The Heartbreakers (11 page)

Rule 4:
You must forget The Ex's birthday. Forget that he was born.

Sydney filed into the business and marketing classroom during the lunch hour, as the other student council members headed in with her. She sat down at her designated seat as junior class president.

Drew and I have been broken up for three weeks and it still seems so surreal, she thought. Has it even hit me yet?

It was like the Fourth of July fireworks in Eagle Park. You saw the blast of colored sparks first, but felt and heard the boom much later.

The aftershock of the breakup hadn't even touched her yet. It had to be coming soon. All of a sudden, she'd break down, probably in the middle of school if luck was still eluding her. Her dad would lock her up in a mental institution, and when she came back to school, everyone would whisper as she strolled down the halls. Getting into Harvard would be out. Actually, college in general would be out.

She'd graduate from high school—her parents would make her—but afterward, she'd adopt ten cats and move out into the woods into a kitschy cottage on a river somewhere. She'd grow tomatoes in a garden, and lettuce and potatoes. She'd hunt rabbits with a bow.

After the first year, she'd speak only cat and maybe some dog, since a stray would have attached itself to her by then and—

“Sydney?”

Sydney looked up at Will Daniels across the table from her. He was the senior class president. He always started the meetings off.

“Yes?” she said.

“Have you heard anything I just said?” Irritation furrowed his brow. He thought he was so much better than the rest of the student council members. Hell, the rest of the school really, the smug little bastard.

“Will,” she said, face impassive, “I try to tune you out sometimes. You do have such a dreadful voice, a little nasal.” She pinched her nose to demonstrate. “You know? It hurts my ears sometimes.”

That would teach him to talk down to her.

And break up with her best friend!

Honestly, what did Kelly ever see in that guy?

Will sighed as if he expected this kind of immaturity from people beneath him. “I was saying that Mr. Thomas has brought to our attention the severe need for new marching band uniforms. We were thinking of running a fund-raiser. Might you have any suggestions?”

She hated how he talked all prim and proper as if they were in a seventeenth-century movie. Or maybe like he was a vampire. Come to think of it, he did suck the life out of people.

Tapping the end of her pen against her notebook, she ran a few things through her head. There were the usual fundraisers: car wash, bake sale, dance. The car wash was out; it was too cold. The bake sale was a good idea, but those things never generated enough money. Dances were never well attended.

“How about an open-mike night?” she said. “With a cover charge? It's something different. And it'll give amateur artists good exposure.”

A few murmurs swept through the room, people nodded at the idea.

“And a bake sale,” she added. “All in one place.”

“I like that idea,” Lisa the treasurer said. “The cover charge will bring in a good amount and people can come just to have fun. The bake sale will be an added profit.”

“Who will bake?” Will asked, doubt clearly in his voice.

“All of us.” Sydney waved at the people in the room. “If everyone makes two dozen of something, it should give us enough baked goods. And I know my friends will make something, too, if I ask.”

“Where would we have it?” Will asked. “Renting a place out would cost us more money than we'll make.”

Sydney hadn't thought about that. She groaned inwardly when she saw the condescending quirk in Will's lips. He always seemed to get some sort of perverse pleasure out of besting her.

“Maybe someone in town would donate their space,” Lisa interjected. “It's for the school's benefit, after all.”

A satisfied smile spread over Sydney's face. The first smile in so many days. “Yes. I bet Raven's mom would let us use Scrappe. It's the perfect spot.”

More murmurs of agreement spread through the room.

Will even looked slightly convinced. “Put it to a vote. All in favor of an open-mike night/bake sale at Scrappe raise your hands and say, ‘Aye.'”

Every hand went up around the tables as people voiced their agreement.

“It's decided then,” Will said, making note of it in his workbook. “Sydney, for now, you're in charge of securing Scrappe for the event. Can you let me know in a week what's going on?”

“Sure.”

“Why don't you shoot for March thirty-first?”

Drew's birthday was March eighteenth.

In all the chaos between them in the last three weeks, she'd forgotten his birthday was coming up. She'd bought his gift weeks ago. A white-gold band with the words, “To the day I die,” inscribed on the inside. It wasn't like a wedding band or anything, it was wider than that. The saleswoman at the jewelry store said it signified love and commitment, which she'd never doubted at the time she'd bought it.

Now it was a three-hundred-dollar purchase sitting in her desk at home, unusable. She couldn't take it back, since it was specifically inscribed for her, and the thought of giving it to another guy made her ill. She didn't want another guy. Besides, it was meant for Drew and she'd always know that, even if it was on someone else's finger.

“Sydney,” Will said, plainly more annoyed than he had been the first time she'd spaced out. This probably wasn't good for her brain, thinking about Drew so much. And she didn't even want to think about how low her score was on The Breakup Code. Was there even a score?

“I heard you,” she muttered. “The thirty-first. Got it.”

“Aren't you going to write it down?”

“I won't forget.” It'd be the first weekend after Drew's birthday and more than two months since their breakup. Thinking of all that time spent with a broken heart and without Drew made something slip in her chest. Her eyes stung, but she pulled in a calming breath.

Don't think about Drew, she thought. Like that was even possible.

That Thursday after school, Sydney checked the messages on her cell phone and heard one from Drew.

“Hey,” he'd said, hesitating between the greeting and the rest of the message. “I have a few things of yours at my house. Drop by after school today and you can pick them up.”

She deleted the message and debated forgetting about her belongings. She'd spent so much time over at Drew's house, she was sure there'd be at least two boxes worth of stuff. Most likely books and clothes. She always stashed books around his room so she could read if he was busy with something.

But was the stuff important enough to go over there? It was going to be painful stepping into his house, knowing it'd probably be the last time she'd ever be there. It was like her second home now, after two years. How could she say good-bye to it?

