The Breakup Artist

by Shannen Crane Camp

  All of these thoughts swam around in my head, making me more and more panicked by the second. Now my gaze on the door became more intense, as if I could will him to walk through it if I stared at it long enough. Just as I was about to get up and admit defeat, Taylor walked in, looking as if he had spent way too much time trying to do his hair in a stylish way. I quickly regained my composure and tried to look interested in the magazine I had placed on my lap. I hoped that he hadn’t noticed me staring at the door like a maniac when he walked in, but he seemed unfazed which I took as a good sign.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said in his “cool boy” voice that told me he wasn’t really sorry.

  “Are you late?” I asked nonchalantly, acting as if I had been so enthralled by the magazine in front of me that his presence hadn’t even fazed me. He looked worried for a moment by my less-than-enthusiastic reaction but quickly hid his disappointment and sat next to me on the squishy purple love seat. This was where I’d have to really work my magic.

  I set the magazine and my hot chocolate down, turning my attention to him with a sly smile. He obviously didn’t know what I was smiling at, which wasn’t unexpected since I was simply doing it to throw him off base, but he returned it with his own grin, obviously understanding that something was about to happen in his favor. I laid my arm over the back of the chair so I could play with his hair while I talked to him.

  “I’m really glad you came,” I said softly, keeping my gaze trained on his. I had to buy some time and look pretty close to him since his girlfriend should be walking in any minute. I had given her specific instructions to watch for him from the bookstore across the street and come in about five minutes after him. Taylor seemed to like my slim fingers running through his hair, which he demonstrated by placing a tentative hand on my leg. I was almost worried that he’d suddenly become enthralled with my shoes and forget what we were doing here, but much to my relief he continued to look at me. Well, not really at me. More at my lips, but I took that as a good sign too, so I didn’t try to bring his gaze back up to my eyes.

  “I’m starting to think I’m pretty glad I came too,” he replied. His reply was about thirty seconds too late for normal conversation, but I pretended not to notice and simply went on smiling, trying not to look to the door for my escape route. Even if I had wanted to look at the door, my line of sight would have been blocked by the pillar of angry girlfriend that now appeared next to me.

  It took Taylor a minute to realize that Heather was standing right next to him, but I didn’t hold that against him—the boy was effectively distracted, after all. Heather actually had to clear her throat to get his attention. Once she did this, however, the entire mood of the scene changed. Taylor went from looking like he was living in a state of ignorant bliss to looking like someone had just told him people were going to stop wearing shoes altogether—let alone stylish ones.

  “Who’s she?” I asked in my best oblivious voice. Heather simply glared down at me, and I had to hand it to her, I was actually pretty scared.

  “She’s just . . . um . . . wait, I thought you said she was your friend too?” he asked in a justifiably confused tone. All I could think in my head was, “Crap. There goes my career.” How had I managed to overlook that glaring detail? Normally I’d act guilty and acknowledge that my friend had every right to be mad that I was out with her boyfriend, but this time I had just let words spill out of my mouth. I was really losing my skill. I scrambled mentally to come up with some sort of explanation for my obvious mistake. Luckily I didn’t have to try to answer for my slip-up because Heather began yelling quite loudly at Taylor. Although I had asked my clients not to cause a scene, I was grateful for this one. Taylor was so shocked by her sudden outburst I didn’t think he’d ever have the chance to ask me to clarify my mistake.

  Between Heather’s bouts of shouting, I somehow managed to slip in an apology and slip out the door, leaving them to scream at each other in peace. Some of my clients just loved the drama aspect of my job. I offered them a way to get out of their relationship drama free, but there were always those ones who wanted a good scream-fest to finish things off with a bang.

  I walked quickly to my car, hoping that if I could get home fast enough, I wouldn’t even have to think about how badly I had been performing my job lately. I had never slipped up in the past, and now I seemed to be doing it with every client. I shook these thoughts from my mind and hurried home where I could change and concentrate on painting for a while.

  ☼☼☼

  Taking a few deep breaths and composing myself, I pulled my folding easel out from under my bed. I laid newspapers out all over my carpet and got everything ready to start painting.

  My room was full of the other pieces I had painted, all of them different but with some unseen touch that made it evident they were mine. My favorite piece hung right above my bed. It had been a fun process to create this one, with its thick layers of paint that just made you want to touch it. The colors were mostly blues and greens, and I had used my fingers instead of brushes to give the surface that thick, worked up feel. It wasn’t really a painting of anything in particular, just lots of swirling colors and squiggling lines.

  Today, however, I was in a red mood. I mixed reds and oranges and yellows into hot fiery colors, which I layered thickly onto the small canvas. I made a circular sun with a spiral in the center and a long expanse of yellow sand that eventually made contact with the distant red shadowy mountains. It wasn’t a masterpiece when I finished it about four hours later, but it was enough to exhaust me to the point that I fell asleep the moment my paint-covered face hit my clean pillow.

