The Breakup Artist

by Shannen Crane Camp

  Sitting on the floor in the middle of my room, I picked through tubes of paint, throwing away the dry ones and salvaging what could be salvaged. I ate my pasta with chopsticks just to liven the meal up a bit, an action that had always amused my mother. Anything that hinted at a personality all my own made her happy. I think she sometimes thought her daughter was a sociopath or a future con artist or something along those lines.

  I kicked a blue paint tube with my foot so that it rolled into the “useable” pile on the floor and threw my paper plate away once the pasta was all gone. Stretching in the way that a lazy person does on a lazy day, I fell onto my back and lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about the mess I’d gotten myself into. I wondered how far Claire would go to make herself feel better. Would she just take the money back or would she expose exactly what I do, making it impossible for me to continue on in my body of work. Neither option sounded like much fun for me, which meant I had to figure out a way to solve this David problem.

  From a remote corner of my purse on my bed, I could hear a buzzing sound. It was my phone. Reaching in and grabbing the pink plastic device, I was informed that I had one unread text message. My mom didn’t really know how to text, and when she did it took her a long time, which meant that it probably wasn’t her. I highly doubted that the paint supply shop would text me, since I only had their landline. And I hoped more than I’d ever hoped for anything before that it wasn’t Claire, sending me an angry reminder of just how much trouble I was in.

  I flipped open the phone to find that the message was from a number I didn’t recognize. I opened the text tentatively and read my mysterious message from its mysterious sender.

  “Don’t forget. 8 p.m. tonight.”

  “David?” I asked my phone, as if it would reply to my question. It didn’t. I quickly saved the number for future reference and groaned in dismay. I had actually convinced myself that he would forget all about our “date” and I could just deal with him at school. I suppose, though, that I should have been more concerned with the fact that he had somehow obtained my number and that he would somehow be showing up on my doorstep at eight o’clock tonight.

  I went over numerous excuses in my head as to why I wouldn’t be able to go on the date, until it struck me that this might actually be my chance to set things right. If I spent the whole date convincing him that he should be Claire’s boyfriend, then perhaps by the time Monday rolled around my only concern would be getting rid of the jock for Lexi.

  “Okay, so this is good,” I said to my empty room, nodding at nothing in particular. Yep, the stress this whole ordeal had brought on was definitely causing me to lose my mind. I quickly got up off the ground and went to my closet, ready to find a perfect “date” outfit. The only dates I had ever gone on were with boys who I had just broken up with for their girlfriends. I was always in character then and didn’t have to worry about how I looked—as long as I fit the mold of what they had always been attracted to, I was just fine.

  Tonight, however, was a completely different matter. I had to look unattractive enough that he wouldn’t try to continue hitting on me, while looking attractive enough that he’d actually listen to what I was saying. It was a shame how much appearance really factored in to what your opinion meant to someone, but that was the reality and that was what I had to play with. I figured that for tonight I should go with something relatively inoffensive, something generic and nondescript, but still stylish and eye-catching.

  I thumbed through my clothes quickly, noting with dismay that it was already two o’clock in the afternoon. It wasn’t that I really thought I’d need six hours to get ready for a date where I would be convincing the guy that he didn’t want to date me; I simply wanted some extra time to do some mental preparation. I had to construct a plan, and I had to solidify exactly what I was going to do.

  I decided on a jean skirt that came to just above my knee, with black cut-off tights underneath it. I did, after all, have to remember who my audience was and what kind of girls he apparently liked to date. Or in this case, what type he liked to break up with. I completed the outfit with a black baby doll T-shirt and black flip-flops. There was nothing special about my outfit, but it had just enough “date” quality to it.

  Setting these clothes out on my bed I headed for the bathroom to take a shower, which was a rare occurrence for a Saturday. I usually avoided any form of getting ready on Saturdays—the process just took away from the magic of being lazy. After a very long, very hot shower, I got ready in a deliberate manner. I took extra time curling my shoulder-length blonde hair and even did my makeup with careful precision, lining my eyes so that the amount of liner used actually matched from the right side to the left. The silvery black shadow I used on my lids made the blue in my eyes really stand out. Deep down I felt a sort of excited anticipation about the date, even though it wasn’t really my date. It was Claire’s date. Despite this little fact glaring at me, I still allowed myself to feel some excitement over getting ready to spend the evening with a particularly gorgeous boy.

  Chapter Ten

  It was a little after four o’clock by the time I finished with my shower, hair, and makeup and I was ready to get into costume. As I pulled the short jean skirt on, I didn’t feel the same way I always felt when dressing like someone else. I almost felt a sense of self that I hadn’t experienced since I was little like I was actually doing something just for me and not just for a client. I quickly shook these thoughts from my head, however, knowing they led to dangerous territory that my future college education couldn’t afford to explore.

