“Oh!” Val says, a thought coming to her. I’m all ears. “Ezra and I ate at the best restaurant Sunday night. Have you ever been to The Alamo Steakhouse?”

“Aren’t you a vegetarian?” I ask her.

“I was, but I’m getting back into red meat.” She rubs Ezra’s thigh. He grabs her fingers and squeezes.

“Ezra, you’re not a vegetarian?”

“Don’t let the hemp necklace fool you. I love me some cow.”

“Interesting.” Why did my alleged best friend not tell me she was getting back into red meat? I know it’s just cow, but I feel a little betrayed. I look outside, and it’s darker than usual. The college is on a hill away from neighboring towns. The students there call it Harvard on the Hill.

More awkward silence. Even though this is a two-door, she feels so far away.

“How’s Tamara doing?” Ezra asks me. “That looked like a nasty fall she took in practice yesterday.”

“Well, she’s a sweet girl, but such a spastic dancer. She gets really dizzy really fast.”

“You know what Jeff calls her, right?”

“Tropical Storm Tamara, and we thought of that name together.” I cock an eyebrow at him through the rearview mirror.

“That’s a good one. I’m curious what name you have picked out for Huxley.”

“It wouldn’t be ladylike of me to divulge.”

He bursts into a high-pitched giggle. It’s kind of awkward for him, but also kind of adorable.

Val spins around to face me. She smacks her lips together, an obvious tell when she’s frustrated. “You joined SDA? Why didn’t you tell me?” She eyes me then Ezra, as if she cracked a conspiracy.

“I thought I told you,” I say, which I know is a lie. But why didn’t Ezra say anything?

“She dances quite well. Huxley is putting her front and center in her routine,” Ezra says. He and I laugh at the thought.

“I took dance lessons forever ago,” I say.

“Cool.” Val slumps down in her chair and strums her fingers against her thigh until we reach the rink.

* * *

Even with the crowds, the ice rink has specific rings for all groups. Families and kids stay on the outer rim. The more expert skaters go in the middle, where they can whoosh in wide ovals. The third ring belongs to couples, holding hands while they skate. The bright lights against the steaming white ice creates a dreamlike—and fine, romantic—setting.

Val and Ezra skate around and around the rink. Val has better balance than I thought, and she isn’t playing the “oops, I keep falling” card, to her credit. They glide across the ice, their cheeks a rosy red.

I hug the wall and lurch my way forward. Two-year-olds pass me.

I’m so focused on not cracking my skull open that I don’t see Ezra skate next to me. He taps me on the shoulder.

“Having fun?”

“Tons!” I say. “Can’t you tell?”

He holds out his gloved hand. “Let’s get you out on the ice.”

“I am on the ice.”

He shoots me a look and keeps his hand out. “You look like you’re on a ledge debating whether to jump.”

“I’m fine. I’m going at my own pace.” I already feel like a third wheel. I don’t need him and Val treating me like a Make-A-Wish kid.

“Let me take you on one loop, and if you hate it, I’ll bring you back here.”

Val cheers me on from outside. She sips on a Coke.

“Fine,” I say. I slap my hand into his. He whisks us off. I tighten my grip until my hand whitens.

“Loosen up. You’re so stiff.”

I’m doing a skate-walk. My skates clomp against the ice. My body remains tense and rigid like the Tin Man.

“Don’t pick your skates up,” Ezra says. “Bring them up a little, then let them glide.” He demonstrates and makes it look so easy. I have a minor heart attack as I stand surrounded by speed skaters.

He hustles back to me and takes my hand. “I got you. Let’s try it. Keep your skates on the ice and push off.”

I take my first glide. It’s more of a walk-glide, like a checkmark. My next move has a touch more grace. Then I take more of a glide on my third try and fall on my butt. I want to punch the ice.

Ezra pulls me up. “That was good.”

“I think I’ll go back to the wall.”

“We’re not even halfway around yet. You still owe me a semicircle. Now, stop looking down at your feet. It’s screwing up your balance.” Ezra turns and is now directly in front of me. “This time when we skate, look up and right at me.”

He takes my hands and some weird electric current shivers through me. His hands are clammy, but they give me a sense of comfort.

“What if you bump into someone?”

“You’ll have to be my eyes. It’s all on you, Becca.”

I want to take off my jacket. I may be standing on ice, but I am sweating.

“Ready?” he asks.

I look down then pull my head up. I stare at Ezra. His hazel eyes and round face pull me in immediately. It feels weird making such direct eye contact with him. It’s intimate even though it’s not supposed to be, like he’s viewing some secret part of me. But it becomes hypnotic, and I start to notice details. A faint scar on his jaw. The redness of his lips. Eyebrows that slope down and trail off to the ends of his eyes. Do all eyebrows do that?

“You’re doing great,” he says.

Apparently, I’m gliding across the ice. A wave of exhilaration courses through me, unlocking me from chains of tension. The cold air whips across my face. Ezra has a wild constellation of freckles above his cheek. His eyes keep penetrating into mine, and it’s making me flustered and I want to look away but I can’t. I wonder what he sees.

I forget that Val is on the sidelines, that dozens of people are skating all around us, that there’s noise or light or anything else in a five-mile radius of us. I’m sucked into a trance, and I have to get out.

I push past him and skate to the far wall under the scoreboard. Ezra calls out to me, but I lean my body against the ledge and catch my breath.

Outside my area of the rink, I am snapped back into reality when I suddenly notice Steve. He leans against the wall next to the emergency exit. His wide-eyed smile is on full display.

