No More Lies

By J.D. Wabe

Mrs. Jones spruced up all the desks in a semicircular line-up and began the first day of class with an ice-breaker activity. “What does your father do?” was the name of the game, a task in which one student gives clues regarding their father’s everyday affairs and the rest will guess the occupation. Laguna Creek Elementary was a very prestigious school. Built in one of the most affluent areas on the outskirts of the city with the only aim of nurturing the knowledge of the rich and gifted children of this upper-class neighborhood.

Since this was their first year of operation, they were all strangers to one another, including Mrs. Jones, who had just recently been hired. The school had superior standards of privacy, so she wasn’t given any of the students’ profiles. She only had a small list with the names of nine juniors that included their age and last name but no further details. Her initial-day activity had been vetted by her superiors with the condition that she would only ask for their parents’ profession; she could not ask for locations, names, or anything else that might be intrusive.

The game began from left to right, and it was going smoothly. The newly arrived students appeared to be enjoying the challenge of identifying clues and playing detective, as well as providing ambiguous information to make the game more exciting. So far, there were a banker, a lawyer, a professor, and even a stay-at-home dad married to a prosecutor.

The kids giggled at the stay-at-home vocation, but Mrs. Jones immediately reprehended them. Bullying and lying were to be avoided throughout their school year, she reminded them. The youngsters acknowledging the light scolding, simultaneously replying in chorus, “Yes, Mrs. Jones.”

When Mrs. Jones got to the middle of the semicircle, she squinted at the list in hand and asked the next pupil in line to stand up. Brandon Walker, a tall, slim, good-looking boy with a stylish hairstyle that rolled back on top and was short on the sides, stood up with a dull expression on his face. His white frame glasses made his honeycomb eyes beam, and his brows knitted as he looked straight at Mrs. Jones.

Mrs. Jones felt a sharp gust of uneasiness, but smiled nervously. Something about his presence threw her off balance.  

The teacher pointed her gaze again at the list, trying to avoid the sharp stare she was being subjected to and asked, “Who do we have here?” Reading his name on the roster, then meeting his eyes, she said, “Would you mind introducing yourself to the class?”

“I’m Brandon Walker.” He icily said, and then looked away. Mrs. Jones quickly peered at her list once more, looking puzzled. The list read “Brandon Wagner,” not “Walker.” “Hello Brandon, and welcome! Excuse me, but did you say your name was Brandon Walker?” “Yes madam, that’s correct,” he promptly replied. “Oh, my goodness,” she responded, sounding embarrassed. “I have on my list ‘Brandon Wagner.’ I guess we misprinted your surname!” she added as her cheeks slightly turned pink. 

Brandon did not respond to her comment.

Trying to save face as quickly as possible, she went on pretending nothing had happened. “So it’s Brandon Walker, just like our president. What a glorious name to have!” she said. There was again no response from Brandon. He stood there as if waiting for the next question.

Mrs. Jones felt awkward with the silence and worried that she might have suggested something that made him feel uncomfortable. She had been warned to be extremely careful with her language in class and her actions towards these rich kids in order to avoid possible legal action against the school from their powerful parents. She was aware she was tiptoeing on thin ice with this boy. Eventually, as she was about to speak again, Brandon swiftly proceeded, “Well, I guess, I will sit down and let the next person keep the exercise going”

Mrs. Jones was baffled by his reply.

“What do you mean? We wouldn’t want to skip your turn! We are all eager to know about you, and find out about your father’s daily routine; right kids?” No one said a word. Sensing the standoff between the two of them, all the students opted to remain neutral and quiet, turning the atmosphere in the classroom unexpectedly dense. 

Feeling a wave of uneasiness taking aim at her chest, Mrs. Jones tried to steer the boat into safe waters and hesitantly articulated, “Is everything okay, Brandon? Shall we continue?” The boy met her eyes, then glanced down to his feet. He tucked both of his hands in his uniform short pants and shrugged.

“Well, Mrs. Jones, with all due respect, if everybody knows my name, anybody can figure out what my father’s job is, defeating the purpose of the game. It wouldn’t any longer be exciting. I rather offer the opportunity to my classmate,” he replied.

Mrs. Jones understood Brandon might be apprehensive about the others poking fun at his name and the possibility of being ridiculed because of it. But she would not allow any bullying, no matter how rich they were. “Ah, you mean because your name is the same as our President, everyone will think your dad is actually our president, right?” The class giggled but she quickly wrinkled her forehead and raised her index finger, signaling disapproval. Her angry reaction exterminated everyone’s laugh in a flash. 

Moving her eyes away from Brandon, she faced the others and asked, “What do we say about bullying?” “Bullying is never okay,” the pupils replied in chorus. Brandon remained motionless and quiet. There was a serious expression on his face. “Okay, Brandon, just because you have our President’s name doesn’t mean you have to be related. Many people are named after famous personalities, but that’s just a delightful title to have. You can still tell us about your father’s daily routine, and we can continue the game and guess his job, right?” She added.

“But Mrs. Jones, my father is The President.”

