Page 62 of The Friend Game

The bell rings loudly, signaling the change of class periods for the middle schoolers. Any second now the halls will be filled with students. Plus I have a class of third-graders coming to my room in about ten minutes. So I swallow down my tears and hurry down the hall back to the art classroom, sending up a silent prayer that somehow this allworks out, that I don’t let myself be completely intimidated by Lexie, and, most earnestly of all, I pray that Luke will forgive me.

Chapter 24

IT’S 9:45 AND LUKE still hasn’t called me. I’ve picked up my phone approximately one million times to call him, but each time I chicken out, terrified he won’t answer.

Or worse that he will answer–then promptly tell me that our date is off.

I just need to see him. Talking in person would be so much better than trying to have this conversation on the phone. You can’t read people’s expressions or body language over the phone.

Anyway, he might still call. That first time he texted me it was after 10 o’clock. Of course, almost every night since it’s been earlier in the evening. Except when he’s had other commitments.

Which maybe he does.

Or maybe he went back to the Lambda’s house to ask for her niece’s number after all.

I groan, toss the book I’ve been very much not reading to the side, throw off my covers, and pad out to my kitchen.

I know I shouldn’t stress eat. Stuffing my face with Cheetos isn’t going to make anything better. But I didn’t eat much of a dinner because I was busy helping Carrie Johnson drive her kids to their sports activities. I saw her at church yesterday and found out about her husband’s unexpected shoulder surgery. And since, as previously discussed, I have no life, I offered to help her this week if needed.

I grab the bag out of my pantry and tear it open, stuffing a handful in my mouth. Then I lick the cheese dust off my finger and go back for seconds.

Don’t judge me. I live alone. Not like anyone else is going to eat out of this bag.

And anyway, I probably no longer have a date with a pastor, so who even cares if I indulge my gluttonous side?

Well, God probably still cares.

With a regretful sigh I clip the bag shut and turn to the bowl of fruit on my counter. A banana is probably a better choice than half a bag of Cheetos. I’m about to break one off the bunch when my doorbell rings.

I sigh. Five bucks says it’s Jill coming to tell me she heard all about what happened today. The only question is: Will she go with the “I told you so”angle or the “Yay! Let’s run my original campaign for you! I’ve still got the buttons!” angle?

For once, I’m actually hoping for the buttons.

I swing the door open without checking to see who it is, greeting Jill around the finger of cheese dust I’m currently licking.

“Jill, if this is—” The words die on my lips as I take in the person standing on my doorstep. Because it’s not Jill.

It’s Luke.

“Luke!” I squeak in horror and drop my finger from my mouth, very upset that I still have four other orange fingers and may very well be wearing lipstick in a matching shade.

Cheese dust on the corners of your mouth is never attractive.

But miraculously Luke doesn’t notice my Cheeto-fied state or if he does he doesn’t comment.

“Were you really planning on telling me about your lack of certification this morning?” he demands, his voice urgent.

I’m so surprised by the question, by his very presence on my doorstep, that I don’t answer right away.

“Well?” he presses.

“Um,” I finally find my voice, “yes, I was.”

Some of the tension eases from his body. “And you were serious about telling the board?”

I nod, an unexpected lump has formed in my throat. I should be attempting to plead my case to him. I didn’t prepare a speech for nothing. But instead, I can only stand here, overcome by the sorrow I feel for having lied to this wonderful man in front of me.

“And,” he swallows, “it was my dad’s idea not to tell me?”

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