  Chapter Seven

  I opened my eyes the next morning and saw the sun streaming through my window, which was the first sign that something was wrong. That horrible sinking feeling instantly hit my stomach, and I looked at my clock with dread. It told me, with unnerving calm, that it was 9:00, which meant that I was already an hour late for school. I jumped out of bed too quickly, filling my vision with a white cloud that only hindered my already cramped “getting ready” time. I cursed myself under my breath because I hadn’t laid my clothes out the night before like I usually did.

  Flinging open my closet, I looked over in my “punk” section for what I could wear that day. I yanked on some black cargo pants and a tight white tank top, deciding that with this boy, who was starting to look like a wild card, simple would be best. I pulled my short hair back into a little nub of a ponytail and quickly put some eyeliner on, scrubbing furiously at the paint on my cheek. The oversized black leather purse from yesterday wouldn’t really work with my outfit today, so I quickly shoved everything into a basic black backpack and sprinted out the door with half of an untoasted bagel in my mouth.

  The drive to school had never seemed so long, but I used the extra time to think about what I had to do today. I had lost my usual morning time where I would at least get to know the person I was breaking up with, which meant that if he threw me for a loop at all during break I could be in deep trouble. As I pulled into the parking lot, I realized that I had forgotten to bring my camera. So much for an ice breaker—I would just have to rely on my physical charms for this one and hope they would be sufficient to distract him long enough to deliver the news without too much pain. Judging by the red paint spot that had stayed defiantly on my cheek, though, my feminine wiles were a long shot.

  Swallowing the rest of my bagel in one bite, I ran to the attendance office and explained why I was late to the skeptical woman there. She raised an eyebrow at my breathlessness and checked my file on her computer. Apparently she liked what she saw there because she said it was fine and just gave me a late slip to give my teacher. I didn’t even get a reprimand. Maybe today wouldn’t be as bad as I had originally thought.

  I walked into my psychology class in the middle of a lab, so I didn’t draw much attention to myself. Most of the other students had their faces pressed against microscopes, for which I was grateful. I didn’t real
ly understand why we’d need microscopes in psychology, unless Miss Tess was trying to cement the fact that it was, in fact, a science. I handed the late slip to my teacher who took it without question, and then I slunk back to my desk where an unoccupied microscope waited for me. The lab was confusing and required that I have some drawing skill, which, as I previously mentioned, I don’t. I wasn’t able to finish it by the time the bell rang for break, but most of the others weren’t able to either.

  I checked my face one last time in my compact, noting with pleasure that the paint was now completely gone from my cheek. David was in the same spot as yesterday, but today Claire was not clinging to him, which I knew was my cue to work my magic. I quickly put some lip-gloss on before I made my way over to my unsuspecting victim. He was behaving much like he had the day before, glancing around him as if he expected a bomb to suddenly fall from the sky. I tried to ignore this behavior and put on my alluring smile.

  “Hey, you’re David, right?” I asked the preoccupied boy innocently. He started a bit from my obviously unexpected greeting and quickly looked me over. I’m guessing he liked what he saw because a grin instantly spread across his face, and he seemed to relax.

  “Yeah, I’m David. Who are you?” he asked simply. It was an easy enough question to answer but the fact that he wasn’t blown away by my looks or dumbfounded by the fact that I’d just walked right up and talked to him was slightly disconcerting. I had, however, vowed not to lose my head like I had the day before, and so I forced myself to construct semi-coherent sentences.

  “I’m Amelia,” I said automatically, only to instantly realize I’d used my full name—my real, full name—and that was something I never did with my projects. It only complicated things if they had any valuable information on me. I smiled broadly to cover up my self-loathing and tried to move on from that small mistake, hoping that by some miracle he hadn’t heard my name.

  “Well, Amelia, what can I do for you?” This boy seemed to be brimming with confidence, which was always dangerous. I normally worked with boys who were easy to woo and, therefore, easy to break up with for their girlfriends. This boy, however, didn’t seem to want to make my life easy. He had also said my name, turning my panic level up a notch. I tried to remember my usual story. Why had I always found an excuse to talk to these boys? Oh right. Fear-of-being-alone-syndrome.

  “Well, I’m friends with your girlfriend, Claire, and she’s sick today so I wanted to know if I could sit with you.” I repeated the words as if I was reading them from a book, but I added my innocent smile, keeping my fingers crossed that I was convincing.

  “You’re friends with Claire?” he asked, sounding completely unconvinced.

  “Yes?” Why had I just answered his question like a question? This was going horribly wrong. He smirked at this, keeping his eyes trained on me.

  “Why haven’t I ever seen you hanging around with her during school? I mean, if you have no one to sit with when she’s sick, then wouldn’t that mean you normally sat with her during break and lunch?” This boy was smart and persistent, I’d give him that. But I wasn’t about to let him get the best of me. His questions were just making me angry now, and I refused to give a refund for the first time in my entire career.

  “I actually just moved here from Pennsylvania,” I said confidently, remembering that Claire had mentioned being born there. Granted, I knew nothing about the state, but I was counting on this being enough information for him. “We grew up together and my parents just decided to move out to California for work so Claire convinced them to let me come to Thousand Oaks High rather than being homeschooled.” Had I given too much information? That was the downfall of lying; you always try to overcompensate for lack of truth with way too much fiction.

