nonetheless.
I did my job with pride though, and after junior high, where I honed my skill into perfection, I had become a well-known practitioner of the art of the breakup. Girls had even started coming to me from different high schools, seeking my expertise in the social crunches. Sometimes to my detriment, I will admit that I can be quite difficult to track down. My mother (who I love dearly but can readily admit is a bit of a flake) seems to switch job locations steadily enough to land me in a different high school every semester or so. While this proves to be good for business, it also presents a bit of a hindrance to my clients. Though boys aren’t given the opportunity to become too familiar with my presence and realize what my appearance on the scene inevitably means for their relationships, my clients (their soon-to-be ex-girlfriends) have trouble tracking me down from time to time. Thank goodness for online profiles. If the school switching gets too confusing, I can always be Googled. Anyone in high school without some sort of online tribute to themselves and their never-ending attempt to shamelessly update people on the current status of their riveting affairs (“Just got back from the mall now I think I’ll check my mail, txt me if you get bored!”) may as well not exist at all.
As for myself, my affairs are much less documented and much more focused on keeping my true identity secret. I have no easily identifiable profile picture, in case one of my client’s ex-boyfriends should happen to stumble across my page. Just a way to contact me and arrange a business agreement to make their lives simpler. And what do I get out of all of this? Money-plain and simple. I know money isn’t everything and it can’t buy happiness or love, but it can buy some pretty cool stuff, including a nice, reasonably-priced college dorm and a mode of transportation, both of which are important when you’re as determined as I am to go to a good school. And, as ironic as it may seem, I’m planning to go to college to learn the careful craft of marriage counseling. That’s right; I’ll go from trying to end relationships to trying to keep them together.
Like I said, you play what you’re dealt, and the result of my pretty face and poor social status is a closet full of every different style imaginable. Let’s face it. High school boys in general are not that hard to understand. And although my extensive clothing arsenal could outfit a small army, it always seems to come down to basic clothing chemistry: Math geek = plaid button-up shirt and glasses. Football quarterback = short skirt and high heels.
My mother says that in her day it was always the “surfers” versus the “low-riders.” These days styles and cliques might be a bit more diverse and outside the box, but it still comes down to giving people what they want. Or at least the illusion of what it is they think they want. “Dress to impress” as the experts say. So as I left biology, I mentally prepared myself to be transformed into a cute, punky girl for the next week.
Chapter Two
I was fortunate that all of my CFs (short for Cold Feets) this prom season were relatively the same. This gave my hair some time to recover from the constant color changes. Along with my good looks, I was blessed with very resilient hair, so the constant dye jobs didn’t leave me bald. Length was always a tricky one to judge, though, and so I kept my hair at a neutral shoulder length, giving me the chance to make it seem short and sassy or long and wavy-whichever style the job called for. Today my hair was black, a deep black that shone blue in the sun. The constant change of my hair color and wardrobe made me almost impossible to find at school, for which I was grateful. Even with my mom continually moving me from school to school every time we switch houses, I can still have difficulty flying under the radar for the one semester I’m in a certain place. The only way people can really track me down for a job is by searching online the one thing that remains constant-my name. And even then, Amelia Marie Bedford was often changed to Amy or Lia or Arie. Like I said, everything about me changes to fit the job.
So, as luck would have it, I was quite thrilled when my four clients for the next three weeks all turned out to be the type of girls who wear bright colored plastic bows in their black hair, lots of eyeliner, and flat shoes with patterns dominating the canvas.
Before I had become the “high school heartbreaker,” as my clients so lovingly call me, I was a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl, hair back in a ponytail and no makeup. Of course, this style only lasted until junior high, so no one really knew what I looked like… at least, what I would look like if I dressed how I would naturally. I didn’t even know what that would look like, to be quite honest. I was so completely used to being whatever other people needed me to be that I hadn’t really had an original fashion thought for years-not even so much as an “oh that’s cute” when I looked at a magazine. I never lost any sleep over this little detail in my life though; my job was simple and straightforward, so why complain about it?
I walked into the kitchen and pulled a carton of orange juice from the fridge, pouring some into a glass. My mom looked up at me, surveyed my appearance over the top of her newspaper, and went back to reading. At first my mom didn’t understand how someone as normal and socially inept as her daughter could change so completely from week to week, but eventually she just began to accept my odd profession and left me to my world.
Blasting an ’80s sounding band that Nat had given me to listen to, I headed off to school. They weren’t really my type, but seeing as how today I was Mari and not Amelia, I actually liked them. The band suited my hot pink scarf that hung loosely down the front of my T-shirt. My fingernails had a fresh coat of bright yellow, and I had snapped on my hot pink phone cover. It’s always the little details that really make my disguises believable.
I pulled into the teeming Thousand Oaks High School parking lot and quickly found my spot. I always parked as far away from the school as possible because no one wanted to walk, so spots were always free. Stepping out of the car and beginning the trudge to school, I replayed my mission in my head, along with the little tidbits Nat had supplied for me. She would be faking sick today to ensure that James couldn’t use her as an excuse to not talk to me. In fact, I should be running into him pretty soon. I pulled out the picture Nat had attached to James’s file. It was a photo of the two of them, with James holding the camera out in front to snap the picture. Both were making very unattractive faces but the features were clear enough that I’d be able to recognize him. The fact that James had shaggy black hair with a bright orange stripe running through it would also obviously help.
Sure enough, as I approached the hallway leading to the classrooms, I saw James with a handful of friends. I quickly surveyed the group to make sure none of them were any of my other targets for that week, and found, much to my advantage, that they weren’t. As I approached them, heads began to turn. One boy stopped talking. Then, to see what had caused this sudden lull in conversation, the other friends (including James) turned to look at me. I pulled my confidence out of thin air as I always did and let my bright pink lips form an alluring smile. His friends stood and stared open-mouthed at me as I approached the stripy-haired boy.
“You’re James, right?” I asked innocently, looking up at him through my eyelashes. He nodded dumbly but didn’t say a word. “Hey do you think I can talk to you at lunch? I’m a friend of Nat’s and she’s not really feeling well today so I don’t have a lunch buddy.” I bit my lip in a nervous way, just to add to the idea that I was a lost little puppy that needed protecting. James seemed to be brought back to reality by the mention of his girlfriend’s name, and he rapidly blinked sense back into his brain. I was so used to this reaction that it was almost laughable when it actually continued to happen like this. The reactions were practically straight out of some boy handling user’s guide.
“Yeah, sure, that’s… that’s fine. We just sit here usually… on the bench.” He scratched his head as if he were trying to remember if that’s where they really sat. I giggled at his confusion in a sweet way, scrunching my nose up playfully.
“Sounds perfect. I’ll see you at lunch,” I said, turning to go with a wave over my shoulder. My free hand worked frantically to dislodge the CD I’d been listening to so that it fell out of my pink messenger bag (bought the night before as an added touch to the outfit). It hit the ground with a clatter and I turned to look over my shoulder at it. James retrieved it for me like a good boy and handed it over, glancing absentmindedly at it. His eyes suddenly grew wide.
“No way!” he exclaimed. “This is my favorite CD!” I found it amusing that this seemed like such an impossibility to him, but I kept my amusement well hidden.
“Oh, is it?” was all I said. “I just found it in some music store and thought I’d try it. They’re not bad.” (Word to the wise, having everything in common with a boy you like-or one you’re pretending to like-is never good. Play hard to get.)
“Not bad?” he repeated, disbelief lining his words. “They’re amazing!”
“I guess I just haven’t gotten to that part yet,” I said with a smirk. “You’ll have to show me what’s so good
