The Breakup Support Group Page 4
“Excuse me?” someone says in my direction. I look up and find a short woman with curly brown hair, wearing a Wildcats t-shirt. She smiles at me while holding a radio in one hand and a clipboard in another. “Are you a new student, or returning?”
“New,” I say. My voice feels like I haven’t used it in years.
“Great, you’ll be in one of those lines,” she says with all the high-pitched excitedness of a talk show host as she points toward three extra tables at the end of the line. “And welcome to Granite Hills!”
Okay if the dress code requires that kind of perkiness, I should probably drop out now. I give her the best smile I can manage. Every table is labeled with letters of the alphabet. I take a spot in line in front of the table marked R-Z.
A group of guys stand around in the A-K table for the line of returning students. They’re all buff and tall and could easily be a clone of the football jocks back at home. I mean, at my old school. One of them, a muscular guy taller than the rest with blond hair cropped short, looks over the crowd of new students, his eyes surveying the lot. There’s maybe forty of us here, and I doubt there are many more Deer Valley students on the way. It was a small rezoning, one that left all of my friends on the other side of the line.
His eyes meet mine for a second, and then they travel on, taking in the view. I move two steps forward in the line and glance back at him. He’s not exactly interesting—more like familiar in a comforting sort of way. I don’t know why I watch him, other than for something to do besides think of Nate. He taps his friend’s arm with the back of his hand. “There’s a few hotties from that other school,” he says, one dimple appearing in his cheek when he smirks. “Might be good since you’ve ran through all the hotties here.”
“Hell yeah,” the friend says, turning to look at us new arrivals. I immediately turn the other way, not wanting to see the look he’ll give me. I swallow and take another step forward as the line moves on. It’s stupid, the fear that rises up in my chest as I know those guys are looking over all the girls on this side of the hallway. I don’t like the idea of being judged as a hottie or not. Because what if the answer is not?
I never had to care about these things when I had a boyfriend.
I let out the breath I’d been holding and step forward. A younger guy points a chewed up pen at me from where he sits at the table. If not for the fine wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and the hint of stubble on his cheek, I’d think he was a student and not a young teacher. “Last name?”
“Rush.”
He nods once like he knew that all along, and slides a finger across the tablet in his hand. “There you are,” he says, pressing the screen. The printer behind him spits out a sheet of paper, and he hands it to me. “You can take this into the auditorium. Welcome to Granite Hills, Miss Rush.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I mutter as I take the schedule and turn around. Signs point the way down another hall and to a set of immaculate glass doors that lead into a lobby with marble floors and a grand piano in the center of the room. Stairs lead up to a box office. Little lights sparkle along the black carpeted stairs, lighting the way. This high school auditorium looks like something out of Broadway. Large framed posters line the walls; an artistic rendition of the plays this school has performed over the years. The Wizard of Oz, Annie Oakley, Scrooge, and Grease.
The auditorium doors are propped open, but most of the students mill around the lobby, chatting in small groups of unfamiliar faces. A flat panel television above the box office tells us that orientation will start in twelve minutes. I look around for Casey or anyone from my old school, but I don’t see anyone I know or even sort of know.
I plaster an apathetic look on my face and weave through the crowd and up the carpeted stairs, toward the auditorium. The place smells like brand new electronics. As I step inside, marveling at the gorgeous royal blue and pearl fabric wallpaper that lines the sloping walls of the theater, the scent of boy rushes into my lungs, ripping open my broken heart.
“Hi there,” a guy says, arching his hand in a wave. He’s tall and tan, with blond hair and a chiseled jawline that practically shouts untrustworthy. His designer jeans and bright white shoes give an illusion that he might be more attractive than he actually is. “You’re new, right?”
I nod, stopping in the middle of the aisle at the back of the theater. There are too many students standing around for me to casually find a seat.
“I’m Braedon. What’s your name?”
“Isla.” I give him a tight-lipped but polite smile. Please please just leave. I don’t want to make small talk with strangers.
