Getting Played (Getting Some Book 2)

by Emma Chase

  As he moves to go, Long lifts his chin in the direction over my shoulder. “Hey Coach—Dork Squad’s looking for you.”

  I turn around and spot three of my students standing at the fence.

  I teach Honors and Advanced Placement Calculus around here. I have a genius level IQ—some guys will say that just to get in your pants—but for me it’s actually true.

  Math was another thing I was good at in high school. I loved it, I still do—the symmetry and balance, the patterns I could see so easily. There’s a beauty to a solved equation—like a symphony for the eyes. It’s another reason teaching ticks all the boxes for me.

  “Lay off the Dork Squad.” I stare hard at Long. “Any of you screw with them, I will drill you into oblivion. If you guys act like dumbasses, trust me, I will run you like dumbasses.”

  My students are considered the easy kids by other teachers. They’re invested in their grades and they’re smart—but they’re also fragile. Because they’re different. At a place and time in their lives when different isn’t an easy thing to be.

  So I make it my mission to look out for them.

  Long shows me his palms.

  “Nah, Coach—the Dork Squad’s cool. The Mathletes are the only reason I passed algebra last year.”

  The Mathletes is an academic club I supervise. They tutor other students free of charge and travel from school to school to do battle in mathematics competitions. Sometimes, the math games are just as brutal as the football games—sometimes more.

  “Good. Make sure you spread the word.”

  I turn and trot over to the fence.

  “Hey, Coach Walker.”

  “Yo, Coach W!”

  It’s Louis, Min Joon and Keydon—juniors—I had them all last year and they’ll be in my class again this year.

  “Students.” I nod. “How’s it going? You guys still have a few days of summer left, what are you doing here?”

  “We wanted to check out the renovations to the private study rooms in the library. They’re dank—Miss McCarthy didn’t scrimp.” Keydon answers.

  “How was your summer?” Min Joon asks. “Did you play with the band?”

  “I did. And it was awesome as always. How about you guys—did you do anything cool?”

  Most teachers have to ride their students’ asses to make sure they do their schoolwork. I have to ride mine to make sure they do something—anything—besides schoolwork. So they have fuller, fleshed-out lives—and so they don’t consider offing themselves if they don’t make valedictorian.

  I joke around, but . . . that’s a genuine concern for my kids. One I take serious as fuck.

  “I took a couple summer classes at Princeton,” Louis says. “Just to keep myself fresh.”

  “O-kay. Did you meet anyone interesting?”

  “The professor was nice. On the last day I gave him a list of strategies that I thought would make him a more effective instructor.”

  “I’m sure he appreciated that.”

  Right before he set the list on fire.

  “I did the YouTube Up All Night challenge,” Min Joon offers. “I was awake for forty-nine hours, thirty-seven minutes. It’s a record.”

  “You gotta sleep, Min. At your age, you grow when you sleep—that’s why you’re so damn short. Sleep, dude, it’s not hard.”

  I look to Keydon. “What about you?”

  “I did a physics program in London with a hologram of Stephen Hawking.”

  “You spent your summer in a basement in England with a computer-generated image of Stephen Hawking for company and you’re happy about it?” I ask.

  He smiles broadly. “It was righteous.”

  I press my thumbs into my eye sockets.

  “I have failed you. Utterly and completely failed you.”

  They laugh—they think I’m being funny.

  “But it’s okay.” I clap my hands, regrouping. “We’ll work on it this year.”

  “Are we gonna go over the summer packet on the first day?” Louis asks excitedly. “It was way hard—I loved it.”

  “Yes.” I breathe out heavily. “We’ll go over the packet on the first day.”

  Louis holds up his hand with his pinky and pointy finger extended and his tongue sticking out—the nerd version of the heavy-metal horns gesture.

  I shake my head. “Don’t do that.”

  Garrett blows the whistle behind me and the team takes the field.

  “I gotta go—get out of here.”

  “Okay—bye, Coach!”

  “Go play a game that’s not Fortnite,” I call after them. “Swim in the lake, talk to a girl—not about school.”

