Lauren Takes Leave (4 page)

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 confident, 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.

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 t
o 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 bitch?

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.

“I did,” the suit replies, sounding defeated.

“Well, maybe you won’t be right for the case,” I add.