Mrs. Gertie leans forward in her chair. “Tell me about your ex-boyfriend.”
“His name is Nate, and he dumped me after four years because he said the rezoning would make us break up anyway so we should just get it over with. That’s caused me to be sad, and the sadness makes going to this school suck even more than it would have sucked if I hadn’t been sad. And that’s what made my stupid teacher talk to me in class, and then I started crying because everyone was watching me and then I ended up here. So I don’t have a problem. I’m just a normal teenager facing normal teenage shit, and it’s not like I’m dying or have abusive parents or anything.” I shake my head and wrap my arms around my chest. “I cannot believe the guy I loved with all of my heart is the reason I’m sitting in a freaking counselor’s office right now. It’s just—” I let out a breath and draw in another one. “It’s not a big deal, but sometimes it feels like it is.”
“All broken hearts are big deals,” Mrs. Gertie says softly. I wait for her to say something more, but she doesn’t.
“So, what’s your advice?”
“I think you should join a club.” She pulls open a drawer in her desk and reaches inside, shuffling through papers until she finds a blue flyer.
“Like student council?” I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t think I want to do that.”
She shakes her head and slides the paper across her desk to me. “Granite Hills has over fifty student clubs on campus, and I encourage you to see if there’s one you’d like to join later, but for now, this is a club for people like you.”
I pick up the paper. It’s a photocopy of someone’s hand drawing. There’s a heart in the center, and it has a jagged line down the middle with bandages holding the two pieces together. Brokenhearted? it says across the top. We can help.
“The Break Up Support Group,” I read the next words aloud. “Where broken people make each other whole again. Lunch time, room 114.”
I lower the paper into my lap and look up at her. “You want me to join a support group and talk about my broken heart?”
She nods. “It’s a great group of kids, and they really help each other out. You might find that talking to other teens in your same situation will help you heal quicker than dealing with it on your own.”
“Maybe …” I say, staring at the flyer.
“Maybe,” she echoes and then she leans forward, giving me a conspiratorial smile. “Plus they serve pizza.”
When I leave her office, I reread the flyer a few more times, wanting so badly to just crumple it up and toss it in the trash. But the fact that I can’t seem to throw it away makes me wonder if I should at least try it out, just once. A support group for teenagers with broken hearts sounds a little more than epically lame.
But pizza sounds okay.
Chapter Ten
The only bit of good luck I have this morning is that my third-period history class has none of the same students as pre-cal, so I’m able to walk into class as if everything is perfectly fine. Although I’m pretty sure no one cares when I’ve arrived. At Deer Valley, I walked hand in hand with Nate to most of my classes, and when our schedules didn’t overlap, I’d had Tess or Kaylee to fill in the void. At this new school, every second is the void. I’m having a hard time willing myself to fill the empty space around me. Instead, the emptiness is my new source of comfort.
Another boyfriend wouldn’t help until I’m over Nate completely, and there doesn’t seem to be a point in making new friends right now. They wouldn’t know the real me, the Isla Rush on the spirit squad whose hobbies include gluing glitter onto stuff with her mother and hanging out with her boyfriend, both of which aren’t even my hobbies anymore.
Who am I if I don’t have those things? If I’m not a Warrior, and I’m not Nate’s girlfriend, I am just some random girl.
“What’s up?” Lauren says as I take my seat in one of the four desks that are clustered together in this part of the classroom. I stiffen, wondering if my quiet lunch friend is only asking this question because she heard about my breakdown in second period. Lauren lifts an eyebrow and shrugs. “Never mind. You clearly don’t want to talk about whatever’s going on in your head.”
I exhale, relieved. Lauren smiles. “Trust me, I get it. I’m all about keeping under the radar.” Lauren is unconventionally pretty, with a dozen silver stud earrings lining up her ears and thick eyeliner that I could never pull off without the quiet confidence that she holds so well.
