Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) by Paisley Ray Page B

drive?”
    Moments lingered between whispers. Without a volunteer, we were stuck at the 7-Eleven until I heard Patsy grumble about already having missed the first half of the football game. She called out, “Move over.” Yielding her wine cooler to an open hand in the back, she clambered her way into the driver seat and turned the ignition over. “Ladies, to the high school football field.”
    Sitting in the front with Patsy, I listened to gossip and guy-scoop from Chapel Hill, Meredith College, and NC State, but if tested on who said what, I’d fail miserably. Katie Lee relaxed her no cigarette rule, as long as the girls exhaled out the window.
    A hand from behind passed a makeup bag forward. “This is for Patsy.”
    Stuffing the small case between her legs, she unzipped it with one hand and pulled out a bowl and a palm-size baggie of hooch. Patsy had the gift of ambidexterity. She could steer with either her left or right while she packed the pipe. For an encore, she lifted both hands off the steering wheel and drove with her knees so she could light up.
    “Are you okay there?” I asked.
    Patsy sucked the pipe and ballooned the sweet smoke in her lungs. She exhaled out the open window. “I’m great. Want some?”
    I found it curious that Katie Lee wouldn’t drink and drive, but it was okay for Patsy to inhale and drive. I’d never smoked weed. It was on my “to do,” list, but I thought it best not to stink up the Brown’s van. I didn’t want Dr. Brown lecturing me on the hazards of inhaling. I declined with a nod. “I’m good.”
    I noticed Patsy’s post-pot driver foot power through three yellow lights. Beneath the traffic lights, she licked two fingers and stuck them onto the carpeted roof above her head. “What’s the saliva finger thing all about?”
    She informed me, “It’s good luck to lick and stick under a yellow light.” 
    When we entered a residential neighborhood, she executed two stop sign roll-bys. I would’ve been more comfortable in the back where I couldn’t see Patsy’s navigational finesse flash before my eyes. Since I was trapped in the cockpit, I reached behind the visor flap and familiarized myself with state maps.
    Oak trees framed the underside of an illuminated stadium where autumn leaves had gathered between the parked cars. Patsy drove up and down the aisles looking for an open spot. “Crap y’all, we’re late, and there’s no parkin’.”
    Turning a fast, not-wide-enough left, we heard a CRUNCH-SMASH noise and Patsy locked her eyes with mine.
    “Shit y’all,” someone shouted. “Was that a fender bender?”
    Another voice sent a newsflash. “I see a hunk of metal lying on the ground back there.”
    The hairs on my arm stood straight, and I thought three lick and sticks had been overkill. The third one probably jinxed us. Midway down the aisle, Patsy put the van in park, and everyone piled out. As we assessed the situation, no one seemed to be around, and the noise from the cheering crowd stayed contained inside the stadium. After a pause, the consensus of our huddled group became: What crunch? What noise? Fender? I don’t see a fender lying in the parking lot without a car attached to it.
    In a serious tone, Katie Lee professed, “Y’all, what just happened, didn’t happen.”
    My internal bells and whistles blared. I worked hard to block an urgent PTT – parental-telepathy-transmission. Not wanting to create a confrontation or add to the drama, I quickly rationalized: It’s their town. It’s Katie Lee’s van. These girls must know what they’re doing.
    The dozen girls from inside the van who’d been witnesses were eager to move away from the accident and scattered like fiddler crabs beneath the rising tide. Patsy, Katie Lee and I found a distant parking spot and examined the van under the haze of a street lamp.
    From the curb, Patsy and I watched Katie Lee pace. “They’re a few nicks along the side,” she said to herself. “No big dents or