The Break-Up Artist

by Philip Siegel

  “Real suave, Steve.”

  “Then there was a century-long awkward moment, and it hit me. I am going to get kissed. My life is going to change. I picked it up and asked, ‘So what’s this for?’ Then he kissed me, and I just knew.”

  “You knew that you were in love with him?” I ask. I roll my eyes.

  “Yes. I didn’t know it was love at the time, but I knew it was something.”

  That something was a gargantuan leap in her social standing at the expense of our friendship. I didn’t know about the mouthwash story. I had heard about their hookup at Travis’s party secondhand. Not from her, of course. Does she really not remember what her life was like when they began dating? Has she suppressed it so completely that she honestly doesn’t remember what she did to me? I keep these thoughts to myself. I’m so close. Once I break up her and Steve, I can fill in the gaps of her revisionist history.

  The doorbell rings, and my heart jumps for some strange reason. This is just research, with food involved.

  “Did I just hear a doorbell?” Huxley asks.

  “You did.” I peek out my window and see a guy in a blazer and jeans. I check myself once again in the mirror and take a deep breath.

  “Come with me to Chris Gomberg’s party tomorrow night. Prepare to be grilled in the car ride over,” she says. “Good luck!”

  “You, too. I hope everything works out with Steve.” I hang up and jog down the stairs, which can be deadly in heels.

  “Have fun tonight,” Diane says. She leans on the banister with a bowl of popcorn nestled in her arm. “Try not to get pregnant.”

  “Thanks.”

  The doorbell rings again. I’m about to answer it when Diane pulls me back and scans my face.

  “Don’t get too excited, B. It’s just a first date, and I can tell you how they end.”

  I open the door. Colin Baker flashes his dimpled smile. I didn’t know those people in catalogs existed in the wild until now.

  “You must be Becca,” Colin Baker says. Even his voice is cute. “Nice to meet you.”

  * * *

  I bite into the best salmon I’ve ever eaten while gazing at a luminous New York skyline. Meanwhile, a guy bursting with charm and good looks engages me in conversation about my life and seems genuinely interested. Can a Friday night get any better? No.

  Then why do I feel bored?

  “Curling?” he asks in disbelief.

  “It’s like shuffleboard on ice.” I take a sip of my Diet Coke. “It’s big in Canada.”

  He lets out a hearty laugh.

  “Have you ever been to Canada? I once went skiing at Whistler in British Columbia. It was probably the nicest place I’ve ever been to.”

  “Nicer than New Jersey?” I ask.

  “Let’s call New Jersey a close second.” Hearty laugh again. It’s yet another adorable part of Colin Baker.

  I glance at the skyline again and try to count how many buildings I see. Colin Baker is the textbook definition of great-boyfriend material. He would meet any girl’s criteria. I should be kissing Huxley’s feet for fixing me up with him, not tallying skyscrapers. But the thing is, Colin Baker knows a little bit about a lot of things, but he can’t go in-depth on a topic. It amounts to pleasant small talk.

  Or maybe this is what dates are like—a test to see if two people are compatible enough to transition into a relationship.

  My ears perk up when Colin brings up Steve. Their families are friends, and the two have spent many semi-important holidays together. He tells me about fond memories of one-on-one basketball and Steve’s impeccable barbecue skills. Steve seems like a good friend to have, popularity reasons aside.

  “That’s great that your colleges are near each other,” I say. Colin is attending Drexel University in Philadelphia in the fall. I’m sure the admissions office swooned over him. “Are you excited that Steve’s going to Vermilion?”

  Colin gets an uneasy look and takes a sip of water. “It’ll be great to see him.”

  He cuts himself off, but I gather he’d be willing to elaborate if I played it right.

  “Yeah. It’s a shame he’s not playing football there. He’s such a great athlete. I know Chandler University is still interested.”

  “They are?” Colin asks. He puts down his fork. “His family would love that.”

