The word for people who sabotage things is ‘saboteur’. I Googled it last night. Last night, I was an accidental saboteur. An innocent. Now I’ve gone over fully to the dark side.

My new plan is brilliant in its simplicity. I will continue to be a walking disaster, except this time on purpose. Like the unholy spawn of Midas and Wreck-It-Ralph, everything I touch will be destroyed. Jamie will drive himself to the brink of insanity trying to fix it all. The selling of the house will be pushed back farther and farther. When, and I do mean when, Jamie quits, my parents will be so drained from dealing with all these catastrophes that they’ll beg me to take it off their hands. And I will be ready with my miracle job and oodles of money and fulfilling Life Purpose that I will discover somewhere between now and then. 
That last part is a little fuzzy on details, but it’s not important. The important part is: I have to get Jamie to break.

With this goal in mind, I bravely decide to stop avoiding him by eating cold pop-tarts in my room, and go to the kitchen for breakfast. The last few weeks have shown that being around me is incredibly stressful for him, which is a recent victory on my part. Three times now, I’ve gotten past the chink in his un-bother-able armor and actually driven him to show annoyance. I’ve got to put that superpower to work. Plus I’m new at this whole sabotaging thing and I’m hoping he’ll drop some ideas in casual conversation. Something along the lines of, “Gee, it sure would be terrible if someone did this very specific thing that requires zero technical know-how and has multiple YouTube videos with detailed instructions.”

The whole way down the stairs I picture his dark circles and how worn out he’d looked in the bathroom. I am gleefully anticipating how much worse he’ll look today, after staying up half the night working. Bloodshot eyes. Bedhead. In my best fantasy, he’s had to do some plumbing work and his clothes smell like sewage.

I get to the kitchen and am greeted by the worst disappointment of my life. A cheerful, freshly showered, and not even a little bit of a hot mess ex-boyfriend stands at the stove flipping pancakes. He is whistling. He smells nice. This is unforgivable.

“Good morning.” Jamie smiles at me. “I made extra, if you’re hungry.”

I underestimated my powers. He’s skipped trying to put up with me and jumped right to poison. 

I keep a suspicious eye on him as I approach the counter, then sniff his bowl of batter. I don’t know what I’m expecting to smell. Gasoline? Drano? 

“It’s a box mix.” He pushes a plate in my direction. “I’d offer you bacon, too, but you’re still a vegetarian, right?”

The amazing smell of the bacon on his plate floats towards me, tempting me to say no. My mouth waters with the memory of its taste. But then I picture Wilbur and his adorable little snout and flippy ears and I get a wave of nausea. I can’t eat Wilbur.

“Yeah, I’m still vegetarian.” I stare at the plate like it’s a live grenade. “Why did you make me breakfast?”

“I made myself breakfast,” he corrects. “I just happened to have extra. And I wanted to thank you.”

He winks at me and reaches over to tousle my hair like my older brothers do. My entire body recoils.

“Thank me?” I repeat. “Thank me for what?”

Maybe he really has gone off the deep end. He’s going to tell me that my actions last night have forced him to acknowledge who he truly is: the next Ted Bundy. Then he’ll stab a fork into my neck and force feed me bacon while the life drains out of me. I comfort myself with the knowledge that my ghost will get to say “I told you so” to my family members until the end of eternity.

“Introducing me to those fascinating friends of yours.” Jamie shovels an enormous bite into his mouth and reminds me of his least attractive habit by continuing as he chews. “I admit, I thought the alien stuff was weird at first, but once we got to talking, we really clicked.”

Ah. The cult boys. I almost forgot I unleashed them on him. It was a month ago. Why’s he bringing this up now? 

“That’s nice,” I say warily. He’s eating his pancakes, so I decide it’s safe to eat mine, too.

“It is, isn’t it?” He wags his fork at me. “Always good to make new friends.”

Somehow, that feels like a warning. 
This did not go at all like how I planned. Now I’m the one who’s uneasy and stressed. Where did Last Night Jamie go? He was so defeated. So sad. I want him back. 

I leave for work with his stupid pancakes and a horrible feeling in my stomach, like something’s going to jump out from any corner and attack me. Because this day has undoubtedly turned against me, when I clock in, I’m assigned to the self-checkout station. Aka, the pit. 

Walmart self-check is where faith in humanity goes to die. Here, my main job is to tell angry customers who swear their item had a different price on the shelf that no, their self automated vacuum cleaner is not $8.99 with tax, and open the bags that somehow manage to thwart fifty percent of earth’s population. I watch a businessman in his forties rip bag after bag off the rack in a frenzied rage and question all my life choices.

