Liars' Games (Project Chameleon Book 1)

by Susan Finlay

  “No, I’m sorry. It’s not your work that worries me.” He sighed. “Do you have any idea what you’re getting into, Claire? Aren’t you concerned or afraid to work at Midland?”

  “What? Should I be? What’s wrong with Midland? I haven’t been given any details about the school yet.”

  He twisted his mouth and shook his head. “Crap! Oh, sorry. What I meant to say was that you should have been told what this job entails before accepting. This school and those kids are going to eat you alive.”

  “Is that what happened to the former principal?”

  Steve shrugged. “I have no doubt. He didn’t say specifically, just left without giving notice. Said he’d had enough.”

  She opened her mouth, intending to speak, but snapped it shut. So that’s why Porcupine had seemed evasive. Well, too late now. Grin and bear it as her father used to say. The muscles in the back of her neck tightened more and she unconsciously rubbed at it again, to no avail.

  “If you’re having second thoughts, we can void your contract. Don’t worry.”

  She tried to keep her face blank as she pondered her response. What would Brad tell her to do? She could almost hear his voice: ‘convince him you aren’t afraid’.

  She tilted her head, and gave a slight teasing smile, then said, “No, no, that’s fine. I’ve dealt with cannibals before and I haven’t been eaten yet.”

  Steve peered askance at her for a moment and then chuckled. “I like that. You’ve got spunk and a sense of humor. God knows you’ll need it.”

  The muscles in the back of her neck relaxed slightly, and she smiled at him.

  Steve smiled back and then said, “I hear you’re from out of state. How is your move to Denver going? Are you getting settled in yet?”

  “I guess so. Only been here a few days and had a lot of shopping to do to get settled in. I do have a question while you’re here though. I haven’t the faintest idea where Midland High School is located.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Edgewater, near Redding Middle School where I originally expected to work.”

  “Ah. I think you’re in luck. The two schools are only about five miles apart so I doubt it’ll affect your driving time much. They’re both roughly twenty minutes from this central admin building. Didn’t Helen give you a map for getting to the school?”

  “No, not yet. Well, anyway, that’s a relief. I noticed traffic here seems to be quite heavy during rush hour. I didn’t relish the thought of driving across town to get to work. I’m glad that won’t be an issue.”

  “Traffic can be quite heavy, and I’m afraid you’ll soon discover driving can also be a bear during winter and during snow storms. They don’t use salt on the roads here, just crushed granite which tends to embed itself either in the ice or in your windshield, neither result improving the situation.” Smiling pleasantly again, he definitely had a nice smile, he continued “Other than that, what do you think of Denver so far?”

  “Oh, the mountain vistas here are breathtaking. I can’t wait to explore, visit downtown, the museums, and go to the mountains.” She stopped and smiled back at him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Unfortunately, I’m not good navigating unfamiliar places. I probably need a tour guide.”

  He grinned and then opened his mouth to speak. At the sound of papers rustling on the desk, he glanced over at the HR Manager. A subtle change came over him and he held out his hand to Claire and said, “Well, welcome to Denver and to the school district.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  WELCOME TO DENVER! Before that, welcome to Albuquerque. Before Albuquerque, welcome to Portland. Before her ordeal had begun, she’d been welcomed to Boston and Weymouth University as a professor. Claire sighed. So much for moving to the U.S., the land of opportunity, she thought as she placed her paperwork in her laptop bag and walked to the exit. If Callum and I had stayed in England, I wouldn’t be in this mess.

  She left the central administration building and entered her rental car. Once settled in, she typed Midland High School’s address into the car’s GPS system and waited for a satellite connection. The on-screen map appeared along with a decidedly Brit computer voice, telling her to ‘drive the highlighted route’. As she began driving, Claire operated on auto-pilot, her mind busy replaying the earlier scene. What a mess. She’d already made a spectacle of herself before her new boss. Worse yet, she’d practically flirted with the man. Her only hope was that he hadn’t interpreted it that way.

