“Forsake” had taken her several tries, and she’d crossed out “leave,” “sacrifice,” and “abandon” before landing on it. Tracy held her breath while Ms. Johnson reviewed it, her glasses slipping on her nose as she leaned over. After a moment, she stood and beamed at Tracy. “It’s clear, reasonable, and arguable,” she said happily. “Let’s go with it.”
JAMIE PRESTON
Jamie sat at her desk until five o’clock that Friday afternoon, recording grades for a sophomore vocabulary quiz before her eyelids grew irrevocably droopy and her stomach simultaneously hollow with hunger. It’s time to go, she told herself, and blearily stuffed the ungraded papers into her backpack.
Her down coat zipped, she turned back to grab her copy of Gatsby. She’d have to reread the ending over the weekend to prep for next week’s lessons. She pushed out into the dim hallway where the garbage can smelled of spoiled milk. Next door, Eleanor Woodsley’s room was typically dark. Somehow, Eleanor managed to leave by four each day and still be the most respected member of the department. Jamie plodded past Isobel Johnson’s empty room, as well. Isobel’s departure was timed to her kids’ soccer schedules and her husband’s squash matches. She always exuded a harried quality and yet maintained peak productivity. Jamie, on the other hand, struggled with the basics of grading and lesson prep despite an uncluttered calendar.
Earlier that afternoon, Jamie had made up an excuse rather than telling Isobel the truth about why she wouldn’t be observing her fifth-period class: There was no way she’d be teaching that queer theory lesson. When Isobel, her head buried in her tote, had asked Jamie whether she’d had any recent flak over the curriculum, Jamie had said no.
“But you have?” she asked.
Isobel had retrieved her Gatsby paperback from her bag and turned toward the board. “Rumblings.” She uncapped a whiteboard marker. “I was just wondering if it was widespread, but then again, I guess I’m really the only one that teaches the more controversial lessons?”
Jamie hadn’t answered for a beat. She let Isobel turn around and begin writing that night’s assignment. “I’m still new,” she said finally, her voice thin and on the whiny side.
“Have a great day,” Isobel had said then, dismissing her.
Before Jamie backed out of her spot in the nearly empty parking lot, she checked her phone. Happy hour? a friend had texted. I’m downtown! Omg, did you see The Bachelor last week? another asked, followed by Coffee this weekend?
Jamie shook her head. Of course she couldn’t go to happy hour or watch reality television or meet up for coffee. There were assignments to grade and lessons to plan, always. Even on Friday night. Were engineers living like this? she wondered fleetingly, even though she’d tried to be one and failed.
And now, according to Mary Delgado’s recent e-mail, even if she did her second-choice job really well, there was still no guarantee that LHHS would keep her for another year. I have to work, she texted back to both friends, with the crying emoji to elicit some extra sympathy.
On Friday night? came one’s immediate reply. On Valentine’s Day?
Yes, thought Jamie. Or, more likely, early on Saturday morning. She’d be in bed by eight.
ISOBEL JOHNSON
After dinner and the kids’ bedtime stories, Isobel padded down the stairs in her Smartwool socks. Mark sat on the couch in front of an episode of Game of Thrones, sipping a Jameson on ice. Isobel slid in next to him and rested her head on his chest. At least she had Mark after a day from hell. He wouldn’t judge her or suggest she stick to a more vanilla curriculum.
He grabbed the remote and hit PAUSE. “Want to watch something else?” he asked. She appreciated it. He knew she hated the gory violence of his favorite show.
“West Wing?” It was an old favorite, a comforting panorama of people who always tried to do the right thing.
“Sure,” he said, navigating to Netflix.
Isobel took a deep breath as Apple TV loaded on the screen. “So, something really weird happened at work today.”
“Oh yeah?” Mark clicked through to “Recently Watched.”
“Yeah.” Isobel stared at the pattern on a couch cushion and reached her arm around Mark’s chest. “You know my boss, Mary Delgado?”
“The department chair?” Mark confirmed. “Which episode?”
