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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.
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?”
