A Field Guide for Heartbreakers

by Kristen Tracy

  “Go around the block two more times.”

  “But I don’t want to see that slut who looks like Celerie again.”

  “Cut a bigger block and avoid her altogether. Here. I’ll come with you.”

  “I don’t want a babysitter,” Veronica said. “You don’t need to sit on top of me!” She ran across the street without looking for traffic and hurried down the sidewalk.

  Watching these events unfold brought me back to my Hamilton tragedy. I squeezed my eyes shut. Fresh into my first broken heart, I didn’t want to be this close to more heartache. I craved solitude. No. That’s a lie. I craved what every dumpee craves. My dumper. I knew it was wrong to want this. Because what kind of guy breaks up with his girlfriend by reading her a typed (and laminated) list of her three worst flaws? Who thinks to make a list and has access to a laminating machine? He read me my flaws in the order of least offensive to most. It had felt like I was being stoned. First, by the sound of Hamilton’s voice as he uttered my shortcomings. Then, by the accuracy with which he landed his blows. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

  I’d felt so bruised by the event that in the weeks since I’d received the list and hidden it in my underwear drawer, I hadn’t told anyone about its existence. Even Veronica. Which wasn’t that surprising. Because, as Hamilton pointed out in what he deemed my first and least significant flaw, I had a habit of selectively withholding important information for the sake of creating a more pleasant reality.

  Boz’s shadow stayed positioned behind his computer. What was he looking at? Couldn’t he sense that his universe was about to blow up? He leaned back and stretched his arms over his head. Nothing about the image seemed to foreshadow disaster.

  When Veronica returned she looked like she had a better handle on her emotions.

  “I won’t crack him over the head unless he tells me something devastating,” she said.

  “Veronica, please don’t get violent.”

  She looked at me like she was surprised to hear that advice. “If he breaks up with me, I’ll die,” she said.

  “But you might be getting worked up over nothing. You don’t even know if those two were together at all. Maybe he’s part of a carpool that just started.”

  “Boz is not part of a carpool!” Veronica said.

  “Let’s just go home and look at our suitcases. I’ll let you zip me up in mine this time.”

  Veronica pushed my door open wide and crouched at my side. “That’s not what I want,” she said. “I need to save my relationship!”

  She stood up, and I watched her trek across the lawn. Even when she wasn’t furious she had a fierce and sizable stride. She rang the doorbell three times, but Boz stayed put. She pounded on the door with her fist. She kicked it with her shoe. His shadow didn’t budge.

  I opened my door. “I think he’s listening to his iPod,” I yelled.

  Veronica looked at the window, then reached down and picked up a couple of rocks. They were big. I closed my eyes. But when I heard the bangs, I forced myself to peek. Boz parted his curtains, then stood up and opened his window. He ripped out his earbuds.

  “You’re nuts!” he yelled down. “You could have hit my window.”

  There were two healthy-sized dents in the white vinyl siding of his house.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got excellent aim,” Veronica said.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

  Good question. What was Veronica’s goal in this situation? She bent down to pick up more rocks and walked closer to his window.

  “Where were you last night?” she asked.

  “Is this about Celerie?”

  I tensed. Boz kept raking his hand through his hair, making it stick up in unattractive clumps. He seemed alarmed.

  “What’s the story?” Veronica asked. She raised one of her rock-armed hands.

  “Calm down,” Boz said.

  Veronica lowered her arm, but even that gesture looked menacing. I decided that things were on the brink of going insanely bad, so I got out of the car and made my way to Veronica’s furious and unstable side.

  “I want to know everything,” she called up.

  “Just give us the highlights,” I added.

  I reached out and took hold of Veronica’s right hand. It was still slick with lotion. I held on to it until the rock fell from her fingers.

  “You damaged my house,” Boz said. “When my parents see that, they’re totally going to freak.”

  I was very relieved that his parents didn’t seem to be home.

  “That’s beside the point. Why were you with Celerie?” Veronica asked.