“Have you … heard anything about me?” I ask, my hands clutching the blue flyer from Mrs. Gertie’s office under my desk.
She shakes her head, her short black hair swishing around her shoulders. “Nope. You’re one of the new ones though, right? That’s why I figured you’d like sitting with us.” She leans in, her voice lowering. “We don’t try to be your friend or anything.”
I know her words are weird, but I get it. It’s nice having someone there with you when you don’t feel like being a part of the real world.
“I might not be in lunch today,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I’m abandoning you guys. You’re seriously the best.”
Our teacher flips off the lights and turns on the smart board that projects his computer screen onto the wall, stopping our conversation for the time-being. Looks like we’ll be taking notes all period, which is wonderful for passing the time and the eventual cramp in my hand will take my mind off the pain in my heart.
Lauren nudges me with the tip of her pen, and I look over, barely able to make out the shape of her face in the dark. “You’re always welcome at our misfit lunch table,” she whispers.
Maybe there is a little room for friends in my life. I smile, knowing she probably can’t see it. “Thanks.”
My fingers tremble as I reach for the door handle on room number 114. There’s a handmade Wildcats poster that’s covered in silver glitter taped over the little window in the door so opening it means walking into total blindness. There could be a hundred people in this room, or just one. Or a hidden camera TV crew ready to jump out and laugh at me for being a pathetic crying idiot.
I pull back my hand. There’s no way I can go inside. Not now, with those thoughts in my mind.
“Hey there, new girl!” The sudden cheerful voice is so close he could only be talking to me. I turn around, knowing I’ve been caught almost walking into the Break Up Support Group. A thin guy smiles at me and holds out his hand. “You must be Isla.”
Handshaking? In high school? I take his hand, as awkward as it is, and nod. “That’s me.”
“I’m Bastian Clarke. Mrs. Gertie told me to expect you, and I’m so glad you actually showed.” He releases my hand and pushes his glasses back up on his nose. Bastian has olive skin and black hair that’s parted on the left and gelled over like how boys used to wear their hair in elementary school. He wears slacks and a button-up shirt with a brown sweater over it. He could pass for a teacher if he wasn’t so young. His head tilts to the side. “Most people don’t show up. But I’m glad you did.”
“Sure,” I say, feeling like Bastian’s friendly gaze somehow rips open my chest and shows him the interworking pieces of my broken heart. He knows who I am and why I’m here—and it’s exactly as humiliating as I had imaged it would be.
He pushes open the door as easily as if he’s done it a million times before. The smell of pizza and acrylic paint pour out of the room. Bastian gestures with his hand. “After you.”
The Break Up Support Group is held in an art classroom, that much is apparent by the array of beautifully colored canvases that hang on every inch of wall space in the room. The chairs have been pushed aside, except for a handful in the middle of the classroom that form a circle. A stack of pizza boxes sits on a nearby table, a roll of paper towels, and some soda cans next to them.
There are only four other people in the room and thankfully, no camera crews. Still, I’d do almost anything to be anywhere else right now. Bastian closes the door behind us and puts a gentle hand on my back, pushing me forwar
d. “Guys, we have a new member,” he says all cheerfully as if this isn’t a club for sad people. “Her name is Isla Rush.”
Two girls and a guy turn away from the pizza boxes and nod or wave at me. “Hey, it’s waterworks girl,” one of them says. She’s an African-American girl with long hair in thin braids. A chill rushes into my chest when I recognize her from second period. She takes out a slice of cheese pizza and sets it on a paper plate. “Figures I’d see you here.”
My face flushes fiercely and horrifically red, and I’m so embarrassed my skin might be in danger of melting off. The girl rolls her eyes and walks up to me, throwing the non-pizza holding arm around my shoulders. She smells like nail polish. “No worries. We’re all friends here. I’m Ciara, by the way.”
