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  “Dad, get up!”

  It was weird that the third-grade parents were calling him Dad. Then he realized: there were no third-grade parents. Toby was jabbing him in the ribs and yanking his pillow from under his head. He peeled open his eyes. The light hurt. A dull ache throbbed in his temples.

  “It’s Thursday.” Toby pulled at his arm but couldn’t budge him. “We can’t be late.”

  The night rushed back: the disastrous bathroom sex, skulking home, then Toby crawling into his bed sometime around three. Toby never used to wake up at night. But since Ellie left he’d been creeping in four or five times a week and flailing around next to him all night.

  “Five more minutes,” he mumbled. “Tired.”

  When Toby pulled the comforter off the bed, letting cold air into the warm cocoon, Sean’s reflexes kicked in. His arm shot out to grab it back.

  “Ow!” Toby yelped. “Ow!”

  Sean sat up, forced his eyes open. Toby was hunched over, clutching his chest. “Jesus. I’m sorry Tobe. I didn’t know you were there. I didn’t mean to—”

  “You hit me!” His eyes were brimming over.

  Sean was far from Wonder Dad. He was Hulking Brute Dad. Monster Dad. He rubbed Toby’s back. “I didn’t mean to, I was just …” He rolled up Toby’s pajama top. “Let’s take a look.” It was red. Looked like he’d been hit. “It’ll be okay. Really.”

  Toby nodded and wiped his eyes.

  “Okay. Get dressed, I’ll meet you in the kitchen for breakfast.”

  Sean turned up the hot water in the shower until he felt his skin burn. By the time he was out, Toby had poured cereal into two bowls and was rooting around in the fridge.

  “Dad,” Toby said, drawing out the word into two syllables. “Milk.”

  Milk was on his list. The list in his head that he never remembered to check. “Do we have half-and-half? You could use that.”

  “I used that up yesterday.”

  There were too many things to remember. It was impossible to get it all right. “I’ll get some on the way home.” He took inventory of what they did have left. “How about some toast?”

  “Mom never ran out of milk. Ever.”

  “Yeah, well I never ran out on you,” he shot back. As soon as he said it, Toby looked stricken. Sean had hit him where it hurt—for the second time this morning. “I didn’t mean it, Tobe,” he said. “God, I’m sorry.”

  “Mom’s coming back.” His voice was small.

  “Okay.” He wished he could press delete, start the morning over. Toby had been excited about starting the day. Before he’d been beaten physically and emotionally. “Hey,” he tried to lighten his tone. “We have an art class to get to. We don’t want to be late.”

  A chocolate croissant from the Hungarian Pastry Shop helped lift the mood for the bus ride. By the time they got to Ninety-sixth and Fifth, Toby was sugared up and ready for the day. He sprinted ahead on the Upper East Side pavement, weaving through the morning migration of well-groomed kids and their parents on the way to school.

  Sean had to admit he was looking forward to seeing what went on during a regular school day. Parent-teacher conferences and class parties had nothing to do with Toby’s daily life at The Bradley School. Sean was familiar with the black and white checkerboard floor of the lobby that he saw twice daily at drop-off and pickup, but he had no idea what went on beyond that, because according to Toby, he did stuff or nothing all day. When Toby’s teacher quit over a month ago, the school had actually reached out to parents, asking if they would volunteer to teach classes while the search committee found a replacement. In the spirit of covert infiltration, Sean volunteered to lead an art class, and today was the day.

  When they turned onto Ninety-third Street, parents and children pooled outside the glass and wrought iron door to the school. Fathers waited impatiently. Mothers chatted. Something was wrong. Drop-off was usually a wham-bam affair with fathers blowing kisses at their offspring while checking Blackberries, and a few malnourished mothers on their way to the gym. It was too early for estrogen and small talk—that came at three-thirty during pickup.

  Lilly’s mom looked up from a conversation with Melanie Drake, the mother of Toby’s best friend, Calvin. “You’re early today!” she said, looking like she’d been up for hours and already run around the reservoir, worked out with her personal trainer, and cooked a three-course breakfast for the family.

  “Am I?” His eyes darted to the entrance. “Why isn’t the door open?”

