Page 10 of The Friend Game

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 thecar 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 saysReserved 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 shoulderand 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.

---