Lauren Takes Leave (16 page)

“What, this?” she says, motioning to her hand. “It’s just
a pen. It’s not devil worship or anything.”

“But…!” I launch into my story of the complete and utter
fear I have had of red pen usage in United States classrooms for the past
decade and a half. “I don’t even let the school secretaries order them from
Staples anymore. I’ve tried to change the entire culture of my school to
red-pen adverse.”

“Well,” she says. “That’s just extreme, Lauren.” She
shakes her head and goes back to taking notes on me.

I am stunned into silence. Either Georgie’s changed her
tune completely or I really misunderstood my entire two-year graduate program
here at Harvard.

“But…I thought…sacrilegious…doesn’t honor the
students…demeaning…testing is very good…or is it very bad…?” I trail off,
confused.

Georgie shrugs. “Testing is whatever you want it to be,
Lauren, whatever you need in order to teach your children the things they must
know. And teaching is not about the color of the ink in a pen! It’s about the
woman holding that pen in her hand. You should know that.”

“But you used to say…”

“Used to. Not anymore. Now I’m all about the freedom to
choose.”

“The freedom to choose…what?”

“Exactly,” she says. “The freedom to choose what. Only you
know the answer to that.”

“What about the ten commandments?”

She cackles loud and deep. “What am I, God? I woke up one
morning about two years ago and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked tired.
I
was
tired! I was tired of telling people what to do, of how to teach,
of how to live, even if it was mostly good advice, mostly done to make lives
better. I mean, it was all great at first. But over the years, something
changed. I suddenly had a lot to live up to. People expected me to always have
the answers, so I gave them answers, telling them red pens were damaging, that
testing was the way or definitely
not
the way. Truth is, what did I
know? I swear to you, that one morning, I said to my reflection,
Georgina
Parks
,
you do a hell of a lot of preaching for a mere mortal. Maybe it’s
time to stop being in charge of everything all the time.
And, you know
what? It felt empowering to let go.”

“But this morning…I heard you. You sounded the same as
always, powerful and sure. There were disciples taking notes!”

She laughs again, wiping a tear from her eye. “I know.
People like to have something to believe in, Lauren. They need to have
something to strive for. Don’t you? Why did you come visit me today?”

My knee-jerk response would be “Because of a sweater,” but
that sounds insulting and empty.

Why did I visit Georgie? “For the same reason these
students do, I suppose. To feel a part of something important. And,” I add as
an afterthought, “to have someone give their lives direction.”

“And so that’s what I do. But occasionally, it strikes
even me as crazy to believe so much in me.”

Something indeed is crazy. Georgie’s ironclad rules about
how to teach and what to teach and when to teach
just don’t exist anymore?
Or they do, only she no longer really believes in them?

“Girl, listen to me,” she starts. I love the “girl” thing.
It’s so familiar and yet so authoritative at the same time. When Georgie is
addressing a crowd and is looking for the same effect, she’ll use “people,”
like she did during this morning’s lecture. And when she’s got you one-on-one
and wants to drive a point home, nothing is more effective than “girl.”

With the use of “girl,” I feel sure that she will settle
this confusion once and for all and say what I need her to say, say what she
used to say.

“No wonder you need a little break from teaching. You take
it way too seriously.”

Seriously?

Until this moment, there was an urn on a pedestal in my
mind, reserved for all that wisdom gleaned from Georgie. Now, broken shards are
all that’s left of this vessel that once contained everything I found sacred
about education, everything I thought was true in the world. I mentally begin
the process of cleaning up a few pieces, avoiding the really sharp ones.

I think back to the way I just dismissed Martin on Monday
morning, letting him conjure an entire book plot from thin air. I think about
the way letting him off the hook made me feel like I was also off the hook.

Then I look at Georgie’s face and start to see her for the
first time. She looks back, interested. “Yes?” she asks. “I know, I know, it’s
shocking! You thought I was a demigod, too, didn’t you?”

“I guess,” I say, not wanting to sound like the complete
follower I have been. What are the right words for this particular scenario,
the one in which your life’s mentor reveals that she’s not All That? “So…let me
get this straight…you’re like the Wizard of Oz?”

