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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.
