Lauren Takes Leave (9 page)

Good looks combined with athleticism, wit, and smarts can
do that to a person, catapult them to unfettered popularity. Everyone wanted a
piece of him and was happy with whatever time or attention they got from Lenny.
Including me.

Only, I didn’t get much.

Until senior year, when luck had me working side by side
with Lenny as coeditors of the yearbook. I used to cancel staff meetings and
“forget” to tell him, just so he and I would end up alone in some science
classroom after school, talking about nothing and everything at the same time.
There was one intense month of work—March, I think—when we had to finalize all
the photos and cram to get all the layouts done and submitted to the printer.
We pulled a bunch of all-nighters at my house, the cut images and graphics
spread out before us in a jumbled mess, the soft glow of basement light making
the damp, unfinished space seem almost romantic, and I’d think,
Now he’s
going to kiss me
.

But he never did.

But then he’d look at me and smile, and our hands would
touch just the tiniest bit as we passed the Scotch tape back and forth, and a
current would pass up my arm. And then I’d think,
Now he’s going to ask me
to the prom
.

But he never did that either.

Which is why this online attention I’ve been getting from
MC Lenny Katzenberg since the reunion is most unexpected, although not, in fact,
entirely unwelcome.

Lenny’s video comes up on YouTube. He is dressed in jeans
and a graphic tee. He’s this tall, kind of nebbishy Jewish kid from
Westchester, who went to Yale and now spends his days as an accountant. He
spends his evenings and weekends putting together rap lyrics with synchronized
music. Then he records himself and edits together an iMovie to put up on
YouTube. Sometimes his skits and songs are performed alone, and sometimes with
others, like random New Yorkers, or an on-again, off-again girlfriend. A few
have been politically charged. Others have been crude or somewhat sexual.
Sometimes these mini-movies involve rather complicated choreography. They are
always really funny and cutting-edge.

This one doesn’t disappoint. It’s about the latest health care
bill being voted on by Congress. It’s typical Lenny: left-wing and liberal,
with clever rhymes and a touch of Justin Timberlake.

I’m slightly distracted by Lenny’s companion. A woman with
the longest legs I’ve ever seen is wearing a tight, white, short-skirted
nurse’s costume and gyrating her hips around him while he raps his way around
HMOs, PPOs and HDHPs (“How the fuck am I supposed to know which one is right
for me?”). I wonder who this “nurse” is, and if they’re more than friends.

But then Lenny’s hazel eyes shine, and I’m back in the
moment with him. He looks right through the camera and into my eyes, like this
is all just an elaborate private joke between the two of us. A playful smile
turns up one corner of his mouth, into his trademark impish grin.

I forward it to Kat. This should give her another needed
pick-me-up.

“Who knew a smart dweeb could be so friggin’ hot?” she had
commented the first time we watched one of Lenny’s videos. We were huddled
together in the back corner of the middle school’s computer lab during a free
period, staring thirstily at the screen as Lenny shook his ass at us.

“I did!” I had exclaimed. “Always! I had the best time on
those temple retreat weekends!”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure I’d brag about that.” She’d then
grabbed one of her curls, pulled it out straight, stuck it into her mouth, and
sucked on it. She turned back to study the screen in contemplative silence.
“Although, that guy does have something. I just can’t put my finger on it.”
Silence, except for the sucking of hair. “Wait! Is he married?”

“No. He’s thirty-nine and single, never been.”

“I got it! He’s gay!”

“Kat, he’s not gay. He’s just funny and unafraid of
busting a move on the international Internet circuit.”

“Yeah. Children, are you listening?” She had pretended to
address a class of kindergarteners. “That spells g-a-y.”

Lenny breaks out the Michael Jackson
pelvic-thrust-with-hand-cupped-over-genitals move, and I snort heartily in
response. Kat is going to die when she sees this.

Someone is suddenly tapping me on the arm. I look up from
my phone and notice that all the jurors—plus the bailiff—are staring at me.

“Having a good time, miss?” Delilah accuses.

“Yes! I mean, sorry. Just a funny video on YouTube. I’ll
turn it off now.”

“You do that. Then follow me.”