  They wave, nodding—most likely not listening to a damn word I just said.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Rockstetter’s worried about his grades—and Jerry agrees. The kid’s not the brightest bulb in the box. We need to get him a tutor for his real classes and some easy-A electives to build up his confidence. He needs to keep his GPA up so he can play the full season.”

  After practice me, Garrett and Garrett’s wife—Callie formerly known as Carpenter—are hanging out in his office.

  Garrett and Callie were the “it” couple back in high school. If the dictionary had a word for first-love that ended up being true-love, Garrett and Callie’s picture would be right next to it.

  They broke up when she went away to college, then picked up right where they left off when she blew back to town a few years ago. They’re married now and didn’t waste any time on the procreation front. They have an awesome eighteen-month-old son, Will, who thinks I’m the shit and Baby D number two is already on the way.

  Garrett looks up from the papers on his desk. “What do you think, Cal? Can you fit Rockstetter into one of your classes?”

  Callie worked for a theater company in the years she lived in San Diego—and now she’s the theater teacher at Lakeside.

  “What are you saying? That theater isn’t a real class?” She crosses her arms—a classic female warning sign. The equivalent of a dog showing its teeth, right before it bites you on the ass.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “You think it’s an easy A?”

  Garrett hesitates. Like any guy who doesn’t want to lie to his wife, but knows if he tells the truth it could be days before he gets another blow job. Possibly weeks.

  “Maaaaybe?”

  “My class is demanding. It pushes emotional and intellectual boundaries. It gets the kids out of their comfort zone.”

  “Of course it does.” Garrett nods. “But . . .”

  It’s the “but” that gets us in trouble. Every fucking time.

  “. . . they’re just singing and jumping around on a stage. It’s not rocket science.”

  “Tossing a ball around on a field isn’t rocket science either.”

  “Wait, wait, hold up—what do you mean, ‘tossing a ball’?” He puts his hand over his heart, like he’s trying to keep it from breaking. “Is that what you think I do?”

  Callie rolls her eyes. “No, Garrett. I think you are master of gravity and propulsion.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And your arm is a lethal, precise weapon of victory.”

  “Okay, then.” Garrett grins. “Glad we got that straightened out. You had me worried, babe.”

  Callie hops off the desk. “I’ll talk to McCarthy. We can put Rockstetter in my fourth period theater class—but he’s got to do the plays. I always need more guys on stage.”

  I lift my hand. “And I’ll set him up with some nice, patient, tutors.”

  Callie nods, then says to Garrett, “I’m going to head out, pick up Will from your parents and stop at Whole Foods to grab something for dinner.”

  “You shop at Whole Foods?” I ask, grinning.

  “Yeah, all the time.”

  You can tell a lot about a person from where they do their grocery shopping. You got your basic, no-nonsense, working-class grocery-shoppers—teachers, cops, anyone who comes home from wo
rk dirtier than when they left. They stick with ShopRite, Krogers, Acme, maybe a Foodtown. Then you got your Wegmenites and Trader Joe-goers—housewives, yoga-class takers, nannies and their whiney charges. And finally, there’s the Whole Foodies. We’re talking hard-core high-maintenance—the vegans, the gluten-frees, artists, people with life coaches and personal trainers, and apparently . . . the Callies.

  Garrett pinches the bridge of his nose, ’cause he knows he’s about to get ragged on.

  “Do you guys, like, make goo-goo eyes at each other over an organic quinoa avocado salad at the café?” I ask.

  Callie’s brow furrows. “Sometimes. Why?”

  I look down at my best friend. “That’s adorable, D. Why didn’t you tell me you were a Kombucha-man? Now I know what to get you for your birthday.”

  Garrett flips me off.

  “You guys are so weird.” Callie kisses her husband, then sweeps out the door.

  I shake my head at Daniels. “You married a Whole Foodie, dude.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Garrett tilts his head, looking out his office door, staring at his wife’s ass retreating down the hall—wearing the same goofy smile that’s been stuck on his face since the day Callie Carpenter came back into town. “Best damn thing I ever did.”

