Lifelong best friends say ‘I do’ to a marriage of convenience, trading vows for a financial safety net and benefits. Perfect for fans of Emily Henry and Katherine Center.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Marisa Kanter’s Friends With Benefits, which is out May 6th 2025.
Evie Bloom pays attention to the details. Her very job depends on it—as an aspiring Foley artist, she’s responsible for every crisp footstep, smacking kiss, and distinct sound in film and television. So when she’s selected for a fellowship opportunity that would make all her career dreams come true, she’s quick to spot the catch: there are no health benefits, and for someone with a chronic illness, that’s a non-starter.
Theo Cohen is an elementary school teacher who can’t afford to live on his own in LA, and is facing eviction after his roommates couple up and move out of their rent-controlled apartment. But there is one loophole in his lease: each tenant must meet an income threshold, unless the tenants are married.
For Theo, the answer is obvious. Marry Evie, his best friend since forever. It’s not as if they don’t spend all their free time together anyways. Not only will Theo be able to keep his apartment, but Evie can be added to his insurance plan so she can accept her dream fellowship. It’s such a logical, practical solution. Never mind that Evie doesn’t really want to be married—not to Theo, not to anyone—ever. Or the small, complicating fact that Theo has always been a little bit in love with Evie.
But it doesn’t have to be a big deal. Marriage. It will just give them space to breathe, and much-needed relief from the daily financial stress. It won’t change anything.
It’s . . . going to change everything.
CHAPTER 1
Evelyn Bloom knows she isn’t famous, but it still stings when press photographers lower their cameras the mo- ment she and her sister step onto the red carpet outside the Dolby Theatre. She’d paid for an Uber Black from Pasadena to Hollywood and those thirty-three minutes in a BMW X7 cost as much as the monthly payment on Phoebe. So the least she could get is a photo of her stepping out of the black SUV with the Getty Images watermark stamped across her face. Phoebe is a ten-year-old Mazda CX-3 that she loves with her whole heart, but Imogen called it too embarrassing for the occasion.
Now inside the theater, Evie’s phone vibrates with the Uber receipt.
She winces.
Imogen.
Evie follows her to the line for the bathroom, grateful to Imogen for escorting her without even asking. Living with a chronic illness that fucks with your GI tract, for Evie, means a mandatory bathroom stop before any major event. Some- times two. Just in case. Jules, her therapist, would ask Evie to interrogate if it’s Crohn’s or the anxiety of a Crohn’s flare that triggers this. Does it matter? Evie doesn’t think so.
“How are you feeling?” Imogen asks, examining her lip- stick in a compact as the line moves at a glacial pace.
A bit nauseous, if she’s being honest. “Fine.”
“I, for one, am kind of obsessed with being the plus-one tonight.”
From Uber Black requests to being on a first-name basis with the theater’s security team, Imogen Bloom knows how to navigate a premiere. She works in casting for an unscripted series and networks her ass off, attending premieres and galas and wherever her boss sends her to recruit C-list celebrities and influencers. But Imogen is off duty tonight. She’s here with Evie.
For Evie.
“Gen?”
Imogen spins 180 degrees and squeals. “Portia? Oh my God, you look incredible.”
Portia Devereaux, a supporting cast member in Ginger—the film premiering here tonight—is one of the few reality television contestants who successfully pivoted to a film ca- reer. Imogen discovered them when she was a wide-eyed baby intern in the casting department for Big Brother, and Portia’s success on the show directly led to a full-time job offer for Imogen upon graduating from UCLA.
“Working?” Portia assumes.
Imogen shakes her head, blond curls bouncing around her shoulders as she loops her arm through Evie’s. “Nope! Evie is one of the Foley artists who worked on Ginger.”
Portia’s eyes meet hers. “Amazing.”
Evie’s natural instinct is to downplay what a major deal this is. “I interned for the studio during post. Right place, right time.”