His flirty gaze turns seductive. “You got a boyfriend?”
There it is. The ripping away of the final bandage that was over my broken heart. I flinch.
“Braedon, leave the girl alone. She doesn’t want you any more than the last one did.” The voice is resigned like he’s said those words a hundred times today. “Hey, new girl?”
I look over to find the source of the voice and my breath catches in my throat. He’s … the only word that runs through my mind is pretty. Unlike the bulky jocks, he’s lean, and a little shorter, maybe just an inch or two taller than I am. He leans back against a cushioned theater chair at the end of the last row, the seat part still in the up position. His chocolate eyes peer at me underneath a mess of choppy brown hair. It is the most intense gaze I’ve seen all day. He is all taut angles and forearm veins that disappear underneath the short leaves of his tight-fitting t-shirt. His lips glisten under the theater’s recessed lighting, his soft features making me want to reach out and touch him.
It only takes a second for my heart to fall straight through my chest and tumble around like an idiot. He spoke to me. I’m supposed to reply. I draw a breath. “Yeah?”
His perfect lips slide into a smile, and not the leering dickhead smile of the jock next to me, but a real one. Again, that’s an expression I haven’t seen in a while. His eyes seem to take me in all at once, and I am frozen to the floor in the split second it takes for him to reply. “Welcome to the circus.”
My lips quirk upward, heat rushing to my face. “Thanks.”
A willowy girl with hair like silk slips in front of me, sliding into the last row of chairs next to this gorgeous guy. She takes his hand and throws him a glare, her long eyebrows squishing together. “You were supposed to text me last night,” she whispers, loud enough for anyone to overhear.
My mysterious savior from Braedon takes one last glance at me, and then he looks at the girl, his expression as cool and unaffected as ever. “I’m sorry hun,” he says slowly, sliding a hand around her. “Guess I forgot.”
And just like that, the moment is gone.
Chapter Six
I am a zombie on Wednesday. Minus the rotting, animated corpse, of course. My alarm goes off but doesn’t wake me; I’d been awake for an hour already, just lying face up in bed imagining shapes out of the blobs in the ceiling texture. I throw on some clothes, slip into a pair of sandals, and grab the same backpack I used last year. Where the pink canvas fabric used to have an I + N with a heart drawn around it in Sharpie, there’s now just a blackened square that smells like fresh permanent ink.
In the kitchen, I shove a bagel into the toaster then stand there, watching the little coils inside turn to a glowing orange as it transforms my bagel from chewy and room temperature to toasty and delicious. Of course, I can’t taste anything today. I think the broken heart has dulled my senses. I’m only eating because if I don’t …
“Is that all you’re eating?” Mom says as she sweeps into the kitchen, dressed in an ironed green and gold track suit. Her tank top has the Warriors logo emblazoned on it in rhinestones.
I roll my eyes. I might know my mother better than I know myself. “Mom, it’s an entire bagel. That’s plenty of food.”
“You need protein.” She reaches into the pantry, grabs a jar of peanut butter and plunks it on the counter. “Put some of this on the other half.”
I shoulder my backpack and Mom’s manicured hand stops me from getting any closer to the back door. She squeezes my shoulder, and her eyebrows pull together, wrinkling the mauve eyeshadow on her eyelids. “Honey, you’re not possibly going to school looking like that?”
I shrug. “What’s wrong with how I look?”
She takes in my jeans and plain gray cotton V-neck shirt. She doesn’t focus on my face for long, but I’m sure she’s disappointed in the fact that I’m only wearing some shine-blocking powder and mascara. Her chest heaves with a heavy sigh. “I thought you would have used this opportunity to reinvent yourself this year. You only get one first impression, you know.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Reinvent myself? What’s wrong with my current self?”
Her face softens, and she releases her grip on my shoulder. “Isla, your old self was just a shadow of Nate. Now you’re free, and you can be whoever you want.”
