The only redeeming facet of Support Group was this kid named Isaac, a long-faced, skinny guy with straight blond hair swept over one eye.
And his eyes were the problem. He had some fantastically improbable eye cancer.
One eye had been cut out when he was a kid, and now he wore the kind of thick glasses
that made his eyes (both the real one and the glass one) preternaturally huge,
like his whole head was basically just this fake eye and this real eye staring at you.
From what I could gather on the rare occasions when Isaac shared with the group, a recurrence had placed his remaining eye in mortal peril.
Isaac and I communicated almost exclusively through sighs. Each time someone discussed anticancer diets or snorting ground-up shark fin or whatever,
he’d glance over at me and sigh ever so slightly. I’d shake my head microscopically and exhale in response.
So Support Group blew, and after a few weeks, I grew to be rather kicking-and-screaming about the whole affair.
In fact, on the Wednesday I made the acquaintance of Augustus Waters, I tried my level best to get out of Support Group
while sitting on the couch with my mom in the third leg of a twelve-hour marathon of the previous season’s America’s Next Top Model,
which admittedly I had already seen, but still.
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