The Break-Up Artist

by Philip Siegel

  A scheme springs into my head, and I call Diane down right away.

  “What up?” Diane says. When she joins me, she comes face-to-face with the Disney-princess dress. Instead of laughing at it, she stares into every seam. Sadness washes across her face. Her caustic facade falls to the side. I wonder if she’s looking past herself, into some alternate universe of what could have been. It’s a quiet reflection, one of those moments we simultaneously are drawn to and try to avoid.

  “I’m sorry” is all I get out. Diane remains entranced.

  I wrap my arms around her and squeeze, resting my chin on her shoulder. “Those bridesmaids dresses totally looked like crusted-over vomit. You dodged a bullet.”

  Diane rubs my hand, forcing a smile that won’t come. “So like I said, what up?”

  “I know how to break up Bari and Derek.”

  6

  Part of me would love to see Michigan’s yearbook be a disaster as payback for taking advantage of my friend. But Val and I are good girls, so we’re spending our Thursday night working on captions.

  We lie on her bed, staring at pictures of our fellow students smiling and laughing, making it seem as if Ashland High is the new Disney World.

  The homecoming spread takes over her computer screen. She can’t take her eyes off the king and queen in the middle. Jealousy, hopefulness and sorrow mix together on her face.

  “I don’t think she’s that pretty,” I say of Huxley, whose head seems shaped for a crown. “Her lips are too big, her waist too small and she has overly angular shoulders.”

  “They’re so perfect,” Val says, clearly only thinking about her own imperfections. She can’t look away. She, like the rest of Ashland, is transfixed. Her hopes and dreams sit in that frame. I could tell her how funny and amazing and beautiful she is every hour on the hour, and it would make no difference. Because to her, the only proof of that is to have a boyfriend.

  “Oh, please. No couple is perfect.”

  “They aren’t? They’re so cute together. Holding hands down the hall. Cheering for each other at games. Once I actually heard them finish each other’s sentences.” She pulls up another picture of the power couple, one of many Michigan stuck her with. Steve “surprising” Huxley at her car with a giant teddy bear on Valentine’s Day. Girls talked about that one all week.

  “It’s just a stuffed animal. It’s probably collecting dust in her basement,” I say, but it’s no use.

  Val holds her computer next to my face for a side-by-side comparison I want no part in. “You know, I think that sweater and skirt she’s wearing would look great on you. Well, maybe not that peach color since your skin is much lighter—”

  “Paler.”

  “—lighter than hers. But maybe something similar...” Val’s eyes pivot between my outfit and Huxley’s.

  “Doubtful.” I push the computer away.

  “I’m serious. You’re a total catch. You’re so smart and pretty and all-around amazing, and it’s kind of ridonkulous that you don’t see that.”

  “Really?” I know Val’s giving a stock friend speech, but she says it with so much gusto, I almost believe it.

  “Yes! Maybe if you didn’t cover up like some Amish housewife. Seriously, how many cardigans can one girl wear?”

  “The sky’s the limit.”

  Huxley has a figure. I have a body, and it’s thin and unspectacular from all angles.

  “I think if you stopped wearing three layers of clothing every day and showed yourself off a little, you would look dynamite! The guys at school would go crazy!”

  “The guys can do whatever they want. I am not taking fashion tips from the homecoming queen from hell.”

  “Didn’t you two used to be friends back in the day?”

  “Moderate acquaintances.”

  “Whoa, sorry.” She holds up her hands in surrender. “My mistake.”

  Val jumps on her bed; her silky blond hair flaps her in the face. She won’t let this idea go quietly. “C’mon, don’t you want some male attention?” I know Val doesn’t mean to be insulting, but it still stings.

  I stand in front of her full-length mirror. My looks are sufficient enough for my middle-of-the-road social status. Val’s help wouldn’t do much good. Calista is beautiful, but that isn’t enough apparently. Who knows what gets guys’ attention? I only play games when I know the rules.

  “I’ll pass for now,” I tell her. “I think I’m yearbooked out, too.”

  “Wait! I need to ask you for one more favor.”

  “Seriously?” I groan and sit back down on the bed.

  “I’ll give you a kidney someday.” She opens up her email. “Can you help me with something?”

  “What?”

  “I want to send Ezra an email.” She pushes the computer onto my lap.

  “About homework?”

  She shoots me a look. We both know that’s not likely. “I’ve been thinking about the other day in the lunchroom. He was totally flirting with me, but because I was incapable of stringing together a sentence, he probably thinks I’m not interested.”

  “Are you interested?”

  “I think so. He’s a really great guy,” Val says as if she’s now some kind of Ezra expert.

  “Is he even your type? He’s kinda artsy.” I always see him reading published scripts or slipping DVDs into his backpack. He’s definitely an atypical Ashland boy.

  “He’s such a talented filmmaker.”

  “Have you ever watched any of his films?”

  “No, but I’ve heard they’re very good.” Val opens up a Word document on her computer. “I think he’ll appreciate a really funny, thought-provoking email introduction. I don’t know. You’re more of a writer than I am. I need you to add some of your trademark Becca Williamson pizzazz.”

