The Breakup Artist Read Online Free PDF Page B

assisted her at least twice a month in her breakups even when I had to do it from a different high school—so she was one of the five numbers I actually had programmed into my phone. The other numbers were my own house, my mom’s cell, my mom’s work, and the paint supply store down the street.
    “Hey, Amelia. We’re still on for tomorrow, right?” Claire asked instead of the traditional “hello.” It felt nice to actually have someone my own age know it was me when they picked up the phone. Claire and I were almost friends, except that we weren’t, because she was my client and the only time we talked was when it was business. But it still almost felt like I had a friend.
    “Yeah we’re still on for tomorrow but I have a quick question.” I didn’t quite know how to say, “Your boyfriend doesn’t look as weird as you. Are you sure I should dress like you?” So I just settled for, “I came to check on David today during lunch and he looks a bit . . . reserved.” That was a nice way to put it. “Are you sure I should go for the whole edgy and cool look tomorrow?” I thought it was a fair enough question and I had helped Claire out enough times that she should be able to trust that my concerns were legitimate. I heard a high-pitched giggle on the other end of the phone, but I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.
    “Trust me, David loves girls like me,” Claire assured me. “He just likes to dress like a stuffed-shirt for some unknown reason.” Claire was the one dating him, so I assumed she knew what she was talking about and made a noncommittal humming noise on my end of the phone as an answer to that statement.
    “Was there anything else?” she asked, now becoming slightly impatient.
    “Yeah, just one thing. You wrote on his interests that he likes culture? What exactly does that mean?” Claire was a smart enough girl, but sometimes she needed a push in the “understandable” direction. It’s like most things made sense to her, but she just couldn’t understand why other people didn’t understand what she meant when she would suddenly say “dancing hippos” during a phone conversation.
    “Culture. You know, like why people do what they do and stuff.”
    “Like psychology? Or anthropology? Sociology?” I asked, hoping she would just explain herself so I wouldn’t have to pry more information out of her using words she probably didn’t know.
    “Yeah, like that,” she said after a long and thoughtful pause. Or at least, I assumed it was a thoughtful pause.
    “Got it. That’s all I needed to know. Thanks, Claire. And I should have it done by tomorrow, so you’d better start developing a fever before school.” She giggled at this statement and then hung up the phone without a good-bye. She was always kind of off in her own world. The normal social rules like greetings and good-byes didn’t really apply to her. Claire just sort of flitted around life, dating every boy she saw and giggling at things that were never really meant to be taken as jokes. I shrugged at this unusual end to the conversation and began dialing the number for my other client to let her know Corey had been taken care of and she was free to pursue her potential prom date.
    The note I found on the fridge last night was there again but the date was scribbled out with the current one written right underneath it. I had been noticing that my mom had been having more and more “client dinners” lately. I was starting to think that maybe this was code for “my mom is going on dates but doesn’t want to bring a man back to the house because she just never knows what her daughter will look like from day to day.” I could accept this. It was a reasonable enough fear. But I was slightly upset that she didn’t think she could trust me enough to tell me that she was dating at all. I glared at the note for a moment before returning to my room and pulling a new outfit out for my “date” that night. I had some black