Ezra strums his fingers against the top of a chair. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He readjusts his hemp necklace, waiting for me to say goodbye. His eyes do the up-and-to-the-left thing, like he’s perpetually having a stroke. “Well, then. See you later.”
I can’t let him go like this. Guys like him have been let off the hook enough times. Monica had to nurse a broken heart while Ezra lived it up with Isabelle; now somewhere Isabelle is crying while he and Val bicker about who should stop staring. Why do people want to be in love when they know its side effects? Some really are that selfish.
“Ezra,” I say. He stops at a neighboring table. “Did you even care when you dumped Isabelle and Monica? Or were you ‘whatever’ about it since you already had another girl lined up?”
All friendliness fades from his face. He goes into defense mode. “No.”
“Are you sure? It seems like you follow a pattern and Val’s next.”
He digs his hands farther into his hoodie. A sign of guilt?
“Why don’t you go back to studying?” he says.
“Just answer the question, Ezra. Val’s my best friend. I want to prepare her if she’s going to get blown off. Is there a time limit or do you just get bored?”
“What is up with you?”
“Do you even care about the people you hurt?” I shake my head in disgust. “You’re all the same.”
Sadness creases his face. I look at his drooping eyes and get a flash of the guy who helped me ice-skate. Ezra storms out of the cafeteria.
I chase after him, catching him halfway down the hall.
“What?” he asks, not wanting to know the answer.
I don’t say anything at first, then, as if the words were waiting in the wings, I launch into the story about Diane and Sankresh and Owen’s party.
“Whoa,” he says. “That sucks.”
“It’s just... What happened with those other girls?”
He shrugs, his smooth, witty self in hiding. “Things just didn’t work out.”
“What does that even mean?”
He softens. His warm, hazel eyes laser into me like I’m learning to skate, although this time, he wants to show me something else. “We weren’t in love.”
“Not the love excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse.”
“It totally is. Whenever somebody wants to get out of a relationship, but they don’t want to say the real reason, they use the love excuse. How can such a strong feeling just go away? It’s not a cold.”
“You’re not in love with someone when you start dating them,” Ezra says. His face lights up. “You feel something for them, something different and special. It might be love. It might not. You hope that what you have develops into love, but sometimes it doesn’t. It’s all about taking a chance. Love isn’t a mathematical formula.”
“You’re just giving people an excuse to do whatever they want. I love you...now I don’t. I’m so tired of people using that to be completely shitty to each other.”
“So you think I was shitty to Isabelle? We were both miserable by the end. We would hang out after school and not say a word to each other. I tried talking to her about how things weren’t working, but she wouldn’t listen. She wanted to stay in a relationship.” Ezra licks his lips, making them stand out even more against his light skin. “Break-ups are never clean, never easy. Just because I wasn’t crying in the bathroom doesn’t mean I didn’t care. No offense to your sister, but you only know her side of the story.”
That last line stings, even though it may be true. Maybe Sankresh went through his own silent hell. I’ll never know. It’s an interesting thought. I only hear about one side of relationships from my sister and my clients.
The warning bell for homeroom rings.
Ezra pats me on the shoulder. His hand lingers a second too long. “I hope your sister feels better.”
* * *
I hobble out of the locker room post-SDA. I have a sharp pain in my right foot like I pulled a mysterious muscle in my big toe. Huxley leans by the water fountain, checking her phone, waiting for other members of her crew. Girls give her goodbye waves and smiles, then immediately turn to each other and discuss all things Huxley and Steve.
“Oh, look, Huxley all by her lonesome. I wonder where Steve is,” one of them whispers behind me.
“Delivering a pizza,” her friend whispers back. They snicker.
From what I heard in the halls, Steve claimed he was delivering a pizza to a birthday party at the rink. Angela just happened to be there. I suppose that’s possible, and that excuse may hold up in a court of law or other places where reason reigns supreme. But not here. I always thought girls at Ashland adored Huxley, but I guess she’s like any celebrity. They’re eager to see her fall.
I nod good-night to her, but then I stop. I see a great opportunity.
“How are you?” I ask.
Her olive skin gleams under the fluorescent lights, as if there’s any light where she would look bad. “I’m fine.” She seems surprised at the question. I’m probably the only girl in SDA to ask her.
“Listen, if you ever need to talk...”
Huxley perks up just a touch, and for a second, I see my old friend somewhere in there. “I appreciate it, Rebecca. But I’m fine.”
“You know, the more you say that, the less I believe you.”
Huxley puts her phone away. She walks with me, leaving behind Reagan and Addison in the locker room.
We exit through the set of Ashland’s green front doors that haven’t been locked yet. It’s a mild night, a sign that spring will be here any day. Only a few cars dot the parking lot.
“I like you, Rebecca. You tell it like it is. It’s refreshing.”
“You know, you can call me Becca. Everyone does.”
“I know.”
I walk with her to her car, a white Range Rover. Her movable throne. I wonder how many people saw us walk out together. While I’m talking to her solely for research purposes, a bump in my social profile would be a nice halo effect.
