The Break-Up Artist

14

The first three days of SDA have been a parade of pulled muscles, twisted ankles and missed cues. I didn’t know it was possible for every part of my body to be sore. My fingernails. My earlobes. My index finger. They all throb like they’re under a pain microscope. My teammates barely break a sweat.

Since I’m on Huxley’s team, not to mention in her final dance number, I have to be the cherry atop the perfection sundae. Our number has to bring people to their feet. When I think we’re Broadway good, Huxley finds the cracks. She’s blunt, morally opposed to sugarcoating. In fact, we’re not supposed to eat sugar or any complex carbohydrate while under her tutelage. I can tell, though, that Huxley’s favorite part of being captain is getting to point out the flaws of other dancers. Especially me.

“Rebecca, on that first count, you start with your right foot, not your left. Do you know the difference between your right and your left?”

“Rebecca, your leg has to go higher. You’re not kicking a soccer ball.”

“Rebecca, smile when you dance. You’re supposed to be having fun.”

“Rebecca.” She cringes at the pouches of sweat under my arms and between my legs. “Never mind.”

Is this her plan to mold me into datable material? Belittle and berate me on a daily basis while causing me excruciating pain? Did I join SDA or a cult? She sneaks looks among her friends, sharing a telepathic moment at my expense. I suspect that helping me was never her plan. I’m the entertainment, the thing that gets the team to smile while they dance.

The only thing that pulls me through practice is knowing that Monday is just a few days away.

“Spider-Man is a much better superhero than Iron Man,” Fred says to his friends before shoving a handful of ketchup-drenched fries into his mouth. “All Iron Man has is a metal suit.”

“At least he can fly. Spider-Man just swings. Do you ever wonder why Spider-Man doesn’t fight villains in the desert or tundra? No buildings to swing off of,” Howard says back as he bites off a chunk of soft pretzel.

They’ve been at this argument for the entire lunch period, and neither has chewed with his mouth closed once. Since Val went to eat with Ezra, I’ve had to embrace my new lunch-table role of token girl. Fred, Howard and Quentin, and their stacks of plastic-enshrined comic books, have taken over. At least I’m not eating alone.

“What do you think?” Fred asks me. “Iron Man or Spider-Man. Who’s cooler?”

I shrug my shoulders. I’d be better equipped to explain the quadratic equation. “Well, Robert Downey Jr. is pretty funny.”

“Booyah!” Howard yells. The other two slump back in their seats. This isn’t terrible. It’s nice not listening to a conversation about boys, shoes or our classmates.

I doodle on a copy of Huxley and Steve’s homecoming picture. I don’t touch Steve’s face, but Huxley gets devil horns, blacked-out teeth and a thought bubble over her with “I’m a bitch” scrawled inside of it. It’s juvenile, I know. And it’s just a piece of paper. But I do get some pleasure out of seeing Huxley look like a redneck devil.

“So Val and Ezra are now official, huh?” Quentin asks me. He’s the last person I would guess cared about Ashland gossip, but I suppose every student likes to stay up on current events.

“He’s ‘not into labels,’” I say, making air quotes with my fingers. “But, yes, they are.”

“That guy has got some serious game,” Howard says after chugging his can of Hawaiian Punch. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without a girlfriend. Like not even for a day.”

“I think someone has a crush,” Quentin says. He mimes to Howard to rub the red off his teeth.

“No, I’m just saying. The guy always has a girl by his side. I’m in awe. I wish I had half his mojo.”

“You wish you had half his girlfriends.”

“Yeah, that, too.”

I wait for Fred to chime in, but he’s preoccupied with another table across the cafeteria. A sextet of guys, who look identical to my tablemates, huddle around a table oohing and aahing over something. A Rubik’s cube? A Playboy?

“Jeremy Fowler brought in another one of his vintage Batman comics from the 1940s,” Fred says. I shrug my shoulders. “It’s like if a girl brought in a pair of Jimmy Choos, I think.”

I close my notebook, hiding the picture. “I didn’t know you were such a fashionista.”

“I have a sister.” His eyes drift to the other table again. “We all used to sit together. We even had this tradition whenever a guy brought a rare comic to lunch. None of us ate when the comic was out. We gave ourselves a twenty-minute time limit to flip through it, then we put it away and had lunch.” He rests his head on his hand.

