The Breakup Support Group

by Cheyanne Young

  Dad nods and heaves a heavy breath. “I’m working both days this weekend. We’ve incorporated an old bookkeeping company that has a ton of clients but shitty accounting practices.”

  I nod, relieved. It’s only been one night, just like I thought. I still have the weekend to pull myself together and start trying to get over Nate again. Dad clears his throat. Then he speaks so quickly, his words all rushed together, that although I hear exactly what he says, I blurt out, “What?”

  “Do you care to tell me what got you so upset last night? And do I need to kick that jock’s ass?”

  Threatening words sound so foreign on my business-attire-wearing, high-vocabulary-speaking father that I break into a smile. And then the expression disappears as quickly as it had appeared. “No. It’s not Nate’s fault, I guess. I mean, it is, but it’s my fault, too.”

  “Listen to me, Isla.” Dad rises from my bed. “You are an amazing person, and I am so proud that you’re my daughter. I know you’re hurting, and Jane thinks we should intervene, but I think you just need to find a way to grow from this pain. I’m not trying to be hard on you, but I think you can pull yourself out of this.” He leans over and pats my knee through the comforter. “If you want to wallow in bed, I’ll support you for twenty-four hours. But then you need to get up and take hold of your life.”

  “Thanks, Dad. That’s … that’s motivational.”

  He smiles, a sad twist of his lips that reaches all the way to his eyes. Motivating the accountants at work is in his wheelhouse. Motivating his teenage daughter is a little rusty, but I appreciate it anyhow. And now I know I’m screwed in the head from this heartache because there’s no way I’d have been able to sit through this awkward fatherly pep talk before my heart was shattered.

  I gaze longingly at my cell phone, wishing the stupid piece of plastic and circuit boards wasn’t the main source of my heartache and joy.

  “How long will it take to feel better?” I ask just as Dad makes it to my door.

  He stops and turns around, his brow furrowed like he’s thinking out the terms of a long-term accounting contract. “Honey, I wouldn’t know. Your mom was my first love, and she’s never broken my heart.” He puts a strong hand on my shoulder. “I don’t envy you, but I know you’ll bounce back. You’re a Rush, after all.” He winks.

  I don’t feel any better, but I smile anyway.

  Now that Nate has broken my heart a second time, the wallowing only lasts until two in the afternoon. Turns out there’s only so many hours in a three-week period that I can lie in bed and feel sorry for myself. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe my dad’s little speech did help. All I know is that once I pulled myself out of bed and took a shower, I made a promise that I’d never again think back to the good old days with Nate. Because that’s where it always makes me fall apart.

  I’ll feel lonely, and I’ll think back to a time when I wasn’t lonely. Memories of being in love and being loved back will flood into my mind, and suddenly I’m crying. All it takes is a single memory to tear open a mending heart. So I simply refuse to think about him anymore.

  It’s probably not going to work, but I’m trying. And I’m sure if Dad wasn’t working so much overtime, he’d have something motivational to say about trying.

  At school on Monday morning, I force myself to focus on things that will make me happy instead of reminding me of how lonely my world has become. As I cling to my backpack straps and filter through the hallway, shoulder to shoulder with students who don’t know my name, I think about the free coffee kiosks and the weirdly delicious breakfast burritos the cafeteria sells for just a dollar. I think about first-period English class and how I get to secretly crush on Emory even though he’s with Heather and with the exception of the first day of school, he acts like I don’t even exist. I know it’s pathetic but pathetic is pretty much my middle name now.

  I walk into first period encased in a mental shield of I-don’t-give-a-damn. My boyfriend of four years texted me after three weeks of ignoring my messages and then he never wrote back. My eyes aren’t even that swollen from crying anymore. I straighten my shoulders and slide into my desk near the poster about decisions. Nate doesn’t bother me at all. I am totally fine.

  Mr. Wang heaves a box onto the desktop of a guy in the front row and passes out copies of this nine weeks’ required reading book, The Great Gatsby. I notice they’re all brand new paperbacks, not beat up copies from years before with dog-eared pages and penises drawn in the margins like at my old school. Heather drops a stack on my desk, and I take a copy, handing the rest of them to the guy behind me.