Mrs. Jones smiled awkwardly and let a single “oh…” escape her lips. As far as she knew, Mr. Brandon D. Walker, The President of the Republic, did not have any children. Did he? She was sure. Am I sure? She wished she had her phone with her to quickly google it, but there were no phones allowed in the classroom, including hers. She regretted her own rule, a rule she had implemented at the beginning of the class. All mobiles were muted and locked in her desk drawer. But regardless of the small cloud of doubt hanging over her head, she followed her gut, believing that this kid was playing mind tricks on her. “He thinks he can make a fool of me? Let’s see who the boss is here…,” she thought.

She had to navigate her words with care, as she had been taught. The slightest slip of her tongue could cause the end of her dream job. A job everyone wanted, but few would get.

“Oh, great!” she stated. She glanced right and left, checking on everyone’s expression, looking for clues on their faces, but they all appeared as confused as her. “No, they know nothing, so this kid is making things up. He’s just playing with me,” she thought. “Great, great, so your father is the president. Perhaps you mean he is like a CEO?” she added. “Every company has a president, and this person is at the very top of the ladder, right Brandon? That’s wonderful, wonderful!” she continued, feeling again a climbing vine of anxiety growing from the bottom up. “Tell us, a bit more about him, maybe we can guess what kind of business he’s in,” she added.

Brandon’s eyebrows slowly drew together. He seemed annoyed. “My dad is not a president; he is the president, and he doesn’t work in a company. He works for the government,” he coldly replied.

“Wow, this kid is good!” Mrs. Jones thought, but the fact also made her stomach twitch, and her cheeks burned again with his reply. She was running out of responses. What she really wished to do was to tell him that making things up was unacceptable. She craved to order him to take a seat and stop talking and to skip his turn. She was angry at how he was getting smart with her. But of course, she couldn’t say or do any of this – especially not on her first day. She had fought tooth and nail for this job, and she knew the huge salary and perks of teaching in Laguna Creek Elementary came at a substantial cost. Dealing with this kind of situation was something she had been warned about.

She had to play it cool, and the finest way to navigate these waters was to dance along rather than question him and pursue any further stand-off. “Okay, Brandon, so your father’s not a president but The President. That’s wonderful, it’s a great job to have, well actually, it’s the finest role to have isn’t it, kids?” No one replied back.

“I imagine that you have bodyguards outside this classroom waiting for you, right?” she continued. Someone let a short-lived giggle escape, but this time Mrs. Jones choose to ignore it.

“No madam, I don’t” he countered. “I knew it!” she thought and smirked. It was a fake smile. She felt proud of how she was taking control of the situation and not the other way around. “I’m going to crush him like a cockroach,” she beamed inside.

But then Brandon added, “I don’t have bodyguards. There is only one special agent in charge of my security, and he’s not outside guarding the door. He had been instructed to standby beyond the campus grounds, inside his vehicle. Having him following me around school would be very disruptive, uncomfortable, and embarrassing for me. My father as well as I like to keep our private affairs discreet.” His reply blew her mind: “Creativity on a higher level,” she thought. 

Mrs. Jones would not give in to this game of wits, so she was quick with a comeback: “Oh, I see, I see. Wonderful. Very interesting,” the teacher responded. “So, I assume this special agent has a name, correct? Tell us about him, perhaps the others will be interested in knowing his duties, right class?” Again, no reply.

“I’m not supposed to reveal that information, Mrs. Jones,” Brandon responded. But she insisted “Of course, of course! He’s a secret agent, and the word ‘secret’ means that something must remain hidden.” She wasn’t aware that her sarcasm was becoming more and more clear and probably was making Brandon feel edgy. Putting the back of her right hand on the edge of her lips, she whispered, “We won’t tell anyone.” Then glancing back at the others she said, still in a whispering voice, “Right, kids?” This time, they finally nodded in agreement, perhaps afraid of how her gaze went through them like a blast of ice-cold wind.

Brandon did not respond right away. He was taking his time to process the suggestion. Analyzing the pros and cons of his follow up response. Then after giving it some thought, he came back, “Okay, madam, I guess it won’t hurt to say I call him ‘Agent Jones.’” “Hah! Agent Jones! This genius couldn’t indeed come up with a new last name,” she pondered. Mrs. Jones felt closer to victory. “Agent Jones! What a coincidence, just like my last name! Who would have guessed?” she responded with a wide grin on her face. “Now, you see, Brandon, we all share common names and last names. Like me and Agent Jones, and we are not even related!” Brandon did not reply to her comment.

“I tell you what, Brandon, how about we invite Mr. Jones to come meet the class? We won’t take up much of his time. After all, we are pretty sure he’s super, super busy with all his secret agent work. Let’s call Mr. Jones and…” Brandon interrupted, “Agent Jones.” “Oh yes! My apologies, Agent Jones, of course! Let’s invite him into the classroom. He will be our guest of honor today!” she added.

Brandon appeared concerned with the request. He glanced at the others, the door, then toyed with his smart watch for a second. Scratching the back of his head, he responded, “If I do that, I might get in trouble. I’m told not to call on Agent Jones, unless it is a genuine emergency.” “The only trouble you are getting into today is with me for making this stuff up,” she thought.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll make certain you won’t get in trouble. This is all part of learning and Mr. Jones… I mean Agent Jones’ visit will add some excitement to our learning experience,” she added. “I will make sure you won’t face any disciplinary action; I promise you!” she said, as her eyes twinkled evilly.   

