The Friend Game (Games for Two #1)

Chapter 5

THE NEXT MORNING feels a bit like I’m in the movie Groundhog’s Day . Once again I busy myself getting ready for a job interview. I read the same Bible verses I did yesterday, the ones about doing whatever you do for the glory of God. And also the fourth chapter of Esther, because at some point one of my many jobs will surely make me say, I’ve “come to the kingdom for such a time as this.” (The kingdom in this scenario being a suburb of Tucson, not Persia.) Then I do the same kickboxing routine I did yesterday, the one that always leaves me feeling strong and capable. After a shower, I play my self-titled “You Got This” playlist while I do my hair and makeup, this time being sure to apply makeup to both eyes, because listen, that part of my day will not be happening again. When I’m finally ready to go, I set my pep alarm and head out the door, rehearsing the speech Jill helped me come up with last night as I go .

“Principal Novak,” I mutter to myself, “I appreciate the opportunity to interview for the position of art teacher here at Grace Canyon. However, before we begin I need to be upfront with you about something. While I do hold a Bachelor’s degree in art, I do not have a teaching certificate. Although state law does not require private school teachers to hold a teaching certificate, I understand that your specific school does require it. I am hoping that you and I can discuss whether or not we can work around that. I feel that even without a teaching certificate I’m more than qualified to teach art to the students here at Grace Canyon. To illustrate the veracity of my statement, I’ve put together some bullet points outlining what my teaching goals would be for the students here at Grace Canyon.”

I frown as I try to remember what comes next. This part always trips me up. I think it’s because of the word veracity. Who even says that? Pretty sure the word veracity exists solely for use in the vocab section of the SAT. But Jill insisted it was the right word choice.

At a red light I pull out my phone and glance down at my notes app for a refresher. I’m attempting to commit the list of different goals we came up with to memory when the car behind me honks. I start to attention then hurry to pull my car through the light, noting with some alarm that the car that honked at me is continuing along behind me even as I make the required next three turns to get to the school. I park my car in an open visitor spot and feel an even bigger burst of alarm as the honking car pulls into the spot next to me.

Oh my word. I’ve been followed! This is like those stories you hear on the news about people who upset other drivers and then get shot because of it. Surely no one would shoot someone over a small delay at a light though, right? Plus, my pursuer drives a yellow Jeep. Yellow is a friendly color. People who drive around in cars the color of sunshine don’t go around pulling guns on people.

I hear the car door next to me slam shut and my heart rate spikes. Yellow is also the color of a cheetah. And cheetahs are predators. Fast predators who eat anyone who can’t keep up with them.

Oh my goodness! Maybe I should drive my car into the school. I read somewhere that if someone puts a gun to your head and tells you to drive, you should run your car straight into the nearest building. I wouldn’t have to worry about the whole “not certified to teach” thing if I did that, since I definitely wouldn't get the job after I demolished the front office.

Rap. Rap. Rap. Someone is knocking on my window! I look wildly around my car for something, anything to use as a weapon, but all I see is a snack pack of peanuts in my cup holder. What am I going to do with those? Throw them at the person and pray they’re allergic?

Rap. Rap. Rap.

I grab the peanuts (it’s a bad plan, but it’s the only one I’ve got), then turn to see my attacker, screaming when I see the person standing outside my car. Not because I’m scared, but because how am I always embarrassing myself in front of this man?

My face red, I get out of the car and do a tiny wave hello.

“Sorry.” Mr. French Roast looks a little embarrassed himself. “I always seem to be startling you.”

“Oh you’re fine,” I say in my best breezy voice, running my free hand through my hair and grimacing when one of my nails catches on a strand and I have to yank it out. “I’m a jumpy person,” I go on. “Hazard of being an artist. I’ve got an overactive imagination.” I laugh shrilly. “To be honest, I thought you were following me to yell at me for making you wait at the light, or, I don’t know, maybe even shoot me. I was going to throw peanuts at you. Or possibly drive my car into the school.”