“... so then my stepmom legit loses it and grabs my phone out of my hand,” Whitney is saying. 

“For real?” I point a customer to an open machine. “What did you do?”

“I told her it was my personal property and I’d call the cops if she didn’t give it back.” Whitney snaps her gum. “High-key, I would have if Dad hadn’t made her give it up. Then they got into a huge fight and I got to order pizza and watch 90 Day Fiance.”

“Not a good sign. It’s been, what—two months?” Holy mother of meltdowns, this man still can’t open a bag.

“Periodt. I just hope my next stepmom is my size.” 

Whitney is not supposed to be here, but she’s hoping she’ll get in trouble with our manager, Connor, and he’ll come over. She wants to snap a picture of him to show her friends, who don’t believe that her boss could be Penn Badgley’s twin. Personally, I don’t see it, and I’m glad. Otherwise every time Connor smiled at me I’d be picturing that creepy stalker guy from You.

“Did you get it?” Summer joins us, unzipping her vest.

“No, he hasn’t even noticed,” Whitney complains. “It’s like, why am I even here?”

“Preach, sister.” I see Mr. Anger Management Issues finally leave, and hurry to pick up all the ruined plastic bags he’s left behind. He has single-handedly doomed the planet for the next generation.

When I get back, Connor still hasn’t realized that Whitney’s gone, and Whitney is entertaining herself by repeating my story about the bathtub to Summer, except it’s about ten times more dramatic.

“The whole house was flooded?” Summer’s green eyes have doubled in size.

“Yes,” Whitney says emphatically, at the same time I say, “No!”

“It was just the bathroom and part of the master bedroom.” I roll my eyes at Whitney. 

“And the living room ceiling!” 

“Was Jamie mad?” Summer asks. 

“Beyond. But the whole thing gave me an idea.” I fill them in on my shady scheme.

“You’re gonna wreck your own house just so they won’t sell it?” Whitney sounds very skeptical. “That’s extra, even for you.”

“I’m not going to wreck the house,” I object. “I’m just going to wreck Jamie.”

Summer scoffs. “There are easier ways to destroy a man, Lissa.”

“Such as?”

Whitney perks up. “Ciara has a cousin who can frame him for grand theft auto.”

“What? No!” Jamie’s smug, insufferable face pops into my head. I hesitate. “How much jail time for—” Wait, what am I saying? “No, I’m not framing him.” 

“Are you sure?” Whitney’s eyebrows lower ominously. “It’s very effective.”

“I feel very sorry for whichever boyfriend helped you figure that out.”

Summer gasps, whirling on me so fast that she knocks over a bag of Funions. “That’s it! You need a boyfriend!”

Whitney points a long, acrylic nail at her. “I’ve been saying that for months.”

I gesture between the two of them. “Are we having the same conversation? Because I’m not sure we’re having the same conversation.”

“We are,” Summer assures me. “And you need a boyfriend.”

“What does a boyfriend have to do with sabotaging the house?” Do they want me to date an electrician? Wait. That’s not a bad idea. Is there an electricians’ version of Farmers Only? 

“You said you wanted to break Jamie.” Summer speaks slowly, as if she’s talking to a child. “What’s more crushing than having a front seat to your ex living their best life?”

Oh. She has a point. 

“I can’t do that,” I object. “It’s… immoral. Maybe even cruel.”

Using an innocent third party as a pawn in my war goes too far. Besides, for it to bother Jamie, he’d have to actually remember that he used to have feelings for me in the black lump of coal he’s got where his heart should be. 

“Girl, I thought you said you were going full dark side.” Whitney radiates disapproval. 

“Clearly, that was an exaggeration.”

Has she met me? I can’t even forget to hold the door open for someone without it keeping me up at night.

The girls don’t get to try and talk me into their plan, because Connor has finally seen Whitney hanging out with us and is striding down the aisle.

“Get your phone!” Summer yelps, latching onto Whitney’s arm. “Quick!”

I make a break for the other end of the checkout lane, not wanting to get in trouble by association. While I help an older woman double bag her impressive dog food purchase, I see Summer trying to sneakily get a photo of Connor while Whitney breaks out the fake tears in response to whatever he’s saying. His stern expression shifts to something very uncomfortable, and I can’t hold in a laugh when he awkwardly pats her shoulder, and Whitney takes that as an invitation to wrap herself around him like a python.

Movement flickers in my peripheral vision. A flash of color that my brain recognizes, but I can’t place. I turn to focus on it and find oranges. Oranges in cowboy hats.

Jamie’s words come back to me. It’s always nice to make new friends.

No. No no no no he didn’t.