The School for Good Mothers(84)

To Tucker, she says, “I hear you. I want you to know that I value your honesty.”

Ms. Russo passes their table. They look tense and exhausted, a couple with a history.

Frida has tears in her eyes. She tries not to look at Emmanuelle, but the doll notices.

Emmanuelle climbs onto Frida’s lap and throws her arms around Frida’s neck. “Mommy, you okay?”

Ms. Russo places her hands on the back of Frida’s chair. “Would you like to tell me what’s really going on here?”



* * *



Frida’s counselor is searching for an apt metaphor for the state of Frida’s mind, the detritus within. The instructors have reported her as distracted. She hasn’t been properly calibrating her emotions. Why isn’t she striving for purity of mind and spirit? This friendship with a bad father can only harm her.

On Sunday night, the school will host an end-of-summer dance to keep spirits up as everyone heads into the final months of lessons. Since Margaret’s suicide, the mothers have been required to attend extra counseling. At meals, the women in pink lab coats have been pulling mothers aside and conducting impromptu mood checks.

The fathers will be bused in on Sunday. “I suggest you stay far away from Tucker,” the counselor says.

“I told you. He’s only a friend.”

“Frida, you are this close to getting sent back to talk circle. I have reports of unnecessary touching. Some flirtatious ad-libbing. Your instructors think they saw a note being passed.”

Frida looks above the social worker’s head to the camera. She looks down at her lap. If they had the note, they’d say so. If they have it, she’ll blame Tucker. Yesterday, she slipped him her phone number as if they’d met as strangers in the real world. He promised to memorize it and destroy the paper. It thrilled her to break a rule.

“He’s getting to you, Frida. How are you going to finish in the top two on Monday if you can’t focus?”

“I am focusing. I promise I am. Harriet starts school next week. I need to speak to her.”

“I don’t know if that makes sense.” The counselor says the calls have been disruptive. They don’t seem to be benefitting Harriet either. The potty accident suggests that Frida is causing Harriet stress. Frida’s classroom performance was better when she didn’t have Sunday calls to think about. Without the calls or this dangerous friendship, she’ll be able to concentrate. Phone privileges are therefore suspended until further notice.

“Don’t think any of us take pleasure in punishing you,” the counselor says.



* * *



Frida wants another house. In this new house, she’ll be pregnant. This time, there will be no fear, no weeping, only gratitude. Their children will have been returned. Their children will have forgiven them. They’ll live with their children in a house where the light comes in sideways. The light will blaze through the windows the way it only ever does in movies. Every room flooded with brightness. She’ll learn to cook for a bigger family, learn how to raise a boy, how to mother someone else’s boy, how to pack lunches, how to get two children out the door. Tucker’s ex-wife will welcome her into the family. There will be no registry. No one will ask about the missing year.

She builds the house all day long. Imagines a garden and a swing set, a back porch where they’ll share a drink after putting their children to bed. In the house where the light comes in sideways, she’ll never want to be alone. There will be no boredom or anger. No yelling. No resentment. Harriet will be happy there. In both of Harriet’s homes, with both her families, love will thrive and grow.



* * *



“Make a memory,” Meryl says. It’s Saturday morning, and cleaning crew is preparing the gymnasium for the dance.

“I don’t want a memory.”

“Bullshit. You’d suck his dick in a second if you were alone with him.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I can’t have that in my file. I’m not getting expelled, and I’m not ending up on the registry. I told you. They’re not even letting me call home anymore.”

“You don’t have to get caught.” Meryl leads her under the bleachers to investigate a possible blind spot. There’s mildew, a family of mice. Meryl thinks it could work.

“Not in a thousand years,” Frida says.

“Dumbass, you’d do it standing.”

Frida wants to tell her about the alcoholic schoolteacher whose entire apartment was littered with bottles, the aspiring photographer who refused to kiss her because kissing was too intimate. She’s no longer just a body. She’ll no longer tolerate being just a body. She can wait. She and Tucker are people who’ve learned how to wait.

They set up folding tables, blow balloons until they’re light-headed. Ms. Gibson lets them leave early to choose dresses, which have been donated by a committee established by Ms. Knight. The selection has been picked over. Most dresses are velvet or wool. Meryl tries on a black gown with silver sequins on the bodice. She pretends to hold a bouquet and does a pageant wave.

“Cute or lame?”

“Both,” Frida says. “Cute in an ironic way.”

Meryl has bruises on her back and hips, her thighs. Someone has been pinning her against sharp edges, maybe in a crawl space, maybe in a closet. She catches Frida looking at her and says, “Don’t be a les.”