Lauren Takes Leave Page 3

  Naturally.

  “Come in!” I say with fake enthusiasm, pulling the door open and making a sweeping gesture with my hands.

  Martha’s neat hair is brown and her small eyes are brown and her fuddy-duddy clothes are brown, and I can’t for the life of me determine how old she is. Fifty-five? Seventy-one? A hundred and forty-three?

  She enters my classroom stiffly and does a lap around the perimeter, like a general surveying his conquered territory after battle. I see the disorganized space from her point of view and cringe inwardly. My classroom is a safe haven for abandoned items that never make their way to the lost-and-found box at the end of the hallway. Currently, I am providing shelter for a homeless sweatshirt, soccer cleats, a football, and several textbooks from other classes. There is a pile of newspapers in the right hand corner; glue sticks and scissors are scattered on desks.

  “We’re just wrapping up our journalism unit,” I say, by way of explanation. I pick up some loose feathers and tuck them into my pants pockets. She wouldn’t understand.

  Martha turns and studies me, left eye twitching.

  “So…?” I begin, as a way of politely asking, What the hell are you doing in here, when I could be having a cup of coffee with Kat and chatting away my free period before heading off to the courthouse for the rest of my awful day?

  “You don’t seem ill,” she states flatly.

  “That’s because I’m not,” I counter.

  “Then we have a serious problem here, Mrs. Worthing.”

  “Martha, call me Lauren, please.” I say this every time we’ve spoken since she first arrived at our school five years ago. I think she does it so that I’ll call her Mrs. Carrington.

  You see how well that’s working.

  She crosses the room to my desk and begins typing furiously at the keypad of my computer, logging me out and logging herself in without asking my permission. Then she actually sits down in my desk chair. I stand awkwardly at her side, looking on. Her beady little rodent eyes meet mine. “My records tell me that you have been absent from school nine times this year.”

  “Nine times?” I ask, with actual surprise. I thought it was more like six.

  “Yes, Mrs. Worthing—Lauren—nine times.”

  Indeed, the blue screen staring back at me does reflect that information. “Wow. I guess I really have been sick this year.” I pull up a chair and sit across from my own desk.

  “I guess,” Martha intones, trying to match my vernacular. I feel like throwing in some “yo’s” and “whatev’s” just to hear her repeat them back to me.

  The thought makes me stifle a chuckle, but it still doesn’t explain why she’s visiting me in my classroom, or why she seems to be upset with me. Again. Thinking back to our last meeting, I tuck my clammy palms under my thighs to keep my hands from wanting to strangle her.

  “Yet this morning’s notes from my secretary show that you have called for a substitute for later this morning.”

  “Oh!” I say, understanding now. “Did she not show up?” I ask. “I need her here by nine thirty.”

  “The substitute is not the problem.” Here she stops, seems to consider what to say, like plotting her next move in a game of Battleship. She tilts her head and raises a finger to the side of her face, stroking a grotesquely large mole just under her right ear. I try to stay focused on her eyes, but she doesn’t make it easy. “The problem is…where are you going?” Her voice deepens as she leans across my desk and enunciates clearly. “Ten absences is your legal maximum as stated in the bylaws of the latest contract, and today will be your tenth unexcused absence for the year. It is only April, and I fear…” I let her go on for a while, thinking of the way her inner computer wires are probably getting all crossed and creating sparks that are shocking her ankles.

  I love to think of her spontaneously combusting.

  Only then do I speak. “But Martha, this is not an unexcused absence.”

  There is momentary silence. “But why ever not, Mrs. Worthing? Lauren.”

  I try not to smile. “Because I’ve been called for jury duty!” It’s the first time I’ve been able to admit this with actual enthusiasm.

  “Oh!” Her tone changes immediately. The American flag in the left corner of the classroom seems to wave at me. I imagine that a fastidious, rule-loving person like her is all about public service to one’s country. She leans back in my chair, pleasant now, good cop and bad cop all wrapped up in one suburban middle school principal. “I didn’t realize.”