  “I’m helping her build a doghouse,” he said.

  “For what?” Veronica asked.

  “Her dog,” Boz said.

  “What kind of exchange student buys a dog? She can’t take it back to Honduras. You can’t even take fruit into California! They make you throw it away at checkpoints before you can enter the state. Right?” she asked, looking at me.

  “I think you’re right,” I said.

  “And why couldn’t you buy a doghouse that was already assembled?” she shouted.

  I reached for her other hand, but she pulled it away.

  “We thought building it would be more fun,” Boz said.

  “Why do you want to have fun with Celerie? Why are you two out stealing supplies?”

  “That’s basically a misunderstanding. I had permission to take what I took. Mostly,” he said.

  “They wrote up a police report. You’re in trouble,” Veronica told him.

  “They did,” I added. “Gloria informed us at the mall.”

  Boz nodded. “I’ll get it straightened out. It’s totally fine that I took that stuff.”

  “Totally fine?” Veronica asked. “Totally fine? I don’t feel totally fine about any of this.”

  Boz disappeared, and Veronica buried her head in my shoulder. “Why is he doing this to me?”

  “I don’t understand the doghouse project at all,” I admitted. If Hamilton had taken up a project like that with another girl, it would have irritated me quite a bit too.

  “Men suck,” she said.

  “I know how you feel.”

  She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  “It will work out,” I said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You two always end up okay.” I patted her back and rubbed my hand along her bony spine.

  “I need to do something,” she said.

  “I think you are.”

  “No. He needs to learn a lesson.”

  She lifted her head off my shoulder and smiled. Traces of glitter sparkled underneath her nose.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” I said.

  Boz opened his front door and stepped out onto the porch. He looked up at the dents by his window and shook his head.

  “Veronica,” he called. “Come inside so we can talk.”

  “What makes you think I want to talk to you?” she asked.

  “I’m your boyfriend.”

  “Are you?” she asked.

  Boz took several steps toward us. “Of course I am.”

  “You sound so sure and cocky,” she said.

  “What’s your point?” he asked. “Are you threatening to break up with me?”

  Veronica took out her lip gloss and applied a fresh coat. “No,” she said, slowly shaking her head.

  “Then what?” asked Boz.

  “I’m not threatening. I am breaking up with you.”

  I heard myself gasp. I looked at Boz, then Veronica, then back at Boz.

  “You’re joking,” he said. “You love me. You can’t dump me. We’re perfect for each other.”

  “You’re cheating on me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “It feels like you are.”

  “But you’re wrong.”

  “But it feels like I’m right.”

  “That’s because you’re terrible at reasoning,” he said.

 
Veronica took a deep breath and tossed her rock onto his porch. It skittered across the cement and landed in a holly bush. I hated the idea that a union between two people could end so suddenly.

  “I’m out,” she said.

  “Do you want me to call you later?” Boz asked.

  “Why would I want that?”

  I thought about trying to force them to patch things up. But I just stood there and watched their two-year union disintegrate.

  “You’re breaking up with me in front of Dessy?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Things haven’t been working for me for quite some time. I mean, this relationship hasn’t been firing on both engines for a while.”

  “Are you being serious?” he asked.

  “As a heart attack. I’ll have Dessy return any of your crap that’s still in my possession before we fly to Prague. And you should do the same. No need to hang on to my crap any longer than you have to.”

  “Don’t do this, Veronica,” he pleaded. “Let’s talk.”

  “Call Celerie. I’m sure she’ll talk to you all night long.”

  She flipped around, and I watched her small-waisted shadow walk to her car.

  “This is awkward,” I told Boz.

  “She’s joking, right?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Whatever. She’ll change her mind,” he said. “I know Veronica.”

  Watching the reaction of a fellow dumpee made me realize how pathetic a dumpee looks.

  He raised a fist over his head and shouted, “I’m not finished, Veronica. This isn’t over until we both say it’s over.”