“Yeah, no need to blush,” the other girl says, throwing me a smirk that makes my heart jump. “We’re all broken-hearted idiots here.” I haven’t seen her around school, and I’d know it if I had; she’s incredibly beautiful, with short brown hair that swoops over her impossibly green eyes. She’s wearing skinny jeans that scrunch up at the ankles over a pair of neon purple running shoes, and her shirt is just plain black, but it somehow makes her look like a badass. A girl as hot as she is should never be heartbroken. And yet she is, and suddenly I have no hope left for me. If someone hurt her, how is there any hope for the rest of us?
Bastian walks around me, his hand on my back, gently urging me to venture closer into the group. He takes a paper plate and hands it to me. He points to the hot girl with short hair. “This is Trish, and that’s Xavier,” he says, gesturing to the only other guy in the room. He’s short and pudgy and probably a freshman. He nods at me over a mouthful of pizza and takes a seat in one of the chairs in the circle.
“And I’m Ms. Meadows,” a voice says from across the room. A large woman wearing a pink dress waves from the teacher’s desk in the corner of the room. She has curly strawberry blond hair and is wearing an obscene amount of makeup. She’s all the way across the room, and I can see her eyelashes, thick like spider’s legs from how much mascara she’s wearing. “Don’t pay any attention to me, dear. I’m just the adult host of the club, but I don’t get involved … much.”
The club members snort at this confession. Bastian actually laughs. “Oh my God, you get involved more than any of us, Ms. Meadows.” She rolls her eyes and throws a hand at him before turning back to her computer screen.
To me, Bastian says, “Ms. Meadows has been divorced three times, and she loves pointing that out to us every time someone is upset that their relationship didn’t last forever.”
“Nothing lasts forever,” she says from her desk, keeping her eyes on the computer screen.
Ciara hands me a Coke. “She says she doesn’t participate, but she does. Anyhow, she’s cool. Don’t mind her.”
I take the drink can and reach for a slice of pizza. “So what exactly do we do here?” I ask, taking a seat next to Ciara in the circle. Now that I’m here, it’s not as intimidating as I’d feared. We’re just a group of people eating lunch in a circle of desks.
Bastian holds up a finger to me, signaling that he’ll talk once he’s finished chewing. “Welcome to the Break Up Support Group, Isla. This is a safe place. Everything you say here will be kept confidential, and we trust you to do the same with us. We’re here to help you heal and move forward with your life, confident that you are worth loving, and that you will find love. I’m Bastian, and both of my parents are therapists. This is my first year taking over the club, and I am always open to suggestions.”
Ciara nods. “We usually eat pizza first and then we go around the circle, sharing stories of our progress, but since you’re new, you have the floor.”
“Uh, I don’t know about that.” I grip my pizza crust tightly, wondering exactly how much this free pizza will cost me. “Can I just listen to everyone else this time?”
“Oh, hell no,” Trish says, leaning back in her chair. She pulls a pepperoni off her pizza and pops it in her mouth before pointing a finger at me. “They made me tell all the gory details of my ex-girlfriend the first day I was here, so you’re telling too, new girl.”
“Well … if she doesn’t feel comfortable …” Bastian says, only to be cut off by Ciara whipping her head around so hard, her braids almost hit him in the face.
“Are you kidding? Waterworks girl needs to dish. Look at her, she’s holding back some serious issues under that pretty smile.”
“Okay.” I hold out my hands. “Can I please be called Isla instead of new girl or waterworks girl?”
“Of course,” Bastian says, sitting straighter in his chair. He pulls out a black notebook and flips it open to a blank page. “Guys, let’s call our new friend by her real name. Waterworks doesn’t even make sense because she’s not crying.”
“She was crying,” Ciara says with a mouth full of food. I shoot her a glare, and she gives me a helpless shrug. “Well, you were. I am here for you girl, but I’m also dying to know why you were crying. Did you get dumped today?”
I shake my head, and Trish says, “Damn. You cried in class?”
