“Shit,” Mom says, muttering more curses under her breath as she quickly stands up. She takes her foam bleacher seat off the metal bench and moves it directly in front of my face. “This thing is … messed up.”
“What are you doing, Mom?” I lean over to get out of her way, and she steps to the side, shoving her seat into my lap.
“I think it’s broken. Can you check it?”
I hear a giggle in the distance, and instinct makes me glance over, and now I know what’s going on with my mother. She hasn’t suddenly become inflicted with a broken seat. She’s trying to prevent me from seeing the very beautiful, very bouncy cheerleader who is currently throwing her arms around the football player who used to be my boyfriend.
“Mom, it’s fine,” I say, shoving her foam seat back onto the bleacher. “I’m fine.”
“What a little jerk,” she says, still seething as she sits back down. “Flaunting that little cheerleader around in front of you. What an ass.”
“He doesn’t know I’m here,” I say. “Besides, he already told me he’s dating someone, so who cares? I don’t.”
A weird thing happens when I say those words out loud. Most of my teenage life has been spent saying things that are orchestrated to placate my parents and make them feel like everything is fine. But it wasn’t until I said the words out loud that I realized how very true they are. I really am fine. And I really don’t care that Nate has moved on. If anything, I’m happy for him.
I burst into a grin and Mom stares at me like I’ve grown an extra head. “Nate and I had our time, and now it’s over. Why should I waste energy and heartache longing for someone who doesn’t want me?” I shake my head. “That’s just stupid.”
“You’re wise beyond your years,” she says, wrapping an arm around me. “I’m glad you came tonight. I miss spending time with you since you moved to that new school.”
“I never thought I’d say this, but I think the new school helped more than I realize. I mean, if we hadn’t broken up now we would have at some point.” I draw in a deep breath as a tiny sliver of pain winds around my heart. “At least I can get it over with now.”
“If you’re anything like me, you’ll have a handful of new heartaches in college.” Mom shakes her head as nostalgia fills her voice. “But you’ll survive and move on. You’ll find the right man someday, just like I did with your dad. Of course, he was in love with me for years before I finally settled down with him.”
“Okay I think we’ve reached our sappy conversation threshold for the day,” I say. I know if I let her keep talking, she’ll divulge entirely too many details about her intimacy with my dad. Mom laughs and focuses back on the half-time show, which is now a performance by the opposing school’s drill dream. They don’t hold a candle to the Warriors, and the Warriors suck in comparison to the Star Cats drill team from Granite Hills High.
It’s weird that I’m starting to consider Granite Hills my school now, after seventeen years of being a Warrior. Just before the third quarter begins, Mom digs out some cash from her pocket and holds it out to me. “Would you mind getting me a Coke?”
“No problem,” I say, taking the money. I’ve been wanting to send a text message ever since we saw Nate and that girl, but I didn’t want to take out my phone since I’m sitting close enough for Mom to look at what I type.
I jog down the bleachers and enter the safety of the concession stand line before I take out my phone and, grinning like an idiot, type up a text to Bastian.
Isla: So I’m at a football game and just saw Nate with his new girlfriend. And guess what? I didn’t feel a thing. I think my heart is healed. :) :) :) :)
I stare at the text as this weird feeling of elation and pride swells up inside my chest. It’s not even an exaggeration. I am fine with seeing Nate move on. Now I just need to do the same thing, find some kind of new beginning and new life experiences. I send the message and slide the phone back into my pocket as I picture Bastian’s super excited smile when he reads the message. He’ll probably show it to his therapist parents and brag about how well he’s doing as the leader of the Break Up Support Group.
He deserves all of the praise, too. Without that crazy sophomore and his desire to help other people, I’d probably still be a pathetic crying mess. I order Mom’s Coke and get a water for me and head back to the bleachers when my phone beeps again.
