Love, Bari

Dear Derek,

I did some brainstorming. What can I say? I’m a planner. Why wait for tomorrow when you know what you want today:) I can’t wait to see you at the assembly!

Love, Bari

My footsteps echo in the hallway, and I just keep wondering if all people enjoy their jobs as much as I do.

* * *

I don’t know why the principal doesn’t see it. Assemblies are a waste of time. It takes the school twenty minutes to file in and sit down for a fifteen-minute assembly that only delivers three minutes’ worth of useful information. Val wanders away from her class to sit next to me. She looks at her phone, trying to will an email to populate.

“No response yet?” I ask. We both know the answer, but it’s an excuse to let her talk about Ezra some more.

Val shakes her head no. I want to smack Ezra for not instantly asking Val out.

“What’s my percentage?” she asks.

“What?”

“What’s the percentage chance of Ezra responding?”

“I don’t know. Twenty-five?”

Val’s face drops. “Twenty-five?”

“Or thirty-one.”

Her eyes expand even farther. Two gumballs gawking at me. “That’s all? Not even above fifty?”

I can’t tell if she wants me to be honest. But as my friend, she deserves my moderated gut reaction. I want to cushion the blow in case Ezra doesn’t pan out. “Well, it’s more like twenty-one. You haven’t spoken in person yet.”

“Right, right,” she says, uninterested in cold, hard facts.

“I’m not saying that twenty-one can’t change.”

She appreciates the encouragement, but she remains serious. “Beck, I think I may actually break through with this one. I think there could be something here. I feel it in my bones.”

“Maybe that’s just osteoporosis.”

One of the French teachers shushes me. The principal takes the mic.

“Students, thank you all for coming today. We have an exciting announcement. We received some incremental funds from the school board, a nice figure. And after meetings with the SGA, we’ve created a plan for using these funds to benefit Ashland in the best way possible.” He waits for applause that doesn’t come. It’s not like we’re getting the money personally. “Your SGA president Derek Kelley will walk everyone through the exciting features coming your way over the next year!”

“Thank you,” Derek says, all power and poise on stage. He rests his accordion folder on the podium. “My fellow students, as a result of these funds, we will be building a brand-new, state-of-the-art TV studio and launching a morning news show anchored and run entirely by students. The feed will be hooked up to all classroom TVs.”

Silence. I may have just heard a pin drop one town over.

“Welcome to the nineties,” I whisper to Val.

“Pretty cool, right?” Derek unwinds the cord around the accordion folder and reaches inside. “We anticipate the project will be completed by early May, so even though I’m headed for Princeton—early decision—this fall, I and my fellow seniors can experience this new step forward for Ashland High. I have all the details in this binder.”

In a miracle of obedience, the auditorium remains quiet while Derek opens his binder. I watch closely as he reads the letter taped inside, then flips through the pages.

“Come on!” a kid shouts, but Derek ignores him. He keeps flipping.

Whiteness drains his face of color. By the look in his eyes, you’d think he was looking at photos of POWs—not matrimonial bliss.

“Derek?” The principal motions him to keep talking, and for probably the first time in his life, Mr. Future Politician is completely speechless. He throws the binder in his book bag and runs into the wings. Everyone goes back to talking at full level.

“Students, quiet down!” the principal says, but it’s useless. When an assembly has a hitch, chaos inevitably follows.

Val nudges my elbow. “What do you think that was all about?”

“I have no idea.”

Students are about to make a mass exodus, but Steve Overland jumps up to the stage. He gets much more applause than the principal.

“Hey, guys, what’s up?” Steve asks with his boyish, dimpled smile, the carefree grin of someone who has no real problems in his life. The principal taps him on the shoulder and points back to Steve’s seat.

“I just need one minute, sir. Sixty seconds.”

The principal feigns annoyance and backs away, but we all know it’s merely an act. It’s no secret that he got a serious bonus when the football team won the state championship. The principal wouldn’t dare anger his prized possession.

“So, let me tell you the real reason we’re up in this assembly,” Steve says.

Val and I trade looks—hers excited, mine confused.

“It’s somebody’s birthday in this room,” Steve coos into the mic. “Will the real Huxley Mapother please stand up?”

Huxley complies. She hides her head in faux embarrassment, a look she seems to have down pat. I slouch back in my chair.

Steve takes a deep breath. “I’m a little nervous.”

A random gaggle of girls in front cheer him on. He winks at them.

“Here goes nothing.” Steve takes his sweet time, but he can, because he’s Steve Overland, and who’s going to tell him to get off the stage? He begins singing some Frank Sinatra song that I’m sure gets played at every wedding in America.

My classmates go wild: standing up and whooping, clapping to the nonexistent beat. There’s at least one aww every five seconds. Steve’s a decent singer, but it’s just a stupid song. Huxley probably came up with this whole “spontaneous” scheme herself.

“Happy birthday, Hux,” he says in between breaths.

Now I feel like a POW.

8

People don’t shut up about Steve’s American Idol audition all morning. I hope they filled their Sweeping Fauxmantic Gesture quota for the day and will spare us any theatrics during lunch. I wait for Val outside the cafeteria, farther down the hall from the rush of students so she can actually find me. We usually walk over together, and I wonder what’s keeping her busy. I lean against a glass case holding Ashland High’s cherished football memorabilia. Some of the players in the black-and-white photos are cute, which is creepy since they’re grandpas now. I guess since the case didn’t feel all-American enough, the school put a photo of Huxley and Steve being crowned at homecoming in the center of the display. He wore his muddy football uniform to the dance. Everyone thought he would continue playing football in college, but he’s giving it up next year to attend Vermilion, a nearby university, to stay close to Huxley, who’s only a junior. Girls think he’s such a doting boyfriend; I think he’s beyond whipped.