  “Five more minutes,” Melanie said, holding her wrist out so he could see it was only seven fifty-five.

  He took a quick inventory of the scene. Kids and their parents bobbed in place to keep warm as they waited to be let in. Sean froze when he saw Cheryl out of the corner of his eye.

  “So have you already started it?” Melanie had returned to a conversation with Lilly’s mom. “Susannah’s friend did it when she was eight and this girl just aced her verbal SATs.”

  “We’re three weeks in already.” Lilly’s mom looked at Sean. “Is Toby doing it, too?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Sight training.”

  He wasn’t sure what she was talking about but guessed it wasn’t a class for seeing eye dogs. “Uh, I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, you’d know,” she went on. “I bring Lilly to the midtown office three times a week. It’s special physical therapy that strengthens the eye muscles.”

  “The school recommended it for Calvin.” He liked Melanie. She was married to one of the biggest developers in Manhattan, but she somehow managed to stay more or less down to earth. “I’m trying to decide if we can fit it all in.”

  Cheryl was now standing a few feet from him. When she caught his eye, she cocked her head and winked. Maybe he’d been too hard on himself. Maybe his bathroom performance had been okay. Good even.

  “When we finish up with the OT for Calvin’s pencil grip,” Melanie said, “maybe we’ll try it. Is Toby doing OT, too?”

  “What?” He eyed the door and vowed never to be early again.

  “Occupational Therapy,” she said. “How’s Toby’s grip?”

  She was waiting for an answer. “Well, the pencil’s never flown out of his hand,” he said, knowing this couldn’t have been the answer she was looking for.

  As soon as the front door unlatched, kids streamed into the lobby and their parents peeled off for work.

  “Come on, Dad,” Toby said, pulling him away from all talk of pencil grips. Sean shot the mothers a look that said you know how kids are as he allowed Toby to drag him into the lobby and past the eighth grade Jasper Johns study on display. A few of the pieces weren’t bad, especially considering the artists were thirteen. If his own grade school had had a full-time school-museum liaison, everything could be different for him now. He’d had to wait until art school for the kind of exposure Toby had gotten in kindergarten.

  Sean tried to keep up, following Toby under the fleet of nine-hundred-ninety-nine origami swans that dangled from an elaborate mobile—the seniors’ first semester art project—then up the grand staircase.

  At the fourth floor, Sean followed Toby through a fire door and into a hallway that was carpeted in bright blue. The third-grade self-portraits that lined the walls smiled out with circle eyes, wobbly red lines for mouths, and an oompa loompa orange for skin. He wondered why the girls’ drawings were all about hair and lips, while the boys were obsessed with freckles and teeth. All except Toby’s. He’d obviously sketched himself in a mirror and used perspective and shading, like Sean had taught him. It didn’t look exactly like Toby, but it captured his sleepy lids and long lashes. In the self-portrait, his bangs fell loosely below his blond eyebrows just like they did now. Sean smiled a self-satisfied, cocky smile of a parent who knows his kid has just blown all the others out of the water. He didn’t get to gloat often. Especially at this school. He savored the moment.

  “Dad, come on. What are you doing?” Toby was pulling at his arm. “We di
d those at the beginning of the year. They’re dumb.”

  Inside the classroom, red contact paper covered the walls. Maps and cursive letters and more artwork brought the room to life. He hadn’t seen the classroom since the first day of school when Toby had met Ms. Martin. Now, he felt the panic of a tourist trying to see all the sights in a single afternoon.

  “Come see my Native American corn project.” Toby was practically bouncing as he dragged Sean over to a diorama he’d built in a Merrill shoebox. “These are my artifacts.” He handed Sean a belt made of red and yellow and white yarn. “I wove it all by myself.” A bell dangled from one of the long strings that hung off both ends.

  “You made that?” It was actually pretty well done. Weaving wasn’t easy, at least he didn’t think so. “No way.”

  “And this is my wampum.” Toby pointed to some marbles and shells. “It’s like Native American money.”

  Before Sean could respond with appropriate amazement, Toby pulled him over to the math corner where he pointed out tricky problems in his workbook that he’d gotten right. What was the school making such a stink about? Toby was doing great.

