The Break-Up Artist

34

There’s no time left. All my hard work pays off tonight. As unsure as I may be, I have to go through with it.

Tonight, I dance.

“I am going to have a talk with the principal. They have some nerve making girls wear this getup.” My mom stares at me in my stripper-pole tracksuit costume. I should agree with her that this outfit is a total affront to feminism, but I look so good in it, I can’t complain.

“It has to be like this, so we can dance,” I say. I load up on hair spray to get my hair into the tight bun required.

“You wear it well, I guess.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

We pass Diane’s room on our way downstairs. Her door is shut. I can make out the laugh track blaring on her TV. I hear it more often now, since Diane has given up the Throne. She’s treating our house like a hotel, and I’m just another random guest.

My mom knocks on her door. “Diane, we’re leaving for Becca’s show. Are you coming with us?”

We trade looks, neither of us hopeful. My dad joins us, tapping his watch, but quickly he gets the holdup.

My mom has to knock on the door again to get a response.

“Yeah. Give me one second!” Diane yells through the door.

“I’m worried,” my dad says, always a bit behind current events.

“Maybe it’s Sankresh’s wedding coming up,” my mom says.

“Did you ever detect any problems between Diane and Sankresh?”

My mom’s cheerful demeanor fades, and she gets serious, diplomatic almost. “No couple is perfect.” I can sense the slight pain in her voice. I wonder if my parents knew it before they reserved a church.

“Why didn’t you try to stop them?” I ask, anger rising toward my parents. Did they know this was going to happen? Why didn’t I?

“We couldn’t,” my mom says.

“Don’t worry. She’ll get back on that saddle,” my dad says, totally unaware of how girls think.

“What if she doesn’t?” my mom asks. “What if she stays like this?”

“Single?” I ask. “I’d rather her be single and happy than married and miserable.”

“But she’s not happy.”

The door bursts open, and Diane whooshes out in a wrinkled outfit. “You can stop talking about me. I’m ready.”

Students and parents crowd the gym floor, looking for friends and seats. I gave my parents strict instructions where to sit so they’d have a clear view of me. Fingers crossed they remember.

Nerves and adrenaline inject an extra skip in my step. Fifth row up, Val and Ezra take a seat. I stare at her, hoping she will sense my presence, but Val won’t make eye contact. She and Ezra canoodle in plain sight, their goal of proving me wrong no doubt bringing them closer together.

Huxley dumps out a shopping bag of Pixy Stix onto the locker-room benches.

“Get a boost, guys. I want 1000 percent energy levels out there,” Huxley says.

Girls lunge at the sugar salvation. They rip them open and pour sugar down their throats. Some dancers rub the sugar on their gums and teeth. I will hold off. I don’t want to crash before I go on stage.

“Rebecca.” Huxley taps me on the shoulder. Her outfit has a blue, glittered streak across the front, letting spectators know she’s the captain. Of course, most of them probably know that already. “Whatever happens tonight, I want you to know that you have surpassed all of my expectations.”

I blush at the backhanded compliment. For a moment, I forget why I joined in the first place. “Is Steve ready for his video debut?”

“I don’t know. We broke up.” She says it quickly, getting it out and over with as fast as she can.

The statement pummels me in the gut, which is odd since I orchestrated their demise. I’m now free of Mr. Towne, free of her and Steve’s reign over Ashland, free of the Break-Up Artist. But I don’t feel like celebrating.

I put on my most convincing concerned-best-friend game face. “I’m so sorry, Huxley.”

“He did not take too well to my family’s donation to his college fund. If he wanted to be with me, he wouldn’t care about the money.” She shrugs. “Guys and their pride.”

She doesn’t flinch, like she was reciting a math problem for me. How is she so composed?

“Did you tell anyone yet?” I ask.

“They’ll find out soon enough.”

“Find out what?” Reagan sidles up next to us. She bounces in place.

“That the curling squad is going to have the best routine in the show!” Huxley and Reagan “woo” together, and Huxley joins her in bouncing.

Huxley stands atop the bench and whistles to get everyone’s attention. “This is it, girls. You ready?”

The girls scream. I convince myself to mouth “yes.”

“I can’t hear you! Now I said, are you ready for SDA?”

They scream louder, piercing my eardrums, and run onto the gym floor. The crowd joins them in screaming.

I pull Huxley back to the lockers. “Are you okay? If you need to talk—”

“It’s time to dance!”

I spot tiny cracks in her bubbly facade, but she patches them up. She has to.

She’s the captain.

The night goes by in a blur. Girls dance in front of me, and I applaud at some routines, but my brain has no connection to the outside world.

She will get over this, I tell myself over and over. She and Steve are not meant to be. If they were, then they wouldn’t have broken up. This will all pass, and I will never have to do anything like this again. That’s what I keep repeating to myself, anyway.

Before our number, the curling video of Steve and Huxley plays for everyone. Ezra edited it masterfully, and I cringe when I remember that night. Steve and Huxley have impeccable comic timing and adorable rom-com-worthy chemistry. The audience has the right responses at the right parts.

I peer over at Huxley. Squad mates glance back at her for real-time reactions. She doesn’t disappoint. Huxley smiles bashfully, a wide grin that only I can see is fighting to stay up. Tonight, the suspicions will start because Steve isn’t here. By tomorrow, his friends will know about the break-up. They’ll tell their friends and girlfriends, who will spread the word to every person they know. You don’t sit on this type of gossip. By Monday morning, at least half of the school will be all caught up and spreading the word. If you didn’t hear the news this weekend, then that means you aren’t popular enough. Don’t worry, though. The story will wind through school rapidly, trickling down to the faculty no later than sixth period. At lunch, every student will be making sideways glances at their lunch table. Who will have to switch tables? Girls will look over their shoulders during class to catch a glimpse of Huxley. If she walks by a group of kids, and they get quiet, she’ll know why. And she’ll have to face that at least twenty times a day. Most will blame her for the break-up; girls always receive the majority of the blame. She’ll be called a slut and prude in equal amounts; she’ll be called a bitch for no reason. Side rumors and completely false stories will wind through the halls. And through it all, Huxley will have to maintain that same stupid, hollow grin.

The film cuts to Steve whirling Huxley around, when he caught her by total surprise. They are exposed in this genuine, intimate moment, where this vibe, this current, makes them glow, and they radiate pure, unadulterated happiness.

And there, under the basketball hoop, in my stripper-pole tracksuit, curling broom at my side, I begin to cry.