Lauren Takes Leave by Gerstenblatt, Julie (ebooks children's books free txt) 📕

Weinhabit the same world, but go about our business pretty separately. SometimesI worry there will be blood when we collide.

“Hi!” I call out to the women, who break apart and look atme blankly. Then they return to their chatter.

“I’m Ben and Becca’s mom.” No one says anything in mydirection, so I add, “Lauren?”

Still no response.

Anyone? Anyone?

This is getting embarrassing. I hide back under theumbrella.

Becca tries on my behalf. “This is my mommy!”

“Oh, hi!” one of the women says, coming forward. “Weweren’t ignoring you, sorry. We were just talking about someone, but now we’redone.” She’s the tallest of the women, and she speaks very fast. “I’m Lisa,”she adds.

“O…kay.” I smile. “It wasn’t me you were talking about,was it?” I glance over my shoulder in semi-mock paranoia.

“You’re so funny!” Black Leggings Number Two adds. “Butno.” She has wild red hair and big thighs. “Patty.” She points to herself. “Andthis is Pam.” The third in the group is bone thin. She waves in my generaldirection, thereby using up four calories and getting a jump on her dailyexercise.

“We’re not talking about you unless you kicked your kidsout of your car and left them alone on the streets of Alden to fend forthemselves,” Lisa adds by way of explanation.

“Not recently, no. Haven’t done that for years, not sincethe kids were in diapers.”

“She’s a hoot!” Pam declares. One of the dogs barks inagreement.

I smile somewhat painfully.

“Lauren!” Lisa chastises. She takes a step closer to me;she’s clearly the leader of the pack. “Don’t you read the Hadley Inquirer?It was the front-page story this weekend. This working mom who was justcompletely overwhelmed decided to…” She trails off.

They all look at me expectantly.

“Um…I didn’t have time?” I begin. “I’m a working mom whois completely overwhelmed?” It’s meant as a joke of sorts, but it hangs in theair between us like a challenge.

Good way to make friends, Lauren.

“Well, you’re missing out.” Patty sniffs. On both thelocal gossip and the camaraderie forged by spreading local gossip, it seems.

“Too bad,” Lisa adds as the bus lurches around the bendand stops in front of us.

They turn away from me in what can only be called acollective diss.

Let’s just add this to my morning tally of Ways in WhichMy Life Sucks. Not that I’m keeping score.

“Bye, kids!” I call, the stack of mail fluttering over myhead in my grand farewell gesture.

Ben and Becca smile and wave. My heart swells with lovejust as the school bus door closes and my children disappear from view.

The bus pulls away and a hearty gust of wind blows pastme, Mary Poppins–style. I feel a definite shift in the air.

Only then do I notice the blue envelope.

After I wave to the departing school bus, that particularpiece of mail gets separated from the others, caught by the wind and releasedfrom my grasp. Instead of flying away from me, however, the envelope drifts slowlyand deliberately to the ground at my feet.

It’s almost as if the letter is daring me to pickit up and read it.

Chapter 2

Which, of course, I do.

It’s a jury duty summons addressed to me.

How do I know this? Because written on the outside of thebaby-blue envelope, in bold type so I won’t miss it, are the words Jury DutySummons Enclosed. Immediate Attention.

Damn Doug.

Hands shaking, I remove the tri-folded paper from theenvelope and begin to read aloud, scanning the words quickly. “Your servicesare requested…yadda, yadda, yadda…County Courthouse…yadda, yadda…ten a.m. onMonday, April tenth.”

That’s today.

“Failure to show up on appointed date…yadda,yadda…incarceration or fines. Fucking fuck me!” I cry out, sprinting back towardmy house.

I explode into my front hall and race to the phone,jumping over Laney’s coat and bag that lie in a heap in the middle of thefloor. I try to find the substitute-hotline phone number pinned somewhere tothe bulletin board at the small kitchen desk. “There it is!” I say, dialingfuriously.

“Good morning to you, too,” Laney scoffs in her liltingSpanish accent, passing me with an armful of laundry and attitude.

“Seriously?” I shout.

She whips her long black hair around the banister inresponse and disappears into the basement.

The substitute-service answering machine beeps. I leavethe most frantic, discombobulated message known to man, pleading for asubstitute to arrive by 9:30 this morning and take over my classroom for theremainder of the day. Then I grab my school bag, stuff the jury summons insideit, and clamber into my minivan with six minutes to spare before I’m officiallylate for work.

Weaving in and out of traffic, I pretend I’m playing MarioCart Wii and get to school in less than four minutes.

The middle school parking lot is jammed with cars and Ican’t find a spot. “What the hell?” I ask the air, as if it will know why myday is already so royally screwed.

People are heading toward the gym en masse, and I rememberthat it’s a local election day. Knowing he’s still out on sick leave, I park inthe assistant principal’s space and sprint toward the building just as thefirst bell rings.

I take the steps of the turn-of-the-century schoolhousetwo at a time and narrowly avoid bumping into one of the voters streaming outof the building.

“Excuse me,” I say, wasting a half moment on pleasantries.The woman’s perfume trails behind her, carrying the scent of hope mixed withsummer flowers. She’s dressed expensively, and her long ash-blond hair isbohemian perfection.

“Lauren?” the woman calls.

I turn back. “Shay?” I say, surprised that this specimenof flawlessness remembers me. We’ve only met a couple of times at PTAfunctions, where Shay Greene is an officer and I am an underling underachieverbarely holding up the T in PTA.

I say the first thing that pops into my head. “So, who’dyou vote for?” My heart is hammering in my chest and I’m silently counting downto the second bell. If I could have any super power, I’d want the ability tobeam myself instantaneously from place to place at the snap of a finger.

“Myself, of course!” She laughs.

“Of course!” I say, pretending to know what the hell she’stalking about. “Good luck, then! Gotta run!”

Shay waves good-bye. I watch her graceful descent, amazedthat someone in four-inch heels can make