“What happened?” I find myself slipping into Break-Up Artist mode.

“Jeremy’s grandpa died,” he says, his voice dropping. “Jeremy was never a real comic fan. He just liked to pretend he knew what he was talking about, and we always kind of ignored him. He once mixed up the Green Lantern and Green Goblin!”

“Well, they’re both green.”

“Trust me. You don’t mess those two up,” he says. He shakes his head, getting worked up. “But then his grandpa died and left him this stash of vintage DC Comics. Out of the blue! The guys were salivating over them. Suddenly, he thinks he’s lord of the lunch table and demands that we only discuss DC Comics, or else he won’t bring in any of the old books. My boys and I—” he points to Quentin and Howard “—are Marvel fans through and through. We’ve had lively debates at our table.” Fred gets more animated, leaning closer to give me the full scoop.

“But Jeremy said the table should only be for DC fans. Real comic-book fans. He had the nerve to say that! I said that’s stupid, of course. So he put it to a vote. Since the other guys wanted to check out his old comics, they sided with him. The table voted and excommunicated us when we came back from Christmas break. Heath Ledger is probably rolling over in his grave.”

“Well, why don’t you do something about it?” I ask. Who knew boys could be just as catty as girls? I can feel the wheels churning in my head, a plan forming.

“He won’t listen to what I have to say.”

“Get him to sell the comics.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“He would if the price were right,” I say.

“I make eight dollars an hour at my parents’ restaurant. I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse in about fifty years.”

That makes me laugh. It’s refreshing when you find people at this school with a real sense of humor. I regain focus and catch a quick look at Jeremy. “What if his friends found out he was selling the comics? They’d be mad, right?”

“Selling vintage comics? That’s sacrilege.” Fred shudders at the thought.

“Perfect. Set up a fake eBay account for him. Or better yet, just contact him anonymously and say you’d be willing to pay for his cache. Not the big bucks, just a so-so amount.”

“But I can’t.”

“He doesn’t know that. You just need to catch him being interested, then casually show his friends that he’d be willing to give up the goods for some lowball offer.” I shrug nonchalantly. These genius ideas just come naturally. “Even if it’s not true, all you need to do is plant that seed of doubt, and the rest will take care of itself.”

But Fred isn’t bowled over. He looks, well, kind of freaked out. “That’s, um, pretty extreme.”

“Well, so is turning your friends against you and excommunicating you from their table.”

“It’s different.” Fred shakes the thought from his mind and piles his trash on his plate. “I’m not going to sink to that level. I mean, I still have these guys,” he says, patting Howard and Quentin on the back.

“You’re right,” I say. I stick my notebook in my bag.

I use the bathroom pass during seventh period. Steve’s gym period. I tiptoe into the boys’ locker room. The smell suffocates me. I pull my shirt up over my nose and breathe in the fabric softener. Why do guys smell so much?

Like with most areas of our school, the locker rooms have not been updated in thirty years. The lockers are narrow and rusty, the green paint only visible on certain ones. Nobody’s backpack can fit in them, so they’re left on the floor.

Bad for students. Good for me.

I find Steve’s sleek, waterproof backpack in the back of the middle row. A Christmas gift from Huxley last year. It was meant for cross-country expeditions, not the halls of high school.

I open the locker above Steve’s backpack with the V56 key. I hope his underwear doesn’t fall out onto my face. I shield myself before opening.

I take the homecoming picture out of my back pocket and tape it on the back of the locker door. A crumpled mountain of clothes hangs precariously on the left hook. Once some of his friends get a glimpse, the news should wind through school. Little-known fact: guys are bigger gossips than girls. Girls will keep secrets from each other, but their boyfriends spill the dirt as soon as they hit the dugouts, court or locker room. They just don’t get caught.

I haven’t sneaked into the locker room since I had to break up Nathan Crane and Sarah Covington. Her friends couldn’t stand what a snob he was and that he was turning Sarah into one, as well. Once Sarah found texts on his phone calling her incompetent and stupid, she gave him the heave-ho. I can’t believe that was only a year ago. Any guilt I had about what I was doing disappeared when it turned out Nathan did feel that way about his girlfriend. He just loved being with someone who made him feel so superior.