Through the clutter of scurrying underclassmen, Val approaches. She’s not alone, though. An unmistakable puff of black hair peeks out over the crowd.

“Hey,” Val says.

“Hi,” I say back, my eyes darting between her and Ezra.

“Um, this is Ezra.”

He releases his hand from hers and shakes mine. “How goes it?”

“Good,” I say again, realizing that I’m being totally awkward, but not at all adorable.

I watch Val give Ezra the “hang test”: How long will he let her hand hang next to his before he holds it?

Ezra passes with flying colors. When he grabs her hand, she has to work overtime to restrain the joy gushing out of her. I’ve never seen her so happy.

I can’t believe it worked. I feel a pit of dread form in my stomach.

“When did this...?” I gesture at their hands.

“Between third and fourth period,” Val and Ezra say at the same time.

“Whoa,” he says. “That was kinda weird.”

Kinda? I wonder if they practiced this meeting with me to make sure their coupledom was extra gagworthy.

“Ezra came up behind me at the Coke machine after third period.”

“I had to meet this funny, awesome girl who loved movies as much as I do.”

“And then he bought me a Diet Coke!”

“You’re telling it wrong. I bought you the Diet Coke while we were talking. I didn’t have champagne on me, so I had to use an alternative carbonated beverage to woo you.”

Val beams with pride.

“So you guys are official. Already. After one Diet Coke.”

“I don’t live my life by labels,” Ezra says. He brushes a strand of hair out of Val’s face. “You make me want to be a better man.”

“I do?”

“That was from As Good as It Gets. ”

“It’s my favorite,” Val says.

“You’re my favorite.”

I roll my eyes. Is he for real? If only Ezra knew how much romance was actually involved. How her movie knowledge was taken from the internet, condensed into a cogent outline and written by me. How he is just the closest available option who happened to have some spare change handy.

“Let’s eat. I’m starving!” I signal for the cafeteria.

Neither of them move. The pit of dread expands.

“What?” I ask.

Val scrunches her eyebrows together. “I’m going to eat with Ezra today.” She leans against his shoulder. Their PDA level is rapidly escalating.

“We have some catching up to do,” he says. His eyes go up and to the left. Val’s right. It’s both awkward and adorable.

“Oh.”

She gives me a look only I can read, silently pleading with me to go with it.

“Okay.” I manage my best fake smile. I tell myself that this is what Val wants, and that I’m happy she’s happy.

“It was good seeing you,” Ezra says. They walk into the cafeteria holding hands.

And so it begins. Val’s march toward the dark side.

I follow behind them, a commoner scrambling to her table. Across the cafeteria, Huxley’s laughter takes over the room, all attention drawn to her corner table, just as she prefers. She giggles into Steve’s broad chest, reacting to something probably not that funny. For a second, I think she’s laughing at me.

Steve pulls her in close and lights a candle atop a cupcake.

“I’ll talk to you later!” Val says to me, but I don’t believe it.

* * *

I come home to find my mom and dad in their usual positions in the living room: she’s watching TV on her overstuffed chair we call the Throne, and he’s reading the newspaper on the couch. They make great roommates.

My mom waves me over to the Throne. Once she settles in, she won’t leave it until dinnertime. “Can you see how Diane is doing?”

“Did something happen?”

“Open up the paper on the dining table. To the engagement section.”

I scan the page of announcements. In the top right corner, I find the article in question. Sankresh Ramamurty, 25, engaged to Priya Ghosh, 25. I get a lump in my throat. My mom reads my next thought.

“Diane saw it this morning.”

I remember Sankresh’s brown skin next to Diane’s pale complexion, a Williamson genetic quality. I once joked that they would have the cutest butterscotch babies. “Sounds delicious!” Sankresh had said back, and then he pretended to take a bite out of Diane’s arm. They reminded me of Steve and Huxley, except they weren’t showing off for anyone. They were just being themselves.

I tiptoe to Diane’s room, my feet getting heavier with each step. I tap at her door with my index finger. No answer. I tap again.

“Diane, it’s Becca.”

The door swings open. “Hey,” she says. Diane has some light makeup on, and her hair’s pulled back into a tight ponytail. She’s beautiful. But I can’t help but notice the red puffiness around her eyes.

“How are you doing?”

“I’ve had better days,” she says. I’m glad to see her sarcasm still intact.

“I’m sorry.”

Diane shrugs. What can she say to that? “Thanks for feeling sorry for me”? She waves me to enter. Her room is spotless. I should take notes.

“I’m almost sorry for him, for having to marry that horse-faced woman.” Diane checks her skin in the mirror, verifies her face is not horse-shaped. I figured the knives would be out, though I suppose it’s better than a replay of when he first called off the wedding. I can still hear the screaming echoing in my ears. I just wish Diane had an in-between mode. “You know his mother set the whole thing up.”

“It’s an arranged marriage?”

“Obviously. He’s only marrying her to make his family happy. He’s a total coward. His mother will cut off his inheritance if he doesn’t marry an Indian girl. I wish I had known that earlier than six hours before my wedding, but whatever.”

I used to love hanging out with Sankresh and Diane. It was like having an older brother. He was teaching me how to play piano on a Casio keyboard he’d picked up at Goodwill. I threw it out the day he called Diane to break off the wedding.

He called. He didn’t even have the guts to face her in person.

“You’re better off.” I put a tentative hand on her shoulder.

“I know. But I had to learn that lesson sometime.”

My tentative hand becomes a back massager. Diane welcomes it. “I’m here if you ever want to talk about it.” I sound so unconvincing and fake, worse than a guidance counselor.

“I know you are. But I’m fine.”

