Shannen Camp - The Breakup Artist

I left my little makeshift hiding spot right before the bell rang so that I wouldn’t accidentally bump into either of them, and made my way to math, my last-and worst-class of the day.

The house was empty when I got home from school, which wasn’t unusual, so I went upstairs and did my homework, which also wasn’t unusual. My life was pretty well compartmentalized. I went to school, I worked, I came home, I did my homework, I ate, I went to bed. That was my life in a nutshell. The occasional movie night with myself was there so I wouldn’t slip into complete routine nonexistence.

After I finished my homework I decided to call Claire, just to straighten things up and put my mind at ease for tomorrow. Claire was one of my regulars-I assisted her at least twice a month in her breakups even when I had to do it from a different high school-so she was one of the five numbers I actually had programmed into my phone. The other numbers were my own house, my mom’s cell, my mom’s work, and the paint supply store down the street.

“Hey, Amelia. We’re still on for tomorrow, right?” Claire asked instead of the traditional “hello.” It felt nice to actually have someone my own age know it was me when they picked up the phone. Claire and I were almost friends, except that we weren’t, because she was my client and the only time we talked was when it was business. But it still almost felt like I had a friend.

“Yeah we’re still on for tomorrow but I have a quick question.” I didn’t quite know how to say, “Your boyfriend doesn’t look as weird as you. Are you sure I should dress like you?” So I just settled for, “I came to check on David today during lunch and he looks a bit… reserved.” That was a nice way to put it. “Are you sure I should go for the whole edgy and cool look tomorrow?” I thought it was a fair enough question and I had helped Claire out enough times that she should be able to trust that my concerns were legitimate. I heard a high-pitched giggle on the other end of the phone, but I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

“Trust me, David loves girls like me,” Claire assured me. “He just likes to dress like a stuffed-shirt for some unknown reason.” Claire was the one dating him, so I assumed she knew what she was talking about and made a noncommittal humming noise on my end of the phone as an answer to that statement.

“Was there anything else?” she asked, now becoming slightly impatient.

“Yeah, just one thing. You wrote on his interests that he likes culture? What exactly does that mean?” Claire was a smart enough girl, but sometimes she needed a push in the “understandable” direction. It’s like most things made sense to her, but she just couldn’t understand why other people didn’t understand what she meant when she would suddenly say “dancing hippos” during a phone conversation.

“Culture. You know, like why people do what they do and stuff.”

“Like psychology? Or anthropology? Sociology?” I asked, hoping she would just explain herself so I wouldn’t have to pry more information out of her using words she probably didn’t know.

“Yeah, like that,” she said after a long and thoughtful pause. Or at least, I assumed it was a thoughtful pause.

“Got it. That’s all I needed to know. Thanks, Claire. And I should have it done by tomorrow, so you’d better start developing a fever before school.” She giggled at this statement and then hung up the phone without a good-bye. She was always kind of off in her own world. The normal social rules like greetings and good-byes didn’t really apply to her. Claire just sort of flitted around life, dating every boy she saw and giggling at things that were never really meant to be taken as jokes. I shrugged at this unusual end to the conversation and began dialing the number for my other client to let her know Corey had been taken care of and she was free to pursue her potential prom date.

The note I found on the fridge last night was there again but the date was scribbled out with the current one written right underneath it. I had been noticing that my mom had been having more and more “client dinners” lately. I was starting to think that maybe this was code for “my mom is going on dates but doesn’t want to bring a man back to the house because she just never knows what her daughter will look like from day to day.” I could accept this. It was a reasonable enough fear. But I was slightly upset that she didn’t think she could trust me enough to tell me that she was dating at all. I glared at the note for a moment before returning to my room and pulling a new outfit out for my “date” that night. I had some black leggings that almost looked like they were plastic. They grew tight at the ankles where a short zipper went from my anklebone to my mid-calf. I figured these pants were good for attracting the eye to my feet, where my expensive black heels now resided. They were strappy and edgy and exactly what I needed to snag Taylor. I finished the look off with an oversized white T-shirt that hung off one of my shoulders, showing enough collarbone to be alluring without being trashy.

Once I finally arrived at the coffee shop I ordered a raspberry hot chocolate, not really feeling in the mood to be injected with caffeine and over-priced coffee. I found a comfy love seat in a small secluded area of the coffee shop and watched the door like a hawk, hoping Taylor would get here quickly so I could get this over with and spend some quality painting time in my room that night. After about ten minutes I actually started to worry that I had overestimated my charm. Maybe he really didn’t want to come and meet me at the coffee shop. Maybe my shoes weren’t enough to attract him. Or maybe I had really slipped up when I told him I was going to prom with someone else, and he didn’t believe my pathetic attempt at reassuring him that it was a joke.

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

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

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

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

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