“I don’t care. Something from season two?” Mark scrolled through the titles, and Isobel kept talking. “So, Mary came in this morning and, like, demanded to sit in on my American Lit classes all day.”
“Why?” Mark asked. “This one?” He stopped on a midseason offering.
“Sure, but wait a second.” She sat up and turned toward her husband. “She sat in my room for three class periods, and she kind of warned me.” Her arms felt weak, a light headache spreading across her forehead. In all her years at LHHS—and she’d pushed plenty of boundaries—Isobel had never been explicitly warned off a line of inquiry or a teaching practice.
“Warned you about what?”
“First, she told me she was trying to protect me,” Isobel said. She absently tugged at the fraying left cuff of her UW–Madison sweatshirt. “And then later she told me to tone the lesson down.”
“Tone what down?” Mark asked.
“I was talking about queer theory. It’s this idea that literature can perpetuate heteronormativity,” she explained. Mark started to smile, as he did anytime she riffed on curricular concepts. “Anyway,” Isobel continued, swatting at him, “it doesn’t matter. She told me to tone it down. Like, not to talk about homosexuality. She said it was for my benefit.”
“Sounds like it’s related to the voice mail,” Mark said. “Did you tell Mary about the message?”
“No,” Isobel said, miserable, “but Eleanor did.” She pressed her cheek against Mark. “I mentioned it in a small-group discussion at the faculty meeting.” She regretted it all over again. Lyle was always telling her to think things through before she did them. He’d have been especially irritated that she’d spilled the story about the voice mail to protect Jamie.
“Figures.” Mark nodded now. He’d heard enough about Eleanor to know she’d be the type to report something to the boss. “Did you get any sense of who in particular might be making the anti-American complaint?”
Isobel glanced at the television, the synopsis of the West Wing episode on the screen, an earnest Rob Lowe in the thumbnail. “Mary mentioned that more than one parent complained. Julia Abbott has to be one of them.”
“The Sadie’s mom,” he confirmed. “Well, did Mary say anything at the end of the day?”
“Not really.” Isobel blinked. “She just kind of walked out with the kids when the bell rang.”
“Well”—Mark pulled her back toward him, and she rested her head once again on his cotton T-shirt—“maybe it’s just a wait and see?” He rubbed her arm.
“I guess it is,” she said. She pushed her hair away from her face and looked back at the television. “Press play.”
ROBIN BERGSTROM
I think I’m ready to get started.” Robin smiled around the table at Starbucks on Saturday morning. It was her first Theater Booster Board meeting, and Annabelle Young had just pulled up the last chair. She felt a rush of satisfaction, sitting at this table with all of the most influential theater moms. And she was here on her own, rather than as Julia Abbott’s sidekick.
“Can I just say,” Annabelle began, her voice warm, “that I’m just thrilled you’ve agreed to take over communications for us this spring, Robin?”
Robin beamed. “It’s my pleasure. Anika so enjoyed the fall play and the one-act festival.” She looked down at Julia’s materials in front of her, any guilt about her friend’s displacement quelled by the memory of that “backstabbing” text. Julia, she realized, never really thought about anyone but herself. On the morning after the cast list was posted, Anika had shown Robin the Instagram video of Ju
lia and Melissa Young, and she’d read all of the accompanying comments. Loosen your Spanx, Mrs. A. Robin had winced at that one, and then couldn’t help giggling.
“Mom!” Anika had scolded.
“Sorry,” she’d said, trying to recover. “It’s just so unbelievable.”
Robin had gotten text messages from several other ninth-grade theater moms, too, after the video appeared on the Inside Liston Facebook page. They collectively shook their heads over Julia’s behavior and assumed that Robin, as her friend, would have the scoop. “I’m sure it was an accident,” Robin had responded to each of them. And she was sure it was. This was Julia, after all—overinvolved and unable to mind her own business, yes. Malicious and violent? Rarely, and then only toward school personnel.