“Don’t worry. One day, you’re going to find a great guy—”

“Stop it, B. Are you actually giving me the ‘one day’ speech? There won’t be a one day. I know the silver lining to what happened is that you were able to learn from my mistake. I thought Sankresh loved me, but he just wanted a Western fling before following tradition. I was used, just like everyone else. People just use relationships to get what they want: money, power, sex, connections, self-esteem.”

“Didn’t you date that guy in college because he had a car?” I ask. Diane rolls her neck forward, letting me work her upper back.

“Right. But it’s never about love. Did Erin, Aimee and Marian marry those cardboard-cutout snoozefests because it was true love, or because they all make a lot of money, and my friends wanted a hot husband to show off at their big parties in their McMansions?”

“Right.” Aimee’s and Marian’s husbands are pretty cool, though. Aimee and Bill went skydiving on their honeymoon, and Ted plays drums in a band. (Okay, Erin’s husband is a boring square, but two out of three isn’t bad.) Diane always had a blast hanging out with the group, even before they began pairing off. But now’s not the time to argue.

I run my fingernails along her shoulder blades. I saw a girl do it at a slumber party. It seems to do the trick and calm Diane down. I can’t give a pep talk if my life depended on it, but at least I’m not totally useless.

“Did you see that they already set a date?”

“That’s fast.” I only glanced at the article; Diane has it memorized.

“June 28. That’s the day Sankresh and I had our first date. Five years to the day. He took me to this Italian restaurant and we sat in the courtyard in the back. They forgot to put our order in, so they threw in free tartufo. Sankresh let me eat the cherry in the center.”

Diane never talks about Sankresh, not this stuff anyway. I don’t know if she’s talking to me or to herself anymore, so I just give her a supportive squeeze.

She spins around and grabs my shoulders. Her eyes are wet but urgency lights up her face. She stares through my eyes directly into my mind, like she’s been able to do forever. “You’re the Break-Up Artist. I don’t want you to get—”

“Duped. I know.” A chill runs through my body. I throw the newspaper into her overflowing garbage. “Don’t worry. I’ll never forget.”

* * *

I check my email when I get back to my room. And then I check my other email. LeBreakUpArtiste [at] gmail [dot] com. (I decided to be creative.)

Perched at the top of my inbox is a message from a Mr. Towne. The email has been sitting there for a day—way too long. The name doesn’t ring a bell, but most people don’t use their real names with me in the beginning.

To: Le Break-Up Artiste

From: Robert Towne

My wife saw your ad on a bathroom stall...it’s worth a shot. I need you to break up Steve Overland and his girlfriend, Huxley Mapother. I’ve attached a picture. Let me know next steps.

I reread the email about five more times. The words don’t change, but each time they seep in more. I deal with low-profile relationships, ones that don’t cause major seismic shifts in the tectonic plates of gossip our school rests upon. Huxley and Steve are the San Andreas Fault of relationships. (Wow, I guess our current unit on geology is more fascinating than I thought.) Maybe this Towne guy is confused. I open the picture.

It’s Huxley and Steve at homecoming—the same picture on display at school.

9

It’s not until after dinner that Mr. Towne pops up online. I email him back asking to video chat. He asks for ten minutes, which gives me enough time to set up. I tape a black blanket to the mirrored sliding door behind me to eliminate all traces of personality from my surroundings. I pull out my grandfather’s vintage suitcase from under my bed and remove my costume: my raccoon mask and Diane’s old graduation robe. As I slip them on, I contemplate who this Mr. Towne could be. A vengeful father? A frustrated teacher or disgruntled janitor?

But it’s none of the above. Mr. Towne looks exactly like a Mr. Towne would. He’s an adult dressed in full dad attire—baby-blue polo buttoned all the way up and tucked into khakis with his gut protruding. Thinned hair, creased face, but a boyish smile. Despite his age, he still looks fitter than some guys in my school. He sits at his desk and doesn’t say a word.

“’Ello love,” I say in my British accent.

“I didn’t know you were British. I assumed French,” he says, totally calm. It’s making me nervous. He leans back in his chair. “Is that what you normally wear?”

“Um, no. It’s my work uniform.”

“You really British?”

“Why, of course!”

He stares at me, his gray eyes coalescing into a steely glare. “I get it. Gotta protect yourself.”

“Is Mr. Towne your real name?” I ask him.

“Does it matter?”

He flashes me that boyish grin, dimples caving in both cheeks. He was probably Steve Overland thirty years ago. His high-school sweetheart and three kids are probably down the hall singing Bible hymns.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I have no idea who you are, and I don’t care to know so long as you get the job done. So let’s stop prying and get down to business.”

I exhale in relief. Most of the awkwardness has left the room. “Why does a fortysomething man want to break up some high-school couple?”

“Why do you need to know?”

I’ve never had to pry information from a potential client like this. I’m not interested in competing in a “who’s more paranoid” contest. “Do you want me to do my job or not?”

We have a stare-off. I won’t let him dictate how I run my business. He cracks first.

“I’m a family friend of the Overlands. I was there when Stevie got his first tooth and first touchdown. I’m always looking out for him. And right now, I’m worried about his relationship with his girlfriend. His family does not like her at all. They think she’s snooty and controlling.”

I nod. Sounds like they know Huxley well.

“I understand first love and hormones and all that nonsense, but Stevie gave up a football scholarship to a well-known university to go to some local college close to her. His parents have tried to talk to him about what a big mistake he’s making. But he won’t listen. That girl’s got him wrapped around her finger. So...”

“You need my help?”

“Yeah. I don’t know if this is just some prank you’re pulling, but we’re out of options. All college admissions decisions become binding May 15. That’s less than three months out. I don’t want the kid to throw his life away.”

