Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(10)

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 na?ve, 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.”