Shannen Camp - The Breakup Artist

“I’m starting to think I’m pretty glad I came too,” he replied. His reply was about thirty seconds too late for normal conversation, but I pretended not to notice and simply went on smiling, trying not to look to the door for my escape route. Even if I had wanted to look at the door, my line of sight would have been blocked by the pillar of angry girlfriend that now appeared next to me.

It took Taylor a minute to realize that Heather was standing right next to him, but I didn’t hold that against him-the boy was effectively distracted, after all. Heather actually had to clear her throat to get his attention. Once she did this, however, the entire mood of the scene changed. Taylor went from looking like he was living in a state of ignorant bliss to looking like someone had just told him people were going to stop wearing shoes altogether-let alone stylish ones.

“Who’s she?” I asked in my best oblivious voice. Heather simply glared down at me, and I had to hand it to her, I was actually pretty scared.

“She’s just… um… wait, I thought you said she was your friend too?” he asked in a justifiably confused tone. All I could think in my head was, “Crap. There goes my career.” How had I managed to overlook that glaring detail? Normally I’d act guilty and acknowledge that my friend had every right to be mad that I was out with her boyfriend, but this time I had just let words spill out of my mouth. I was really losing my skill. I scrambled mentally to come up with some sort of explanation for my obvious mistake. Luckily I didn’t have to try to answer for my slip-up because Heather began yelling quite loudly at Taylor. Although I had asked my clients not to cause a scene, I was grateful for this one. Taylor was so shocked by her sudden outburst I didn’t think he’d ever have the chance to ask me to clarify my mistake.

Between Heather’s bouts of shouting, I somehow managed to slip in an apology and slip out the door, leaving them to scream at each other in peace. Some of my clients just loved the drama aspect of my job. I offered them a way to get out of their relationship drama free, but there were always those ones who wanted a good scream-fest to finish things off with a bang.

I walked quickly to my car, hoping that if I could get home fast enough, I wouldn’t even have to think about how badly I had been performing my job lately. I had never slipped up in the past, and now I seemed to be doing it with every client. I shook these thoughts from my mind and hurried home where I could change and concentrate on painting for a while.

Taking a few deep breaths and composing myself, I pulled my folding easel out from under my bed. I laid newspapers out all over my carpet and got everything ready to start painting.

My room was full of the other pieces I had painted, all of them different but with some unseen touch that made it evident they were mine. My favorite piece hung right above my bed. It had been a fun process to create this one, with its thick layers of paint that just made you want to touch it. The colors were mostly blues and greens, and I had used my fingers instead of brushes to give the surface that thick, worked up feel. It wasn’t really a painting of anything in particular, just lots of swirling colors and squiggling lines.

Today, however, I was in a red mood. I mixed reds and oranges and yellows into hot fiery colors, which I layered thickly onto the small canvas. I made a circular sun with a spiral in the center and a long expanse of yellow sand that eventually made contact with the distant red shadowy mountains. It wasn’t a masterpiece when I finished it about four hours later, but it was enough to exhaust me to the point that I fell asleep the moment my paint-covered face hit my clean pillow.

I opened my eyes the next morning and saw the sun streaming through my window, which was the first sign that something was wrong. That horrible sinking feeling instantly hit my stomach, and I looked at my clock with dread. It told me, with unnerving calm, that it was 9:00, which meant that I was already an hour late for school. I jumped out of bed too quickly, filling my vision with a white cloud that only hindered my already cramped “getting ready” time. I cursed myself under my breath because I hadn’t laid my clothes out the night before like I usually did.

Flinging open my closet, I looked over in my “punk” section for what I could wear that day. I yanked on some black cargo pants and a tight white tank top, deciding that with this boy, who was starting to look like a wild card, simple would be best. I pulled my short hair back into a little nub of a ponytail and quickly put some eyeliner on, scrubbing furiously at the paint on my cheek. The oversized black leather purse from yesterday wouldn’t really work with my outfit today, so I quickly shoved everything into a basic black backpack and sprinted out the door with half of an untoasted bagel in my mouth.

The drive to school had never seemed so long, but I used the extra time to think about what I had to do today. I had lost my usual morning time where I would at least get to know the person I was breaking up with, which meant that if he threw me for a loop at all during break I could be in deep trouble. As I pulled into the parking lot, I realized that I had forgotten to bring my camera. So much for an ice breaker-I would just have to rely on my physical charms for this one and hope they would be sufficient to distract him long enough to deliver the news without too much pain. Judging by the red paint spot that had stayed defiantly on my cheek, though, my feminine wiles were a long shot.

Swallowing the rest of my bagel in one bite, I ran to the attendance office and explained why I was late to the skeptical woman there. She raised an eyebrow at my breathlessness and checked my file on her computer. Apparently she liked what she saw there because she said it was fine and just gave me a late slip to give my teacher. I didn’t even get a reprimand. Maybe today wouldn’t be as bad as I had originally thought.

I walked into my psychology class in the middle of a lab, so I didn’t draw much attention to myself. Most of the other students had their faces pressed against microscopes, for which I was grateful. I didn’t really understand why we’d need microscopes in psychology, unless Miss Tess was trying to cement the fact that it was, in fact, a science. I handed the late slip to my teacher who took it without question, and then I slunk back to my desk where an unoccupied microscope waited for me. The lab was confusing and required that I have some drawing skill, which, as I previously mentioned, I don’t. I wasn’t able to finish it by the time the bell rang for break, but most of the others weren’t able to either.

I checked my face one last time in my compact, noting with pleasure that the paint was now completely gone from my cheek. David was in the same spot as yesterday, but today Claire was not clinging to him, which I knew was my cue to work my magic. I quickly put some lip-gloss on before I made my way over to my unsuspecting victim. He was behaving much like he had the day before, glancing around him as if he expected a bomb to suddenly fall from the sky. I tried to ignore this behavior and put on my alluring smile.

“Hey, you’re David, right?” I asked the preoccupied boy innocently. He started a bit from my obviously unexpected greeting and quickly looked me over. I’m guessing he liked what he saw because a grin instantly spread across his face, and he seemed to relax.

“Yeah, I’m David. Who are you?” he asked simply. It was an easy enough question to answer but the fact that he wasn’t blown away by my looks or dumbfounded by the fact that I’d just walked right up and talked to him was slightly disconcerting. I had, however, vowed not to lose my head like I had the day before, and so I forced myself to construct semi-coherent sentences.