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

All these people bark directions my way. “Get off” and“move” seem to be the two most prevalent comments, so I figure I’ll followthose commands and see if the noise stops.

I crawl away and something frees underneath me. The massthat I was resting on turns out to be a person, which strikes me at this verymoment as sort of funny and also quite weird. How did that happen?

Then the person moves a little. And then the personspeaks.

“Fucking bitchwhoreasshole!” It’s Leslie, her voicemuffled by the Oriental carpeting.

She really is rather awful, isn’t she?

She sits up and turns toward me, clutching her cheek.

Ah! There’s the source of all that blood.

I must have kicked her in the face with the heel of myshoe as I got airborne around the pole. Which is, you know, sobering news.

“I am so…so very…very sorry!” I say, reaching my hand outtoward Leslie and standing up unsteadily, my wayward shoe tucked under my leftarm like a football.

“Don’t you fucking dare come near me, you fuckingbitchwhoreasshole!”

What have I done? I am stunned into inaction as I surveythe horror of the scene that’s unfolding all around me.

I catch another glimpse of Leslie’s beaten-up, pulpy cheek,and I’m afraid of retribution both immediate and calculated. In this instant, acrowd of drunken women in lingerie could turn on me, like something out ofMichael Jackson’s Thriller video, and scratch me with their manicuredfingernails, throwing their fruity drinks in my face. And tomorrow? What ifthis story leaks to the community and everyone at school finds out? I’ll beknown as That Teacher at the Sex-Toy Party Who Bashed in the Hostess’s Face withthe Heel of Her Louboutins. That’s not the kind of title that inspiresconfidence in parents, right? I can picture them whispering about me on thesidelines of soccer fields throughout the county, saying, I don’t care howtalented she is with iambic pentameter, just keep your kids away fromthat delinquent, pole-dancing drunk with lifetime tenure.

Luckily, people ignore me as they tend to Leslie’s wound.Gauze and towels and bandages of all shapes and sizes appear from the hallcloset. A bag of frozen peas is passed in front of me.

“For the swelling!” handholding Pam instructs. “Put thebag of peas on your face, Lez. You don’t want to end up purple and swollen.”

“Let me help!” I plead. I’d really like to be useful insome way, instead of feeling rooted to the floor like another pole in theliving room. Plus, maybe taking some positive action now will help soften theirgossipy blows about me later. People might say, She really screwed up, butthen she came to Leslie’s rescue like Florence Nightingale. Or, Laurenmay be uncoordinated, but she has a gift for healing. I’m definitely going torequest her as my daughter’s sixth-grade English teacher, and I suggest you dothe same.

But it’s like I’ve become invisible. No one pays anyattention to me, or even seems to hear me. The sacred womanly wall of theSilent Treatment has been invoked, and it is impenetrable.

I’m dead to them, cast out of the tribe.

This absolute exclusion feels even worse than beingscreamed at. So I try again.

“I said I was sorry! It was an accident, people!” I yellto no one in particular.

“There are no accidents, only major fuckups,” Kat says,materializing next to me and looking totally freaked out. Her hair is standingup funny, and she’s missing one of her large hoop earrings.

“Thank God you’re here!” I hug her. “To rescue me! I’vegot to get out—”

Kat cuts me off and grabs my wrist, giving a furtive glancetoward the stairs. “Me, too. Like, yesterday.”

“Okay. Let me just say good-bye to Lola…” I start.

“No!” Kat snaps, whisper-screaming at me. “There isno time for good-byes, Lauren. We’ve got to get out of here now!”

Her eyes are glassy, her skin pale and clammy. She looks possessed.For a split second I think, Kat’s been bitten by a vampire! Then Iremember that my life is not a part of the Twilight series.

“But I really have to pee again!”

“Squat outside,” Kat says.

“Fine.” I grab my purse and make my way to the front hall,Kat still dragging me by the wrist.

Word of Leslie’s fate has spread quickly. Women arepouring into the living room from all parts of the house, including the mastersuite, proving that juicy gossip trumps vintage John Holmes videos.

There is whispering and mumbling and a sidelong glance ortwo my way. I’m nervous to stay, anticipating a barrage of insults, but I worrythat leaving Leslie like this will only make it worse for me in the long run,like leaving the scene of a car crash and turning it into a hit-and-run.

I pull back from Kat. “I think I should just check on herone more time; it looked really bad…”

“Duck!” Kat yells.

I do, and narrowly miss getting hit by one of Leslie’slace-up boots. “Thanks for coming, bitchaaas!”

“Alrighty, then,” I say. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

“I’ve been trying to tell you that for the past threeminutes! We need to leave town!” Kat says, clicking her high-heeled wayacross the marble foyer. I limp behind her.

“Ooh!” I say. Propped on a chair by the front door is apile of small, pink Chinese takeout cartons. Sexy-to-Go is inscribed onhangtags in black ink. I grab two.

Like Kat, I can never resist party favors.

“Here, take this,” I say, stuffing one of the favors inKat’s bag. “Did you see what happened?” We’re hiding out under some evergreens,hidden from view of Leslie’s house by a few huge bushes.

Kat’s busy on her phone, tapping at keys, but she won’ttell me what she’s doing. She looks up long enough to answer.

“Um, which part? The completely embarrassing pole-dancingpart? Or the tear-a-gash-in-the-hostess’s-face part?”

“The…” I stop. “Wait a second. I’ve got talent! Moves!”

“And that’s why you see so many men with bloody facescoming out of stripper bars. Because of the ‘talented’ pole dancers with their‘moves.’”

She returns to tapping her fingers on the small, glowingscreen.

“You mean…Leslie was right?” I pause to considerthis. What if, in general, I stink at things that I think I excel at?It’s disturbing to contemplate that I might actually be delusional, and that