CHAPTER 2

Dean

August

Most high school kids are good at one thing—sports, art, academics, being a smartass, getting high, the smooth-talking baby-politics bullshit of student government. They figure out whatever their “thing” is and congregate with other students who have the same talent. And then you have a clique.

“Dig, Rockstetter! Tuck your chin—move your feet!”

When I was a student here at Lakeside High School, I was good at a lot of things. I moved through cliques as easily as that X-Men mutant guy

passes through walls.

“Why the hell are you looking behind you?! Keep your eyes on your target! That safety is gonna be right on your ass, you don’t have to look back to check!”

I played the drums, taught myself when I was seven, so I was cool with the grunge crowd, the druggies, the band geeks and theater freaks.

“Left, Jackowitz! Your other left! The play is Blue 22—you go left!

Run it again.”

I had a good face, an athletic build. I’d discovered early that sex was awesome, so not only had God gifted me with an above-average sized dick

—I knew what to do with it. That put me in good with the pretties, the popular kids, and especially the cheerleaders.

“Where’s my offensive line? That’s not a line—you’re like Swiss cheese!”

I had great hands and quick feet—I could catch anything. That fact didn’t just make me a football player, a wide receiver—around here, it

made me a star. Anyone who tells you growing up a football God in a small town isn’t fuck-all awesome is either clueless or lying to you. It’s like that

expression “money can’t buy happiness”—it’s entirely possible that it can’t

—but it sure as shit makes being happy a hell of a lot easier.

“Nice, that’s how it’s done, Lucas. Good job.” Garrett Daniels—head coach of the Lakeside Lions, and my best friend, claps his hands. Then he calls downfield to the rest of the team. “All right, let’s go! Bring it in!”

Garrett got sucked in by the teaching tick after his NFL quarterback prospects were shattered in a college game—along with his knee. He mourned the loss, then brushed himself off and came up with a new life plan. In addition to being able to coach the best sport ever, he gets a real

kick out of teaching—from making history come alive for his students. His words, not mine.

“Twenty-minute break,” Daniels tells the sweating gaggle of teenage

boys that huddle around us. “Hydrate, get some shade, then we’ll run drills for another hour and call it a day.”

It was different for me. I had no illusions about being a Stand and

Deliver, Dead Poets Society-esque, Mr. Keating shaper of young minds— that’s not my style. But the pay is decent, the benefits are good, and the

hours are a cakewalk. The summers off allow me to tour with the band I’ve been playing drums in since I was a kid, and being the football team’s

offensive coordinator lets me enjoy the smell of the grass and the feel of the pigskin in my hands. There’s no downside.

Teaching lets me live life exactly how I want—uncomplicated, easy. I like easy. Sue me.

“You just get back today?” Jerry Dorfman, former jarhead, current

guidance counselor and defensive assistant coach asks me, as the players stream off toward the water cooler.

“Last night.”

I tour the Jersey shore with Amber Sound from June til August, slipping back into town just in time for preseason practice.

“So . . . how was it?” Jerry nudges me with his elbow. “Good. It was a good summer.”

“Don’t give me good—give me details. I’m married now. I have to get laid vicariously through you.”

Don’t let him fool you—Jerry wasn’t getting laid before he was married, either.

Last spring he tied the knot with Donna Merkle, Lakeside’s megafeminist art teacher. And, I’m saying this as a guy—when he’s not on

the clock or dealing with a kid—Jerry’s a pig. The whole faculty and student body are still pondering the mystery of how the two of them happened.

“What’s the matter—Merkle holding out on you?” I ask.

“Hell no.” He runs his hand down his “Dad-bod”. “My wife can’t resist this fine piece of male specimen. But . . . there’s no harm in hearing about your adventures in punani-land.”

Punani-land? And the guy wonders why he’s not getting any.

“Yeah, Coach.” Mark Adams, the fresh-faced team trainer and newbie gym teacher, agrees. “When I went here, we all knew you got more ass than a toilet seat.” He makes the Wayne’s World “we’re not worthy” gesture. “Teach me your mighty player ways.”

I’m not that much of a player. Not anymore.

Back in high school, in my twenties—sure—that was another story.

These days, I’m all about keeping it straightforward, casual, good. I think friends with benefits is the greatest invention of the twenty-first century. I don’t lie or do headgames, and I don’t do relationships—there’s nothing easy about them.

But that’s the thing about small towns—who you used to be sticks forever—even if you’re not really that person anymore. Although there are worse things to be than the town player. And, I don’t want to disappoint the fans.

So, I smirk. “Well, there was this one girl.”

Jerry rubs his hands together and Adams pumps his fist. Garrett’s there too, but he stopped giving a damn about my sex life decades ago.

“Was she hot?”

My eyes roll closed in awe. “Smokin’ hot.”

With endless legs that felt incredible squeezing my waist, a pussy that tasted as sweet as cotton-fucking-candy, silky honey-gold hair that looked real pretty wrapped around my hand, and these big, innocent, sparkling hazel eyes that could rip your heart out.

