The Break-Up Artist

by Philip Siegel

  Huxley and a girl from the white team change next to me. I don’t know her name, but I think it’s the last name of a president. Madison, Taylor, Carter. Something like that.

  “So Bari adamantly denies making that crazy-ass wedding binder,” Madison/Taylor/Carter says.

  “Who would do that?” Huxley asks. She slips on her wavy peasant shirt. Leave it to her to make a hippie staple look utterly preppy.

  “She thinks it was a setup.”

  “Not this again,” Huxley says.

  “She’s claiming it’s the Break-Up Artist.”

  My back goes yardstick straight. I keep my head down as I dress.

  “Derek thinks it was, too,” M/T/C says. She chuckles and smoothes out wrinkles in her blouse.

  “Of course he does.”

  “I don’t know, though. I think maybe she’s onto something. Whoever wrote that note in the stall could be real. When you think about it, there have been some strangely convenient break-ups at our school.”

  I’m so focused on listening, I don’t notice that I put on my shirt backward. The collar chokes my neck.

  “The Break-Up Artist is an urban legend,” Huxley says.

  “Aren’t all urban legends rooted in truth?”

  “Reagan, you are not this susceptible.”

  Reagan!

  Huxley continues: “If that book was planted, then why aren’t they back together? Spare me your conspiracy theories.

  “Though, if Bari knew what was good for her, she would move heaven and earth to get back with him,” Huxley says. She pulls up impossibly tight jeans.

  “If they’re meant to get back together, then they will.” Reagan wraps her curls into a messy bun.

  Huxley rolls her eyes. “Some things should not be left up to chance. Guys like Derek Kelley don’t come around every day. Now Bari is just another single girl. She’s thrown herself back into the unrecognizable masses.” Huxley shakes her head. “Her loss.”

  “That’s a little harsh, Huxley. He’s just a guy.”

  She leans in close to Reagan. “Do you think we would be friends if you weren’t dating Mark Olawski?”

  All cheerfulness evaporates from Reagan’s face. She finishes dressing in silence and gives Huxley a polite nod before leaving.

  Huxley and I are the only ones left in this row. I get nervous for some reason. She’s said far worse to me.

  “Rebecca,” she says. She shoves her feet into uncomfortable yet oh-so-beautiful heels. “You’ve gotten a lot better out there.”

  “Thanks.” I tie my sneakers. Huxley notices them. I unzip my backpack and show her my heels. “If I wore these after practice, my feet would fall off.”

  “Remember those golden slippers we got in Frances’s class?” she asks out of nowhere. “Do you still have yours?”

  I picture them, hanging out on my bedroom floor next to my desk.

  “Yeah. I think so.” For the sixth-grade level, instead of handing out trophies, Frances Glory decided to dye a pair of ballet slippers platinum gold for each girl. It must’ve been a last-minute idea because the paint wasn’t dry when she distributed them. My mom called her up, irate that my leotard was spattered with gold paint that wouldn’t wash out. She wasn’t the only parent. For our class picture, we all wore our stained leotards.

  “I think the paint finally dried like a year ago,” I say, and Huxley cracks up. It’s a real, hearty laugh that I haven’t heard in years and kind of missed.

  Huxley thinks about the slippers, or the class or something. She sits on the bench and stares at the locker for an extended moment. I’ve never seen her be so introspective.

  “You think someone’s your friend,” she says. “It’s a sad day when you can’t tell your closest friends something in confidence.”

  Is she talking to me? Is she talking about me? I can’t tell. I’m not used to dealing with a sensitive Huxley. I’m out of practice.

  “They don’t sound like much of a friend,” I say.

  “I told my friends that stuff about Angela in confidence.”

  “Well, honestly, the higher you climb, the more those around you want to take you down. One of the drawbacks of being happy, I guess.” I can’t believe I’m giving Huxley any type of sane advice, but I’ve met her friends, and I wouldn’t trust them either. Addison and Reagan and the rest of them, all reveling in their popularity but wishing they could ascend higher, wishing they were dating the quarterback. I realize that being queen bee is probably exhausting, and I’m impressed that she’s been able to keep it up this long.