  Looking myself over in the mirror I had to admit I actually looked pretty good. With my blonde curly hair and the neat, dark makeup, I looked like a mix between a ’50s actress and a rock star. The effect was nice, and I gave myself a mental pat on the back. As much as I wanted to whip out my paint set and get to work on a very round, very pink, colorful expressionist piece, I refrained, deciding that I didn’t want to show up for the date looking like something Jackson Pollock had gotten a hold of.

  With three hours to go until the blessed event began, I went over some ideas in my head. I figured I could talk to him for a bit, strictly for professional purposes of course, before getting to Claire. I could ask why they broke up, put some doubts into his head about his decision, suggest that maybe she missed him a little, and even plant the idea of getting them back together right in his subconscious. It shouldn’t really be that difficult, in all reality. It was the job I normally did, just in reverse.

  With that obstacle out of the way, I tackled another difficult decision. Should I eat before I went on the date? Eight o’clock was a bit late for dinner, but what if he waited to eat so he could take me out somewhere? Or even worse, what if he didn’t, and my growling stomach gave away my pathetic assumption that we would be getting dinner? What on earth would we do if we didn’t get dinner? Why were we starting this date so late? Did dates normally start at eight o’clock?

  My head was swimming with questions, and I didn’t have the desire to answer any of them. All I wanted to do was get this date over with and accomplish my goal so I wouldn’t have to be confused about my feelings or my future in this career anymore. It seemed as though things had been going downhill ever since I’d taken on this new job. It was almost like someone was trying to sabotage what I did for a living. Of course, that was probably just the paranoia talking. The paranoia and the hunger.

  I don’t really remember what I did for those three long hours while I waited for David to appear on my doorstep, but I’m pretty sure it involved alphabetizing all of the CDs clients had given to me and then categorizing them by genre. I had a vague determination to make my life easier and thought that this would be the perfect way to get into character quickly for my various jobs.

  At eight o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang. I let out a little gasp, the kind you emit when you watch a scary movie and you just know something is going to pop out of that dark alley and ye
t it gets you every time. I had actually been watching the clock, and it was a welcome shock when the doorbell sounded just as eight o’clock flickered to life on the digital screen. I stood up quickly and looked myself over in the mirror to make sure my makeup hadn’t migrated down my face into a pool of black under my eyes. Everything seemed to be in order, and I looked just as good as I had three hours earlier when the epic CD organizing had begun.

  I snatched my black leather purse from my bed and headed down the hallway to the front door. We didn’t have one of those front doors with glass in them so that the people outside can awkwardly see you approaching from a distance, and right now, I was happy for that. For all David knew, I was taking my sweet time because I wasn’t really that interested. I tiptoed to the peephole so that it wouldn’t sound like I had walked up to the door, only to stop for some odd amount of time. Looking through the little opening, I saw him standing there in all his glory. The porch light shone down on him, making him look like an angel, which I’m sure is a pretty cheesy comparison, but at that moment it worked quite nicely. He ran his fingers through his hair like he had when I’d been sitting next to him. There was just something about guys doing that—it gave them some sort of unspoken confidence in my eyes, like they were on top of the world and had everything. It seemed like the only thing they could think of to complete their perfection was running their fingers through their hair. (Because that logic makes complete sense.)

  Finally, after what may have actually been an hour of peering at David through this little hole and seriously considering turning right around and going back to my room, I opened the door. He looked mildly surprised, but proud of himself. I assumed the pride was for finding my address and my phone number when I didn’t have any friends. He looked me up and down for a moment with a look on his face that I really couldn’t decipher, and believe me; I’ve seen many different looks on boy’s faces when they look at me. I waited for the inevitable “You look nice” or “I like that skirt on you” or even the more frequent but less acceptable “You look hot,” but instead he simply said, “Ready?”

  I nodded dumbly at his question, a little hurt that he didn’t comment at all on my appearance, and a little happy that he might have actually been interested in something other than that. I did, however, have to quickly remind myself that he couldn’t have possibly been interested in my personality since I tragically didn’t have one. Or at least, I didn’t have one of my own. I had whatever personality my clients wanted me to have.

  I followed David outside to his car, which was an old little blue thing. I had no idea what kind of car it was, just that it was slightly rusty, which I found a bit shocking. David seemed very well put together and clean, and I couldn’t imagine him driving something that wasn’t as spotless as his sweaters. He opened my door, which was always a good sign, and then took his spot in the driver’s seat. After he had started the car and begun driving in the general direction of the school, I finally spoke, breaking the long silence between us.

  “So where exactly are we going tonight?” He looked over at me as if just noticing I was there and smiled.

  “I thought we’d grab some dinner. Unless, of course, you’ve already eaten. I mean, it is eight o’clock and everything.” Well at least he wasn’t a complete weirdo. He knew that dinner should definitely be eaten earlier than eight. My stomach growled right on cue, answering his question without me saying a word. “So what kind of food do you like?” he asked me, keeping his eyes trained ahead on the road. That question was completely pointless. He would have been much better off asking what kind of food I didn’t like, because that list was much smaller.

  “I like any food that’s edible,” I replied with a grin.

  “So no seafood then?” he asked, the smallest of smiles creeping onto his strong features.