Julia fumed about Robin’s new role, but could she really expect unquestioning loyalty? After all, she had unceremoniously ditched Robin in last year’s theater department 5K, Robin’s first, mentioning several times on their way home that she’d finished five whole minutes ahead of her. What kind of adult rubbed in a fun-run victory?
And now Robin sat at the table with Vivian Song, Annabelle Young, and Sally Hollister. There would be opportunities for both her and Anika if she could shape board policy. Maybe increased resources for technical theater, in addition to acting? Stage-managing seminars for Anika over the summer? Sitting here with these women? She felt great about it, regardless of Julia’s ire.
Robin smiled at the group. “Should we start with the carpool list?” she asked, tentative.
“I think we should start with the real issue.” Vivian leaned toward Annabelle. “How is Melissa?”
Annabelle crossed her arms. “What a disaster.”
“I can only imagine the trauma,” Sally offered. “And all of this after those unfortunate comments Julia made about Melissa’s brilliant performance in Witches over Willow Street.”
“It’s inexcusable,” Vivian piled on. “I’m assuming we’ve all seen the video?”
“I think the entire city has seen the video,” Annabelle said. “It’s on Facebook now. Did you see?” The women nodded. “Martin downloaded it and sent it to our attorney.” Robin’s eyes widened. Would the Youngs sue? She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. “Of course, Martin thought it best to assure Wayne Wallace that we wouldn’t be pressing criminal charges. We haven’t ruled out a civil suit.” Robin raised a finger to her bottom lip, trying to suppress rising glee, and Annabelle noticed her. “I’m sorry, Robin,” she said. “Is this making you feel uncomfortable? I know you’re friendly with Julia.”
Robin shook her head. “You’re certainly entitled to your feelings,” she said, and then she changed the subject. “Did you also see that handout from the English teacher on the Inside Liston Facebook page? The one about The Great Gatsby being gay?”
“Yes!” Sally Hollister laughed a little as she clacked her latte against the laminate table. “I’m a lit major, and I’ve never heard of such a thing. It’s outlandish! Does everything have to be about liberal politics?”
“Allen loves that teacher,” said Vivian quickly, her tone defensive.
Annabelle broke in. “Melissa doesn’t have Ms. Johnson this trimester, and I’m glad. She has Eleanor Woodsley, who was actually my own teacher at LHHS. Lisa Lions mentioned that Ms. Woodsley’s requests for senior English are up because of college essays, which makes sense. I credit her for my own acceptance to Dartmouth.”
The table fell quiet then, and Robin figured it was really time to get started. “So,” she said, “should we tackle the carpools or the five-K?”
“Let’s do both,” Vivian said, magnanimous. “Knock out the carpool, and then hammer out the run.”
“Fabulous,” Robin said. She picked up her sharpened pencil and spread the pages of Julia’s materials in front of her.
WAYNE WALLACE
Wayne swiped a stack of papers from his mailbox on Monday morning, including a letter-sized envelope emblazoned with the return address and seal of US Senator William McGuire, perhaps the most famous resident of Liston Heights. Just the previous fall, Senator McGuire had presided over a town hall meeting in the high school auditorium. Wayne had sat in the front row and been acknowledged in the “special thanks” section of the program.
The principal thrilled a bit as he pushed a finger under the flap of the envelope and ripped it open. Perhaps the senator wanted to plan another event? Would he then agree to an office tour for the AP Government students that spring? Inside, he found a single sheet on official letterhead. Wayne scanned to the bottom of the page and saw that it was signed not by Senator McGuire himself, but rather by his state director, a woman named Sheila Warner, whom Wayne knew to be an LHHS parent.
This was less exciting than he’d imagined, but still, they’d embossed the letterhead with the official seal. He walked toward his office. When he’d sat down in his black padded chair and retrieved his second green juice of the day from his mini fridge, he began reading.