Funny, because free is not how I would describe the feeling of being so heartbroken.
“I like who I am.” I know it’s a lie the moment the words are out of my mouth. All I am is a seventeen-year-old girl. A student. A living human body. There is nothing special with Isla Rush, especially since she’s no longer Nate’s girlfriend. I draw in a deep breath and shake my head. “I’m completely fine,” I say, turning toward the door that leads into the garage. I am wearing a boring outfit, and I don’t care. Maybe that’s the impression that I’ll make on Granite Hills High: Isla Rush just doesn’t care. I pull open the door and turn back to give my mom a small smile that hopefully reassures her that I’m not going crazy. “Have a good day.”
Granite Hills High School is no less intimidating the second time I approach the massive glass doors. I take slow breaths to steady myself, hoping to calm my erratic heartbeat. I swear the thing doesn’t beat right ever since it was broken. And that’s even more concerning because I know that broken hearts are merely emotional wounds, but I think my heart really is broken. And now it’s mixed with anxiety and the clawing agony of being completely alone. For freshman year, Nate’s mom dropped us off on the first day of school. We’d stopped for Starbucks, and I’d laughed when Nate got whipped cream on his nose from drinking his frappe too quickly.
Sophomore year started without parental units. Ford is a year older than us and had gotten his license and a truck over the summer. He swung by my house and then Nate’s and picked us up. We’d stopped for Starbucks again, just to continue the tradition. Nate and I made out in the tiny backseat of Ford’s truck.
Last year Nate picked me up himself, commented on the dress I was wearing, saying it was too damn sexy for school. He’d kissed my neck from the driver’s side of his truck, and I’d snuggled up close, riding in the middle seat. My seat. We joked about the idea of skipping the first day of junior year, heading to the beach instead. We stopped for Starbucks, and I put whipped cream on his nose with my finger. And then we hung out in the parking lot and made out until the bell rang.
I clench my jaw and fight like hell to prevent tears from welling up in my eyes. I can feel how badly they want to, the warm salty water bubbling up in the corners of my eyes, ready to ruin my mascara and my day. Instead, I focus on the building in front of me, with its overbearing brick walls and the haughty vibe of rich people woven into the architecture. This place is just waiting to chew up and spit out a middle-class nobody like me. I didn’t get coffee this morning. I might never drink coffee again.
Three big differences stand out to me as I enter my new school:
1. Everyone is on their phone all the time, and the teachers don’t say anything. I guess it’s not against the rules here.
2. Um, there’s a coffee cart stationed at every hallway intersection. And I think the coffee is free, although there’s a tip jar for the baristas. THANKS UNIVERSE FOR REMINDING ME OF NATE EVERY CHANCE YOU GET.
3. Boobs and butt cheeks are everywhere. Teachers don’t say anything about the low-cut shirts or too-short shorts in the hallways. I don’t think there’s a dress code here.
I focus on the paper schedule in my hand so that I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone. The first day of school frenzy is in full effect, with students heading in all directions, yelling out hellos when they see someone they hadn’t seen all summer. Camera flashes from cell phones nearly blind me, and I’m shoulder-smacked so many times I lose count.
First period is English, room number 304 with Mr. Wang. I trudge up three flights of stairs, holding on to the railing to avoid being knocked on my ass in front of everyone on the first day of school. The classroom is the first one on the left, and I’m the first student to arrive. Great.
“Welcome, welcome!” Mr. Wang says, throwing out his arms to me as I enter the classroom. He’s a younger teacher, probably only thirty or so. He wears skinny black slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt with a plaid vest and a bowtie. “Have a seat anywhere you’d like.”
I look around the room, which is decorated with dozens of posters of artistically drawn literary quotes. A thick black frame borders a poster with the words: The hardest decision you’ll ever face in life is choosing whether to walk away or try harder.