Huxley scans my body, and suddenly I feel as if I’m in airport security. “I think you’ve worn the same makeup and clothes since junior high.”
“I haven’t.”
She raises her eyebrows at me. Not the same exact makeup and clothes. I found a style that works for me and keeps me from sticking out. Or so I thought.
“I think a darker shade would suit you well.” She holds her arm next to my cheek to better imagine me a shade darker. I swat her away.
“Thanks for the tip.”
“I think you’d look hot. Well, lukewarm. What are you doing right now?”
My mind scrambles for a cool answer. I can’t let her know that my life is as boring as she thinks. But I’m already stammering, and Huxley and I both know the truth. “Nothing,” I say.
“Do you want to go to Willowhaven Mall? We can get you some new base, and maybe a new outfit or two.”
I’m sensing a trap. I back away slowly. “I’m having dinner with my family. They’re expecting me.”
“They can keep your food in the oven. It’ll be worth it when they see your new wardrobe.”
“I like my clothes. Makeup may be one thing, but you can’t fault my fashion sense.”
“Your clothes are too safe. When you joined SDA, I said I would help you find a boyfriend. This is much-needed step number one.”
“It’s late and Willowhaven is a half hour away.”
“You don’t expect me to go to Sunnyside Park, do you? That place depresses me.” She steps up into her car, and I feel like she’s six feet above me, stretching her arm out to help a poor peasant girl. “C’mon, Rebecca. Don’t be such a wet blanket.”
I’m tired of being one. Val wanted to give me this makeover so many time
s, but Val isn’t around anymore. I get into Huxley’s car and sink back into the deep leather seat.
We speed out of the parking lot. My excitement builds for the mall with each street we cross. Huxley turns on the radio and cranks up an old Britney Spears song.
“Do you remember?” Huxley asks.
“The music video we made? Yeah. We took that off YouTube, right?”
“I hope so!”
Her hand is tapping against the steering wheel. My head is bobbing back and forth. I feel it building up. I just finished dancing for two hours, but I still have energy.
As it nears the chorus, I turn up the volume. “Five, six, seven, eight!”
Then we launch into our old choreographed routine, modified for sitting in a car. Every move comes flooding back, something I wouldn’t have been able to do by myself. Some things you can only remember with other people.
Huxley does a dramatic hair flip at the chorus while keeping her eyes on the road. It’s not until we get onto the highway that I realize how perfectly everything is going to plan.
20
Girls drag their boyfriends into Hit or Miss, but Huxley doesn’t pay them any attention. She rummages through the racks on a mission.
“Oh! Try this on!” She pulls from the chaff a fitted, red-and-black-striped dress.
“That’s so not me.”
“Exactly the point.” She holds it against my body. “You could actually have a decent figure if you stopped hiding it behind sweaters and cardigans.”
“It’s freezing outside, if you haven’t noticed. Warm clothes are kind of a necessity.” I hang the dress back on the rack. Just because I read fashion magazines doesn’t mean I can dress like the models in them.
“That’s why we wear coats.” She pulls the dress back out. “Trust me. These are miracle dresses. They’ll give your body some character, accentuate the parts of you that are lacking, like your hips, your butt and especially your—”
“Okay. I’ll try it on.” I cross my arms over my chest, though I hate giving her the satisfaction of being right—er, making an accurate observation.
Boyfriends sit in a row outside the fitting rooms, chained there. They probably carve tally marks in the chair arms, counting the hours until they are free. Tortured looks are etched across their faces. A short, stubby girl charges out of her fitting room in a leather skirt that does no favors to her thighs.
“What do you think?” she asks her boyfriend. Fear and exhaustion consume his face.
“You look nice.”
“Did I sense hesitation in your voice?”
His lower lip quivers. “N-no. Did you want to get something to eat now?”
“No. Not until you tell me how this makes my calf muscles look,” she says with an icy tone. I guess there’s just no sense in buying something your boyfriend won’t find you attractive in.
The salesgirl leads us to the handicapped room at the end. I hang up the beautiful but so-not-me dress on the hook. At least I have anonymity at Willowhaven Mall. Nobody from Ashland will ever see me in this. As I slip on the dress, I keep wondering why Steve isn’t in that row of guys. Why is Huxley spending time with me and not him? If she were worried about him cheating, wouldn’t she want to keep him under her thumb at all times? Maybe they’re having a good laugh over these rumors, and the joke’s on us.
I do a double take in the mirror. Is this really my body? I have boobs! My figure could be referred to as womanly in some circles. I flick my hair away from my face, treating the mirror like a Vogue photographer. Damn you, Huxley. You’re good.
All the boyfriends swivel their heads to me, and they can’t help but smile. Neither can I. And for a second, I picture any one of them getting up and throwing his arms around me. Short and Stubby snaps her fingers in her boyfriend’s face, waking both of us up.
“I think we have a winner,” Huxley says. She’s already found two more dresses for me to try on.
“I can’t afford all this.”
“My treat! I love helping out those less fortunate.” She hangs them in my room. Even though she doesn’t care about the money, I still feel weird about this.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I wish there was a better way to phrase that, but suspicion and curiosity seem to have disabled that part of my brain.