  He wondered which sub they’d throw at the kids today, the fat smelly one Toby and his friends called “El Stinko,” or the strict school marm the kids called “She Who Must Not be Named.”

  But there were no subs in the room. Just the busty assistant, Miss Bix, who was fussing with a map and push pins. With the new teacher starting next week, he figured the school was skipping the subs completely.

  When Calvin blustered into the classroom, Toby ran over to him and they plopped down on the rug together to look at a comic book. Calvin made all the special sound effects of guns and lasers. Toby groaned and gurgled death throes of dying bad guys. This was the old Toby, relaxed and happy. The Toby he hadn’t seen much of lately.

  Sean felt a small finger jab at his thigh. It was Alexis. “Hi Toby’s dad,” Alexis said. She and Toby had been friends briefly in first grade. The girl was a disaster waiting to happen. Once, Toby had come back from her apartment having played sturgeon, in which they fashioned new boobs and lips for her American Girl dolls out of Play-Doh and fed them Tic Tacs that Alexis kept calling Xanax.

  “Why are you here?” She gave him the once over, lingering on his extremities. Probably sizing him up for a procedure.

  He twitched uncomfortably. “I’m going to make collages with your class.”

  “Representational or abstract?” Alexis asked. Her eyes were squinty and her lips puckered like she’d just sucked on a lemon.

  He shrugged. “Up to you.”

  He ought to sit. It would give him something to do, and maybe Alexis would go away. He lowered himself into a mini chair, but the thing was way too close to the ground. His knees were in his armpits and only half his ass fit on the seat. Suddenly, the chatter in the room stopped. He looked up to see an incredibly attractive sub put a bag down at the teacher’s desk. Her hair was brown, almost black, and pale freckles dusted her skin.

  Toby was staring at her. They all were. Sean tapped Toby with his foot. “Who’s that?” he mouthed.

  Toby shrugged, no clue.

  The sub smiled at the class, then focused a surprised look directly at Sean. He’d been waiting to be booted. Bradley School rules: no parents in the classroom unless cleared ahead of time.

  “Oh. Hi,” she said. “Who do you belong to?” She had a great voice. Like she’d spent the weekend screaming her lungs out at a football game.

  He looked up at her from the mini chair and wished he hadn’t sat in it to begin with. “Oh, I’m …” He pushed himself up awkwardly. “Sorry. I …” He tried to straighten his knees and hoped the effort didn’t show. “I’m Sean Benning. Toby’s dad.” He extended his hand: I come in peace.

  “Nice to meet you.” She shook it. Her hand was delicate but strong.

  Her eyes were blue, but much lighter than blue eyes he’d seen before. They were like blue vapor.

  “I’m doing an art project with the kids second period,” he said. “I brought some work to do in the hallway until it’s time.”

  “No, stay if you want. It’s good to have you.” She smiled and went to the board and wrote the name Jessica Harper. She turned to the kids. “Hi.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled. “I’m Jessica Harper. Your new teacher.”

  The kids exchanged looks.

  He couldn’t believe his good luck. The other parents would kill to be crashing the new teacher’s first day.

  Alexis, visibly rattled by this departure from the schedule, raised her hand. “You’re not supposed to be here until Monday.”

  “Surprise,” Jessica Harper said. “I couldn’t wait to get started.”

  The girls giggled. Toby and Calvin whispered excitedly, then Calvin raised his hand. “What should we call you?”

  “You can call me Jess,” she said. “That feels more normal to me.” This answer prompted more whispering. Until middle school, teachers could choose to be called whatever they wanted. Only a few—the very cool few—opted for first names.

  Jess was now focused intently on the class. “Miss Bix tells me you’ve started some Thanksgiving essays. Why don’t you get them out of your binders and we’ll get to know each other?”

  As the kids rustled around, she carried an adult-size chair over to Sean and placed it next to him. “This should work better.” She was twenty-eight, he decided. Maybe thirty.

  When the kids settled down, Jess unfolded a piece of notebook paper. “I did one, too. I’ll go first.” She surveyed the room before starting. “I’m thankful for the Boston Red Sox.”

  The boys sat forward defensively. He saw Jess stifle a smile and keep going.

