“What if she thinks Steve is cheating on her?” I ask.
Diane chugs the last of the Coke. “He wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, but if we make her think he’s cheating?”
Diane puts down all food and drink and gives me her undivided attention. “Go on.”
“If Huxley suspects he’s cheating, she’ll freak out and try to assert more control over him, which I think could drive him over the edge. But it has to be long term, a slow build. If we try anything easy, like a dirty text, she’ll see right through it.” My mind is in overdrive, imagining the possibilities.
“That could work, but who would be the other girl?”
My mind grinds to a halt. No girl in school would dare go after Steve. They know he has Property of Huxley Mapother stamped on his forehead. And I don’t hate any girl enough to make them the unsuspecting other woman. My memory wanders to seeing Steve on his first day of school. So cute, so charming, so tall. He had no awkward prepopular phase like Huxley. There’s no way she was his first girlfriend. It’s not humanly possible. Guys like him don’t sit on the market. There had to be someone before her, someone he left behind in Leland, his old town.
“His ex-girlfriend,” I say.
“He has one?”
“They always do.”
We go upstairs to Diane’s computer to look at the photos in Steve’s Facebook profile, but I don’t have access. I’m not cool enough to be his friend in any context. All I can see on his page is his main picture: he and Huxley cuddling by a lake at sunset. It may seem like one of those candid pictures, but Huxley probably waited all day to get that shot.
“Great,” I say.
“I have an idea,” Diane says. “It’s a bit old-school, though.”
* * *
“They keep this stuff?” I ask in a hushed voice.
“Yeah. It’s public record. All towns have them,” Diane says at her regular volume level. The librarian at the reference desk shushes her.
The smell of old books stirs in the air, and I feel smarter just inhaling it. A giant clock hangs on the back wall, as if the Leland library is a timepiece for an old giant. Diane’s finger scans shelf after shelf of town records until she finds bins labeled “Yearbooks: James Whitmore Junior High School” on the bottom.
“Of course they’re on the bottom,” I say. It takes both of us to pull the bin onto the floor. We scramble through Leland history until we find the relevant year.
I immediately flip to Steve’s yearbook photo, for proof that I chose the correct book and to check out how young he looks. When I see his buzz cut and chubby cheeks, I laugh, even though he looks adorable.
Diane and I turn through pages of sports teams and clubs and faculty, all things I would care about if I actually went to this school. I’m amazed at how dated the pictures and people look after only five years. Then again, it has been five years. That’s almost one-third of my life.
We reach the “Out and About” section. Real candid pictures of students around school. I can instantly tell who’s popular by how many shots they’re in. Steve pretty much has his own section. Multiple photos feature him and a lithe blonde with big eyes and a warm smile that makes me believe she’s as friendly as she seems.
Angela Bentley.
A picture of the two of them eating at lunch sews it up for me. He’s picking pepperonis off his pizza and putting them on hers. She’s ripping off her crusts and placing them on his plate. It seems so routine for them. They give each other fake suspicious looks, hamming it up for the camera. “Angela and Steve: cutest couple ever!!” reads the caption. I have to agree.
“You were right, B,” Diane says. She leans against the shelf, strumming her finger against an encyclopedia. “Do you think he still talks to her?”
“They’re probably friends on Facebook. They seem too nice to have had a nasty break-up.” I bring myself back to the present, away from reminiscing about someone else’s junior high. “Maybe I can get into his phone and send her a message.”
“He would delete it before Huxley saw it, and if she did see it, he would deny sending it. And anyway, how would we know any of this went on? They aren’t like the normal couples you deal with. They’re stronger and more secretive. I’ll bet none of his friends know about Angela.”
Diane looks at me for an answer, but I don’t have one. She’s right.
“You need to dig deeper,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Undercover.”
“Pretend to be friends with Huxley and Steve?” I wave off the suggestion. “No way.”
“Really just Huxley. You need to get past their facade and join their inner circle. The more time you spend around her, the greater chance you have of seeing or hearing something you weren’t supposed to.”
“It would never work.” There’s no way Huxley would ever be my friend. Not again. The thought of spending time around her turns my stomach.
“Why not?”
“Huxley’s mean, but she’s not stupid.”
“You said she’s having auditions for the Student Dance Association. If you get on her squad, you’ll have access to her for hours. Then we can get a better sense if the plan is working.”
“Do you really think she’ll tell me anything?”
“Didn’t you two used to be friends?”
I slam the yearbook closed. “I’m not doing it, Diane. This isn’t your business. It’s mine, and I’m not doing it.” My voice wobbles, but I remain stern.
Diane doesn’t say a word. She was off at college when Huxley started cutting me out, and I only told her about it after the fact, like it was a petty high-school anecdote. We weren’t as close back then; her world was revolving around Sankresh.
“You can do this.” Diane breaks the silence. This time, she remembers to whisper. “Not just for Mr. Towne, but for all the people at your school who are treated like second-class citizens. You’re going to expose this relationship for the pile of crap that it is.”
1 That one is my favorite.
12
“Rebecca, I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“Well, here I am.” I stretch my arms out wide, then snap them back to my sides. I take deep breaths through my nose. I can do this.