Angela stands beside him, laughing at every word he says.

17

To: Robert Towne

From: Le Break-Up Artiste


Dear Mr. Towne,


Over the past month, I have made significant progress in the dissolution of Steve and Huxley’s relationship. Huxley, and several of her close friends, are beginning to suspect that Steve is having an affair with an old flame. Doubt and worry are two of my strongest tools. Nothing ends a relationship quicker than making a person override their heart with their warped, paranoid mind. Or at least that’s what I read on a Hallmark card once.

I will, of course, continue to keep you updated.


Sincerely,

The Break-Up Artist


The next day, SDA practice cannot come soon enough. In eighth period, I pull a fresh pen out of my backpack. When I sit up straight again, I find a paper football waiting for me on my desk.

LIFE = OVER

I crumple it up and toss it into my backpack. I don’t look her way.

“Becca! Wait up!”

Val catches up to me in the hall after class. She heaves for air. Sweat mats her hair to her face. She would be so embarrassed if she knew that.

“What’s up?” she asks in a fake, cheerful customer-service-rep voice.

I have places to be, so I give in and cut to what she wants. “Your life is over?” I don’t act concerned. I’m 99.9 percent sure this is a nonissue revolving around Ezra.

“My life is spiraling into a supernova of chaos,” she says. Worry clouds her face. “I don’t know what to do.”

Maybe this is serious. If we talk this out, I’ll be late to practice, but I know my priorities. “What happened?” I pat her shoulder.

Val clutches her two books and one notebook against her chest. “Ezra and I were walking to first period, and when he dropped me off, I kissed him.”

I wait for the rest of her story, but that was it. “So what’s the problem here?”

“Haven’t you been listening? I said I kissed him. He always makes the first move, but he didn’t kiss me this time. I had to kiss him.”

We speed down the side stairwell, our heels clacking against the steps as we get to the first floor. I check the time every few seconds.

“I’m not getting the problem,” I say.

“I had to kiss him. Why did he not try to kiss me first this morning? I don’t even want to think about how I looked, leaning over to lay one on my boyfriend, pulling him in for a kiss like I’m some kind of überfeminist freak.”

“This is the twenty-first century. That’s allowed now. FYI: we can vote, too.”

“Funny,” she deadpans.

“I’m sure it looked romantic.” Or rather like a PDA nuclear spill.

“I didn’t even tell you what happened four nights ago.”

You haven’t been telling me a lot of things, Val, I think to myself. “What happened?”

“We were making out, and Ezra wasn’t kissing me back hard enough. I was being the more passionate one.”

“How can you even judge something like that? He’s a very passionate guy, I’m assuming,” I say.

“I could feel it. He wasn’t kissing like he used to.”

“Used to? You guys have been dating barely a month—”

“Five and a half weeks,” she says. “Almost two months.”

I stop in the main corridor and do a massive eye roll for her rounding skills, and for my stupidity. “Are you serious?”

“I know! I’m kind of scared.”

“Will you stop it, Val. Do you know how annoying you sound?”

Val flips from worry to pissed off in a split second. “Sorry for pestering you.”

Usually I would be fine eye rolling, but I’ve reached a limit on frustration I didn’t know existed. The words spring out of me. “You have. You just keep me around to listen to your fake problems. I’m not your friend. I’m your sounding board.”

“I’ve always been here to talk. You just choose to bottle it up. I thought you were supportive of my relationship.”

“If you keep thinking your relationship is ending, then maybe it is.”

It’s 2:29 p.m. I don’t have time for this. Who knew that I would consider SDA practice a better place to be than talking to my friend? But she isn’t my friend. She’s turned into a relationship zombie, just like the rest of them. “I have to go.”

I skulk off to the locker room. I can’t wait to focus on dancing for two hours and forget this conversation happened.

* * *

I slap on a gigantic grin as I waltz through the gym doors. The girls are stretching. Now that we’ve all improved and become well versed with our routines, Huxley isn’t such a stickler about starting on time. Stretching time has expanded into catch-up-with-your-teammates time.

I change quickly and join Huxley and a cluster of girls doing the V stretch on the floor.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say. “I’ve felt pretty lethargic today.”

“Late night?” Huxley asks.

“Kinda, yeah. I went out last night.”

The stretchers lift their chests off the floor. I have an audience.

“Rebecca Williamson out on a school night?” Huxley asks. “I can’t even fathom the idea.”

“Oh, really? I went ice-skating. What did you and Steve do last night?”

The girls are more anxious to hear that answer than my nighttime plans. Huxley plays it cool and takes the added attention in stride. She’s a pro at being popular.

“Steve had to work, so I just relaxed,” she says.

“Where’s there ice-skating?” Reagan asks.

I tell them about the college ice rink and my remedial skating. “But I did it,” I say. “I even took pictures.”

Before anyone can ask to see them, I grab my phone and pull them up. Pictures of me pretending to twirl, pictures of Val and me, of Val and Ezra, all enjoying an above-average Thursday night. I look like some magical fairy. You would never guess I could only skate in three-second spurts.

“Isn’t it a nice rink?” I ask. “I am totally going back.”

Reagan peers into the phone, squinting her eyes to see the real picture. Other girls follow suit. They trade suspicious looks with each other.

I hand them the phone and play dumb. “What?”

“Is that...by those doors...?” Reagan starts then cuts herself off. She looks at Kerry, who nods back at her. They hide their smiles.

“What is it?” Huxley asks.

“Yeah. What did you guys see?” I ask. Wow, I didn’t think my acting was this good.