“Are you serious?” I ask quietly even though I’m very much aware that the entire class is looking at me. So much for being invisible. “Doesn’t this kind of thing only happen in the movies?”
“Just because it happens in movies doesn’t mean it can’t happen in real life.” He gestures toward the rest of the students. “We are an open classroom that thrives on community and insightful ideas. No one is a stranger in my class. Those of you who had me sophomore year already know that.”
If I keep trying to get out of it, it’ll only take longer, so I shove all of my embarrassment into the back of my mind and try to step outside of myself and just get it over with. My hands push up on the desk, and I rise to my feet, turning toward the right to face everyone. All those problems I thought I had just moments ago, like the crushing on the new guy and mending my broken heart? They’re miles away from my current nightmare. Everyone is watching me.
Mr. Wang nods encouragingly. I start wondering how hard it would be to drop out of school and run far, far away. “My name is Isla, and I’m here because my town decided to exclude my street from Deer Valley’s district.”
“Excellent. And what are your hobbies?” My eyes drop to the floor, stopping just long enough to see that the hot mystery guy is busy on his phone and not even looking at me. For the last several years, my only hobby has been the Spirit Squad. No such thing exists here; I know because I checked on the school’s website. And I’m not about to admit that I’m a fake cheerleader to a room full of judgmental stares.
I clear my throat. “Cheerleading.” It’s not entirely a lie. I mean, yeah it is. But it makes my crush’s eyes look up from his phone. He lifts a single eyebrow, and our eyes meet. I quickly look away.
“That’s great, Isla,” Mr. Wang says, emphasizing my name now that he can pronounce it correctly. “Will you be trying out for the Wildcats’ cheerleaders this year?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, and why not? You’d be great for it.”
I stumble for a response, but someone else beats me to it. “Oh come on, Wang. You’re killing her!” I look over at the gorgeous guy next to me, and he throws me a wink. “You didn’t make the rest of us give such long introductions two years ago.”
“Emory Underwood, back in my class. This will be a fun year.” Mr. Wang nods like he’s just discovered a new element. “I guess you have a point,” he says, followed by other things like telling me I can sit back down. I don’t hear much of what he tells us next because now I officially have a name for hot mysterious guy. Emory.
I watch him as he takes another sip of coffee, shrugging his shaggy hair out of his eyes. It’s shaggy in a silky way, not all curly and frizzy like Nate’s hair used to get when he’d let it grow out. Emory’s hair makes me want to run my fingers through it.
I lean over toward him as Mr. Wang starts handing out the syllabus. “Thanks,” I whisper.
Emory shoots me a glance. “No problem, Iz-la.”
The girl in front of me turns around, her perfectly curled hair sliding across my desktop. I think she’s about to talk to me, but she looks at Emory instead. She hands him a folded piece of paper and then slips back around, studiously watching our teacher.
My chest clenches. That’s not the same girl from the auditorium on orientation day. But the way Emory smiles when he reads her note sends a painful sting of rejection through my bones. Looks like I’m not the only girl with a crush on Emory Underwood.
Chapter Seven
There should be an award given out for surviving the first three days of Mr. Wang’s class. He’s hell-bent on his idea of a perfect classroom, all one big community of ideas and sharing. But somehow, despite the feeling-sharing in first period, I make it through the first week of school. The rest of my classes are easy enough and conducive for blending in. I’d chosen a seat in the back of each classroom, and hardly anyone had talked to me. Lunch was a little awkward, but a girl named Lauren in AP history offered to let me sit with her and the other introverts. So three days in a row, I’d eaten my PB&J at a table with six other girls who all kept to themselves. It’s a complete one-eighty from my old way of life, sitting on Nate’s lap at the loud football table in the cafeteria. But a girl with a broken heart could really get used to this quiet isolation.