  ~ ~ ~

  After checking out my classroom to make sure it’s good to go for the first day, I hop in my car and head home—giving a beep to Oliver Munson when I pass him on Main Street. Ollie’s a fixture around Lakeside. He suffered a brain injury as a kid and now spends his days hanging out on his front lawn, waving to cars and passersby. It’s not as sad as it sounds—Ollie’s happy and he’s cool—and the whole town thinks so.

  I pull into the driveway of the Depression-era colonial on 2nd Street that I’ve called home my whole life. It’s old, almost all the houses in Lakeside are old—but I make sure I keep it up—the grass is cut, the roof is solid, and the white paint is clean and unchipped. I walk through the door, toss my keys on the front table—and go completely still.

  Waiting. Listening.

  For the sound of my prowling archnemesis.

  I spot her head peeking around the living room wall—her eyes glowing like two yellow embers, her fur as black as a monster’s soul.

  Lucy—or Lucifer for short—is the only pussy I’ve ever met that didn’t like me.

  Grams found her a couple Octobers ago, and got duped by her meek meows and pitiful purrs. It’s been a War of the Roses between us ever since—with me doing everything I can to keep her away from my shit and her finding new and creative ways to get into my room so she can shred my pillows and piss in my shoes. And any time Grams isn’t looking, she tries to scratch a chunk out of my ass. The only thing she hasn’t messed with yet is the drum set downstairs in the basement I soundproofed myself. She knows that’s a red line for me—she lays one claw on those drums and it’s a one-way ticket straight to the dog park.

  Lucy hisses, baring the double-barrel needles she’s got for teeth.

  And I give her the finger—with both hands.

  “Is that you, Dean?” a papery voice calls from upstairs.

  “Yeah, Grams, I’m home.

  I live with my grandmother—or more, these days, Grams lives with me. She raised me, which wasn’t always an easy thing to do, so I make sure she has it easy now. She’s shrunken and wrinkly—but as feisty as ever.

  I keep one eye on Lucy and head into the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of orange juice.

  “I was just on my way out,” Grams says, shuffling into the kitchen.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “To the senior center to work out.”

  That’s when I notice her black leggings, T-shirt, the Jane Fonda-era leg warmers covering her calves and the tiny, half-pound, hot pink weights clenched in her aged hands.

  “Work out?”

  “Yes. That nice girl from Workout World is coming to show us how to lift some steel.”

  I run my hand across my mouth—because Grams doesn’t appreciate being laughed at. And she may be pushing eighty, but she can still tug on a smartass’s ear like nobody’s business. And that shit hurts.

  “You mean pump iron?”

  “That too.” Her voice changes to a Hanz and Franz accent from the old Saturday Night Live skit, and she strikes a bodybuilder pose. “She’s gonna pump us up!”

  Gram slowly leans over to tie her sneaker, but when it becomes a struggle for her to reach, I crouch down and do it for her.

  “I have to keep my girlish figure,” she explains. “The Widower Anderson has been giving Delilah Peabody the eye.”

  Lakeside has a very active senior center community—there’s drama, cliques, studs, mean-girls—it’s just like high school. But with pacemakers.

  I straighten up. “You tell the Widower Anderson if he breaks your heart, I’ll kick his ass.”

  The Widower Anderson is, like, a hundred years old.

  “Or . . . steal his cane.”

  Gram pats my cheek. “I will, Deany.”

  A horn honks outside.

  “Ooh! That’s the bus.” Gram picks up her weights and hobbles toward the door.

  “I’m going to the store,” I call after her. “Do you need anything?”

  “The list is on the fridge.”

  I move to the fridge to grab the list, and as soon as the sound of the front door closing reaches the kitchen—Lucy comes out of nowhere—launching herself at my leg with a piercing screech I’ll hear in my nightmares.

  But, like I said—I’m quick—so I hop away from the flesh-tearing claws before they can sink into my skin.