“Vermilion is a good school, I’ve heard,” I say. Steve wore a pine-green Vermilion sweatshirt to school when he got accepted. I couldn’t care less, but it caused murmurs in the guy corners of my classes. My mom said Vermilion was an overpriced liberal-arts school that charges an arm and a leg just to remain exclusive. It’s not ranked that high in college guides, but Huxley likes telling people otherwise.

“Vermilion is Division 3, barely,” Mr. Towne says. He rests his hands on his gut. “Steve should be at a D1 school like Chandler University in Texas. He has the talent. That’s where the real recruiting for pro is done.” Mr. Towne’s cheeks flush with red.

“You think if he and Huxley are broken up, he’ll go to one of those schools?”

“Definitely. That kid was born to play football, and he knows it. The only thing stopping him is right between that girl’s legs. Excuse my language.”

I shake that mental image out of my head. Huxley and Steve. She has him, the whole school, wrapped around her finger. She won’t give that up. Not before senior prom and graduation, the two most public events in her high-school career. Some people begin dating just so they have a boyfriend or girlfriend on hand for those occasions.

“You still there?” he asks.

I grunt in response.

“So can you do it?”

“I don’t know.” I bite my lip. So much for my comfortable, calm demeanor.

“What do you mean? You have done this before, right?”

“These two are different. They are like this impenetrable fortress. I don’t think Huxley will let anything come between them. She would know if someone was messing with her.”

“You can start a rumor or something.”

“She would use her minions to squash it and then hunt down whoever started it.” Lena Herman started a rumor that Huxley was using laxatives to slim down, and Huxley found out that same week. Lena transferred to Catholic school a month later...and she’s Jewish!

“I was hoping you were the real deal.”

“I am, but I don’t know if they can be broken up.” Or maybe I don’t know if I can do it. If I get made, she’ll be out for blood. And she’s brainwashed the school, so they’d chase me out the front doors with burning pitchforks. You have to know your limits sometimes.

“I’m giving you my honest, semiprofessional opinion.”

“What if I tripled your rate? Three hundred dollars?”

My eyes widen at the thought of three hundred dollars. But then Huxley’s face pops into my head, and the money fades away. “If Steve’s family can’t sway his decision, what makes you think I can?”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “It sounds like you’re scared of her.”

“Scared of her? No way!”

“You’re making excuses when you know this girl is no good.”

I get a short burst of pleasure hearing him say that. I’m not the only one who thinks she’s awful. “She’s just annoying.”

“I remember there was this bully when I went to high school.” Mr. Towne leans back in his chair, and it looks like he’s reaching back decades for the memory. “He loved picking on anyone with a pocket calculator. No one ever fought back. Until one day, this scrawny kid walked right up to him in the lunchroom and gave him a bloody nose. No warning, no hesitation. The whole room busted out laughing at him. And you know what that bully did in return?”

“What?”

“He left me and my friends alone for the rest of high school.”

I was expecting him to be the bully. But then, who knows, this could all just be made up, or stolen from some episode of The Andy Griffith Show.

“Listen, I need to know. Can you make this happen?” Mr. Towne doesn’t mince words.

“Let me think about this.”

“Think quickly. If I don’t hear from you by Sunday, I’m rescinding my offer.”

10

Movie Tonight? I scribble down my note, write Val’s name on it and stretch my arms behind my head.

My classmates fidget in their seats, restlessly readjusting themselves in their chairs. It’s Friday, eighth-period Latin class, and I can feel the excitement about the weekend pulsating through the room. Except for Bari, whose blank, drained face stares at the board as if it’s Monday morning. She trudges out of class once the bell rings, avoiding all people. A pang of guilt jabs at me, but it’s for the best. I’m not evil; I’m a Good Samaritan. One day, she’ll thank me—or, she would if I could tell her who I was.

I walk in between desks to get to Val.

“So what time should I pick you up tonight?” I ask. “The movie starts at seven forty-five.”

Val hugs her two books and notebook to her chest. “Great,” she says with hesitation. “Is it okay if Ezra joins us?”

My Friday excitement dissipates. I struggle for an answer. Should I be easygoing and fun, or honest? Val will turn into Relationship Val if he comes, and the night will be ruined.

“Is it okay?” she asks again.

“I guess, if you want to.”

“Are you sure? If you don’t want him around, I understand.”

“Why wouldn’t I want him around?” Hopefully, she doesn’t ask me to list out the reasons.

Val exhales. A smile returns to her face. “Great! I wanted to ask because I wasn’t sure if you liked him or not.”

“What? I just don’t really know him.” Although I shouldn’t be, I’m taken aback by Val’s assumption. I can’t be mad that I barely see her anymore; no, it has to be that I don’t like Ezra.

“I was worried there for a second. I want you to like him. He’s amazing, and I’m not just saying that because I’m his girlfriend.” She blushes when she says girlfriend. “So what movie are we seeing?”

“Starship Alien II.”

“Didn’t we hate the first one?”

“We almost got kicked out,” I say. We both burst into laughter at the memory. Starship Alien I was so horrible that we couldn’t stop giggling and making comments. Why do horror directors think that girls love walking around topless while a killer alien is on the loose? The usher came into the theater and said we had to be quiet or leave.

“That movie was terrible! I’m kind of excited to see how bad this one will be,” she says.

I’m excited she’s excited. Maybe it won’t be that different from old times.

I sit in the backseat of Ezra’s white Toyota Camry, playing with a hole in the seat fabric. The rhythm of his windshield wipers drowns out the inside banter coming from the front. I feel like the baby in a car seat. Single Person on Board. Where’s their decal?

Whenever the road is smooth, they hold hands on the middle console. At every stoplight, Ezra blows hot air on Val’s fingertips and then kisses them.

