Page 8 of The Friend Game

“Indeed. Now, due to the unexpected nature of this vacancy, our hiring process is going to move a little faster than usual. You see, as you already know, our art teacher’s father had a stroke today. Unfortunately, the doctors told Wendy that they don’t think her father should be living on his own anymore due to the extent of the damage the stroke caused to his motor functions. He’ll be moving in with Wendy and her family. Wendy had a baby this summer and had already been feeling torn about returning to work, so this latest development pushed her to pull the plug on her teaching career for right now so she can focus on her father and her newborn son. While we support Wendy in her decision, this does of course leave us in need of a new art teacher.”

Two warring thoughts plague my brain as he finishes his spiel. First—oh my goodness! They want me to be their new art teacher! And second, Mr. French Roast has a baby son?

Well, maybe. I suppose I don’t know for sure he’s her husband. I’m making a very large assumption…How weird would it be if I interrupted this conversation to ask Principal Novak to give me a physical description of Wendy’s husband?

“So what do you say?” he prompts in response to my silence. “Might you be interested?”

I force thoughts of Mr. French Roast out of my head and try to focus on the question in front of me. Do I want to apply to be the art teacher at Grace Canyon? Before today I would’ve said absolutely not. I viewed teaching art as giving up on my own art. Like how could I pursue making it as an artist if I were too busy teaching other people how to be artists?

Only, if I’m being totally honest, it’s not as if I’ve been pursuing my art in recent months. At least not since The Disaster almost a year ago. The one I don’t talk about. The one nobody is allowed to talk about.

Instead I’ve been looking for careers that fall under the umbrella of art. Like graphic design and photography. Safe jobs, where failure won’t destroy my self-esteem and leave my heart broken. Not that that happened. But if it did, I’m not going to talk about it.

“Hannah?” Principal Novak, I mean George, prompts again.

“Sorry,” I fumble for a decision, feeling torn. I send up a quick prayer for direction, and an imageof Oliver standing proudly with his Lego self-portrait pops into my head. I can’t deny that I absolutely loved today. Working with the kids was so much fun, and doing art together somehowdidn’tfeel like I was giving anything up, but rather like I was coming back to who I’ve always been. Art is my first love. I still remember my kindergarten art class, how I walked into that room, smelled the crayons and glue, and immediately knew I belonged there. The art room at Grace Canyon smelled like crayons and glue too.

“Yes, I think I might be interested,” I tell George, feeling a growing sense of certainty that this is the right decision.

“Splendid!” he crows, and now I can’t help but smile. This is it. The answer to all of my problems. Or at least the answer to all of the problems I created for myself today. “Wendy plans to finish the week out, but we do need someone who can start next Monday. Luke and I would like to interview you tomorrow, if you’re available.”

“Yes, I should be able to come in tomorrow,” I tell him, wondering idly who Luke is. “What time?”

“How does eleven sound?”

“Let me see…” I pause, pretending like I actually have to check my empty schedule. “Yes, I’m free then.”

“Wonderful. And, Hannah,” George’s voice takes on a conspiratorial quality, “I’ll be frank and tell you that this interview is really more of a formality than anything. You more than proved yourself today, so as long your certification checks out, the job is essentially yours.”

I thank him, then hang up and sink down onto my couch, a blissful smile on my face. A second later his words sink in and the smile slides right off. My certification?

How could I have been so stupid? What I just thought they’d let me teach without a teaching certificate? Like the helium in a popped balloon, all of my excitement vanishes, sending me crashing to the floor where I sit and stare at the wall.

It’s not like this is such a big deal. So I can’t apply for this particular job. Before this morning teaching wasn’t even on my radar as a career choice. Heck, five minutes ago I was debating saying yes to interviewing at all. All I need to do is call Principal Novak–I mean George–back and tell him that unfortunately I don’t have the necessary qualifications for the job.

I pick up my phone. Stare at the 520 number for a full minute before setting it back down. I do this four more times, like my phone is a bottle of shampoo with instructions to lather, rinse,and repeat.

It’s after five now, I reason; he’s probably gone home for the night. I’ll just have to wait and call him in the morning.

“Hannah, open up!” Jill’s voice booms through my front door accompanied by heavy pounding on the door. Right. There’s my next problem knocking on my door. How convenient. “I know you’re in there,” she continues as Holly starts bellowing and waddling to the door.

With a heavy sigh I get up and follow Holly to the door.

“You subbed at Grace Canyon today?” Jill says before I’ve even opened the door all the way.

“How did you know?” I ask incredulously. I didn’t have Liam or Ellie’s classes today.

“You were on the school’s Facebook page.” She waves her phone in my face, and I grimace as I see a picture of me with Ms. O’Keefe’s fourth grade class, smiling with our half-finished Lego self-portraits. When she’d come to pick her students up at the end of art class she’d gushed over the project and insisted on taking a picture of us all holding our drawings. She never said anything about posting it on social media though.

“Yes, that’s me,” I admit, like there was any doubt about that. The caption literally says, “Students pose with art substitute, Miss Garza, and their Lego self-portraits.”

“I know it’s you.” Jill rolls her eyes. “What I don’t know is why you didn’t just tell me that’s what you were doing today.” She’s smiling now, and I’m confused. She’s not upset. Maybe somebody sent her a fruit basket. I lean forward and sniff. Not even a hint of papaya.

“Honestly,” I say slowly, “I didn’t think you’d approve.”

“What?” I can now see all of Jill’s teeth, she’s smiling so broadly. “Why would I not approve? I’ve always secretly thought you’d make a great teacher. Especially an art teacher.”

“You have?” That is news to me. Our parents met in college where they both majored in English, my mom with an emphasis in secondary education and my dad with the intent of going on to law school. My mom became a high school English teacher, but my dad never did go to law school. Instead he penned a successful crime series about a vigilante lawyer and his paralegal sidekick.

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