Getting Played (Getting Some 2)

“Good for you.”

Kasey was always smart. Bubbly. That doesn’t seem to have changed.

“It’s so good to see you. God, you look exactly the same!” She leans forward and puts her hand on my arm. “You know, we all had the biggest crush on you back in the day.”

It happens. When you’re a good-looking, naturally charming teacher, student crushes come with the territory. I typically ignore them, but if things get out of hand I go with the kind but firm, “I’m your teacher and it’s never going to happen” speech. Kasey hid her crush well.

“No kidding?”

“Yeah. The more things change, the more they stay the same.” She wraps her lips meaningfully around the straw in her glass. “Are you married? Seeing anyone?”

“Nope. Still swinging single.”

Her smile grows wider. “You want to get out of here? Go somewhere to get . . . reacquainted? Now that we’re both adults?”

Even if my libido wasn’t a barren wasteland, since Kasey was once my student, in my mind she’ll always be my student—which means she’ll never, ever, be hookup material.

I jerk a thumb over my shoulder and let her down gently. “I’m here with some people. But it was great seeing you, Kasey—I wish you the best in everything you do. Take care, sweetheart.”

Her eyes dim with a hit of disappointment, but she recovers and the smile bounces back.

“I will. You too, Coach Walker.”

As I drag my sorry ass back to the table, Toby Keith is singing from the jukebox about a dream walking one-night stand that he can’t forget.

I feel you, Toby.

When I sit down, my coworkers’ eyes dissect me like a frog in Bio 101.

We’re teachers. This is what we do—read emotions and analyze behavior. If a kid’s on the verge of doing something epically stupid, like pulling the fire alarm or releasing snakes in the girl’s locker room—which actually happened once, because seniors have way too much time on their hands—a good teacher will feel something off in their gut before it happens.

And every person at this table is a good teacher.

Alison cleans the lenses of her bright, yellow framed glasses then pops the question.

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

Merkle leans forward, her wiry red hair spilling over her shoulder. “No, something is definitely up with you—I can smell it. It’s the stench of old cheese and desperation.”

I lift my beer. “Thanks, Donna.”

Kelly points toward the crowded bar. “There are plenty of prospects here tonight. If you’re so desperate, get out there and turn on your famous charm.”

I scrub a hand down my face.

“I think I’m having an existential crisis. Is that a thing or just an excuse pussies use when they’re having a bad day?”

“Definitely a thing.” Alison does a little jiggle in her chair. “I love crises—what’s yours?”

Ah, what the hell—I might as well tell them—it’s not like things could get any worse.

I blow out a breath. “Okay. Over the summer, I hooked up with this girl and she was like . . .”

I search my mind for an adequate way to convey all that Lainey was, in a way they’ll understand. My voice goes wispy with awe.

“. . . a Hot Dog Johnny’s hot dog, with everything on it.”

Jerry hums with appreciation, nodding. So does Alison, Kelly, and Mark—they get it.

Donna and Evan don’t—they didn’t graduate from Lakeside.

“What does that mean?” Evan asks.

“Hot Dog Johnny’s is this shabby miracle of a hot dog stand upstate,” Jerry tells him.

“In high school, a bunch of us would go camping in the summer,” Kelly explains. “We’d stop by Hot Dog Johnny’s every time.”

“And once you have a Johnny, there’s no going back,” Mark says.

“They also had great buttermilk,” Alison adds.

Kelly rolls her blue eyes. “You’re the only one who ever liked the buttermilk, Alison. Cause you’re a freak. Who mixes buttermilk with hot dogs?”

Alison is unbothered.

“It was really good buttermilk.”

“Anyway,” I sigh. “Since her, all other women are just—” I grimace “—plain old hot dogs. I don’t have an appetite for any of them.”

Kelly snickers, cause that’s her way. “Player Dean has an unrequited crush? We are witnessing karma in action, people.”

“I think she ruined me,” I lament. “I think I’m broken.”

A hushed sympathy falls over the table—a moment of silence for the loss of my sex drive.

Until Merkle’s harsh voice shatters the quiet.

“You are such a dick.”

“I’m baring my soul over here!”

“Well your soul is a dick then, too. Listen to yourself. You’re comparing women to fucking hot dogs, Dean.”

“It’s a compliment!” I argue. “I’m saying she’s the best hot dog I ever tasted.”

“Yes—and now all other women are just lips and assholes.”

My mouth snaps shut for a moment.

“Okay . . . when you put it like that, it does sound kind of dickish.”

“That’s why I married her. My baby’s smart as hell.” Jerry puts his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “And she gives great head.”