“What?” Ezra asks Val, who won’t stop looking at him.

“Nothing,” she says coyly. “I guess I was just looking at you.”

“Well, then, you’re driving home so I can look at you.”

They’ve done this twice already.

“So, Ezra, are you excited for the glory that is Starship Alien II?” I ask, reminding them that someone is in the backseat.

“What’s it about?”

“These astronauts on an abandoned ship have to take down an evil race of aliens who eat human brains, and they realize that if they can kill the queen, who is giving the aliens their brain-sucking power, then they can escape. Prepare to laugh a lot.” Val isn’t laughing right now. She’s probably waiting to see how Ezra reacts so she can craft a similar response.

“Horror isn’t really my forte, so this should be interesting. I usually go to the theater by the college. They play some good indie films there, and some classics, too.” His deep voice reverberates through the car.

“I’ve always wanted to see a movie there,” I say.

“Really? Val said you guys go all the time.”

“We do?”

I check Val’s face in the rearview mirror. Her eyes plead with me to just go with it.

“We do,” I say emphatically, searching for words. “I just always fall asleep ten minutes in. So technically, I’ve never seen a complete movie there.” I hope some part of that made sense.

“I admit some of them can be slow, but there are a lot of gems.”

He pulls into the shopping center, which has gone to sleep for the night. The bright, sparkly lights of the movie theater light up the area like a casino. “Wow, I haven’t been to a multiplex in ages. I’m going to stick out like Alvy did in L.A.,” Ezra says, nudging Val’s arm.

“Who?” she asks.

“Alvy Singer,” he says. The name doesn’t ring a bell to me or Val. “From Annie Hall. ”

“Oh, right!” Val says.

“You okay?”

“Sorry, long week.”

That makes Ezra chuckle. Their hands meet again on the middle console. Val exhales. Color flushes back into her face. He finds a space not too far from the theater, throws the car in Park and smirks at Val.

“What?” she asks, blushing.

“Nothing,” he says. “I guess I was just looking at you.”

And the cycle continues.

* * *

The unexpected rain made the movies the place to be for half my high school tonight. The concession-stand line stretches almost to the ticket booth. I give Ezra money to buy my ticket and dread the next step. The social obstacle course. I walk past groups of kids I see every day in the hall, alone. I don’t know if it’s true, but all eyes seem to be on me, sizing up my social profile. I’m here with friends, I want to tell them. Just act cool, Becca. In my brief glances at the onlookers, I notice lots of couples. I suppose that’s standard for Friday night at the movies. Val and Ezra wait in the ticket line, hand in hand.

I feel better once the movie starts. I can leave my current world behind and focus on astronauts getting killed in intricate and gruesome ways.

Well, I thought I could.

But Val and Ezra insist on putting on their own movie. They can’t just hold hands and be done with it. It’s a process, with the necessary buildup. Their slightest moves distract me. Ezra strokes her arm while Val pretends to watch the movie. Then he puts his arm around her. But he won’t stop there. Next, they hold hands. But I guess that isn’t taking advantage of their bodies being so close to each other. So she leans against him, stroking his arm. But then he chooses to rub her thigh, which means she can’t lean against him. She resumes her regular position. But a hand on her leg isn’t enough, so he throws his arm back around her shoulders. Their bodies are like puzzle pieces not fitting. On-screen, a buff guy gets a tentacle through the eye socket, and I have no idea why.

I tap Val’s shoulder. “Bathroom,” I whisper. I do the crouch-stand and shuffle out to the aisle, where I can see that my theater is all couples, all mimicking some version of Val’s and Ezra’s moves.

I step into the lobby, and my night instantly gets worse. A line of moviegoers wait for the eight-thirty showing. Mostly from my school. Huxley and Steve stand in the middle with their entire social circle. Shouldn’t they be someplace cooler than the movies?

I avoid eye contact and beeline to the bathroom, ignoring my peripheral vision. All I see is the bathroom, my salvation, my lean-to in this storm of awkwardness.

I bump into someone, a lady with her son. Their popcorn spills onto the red plush carpet. A preshow for the line.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry!”

I glance over at the line. Of course. I am right in front of Huxley and Steve.

“Rebecca.”

“Hi, Huxley.”

“Are you here alone?” Her hair is dry. Steve’s hair is dripping water onto his soggy shoulders. His umbrella lies at his feet.

“No, I came with Val and Ezra. They’re in the movie. In the movie theater.”

“Oh. That’s nice they let you tag along with them,” she says.

Addison and her boyfriend, who’s at the local junior college but creepily still comes to all the Ashland events, snicker to each other, and I feel heat creep up my cheeks.

The mom I bumped reappears. “Hey, they charged me a refill fee for the popcorn. Three bucks. You’re paying for it.”

I’m not hallucinating: everyone in line is staring at me. My mouth turns into a cotton swab. Sweat beads behind my ears. When I go to my ten-year high-school reunion, they’ll introduce me as that tagalong girl who spilled a child’s popcorn.

“Nice one, Rebecca,” Huxley says.

“We used to be friends!”

She nestles herself against Steve’s broad chest, and he closes his arms around her. That’s her response, and I get it loud and clear. Other girls in line hug their boyfriends, so grateful they’re not me.

I hand over the money and get this old woman out of my life. Forget the bathroom. I race back into the theater.

I stumble down to my row and find Ezra and Val making out. I guess they couldn’t wait to get rid of me. I tap Val’s shoulder, but she’s too entwined with Ezra to notice. I’m standing in the aisle. Yet another batch of my classmates gawk at me. “Sit down!” one of them hisses.

These two aren’t budging. I sit in the empty row behind them. I try to concentrate on the movie, but all I can see are my best friend and her boyfriend slobbering all over each other.

