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changing, while I am still in that same classroom
year after year, the same Harry Potter posters clinging to the walls,
without anything but a Teacher of the Year plaque from the last century and a
trophy of a golden apple to show for it.
    “Ms. Worthing, are you all right?”
    “Oh, great!” I shout, too loudly for the cramped room
packed with hostile potential jurors. Keep it together, Lauren, I
chastise myself. Keep your eyes on the prize.
    “I was just wondering…how are those commas coming these
days?”
    “Great! Love ’em!” I say.
    “Really?” he asks.
    I sigh and think about the last pathetic quiz I gave. I
know that I should be upbeat and firm about my commitment to education if I
want to get a coveted spot in the jury box, but I just can’t muster the energy
to lie like that. Martin and Martha already took all the lying I could dish out.
    But I really need this case.
    Don’t I?
    I look around the room and into the eyes of these two
lawyers in their cheap suits, and I just feel tired. All these people get up
each day and do their work and come home and fight with their kids and make
love to their spouses and fall asleep only to do it all again the next day.
    Life is boring, predictable. And no amount of jury duty is
really going to change that. Not in the long run, anyway.
    I open my mouth. What comes out is the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but.
    “No one knows where to put the commas. Ever. Did you know
that there’s something like eleven uses for them in the English language, and
that sixth graders can’t think of more than three? And the great irony is that
just when you’ve actually taught the children all the uses of commas, it’s June
and they leave you, only to be replaced by children who do not know where to
put their commas ! My life is like a broken record, playing the same verse
over and over again. I’m Sisyphus!”
    I notice the hush that has fallen over the room.
    Parnell gives Sylvan a look. The he approaches me. “So, Ms.
Worthing, would you say that overworked teachers—good, decent people like
yourself—might not always be recognized and appreciated for all they do? Might,
in fact, require mental-health breaks from time to time?”
    Voir dire. To speak the truth.
    I sigh. “In fact, that’s why I’m hoping to stay here, to
get put on a jury. For a little break. From grammar. And…my husband, my
kids…other stuff. I’d kind of like to volunteer for service.” I’m so fucked.
    “Jury duty as a break from life…” Parnell looks up at the
crowd. “Now, that’s a new one!”
    Suddenly, the guy’s a comedian. This is the jolliest voir
dire on record at the Alden County Courthouse. Everyone’s slapping their knees
and wiping their eyes, it’s all so funny.
    To everyone but me. Hey, people, I want to call
out, this is my life. I have to use jury duty as an excuse to get a little
me time! You should all be sobbing at my feet, it’s so pathetic.
    After asking a few more questions, the lawyers take a
five-minute conference break, absenting themselves from the room. I stand and
look around, preparing to move back to my seat by the window, and possibly to
the parking lot, since I’m sure to be dismissed. But then the bailiff is asking
us to sit again and Parnell and Silvan are back.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to do just one more thing
here with the twelve of you before moving on.”
    The lawyers call out some of our names and have us rearrange
ourselves accordingly. “Yes, Mrs. Worthing, please take the fourth seat right
there. And Mr. Grady, seat five, and Mrs. Anglisse, yes, right there…” He scans
the seats in front of him before finishing his thought. “And that makes ten of
you, correct?”
    Parnell looks at the two rows of us, and we look back at
him. The two stay-at-home moms have been ousted and are fidgeting awkwardly in
the corner, like the last ones picked for kickball.
    “That’s it. Eight jurors and two alternates. Ladies and
gentlemen,