Monday is silly hat day so I wear my mother’s oversized Santa hat that’s decorated in ornaments and real flashing lights. Tuesday is silly sock day so I wear a pair of knee-high rainbow socks and sandals to show off the individual toes. Turns out that idea wasn’t very original and many girls did the same thing. Wednesday is camo day and, despite living in Texas where this sort of thing is very popular, no one in my family owns anything with a camouflage print. So I show up to class in regular clothes.
Ciara’s eyes widen when I walk into the support group at lunch. She’s wearing an entire digital camo soldier’s uniform, complete with a camo hat. “Where’s your camo?”
I roll my eyes as I glance around the art room, finding everyone else wearing some form of camouflage. “I don’t have any.”
“Not even the ironic kind?” Trish says, pointing to her tank top that’s a mixture of neon blue and purple camo print.
I head toward the pizza table. “I’ve always done such a great job of blending in that I never really needed camo.”
“Hey now, Isla,” Bastian says, in a warning tone. He’s wearing a poncho covered in fake moss, and it’s a huge difference to his usual business casual khakis and button-up shirts. “There will be no self-depreciating comments.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. And although it’s sarcastic, Bastian seems to appreciate the title anyhow.
Emory slips into the art room, wearing snug fitting dark jeans and a gray t-shirt with the French flag printed on the chest. He’s dressed just like always, only today he wears a tie around his neck. It’s camouflage. On Monday, he’d worn a baseball cap and yesterday his jeans covered his ankles so I don’t know if he wore silly socks. Still, I did not expect him to be someone to participate in this kind of stuff.
I put a hand on my hip. “Even you wore camo?”
His eyes turn devious. “I love school spirit.”
I give him a disbelieving look, and he smirks, then grabs a half empty pizza box and takes it to his desk.
We spend most of this week helping Sequoia rehash her relationship with her ex, and it hurts my heart to see her feeling exactly as heartbroken as I had been several weeks ago. Now that I’m on the other side of heartbreak, I want to grab her shoulders and tell her everything will be just fine in the end, and promise her that it’s true. I wish I could speed up time until she’s in a place where she’s happy again. But I know that this is her painful journey, and she’ll have to endure it all the way through until the end.
The only nice thing about having a new member to focus on is how I get to settle back into a routine and watch the spotlight be on someone else for once. After my miraculous recovery at the football game, Bastian seems to look at me in a different light now. He’s always beaming with pride when I walk into the art room like I am his little trophy of accomplishment. He is my therapist, and he has therapized me.
All of the members of the support group have made fun of Bastian in a way, either with snide looks while he goes on one of his epic speeches that are no doubt stolen from movies and from listening in on his own therapist parents, or by rolling their eyes when he’s particularly excited about his new healing ideas. I’ve heard Xavier refer to him as Doctor Five-Year-Old behind his back.
But even though it’s easy to make fun of a sophomore who dresses like a middle-aged businessman, the truth is that Bastian has a passion and a heart for helping people overcome their troubles. And he’s doing a great job of it.
On Thursday, the group of us gather in Ms. Meadows’ room all wearing some kind of neon colors to fit with the homecoming theme of the day. I hadn’t even talked much yesterday since we’d spent the entire time helping Sequoia and then talking Trish down from a mini-anxiety attack because homecoming was really close and it makes her think of Tamara. I’m starting to wonder if it’s time for me to make an exit from the Break Up Support Group since I am officially cured and all. I stare at the slice of cheese pizza on my plate, wondering if I should fake a regression into heartbreak again just so that I won’t be left on my own for lunch.
These people aren’t just the weirdos in my counselor-appointed support group anymore—they’re my friends.
Bastian steps into the center of the circle of desks, clasping his hands together in front of his chest. His hair is gelled over to the side, and his neon pink long-sleeved button-up shirt actually matches well with his skin tone. “Guys, I have an announcement to make. I have been selected to give a UIL presentation to a group of freshmen. That means Break Up Support Group will be canceled tomorrow and will resume on Monday.”