We used to be friends.

Tears well up in my eyes. Thank goodness I’m in the dark. Val and Ezra’s quest to gobble each other’s faces off overtakes my peripheral vision, but finally, the action on-screen wins out. The two remaining astronauts fight the evil queen, whose tentacles swirl around voraciously. She chases them through the spaceship, and because of all the brains she’s sucked out, she knows how they’ll think. She’s smarter, faster and completely ruthless. But because of their small size, they can squeeze into a rescue pod, blast off, nuke their spaceship and kill the queen. This stupid movie totally transfixes me, opens up a new worldview in my mind. I feel like I’m right there with the astronauts, and I want to cheer at the top of my lungs when the spaceship blows up. It’s like divine intervention that I came to see this movie on this night.

I have to vanquish the evil queen.

11

I don’t have to do any thinking for Huxley and Steve’s gossip dossier. As soon as I get home from the movies, I race up to my room and dig out my notebook. Everyone at school, including teachers, knows their history. It’s an essential part of the social curriculum. I create from memory, the words spilling out faster than I can write them down. My pen whips back and forth on the page.

I combine their dating histories, because they’ve only ever been with each other. How adorable...and boring.

Huxley Mapother & Steve Overland

Dating History:

• Fall 7th grade (Huxley)/Fall 8th grade (Steve)–present

º Steve—new student, played football. Huxley—nice and normal, then met Steve and became popular and demonic.

º Eating lunch together by end of second week.

º Were seen at parties together by mid-September.

º Publicly confirmed relationship with article in school paper = the decline of modern journalism.

º PDA Level = ELEVATED

• Held hands in school, kissed in the hall, nothing obscene.

Confirmed rumors:

º Winter sophomore/freshman: Steve—Got so drunk off tequila that he threw up on Huxley.¹

º Fall junior/sophomore: Huxley—went on acai-berry diet and dropped 6 lbs before homecoming coronation.

º Fall senior/junior: Huxley and Steve window-shopped for wedding rings.

I stop writing. My hand is shaking. After over four years together as the top couple in school, do they really have no other rumors? No fights, no scandals? Huxley is a master of controlling her PR; you would never guess that Steve’s family is scheming to rip them apart. In a school of fifteen hundred kids, why is there so little gossip about the biggest couple? Their relationship cannot be as perfect as it seems.

* * *

Diane and I form a battle plan over leftover pizza the next night.

“I hate that the middle of the pizza never gets warm in the microwave. The edges are burning, but then the middle is still ice-cold,” she says. But she eats it anyway.

My gossip dossier and yearbook are laid out on the dining table. My parents are at a bar mitzvah tonight, so we don’t have to plot in private. “We have a better chance of getting Steve to dump Huxley. There’s no way she would ever dump him.”

“I’m not so sure. He’s not going to be a big football star next year. His sex appeal is going to drop.”

“He’s going to Vermilion for her,” I say. “And she’ll probably join him when we graduate.”

“That’s bleak.”

“Never underestimate the power of a whipped guy. He has a breaking point. She doesn’t.”

“Dammit!” Diane wipes a clump of sauce off her sweatshirt. A red splotch covers the g in Rutgers. Just one of many. “And since his family hates her guts, he’s probably looking for any excuse to get rid of her. Now you need to work this angle, try to talk to his parents maybe.”

“I don’t think so,” I say. I leave families out of my break-up schemes. I do have some ethics, despite my line of work. I pace around the room, careful not to knock into any of my mom’s antique vases.

“What if he thinks she’s cheating on him?”

“I doubt she would cheat on him, and he knows it.” Huxley’s face circles in my mind. Why would anyone break up with her? I think about all those picturesque moments she and Steve share during school. Her life is like a movie, every detail staged so that girls can aspire to be her. If you are her friend or boyfriend, you have to know your lines. And as I learned, if you don’t fit the part, you’re cut.

“What if she thinks Steve is cheating on her?” I ask.

Diane chugs the last of the Coke. “He wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, but if we make her think he’s cheating?”

Diane puts down all food and drink and gives me her undivided attention. “Go on.”

“If Huxley suspects he’s cheating, she’ll freak out and try to assert more control over him, which I think could drive him over the edge. But it has to be long term, a slow build. If we try anything easy, like a dirty text, she’ll see right through it.” My mind is in overdrive, imagining the possibilities.

“That could work, but who would be the other girl?”

My mind grinds to a halt. No girl in school would dare go after Steve. They know he has Property of Huxley Mapother stamped on his forehead. And I don’t hate any girl enough to make them the unsuspecting other woman. My memory wanders to seeing Steve on his first day of school. So cute, so charming, so tall. He had no awkward prepopular phase like Huxley. There’s no way she was his first girlfriend. It’s not humanly possible. Guys like him don’t sit on the market. There had to be someone before her, someone he left behind in Leland, his old town.

“His ex-girlfriend,” I say.

“He has one?”

“They always do.”

We go upstairs to Diane’s computer to look at the photos in Steve’s Facebook profile, but I don’t have access. I’m not cool enough to be his friend in any context. All I can see on his page is his main picture: he and Huxley cuddling by a lake at sunset. It may seem like one of those candid pictures, but Huxley probably waited all day to get that shot.

“Great,” I say.

“I have an idea,” Diane says. “It’s a bit old-school, though.”

* * *

“They keep this stuff?” I ask in a hushed voice.

“Yeah. It’s public record. All towns have them,” Diane says at her regular volume level. The librarian at the reference desk shushes her.

The smell of old books stirs in the air, and I feel smarter just inhaling it. A giant clock hangs on the back wall, as if the Leland library is a timepiece for an old giant. Diane’s finger scans shelf after shelf of town records until she finds bins labeled “Yearbooks: James Whitmore Junior High School” on the bottom.