Dear Principal Wallace,
As you know, I have been an engaged and supportive Liston Heights parent for eleven years. During the past decade, I have had the distinct pleasure of collaborating with a number of top-notch Liston Heights educators. On many occasions, I’ve connected classrooms—some of which have included my own daughter, Erin Warner, as a student—with various elected officials. Last fall, you and I executed a town hall event held at Liston Heights High School with Senator William McGuire, for whom I serve as state director. As you’ll remember, Senator McGuire and his wife, Rita, sent their own children through the Liston Heights school system. I know firsthand that the senator counts our schools as one of the treasures of the state.
It pains me, then, because of my long and happy affiliation with the district, to bring an unfortunate matter to your attention. For many months now, I’ve been concerned about the pedagogy and professionalism of Isobel J. Johnson, a member of your English department. I checked with the State Licensing Board, and while Ms. Johnson does appear to be properly credentialed, I’m quite certain that her teaching is far below the standard I’ve come to expect of the faculty. I will outline my specific concerns below, but before I do, I want to point out that this is only my third formal complaint against a Liston Heights teacher. That is to say, I don’t take this action lightly. I think, if you’ll review the files of Mrs. Margaret Hall and Mr. Peter Harrington, you’ll see my complaints mirrored the eventual findings of the administration, and neither teacher continued to be employed by the district following my intervention.
Principal Wallace, you may not be aware that right in your own building, Ms. Johnson is infecting your students—bright and openhearted young people—with a dangerous, insidious feeling of anti-Americanism. With each classic Ms. Johnson hands to our children, she encourages them, under the guise of “seeing multiple perspectives,” to undermine these timeless works of literature. Imagine my surprise, for instance, when my daughter reported to me that Atticus Finch represents white supremacy, rather than being the beacon of justice generations of Americans have known him to be. And now, while reading what is truly a Great American Novel, Ms. Johnson is not only asking what The Great Gatsby has to say about the American dream, but requiring teenagers to question the sexuality and sexual preferences of the characters. I saw a handout of her suggestive questions posted online.
Principal Wallace, I’m asking you to investigate Ms. Johnson’s methods and sources. I can’t be the only Liston Heights parent to object to a teacher of American literature flaunting her own anti-Americanism. Once you’ve concluded your review of Ms. Johnson’s practices, I’d like to meet with you to discuss your findings.
You have my very best wishes,
Sheila Warner
State Director
The Office of Senator William McGuire
ANDREW ABBOTT
On Monday afternoon in the theater, Andrew dr
opped his backpack on the seat next to Maeve Hollister just before rehearsal. She smiled up at him. “Hey,” she said, pencil poised over her Ellis Island script.
“Ready for act one, scene one?” Andrew asked.
“I think so!” Maeve said cheerfully. “Looks like you have a couple of big moments.”
Andrew straightened an imaginary bow tie and recited his favorite line, “‘If it’s all right with you, sir, I’d prefer a group that doesn’t speak English.’”
“Someone’s been practicing.” Maeve smiled. Andrew sat and pulled his copy of the script from the front of his backpack. He set it in his lap and rubbed his bare arms. Heat never seemed to make its way to the auditorium. As his goose bumps relaxed, Andrew peeked at Melissa Young, who sat three rows up, mouthing her lines. “Have you talked to her yet?” Maeve asked. Andrew startled; he hadn’t realized she’d been watching. He shook his head and flipped the pages of the script nervously. “She’s not mad,” Maeve continued. “Just go over there and break the ice.”
Andrew tried to ignore the nausea rising in his throat.
“Go!” Maeve urged, looking back at scene one. Andrew watched her write exaggerated in the margin next to her opening line. She was probably right—tension between him and Melissa might distract everyone from their performances, and Andrew desperately wanted to fit in with this “lead role” crowd.
“Save my seat,” he mumbled. He wandered up the aisle and paused at Melissa’s row. “Um, Melissa?” he said. She put a finger on her page, marking her spot, and turned toward him. When their eyes met, hers narrowed slightly.
“Uh,” he started. “Hi?”
“Hi,” Melissa said, her face softening a bit. They stared at each other for a second, and Andrew tried to smile. Melissa did, too, just at the corners of her mouth. Andrew felt his forearms relax. He realized he’d been holding his hands in fists.
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