Page 7 of The Friend Game

Based on the way Jill’s pupils have constricted, I could really use an intervention from Max right about now.

“Do you know how long it takes to build a solid relationship with members of the media, Hannah?” she level ten screeches.

I actually do. She’s mentioned it a time or two at the dinner table (and by a time or two, I mean at least weekly), but I get the feeling she’s asking that rhetorically.

“I’m so sorry, Jill,” I try again. “Would it help if I sent a fruit basket to them?” Jill loves fruit baskets. Everyone close to her knows that you don’t butter Jill up, you papaya her up.

“I already sent one,” Jill says with a sigh. “Good thing too, because it’s not like you could afford to actually send one.”

Ouch. My face flushes and my eyes sting.

“I'm sorry,” Jill says quickly. “That was too harsh. I—” she looks away from me, chin dipping down to her shoulder, “It’s just…I’m under a lot of stress right now.” She sighs. “And I worry about you, Hannah.”

“You don’t need to, because I have a job.” The words come out before I can stop them or think better of them. Yup, just lied. Just flat out bore false witness to my sister. Who, coincidentally, is also my neighbor. So, there goes that commandment.

“You do?” Jill looks taken aback. “What do you mean? What job?”

What job? Great question. I’m fumbling around for an answer that I could possibly make true in the next 24 hours, when, like manna from heaven, my phone starts ringing.

“Op,” I scramble to grab it from my purse, glancing down at a number I don’t recognize. “I have to get this. It’s my new boss.” Another lie. Which means I’ve moved on from disappointing my sister and am now disappointing Jesus.

“Let’s talk later,” I add; then, with my conscious burning, I hurry past Jill and into the sanctuary of my home, putting my phone to my ear as I go and praying this isn’t some spam caller about to charge me $100 a minute just for answering.

“Hello, this is Hannah,” my voice comes out breathless, and I worry the caller can hear my stressed out heartbeat through the phone.

“Hannah, hello,” an unfamiliar jovial voice booms through the phone, “this is George Novak here.”

George Novak, George Novak, I wrack my brain for some memory of who that is, but come up empty. “Hi, uh, George,” I say lamely.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, “guess we’ve never been formally introduced. I’m the principal of Grace Canyon.”

Dread pools in my stomach. I’ve been caught. They know I’m a fraud. What’s the penalty for impersonating a substitute? Jail? Surely, not. Although, I’ve heard most prisoners hold jobs while they serve time. So, at least I’d no longer be unemployed.

Silver lining.

“Oh, yes,” I chuckle nervously, “of course. How are you, Principal Novak?”

“I’m doing just fine,” he replies, “and please just call me George. Everybody does.” He chuckles before continuing. “Now, I’m calling because I heard about your little stint in our art classroom today—”

“Look I can explain,” I begin, but he just laughs away my words.

“Don’t worry, I’m not mad. On the contrary, I think getting the kids to combine art with dancing was astrokeof genius.” He pauses. “Get it? A stroke, like a brush stroke?” More of his jolly chuckling. I laugh too. Not because I think his pun is particularly funny, but because I’m starting to think he’s not calling to confront me about what I was doing in that classroom today, and that makes me feel light as a balloon.

“Well great,” I say when we’ve both stopped laughing. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Glad to report it. Alright then, let’s get down to the business at hand. As it turns out we have an unexpected teaching vacancy at Grace Canyon, and I wondered if you might be willing to come in and interview for the position.”

“Sorry, what?” I pull the phone away from my ear and peer at it, sure I must’ve misheard. “Did you just say you want to interview me for a teaching position?”

“I did indeed,” George replies.

“But…why?”

“I should think that would be quite obvious. You received rave reviews from all of the students you saw today, so much so that I’ve gotten multiple emails asking about the substitute art teacher that parents are hearing about from their kids. Not to mention you have the endorsement of—”

“Arr, arr, arr!” Holly chooses that moment to notice my arrival home and waddles as fast as her legs will carry her over to me, barking joyfully and drowning out Principal Novak's next words.

“Oh that’s so nice to hear,” I say, attempting to calm Holly down while also listening to what he’s saying. Who endorsed me? I didn’t catch what he said, but I don’t want to be unprofessional and ask, so I just pretend I heard him.

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