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“I’ve got too much going on anyway—with the move and the show and all.”
“That’s true.”
Erin goes to the counter and starts to make her own cup of tea. “Hey—where’s the house you and Jay are moving to again?”
Like I said before, life can be bitchy and she’s never boring. Every once in a while—she also has a wicked sense of humor.
“It’s a small town, south of here.” I blow on the steam wafting from my teacup. “It’s called Lakeside.”
Chapter Two
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.”
