Free The Breakup Artist by Shannen Crane Camp Page B

shook my head.
    “No, I don’t work,” I said hoarsely, my voice still a bit scratchy from the violent coughing from a moment ago. I was amazed at how easy it was for me to lie. Not just to this boy, but to everyone. It seemed like a natural talent that I possessed, though I wasn’t sure if that was really something I should be proud of. David raised an eyebrow. Then after a moment of what I figured was contemplation over this, his face softened and he reacted, however late, to my distress.
    “Are you all right?” His face still held the smirk but his voice held a certain amount of compassion now. I looked at him incredulously. Not only had he practically been laughing as I choked on my soda, but he was now asking if I was all right after we’d moved on from my little drinking attack. This was something that I had to deal with in only my most socially inept clients; I hadn’t expected this level of odd timing from David.
    “Yeah, I’m fine,” I answered, sounding almost suspicious. Maybe he was trying to make me think he was some social outcast so I wouldn’t be so obviously pathetic about my interest in him. Then again, maybe he was just concerned and couldn’t ask once I’d stopped choking because I’d blurted out my answer to his question as if it were a matter of life and death.
    “Perhaps next time you should try drinking instead of inhaling,” he commented dryly. I was about to shoot him an annoyed look when I caught the rueful gleam in his eye, signaling to me that it was a joke. I smiled back at him, and he broke into a soft laugh. Maybe this date wasn’t going as disastrously as it seemed.
    “So what about you?” I asked, taking a bite out of a warm breadstick and savoring the garlic taste. “Do you have some sort of job after school?”
    “No official job really. I do write for the school newspaper, though. I don’t get paid or anything, but I figure it’s close enough to job training, so it counts. Occasionally I’ll submit a piece for the local paper.”
    “Oh, wow, so do you want to be a journalist?” I suppose the answer to that should have been fairly obvious, but I was being slightly less than observant tonight. He laughed softly again, a sound I was quickly beginning to like.
    “Yeah, I’ve always wanted to write for a newspaper. My brother makes fun of me because I got the idea of being a newspaper writer from Lois Lane.”
    “Wait, the girl from Superman?” I asked, amusement creeping into my voice.
    “Yeah,” he mumbled, looking down at his napkin. He had obviously been through this discussion before. “My brother always says I’ll be the best Lois Lane at the paper.” He rolled his eyes at the memory, and I tried to stifle a laugh.
    “Well, when you get your first official job, I’ll get you some heels that’ll make the green in your eyes just pop,” I said, putting on the best overly feminine voice I could muster. He shot me a playful death glare just as the waitress came to take our order.
    I ordered spaghetti, a nice generic meal that wouldn’t cause anyone to pass judgment. I was used to being generic. I had conditioned myself so well to order only things that wouldn’t draw any attention to my real personality (if it even existed) that it had become a habit. I had never had a problem with who I was, or wasn’t, before this. I didn’t have a personality and that was fine because I didn’t need one to get by. I didn’t need friends or hobbies, likes or dislikes—all I needed was something I was good at, and that thing was molding myself into whomever I needed to be. So why was it such a big deal now that I was the way I was?
    I didn’t hear what David ordered because I was too caught up in my own psychoanalysis. In fact, I hadn’t even noticed that he was saying my name, possibly repeating it because I hadn’t heard it the first time. His voice had that tone you use when you’re trying to snap someone out of a daydream and it isn’t working. I finally