Drew's message sounded like he wanted the things gone more than she needed them back. He was clearing his life of her. Her pink T-shirt hanging in the closet probably didn't help the process.

Driving out of the school parking lot, she made a left at the four-way stop instead of a right to go home. Chances were, Drew wasn't even home in the first place. Basketball practice started in thirty minutes, but he was probably going to hang out at school to make things easier when she picked up her belongings.

As she waited at a stoplight, she turned the old AM/FM stereo to the local station. A new pop song blasted through the speakers. “Ugh,” she muttered, and flipped the station to classical music.

She grabbed the vanilla lip gloss Kelly had given her from the center console and spread the sparkly goop over her lips. She smacked them together and checked herself in the rearview mirror. She looked silly. Like she was dressing up as a clown for Halloween.

Lip gloss was Kelly's thing, not Sydney's.

Sydney scrounged for a tissue, finding one in the glove compartment.

A horn blared behind her. The stoplight had already switched to green and she was holding up traffic. She stepped on the gas, hit two more green lights, and turned onto Beech Street.

She saw Drew's truck parked at the curb in front of his house.

Should I drive right past? she wondered.

Heart beating a little faster, she pulled up behind the truck and parked. As much as she wanted to avoid awkwardness or worse—more arguments—she still wanted to see him. Now that they were broken up, she hardly talked to him.

Mrs. Gooding opened the door when Sydney knocked. From the way her face softened, seeing Sydney standing there,
Mrs. Gooding obviously knew they'd broken up. “Oh, Syd,” she whispered, pulling Sydney inside and into a hug. “I'm sorry.” She ran a hand down Sydney's hair.

“It's all right,” Sydney said. She breathed in Mrs. Gooding's perfume, a light, fruity scent. “It's not like it's your fault.”

“I know, but—” She smiled. “Well, I guess I just feel bad since he's my son.”

“Don't.” Sydney pulled away. “I'm okay,” she lied. She was actually seas away from okay, but she wasn't going to unload on Drew's mom. That'd be rude.

Mrs. Gooding nodded. “That's good to hear.

“Drew,” she called, “Syd's here.”

“I'm in my room,” he shouted, his tone airy and casual as it would have been any other time she came over. But it wasn't any other time. Things had changed between them. Why was he acting so normal? Hadn't this breakup affected him at all? Didn't he even care?

Sydney took short steps down the carpeted hallway, pretending for a second that things were the same, until she went into his room and the box on the floor reminded her that he was kicking her out as well as breaking up with her.

They'd painted and decorated his room together. She'd picked out the taupe color for the walls. He picked the navy blue bed set. She'd whined until he bought the shadow-box shelves and hung those up. She stuffed them with CDs and a picture of the two of them at a birthday party.

She glanced at the shelves now. The picture was still there. It was just their faces, the birthday party in the background fuzzy. They were both smiling. What would he do with the picture now?

Drew sat up on his bed and set the book he'd been reading aside. His glasses dimmed the blue of his eyes. He smiled uneasily.

“I figured you'd be at practice already,” she said, by way of explanation.

“I wanted to be here when you came.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.” He shrugged and got up. “I thought you deserved that at least, instead of my just sending you off with a box.”

Drew always was polite. Sydney realized she probably would have just sent him off with a box. He'd always been the better person of the two of them.

“Thanks,” she muttered, bending down to open the box. She dug inside, seeing a few T-shirts and a few books, just as she suspected. She pulled out a holey, torn, long-sleeve shirt and wrapped the material around her hands. “I'd forgotten about this.” It used to be her favorite shirt last spring, hence the holes and torn cuffs.

“I was going to throw it away, but I knew you'd be pissed,” he said, his tone mirthful.

“You always tried throwing it away before.”

“I know, but it's your favorite.”

“I appreciate you keeping it.”

“No problem.” He hesitated for a second, before grabbing his gym bag. “I should get going. I'll walk you out.”

She picked up the box. Drew held the front door open for her.

The sun started to peek through the clouds, rays glinting off the few inches of snow. Sydney narrowed her eyes, the light nearly blinding her. Drew took the box out of her hands and slid it in the backseat of her mother's old SUV. She'd
probably miss this the most, his need to take care of her, even now when they weren't together.

“So, I guess I'll see you,” she said, hesitating. The void between them was growing, and she wanted to fill it with something. She stepped up on the curb and snaked her arms around his neck. A hug was safe, friendly.

Drew returned the hug, and for a second she thought maybe there was a chance they'd get back together. It was hard to even believe they were broken up, as if it were some sort of practical joke he was playing and any minute he'd laugh and say, “Gotchya!” Not that Drew was into playing practical jokes.

When she pulled away, she grabbed the stems of his glasses and slipped them off his face, folding them over the collar of his shirt. She didn't want anything between them right now.

There was something she wanted to say, no,
needed
to say, because the longer she thought about it, the more she thought this breakup had more to do with her than it did him. It was like a death, their whole relationship suddenly flashing before her eyes and, almost always, it seemed the bad parts were something having to do with her temper or stubbornness.

She was kind of a bitch.

“I'm sorry,” she began, holding his hand. “I don't think I treated you right or appreciated you the way I should have.”

“Syd, it's not just that—” He looked out over the street as if collecting his thoughts. “I need space and I need to have some fun. I haven't had fun lately. And neither have you. You have to admit it.”

He was right, actually. She hadn't gone out and done anything fun since, well, last summer. “I know,” she said.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

How often did she agree with him? Like never.

Letting his hand go, she kicked at the snow with her foot. “I guess that's it.” She looked up, meeting his eyes. They say it only takes twenty-one days to develop a habit. She'd been with Drew, kissing him every day for, like, 730 days. That wasn't a habit anymore, it was probably an addiction.