Chapter 2
2
“Mr. Cohen’s winner pick didn’t even make the jury!”
Theo Cohen’s fourth graders erupt in ooh s and giggle at his humiliating loss. Every day, he’s humbled by a scathing drag delivered by one of his students—be it the way he walks, the color of his shirt, or the total embarrassment of losing your Survivor winner pick pre-jury.
Theo covers his ears. “Milo! Spoilers!”
“It’s okay, Mr. Cohen,” Jeremiah says. “We voted for an amendment to the spoiler rule.”
Theo raises a single eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yep!” Sierra confirms, with a chipped neon-pink nail polish thumbs-up.
Milo stands, his chair screeching against the floor. “The twenty-four-hour Spoiler Embargo may be lifted if Mr. Cohen’s winner pick is eliminated.”
Milo then marches over to Theo’s desk to hand him the amendment, handwritten and signed by the entire class. Embargo was a challenge vocab word last week. Milo genuinely did spoil last night’s episode for Theo, but he’s way too proud that his kids just correctly used embargo in a sentence to care. Integrating his favorite television show into his curriculum has made Mr. Cohen cool . The teacher every fourth grader crosses their fingers and wishes for at Foothill Elementary. Kids live for the challenges. Theo has a collection of Survivor puzzles in his classroom—color pattern, unscramble the phrase, 3D, and, of course, the iconic slide puzzle.
Every Friday starts with a Survivor recap and a puzzle.
Theo reads the amendment, his expression serious.
Minor spoilers are worth the collective joy his students take in calling him a loser.
“Fair enough.”
Theo pins the amendment to the corkboard hanging on the wall above his desk, alongside the rules for participating in Survivor Fridays and the list with each kid’s winner pick. Successfully select who wins after the first episode and receive either a homework pass or five extra points on the weekly vocabulary quiz. If his winner pick is eliminated pre-jury, the finale party becomes an ice cream party.
Theo chooses a likely pre-jury boot with intention, to give his kids an ice cream party.
It’s been great for classroom management, Survivor Fridays with Mr. Cohen. It keeps the kids on track, looking forward to the puzzles and strategy chats at the end of the week. Theo can make any concept relate back to the show—the science behind some of the physical challenges, the character arcs and storytelling over the course of the season, the complicated history of the filming locations and challenging the show’s appropriation of Indigenous culture. During his first year teaching, Ms. Connors spoke to Theo about appropriation being a challenge vocab word after a parent complained that politics have no place in the classroom. He now makes it a point to use it as the challenge word on the first vocabulary quiz of the year.
It’s the easiest way to immediately identify the Problem Parents.
In college, Theo took Classroom Management, a semester-long unit dedicated to tips and tricks for managing problem students—the disruptors who pull focus and derail a lesson with an off-topic comment or an ill-timed fart joke. But Theo learned real quick that nine times out of ten, kids are not the problem. It’s the parents who derail a lesson with a call to Ms. Connors, who question his independent reading list, who discredit him because he’s one of the youngest teachers at Foothill.
Parents are the worst part of the job.
Easily.
But the kids are worth it.
Theo crosses his name off the Survivor board, and everyone cheers. “Okay! You’ve had your laugh, so it’s time for mine. Who’s ready to learn how to multiply some fractions?”
“Are you going to sing?” Annabelle asks.
“You know it.”
Cue a collective groan.
They’ll complain about Mr. Cohen’s songs. Call him cringe or corny. But he’ll sing a song about multiplying fractions to the tune of “Let It Go” and it will stick. Even if they mock him, they will have multiply, multiply, the numerators to-ge-ther stuck in their heads until the end of time. Or at least until the statewide cumulative exam. His mom taught him that. She had a song for everything, and Theo can still hear her singing them. It’s in these moments, when he’s introducing a new concept via song, that he feels closest to her.
After a somewhat successful lesson, Theo’s students line up two-by-two for gym class. Handing them over to Ms. Walsh begins forty-five minutes of quiet. Usually. It’s his prep period, meant for setting up for the afternoon, for grading Play-Doh dioramas of endangered species, for Clorox disinfecting the surfaces of his classroom. Sometimes, Juniper Delgado, a third-grade teacher whose kids are in art class when his are in gym, will knock on his door and they’ll do some grading together to a compilation of Seth Meyers monologues. Most of the time, he’s listening to a Survivor recap podcast, oscillating between photocopying enough worksheets for the rest of the week and texting his best friend, Evelyn Bloom.
But today?
Today, his precious prep time is booked with the principal of Foothill Elementary.
Theo knocks on the office door. “Ms. Connors—”
“Veronica,” Ms. Connors corrects with a soft chuckle.
