The Break-Up Artist

by Philip Siegel

  I fold my arms over my stomach.

  “No, not that spare tire. You’re a temporary replacement. If you stop your plan and Huxley and Steve patch everything up, do you think she’ll still want to be friends with you? Her lemmings will come running back to her, and you’re going to get ditched. She won’t need you anymore.” Diane shrugs her shoulders. I didn’t come to her for a sugarcoated answer. “She’s done it to you before. Don’t let history repeat itself, B.”

  I was blinded by her popularity, by the choice lunch table. But Diane’s right. She’s so right. We’re not real friends. Real friends don’t treat you like a social pariah to hide the fact they were ever friends with you. I am her spare tire. That’s what happened with Diane’s friends, too. When Sankresh dumped her, they stopped calling the house after a few weeks. They put in a little effort to show they weren’t completely heartless. Then it was back to their more-significant-than-Diane others.

  And Val. I don’t let myself think of what will happen if things pick up between her and Ezra.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say with firmness in my voice. I know what I have to do.

  * * *

  Ashland High is way too trusting. The faculty can’t be dumb enough to actually believe that students will use the bathroom pass to go to the bathroom. But still, nobody stops me as I walk out of school and into the parking lot. Nobody’s around to raise an eyebrow as I pull a wire hanger from under my zip-up fleece. And nobody approaches me when I squat down next to Steve’s car. It’s almost as if they think we’re responsible adults here.

  I unwind the hanger and slide the stick of metal down the passenger-side window of his used Jetta. I keep one eye on the school, and the other on the hanger. I jangle it around until it finds the car lock. I lift up slowly and...click. I can’t believe that worked. Thank you, internet.

  I crack open the door. My bathroom pass sticks out of my back pocket. The freezing wind of bipolar April isn’t doing me any favors. No slow moves, I tell myself. Just do it and walk away.

  I inhale a gust of the icy air and pull the condom wrapper and half-used tube of Ladybug lipstick from my front pocket. I place them under the seat, where they will wait patiently for Huxley’s foot.

  I can’t help but smile. Maybe it’s nerves or adrenaline or the sheer ridiculousness of my current situation, but I am loving my job right now. I find reserves of energy, a renewed purpose.

  “Becca, you’re freezing,” Ms. Hardwick says when I come back to class.

  “The heater in the girl’s room isn’t working. I’d bring a coat next time.”

  I shoot Huxley a Steve-sized smile on the way back to my seat.

  23

  “No, don’t push it like a broom.”

  “But it is a broom.”

  Huxley demonstrates for Steve how to maneuver a curling broom. She shuffles down the court with it in front of her. Ezra films it all from the bleachers.

  “Can we cut for a second?” Huxley asks him.

  I sit behind Ezra watching through his viewer screen. I agreed to help him with the SDA shoots tonight, even if it meant staying later. Huxley wanted a team member to shadow him to ensure that SDA’s vision (aka hers) comes through on-screen. Apparently, one year the video director reedited the footage to make it seem as if SDA was a lesbian cult. Ezra asked me to be the boom operator, which sounded cool, until I found out I have to stand the whole time and dangle a humongous microphone over Huxley’s and Steve’s heads. Ezra said he’d give me an associate-producer credit, whatever that means.

  While Steve may be a novice with a curling broom, Ezra is a whiz with the camera. He’s found creative ways to get different shots. He placed the camera on the basketball hoop to shoot overhead. He carefully stepped down the bleachers diagonally as he zoomed in on Huxley and Steve, creating this sweeping shot. He took Huxley’s trite dialogue and made it halfway funny. What started as some mundane scene has morphed into a piece of art. It’s inspiring and hypnotic watching someone totally in his element. Even now, he squats beneath Huxley and Steve, and frames the next shot through his thumb and index fingers, ignoring the sweat raining from his head. I wish I had a skill I could throw myself into so passionately. Unless you count break-upping, I don’t.

