Page 11 of The Friend Game

“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 annoyancein 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 howhernails don’t snagon 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 fromThe Officeabout 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 thehand that just passed me my phone and relief surges through me.

Relief because it’s his left hand. Hisbareleft 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.

Chapter 6

“HANNAH, WELCOME,” GEORGE greets me with a smile as he guides me into his office ten minutes later. “I’m glad you could come in today.”

“Well, thank you for having me,” I say as I lower myself into the chair across from his, noting that there’s still one empty chair. “Will, uh, Luke be joining us?” I ask, like I actually know who that even is. I’m only inquiring because I really don’t want to have to do my whole speech twice. I’m happy to shoot the breeze for a bit to avoid having to do so.

“Ah, yes.” George nods. “He plans to join us, but he got called away to the library, so he’ll come later.” He leans forward, placing his elbows on his desk and steepling his pointer fingers. “Which works out well as there’s something I need to talk with you about before he arrives.”

Ice grips my spine. I knew it. He’s figured me out. I fumble in my brain for my speech, ready to just go for it.

“Principal Novak, there’s something I need to tell you,” I begin, but he holds up his hand to stop me.

“I know, Hannah.”

Right. He knows. If only there were just one option for damning things he could know about me. Could be the unsanctioned substitute thing. Could be the no teaching degree thing. Could be the fact that last week I ran over Jill’s curb effectively killing a streak of grass, then erased the video evidence of my indiscretion off her Ring doorbell.

“You know about yesterday?” I venture, trying to suss out which of my secrets he knows.

“I do.” He nods. “Tried to submit paperwork for you to get paid only to find we have no actual record of you being hired or even checking in at the front office.”

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