  Milking it for all it’s worth, I smile coldly and say, “No, it seems you did not.” Ha, ha, take that! Ka-pow! Right back atcha!

  I stand, willing this to be over. Maybe I can make it down to Kat’s classroom after all.

  Martha shoots me a look. “We’re not finished here, Mrs. Worthing. Lauren.”

  Immediately, I sit. Heel, good doggie. I return to staring at the tiny pulsating blue vein next to her eye.

  “As I mentioned to you in our last meeting, you are, in general, a disappointment to me.”

  This registers in my stomach before it hits my brain. I lean forward just enough to cover my belly from any more blows.

  “Have you nothing to say to that?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Typical,” she responds, clearly offended.

  “Typical what?” I ask. Blonde? English teacher? Frazzled mother?

  Actually, now that I’ve asked it, I’m not sure I want to hear her answer. I just want to get out of this classroom, much like Martin must have felt a few minutes ago under my gaze.

  “Mrs.…Lauren,” she begins, tapping my hot-pink highlighter against the linoleum desktop. “You need to be clear when you are calling for a substitute. You had me quite distraught for nothing! I wasted seventeen minutes of time on you this morning, all because of your lack of precision. Plus, do you think I haven’t noticed how your performance has dropped off in recent months? You arrive just moments before homeroom and leave just moments after dismissal. I notice. I see. You refuse to serve on the committee for children with—what’s it called…”

  “Differentiated Learning?”

  “No, no that one…”

  “Allergies and Asthma?”

  “No, no, no…”

  “Same-Sex Parenting?”

  “We decided against that committee…”

  Although, now that I’m mentioning them, I realize how many opportunities I have turned down this year.

  And then she remembers. “Homework Aversion Disorder!”

  “That’s a thing?”

  “Yes, and you reneged at the last moment! You never signed the paperwork. The committee folded because of your irresponsibility.”

  “That wasn’t me!” I say, truly concerned. “I’ve never even heard of such a committee.”

  “You gave me a verbal commitment, Mrs. Lauren. And then you missed the meeting and never filed the forms.”

  Wouldn’t I remember giving her such a promise?

  It’s gaslighting, I’m telling you. She makes me think that I’m crazy, remaining calm as I come undone.

  “That’s not true—” I begin, but she silences me with her palm.

  “The point is…” Here she stands, stretching her long torso across my desk to get as close to me as she possibly can. “I. Am. Watching. You.”

  “O…kay,” I say. I’ve never in my life hit someone, but right now, I wonder what it would feel like if my fist made contact with her aquiline nose. Better to do that than to burst into tears.

  “Which is why I’ve decided to be your substitute teacher for the day.” Martha tilts her head upward, the steadiness of her chin challenging me to disagree.

  “Excellent,” I choke out. “Let me just grab a few things before I go.”

  I quickly take the hastily written lesson plan and stick it inside a folder of essays that I clutch to my chest. Then I speed walk my way the hell out of there.

  Martha’s so confid
ent, I’m sure she’ll think of a brilliant assignment with which to fill the time.

  In fact, wouldn’t it be fun to get placed on a really long court case just to spite her? Okay, fine. I’ll take that back. I’m desperate, but I’m not delusional.

  I call Kat’s classroom from my cell phone as I’m getting into my car. I can instantly tell that her kindergarteners are within earshot.

  “Where the truck are you?” She never says hello like a normal person. “You bailed on coffee talk time.”

  “You cannot even imagine my morning,” I say. “Look out your window and wave. I’m in the VP’s spot.”

  Five seconds later, a wrist loaded up with silver bangles emerges from a window on the second floor. Instead of waving, she points her middle finger at me.

  When she’s back on the line, I say, “Classy.”

  “Why are you getting here so late?” Kat asks.