In gym, I’d noticed Emory on the first day but every day since then they’ve separated boys and girls like we’re in elementary school. The girls have been doing stretches and toning exercises in the second gym, while the boys do something else in the first gym. Since he doesn’t talk to me in first period, I haven’t bothered looking for him in gym. Well, not that much, at least.
I pull my car into the driveway on Friday afternoon, relieved to be home for the next two days. My phone beeps from its place in the drink holder in my console and my heart skips three beats.
It’s Nate’s ringtone.
I shut off the engine and force myself to breathe before I look at the screen. It’s a miracle I hadn’t heard his ringtone while driving, or I might have swerved off the road and died from surprise. I pick up my phone, and it feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
Nate: how’s the new school?
That’s it?
Two weeks after ripping out my heart and stomping on it, after saying he wanted to stay friends but then ignoring my last two weeks of friendly texts, that’s all he has to say? A tear rolls down my cheek. My thumb slides up the phone’s screen, looking at all the unanswered messages I’d sent him, nearly one per day. No response at all. And now this.
My head falls back against the headrest, and I stare at the gray upholstered ceiling in my car. Four years of dating Nate Miles meant four years of texts and calls that I’d totally taken for granted. I used to ignore his texts for a few minutes if I was busy doing something else, knowing that they’d be there when I returned. Now, it’s all I’ve wanted for two weeks. And now that he’s finally texted me, it’s like a bubble of anticipation has been destroyed.
How’s the new school?
I let the tears flow silently for a few minutes, knowing each second that he waits for a reply is a second of satisfaction on my part. Is he waiting by the phone? Is he ready to tell me he’s made a terrible mistake and wants me back?
I smile at the thought and type a reply. I write the words it sucks and then delete them. Then I write it’s okay and delete that, too. I want him to want me so I’ll need a better reply than that.
Isla: There’s practically no rules here and everyone is really chill. Having a good time.
That might be the only text I’ve ever sent him without an emoji attached. Suck on that, Nate. I get all the way inside my house, drop my backpack on the kitchen table, pee, and get a drink all before he bothers to reply to me. I hate that each second is like a fresh stab into my heart.
Nate: that’s cool
I blink, and tears roll down my face. He’s had plenty of time to tell me he’s made a mistake, and I am so sick of crying. Of hurting. I want to go back to that first day of school where my nerves kept me from thinking about him too much. I want to go back to the person I was before I knew what love felt like. Because love has only led to heartache and it is so not worth it.
Mom’s nails tap on my bedroom doorframe. I know there are tears streaking my face, but I don’t bother wiping them off as I look up at her. My knees are pulled to my chest as I sit on my bed with my back against the black headboard. I click the power button on my phone and drop it onto the comforter beside me. “What’s up?”
Mom’s lips form a flat line, not angry but worried. “Honey, we need to talk.”
I shrug and slide over on the bed. “So talk. It’s not like I have anything else to do.”
Her floral perfume fills the air as she sits on the edge of my bed. Her blond hair is pulled into a high ponytail with the ends curled neatly. She’s borrowed one of my Warriors headbands, and she’s wearing another rhinestone tank top, this time with a green DVHS sparkling across the c
hest. One of the cheer moms makes the rhinestone shirts in her garage, and my mother owns one of each design. She still works at my old school, and she’s dressed exactly as always, but it somehow feels like I’m being betrayed as I look at her.
Mom draws in a deep breath and grabs my hand. “Mrs. Olsen called me today. She’s your pre-cal teacher, right?”
I nod. Mrs. Olsen went to high school with my mom, and she thinks that makes us automatically best friends or something. I’ve spent three days of her class being asked to pass out papers or turn off the lights or take things to the office. On the plus side, I think my grade will be good even if I royally don’t understand pre-cal this year.
Mom squeezes my hand. “She’s concerned about you. I thought you were getting better, but she said you’ve spent all week sitting quietly and looking like you’re about to break into tears at any moment. She says you don’t participate in class discussions, and you don’t even take notes in class.”
“I take notes,” I mumble, playing with the folds in my comforter.