  “Do not forget to add your John Hancock to the front cover!” Mr. Wang shouts above the rustling of book-passing. “Every year you people leave these books all over the place and teachers just drop them off in my room, thinking I’m some magical genie who knows exactly which forgotten book belongs to whom. Write your name, people!”

  “We get to keep these?” I ask, cringing when I realize I had said my mental question aloud.

  “We certainly do, Miss Rush,” Mr. Wang says, flourishing his copy in the air. “By the end of the year, you’ll have six classic novels to add to your collection at home.”

  “Cool,” I say, only because Mr. Wang is still looking at me.

  Emory shakes the silky hair out of his eyes, and I glance over at him. He’s watching me. Tingles rise up my toes. “Your tax dollars at work, Iz-la,” he says, throwing me a wink.

  Emory cracks open the cover of his book and scrawls his initials on the top left of the cover. This is the first time I’ve looked at him the five minutes that we’ve been in class together. He seems to have grown even more gorgeous over the two days of the weekend. His creamy tanned skin, the way his hair falls in straight, choppy pieces over his face, the line of his jaw when he smirks—even the tendons in his fingers are sexy. But that’s probably just my warped imagination, grasping for something to think about besides my broken heart. Even now, with my chest experiencing rolling aches from stray thoughts of Nate, I can’t help but picture climbing over my desk and into Emory’s lap, sinking my hands into his hair and making out with him. I bet he tastes like coffee. And I’d bet my high school diploma that he’s an amazing kisser.

  I sigh and face the front of the classroom, resting my forehead in my hand as I lean forward on my desk. Something tickles my elbow, and I startle just in time to get smacked with a wave of black hair.

  “Watch it!” Heather snaps, turning around and giving me a pointed look. “You just pulled the shit out of my hair.”

  Heather’s creamy skin is flawless, as pretty as her perfect hair. It’s intimidating as hell. I lift an eyebrow and fake like her glare isn’t terrifying me. This isn’t TV after all, and she is not Regina George. “Your hair was on my desk.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can pull it,” she hisses. She grabs all of her hair and pulls it over her shoulder and turns back around with an indignant huff and leaves me feeling like I’m a complete idiot.

  “Don’t mind her,” Emory says only loud enough for us to hear. He sinks down into his desk chair, his legs spread out into the aisle. “She takes pride in being a bitch.”

  Heather turns slowly toward him, and I can practically feel the tension in the air swell into a vortex around her amber eyes. She narrows her gaze as if she hasn’t spent the first three days of school flirting like crazy with him. “No one asked your opinion, so keep it to yourself.”

  “Sure thing,” he says with a lazy smile.

  Mr. Wang appears in front of us, his hands on the hips of the black skinny jeans. “Is this conversation more important than my lesson, Mr. Underwood?”

  “No,” Heather says. “Definitely not.”

  I open my book to page one and pretend to begin reading the words as they blur into nothingness on the page. Mr. Wang continues his class discussion, and I have to bite the inside of my cheeks to stop from smiling. It’s definitely none of my business, but I think Emory Underwood might be single again.r />
  Not that it matters.

  Chapter Nine

  I’m feeling about 30 percent better by the time the bell rings for second period. I make it all the way into the pre-cal classroom on the second floor and into my desk before I realize where I am. Mrs. Olsen’s class. She had seemed like such a nice person last week, but now I know she’s a traitor—Mom’s personal spy on my wellbeing. I throw my stuff in the wire tray under my chair and open my math textbook to the page that’s written on the board. Students shuffle into the classroom and fill the seats around me. No one has talked to me in this class, and there isn’t anyone from my old school here, either. But I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’m just a girl trying to get over a heartbreak. I don’t need friends now. I need healing.