  “You’re smarter than this,” I say.

  “Thanks.”

  I remain frozen on the bench. I still have to put on my right shoe, but I don’t want to break this moment.

  “I’m really glad you joined SDA,” she says. Huxley places her hand over mine, and I squeeze.

  “Me, too.”

  16

  As I lie on my bed attempting to do math homework, I receive an unexpected phone call from an unexpected caller.

  “Hey! Want to go ice-skating tonight?” Val asks me.

  “Now?” It’s 7:16 p.m. on a Thursday. I’m not cool enough to have a social life on a weeknight. I can barely scrape one together on a weekend.

  She explains to me that the regional college opens up their rink to the public Thursday nights.

  “Ezra and I heard about it from Jeff,” she says. “We’ll pick you up in twenty.”

  “I don’t know.” My eyes dart from my clock to the homework sprawled out on my bed to my sore legs. Not to mention the fact that I only ice-skated once, and that ended in blood, tears and stitches.

  “‘I don’t know’ means ‘convince me more.’ Fine. It will be so much fun! Maybe some guy will ask you to skate with him and hold your hand. It’s a scientific fact that everything is more romantic on ice.”

  “What’s your source? Us Weekly?”

  “Come on, Becca!”

  I won’t lie. It does feel nice that my friend is so excited to see me. Val and I haven’t hung out in what seems like forever. And I don’t mind that Ezra will be there, too. Now that I’ve gotten to know him, I’ll be spending time with two friends. It shouldn’t be awkward, as long as they aren’t munching on each other’s faces the whole night.

  * * *

  “So what’s up?” Val asks me for the second time in the car. I hate those generic questions. People use them on someone they don’t know, not their best friend.

  “Not much.” I shrug my shoulders. When you go from sharing every minute detail to barely speaking for a few weeks, it’s hard to know where to start.

  Val never knew me in my Frances Glory days. We knew of each other in middle school, but we didn’t run in the same circles. I don’t know why I never became friends with her friends. Huxley didn’t like them, and that was that. It wasn’t until our eighth-grade trip to Washington, D.C., that Val and I had this unexpected-yet-profound bonding session. We sat next to each other on the bus, and four hours and three states later, we were friends. It’s amazing how that happens. With most people, my conversations never go beyond small talk. But then with a very special few, I just click. We bypass meaningless chitchat. After five minutes, I feel like I’ve known them forever. I can’t explain it. It’s completely outside my control. That’s what happened with Val. So it breaks me that we’re stuck in small-talk land tonight.

  “Oh!” Val says, a thought coming to her. I’m all ears. “Ezra and I ate at the best restaurant Sunday night. Have you ever been to The Alamo Steakhouse?”

  “Aren’t you a vegetarian?” I ask her.

  “I was, but I’m getting back into red meat.” She rubs Ezra’s thigh. He grabs her fingers and squeezes.

  “Ezra, you’re not a vegetarian?”

 
“Don’t let the hemp necklace fool you. I love me some cow.”

  “Interesting.” Why did my alleged best friend not tell me she was getting back into red meat? I know it’s just cow, but I feel a little betrayed. I look outside, and it’s darker than usual. The college is on a hill away from neighboring towns. The students there call it Harvard on the Hill.

  More awkward silence. Even though this is a two-door, she feels so far away.

  “How’s Tamara doing?” Ezra asks me. “That looked like a nasty fall she took in practice yesterday.”

  “Well, she’s a sweet girl, but such a spastic dancer. She gets really dizzy really fast.”

  “You know what Jeff calls her, right?”

  “Tropical Storm Tamara, and we thought of that name together.” I cock an eyebrow at him through the rearview mirror.

  “That’s a good one. I’m curious what name you have picked out for Huxley.”

