The Friend Game (Games for Two #1)

Chapter 4

“WHAT HAPPENED?” JILL meets me at my door that afternoon, hands on her hips, a disapproving slant to her lips. I’m not surprised to find her here, given the quantity of missed calls and voicemails I have from her today (none of which I’ve listened to yet), but it doesn’t make facing her any easier. “You never showed up to the interview,” she enumerates in response to my silence. “My contact there called to tell me you were a no show, so they gave the job to somebody else.”

“They already found somebody else?”

“Yup.”She taps an impatient finger on her hip. “Crazily enough they offered the job to someone who actually showed up to their interview. ”

I repress a sigh. The infantile part of me wants to lash out at Jill and tell her that me missing the interview was all her fault in the first place. She’s the one who needed me to take Ellie her lunch. But if I said that, then I’d have to explain the whole substitute teacher thing, and Jill definitely wouldn’t understand how I allowed myself to get caught up in that situation. I’m not that clear on the details myself.

I mean, I was a substitute teacher today. Like I just walked off the street and into the school, and they let me teach their students.

Since the make-up artist thing didn’t pan out, maybe I should consider a career in journalism. I feel like my day as an unsanctioned substitute teacher is just an exposé waiting to be written.

Then again, Jill would kill me if I wrote an exposé on her kids’ school. Or worse, kick me out of her guest house, and then I might actually have to reach out to Marty from Scoop the Poop Express about employment opportunities.

“So what do you have to say for yourself?” Jill demands.

“I’m sorry?” It comes out as a question. Probably because I’m wondering if those two words will be enough to get her off my back.

Jill’s nostrils flare. Nope, not enough. “Are you at least going to tell me what was so important today that you threw away this opportunity? Not only that, but you made me look bad.” Her voice gets louder with each sentence. “I went out on a limb for you, Hannah, and now my contact at Channel 3 thinks I’m a flake. A flake!” She’s shouting now, and I cringe. Jill is generally a very even-keeled person, more prone to fits of silence than yelling. The last time I saw her this worked up was when Liam gave Ellie crooked, half-inch bangs. She carried on with him for probably twenty minutes, then took away his dessert for a month. Initially she took it away for a year, but Max talked her down to a month.

Based on the way Jill’s pupils have constricted, I could really use an intervention from Max right about now.

“Do you know how long it takes to build a solid relationship with members of the media, Hannah?” she level ten screeches.

I actually do. She’s mentioned it a time or two at the dinner table (and by a time or two, I mean at least weekly), but I get the feeling she’s asking that rhetorically.

“I’m so sorry, Jill,” I try again. “Would it help if I sent a fruit basket to them?” Jill loves fruit baskets. Everyone close to her knows that you don’t butter Jill up, you papaya her up.

“I already sent one,” Jill says with a sigh. “Good thing too, because it’s not like you could afford to actually send one. ”

Ouch. My face flushes and my eyes sting.

“I'm sorry,” Jill says quickly. “That was too harsh. I—” she looks away from me, chin dipping down to her shoulder, “It’s just…I’m under a lot of stress right now.” She sighs. “And I worry about you, Hannah.”

“You don’t need to, because I have a job.” The words come out before I can stop them or think better of them. Yup, just lied. Just flat out bore false witness to my sister. Who, coincidentally, is also my neighbor. So, there goes that commandment.

“You do?” Jill looks taken aback. “What do you mean? What job?”

What job? Great question. I’m fumbling around for an answer that I could possibly make true in the next 24 hours, when, like manna from heaven, my phone starts ringing.

“Op,” I scramble to grab it from my purse, glancing down at a number I don’t recognize. “I have to get this. It’s my new boss.” Another lie. Which means I’ve moved on from disappointing my sister and am now disappointing Jesus.

“Let’s talk later,” I add; then, with my conscious burning, I hurry past Jill and into the sanctuary of my home, putting my phone to my ear as I go and praying this isn’t some spam caller about to charge me $100 a minute just for answering .

“Hello, this is Hannah,” my voice comes out breathless, and I worry the caller can hear my stressed out heartbeat through the phone.