  My next two classes, history and physics, are a little better because we work in groups and therefore I get to talk to people by default. My broken heart is at its least painful during lunch when I eat at the silent table with the girls who smile at me but leave me alone, and then it gets better during gym class, where I can take out my pain in the form of physical exercise. Last period is my Music Theory class and well, everything kind of tumbles back down during those fifty minutes of boring busy work. If I can manage to hold back my lustful desires to rip off Emory’s clothes in first period, and avoid looking sad for Mrs. Olsen in second period, then I can get through the rest of the day without a problem.

  Mrs. Olsen walks over to me as I’m writing the date at the top of my notebook. Her graying blond hair is pulled into a low ponytail, and she wears a long black skirt that flows as she walks, making it look like she’s floating to my desk. “Good morning, Isla,” she says softly. Her metaphorical kid gloves are on extra snug today. “How are you feeling?”

  I peer up at her through my eyelashes. “Feeling like learning some math?”

  Her eyes soften and—oh God no—she bends and sits in the empty desk next to me and takes my arm in her wrinkly hand. She meets my gaze, her face only a foot away from mine. “Jane filled me in on what happened to you this weekend, and I want you to know that everything is going to be okay.” Her voice is low, directed toward me, but students are filtering in and out of the classroom, heading toward seats and looking over at us. Even in the commotion between bells, I am absolutely positive that her voice is somehow overheard by everyone in the room.

  “I’m fine, really.” I nod eagerly and even try to throw on a smile. I don’t shove her hand off my arm, but I desperately want to. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

  The two-minute bell rings and my anxiety heightens. Please get the hell out of this desk and leave me alone. Mrs. Olsen doesn’t even flinch. “I worry about all of my students, Isla. Not just my friend’s children.”

  And it happens.

  The guy with red hair and glasses who normally sits in the desk next to me stops short, realizing our teacher is taking his spot. He stands awkwardly, backpack over one shoulder, looking from her to me. Then the guy who sits in front of him stops as well, unable to get into his desk with someone else blocking it. A girl looks up from her cell phone to watch us, a curious look painted on her face.

  “What’s going on?” red-haired guy says.

  “We’ll just be a minute, Jeremy.” Mrs. Olsen makes a shooing motion with her hand but it doesn’t make him leave, or even stop looking at us. To me, she says, “You need to know that our school has staff members who would be happy to talk with you at any time. You’ll make it through this, okay?”

  “Dude,” the guy says. “Are you addicted to drugs or something?”

  “I’m not on drugs,” I say, annoyed that the first thing I’ve said in this class is a denial of drug use.

  “Jeremy!” Mrs. Olsen snaps. Her sharp voice gets the attention of every single person in the room, to my chagrin. She points a knobby finger at him. “Do not joke about drug addictions. Isla, stay after class so we can finish this conversation.”

  Now everyone is staring at me. And they think I’m on drugs. So much for keeping my head low and blending in. I rise to my feet and grab my purse. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m sure as hell not staying here.

  A dozen faces are looking right at me, and I am confident that they can all hear my panicked heartbeat jumping around like an idiot in my chest. “I don’t have a drug problem,” I say no one in particular. “I am completely fine.”

  But my voice cracks on the last word.

  And heat, flaming scorching waves of it, washes up my feet and my stomach and my face, setting me on fire. I am being watched, and I am losing the battle with my heart, and I’m not invisible, and the only person I want to care about me doesn’t care at all.

  Tears fall and my face burns. The world is imploding, and it’s starting at the center of my chest, and everyone sees it now. I move forward on lead feet, shoving around two girls who stare at me with horrified expressions. Mrs. Olsen calls after me, but I cling to my purse in one hand and wipe my eyes with the other.

  I get all the way to the door and pull it open and then I’m out in the safety of the hallway. Mrs. Olsen appears right behind me. I stare at her with tears in my eyes until the door slowly clicks closed behind us. I’m grateful the thin glass window has a poster covering it because now I am finally free to humiliate myself in private.

  “Why did you say that?” I mumble through tears. I swallow hard, trying to stop the flow, but it’s no use. My body has perfected the art of crying lately. I could do it in my sleep.

  “Isla, I was only trying to help,” Mrs. Olsen says, her eyes wide. I wipe my eyes and glare at her, feeling a moment of satisfaction when she looks like she’s truly sorry that she screwed up so badly.