“Why? Am I in some sort of trouble?” I panic. “I know I’m
not supposed to have my phone…”

Several jurors chuckle. Delilah does not. “No, miss. Every
one of you is supposed to follow me. Judge Banks has called you into the
courtroom.”

“
Oh!
Great. Guess I didn’t hear.” I gather my
belongings and line up between jurors three and five. Then Delilah opens the
door and we file through.

The judge is standing before us in her black robes, and so
we remain standing. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she begins, “I am Judge
Banks.” She looks to be about sixty or so, with the kind of Hillary Clinton
hair popular with power-women of a similar age. “I would like to thank you for
your time. This case has been settled. You are free to go.”

“Yes!” Carrie hisses under her breath. Others clap.

Crap!
This can’t be happening. But here we go,
being led like sheep by Delilah, back out of the courtroom and through our
waiting area. “If you’ll all follow me downstairs, I’ll hand you the official
paperwork saying that you’ve been dismissed after two days of service.” My
heart is beating out of my shirt. My mind is a tornado of thoughts, a whirlwind
screaming,
Disaster, disaster!
Delilah keeps talking, but I can’t make
out the rest. We follow her down the elevator and to the administrator’s
office. I think I might faint.

All around me, people are smiling and congratulating each
other for getting out of trial. I stand frozen in place and have to be nudged
by Sweetheart.

“Whatsamattah, honey?” he asks. “This is a great day! You
look spooked.”

“I…” I glance up at him and meet his eyes for the first
time. They are round and blue, and actually seem to be emitting warmth of some
kind, maybe even sympathy. In that moment, I decide to trust him. “I just don’t
want to go back to work, is all,” I exhale.

But now that I’ve said that much, the rest pours out of
me. “I got passed over for a promotion I really wanted—head of the English Department,
which I’ve been working toward for
years
—and someone from the outside
got the job. Apparently, she’s the superintendent’s niece or cousin or
something illegal like that, and she hasn’t even finished her master’s degree
yet! Now I can’t face my colleagues. I’m completely humiliated. I’m kind of
lost. And so, I pretty much hate my job. Every time I step foot in that school,
I want to puke.”

I’m feeling better now, as if someone opened a window and
let in some air. I keep going. “The principal flat out
lied
to me, said
I’d get the position, that I was the natural next choice. I jumped through all
these hoops, took extra grad school classes to get the right certifications.
Got all dressed up and sat in the hot seat, was interviewed by parents,
community members,
friends of mine,
for God’s sake, with classrooms down
the hall. She even made me teach a demo lesson
in my own class
, even
though I’ve been tenured forever! And then, the committee didn’t choose me.” I
shudder at the memory of myself in heels and a tailored pantsuit, squirming as
Martha called me into her office to break the news—delivered cold, of course,
without emotion. I had to picture her in flesh-colored granny panties to keep
myself from crying. “I can’t go back. Not right now, anyway.”

“Talk about your verbal diarrhea!” he jokes. Great. Of all
the people in the world to confess to, I pick this asshole.

My husband doesn’t even know the truth. I keep putting
Doug off, telling him that Martha hasn’t made the decision yet. He kept talking
about how my new salary would help take some of the financial burden off of
him. The plan was to sit down and tell him over dinner, except that in the past
six weeks we haven’t had one of those dinners. And the more time slips away,
the harder it becomes to remember what the truth is anyway.

Sweetheart’s eyes suddenly look confused. “Wait a
second…did you say, go back to work?” He laughs. “Who said anything about going
back to work? My boss thinks I’m on trial for the whole week!” He leans toward
me and I smell the tobacco clinging to his clothing. “And what he don’t know…”
The rest of the sentence lingers in the air between us. He winks. Sweetheart
grabs his walking papers, waves them theatrically over his head, and starts
walking.

I grab mine and do the same.

Clearly, I am not going back to work
today
. That
much I know. It’s ten o’clock in the morning on a beautiful Tuesday and I am
free to do as I please. Leaving my car in the juror’s lot, I walk around
downtown Alden. When I pass the new hair salon in the Ritz Carlton hotel, I
decide to go in.

Jodi texts me while I am sitting with streaks of white
hair color under the hot lamps.

Free 4 lunch?