  He was in total denial. And I could relate. Being in such close proximity to a second breakup, so near my own, stirred up all these feelings of helplessness and vulnerability. Hamilton Stacks didn’t love me anymore. Given the choice between being with me and being alone, he’d chosen the latter. He preferred to be with nothing. It hit me hard. Even with three flaws, was I that bad? It was easy to feel doomed. Would my flaws always drive guys away?

  I heard Veronica start her Audi. Then she honked. “I guess I’ll see you later.” I waved good-bye to Boz and walked over and got inside her car.

  “I feel awful about this,” I said. “It’s like the apocalypse of relationships.”

  “I don’t feel bad. Boz will be here when I get back.”

  “So you weren’t even being serious?” I asked.

  “Oh, I was being serious. I had to do this. I had to do something so big that he’d feel my absence like an elephant on his heart the entire time I’m gone. Plus, now I can go to Prague like the cheetah I really am and have some fun.”

  “You mean you did this so you can look for a guy in Prague?”

  “No. A man, Dessy. Those college studs won’t know what hit them. And neither will Boz; I plan on e-mailing him photos of all my conquests and adventures. By the time I get back, he’ll be so crazy in love with me, I won’t even know what to do with him.”

  “That seems risky,” I said.

  “I’m the walking definition of risk,” Veronica said.

  My skin goose pimpled. “What if you end up hurting him so badly that he can’t forgive you?”

  “That won’t happen. Quit being such a wet sock.” She punched me in the arm again, harder than her average slug. “We’re going to have the time of our lives in Prague. You can count on it.”

  I thought about telling her that she meant wet blanket not sock. But I was tired. It had been a long and crazy day. I leaned my head against my window and let my mind drift to Hamilton. More than once we’d talked about backpacking through Europe. Just the two of us. I pictured him sitting with me on a park bench in France, kissing me under the soft glow of a Paris streetlamp. In my head he was still mine. And I let him trip around in there the entire way home. I missed him.

  In the darkness I watched Ohio fly by. Bushes. Trees. Turnoffs. Mile markers. We drove in silence as cars on the other side of the freeway zoomed by, lighting up our faces in the white flash of their headlights.

  Chapter Four

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving the country,” my mother said. She glanced at me in the rearview mirror, flashing me a nervous smile. Overhead, jet-liners soared into the bright blue day. In a few minutes we would arrive at Hopkins. I was about to become a bona fide international traveler. There was no turning back. My newly acquired passport would have a stamp in it. My life felt surreal.

  “Prague is a great introduction to Europe,” Mrs. Knox said. “Easy to get around. Safe. Fairly cheap. Great dumplings.” She sat in the passenger seat, completely relaxed, looking out the window. Mrs. Knox looked like a cross between a mother and a politician. She was slim, serious, and wore a lot of blazers. Her hairstyle was the only thing that didn’t fit this pattern. It strongly resembled Veronica’s: lots of long, flowing brown layers.

  “Rome wasn’t a bad starter city either,” Veronica said to me. “Did I tell you about all the gnocchi I ate?” She pinched my leg and released a low growl.

  Even as we approached the airport I found myself poring over another definitive eyewitness travel guide.

  “I want to visit the Church of Saint Nicholas,” I said. “It says here it’s the best example of High Baroque north of the Alps.” I slid the book toward Veronica so she could see the picture.

  “Cool pipe organ,” she said.

  I felt the car make an unexpected left turn as my mother pulled into the Rite Aid parking lot. “I thought of something Dessy might need,” she said. She parked near the entrance and left the engine running. “I’ll hurry.” I watched my mother race out of the car and fly into the store.

  “I should probably go in too,” Mrs. Knox said. “After reading the first of the workshop stories, I’ve come to the realization that I’m going to need more red ink.” She climbed out of the car and followed my mother.

  “Considering my mom’s age and the amount of bread she consumes, I think her butt looks pretty good,” Veronica said. She leaned forward between the driver and passenger seat and flipped on the radio. “What station is this?”