  “Not today, Lucifer,” I taunt her from the back door. “Not today.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The Stop & Shop at Lakeside can sometimes feel like a high school reunion. Or an impromptu back to school night. You run into students, parents of students, old classmates.

  Tonight’s pretty quiet though, and I don’t see anyone, until I’m in the checkout line. When a familiar voice comes from behind me.

  “Hey, Jackass.”

  Debbie Christianson and I dated for a month our junior year of high school. She was super into me—until she caught me screwing around at the house party she threw while her parents were out of town. With her best friend. In her room. In her bed.

  Did I say I was a player in high school? There were times when “prick” would be a more accurate description.

  But, you live and learn and grow the hell up.

  And it all worked out—after graduation, Debbie went to Rutgers, the same as me, and we ended up being really good friends. The kind without the benefits.

  “Debs! How’s it going?” We hug, and I wiggle my finger at the blond toddler in Debbie’s arms. “Hey, pretty lady.”

  “Good—we’re good. Wayne got a new job in the city, so I switched to part-time at Gunderson’s so I can have more time home with this one.” She bounces her daughter on her hip. “How about you? You ready for another year at Lakeside? I hear the football team is looking stellar.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “It’s gonna be a good . . .”

  My voice trails off. Because something catches my eye at the customer service counter.

  Someone.

  It’s a woman, one I haven’t seen around town before. Nice legs, great ass, with long, golden spirals that cascade down her back—calling to me—like the ghost of summer’s past.

  My hand literally twitches with the remembered feel of those satiny strands sliding through my fingers. And I take a step toward her—this weird, surging feeling filling up my chest.

  But then she turns to the side. And I see her profile.

  And the surging feeling freezes, cracks, and drops in pieces to the floor.

  Because she’s not who I thought she was. Not who some crazy, ridiculous part of me that I don’t even recognize—was hoping she was.

  Debs looks from me to the chick at the counter and back again.

  “You okay, Dean?”

 
“Yeah.” I shake it off. “Yeah, it was just . . . it was a weird summer. But I’m all good—you know me.”

  “Yeah.” Debbie nods slowly. “I do.”

  In college, Debs used to joke that if I ever fell hard for a girl, it was going to be epic. Like watching one of those giant Redwoods in Washington State getting chopped down at the base. Timber! And she’d hoped she had a front-row seat when it happened.

  The checkout girl gives me the total for the groceries, and I pay and put the bags in my cart. Then I turn back and give Debbie’s shoulder a squeeze.

  “It was good seeing you. Take it easy, okay?”

  “You too, Dean.” She waves her daughter’s hand at me, and the cute little girl grins. “We’ll see you around.”

  I walk out the automatic sliding door, mentally bitch-slapping myself.

  I gotta get this girl out of my head. It was one night. And sure it was a great night, mindblowing—screwing Lainey was like sunshine, and rainbows, and scoring an 80-yard game-winning touchdown—everything fucking is supposed to be.

  But it’s not like I’m going to see her again.

  I need to let it go. I need to get laid. Everybody knows the best way to get the big head straightened out is to get the little head some action—Confucius said something very similar.

  I’ll swing by Chubby’s this weekend—it’s always a lock for a sure thing. Or, I can text Kelly. If her and her husband really are splitting up, hanging out could be just what the doctor ordered for both of us. Just like old times.

  Chapter Three

  Lainey

  August

  Even though it’s taken the contractors two months to make the house suitable for human occupancy, moving day creeps up and arrives fast. Early in the morning, when the sun is just peeking over the horizon, Jason and I drive down the long winding road of Miller Street to the end, and pull into the driveway of what will be our home for the next year.

  The place is about three hundred years old and was boarded up for a few dozen decades. It’s a three-story colonial with a full wraparound porch. The aged red bricks are now covered with cheerful, butter-yellow siding, and the trim and shutters that frame the floor to ceiling windows have been painted in fresh, pristine white. I’m going for a warm and inviting nautical look, to complement the house’s lakeside location.