Getting Played (Getting Some 2)

Quick as lightning, Merkle pinches Jerry’s nipple until his eyes water. Then she turns back to me.

“Have you considered that maybe a string of random hookups isn’t doing it for you anymore? That just maybe you’re ready for something a little deeper, a little more meaningful at this stage in your life?”

I drain the rest of my beer, because analyzing this is hard. And boy, do I miss easy.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“We are getting old,” Kelly says. “I mean, I could still pass for one of the students, but the rest of you . . . the years have not been kind. Just sayin’.”

“I saw Mr. Wendall at the post office the other day,” Alison says, shaking her head. “And I realized I’m older now than he was when he taught us. And back then—he seemed really frigging old.” She leans forward, whispering like the kid from the Sixth Sense, “We’re gonna be dead soon.”

Jesus Christ. Why do I hang out with these people?

I’m about to slam my head on the table, hoping to knock myself out, when Evan suggests, “Or she could be your prairie vole.”

“My what?”

“Prairie voles—a Midwestern rodent that looks like a hamster. The first time they go into heat, there’s a frantic rush to copulate with as many different partners as possible, as they search for their mate. When they find them, a sort of biological bonding takes place—and from then on they’re monogamous, coupled for life. If something happens to their mate, they’re celibate—they never have sex again.”

Now I’m picturing bald, horny little hamsters scurrying around in monk’s robes.

It’s disturbing.

“Thanks, Evan, that makes me feel so much better.” I point around the table. “Remind me to cut my tongue out before I share with any of you ever again.”

Mark brings a tray of shots to the table. If you can’t get laid, you might as well get wasted—it’s the next best thing. I pick up a shot and tap everyone’s glass for good luck. Because God knows, I need it.

“Bottoms up.”

Chapter Seven

Dean

November

Most high school teachers get off easy at November parent-teacher conference night. By the time the average student reaches adolescence, they’re basically self-sufficient when it comes to school work, and their parents are healthily disinterested.

This is not the case with my students.

For me, parent-teacher conferences are like a night of bad speed dating. Each parent gets five minutes—I learned my first year of teaching to set a timer. If not, the queue in the hallway devolves into chaos, because every parent, if allowed, will spend the whole damn night telling me about their kid—their allergies, their night-terrors, the spelling bee they dominated in eighth grade. Or, I’ll get a lecture on how to better instruct their brilliant future Nobel Prize recipient.

My kids are high-strung about their grades—and those apples fell close as fuck to the trees.

“I don’t understand, Coach Walker. Last year Martin was doing two hours of calculus homework, but this semester he’s only been doing one.”

Mrs. Smegal—Martin Smegal’s mother—is a single mom with a harsh North Jersey accent and a perpetually frowning face.

“He needs to be challenged. He needs to be broken. He needs to be home on the weekends studying because he’s terrified of ruining his life by getting anything less than straight A’s.”

Oh Martin . . . you poor bastard.

I turn on the smile, and the charm.

“I assure you Martin’s working very hard. And while we did spend the beginning of the semester reviewing earlier material, the coursework will absolutely be more challenging from here on out.” I gesture to Martin’s tests and classwork portfolio. “He’s the best student in the class, Mrs. Smegal—you should be very proud.”

I give “the best student in the class” line to all the parents. In part because it’s true—each of my kids rock in their own way—but mostly, it’s to get their parents off their asses.

“Oh. Good.” Mrs. Smegal nods. Then she wriggles a finger at me. “Let’s just make sure he stays the best. No slacking.”

“No, ma’am. You can rest easy. I’ll keep an eye on Martin.”

And finally she smiles—stiff and awkward, like someone who doesn’t do it very often—but still it’s a smile. It’s a win.

The sweet sound of the timer goes off. After Mrs. Smegal’s out the door, I check my list to see who’s up next.

Burrows. Jason Burrows’s mom.

Huh—and she’s late. That’s new for me.

I start the timer anyway, to stay on schedule, and wonder if I’m going to have my first no-show.

But then a voice comes from the door. It’s soft, hesitant . . . and heart-grippingly familiar.

“Coach Walker?”

I spin around.

And it’s her. It’s Lainey. Standing in my classroom, peering those long-lashed, jeweled eyes at me. It’s not a mistake, not my imagination—the woman I’ve been thinking about for months, the woman I’ve jerked off to more times than I will ever admit out loud, the woman who made me come so hard over the summer, I temporarily went blind—is right fucking there.