Philip Siegel - The Break-Up Artist

Huxley dumps out a shopping bag of Pixy Stix onto the locker-room benches.

“Get a boost, guys. I want 1000 percent energy levels out there,” Huxley says.

Girls lunge at the sugar salvation. They rip them open and pour sugar down their throats. Some dancers rub the sugar on their gums and teeth. I will hold off. I don’t want to crash before I go on stage.

“Rebecca.” Huxley taps me on the shoulder. Her outfit has a blue, glittered streak across the front, letting spectators know she’s the captain. Of course, most of them probably know that already. “Whatever happens tonight, I want you to know that you have surpassed all of my expectations.”

I blush at the backhanded compliment. For a moment, I forget why I joined in the first place. “Is Steve ready for his video debut?”

“I don’t know. We broke up.” She says it quickly, getting it out and over with as fast as she can.

The statement pummels me in the gut, which is odd since I orchestrated their demise. I’m now free of Mr. Towne, free of her and Steve’s reign over Ashland, free of the Break-Up Artist. But I don’t feel like celebrating.

I put on my most convincing concerned-best-friend game face. “I’m so sorry, Huxley.”

“He did not take too well to my family’s donation to his college fund. If he wanted to be with me, he wouldn’t care about the money.” She shrugs. “Guys and their pride.”

She doesn’t flinch, like she was reciting a math problem for me. How is she so composed?

“Did you tell anyone yet?” I ask.

“They’ll find out soon enough.”

“Find out what?” Reagan sidles up next to us. She bounces in place.

“That the curling squad is going to have the best routine in the show!” Huxley and Reagan “woo” together, and Huxley joins her in bouncing.

Huxley stands atop the bench and whistles to get everyone’s attention. “This is it, girls. You ready?”

The girls scream. I convince myself to mouth “yes.”

“I can’t hear you! Now I said, are you ready for SDA?”

They scream louder, piercing my eardrums, and run onto the gym floor. The crowd joins them in screaming.

I pull Huxley back to the lockers. “Are you okay? If you need to talk—”

“It’s time to dance!”

I spot tiny cracks in her bubbly facade, but she patches them up. She has to.

She’s the captain.

The night goes by in a blur. Girls dance in front of me, and I applaud at some routines, but my brain has no connection to the outside world.

She will get over this, I tell myself over and over. She and Steve are not meant to be. If they were, then they wouldn’t have broken up. This will all pass, and I will never have to do anything like this again. That’s what I keep repeating to myself, anyway.

Before our number, the curling video of Steve and Huxley plays for everyone. Ezra edited it masterfully, and I cringe when I remember that night. Steve and Huxley have impeccable comic timing and adorable rom-com-worthy chemistry. The audience has the right responses at the right parts.

I peer over at Huxley. Squad mates glance back at her for real-time reactions. She doesn’t disappoint. Huxley smiles bashfully, a wide grin that only I can see is fighting to stay up. Tonight, the suspicions will start because Steve isn’t here. By tomorrow, his friends will know about the break-up. They’ll tell their friends and girlfriends, who will spread the word to every person they know. You don’t sit on this type of gossip. By Monday morning, at least half of the school will be all caught up and spreading the word. If you didn’t hear the news this weekend, then that means you aren’t popular enough. Don’t worry, though. The story will wind through school rapidly, trickling down to the faculty no later than sixth period. At lunch, every student will be making sideways glances at their lunch table. Who will have to switch tables? Girls will look over their shoulders during class to catch a glimpse of Huxley. If she walks by a group of kids, and they get quiet, she’ll know why. And she’ll have to face that at least twenty times a day. Most will blame her for the break-up; girls always receive the majority of the blame. She’ll be called a slut and prude in equal amounts; she’ll be called a bitch for no reason. Side rumors and completely false stories will wind through the halls. And through it all, Huxley will have to maintain that same stupid, hollow grin.

The film cuts to Steve whirling Huxley around, when he caught her by total surprise. They are exposed in this genuine, intimate moment, where this vibe, this current, makes them glow, and they radiate pure, unadulterated happiness.

And there, under the basketball hoop, in my stripper-pole tracksuit, curling broom at my side, I begin to cry.

Monday morning is exactly how I predicted. It’s always a letdown when you realize your peers are as shallow and transparent as you assumed. Though who am I to talk? I have gossip dossiers on half of them.

I sulk down the science hall, ignoring the foul stench of frogs. A group of freshmen are engaged in a conversation next to the locker. Guess who it’s about.

“I heard she couldn’t stand to be with him because he’s not rich. She offered to pay for his college.”

“That’s kind of sick. She was probably paying him to date her this whole time.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. She pretty much turned him into her personal puppet.”

“Her hand shoved firmly up his ass. What a deranged bitch.”

“Will you shut the hell up?” I slam my locker and pull rank for the first time in my high-school career. “Do you honestly think you know the truth about what happened? You probably heard it fourth-or fifth-hand, since you’re not popular enough to know somebody with the real scoop.”

“So what really happened?”

“Like I would tell any of you.”

I almost knock one of them out sliding my backpack over my shoulder.

It takes a few corridors for my body to go back into Monday-morning mode. But as soon as I get to first period, the normalcy gives way again. This time to panic.

On the classroom door hangs a picture.

Of me.

In full Break-Up Artist attire. Mask, red graduation gown, black background. There I am, for all of Ashland to see. In big, black letters under my picture is the caption “Who is the Break-Up Artist?”