  “I take it you’re not a fan?” I asked. He pulled a face at my question, scrunching his nose up in disgust.

  “All right, no seafood then. What about Italian? Pasta is good at any time of the day.” In fact, I had a particular love of pasta for breakfast, but we didn’t need to let David see my little oddities when this date wasn’t even mine to jeopardize.

  “Italian it is,” he said with a small nod. I was half surprised when he kept going straight instead of turning on the road to go to our school. I was definitely on autopilot. This little shock only reminded me of how much I didn’t get out of the house, increasing this date’s potential by a few notches.

  “Nice hair, by the way,” David said after a few moments of silence.

  “What?” I asked, completely puzzled by his statement. It didn’t dawn on me until after my brilliant response that I had dyed my hair since I’d last seen him. For me it was typical to look in the mirror and see a different hair color every few days, and my mom had long since gotten used to it, but to normal people it must be quite a shock when my hair constantly changed at a breakneck pace.

  “It’s blonde,” he pointed out, as if this little fact had possibly escaped my notice. Maybe he thought I had been ambushed in the middle of the night by the hair-dye fairy and the result had simply floated right by my scope of understanding.

  “Yeah . . . I get bored easily,” I mumbled, hoping this explanation would save me from any further questions.

  “I like it,” he said finally. All right, so he was a blonde guy. Maybe if I could get Claire to change her hair color it would be easier for me to get them back together. This thought only made me realize how weird my job really is. Most of my date thus far had consisted of me covering up my job and thinking about how I could get my date back together with his ex-girlfriend, who I’d tried to get him to break up with originally. Good thing I had a psychology class, or I might need some serious therapy from all of this.

  After a few more lies and some close calls on my part, we pulled into the parking lot of a small Italian restaurant. I could smell the breadsticks before we even entered the little building. The interior was dimly lit by fake candles with soft mood music maintaining the atmosphere. The host seated us in a cozy booth surprisingly close to the kitchen. I could hear the clattering of dishes and calling out of food orders from my seat. We looked at our menus, ordered drinks, and then were faced with the awkward silence first dates are famous for causing. This time in a date was normally just fine for me, because I would be strategically planning out how to get rid of the guy for good, while my date would be nervously contemplating my silence, wondering if it meant I didn’t like him, or if I was feeling bad that he had just broken up with his girlfriend.

  This date, however, was different. My half of the silence was spent in nervous anticipation. I knew there was nothing for me to be excited about, because the sole reason I was here was to manipulate this boy without his knowledge. But still, I couldn’t help but feel that this date was a small reward for my years of work. Maybe this boy actually liked me and things could somehow work out. Of course, like all good dreams, these thoughts were instantly stifled by reality.

  “So, Amelia, do you work?” I nearly choked on my soda at his question, and I actually had to take a minute to recover from the coughing fit this unexpected turn in the conversation brought on. He looked at me with mild amusement, which was slightly disconcerting since I was, in fact, choking. Well, perhaps I wasn’t choking, but I was sure coughing enough to cause other diners alarm. And here was my date, sitting there smirking at me like some cruel model from a clothing advertisement. After I regained my composure and patted my face with my maroon cloth napkin, I shook my head.

  “No, I don’t work,” I said hoarsely, my voice still a bit scratchy from the violent coughing from a moment ago. I was amazed at how easy it was for me to lie. Not just to this boy, but to everyone. It seemed like a natural talent that I possessed, though I wasn’t sure if that was really something I should be proud of. David raised an eyebrow. Then after a moment of what I figured was contemplation over this, his face softened and he reacted, however late, to my distress.

&nbs
p; “Are you all right?” His face still held the smirk but his voice held a certain amount of compassion now. I looked at him incredulously. Not only had he practically been laughing as I choked on my soda, but he was now asking if I was all right after we’d moved on from my little drinking attack. This was something that I had to deal with in only my most socially inept clients; I hadn’t expected this level of odd timing from David.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I answered, sounding almost suspicious. Maybe he was trying to make me think he was some social outcast so I wouldn’t be so obviously pathetic about my interest in him. Then again, maybe he was just concerned and couldn’t ask once I’d stopped choking because I’d blurted out my answer to his question as if it were a matter of life and death.

  “Perhaps next time you should try drinking instead of inhaling,” he commented dryly. I was about to shoot him an annoyed look when I caught the rueful gleam in his eye, signaling to me that it was a joke. I smiled back at him, and he broke into a soft laugh. Maybe this date wasn’t going as disastrously as it seemed.

  “So what about you?” I asked, taking a bite out of a warm breadstick and savoring the garlic taste. “Do you have some sort of job after school?”

  “No official job really. I do write for the school newspaper, though. I don’t get paid or anything, but I figure it’s close enough to job training, so it counts. Occasionally I’ll submit a piece for the local paper.”

  “Oh, wow, so do you want to be a journalist?” I suppose the answer to that should have been fairly obvious, but I was being slightly less than observant tonight. He laughed softly again, a sound I was quickly beginning to like.