  I point a finger toward the door. “I don’t even know these people, and now they think I’m some weirdo. And it’s all because you wouldn’t just leave me alone.”

  “You’re being a little dramatic about this,” she says, pinching her fingers together in front of her face. “Teenagers are always flipping out in class. It’s not a big deal.”

  “I’m dramatic?” I say with a snort that borders on laughter. I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not going back in there.”

  Mrs. Olsen’s lips form a flat line of disapproval. She puts her hands on her hips and, fine, maybe it is dramatic, but I just want to scream. She should feel sorry for what she caused in that classroom. That was not me. I was minding my own damn business.

  “The only permissible reason to miss my class would be if you were seeing a guidance counselor,” she says, the words falling out of her mouth as if she’d rehearsed them, set all of this up in a scheme that she knew would end up in this very moment. I picture my mom and her talking this over on the phone. Anything to get me to talk to a “professional” about my so-called problem.

  I don’t need professional help. But I’m not going back into a classroom after crying in front of everyone. I let out a ragged breath. “Fine.”

  The administration hallway is like a museum thrown in the middle of a high school. As I turn from the main corridor with high ceilings and marble floors, the roof shrinks to normal height and my shoes go from smacking on tile to walking on plush, padded carpet. The smell of cinnamon candles leads the way down the narrow hallway that’s lined with glass display cases built into the walls. Trophies and plaques glitter underneath recessed lighting. Signed football jerseys pinned in display cases decorate another area. As I move down, checking nameplates near various office doors, I pass a framed photo of Jim Carson, an Emmy-winning actor who graduated from this school in 2001.

  The hallway turns left, but the door at the corner catches my attention. The golden nameplate on the wall says Mrs. Gertie, Guidance Counselor. Unlike most of the previous offices, her door is wide open, and she looks up at me from the top of her computer monitor when I approach.

  “Isla Rush?” she says, rolling her chair backward. I nod. She breaks into a smile and motions for me to come inside. “Mrs. Olsen just called and said you w
ere on your way. It took a while, did you get lost?”

  I shake my head. “Bathroom.”

  “Ah,” she says with a nod. I’ve never been to a counselor before but Mrs. Gertie looks exactly like I would have imagined. Her brown hair is pulled into a perfectly round bun at the top of her head, and she wears thick black-framed glasses. Her makeup is expertly applied, and her smile is so candid it must come from a genuine interest in the student’s wellbeing. “Have a seat.” She motions toward the leather armchair across from her massive desk. “And close the door, please.”

  I do as she asks and, maybe it’s because the wax melter on her bookshelf is warming some kind of Christmas scent, but I immediately feel relaxed. Maybe it’s just because I’m out of class, or maybe I do need counseling.

  “So, how does this work?” I ask, sliding my hands down the extra-smooth leather armrests.

  Mrs. Gertie laces her fingers together in front of her keyboard. Also a move I would expect from a counselor. “It’s pretty simple. You’re here to talk about things that are affecting you, and I’m here to listen and provide advice if I can.”

  In my mind, I let out a massive groan. I want to ask what she thinks she can do that my mom and then my dad and then Mrs. Olsen couldn’t do. They can’t make Nate come back to me, and they can’t turn back time and make me be a better, more desirable girlfriend. And it’s so stupid, I know, but Mrs. Gertie looks at me in this way that makes me want to make her happy.

  “I’d probably be a lot better if I were at my old school.” I talk slowly because if I kill enough time, I can skip second period entirely.

  Mrs. Gertie nods. “Are you finding it hard to adjust to Granite Hills?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not the problem.” The moment I say the words I want to slap myself on the forehead. I should have said yes, that’s my problem, and let her lecture me on the importance of adjusting to a new school and making friends. She could have given me a So you’re in a new school? pamphlet and sent me on my way. But once I say it, I find myself saying more things that I can’t control. “This school is impossibly huge, and everyone is rich except for me, there’s no dress code, and the teachers do this weird thing where they try to be your friend, but that’s not the problem. If I had stayed at my old school, then my boyfriend would have never dumped me.”