The Breakup Artist

by Shannen Crane Camp

  “Not bad?” he repeated, disbelief lining his words. “They’re amazing!”

  “I guess I just haven’t gotten to that part yet,” I said with a smirk. “You’ll have to show me what’s so good about them at lunch.” And with that, I snatched the CD and walked to my first class of the day: psychology.

  Chapter Three

  In high school, everything is carefully monitored. Or at least, it is when you have teachers who care. I was a good student (having no social life will do that to you) so my teachers usually paid attention to me. At the beginning of every new school year, I’d get one of those overly concerned teachers who would talk to the counseling office and set up an appointment for me. They always seemed to think that my constantly changing style and hair colors were signs of instability. They thought I had some tragic past that wasn’t showing up in my school files, and they got worried. Though I loved that my teachers cared enough to worry, I still wished they’d just put a note in my file saying, “Amelia Marie Bedford. Age 16. Prone to change everything on a weekly basis.”

  Today, however, my psychology teacher Miss Tess just said, “New hair color again, Amelia?” as I walked into the room. I nodded with a thin-lipped smile and took my seat near the door. This class was arranged in a circle, rather than rows, so that everyone was equal or something to that effect. Psychology was another one of those subjects that fascinated me even if I wasn’t amazing at it. Just because I get good grades doesn’t mean I’m just naturally amazing at any subject. I actually have to work really hard to understand things, but I always ended up putting in enough effort to get A’s.

  Class went by slowly until Miss Tess (she insisted that we call her by her first name because “last names make people seem old”) popped in a video about a child raised in the wild by animals. I took this opportunity to formulate my plan of attack for my other three clients, since James seemed to be pretty much in the bag. After my performance this morning, he should be wondering how he could feel attracted to another girl if he was so in love with Nat. Then he would start to wonder if he and Nat should really be together. After that I’d just work some magic and break the news to him that Nat wanted out (in much nicer terms of course) and he’d feel, suddenly, like that was probably for the best. Then came the tricky part: I’d have to agree to go on a date with him so that he could really feel like he was making a good move forward in his life. This was only difficult because right after that date, I’d disappear from the boy’s radar. The disappearing wasn’t so hard—the hard part was the fact that I was the one breaking their hearts rather than their deadbeat girlfriends, who were really the source of their pain. But I have accepted my lot as a scapegoat, and by the next week I would look so different that he wouldn’t recognize me even if I passed him in the hallway.

  After two hours of psychology we had a ten-minute break, which I usually used to get to my next class. But, as previously stated, today I was Mari, not Amelia, and so I returned to the staircase. James sat there expectantly, constantly glancing over his shoulder until he spotted me. I put on the alluring smile once more and made my way over to him. His friends whispered something to him, and they all broke out into grins. Boys could be so predictable sometimes. When I sat down, James asked me an obvious question, one that I was actually surprised he had missed upon our first meeting.

  “So, um, what’s your name?”

  “I’m Mari,” I answered with a smile.

  “And you’re friends with Nat?” I kept the smile in place, sensing that we were treading on delicate ground now that we were discussing reality.

  “Yeah, Nat and I have been friends for a while. Hasn’t she mentioned me?” He shook his head, and I instantly relaxed. We were back to nonverbal responses, which meant that my carefully practiced inflections of charming innocence had worked. I pulled out my cell phone with perfect grace and checked the time. We still had five minutes until we had to be in class but I was quickly growing bored with the conversation and showing that would mean certain death for my carefully laid out plan. So I opted for the easy way out.

  “Well, I’m gonna grab something from the vending machine and head to class. I’ll see you at lunch, James.” I walked away, feeling that I had fulfilled my break time duty. Besides, using his name made the short conversation feel much more intimate and substantial. I rewarded myself for a job well done by grabbing a fruit snack out of the machine before retreating to English.

  In English we were analyzing a book I’d already read three times. It was all about anarchy brought about by a terrible disaster, leaving children stranded on an island. There wasn’t much for me to contribute to the conversation, so I pulled out my other three fact sheets and studied my upcoming projects. If I could get James out of the way without a date, I could start work on the others by tomorrow. This wasn’t the ideal situation obviously since the actual date really solidified the end of the relationship, but I’d just have to work around that. The first paper read:

  Name—Corey

  Age—16

  POI—Music, parties, fashion

  Deadline—Two weeks before prom

  I wasn’t quite sure what it was about these girls, but apparently prom was something that reminded you just how much you wanted a date—not a boyfriend. I checked this boy’s POI (points of interest) once more and sighed deeply. I always required at least three subjects in that category. The ones this girl had provided were so general that this Corey could have been any boy in the school. I glanced at the attached picture, hoping to glean some information from there, but was sorely disappointed. I’d have to call and force some more information out of this girl or I’d have to give a refund, which I’ve never done.

  Shaking my head I pulled up the next file.