“Hannah, hello,” an unfamiliar jovial voice booms through the phone, “this is George Novak here.”

George Novak, George Novak , I wrack my brain for some memory of who that is, but come up empty. “Hi, uh, George,” I say lamely.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, “guess we’ve never been formally introduced. I’m the principal of Grace Canyon.”

Dread pools in my stomach. I’ve been caught. They know I’m a fraud. What’s the penalty for impersonating a substitute? Jail? Surely, not. Although, I’ve heard most prisoners hold jobs while they serve time. So, at least I’d no longer be unemployed.

Silver lining.

“Oh, yes,” I chuckle nervously, “of course. How are you, Principal Novak?”

“I’m doing just fine,” he replies, “and please just call me George. Everybody does.” He chuckles before continuing. “Now, I’m calling because I heard about your little stint in our art classroom today—”

“Look I can explain,” I begin, but he just laughs away my words .

“Don’t worry, I’m not mad. On the contrary, I think getting the kids to combine art with dancing was a stroke of genius.” He pauses. “Get it? A stroke, like a brush stroke?” More of his jolly chuckling. I laugh too. Not because I think his pun is particularly funny, but because I’m starting to think he’s not calling to confront me about what I was doing in that classroom today, and that makes me feel light as a balloon.

“Well great,” I say when we’ve both stopped laughing. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Glad to report it. Alright then, let’s get down to the business at hand. As it turns out we have an unexpected teaching vacancy at Grace Canyon, and I wondered if you might be willing to come in and interview for the position.”

“Sorry, what?” I pull the phone away from my ear and peer at it, sure I must’ve misheard. “Did you just say you want to interview me for a teaching position?”

“I did indeed,” George replies.

“But…why?”

“I should think that would be quite obvious. You received rave reviews from all of the students you saw today, so much so that I’ve gotten multiple emails asking about the substitute art teacher that parents are hearing about from their kids. Not to mention you have the endorsement of— ”

“Arr, arr, arr!” Holly chooses that moment to notice my arrival home and waddles as fast as her legs will carry her over to me, barking joyfully and drowning out Principal Novak's next words.

“Oh that’s so nice to hear,” I say, attempting to calm Holly down while also listening to what he’s saying. Who endorsed me? I didn’t catch what he said, but I don’t want to be unprofessional and ask, so I just pretend I heard him.

“Indeed. Now, due to the unexpected nature of this vacancy, our hiring process is going to move a little faster than usual. You see, as you already know, our art teacher’s father had a stroke today. Unfortunately, the doctors told Wendy that they don’t think her father should be living on his own anymore due to the extent of the damage the stroke caused to his motor functions. He’ll be moving in with Wendy and her family. Wendy had a baby this summer and had already been feeling torn about returning to work, so this latest development pushed her to pull the plug on her teaching career for right now so she can focus on her father and her newborn son. While we support Wendy in her decision, this does of course leave us in need of a new art teacher.”

Two warring thoughts plague my brain as he finishes his spiel. First—oh my goodness! They want me to be their new art teacher! And second, Mr. French Roast has a baby son ?

Well, maybe. I suppose I don’t know for sure he’s her husband. I’m making a very large assumption…How weird would it be if I interrupted this conversation to ask Principal Novak to give me a physical description of Wendy’s husband?

“So what do you say?” he prompts in response to my silence. “Might you be interested?”

I force thoughts of Mr. French Roast out of my head and try to focus on the question in front of me. Do I want to apply to be the art teacher at Grace Canyon? Before today I would’ve said absolutely not. I viewed teaching art as giving up on my own art. Like how could I pursue making it as an artist if I were too busy teaching other people how to be artists?

Only, if I’m being totally honest, it’s not as if I’ve been pursuing my art in recent months. At least not since The Disaster almost a year ago. The one I don’t talk about. The one nobody is allowed to talk about.

Instead I’ve been looking for careers that fall under the umbrella of art. Like graphic design and photography. Safe jobs, where failure won’t destroy my self-esteem and leave my heart broken. Not that that happened. But if it did, I’m not going to talk about it.

