How to Break a Boy

by Laurie Devore

  “No problem,” Vera squeaks. She pulls her notebook to her chest and picks up her tray, walking away toward the trash can.

  “What are you doing?” Whit asks me once she’s out of earshot.

  “Sitting.” I gesture around the table. “It’s a free country, isn’t it?”

  “Leave her alone. I’m sure slumming it is hilarious to you, but come on—”

  “I was being nice.” I watch Vera’s back. “Has she always been in love with Ethan?”

  “Yeah, it’s—” He shrugs off the question. “She’s a nice girl. She means well, and the last thing she needs is you messing with her.”

  I cross my arms over my chest defensively. “I wasn’t.” He looks after Vera, away from me. He’s turned to leave when I blurt out: “Why haven’t you told anyone?”

  He stops, back turned to me. Motions for Vera to wait for him by the door. Turns back. “Are you a masochist?” he asks.

  “Is that synonymous with loser?”

  “You’re one of the most popular people in school,” he informs me. “For reasons I can’t even begin to fathom.”

  “And you could ruin it,” I say, biting into a cold piece of macaroni. “So do it.”

  He shakes his head. “Then you’ll think I care.”

  “You could at least hold it over me or something.” I chew. Swallow. “That’s what Adrienne would do.” I glance up, and he catches my eye and holds my gaze for a minute before looking away.

  “I can’t imagine a bigger waste of time than holding something over you.”

  “There probably isn’t one.” I drain my Diet Coke. It’s all methodical. Easy.

  I could probably choke down a nail if I put my mind to it.

  Without another word, Whit turns on his heel and goes to catch Vera at the door. I watch him with disinterest, the door swinging shut behind them as they go. He hates me. Well, not me, I guess. More like a symbol of everything he thinks is wrong with this place—a living, breathing reminder that sometimes, nastiness is rewarded.

  To him, I’m not a person.

  Fair enough. I still haven’t figured out how to be one.

  21

  The Rough House smells like pizza, beer, and crushed dreams.

  I figure Claire has to be here. It’s the only free Friday we have during football season, so she was supposed to pick up a shift. My eyes scan the room for her, but I find only Ellie behind the bar. I approach with caution to ask if she’s seen Claire.

  Mr. Peters, who owns the Rough House, sits at the end of the bar, sipping on a drink. This is generally where you will find him, as he is technically, per letter of the law, not allowed to leave Ellie alone at the bar. She’s eighteen, so she can serve the beers, as long as she is not pouring or popping tops. The kind of contrived law that backwoods folks love and love to gossip about. Everyone and their mom knows Ellie tends bar at the Rough House when she’s not cutting classes at Central High. That’s why half of the customers come out.

  The other half come out because they haven’t found Jesus yet.

  Ellie’s wiping down the bar, her long brown hair sticking out on all sides from her fishtail braid. I stop in front of her with a soft hey. Her wiping slows precipitously as she looks up at me.

  “What’s up, Olivia?”

  There’s a reason the guys at the Rough House love Ellie. She is one of those effortlessly cool girls you see in movies, the kind of person you want desperately to emulate, even knowing you would fall pathetically short. She’s like a Cali surf goddess dropped into Buckley, South Carolina, and I’m jealous of her for it.

  I was jealous she became Claire’s new best friend when they started working together. Until I found out they were dating. Or in love. Or whatever you are when you’re best friends who like to make out back in the Rough House alley.

  Then again, maybe I was even more jealous then. Claire was supposed to be my best friend first, and I never liked sharing.

  “Have you seen Claire?” I ask.

  She tosses her rag out of sight. “Nope.” Cool indifference drops from her voice, and she glances at Mr. Peters sitting with a regular at the bar. “She missed her shift.”

  “She wasn’t at school.” I sit down at the bar stool to make it clear I am not leaving.

