“Actually, he’s a really great guy,” I say.
“He’s a creep.”
Trying to convince her is pointless. Never argue with a drunk, Diane once told me. You will always lose.
“Move on, Isabelle.” I slam the door in her face, lock it and sit on the edge of the Jacuzzi.
I find my Zen place before taking out Steve’s phone. I remove the piece of paper from my pocket and begin to type in Angela’s number. However, the number pops up before I can finish. It’s in his contact list, hidden under “Aunt Mabel.” There’s a chain of text messages attached to it. I read them about twenty times and hold on to the edge of the Jacuzzi for support. My head spins, and I haven’t even had a drink yet.
Angela: Hey, thanks for the coffee.
Steve: It was so good seeing you.
Angela: When are you going to tell Huxley about us?
Steve: Soon. I promise.
26
It’s weird when you find out your suspicions are correct. I knew from a young age that the tooth fairy wasn’t real. But I still felt a pang of disappointment when my dad woke me up cramming a dollar under my pillow. It’s not always fun being right.
I step over couples making out on the stairs. These parties are the same as school dances, just switch out booze for dancing.
“Becca?”
Fred waves at me from the bottom of the staircase. What’s he doing here? Did Ashland’s social strata get rearranged while I was in the bathroom?
“Hey.” That sounded awkward. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Likewise. I helped Chris pass bio last semester, so I got an invite. It’s like I’m infiltrating some secret underworld.”
“I know how you feel.”
Fred brushes his hand across his wild hair. Upon further review, he’s one makeover montage away from being decent-looking.
“You know, the lunch table isn’t the same without you.”
“Too much testosterone?”
I spot Steve semiconscious on the couch. His phone presses against my leg, and it won’t be long before he’s eager to drunk dial.
“I have to go. I’ll see you around.”
Fred tries to say a farewell, but I’m already charging into the foyer.
I navigate my way through the crush toward Steve, picking up snippets of chitchat. These are the same conversations I could have in the halls at school. Why are we here? So that other kids can see that we got invited to this party? I guess it’s not about what you talk about, just that other people see you talking.
Steve is loosely clutching a beer he’s too drunk to drink. I lean on the couch arm and rub his shoulder for friendly support. I slip his phone in between the couch cushions.
“How’s he doing?” I ask Huxley. She brings him a glass of water.
“He’s fine. He just has to learn when to stop.”
If only she could see his phone, then she’d realize just how true that was.
I settle on a spot, watching the beer-pong game. This way, I can seem social without having to talk to anyone. Zach Hershkovitz has to pull Ally Zwick in for a kiss every time before he shoots. It all screams superficial. Steve and Huxley in training. My phone buzzes with a text from Val.
You busy tonight? Let’s hang out! I’m going through Becca withdrawal.
This is the second night in a row that she’s texted me to hang out. Ezra is probably busy, and I ponder what he’s up to. Maybe at the indie theater with Jeff and other guys, catching up on classic cinema, engaged in an hour-long debate about an old movie with the guy selling popcorn, his eyebrows bobbing around his forehead as he makes his case, eyes beaming.
Stop it!
Mason Carroll sinks a Ping-Pong ball in the back left cup. The crowd goes wild, and he chest bumps his partner. I put my phone away. I’ll text her later. I’m taking a sabbatical from Val’s histrionics tonight.
I lean against the fireplace mantel. My head rests next to a picture of Chris, his girlfriend and his parents at the beach sipping margaritas.
“You’re in my history class?” Bari asks, though she knows the answer. It’s less awkward than asking my name. She and Calista share the chair beside me. They’re skinny enough to make that work.
“Yeah, and Latin.”
“I heard it helps with SAT stuff. So not true,” Bari says.
I look down at my cup as Calista gives me a once-over. My ridiculous Break-Up Artist costume seems to have been effective since she just goes back to drinking. The girls confer among themselves, then stare at me again. I pretend to care about the game.
Bari taps me on the shoulder, and a shock of nerves rushes through me. “Have you heard of the Break-Up Artist?”
I strain to remain nonchalant. “The what?”
“There’s this person, the Break-Up Artist, going around breaking up couples. She created that stupid binder and planted it on Derek. I would never make that. Now people think I’m crazy! She needs to be stopped.” I smell coconut rum on her breath. “She’s probably some pathetic fat girl who got cut from the cheerleading squad or something.”
Calista nods supportively. “Calm down. We’ll find her.”
I guess Bari only figured out half the story.
“I thought that was an urban legend or something,” I say.
“Nope. She’s real. We found out she also broke up Michael Mulroney and Kimber Diaz. Made Michael look like he was stealing from her!”
I act intrigued even though breathing has become a little more difficult now. My memory of digging through Kimber’s purse while she was in the nurse’s office rears its ugly head. I take a sip of beer to hide the red flushing through my face.
“Well, I haven’t heard of her.”
“You will. We’re going to find her. We’re pretty sure she goes to Ashland.” Bari tosses back the last sips in her Solo cup. “I can’t wait to expose that bitch.”