Imogen rolls her eyes. “Annaliese had a scheduling conflict, so Evie stepped in and did the Foley for Ginger. She learned the dances in an afternoon and—”
A stall door swings open, and Evie’s next in line, so she bolts, desperate to remove herself from the conversation be- fore the obvious next question: What are you working on now? Because this night is a total fluke. Evie Bloom is not a working Foley artist. Yet. She spends her days working for a media conglomerate, editing podcasts for former reality dating show contestants turned influencers.
It’s not a dream job, but the benefits are good.
Done in the bathroom, she exits the stall and washes her hands next to Zendaya, who says, “Excuse me,” as she reaches across her for a paper towel and it takes every ounce of re- straint for Evie not to blurt out I love you. Well. Even if to- night isn’t a turning point that marks the beginning of a long and successful career, at least Zendaya spoke to her.
“Ev. Zendaya spoke to you,” Imogen says as they take their seats in the mezzanine.
Evie knew that a biopic about Ginger Rogers was going to be a big deal—big-budget movies about Old Hollywood are certified Oscar porn. But it’s one thing to know it and another to see the caliber of celebrities that showed up to the premiere.
“I just. I cannot believe that the Zendaya Maree Stoermer
Coleman is going to hear my talented sister dance,” Imogen says.
“And she won’t even know it.”
It’s the truth. She’s not the star of the movie. No. Evie Bloom is not the face. She’s every step on concrete, on lino- leum, on carpet. She’s the cadence of Ginger’s movements— the buoyant beat that accompanies running into the arms of any one of her five husbands, the jump of joy when she lands her first film, the crisp, clean shukes that define her as a tap legend. All the sounds that make a movie magic.
In Ginger, Evie is a part of that magic.
Not the face, but the feet.
She loves that magic.
Evie inherited her fascination with sound from Grandma Pep, the beloved host and executive producer of Some Pep in Your Step, a local radio show that featured anyone with an interesting “happy-making” story. Peppy Bloom was on the air for over thirty-five years. Some of Evie’s most formative childhood memories are summer days in the studio with her grandmother, where she asked the audio engineers endless questions and absorbed so many lessons on how to tell a story not just with words but with sounds.
It was one of Grandma Pep’s stories that directly led to her becoming a storyteller with sounds herself. One blistering sum- mer day, she went with her grandmother to interview a team of Foley artists who worked on the Paramount lot. Evie was nine and watched with wide-eyed wonder as these people explained to Grandma Pep that their jobs were to create the sound effects that make a movie—and they used the most unexpected ob- jects. She learned that a celery stick can mimic the sound of a broken bone, that gloves with paper clips on the fingertips are adequate dog paws, that a hand in a jar of mayonnaise is a kiss.
Pey create the sounds that breathe life into a fllm, Grandma Pep explained as her audio engineer recorded a Foley demo for the segment. Evie’s mind near exploded watching them use a bathtub to create the sounds of a boat cutting through water. She remembers that day so vividly—the smell of mayonnaise, the snap of celery, the awe of it all. Afterward, her ears started paying extra close attention at the movies, trying to guess the truth behind the sounds she heard.
Eighteen years later, Evie is seated among the stars at a pre- miere for a film that she breathed life into.
Well.
In the mezzanine above the stars.
Imogen’s elbow nudges her. “It’s still pretty early. You should be out there mingling!”
“I hate mingling.”
“Evie.”
Imogen has always made it look so easy—mingling, net- working, any word that can be defined as speaking to strangers. Evie loves everything about the work that is being a Foley art- ist, but she really hates the people-ing of it all, the reality that opportunities depend on it. An incredible portfolio is useless if no one will take the time to listen to it. Objectively, Imogen is right. She should be mingling.
Of course, she doesn’t tell her sister this.
Or admit that she doesn’t know why small talk is so easy for Imogen yet so impossible for her.
Instead, she sticks out her tongue.
Imogen mirrors the expression, then continues, “Portia is chill. They’re also blowing up in a major way, and I set up the intro and . . . you totally flopped.”
“We were in the bathroom, Gen.”
“So?”
“It didn’t exactly seem like the time to pitch myself.” “Maybe not, but you didn’t have to downplay your contri-bution to Ginger either.”