  “Where in Pennsylvania are you from?” he asked nonchalantly. What was he, a detective? “My family travels back that way a lot so maybe I’ve been to your hometown.” It was now official. I hated this boy. He was snoopy and relentless, and my whole career was about to be exposed.

  “Lancaster,” I said automatically, naming the only city in Pennsylvania that I knew of. Incidentally, I had family living in Lancaster, California, only an hour from where I was standing at that very moment. Maybe after this boy ruined my career I’d go live with them and break hearts in the high desert.

  “Lancaster?” he repeated slowly. “Isn’t that where the Amish live?” Dang. I knew there was a reason I’d heard of that city before. I nodded my head deliberately and let my eyes stay locked on his, refusing to back down.

  “Other people live there too,” I said with finality. I’d already wasted five of my ten minutes trying to convince this boy I was actually Claire’s friend. I might have to keep her sick for another day to get rid of this one. A new determination to rid myself of this pest firmly in place, I cleared my throat and got back to business. “So is it all right if I sit down, now that we’ve gone over my personal history?” The boy laughed softly and nodded his head. Finally, something was going my way. I sat next to him and was hit with an overwhelmingly wonderful scent. It had to be his cologne or shampoo or something, but whatever it was, it was unearthly.

  “You smell really good,” I said instantly, to which he raised an eyebrow. It was a perfectly normal response to a perfectly abnormal statement. I really had no idea what had made me say it and, looking back on it, that would have been a wonderful time to bow out gracefully and just forfeit this entire job. “Never mind,” I mumbled, knowing there was no way to talk myself out of that one. No matter what stupid thing came out of my mouth next, at least I knew there were only five minutes left in the break.

  “So, Amelia, where do you live?” This David seemed to say my name every time he spoke, as if just waiting for me to snap at him for having memorized it so quickly. And why on earth did he need to know where I lived?

  “Excuse me?” I asked in what I hoped was a casual manner.

  “You said you just moved here. Where did you move? Are you close to Claire?” Now that he had explained himself I guessed that it was a pretty reasonable question. It only presented one problem—I had no idea where Claire lived, so I couldn’t make up an address near her. I only had one choice.

  “I live about ten minutes south of the school, near the city library.” My lack of a filter was simply stunning. Not only had I told this boy my real name, but I had given him a general idea of where I actually lived. This was not good for business at all, and something had to be done.

  “Well, I need to get going,” I finally said through gritted teeth. “Can’t miss English . . . I’ll see you at lunch.” And with that I got up and quickly made my way to Mrs. Sanders’ class. At least there I’d have two hours to pull myself together so I could finish the job without any more blunders.

  Today, much to my relief, we were watching a movie about a book we’d just read. Thank goodness for burned-out high school teachers who would rather check their email while we watched a movie instead of actually teaching us something. Mrs. Sanders definitely looked exhausted, and there was a little rumor flitting around the school that she had recently taken to drinking large quantities of alcohol in her living room while trying to grade papers. This rumor probably wasn’t true, since I didn’t know a single person who would want to spend their Friday night hiding out in a teacher’s living room, but it definitely made for interesting gossip. At least, it was good gossip for people who actually had friends to gossip with. I waved away my pang of self-pity and took a deep breath, preparing myself to dive headfirst into my newly developed problem named David while the rest of the class pretended to watch the reenactment of a classic novel.

  All right, so, David knew my name and sort of knew where I lived. No big deal, I could always get rid of him quickly and just never answer my door again. This boy wouldn’t pose a threat to my business or me because I wouldn’t let him. Besides, he probably just liked me and wanted to get to know me more. I’d broken up with enough guys for enough girls to know how their minds worke
d. All I had to do was tell him his girlfriend wanted to break up with him. It wasn’t that hard, just a few simple words, to be exact. And who cares if I don’t do it gently and he gets his heart broken? Well . . . I suppose I did, and Claire did. The only reason I even have a job is so that boys don’t get hurt by the breakup or at least don’t feel like it was their girlfriend’s fault. So just ending it without somehow making it seem all right was out of the question.

  I tapped my thumb impatiently against the desk, causing a few people to turn and throw me dirty looks. I gave them a too-bright smile and continued tapping away, un-phased by their unvoiced threats. Besides, none of these people knew who I was anyway, and by next week I’d probably have a different hair color and personality. They probably just wondered why they kept getting a new student every week who sat in the same place in their English class.

  When the bell finally rang for lunch, I had no real plan and absolutely no idea what I was doing. I bought a bag of chips and a bottle of water so that, if need be, I could stuff my face when David asked difficult questions, which I assumed he inevitably would. Seeing David, I sat down next to him, allowing myself to actually look at him and size up his threat level. David was definitely good looking; there was no denying that fact. Even someone like me who never noticed that kind of thing could tell that he would be the type of boy girls fell in love with and swore their favorite songs described perfectly. Today his shaggy blond hair hung in his eyes. He would absently run his fingers through it to get it out of the way, doing it all with a small crooked smile. He was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt, despite the day’s perfect weather.