  “Mr. Peters, are you good?” Ellie calls down to the other side of the bar. He raises his beer in reply. I grimace at the pair of them, the complete depression dripping from the ceiling and covering them whole. The Rough House—alcoholics by day, fake IDs by night. Satisfied that the men are preoccupied, Ellie leans down in front of me, elbows on the bar, face in hands. “What’s going on over there? Everyone at school today was saying people were sending all sorts of outrageous texts yesterday. Somebody had, like, screenshots that were supposedly from Adrienne’s phone.”

  Central had always been Buckley’s big brother, but it was an incestuous relationship. Central had more—a mall and a community college and even a couple of hipster-y restaurants. But gossip flowed back and forth between us. Gossip and relationships and vitriol. Everyone at Central High would know Buckley High’s despair.

  “So you heard, then? Did Claire say anything to you?” I ask. She knows more than she’s letting on, but she wants me to say it. She wants this on us—me and Adrienne—but she also knows she hurt Claire first.

  It’s easier to blame her than myself. If the guilt works, I can’t tell. Ellie shrugs.

  “No one knows that it was you. If you were worried.”

  “Don’t try to scare me,” Ellie says. “I don’t have time for that.”

  I tilt my bar stool back. “That’s so not the point.”

  Ellie glances down at her fingernails for a minute, flicking at a piece of dead skin on her cuticle. “Everyone at Central is saying they heard Adrienne was with Ethan Masters now. That you saw them hooking up but didn’t care, because you’d pretty much gone off the deep end anyway. What’s that about?” She looks back up at me, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

  My throat feels dry. “If you heard it, it must be true.”

  Ellie holds up her hands in defense. “Just telling you. It’s better to know what’s being said. Anyway, you know what I did.” She glances at Mr. Peters. “After we broke up.”

  I don’t know what she did. Claire won’t tell me. When Ellie gets mentioned, all we hear about is how well her volleyball season is going and how she must be so busy and how she can’t wait to go to lunch with her sometime because oh my God they’re still best friends and that’s it—just like all the straight girls. “What did you do?” I ask, feeling contempt for pretty, perfect Ellie.

  “I started dating Thomas Cruz. He’s accepted a baseball scholarship to Florida and has an absolutely phenomenal body.”

  “That’s a bitch move.”

  Ellie points at me. “Coxie is a bitch move. She never even broke up with him, O. Even you have to think that’s fucked.”

  “She wasn’t sleeping with Coxie,” I return.

  “Only because she doesn’t want to, with him or any other boy,” Ellie snaps at me. “Like that makes it okay. What if I had been dating a guy at the same time we were together? Bet it wouldn’t have been ‘no big deal’ then. Anyone would have ended it and moved on.”

  I watch her, silent.

  “But whatever, I don’t want to talk about it—that wasn’t my point. I’m just saying, if you don’t want to hear about Adrienne and Ethan, change the conversation. That’s the only way you won’t look pathetic. Hook up with someone else. Date someone better than Ethan.”

  “I don’t want to date anyone. It’s exhausting,” I say, thinking of the energy-zapping moments spent trying to keep our relationship alive day by day. Trying not to let him slip away because I was unstable and ridiculous and didn’t know how to love him all the way.

  “It’s all perception. And sex, of course. You think Thomas isn’t temporary? We all need a rebound sometimes, O.” Ellie looks away from me, picking up her rag and turning to the soda machine. �
��You can go now. Tell Claire she better be at work tomorrow if she doesn’t want to get her ass fired.” And then she turns on the loud spray cleaner.

  As I leave, I think about what she said.

  Perception is everything.

  22

  The weekend gives me some time to think. Claire sends me a text that she’s all right and asks to cancel our usual Claire-Ade-O Sunday lunch at the Rough House. It’s fine with me, as it’s more time I can spend out of Adrienne’s orbit, where it’s harder for her to manipulate me.

  I formulate a plan.

  I’ve learned a lot about getting my way over the years.

  I think it’s a talent I picked up when I was young. Probably had something to do with Mom—getting my way with her was nearly impossible. So I started figuring out how to get it from other people.

