Page 5 of The Friend Game

The room goes quiet, and for one horrible moment I think I just said that last bit out loud...but no it’s just that the guy is doing some sort of hand signal, and all of the kids have responded by hopping off him and heading quietly back to their seats.

“Thank you, Grace Canyon kindergartners.” His voice is rich and smooth, like that first sip of coffee in the morning. Mmm.

Whoops.

I absolutely just sighed.

Like audibly.

The man— let’s call him Mr. French Roast— glances over at me. His lips quirk up in amusement, and I blush so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if the red reached my blonde hair and turned it orange. I am now the walking example of that color mixing chart Mrs. Williams has hanging on the wall for moments like these. You know, those momentswhen her students wonder what color they should make the hair of a socially inept blonde woman.

“I apologize for the interruption to your,” his mouth twitches, “dance lesson, but Principal Novak called and said Mrs. Williams needed a sub and they were having trouble finding someone. He asked if I was free to step in for the day…” he trails off, his gaze sweeping around the room, taking in the kids’ Lego self-portraits and my own Lego person drawn on the white board. “But it looks like maybe they found someone after all.” This is it, the point at which I should tell him my whole, sorry saga. I open my mouth just as he grins, and a dimple pops up on his chin. “And someone a lot more qualified than me, at that.” Mr. French Roast gestures to the white board. “I’m more of a stick figure kind of artist.”

Go on, my brain prompts,tell him the truth. My mouth snaps shut and smiles back at him. “Anyone can draw a Lego person if they just take it step by step.”

“Oh really?” His dimple is back.

“Yes, really.” I tap the board with the bottom of my dry erase marker. “Case in point, this is the drawing I just did step by step with the kids. Ask them how their pictures have turned out.”

“Mine’s amazing,” one boy shouts enthusiastically, waving his paper around. “Andonce I color him, he’s going to look just like my Luke Skywalker Lego guy.”

“See,” I say smugly, just as Bella says, “But I thought these were supposed to beself-portraits.”

Okay, I’m not convinced this girl is actually a kindergartner. She’s got her life way too together for a 5-year-old. I bet she’ll have an actual career before I do.

“Uh, that’s right.” I paste on a bright smile. “These are supposed to be Lego self-portraits.” I turn to the little boy and give him a wink. “Are you Luke Skywalker, buddy?”

He shakes his head sadly. “I wanted to be him for Halloween, but my mom took away my lightsaber after the third time I broke something with it.”

I’m not quite sure what to say to this, but it doesn’t matter because Mr. French Roast is already on it. “No weapons at the school’s Halloween parade anyway, Oliver, so your Wookiee costume will be way better.”

Oliver’s frown immediately turns upside down. “It is a pretty cool costume.”

Whew. Crisis averted. I don’t actually know what a Wookiee is, but I smile at Oliver anyway and do the same thing I did when I was 16 and the boy I liked asked if I thought Obi-Wan failed Anakin. I bluff.

“Wookiees are the best, Oliver!” I exclaim, holding my hand out for a fist bump, which Oliver quickly returns.

“You like Star Wars, Miss Garza?” Oliver looks at me with renewed admiration.

Like is a strong word for a series of movies that I’ve only ever fallen asleep during. I could tell a little white lie, but once I told my nephew that, of course I loved Spider-Man, and then got outed as a liar ten minutes later when he brought me an action figure of some Spider-Man villain and I didn’t know who it was. Liam still talks about that. "Aunt Hannah lied to me," he tells random relatives at family gatherings.

“I like Han Solo,” I say, proud of my diplomatic, yet truthful answer. I mean, who doesn’t like Harrison Ford?

“Oh yeah!” Oliver crows, bouncing up and down on his stool with excitement that modulates his speech, making random syllables louder than the rest. “That’s WHAT pastoRABBOT is goING toBE for HalloWEEN.”

“Oh, that’s so cute,” I exclaim. He’s dressing up his pet rabbit for Halloween. I look toward Mr. French Roast and make an aww face. For some reason his brow wrinkles in amusement. Guess I’m the only one who finds that cute.

“Miss Garza,” a little girl calls from across the room, “I have to go potty.”

“Um…” I look around the room, searching for a door that might have a toilet behind it.

“Go ahead, Lindy,” Mr. French Roast walks over to Mrs. Williams’ desk and grabs a pink lanyard with a paper paintbrush marked bathroom pass attached to it and passes it over to her. As she skips to the door, pigtails swinging behind her, he turns to face me.

“So you seem to have things in hand here, Miss Garza.”

Having been busy admiring the way his shoulders fill out his button-down shirt, I quickly snap back to attention, hoping he doesn’t notice the stars in my eyes.

“She’s the best art teacher I’ve ever had,” the little girl sitting closest to us announces, and my heart swells. Mr. French Roast chuckles.

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