  She sighed, stopping at a red light. At least she recognized her faux pas this time; an improvement over her usual track record. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, dissatisfied. What good was recognizing mistakes when you couldn’t fix them? That was analogous to closing the barn door after the horse has bolted. “Must do better,” she muttered out loud.

  She shook her head at her own shortcomings, which admittedly were greater than they should be for someone as highly educated as she was. And it wasn’t only her knack of messing up in social situations, especially when nervous, but that she was too transparent, as well. When Claire was young her mother had often advised to practice her facial expressions before a mirror and develop an opaque veneer. She could kick herself now in hindsight for disregarding her mother’s words.

  The light changed and she drove forward, checking her rearview mirror frequently to see if anyone was following her. It had become a habit ten months ago back when her troubles had begun. The voice in the car’s GPS interrupted her musings, telling her to keep right and turn onto Kipling in 0.4 miles. She switched lanes, sped up to get through the light before it changed, and ended up jamming on the brakes. While she waited, she tried to distract herself from her thoughts by studying the looming foothills of the Rocky Mountains. A light snow layer already covered them and this was only early September. Going to be an early cold winter.

  She was too close to the foothills now to see even the tallest mountains of the Front Range—Longs Peak, Mount Evans, and Pikes Peak if she was remembering right—but she’d seen the tops of them in the distance several days ago while driving on Interstate 25 through Denver in search of furniture. The mountains rose sharply behind the foothills and provided a spectacular backdrop to the city. She wondered if she might fare better if she hid in those mountains. She could buy a cabin, grow her own food, and home-school her son. That begged another question: Could she live with the isolation? And if she was in isolation, what if her enemies found them? No one would hear their screams, let alone rescue them. She shivered involuntarily at the picture that popped into her mind.

  Claire shook her head. She couldn’t take the chance. Whatever problems she had with the people who were controlling her life now, she knew her best chance of protecting her child was with them. Besides, her son needed socialization, and normalcy, if that was even possible for a child prodigy. Her own childhood had been far from normal, and as a result, she’d always considered herself a misfit. She might as well have had SUPER-NERD engraved on her forehead.

  Someone tooted their car horn at her and she jumped, looking up at the light. Green. She turned the corner quickly and then her mind wandered back into retrospect.

  Her parents had always told her she was lucky to ‘be gifted’. What they hadn’t told her, she began to slowly comprehend after one particularly emotional day. Her dad had picked her up from school, and they’d driven past by a homeless man holding a sign ‘Will work for food’. She had cried and screamed until her father took her to buy food for the man. Her supposed gift apparently came with additional baggage—over excitability, an ‘extra emotional antenna’ which made her far more permeable to feelings.

  Like most kids, as she’d grown up she’d learned to apply filters to the world around her so life’s dramas didn’t affect her with such intensity. But her emotions still topped the charts on most days.

  She arrived at the school and parked in the faculty car park as Porcupine had instructed, and then walked around the school building to whe
re the students parked. Music poured from multiple car radios cranked up to full volume, resulting in a mash of rap, reggae, and Chicano. A dozen or so students sat atop cars, a few others were dancing. One particularly dangerous looking kid shoved another one who had apparently made the wrong remark.

  She looked at her watch. Ten o’clock. Why weren’t they in class? Shouldn’t staff be monitoring the school grounds?

  She continued walking. A few students took note of her and she was immediately accosted by wolf whistles and obscenities. She could feel her face grow hot as coals. Out of the corner of her eye she saw two teenage boys wearing orange bandanas walking toward her. When they were three feet away, one of them said, “Hey, Mama. Take off your jacket. Let us have a better looksee at that beautiful ass.”

  Ignore them, she told herself. Stay calm. Keep walking. Moments later she sensed someone close behind and then a hand grabbed her bottom. She spun on her heels so fast that the boy stumbled backwards in surprise.

  “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

  “Hey, if you be a teacher, I’ll follow you anywhere,” he said. The other boy laughed raucously as they exchanged a fist-bump.

  She swung back around and hastened toward the double doors.

