The paper in my hand read:
Name-James
Age-16
POI-’80s dancing, girl pants, terrariums
Deadline-Two weeks before prom
As I read this boy’s fact sheet, I was already mentally pulling together an outfit from my closet. I pictured my gray shirt with brightly colored cassette tape stamps all over it, black skinny jeans, and a hot pink and black zebra-print scarf. I could just slap on some neon eye shadow and I’d be good to go. Judging by the brief history given to me by James’s soon-to-be former girlfriend, this job would only take a few hours, which worked out well since Nat wanted some other boy to ask her to the prom. There wasn’t a question in my mind that “Nat” was the short, cool version of some otherwise outdated name. I didn’t doubt that I’d be breaking the new couple up the day after prom, but that wasn’t any of my business. My business was destroying the currently living relationship. I stuffed the paper into my black backpack and nodded to the retro-punk girl in front of me.
“It’s going to be fifty,” I said simply, checking my black cell phone for the time. If this transaction made me late for biology, I’d be doubling my price.
“Fifty!” she said incredulously. “Tori Jacobs told me you did it for her for only thirty!” I had expected this reaction, and I was prepared.
“Listen, Nat. It’s three weeks until the prom. It’s my busiest season of the school year, so I don’t have time to haggle with you. If I take on any more clients I might be raising it to seventy, so fifty’s a pretty good deal, wouldn’t you say?” She nodded sullenly at me and began digging through her backpack for the money.
It has always amazed me what people will pay to avoid an awkward situation. That’s where I come in. All the girls in the high school knew me and what I did to earn money, but the boys, amazingly enough, hadn’t caught on yet. This was good for me because the second boys learned that my presence meant their inevitable heartbreak, my job would become that much more complicated. Of course, then I could just charge more.
Nat handed over two twenty-dollar bills and a ten grudgingly. The paper was crinkled and warm from her backpack, but money was money.
“Lovely doing business with you,” I said professionally, pocketing the cash. I began walking away when Nat grabbed my arm, cutting off my escape route through the quickly-emptying hallway. I really needed to get myself some sort of office to keep my business transactions more private. Nat spun me around to face her and I gave her a look that said she was overstepping the boundaries by using physical contact.
“You sure this will work?” she asked me, her voice straddling the border between anger and desperation.
“Positive. I deliver the news, cushion the blow, and gracefully bow out. He won’t even blame you when I’m through with him.” This answer seemed to satisfy her, and she released my arm so that I could make my way, unencumbered, to biology. I could feel the wad of money in my pocket, and I smiled to myself, keeping my eyes straight ahead on the door just down the hallway. I’m sure that deep down somewhere I should feel bad about taking money from people for doing something they’d be better off doing themselves, but isn’t that what business is all about? We’d be better off doing our own taxes but we pay people to do them for us, and I don’t see mobs surrounding any CPAs’ offices come April 15. Okay, so that may be a bad analogy, but I stick by what I said-everybody pays other people to do something for them that they could easily do on their own.
Biology with Mrs. Mathers was the same as it always was: terribly interesting, yet presenting me an absolute guarantee that I’d fail the test. It is always unfortunate to love something you’re bad at, which is why I embrace my profession so fully. I mean, God graced me with good looks and absolutely no friends, so I made that into a business. Besides, it’s hard to be friends with someone when you’re taking their boyfriend on a date. Things always get way too weird when I try to combine my business and my social life, hence why it’s easier to just remain friendless.
I discovered my gift in elementary school with my first, last, and only friend, Becky Brasher. She and Tommy White had been “going out” (which in elementary school means that they held hands once every few lunch periods) for a week when Becky asked me to tell him it was over. Being ten, I naturally thought this would help our friendship so I told Tommy they were not dating anymore, giving him my business motto, “It’s not you, it’s me,” only to realize that this line was usually delivered by the actual girlfriend. Ever since then it’s been apparent that my calling in life was to be the scapegoat, albeit a scapegoat that cushioned the blow by giving the quiet assurance that the boy’s looks or personality have nothing to do with the breakup. But there I was, a scapegoat 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.