Coach Kapnek’s raspy voice echoes off the lockers. I squat down and hide at the end of the row. I peer around the corner into his office, where Steve is in the hot seat.

Still in my squat position, I waddle over to the wall by his door and situate myself behind a bin filled with used towels. No one said Break-Up Artists live glamorous lives.

“Chandler University is still interested,” Coach Kapnek says. “They’re a great school.”

“There’s only one reason they want me. Did you talk to Vermilion?”

“I talked to my friend there. They’re offering nothing. But did you expect them to hand out a merit scholarship to a guy with a B average?”

Coach Kapnek’s desk squeaks. He must’ve sat on top of it. What’s with teachers at this school not using chairs?

“Are you sure about this, Steve? You can be honest with me. Do you want to play college football?”

I lean my head closer to the door.

“No,” he says, barely audible.

“Can I be honest with you? I think you do.”

“That’s not my life anymore. It’s time to move on. It’s not like I’m going to go pro or anything.”

“You never know. It’s still a great opportunity, and once this door closes, it’s never going to open again.”

“Thanks, Coach.” Steve bolts out of his office and, luckily, in the opposite direction of the towel bin.

I waddle back to my locker hiding place just as Coach Kapnek leaves his office. He stands in the doorway a few moments. I crouch down farther, behind a fat backpack, and keep my breathing silent and controlled. He takes a few steps in my direction and stops. If you get caught, Becca, just say you’re sleepwalking.

He strums his fingers on the lockers. I squeeze myself into an even tighter ball behind the backpacks. Peeling paint lingers in my hair. I close my eyes, knowing if I look at him, he’ll sense it and look straight at me.

Coach Kapnek exhales a gust of air and walks past my row into the open bathroom area. What do guys have against privacy? While he’s busy, I make a run for it.

“Hey! Who’s there?” he yells at the wall.

Do guys realize how ridiculous they look at urinals?

Movies and television have lied to me. Stakeouts are not fun and exciting. They are boring.

So boring.

Diane and I have spent the past three hours sitting in her car spying on Steve and Huxley at Mario’s Pizza. I fidget in my seat, alternating between stretching my legs and sitting cross-legged every five seconds. That’s almost as often as Diane changes the radio. No music can hide the sound of our growling stomachs. Skipping dinner to stare into a pizzeria was not my smartest move. At least we don’t have to smell it.

We take turns with my dad’s heavy-duty binoculars. The bridge of my nose is red and indented and stings whenever I hold them to my face. He bought them one Saturday afternoon because our neighbor’s house was broken into. He wants to live on a safe block, and the package said these are the same binoculars used by Navy SEALs. Those men must have stronger noses than me.

Worst of all, there’s been no sign of Angela, or her boyfriend.

“If I have to watch Ken and Barbie kiss one more time, I’m going to projectile all over the dashboard,” Diane says.

“She will come. She has to. You don’t receive a letter like that in the mail and then not do anything about it.”

“What if she emailed him instead?”

I’m not that high-tech. I can’t access his email or bug his phone. Computers are so unromantic, though. What girl wouldn’t be a sucker for a handwritten note? It’s so old-fashioned. She wouldn’t ruin that vibe with a text message. At least, I hope not. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

A woman enters the pizzeria. Diane perks up. She looks through the binoculars. “False alarm.”

She sinks down in her seat and twirls her gum around her finger.

“So, baby sister, will Val and what’s-his-face be your next victims?”

“I can’t do that.” That thought did cross my mind a few times. And every time, I shivered with disgust. How could I call myself her friend after doing that?

“You thought about it, though?”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll do it. Have you ever thought about doing that to your ‘friends’?”

“What’s with the air quotes for friends? They’re still my friends,” Diane says. She switches out her gum wad for a fresh piece.

“Are you sure about that?”

“I care about them enough to let their relationships self-destruct on their own.”

“What about Owen’s birthday?” I ask. Before I left tonight, I saw an invitation for Erin’s son’s first birthday. It was in the trash.

