Lauren Takes Leave (7 page)

Kat is now rolling on the carpet and clutching her side.
Snot and tears are everywhere. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was
rabid.

I check. “Have you recently been bitten by a squirrel?”

Kat goes on making this “he-he-he” sound from the back of
her throat.

“Shall I call 911?” I ask in a British accent, trying to
sound authoritative.

She shakes her head, now tucked in the fetal position.

“Varka, then?”

Again, she shakes her head.

It’s good that she’s responding. But I’m still freaking
out. I mean, I’ve been drunk with Kat and high with Kat and I’ve even grieved
with Kat when her mom died. But I’ve never seen her like this.

I tentatively approach the blubbering blob on the
circle-time carpet. “Are you
on
something?” I ask. “Is this, like, a
Pulp
Fiction
moment? Do you need me to shock you in the heart with a hypodermic
needle?”

I reach out and touch the curve of her protruding
backbone. She’s so thin, I think. Since when?

Kat takes a deep breath. It rattles her whole body, but
she seems calmer suddenly. She’s probably too exhausted to respond to me, but I
try again.

“So…” I begin. (I didn’t say I try
well.
)

She uncurls herself and sits up. I hand her a tissue from
the nearby box. She blows her nose.

Again, I wait.

At some point pretty early on in our friendship, I
discovered that pushing and prodding and asking lots of questions causes Kat to
clam up. The trick is to wait.

Which takes some getting used to.

I stroke her back and hand her another tissue while trying
nonchalantly to glance at my wrist and see what time it is. I’ve got to get
back into my own classroom soon and sort things out for tomorrow’s substitute.

As I begin to go off into a daydream about the joys of
jury duty—sleep late, eat lunch out, meet new friends, read a cheesy novel—Kat
clears her throat. I snap back to attention. Her bloodshot green eyes find
mine.

“Peter wants a divorce. For real, this time.”

I am momentarily startled. I was in Psycho Mom mode, and
so this is surprising. Although, in most ways, it makes perfect sense. I shake
my head, shifting gears, and manage to get out some words of support. “Oh damn,
Kat. I’m so sorry.”

She produces another candy cigarette from a pocket in her
blazer, holding it out to me with a shaking hand.

“You sure he doesn’t want to work it out? That he isn’t
just being hotheaded like usual?” I ask, taking the sugary stick.

She shakes her long black ringlets back and forth
emphatically, like a woman selling shampoo on TV. “He bought a Maserati with
our retirement savings. He’s moving in with a younger woman named Carly.”

“
No!
” I groan.

“
Yes!
” she cries.

“But that’s so…stereotypical! Like a caricature of what a
forty-year-old guy would do. It can’t be for real.”

“What can I say? Peter always did lack originality. It’s
the friggin’ truth.”

We sit like that for a moment, smoking and taking bites in
the still classroom. No wonder she is losing her mind. “This sucks,” I offer as
encouragement.

“The candy or my life?”

“Um…both?” That gets a half chuckle out of her.

I have a momentary image of Kat, hiding on her wedding
day. She disappeared before the ceremony, but I eventually found her hiding in
the back of the florist’s van her dress bunched up around her. She was pulling
the petals off some discarded daisies.

“Can I just say something?” I ask, and Kat nods. “Without
offending you, I mean?”

“Now my interest is piqued.”

I speak quickly, in one short breath. “You never really
liked Peter all that much. You didn’t want to marry him.”

“Not the point.”

“Kind of is.”

She stares at a blank spot on the wall, between all the
kid art. “Still…it hurts. I should have left him a long time ago.”

“I’m sure it does, Kitty-Kat.” I rub her back and we chew
on our candy cigarettes. I feel like a sixth grader suddenly, helping my friend
through a breakup with a boy who beat her to the punch.

“Consider it your starter marriage,” I try.

“As in: I have to start all over because now I’m broke?”
She attempts a wan smile.

“As in: Practice makes perfect. Next one’s a guaranteed
Prince Charming.”

“Can you put that in writing? Guaranteed in under five?
Cause my eggs are getting hard-boiled as we speak.”

“You’re fine. You’re what? Thirty, thirty-two?”

“Thirty-three next month.”

“A mere babe in the manger. A wee lass.” I dismiss. “I
didn’t have Becca until I was almost thirty-five.”

