The Breakup Support Group

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.