“Hannah?” Principal Novak, I mean George, prompts again.

“Sorry,” I fumble for a decision, feeling torn. I send up a quick prayer for direction, and an image of Oliver standing proudly with his Lego self-portrait pops into my head. I can’t deny that I absolutely loved today. Working with the kids was so much fun, and doing art together somehow didn’t feel like I was giving anything up, but rather like I was coming back to who I’ve always been. Art is my first love. I still remember my kindergarten art class, how I walked into that room, smelled the crayons and glue, and immediately knew I belonged there. The art room at Grace Canyon smelled like crayons and glue too.

“Yes, I think I might be interested,” I tell George, feeling a growing sense of certainty that this is the right decision.

“Splendid!” he crows, and now I can’t help but smile. This is it. The answer to all of my problems. Or at least the answer to all of the problems I created for myself today. “Wendy plans to finish the week out, but we do need someone who can start next Monday. Luke and I would like to interview you tomorrow, if you’re available.”

“Yes, I should be able to come in tomorrow,” I tell him, wondering idly who Luke is. “What time?”

“How does eleven sound?”

“Let me see…” I pause, pretending like I actually have to check my empty schedule. “Yes, I’m free then. ”

“Wonderful. And, Hannah,” George’s voice takes on a conspiratorial quality, “I’ll be frank and tell you that this interview is really more of a formality than anything. You more than proved yourself today, so as long your certification checks out, the job is essentially yours.”

I thank him, then hang up and sink down onto my couch, a blissful smile on my face. A second later his words sink in and the smile slides right off. My certification?

How could I have been so stupid? What I just thought they’d let me teach without a teaching certificate? Like the helium in a popped balloon, all of my excitement vanishes, sending me crashing to the floor where I sit and stare at the wall.

It’s not like this is such a big deal. So I can’t apply for this particular job. Before this morning teaching wasn’t even on my radar as a career choice. Heck, five minutes ago I was debating saying yes to interviewing at all. All I need to do is call Principal Novak–I mean George–back and tell him that unfortunately I don’t have the necessary qualifications for the job.

I pick up my phone. Stare at the 520 number for a full minute before setting it back down. I do this four more times, like my phone is a bottle of shampoo with instructions to lather, rinse, and repeat.

It’s after five now, I reason; he’s probably gone home for the night. I’ll just have to wait and call him in the morning.

“Hannah, open up!” Jill’s voice booms through my front door accompanied by heavy pounding on the door. Right. There’s my next problem knocking on my door. How convenient. “I know you’re in there,” she continues as Holly starts bellowing and waddling to the door.

With a heavy sigh I get up and follow Holly to the door.

“You subbed at Grace Canyon today?” Jill says before I’ve even opened the door all the way.

“How did you know?” I ask incredulously. I didn’t have Liam or Ellie’s classes today.

“You were on the school’s Facebook page.” She waves her phone in my face, and I grimace as I see a picture of me with Ms. O’Keefe’s fourth grade class, smiling with our half-finished Lego self-portraits. When she’d come to pick her students up at the end of art class she’d gushed over the project and insisted on taking a picture of us all holding our drawings. She never said anything about posting it on social media though.

“Yes, that’s me,” I admit, like there was any doubt about that. The caption literally says, “Students pose with art substitute, Miss Garza, and their Lego self-portraits. ”

“I know it’s you.” Jill rolls her eyes. “What I don’t know is why you didn’t just tell me that’s what you were doing today.” She’s smiling now, and I’m confused. She’s not upset. Maybe somebody sent her a fruit basket. I lean forward and sniff. Not even a hint of papaya.

“Honestly,” I say slowly, “I didn’t think you’d approve.”

“What?” I can now see all of Jill’s teeth, she’s smiling so broadly. “Why would I not approve? I’ve always secretly thought you’d make a great teacher. Especially an art teacher.”

“You have?” That is news to me. Our parents met in college where they both majored in English, my mom with an emphasis in secondary education and my dad with the intent of going on to law school. My mom became a high school English teacher, but my dad never did go to law school. Instead he penned a successful crime series about a vigilante lawyer and his paralegal sidekick.

