Read Online The Breakup Artist by Shannen Crane Camp - Free Book Online
Authors: Shannen Crane Camp
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do was go to bed, hope I could get through the weekend without this boy single-handedly ruining my career, and paint a picture or two. Should be easy enough.
Chapter Nine
Saturday morning I let myself sleep in until eleven. I had tossed and turned all night, so waking up at eleven felt more like waking up at three in the morning. I stumbled out of bed, rubbing my eyes and yawning. Then I tripped over the big square fan that I had aimed at my bed the night before. I glared at the inanimate object and went into the bathroom to get ready for my Saturday in the way I always did. I pulled my short hair back into a now-blonde ponytail, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. I didn’t bother changing out of my sweats, even though I had a slight nagging feeling that David might actually appear at my house. I refused to let myself believe that this typical high school boy would be resourceful enough to find me. And so, stubborn resolve firmly set, I went downstairs to have an early lunch.
“Someone slept in late,” my mother said as I thumped down the stairs.
“Someone stayed out late,” I countered, throwing her a suspicious glance.
“Client dinner,” she said simply. I rolled my eyes at her retreating form, wondering when she’d think I was old enough to know she actually had a dating life. Maybe she thought that I would be jealous, since I didn’t have one of my own. Or maybe she assumed I harbored some affectionate feelings for the man who left us for no reason in particular. Either way, I couldn’t find any good explanation as to why she’d hide things from me, but that wasn’t my biggest problem right now. Right now my biggest problem was David, with my growling stomach coming in at a close second.
“I brought some fettuccine Alfredo back from the restaurant last night. You’re welcome to eat it. I have to work this weekend, but I’ll see you tonight,” my mother called from the front door.
“I might not be home tonight,” I said suddenly. I hadn’t meant to say it, just like I didn’t mean to say every word that came out of my mouth when I was sitting with David. Things seemed to pour from my mouth lately in some relentless deluge.
“Oh?” my mom responded, as a way of being inquisitive.
“Date,” I went on, still unsure of why I was spewing lies at my mother, who had been kind enough to bring me fettuccini Alfredo.
“Oh,” she said again, this time in a slightly deflated manner, which didn’t make any sense. “Job related?” she pried.
“No,” I answered. We both seemed to be suddenly incapable of constructing any sentence longer than two words. There was a long pause, and I knew by instinct that my mom was probably looking down at her watch to gauge how much time she had to pull some more information out of me.
“Have fun at work,” I finally called, cutting off the conversation before she could ask any more questions about my fictitious date—or at least what I hoped was a fictitious date. The door clicked closed, and I heard my mother’s car pulling away from the house. I breathed a sigh of relief for having escaped the exchange relatively unharmed and then proceeded to reheat the pasta my mom had brought me.
Sitting on the floor in the middle of my room, I picked through tubes of paint, throwing away the dry ones and salvaging what could be salvaged. I ate my pasta with chopsticks just to liven the meal up a bit, an action that had always amused my mother. Anything that hinted at a personality all my own made her happy. I think she sometimes thought her daughter was a sociopath or a future con artist or something along those lines.
I kicked a blue paint tube with my foot so that it rolled into the “useable” pile on the floor and threw my paper plate away once the pasta was all gone. Stretching in the way that a lazy person does on a lazy day, I fell onto my back and lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about the mess I’d gotten myself into. I wondered
Chapter Nine
Saturday morning I let myself sleep in until eleven. I had tossed and turned all night, so waking up at eleven felt more like waking up at three in the morning. I stumbled out of bed, rubbing my eyes and yawning. Then I tripped over the big square fan that I had aimed at my bed the night before. I glared at the inanimate object and went into the bathroom to get ready for my Saturday in the way I always did. I pulled my short hair back into a now-blonde ponytail, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. I didn’t bother changing out of my sweats, even though I had a slight nagging feeling that David might actually appear at my house. I refused to let myself believe that this typical high school boy would be resourceful enough to find me. And so, stubborn resolve firmly set, I went downstairs to have an early lunch.
“Someone slept in late,” my mother said as I thumped down the stairs.
“Someone stayed out late,” I countered, throwing her a suspicious glance.
“Client dinner,” she said simply. I rolled my eyes at her retreating form, wondering when she’d think I was old enough to know she actually had a dating life. Maybe she thought that I would be jealous, since I didn’t have one of my own. Or maybe she assumed I harbored some affectionate feelings for the man who left us for no reason in particular. Either way, I couldn’t find any good explanation as to why she’d hide things from me, but that wasn’t my biggest problem right now. Right now my biggest problem was David, with my growling stomach coming in at a close second.
“I brought some fettuccine Alfredo back from the restaurant last night. You’re welcome to eat it. I have to work this weekend, but I’ll see you tonight,” my mother called from the front door.
“I might not be home tonight,” I said suddenly. I hadn’t meant to say it, just like I didn’t mean to say every word that came out of my mouth when I was sitting with David. Things seemed to pour from my mouth lately in some relentless deluge.
“Oh?” my mom responded, as a way of being inquisitive.
“Date,” I went on, still unsure of why I was spewing lies at my mother, who had been kind enough to bring me fettuccini Alfredo.
“Oh,” she said again, this time in a slightly deflated manner, which didn’t make any sense. “Job related?” she pried.
“No,” I answered. We both seemed to be suddenly incapable of constructing any sentence longer than two words. There was a long pause, and I knew by instinct that my mom was probably looking down at her watch to gauge how much time she had to pull some more information out of me.
“Have fun at work,” I finally called, cutting off the conversation before she could ask any more questions about my fictitious date—or at least what I hoped was a fictitious date. The door clicked closed, and I heard my mother’s car pulling away from the house. I breathed a sigh of relief for having escaped the exchange relatively unharmed and then proceeded to reheat the pasta my mom had brought me.
Sitting on the floor in the middle of my room, I picked through tubes of paint, throwing away the dry ones and salvaging what could be salvaged. I ate my pasta with chopsticks just to liven the meal up a bit, an action that had always amused my mother. Anything that hinted at a personality all my own made her happy. I think she sometimes thought her daughter was a sociopath or a future con artist or something along those lines.
I kicked a blue paint tube with my foot so that it rolled into the “useable” pile on the floor and threw my paper plate away once the pasta was all gone. Stretching in the way that a lazy person does on a lazy day, I fell onto my back and lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about the mess I’d gotten myself into. I wondered
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