Georgie laughs good-naturedly. “I love it! Yes! Pull aside
the curtain and see just how regular I am.”

I watch her as she gets up and moves around her office,
sorting through piles of mail and manila folders. “My point is, Lauren, that
we’re all fallible, we’re all human. I still believe that literacy is power and
that denying children access to that power will keep them down and keep this
country from competing in the global economy. The opposite is attainable,
though: healthy, literate Americans will change this world, you will see. But
am I the only one who can provide structure, answers, plans? Is my word the
be-all and end-all of educational opportunity? Hell no.”

Hell no?

I don’t think the Wizard of Oz was quite that fierce when
he gave it up for Dorothy and the gang.

“So…what does all this ‘freedom’ of yours mean for me?”

Georgie smiles, her dark eyes warm and encouraging. “I
think you know the answer to that.”

I hate to look weak in front of such greatness, but this
discussion is not going the way I had expected, right? So I might as well be
perfectly honest, like Georgie. “Um. Pretty sure I don’t.”

“It will come to you. Just open yourself to the
possibility that things can be different. That maybe you are not the master of
your so-called master plan.”

I’m totally not sure what that means, but I’m not about to
argue.

“Don’t look at me like that, little lost puppy!” she
jokes.

I continue looking at her like a little lost puppy.

“Okay, fine,” she sighs. “I
may
have an idea for a
project that could involve you. I have to sort through some notes, first. I am
switching gears, too, you see. I’m feeling a bit stale after spending
twenty-five years on one cause. It’s fun to mix it up! So, now I’m thinking
about researching women instead of children. Still looking at empowerment. But
now focusing on midlife issues. I have to sort through some notes first. No
promises.”

“Ooh! I’m a woman! I’m in midlife! I have issues! Plus,
I’ve been taking some notes about a similar topic!” I stop to take a breath.
“What’s it—”

Georgie’s palm silences me. “Enough for now. Did I or did
I not just say that I am tired of being responsible for other people’s lives?”

I nod my head like an obedient puppy.

Georgie comes back to the table and sits. “Lauren, I have
always thought of you as one of my best students—particularly when it came to
research—but you lacked your own voice, and your own passion and drive. In
class, you hung on my every word, reciting me back to me. I worry now that what
I saw in you was just a mirror of myself. So. Before I give you this
opportunity, I need to know that it really is your promise I was seeing, and
not merely my own. Prove to me that you can accomplish something meaningful on
your own, and then we’ll talk.”

I think about what she’s saying and I crack a half smile,
an idea forming. “Would you like me to bring the Wicked Witch’s broom to you as
proof of my bravery?”

“Girl,” Georgie says with a wink, “you do whatever it
takes.”

“Champagne?”

A very cute young man in a tux is standing next to me at
the Chanel makeup counter, silver tray in hand. When I’m stressed out, trying on
expensive makeup that I’m never going to buy, and/or painting my nails all
different colors, makes me feel enormously better. In the last ten minutes, I
have applied bronzer, liquid eyeliner, two different eye shadow colors, and a
few other products to my face. I’ve fibbed to salespeople left and right,
telling them that, yes, I’d love to buy their products. Next to one register,
there’s a pile of small boxes with my name—Dorothy Gale—attached on a yellow
Post-it.

Georgie has driven me to the cosmetological brink.

I put down the newest limited-edition nail polish I have
been trying and delicately pick up a glass flute.

“Thanks!” I say. “You read my mind!”

I didn’t even know that you
could
drink alcohol at
Neiman Marcus, much less for free, but I’m not going to question it. I down one
glass and reach out for another, before you can even say “Bobby Brown.”

I amble the main floor and collect my thoughts.

Maybe Georgie is dying.

She looked really healthy, though. No loss of hair,
weight, energy, or bravado, that’s for sure.

I remove the strawberry perched on the edge of the
champagne flute and take a bite.

