Page 22 of Just a Little White Lie

Why? Why? Why did I put dance experience on my résumé?

“Now, our head of music isn’t overly impressed with this idea, but I assured her that someone with your prowess and experience will be perfect for the job.”

Prowess and experience?

Surely I did not write that!

“You’ve been allocated a dance studio which is all yours, and you’re welcome to pretty much do whatever you like. You’ll obviously need to tie the curriculum and NCEA requirements into your planning, but…” He stops at the end of the hallway and kind of winces. “The truth is”—he drops his voice to a whisper—“we just need these kids contained for a few periods each day. We’re at the point now where if we can get them out of everybody’s hair, then my teachers aren’t so stressed, and it’s less disruptive to class life.” He winces again. “I’ve worked out a schedule where they’ll spend half their time in class and half their time with you. During the periods you don’t have them, I’ll either give you release or you can cover other classes. I know that doesn’t sound great, but it’s been a bad start to the year, and you’re providing a short-term solution for now.”

My mouth is dry, and all I can do is gape at him.

His smile grows, and he lets out a nervous chuckle. “I’m sorry. I’ve probably painted a very bad picture here. These children aren’t demons, just reluctant learners. But someone needs to reach them, and I believe that someone is you.”

I can’t speak.

I’m not… I can’t be that person.

I want to spin and run back up the stairs.

But I need the money.

He keeps walking, and I trail after him.

I’m a slug who most definitely does not belong here!

I can’t believe I wrote dance experience on my—

Wait a second.

“Jack,” I seethe.

He was the one who applied for these jobs on my behalf. He must have done it!

That little prankster.

Oh, I’m gonna kill him!

LAUREN

Images of torturing Jack and bringing him to an early grave barely have time to form before Erik pulls open a door and leads me into a dance studio. It’s big and well lit. Glass windows line one wall and look out over a vibrant green field where a class of students is playing a game of touch rugby. At the other end of the studio is a wall of mirrors, and bunched together in the middle of the shiny floor is a group of… misfits. It’s the only way I can think to describe them.

The raggedy bunch of students might be wearing the Haven Academy blazers and ties, but their shirts are untucked, their socks are down, and their wild-eyed expressions scream “We don’t belong here!”

I know how they feel.

They turn to stare at me, and their unimpressed gazes are tar splatters on my pristine makeup and perfectly selected dress.

I grip the strap of my bag. My intestines are no longer knotted. I’m pretty sure they’ve just liquefied and are threatening to ooze down my legs, puddling on the floor at my feet and giving away how out of my depth I’m currently feeling.

“Good morning.” Erik puts on a bright voice that everyone knows is fake.

“What’s going on, Mr. V?” A tall boy with messy black hair and eyes that could burn a hole through my skull steps out of the pack and scowls at us.

“Maverick.” Erik nods at the boy. “I’d like you to meet your new dance teacher, Miss Fillion.”

“What?” One of the other boys scoffs and starts laughing. “Dance teacher?”

He eyes me like I’m the world’s biggest clown, then nudges his friend. They chortle together, and I’m begging the floor to open up.

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