Getting Played (Getting Some 2)

~ ~ ~

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.