And her laugh . . . it was long and light—the kind of sound that pulls you in, makes you want to laugh with her.

Lainey.

Last name—unknown. Number—unknown.

With that thought comes the sharp kick of frustration that nails me right in the gut. Because if I’d been more than half awake, or sober, I would’ve asked for her number.

Goddamn it.

Typically, in the summers one bite of the apple is enough for me— there’s a lot of fruit on the trees. But I definitely would’ve gone back for another taste of her.

“Was she a freak in the sheets?” Adams asks.

“I bet she was a deep-throater,” Jerry adds. “Nothing’s more glorious than a woman without a gag reflex.”

And it’s weird. Normally I don’t have a problem with Jerry and Adams talking like two pervy asshats, but hearing them direct this shit at Lainey

seems all kinds of wrong.

There was something about her—a sweetness, a charm . . .

“I never do this, Dean. Ever.”

. . . that makes me feel protective. Proprietary.

“We had a good time.” I shrug, blowing it off. “Like I said—it was a good summer.”

Jerry and Adams open their mouths to argue, but I swiftly cut them off with a stern, “Enough.”

Just then, the dark-haired captain of the cheerleading squad—Ashley Something—jogs up to Garrett, who’s been ignoring the whole exchange.

“Coach D, can we use the field to practice our half-time routine while the team’s on break?”

“Sure.” Garrett checks his stopwatch. “We’ve got about ten minutes left.”

“Thanks!”

Ashley bounces away and a few seconds later, a flock of cheerleaders take the field in a square formation, decked out in blue-and-gold uniforms.

Teenagers today have a thing for the 80s aesthetic. The style, the music

—thank God, not the hair. My theory is they subconsciously long for the old-fashioned days they’ve heard their parents talk about—before

electronics and social media ruled the world.

“Mickey” by Toni Basil pounds out of the field speakers. And the cheerleading squad starts to dance.

But . . . there’s nothing old-fashioned about it.

There’s some hip shaking, a little skirt flipping . . . then things get weird. When they start sucking their fingers into their mouths, turning around and smacking their own asses—then smacking each other’s asses— swirling their hips and kicking their legs like they had a high-paid pole dancer for a choreographer.

“I’m uncomfortable with this,” Jerry says in a stunned voice. “Is anyone else uncomfortable with this?”

I raise my hand.

Garrett—whose wife’s fifteen-year-old niece is one of the cheerleaders shaking their shit out on the field—raises his hand higher.

Young Adams looks conflicted.

Because when male teachers have reached a certain age you look at your female students sort of like you’d look at your sister. On a basic level, you recognize that they’re hot—young, pretty, perky in all the right places

—but they don’t turn you on. You’re not attracted to them.

Because they’re kids.

It doesn’t matter if they’re technically eighteen, or if they pass around nudes like goddamn baseball cards . . . they’re still naïve, clueless kids. All of them.

In some ways, these kids are more kids than we ever were.

In one synchronized move—the cheerleaders strip off their sweaters— leaving them only in tiny skirts and gold bikini tops, with the word “Score” written across their chests in big blue letters.

“Whoa!”

“Jesus!”

“Where the hell is McCarthy?” Garrett looks around. “No way she’s gonna let this slide.”

No sooner does he say her name than she does appear—like the devil.

Michelle McCarthy has been the principal at Lakeside High School for forever. She hates me—I’m pretty sure she hates all of us. When I was a student I thought her high-strung frustration was entertaining—but now, as an adult—I think she’s a goddamn riot.

Miss McCarthy marches out onto the field, waving her arms, her pudgy cheeks ripe tomato-red, and her meek, hunched assistant, Mrs.

Cockaburrow, following behind her like a docile indentured servant. “No—no—shut it down! Shut. It. Down!”

The music cuts off and the cheerleaders look crestfallen.

“There is no stripping on the football field!” McCarthy declares. “Where’s Ms. Simmons?”

Kelly Simmons is the special-ed teacher and cheerleading advisor. Back in high school, she and I used to bang each other’s brains out—in-between relationships with other people, and sometimes during those relationships.

She was the hottest girl in school and kind of a bitch. Now she’s the hottest teacher in school, and still kind of a bitch.

“She’s in the parking lot with her husband,” one of the cheerleaders volunteers. “I think they’re having, like, marital issues.”

McCarthy’s finger swings like an axe in the air. “Regardless—you’re not doing that routine on the field. Clothes stay on. You’re students, not strippers!”

Ashley stomps her foot. “Strippers are people too, Miss McCarthy.” “Not in high school, they’re not!”

Lucas Bowing, our starting quarterback walks up next to me. “I don’t see what the problem is. I think they looked good.”

Beside him, sophomore defensive end Noah Long stares hypnotized at the bikini-topped girls. “Yeah. Mickey is F-I-N-E, fiiine.”

Then they both start dancing, and grunting, and swinging their hands as if their tapping imaginary asses.

“For God’s sake, stop twerking,” I order. “Badly—I might add. You’re supposed to be hydrating, go drink some frigging Gatorade.”

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 work 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.