  “Then you say, ‘Wow! The floor looks super clean now,’ and give the camera a thumbs-up,” Huxley says. “How does that sound, Ezra?”

  Ezra stays mum, though I assume that he didn’t write this brilliant script.

  “I don’t know—it sounds kind of lame,” Steve says.

  Huxley whips her head around. She grips the broom tight. “I think it sounds cute. Lighthearted.”

  “But not funny.”

  I steady myself behind my boom pole, in case Huxley begins breathing fire.

  “What do you think?” she asks Ezra.

  “Um...” Ezra searches for the right word. Well, the right word is unfunny, but he thinks harder. “We can tweak it if you want.”

  “So you hate it, too?” Huxley crosses her arms, ready to take her frustration out on him.

  “No, I don’t,” Ezra stutters. Huxley doesn’t back down.

  “I think you two can sell it,” I say. Heads swivel to face me. “I think if you say the lines like you’re dead serious and take out the thumbs-up, then the audience will crack up.”

  “I like it,” Huxley says.

  Steve nods. “Let’s do it.” He motions for Ezra to get into position.

  Ezra places his hand on my lower back. “You’re a lifesaver,” he whispers. His lips brush my ear for a second, and I get more goose bumps than an R. L. Stine fan club.

  I hoist the boom mic over my shoulder. Ezra calls, “Action.”

  Instead of saying his lines, though, Steve grabs Huxley from behind and spins her around a few times, a mischievous grin on his face. She screams from shock then, because she actually finds it exhilarating. He then spins her upside down. Her hair splays out in all directions and she’s giggling and I don’t recognize her. Huxley isn’t Huxley for a second. She’s just a girl having way too much fun with her boyfriend.

  * * *

  Filming goes for another hour before Huxley calls it a night. She and Steve head home while I help Ezra pack up his equipment.

  I rub my shoulders. Holding a giant pole above my head for three hours is exhausting. But thanks to nonstop SDA practices, my body holds up better than expected.

  “I think that went well,” I say.

  “Define well,” Ezra says. “That’s why they invented editing.”

  Steve and Huxley may put on a great show in the halls, but an Oscar is not in their future. He spoke in a monotone, visibly nervous around the camera. Huxley overacted every line like she was in charge of a pep rally. Ezra will have his work cut out for him. Still, they were sort of cute together, the way they sneaked smiles at each other. They knew how to play that up for the camera.

  “But directors like Kevin Smith and Gus Van Sant used nonprofessional actors and it worked out well,” he says.

  “Right!”

  “You have no idea who they are.” He wraps a cord around his fist and secures it with a rubber band.

  I shake my head no.

  His mind is like a film encyclopedia; it’s incredible. It’s rare that you get to talk to an expert about something he loves. And Val finds this tiring why?

  “How did you get so into film?”

  “I don’t know. I just did.”

  “That’s not an answer. You know pretty much everything about film, and you’re like a kid in a candy store behind the camera. You don’t just fall into that.”

  “I just did,” he says firmly. This is not up for discussion.

  “I didn’t mean to pry. I was just curious.” I’ve never seen Ezra clam up like that.
He’s always so open. I disassemble the boom mic in silence and place the pieces in the case.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. He sits on the bleachers. His hazel eyes darken like the sky before a thunderstorm. He loads the camera into his bag. He gives me this look like he’s ready to tell me something serious, but it’s uncharted territory for two sorta friends like us.

  “My parents had a really crappy divorce, like of War of the Roses magnitude,” he says. I don’t get the reference, as usual, but I stay quiet.

  “I could hear the yelling from the driveway. I would be woken up at night by glass breaking. It was noise all the time.” He fingers his hemp necklace. “So to drown it out, I would put on my headphones, pop a movie into my computer and escape. I was at the library every day checking out DVDs. The classics, and plenty of romantic ones so that I wouldn’t turn into a total cynic. And I just became a movie buff by osmosis.”

