Page 61 of The Friend Game

“In the meantime,” Luke speaks for the first time, interrupting her, “we’ll keep Miss Garza on staff as a long-term substitute.”

My gaze jerks over to him as my heart does a little pitter-patter in my chest. Is he standing up for me? I can’t tell. He’s just standing there looking all stoic. And his voice is so flat and expressionless.

But the words…the words seem supportive.

Ish.

“I don’t know about that,” Lexie begins, but Luke cuts her off again.

“We don’t have anyone else lined up to teach art at the moment. Retaining Miss Garza as a substitute is the most practical option.”

Practical. It’s not exactly synonymous with romantic. But what was I expecting? For him to ride in on a white horse and declare war on Lexie?

Sure, my imagination may have briefly gone to such a scenario, but my imagination has been running wild since I was 3-years-old and my mom first gave me a set of 64 crayons instead of just the standard 8 colors. It simply can’t be helped.

“I’m sure I can find a suitable candidate,” Lexie insists.

“By this afternoon? Or even by tomorrow?” Luke asks.

Lexie purses her lips. “Fine,” she grits out. “Miss Garza may stay on as a long-term substitute, but only until I’ve found a more suitable candidate.”

“Or until the board approves her as a permanent teacher,” George pipes up.

“As I said, that will never happen,” Lexie reiterates.

“We’ll see about that,” George counters. The two of them are locked in a stare down. I hold mybreath, willing George to outlast her, but in the end Luke breaks both their concentrations.

“Well, since that’s sorted, I’d better be going. Porter Johnson had surgery yesterday, and I promised his wife Carrie that I’d stop by and pray with him.” That said Luke exits the office without even a glance in my direction.

My heart plummets to the floor. Every cell in my body is urging me to go after him, to beg him to hear my apologies and forgive me, but I can feel Lexie’s eyes on me. If I take off after Luke, she’ll know there’s something going on between us, and the last thing Luke or I need is for Lexie to come after Luke’s position as pastor, all because he and I decided to go on a date in March.

So I stay rooted in place, trying not to cry. If Lexie sees me cry, she wins.

And I can’t let her win.

“I suppose I have some work to do,” Lexie declares, striding toward the door. “George,” she turns her attention back to him, “I’d think about your allegiances if I were you. If you’re not careful, the board might not only get rid of Miss Garza, they might also start to take issue with your decision to go against the bylaws and hire her.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but my stomach sinks even further. They can’t go after George too!

“Thank you for your concern, but I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” George replies calmly.

“We’ll see about that,” Lexie says smoothly. “Now then, Miss Garza, perhaps you’d like to accompany me to my car before heading back to the art classroom.”

I don’t miss the way she calls itthe artclassroom rather than referring to it asmyclassroom, a not so thinly veiled reminder that I’ve been demoted to substitute.

I also don’t want to go with her to her car. I’m not even sure why she wants me to–is she simply trying to extend her period of gloating?

“Miss Garza,” she repeats, tapping her foot impatiently, “I asked you to accompany me to my car.”

It’s a reflection of my rattled state that I go with Lexie. I’m too beaten down from my interaction with Marshall, the showdown with Lexie, and most of all from the new wedge that’s formed between me and Luke to stand my ground and stay.

“You know, Miss Garza,” Lexie says as soon as we’re alone in the hallway, her heels clacking menacingly against the tiled floor, “I can make this whole thing go away.” I turn so fast to look at her, that I think I might have given myself whiplash. “Iwant Mia’s drawing piece in that art show, Miss Garza.” She lifts her chin, daring me to push back.

“Are you saying that if I submit Mia’s drawing piece to the art show, you’ll let me keep my job?” I ask the question slowly and carefully, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

We’ve reached the door to the parking lot and she stops walking and turns to face me, folding her hands in front of her. “Hannah, Hannah, Hannah,” she switches to my first name, which somehow–despite the fact that I obviously often go by my first name–makes me feel lesser than, as if she’s officially stripped me of my teacher title, “please don’t put words in my mouth. I’m simply saying that, should things go as they were always meant to go, meaning Mia’s piece gets rightfully selected to be in the art show, that would make me happy. And you know, happy people really are more forgiving.” With that said, she swivels on her heels and exits the school.

I stare bleakly after her, the sick feeling in my stomach intensifying.

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