It’s like someone told my temporal lobe to take a break for the day and now there’s nothing controlling my mouth from saying every thought that pops into my head. He’s looking at me with a bemused expression that finally shuts me up .

“I’ve heard that before too,” he says, “about how if you’re ever being held at gunpoint in your car you should drive into the nearest building.”

I feel a surge of relief. Maybe he doesn’t think I’m crazy.

“Of course, I don’t have a gun,” he adds. “And I actually wasn’t the person who honked at you. That was the car behind me. I only came over to let you know that you parked in a reserved parking spot.” He points to the sign in front of my car. Sure enough, while I thought I’d been parking in a row of visitor spots, this sign says Reserved for the Stone Family .

Stone family. As in Lexie Stone? The woman I’ve got to convince to let me teach here. Great job, Hannah, off to a great start on that.

“Lexie Stone pays a lot of money to have that spot held for her,” he goes on. “She won’t be happy if she finds someone else parked in it. And between you and me,” he leans in slightly, and I catch the faint whiff of cedar and pine, “she’s not someone you want to get off on the wrong foot with.”

I blink up at him, trying to tell my temporal lobe to get it together and formulate normal sentences. Instead, I giggle. Oh Lord in heaven, help!

“Oh thank you,” I finally manage. “I’ll just move my car then. ”

“Alright then, Miss Garza.” He nods. “I guess I’ll see you inside.” He indicates the building with a jerk of his head. He turns to go then pauses, turning back to me with a puzzled expression. “Wait, why were you going to throw peanuts at me?”

“Oh.” I glance down at the offending bag. “They were the only thing I had available to use as a weapon,” I attempt to explain. “I was hoping you were allergic.” I grimace at how silly it sounds, but Mr. French Roast only laughs.

“Got it.” He chuckles. “Well for the record, I’m not.” He peers into my car. “The only thing I’m allergic to is amoxicillin. Too bad you didn’t have any of that in there. Though I think that’s more of an ingestion type of allergy.”

I laugh, grateful that he’s not treating me like the social failure I am. “Oh, I would’ve felt bad throwing bright pink amoxicillin at you when you’re wearing that crisp white shirt.”

Then I do something so cringeworthy that I seriously consider hopping back in my car and fleeing the scene. And not just to go back to my house. No, I mean like fleeing the country and restarting my life as someone else so that Mr. French Roast can never find me again. I’ve heard Timbuktu is popular for that.

I reach over and stroke that aforementioned crisp white shirt of his. Yup, like he’s a dog and just such a good boy I run my hand over his shoulder and down to his elbow. Then I freeze as my brain decides to show up for the first time since Mr. French Roast knocked on my window five minutes ago, and starts demanding that I run away and never come back. Like Simba. Only unlike Simba, the only thing I’ll have to keep me company in my new home is the memory of how firm Mr. French Roast’s bicep felt under my palm. Honestly, I’d take that over a warthog and a meerkat any day.

Darn my touchy-feely tendencies!

“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.” I hurry to retract my hand, but before I can say anything else a voice breaks into our conversation.

“Well, well, well what do we have here?”

I turn to see a woman in a sleek black SUV staring at us, a combination of disapproval and intrigue on her face. I know without anyone saying it that this is Lexie Stone. She’s like the grown-up version of Lana Marie Bell with her highlighted blonde hair, blue eyes, and general air of superiority.

“Lexie, good morning.” Mr. French Roast seems less put off by her sudden arrival, though he does adjust his stance, angling himself more towards her car than me.

“Good morning,” Lexie replies coolly, her gaze locked on me. “Who’s your friend?” Now her eyes flick over to my car. “And do you happen to know who parked in my spot?” I don’t miss the annoyance in her tone.

“Sorry,” I begin, but Mr. French Roast cuts me off.