Veronica Connors has been the principal at Foothill Elementary since Theo was a student at this same school. It doesn’t matter how many times she insists on being called Veronica —she will never not be Ms. Connors to him. This applies to any educator Theo knew as a student at Foothill. It’s weird, the shift in perspective from student to colleague.
Theo’s positive he’ll never get used to it.
“Veronica,” he repeats, then takes a seat in one of the chairs in front of her desk.
Her eyes shift from her desktop to meet his. “How are you, Theo?”
“Good.”
“What’s on the agenda?”
“I just wanted to share a proposal I put together for a class trip to the Griffith Observatory.”
Her brow furrows. “You know the fourth graders go to Kidspace.”
Kidspace is a rite of passage for a Pasadena kid—be it via a field trip, a birthday party, or a weekend activity. It’s not a terrible place for a kid to spend a day, with its three and a half acres of indoor and outdoor tactile exhibits. It’s just, well, basic , as Annabelle would (and did!) say. While the museum is technically for the under-tens, Theo’s kids feel too old, too been there, done that , for it to be the fourth-grade field trip. He remembers that feeling, once a Foothill fourth grader himself. So every year, he proposes an alternative field trip for his kids.
Theo clears his throat. “I know. But with the focus on earth science and space in the curriculum, we believe that the observatory would be a more educationally enriching experience for the students.”
It’s a more eloquent response than But Kidspace is basic .
“We?”
“The fourth-grade teachers all agree Kidspace is a bit, um, basic.”
Theo swallows.
Shit .
Ms. Connors— Veronica —sighs. “I’m sorry, Theo. Kidspace gives us a generous discount for our annual field trip and we just do not have room in the budget for anything extra this year, with the third graders going to the zoo.”
“What?”
“Juniper made a compelling case. If we cannot educate the kids on the problematic truths of the Gold Rush without parents up my ass… then we may as well just take them to the zoo.”
Theo is stunned. The annual third-grade field trip is to a historical reenactment of the Gold Rush. It’s a complex with architecture that emulates 1800s Americana, where the kids have a blast digging for gold nuggets, completely oblivious to the brutal displacement of Indigenous people during this period. The historical center vaguely glosses over its ugly truths. How American of it. Theo isn’t upset that the third graders of Foothill Elementary will no longer be exposed to history that’s ignorant at best and racist at worst.
But.
He pitched the zoo last year.
“Juniper’s husband is a veterinarian for the LA Zoo, you know. He’s going to take the kids on a behind-the-scenes tour and let them feed giraffes. Really make them feel special.”
He knows.
Last year, Theo asked Juniper if Joey, her then-fiancé, would be down to give his kids a tour of the zoo if his proposal was approved. He shared his pitch with her. Theo always shares his pitches with Juniper. As the only twentysomething teachers at Foothill, he believed they had aligning interests.
He believed they were friends.
Theo gives Ms. Connors a terse nod.
“I’m sorry,” Ms. Connors says, apathy in her voice. “Maybe next year?”
It’s her annual refrain.
It’s also Theo’s cue to get out. He pushes his chair back and stands, exiting Ms. Connors’s office with ten minutes of his prep period remaining. Theo has two options. He can knock on Juniper’s door and ask, What the hell? He doesn’t begrudge this win for her kids, but allies aren’t supposed to backstab each other. Now he has to figure out how to explain to his kids that an afternoon at Kidspace is just as cool as feeding fucking giraffes .
There’s no way to explain that.
He already sees Annabelle’s eye roll.
As the mere concept of confrontation makes Theo want to melt into the floor and disappear Wicked Witch of the West–style, he goes with the second option. Doing nothing.
Soft.
Theo hears Jacob Cohen’s voice in response to his inaction, but his dad’s brand of toxic masculinity is a particular trauma that he unpacks with Brian, his therapist, every Tuesday at four. So he pushes that voice, that word, away and Clorox wipes the desks, the smartboard, the pencil sharpener, before he returns to the gym to retrieve his kids. After gym, it’s snack and silent reading time. Theo has a basket of single-serving prepackaged snacks at his desk so that no kid will be snack-less. He makes sure to have gluten-free options for Kaia and Tyler. Over his desktop, he watches his kids silently snacking and reading books selected from the class library. Currently, they’re drawn to the classics—the Percy Jackson series and Diary of a Wimpy Kid . Also anything by Kelly Yang or Jason Reynolds. Theo’s classroom library is curated, like his snack collection, with his own funds. He can do snacks and books.
He can’t self-fund a whole field trip.
Theo observes his kids reading and snacking on carrot sticks and Goldfish and can’t believe that this is his life—still living in his hometown, now teaching at the elementary school he attended.
He’s a townie .
Somewhere in the multiverse, Theo Cohen is an activist, working with a New York City nonprofit to reform curriculums nationwide. He takes his plans to Washington. Fights for accessibility to technology, for free breakfasts and lunches, for the quality of one’s education not to depend on the zip code in which one lives.