“I won’t think about it.”

“That’s the spirit!” I encourage, because, really, what
else is there to say?

We make plans to go drinking after school with the gym
teachers, which brightens Kat’s mood significantly. “I hope they are all
sweaty,” she pines. “Even the girl ones.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m hurting.”

I glance at the clock over the door and stand, stretching.
“How can you sit on this carpet all day? Doesn’t it kill your back?”

“I’m not old like you, remember.”

“Ha.”

Kat turns to me, her green eyes intent. “Seriously,
Lauren, I know I’m the one who’s an emotional wreck, but can I be honest with
you?”

I consider her request. “Actually, I’d prefer if you
lied.”

“You
really
look like shit.” She gets to her feet
and gives me the once-over. “I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while, see if
you wanted to get your makeup done at Nordstrom’s or something. On you,
thirty-nine is like the new fifty.”

“And on that note…” I start heading for the nearest exit.
I pull the handle on the classroom door and say, with fake enthusiasm,
“Thanks!”

“It wasn’t a compliment!” she calls back.

I give her the finger. “Call down to the gym, please. See
you at Flannigan’s. Three fifteen!”

There are still nine minutes left before last period. In
teacher time, that’s like an hour. I figure I’ll sneak into my classroom once
my students vacate to attend their foreign language classes at the end of the
day. That way I can set up the lesson plans for the rest of the week and leave
them on my desk for the sub. Which reminds me: Better call the sub service and
secure a real substitute through Friday, since I’m sure Martha won’t be
interested in keeping the job past today. My ballet flats squeak against the
glossy linoleum tiles as I make my way purposefully down the hall.

I duck into the nearest girls’ bathroom and examine my
face in the cloudy mirror.

Kat has a point.

I don’t know how or when the change occurred, but staring
back at me is not the
me
I picture in my head. Instead, I have been
replaced with one of those poor, unsuspecting women pulled out of the crowd at the
Today
show for a miracle makeover.

Over the winter, my hair has grown very long, and it’s now
too heavy around my face. And though technically the color fits somewhere on
the blond spectrum, my mousy natural-colored roots are showing themselves in a
thick racing stripe down the center of my head. My blue eyes lack spark. Worst
of all, the skin around them seems swollen and slightly black-and-blue. And
forget my forehead. All those creases and lines. Put it all together and I
look…what is the right word? Haggard? Harried? Haggard and harried?

Oh hell, who am I kidding? That assessment is kind. In
truth, I look like a woman who has just had her mug shot taken and is next in
line for fingerprinting: Dazed.

“Mrs. Worthing. What are you doing here?” The monotone of
Martha’s voice simultaneously shakes me from my reverie and scares the shit out
of me. “Is that a
cigarette
in your hand?”

“Jeez, Martha!” I clutch my chest. “You trying to give me
a heart attack?” I realize my error as soon as the words escape my lips. I
mean, not that Martha necessarily
caused
our assistant principal’s heart
attack last month, but still. Faux pas extraordinaire. Her always brown-lipsticked
mouth is set in a straight, tight line. I smile wide enough for both of us. “I
mean, hey there!”

She points to my right hand. “Explain.”

There are benefits to being on jury duty. Not having to
teach anyone anything for several consecutive days is one of them. Knowing that
the world is bigger than the one in which your principal reigns supreme is
another. Which is why, in the bathroom with the fake cigarette, I decide to
have a little fun with her and simultaneously throw a kid under the bus.

I take a deep breath and gather my courage.

“Oh, Martha. I’m so glad you are here. A little miscreant
was pretending to smoke this candy cigarette when I walked in to use the
facilities a moment ago. I, of course, immediately confiscated it, and sent her
right to the principal’s office. You probably passed her in the halls just
now.”

“Really?” Martha asks, clearly intrigued but not yet quite
believing me.

“Abso-lutely.” I begin wild gesticulations to add
authentication to my tale. “She’s, like, yea high and she has, like,
brownish-blackish-blondish hair that’s not too long or short and is basically
straight when it isn’t curly. I think you know her. Her mom’s on the board of ed,
maybe?”

“Lucy Williams?” She is really getting into it now, going
through her mental Rolodex of faces. “Fourth grade?”