The beer pong stops. People shush those around them as the commotion in the kitchen becomes clearer. Faces light up as they pass the news to others like a current of electricity. It can only mean one thing: fight. I join the crowd flocking to the living room for a better view.
“I love fights!” Bari says. They do make parties worthwhile.
We find a pocket of space behind a papasan chair. My jaw tumbles to the floor when I see who’s in the ring.
Ashland’s favorite couple. And Angela.
Greg Baylor holds back Angela’s boyfriend from clobbering Steve.
“What the hell’s the matter with you, dude? You think you can mack on my girlfriend?” the boyfriend asks. “I’m going to destroy you.”
He tries to push through Greg, but there’s a reason Greg’s one of our best football players. Steve grabs a kitchen chair for support. The situation is sobering him up fast.
“What are you talking about?” Huxley asks. She turns to Steve. “What is he talking about?”
“I don’t know!”
“Don’t act dumb. I saw the text you sent her tonight.”
“What is he talking about?” Huxley asks. She struggles to keep order. Having spectators is probably killing her inside.
Angela’s boyfriend rips the phone out of her hand. She’s letting him do all the talking. He reads from her phone. “‘Angela, I need you. Come to Chris’s party. I’m ready to tell Huxley about us. I love you.’” He tries to dodge Greg but no luck. Mr. Gomberg helps Greg out, the most mature thing he’s done tonight.
My classmates go nuts, conferring with each other about the message. I was not expecting her boyfriend to quote me. Why would she show him the text?
Huxley can’t keep it together, not after that, not with the audience commentary. Nobody cares to notice that a lone tear forms in her left eye. It bobbles on her lashes before falling
down her cheek. That’s all she lets out. One tear.
This is probably for the best. I sped up a conversation they were bound to have in the future. Right?
“Hux, I didn’t write that,” Steve says. He tries to hold her hand, but she pulls away. “I promise.”
“But it’s from your phone.” Huxley sits down on a chair and takes deep breaths.
Steve pats his pants. “Where is it?”
“Found it,” Addison says by the couch. She hands it to Steve. “Sounds like a drunk text to me.” She waves hi to Angela. “I love your lipstick. What shade is that?”
“Why don’t you shut up!” Steve yells. I didn’t know he had such darkness inside him. He runs back to Huxley and kneels beside her. “I—I don’t know. I was super drunk before—maybe I did...but I didn’t mean it, Hux. I swear.”
Angela steps out from her boyfriend’s shadow. I can see her heart breaking all the way from here. “What about us? You don’t write something like that and not mean it.”
“There is no us, Angela!” Steve screams. “You broke my heart! You cheated on me with that asshole. Don’t you remember?”
Angela glances away.
“I remember.” Her boyfriend smirks. Mr. Gomberg pushes him against the fridge.
Steve turns to Huxley, frantic. “We talked. That’s it. I hadn’t seen her since I moved, and I had to get some things off my chest.” He looks deep into Huxley’s eyes like a puppy who piddled on the floor.
“So you reminisced while ice-skating?” Huxley asks. She’s tossed aside the composed facade. When your life implodes in front of the whole school, what’s the point in keeping it?
“I was delivering pizzas to a birthday party, and she happened to be there.”
“Happened to be there?”
“Yes! All we’ve done is talk. I promise. Don’t listen to what everyone else is saying. Listen to me.” Steve is pleading with the intensity of a man on death row. I thought he would’ve given up already.
“You’re disgusting,” Huxley says. She stands up and heads for the front door, ignoring the stares and smartphones.
Angela’s boyfriend knocks Mr. Gomberg down and lands a punch to Steve’s jaw. He hits him again, and Steve spits out blood on the freshly mopped kitchen floor.
What have I done? A broken heart is fine, but not a broken bone. I never meant for there to be blood. I feel like part of me deserves to be on that floor.
Greg yanks Angela’s boyfriend off of Steve and slams him into the bar. Bottles of top-shelf liquor shatter on the floor. He and Mr. Gomberg pin him down. Angela runs over to comfort Steve. He swats her hand away. Dark circles outline his eyes. He stumbles through the archway after his girlfriend, half-drunk and sweating, holding his cheek.
“HUXLEY!” he yells at the top of his lungs. I follow the crowd back to the beer-pong table for a better view. Huxley pays him no attention. Steve musters his strength and stumble-jogs to the front door, falling into a ficus plant. He hops back up and slams his hand against the front door, keeping it shut. Huxley turns her back to him.
“Don’t do this, Steve. Just let me out.”
“No.” He spins her around and grabs her by both arms. He has the most intense look on his face I’ve ever seen in person, like he’s talking directly to her heart.
“You know what I realized after seeing her again? That she didn’t break my heart.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“She didn’t break my heart because I realized I was never in love with her. I thought I was, but then I met you.”
“What...?” Huxley starts, then takes in the spectators. For once, she’s not prepared for this type of attention. “Actually, it doesn’t even matter anymore.”
She tries to release herself, but Steve won’t let go. He could have any girl, all of whom are less prissy than Huxley, but he doesn’t let go.