Brandon starred at his smart watch for a few seconds then replied, “Okay, Mrs. Jones, I take your word for it.” Next, adjusting his watch to the center of his wrist, he tapped the screen with a series of strokes, as if calling for an app. Once the action was completed, he returned his sight towards Mrs. Jones and said “Done” and sank back into his chair.

Mrs. Jones smiled at him, looked at the clock that hung on the wall and then peeked at her own watch. She crossed her arms, looking relaxed and triumphant, and began humming a made up melody. She was planning to let one minute slide by and then move on with the game. There would not be a confrontation with Brandon for his made-up story. He was going to feel the embarrassment produced by his own imagination. Her hands were clean; she had won the game.

A minute and a half went by in silence. Other than Mrs. Jones humming her odd melody, there were no other signs of noises coming from outside. No footsteps, no running, no special agent. Just as Mrs. Jones had expected.

She gave Brandon a final smile as if saying “Game over, boy!” then she looked at her list again, ready to call out the next name. “Okay, class, Agent Jones might be a little busy today. How about we move on with our activity, and Brandon can introduce us to his special agent another day?” She said with a smirk. Brandon, recognizing the sarcasm in her tone, glared at her.

But Mrs. Jones ignored his eyes and pretended to be reading the list again. As she was preparing to continue, the classroom door abruptly burst open and a large and muscular figure appeared in the door frame. Everyone jumped, shocked. The man in a dark suit standing at the entrance looked like an alerted, angry Doberman. His enormous nose and pointy ears bore the resemblance of an enraged guard dog. Although there was no foam coming from his mouth, he seemed ready to attack.    

The children were paralyzed with fear at the sight of this husky physique, except Brandon, whose face shifted from annoyance to content. The henchman quickly scanned the classroom, looking for his aim. Once he found Brandon, his raucous, alerted voice inquired, “Is everything okay, Mr. Walker?” Brandon nodded, then looked at Mrs. Jones and smiled at her the same way she had done to him just a minute before: with a smirk.  

But Mrs. Jones wasn’t peering at Brandon. She was staring at Agent Jones, her jaw dropped in disbelief. Her face was like a mask of alarm mixed with fear and all the color in her face had faded to a pale semblance.

Agent Jones, after having assessed that Brandon was not exposed to any danger, became self-conscious that he might have gotten a little carried away with his protective instincts. After returning to a semi-normal state, realizing that he was in front of children, he shifted his sight from his protégé towards the speechless teacher standing by the blackboard. Feeling a shower of guilt mixed with embarrassment, he was going to apologize for the sake of appearance. His unprofessional emotional display could have put his job on the edge of a cliff.

However, when their minds met at last, he stared at her with fear in his eyes; he was in dismay; he was speechless. At the same time, Mrs. Jones’ contorted face appeared as though she was struggling not to cry, and tears pooled in her eyes as soon as their eyes met.

That night, Mrs. Jones laid in bed next to her husband, both staring at the ceiling, unable to get a word out. They had had similar incidents at work during the day. Both had confronted unexpected situations, affairs that might have jeopardized their employment. They both had also discovered by pure chance that they have been lying to each other for a while now. Lost for words, they did not know how to confront the developments of the day.

Mrs. Jones kept rewinding the tape in her head: Brandon, Agent Jones, the frightened students, the shock. Her husband lay flat in bed, still with his clothes and shoes on, both hands resting on his stomach, absorbed in disappointment.

Eventually, Mrs. Jones’ husband confronted his wife: “We agreed not to lie to each other,” he said in a soft and calmed tone. Mrs. Jones quickly replied, “I know, I’m sorry. But you lied to me as well.” He interrupted, “In my defense, I can argue that I wasn’t lying. There are certain things I can’t disclose to anyone, not even you. They are out of my reach, and they are important matters for our own safety.” “For your safety,” he added.

Mrs. Jones remained quiet for a while. The angry face of Agent Jones was still hunting her. But she tried to get back to the conversation. She loved her husband; she wanted to understand him. Mrs. Jones let a gentle sigh escape her lips. It was the reset button of all the emotions she had endured. It was time for a switch from reaction to reflection. Time to make things right. “I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you I ultimately got the job at Laguna Creek. You see, I worked so hard to get it, and when I finally did, I was amazed. So I thought about surprising you on the day of my first check. I know I told you I was working at a kindergarten, but now you’ve learned that isn’t true. I feel so stupid. This is not how it was supposed to happen,” she said.

Her husband took a deep breath, then slowly released it. With his sigh, his shoulders relaxed and his face lit up. They both turned on their sides and their eyes met. “No more lies,” said Special Agent Jones to his wife.” “No more lies,” repeated Mrs. Jones.

The Author
J. D. Wabe is an author and Gwangju expat who has been contributing to the GIC and the Gwangju News for more than ten years with his work in photography and writing.
E-mail: joedwabe@gmail.com