  “Really? They’re not happy about Vermilion?” I ask in my most naive voice. “But it’s a good school, and close by.”

  “And expensive. His parents can’t afford it, and my dad heard that they aren’t offering him a scholarship.”

  “He can take out loans.”

  “He’ll be drowning in debt until he’s forty. Truth is, Huxley’s family can pay for it no problem. They’re loaded.” He jams a piece of steak into his mouth.

  “Have they offered?” I sit at the edge of my chair. The candle on the table gives Colin an earthy glow.

  “Not that I know of. Steve would be furious if she did.”

  “She’d be trying to help.”

  “But he’d be like their property. He already feels self-conscious being around the Mapothers. That would strip away his pride.”

  The waiter arrives with a fresh Diet Coke for me. I let him take away my plate. That’s the most passionate Colin Baker has been tonight. Maybe I’m not the only one who wants to break up Huxley and Steve.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. He readjusts his glasses. “I like Huxley. I do. I shouldn’t have said anything. What can I say? You’re easy to talk to.” His lip curls up slightly when he smiles. Cute. Add it to the list.

  “I get that a lot.”

  Colin swirls his water glass around and gazes at me. “You are beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Want to go for a walk after dinner?”

  * * *

  We stroll along the Hudson holding hands, and we’re not the only pair here. It’s a parade of couples. New York glows in the moonlight, so peaceful from our viewpoint. This must be what every girl dreams of for a first date, so why do I still feel bored?

  I want to kick myself for not floating on air. Maybe people melt over these empty motions because it’s one step closer to being in a relationship, and I just know better. Colin is doing everything right, but it just seems like the logical order of a first date. I should feel nervous-excited, but instead, I’m just nervous.

  Colin stops at a bench next to a magnifying viewer where I can see the city up close. He leans on it while I look into a window on the Chrysler building. “Have you ever seen the Chrysler Building up close?”

  “I haven’t.”

  This all seems like a setup from some romantic comedy. I’m by no means a date expert, but I see how things are lining up. The dinner, the walk, the quiet area.

  And next up is the kiss.

  I’m on a roller coaster, and we’re slowing cranking toward the top. I think I’m having a heart attack.

  C’mon, Becca. You should be enjoying this. Where are the freaking butterflies? I stare at Colin’s disarming smile. Maybe if I concentrate, I can feel what he’s feeling. Is he really feeling this? With me?

  “You all right?” he asks. He holds my hand for support.

  “Yes.”

  He’s holding my hand!

  Next stop: kiss. If we kiss, then we’ll have to see each other again, and if we go on another date, he’ll ask me to be his girlfriend, and then I’ll be locked into being his girlfriend for who knows how long. Isn’t that how it works? I know we’re outside but somehow there are still walls and they are closing in on me and I am locked inside a tiny box with Colin Baker.

  I return to the viewer. I stare intently at the Chrysler Building for a good minute. I can’t make eye contact. If I do, the roller coaster is going to teeter over.

 
“The city is so beautiful, I could gaze at it for hours,” he says. That better be an expression. “Wow, you really like the Chrysler Building.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty. I’ve only seen it get destroyed in action movies.” I press my forehead harder against the viewer. I can feel the metal on my skull. I’ll bet Ezra could name at least five movies where the Chrysler Building got destroyed. He’d crinkle his forehead as he thought up the list, the eyes would go up and to the left....

  Pull it together, Williamson. I grip the handles with the intention of never letting go.

  Things go back to quiet. Until I feel his hands. Massaging my shoulders. I steel myself and think of janitors working in the Chrysler offices and those mops with the rectangular heads.

  “It’s so high up,” I say.

  He doesn’t respond. Instead, he kisses my neck.

  Make it stop! Make it stop!

  No, Becca. You stop. This guy is great. This is what you want. Why are you resisting Colin Baker?

  He caresses my fingers. No, not caressing. He’s trying to unhook them from the handles. He’s trying to turn me around.