  “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” All those times I’ve seen him in the hall and talked to him, he never gave a hint of coming from that kind of home. I wonder what other hardships my other classmates keep to themselves. I will never complain about my parents again.

  “I survived.”

  He downplays it and shrugs off the attention, like people who’ve had real problems do.

  “I can’t even imagine.” I sit down next to him.

  “Yes, you can,” he says.

  “What?”

  He runs his hand through his black hair, scratching at his neck. Up close, his hair isn’t really a puff, but rather a dense, intricate network of shiny strands.

  “What was it like, with your sister, after...”

  My chest clenches. I forgot I told him about Diane. I brace myself for the onslaught of memories flying at me. “It wasn’t pretty.” I try to laugh it off, but my acting won’t be winning any awards soon either.

  “You can tell me.” He puts his hand on my knee. His eyes widen with his plea. “Please.”

  I want to resist. Why dredge up the past? But then I look into his eyes. There’s no hidden agenda, no curiosity for gossip behind them. He cares. The sound of Diane’s screaming overtakes my ears.

  “It was awful.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “My mom and I were helping Diane into her dress when he called. She looked so beautiful. I was so excited, maybe even more than she was. Her friends did that ‘oooh’ thing as Diane was on the phone with him. The phone slipped out of her hand and made this clank sound on the floor. Her face just went blank, and she said, ‘The wedding’s off.’” My hands tremble and I shake them to make it stop. Ezra grips my knee tighter.

  “She walked into my mom’s alteration room and just stared at herself in the mirror for like ten minutes. She didn’t say anything, just stared. Then she locked us out and started crying. But it was a screaming crying.” I cover my ears, the sound throbbing inside my head. “My mom banged on the door, begging Diane to open up. Then she sank to the floor and started crying, too. It was like an epidemic. I’d never heard anyone scream like that.” My voice gets wobbly, but I hold back tears. “And he has no idea what he caused. He probably doesn’t even care.”

  Ezra wraps me in a hug. His wool sweater cushions my face. “I’m sorry.”

  It’s such a generic statement, but what other wisdom could he provide? It works. His body is so warm and comfortable. I could stay here awhile, but I pull myself away.

  “Wow. How did this happen?” I say of our Lifetime moment.

  “You’re just so easy to talk to,” he says.

  “You, too.”

  Ezra looks directly into my eyes, like he did while ice-skating. Again, I feel exposed. It’s only eye contact, but it’s like looking directly at the sun.

  My phone rings, echoing through the gym. I am compelled to answer it.

  “Rebecca, amazing news! I just received a text from Steve’s friend Colin. He’s gorgeous, and he actually wants to go on a date with you. I showed him your picture yesterday, and he said you looked beautiful. I told him you would go to dinner with him on Friday. I figured you didn’t have any plans this weekend.”

  “That sounds great.”

  “You’ll have to muster up more excitement than that on the date. Colin is a catch, and I think you two are going to hit it off.”

  “Thank you, Huxley.”

  Ezra puts on his jacket, turning his back to me. Huxley’s talking loud enough for him to hear. I stare into my lap while Huxley gives me the details.

  “Rebecca Williamson, enjoy your last days of singledom, if there’s anything to enjoy about them.” Huxley hangs up.

  I contemplate what to say to Ezra, but when I look up, the gym door swings closed.

  * * *

  When I get home, I beeline to my bedroom. Diane asks how my day was, but I just nod and continue up the stairs.

  Focus, Becca. Save your crummy-friend anxiety for later.

  I go online, create a new email address and type away. I glimpse my costume peeking out from under my bed. I’m not Huxley’s BFF. I’m the Break-Up Artist. If I never tried out for SDA, Huxley would still be treating me like junk.

  And Val. Ezra and I had a serious talk. That’s what friends do. They talk. And put their hands on each other’s lower back while talking. It’s completely, Switzerland-style, 110 percent platonic.

  I reread and tweak the email about fifty times until it’s perfect.