“I’m not going to keep defending myself. Nothing happened. You can believe me or you can’t. But it’s the truth.” She tries to free herself, but he won’t loosen his grip. “I love you, Huxley. I always have. I look forward to every moment I get to see you. I think about that way you tilt your head and smile at me at least fifty times a day. You make me feel like I’m walking on the moon, and I don’t want that to end. I love you so much. You can believe me or you can’t. But it’s the truth.” Tears flood his face, but he doesn’t care.
The entire house is silent. I’m sure girls are finding this ultra-swoonworthy. Honestly, so am I. His words turn the lights on in some corner of me. It’s not some movie I can laugh at. It’s real life, real emotion, happening right in my face. And all I can think is how much I want to see Ezra right now.
Steve steps away from the door. But Huxley doesn’t leave. She kisses him.
The house erupts in cheers and awws. Girls smooch their boyfriends.
He hugs her so tight he may snap her in half.
“I miss Derek,” Bari mutters under her breath.
My heart is beating full-on out of control, and something like electroshock therapy runs from my scalp to my big toe. I can’t string together a thought. They keep getting scrambled in my brain, and Ezra keeps popping up, like I’m searching for a radio station in the middle of nowhere and getting the same one every time. I have to get out of here.
I sneak behind Huxley and Steve still kissing and out the door. The cold air brushes against my skin and provides a fleeting moment of composure, but then the confusion returns. I walk to the corner of the street and take out my phone. A groggy voice answers.
“Can you pick me up?” I ask. I don’t know what I’m thinking. Am I thinking? I may feel an iota of what Steve feels, but I can’t tell. I can’t decipher this.
I talk myself through it. Okay, Becca, you got a little emotional. That happens, but you’re out of there. I must appear like a crazy person talking to myself on a street corner at 2:00 a.m. I spend the next twenty minutes calming myself down. That was an emotional scene, and it left me a little frazzled. It happens. I’m not made of stone. But then Ezra pulls up in his car. Just seeing him through the windshield flips the electroshock/cardiac-arrest button inside me.
I get into the car, and my body goes numb with nerves.
“Looks like some party.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
It’s the only word I can remember. I can’t look at him directly, so I stare at my trembling hands.
“Becca, seriously, are you okay?”
“I think we should kiss,” I say.
He doesn’t say anything back. He smells nice for just rolling out of bed. I sniff the cologne on him. Another sign this is a bad idea.
“I don’t know what I’m... You’re really cute. And I’m sorry I called—”
He shuts me up with a kiss, and the confusion disappears.
27
Love is in the air at Ashland. The school has been nonstop buzzing about Chris Gomberg’s party. They sigh over Steve’s bloody declaration of devotion to Huxley, but all I hear is my plan blowing up in my face.
I’m in the minority. Instead of the dramatic kiss at the party, there’s a different kiss I can’t stop thinking about.
Ms. Hardwick blabbers on about some book. When I look up at the chalkboard, I see Ezra’s lips coming at me.
In comes Steve, carrying Huxley over the threshold as the bell dings. “Here you go, Ms. H. Your top student!”
The girls and Ms. Hardwick aww. Am I missing the girl gene that forces me to aww whenever I see something corny? Or was there a mass lobotomy I wasn’t invited to?
“Oh, Steve. Put me down!” He grants her wish. Huxley smoothes out her outfit. She’s wearing one of Steve’s blue dress shirts cinched at the waist with an oversize belt and black tights. Only Huxley m
akes the ensemble look chic and not trashy. Yet another reason why I need to go back to hating her.
“Steve, you’re late to class!” Ms. Hardwick says.
He shrugs and runs his finger down Huxley’s arm. “It was worth it.”
Another round of awws. Okay, you two rediscovered your mutual infatuation with each other. Moving on...
“Go!” Ms. Hardwick crosses her arms, finally laying down the law.
He pecks Huxley on the lips. “I’ll see you later.” He rushes out the door.
“That is so embarrassing,” Huxley says, not meaning it. “I’m sorry for disrupting class, Ms. Hardwick.”
“It’s all right. Please get to your seat, Huxley. We have a lot to cover today.”
“Sure thing.”
I’ve created a monster.
* * *
I make a mad dash to my locker before lunch. I will buy a Snickers at the vending machine and eat it in the library today. Between Huxley and Steve, Val and Ezra, and Bari and Calista, the cafeteria is the last place I want to be. And Snickers have unheralded nutritional value.
When I open my locker, a letter flutters to the floor. It stares at me, threatening me with its contents. Has someone guessed that I’m the Break-Up Artist? I pick it up. This is ridiculous. I can’t be truly worried until I open it.
I can’t stop thinking about you. When can I see you again?—E
I slide to the floor. He wrote it in cursive. There’s something so old-fashioned about it, in a good way. My stomach churns with equal parts ecstasy and dread. Suddenly, I’m no longer craving a Snickers.
I receive the second note of the day in Latin class. This time, I know the author. I rip open the paper football. I’m nervous, but I can’t wait. I have to know what she knows.
My body stops functioning, like cement was poured over it.
“Becca,” Mr. Hoffman asks. “You okay?”
The Break-Up Artist Page 16