The cafeteria looks different emptied out. Peaceful. No battle lines. Just a room with tables and chairs. Huxley sits behind a table with a sign-up sheet. Even after a full day of classes and acting superior to fifteen hundred of her peers, she is still fresh faced.
“You want to join SDA?” Mockery and judgment, her specialties, coat every word. SDA is a dance color war at Ashland created to provide a less gymnastics-centric alternative to cheerleading. We are split into two teams—green and white, with squads performing dance numbers set to a mash-up of new and old songs.
“Yes, I love to dance.”
“You do?”
“You know that.”
Huxley crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. Yep, she remembers, although she wishes otherwise. How dare I bring up a time when she was merely mortal.
We used to take lessons at the Frances Glory Dance School for Girls. Frances was a petite, old woman with a shock of white hair that looked like lightning in the night sky. She spoke in an indecipherable accent that Huxley and I were obsessed with and would impersonate during school. Frances always placed us in the back of routines because we were so tall. She used to call us her Telephone Poles. Or rather Teelehfohna Pooles.
“That was years ago,” Huxley says. “And if I remember, you stopped going.”
Because of you, I want to tell her. Dance class lost its luster when she got in with Addison and the other popular girls. The memory comes back, so vivid. I shove it to the back of my mind.
“You never forget th
ose skills. It’s like riding a bike.”
“SDA is slightly more complicated.”
“You’re right,” I say right back, hoping I didn’t just stick my foot in my mouth.
Huxley gracefully swishes her hair behind her shoulders with a flick of her head. I wish my hair did that. “Rebecca, the Student Dance Association isn’t some fun little club. It’s a serious commitment for serious dancers. I’m not sure it would be the best fit for you.”
“Everyone’s allowed to audition. Let me show you what I got.” I try to remain cheerful. I take more deep breaths.
“Fair enough.”
She turns on the music. A dance remix of the Olympics theme plays, a bass-heavy rhythm pulsing beneath the brass fanfare. I tap my foot to get the beat.
“Ready when you are.”
I perform a choreographed number I crafted from my Frances Glory memories (the happy ones) and watching old Britney Spears music videos. Huxley and I used to do this all the time, in her basement. We even posted a few of our performances online—and then quickly took them down. I practiced the moves all weekend, pulling certain muscles out of early retirement. I spent hours twirling, quick ball-changing, 5-6-7-8ing in my room until this routine was burned into my brain. I doubt other auditioners created such intricate routines, but I had to be immaculate to get Huxley to remotely consider me.
I turn and gyrate and try to make Britney proud, every move precise. I find myself enjoying this, remembering that once upon a time, I did have some type of athletic talent. I guess I still do. I dip forward then strike a pose for my finale.
“Thanks,” Huxley says stoically, as if I’d handed her a coupon on the street. She doesn’t make any notes on her pad. Her mauve pen lies there, matching her shoes. I doubt that is a coincidence.
Thanks. That’s it? I catch my breath and feel soreness in my calves while Huxley remoisturizes her hands. A whole weekend wasted for nothing. Why did I think there’d be any fairness here?
“Thanks!” I nod and put on a beaming grin. I can’t question her. That’s a one-way ticket to instant rejection. “I’m going to keep my fingers crossed all week. I’m really excited!” I say. Maybe I can score some last-minute brownie points. I hate giving Huxley this power over me, but I keep saying Alien Queen over and over in my head to stay focused.
“We’ll post team rosters on Thursday.”
“Great!”
After an awkward moment of silence, I realize she’s done talking. I collect my bag and jacket.
“You’re really excited? About joining SDA?”
“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to do it.” That lie didn’t feel as forced for me. I did enjoy doing that routine, and perhaps under different social circumstances, I would have danced my heart out for SDA.
“It just seems so unlike you.” Huxley sizes me up, her eyes scanning from my comfortable, fashionable flats to my recently combed hair. Okay, I freshened up during last period. You don’t audition for SDA looking like you just went through six hours of classes. “You’re not one for school spirit. You haven’t done any dancing since the seventh grade. Yet you waltz in here and deliver a flawless routine. Just out of the blue. It seems... It’s interesting.”
Panic rises in my throat, wringing my mouth of all moisture. I knew I sounded too chipper to pass for normal. My mind scrambles for an answer.
“I don’t know. People can change,” I say. Huxley doesn’t buy my excuse. Neither do I.
I get an idea. It seems so obvious, like it was sitting patiently, reading a magazine, waiting for me to find it. I grab a chair and sit across from Huxley. I can smell the sweet, honeysuckle scent of her hand cream. Time to level with her.
“It does seem interesting, right?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Between you and me, I’m not doing this to cross it off my high-school bucket list. I have an ulterior motive.” I lean in and lower my voice. “I strongly believe that joining SDA will help me meet guys.”
Huxley’s spine goes upright. She raises an eyebrow at me. “You...want to meet guys?”
“Yeah. All the girls in the group have the best boyfriends, you especially.”
“They do.”
“It’s either this or cheerleading.”