“Okay, we have to know the details, Isla.” That came from Xavier, who’d otherwise been quiet this whole time. I watch him take a plastic fork and knife and saw his pizza into a neat little square before he eats it. I swear he looks like he could be in junior high instead of high school.
“Come on,” Ciara says, putting a hand on my desk. Her chocolatey eyes remind me of Emory’s, and I don’t know why I’m suddenly thinking of some guy when I’m supposed to talk about my ex-boyfriend. “Talk to us. We’re here for you.”
I glance across the room and find Ms. Meadows watching me from the corner of her eye. “You can trust this group,” she says with all of the compassion of a loving grandmother. “These are some good kids, and you look like a good kid, too.”
“Fine, I’ll tell you guys,” I say, taking a huge bite of food to give me a minute to think. “But you have to tell me your stories first.”
“Deal.” Bastian raises a hand, signaling that he’ll go first. “I joined the club last year when I was a freshman, after I had three girlfriends cheat on me in a row, one of them with my dumbass jock older brother. I saw a flyer for the club in the locker room, and since my mom is a huge advocate for support groups, I figured I’d try it out.”
“My turn,” Ciara says with a sigh. She watches her pearly nail polish, twisting her nails toward the light as she talks. “My last three … no four, boyfriends have been heartbreaking assholes. But I’m not giving up on love.”
“It might help to mention that you only date college guys,” Trish says, still talking through a mouthful of food. She’s on her third slice of pizza, and I wonder how she stays so thin.
“Why would that help?” Ciara says, wrinkling her brow. “I like mature men, okay? That’s not why I’m perpetually single. There’s a college man out there for me, and I’m going to find him, and then I’ll bounce out of this damn club, giving you all the finger.”
“See what I mean?” Bastian says with a snort. “We’re all really good friends.”
I smile, feeling my personal story grow lamer with each one of theirs. These people are here because they’ve been heartbroken multiple times and I’ve only been hurt once. I’m a total novice at this broken-hearted thing.
“I guess I’ll go next,” Trish says, finishing her last slice of pizza. “I’m a lesbian, in case you didn’t know,” she says, gesturing toward herself as if the word was tattooed on her forehead. Then her eyes get hazy, and she looks across the room, her thoughts miles away from here. “So there’s this angel named Tamara,” she says.
Xavier rolls his eyes. “Oh my God, you’re so dramatic when you talk about her.”
“That is not supportive,” Bastian chides, throwing Xavier a glare. “Go on, Trish. Use any words you’d like.”
She sighs and runs her nail along the shape of a star that’s been carved on the top of her desk. “I had this girl, Tamara, an
d she was the love of my life. She was seriously everything to me. And then …” Trish shrugs, “She just left. Said she wasn’t really into us anymore. She graduated last year, and I’m just trying to make it through life being broken as fuck. The counselor saw me kick the shit out of a trashcan in the soccer field and told me I should join this little group of weirdos, so here I am.” She runs a hand through her hair. The look in her eyes could be a mirror of my own and my heart aches for her just as much as it does for me. She’s going through the same thing, and I wish I could hug her, but I’m not sure if that’s something I should do on my first day here.
“Trish is the luckiest member of the group, and she doesn’t even realize it.” Ciara reaches for another piece of pizza from the boxes on the table next to us. Then she looks at me. “Trish could have her pick of any of the gay girls in this school and half of the straight girls, and yet she turns them all away.”
Trish rolls her eyes. “Yeah, that’s not true.”
“You turn everyone away!” Ciara says, her eyes going so wide it’s creepy.
“Okay, that part is true, but the rest isn’t.” Trish wrinkles her face. “I couldn’t have any girl. You guys are being extra exaggerating today.”
“Yeah you could,” Bastian and Ciara say at the same time.
“You are pretty hot,” I say, and it makes her smile.
Trish shrugs. “I don’t care. I only want my girl. I don’t want anyone else.”
The Breakup Support Group Page 7