Anxiety shoots up my spine, followed quickly by fear. If there’s no meeting tomorrow, then I’ll have to eat lunch with the rest of the school. I swallow and set my pizza down. There’s an imaginary rock in my stomach, and I’m not hungry anymore because of it.
Ciara does a little whoop. “Hell yeah! I’ll tell Margret I can make the eleven o’clock hair appointment.” She takes her cell phone and focuses on typing a message. “It was the only appointment my hair lady had open for tomorrow because of the homecoming dance,” she says by way of explanation.
Great. So my best friend will be gone tomorrow. I clear my throat. “Would you guys want to meet up here anyway? We can just eat lunch and not have a meeting?”
Xavier and Trish shake their heads and Sequoia shrugs. “I could use some math tutoring,” she says, giving me a small frown.
“We could use a break,” Emory says from the desk on my left. “I’d like a free lunch period every once in a while. Maybe we should make Fridays off be a mandatory thing.”
My brows draw together, and I immediately want to throw him a look, but I don’t.
Bastian clucks his tongue. “I hardly think that would be a good idea. We will resume daily meetings on Monday.” To Emory, he says, “If you don’t want to be here, you don’t have to show up.”
“Trust me, I’d rather be here than listen to another one of Mrs. Gertie’s speeches.”
Emory smiles, but Bastian’s face squints up, and he brings his hands in front of his chest, squeezing his fingers together in a mock of how badly he’d like to strangle Emory. Everyone laughs except for Bastian. “Okay, guys, let’s make this meeting a good one. Sequoia? Would you like to begin?”
All week my stomach has been permanently clenched in a ball of anxiety over the homecoming dance that takes place tonight. Just when I’d settled into a routine of trying to ignore it, I arrive in third period AP history to find Lauren’s desk empty. She’d said I could always eat lunch with her, and now she’s not even here on the day I need her. Ciara is at her hair appointment, and I’m stuck, alone when the bell rings for lunch.
I know I could text Emory and ask what he’s doing and if he’d like to throw a rope to my pathetic self for the next forty-five minutes. Knowing him, he could be sitting with a group of guys he’s known his whole life, or he could spend his lunch period lying on a chaise being fanned with palm branches by girls in bikinis. I scowl at the mental image and head toward the stairwell.
Things have been really weird with Emory ever since he texted me last weekend when I was dress shopping. I’d ended up sending him a picture of the dress I’d chosen for the dance. It was on the hanger, not on my body like Ciara had suggested, and all he wrote back was a smiley face.
We haven’t texted at all since then. During gym class, the boys have been doing physical fitness assessments all week and Mr. Wang’s lectures have been an endless stream of words from the start of the period to the time the bell rings. It’s as if the universe set me up to have a homecoming date and now it doesn’t want me conversing with Emory anymore.
I’m not about to ask if I can eat lunch with him.
Dread builds in my stomach as I walk into the cafeteria, keeping my shoulders straight and my head level. I will simply buy some food, take a really long time to walk to an empty seat and then eat as quickly as humanly possible and get the hell out of there. I’ll wander the halls or go to the library. I can d
o this.
A finger taps me on the shoulder. I turn around, partly wondering if the tapping was an accident, and find Emory standing behind me in the food line, a pleasant yet cocky smirk plastered on his lips. “Cafeteria food?” he asks. “Gag.”
I shrug. “No free pizza today.”
“On the contrary,” he says, wrapping his arm around my elbow. “Let’s go.”
I let him lead me out of the line, and I try really hard to hold back the blood that wants to rush to my face. Is everyone watching me? Are girls glaring at us as I walk past, arm in arm with one of the hottest guys in the school?
I wouldn’t know because I don’t look up.
“You’re really hard to get a read on,” I say as we push out of the cafeteria doors and head toward the right.