  “I’m thankful that I don’t care about peer pressure and that reading good books is still legal. I’m thankful for my new job at The Bradley School and also for the chance to get to know you guys.”

  Drew’s hand shot up. He had Opie-like ears and a head full of cartoon-grade red hair.

  She raised an eyebrow, pretending to be surprised that he had a comment. “What’s your name?”

  “Drew,” he said. His Izod shirt matched the turquoise stripe on his V-neck sweater, a miniature version of an investment banker on a golf outing. “The Yankees rule.”

  “I’m also thankful for freedom of choice,” she said. “And the right to voice one’s opinion in a public forum. Drew, why don’t you go next?”

  He picked up a professionally matted laser printout and straightened his spine. “I’m thankful for my mother and stepfather, my new twin brothers and in-vitro fertilization. I’m thankful for Democracy, technology, and my Xbox.”

  What eight-year-old was thankful for in-vitro? This kid was going to be pretty surprised down the road when he learned how babies were usually made. Sean got a flash of Drew’s mother on Larry King last year talking about her new book, Liars. Any woman who claimed she didn’t want children, she announced on national TV, was a liar. For six months, news shows featured one angry woman after another debating women’s biological imperative to reproduce. During that six months, Drew’s mother got divorced and remarried. Not too long after that she was waddling around The Bradley School pregnant with twins at the age that most women were starting to think about grandchildren.

  The classroom was a sea of raised hands shaking to get the teacher’s attention. Jess called on Kayla, who was wearing a Pepto-Bismol–colored sweat suit with the word “Juicy” emblazoned across her butt. Her Puma sneakers matched exactly. Kayla was just figuring out how to use her talents to get what she wanted from people. Unfortunately, Toby was under her spell.

  “My name is Kayla and I’m thankful for my innate gymnastic abilities and for Boris, who fled his country to help me achieve my Olympic dream,” she said. “I’m thankful that I am an American and can vote for president when I’m eighteen.” She smiled a beauty pageant smile she must have practiced in the mirror and sat down.

  A girl he’d never seen be
fore was next. “I’m Emily B,” she said, and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I’m thankful for J.K. Rowling’s magical writing and for Harry, Hermione, and Ron. I’ve read all the books twice. I like to memorize passages and recite them in a British accent for my mom during dinner.”

  Toby hated Harry Potter. It was way too hard. As it was, Toby refused to read even the simplest chapter books to himself unless strong-armed into it. Getting through an eight-hundred-page Harry Potter book would be pure torture—for both of them. He’d get there someday. Maybe.

  Calvin stood next. He’d slimmed down a little over the summer and looked very serious. “I’b Calbin.” His ms and vs sounded like bs. “I’b thankful for engineers and skyscrapers that bake New York City the bost ibportant city in the world.” He stared hard at the paper as if the letters might vanish. His hands were trembling. Sean wondered if Calvin’s father, who was responsible for building half of those skyscrapers, had fed him that line. “I’b thankful for Wolberine, Silber Surfer, and all the X-Ben super heroes.” He sat down and took a deep breath through his mouth.

  “Thanks Calvin,” Jess said. “Would you like a cup of water?”

  He shook his head quickly.

  Next she called on Alexis, who batted her dark eyelashes before beginning. “I’m thankful for the new anti-global warming legislation and also for iCarly, and the miracle of organ transplants.”

  “That’s a wide spectrum,” Jess said. “I like that.”

  Toby was next. He stood and looked at his paper, then at Sean, then down at his shoes. Sean tried to guess what he’d be thankful for. Saturday morning cartoons? Sour Straws? Christmas presents?

  Toby swallowed before starting. “I’m thankful for my dad,” he read. “He takes me to school and plays with me and makes me food and stuff while my mommy is away. I really miss her, but I’ve still got my dad.” He smiled shyly, not looking at Sean, then sat down.

  Sean blinked back tears. His chest felt like it might cave in as he remembered whacking Toby and telling him his mother had run out on him. Everything else could change, disappear, disappoint. Toby was his constant. The only thing that mattered. He had to be a better father. Tearing up in front of these kids, not to mention the new teacher, was out of the question. For a second, he noticed her eyes dart over to him, trying to figure out what the essay meant. He coughed like he had a tickle in his throat.