“Of course they’re on the bottom,” I say. It takes both of us to pull the bin onto the floor. We scramble through Leland history until we find the relevant year.

I immediately flip to Steve’s yearbook photo, for proof that I chose the correct book and to check out how young he looks. When I see his buzz cut and chubby cheeks, I laugh, even though he looks adorable.

Diane and I turn through pages of sports teams and clubs and faculty, all things I would care about if I actually went to this school. I’m amazed at how dated the pictures and people look after only five years. Then again, it has been five years. That’s almost one-third of my life.

We reach the “Out and About” section. Real candid pictures of students around school. I can instantly tell who’s popular by how many shots they’re in. Steve pretty much has his own section. Multiple photos feature him and a lithe blonde with big eyes and a warm smile that makes me believe she’s as friendly as she seems.

Angela Bentley.

A picture of the two of them eating at lunch sews it up for me. He’s picking pepperonis off his pizza and putting them on hers. She’s ripping off her crusts and placing them on his plate. It seems so routine for them. They give each other fake suspicious looks, hamming it up for the camera. “Angela and Steve: cutest couple ever!!” reads the caption. I have to agree.

“You were right, B,” Diane says. She leans against the shelf, strumming her finger against an encyclopedia. “Do you think he still talks to her?”

“They’re probably friends on Facebook. They seem too nice to have had a nasty break-up.” I bring myself back to the present, away from reminiscing about someone else’s junior high. “Maybe I can get into his phone and send her a message.”

“He would delete it before Huxley saw it, and if she did see it, he would deny sending it. And anyway, how would we know any of this went on? They aren’t like the normal couples you deal with. They’re stronger and more secretive. I’ll bet none of his friends know about Angela.”

Diane looks at me for an answer, but I don’t have one. She’s right.

“You need to dig deeper,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“Undercover.”

“Pretend to be friends with Huxley and Steve?” I wave off the suggestion. “No way.”

“Really just Huxley. You need to get past their facade and join their inner circle. The more time you spend around her, the greater chance you have of seeing or hearing something you weren’t supposed to.”

“It would never work.” There’s no way Huxley would ever be my friend. Not again. The thought of spending time around her turns my stomach.

“Why not?”

“Huxley’s mean, but she’s not stupid.”

“You said she’s having auditions for the Student Dance Association. If you get on her squad, you’ll have access to her for hours. Then we can get a better sense if the plan is working.”

“Do you really think she’ll tell me anything?”

“Didn’t you two used to be friends?”

I slam the yearbook closed. “I’m not doing it, Diane. This isn’t your business. It’s mine, and I’m not doing it.” My voice wobbles, but I remain stern.

Diane doesn’t say a word. She was off at college when Huxley started cutting me out, and I only told her about it after the fact, like it was a petty high-school anecdote. We weren’t as close back then; her world was revolving around Sankresh.

“You can do this.” Diane breaks the silence. This time, she remembers to whisper. “Not just for Mr. Towne, but for all the people at your school who are treated like second-class citizens. You’re going to expose this relationship for the pile of crap that it is.”

¹ That one is my favorite.

12

“Rebecca, I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Well, here I am.” I stretch my arms out wide, then snap them back to my sides. I take deep breaths through my nose. I can do this.

The cafeteria looks different emptied out. Peaceful. No battle lines. Just a room with tables and chairs. Huxley sits behind a table with a sign-up sheet. Even after a full day of classes and acting superior to fifteen hundred of her peers, she is still fresh faced.

“You want to join SDA?” Mockery and judgment, her specialties, coat every word. SDA is a dance color war at Ashland created to provide a less gymnastics-centric alternative to cheerleading. We are split into two teams—green and white, with squads performing dance numbers set to a mash-up of new and old songs.

“Yes, I love to dance.”

“You do?”

“You know that.”

Huxley crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. Yep, she remembers, although she wishes otherwise. How dare I bring up a time when she was merely mortal.

We used to take lessons at the Frances Glory Dance School for Girls. Frances was a petite, old woman with a shock of white hair that looked like lightning in the night sky. She spoke in an indecipherable accent that Huxley and I were obsessed with and would impersonate during school. Frances always placed us in the back of routines because we were so tall. She used to call us her Telephone Poles. Or rather Teelehfohna Pooles.

“That was years ago,” Huxley says. “And if I remember, you stopped going.”

Because of you, I want to tell her. Dance class lost its luster when she got in with Addison and the other popular girls. The memory comes back, so vivid. I shove it to the back of my mind.

“You never forget those skills. It’s like riding a bike.”

“SDA is slightly more complicated.”

“You’re right,” I say right back, hoping I didn’t just stick my foot in my mouth.

Huxley gracefully swishes her hair behind her shoulders with a flick of her head. I wish my hair did that. “Rebecca, the Student Dance Association isn’t some fun little club. It’s a serious commitment for serious dancers. I’m not sure it would be the best fit for you.”

“Everyone’s allowed to audition. Let me show you what I got.” I try to remain cheerful. I take more deep breaths.

“Fair enough.”

She turns on the music. A dance remix of the Olympics theme plays, a bass-heavy rhythm pulsing beneath the brass fanfare. I tap my foot to get the beat.

“Ready when you are.”

I perform a choreographed number I crafted from my Frances Glory memories (the happy ones) and watching old Britney Spears music videos. Huxley and I used to do this all the time, in her basement. We even posted a few of our performances online—and then quickly took them down. I practiced the moves all weekend, pulling certain muscles out of early retirement. I spent hours twirling, quick ball-changing, 5-6-7-8ing in my room until this routine was burned into my brain. I doubt other auditioners created such intricate routines, but I had to be immaculate to get Huxley to remotely consider me.

