stereotype straight out of a movie. I looked them over one more time to make sure I hadn’t invented them simply by expecting them to be there, and sure enough, there they were in all of their unsubstantial glory. Then again, I suppose someone without an original thought in her head doesn’t have much room to make fun of the interests of others.
I shook my head, figuring I could lure this one away simply by bending over in front of him in my less-than- modest skirt. It was definitely the easy way out, but Lexi never specified how I had to get rid of him, just that it had to be done so that his best friend could ask her to prom.
I checked the number on the fact sheet so that I could confirm tomorrow’s breakup with Lexi. There’s nothing worse than trying to break up with a boy and having their girlfriend show up halfway through. I dialed the number on my now pink cell phone.
“This is Lex,” said a chipper voice. I wondered why on earth she’d need to shorten Lexi. After all, wasn’t Lexi the shortened version of Alexis or something? Perhaps the four letters were still too strenuous for her, and she needed the three letters to keep it simple.
“Hey Lexi, it’s Amelia,” I said professionally. “I was just calling to confirm that you won’t be in school tomorrow so that I can get rid of Blane for you.”
“What? No you can’t do it tomorrow! He’s throwing a party this weekend and I want to be able to say good-bye properly.”
This news shocked me slightly, and I didn’t even want to think about what her last statement entailed, so I simply said, “Really? Well, if you need it done by Tuesday I should start working on it.”
“I don’t care. I thought you did this stuff in one day anyway? Why can’t you just do it Monday?” I sighed deeply and tried to control my temper. Some people really thought I was a miracle worker-they never took into account illness, or the fact that not all breakups take one neat little forty-minute lunch break.
“If you want me to start on Monday then I’m going to have to ask you to move the deadline to Wednesday as a precaution.” There was some audible grumbling on the other line, which annoyed me, but she finally gave in.
“Fine. Do whatever you need to do.” Then the line went dead. She had hung up on me. My annoyance wasn’t at the fact that she was being ungrateful and unrealistic, but rather the fact that she didn’t seem to think that I could possibly lure her boyfriend away from a catch as great as her. I rolled my eyes at the cheerleader’s unjustified confidence and tossed my phone into the big white leather purse I’d been planning to use for school tomorrow.
It then instantly struck me that I didn’t have a job tomorrow. David had broken up with Claire, so I didn’t have to worry about him, and I couldn’t start work on Blane until Monday. I could wear whatever I wanted tomorrow. But what on earth did I want to wear? I rarely dressed for myself. The only time I wasn’t working was usually weekends and then I’d just stay in sweats and paint for two days straight. With this exciting new prospect of dressing myself in mind, I opened up my closet and looked through the many different styles.
I finally settled for nondescript blue jeans, a gray fitted T-shirt, some black and white tennis shoes, and a long, thin, white muslin scarf. I completed this outfit with a knitted white beret to stuff my newly dyed blonde hair into. Tomorrow I was definitely going for invisible, and maybe that way David wouldn’t find me and he’d forget about our “date.”
The next day at school I was met with a very unwelcome sight at my locker, which looked like it was turning into a meeting spot for my clients. Claire stood, arms crossed over her chest, eyes burning a hole through my head. I approached cautiously, not quite sure what I’d done to merit this less-than-congenial greeting.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked in a furious whisper. I threw her an honestly puzzled look while I tried to make sure no one was listening to us.
“What are you talking about?”
“David!” she said simply. Her statement was so sudden that I thought perhaps he was standing behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see the normal procession of students passing through the hallway.
“Not behind you, you idiot. What did you do? I paid you fifty dollars to break up with him for me!”
“You guys are broken up,” I said shakily, finding that this confrontation was taking a lot of the fight out of me. I suspected that it had something to do with the fact that I didn’t have an identity that day. I wasn’t Lia the super cheerleader, or Mari the independent punk chick. I was Amelia Marie Bedford, sixteen-year-old breakup artist and personality-less high school student.
“Yeah, I wanted
“Why does that matter? You got what you wanted. You and David are broken up and you can get what’s-his- name to ask you to the prom.”
“It’s my reputation, Amelia,” she spat. “I know you don’t have one, but I can’t go around having people break up with me. It doesn’t sit well with my image. You need to fix this.”
“Fix this?” I repeated incredulously. “How am I supposed to do that?”
“Make it look like I broke up with him,” she answered simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Why don’t you do that yourself? Just tell your friends that’s what happened.” I had no idea where any of this was going, but I knew I didn’t like it.
“I paid you to save my reputation!”
“No, you paid me to avoid an awkward situation for yourself,” I quickly corrected her. I may have suddenly turned spineless, but I wasn’t about to give back the fifty dollars she’d given me just because she had a bruised ego.
“Whatever. You need to get David to go out with me again so I can break up with him properly and publicly, or I’m taking my money back.” Her threat was loud and clear, and all I could do was nod silently. She turned to walk away but called over her shoulder, “And you should fix whatever you did to your hair. You look like Lexi Monroe.”
That school day went by in a haze of commotion. My mind was completely wrapped around my current problem and I didn’t pay attention to a single word out of my teachers’ mouths. My stomach was all tied up in knots over the prospect of A) getting David to ask Claire back out, B) getting her to break up with him publicly so I wouldn’t have to give the money back, and C) possibly sabotaging any chance I had with David. Though, all things considered, I’d say that would be the best part of this whole plan. I couldn’t risk having a crush on a boy. Besides, what boy would ever be okay with his girlfriend flirting with a new guy every day?
I wasn’t at all surprised to find that my mother was having another “client dinner” this Friday, so I ate some cold macaroni and cheese straight out of the fridge without even heating it up. I finished up my homework for the weekend and tried to watch reruns of old black-and-white TV shows until I fell asleep. As it turned out, however, even Lucy’s antics couldn’t soothe me, so I ended up going online to try to cyber stalk David. I needed some information on this boy, and I already had his name, which meant I should be able to find some sort of online profile for him. Everyone seems to have their own website now, which makes things infinitely easier for me when a client doesn’t give me enough information about their dear boyfriends.
I went to a search engine and typed in “David Fields” in an attempt to locate my burden’s website. I found many photography websites and even an interesting blog or two, but nothing from this boy at school. Now things were really getting weird. As I’ve previously stated, everyone has a website. Everyone. To find someone without some sort of online profile is like finding someone who doesn’t exist… at least in high school.
I considered calling Claire up just to confirm that I had the right last name, but I had a violent flashback to our last conversation and decided against it. Now all that was left to do was go to bed, hope I could get through the weekend without this boy single-handedly ruining my career, and paint a picture or two. Should be easy enough.
Chapter Nine
Saturday morning I let myself sleep in until eleven. I had tossed and turned all night, so waking up at eleven felt more like waking up at three in the morning. I stumbled out of bed, rubbing my eyes and yawning. Then I tripped over the big square fan that I had aimed at my bed the night before. I glared at the inanimate object and
