The Breakup Support Group

“Well, you’ve got me,” I say, thinking back to how little time I spent with my own friends when I was dating Nate. “I promise not to leave you for some girl.”

He looks over and grins. “You’ll find someone soon, snowflake.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think I want to date for a while. It’s too hard.”

“I tried dating too, after my friends ditched me for their girls, but you know where that landed me.” He gives me a sideways smile, nodding when another group of seniors jog past us and wave at him. “What I’m saying is, I really like this thing we have. You’re cool to hang out with. You know,” he says, reaching out and pulling my ponytail. “At least until you ditch me.”

The next day during lunch, I can tell Bastian has something sinister planned the moment I walk into the art room. I barely see the top of his head sticking out over the top of a poster board on his desk. It’s one of those tri-fold boards we use to display presentations, only knowing Bastian, this is not his science homework.

“What’s up, Bast?” I ask, slinging my backpack to the floor next to my usual desk in the center of the room. “Do you have a presentation for us?” I walk back to the pizza table where Ms. Meadows is setting out paper plates and napkins.

“Something like that,” he replies, his words distorted from the marker cap between his teeth. He finishes writing and pops the cap back on the marker, standing to admire his work. “This is more of a project for the support group.”

“He won’t even tell me what it is,” Ms. Meadows says as she takes a slice of pizza. “I’m guessing you kids will either love it or hate it.”

“Probably the latter,” I say with a laugh.

Emory and Sequoia walk into the classroom, and I hand both of them a paper plate from the stack in front of me. “Thanks,” Emory says with that smile of his. I roll my eyes.

“Do you ever get tired of pizza every day?” Sequoia asks, reaching for a slice of cheese.

“Not yet,” I say, just as Trish knocks into me with her shoulder.

“Hell no,” Trish says, tossing me a wink over her shoulder. “Getting tired of pizza is un-American.”

Her hair is freshly dyed blond again, and she wears black workout pants with a neon green shirt that has the sleeves cut off in a wide circle that shows her sports bra and the cross tattoo on her ribcage.

I lift an eyebrow. “How have you not been pulled for dress code with that shirt?”

“Because the teachers love me,” she says, flashing me a smile.

“Ah, crap,” Xavier says, suddenly appearing next to me at the pizza table. His red backpack is stuffed so full it looks like he’s wearing a turtle shell on his back. I want to lift him over my head and throw him like in Super Mario Brothers.

“What is it?” Sequoia asks, her brows drawing together as we both follow Xavier’s gaze across the room. He looks at Bastian—or the top of his head, rather—and throws up his arms.

“What kind of fresh hell do you have for us this time?”

Bastian rises from his chair, a coy smile plastered to his face. “It’s a growth and development tool, Xavi. Not hell.”

“That means it’s hell,” Emory says. “Remind me why I keep coming to these things?”

“Oh I think we all know why you come here.” That came from Ciara, who stands in the doorway, watching me with a look like we’re a part of the same inside joke. I lift an eyebrow, and she rolls her eyes, then grabs some pizza. Bastian calls his flock to the circle of desks, and we all settle in around him, ready for our lunchtime routine.

Something about the way he brandishes the cardboard stand tells me we won’t have to go around the circle sharing stories today. The side panels are folded inward, so the contents of the display board are a mystery until he chooses to reveal them. Today he means business.

“Good afternoon,” he says, sliding his hands down the folded display board. “Today begins a new chapter in our healing.”

“I know what this shit is about,” Ciara says. I glance over at her, and she stares at the two bottles of nail polish she’s set on her desk. “Homecoming.”

Trish makes a gagging sound and Xavier frowns, resting his chin in one hand, pizza in the other.

“Nope, not that,” Bastian says, puffing his chest out. “Definitely not that. In fact, that’s why we have this new exercise today—to help us put things like homecoming out of our minds.”

“Um, what’s so bad about that?” I ask, raising my hand in the air. “I’ve always loved homecoming,” I say, thinking back to the last few years. From hand-making mums with my mom to spending hours picking out a dress and doing my hair and makeup for the dance. Homecoming is the ultimate show of school spirit. All eyes turn toward me, and it dawns on me a moment too late as a sinking feeling of sadness consumes my memories. “Ah, yeah. I get it now.”

“So what’s the deal?” Ciara asks Bastian. “I’m actually 99 percent sure I have a date to the dance, so I’m pretty psyched about it.”

“I’ll be sitting at home getting wasted on my parent’s liquor,” Trish mutters. “The homecoming dance was my first date with Tamara.”