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accepted his offer of employment. In a few days I would start my new life as a high school teacher teaching acting and speech classes, as well as overseeing the Theatre Arts Club.
    Bammy had warned me to not throw “the gay thing,” as she called it, in his face. After so many years in New York, I refused to be closeted, but the topic never came up, and I didn’t wave my rainbow flag. We have a very simple way of dealing with the subject of sexuality in the South. Basically, we don’t deal with it at all.
    We don’t talk about it to our parents. We don’t bring it up in church. We don’t discuss it with our school counselors or elders. Honesty, we don’t even really talk about it with our friends. And gay men never discuss it with their wives. Yes, you heard me right. Their wives. Southern men are expected to get married and have kids and attend church and be good, upstanding citizens, even if that means hiding the fact that you’d prefer to be Jim and Edward, rather than Jim and Edna. There were the occasional whispers and gossip. Of course we knew so-and-so preferred the company of men, but nary a word was spoken out loud, or anywhere where they could hear it, at least. It just wasn’t polite.
    “Let me give you a tour,” said Bammy, leading me from the office. “Not that anything has really changed, but I’ll show you the teachers’ lounge and the private bathroom. Oh! And we have a new coffee machine. Exciting, isn’t it? Not as good as your fancy New York espresso bars, but we take what we can get, right?” She pulled my hand and led the waythrough the halls, full of super jocks and models in expensive outfits, with the occasional academic overachiever trying to hide among the masses. Things hadn’t changed that much, actually. In fact, my heart was pounding as if nothing had changed at all.
    That’s when I saw him, walking straight towards us. And suddenly, I could feel my sweat glands shooting jets of water under my arms, like a magical fountain in Las Vegas at midnight. But without the colored lights. At least, I hoped.
    Luke Walcott. He had gone to school with Bammy and me. Captain of the football team. Captain of the track team. Captain of the swim team. Homecoming King, three years in a row.
    Luke Walcott. Dirty blond hair, 6’2’’, blue eyes, and rugged jaw. A freakin’ walking GI Joe. Voted Most Athletic, Most Popular, and Best Looking guy of my high school class.
    Luke. The ultimate dream man of every female student in school, and a few of the guys, too.
    Fucking Luke. I hated him.
    “Derek, do you remember Luke Walcott?” Bammy asked me. “Luke, I’m not sure you remember Derek Walter. Derek is joining us as our new theatre teacher, replacing Miss B. Luke is our head coach for football and track.” And she just stood there, smiling.
    Did I remember Luke Walcott? Is she fucking kidding me?! Bammy, how have you suddenly forgotten entire chunks of our friendship? Has the vodka finally eaten your brain? Ah, yes. That’s right. I’ve been out of the game too long. We’re being “Southern.” We are ignoring the unfortunate moments in our youth that make it uncomfortable when meeting again asadults. I had completely forgotten some of these games. It was high time I brought myself up to speed.
    Well, yes Bammy, I do remember Luke Walcott. Unfortunately. How could I forget? He terrorized me, ever since he transferred here in eighth grade from Savannah. I remember the day he arrived as the new kid in class. Always the same. They start off nice, charming, and friendly to everyone. Making their way through the herd, calculating the best path to super stardom. Popularity is everything when you are twelve. Within a week, he was in with the jocks and cheerleaders. After a month, he was their king. By the time we were in high school, he was the supreme leader over everyone athletic and good-looking. One approving nod from him and you were golden. A smirk? You were toast.
    And me?
Best. Toast.