  That’s why it’s important that I corner Mr. Doolittle in the hall right after second period on Monday. If I find him in his office, it might take too long. It’s important he does it now.

  He takes his mid-morning break between second and third period to go to the teachers’ lounge and get coffee and a chocolate-chip bagel, which is one of those things that shouldn’t exist.

  I bombard him when he steps out of his office, like I was just about to come in. “Mr. Doolittle, thank God!”

  “Olivia?” His face goes all concerned. “What’s wrong? Do you need to come in?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Want to walk and talk?”

  “All right.”

  So we walk down the hall. “I’ve been so, so down this last week.” This is a nasty, cheap trick that I feel totally gross for using, but hell, I might as well give them what they want. “I really need something new to throw myself into, and I think—well, I know—it’s got to be this SAT prep, but I’ve talked to everyone you mentioned and they’re so busy but Whit—”

  “Whit DuRant?”

  I nod enthusiastically. Then bite my lip just right. “At first, he said he had some free time since golf season isn’t until spring, but I’m having a really hard time with him. He’s so—hostile, I guess.”

  Mr. Doolittle stops walking. “Whit DuRant is hostile?” He sounds incredulous.

  “It’s complicated. He’s holding this grudge against me, and I totally understand—I totally deserve it. But I really feel like I need his help for, like, my journey that we’re always talking about, and I thought if you’d talk to him, maybe everything would be okay.” I look down. “It’s just that I know he has this really negative image of me, and I want to change it. I have to change it. I know it’s stupid.”

  Mr. Doolittle looks like a textbook picture of helpful concern. “This is really important to you?”

  I nod.

  “Let me talk to Mr. DuRant.”

  “Before the end of the day?” I ask.

  “Before I even go back to my office,” he assures me in front of the door of the teachers’ lounge. “I’ll get him out of class.”

  “Oh my God, thank you.” I act like I consider hugging him, but he steps away in fear of sexual harassment charges, no doubt.

  “It’s no problem, Miss Clayton. Whatever I can do to help you.” People who want to help make it so easy to use them.

  He closes the door to the teachers’ lounge in my face. I walk past Adrienne in the hall. And I smile.

  Give ’em what they want.

  * * *

  It’s raining.

  Rain means cheer practice is inside. Adrienne is being especially kind to the girls, cutting through the tension with a smile. She’s getting T-shirts made for the team. Come look at the design, tell me what you think. Omigod, so cute. I can’t believe they buy it.

  I can’t believe I used to. I can’t believe I’m going so far as to avoid her because I’m afraid she might change my mind.

  I’m stretching my arm against one of the walls, standing as far from Adrienne as possible, when I hear my name being shouted across the gym. “Olivia. Clayton!”

  I look up. Whit DuRant stands in the doorway of the boys’ locker room, looking as murderous as is humanly possible while wearing a bright green polo. The rest of the cheerleaders stare at me. I don’t talk to Whit DuRant.

  Until now.

  I go across the gym to where he is, flash him a smile. “What’s up?” I ask nonchalantly.

  He is not amused. “I need to talk to you.”

  “So talk.”

  He glances at the cheer team. “Somewhere else.”

  I shove past him into the boys’ locker room and lean against the wall of the entrance. He turns around, letting the door swing closed behind him. The girls will love this. I snicker.

  “What did you say to Mr. Doolittle?” Whit demands.

  I shrug. “That you wouldn’t help me.”

  He tugs at his hair. “I’m too busy to help you. Why should I have to help you?”

  I throw my hand out to him, so he can see that the answer is so obvious. “It’s, like, your civic duty for being born tall and talented and smart and rich.”

  “Is this some kind of game to you?” His hair is practically standing on end. It’s kind of funny, actually.

  “No.” I step closer to him. “Getting out of this shithole town is not a game to me.”

  “Why do you need me, then? If it matters so much, do it on your own. I don’t want to help you. I don’t like you.”

