The Break-Up Artist

25

Did I really give my dream date a bloody nose? Only crazy people and women on reality shows do something like that. Was there somebody else? Does that count Ezra even though he is taken? He may have been on my mind because of our talk, but I wasn’t some mindless fan girl fawning over him like Colin Baker suggested. Because that would be crazy.

Right?

I bury my head into the couch cushion for good measure, to knock out the crazy.

“Becca, don’t do that. Your makeup will stain,” my mom says. She rubs my feet while us Williamsons sit around watching TV like an all-American family.

I get a text buzzing in my pocket: I’m outside.

I feel for the paper in my other pocket, making sure it’s still there. “I’m going,” I tell my family.

“You never said how it went with your date,” Diane says. I don’t know how to answer that question without turning red. She rests the container of hummus on her stomach. I wish she had plans tonight that didn’t involve using her body as a snack table.

“What are you guys up to tonight?” I ask. I spot the calendar hanging on the wall. “Isn’t tonight your anniversary?”

“It is. Thanks for the card,” my mom says.

“Sorry.” We all know how forgetful I am when it comes to greeting cards; as far as character flaws go, it’s pretty minor, and my parents just laugh it off nowadays. “Aren’t you doing anything to celebrate?”

She peruses her People magazine. “There’s something about Iraq on TV tonight your dad wants to watch.”

“Iran–Contra.” He gestures to the TV.

I grab a pretzel log on my way out the door. “Don’t party too hard,” I say, although it’d be nice if they would.

Huxley’s Range Rover waits by the curb. She scowls at me when I step in.

“Did you have fun disfiguring Colin Baker?”

Huxley zooms down Radburn Avenue, going at least fifteen miles above the speed limit.

“I am beyond livid.” She flicks streams of hair behind her shoulders. Her sleek legs peek out from her tight skirt. She is dressed to party.

“I sent him an email apologizing,” I say halfheartedly. I can’t give her an explanation because I don’t have one. And Ezra is not an explanation. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine. Luckily, you have very little upper-arm strength.” At a stoplight, she checks her makeup in the rearview mirror before shaking her head at me. The condescension is annoying, but not unwarranted. Hearing her chew me out makes it real. I ruined my date with Colin Baker.

“He has his senior yearbook photo next week, Rebecca. What were you thinking?”

What was I thinking?

“I am so sorry.”

“He’s Steve’s family friend. They must think I’m unhinged for associating with you. He took you to the nicest restaurant in Bergen County.” Huxley does some more head shaking. She’s not done, though. She swerves into the right lane and makes a sharp turn. I clutch my seat belt.

“I tried. I just don’t get it.” She’s half talking to me, half thinking out loud. “I said I would find you a boyfriend, and I did. Guys like Colin don’t come around that often.”

She makes it sound as if he was my only ticket to freedom, some once-in-a-lifetime chance, rather than my first first date. “Huxley, he’s a nice guy. I just didn’t feel a connection.” Such a cliché, but so true. If Colin went to Ashland, he would be one of those people who you say hi to in halls and talk about that one class you have together. We just couldn’t break past the small-talk barrier, even without my distraction.

“You don’t throw that away, not someone in your position.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s be real. Colin would’ve done wonders for your status. He’s flawless boyfriend material, and he was into you.”

“But I wasn’t into him. Is that not allowed?” I sound pleading. I’m on trial here, for being single in the first degree.

“No. Not when your social life doesn’t have a pulse. It’s like you want to be alone and miserable forever, Rebecca. Like you’re trying to prove a point or something.”

The fact that she can spew venom without blinking is sickening. My blood boils. I was just a charity case to her, never a friend. I can’t wait for this all to be over.

“Well, I am done helping,” she says. “Enjoy spinsterhood.”

“I forgot what an expert you are on relationships,” I snap back. “Where’s Steve tonight?”

I catch her off guard. “He went ahead with some friends.”