In that universe, he isn’t in the classroom.
Theo kind of loves his classroom—the bright-colored drawings tacked onto walls, the beanbag corner he set up so the kids can be comfortable during movies, the library he curated with books he loved as a kid and books he loves as an adult who teaches kids. He loves Maude, the guinea pig that Evelyn bought for his class during his first year teaching who is somehow still alive. He loves the memories of his mom that are in this room.
In this school.
Lori Cohen was a second-grade teacher at Foothill Elementary for more than thirty-five years. On Theo’s desk are side-by-side first-day-of-school photos. His first day of kindergarten and his first day as Mr. Cohen. One features a toothless grin. Both feature Lori’s arms wrapped around him, so proud. Of course, he sometimes wonders what Multiverse Theo’s life is like—the Theo who works on progressive education reform, the Theo who lives in a closet-size apartment in Manhattan, the Theo who still has a mom…
“Mr. Cohen?”
His name is an inquisitive whisper.
Theo looks up from his computer. “What’s up, Kaia?”
“What does reverent mean?”
She points to the word in her copy of The Lightning Thief . Kaia O’Connell takes silent reading seriously—both the silent and the reading. If she doesn’t understand a word, she will always ask Theo before she moves on to the next chapter. He defines reverent and Kaia returns to her seat to write it down. She has a whole notebook full of new words and Theo’s definitions. Kaia can look it up in the dictionary or on one of the class iPads after silent reading time, but Theo is always encouraging his kids to ask for help.
He wishes more adults encouraged him to ask for help.
Theo’s eyes return to his screen, where there is a new email in his inbox.
Subject: this new math is INCONCEIVABLE
He coughs to cover up his snort at the not-at-all covert subject line from Evelyn, aka [email protected]. She believes it’s a genius way to contact him at work. He keeps his phone locked in his desk while his kids are in the room because if they can’t have devices out, neither can he. What started out as a system for emergencies has devolved into his best friend spamming his inbox with subject lines from the point of view of a disgruntled parent. Subtle, Evelyn Bloom is not.
Theo opens the email.
can we watch at mine tonight? also… you may need to talk me out of committing arson.
just kidding.
OR AM I!!
The more momager the subject line, the more unhinged the message. Survivor Wednesday is on Thursday this week, as Evelyn spent last night attending her first movie premiere—and they never watch without each other. Even in college, they watched together from opposite coasts, Theo from his NYU dorm and Evelyn from her UCLA one. She splurged on a VPN so they could watch together on East Coast time. It was a whole thing.
Theo types a response.
Sure. Warning: I have been spoiled.
p.s. if you’re so worried about my emails being screened, you maybe shouldn’t threaten to commit a felony? (she’s kidding!)
Evelyn answers immediately:
I’M KIDDING.
omg THEODORE. you checked reddit?
Theo replies:
Milo.
Not even a cough can suppress the laugh that escapes at Evelyn’s response— what a butt! deduct ten points from his diorama project. at least. It’s a disruptor. Silent reading time is over, and not only that, but Theo now must explain what’s so funny. These kids don’t let him get away with anything. It’s the start of a chaotic afternoon—Tyler steals Emerson’s favorite marker. Annabelle bursts into tears when she sees a check mark on last night’s homework, not the check plus that she expects out of herself. Kaia asks if Pluto is still a planet. Milo says, Pluto is a dog, Kaia.
By the time it’s a quarter to three, Theo is exhausted.
Jeremiah raises his hand. “My cousin Lola says that Mrs. Delgado is taking her class to the zoo this year.”
“Who is Mrs. Delgado?” Milo asks.
“ Ms. Garcia ,” Annabelle says, like duh . “She got married, so she’s Mrs. Delgado now.”
“That’s so patriarchy of her,” Sierra says.
“Are we going to the zoo?” Kaia asks.
Theo shakes his head. “We’re going to Kidspace.”
He braces himself for the collective groans, and his kids don’t let him down.
“Kidspace is for babies!”
“Mr. Cohen. I had my birthday party there in, like, first grade .”
“We never got to go to the zoo!”
“That’s not fair!”
It’s hard for Theo to calm his students down, to assure them that Kidspace will be a great time. They’re right. He won’t gaslight them into thinking that a museum they’ve already visited multiple times in their nine short years of life is better than a day at the zoo—or a visit to a planetarium. He just lets them vent and groan until the bell rings and bus numbers are called. Milo is right, it isn’t fair. And Theo doesn’t want this to be a teachable life isn’t fair moment for his kids. They’ll learn that—if they haven’t already—on their own.
He just wants them to stare up in wonder at the stars.
As the classroom empties and Mr. Cohen becomes Theo once more, he makes a promise to himself that this year somehow, some way, his kids will see the stars.