  “I think he just broke up with Isabelle Amabile like a week ago?” Ezra gossip isn’t exactly front-page news. He’s one of those boys who’s just there, doing his thing in the background, not rocking the boat. Kind of like me.

  “A week is a long time. The Earth was created in a week.”

  “Wait,” I say, a memory springing to mind. “Didn’t it end badly with him and Monica Washington before that? Didn’t she go on some tirade?”

  “The Diet Sprite incident,” Val says like it’s old news. “They broke up. Monica went ballistic and dumped a cup of Diet Sprite over his head during lunch.”

  Yeah, that’s not something you want to hear about your friend’s crush. Val reads my face; she can probably sense my exact thought in some BFF ESP superpower.

  “Monica is cray-cray. Remember the time in ninth grade when she went on that shoplifting binge at Home Depot, and we had to have that assembly about stealing? Ezra barely made it out alive. And Home Depot? Seriously? Set your sights a little higher.” She sticks up her finger for a pinkie swear. “Look, I promise I will not make a scene if we break up.”

  “You two aren’t even together yet.”

  Val fiddles with a loose string on her bedspread. “Ezra is obviously a romantic. If he’s not feeling it, then he’s not going to fake it just for the sake of being in a relationship. I thought you would champion someone like that.”

  “I’m not not championing Ezra...” My voice trails off. I feel like a wet blanket next to Val. Either she’s too impulsive, or I’m too cautious. “I just don’t want you to get hurt or get stuck in something like yearbook again.”

  “That’s so sweet,” Val gushes. “But I need to get in there quickly. And if I can’t do it face-to-face, then I will do it through email. But I need to strike now.”

  “That sounds like a great battle plan, but do you actually like him? Or is this about having a boyfriend?” I cringe at how much of a killjoy I sound like. But it’s better than having my best friend risk p
ublic embarrassment or rejection.

  “Neither of us has ever had a boyfriend, and that needs to change. I am tired of being in the minority, watching other people be all couple-y while I sit in the bleachers and act supportive. This is our time, Becca. Or, at least, my time.”

  “Jeez, Val. Being single is not a death sentence.”

  “Well, I won’t let it be a life sentence!” She grabs the laptop and retreats to her desk. “Are you going to help me or not?”

  I can’t tell if she wants Ezra, or just a boyfriend. Someone to give her an oversize, inconvenient teddy bear. Val may not know the answer either. Vulnerability and desperation flicker in her eyes. I feel it, too. The couples in our school making the single—no, unattached—people feel inferior. I can only break up one couple at a time. I’m not trying to ruin anyone’s life; I just want the tide to change at our school, so that my best friend doesn’t have to carry around this anxiety, this insecurity that just because a guy doesn’t want to walk with her in the hallway or shove his tongue down her throat, there’s something wrong with her, with us.

  “Val,” I say. She looks back at me. “Do you like him, honestly?”

  “Yes,” she says, her voice regaining composure.

  “What do you like most about him?”

  “He has a really cute voice. It’s deeper than the guys at school, and he always sounds so smart when he talks.” Val hugs the pillow under her, an image of Ezra superimposed on her mind. “My favorite is when he speaks—his head always tilts up and his eyes look up and to the left. It’s awkward and adorable at the same time. If that even makes sense...”

  Her cheeks redden. Although I am wary about how this all will end, nothing I say can change her mind. I just have to be ready and waiting with a box of tissues. I grab her computer. My fingers take over the keyboard. “We should include something about movies, of course. I saw him reading a biography of Martin Scorsese once.”

  “Who’s that?” Val asks.

  I hope this doesn’t blow up in her face.

  7

  I realized that what Derek hates most isn’t blonde cheerleaders or smart women—it’s commitment, especially now. He liked that Bethann was intelligent, but not that she was going to follow him to Princeton. Tessa is going to school all the way in California, and Bari will still be in Ashland next year. Even though he’s making Bari play by his rules, he doesn’t view this as a serious relationship, and he’d freak out if things headed in that direction, like they did with Bethann. I’m assuming he wants to enjoy his senior year, and then go off to Princeton wild and free.

  When I get home from Val’s, I get to work. I print off dozens of pictures of Bari and Derek from Facebook, and using the glue and scissors I must’ve had since elementary school, I cut out their heads and paste them into bridezilla’s doomsday wedding scenario. There’s Bari and Derek posing by a gazebo at sunset! There’s Bari in a wedding dress with a burgundy-and-orange bouquet! There’s Derek slipping a ring onto Bari’s finger underneath a wicker-and-floral—but rainproof—canopy! Bridezilla’s thought of everything. I wish all arts-and-crafts projects were this enjoyable. A smile overtakes my face—a genuine, gleeful smile, not one used to cover up something else.

  Even if this gets Bari and Derek to break up, I know it will just be using a squirt gun on a forest fire. Relationship zombies will still rule my school. Why can’t all couples just admit to the charade? Then people would stop getting hurt, and we could all get on with our lives. The rush of frustration courses through me, just as it did last January at the Snowflake Dance.