Sparkly jewels stare back at me from under locked glass
cases. They seem sad, unreachable like that. I imagine them calling out to me
like puppies in a shelter,
Take me home! It’s so cold in here!
or
I’m
the one you want!
I put my face up against the case, listening.

No one can hear diamond-encrusted distress calls from
under the protective glass.

I pull back, considering Georgie again.

Maybe I’m losing my hearing.

Or maybe she just means what she said.

Maybe everyone’s just tired of working so hard.

Maybe being a full-time grown-up just sucks that way.

Even if you’re Georgina Parks, professor emeritus at
Harvard University and head of your own educational think tank.

I do think I’ve learned at least one thing today. Perhaps
we need to cut ourselves—and each other—some slack. Perhaps I have to figure
out what’s real and what’s hiding behind the metaphorical curtain.

I finish the second drink and place it on a passing tray.
The waiter hands me a postcard announcing the Christian Louboutin shoe event.
Buy a pair today and receive a gorgeous faux-gold cuff bracelet, as shown in
the picture. Also, if you purchase a pair, your name will be entered into a
$5,000 Neiman Marcus shopping spree.

Well.

That just sounds too good to be true.

I wander over to the shoe department, you know, just to
have a look.

On the train ride home, I’m feeling a little bit headachy
and a little bit remorseful. But then I peek into the large shopping bag seated
next to me and smile. Those black Louboutin spiky heels with the red soles are
really hot. And now they are really mine.

I’ve never spent so much on a pair of shoes in my life. I
feel simultaneously nauseated and empowered. Not in the way Georgie would use
the word, but still. Like I could kick someone’s ass in those heels. I’m
starting to see why women have shoe addictions. I’m just not sure how they pay
for this bad habit.

Unless they use creative cash-back programs like Jodi
does.

I will say that opening a credit card at Neiman’s was
genius. It will allow me to acquire points toward future purchases while also
hiding the bill from Doug as I slowly pay it off.

Jeez. That’s some warped logic right there, is it not? I’m
sounding a bit too much like Jodi for my own liking.

I yawn and feel the champagne mellow me out. The calming
rock and roll of the train soothes me.
Vacations are exhausting
, I
think,
and expensive
, my mind adds, before sliding into a gentle nap.

I wake to find a bunch of e-mails from Lenny, all of them
asking about Georgie and hinting at jealousy.

From: [email protected]

Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie

Kissed Lauren and made me cry

When the boys came out to play,

Georgie Porgie pushed Lenny away.

And later:

I have searched through all your Facebook friends. Of the
126 of them, there is no one named George, first or last. Not even a maiden
name, like Alice George-Hamilton or something. Who is Georgie?

And later still:

Darn.

It just occurred to me that I may not be your one and only
fling-relationship-flirting-guy thing.

The last one makes me smile, even though the others are cringe-worthy
and slightly stalkerish. I write back and tell him so.

Then I find my headphones and listen to another new mix I’ve
made. It takes him the length of about three songs to reply. Eleven minutes.
Playing
hard to get, I see
, I think as I open up his response.

Ah, yes, flirtationship is the perfect word for what we
have. Sorry to have accused you of cheating on Doug and me. Still curious about
why you won’t spill on the mysterious Georgie, though.

Now that I know we’re solid, I’ve got to join in on a
conference call for the next hour or so. Will you be available again tonight
for some late-night witticisms?

From: [email protected]

Sorry. Can’t. Have a friend’s 40th birthday party to attend.

From: [email protected]

Perhaps it will be naughty nasty girl fun.

From: [email protected]

Only in your imagination will it be that. ;)

Now that he mentions it, the invitation did arrive with a
long red feather boa that I’ve been instructed to bring to the party. Not that
I’m going to admit this to Lenny.

Although, suddenly I’m curious, and more than just
slightly worried about what this party might entail.

Kat’s been invited to Leslie’s party, too, and, even
though she doesn’t want to go, I’m making her show up to keep me company.
Leslie’s husband is Kat’s distant cousin (“From the drunk side of the family,
not the alcoholic side,” Kat explained when we both showed up at Leslie’s 35th,
surprised to see each other).