  “It wouldn’t be ladylike of me to divulge.”

  He bursts into a high-pitched giggle. It’s kind of awkward for him, but also kind of adorable.

  Val spins around to face me. She smacks her lips together, an obvious tell when she’s frustrated. “You joined SDA? Why didn’t you tell me?” She eyes me then Ezra, as if she cracked a conspiracy.

  “I thought I told you,” I say, which I know is a lie. But why didn’t Ezra say anything?

  “She dances quite well. Huxley is putting her front and center in her routine,” Ezra says. He and I laugh at the thought.

  “I took dance lessons forever ago,” I say.

  “Cool.” Val slumps down in her chair and strums her fingers against her thigh until we reach the rink.

  * * *

  Even with the crowds, the ice rink has specific rings for all groups. Families and kids stay on the outer rim. The more expert skaters go in the middle, where they can whoosh in wide ovals. The third ring belongs to couples, holding hands while they skate. The bright lights against the steaming white ice creates a dreamlike—and fine, romantic—setting.

  Val and Ezra skate around and around the rink. Val has better balance than I thought, and she isn’t playing the “oops, I keep falling” card, to her credit. They glide across the ice, their cheeks a rosy red.

  I hug the wall and lurch my way forward. Two-year-olds pass me.

  I’m so focused on not cracking my skull open that I don’t see Ezra skate next to me. He taps me on the shoulder.

  “Having fun?”

  “Tons!” I say. “Can’t you tell?”

  He holds out his gloved hand. “Let’s get you out on the ice.”

  “I am on the ice.”

  He shoots me a look and keeps his hand out. “You look like you’re on a ledge debating whether to jump.”

  “I’m fine. I’m going at my own pace.” I already feel like a third wheel. I don’t need him and Val treating me like a Make-A-Wish kid.

  “Let me take you on one loop, and if you hate it, I’ll bring you back here.”

  Val cheers me on from outside. She sips on a Coke.

  “Fine,” I say. I slap my hand into his. He whisks us off. I tighten my grip until my hand whitens.

  “Loosen up. You’re so stiff.”

  I’m doing a skate-walk. My skates clomp against the ice. My body remains tense and rigid like the Tin Man.

  “Don’t pick your skates up,” Ezra says. “Bring them up a little, then let them glide.” He demonstrates and makes it look so easy. I have a minor heart attack as I stand surrounded by speed skaters.

  He hustles back to me and takes my hand. “I got you. Let’s try it. Keep your skates on the ice and push off.”

  I take my first glide. It’s more of a walk-glide, like a checkmark. My next move has a touch more grace. Then I take more of a glide on my third try and fall on my butt. I want to punch the ice.

  Ezra pulls me up. “That was good.”

  “I think I’ll go back to the wall.”

  “We’re not even halfway around yet. You still owe me a semicircle. Now, stop looking down at your feet. It’s screwing up your balance.” Ezra turns and is now directly in front of me. “This time when we skate, look up and right at me.”

  He takes my hands and some weird electric current shivers through me. His hands are clammy, but they give me a sense of comfort.

  “What if you bump into someone?”

  “You’ll have to be my eyes. It’s all on you, Becca.”

  I want to take off my jacket. I may be standing on ice, but I am sweating.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  I look down then pull my head up. I stare at Ezra. His hazel eyes and round face pull me in immediately. It feels weird making such direct eye contact with him. It’s intimate even though it’s not supposed to be, like he’s viewing some secret part of me. But it becomes hypnotic, and I start to notice details. A faint scar on his jaw. The redness of his lips. Eyebrows that slope down and trail off to the ends of his eyes. Do all eyebrows do that?

  “You’re doing great,” he says.

  Apparently, I’m gliding across the ice. A wave of exhilaration courses through me, unlocking me from chains of tension. The cold air whips across my face. Ezra has a wild constellation of freckles above his cheek. His eyes keep penetrating into mine, and it’s making me flustered and I want to look away but I can’t. I wonder what he sees.

