Philip Siegel - The Break-Up Artist

“Be positive, B!” Diane says, which is odd coming from her. “And think of it like this—most of these couples won’t survive anyway. And those that do will end up overweight alcoholics who fantasize about bedding their spouse’s best friend. It’s win-win no matter how you look at it.”

Blunt, but sincere. That’s what I love about Diane. Despite the circumstances, I’m glad that she moved back home last year. We’ve become incredibly close, something that our eight-year age difference had always prevented.

“Come here,” she says, opening her arms for a hug. I go over to her. She grabs my sleeve and wipes her nose on it.

“Gross!”

My mom knocks at the door as she opens it. The knocking was just a formality. “Hey, girls. Whatcha doing?”

Diane nudges my dossier closed with her elbow. “Just talking,” Diane says. “How was Emily Post down there?”

“She’s under a lot of stress. Her wedding’s right around the corner,” my mom says, always choosing to see the good in paying customers.

“I remember the feeling,” Diane says, and my mom and I don’t say anything for a second, until she laughs and it’s like a Time In!

My mom smoothes out the bed where I’d lain. She’s about to sit when she notices the wedding pictures. “Oh. Is this from Marian’s wedding? She looks beautiful. Oh, and I just love those bridesmaids dresses!”

Diane and I trade looks. Everything my mom says makes us want to laugh. We don’t know why.

“And Erin looks great, too. Diane, have you sent her a card yet?” my mom asks. I move my legs as she takes back her place on the bed.

“For what?”

“Congratulating her for having the baby.”

Diane rolls her eyes. Leave it to my mom to turn a bonding moment into a nag session. “Why am I congratulating her for giving birth? She probably had an epidural.”

“He’s about to turn one, and you haven’t even acknowledged him.”

“I don’t think it’s right to congratulate someone for having an ugly baby. It will only encourage her to have another one.”

“Owen is so cute. He’s got the chunkiest thighs.”

“He looks like Benjamin Button.”

I stifle a laugh. My hand presses against my mouth. My mom chuckles, too, and immediately covers her head in shame.

“See! You think he’s ugly, too! Maybe in a few years, I’ll see him walking with a cane around the playground,” Diane says.

My mom shakes her head. “You were so close to those girls in college. What happened?”

“They became a cliché, and I became a laughingstock.”

“This again? Diane, it’s all in your head.”

“Yeah? So where are they now?” Diane sulks lower into her chair, her back hunched over like a tortoise shell, all her energy dissipating. It’s a battle she can’t win, so why even try. “You want me to send the card. I’ll send the card,” she says quietly.

“You know what, you’re twenty-four years old. Do what you want.” My mom looks at me for backup. I give her a halfhearted smile. I’m staying out of this, which for her means I’m taking Diane’s side. But someone has to. How can she forget what happened?

My mom clicks the door shut, shaking her head at another failed breakthrough.

“She’ll never understand.” Diane turns off her computer.

Before bed, I pour myself a glass of milk. I don’t know if it really helps put me to sleep, but I’ve been doing this since fifth grade, so now it’s just part of my routine. The door to the alteration room hangs open, and the bride’s binder reflects the outdoor lights. It latches on to my morbid curiosity and lassoes me inside. I flip through pages of immaculate wedding design. The bride’s taste isn’t some lacy, field-of-flowers monstrosity. It’s warm colors, sleek bridesmaids dresses, and I do agree with her on napkin rings. Maybe this bride has it right. She isn’t factoring love into the equation. This wedding is a realization of her dream design. This marriage is an investment in her future. Plain and simple. I gain a whole new appreciation for the binder, for her honesty. I’m sure she’s been planning her special day since she was my age, years before she even met the man who would be her husband.

A scheme springs into my head, and I call Diane down right away.

“What up?” Diane says. When she joins me, she comes face-to-face with the Disney-princess dress. Instead of laughing at it, she stares into every seam. Sadness washes across her face. Her caustic facade falls to the side. I wonder if she’s looking past herself, into some alternate universe of what could have been. It’s a quiet reflection, one of those moments we simultaneously are drawn to and try to avoid.

“I’m sorry” is all I get out. Diane remains entranced.

I wrap my arms around her and squeeze, resting my chin on her shoulder. “Those bridesmaids dresses totally looked like crusted-over vomit. You dodged a bullet.”

Diane rubs my hand, forcing a smile that won’t come. “So like I said, what up?”

“I know how to break up Bari and Derek.”

Part of me would love to see Michigan’s yearbook be a disaster as payback for taking advantage of my friend. But Val and I are good girls, so we’re spending our Thursday night working on captions.

We lie on her bed, staring at pictures of our fellow students smiling and laughing, making it seem as if Ashland High is the new Disney World.

The homecoming spread takes over her computer screen. She can’t take her eyes off the king and queen in the middle. Jealousy, hopefulness and sorrow mix together on her face.

“I don’t think she’s that pretty,” I say of Huxley, whose head seems shaped for a crown. “Her lips are too big, her waist too small and she has overly angular shoulders.”

“They’re so perfect,” Val says, clearly only thinking about her own imperfections. She can’t look away. She, like the rest of Ashland, is transfixed. Her hopes and dreams sit in that frame. I could tell her how funny and amazing and beautiful she is every hour on the hour, and it would make no difference. Because to her, the only proof of that is to have a boyfriend.

“Oh, please. No couple is perfect.”

“They aren’t? They’re so cute together. Holding hands down the hall. Cheering for each other at games. Once I actually heard them finish each other’s sentences.” She pulls up another picture of the power couple, one of many Michigan stuck her with. Steve “surprising” Huxley at her car with a giant teddy bear on Valentine’s Day. Girls talked about that one all week.

“It’s just a stuffed animal. It’s probably collecting dust in her basement,” I say, but it’s no use.

Val holds her computer next to my face for a side-by-side comparison I want no part in. “You know, I think that sweater and skirt she’s wearing would look great on you. Well, maybe not that peach color since your skin is much lighter—”

“Paler.”

“— lighter than hers. But maybe something similar...” Val’s eyes pivot between my outfit and Huxley’s.

“Doubtful.” I push the computer away.

“I’m serious. You’re a total catch. You’re so smart and pretty and all-around amazing, and it’s kind of ridonkulous that you don’t see that.”

“Really?” I know Val’s giving a stock friend speech, but she says it with so much gusto, I almost believe it.

“Yes! Maybe if you didn’t cover up like some Amish housewife. Seriously, how many cardigans can one girl wear?”

“The sky’s the limit.”

Huxley has a figure. I have a body, and it’s thin and unspectacular from all angles.

“I think if you stopped wearing three layers of clothing every day and showed yourself off a little, you would look dynamite! The guys at school would go crazy!”