  The school’s entrance hall was dark and mostly deserted, not particularly safe, but decidedly better than it had been outside. She swallowed and exhaled, being able to walk right in without anyone stopping her. Come to think of it, that didn’t seem right. Shouldn’t there be metal detectors and security guards? Or was she overreacting to Steve Jensen’s earlier inference? She had googled the U.S. education system after Brad told her about the teaching job. Metal detectors weren’t used everywhere—only in some large urban districts with a history of chronic weapons offences. Should she assume, since Midland didn’t have the equipment, the school wasn’t so dangerous? It already seemed dangerous to her. Either way, letting anyone walk into a school building unchecked seemed risky and wrong. She shivered.

  As she walked down the hall, a few students were milling around lockers, and stared at her as she passed.

  She picked one, and said, “Excuse me. Can you direct me to the administration office?” The student pointed to his left.

  Walking in the identified direction, she quickly found and paused outside the door labeled Administration, took a deep breath and opened the door. Two students sat in a corner, heads bent together, whispering. She didn’t see anyone behind the reception desk.

  “Good morning. Can I help you find someone?”

  Claire turned toward the voice and saw a youngish lean black man, but obviously older than a student and certainly better dressed, with a stiff, unbending posture.

  “Well, yes, I hope so. Actually, I’m looking for the principal’s office.”

  “Principal’s not here. Quit two weeks back. I’m the acting principal, Ron Baker. Are you here to enroll?” He stood, smiling, his hands behind his back—probably clasped from the looks of his stance—his eyes fixed on her face.

  “Oh—no. I’m not a student.” She hesitated as heat again climbed up her neck. Crap. Should have projected confidence and authority. Too late to start again. “Uh, sorry. I should introduce myself. I’m Jul—uh, El—uh, I mean Claire. Claire Constance.” She bit her lip and started again. “I’m Claire Constantine. I’m the new headma . . . principal.” She looked down at the laptop bag she held up close to her chest as a shield. When she looked up again, his face was empty as though someone had taken a blackboard eraser and wiped away every expression.

  He said, in a cool tone, “Nice to meet you.” He took a step towards her, shook her hand, and stepped back again. “Helen Jackson called and told us you were coming.”

  She bit her lip. So he had been expecting her and was deliberately giving her a hard time. Just great. “I’m happy to meet you. I look forward to working with you.”

  He nodded without speaking. Then he turned and watched as three more employees exited an office. Ron motioned to them.

  “Meet our new principal. Claire. Hmm, what was the last name again?”

  Claire thought she detected a sneer after his question. “Constantine,” she said.

  A pudgy man with graying hair said, “Jorge Perez. Spanish. I mean I teach Spanish.”

  She made a move toward him, intending to shake his hand. He crossed his arms and stood with his legs apart, his lips pursed, and his eyes squinting. He could probably intimidate students into submission with that look alone. She gritted her teeth and tried not to show her feelings.

  “I’m Nancy Palmer,” another voice chimed in.

  Turning slightly, Claire saw a slender woman standing nearby.

  “Head of the English Department,” she said, extending her hand.

  At least someone here is friendly. Claire smiled and shook Nancy’s hand. The woman met her eyes and smiled.

  “You remind me of my first day here,” Nancy said. “It was a disaster. I wanted to dash away like a diner who couldn’t pay her tab but the principal had placed the school in lockdown that day and trapped me. Bill here can tell you.”

  The third employee grunted, then said, “I’m Bill Wilson, Guidance Counselor.”

  Claire reached out and shook his hand and he squeezed her hand hard. She looked into his face. He was staring at her, his jaw bricklike.

  She opened her mouth. It was dry as a desert, and when she tried to speak, the words caught and stuck and scratched in her throat. “Maybe I should . . . will you please direct me to . . . uh, my office?” She could almost feel her blood rising up from her neck as if someone were filling a beaker. Trying to recover, she said, “Sorry, a bit parched.”

  They all stared at her. In her mind’s eye she saw herself back as the scrawny twelve-year-old sitting in her old high school, her golden-brown hair fashioned in two long plaits. She wore her favorite red and white and black striped woolen skirt and a soft red cardigan, her legs shrouded in black tights, swinging back and forth. Around her, older students stared at her as though she were an alien from Mars.

