The School for Good Mothers(44)

Only white mothers and Frida have been assigned to snow removal. The Black and Latina mothers on bathroom duty grumble. With the uptick in bad behavior, cleaning crew has expanded. There are now mothers on laundry duty, mothers cleaning the kitchen and dining hall. Mothers who have avoided Saturday punishment, and who don’t have additional required training, must use the day for exercise and community building and writing in their atonement journals. Some staff members were hoping to start knitting and quilting groups, but the administrators decided that, after the Thanksgiving fire, the mothers can’t be trusted with needles.

Teen Mom insists Frida shovel beside her. Teen Mom is from South Philly, far south, almost to the baseball stadium. She thinks Passyunk Square, where Frida lived, is full of posers with stupid haircuts and expensive bikes and tote bags and little dogs. Frida is careful not to bad-mouth South Philly or the city in general. She’s curious if having a mixed baby in a white part of South Philly caused any friction, but doesn’t ask. They gossip about their roommates and instructors and Linda, every mother whom Teen Mom considers a basic bitch, whether anyone learned anything in class yesterday, whether anyone here is learning anything ever. Teen Mom thinks the instructors pick on her because she’s the youngest. Her counselor says she has anger issues, trust issues, depression issues, sexual-abuse-survivor issues, marijuana issues, unwed-mother issues, high-school-dropout issues, white-mother-of-a-Black-child issues. The data suggests that Teen Mom hates her doll. She doesn’t dispute this but clarifies that she hates everyone.

She asks Frida how it felt yesterday, doing something right. Teen Mom was the only one who couldn’t get her doll to stop crying.

“It hasn’t sunk in yet.” Frida doesn’t admit how much she enjoyed the instructors’ praise, how proud she was that Emmanuelle was extra clingy. When they said goodbye, Emmanuelle sighed and rested her head on Frida’s shoulder, a tender and surprising gesture that chipped away at Frida’s resistance.

She says the dolls are unpredictable. She doesn’t know how Emmanuelle will behave on Monday. The breakthrough came too late to count toward the week’s goals. The counselor thinks she’s falling behind. The counselor questioned her conduct during her Sunday call. She accused Frida of acting distant with Emmanuelle. Eye contact numbers were low. Affection ratings were inconsistent. Kisses were tepid. Motherese was stagnant.

Frida worries about being too candid with Teen Mom. She worries that she hasn’t been supportive enough after Teen Mom’s confession. Linda has been saying that she and Frida, the grown-ups here, need to keep an eye on Teen Mom and Beth.

“What you told us the other night,” Frida begins. “Thank you for trusting us.”

“Oh my God, barf. Beth won’t stop bringing it up either. I didn’t tell you so you could all ask me questions.”

“I’m just saying you’re brave. You’re a survivor.”

“That is the stupidest term. My mom uses that term. Well, now she does.”

“I’m sorry she didn’t believe you.”

“Whatever. I’m over it.”

“If you need someone to talk to—”

“Frida, seriously. Stand down. No more processing today. Okay? You swear?”

Frida apologizes. The snow is wet and heavy, like shoveling cement. They finish the four sets of Pierce steps, nodding at the mothers on their way to clean the classroom buildings. Their faces chap. Their backs and knees ache. Their eyes hurt from squinting at the snow. All day, Teen Mom hints she has a secret. She grows impatient with Frida’s guesses.

“Come closer. No, don’t look at me. Don’t be so obvious. Listen, so, I fucked the guard. The cute one. You better not say anything, or I’ll tell every single bitch here that you tried to kiss me.”

“I promise.” Frida tries not to appear concerned. Teen Mom and the green-eyed guard fucked in the parking lot. In his car. Frida asks how she got outside. Aren’t there alarms? Floodlights? Cameras? Other guards?

“Lady, you seriously have no game.”

“You used a condom, I hope.”

“Really? You think I’m that stupid?” She only let him fuck her ass. The sex was nothing special. He came in two minutes. His dick is long and narrow. He kisses sloppy, but his hair smells nice.

Frida feels stupid and jealous and old. Teen Mom has a body like Susanna’s, thin and lanky, but with full breasts. She’s pretty in the way that all teenagers are pretty, some baby fat on her cheeks; clear, shining brown eyes; poreless skin. Her hair is the only ugly part of her: fading to dark gray, blond at the roots. Of course the guard chose a teenager, a girl who is feral and gifted, infinitely resourceful.

She wants to ask if they kissed with tongue, if the guard fingered her while fucking her ass, if the guard was noisy, if they steamed up the windows. She would like to know these things, would like Teen Mom to know that she was once daring too, but asking would suggest that she hasn’t changed, and change is essential, so she asks about Teen Mom’s family, if she misses them. Not just her daughter, but her parents.

Teen Mom kicks at the snow. “I tell you one thing and now you’re allowed to go in?”

She doesn’t want to talk about them, says it’s none of Frida’s business, then admits that she misses her mom. They’ve never lived apart before. How old is Frida? Her mom is only thirty-five.