  The roller coaster is cranking higher. I can see the top.

  I keep my fingers strapped on the handles. It’ll be over soon. He’ll give up. I am such a terrible person.

  He reverts to massaging my shoulders. I can’t talk. My throat is closed for business. I fear that anything I say will be a trigger to kissing.

  “Relax,” he whispers into my ear.

  “I am.” My voice shoots up three hundred octaves. We’re talking castrato levels.

  “What’s wrong? Is there someone else?”

  “What? No!” I jerk around to face him, and my elbow makes contact.

  Colin Baker holds his adorable hands over his adorable face and gawks at me with those adorable eyes.

  “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

  He pulls back his hands. Even his bloody nose is adorable.

  25

  Did I really give my dream date a bloody nose? Only crazy people and women on reality shows do something like that. Was there somebody else? Does that count Ezra even though he is taken? He may have been on my mind because of our talk, but I wasn’t some mindless fan girl fawning over him like Colin Baker suggested. Because that would be crazy.

  Right?

  I bury my head into the couch cushion for good measure, to knock out the crazy.

  “Becca, don’t do that. Your makeup will stain,” my mom says. She rubs my feet while us Williamsons sit around watching TV like an all-American family.

  I get a text buzzing in my pocket: I’m outside.

  I feel for the paper in my other pocket, making sure it’s still there. “I’m going,” I tell my family.

  “You never said how it went with your date,” Diane says. I don’t know how to answer that question without turning red. She rests the container of hummus on her stomach. I wish she had plans tonight that didn’t involve using her body as a snack table.

  “What are you guys up to tonight?” I ask. I spot the calendar hanging on the wall. “Isn’t tonight your anniversary?”

  “It is. Thanks for the card,” my mom says.

  “Sorry.” We all know how forgetful I am when it comes to greeting cards; as far as character flaws go, it’s pretty minor, and my parents just laugh it off nowadays. “Aren’t you doing anything to celebrate?”

  She peruses her People magazine. “There’s something about Iraq on TV tonight your dad wants to watch.”

  “Iran–Contra.” He gestures to the TV.

  I grab a pretzel log on my way out the door. “Don’t party too hard,” I say, although it’d be nice if they would.

  Huxley’s Range Rover waits by the curb. She scowls at me when I step in.

  “Did you have fun disfiguring Colin Baker?”

  * * *

  Huxley zooms down Radburn Avenue, going at least fifteen miles above the speed limit.

  “I am beyond livid.” She flicks streams of hair behind her shoulders. Her sleek legs peek out from her tight skirt. She is dressed to party.

  “I sent him an email apologizing,” I say halfheartedly. I can’t give her an explanation because I don’t have one. And Ezra is not an explanation. “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s fine. Luckily, you have very little upper-arm strength.” At a stoplight, she checks her makeup in the rearview mirror before shaking her head at me. The condescension is annoying, but not unwarranted. Hearing her chew me out makes it real. I ruined my date with Colin Baker.

  “He has his senior yearbook photo next week, Rebecca. What were you thinking?”

  What was I thinking?

  “I am so sorry.”

  “He’s Steve’s family friend. They must think I’m unhinged for associating with you. He took you to the nicest restaurant in Bergen County.” Huxley does some more head shaking. She’s not done, though. She swerves into the right lane and makes a sharp turn. I clutch my seat belt.

  “I tried. I just don’t get it.” She’s half talking to me, half thinking out loud. “I said I would find you a boyfriend, and I did. Guys like Colin don’t come around that often.”

  She makes it sound as if he was my only ticket to freedom, some once-in-a-lifetime chance, rather than my first first date. “Huxley, he’s a nice guy. I just didn’t feel a connection.” Such a cliché, but so true. If Colin went to Ashland, he would be one of those people who you say hi to in halls and talk about that one class you have together. We just couldn’t break past the small-talk barrier, even without my distraction.