  Name—David

  Age—17

  POI—Books, Photography, Culture

  Deadline—Two weeks before prom

  Culture? One of his interests was culture? What did that even mean? He liked having culture, or learning about culture, or experiencing other cultures? I considered calling this one also but figured that the other two interests were a strong enough foundation.

  Finally I pulled out the third paper, which read:

  Name—Taylor

  Age—18

  POI—Skateboarding, Shoes, Art

  Deadline—One week before prom

  My clients were obviously getting lazy. Shoes are not an interest. Shoes are things you put on your feet or spend too much money on. People aren’t really interested in shoes. I shook my head at the challenge that faced me and put my fact sheets carefully back into my manila folder marked “work.”

  By lunch I was in full Mari mind-set, ready to work my magic quickly, carefully, and efficiently. I sat down on the now familiar bench and talked about music with James. Halfway through the forty-minute lunch period I decided to drop the bomb, hoping I could get out of this one without an actual date.

  “So James, I have to tell you something kind of important.” I bit my lip yet again, in the way that said I was worried about something, while still being cute enough to distract him from exactly what my words meant. He smiled and nodded at me, obviously allowing his mind to rest on a completely different track. “Nat and I have been hanging out a lot lately and, um . . . she’s been telling me she’s not sure she wants to be in a serious relationship with anyone right now . . .” I let my words trail off naturally to make it seem like I was scared to go on. He cocked his head at me, obviously not expecting what I had just said.

  “Here’s the bad part,” I went on with a pout. “I think it’s all my fault. I mean, she and I have just been having so much fun having girl time, and I think it made her realize she doesn’t really want to be tied down.” I let my brows come together in a line, fake worry crossing my features. “I don’t see why else she’d ever break up with someone as amazing as you.” I placed my hand over his with these last words and looked up at him under my eyelashes once more. He simply looked at me for a moment, and I was begi
nning to wonder if he was smarter than he looked. Maybe he hadn’t bought my story and was about to reveal me for what I was. But, as always, the boy simply nodded, looked appropriately sad for a moment, and then lapsed back into our old conversation, claiming he wanted to take his mind off of it.

  I had done it once again. I knew from experience he wasn’t really sad. Instead, he was just relieved that he wouldn’t have to break up with Nat because he’d discovered that she had a hot friend. He’d inevitably try to catch up with me after school to ask me out on a date, but with my tight schedule I couldn’t afford the time to let him down gently, so I gave him the cushion for the blow during lunch: lots of flirt-filled conversation and a quick, promising peck on the cheek as I scurried off to my last class of the day.

  Chapter Four

  James didn’t manage to catch me after school because I faked a migraine during biology and bolted for my car fifteen minutes before the last bell rang. I unclipped the little plastic bow barrettes from my hair as I drove, fluffing it out with my hands as much as the wax in it would allow. Some fashion choices just puzzled me.

  As a reward for a job well done, I stopped off at a convenience store and bought a cherry slushee, feeling that my many hours as Mari had taken the energy right out of me. Some sugar in my blood was just what I needed.

  I returned home to put together my outfit for the next day. Though I still had about two weeks until most of my assignments were due, I thought it might be fun to try to knock out two in one day. It would be beating my personal record, and I always loved a challenge. This didn’t mean that I could get lazy in my work. I’d still have to go on a date with at least one of them. I’d just have to figure out which one was likely to reject the idea that his girlfriend was breaking up with him. From what my clients had told me, Taylor was my boy. Corey was flaky and would most likely be happy to be out of a relationship. Taylor, on the other hand, would need some extra convincing. So I’d simply take him on a date, flirt a little, and make it look like we’re getting really cozy in the restaurant when his girlfriend would conveniently walk in and think something horrible was going on. These situations always proved to be awkward, and I asked my clients not to cause too much of a scene or else the restaurant owners would start recognizing me as the girl who always comes in with a different boy and gets into fights. I always insisted to the boy that I drive my own car to the restaurant because I had some vital and terribly boring thing to do after the date. That way I’d have an easy escape when his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend confronted him.

  Still, getting rid of two boys in one day would be a challenge. With versatility being the key, I scanned my closet to find the perfect outfit. It had to be different enough from “Mari” to keep James away while being “punk” enough to attract my next two victims.

  I pulled out the files for Taylor and Corey once more, just to refresh my memory on exactly what I was going for. For Taylor I found a pair of shoes stuffed behind heaps of clothes in my closet. They were some expensive brand I’d never heard of that still managed to look well worn and inexpensive. The black tennis shoes had dashes of color in them in the most unexpected places, making them an instant hit with someone whose girlfriend would say “shoes” was one of his interests. For Corey I simply found some of my stylish clothes—the kind that only a stylish person would know were “stylish.” To everyone else I would just look like I’d gotten dressed with either too much confidence or not enough light in my room.