Both of them loved their careers, but I still remember the time we were at a family reunion and my aunt brought her new boyfriend. He was a huge fan of my dad’s work. When he found out my mom taught English, he laughed and clapped my dad on the back. “You know what they say, Gabe, 'Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.'” Nobody else laughed, and my aunt ended things with him not long after, but those words stuck with me, haunting me as I delved deeper into the art world. A world full of critics and people telling you you’ll never make it. A world full of people telling you you’re not good enough. A world where I started to think maybe I couldn’t do it.

To hear that my sister has always thought I’d be a great teacher elicits a strange mixture of emotions in me. Failure, because maybe she also thinks I can’t cut it as an artist, but also something louder than the failure: pride. I could be a great art teacher. Heck, today I was a great art teacher.

“I’m not sure why you find that surprising,” Jill remarks. “Just the other day you taught Ellie how to shade when she colors, and her coloring pages have never looked better. And last month Liam told me you taught him how to draw a dinosaur.”

“Yeah, but that’s just fun stuff to do with my niece and nephew. I don’t even have a teaching degree.”

“So,” she shrugs dismissively, “not like you need one to be a substitute.” She frowns. “And that is the new job you were talking about, right? Substitute teaching?”

“Uh.” I stare at her, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“Hannah.” Jill narrows her eyes at me, and I wish for another phone call to get me out of this conversation. But since I’m not Aladdin and therefore have no genie, my phone stays silent. “Han-nah,” Jill repeats, stretching out the syllables in my name, her gaze locked on mine. Does the CIA know about my sister? Because I’m pretty sure this woman could crack a terrorist or two.

“They want me to apply for a full-time teaching position that I absolutely don’t have the certification for,” I blurt, before burying my face in my hands to avoid her cobra-like eyes.

“Hannah,” Jill grabs my wrists and tugs my hands down, forcing me to look at her, “do you know who I am?”

“Um. Jill Bernard, née Garza.”

“No, Jill Bernard, public relations expert and spin master extraordinaire. Née Garza,” she adds, because bless her media-consultant heart, Jill can’t resist the chance to name drop, even when it’s just the two of us. It’s like a reflex. Yes , she tells people, I’m married to Senator Bernard . And also yes, my dad is Gabriel Garza, author of the Parker and Penny crime series .

“How does that have anything to do with this?”

“It has everything to do with this!” she exclaims, then puts her arm around my shoulders. “You see, sure, public schools require teachers to have licenses, but private schools do not. ”

“Wait, what?” I gape at her. “Then why did Principal Novak say he’d need to look into my certification?”

“Because it may not be required by the state, but the parents at Grace Canyon expect it,” Jill explains matter-of-factly. “It’s in the school bylaws.”

“So why is that better?”

“Because,” Jill sing-songs, “I can be your campaign manager. I can prove to Lexie Stone and her entourage that not all of our teachers have to have a teaching certificate.”

“Who is Lexie Stone?”

“She’s the president of the PTA and our board of trustees. She’s also room mom for both her kids and their family donated the money for the new science wing. Not to mention her dad is dean of admissions at the University of Arizona. Everybody is terrified of her.”

“So basically she’s the Lana Marie Bell of Grace Canyon.” Even though Jill is more than eight years older than me, she heard me talk about Lana Marie Bell enough when I was in high school that I know she’ll get my reference. Sure enough—

“Yeah, essentially.” Jill shrugs like this shouldn’t bother me.

“So we have to convince this Lexie Stone person that they should hire me even though I’m not certified?“ I confirm .

“Yes.” Jill nods.

“And Lexie is Grace Canyon’s Lana Marie Bell?” I confirm again.

“Yes.” Jill gives me a look like I’m being weird. “We can do it. I’m sure.”

I stare at her incredulously. “You do know Lana Marie Bell hated me, right?”

Jill laughs. “Hannah, Hannah, Hannah,” she says with a shake of her head and hands to her hips, “that’s just because back then you didn’t have me as your campaign manager.”