The Break-Up Artist

by Philip Siegel

  Diane gently touches my shoulder. “Thank you.” Then she proceeds to wipe her nose on my sleeve.

  * * *

  When we get to Aimee and Bill’s apartment, Diane does a shitload of apologizing. They call up Marian and Erin and that gives way to tears all around. They won’t get back to full-strength maxipad friendship overnight, but some of the vibrancy that I remember from Diane returns. It’s possible to see the girl who brought together three married couples lurking under the current Diane.

  “You want to hold the baby, Two-point-oh?” Aimee asks me.

  I get nervous, knowing I’m making myself responsible for a human being, but this isn’t an offer a normal person would turn down. So I hold out my arms. “So is Henry technically Three-point-oh?”

  “Three-point-oh. I like that,” Diane says.

  “Actually, wait a second,” Bill says. He runs over and pulls out a bottle of mini hand sanitizer. “For the baby, Becca.”

  I squirt out some sanitizer and wipe it on my hands. I stare at the bottle a few seconds more than anyone needs to look at one. The wheels have begun turning, and I know I must make things right. “Is something wrong?” Aimee asks.

  “No.” She hands over Henry, and he’s even more precious in person. I don’t know the kid, but I’m already in love.

  “How are you doing?” Diane asks.

  “So far, so good,” I say. “Hey, can we stop at CVS on the way home? I have a plan.”

  “Sure. For what?”

  “For getting Steve and Huxley back together.”

  38

  I’m at school super early. Thankfully, only the janitor’s here to judge me. I use my V56 key to get into Steve’s locker, then Huxley’s. Once I finish, I hold the key over a trash can, contemplating its fate. In the end, I keep it for now. For the memories.

  And...you never know.

  My next stop is our drama department’s prop room, and I shiver in disgust knowing that this is Ezra’s turf. I remember a couple I broke up last year, a pair of actors. All I had to do was go online and post bad reviews for one and glowing reviews for the other, and jealousy and histrionics took care of the rest. I yank a quaint wicker bench from a pile of random objects, perfect for an old lady’s garden, and tug it back to our brand-new TV studio. The bindings for half of my textbooks are falling off, but at least Ashland has a TV camera that can zoom in.

  I set up the bench in position, facing the shiny new camera. I pull up a side table, where I place a CD player and two cans of Coke that I’m hoping won’t get warm and flat by this afternoon. I step back from my design and take in the odd contrast of the furniture against the green-screen wall. I’ve never been more proud of a scheme.

  I wait in the control room during lunch, checking the clock obsessively, thinking that I may have the power to move the hands with my mind. But I don’t. So I wait some more.

  At noon on the dot, Steve peeks his head into the studio. No strolling in for him. I crouch down behind the control panel stuffed with buttons and levers. He checks out the bench, walking around it, really inspecting it. It’s just a bench, I want to tell him. He realizes it’s not electrified or rigged to explode, and sits down. He presses Play on the CD player, per the note. The slow strings of “Bittersweet Symphony” seep out from the speakers.

  “Hey,” Huxley calls from the entrance.

  My breathing quickens, and I wonder if he feels the same. They are a beautiful couple to behold. Some people just fit right.

  Steve stands up to greet her. “Hi.”

  “This is some setup,” she says as she surveys the scene.

  “I know.”

  “I forgot that you knew my locker combination.”

  “And you remember mine,” he says.

  She approaches the bench, but doesn’t sit down. They both take a moment to look at the details. The Coke cans, the dark blue mood lighting.

  “How long did it take you to do this?” he asks her.

  “Me? Didn’t you do this?”

  “Nope.”

  “You didn’t slip a bottle of mouthwash and a note to come here at noon into my locker?” she asks. She pulls both from her pocket.

  He does the same thing. “You mean this wasn’t you?”

  They look around the TV studio. “Hello? If someone’s here, you better come out,” Steve yells to the room.

  I clamp my hand over my mouth. I should’ve known there would be suspicion. I hear their footsteps getting closer to the control room. I find a cardboard box under the control panel and position it in front of me. Steve throws open the door.

  “If someone’s here, this is kind of weird.”

  Just go with it, I want to tell him. You’ll thank me later.

  He creeps into the room, right up to the control panel. I can smell the rubber on his shoes.

  “Is this some kind of sick joke?” he says to no one, although technically, I guess he’s talking to me.

  “Steve,” Huxley says. “Come over here.”

  He returns to the studio, and I go back to my spying position. “Why is there a bench here?”

  “Steve.” Huxley laughs softly. She pulls the bottle of mouthwash and note from her pocket. Steve does the same thing.

  “The bench, the mouthwash. ‘Bittersweet Symphony,’” she says.

  His eyes widen in recognition. “It’s like Travis Weber’s party.”

  “Our first kiss.”

  “I was so nervous.”

  “I was more nervous. My teeth were chattering.”

  “I thought you were cold. So I gave you my jacket.” Steve finds the jacket I carefully left across the bench and covers Huxley’s shoulders.

  “Who would go through all this trouble?” she asks. She sits on the bench. Their knees touch.