Evie didn’t downplay anything. It was true, what she said to Portia, that the opportunity was a happenstance of right place, right time. Annaliese Fallon, who stars as Ginger, was meant to dub herself—to come into the Foley studio and re- cord her dances in sync with video. Just like any other sound effect, adding the taps in postproduction guarantees a crisper, cleaner sound and allows more control to the mixers in charge of layering all the sounds together. But then a scheduling con- flict sent Annaliese to her next role, on Broadway, earlier than anticipated, so she never had the chance to record the dances that she’d flawlessly executed on-screen.
And the studio was fucked.
Ross Snyder, Evie’s boss, scrambled in frantic search of a solution. Put tap shoes on his hands and winged it. The taps were in sync but wrong. A shuke that should have been a scuf- fle, a flap that should have been a ball change. To the untrained ear of the general public, Ross’s hand taps would suffice. But this was a love letter to Ginger Rogers. A movie for dancers.
And Evie’s first dream, before Grandma Pep had spectacu- larly shattered the illusion of sound, was dance.
I’m a dancer, she told Ross, her voice small and palatable.
I can do it.
Ross cocked an eyebrow, skeptical. Ross is an asshole.
Give me the tapes and a day.
Ross sighed, conceding that he had nothing to lose.
Evie didn’t tell Ross that she was a dancer, past tense, or that she’d have to tear her closet apart to find the worn BLOCHs that she hadn’t put on since high school. She didn’t tell Ross that she wasn’t sure if her weakened ankle could han- dle the choreography. Nope. When Ross Snyder looked up at Evie with tap shoes for hands, Evie saw an opportunity—to prove her worth, to get a Foley credit in a major theatrical release, to dance again.
She took it.
Of course she did.
She learned the choreography and perfected it until her feet bled.
After the recording session, her calves burned. Her ankle screamed enough. And Evie loved every minute of that day. She is so drawn to Foley because of the physicality, the musi- cality, the rhythm required. Being in the studio, Evie is almost a dancer again, and it felt incredible to actually dance, to be Ginger’s feet.
Pank fucking God, Ross said when Evie played back her work for him.
It’s the closest she ever got to a thank-you from Ross Snyder. “Well. I tried,” Imogen says with a shrug, then pulls out her phone and starts typing, her eyebrows rising in the amused expression that is for one person only. “It’s Sloane, asking if I need anything from Costco and…… since when are we Costco people? How did this happen?”
“You moved in together after three months like a sapphic cliché, Gen. Of course you’re Costco people.”
Imogen flips her off. “Valid.”
Evie laughs, then reaches for her phone after it vibrates with a new text:
You’re Ginger tonight. I’m so proud of you, Evelyn.
It squeezes her heart, those nine words from her best friend.
“Theo?” Imogen assumes.
Evie nods.
“I sort of feel bad. He would’ve been a better plus-one.” She checks her teeth one final time for lipstick. “Just in terms of, like, appreciating the dance of it all. I would say sorry for calling dibs as your blood, but I’m not. So.”
Evie snorts. “You’re a great date. And anyway, it’s a school night.”
Theo Cohen—Mr. Cohen—would never be out past 10:00p.m. on a school night. He has twenty children that he’s re- sponsible for in the morning, teaching the next generation multiplication and assigning book reports and doing exper- iments to learn about weather systems that don’t exist in Southern California.
“Bitch, I knew you invited him first.”
Evie laughs because of course her extra ticket was Imogen’s first, always, forever.
But she’s just too easy to mess with.
Anyway, Evie will watch Ginger with Theo from the com- fort of her couch when it’s on Netflix next week—when they can rewind and rewatch and analyze the dance routines like they’re seventeen again, in search of inspiration for their next duet. If it’s even good. Evie’s feet had to be approved by so many sets of ears—Ross’s, the sound mixer’s, the music su- pervisor’s, the director’s, Annaliese Fallon’s. Still, she must approve her work with her own ears before she allows the person whose opinion she cares about most in this world to listen, too.