Flyers hang on every door in the hall.

* * *

Every hallway is papered with the flyer. I can’t take them down. That would be a dead giveaway. This can’t be Mr. Towne’s dirty work. I already told him about Huxley and Steve. Besides, this seems too catty for him.

I survive the first half of the day by keeping my head down, literally. My peers must believe I’m deeply saddened by Huxley and Steve, or obsessed with my shoes. I watch classmates dissect and analyze the flyer in fourth period. Ms. Hardwick studies it with some girls before the bell rings.

“I heard she was behind Huxley and Steve’s break-up,” she says. “She has to be. It’s all too convenient.”

“That’s what we all thought in my last period, too,” another student says.

The bell rings, and Huxley is a no-show. I thought she would come to school today, but not even she can overcome this gossip with grace and dignity. Her social stock is in free fall.

I open my copy of Beowulf wide so that it covers my face. Did Bari plan to put up these posters to coincide with Huxley and Steve’s break-up, or is this just the mother of all coincidences? I bank on my classmates’ collective obliviousness. They would never suspect me. The girl who’s just there doesn’t do stuff like this. Most Ashland news items are like food poisoning: a vicious first twenty-four hours, and then they’re gone. I just need to make it through today and pray for a pregnant teen to waltz through the doors tomorrow.

Come lunchtime, I plan to grab food and race up to the library. Huxley tugs at my arm while I walk to the cafeteria.

“Hey, wait up.” No tears stain her face, but it’s lacking its usual glow. She seems exhausted.

“You’re here.”

“I came in late. I figured I had a good enough excuse.”

“How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.”

Neither of us believes it. I cock my eyebrows at her.

“I feel awful.”

Students stare at us as they enter lunch, and I want to hiss at them.

“I feel like I lost a part of myself,” she says quietly but firmly, knowing she can’t let herself give the audience a show.

“It’ll get better.”

“I don’t think it will,” she says. She glances at her and Steve’s homecoming picture in the trophy case. Blocking her view is another flyer taped to the glass. She skims the contents, soaking in the picture and caption.

She looks back at me.

I can see her brain working. My spine tightens, and I can’t move.

She laughs, almost on the verge of a giggle.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“Some people need to get a life.” I’m unsure if she’s referring to the Break-Up Artist or the ones searching for her. But Huxley’s already moved on. “Do you want to eat lunch in my car today? We can listen to the radio.”

“That sounds perfect.”

But she doesn’t listen to me. Her eyes wander back to the flyer. She rips it off the glass and holds it millimeters from her face.

“Golden slippers,” she says, showing me. “See there? The black sheet is covering a mirror, but she didn’t cover the bottom. You can make out the golden slippers in the reflection. Those are the exact same ones that we got from Frances Glory.”

Huxley jerks her head up.

It just clicked.

She stares at me in confusion, in shock. “Rebecca?”

“I’m so sorry.” It’s all I can say. I’ve lied to her enough. I can’t do it anymore.

“Is this...? But you...”

“Yes...to everything.”

“You...break up couples?” Her eyes go wide. More clicking. “Were Steve and I...?” The flyer rustles in her shaking hands.

I nod yes. I should’ve known this day would come. I just assumed I’d be mad that I got caught, not mad at myself.

“It was before we became friends again. And then I couldn’t get out of it....” I stop myself. It’s just excuses.

“Why would you do this? Why do you want to break people up? That’s sick. You’re sick.”

My reasons might seem flimsy now, in the face of an upset victim, but they were reasons. “You don’t know what it’s like being single in this school.”

“This has always been your M.O. I remember how bent out of shape you got when I began dating Steve.”

“Shut up, Huxley.” I’m tired of getting talked down to by people who think they know better. “I didn’t care that you had a boyfriend. You ditched me and then treated me like crap.”

“And I apologized! I even gave you a makeover. This is how you repay me?” She holds up the flyer. Like vultures, a crowd gathers around us, but I can’t contain myself. These words have been waiting to come out for years.

“It was business. I became the Break-Up Artist because of people like you. Girls who treat other girls like they have some inoperable brain tumor just because they’re single.”

“You made yourself feel that way,” she says. And maybe she’s right on some level, but I’m not giving her any credit here. Huxley crumples up the flyer and throws it at my feet. “I’m going to get Steve back. I love him.”

“What’s going on?” Bari steps forward from the crowd.

Huxley holds the flyer next to my face for all to see. “I found the Break-Up Artist.”

Now that I’m in the center, I notice that crowds don’t gasp or buzz among each other at each development. They don’t say anything at all, like they’re watching a really good movie. (Movies...Ezra...ick.) They are riveted and won’t even blink.

“You’re the Break-Up Artist?” Bari steps forward from the crowd. Her blond roots are coming in, pushing the brown hair to her shoulders.

“Guilty,” Huxley says.

“I’m sorry.” I’m barely audible.

“No, you’re sorry you got caught,” Bari says. “How many couples have you destroyed? And for what, to make you feel better about being some pale, flat-chested, single bitch?” She points at the balled-up paper in her hand. “You are so messed up.” She pushes me against the trophy case. Her petite body is a firecracker dangerously close to being ignited.

Calista hangs back in the crowd, avoiding eye contact with me.

“How dare you come between Derek and me. What did we ever do to you?” Bari asks.