“Don’t do cheerleading. Those girls are sluts.” She grins and nods, liking this change in me.
“Honestly, if anyone can teach me how to land a decent boyfriend, it’s the girlfriend of Steve Overland.” I cringe and wait for her response. I might be laying it on too thick. But a glance at her face tells me Huxley is lapping this up.
“Rebecca, what prompted this?”
“I’ve thought a lot about what you said in English class, about what you always say. And you’re right! I was just too scared to love, and I only hated relationships because I wasn’t in one. But I’m ready for that to change.” I place a hand over my heart, mimicking every rom-com heroine. “Guys will like me if I’m in SDA.”
“They will. Having the right type of well-roundedness will make you appealing to the right type of guys. And plus SDA is a lot of fun.”
“It looks fun. I love the costumes. What’s this year’s theme?”
“The Olympics.” She points at the stereo, and it makes sense. “Each routine will represent a different sport. I want us to mix in those athletic movements with the choreography.”
“I like it.” And when I think about it, I actually do like it. Huxley glows with pride. She isn’t president of SDA just for the power trip.
“This is all so unexpected.”
“I know. When it comes to guys, I prefer to learn from the best.”
That makes her blush. “I don’t know.”
“I must sound like such a weirdo, but I am ready to turn over a new leaf.” I stand up and gather my things. She doesn’t stop me. “Huxley, I know things are different between us now, but from one telephone pole to another, I could really use your help.”
Another awkward moment of silence commences. This time, Huxley breaks it. “Okay,” she says. Huxley smiles at me, a genuine smile. I can see all her shiny teeth.
“Thank you so much,” I say, sounding like a peasant addressing a queen. But it’s necessary to let her believe she’s totally in control. “Where should we start?”
Huxley checks the clock on the wall. “Not now. I have to meet Steve.”
“Hot date?”
She gives me an odd look. I guess we’re not at the jokey friend stage yet. “Steve works at Mario’s Pizza on Monday nights, so I hang out there and keep him company. It’s usually dead there.”
“How sweet.”
“I love spending time with him, even if he is just folding pizza boxes. You’ll know the feeling soon.”
“You go there every Monday night?” I ask.
“Yes. It’s a good place to do homework.” She sticks her pad and mauve pen in her bag. She carries around fewer books than Val. “Rebecca, do you have heels at home?”
“Yeah.”
“Start wearing them.”
I barely wave back when she says goodbye. I’m too distracted by the break-up scheme that just popped into my head.
13
My dad will never throw away a coupon. One drawer in our kitchen is stuffed with discounts for every product and restaurant you can imagine: food, groceries, clothes, big-screen TVs, dog food even though we don’t have a dog. I spend a good half hour rummaging through envelopes brimming with unredeemable offers until I find it. The background is a Sicilian-slice graphic: Half off any large pizza at Mario’s. Valid Mondays only.
“Becca, what are you doing down there?” my mom calls from the staircase. “You’re going to be late.”
I shove the coupon in my wallet and grab my gym bag. My heels click loudly against the floor as I race out the door
.
In the middle of eighth period, I receive a characteristically in-depth note from Val.
O. M. FREAKING. G.
I don’t have to wait for her when class lets out. She jumps in front of me and cups my shoulders.
“Becca.” Val breathes heavily. She zones in on my eyes, trying to communicate telepathically. I’m lost.
“Val.”
“Becca.” Kids file around us in all direction. “Becca.”
“Use your words.”
“Ezra. Told. Me. That...” Val stomps her feet, about to burst. “He can see himself falling in love with me. Falling in love! With me! Ezra! The cutest nonjock, nonsenior guy in the school.”
My stomach knots itself like the rope I could never climb in gym class. She has yet to apologize for treating me like carry-on luggage at the movies, and I see now that she never will. Just because Val is in a relationship doesn’t give her permission to be a crappy friend.
“Um, hello?” Val says. “Thoughts, comments, concerns?”
“What does that even mean?”
“Obviously it’s too soon for us to be in love. But he can see himself falling in love with me.”
“Why is he giving you the advance notice? If he’s going to fall in love with you, then he should just let it happen. Is he saying that he could fall in love with you as like a test? ‘You’re on track to be fallen in love with by me. Keep up the good work’?” I throw in a thumbs-up.
“I think you’re overthinking this. He’s telling me that our relationship—P.S. I’m in a relationship. With a boy! How cool is that?—our relationship has the potential to go the distance. I think that’s exactly what he means. Right?”
I check my watch. It’s getting dangerously close to two-thirty. I pull Val down the hall as we continue our analysis.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But that’s a really weird thing to tell someone. And really soon, too. Did he just blurt it out?”
“It’s not something you just blurt out,” Val says. She tells me about their Saturday excursion to Fort Lee, where movies in the 1910s used to shoot. “Hollywood before Hollywood,” he told her. Before filmmakers wised up and migrated to sunny Los Angeles. Ezra gave her a personal tour of one of the soundstages. Val found it boring after the first hour, but she loved how into it he was. Ezra probably lit up like a department-store Christmas display describing everything.
The Break-Up Artist Page 7
