that?”
“Katie Lee and I stopped by his room. I wore Katie Lee’s sunglasses.” Macy grimaced.
“What else?” I asked.
Macy fidgeted. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you both. I’m transferring next year.”
I stopped packing. “Why?”
“I need a change. I want to go to a university where they have a football team and bars.”
“So, you’re just up and leaving us?” Katie Lee asked.
“I love you guys, but I’ve gotta get away from this place.”
I felt betrayed, and my chest tightened. “Macy, you’re one of my best friends, and I seem normal when you’re around. If you’re gone, everyone will figure out how psychotic I am.”
“You’re not making this easy.”
I didn’t respond.
“Damn right,” Katie Lee said.
CLAY HAD LEFT A PHONE MESSAGE with Katie Lee. He said to come over around seven-ish. One final left and I’d survived my freshman year. Even ticked a few things off my “to do” list, except for loosing my virginity. I still carried that one with me, and checking if off the list before summer was a priority. My stomach flip-flopped. Tonight would be my last chance to make this a year worth remembering.
The evening was warm without humidity. Tree shadows crept against the lawn outside of Clay’s dorm. I’d arrived twenty minutes early. I didn’t care and raced up the steps and down his hallway. His door rested partially open, and I pushed it wide. His back faced me. It didn’t actually matter since his arms were wrapped around Sheila Sinclair--a.k.a She-Devil. My fun-filled, romantic evening with Clay wasn’t going to happen.
My voice trembled. “Clay Sorenson, eat shit and die.” Slamming his door behind me, I teetered on the verge of a tear storm and sprinted out of the dorm. How I could have been so wrong? The story about She-Devil stalking him was bullshit. If this was how I picked men, I deserved to be sexually inactive. I’d bolted halfway across the grassy quad-lawn and heard Clay shout my name. I’d spent valuable energy working myself into a spiral of despair, and no one would talk me out of my emotions. As quickly as I met Clay, I was over him. Until he tackled me.
“Get off of me,” I hissed.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re giving me grass burns. Please remove yourself.”
“Not until you tell me why you left,” he said, which only infuriated me more.
“You’re sleeping with her.”
“With Sheila?” he laughed.
“You’re seriously sick. And Sheila She-Devil is mental, which makes you two a great match.”
“You’ve got it all wrong. Let me explain.”
Since Clay sat on top of me, I didn’t have escape options.
“Sheila stopped by to let me know she’s found someone else. She wanted to break it to me in person that she was no longer available.”
“What?”
“She was about to leave. I was wishing her well when you came in.”
“Really?”
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Clay released my arms. “Really.”
“You’ve inflicted a tremendous amount of emotional turmoil on me, and I’m not sure that I will ever recover to be the old Rachael.”
“Rachael O’Brien, you’re cute when you’re mad.”
Clay called me by my proper name when he flirted, and it didn’t go unnoticed. Before I could protest, he nibbled my neck. “Clay Sorenson, you don’t play fair.”
“You bet your ass.”
“Hey Rachael,” Hugh said, towering above. “Everything alright?”
He had his arm around Sheila. She wore a strapless sundress and Hugh rubbed his thumb on her bare shoulders.
I hiccupped. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
Clay unpinned me and offered his hand to lift me to my feet. I brushed myself off.
“Haven’t seen you around,” Hugh said, “thought you dropped off the planet.”
“No, still here. You remember Clay?”
“Holiday Inn,” Hugh said.
Sheila shaded her face behind a pair of John Lennon sunglasses. She reached her hand toward me. “Sheila Sinclair. You can call me Sissy.”
“The police called me about my gun. I spoke to Katie Lee. She said Bridget tried to shoot you with it.”
I nodded, downplaying the moment I didn’t want to relive.
“Rach, I’m sorry I ever lent it to her. I’m completely gobsmacked. She was always so sweet.” Hugh shook his head. “I had no idea she was crazy.”
“Forget it. She’s gone. A couple of days after the police finished searching her room, her mom drove up and packed up her things.”
“Wait a minute. I thought her mom died when she was young.”
Clay wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “She lied. Her mom divorced her dad last summer.”
“How do you know?”
I shoved my hands into my pockets. I was tired of the Bridget story. Katie Lee, Macy, Francine, Chantal and I had stayed up all night after the Bridget-gun encounter. We analyzed everything, down to her dental floss routine. I’d already told Clay the whole sordid story, and he thought I was telling a tall tale until Francine showed him her bite mark.