A pang of emotion slides through my chest. It’s as if fate put that poster there just for me. Did I try hard enough to keep Nate? Should I just walk away? A long horizontal window on the far wall looks outside, and it’s a little trippy realizing how high up we are on the third floor. A few more students walk in the room, and I head straight toward the poster, taking a seat at the desk closest to it.
Animated chatter fills the room, and I look around, hoping to see a vaguely familiar face. Anyone from my old school, friend or not, would be a nice reprieve right now. Of course, Nate would be even better. I gnaw on my bottom lip and wish I could turn back time, making the zoning people choose his street as well as mine. Or even better—cancel the rezoning completely.
I’m staring at the poster when the two-minute bell rings. That’s another thing we didn’t have at DVH—warning bells so you’re not late to class. A South Asian girl with long brown hair that must have taken hours to curl this morning slips into the seat in front of me, carefully tucking her dress under her legs. A guy that already smells like BO even though it’s seven thirty in the morning sits behind me. No one talks to me, and I find it both a relief and a little sad.
The scent of coffee appears to my right, and I look over. My heart accelerates against my will. The gorgeous guy from the auditorium is looking right at me. He’s holding a brown and white coffee cup from the kiosk and a binder that he places on the desk to my right. “Good morning,” he says with a smile that is somehow sexy and terrifying at the same time.
“Good morning,” I hear myself saying. It’s pathetic how gorgeous he is. From the muscles in his forearms that flex when he reaches for the coffee cup, to the way his lips press against the plastic lid as he takes a sip—every inch of this boy makes my stomach hurt. It draws out feelings of deep depression for the human race as a whole. Thoughts of why can’t everyone be this hot? And how the hell am I supposed to pay attention in class when he’s just sitting there, being beautiful and smirking, relaxing in the plastic chair as if it were made for his body?
“Welcome to the first day of your last year of school,” Mr. Wang says, walking to the front of the classroom, his leather loafers clacking across the floor. “My name is Mr. Wang, and yes, it is hilarious. And no, there’s not a single Wang joke you can make that I haven’t already heard.” He chuckles, and I’m immediately brought back to real life and out of my creepy daydreams about the guy sitting next to me. Our teacher claps his hands together in front of his vest. “You will learn many great things in my class and rest assured, I will not let you enter into adulthood without knowing the correct version of your the possessive versus you’re the contracti
on.”
A few eye-rolling groans fill the room. Hot guy next to me takes another sip of his coffee, and I channel the energy from a Shakespeare poster on the wall. Oh, that I were the lid of that coffee, that I might touch those lips.
“Looks like we only have one new student in this class,” Mr. Wang says, eyeing the clipboard in his hand. “Isla Rush?”
Only he doesn’t say ISLA Rush. He says it like iz-la. My cheeks burn and the erratic pounding in my heart goes from lusting over the guy next to me to total and complete panic. I lift a shaky hand, my elbow on the desk. “It’s Isla,” I say. “Like an island.”
“Oh, forgive me,” Mr. Wang says with a laugh. “Lord knows people pronounce my first name wrong all the time, too. I mean seriously, Chuang Wang? My parents hate me.”
There’s some laughter which takes the attention off of me, and some guy raises his hand and says that his dad’s name is also Chuang. The guy next to me shifts his body to the left, and I glance over, not sure if he’s trying to talk to me or not. Rule number one in lusting after a guy who is way out of your league: don’t let him know you’re lusting after him since he’s way out of your league.
His brown eyes meet mine. “Iz-la Rush,” he says quietly, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Nice to meet you … again.”
My brain fumbles for a quick-witted reply, but before I think of anything, the teacher walks toward my desk, his expression horrifyingly focused on me. “Miss Rush, would you like to say a few things about yourself?”
“Um, what?” I shake my head. “I mean, no. I’m good, thanks.”
He holds up a finger. “Complacency is not allowed in my class, Miss Rush. Since it’s the first day, I’ll let you stay at your desk instead of going to the front of class,” he says with a generous flourish of his hand.