It’s a group message. Bastian has forwarded my text to me and five others, along with the words: Isla has made a huge breakthrough in her healing! Can’t wait to celebrate with everyone on Monday! –B
The only recipient in the group text that registers in my phone is Ciara. My heartbeat quickens as I stare at the four foreign numbers, knowing that one of them is Emory’s number. I wonder how many other girls in my high school have his number saved into their phone, or how many girls have saved text messages from him. Who else gets that fluttery feeling in their stomach when he smiles at them?
An influx of messages hit the group chat as I walk back to the bleachers.
Ciara’s reply is first: Damn straight! Love you, Isla!
The next text is from an unknown number: Congrats!
Followed by: I’m sure you’re prettier than that new girl anyway. –Xavi
I smile. It feels good to have a group of people cheering me on, supporting me and celebrating my accomplishments. I kind of wish there was a support group for every aspect of my life. Things are just easier with friends who genuinely care.
Mom holds out two grabby hands as I climb the stairs toward our seats, the desperation for caffeine probably driving her crazy. “Here you go, you addict,” I say, handing her the bottle.
“Thanks, baby,” she says, cracking off the lid and taking a huge sip.
My phone vibrates another time, but now it’s a new message, not a reply to the group text.
Nine random numbers fill the text’s sender box. The message sends a chill up my spine. Emory has my number now.
Emory: I’m proud of you, snowflake. :)
And he’s using it.
Chapter Twenty-One
I try unsuccessfully to hold back a yawn while I walk through the Macy’s parking lot with my mom, who is practically skipping next to me. She’d woken me up fifteen minutes before the mall opened and told me I had ten minutes to get dressed. Today we are shopping for a homecoming dress. In a moment of spontaneous insanity last night at the football game, I’d accidentally told her that not only was I going to Granite Hill’s homecoming but that I had a date.
A just friends date, of course, but a date nonetheless. And now after stopping for coffee, we’re shopping for dresses, although I’d way rather be doing this with Ciara. My mom has always been known as the cool mom out of my group of friends, so it’s fine that she comes along, but I also need a real friend here to keep Mom’s nosy questions at bay. I take another sip of my coffee and text Ciara asking her to please please please hurry up.
“Is that Ciara?” Mom asks, glancing over my shoulder as she pulls open the door for me. “I’m excited to meet her.”
I nod. “She should be here soon. And, Mom?”
“I know that look,” she says, eyeing me as we step into the shoe section. “I promise I won’t embarrass you.”
“Thanks,” I say, stopping to admire a pair of sparkly flats.
“Hmm,” Mom murmurs, picking up the other shoe.
“I am instantly in love with these,” I say, turning over the shoe to check the price. “I think we should pick a dress based on these shoes.”
“They are definitely cute,” Mom says, her voice rising to an uncomfortable level. Her brows draw together, and she gives me a little smile, pretending to be normal. “Does this mean your date is shorter than you are?”
“Oh my God, Mom! You told me you wouldn’t make a big deal about this.”
“I’m not making a big deal. I’m just asking.” Mom shrugs a little too casually and steps around the shoe display, pretending to admire a pair of black leather boots. �
��You always wore heels with Nate, so I’m just wondering if this guy is shorter.”
Emory is shorter than Nate but taller than I am. He is the perfect height for when you’re standing in front of him gazing into his eyes. “I don’t know,” I lie, placing the shoe back on the display. “I can’t remember.”
“Is it so bad for me to know a little about this guy?” Mom asks. “He’s going to be taking my daughter out, and I’d like to know what kind of guy he is.”
“We’re just friends. He’s not taking me out,” I say, making quotes with my fingers. “And he’s just a normal guy. Not a criminal or anything.”
“Not a criminal. Great! I guess that’s all I need to know,” she says sarcastically as we venture further into the store.
“Mom, I’m sorry, but it’s really not a big deal. Emory is just a friend, and he offered to go with me so I wouldn’t be alone.” My annoyed voice seems to do the trick because she finally drops the subject. We find the formal dresses, and I casually browse around them, not wanting to look too closely until Ciara gets here and can shop with me.