“Because where you see an ugly duckling, I see a swan.”
She says it so sweetly, so innocently. It’s a total punch in the gut. I go back to my changing room without saying a word.
* * *
We traverse the mall en route to Spritz, a new makeup store Huxley claims she discovered, which means in a week, every girl at Ashland will clean it out.
“So where’s Steve tonight?” I ask as we stroll past the food court. Couples share fries and Cinnabons just as they would in the cafeteria—because food does not taste good unless it’s being fed to you.
“He went to a Devils game with his family.”
“You weren’t invited?”
“I was, but with SDA, I didn’t want it to be a late night. I’m having brunch with them on Sunday.”
“You hang out with his family a lot?”
“Yes.” Huxley fingers a scarf on a kiosk. “They’re the best. His parents got me this bracelet.” She holds her hand out and a simple gold link rings her wrist. It’s a lovely gift from people who want her out of their son’s life.
“Where’s Val tonight?” she asks.
“With Ezra, probably.” I try to sound as nonchalant as possible.
She pats my back. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you one soon enough,” she says with a comforting tone. Like she thinks I’m jealous? Why does it always have to come to that?
Pulsating music and red-and-cyan track lighting permeate Spritz. Their selection is better equipped for a girl going to the club than to school. Huxley clearly isn’t thrilled by the ambience either, and I’m not sure why she championed it. She soldiers on, waving me forward. She picks out a few lipsticks and dabs them on her palm. They range from a natural pink to streetwalker red. She holds them up to my face.
“A more natural shade would be best. Nothing drastic,” Huxley says.
“Agreed.”
“Let me see that lip gloss you’ve been using for the last million years.”
I hand her my tube of ballet slipper–colored gloss. It’s mild, but girls like me aren’t out for attention. Huxley tosses it in the trash behind the counter. I don’t say anything. We both knew that was coming.
“Let’s try some cranberry shades!”
“That’s way too dark. People in outer space don’t need to see my lips.”
“We can go lighter.”
Huxley glances around the store. She locks in on the sales associate, a girl with her back turned to us. A waterfall of blond hair cascades down her back. She and Huxley could have a hair-flowing competition.
“Excuse me,” Huxley calls out. “Do you have a tissue?”
The girl turns around. My eyes bulge, and my heart stops momentarily, a stark contrast to Huxley’s steely glare.
“Hi,” Angela says.
Neither girl seems nervous, or else they’re hiding it really well. I want to crouch under the table.
“Can you get me a tissue?” Huxley asks. She holds up her lipstick-smeared hand.
“Okay.”
Angela hands one over. Huxley rips it out of her palm. My heart thumps louder than the bass.
“Thank you. I didn’t know you worked here,” Huxley says. “It definitely suits you.”
“After-school job. Just like Steve’s.”
I flinch at his name.
Huxley wipes her hand and flicks the dirty tissue on the counter. “I’m looking for a lighter shade for my friend. Somewhere between burgundy and light pink.
Any suggestions?”
Angela gives my face a good once-over. Am I supposed to jump in? How do you referee a fight composed of backhanded comments?
“I would go with Ladybug—that’s what I wear.” Angela smacks her lips together for effect. “Or Plumful, if you want something more neutral.” She pulls out two tubes from her display case. She coats my trembling lips with Ladybug first.
“Too trashy,” Huxley says after a two-second glimpse. She smiles at Angela. “No offense.”
“Let’s try Plumful,” Angela says. She caps Ladybug.
“How was ice-skating?” Huxley asks her.
“Fun. I bumped into Steve.”
“I know. He told me. He tells me everything.”
“I’m sure he does,” Angela says. A wicked grin slashes across her face.
Adrenaline pumps into my system. Screaming and hair pulling could commence at any time.
“Angela, contrary to what you’ve heard, history doesn’t repeat itself. So stop trying,” Huxley says.
Angela layers Plumful on me. It’s a step up from lip gloss. But I defer to Huxley. Right now, only her opinion matters.
She nods approval. “We’ll take it.”
“Really? I think Ladybug looked better.” Angela peers down at me. “Which one did you like?”
“P-P-P-Plumful.”
Angela rings me up.
“Thanks for shopping at Spritz! Tell Steve I say hi.”
Huxley waltzes out of the store, sidestepping customers quickly and efficiently. She doesn’t wait for me. But I’m not far behind. I want to get away from that girl as much as she does.
Her pace slows as she nears the Gap, allowing me to catch up. She is all smiles; Spritz is now a distant memory.
“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Huxley says. “I couldn’t face her alone. Let’s keep this between us.”
I nod. Now I get why she was so eager to take me shopping.
21
My family is about twenty years behind the times. We don’t have caller ID, among other once-cool-now-commonplace inventions, so when I’m forced to answer the phone, I have to take my chances that it won’t be some chatty relative like Aunt Lisa. Love her, but not the half hour’s worth of questions she shoots at me—at least one of which is always if I’m “dating any boys.”
The Break-Up Artist Page 12