Yes,
I text back, looking at the time.
NM at
1:15.
She always forgets that I work, and usually texts me like this once a
week.

Good. I need to find something to wear Sat nite!

C U there
, I write, finishing our conversation for
now.

I put the phone down and try to rip a page out of a
magazine without anyone noticing, but my hairstylist, Brandon, catches me in
the act. I tear the page out just as he tears it from my hands.

“What have we here?” he lisps, even though that sentence
doesn’t have any S sounds in it. Unlike Lenny, Brandon is definitely g-a-y.
“Botox! Juvederm! Fabulous!”

I turn bright red and shush him. “I’m just, you know,
thinking
is all.”

“I see that, honey,” he says, touching the protruding frown
lines gathered like Mount Kilimanjaro between my eyebrows, waiting for someone
to climb them. “Looks like you think
too
much, I’d say. Botox will take
care of your forehead in less time than it takes to count the candles on your
birthday cake.”

“Yeah, but…my husband would kill me. He likes me natural,
you know, no plastic surgery, very little makeup…” I trail off.

“Sounds like a real scumbag.” When my eyes widen, he adds,
“Hard to debate that one, huh? Truth is—and I’m sure he’s very nice, in that
vacant way straight men have, don’t get me wrong—but he won’t even
notice
if you do a little maintenance. Do you know how many of my clients have had
minor work done? Injections, mini lifts, whatnots to their hoo-has? These
dimwitted husbands just think their wives have had pedicures and facials. That
all the exercise really
does
lift foreheads and shape butts. They are
none the wiser, and you are all the better. Olé!” He strikes a final pose,
clippers in hand.

“Dear God, Brandon, put out the fire. She’s new here and
you’re scaring her!” another male stylist sings, coming to my rescue.

“Hush, Priscilla,” Brandon sings back. “This woman is in
need. I can sense it. I’m channeling my inner diva to help her find her own
diva, lost deep down inside, hidden under years of mediocrity.” He looks at me.
“How’d I do?”

“Not bad. Pretty fair assessment, actually.”

“You and I are one and the same,” Brandon sighs, leaning
over the back of my chair to look at us side by side in the mirror. “We’re
stereotypes. I’m the flaming gay male, and you’re boring suburban mom.” He
pumps some mousse into his hands and re-fluffs his spiky hair. “It happens.”

“That’s kind of harsh!” I balk. “Suburban and mom, yes. I
wouldn’t call me boring, necessarily.”

“But you’d call me flaming, right? Just what you’d expect
from your hairdresser?”

Of course, he’s right. But being honest seems mean,
especially to someone I’ve just met. It’s like the Jewish American Princess
principal: I can call myself that, but if anyone else does, I’m offended. So I
give a tentative smile and continue on, not answering him one way or the other.
“I’m just used to things a certain way. The rhythms of my day have become
predictable, regular. I’m just living the way I think I’m supposed to, the way
people around me do.”

“Well, then, if mediocrity is what you’re used to, I’d
suggest bangs to cover that forehead. But if you’re looking to break out of the
same old ho-hum, I’d say take this card”—using sleight of hand, Brandon
produces a business card from up his sleeve—“and go for Botox.”

“What is this?” I read the typeface on the card and see
that’s it’s advertising my very own dermatologist. “Dr. Grossman? He’s the
ancient guy who burns off my warts!”

“Now, that’s the kind of thing one shouldn’t be ‘out’
about,” Brandon notes, checking my hair under the lamp. “Dr. Grossman is a
genius. And look! So am I. You’re a blonde again. Let’s go wash and blow.”

Jodi passes by my table at Neiman Marcus several times. I
actually have to call her over, and even then she’s not sure whom she’s walking
up to.

“Holy Mother of God, you look gorgeous!” She leans across
the table to kiss me hello. “Bitch,” she adds, grabbing a clump of my hair.
From her, that’s the highest level of compliment. “Who did this to you? It’s a
maz
ing.”

“This guy at the new salon at the Ritz.” I shrug.

“Brandon blew you?”

I chuckle. “You
know
Brandon?”

Jodi tosses her long hair dramatically. “Lauren, I know
everyone.”

We sit back to chat. “Did you notice anything else about
me?” I lead.