“Why’s that?” Emory asks, releasing my arm now that we’re alone. He walks quickly, checking the time on his phone as we head down a narrow hallway that leads out to the parking lot.
I shrug. Be cool. “Sometimes we’re friends and sometimes we’re … I don’t know, distant.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Iz-la. Blame me.”
I glance over at him, but he’s staring straight ahead. “What does that mean?”
“I’d rather not explain it,” he says. He opens the door and steps out into the crisp September air, holding it open for me. His pocket jingles as he grabs his car keys and presses a button that makes the headlights on his shiny red Camaro light up.
The moment we reach his car, an older white truck pulls up next to us, a Meadows Pizza magnet on the door. The driver appears to be in his twenties, and he rolls down the window, holding out a pizza box and two bottles of soda to Emory.
“Thanks, man,” Emory says, handing him some cash. The guy nods, cranks up his stereo, and drives off.
Emory tosses his car keys to me while balancing the pizza box on his other hand. “You can pick something on the radio.”
I peer at him over the roof of his car and press my lips together. “You got pizza and two drinks? Who were you supposed to eat lunch with?”
“You,” he says all matter-of-factly as he opens the driver’s side door and slides into his car. I open the passenger door and slink into the soft leather seat, the overwhelming smell of new car hitting my senses before the smell of the pizza sweeps it away.
He hands me a drink, and I tilt my head. “You mean to tell me that you predicted I’d be a complete loser with no friends who would need to be bailed out of lunch today?”
Emory’s tongue slides across his bottom lip. “There will be no self-depreciating comments,” he says in an overly melodramatic nerdy voice.
I snort. “Don’t make fun of Bastian. He means well.”
Emory sets the pizza box in the center console and opens it. “I got two drinks because I didn’t want to spend lunch alone and I was hoping I’d have you for company.”
My heart does this little pitter-patter, and I stare at the Chevrolet logo on the glovebox. “I’m sure you have a line of ladies who would kill to eat lunch with you.”
“I do,” he says, taking a bite of pizza. “But they’re all stupid.”
“And what am I?” I ask, both terrified and thrilled to hear his answer.
He considers it for a moment, his eyes focusing on the little metal compass around his wrist. “You’re the only girl I like being around.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not in love with you,” I hear myself saying, even though my mind is far from my body, still reveling in what he just said. “Otherwise it’d be hard as hell to be in the same room with you.”
He smiles. “So what time should I pick you up for the dance?”
“The dance?” I sit back in my seat, shaking my head. “Wow, I almost forgot about that, and it’s tonight.”
“You … forgot?” Emory says slowly. I nod. “About the dance?” he asks as if needing clarification. “ … with me as your date?”
“Yep.” I shrug. Although the dance has been on my mind constantly since Emory offered to be my date, the moment I climbed into his car with him made every other rational thought slip my mind. So it’s not a total lie—I had forgotten, but just for a few minutes. “I guess I just haven’t thought much about it. I mean, my dress is hanging on my closet door, so I see it every day, but I completely forgot that I have to go home and get ready tonight.”
He sits back, peering at me with a sort of fascination. “Wow, Iz-la. There might be hope for you after all.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“You’re doing this all wrong, you know,” Ciara says from my bedroom door. She enters and turns around so that her calves touch the footboard of my bed. She opens her arms and falls backward, her silky white homecoming dress fluffing up like a bridal photo shoot.
“Doing what wrong?” I ask, leaning forward in the tiny white chair that matches my vanity. I pull down my eyelid with one finger and apply eyeliner with the other hand.
“Homecoming.” She sits up on her elbows, her face scrunching in disapproval while she watches me apply makeup. “You’re supposed to book a hair and makeup appointment weeks in advice like I did, and then you get with friends and rent a limo and go out to dinner and all of that.”
“I’ve been there and done that,” I say, capping my eyeliner and shoving it back into my makeup bag. “Three years in a row, I did that. I’m glad we’re just playing it cool this year.”
