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Karen also found herself bemused by a new poster that had been hung on the outdoor bulletin board. JOIN THE MULTICULTURAL COMMITTEE! it read. NEXT MEETING—APRIL 17.

The sneaking if unwelcome thought occurred to Karen that when people said Mather was a great school, what they really meant was not that the teachers were so amazing or that the PTA was so strong or that the arts program was so extensive but that the housing in its catchment area was prohibitively expensive for poor minorities. It followed that an “up-and-coming” school—Karen had heard neighbors describe Betts this way—was one that was getting whiter but was still majority black and brown.

“We’re so behind on the camp-sign-up front,” Karen heard one Embroidered Tunic Mom say to another. “All we have Otis down for is, like, one week of Engineering Elves in July.”

“I was going to get the Number Sixes,” another voice cut in, “but I just felt like the Hasbeens were more forgiving around the toes. And the heel was, like, a tiny bit lower…”

And then a third: “Of course! Just have your nanny text our nanny.”

Just then, from a few yards down the block, came a piercing cry: “Winslow! You need to slow down. There are other people on the sidewalk.” Karen looked up just as a short, wiry boy in a black helmet rode his Razor scooter directly into her ankle.

“Ow,” she said, reaching down to rub it.

“Are you okay?” asked Ruby.

“I’m fine,” said Karen, irritated by the failure of supervision that the collision implied.

Just then, a woman whom Karen presumed to be Winslow’s mother appeared before her. She had her hair back in a ponytail and no makeup on. “I’m so sorry,” she said before turning to her son and saying, “Winslow, say you’re sorry!”

“Sorry,” the kid mumbled.

“I’m seriously so embarrassed,” said the woman, turning back to Karen. Although she was now standing right in front of her, she continued to speak in an unnecessarily projected voice, as if other people might be interested in hearing what she was saying. “My son is, like, a complete maniac on that thing,” she went on. “I can’t even keep up with him.”

“It’s fine—really,” said Karen. She tried to smile in appreciation of the apology. But she had the distinct impression that, for Winslow’s mother, the child’s speed and carelessness was meant to be understood as a metaphor for his fast learning, his quick wit, brash creativity, and intellectual chance-taking.

Or did the woman simply feel bad that her son had ridden into Karen?

“Watch where you’re going next time,” Ruby suddenly piped up. “You could have hurt my mom.”

“Rubes, it’s fine—really,” said Karen, embarrassed and touched in equal parts. “It was an accident.”

Just across the courtyard, Karen caught sight of a mother she’d briefly known when they both had kids at Elm Tree. From what Karen recalled, the woman made baby slings out of vintage calicos and sold them on Etsy under the name of her older daughter (Clover). She was also visibly pregnant. Karen recalled that her younger daughter, who was Ruby’s year, was named Ivy. Would her third child be called Pachysandra—or maybe just Ground Cover? As Karen followed the mob into the school building, she lowered her eyes to avoid having to say hello.

A minute later, Karen found herself back in Mather’s main office. “She’s in Ms. Millburn’s class,” said the woman with the frosted hair.

“Oh, terrific!” said Karen, as if Ms. Millburn’s reputation preceded her.

“Third floor, room three-eleven.”

The morning bell was ringing. Karen and Ruby returned to the hall. The crowd of arriving students and parents had begun to thin. As the two of them ascended the stairs to the third floor, Karen tried to silence their mutual anxiety with meaningless chatter. “Hm, I wonder if this is the right staircase. Well, I guess we’ll soon find out! Wow, there are a lot of steps!” She rambled on, and on, while Ruby stared stonily ahead and said not a word. Finally, at the end of the hall, Karen located a door marked 311. Ruby took a step backward while Karen tentatively pushed it open, craned her neck into the resulting space, and said, “Excuse me?”

It was a classroom like any other public school’s: crowded and colorful, with fluorescent lights attached to the ceiling, linoleum tiles on the floor, and a hodgepodge of lists, charts, maps, calendars, and inane inspirational posters pinned to the walls. One read TODAY IS A GREAT DAY TO LEARN SOMETHING NEW! But here the walls were freshly painted mint green, the children’s chairs had gleaming chrome legs, the desks were not covered with the brown residue of partially peeled-off stickers, and there was a seemingly brand-new multicolor rug depicting the United States up near the whiteboard. The three-pronged cactus representing Arizona immediately called to Karen’s mind a devil’s pitchfork.

The only adult in the room—presumably Ms. Millburn—glanced over from where she was standing near the board. To Karen’s amazement, she looked uncannily like Miss Tammy, only about five years into the future and with a ring on her fourth finger. “Can I help you?” she said.

“Sorry—my daughter is new,” said Karen. “And we were told to come here.”

The students, who until then had been busy putting their backpacks and coats away in the closet, turned to gawk.