I turn and gyrate and try to make Britney proud, every move precise. I find myself enjoying this, remembering that once upon a time, I did have some type of athletic talent. I guess I still do. I dip forward then strike a pose for my finale.

“Thanks,” Huxley says stoically, as if I’d handed her a coupon on the street. She doesn’t make any notes on her pad. Her mauve pen lies there, matching her shoes. I doubt that is a coincidence.

Thanks. That’s it? I catch my breath and feel soreness in my calves while Huxley remoisturizes her hands. A whole weekend wasted for nothing. Why did I think there’d be any fairness here?

“Thanks!” I nod and put on a beaming grin. I can’t question her. That’s a one-way ticket to instant rejection. “I’m going to keep my fingers crossed all week. I’m really excited!” I say. Maybe I can score some last-minute brownie points. I hate giving Huxley this power over me, but I keep saying Alien Queen over and over in my head to stay focused.

“We’ll post team rosters on Thursday.”

“Great!”

After an awkward moment of silence, I realize she’s done talking. I collect my bag and jacket.

“You’re really excited? About joining SDA?”

“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to do it.” That lie didn’t feel as forced for me. I did enjoy doing that routine, and perhaps under different social circumstances, I would have danced my heart out for SDA.

“It just seems so unlike you.” Huxley sizes me up, her eyes scanning from my comfortable, fashionable flats to my recently combed hair. Okay, I freshened up during last period. You don’t audition for SDA looking like you just went through six hours of classes. “You’re not one for school spirit. You haven’t done any dancing since the seventh grade. Yet you waltz in here and deliver a flawless routine. Just out of the blue. It seems... It’s interesting.”

Panic rises in my throat, wringing my mouth of all moisture. I knew I sounded too chipper to pass for normal. My mind scrambles for an answer.

“I don’t know. People can change,” I say. Huxley doesn’t buy my excuse. Neither do I.

I get an idea. It seems so obvious, like it was sitting patiently, reading a magazine, waiting for me to find it. I grab a chair and sit across from Huxley. I can smell the sweet, honeysuckle scent of her hand cream. Time to level with her.

“It does seem interesting, right?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Between you and me, I’m not doing this to cross it off my high-school bucket list. I have an ulterior motive.” I lean in and lower my voice. “I strongly believe that joining SDA will help me meet guys.”

Huxley’s spine goes upright. She raises an eyebrow at me. “You...want to meet guys?”

“Yeah. All the girls in the group have the best boyfriends, you especially.”

“They do.”

“It’s either this or cheerleading.”

“Don’t do cheerleading. Those girls are sluts.” She grins and nods, liking this change in me.

“Honestly, if anyone can teach me how to land a decent boyfriend, it’s the girlfriend of Steve Overland.” I cringe and wait for her response. I might be laying it on too thick. But a glance at her face tells me Huxley is lapping this up.

“Rebecca, what prompted this?”

“I’ve thought a lot about what you said in English class, about what you always say. And you’re right! I was just too scared to love, and I only hated relationships because I wasn’t in one. But I’m ready for that to change.” I place a hand over my heart, mimicking every rom-com heroine. “Guys will like me if I’m in SDA.”

“They will. Having the right type of well-roundedness will make you appealing to the right type of guys. And plus SDA is a lot of fun.”

“It looks fun. I love the costumes. What’s this year’s theme?”

“The Olympics.” She points at the stereo, and it makes sense. “Each routine will represent a different sport. I want us to mix in those athletic movements with the choreography.”

“I like it.” And when I think about it, I actually do like it. Huxley glows with pride. She isn’t president of SDA just for the power trip.

“This is all so unexpected.”

“I know. When it comes to guys, I prefer to learn from the best.”

That makes her blush. “I don’t know.”

“I must sound like such a weirdo, but I am ready to turn over a new leaf.” I stand up and gather my things. She doesn’t stop me. “Huxley, I know things are different between us now, but from one telephone pole to another, I could really use your help.”

Another awkward moment of silence commences. This time, Huxley breaks it. “Okay,” she says. Huxley smiles at me, a genuine smile. I can see all her shiny teeth.

“Thank you so much,” I say, sounding like a peasant addressing a queen. But it’s necessary to let her believe she’s totally in control. “Where should we start?”

Huxley checks the clock on the wall. “Not now. I have to meet Steve.”

“Hot date?”

She gives me an odd look. I guess we’re not at the jokey friend stage yet. “Steve works at Mario’s Pizza on Monday nights, so I hang out there and keep him company. It’s usually dead there.”

“How sweet.”

“I love spending time with him, even if he is just folding pizza boxes. You’ll know the feeling soon.”

“You go there every Monday night?” I ask.

“Yes. It’s a good place to do homework.” She sticks her pad and mauve pen in her bag. She carries around fewer books than Val. “Rebecca, do you have heels at home?”

“Yeah.”

“Start wearing them.”

I barely wave back when she says goodbye. I’m too distracted by the break-up scheme that just popped into my head.

13

My dad will never throw away a coupon. One drawer in our kitchen is stuffed with discounts for every product and restaurant you can imagine: food, groceries, clothes, big-screen TVs, dog food even though we don’t have a dog. I spend a good half hour rummaging through envelopes brimming with unredeemable offers until I find it. The background is a Sicilian-slice graphic: Half off any large pizza at Mario’s. Valid Mondays only.

“Becca, what are you doing down there?” my mom calls from the staircase. “You’re going to be late.”

I shove the coupon in my wallet and grab my gym bag. My heels click loudly against the floor as I race out the door.

In the middle of eighth period, I receive a characteristically in-depth note from Val.