The Break-Up Artist

19

I shouldn’t be in school today. I’m in the cafeteria before homeroom trying to do some homework, but it’s no use. There’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate. Owen’s birthday debacle plays on a loop in my mind, and no lesson plan can steal away my interest.

Ezra and Jeff find me sitting here, but I’m not in the mood for human contact, especially from Mr. Romantic.

“Studying for homeroom?” Jeff says, adjusting his baggy sweater under his backpack. “Now that is dedication.”

“So last night I found this article about the ending of Casablanca, and I hate to say it, but it actually gives your theory some credence.” Ezra beams with excitement. He raises his eyebrows at me, awaiting my response.

I shrug my shoulders and go back to studying my history notes.

“I’ll email you the article.”

I nod, not taking my eyes off my notebook. I’m trying my best to stay nice, but I just want the whole world to disappear right now.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

Diane stayed in her room all night with the door locked watching old sitcoms. I stood outside her door listening for sounds of crying, but all I could hear was a laugh track. I wonder what Sankresh and Priya were up to last night. The guests at Owen’s party were probably in stitches about the incident; Diane is probably their new favorite punch line.

“You sure?”

I nod. “I just have a test later.”

“Isn’t that always how it goes? I guess that explains why you’re here so early.”

“Yeah.” The banging of her fists against the steering wheel still pierces my eardrums. Sankresh wouldn’t know what that’s like. Ezra wouldn’t.

“I gotta jet,” Jeff says. “I told Carrie I’d help decorate her friend’s locker for her birthday.”

“She needs to loosen that leash,” Ezra says.

“Tell me about it!” Jeff waves and runs backward out into the hall. He would never do what Sankresh did to Diane. He’s too scared of his girlfriend. Or maybe he would and just slink away. Maybe it’s easier for guys to be weasels than actual human beings.

Ezra strums his fingers against the top of a chair. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He readjusts his hemp necklace, waiting for me to say goodbye. His eyes do the up-and-to-the-left thing, like he’s perpetually having a stroke. “Well, then. See you later.”

I can’t let him go like this. Guys like him have been let off the hook enough times. Monica had to nurse a broken heart while Ezra lived it up with Isabelle; now somewhere Isabelle is crying while he and Val bicker about who should stop staring. Why do people want to be in love when they know its side effects? Some really are that selfish.

“Ezra,” I say. He stops at a neighboring table. “Did you even care when you dumped Isabelle and Monica? Or were you ‘whatever’ about it since you already had another girl lined up?”

All friendliness fades from his face. He goes into defense mode. “No.”

“Are you sure? It seems like you follow a pattern and Val’s next.”

He digs his hands farther into his hoodie. A sign of guilt?

“Why don’t you go back to studying?” he says.

“Just answer the question, Ezra. Val’s my best friend. I want to prepare her if she’s going to get blown off. Is there a time limit or do you just get bored?”

“What is up with you?”

“Do you even care about the people you hurt?” I shake my head in disgust. “You’re all the same.”

Sadness creases his face. I look at his drooping eyes and get a flash of the guy who helped me ice-skate. Ezra storms out of the cafeteria.

I chase after him, catching him halfway down the hall.

“What?” he asks, not wanting to know the answer.

I don’t say anything at first, then, as if the words were waiting in the wings, I launch into the story about Diane and Sankresh and Owen’s party.

“Whoa,” he says. “That sucks.”

“It’s just... What happened with those other girls?”

He shrugs, his smooth, witty self in hiding. “Things just didn’t work out.”

“What does that even mean?”

He softens. His warm, hazel eyes laser into me like I’m learning to skate, although this time, he wants to show me something else. “We weren’t in love.”

“Not the love excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse.”

“It totally is. Whenever somebody wants to get out of a relationship, but they don’t want to say the real reason, they use the love excuse. How can such a strong feeling just go away? It’s not a cold.”

“You’re not in love with someone when you start dating them,” Ezra says. His face lights up. “You feel something for them, something different and special. It might be love. It might not. You hope that what you have develops into love, but sometimes it doesn’t. It’s all about taking a chance. Love isn’t a mathematical formula.”

“You’re just giving people an excuse to do whatever they want. I love you...now I don’t. I’m so tired of people using that to be completely shitty to each other.”

“So you think I was shitty to Isabelle? We were both miserable by the end. We would hang out after school and not say a word to each other. I tried talking to her about how things weren’t working, but she wouldn’t listen. She wanted to stay in a relationship.” Ezra licks his lips, making them stand out even more against his light skin. “Break-ups are never clean, never easy. Just because I wasn’t crying in the bathroom doesn’t mean I didn’t care. No offense to your sister, but you only know her side of the story.”

