Eat For Two

I will be your friend 'till the end...this is the end

Dedicated to caroline1999 :D

Chapter 3: I will be your friend 'till the end...this is the end

My name is Ramona Stalone. I prefer the moniker “Remy”. I am seventeen and a senior in high school. I live with my parents, who are so religiously born-again Christian it is vomit-inducing. I live in a fairly modest house in Camden, Maine. I am an only child. I inherited my mother’s fair skin and freckles, my father’s dark-brown-almost-black curly hair. I always know what to do. Always.

Except now.

What am I supposed to do? Shout it from the roof? Yeah, that’ll go over well with the neighbors. Mr. and Mrs. Garrett would go into shock. Call up mommy dearest? She’ll send me away to a convent, for disgracing her pure name in her circle of church-ladies. Run off to father? Daddy’s little girl I am not. File a report at the police station? Six weeks have passed and do not remember anything between arriving at the party with Clodaugh and waking up the next morning. Any evidence have there might have been is gone; any drug would be out of my system. Anyway, I was a teen at a party, with alcohol, they’ll say I was just drunk and forgot to use protection. They would chalk it up to me trying to avoid the wrath of my parents. What do I do? I still can’t think about what obviously happened to me, how violated I was, without starting to hyperventilate. What do I do?

Clodaugh.

Duh. What are best (and only) friends are for, if not to be someone to go to when needed. Of course she isn’t the nicest or greatest person, but I have no one else. I search my room for my phone and dial her number.

I look around my room as I listen to the rings. I haven’t bothered cleaning it yet; it just doesn’t seem so important after waking up on the cold tiled floor of my bathroom this morning. Thankfully both of my parents are away this weekend at a Bible convention in Boston, which also thankfully was “adults only”. Never before was I so thankful my birthday is in October. If they were home I would never been able to even get the test let alone take it and cry myself to sleep over the results. They are way to over protective, and if I get the chance to explain before they send me off and they actually believe, I will not be allowed out of the house. Ever. Again. Except for being dragged to Church, in hope of getting me to believe, of course.

The walls are a dull, dreary, slate gray. My mom picked it. She doesn’t allow bright colors; she thinks they are sinful. The white carpet is littered with empty bottles and debris from the case. The plastic bag hangs from the lamp on the white bedside table, on which the alarm clock sits. A white dresser is across from my white-comforted bed. A white desk with a mirror hanging above it, rests between the only two windows on wall to the right of the bed. The door to my closet and the door to the bathroom are on the final wall. Everything but the walls is white. Everything else is put away neatly and orderly. There is no dust, stains, or imperfections. The room itself smells like vanilla. I hate it. I hate it so much. I have never hated my room more than now. The room is perfect and I hate it. This is a room my mother designed, it is not my room. For some reason this bothers me more than usual. I figure I will give Clodaugh one more ring to answer before I hang up.

Briiiiiii-“Remy?” Clodaugh’s sugar-sweet voice comes out of the speaker of my phone as my thumb hovered over the end button.

“Hey Clodaugh.” I choke out. “Do you think you can come over? I really need to talk to you.”

“Whateva, I’ll be over in sec. KK?” She hangs up before I could even answer.

*             *             *            

Clodaugh shows up my doorstep forty-five minutes later. I successfully ate a quart of black raspberry ice cream out of sheer anxiety, stared blankly at the TV. for twenty minutes before realizing I was off, and cried my eyes out over a stinkbug invasion (okay it was one, they terrify me, and it was after my ice cream) while waiting.

Clodaugh waltzes in and immediately tells me to hurry up and tell her that she had a date to get to. When I hear this, I take in her apparel. She is wearing a slinky sundress (if that is even possible), high cork wedges, gold jewelry and headband, with her signature designer purse. All her clothes are designer and all the designers’ names sound like gagging. Apparently they are the most sought after designers, personally I think it all looks the same and is equally overpriced. But her dad is the C.E.O. of some big law firm in Boston, so it like getting clothes at Wal-Mart for her.

I cringe. She sounds so irritated; I debate  on actually telling her. But I figure she is my best friend and she will help me through this. we have been best friends since we were in diapers. Clodaugh was there for me when I broke my foot falling out of a tree. I was there for her when her mother cheated on her father with her yoga instructor five years ago. We have been in the same classes until high school. I told her my secrets, she told me hers. Things only started to change when we got to sophomore year. That is when she started going to parties and caring about her  image to the point of narcissism. But deep down she will always be my Clodaugh, my best friend who stayed with me for the entire time I had the chickenpox. My Clodaugh, who had listened to all the horrible boy bands; watched every episode of Boy Meets World, The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, and Pokemon; and ate pounds of ice cream together.             

   So, because of all this, I just straight out tell her.

    “Clodaugh, I was raped at the Fourth of July party,” I continue, “and I am pregnant.” My lip trembles and my eyes are downcast as I wait for some kind of response, some kind of comfort, some kind of guidance. I am horribly wrong though; I hear a strangled and sarcastic scoff, causing me to look up through my moist eyes at my friend. Nothing prepares me for how twisted her face is in anger and disgust. Nothing prepares me for the words she lashes out at me.

   “You are such a liar, you little whore! I accidentally walked in on the beginning! You enjoyed it! You’re only using that as a sick excuse for being stupid by not using protection and getting fucking knocked up!” She screamed, spit flying from her mouth. No, no, no she doesn’t understand, that isn’t what happened. Why is she saying this? Clodaugh goes on, “You are just a little easy whore, you know that bitch? I don’t even know why I was your friend so long, no wait, yes I do. Out of pity.” Her words cut deep into me like knives. Who was this? This was not my sweet Clodaugh who helped me save the baby turtles when we were seven.      

    “Who are you?” I stutter out, tears flowing down my cheeks. Why is she saying these things to me? Why won’t she believe me?

      “Who am I? Who am I?” She mocks, “I’m not the one who is fucking pregnant! That is so disgusting! I cannot believe he could look at your ugly face while fucking you!”

     “What is she talking about Ramona?” Oh shit, I turn to the doorway and through my tears I see the faces of the last two people I want to deal with right now. Before I could remotely salvage the situation and prevent my demise, Clodaugh lets out an earsplitting cackle. Oh no!

         “Your precious little Ramona got knocked up at a party with someone she didn’t even know.” Clodaugh told my parents in a sickly sweet voice resembling honey covered needles, followed by a deranged giggle and a shit-eating grin, even though her eyes were glacial.