Lauren Takes Leave Read Online Free

Martin, book faker,
in this particular case?
    I’m thinking about one of three punishments. I could make
him reread Ice Glory and we could conference again in a week. Or,
better, I could select another book, one that I know inside out, and make him
read that one. In fact, I could take that one step further and say that for the
last three months of the school year I will handpick all of his reading
material and get written as well as oral reports from him each time he finishes
a book.
    I know what will happen here. Instead of reports I’ll get
phone calls from Martin’s parents. I’ll have to defend my point of view to the
guidance counselor. Next thing you know, I’ll be roped into spending more time
with Martin than I do already, giving him help after school and during lunch
recess, eating at my desk instead of with friends in the teachers’ café. And
all the while, he’ll continue to look at me with those bulging eyes and that
crooked hair, stressing me out with his inherent awfulness. Eventually, I’ll
fantasize about running him over with my car in the parking lot, and I’ll end
up in jail.
    Whose punishment is that, I ask you?
    “Hey, Martin,” I say, snapping back to attention.
    “Yeah?” He looks at his watch. There’s only a minute left
in the class period and he’s counting down the seconds.
    “Good job.” I smile, giving him a thumbs-up. Like a rabbit
freed from the jaws of a raccoon, he darts from the room, bewildered but not
unpleased.
    The other children file past me and I wave good-bye, wish
them a nice day, remind them of the homework.
    A weight lifts from my shoulders. Like Martin, I feel like
I’ve just dodged a bullet.
    My substitute is nowhere to be found. Neither is a pen. I
scribble an unimaginative lesson plan for the remaining sections of sixth-grade
English, using a hot pink highlighter, and leave it in the center of my
cluttered desk, hoping the sub can find it.
    Then I call down to the guidance counselor’s office,
explaining my situation. “So you’re going to miss the lunchtime grading session
for the state exams?” she asks accusingly.
    Oh crap. Forgot about that.
    “It looks that way, Shirley,” I say.
    “Well, that’s not fair to the other members of the English
Department, who are going to have to work longer now to grade your papers as
well as theirs. They’ll probably have to stay after school.”
    I picture the seven other members of my department
silently cursing me for my absence while they sit, hunched over test booklets,
trying to decipher chicken scratch and determine whether the responses are
worth a random score of a 3 or a 4. I search my brain for a solution. “Maybe…I
can…how about if I come in early tomorrow to do it?”
    “You know they have to be completed today. The state needs
them by the end of the week.” She sighs.
    Like I’ve planned this or something. Like I’ve concocted a
lame excuse to get out of my responsibilities.
    “Shirley, I have jury duty for God’s sake! It’s not
like I’m going on a tropical vacation! I’ve had a tough morning, okay? So
just…let it go!” I slam the receiver back onto the phone, knocking the whole
thing off the wall.
    “Jeez!” I cry. My hands are shaking as I pick up the phone
and reattach it. Now I’m going to have to buy Shirley some Lindor truffles. From
experience, I know she likes the peanut butter ones.
    I’d like to crawl under my desk and hide from the world
for a while, but there’s a knock at my classroom door.
    It’s my principal, Martha Carrington.
    Of course it is.
    And she doesn’t look happy to see me.
    Naturally.
    “Come in!” I say with fake enthusiasm, pulling the door
open and making a sweeping gesture with my hands.
    Martha’s neat hair is brown and her small eyes are brown
and her fuddy-duddy clothes are brown, and I can’t for the life of me determine
how old she is. Fifty-five? Seventy-one? A hundred and forty-three?
    She enters my classroom stiffly and does a lap