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decided to call everyone by their last names. I am
imagining the crisp television theme music playing in the background as these
guys speak.
    “This is a civil case in which a mother is suing a daycare
for neglecting her child,” Silvan explains.
    Oh shit. Really? I sink back in my chair, instantly
deflated. Of all the voir dires in all the world, I have to walk into this one.
Child neglect! I bet when the lawyers sat down this morning to imagine an ideal
jury, they were like, You know, what we really need to balance out this jury
will be a mother of two who is also a teacher. Someone really on the inside,
with lots of experience and bias. As soon as I open my mouth, I am so
getting kicked out of here.
    Parnell picks up where Silvan left off. “Now, whether the
accused did or did not do this, and to what extent the law is in the daycare’s
favor or the working mother’s favor, is what you will decide if you are placed
on this case. For this trial, you will merely look at the facts, hear from
several witnesses, and examine the law to decide if the facility and its owners
are at all guilty of any wrongdoing.”
    “Now, I am going to call forward a few of you to sit here,
in the twelve seats in the center of the room,” Silvan says.
    I’m the fourth one called. Carrie is also called, as is
Sweetheart. Before long, there are twelve of us seated, two rows of six, with a
circle of others looking on.
    There are a lot of people here trying to get out of
jury duty, but I am not one of them. I take a furtive look around the room to
size up the competition.
    There’s one. She’s a gray-haired black woman actually knitting in the corner. She’s got all the markings of your typical juror—old, domestic,
with time on her hands—and I scowl at her, trying to will her away. She looks
up through her bifocals, probably having felt my death stare. I turn away just
in time.
    Today she’s going down.
    Because I have to get put on this case.
    I have to get a leave of absence from my life.
    “Please raise your hand if you have children.” Up goes my
hand.
    “Please raise a hand if you have ever spent time away from
your child or children. Perhaps you have traveled overnight on a business trip,
or taken a vacation without them. Perhaps, like the defense in this case, you
are a working parent who has put his or her child in daycare or preschool.” Not
all of the people with children raise their hands, but several do. Including
me.
    This is kinda fun.
    “Please raise your hand if you work full-time, outside of
your home.” Two women do not raise their hands, but the rest of us do. Stay-at-home
moms , I think.
    Just for the fun of it, I wiggle my fingers around in the
air, like the A-plus students in my classes do, so that I can really be seen
and remembered.
    But, instead of noticing me, the lawyers start asking
those women questions. Things like: “Do you work from home?” “Do you work
part-time?” and “What is your primary occupation?” As I expected, both are
stay-at-home moms. They are so off the case. I picture them walking out of the
courtroom together a few minutes into the future, honking good-bye to each
other from identical minivans.
    Sayonara , I think.
    “Please raise your hand if you work with children,”
Parnell asks, and suddenly, it’s show time. I will make this work to my
advantage. I push my hair from my face, raise my hand, and meet his eyes.
    “Ms.…” Parnell scans his clipboard for my name.
    “Worthing,” we say simultaneously.
    “Yes, Ms. Worthing. Could you tell me what exactly it is
you do?”
    “I try to teach eleven-year-olds where to put their
commas,” I say. Good-natured laughs are sprinkled around the room. Parnell
joins in, sport that he is.
    “Yes, well. And for how long have you been…teaching
English, I presume?”
    “Fifteen years,” I say, shaking my head at the
ridiculousness of it, at the way time has passed, at the fact that my students
have moved on, growing and