“You would look adorable in this!” Mom says, rushing up to me while holding a pink mini-dress made of sequins. “And it would match those shoes you like.” She holds it by the hanger and presses it against my shoulders.
I peer down at the waves of sparkles and frown. “It’s a little flashy …”
She huffs. “It’s not flashy, it’s dramatic.”
I lift an eyebrow, and she spreads her arms wide. “In a good way. Everyone will know who you are if you wear a dress like this.”
“I don’t want people to know who I am,” I mutter as I flip through more dresses on the racks.
“You never know,” she says flippantly. “You could meet your future husband at this dance. You need to pick a dress that’s good enough to be in your memories when you retell the story.”
“Mom. You need mental help.”
She laughs and puts the flashy dress back on the rack. “I’m just messing with you. I mean technically you could meet your future husband anywhere. Unless you’ve already met him and he’s taking you to the dance?”
“Mom!”
“Sorry,” she says, flashing me her devilish smile. “I’m your mom, I can’t help it. I just want to know more about this boy. Is he cute?”
“Who, Emory?” Ciara appears from around a rack of long evening gowns. Her braided hair is pulled back into a messy bun, and she holds a small cosmetics bag from Sephora. She smiles at me and then looks at my mom. “Oh yeah. He’s gorgeous.” I shoot her a look but she continues, “And trust me, the boy knows it.”
“You had time to stop and buy nail polish?” I ask.
She nods, holding up the bag. “Girl, I always have time for nail polish. They just released two new colors in the fall collection.”
“You should have been here saving me from my mom and her inquisitiveness,” I say, shaking my head. “Some new best friend you are.”
“Oh come on,” Ciara says. “You can tell your mom about Emory. He’s just a friend, remember?”
My eyes go wide, but I can’t think of a quick rebuttal so I just end up shrugging. “Exactly. He’s a friend so who cares what he looks like?”
“We care because he’s freaking hot. Trust me, Mrs. Rush,” Ciara says, winking. “He’s the kind of guy every girl wants to take her to the dance.”
“Ooh, I like this girl.” Mom wraps her hand around Ciara’s arm and walks with her around a rack of dresses. “Tell me more.”
“Don’t tell her anything else,” I warn, grabbing Ciara’s other arm. “She’ll just turn this meaningless friend date into a way bigger thing in her head. Let’s go look at dresses.”
Ciara shops as well as she applies nail polish. After only trying on a few dresses, she has my mom and me in awe outside of the dressing room. Ciara grins as she does another spin in a white sleeveless mini dress with a long sheer fabric outer later that flows down to her ankles. She puts her hands on her hips and gazes into the three-sided mirror, lifting her heels off the purple carpet beneath us.
“I’ll definitely need some tall heels, but I think this dress is perfect.”
“Buy it,” I say, rising from the armchair I’d been sitting in to watch her mini fashion show. “It’s completely perfect.”
She peers down her body in the reflection of the mirror. “Trey won’t see me as a high school girl anymore, that’s for sure.”
“Who’s Trey?” Mom asks, her arms full of my potential dress options.
Ciara puts a hand on her chest, and her eyes sparkle. “He’s my brother’s friend and he is ridiculously hot. He goes to A&M for engineering, and he totally agreed to take me to the dance.”
“A college guy?” Mom says, looking weirdly impressed instead of horrified. “You better make sure he treats you like a lady.”
“Don’t worry. My brother would kill him if he tried anything.” Ciara walks back to her dressing room and opens the door, turning back to give us a sneaky grin. “Of course, that doesn’t mean I won’t try something.”
Mom laughs, but as soon as Ciara closes the door behind her, she turns to me in full Mom Mode. “You better not let your date get handsy.”
“Handsy?” I fake a gagging noise. “You didn’t care when Nate got handsy.”
“That’s because I knew Nate. And you were on birth control. You’re still taking it, right?”
“Yes, Mom,” I say, which is more of a groan as I feel my cheeks go red.
