The Break-Up Artist

12

“Rebecca, I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Well, here I am.” I stretch my arms out wide, then snap them back to my sides. I take deep breaths through my nose. I can do this.

The cafeteria looks different emptied out. Peaceful. No battle lines. Just a room with tables and chairs. Huxley sits behind a table with a sign-up sheet. Even after a full day of classes and acting superior to fifteen hundred of her peers, she is still fresh faced.

“You want to join SDA?” Mockery and judgment, her specialties, coat every word. SDA is a dance color war at Ashland created to provide a less gymnastics-centric alternative to cheerleading. We are split into two teams—green and white, with squads performing dance numbers set to a mash-up of new and old songs.

“Yes, I love to dance.”

“You do?”

“You know that.”

Huxley crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. Yep, she remembers, although she wishes otherwise. How dare I bring up a time when she was merely mortal.

We used to take lessons at the Frances Glory Dance School for Girls. Frances was a petite, old woman with a shock of white hair that looked like lightning in the night sky. She spoke in an indecipherable accent that Huxley and I were obsessed with and would impersonate during school. Frances always placed us in the back of routines because we were so tall. She used to call us her Telephone Poles. Or rather Teelehfohna Pooles.

“That was years ago,” Huxley says. “And if I remember, you stopped going.”

Because of you, I want to tell her. Dance class lost its luster when she got in with Addison and the other popular girls. The memory comes back, so vivid. I shove it to the back of my mind.

“You never forget those skills. It’s like riding a bike.”

“SDA is slightly more complicated.”

“You’re right,” I say right back, hoping I didn’t just stick my foot in my mouth.

Huxley gracefully swishes her hair behind her shoulders with a flick of her head. I wish my hair did that. “Rebecca, the Student Dance Association isn’t some fun little club. It’s a serious commitment for serious dancers. I’m not sure it would be the best fit for you.”

“Everyone’s allowed to audition. Let me show you what I got.” I try to remain cheerful. I take more deep breaths.

“Fair enough.”

She turns on the music. A dance remix of the Olympics theme plays, a bass-heavy rhythm pulsing beneath the brass fanfare. I tap my foot to get the beat.

“Ready when you are.”

I perform a choreographed number I crafted from my Frances Glory memories (the happy ones) and watching old Britney Spears music videos. Huxley and I used to do this all the time, in her basement. We even posted a few of our performances online—and then quickly took them down. I practiced the moves all weekend, pulling certain muscles out of early retirement. I spent hours twirling, quick ball-changing, 5-6-7-8ing in my room until this routine was burned into my brain. I doubt other auditioners created such intricate routines, but I had to be immaculate to get Huxley to remotely consider me.

I turn and gyrate and try to make Britney proud, every move precise. I find myself enjoying this, remembering that once upon a time, I did have some type of athletic talent. I guess I still do. I dip forward then strike a pose for my finale.

“Thanks,” Huxley says stoically, as if I’d handed her a coupon on the street. She doesn’t make any notes on her pad. Her mauve pen lies there, matching her shoes. I doubt that is a coincidence.

Thanks. That’s it? I catch my breath and feel soreness in my calves while Huxley remoisturizes her hands. A whole weekend wasted for nothing. Why did I think there’d be any fairness here?

“Thanks!” I nod and put on a beaming grin. I can’t question her. That’s a one-way ticket to instant rejection. “I’m going to keep my fingers crossed all week. I’m really excited!” I say. Maybe I can score some last-minute brownie points. I hate giving Huxley this power over me, but I keep saying Alien Queen over and over in my head to stay focused.

“We’ll post team rosters on Thursday.”

“Great!”

After an awkward moment of silence, I realize she’s done talking. I collect my bag and jacket.

“You’re really excited? About joining SDA?”

“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to do it.” That lie didn’t feel as forced for me. I did enjoy doing that routine, and perhaps under different social circumstances, I would have danced my heart out for SDA.

“It just seems so unlike you.” Huxley sizes me up, her eyes scanning from my comfortable, fashionable flats to my recently combed hair. Okay, I freshened up during last period. You don’t audition for SDA looking like you just went through six hours of classes. “You’re not one for school spirit. You haven’t done any dancing since the seventh grade. Yet you waltz in here and deliver a flawless routine. Just out of the blue. It seems... It’s interesting.”

Panic rises in my throat, wringing my mouth of all moisture. I knew I sounded too chipper to pass for normal. My mind scrambles for an answer.

“I don’t know. People can change,” I say. Huxley doesn’t buy my excuse. Neither do I.

I get an idea. It seems so obvious, like it was sitting patiently, reading a magazine, waiting for me to find it. I grab a chair and sit across from Huxley. I can smell the sweet, honeysuckle scent of her hand cream. Time to level with her.

“It does seem interesting, right?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Between you and me, I’m not doing this to cross it off my high-school bucket list. I have an ulterior motive.” I lean in and lower my voice. “I strongly believe that joining SDA will help me meet guys.”

Huxley’s spine goes upright. She raises an eyebrow at me. “You...want to meet guys?”

“Yeah. All the girls in the group have the best boyfriends, you especially.”

“They do.”

“It’s either this or cheerleading.”

“Don’t do cheerleading. Those girls are sluts.” She grins and nods, liking this change in me.

“Honestly, if anyone can teach me how to land a decent boyfriend, it’s the girlfriend of Steve Overland.” I cringe and wait for her response. I might be laying it on too thick. But a glance at her face tells me Huxley is lapping this up.

“Rebecca, what prompted this?”

“I’ve thought a lot about what you said in English class, about what you always say. And you’re right! I was just too scared to love, and I only hated relationships because I wasn’t in one. But I’m ready for that to change.” I place a hand over my heart, mimicking every rom-com heroine. “Guys will like me if I’m in SDA.”

“They will. Having the right type of well-roundedness will make you appealing to the right type of guys. And plus SDA is a lot of fun.”

“It looks fun. I love the costumes. What’s this year’s theme?”

“The Olympics.” She points at the stereo, and it makes sense. “Each routine will represent a different sport. I want us to mix in those athletic movements with the choreography.”

“I like it.” And when I think about it, I actually do like it. Huxley glows with pride. She isn’t president of SDA just for the power trip.

“This is all so unexpected.”

“I know. When it comes to guys, I prefer to learn from the best.”

That makes her blush. “I don’t know.”

“I must sound like such a weirdo, but I am ready to turn over a new leaf.” I stand up and gather my things. She doesn’t stop me. “Huxley, I know things are different between us now, but from one telephone pole to another, I could really use your help.”

Another awkward moment of silence commences. This time, Huxley breaks it. “Okay,” she says. Huxley smiles at me, a genuine smile. I can see all her shiny teeth.

“Thank you so much,” I say, sounding like a peasant addressing a queen. But it’s necessary to let her believe she’s totally in control. “Where should we start?”

Huxley checks the clock on the wall. “Not now. I have to meet Steve.”

“Hot date?”

She gives me an odd look. I guess we’re not at the jokey friend stage yet. “Steve works at Mario’s Pizza on Monday nights, so I hang out there and keep him company. It’s usually dead there.”

“How sweet.”

“I love spending time with him, even if he is just folding pizza boxes. You’ll know the feeling soon.”

“You go there every Monday night?” I ask.

“Yes. It’s a good place to do homework.” She sticks her pad and mauve pen in her bag. She carries around fewer books than Val. “Rebecca, do you have heels at home?”

“Yeah.”

“Start wearing them.”

I barely wave back when she says goodbye. I’m too distracted by the break-up scheme that just popped into my head.