  “Nah, Kitty-Kat, I’m just leaving.” I put her on speakerphone and explain as I drive through the suburban, tree-lined streets of Hadley and into the city of Alden, where the county courthouse is located. “And the kicker is, Martha’s my sub.”

  “Love it!” She laughs. “I’m gonna have my students call over there all day and keep hanging up when she answers.”

  “Kat,” I say. “I thought we talked about prank calls.”

  “What? Someone has to teach these vital lessons to the younger generation. In the age of the Internet, phony phone calls are going to get lost, unless, of course, I work my tass off to keep the ancient art alive.”

  “Whatever,” I say. “At least you’ll be having fun today.”

  “Whaddaya mean? Jury duty’s the best!” There is a muffled sound on the line, and then I hear Kat talking to a student. “Lexie, stop pinching Jane or else I’m going to have to pinch you so you know what it feels like and, therefore, develop empathy.”

  “Kat,” I chastise.

  “Empathy is this year’s district imperative,” she explains, back on the line.

  “Not what the Hadley School Board meant.”

  “Live it up today, Lauren. I’m telling you, JD is the bomb. I went over to the courthouse last month to volunteer for service, after a particularly rough day in the sandbox. I was like, what could be better than a few quiet, contemplative days in a municipal courtroom? Anything is better than kindergarten. Only, they didn’t want me.”

  “Imagine that.” I navigate my way through the downtown streets and turn into the parking lot for the courthouse. “Tragic.”

  “Speaking of which, I really need to talk to you. Can you swing by on your way home? I’ll be here late, filling out report cards.”

  “Will do, Kitty-Kat,” I say, slamming the door to my minivan and pressing the lock button on the remote. “Over and out.”

  With only five minutes to spare before my summons blows up in my hand, or whatever, I hightail it across the street, cursing the fact that I didn’t have enough quarters to feed the meter for more than two hours.

  Inside the front entrance, I follow the snaking line of visitors through the metal detectors.

  “No cell phones, Kindles, iPads, laptops or other electronic devices allowed inside the courthouse,” a security guard drones. He must say the same thing a hundred times a morning. Then I realize what it is that he’s actually saying.

  “You’re kidding me!” This catches the attention of the people directly ahead of and behind me. “I can’t have my cell phone? Not even on vibrate? Like, at all?”

  “Best thing to do is take it back to your car,” a man in a suit and tie says, nodding sympathetically. “They can hold it for you here, but I’m not sure I’d trust them.”

  What are they gonna do, play with my Barbie Dress Up app all day? I want to ask, but I am too busy running back across the busy street in my own game of Frogger, my giant shoulder bag banging against my hip.

  Total hassle.

  Two minutes and forty-three seconds later, I skid back across the polished marble, phoneless. The suit is now at the front of the line; he catches my eye and waves at me to join him.

  “Thanks,” I pant, pushing some hair out of my eyes.

  “Have a great day.” He winks. “And relax. You look guilty of something.”

  I manage a half smile and look around for directions. A sign marked Jury Duty points me down a corridor and into a waiting room.

  “Summons, please,” a bailiff requests, hand outstretched. He yawns.

  I tear off the top portion of the paperwork and hand it over to him.

  “Now just have a seat and wait. You may be called today, you may not.”

  “Really? Because I was kind of hoping…”

  “To get it over with today, I know,” he says.

  “To get some change for the meter, actually, so that I don’t get a ticket and wind up back in court!”

  He shrugs, letting me know how deeply unmoved he is by both my pressing need for quarters and my sad attempt at irony.

  I enter a rather large lecture hall, like the kind of place where college Psych 101 would meet. It’s all blond wood and modern in feel. The open, airy quality is not what I was expecting from a county courthouse. I select a spot in the very front section of the room to seem more eager for service and, therefore, less likely to get picked for it. I expect to get some direction from a judge, but none is forthcoming. So I reach into my bag and start chipping away at the paperwork.