“Have you met Miss Garza? She’s interviewing for the art teacher position. Our most promising candidate, actually.”

“Really? You’re going to be the new art teacher?” Suddenly gone is her aloof, irritated tone, and in its place is a sweetness sticky as syrup in your hair. “My Mia adores art. She’s such a talented little artist, we’ve taken to calling her our little Picasso.”

Wait, what? Outwardly I smile and tell her that’s great, and I can’t wait to meet her daughter. But on the inside my stomach is twisting itself into a million little knots. When Jill was going on with me about her plan to win Lexie Stone over and secure my spot at Grace Canyon, she never once mentioned that art was Lexie’s daughter’s thing. In fact, on the contrary, she kept saying things like, it’s not like you want to teach math or science, and, it’s just art class after all , why would she care about art class? Which, okay, I understood where she was coming from, but also—rude. Only now I find out Lexie’s daughter is apparently a blossoming artist.

Great, just great.

“She’ll be excited to meet you as well,” Lexie tells me. “She heard about you from some of her friends yesterday.” Lexie runs a hand through her hair. I can’t help but notice how her nails don’t snag on any strands. “Where did you say you went to school?” she asks.

“I went to UCLA,” I can’t keep a note of pride out of my voice. I’m not trying to be all Andy Bernard from The Office about where I went to college, but going to one of the top universities in the nation, a school that accepts less than ten percent of its applicants, well, that’s really the only accomplishment I have to my name in recent years.

So maybe I am a bit Andyish about the whole thing.

“UCLA.” She looks pleased.

In my purse my phone starts going off. I hurry to pull it out so I can silence it, but in my haste my fingers fumble and my phone falls to the ground. I bend down to retrieve it, but Mr. French Roast is faster than me and gets there first. His eyes go to the screen, then rise to meet mine as he passes it over, an amused smile on his face. I blush as I accept the phone, the words “You are going to be the best art teacher Grace Canyon has ever seen!” flashing across the screen until I finally hit the dismiss button on the alarm.

“Who doesn’t love a good pep talk before an interview,” I say with false bravado. “Your wife was an excellent art teacher as well,” I add, worried I’ve insulted him, but his brow only furrows in confusion. “I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise,” I say for good measure, then my eyes land on the hand that just passed me my phone and relief surges through me.

Relief because it’s his left hand. His bare left hand. Oh thank God I didn’t just stroke a married man’s bicep! I was already mentally planning my penance for such a sin, and let’s just say it involved joining a convent and becoming Sister Mary Hannah.

And I’m not even Catholic.

“My wha—” he begins, but Lexie interrupts.

“It really was nice to meet you Miss Garza, but if that’s your little car,” she gestures to my sedan, which really does look small next to her enormous car, “I’d appreciate you moving before you go in for your interview. I have a meeting with our librarian this morning, so I need my parking spot.”

“Right.” I hop to attention, scurrying over to my car. I dutifully back out of the spot, then wait for Lexie to pull her car into it. She gives me a little wave as she does so, then exits her car and immediately pulls Mr. French Roast into conversation, gesturing for him to accompany her inside. He gives me one last look, sending me a wave of his own before following her, nodding along to whatever she’s saying. As soon as they’ve entered the crosswalk leading to the building’s entry I slide my car forward and slightly to the left .

That’s right. The parking spot right next to Lexie’s reserved spot was empty. Free and available for Lexie Stone’s use. Essentially equidistant from the building. But I had to move so she could have her special spot.

And this is the woman I have to convince to bend the school rules for me so that I can teach at Grace Canyon without a teaching degree.

Jill may think she’s got this situation all in hand, but while she’s been busy writing speeches for me designed to spin this situation in my favor, Lexie walked in, mounted the cycling instructor’s bike and told everyone to increase their resistance to the steep hill setting. And just like that one time I actually tried a spin class, I’m starting to think I may not be able to walk out of all this alive.