The Break-Up Artist

20

Girls drag their boyfriends into Hit or Miss, but Huxley doesn’t pay them any attention. She rummages through the racks on a mission.

“Oh! Try this on!” She pulls from the chaff a fitted, red-and-black-striped dress.

“That’s so not me.”

“Exactly the point.” She holds it against my body. “You could actually have a decent figure if you stopped hiding it behind sweaters and cardigans.”

“It’s freezing outside, if you haven’t noticed. Warm clothes are kind of a necessity.” I hang the dress back on the rack. Just because I read fashion magazines doesn’t mean I can dress like the models in them.

“That’s why we wear coats.” She pulls the dress back out. “Trust me. These are miracle dresses. They’ll give your body some character, accentuate the parts of you that are lacking, like your hips, your butt and especially your—”

“Okay. I’ll try it on.” I cross my arms over my chest, though I hate giving her the satisfaction of being right—er, making an accurate observation.

Boyfriends sit in a row outside the fitting rooms, chained there. They probably carve tally marks in the chair arms, counting the hours until they are free. Tortured looks are etched across their faces. A short, stubby girl charges out of her fitting room in a leather skirt that does no favors to her thighs.

“What do you think?” she asks her boyfriend. Fear and exhaustion consume his face.

“You look nice.”

“Did I sense hesitation in your voice?”

His lower lip quivers. “N-no. Did you want to get something to eat now?”

“No. Not until you tell me how this makes my calf muscles look,” she says with an icy tone. I guess there’s just no sense in buying something your boyfriend won’t find you attractive in.

The salesgirl leads us to the handicapped room at the end. I hang up the beautiful but so-not-me dress on the hook. At least I have anonymity at Willowhaven Mall. Nobody from Ashland will ever see me in this. As I slip on the dress, I keep wondering why Steve isn’t in that row of guys. Why is Huxley spending time with me and not him? If she were worried about him cheating, wouldn’t she want to keep him under her thumb at all times? Maybe they’re having a good laugh over these rumors, and the joke’s on us.

I do a double take in the mirror. Is this really my body? I have boobs! My figure could be referred to as womanly in some circles. I flick my hair away from my face, treating the mirror like a Vogue photographer. Damn you, Huxley. You’re good.

All the boyfriends swivel their heads to me, and they can’t help but smile. Neither can I. And for a second, I picture any one of them getting up and throwing his arms around me. Short and Stubby snaps her fingers in her boyfriend’s face, waking both of us up.

“I think we have a winner,” Huxley says. She’s already found two more dresses for me to try on.

“I can’t afford all this.”

“My treat! I love helping out those less fortunate.” She hangs them in my room. Even though she doesn’t care about the money, I still feel weird about this.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I wish there was a better way to phrase that, but suspicion and curiosity seem to have disabled that part of my brain.

“Because where you see an ugly duckling, I see a swan.”

She says it so sweetly, so innocently. It’s a total punch in the gut. I go back to my changing room without saying a word.

We traverse the mall en route to Spritz, a new makeup store Huxley claims she discovered, which means in a week, every girl at Ashland will clean it out.

“So where’s Steve tonight?” I ask as we stroll past the food court. Couples share fries and Cinnabons just as they would in the cafeteria—because food does not taste good unless it’s being fed to you.

“He went to a Devils game with his family.”

“You weren’t invited?”

“I was, but with SDA, I didn’t want it to be a late night. I’m having brunch with them on Sunday.”

“You hang out with his family a lot?”

“Yes.” Huxley fingers a scarf on a kiosk. “They’re the best. His parents got me this bracelet.” She holds her hand out and a simple gold link rings her wrist. It’s a lovely gift from people who want her out of their son’s life.

“Where’s Val tonight?” she asks.

“With Ezra, probably.” I try to sound as nonchalant as possible.

She pats my back. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you one soon enough,” she says with a comforting tone. Like she thinks I’m jealous? Why does it always have to come to that?

Pulsating music and red-and-cyan track lighting permeate Spritz. Their selection is better equipped for a girl going to the club than to school. Huxley clearly isn’t thrilled by the ambience either, and I’m not sure why she championed it. She soldiers on, waving me forward. She picks out a few lipsticks and dabs them on her palm. They range from a natural pink to streetwalker red. She holds them up to my face.

“A more natural shade would be best. Nothing drastic,” Huxley says.

“Agreed.”

“Let me see that lip gloss you’ve been using for the last million years.”

I hand her my tube of ballet slipper–colored gloss. It’s mild, but girls like me aren’t out for attention. Huxley tosses it in the trash behind the counter. I don’t say anything. We both knew that was coming.

“Let’s try some cranberry shades!”

“That’s way too dark. People in outer space don’t need to see my lips.”

“We can go lighter.”

Huxley glances around the store. She locks in on the sales associate, a girl with her back turned to us. A waterfall of blond hair cascades down her back. She and Huxley could have a hair-flowing competition.

“Excuse me,” Huxley calls out. “Do you have a tissue?”

The girl turns around. My eyes bulge, and my heart stops momentarily, a stark contrast to Huxley’s steely glare.

“Hi,” Angela says.

Neither girl seems nervous, or else they’re hiding it really well. I want to crouch under the table.

“Can you get me a tissue?” Huxley asks. She holds up her lipstick-smeared hand.

“Okay.”

Angela hands one over. Huxley rips it out of her palm. My heart thumps louder than the bass.

“Thank you. I didn’t know you worked here,” Huxley says. “It definitely suits you.”

“After-school job. Just like Steve’s.”

I flinch at his name.

Huxley wipes her hand and flicks the dirty tissue on the counter. “I’m looking for a lighter shade for my friend. Somewhere between burgundy and light pink. Any suggestions?”

Angela gives my face a good once-over. Am I supposed to jump in? How do you referee a fight composed of backhanded comments?

“I would go with Ladybug—that’s what I wear.” Angela smacks her lips together for effect. “Or Plumful, if you want something more neutral.” She pulls out two tubes from her display case. She coats my trembling lips with Ladybug first.

“Too trashy,” Huxley says after a two-second glimpse. She smiles at Angela. “No offense.”

“Let’s try Plumful,” Angela says. She caps Ladybug.

“How was ice-skating?” Huxley asks her.

“Fun. I bumped into Steve.”

“I know. He told me. He tells me everything.”

“I’m sure he does,” Angela says. A wicked grin slashes across her face.

Adrenaline pumps into my system. Screaming and hair pulling could commence at any time.

“Angela, contrary to what you’ve heard, history doesn’t repeat itself. So stop trying,” Huxley says.

Angela layers Plumful on me. It’s a step up from lip gloss. But I defer to Huxley. Right now, only her opinion matters.

She nods approval. “We’ll take it.”

“Really? I think Ladybug looked better.” Angela peers down at me. “Which one did you like?”

“P-P-P-Plumful.”

Angela rings me up.

“Thanks for shopping at Spritz! Tell Steve I say hi.”

Huxley waltzes out of the store, sidestepping customers quickly and efficiently. She doesn’t wait for me. But I’m not far behind. I want to get away from that girl as much as she does.

Her pace slows as she nears the Gap, allowing me to catch up. She is all smiles; Spritz is now a distant memory.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Huxley says. “I couldn’t face her alone. Let’s keep this between us.”

I nod. Now I get why she was so eager to take me shopping.