“I hope nothing happens between you two. I’d hate to see you return to your old status.”

Darkness covers the town. The streetlights provide a waning, yellow light. We turn onto Chris Gomberg’s block—a peaceful, rambling street. Except for the thumping bass emanating from the third house on the left. Huxley parks down the street, to protect her car from scratches and random acts of vomiting.

We cram into Chris’s house, along with what seems like the rest of Ashland High. Kids set up camp on the stairs, in the halls. Huxley gets her share of looks and double takes when we arrive. Kindling for the rumor fire.

Chris’s parents are present, but not supervising. His dad pumps the keg while reminiscing about his high-school glory days. Huxley and I push through to the kitchen, where Chris’s mom acts as bartender. She pours Steve what’s probably his fourth shot of tequila. Guys crowd around Steve, egging him on.

“C’mon, Stevie Wonder! You can do one more shot,” she says. Her tank-top strap falls off her shoulder. If it weren’t for her leathery, tanned face, you would never know she’s an adult.

“I don’t know,” he says loudly. He chugs the rest of his beer. “Beer before liquor makes you sicker.”

“Beer before liquor. Get drunk quicker!” She high-fives nearby guys.

“Don’t worry, Hux,” Greg Baylor yells. “We’re keeping an eye on him.” Then all the guys burst out laughing.

Huxley purses her lips as her controlled expression slips away. She grabs my hand, and we squeeze up to the bar.

Mrs. Gomberg sprinkles salt on Steve’s arm, sticks a lime in his right hand, and the shot glass in the other.

I weave through the crowd to get close to Steve. The mob of drunken classmates smothers us. He’s so trashed, he doesn’t feel me snatch his phone from his pocket. I use my coat to hide my hand.

“On the count of three. One...two...”

Huxley swipes the shot glass out of Steve’s hand. He gives her a puppy-dog look like a child whose favorite toy was taken away.

“Steve, can we go somewhere and talk?” Huxley asks.

She pulls him to an oversize chair in the living room. Everyone at the bar groans. The fun police came. Steve swoops out of Huxley’s grasp and runs back to the bar, downs his shot, then casually strides back to his girlfriend.

As the bar area erupts in cheers, I splinter off and go to the upstairs bathroom. I only have a few minutes before Steve realizes he is phoneless. The door is locked, and a girl slurs out “One second” from the other side. Great. Can’t she just pee in the front bushes like a proper drunk partyer?

Two minutes later, she pulls open the door and I am face-to-face with Isabelle Amabile, Ezra’s ex-girlfriend. What’s the protocol between ex-girlfriends and friends of current girlfriends? I think the rules state we’re supposed to hate each other. Girls have to hate each other whenever a guy is involved. That’s a mandate or something.

“It’s all yours.” She steps aside and holds on to a picture frame for support.

I walk into the purple-tiled bathroom, but Isabelle shoves her hand in the doorway.

“Tell Val to watch out.” She wags her finger in my face.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not going to last. He’ll find some flaw, then another, then someone else, and abracadabra. He’s gone before you know it.”

My face contorts into a grimace, and now I have no need to hate her. I just pity her.

“Actually, he’s a really great guy,” I say.

“He’s a creep.”

Trying to convince her is pointless. Never argue with a drunk, Diane once told me. You will always lose.

“Move on, Isabelle.” I slam the door in her face, lock it and sit on the edge of the Jacuzzi.

I find my Zen place before taking out Steve’s phone. I remove the piece of paper from my pocket and begin to type in Angela’s number. However, the number pops up before I can finish. It’s in his contact list, hidden under “Aunt Mabel.” There’s a chain of text messages attached to it. I read them about twenty times and hold on to the edge of the Jacuzzi for support. My head spins, and I haven’t even had a drink yet.

Angela: Hey, thanks for the coffee.

Steve: It was so good seeing you.

Angela: When are you going to tell Huxley about us?

Steve: Soon. I promise.