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“Do you want to sit with me?” she asks. Her eyes never leave Emory’s, so I guess I shouldn?
?t be insulted that she hasn’t bothered to spare a glance toward me.
“Not tonight.” Emory leans over, bumping into me with his shoulder. Now she looks at me. Her smile fades, and she glances down at the little boy holding her hand.
“Okay. Well, see you later.” She turns around and heads toward the bleachers and Emory dives back into his nachos, totally unfazed by the awkwardness.
“That was …” I say, stopping to gaze at him.
“That was what, Iz-la?” he asks, his eyes darting to me for a second before he looks back at his food.
“How do you do it?” I shake my head. “How do you get so many girls interested in you, especially when you’re such a dick to them?”
His brows knit together and he looks at me like I’ve grown an extra head that also has a ponytail. “Was she interested?”
My eyes go wide. “Obviously.”
“I don’t even remember her name,” he says with a shrug.
“Really? Because you have three names for me.” I grab a chip, and it bends over, soggy from too much cheese sauce. My lip curls and I drop it back in the basket.
Emory grabs the soggy chip, tosses his head back, and lowers it into his mouth. “Maybe you’re just special,” he says.
I bite down a smile. “You’ve made it clear that I’m not.”
“I might have been wrong about that.” He rocks back on his heels and leans against the fence. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”
Chapter Seventeen
Loud sobs pour out of Ms. Meadow’s classroom on Monday at lunch. I can hear the despairing sound of heartbreak even through the closed door. Artwork hangs over Ms. Meadow’s door, blocking the narrow window that looks into her classroom, but even from out here, I know the broken-hearted girl is not a member of the support group. At least not yet.
I stop just outside of the classroom, turning to check my reflection in the tall window next to me. My hair is out of its usual ponytail today. Instead of rushing off to school like usual, I’d chosen to wake up a little earlier and put time into brushing out my hair and then curling the pieces near my face into soft waves. I know it’s stupid, but Emory Underwood all but admitted that I’m at least a little bit special on Friday night. It’s pretty much all I’ve been thinking of since then.
The sobs get a little quieter, and I steel myself for what I’ll find inside, then open the door and join the group. The desks are in a circle like usual, but everyone is standing around the only person sitting in a desk. Emory’s hand pats the shoulder of the crying girl, and he’s the last person I’d expect to be comforting someone after a breakup.
“Hi guys,” I say slowly, carefully approaching the circle.
“Sequoia, this is Isla,” Bastian says, his voice careful and soothing. “She was our newest member until today, and I think she can help you because your situations are similar.”
I lift an eyebrow at Bastian. Trish slides to the left, motioning to the desk next to Sequoia, a small girl with long brown hair that’s braided and pulled in front of her shoulder. I take a seat and offer her a timid smile. “Hi,” I say. “I’m not sure I can help, but I can try.”
Her bloodshot eyes meet mine and then her face crumples, and she starts crying again. Emory curses under his breath. “Bastian, I don’t think she needs a support group right now. She needs to watch me kick Ryan’s ass.”
“No, don’t do that,” Sequoia says, wiping her eyes. “Ryan hates you.”
“Even better that I kick his ass,” Emory says, sliding into the desk on her other side.
“Dude, it’s a little early to be moving in on this girl,” Xavier says. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the circle, his backpack open and its contents spread all over the floor in front of him. He’s wearing a red baseball cap that swallows his head. “She just got dumped like, ten minutes ago.”
Emory sighs in this annoyed way. “Sequoia is my cousin, dumbass.”
Now the comforting shoulder pat makes sense. I look over at Emory with admiration, an emotion I once thought I’d never be able to have for a guy like him.
The classroom door swings open with a bang against the wall and we all jump, turning to find Ms. Meadows shuffling into the classroom, her arms piled high with pizza boxes.
“Whoops,” she says with a smile as she turns and kicks the door closed with her foot. “Who’s ready for lunch?”
She gazes warmly at the group of us, her eyes widening when she notices the new addition to our little band of broken-hearted teenagers. “Oh, hello there,” she says, her smile fading. She places the pizzas on an empty art table and gives a little wave. “I’m not supposed to interact with the Break Up Support Group, but let me assure you, sweetheart, you are in good hands here.”