“She said she’s been giving you tasks to do to keep you occupied. I almost thought she was going to call CPS on us, but after telling her about your recent breakup she said that made a lot of sense.”
“Mom! That is none of her business.” I toss my head back and groan. Now my freaking teacher knows I’m a broken-hearted wreck. This won’t be embarrassing at all.
Mom stands and leans over, kissing me on the head. “Why don’t you come to the game tonight? See your old friends?”
I eye her, hoping she feels the daggers I shoot her way. “Nate will be there.”
She rolls her eyes. “He’ll be on the field. You won’t have to see him because he’ll look exactly like every other player in those big padded uniforms. Come with me. I bet Avery would let you work the concession stand if you want.”
My first instinct is to say no, but Nate did just text me for the first time in two weeks. And it might be nice to see my old friends since I’ve only talked to them through social media and a few texts lately. No one knows how broken up I am about Nate, and if I show up at the game with the same pep as always, no one will need to know. Maybe seeing me happy and gorgeous will make Nate change his mind. The happiness I can fake, but the gorgeousness will take a while. I’ll need my flat iron, a full face of makeup, and the shortest skirt I own.
I give Mom a half smile. “Okay. I’ll go.”
“Great! You can ride with me.”
I shake my head and walk over to my closet. “I’ll drive myself. I have some … what did you call it? Reinventing to do.”
Mom’s eyes widen. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you there.” She goes into the hallway and then pokes her head back into my room. “Hopefully next time Mrs. Olsen calls she’ll tell me you’re doing much better.”
It’s more of an order than a statement. I nod, which is the best I can do by way of promising anything to her right now. We’ll see how tonight goes.
I’m like a scene right out of a teen movie. Silky straight hair, my tightest fitting Warriors tank top, a denim miniskirt, and heels. I spent so much time applying makeup with the help of YouTube tutorials that I miss the first quarter of the game. Something has awakened inside of me since Nate sent me that text earlier. He still hasn’t said anything else, but that’s probably because I never replied to his last text. The good news is that he’s talking to me again. And now I’m as hot as I can possibly make myself, wearing the low cut tank top he bought for me at last year’s homecoming game. If he happens to run into me tonight, lucky him.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
I text Kaylee from the school parking lot, and she tells me to meet her at halftime to hang out. I kill another ten minutes by sitting in my car, admiring the small parking lot and my old school’s totally uninteresting one-story building until the scoreboard only has a minute left in the second quarter. Then I slip inside the gates without having to pay for a ticket since the woman behind the ticket table thinks I’m still in the Spirit Squad.
After the last week of dealing with the new school, walking into the football field of my old school feels like second nature. It feels like years have passed since the middle of summer when I was last here, watching Nate do football drills. Everything looks exactly the same as always.
I wait by the fence at the foot of the bleachers until the buzzer signals halftime. Somewhere out there on the field of half-dead grass is my ex-boyfriend, but I try not to look for him in the crowd. I pretend he’s just another guy, some nameless athlete on the field. Tess and Kaylee jog up to me, faces glistening from the heat. They both have brunette ponytails adorned with big green sequined hair bows.
Tess throws her arms around me. “Oh my God, I’ve missed you,” she says. I breathe in her scent of sweat and hairspray and desperately miss my days out on this field.
“I’ve missed you guys,” I say, my voice coming out more gravelly than I’d intended.
Kaylee frowns. She has green sparkly star stickers on the outside of her eyes, and they look all out of place when she isn’t smiling. “So what’s it like going to school with all those rich people?”
“Boring.”
They nod like they’d expected that answer. Kaylee hooks her arm under my elbow, and we walk toward the concession stand. “So … any hot guys?”
“I know what you’re doing,” I say, giving her a warning look. “And I’m totally over Nate, so you don’t have to skirt around the topic.” It’s a lie, but it’s a lie I can stick with.
“Yeah, yeah. I still want the answer. Hot guys?”
