The Breakup Support Group

How’s the new school?

I let the tears flow silently for a few minutes, knowing each second that he waits for a reply is a second of satisfaction on my part. Is he waiting by the phone? Is he ready to tell me he’s made a terrible mistake and wants me back?

I smile at the thought and type a reply. I write the words it sucks and then delete them. Then I write it’s okay and delete that, too. I want him to want me so I’ll need a better reply than that.

Isla: There’s practically no rules here and everyone is really chill. Having a good time.

That might be the only text I’ve ever sent him without an emoji attached. Suck on that, Nate. I get all the way inside my house, drop my backpack on the kitchen table, pee, and get a drink all before he bothers to reply to me. I hate that each second is like a fresh stab into my heart.

Nate: that’s cool

I blink, and tears roll down my face. He’s had plenty of time to tell me he’s made a mistake, and I am so sick of crying. Of hurting. I want to go back to that first day of school where my nerves kept me from thinking about him too much. I want to go back to the person I was before I knew what love felt like. Because love has only led to heartache and it is so not worth it.

Mom’s nails tap on my bedroom doorframe. I know there are tears streaking my face, but I don’t bother wiping them off as I look up at her. My knees are pulled to my chest as I sit on my bed with my back against the black headboard. I click the power button on my phone and drop it onto the comforter beside me. “What’s up?”

Mom’s lips form a flat line, not angry but worried. “Honey, we need to talk.”

I shrug and slide over on the bed. “So talk. It’s not like I have anything else to do.”

Her floral perfume fills the air as she sits on the edge of my bed. Her blond hair is pulled into a high ponytail with the ends curled neatly. She’s borrowed one of my Warriors headbands, and she’s wearing another rhinestone tank top, this time with a green DVHS sparkling across the c

hest. One of the cheer moms makes the rhinestone shirts in her garage, and my mother owns one of each design. She still works at my old school, and she’s dressed exactly as always, but it somehow feels like I’m being betrayed as I look at her.

Mom draws in a deep breath and grabs my hand. “Mrs. Olsen called me today. She’s your pre-cal teacher, right?”

I nod. Mrs. Olsen went to high school with my mom, and she thinks that makes us automatically best friends or something. I’ve spent three days of her class being asked to pass out papers or turn off the lights or take things to the office. On the plus side, I think my grade will be good even if I royally don’t understand pre-cal this year.

Mom squeezes my hand. “She’s concerned about you. I thought you were getting better, but she said you’ve spent all week sitting quietly and looking like you’re about to break into tears at any moment. She says you don’t participate in class discussions, and you don’t even take notes in class.”

“I take notes,” I mumble, playing with the folds in my comforter.

“She said she’s been giving you tasks to do to keep you occupied. I almost thought she was going to call CPS on us, but after telling her about your recent breakup she said that made a lot of sense.”

“Mom! That is none of her business.” I toss my head back and groan. Now my freaking teacher knows I’m a broken-hearted wreck. This won’t be embarrassing at all.

Mom stands and leans over, kissing me on the head. “Why don’t you come to the game tonight? See your old friends?”

I eye her, hoping she feels the daggers I shoot her way. “Nate will be there.”

She rolls her eyes. “He’ll be on the field. You won’t have to see him because he’ll look exactly like every other player in those big padded uniforms. Come with me. I bet Avery would let you work the concession stand if you want.”

My first instinct is to say no, but Nate did just text me for the first time in two weeks. And it might be nice to see my old friends since I’ve only talked to them through social media and a few texts lately. No one knows how broken up I am about Nate, and if I show up at the game with the same pep as always, no one will need to know. Maybe seeing me happy and gorgeous will make Nate change his mind. The happiness I can fake, but the gorgeousness will take a while. I’ll need my flat iron, a full face of makeup, and the shortest skirt I own.

I give Mom a half smile. “Okay. I’ll go.”

“Great! You can ride with me.”

I shake my head and walk over to my closet. “I’ll drive myself. I have some … what did you call it? Reinventing to do.”

Mom’s eyes widen. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you there.” She goes into the hallway and then pokes her head back into my room. “Hopefully next time Mrs. Olsen calls she’ll tell me you’re doing much better.”

It’s more of an order than a statement. I nod, which is the best I can do by way of promising anything to her right now. We’ll see how tonight goes.

I’m like a scene right out of a teen movie. Silky straight hair, my tightest fitting Warriors tank top, a denim miniskirt, and heels. I spent so much time applying makeup with the help of YouTube tutorials that I miss the first quarter of the game. Something has awakened inside of me since Nate sent me that text earlier. He still hasn’t said anything else, but that’s probably because I never replied to his last text. The good news is that he’s talking to me again. And now I’m as hot as I can possibly make myself, wearing the low cut tank top he bought for me at last year’s homecoming game. If he happens to run into me tonight, lucky him.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

I text Kaylee from the school parking lot, and she tells me to meet her at halftime to hang out. I kill another ten minutes by sitting in my car, admiring the small parking lot and my old school’s totally uninteresting one-story building until the scoreboard only has a minute left in the second quarter. Then I slip inside the gates without having to pay for a ticket since the woman behind the ticket table thinks I’m still in the Spirit Squad.