The Break-Up Artist

16

As I lie on my bed attempting to do math homework, I receive an unexpected phone call from an unexpected caller.

“Hey! Want to go ice-skating tonight?” Val asks me.

“Now?” It’s 7:16 p.m. on a Thursday. I’m not cool enough to have a social life on a weeknight. I can barely scrape one together on a weekend.

She explains to me that the regional college opens up their rink to the public Thursday nights.

“Ezra and I heard about it from Jeff,” she says. “We’ll pick you up in twenty.”

“I don’t know.” My eyes dart from my clock to the homework sprawled out on my bed to my sore legs. Not to mention the fact that I only ice-skated once, and that ended in blood, tears and stitches.

“‘I don’t know’ means ‘convince me more.’ Fine. It will be so much fun! Maybe some guy will ask you to skate with him and hold your hand. It’s a scientific fact that everything is more romantic on ice.”

“What’s your source? Us Weekly?”

“Come on, Becca!”

I won’t lie. It does feel nice that my friend is so excited to see me. Val and I haven’t hung out in what seems like forever. And I don’t mind that Ezra will be there, too. Now that I’ve gotten to know him, I’ll be spending time with two friends. It shouldn’t be awkward, as long as they aren’t munching on each other’s faces the whole night.

“So what’s up?” Val asks me for the second time in the car. I hate those generic questions. People use them on someone they don’t know, not their best friend.

“Not much.” I shrug my shoulders. When you go from sharing every minute detail to barely speaking for a few weeks, it’s hard to know where to start.

Val never knew me in my Frances Glory days. We knew of each other in middle school, but we didn’t run in the same circles. I don’t know why I never became friends with her friends. Huxley didn’t like them, and that was that. It wasn’t until our eighth-grade trip to Washington, D.C., that Val and I had this unexpected-yet-profound bonding session. We sat next to each other on the bus, and four hours and three states later, we were friends. It’s amazing how that happens. With most people, my conversations never go beyond small talk. But then with a very special few, I just click. We bypass meaningless chitchat. After five minutes, I feel like I’ve known them forever. I can’t explain it. It’s completely outside my control. That’s what happened with Val. So it breaks me that we’re stuck in small-talk land tonight.

“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.