That last line stings, even though it may be true. Maybe Sankresh went through his own silent hell. I’ll never know. It’s an interesting thought. I only hear about one side of relationships from my sister and my clients.

The warning bell for homeroom rings.

Ezra pats me on the shoulder. His hand lingers a second too long. “I hope your sister feels better.”

I hobble out of the locker room post-SDA. I have a sharp pain in my right foot like I pulled a mysterious muscle in my big toe. Huxley leans by the water fountain, checking her phone, waiting for other members of her crew. Girls give her goodbye waves and smiles, then immediately turn to each other and discuss all things Huxley and Steve.

“Oh, look, Huxley all by her lonesome. I wonder where Steve is,” one of them whispers behind me.

“Delivering a pizza,” her friend whispers back. They snicker.

From what I heard in the halls, Steve claimed he was delivering a pizza to a birthday party at the rink. Angela just happened to be there. I suppose that’s possible, and that excuse may hold up in a court of law or other places where reason reigns supreme. But not here. I always thought girls at Ashland adored Huxley, but I guess she’s like any celebrity. They’re eager to see her fall.

I nod good-night to her, but then I stop. I see a great opportunity.

“How are you?” I ask.

Her olive skin gleams under the fluorescent lights, as if there’s any light where she would look bad. “I’m fine.” She seems surprised at the question. I’m probably the only girl in SDA to ask her.

“Listen, if you ever need to talk...”

Huxley perks up just a touch, and for a second, I see my old friend somewhere in there. “I appreciate it, Rebecca. But I’m fine.”

“You know, the more you say that, the less I believe you.”

Huxley puts her phone away. She walks with me, leaving behind Reagan and Addison in the locker room.

We exit through the set of Ashland’s green front doors that haven’t been locked yet. It’s a mild night, a sign that spring will be here any day. Only a few cars dot the parking lot.

“I like you, Rebecca. You tell it like it is. It’s refreshing.”

“You know, you can call me Becca. Everyone does.”

“I know.”

I walk with her to her car, a white Range Rover. Her movable throne. I wonder how many people saw us walk out together. While I’m talking to her solely for research purposes, a bump in my social profile would be a nice halo effect.

Huxley scans my body, and suddenly I feel as if I’m in airport security. “I think you’ve worn the same makeup and clothes since junior high.”

“I haven’t.”

She raises her eyebrows at me. Not the same exact makeup and clothes. I found a style that works for me and keeps me from sticking out. Or so I thought.

“I think a darker shade would suit you well.” She holds her arm next to my cheek to better imagine me a shade darker. I swat her away.

“Thanks for the tip.”

“I think you’d look hot. Well, lukewarm. What are you doing right now?”

My mind scrambles for a cool answer. I can’t let her know that my life is as boring as she thinks. But I’m already stammering, and Huxley and I both know the truth. “Nothing,” I say.

“Do you want to go to Willowhaven Mall? We can get you some new base, and maybe a new outfit or two.”

I’m sensing a trap. I back away slowly. “I’m having dinner with my family. They’re expecting me.”

“They can keep your food in the oven. It’ll be worth it when they see your new wardrobe.”

“I like my clothes. Makeup may be one thing, but you can’t fault my fashion sense.”

“Your clothes are too safe. When you joined SDA, I said I would help you find a boyfriend. This is much-needed step number one.”

“It’s late and Willowhaven is a half hour away.”

“You don’t expect me to go to Sunnyside Park, do you? That place depresses me.” She steps up into her car, and I feel like she’s six feet above me, stretching her arm out to help a poor peasant girl. “C’mon, Rebecca. Don’t be such a wet blanket.”

I’m tired of being one. Val wanted to give me this makeover so many times, but Val isn’t around anymore. I get into Huxley’s car and sink back into the deep leather seat.

We speed out of the parking lot. My excitement builds for the mall with each street we cross. Huxley turns on the radio and cranks up an old Britney Spears song.

“Do you remember?” Huxley asks.

“The music video we made? Yeah. We took that off YouTube, right?”

“I hope so!”

Her hand is tapping against the steering wheel. My head is bobbing back and forth. I feel it building up. I just finished dancing for two hours, but I still have energy.

As it nears the chorus, I turn up the volume. “Five, six, seven, eight!”

Then we launch into our old choreographed routine, modified for sitting in a car. Every move comes flooding back, something I wouldn’t have been able to do by myself. Some things you can only remember with other people.

Huxley does a dramatic hair flip at the chorus while keeping her eyes on the road. It’s not until we get onto the highway that I realize how perfectly everything is going to plan.