She rereads Theo’s text, then tucks her phone into her clutch as the lights dim and the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion roars. Evie’s feet are the opening beat. Ginger is rehearsing one of her routines with Fred Astaire in Swing Time. Annaliese Fallon looks incredible. Evie sounds incredible. And for the next two hours, she’s lost in the beautiful, intricate sound design. Sound is taken for granted, but Evie loves the art, the science, the magic of shaping an audience’s experience through what is not seen but heard. It’s kind of blowing her mind, that every time the music starts and the dancing begins, everyone is seeing Annaliese but hearing her. Evie’s art and talent are an integral part of this movie.
It’s an indescribable feeling.
It is purpose.
A sort of fulfillment that is notably absent when she opens Pro Tools every day and works on the latest podcast for the reality dating show Ever After. She loves these podcasts as a listener—their smart, feminist, intersectional takes on a fran- chise that refuses to progress beyond the patriarchal founda- tion upon which it’s built. But spending forty-plus hours a week in front of a screen editing them?
It. Is. Torture.
Evie isn’t meant to sit in front of a computer screen. She’s meant to move.
“Evie,” Imogen whispers, dabbing a tissue to her eyes as the credits start to roll. “Holy shit.”
Evie squeezes Imogen’s hand.
“I felt you,” she continues. “Like, I closed my eyes and we were at a competition again.”
Imogen danced, too, following in her big sister’s tap shoes. But she danced for the fun of it, for the costumes, for the unrequited crushes she always had on other dancers. Dance never became Imogen’s identity. It was simply a thing she did, not who she was.
Dance is who Evie was. Until she wasn’t.
Until she couldn’t.
Evie and Imogen stay glued in their seats for the credits to see the name Evelyn Bloom under the Foley department. It’s the credit that Evie believes will jump-start her career, the credit she listed on the union application that’s currently pending. If approved, she can begin to take on more work. In the union, she’ll be paid guaranteed minimums and not be lowballed as most early-career freelancers are. In the union, she’ll have health benefits that will free her from the Pro Tools life. Ben- efits that cover the appointments, the screenings, the medica- tions necessary to manage her chronic illness.
The credits roll.
Evie waits to see her name.
Waits.
And waits. And—
“What the fuck?” Imogen snarls at the credit.
Foley artist: Ross Snyder
As quickly as it appears, it’s gone, and Evie’s eyes sting as if she’s been slapped. She knows Ross is an asshole, but she thought he was at least an asshole with integrity. But of course, he’s just another man in the industry more than happy to take credit for a woman’s work. She bled for Ginger. She deserved this credit.
She needed it.
Her union application is going to be rejected without it.
Evie’s stomach cramps, a dull pain shooting through her lower abdomen, reminding her that the dream that felt so close to possible just two hours ago is once again very much not.
“Ev—”
“Can we go home?”
Ross just . . . erased her from Ginger. Tonight was supposed to be good. Working for Ross Snyder was the worst six months of Evie’s life, but tonight was meant to be proof that his exploiting her passion for unpaid labor was worth it.
Evie exits the theater biting the inside of her cheek so she doesn’t burst into furious tears.
Fuck Ross.
Fuck passions.
Fuck.
Shit.
CHAPTER 2
Mr. Cohen’s winner pick didn’t even make the jury!”
Theo Cohen’s fourth graders erupt in oohs and giggle at his humiliating loss. Every day, he’s hum-bled by a scathing drag delivered by one of his students—be it the way he walks, the color of his shirt, or the total embarrass- ment 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 pol- ish 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 genu- inely 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 cur- riculum has made Mr. Cohen cool. The teacher every fourth grader crosses their fingers and wishes for at Foothill Elemen- tary. Kids live for the challenges. Theo has a collection of Sur- vivor 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 vo- cabulary 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 compli- cated 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 dis- credit 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 every- one 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 con- cept 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 to- gether 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 tech- nically 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 re- members 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 obser- vatory 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 pe- riod. 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 teach- ers 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 curricu- lums 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 draw- ings 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 El- ementary 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 educa- tion 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 defi- nitions. Kaia can look it up in the dictionary or on one of the class iPads after silent reading time, but Theo is always en- couraging 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, flrst 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 al- ready 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 some- how, some way, his kids will see the stars.