  “Someone who wants to see us back together.”

  “Would you fall into that category?”

  Steve shifts his knees away from her, breaking the moment. “Hux, why did you try to pay my tuition for Vermilion? Who does that?”

  I see her tense, her guard back up. “Someone who cares about you. I was trying to help.”

  “Do you know how embarrassing that was? I know my family isn’t as rich as yours, but—”

  “You never complained before when you’ve come on family vacations and received Christmas gifts.”

  “This is different.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to go to Chandler!” he blurts out. “I want to play football. I love playing football.”

  Huxley takes a deep breath and looks up at the mood lighting. “I know.”

  “But I also love you.”

  Their eyes are now locked on each other and having a separate conversation. Their bodies get closer, as if they’re on conveyor belts, en route to the proper, inevitable destination. It’s amazing how quickly they slip back into the groove. Maybe some couples can’t be broken, no matter how hard anyone tries.

  “I miss you,” she says without her trademark Huxley poise. “You know, I think this is the first time we’ve ever really talked about this.”

  “I like it,” he says. His strokes her hair behind her shoulder, and my heart does one of those gymnastics backflips. For the first time, I believe in Huxley and Steve.

  “So what happens now?” Huxley asks. “What do we do?”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  And then he leans in and kisses her.

  I put my hand on the one switch I know how to use. It’s a lever that can broadcast the image recording on the shiny new camera into the shiny new TVs around school. Proof that Huxley and Steve are indomitable. Proof that I’m not a completely horrible person.

  But I take my hand away, and while they’re making out, I sneak into the hall unno
ticed. Even the number-one couple in school deserves some privacy.

  39

  The next day in Ms. Hardwick’s class, a group of girls, including Ms. Hardwick, gather around Huxley’s desk. They wouldn’t be callous enough to be talking about me, right? Ms. Hardwick’s still a teacher. I keep my nose in my textbook and eavesdrop.

  “It was so sweet,” Huxley says. “He left a note in my locker saying ‘Let’s work things out. Meet me in the TV studio at lunch.’ And when I got there, he had re-created the scene of our first kiss. And I fell in love with him all over again.”

  The girls aww; some lean their heads on each other’s shoulders. I remember wanting to bang my head into my desk after hearing and seeing all of Huxley’s and Steve’s sweeping fauxmantic gestures before. And now I created one. Life has a weird sense of humor.

  “So is Steve still going to Chandler?” Ms. Hardwick asks.

  “He is,” Huxley says. The murmuring between girls doesn’t faze Huxley one bit. “We’re going to try the long-distance thing and see how it goes. Steve is an amazing athlete, and he needs to be on the field.”

  “Texas isn’t that far,” some girl says. “If any couple can make it, it’s you two.”

  “We’ll have to see. If we’re meant to be together, then we will be together,” Huxley says. Calmness coats her voice; she’s just telling it like it is. “But I think we’ll make it.”

  “Time to start class,” Ms. Hardwick says. “Everyone back to your seats.”

  The crowd disperses, and I get a direct view of Huxley. I try to make eye contact with her. She doesn’t look my way. She keeps her focus on Ms. Hardwick. I can’t tell if it’s a guise or her true feelings. Maybe she thinks our friendship was really a fake this whole time. I guess from her perspective, that’s how it seems. I hope someday after graduation, when the chains of Ashland’s social structure are lifted, when she and Steve are planning their immaculate wedding, we can meet up for coffee and laugh about this.

  Until then, I turn around before I’m caught openly staring.

  * * *

  I face a cafeteria chock-full of sideways glances and cupped whispers. I’ve never been on the other side of it, the subject of the gossip, and I feel like a circus performer in front of a perpetually bored audience. They want more. They want the story to keep moving, to get worse. I hope for my sake that it doesn’t.

  I grip my tray, which is merely a prop. Past the scowls and stares and spotlight, I see one open chair.

  “Is it okay if I sit here?”

  Fred stares at me, and I feel myself shriveling up. But then he breaks into a smile, and I’ve never been so happy to see those straight white teeth. He removes his stack of comic books from the seat.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “We’ll bill you at the end of the week,” Fred says.

  It’s nice to be able to joke with somebody.

  “I’m so sorry, about what I said to you. You were just trying to help.”

  “Hey, I’m obsessed with comics and I have little-to-no muscle mass. I’m used to insults. Besides, I figured you were in an in-too-deep situation, and I was right.”

  The first trace of my appetite returns. There are some decent people at this school.

  “It’ll get better,” Fred says. “Some girl will get alcohol poisoning at the prom, and you’ll be a distant memory.”

  “A girl can dream.”

  I officially hate this. Why can’t people move on? I don’t want to suffer through hate stares the rest of my high-school career. I hope they reach a breaking point before I do.

  Fred’s attention catches on something behind me. I turn to see Derek trudging through the double doors looking chewed up and spat out. He’s scratching his five-o’clock shadow, and his clothes desperately need to be ironed. I have to look away. He’s destroyed, and I operated the bulldozer.