Ciara emerges from the dressing room, clutching her beautiful white strapless dress. “Now that I have found my dress, Mrs. Rush and I can dedicate ourselves to finding you the perfect one. Lord knows I won’t be seen standing next to you if you look like Cinderella before her fairy godmother took over.”
She rushes over to a collection of shorter dresses, ones that I had specifically been avoiding due to how sexy they look on the rack. It means they’re probably even better looking on a real person, and although I used to get as gorgeous as possible for dates with Nate, I’m not sure I want to be sexy for this fake date with Emory.
I tell myself it’s because I’m a logical person who doesn’t think dressing up is prudent for a friend date. But in reality, I know and fear that the real reason I’d rather show up looking average and boring is that if I did look hot and Emory rejected me, I’d feel like an even bigger failure than when I became Nate’s ex-girlfriend. Emory has dated beautiful girls and rejected even more average ones. I don’t want to become another statistic in his screwed up dating life.
An hour later, I’m in the dressing room for the millionth time, trying on any and every dress my mother and friend have thrown at me. The sexy cocktail dresses and the long flowy ones that look more like prom gowns. The lacy and satiny and bright and pastel. Every possible type of dress they’ve given me has been tried on, scowled at, and tossed into the no pile.
I throw open the dressing room door and hold out a bright yellow dress covered in intricate beading work. Ciara takes it and frowns. “No? I kind of liked this one.”
I draw in a deep breath and slowly let it out, dragging my hands down my face while my entourage looks on. “Sorry, I just don’t think I’m going to find a dress.”
“You’d better,” Ciara says, sliding the yellow dress back onto the hanger. “You’re running out of time, and I refuse to let you back out of homecoming.”
“We could take a break and try again later,” Mom says.
I shake my head. “No. We need to get this over with. It’s just a stupid dance.” I sigh and walk over to a clearance rack of dresses that we haven’t touched yet. “Just pick everything in my size,” I say, flipping through the random selection until I find one that will fit me and throw it over my shoulder. I head back into the dressing room and lock the door behind me, leaving Mom and Ciara scouting for more dresses.
I pull off my shirt and stare at myself in the narrow mirror, seeing nothing but an exhausted girl who is tired of running from
pain. So what if Emory doesn’t think I’m the hottest girl at the dance? So what if he does? This entire thing is just a stupid set up by the school so that students can get some kind of “traditional high school experience” that we’ll totally forget about by the time we’re adults.
So who cares?
My phone goes off. I turn to the hook on the wall where my purse is hanging and reach inside, taking out my phone as I kick my shorts down to my ankles. A cold wave pulses through my chest as I look at the number on my phone. Emory just texted me again.
I slide the screen and read his message:
Emory: You too cool to reply to my text?
My brows draw together as my heart does a little leap of joy. He was expecting a reply from last night? I can’t help but grin at the idea of Emory sitting at home, watching his phone and waiting for a text from me. There’s no way that happened. But maybe it did.
Isla: I didn’t know if I should.
My phone beeps instantly with his reply.
Emory: Why’s that?
Isla: I don’t know. We never exchanged numbers to become texting friends.
Emory: Everything isn’t a game, Isla. Some things are just what they are. You’re always welcome to text me.
My heart thumps so hard in my chest. I don’t know what’s wrong with it—I am not supposed to care about Emory Underwood. I gnaw on my bottom lip and begin to type a reply but then another text appears.
Emory: What are you up to?
Isla: Shopping for a dress for homecoming.
A few minutes pass before he replies.
Emory: My favorite color is dark blue. ;-)
I grin and throw open the dressing room door. “Hey, guys?” I call out to Mom and Ciara. “Get something dark blue.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The halls of Granite Hill High School are painted in Wildcats colors, with blue and white posters and ribbons everywhere you look. All four stories of the school are an embodiment of school spirit for homecoming week. Just like back at my old school, Granite Hills has a tradition to dress up in goofy clothing for the entire week of homecoming.
The Breakup Support Group Page 15