  “Are you all right?” Bill asked.

  Jerked back into the present, she glanced at the staff members and tried to force herself to smile, then looked away. “Forgive me. I guess I have a bad case of first-day nervousness.”

  Bill smiled and nodded in understanding, but when he glanced at his companions, and his smile twisted into a faint snicker, Claire knew better. Not a counselor in whom she would want to confide.

  “Ron, could you arrange for the faculty to meet in the—uh—”

  “Faculty lounge?”

  “Yes, thank you. Immediately after school?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well, then, if you’ll excuse me, I think I can find my office.” Claire turned, looked around and found a door marked ‘Principal’, and strode toward it, aware of four pairs of eyes watching her. She switched on the light, closed the windowless door behind her, and leaned back against the door. She shook her head, then placed her hands over her face. She really wasn’t trying to look like an idiot, but she’d certainly done so, even stumbling over her own name. Couldn’t they have given her an easier last name? Although Constantine wasn’t bad, it certainly didn’t spring to mind or roll-off her tongue. Still, someone with a near-photographic memory should have no trouble remembering a new name, even a difficult name. It hadn’t been a problem back at Human Resources. So what happened when she arrived here? First-day nerves self-sabotage? She shook her head again, frustrated with herself.

  Don’t worry, you can learn management skills. It’s the bloody lying you have to worry over. Sure, you’ll get used to it. Probably get used to looking stupid, too. Well, big surprise, at least you don’t have to worry about blowing your cover by showing that you’re a genius.

  Chills ran up her spine as she realized she wouldn’t be able to see who might be lurking outside her office. Not good from a principal viewpoint or for that matter from a witness-in-hiding viewpoint either. She waited, but hearing nothin
g else, she focused her attention on her new office, immediately noting its cheerless dingy grayish-brown walls and its lack of windows to let in outside light.

  On one side of the office stood an oversized beat-up walnut desk stacked with papers, with an old worn green leather swivel chair between it and the side wall. Two cluttered bookcases stood next to the desk on the back wall, their dusty shelves in disarray, books lying every which way, as if someone had just thrown them on the shelves. On the other side of the office, the stuffing oozed from gashes in the fabric of a tattered beige sofa along the wall. An ugly chrome and glass coffee table stood in front. Four unmatched waiting-room style chairs, probably rummage sale rejects, seemed haphazardly placed around the room. The room’s ugliness, combined with the lack of window and the lingering smell of old cigar smoke, reminded her of a prison cell and made her shiver again. “Just lovely, kill me now!”

  Plopping onto the swivel chair, she placed her elbows on the desktop and looked down. A gasp escaped her as she read dozens of graffiti messages etched into the wood. Disgusting messages. Hopefully the work of students and not the previous principal. Well, at least they can spell. Fingering them, she felt the deep grooves that told her they’d meant to leave a lasting impression and knew she would keep the desk with its flaws as a reminder of the low-caliber of students she should expect to encounter. Clearly, the prison atmosphere in here wasn’t the only reason the principal had quit. She sighed and shook her head. Might as well get started reading files. Maybe I can learn something from them. She thumbed through the first stack of papers and folders. It would take her days to get through it all. No, more likely weeks, if the eight metal filing cabinets on the opposite wall flanking the door were full. Please let those not be full.

  A peek inside confirmed the drawers were not only full, but were a disorganized mess—files out of order, multiple folders jammed inside of others, loose papers on the sides of the metal frame. She began pulling out about ten folders at a time and set them on the desk. As she worked, she came across a complaint lodged by a teacher against the former principal, claiming he’d been promised a promotion to department head, however, the principal gave it to a brand new teacher instead. She searched for paperwork indicating the reasoning and outcome. She found nothing. Not surprising. People lie and make promises they don’t intend to keep. They do whatever they want to get what they want, and the more powerful they are, the worse they are. Chances are, the superintendent never received the complaint.