“Perhaps. Could have been third or fifth, though. Here.
Evidence.” I put the remainder of the slightly damp confection in her hand.
“But now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to run…I have a parent meeting in five,”
I add, pushing open the bathroom door.

“But wait! Mrs.…Lauren. Are you back from jury duty?”

“Nope…case starts tomorrow. Could be a
really long
trial. Don’t you worry, though; I’ll call the sub service. Unless you want to
continue filling in?”

Martha’s brain is still catching up, and I’m not about to
let it finish processing.

“Nope? Then, see ya!”

And with that, I am off across the quad and through the
double doors of the middle school building.

“That is hi-lari-ous!” Kat declares from her bar stool
perch. She swivels around a few times, beer glass in hand. “Jim, isn’t that
hi-lari-ous?”

“Yup,” Jim concurs, handing each of us another Jell-O
shot. Kat takes one, but I decline.

“To the
di
ministration!” Kat toasts, holding the
small paper cup high over her head before sucking the contents out in one giant
slurp.

“You sure?” Jim asks me, still holding the extra Jell-O
shot. The three of us were hired by the Hadley School District around the same
time, in our twenties, when Jell-O shots were a fun diversion from grading
homework after school. At some point, I stopped joining the fun, but Kat and
Jim still go out at least once a month.

“I’ve got to get home to the kids soon, relieve the
babysitter. One-eighth of grain alcohol a day is plenty for me, thanks.”

“Always so responsible, Lauren is,” Kat pipes in.

“Wise for someone so short, Kat is,” I reply.

“How’s that babysitter working out?” Jim asks. “The one
you found on Craigslist last summer?”

I shrug. “Oh, you know. Same. Horrible.”

“You haven’t fired her yet?” Kat laughs. “I thought you
were going to get rid of her at, like, Christmas. That was…” She counts on her
fingers. “Four months ago!”

“Yeah, but who can fire someone at Christmastime?”

“Scrooge!” they both call out together.

“Jinx!” Kat adds, clearly tipsy.

“So why don’t you fire her now?” Jim adds.

“Because I need her. I hate her, but I need her.
Otherwise, I can’t go to work.”

“So, don’t go to work!” Kat says, taking the last Jell-O
shot from Jim’s hand and inhaling it.
Like it’s that simple,
I think
.
“Hey, speaking of work, where is Jim Number Two?”

“You mean James, the other physical education teacher?”
Jim asks.

“Yup,” Kat hiccups. “And Bo, the sort of lady one?”

Jim leans in close, whispering conspiratorially in Kat’s
ear. His short-sleeved T-shirt stretches tight across the Hulk muscles in his
chest and arms. “I told them they couldn’t make it.”

Kat’s momentary confusion is replaced with a knowing
smile. “Ah! Very crafty!”

I wink, then wave in their general direction as I leave
Flannigan’s, though neither one is looking at me. It might be Kat calling out
“See ya tomorrow, Lauren!” over Def Leppard, but I don’t reply.

On my way home, my cell phone rings.
Moncrieff
comes
up on the screen, so I answer and put it on speakerphone. “Jodi!”

“I can’t talk right now,” a husky whisper responds,
wrapping my car in her distinctive voice.

“Then why did you call me?”

“I mean, I want to talk to you—I
need
to talk to
you—only I’ve gotta go.”

“Why is everyone doing this to me today?” I ask no one in
particular, since Jodi’s already hung up.

Two minutes later, Jodi calls back as I’m pulling into my
driveway. I idle in the car to listen to her tirade.

Jodi, like Kat, is one of my good friends. I met them both
at Hadley Middle School, though Jodi stopped working right before her first
daughter was born. “Why would I want to be with someone’s else’s children when
I could just be with mine?” she’d said one day in the teachers’ lounge, rubbing
her diamond-encrusted left hand across her protruding belly. No one could come
up with a sufficient retort, so we all just shrugged in her general direction
and let her go.

Actually, no one ever can come up with a sufficient retort
to anything that Jodi says,
ever
. Not her husband, her mother, her best
friends, her kids, or any poor worker bee forced to deal with her wishes at any
hotel, restaurant, or store of any kind. It’s all in her delivery. That, plus
the fact that she’s disarmingly gorgeous. Suffice it to say that, in this
universe at least, Jodi’s always right, even when she’s completely wrong.