Chapter 7 |

Tramp Stamps & Betrayal

 

 

We met Christine when we were seventeen.

Fourteen years after we met, five years after our first real kiss, and two years after we became a couple, we met the girl who would ruin everything on the first day of twelfth grade.

Hailing from New Jersey, she was brand new to River Canyon. I thought it was stupid to start at a new school in your last year, but her parents had enrolled her so she could graduate with a diploma, instead of having to get her GED at one of the local community colleges. She was very plainly angry about their plan, scowling at the front of the class as our teacher fumbled over her name.

“Everybody, this is Christine Bee—um, Bough—”

“It’s Beauregard,” she corrected with a sneer. “And I’m supposed to trust you with my education?”

The other kids giggled, mouths covered by hands. The teacher—whatever his name was—straightened his glasses with embarrassment, waving her in the direction of an empty seat.

And me? I smiled, ready to talk her ear off before the first bell rang.

She wore skirts, band t-shirts, and Chucks, just like me. She loved cats, piercings, and a perfectly made sandwich, just like me. She hated MTV, Britney Spears, and chocolate ice cream, just like me. I liked her instantly, and beneath that, I hated her immediately. I think I knew we were too similar. Too close to sharing the same soul and interests. Too close to sharing the same taste in boys—in men.

Still, we became fast friends, after all those “oh my God!” shared similarities.

Looking back, I realized we became even faster friends after she had met the one thing we couldn’t share: Patrick.

I’ll never forget the moment she first saw him on that life-changing day. Like a cigarette burn on a perfectly good jacket. Too noticeable to be ignored.

He slid onto the cafeteria bench, taking his place beside me as he always did during lunch period. He kissed my cheek, and took a handful of chips from the bag I brought, as he always did. It wasn’t until he peered around me to see the new comer sitting there and he asked who my friend was in his cool, charismatic way.

“This is—”

“I’m Christine,” she said, cutting me off with a smile.

“She’s new,” I explained needlessly.

“Oh, cool. Nice to meet ya.”

And as though it were any other day, he ate his lunch, picking at my chips, casually chatting with a couple guys from one of his classes.

But it wasn’t like any other day, because then, Christine wedged her chin into the crook of my neck, lips barely touching my ear.

“Is he your boyfriend?” she whispered before chewing on her bottom lip.

“Yep.”

“Wow, you’re so lucky.”

I thought nothing of it; why would I? I took it as a compliment, and smiled at her, because dammit, I really was lucky. I had one of the hottest guys in school as my next-door neighbor, my best friend, my boyfriend—my everything. So, I touched his shoulder with my head, reveling in how blessed we were. He shot me that little lop-sided, one-dimpled smile, kissed my forehead, and I neglected to notice the way she looked at him.

Now, most girls would have accepted that the guy was taken, and moved on, but that wasn’t Christine. She was stubborn, just like me, and well, we all know this story, don’t we? Her gears started grinding that very first day, and her plan had been set. She continued to hang out with me, to hang out with Patrick. She gained my trust to infiltrate our bond, to become our accepted third wheel—to get to him.

It started innocently enough, too innocently for me to really notice. She laughed at his jokes, but everyone did. She smiled when he was nice, but everyone did that too. But then, there were the touches on the arm, the flips of her hair. There were light, airy giggles in the hallway between classes. I didn’t want to accept them at first, because she was my friend, but I noticed. I knew what they were, what they meant, and a girl who is willing to flirt openly with her friend’s boyfriend isn’t a friend at all; she’s the enemy with a clear tramp stamp.

It finally went down on an unusually warm December afternoon. The three of us had headed over to McKenna’s Delicatessen, like we did every day after school. Patrick and I walked hand-in-hand, my backpack slung over his shoulder to accompany his own, and Christine walked on the other side of him.

“Shit, my bag is so heavy,” she whined.

“Gotta start workin’ out,” Patrick teased.

“Can you carry it for me? You always carry Kinsey’s.”

My face froze with my eyes wide open at her daring comment, but I remained silent, tightening my hand around his.

“Yeah, so? Kinsey’s my girlfriend.”

“So? She’s a big girl. She can carry her own bag.”

