Chapter 3— Pickle Time

I glanced around my newly redecorated room as I kicked off the aqua blue down-filled comforter and climbed out of bed. Between de-cluttering my entire room so everything was neat and organized, not to mention creating a spa-like atmosphere with things like lavender aromatherapy and tons of plants, it was obvious my mom had gone to a lot of trouble to make the space feel peaceful and relaxed. Fat lot of good it did. I was as restless as a couple of cats thrown into a swimming hole. Part of me, a really, really big part missed my old room that was anything but Zen-like.

What's so wrong with the color black anyway?

I mean, despite the fact that it made me think about the darkness trying to infiltrate my very soul, while the nagging feelings of hunger threatened to consume me whole. Welcome to my new normal.

I tried to look on the bright side. If  there was even a bright side. Who knows, maybe it was a good thing that Thomas and Vycandor weren't around at the moment. I'm always cranky when I first wake up. And today...well, I might just bite the head off the first person who pisses me off. Like, literally. Which would totally not be my fault. I can't be held accountable for the things I do before caffeine hits my bloodstream. Except now, thanks to Lisette, I no longer craved my favorite morning beverage. Not even a little.

The realization really chapped my ass. There was just no two ways around it. I had to find a way to remove the curse. Either that or give up coffee forever.

I made a face. "As if."

Opening the doors to my walk-in closet with a renewed sense of purpose, I still couldn't help but marvel at the massive selection of new clothes. Organized by color and heavily steeped in a wide assortment of flannels, my mom knew it was a waste of money to buy me anything except varying shades of whites, blacks, and grays, with just a sprinkling of muted tones in reds, greens, and navy blues. My taste for style, or lack there of, was seemingly the only thing that hadn't been affected by the curse. 

No longer bothered with feeling inferior in the fashion department, I opted for the laid-back boyfriend fit of a red and black buffalo plaid flannel worn over a white, long sleeved Henley T-shirt with faux button detailing. For pants, I picked out a pair of faded black skinny jeans that were already perfectly destroyed in both knees and checked the fit in the full-length mirror. I may have been bringing sexy back the way the stretch denim sculpted my bottom, but front tucking only half of the Henley to de-emphasize the silhouette said grunge-city all the way.

Just how I liked it. Uber messy. However, upon closer inspection, something was definitely missing.

I stuffed my sock-less feet in a worn pair of black moccasins before rummaging through my dresser to score a wadded up navy blue and red hooded flannel shirt in all its musty, moth-holed glory and tied it tightly around my waist. One can never wear too much flannel. That's my motto anyway.

Heading into the bathroom to brush my fang less teeth, I didn't bother to comb my hair. As usual, my waist length flaming-red locks couldn't be tamed. Plus the fact that the ends of my bangs pretty much covered my entire face meant I didn't have to worry about applying make-up. Bonus!  

By the time I found my mom downstairs, she was dressed in a comfy champagne pink knit dress with matching high heels and standing in front of the stove cooking an enormous pot of potatoes.

"How many people are you expecting?" I peeked outside and it seemed like every volunteer that worked at the farm, including their families, were planning on eating Thanksgiving dinner with us. No wonder my mom needed help.

She waved a spoon. "Only everyone you helped save. The farm is so secluded out in the country, nobody even knew we were all here." Satisfied that the potatoes were cooked, she moved on to slicing too many cooked turkeys to count. "Chaos, go grab the cheese plates out of the fridge and put one on every table. It's cold enough outside to keep them chilled. And for Pete's sake, don't eat all the cheese this time."

I did a silent count in my head of the number of tables she had set up for guests and mumbled, "Like I could eat twenty-five plates of cheese."

Mom paused to raise a pointy carving knife at me, smile now gone. "Don't argue with me, just git."

Gee, our happy reunion sure didn't last long. She was back to being her normal mom self in record time. I guess that meant I could be my normal snarky self. "Just git it yer dang self why don't cha," I moaned to myself, but not loud enough so she could hear me. And people wonder where I get my attitude from. I stomped over to the refrigerator and pulled out all of the cheese plates, stacking them neatly on the counter.

That's when I saw it.

A lonely jar of kosher, whole dill pickles stuffed all the way in the back. I had to practically climb in the fridge to reach them. Unscrewing the top, I pulled out a giant pickle and held it up proudly. "Guess what time it is?" Without waiting for a reply, I placed the pickle in my mouth and held it between my teeth so my hands were free to pluck a nicely ripe banana from the bunch. Removing the peel, I tossed the banana in the garbage and put the peel on my forehead. With my head tipped back to balance the peel, I took two sandwich sized slices of cheese from one of the plates, placed a cheese slice on the back of my palms, and just stood there in the moment enjoying the feel of it. "Now this is what I call Zen."

My mom didn't have to turn around to know what I was up to. "Chaos, how many times do I have to tell you to stop playing with your food?"

I made the mistake of lifting my head to glare at her and dropped the banana peel on the floor. "I like it because it's cold." By the time she finished carving the rest of the turkeys, I'd grabbed the 48 ounce bottle of coffee creamer out of the fridge to balance on my forehead. With the pickle still dangling from my mouth, and the cheese slices on the back of each palm, I managed to say, "Look ma. No hands!"

This time she didn't reply, except to shake her head and sigh heavily before carrying a porcelain serving tray stuffed with freshly carved meat out to her guests on the porch.  

"What do you think you're doing?" a deep voice said, coming from directly behind me.