  With my sudden burst of efficiency, I found myself almost wishing that more girls were in the “breaking up” mood. If I was this on-schedule with all of my clients, I could easily double my income. These ambitious thoughts played around in my mind while I pulled my homework out of my backpack—my real homework that is, not my job-related homework, which was infinitely more fun but much less helpful when it came to getting good grades. I finished off my English and history papers in only two hours, leaving me with a few pages of assigned problems in my math book and some reading for biology. I slowly and painfully made my way through the math problems, consulting my calculator and the answers in the back of the book regularly. If my teacher didn’t require that I show my work, I could have just copied the answers from the back, though I’m sure that would have been morally wrong somehow.

  The two hours it took me to do my English and history proved to be a blessing compared to the time it was taking me to get through math, though with my completely empty social calendar, the only other thing I’d be doing if I didn’t have homework was painting. Painting was the only real “me” thing that I had. When you live a life that revolves around being other people, it’s rare to find something that’s unique to you. Painting was that thing. The odd thing about my love of painting, though, was that I couldn’t draw a decent picture if my life depended on it, and yet, I could paint pretty well. I’d always thought that the two skills went hand in hand, so maybe I was just some mutation to that rule.

  Forcing myself to ignore my sudden longing to paint, I muscled through the rest of my math problems and quickly read about photosynthesis in my biology book. Mrs. Mathers had painted a rather amusing mental picture about the process by saying that if we were like plants, then at random intervals during the school day everyone would go outside, take off all their clothes, and just lie around drinking up the sunlight. Wouldn’t that make lunch period more interesting? My biology teacher always had a way of putting things into terms we could understand. That’s probably why I loved her class so much, even if I was terrible at science. She also had a tendency to pull out her old acoustic guitar and teach us songs to help us remember formulas and scientific processes. As ridiculous as this idea seemed to me at first, I had to admit it worked like a charm every time. This meant, of course, that I spent many of my science tests humming to myself, much to the annoyance of everyone around me.

  I didn’t have any psychology homework that night because Miss Tess didn’t believe in homework. She said that learning should be done at school and home was for enjoying life. I would pay big money for all of my teachers to have that particular mind-set. With my load of homework finished after just a few short hours, I had some time on my hands until dinner. I decided to pull out David’s file to see if there was any way to work him into my plan for tomorrow as well, but quickly thought better of it and just resorted to looking his POIs over. He didn’t seem like he’d be a particularly difficult target. Aside from his rather cryptic interest in “culture,” I could probably just whip out my Nikon and woo him by lunch. He’d have to wait a few days though while I worked my magic on the other two boys.

  I settled on the decision to simply finish the other two off by tomorrow and quickly check David out from afar, simply to secure my prey before moving in for the kill the day after tomorrow. Placing the papers gently back into their manila folder, I pulled out my sleek (now pink) cell phone and popped off the cover, opting for the yellow one for tomorrow. I quickly dialed the number on James’s file to let Nat know I had done the job quickly and efficiently. If I didn’t call, I’d have a curious and possibly angry customer on my hands.

  “Hello?” answered a tentatively cautious voice.

  “Hey Nat, it’s Amelia,” I said, wondering why she sounded so worried. There was a deep exhale on the other end, possibly one of relief, though with an exhale you can never tell.

  “Good. I didn’t recognize the number so I thought maybe James was calling me from a friend’s phone so I’d pick up.” The news that she hadn’t programmed my number into her phone hurt a little, but I was over it in two seconds flat. Her lack of confidence in my abilities was also a bit disappointing, but that’s something I’m used to.

  “Nope, but on the subject of James, I just wanted to let you know I got the job done.” I kept my tone professional and even, trying to keep the pride at my own abilities internalized.

  “Really?” she asked, her voice still lined with disbelief. I never understood why people found it so hard to believe that I had dealt with
their problems so easily. Just because they blew the whole situation out of proportion didn’t mean that breaking up with someone was actually that hard to do.

  “Really,” I answered, my tone now leaning toward annoyance. “So yeah, you should be fine for prom.” There was an “mmhmmm” sound on the other end of the line, which I took to mean “thanks.” I went on. “All right, well, I’ll talk to you after prom when you’re ready to break up with the next one,” I said, hanging up the phone quickly and not feeling one shred of remorse about my less-than-professional adieu. I allowed myself ten seconds to glare at the wall and feel sorry for myself and then quickly pulled myself back together and walked down stairs.

  My mom wasn’t home from work yet and my dad hadn’t been home from work in ten years—at least, that was how I liked to think about it. One day he left for work and the next day all of his stuff was out of the house and I haven’t seen him since. He moved away to Florida or New York or wherever it is middle-aged men go when they have a mid-life crisis. His absence never really bothered me though. Some kids grow up in a house where their grandparents live with them or they have to take off their shoes before stepping on the carpet. I grew up in a house with just me and my mom. It worked out nicely though, because my mom was almost never home and I liked being alone most of the time.

  I had just opened up the fridge to see if there was some sort of fruit I could snack on before dinner when I spotted a note held to the door with a smiley face magnet.

  “Dinner with a client tonight. Fend for Yourself.”