“Well, you’re a big girl too, so I guess you got it covered.”

I peered around Patrick, taking a peek at the girl I thought I had known, and met her eye. Her painted-on black brows rested tightly over her eyes, glaring at me with a type of jealous rage I had never known before. My insides coiled together, knotting too many times to control with a few deep breaths.

She had overstayed her welcome in our circle.

When we got to the deli, I pulled Patrick into the back, and when Christine made an attempt to follow, I shook my head.

“Sorry, employees only. We’ll be right back out.”

“Uh, he’s not an employee.” 

My dad eyed us, noticing the tension. “Patrick’s allowed, Christine, sorry. You want a soda while you wait?”

Score for Dad.

“What’s up?” Patrick asked, after the door was closed behind us.

“Do you see what she’s doing?”

“Who?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Are you talkin’ about Christine?”

“Yes!” I hissed, unable to understand how he couldn’t see her blatant attempts at stealing him away.  

He chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s nothin’. She was just jokin’ around.”

“She’s flirting with you!”

“Nah, she’s not.”

Dad swung the door open, poking his head in. “Hey Kinsey, can you hang out for a few minutes? I have a big order I could use some help with.”

If there was ever perfect timing … “Right now?” Panic settled into my pores, making me sweat.

“Well, I don’t think they’ll want it tomorrow. So, yeah, right now. Patrick can wait, right, kid?”

Patrick nodded. “Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll go hang outside with Christine until you’re done.”

He bent to kiss my cheek and left without so much as a bat of an eye at the discoloration of my skin, leaving me to curse oblivious boyfriends and backstabbing girls.

A few minutes seemed to last for hours as I stole numerous glances out the window at my boyfriend and apparent arch nemesis, sitting on a bench. With their backs to the store, I couldn’t see their faces, but I could see her leaning against his arm. I could see her flipping her dyed-black hair over her shoulder, throwing her head as she laughed. And with every dip of her cheek against his shoulder, the temperature of my blood rose higher.

“Dad,” I kept whining, and with every complaint, he replied, “Just a few more minutes, Kinsey. You’ll live.” I wasn’t one to disobey, and so, I continued to work, but I wasn’t sure I would continue to live with my blood reaching a point beyond boiling.

And then, the breaking point: I was in the middle of closing a container of macaroni salad when I watched with horror, the witch of River Canyon leaning in, catching my boyfriend off-guard as she attempted to kiss him. He jumped up from the bench before her poisoned lips could press against his, and I dropped the lid to the floor, running around the counter to rush outside.

“What the hell, Christine!” Patrick shouted, and whirled around to see me, standing behind him with fists clenched at my sides. “She tried to kiss me!”

“He’s lying,” Christine said coolly, smoothing her hair.

“No, he’s not,” I spat at her.

She rolled her eyes. “Of course you’d take his side.”

“I saw you!” I was on the verge of screaming, my hands shaking at my sides.

“Fine, okay. So, what? What are you gonna do about it?”

I wanted to cry. I had trusted her. We had shared things, stories, secrets. I had seen friends come and go throughout my life, but not once had I been stabbed in the back. Never before had someone made such an effort to take something—someone—that was mine.  

“Screw you,” I said, my voice betraying my attempt at strength.

“Oh, that really hurts,” she snorted.

Patrick put a protective, possessive arm around my shoulders. “Go home, Christine.”

“Come on, Patrick. You’re telling me that you would rather be with a loser like her?”

Before Patrick could even open his mouth, before he could defend my honor, my father revealed that he had been standing behind us.

“You need to go home now, Christine.”

It was Christine’s turn to want to cry, and I felt the tiniest bit of triumph at the quivering of her bottom lip. “Patrick? Seriously?”

“NOW!” my father bellowed in a voice I seldom heard, and Christine grabbed the backpack that was too heavy for her weak arms to carry, and skulked away down the sidewalk alone.

Patrick told me that he was glad she was gone, out of our circle. He told me he had been an idiot for not seeing it sooner, for not picking up on the hints. He told me he wouldn’t ever allow her to come between us, to make me feel that way again.

He told me this, he told me lots of things, but she was always there, looming in the shadows of River Canyon. In that small, stupid town.