I spun around to find Thomas staring at me with a look of concern on his devastatingly handsome face. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was wearing the exact same clothes that he wore in my dream. Same crisp white T-shirt. Same black leather jacket. And same tight denim blue jeans that looked like they'd been painted on. I was so mesmerized by his beauty that I forgot all about the coffee creamer on my head. Recovering quickly, I managed to catch it with my right hand without looking. Thankfully only the cheese slices hit the floor with a splat. Poor cheese.

Okay, so the fact that I liked to play with my food was a little juvenile. A lot, actually. My mom was used to my antics in the kitchen. Thomas on the other hand? Not so much.

Surprisingly enough, I didn't feel embarrassed. I enjoyed being able to lower my guard and act childish for a change. Made me feel...normal. It reminded me of a time before my life began to spiral out of control. When the weight of the entire freaking planet wasn't resting squarely on my shoulders. I was never going to survive unless I went a little bit crazy every now and then. You know, Carpe Diem and all that shit. 

I silently bent down to pick up the banana peel and cheese slices. Only after I had thrown them away and placed the creamer back in the fridge, did I bite off a chunk of pickle. Mouth still full, I calmly replied, "I'm having pickle time, if you must know."

"Pickle time?" Thomas repeated, trying hard not to smile. "Is that what you were doing? You give new meaning to the term, "wearing your food."

If he was trying to get a rise out of me, it was working better than he knew.

Point for him.

I paused dramatically to pour myself a glass of pickle juice and took a good swig, letting the bright green, pungent liquid burn itself down my throat without answering.

Point for me.

I bit off another piece of pickle and chewed thoughtfully. "This is how I decompress after a long, stressful day."

"But you just woke up." This time he didn't bother to hide his humor.

I glared at him in mutinous silence before I couldn't take it anymore. "Just woke up is right. From a nightmare, that is. Where I almost drank..." I cut myself off mid-sentence. I knew what he was doing. He was purposefully trying to annoy me. I think he enjoyed toying with my emotions. Well, if that was the case then I refused to give him the satisfaction. "Ya know what? Never mind. I guess you're just gonna have to take my word for it." I took a long sip of my green juice to keep from saying something else I knew I would regret.

Thomas pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger as if deep in thought. "You won't drink water because you say it smells like vinegar, but you like pickle juice?" He made it sound more like a statement than a question. "What do you think pickles are soaked in?" I wasn't sure if he was asking me, or telling me. "I'll give you one guess."

Clearly, he was proud of himself.  

If possible, I glared at him harder. "I know, but guess what regular vinegar doesn't have in it? Pickles. Now leave me alone." I'd barely swallowed the last bite before a light went on in my head. "Wait. How do you know I can't stand the smell of vinegar? I told you that in a dream. At least, I think it was a dream..."

My mom came rushing into the kitchen next to pull one of her award winning apple pies out of the oven when she spotted me with Thomas. "Chaos, I forgot to tell you. You have a visitor."

"Gee, thanks mom."

She glanced at the empty jar in my hand. "Isn't it a little early for pickle juice?"

I tipped my head before pouring myself another round and drank it in one gulp. "I haven't met my allotted pickle juice consumption for the day, thank you very much."  

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Is that even a thing?"

I nodded. "It's not nearly enough to stave off the hunger pains, but at least it's something. You wouldn't question me if you knew the alternative."

"I do know the alternative, Chaos." Thomas turned so his back faced my mother, giving me a scornful eyes. "And I don't think I want to go there with you right now."

He was referring to Vycandor, of course. That part where he was willing to share me in order to save me really had been just a dream. It was obvious from the look on his face that the mere thought alone disgusted him.

I should have known better. Refusing to let him see the disappointment percolating inside, I lied through my teeth. "Well, in that case I share your decision. I'm turning over a new leaf. From now on, I've decided to adhere to a strict liquid diet of pickle juice."

My mom looked grief stricken. "Chaos, you can't be serious. What about all the food I just made?"

Thomas mouthed the words, "What are you doing?"

I raised my chin defiantly. "Oh, I don't know. Why don't you tell me and then we'll both know?"

There was no point in arguing. Once I had made my mind up, there was very little anyone could do to get me to change it. Besides, I didn't feel like eating anymore. Pickles were the one and only exception.

Thomas threw his hands in the air before turning to face my mom once more. "Has she always been this difficult? Or just since she hit puberty."

"Difficult?" mom repeated. "No. Not always." She attempted to lovingly tuck a heavy piece of bangs behind my ear again. "Chaos has always been my little angel."

I smiled smugly.

"When she's sleeping," mom added, almost as an afterthought. "Otherwise, she was a complete disaster to raise. You never knew which one of her personalities you were going to get. And don't get me started on what else she does with food. Especially beverages. You haven't seen nothing yet..."

I cut her off. "So I have quirks. Big deal. A girl without quirks is boring. Everyone's entitled to a few little weirdnesses. At least I own mine. I yam what I yam and that's all that I yam."

 "Yam?" Thomas repeated, looking at me like I'd sprouted whiskers and a tail.

I shrugged. "In my brain movie I sound exactly like Popeye."

"Chaotic," mom began, placing a hand on my shoulder and balancing the pie with the other. "Let's talk about what this sudden change in eating habits is really all about. Does this have something to do with your father?"

That was the last straw. I swear, I couldn't take it anymore. "Mom! Stop shrinking me. You sound like Doctor Drool."

Confusion leaked into her voice. "Doctor Who?"

Thomas and I answered at the same time in stereo. "Exactly."