“He won’t notice my absence.”

It’s hard to call someone your friend when you won’t acknowledge her kid’s birthday. Diane used to love organizing birthday events for her friends. She would buy a cookie cake and decorate it herself with inside jokes. For Sankresh’s twenty-first birthday, she planned a bar-crawl extravaganza with their friends. I saw photos where she put floating sparklers in his drinks. She was always let down on her birthday because Sankresh was never as creative as she was.

Diane senses my disappointment. “The invite was just a formality. They all just want to see what a mess I’ve become. It’s cheaper than hiring a clown.” She laughs at her joke.

“I think they’d be happy to see you.” They were all so close in college, the girls felt like my friends, too. I look forward to leaving the dull cliques of high school behind and finding my own group in college like Diane did.

“I can’t go,” Diane says. Suddenly, the car gets quiet, like all of her sarcasm fizzled away.

“Why? Did you guys get in a fight?”

“Technically, no.” Diane’s face softens. “They’ve all moved on. And I’m still here.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“I wasn’t given that choice. I’ll always be here.” Her voice wobbles, but she doesn’t cry. I don’t think she has any more tears left after last year.

I want to say something, but it’s not as if I have some magic answer. I can feel the moment passing us by. Just like Diane wants it to.

She brings the binoculars back to her eyes.

“Anything good?” I ask.

“Actually, yeah.” She hands me the binoculars.

“It’s Angela.” I’m always shocked when my plans go, well, according to plan. It’s funny to think people are listening to me, even if they don’t know it.

“Where’s her boyfriend?”

“I guess she didn’t bring him.”

“And she waited until they were about to close. Interesting.”

It was.

Steve’s face lights up with shock, but quickly shifts to pleasantly surprised. I wasn’t expecting that reaction, until I realize that of course Steve wasn’t expecting a ghost from the past to stroll in for pizza. Angela is apprehensive, but when Steve comes from behind the counter, she hugs him.

I narrate for Diane. “She is so nervous.”

Her light skin shows off the redness flushing her cheeks. They have some harmless chitchat. No crossed arms or standoffish posture. Angela reaches into her bag.

“She’s going to show him the note!” I say and slap Diane on the arm a few times. “Oh, wait.”

Huxley joins their conversation, hooking her arm around Steve’s. Angela removes her hand from her bag. Steve makes introductions.

“Blah blah blah. Wow, I’ve never seen such forced smiles.”

“From who?” Diane asks.

“Both of them. They’re acting like they’re long-lost best friends.”

“Keep your friends close...”

Angela orders a pepperoni slice. Steve boxes it up for her while Huxley hangs out by the register. She wants to get out of there as soon as she can. I don’t blame her. I feel bad that I threw Angela into this, but it’s not like I’m ruining her life. So what if she reconnects with an old flame? You can never have too many friends.

Diane notices I’ve stopped narrating. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” I say with a sigh. “Huxley went back to her table. Angela got pizza. The end.”

Angela shares an awkward goodbye wave with Steve and Huxley. I stop watching. I guess my plan sounded better in my head.

“Sorry, B.” Diane turns the radio back on and flips through three stations in ten seconds. She’s probably a master at Name That Tune.

I know my plan wasn’t foolproof, but I thought it would be somewhat idiotproof. I’m dreading SDA practice tomorrow now that I have nothing to look forward to. I replay the scene in the pizzeria in my head. A detail sticks out to me, and I almost leap out of my seat. How did I miss it? “She ordered a slice of pepperoni,” I tell Diane.

“Maybe she likes it.”

“She does, but Steve would always give her his pepperoni slices.”

“Interesting.”

But it’s not enough, I know she wanted to say. I rest back into my seat. Diane takes my binoculars for a second opinion. She gazes into Mario’s. A huge smile overtakes her face.

“What?”

Diane hands me the binoculars. I need both hands to lift them. She’s giggling and shaking her head.

“What?” I ask. I zoom into the pizzeria. Huxley is doing homework, and Steve’s wiping tabletops. The night ends with a whimper.

“Look at Steve.”

He turns to a corner, away from Huxley to clean a pair of tables, and that’s when I see it.

Steve is eating Angela’s pizza crust.