  During the first hour I grade an entire class set of ridiculously depressing essays, rife with grammatical inventions, and write out checks, including an overdue payment for our electricity. For the first time in a long time, I feel productive, ahead of the game. The room has a soft hum about it as people go about their work. It’s calm and silent, buzzing with thought like a library.

  I stand and stretch, taking a look around. About fifty people are scattered around the room, heads bent over books and notebooks. Not having cell phones and computers inside the courthouse has a curious effect on us all. Without the ringing, beeping, and pulsing of an immediate connection to the outside world, it’s almost as if there is no outside world at all. Real time is suspended.

  I have nothing I have to do, nowhere I have to be, nothing I have to worry about. I am unreachable, unfindable.

  I kind of love it.

  I dig in my faux-leather school bag, remembering the chick-lit paperback I’ve been carrying around with me for the past few months. Good thing I don’t own a Kindle or I’d be staring at the ceiling tiles right about now. Finding my place in the story, I settle back into my seat and disappear. The next time I check my watch, another forty-five minutes have flown by.

  That’s when it hits me: Kat may have a point about jury duty.

  This may just be the best day of my entire life.

  Chapter 3

  It’s just so quiet here. Like a spa. Or an ashram. Too bad they don’t serve organic unsweetened teas and let us walk around in terrycloth robes and slippers.

  A worrisome thought pops into my head about ten minutes later, as I’m finishing another chapter of this awesome book about absolutely nothing. What if this is it? What if I get excused later on and I have to go back to school tomorrow?

  That can’t happen. It just cannot.

  I must find a way to stay here, in this tranquil place, with all these peaceful people, and hide from real life for as long as is humanly possible.

  The truth—absurd as it may be—is this: I need to get placed on a jury. I want to get picked for a jury.

  A baritone voice breaks my trance. “Jurors 203 and 204, and all jury summons numbers 211 to 221. Please come to the front and enter the juror waiting room to my left,” the judge says, pointing with his gavel.

  My heart is beating fast with anticipation. I want to jump up quickly, but now I have to think of appearances in the opposite way that I had previously. Take your time, Lauren, look like this is the last place you want to be. I catch one woman looking my way and roll my eyes at her, like, ain’t it a bitc
h?

  But, really, I’m like, juror waiting room, hooray! That’s one step closer to reaching my new goal. I’ve made it to the next round! Feeling a bit jittery, I collect my belongings (slowly) and follow people out.

  The juror selection process is kind of like being a contestant on American Idol, only without any talent other than being American.

  The waiting room is aptly named, with lots of seating and several clocks. I grab a chair around one of the circular tables and smile to a woman across from me. Then I open my book and scan the first page again: Three women step off a plane. It sounded like the start of a joke. A guy named Josh watches this scene unfold at the airport, thinking it might be a nice way to start a short story. Please, Elin Hilderbrand, take me with you to Nantucket, I beg. Conjuring up the smell of hydrangeas in July, I find my place on the bottom of page seventy-six.

  Two pages later, a different bailiff enters the room and clears his throat. “Will those people just called from the jury selection room please follow me.”

  “Where are we goin’?” some guy calls out from the back.

  “Voir dire,” he announces. “Room 704. Please stay together as we approach the elevator banks.”

  “I cannot believe this,” a woman complains as we step onto the elevator together. “Just my luck. You ever get one of those feelings, like something is supposed to happen? No matter what?” she asks me, running her hands through her cropped blond hair. “As soon as I got the summons, I just knew I’d get picked.” She shakes her head slowly back and forth, almost talking to herself. “I just knew it, goddammit.”

  “Me, too!” I say, framing in a new light the magical moment this morning as the bus pulled away from the curb and the blue envelope floated toward me. She looks at me questioningly. “I mean, me, too. Goddammit.”

  “I have so much to do at work,” a young guy in a suit pipes in. “I just started this job and can’t afford to be out.”

  “Take it up with the judge,” comes a monotone response from the bailiff, staring up at the lit numbers. He must hear this kind of babble all the time.