The Breakup Support Group

“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.”

r /> “Can’t,” I mumble through another mouthful of bagel. “I have to go. The new school is farther away and has a million more students so traffic will be a nightmare.”

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?”