Emory and I had agreed that he’d pick me up for the dance, and that was that. No limos, no expensive hair appointments. “Besides, you’re my only friend, and you’re doing the college guy experience tonight, so who would I share a limo with?”
Ciara’s eyebrows are absolute perfection, thanks to her makeup appointment. She lifts one of them and gives me a reproachful look. “Okay, first of all,” she says, holding up a sparkly manicured nail. “Of course I’ll be hanging out with you all night, you’re my girl, and secondly, your date Emory has more friends than anyone else in this school. You could have joined in on probably a dozen limo shares with his connections.”
“Really?” I ask, feeling an uncomfortable squirming sensation in my stomach. “Do you think he’s just embarrassed of me?”
I expect her to jump to my defense and deny it, but she just wobbles her head in an unconvincing no. “Who knows. I mean, you’re just as cute as the other girls he dates so who can tell what’s going on in that head of his? I just figured, since your whole goal in the support group is to have an authentic date, that he would have made it more authentic.”
“Don’t say that,” I say, realizing my lungs are starting to burn from how long I’ve been holding my breath. “This is just a stupid support group exercise. He probably didn’t book a limo because that’s what you do for real dates.”
She nods and examines her fingernails. “I guess fake real dates aren’t real dates. That makes sense.”
I apply my eyeshadow in the same way I’ve been practicing and then swipe on a layer of mascara. Ciara walks up behind me and runs her fingers through my hair, which is still down and in soft waves. “We can’t forget the real purpose of this night, Isla.”
Her eyes meet mine in the vanity mirror, and she offers me a small smile before turning her gaze back to my hair, which she separates into three sections. “This is a night of healing, not just a night of fun. I mean, we’ll totally have fun, but you know what I’m saying here. Emory is your fake date and Trey is the crazy hot college guy who is so out of my league. These aren’t real dates that are meant to be some romantic adventure that we’ll remember forever. Tonight is a mission. We’re doing this to get over our broken hearts. To heal and be whole again.”
I nod, drawing in a deep breath as I think over her words. “You’re absolutely right,” I say, finding that a smile comes easily. “All of the other dances I’ve been to in my life were times when I thought I was going with my soul mate. This will be a fun night, and that’s all. It’s actually kind of freeing.”
“Hell yeah it is,” she say
s, twisting my hair and tugging the pieces into place. “Hair tie?”
I reach into a glass bowl next to my makeup brushes and hand her one. She twists it into part of my hair as she works. “Trey is taking me to Fazoli’s for dinner and then we’ll meet up at the dance, okay?”
“Sounds good.” I apply some lipstick in a shade only slightly darker than my lips and snap the cap back on. “I think I’m done here.”
“You look gaw-geous,” Ciara drawls, batting her eyelashes at me. She takes another hair tie and finishes off whatever she’s done to my hair. “Turn around,” she says, and I do as she requests. She leans close, brows pulled together, and pulls out two strips of hair from my temples and lets them hang loose on the sides of my face. Then she steps back and admires her work, seeming a little too impressed with herself.
“You’ll make him wish this was a real date,” she says, spinning her finger for me to turn around and look. She’s done some kind of braided messy bun style to my hair. It looks a million times better than anything I could have done to myself, and without the aid of going to a real salon, I’ve saved a ton of money.
“I love it,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Of course you do.” She places two pretend kisses on both of my cheeks and then grabs her purse off the bed. “See you at the dance,” she says. “I’ll be the one on the arm of the hottest black guy in the auditorium.”
I laugh and stand up, catching a glimpse of my dress in the oval mirror. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she says, unsnapping the silver clasp on her tiny sequined purse. She digs around inside of it and produces a shiny purple plastic wrapper. “Just in case,” she says with a wink, before tossing the condom toward me.
I catch it with wide eyes. “Wha—?” I stumble over my words as I stare at the thing I’ve only ever seen Nate use. I’ve never bought or owned or held a condom before. “Why would you think I’d need this?”
The Breakup Support Group Page 16