In the foyer, she senses the cameras before she sees them, feels a faint tickle, like someone is drawing his fingers across the back of her neck. There are cameras mounted on the ceiling. She knows there will be cameras in every hallway, every room, on the outside of every building.
She finds a spot against the wall and counts heads and tries not to stare at faces. She fidgets with her scarf, doesn’t know what to do with her hands, can’t remember the last time she was among strangers without her phone.
She catalogs the mothers by age and race, as she imagines the state does, as she always does when she suspects she’s the only. Gust used to make fun of her for counting how many Asians she saw in one week when they first moved to Philly.
The mothers eye one another warily. Some sit on the stairs leading to the old provost’s office. Some clutch their purses and cross their arms and toss or pat their hair and pace in ferocious little circles. Frida feels like she’s back in junior high. She surveys the new faces, hoping for another Asian, but none appear. Some Latina mothers have moved to one side of the foyer, some Black mothers to the other. Three middle-aged white women in fine wool coats huddle in the far corner next to the guards.
The trio of white women are getting dirty looks. Frida regrets her skinny jeans and ankle boots, her wool beanie and fur-trimmed parka and hipster glasses. Everything about her reads as bourgeois.
Once all the mothers have been checked in, women in pink lab coats herd them through Pierce and out a side exit. They pass a stone courtyard, a chapel with a bell tower, two-and three-story gray-stone classroom buildings. There are trees everywhere, acres of rolling lawn now bordered by a high fence topped with barbed wire.
The trees are labeled with English and Latin names. Frida reads the signs. AMERICAN LINDEN. MOSSY-CUP OAK. JAPANESE MAPLE. NORTHERN CATALPA. HIMALAYAN PINE. TULIP POPLAR. EASTERN HEMLOCK.
If her parents could see this. If Gust could see this. If only she could tell Will. But she’ll never be able to tell anyone. The mothers had to sign nondisclosure agreements. They’re not allowed to talk about the school after they leave, can’t say anything about the program during the weekly calls. If they do, regardless of the outcome of their cases, their names will be added to a Negligent Parent Registry. Their negligence will be revealed when they try to rent or buy a home, register their child for school, apply for credit cards or loans, apply for jobs or government benefits—the moment they do anything that requires their social security number. The registry will alert a community that a bad parent has moved into the neighborhood. Their names and photos will be posted online. Her very bad day would follow her. If she says anything. If she gets expelled. If she quits.
Last night, Will kept saying that Harriet won’t remember, that, yes, this year will be horrible, but one day it will be a story. Like Frida went off to war. Like she was kidnapped. He thinks Frida should count down the days until her reunion with Harriet rather than tallying lost time.
“She’ll still be your baby,” he said. “She won’t forget you. Gust and Susanna won’t let that happen.”
They reach a rotunda that houses the college’s old theater. The mothers grumble. They’re freezing and hungry and tired and need to use the bathroom. Guards escort them to the ladies’ room in groups of five.
Frida finds a seat in the second-to-last row of the auditorium. There’s a podium at center stage. Behind it, a huge screen. She overhears someone say they’ll probably have to wear ankle monitors. Another thinks they’ll be identified by number instead of by name. Ms. Gibson seemed to be having way too much fun with the check-in.
Frida has needed to pee for the past hour, but she’ll wait. She crosses her legs and starts tapping her foot, driven by the invisible metronome of Harriet memories and thoughts of the judge’s patronizing tone, worries about her parents’ blood pressure, visions of Susanna with Harriet.
The mother from the bus recognizes Frida and chooses a spot two seats away in the same row. She’s cried off her makeup, looks much younger now. Frida shakes the woman’s hand. “Sorry, I should have said hello earlier.”
“It’s okay. This isn’t camp.”
The woman’s name is April. She has a teenager’s hunched shoulders and a wide, elastic mouth. They make small talk about the freakish cold weather, how stupid they feel for desperately missing their phones.
Talk turns to their missing children. April is from Manayunk. “They caught me spanking my kid at the grocery store. Some old lady followed me to the parking lot and took down my license plate.”