  “I’ll do a trade-off for it.”

  “A trade-off?” He laughs like he has never heard anything more ridiculous in his entire life. “What do you think you have that I would want?”

  I look at him Very Seriously, like when I used to lie to teachers to get out of tests. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice so saturated in sarcasm, I can see the excess oozing from his pores. “There must be smoke somewhere in the building because I clearly just blacked out. What did you say?”

  I scoff. “You heard me.”

  “Why would I go out with you? What the hell, don’t you have a boyfriend?”

  “No. And I don’t want a boyfriend.” I glance at the closed door to the gym, imagining Adrienne behind it, burning with curiosity. “But you could have sex.”

  I swear, he backs into the door. “Sex?”

  “With me.”

  “With you?”

  I nod.

  “Have you lost your mind? Why would I want anyone to think I was having sex with you, much less actually do it?”

  I fight to keep my face as stoic as possible. Like there has been a time in the history of my life when I have ever felt so totally and completely rejected. Even when I saw Ethan with Adrienne, I didn’t feel quite so unwanted. “What, like you have so much going for you.” I let my eyes linger over his body. Which would admittedly be a perfectly good body if he knew what to do with it. Then back to the eyes. “Sexually or otherwise.”

  “Then why are you asking?”

  I shrug. I can’t tell him because I thought it would work.

  “Seriously,” he says. “What’s in this for you?”

  Another shrug.

  His eyes are hooded, annoyed. “I’ll tutor you. That’s it.”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Fine. Don’t tell anyone we’re dating.”

  Shrug.

  We stand there in silence for a few moments, toe-to-toe. Finally, he says, “Don’t you have practice?”

  “Yeah.” I turn. “Better go.”

  The door swings shut behind me, opening and closing. He stands there, wondering.

  I know he’s curious. Whatever he might say, I can feel him watching my back.

  Whit DuRant. The town golden boy with scholarship offers from colleges coast to coast. He has something that Adrienne can’t get, something that Ethan will never touch. He has respect. He has potential. He has everyone’s attention.

  He’s perfect.

  23

  Whit finds me on Tuesday morning to set up our first session the next day. He still seems suprem
ely annoyed, so I let him go for the day. There’s still plenty of time.

  I notice Adrienne watching me from across the hall as Whit walks off. She’s finally caught me out here alone in the hallway, where I can’t answer her with one-letter texts or run away into a crowd of people. She’s on me in a matter of seconds, her eyes digging into mine. “That’s the second time I’ve seen you talking to Whit DuRant in two days, which is two times more than I’ve ever seen you talking to him before. What gives?”

  I’ve got absolutely nothing yet.

  “He’s going to tutor me. SATs.” I can’t really meet her eye, and I’m not sure why.

  “Since when do you give a shit about the SATs?”

  Since I want to get the hell away from you, I don’t say.

  “God, do you think it would kill him to not be an asshole, though?” she asks, staring at the place where Whit was standing. “Are you going to mess with him?”

  I shrug.

  Adrienne leans back against a locker, crossing her arms. “Yeah.” She shakes her head. “It’s something you would’ve done before.”

  “I don’t bite the hand that feeds,” I say.

  Her eyes flash. “You going to let him feed you?”

  I roll my eyes. Escape. “I don’t have time for this, Ade. I have class.”

  “Of course,” she says as I start to walk away. But she grabs on to my arm before I go. “We’re good, right? Me and you? I feel like you’re still avoiding me, but you wouldn’t lie about us being good.”

  I see people watching us as they walk by. Laughing behind their hands, and I know it’s directed at me. At Olivia Clayton, standing there with the girl who screwed my boyfriend last week. Who wrote how simple it would be to get me back in a text that I forwarded to the entire school. One thought runs through my mind:

  I will ruin her.

  “We’re good.”

  24

  Wednesday afternoon, I take the road headed toward Central. The road toward Adrienne’s. My free hand is out the window. The hot September air plays over my fingers, making waves in the wind.