  I had spent the past month tending to Diane’s broken heart and hearing my parents stress about losing wedding deposits. I was excited for a night of fun and dancing with Val. It was like a night off.

  And at first it was. The cafeteria had been transformed into a winter wonderland of fake, fluffy snow. Great music, decent eats, a packed dance floor. Val loved dances because they had this anything-could-happen aura, and as the music blared, I could feel it, too.

  But during the last hour of the dance, kids went from having fun to having a mission: hooking up. All school dances must be sealed with a kiss, apparently. The dance became a game of tag, but neither Val nor I were it. Nearly every song played was a ballad and the circles of dancers morphed into couples swaying to the music. And one by one, they began making out for everyone to see. I probably sound like some eighty-year-old nun, but in my experience, kissing is fun to do, but not to watch.

  Val and I were relegated to the far reaches of the dance floor, next to the stack of unused cafeteria chairs. Val’s face drooped into this despondent, dejected look. It was like I’d never left the house. And to top it off, before the final song, the principal announced Huxley and Steve as the Snowbirds—the dance’s version of king and queen chosen by the planning committee. (They are like the Meryl Streep of dance royalty elections. Spread the wealth, people!) We had to stand in a circle and watch them slow dance and stare into each other’s emotionally vacant eyes before other pairs joined in. The night was everything my life wasn’t, and I left the dance so ready for a new day.

  That Monday at school, I realized I was not alone. I overheard different girls in different groups—girls who usually would never say two words to each other—complaining about the same problem: couples. One girl bitched about the friends who abandoned her at the dance to hang out with their boyfriends. Another claimed her friend turned into a demon monster whenever her boyfriend was around. I was not alone.

  Hearing the discontent simmering in the halls and between desks gave me the assurance I needed that this school could use someone to level the playing field. A relationship Robin Hood. A week later, I scribbled my ad on a bathroom stall.

  I had my first client forty-eight hours later.

  Long story short, that’s how at six forty-five in the morning, I find myself walking down the deserted halls of school, gripping the modified binder in my hand. I scan my surroundings when I reach Derek’s locker. Just the hum of the heating vent and the stiff smell of the floor buffer accompany me. Diane had given me a master key for all V56 locks she received when she was a camp counselor, and it has been the greatest gift. All locks used on school grounds must be V56, in case the principal ever wants to do a locker search. I empty out Derek’s folder labeled “SGA” and replace the papers with what’s in the wedding binder. For the cherry on top, I pull out a crisp, white envelope from my pocket, tape it to the binder’s inside sleeve and shove everything back inside.

  Dear Derek,

  I did some brainstorming. What can I say? I’m a planner. Why wait for tomorrow when you know what you want today :) I can’t wait to see you at the assembly!

  Love, Bari

  My footsteps echo in the hallway, and I just keep wondering if all people enjoy their jobs as much as I do.

  * * *

  I don’t know why the principal doesn’t see it. Assemblies are a waste of time. It takes the school twenty minutes to file in and sit down for a fifteen-minute assembly that only delivers three minutes’ worth of useful information. Val wanders away from her class to sit next to me. She looks at her phone, trying to will an email to populate.

  “No response yet?” I ask. We both know the answer, but it’s an excuse to let her talk about Ezra some more.

  Val shakes her head no. I want to smack Ezra for not instantly asking Val out.

  “What’s my percentage?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “What’s the percentage chance of Ezra responding?”

  “I don’t know. Twenty-five?”

  Val’s face drops. “Twenty-five?”

  “Or thirty-one.”

  Her eyes expand even farther. Two gumballs gawking at me. “That’s all? Not even above fifty?”

  I can’t tell if she wants me to be honest. But as my friend, she deser
ves my moderated gut reaction. I want to cushion the blow in case Ezra doesn’t pan out. “Well, it’s more like twenty-one. You haven’t spoken in person yet.”

  “Right, right,” she says, uninterested in cold, hard facts.

  “I’m not saying that twenty-one can’t change.”

  She appreciates the encouragement, but she remains serious. “Beck, I think I may actually break through with this one. I think there could be something here. I feel it in my bones.”

  “Maybe that’s just osteoporosis.”

  One of the French teachers shushes me. The principal takes the mic.

  “Students, thank you all for coming today. We have an exciting announcement. We received some incremental funds from the school board, a nice figure. And after meetings with the SGA, we’ve created a plan for using these funds to benefit Ashland in the best way possible.” He waits for applause that doesn’t come. It’s not like we’re getting the money personally. “Your SGA president Derek Kelley will walk everyone through the exciting features coming your way over the next year!”

  “Thank you,” Derek says, all power and poise on stage. He rests his accordion folder on the podium. “My fellow students, as a result of these funds, we will be building a brand-new, state-of-the-art TV studio and launching a morning news show anchored and run entirely by students. The feed will be hooked up to all classroom TVs.”