I sigh. Tess’s eyes go wide, and she looks over at Kaylee. “That means yes.”
“There’s one guy,” I hear myself saying. “I think he’s dating a girl in our class, so it doesn’t matter.” Emory had spent the last three days passing notes with the girl in front of me. Her name is Heather, and she’s gorgeous. Always smells like strawberries. There’s something about a guy giving attention to another girl that makes him significantly less attractive.
My phone dings from my back pocket, and I stop short, nearly making Tess trip over the curb of the sidewalk. I swallow and try to hide the panic on my face, but it’s too late. My two friends look at me like I’ve seen a ghost and they’re afraid they’ll see it, too.
“What’s wrong?” Tess asks.
“Is it him?” Kaylee says, her voice a whisper now that we’re surrounded by people heading to the concession stand.
My throat goes dry, but I find a way to speak. “Yeah. I don’t want to look at it.”
After that entire act of having my shit together, suddenly with just one message, I’m a crumbled mess. And my friends both know and understand it. Tess puts a hand on my shoulder. “Want me to read it for you?”
I nod and hand her my phone. She and Kaylee huddle together in front of me, their faces glowing while they read Nate’s message. My heart seizes up in my chest, too scared to be excited and too nervous to decipher the looks on their faces.
Finally, after several agonizing seconds, Tess breaks into a smile. “It’s good.”
“What’s it say?”
Kaylee turns the phone around to me. I read the text twice.
Nate: first home game of the season isn’t the same without you here.
“That is good,” I say. My fingers tremble from the rush of adrenaline that fills my veins. My heart takes over my brain, and before I know what exactly I’m doing, I grab my phone and send him reply.
Isla: I’m here. Come say hello :)
“Damn,” Tess says, looking over my shoulder. “Looks like someone will be begging for you back tonight.”
“God, I hope so,” I say.
“Definitely the words of someone who’s over a guy,” Tess says, bumping me playfully in the shoulder. “Who can blame us for doubting you?”
“Shut up.” I watch my phone as we move forward in line. Images of Nate reading my text from the sidelines and then excitedly looking for m
e in the crowd make me smile. Unlike the last two weeks of radio silence, this time, I am confident that he will reply.
He never does.
Chapter Eight
There’s a knock on my door the next morning. I’m already curled in the fetal position under mountains of blankets, but I pull my pillow over my face so that I’m fully hidden. Like an ostrich, I’ve got my head buried, and I’m avoiding my mother, my life, everything.
The scent of coffee and aftershave makes me pull the pillow off my face. Dad sits on the edge of my bed, his favorite coffee mug gripped in his hand. I watch him from the corner of my eye as he stares at me in the same loving fatherly way he’s done my whole life. Guilt pours over my body, warming my skin more than the blankets.
“Hi, Daddy.” I force a smile and roll over on my back, then shift up into a sitting position. When I’m hurt, Dad is hurt, and I hate making him look the way he does right now.
He takes a sip of coffee and smiles back at me. His wire-framed glasses rise with his eyebrows. “Think you’ll get out of bed today?”
I shrug. “I figure I’ll have to pee at some point.”
Dad’s lips form a thin smile, and he adjusts the sleeve of his dress shirt, probably to give himself something to do instead of awkwardly sitting here looking at me. I mean, I get what he’s trying to do—comfort me just like Mom’s been trying to do all week—but talking about a broken heart with your dad is just weird.
“Wait,” I say, sitting a little straighter. I glance over at my nightstand, to the dry erase board calendar on the wall behind it. “Why are you dressed for work? It’s Saturday, right?” A flicker of panic has me retracing the steps of my pity party. I’d come home from the football game after waiting around for an embarrassingly long time, hoping Nate would come talk to me. I’d changed into pajamas and fallen into bed and proceeded to cry all night. Please God, don’t let it be Monday. There’s no way I’ve slipped that far over the edge of heartbroken insanity.
The Breakup Support Group Page 5