Lauren Takes Leave by Julie Gerstenblatt

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.

Chapter 7
    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