  To: AddisonG48

  From: StevesDirtyLittleSecret

  Subject: I know what Steve did last weekend.

  Fun fact: Huxley found a condom wrapper and Angela Bentley’s lipstick in Steve’s car. (Ladybug’s her color, if you were wondering.) I guess old flames die hard. I doubt Huxley has mentioned this to anyone, but as one of her closest, dearest friends, I’m sure you’ll know how to handle this. I know you only want the best for her.

  It warms my heart knowing she has a friend like you.

  24

  According to the website HuxleyandSteveCountdown [dot] com, Huxley and Steve have three-to-one odds to break up in the next month, seven-to-one odds to break up in the next week, and twelve-to-one odds that they’ve already broken up but are keeping it a secret. The site has become an obsession at Ashland, with anonymous posts speculating about their demise.

  “Don’t people have anything better to do with their time?” Huxley asks me on the phone.

  I multitask between playing the friend role and getting ready. I pose in front of my mirror wearing a cerulean one-shoulder dress that falls just above my knees. Who knew I could put myself together so well? “Just ignore it. They’re all jealous that their lives aren’t as interesting as yours.”

  “Why are people cheering for the destruction of my relationship?”

  “Because you’re popular and they’re ugly.” I hook in dangly earrings. “Why are you letting it bother you?”

  “I’m not,” she says, but I sense hesitation in her voice. The gossip and rumors have infiltrated her mind. “Steve told me nothing’s going on with Angela. He says that stuff in his car was planted.”

  “You should believe him. He wouldn’t lie to you.” I paint my lips with my Plumful lipstick.

  “You’re right.” She tries to mask her worry and play it off like it’s a stupid joke. I can’t give her peace of mind, not if I want my plan to succeed. But when I think about it, I don’t have peace of mind to give. I don’t know if I buy the coincidence that Steve randomly bumped into Angela at the skating rink. Sure, lots of kids’ birthday parties take place there, but it seems too convenient.

  “Do you know why he and Angela broke up in the first place?” I ask. “Do you really think it was distance?”

  “Steve says things just didn’t work out. But that’s guys. No specifics.” I’m surprised he gave her that much explanation. “Do you think Steve’s
cheating?” Huxley asks me quietly, and I can only imagine how tough that was for her to say out loud.

  “I don’t think so.” I don’t sound convincing. I fan my hair out. It falls down my face in waves. Another great trick Huxley taught me. “Do you?”

  “No. Are you excited?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I looked up Colin Baker on Facebook, and he is good-looking. Tall, athletic, smart, full brown hair, wire-frame glasses and a killer smile. Guys like this shouldn’t statistically exist. They shouldn’t be single ever. And they shouldn’t be interested in me.

  My phone buzzes with a text from Val. You busy tonight?

  And then my stomach squeezes into a tight ball.

  I spent Friday dodging Val in school. When she came up to me after Latin, I bolted for SDA practice, where I avoided Ezra’s stare. But halfway through my routine, I realized that nothing had actually happened. We had one semiserious conversation where we got a little emotional, and we were tired. It was a long day. No big deal. It passed. There’s nothing more to read into it. He’s dating my best friend, and they’re happy.

  Happyish.

  Still, to be sure, I didn’t talk to him after practice.

  “So where is Colin taking you?” Huxley asks.

  “Windows on the Water.” The restaurant is perched on stilts on the Hudson River overlooking the New York skyline. I checked out their menu online and gulped when I saw the prices.

  “That will be so romantic.” Huxley sighs heavily. “The beginning of a relationship is always the most exciting. I remember when Steve and I got together. There was a party at Travis Weber’s. Steve and I sat on one of those wicker porch benches outside, drinking Coke. He gave me his jacket to make sure I stayed warm. ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ was playing inside the house. We were talking about the differences between our school and his old school. You know, that mindless chatter that neither person cares about because you know you’re going to kiss any second. And then a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash fell out of his pocket.”