  I forget that Val is on the sidelines, that dozens of people are skating all around us, that there’s noise or light or anything else in a five-mile radius of us. I’m sucked into a trance, and I have to get out.

  I push past him and skate to the far wall under the scoreboard. Ezra calls out to me, but I lean my body against the ledge and catch my breath.

  Outside my area of the rink, I am snapped back into reality when I suddenly notice Steve. He leans against the wall next to the emergency exit. His wide-eyed smile is on full display.

  Angela stands beside him, laughing at every word he says.

  17

  To: Robert Towne

  From: Le Break-Up Artiste

  Dear Mr. Towne,

  Over the past month, I have made significant progress in the dissolution of Steve and Huxley’s relationship. Huxley, and several of her close friends, are beginning to suspect that Steve is having an affair with an old flame. Doubt and worry are two of my strongest tools. Nothing ends a relationship quicker than making a person override their heart with their warped, paranoid mind. Or at least that’s what I read on a Hallmark card once.

  I will, of course, continue to keep you updated.

  Sincerely,

  The Break-Up Artist

  The next day, SDA practice cannot come soon enough. In eighth period, I pull a fresh pen out of my backpack. When I sit up straight again, I find a paper football waiting for me on my desk.

  LIFE = OVER

  I crumple it up and toss it into my backpack. I don’t look her way.

  “Becca! Wait up!”

  Val catches up to me in the hall after class. She heaves for air. Sweat mats her hair to her face. She would be so embarrassed if she knew that.

  “What’s up?” she asks in a fake, cheerful customer-service-rep voice.

  I have places to be, so I give in and cut to what she wants. “Your life is over?” I don’t act concerned. I’m 99.9 percent sure this is a nonissue revolving around Ezra.

  “My life is spiraling into a supernova of chaos,” she says. Worry clouds her face. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Maybe this is serious. If we talk this out, I’ll be late to practice, but I know my priorities. “What happened?” I pat her shoulder.

  Val clutches her two books and one notebook against her chest. “Ezra and I were walking to first period, and when he dropped me off, I kissed him
.”

  I wait for the rest of her story, but that was it. “So what’s the problem here?”

  “Haven’t you been listening? I said I kissed him. He always makes the first move, but he didn’t kiss me this time. I had to kiss him.”

  We speed down the side stairwell, our heels clacking against the steps as we get to the first floor. I check the time every few seconds.

  “I’m not getting the problem,” I say.

  “I had to kiss him. Why did he not try to kiss me first this morning? I don’t even want to think about how I looked, leaning over to lay one on my boyfriend, pulling him in for a kiss like I’m some kind of überfeminist freak.”

  “This is the twenty-first century. That’s allowed now. FYI: we can vote, too.”

  “Funny,” she deadpans.

  “I’m sure it looked romantic.” Or rather like a PDA nuclear spill.

  “I didn’t even tell you what happened four nights ago.”

  You haven’t been telling me a lot of things, Val, I think to myself. “What happened?”

  “We were making out, and Ezra wasn’t kissing me back hard enough. I was being the more passionate one.”

  “How can you even judge something like that? He’s a very passionate guy, I’m assuming,” I say.

  “I could feel it. He wasn’t kissing like he used to.”

  “Used to? You guys have been dating barely a month—”

  “Five and a half weeks,” she says. “Almost two months.”

  I stop in the main corridor and do a massive eye roll for her rounding skills, and for my stupidity. “Are you serious?”

  “I know! I’m kind of scared.”

  “Will you stop it, Val. Do you know how annoying you sound?”

  Val flips from worry to pissed off in a split second. “Sorry for pestering you.”

  Usually I would be fine eye rolling, but I’ve reached a limit on frustration I didn’t know existed. The words spring out of me. “You have. You just keep me around to listen to your fake problems. I’m not your friend. I’m your sounding board.”