The guards pass out cups of bitter, lukewarm coffee. Confessions continue late into the night. The school is casting a wider net these days. Harm need not be intentional or malicious. All accidents can be prevented with close supervision, Ms. Gibson says.
Some mothers are talk-circle veterans, sent here at least once a week. Ms. Gibson lets the veterans describe their past transgressions in shorthand. There are now three guards every night, two to maintain order and one to protect Ms. Gibson. A mother lunged at her last week, got as far as wrapping her hands around Ms. Gibson’s throat. That mother was expelled and added to the registry.
One mother let the doll use her first name instead of “Mommy.” Some were rude to their children’s guardians during Sunday calls. Some cried during meals. Two mothers were caught kissing behind the tennis courts. A guard overheard them plotting to run away together.
Everyone sits up. They’re the first couple to be caught. One of the runners is Margaret, a gaunt young Latina woman with doleful eyes who seems to have pulled out most of her left eyebrow. Her original offense was letting her son wait in her parked car during a job interview.
Her beloved is Alicia, one of the slender, gorgeous, laughing young Black mothers whom Frida met on the first day. It seemed like she and Lucretia became good friends in the month before Lucretia’s expulsion. Alicia has cut off her braids. She’s lost so much weight that Frida barely recognized her. She had CPS called on her when her five-year-old was being disruptive at school. The teacher sent her daughter to the principal’s office. The principal asked Alicia to come get her.
“I was ten minutes late,” Alicia says. “They said I smelled like alcohol. I was working as a waitress then. Showed up in my uniform. Someone had spilled beer on me that day. They didn’t believe me when I said I don’t drink.”
Ms. Gibson reminds Alicia to take responsibility.
“But—”
“No excuses.”
“It was my fault,” Alicia says through gritted teeth. “I am a narcissist. I am a danger to my child.”
Alicia and Margaret are blushing so hard they could be glowing. Margaret sits on her hands. Alicia fidgets with her sleeves.
Frida remembers coming home from her boyfriend’s house at one in the morning when she was seventeen, finding her parents waiting up for her. She and her boyfriend had fallen asleep watching a movie. Her parents didn’t believe her. She remembers the way her mother looked at her, how her father didn’t speak to her for days.
Ms. Gibson asks Alicia and Margaret to confess their degree of sexual contact. They answer questions about fondling, heavy petting, digital penetration, oral sex, whether they made each other climax.
The mothers avert their eyes. It’s generally understood that the school finds lesbians unmotherly.
Alicia starts to cry. “We kissed a little. That’s it. We didn’t hurt anyone. I won’t even talk to her anymore. Please! Please don’t put this in my file.”
“I appreciate that,” Ms. Gibson says, “but what I’m not understanding is why you’d put your selfish desires before your mothering.” Loneliness is a form of narcissism. A mother who is in harmony with her child, who understands her place in her child’s life and her role in society, is never lonely. Through caring for her child, all her needs are fulfilled.
What problems can possibly be solved by running?
“You people are going to take my kid anyway,” Margaret says. “Why don’t you admit that instead of pretending like we have a chance? My kid’s foster parents want to adopt him. They won’t admit it, but I know they do. They’re already looking at kindergartens. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? You want us to fail so you can take them.”
Frida tears at the rim of her coffee cup. She no longer cares about kissing. She’s thinking about the bell tower, wondering how fast she could climb the steps, whether the tile roof is slippery, how the pavement would feel against her face.
When it’s her turn, she speaks to Ms. Gibson like a penitent confessing to a priest. “I should have done a better job protecting her today. That’s the part that upsets me the most. She was in pain. And I could have prevented it. I also regret my tone. But when I asked Tamara’s son to apologize, he laughed at me. It was an evil laugh. A cackle. I found that very troubling. I don’t know where he learned to behave like that. I’m sorry. I am a narcissist. I am a danger to my child.” Frida pauses. “But so is she.”
The mothers stare at Tamara.