  “I did that,” I say in disgust.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Nope,” Fred says. “It turns out Derek didn’t get into Princeton early decision in December. He got wait-listed, and his official rejection came while you were out.” Fred finishes off his second slice of pepperoni pizza. “I guess they only let one kid in per high school. So, good for Bethann.”

  It really shouldn’t, but watching Derek’s misery gives me the warm and fuzzies.

  “I’m still an awful person.”

  “Kinda,” Fred says.

  I guess I was asking for that.

  “But not really,” he finishes. He gulps down the rest of his Sprite.

  “I am. I break up innocent couples.”

  “Why aren’t Bari and Derek back together? They know you broke them up. They know it was all lies. But they’re not dating.”

  “Because... I don’t know.” He has a good point. Derek shuffles past Bari’s table without any acknowledgment of his ex-girlfriend. Bari doesn’t even pretend to eat. She spins the straw inside her Diet Coke, matching Derek’s gloominess sigh for sigh. Why aren’t they sitting together? A girl like Bari savors moments like this, when she can be a support system for her former boyfriend.

  “If they really were in love, then why didn’t they patch things up? Huxley and Steve did.”

  Ashland’s golden couple is back to finishing each other’s sentences and meals. It’s weird watching their table now knowing what actually goes on there, which is nothing spectacular. The same conversations and dull jokes.

  And now that I think about it, my break-up methods weren’t that genius. If these couples were meant to be together, then their relationships wouldn’t have crumbled because of a flimsy text message or faked wedding binder.

  I feel a weight lift off my shoulders. I don’t consider myself the most awful person at Ashland anymore. I didn’t destroy young love; I just sped up the inevitable.

  But then I glance a few tables over at Calista, sitting with some girls but uninterested in what they’re saying. She seems just as miserable as Bari.

  “You’re not all bad,” Fred says.

  I’m not all good either.

  “Thanks.” I smile for the first time today. My cheeks are sore from the constant stoicism.

  “You’re actually kind of cool.” Fred scratches his eyebrow. “And I was thinking, maybe we could hang out, outside of school.”

  My reverie stops. I suddenly get nervous. This conversation just took a severe left turn, and it’s flooding my mind with a million scenarios.

  “Like a date?”

  “That’s one interpretation.” Fred’s cheeks bunch up when he grins. His eyes gleam in the fluorescent light.

  “With me?”

  He nods yes.

  “Okay.” I play it cool even though my arms and fingers tingle like I slept on them all night. I stand up. “I’m going to get some chips. I’m feeling hungry again.”

  Fred’s grin follows me all the way to the cashier line. Melinda Jankowski taps me on the shoulder, engaging me in conversation for the first time since middle school.

  “Thank you,” she whispers to me.

  “For what?”

  “You broke up my friend Katie’s relationship last year. I wondered what made Charles dump her so abruptly. Now I know.”

  I cringe at the memory of impersonating Katie Derrickson on a blog about dealing with your boyfriend’s impotency. Not one of my classiest moves, but it did the trick.

  “You’re welcome?” I say, unaware I had fans.

  “He was such a jerk. He was telling Katie lies about us so she would stop being our friend. What a toxic pig. We were all beyond happy when they broke up,” Melinda says. “So thank you, seriously.”

  I step up to the cashier and unfurl the two dollars in my fist.

  “Actually, I g
ot it.” Melinda reaches across me and hands the cashier money.

  “Thanks,” I say, dumbstruck. The cashier has to remind me to take my food. “I wish everyone felt like this.”

  “Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” Melinda says. She pays for her meal. We walk back into the main room together. “But you do have a few supporters.”

  But there’s one supporter I’m still missing, the one who’s always supported me. I walk back into the expanse of the cafeteria. Val and Ezra are tucked in their corner table. They’ve probably forgotten I exist. She catches me gawking, and I scurry back to my nerds. Are we destined to be the next Bari and Calista? Is this how it ends?

  I throw my chips on the table. Appetite lost.

  No.

  A feeling of determination and hope surges through me.

  No.

  Some relationships were made to be broken, but not all.

  “What is it?” Fred asks.

  I take out my Plumful lipstick and apply a fresh coat over my lips. “I have one last couple I need to destroy.”

  40

  I’m surprised Starlight Cruises hasn’t been sued for false advertising. This is the Hudson River, the border between New York City and New Jersey. There is no starlight. But I suppose Smog-Refracting-Light Cruises doesn’t have the same ring.

  Passengers board the dinner cruise. It’s mostly sweet old couples who still wear suits and dresses for a night out. I park on the street and avoid the line of cars waiting for valet. I don’t have time, and I can park my own car for free, thank you very much. Also, I need some walking time to psych myself up. I was doing faux Lamaze breathing on the car ride over.

  Luckily, I’m not alone. My accomplices park behind me, and the three of us stroll up to the loading dock. I’ve never performed a scheme like this. I’ve never been out in the open. It’s always letters and texts and pictures and whisper campaigns. But this time, it has to be me.

  Val sits alone on a bench checking her phone, the cruise ship behind her making her look minuscule. She has on a simple black dress—no blazer tonight. She stands up as soon as she sees us.