  “NPR,” I said.

  Veronica turned it to something loud that involved drums and guitars. Then she opened her bag, grabbed a handful of peanuts, and shoved them in her mouth. “What does this city have to offer in terms of nightlife?”

  I hadn’t researched that. “We’re definitely not old enough to go to clubs,” I said. “But there’s this thing called Black Light Theater that looks fun. Originating in the 1960s, it says here that Black Light Theater uses black curtains and UV lighting and fluorescent costumes to make mystifying visual effects.” I flipped to a page of two headless people wearing blue glowing unitards, bending to form the letter K.

  Veronica threw a peanut at me. “I heard there’s a ton of dance clubs and that they play awesome music. Techno. Trance. Jungle. Everything.”

  I had never heard the words trance or jungle used to describe music. I turned the page in my travel book, exited Prague, and entered Bavaria. A crazy castle with enormous spires sat atop a fog-crested green hill.

  “Do you think there’s a chance we might be able to make a weekend trip to Bavaria?” I asked.

  “Bavaria? Dessy, nobody goes to Bavaria.”

  Our mothers returned at the same time, each carrying a small plastic bag.

  “I bought you this, Dessy,” my mother said, handing me her sack. I opened it up. It was an extra disposable camera. “I want you to be able to snap shots of everything you see.” She glanced at me in the rearview mirror as she pulled into traffic. “Don’t skimp. Shoot your heart out.”

  When we reached the airport, my mother waited by my side in maternal fashion until I took off my shoes and plunked them into a gray plastic bin. When my carry-on had passed through the metal detector, the airport worker made it clear that my mother couldn’t go any farther.

  “I love you,” she said, rubbing my shoulder.

  I held up my boarding pass, and walked through the m
etal detector without setting off the series of loud, accusatory beeps.

  “Wash your hands a lot,” my mother called. “You aren’t used to European germs.”

  My gray bin rolled out of the machine and collided with another gray bin. I grabbed my shoes, dropped them on the floor, and tried to stuff my feet in them as quickly as possible. Another bin—Veronica’s—smashed into mine. I grabbed my backpack and threw it over my shoulder. When I turned to wave good-bye, I saw my mother crying. Why was she crying? She shouldn’t be crying.

  “Call home!” she yelled.

  “I will!” I said.

  Veronica grabbed her shoes from her bin and made a gagging sound. I waited by her side until she had all her things in hand.

  “Your mother is acting deranged,” she said. She walked in her socks and didn’t seem concerned about re-shoeing herself anytime soon. “Only crazy people yell that loudly in airports.”

  But I was glad she’d yelled. My mother’s voice echoed in my head as we passed the hot dog cart, and pretzel shop, and coffee hut, and cinnamon roll stand, and fruit smoothie booth.

  In the terminal, Veronica’s mother sat down across from us and opened her writing satchel. As a closeted aspiring writer I’d always coveted her writing satchel. It looked leathery and sophisticated and literary. I watched her pull out a pile of papers.

  “Are you working on a new story?” I asked.

  “No,” Veronica said. “She has writer’s block. Bad.”

  Mrs. Knox sent Veronica a stern look. “How old are you? Twelve?” She turned to me. “They’re stories from our workshop.”

  “When you criticize my maturity level in front of Dessy and random airport people—something Dad would never do—it only makes me want to regress more,” Veronica interrupted.

  This fight had been brewing for some time. And I hated being dragged into it.

  Mrs. Knox gave Veronica her full attention. “Put your shoes on.”

  Veronica shook her head. “I’ve regressed to the point where I no longer require footwear.”

  “If you step on something sharp, then you’re on your own,” Mrs. Knox said.

  “I’ve actually felt that way for a while. Come on, Dessy, let’s go buy useful crap for the flight.” She moved her backpack next to her mother’s seat. “Do you mind watching this for me?”