Page 8 of The Breakup Artists

august

Tiny has her bare feet up on the dashboard, her latest Ella list on her lap, and one neon-braceleted wrist hanging out the open window riding air waves. Even when she drives, which is rare, she tries to keep a foot awkwardly balanced on the dashboard. But I don’t mind driving, especially since we usually take her Jeep, which is a heck of a lot nicer than the dented fifteen-year-old Volvo station wagon I share with my mom when she’s not working, which is most of the time.

“Want to go over it one last time?” Tiny asks, turning down the music but not taking her eyes off her list.

I glance at her as we drive past a welcome sign for Ella’s town. “That’s the second time you’ve asked that in ten minutes.”

Tiny looks up, like she hadn’t realized she’d been repeating herself. “It’s the biggest case we’ve ever had,” she says, like I’m not thinking clearly. “And we have a nonnegotiable three-and-a-half-week deadline in which to complete it. Do you remember that disaster two Christmases ago? Theonly other timewe used Star-Crossed Lovers, might I add.”

I lean back in my seat; I’ve been waiting for her to bring this up ever since I suggested it. “That was one case. And it had nothing to do with the strategy; it had to do with our being green. We’venailedour cases since. All of them.”

She shakes her head like I’ve got it all wrong. “This case has a shiny popular boyfriend, which is a challenge in and of itself, a controlling (also popular) friend group, making things doubly hard, and I keep thinking I’m missing something important.” She pauses, but her mouth remains open with an unspoken thought. “Plus, it’s only natural to be a little rusty, especially since you haven’t really talked to anyone besides me for the past month or so.” She says it like a casual observation. But Valentine doesn’t do casual observing.

We stop at a red light, and I turn to look at her, about to point out how not subtle she’s being, but think better of it.

“What?” she says with innocently wide eyes (also not subtle). “You haven’t.”

I shrug, now convinced she wants to have a conversation about my lack of socializing, one I’d rather avoid. Tiny has always been well liked. In fact, there was a moment when she was invited out so much that I worried she might cross over into the popular crowd and leave me in the dust, but she never did. And as Tiny’s popularity started to increase, mine plummeted.

“All I’m saying is it wouldn’t hurt to be more social,” she says, like she heard my thoughts and decided to be contrary. “Even a little itty bit more, like go to the diner on a Saturday morning when everyone’s there or walk along the harbor on Friday night. You never know; you might like it.”

“I’m afraid I’m just not that cool.”

But Tiny has pulled her head out of her notebook and is laser focused on my face. “Actually, you’re not uncool.”

I sigh, because I know that look and I know it means we’re going to talk about it whether I want to or not. “You have to admit that no one would say I’m cool. Ever. It’s not like anyone cuts my backpack straps or flips my lunch tray, but they don’t acknowledge me, either. I’m that quiet kid who sits in the back of the class. But hey, that suits me.”

“Yeah, but that’s notwho you are. Look at you.” She gestures at my outfit. “Given half the chance, you play a character like a boss, talk to girls, and stand up to jerk-offs without blinking an eye. You know what I think, August? You’re hiding.”

Her cheeks are flushed and she grips her notebook. And even though her tone is calm, I can read her well enough to know that what she said made her nervous, which in turn makes me nervous. I scratch the back of my neck even though it doesn’t itch, hoping that she’ll drop it and we can go back to having an awesome day.

“When you stopped at Des’s room before we left...” she says, pausing halfway through her thought.

Or not.

“Des never missed an opportunity to talk... to anyone, for any reason.” Tiny smiles, but it’s the sad kind. “Before—”

“Don’t,” I say quietly, cutting her off before she can tell me what I was like before Des died.

Tiny pushes her hair back from her face. “Sorry, I just thought you might like to talk about her.”

“Yeah, no, I mean, I don’t know,” I say, stumbling over the words.

Tiny goes quiet, waiting for me to continue, but I don’t. And as usual with the mention of Des, an awkward stillness descends. We both stare out the window at the beach filled with people and the ocean behind them.

After a few moments, she returns to her list. “Also,” she says, like that exchange never happened, “remember when Ella’s mom said that until a year ago, they always used to do the Sunday crossword puzzle together? I was thinking it might be a good way for you to connect with Ella,” she says, chewing. “I copied some of my mom’s answers for you.” She points to the rolled-up newspaper in her shoulder bag.

“Right, because a crossword puzzle screams ‘Befriend me; I’m cool.’” I turn onto Main Street in Ella’s town, complete with brick storefronts and polished boutiques.

“It does,” she insists, shoving the last piece of bagel in her mouth and getting crumbs all over the seat. “You just have to be creative. Maybe work your love for crossword puzzles into your love for horoscopes.” Her grin turns taunting as I give her a warning glare.

I pull into a parking spot half a block down from the coffee shop.

Tiny hands me the newspaper. “How about this? If I’m wrong about the crossword puzzle, I’ll buy you lunch.”

I groan. She knows I can’t turn down a bet. “You’re on,” I say and tuck the newspaper under my arm.

Tiny’s phone dings and she glances at it. “Text from Ella’s mom. She says Ella just left the house with the girls.”