  “You don’t throw that away, not someone in your position.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s be real. Colin would’ve done wonders for your status. He’s flawless boyfriend material, and he was into you.”

  “But I wasn’t into him. Is that not allowed?” I sound pleading. I’m on trial here, for being single in the first degree.

  “No. Not when your social life doesn’t have a pulse. It’s like you want to be alone and miserable forever, Rebecca. Like you’re trying to prove a point or something.”

  The fact that she can spew venom without blinking is sickening. My blood boils. I was just a charity case to her, never a friend. I can’t wait for this all to be over.

  “Well, I am done helping,” she says. “Enjoy spinsterhood.”

  “I forgot what an expert you are on relationships,” I snap back. “Where’s Steve tonight?”

  I catch her off guard. “He went ahead with some friends.”

  “I hope nothing happens between you two. I’d hate to see you return to your old status.”

  * * *

  Darkness covers the town. The streetlights provide a waning, yellow light. We turn onto Chris Gomberg’s block—a peaceful, rambling street. Except for the thumping bass emanating from the third house on the left. Huxley parks down the street, to protect her car from scratches and random acts of vomiting.

  We cram into Chris’s house, along with what seems like the rest of Ashland High. Kids set up camp on the stairs, in the halls. Huxley gets her share of looks and double takes when we arrive. Kindling for the rumor fire.

  Chris’s parents are present, but not supervising. His dad pumps the keg while reminiscing about his high-school glory days. Huxley and I push through to the kitchen, where Chris’s mom acts as bartender. She pours Steve what’s probably his fourth shot of tequila. Guys crowd around Steve, egging him on.

  “C’mon, Stevie Wonder! You can do one more shot,” she says. Her tank-top strap falls off her shoulder. If it weren’t for her leathery, tanned face, you would never know she’s an adult.

  “I don’t know,” he says loudly. He chugs the rest of his beer. “Beer before liquor makes you sicker.”

&n
bsp; “Beer before liquor. Get drunk quicker!” She high-fives nearby guys.

  “Don’t worry, Hux,” Greg Baylor yells. “We’re keeping an eye on him.” Then all the guys burst out laughing.

  Huxley purses her lips as her controlled expression slips away. She grabs my hand, and we squeeze up to the bar.

  Mrs. Gomberg sprinkles salt on Steve’s arm, sticks a lime in his right hand, and the shot glass in the other.

  I weave through the crowd to get close to Steve. The mob of drunken classmates smothers us. He’s so trashed, he doesn’t feel me snatch his phone from his pocket. I use my coat to hide my hand.

  “On the count of three. One...two...”

  Huxley swipes the shot glass out of Steve’s hand. He gives her a puppy-dog look like a child whose favorite toy was taken away.

  “Steve, can we go somewhere and talk?” Huxley asks.

  She pulls him to an oversize chair in the living room. Everyone at the bar groans. The fun police came. Steve swoops out of Huxley’s grasp and runs back to the bar, downs his shot, then casually strides back to his girlfriend.

  As the bar area erupts in cheers, I splinter off and go to the upstairs bathroom. I only have a few minutes before Steve realizes he is phoneless. The door is locked, and a girl slurs out “One second” from the other side. Great. Can’t she just pee in the front bushes like a proper drunk partyer?

  Two minutes later, she pulls open the door and I am face-to-face with Isabelle Amabile, Ezra’s ex-girlfriend. What’s the protocol between ex-girlfriends and friends of current girlfriends? I think the rules state we’re supposed to hate each other. Girls have to hate each other whenever a guy is involved. That’s a mandate or something.

  “It’s all yours.” She steps aside and holds on to a picture frame for support.

  I walk into the purple-tiled bathroom, but Isabelle shoves her hand in the doorway.

  “Tell Val to watch out.” She wags her finger in my face.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s not going to last. He’ll find some flaw, then another, then someone else, and abracadabra. He’s gone before you know it.”

  My face contorts into a grimace, and now I have no need to hate her. I just pity her.