The building itself was nothing much to look at: a lowlying white-brick structure dating back to the 1960s. But the landscaping was pristine. Clusters of purple and white early-spring crocuses decorated the flowerbeds. And there was nary a Skittles or Snickers wrapper in sight. What’s more, the glass-enclosed bulletin board by the entrance featured an announcement for an upcoming wine tasting for parents. OUR BIGGEST SPRING FUND-RAISER! it read. Beneath the headline was a black-on-white ink drawing of a hand wrapped around an angled goblet, its elongated fingers adorned with cocktail rings. By comparison, the outdoor message board at Betts was caked in grime, splattered with bird shit, and still featured an announcement from the previous fall about registering for pre-K.
Also unlike at Ruby’s current school, the security guard at Mather sat in the lobby directly facing the front doors, a fact that Karen noted with relief and approval as she walked into the building. “Excuse me, I’m here to register,” she told the man.
“You’ll have to speak up, ma’am,” he answered.
Karen suddenly realized that she was whispering. “The main office?” she tried again, a little louder this time.
“It’s down the hall to the left,” he said. “Can I see some ID?”
Karen showed him her driver’s license. Then she entered her name in the arrivals’ log in an only partly decipherable script, reluctant to be recognized. What the two schools did seem to have in common, Karen noted on her way down the hall, was their art curricula. Just as at Betts, student-made tissue-paper collages decorated the walls. But to Karen’s untrained eye, the ones at Mather were a little more sophisticated, the shapes positioned a little less haphazardly. Or was she projecting? Maybe they were exactly the same, the defining difference being the names inscribed on the bottom right-hand corners of the construction paper: Daisy, Lincoln, Sadie, Gemma, Oliver. You could imagine all of them a hundred years ago in their Sunday best, wearing hats and carrying handkerchiefs. There was not a Zaniyah or a Janiyah in sight.
“Can I help you?” asked an older white lady behind the front desk, the soufflé-like appearance of her frosted hair suggesting it had been set in a beauty parlor with an astronaut-helmet-style bubble dryer.
“Oh, hi!” said Karen, smiling and trying to sound casual. “We just moved to the neighborhood. I’m here to sign my daughter up for third grade. I hope I’m in the right place!”
“That’s not for me to say,” snapped the woman, immediately putting Karen on edge.
“Well, I think we’re zoned for the school,” Karen continued with a lighthearted laugh while her heart went pitter-patter. “Here’s our lease, my daughter’s birth certificate, and our gas and electric bill.” She laid the documents on the counter.
“Fill this out first,” said the woman, handing Karen a form that asked for her child’s name, address, birth date, and other basic information and leaving the documents she’d brought lying unattended on the counter. Karen wished she could take them back. What if a parent should walk in and spot them—a parent like Nathaniel Bordwell?
“Of course,” she said, reaching her hand into her bag for a pen, only to come up with nothing. “I’m so sorry,” she went on while trying to quell the panic that was now seizing her throat—panic built partly of the fact that her dream from the previous night appeared to be coming true. How soon before the doors began to vanish, followed by the floor and the ceiling, until Karen was suspended in midair? “But is there any way I could borrow a pen?”
Looking mildly peeved, the Woman with the Frosted Hair handed over a ballpoint featuring the name of a local plumbing company.
“Thank you so much,” said Karen, gripping the pen in her fist so tightly that after she’d finished filling out the required information (she listed her address as 321 Pendleton Street, no. 2), her hand ached.
Frosted Hair took the form from Karen, finally (to Karen’s relief) scooped up the documents that Karen had left on the counter, and typed something into her desktop computer. Then she looked up and said, “Why is the name on the bill different from your family’s name?”
Karen had predicted the question—and planned her answer. “I know, it’s ridiculous,” she replied with a conspiratorial roll of her eyes, as if they were all in this absurd charade known as urban life together. But the woman stared blankly back at her. “Our landlord likes to have all the bills in his name,” Karen went on. “And then we pay him what we owe. Don’t ask me why!” She laughed again, this time to hide her terror, while Frosted Hair reexamined her documentation, her head moving from side to side. Karen stood there, waiting. It might only have been for twenty seconds but to Karen, it felt like twenty minutes. Her entire future, as well as that of her daughter, seemed to hang in the balance of this stranger’s mood—and whether she’d awoken that morning to the sound of birds chirping or an obnoxious car alarm.
Finally, without explanation, Frosted Hair ambled over to a copy machine, placed the document that Karen had filled out beneath its cover, and pressed START. Then she handed Karen a short stack of papers to sign, including one verifying that the information she’d provided was true under penalty of law. Refusing to ponder the implications of that threat, Karen signed them all in her best cursive and then pushed them toward the woman with a cheerful “Here you go! Oh, and here’s your pen!” She laid the plumbing-company ballpoint on top of the documents she’d signed.
Frosted Hair slid the pile off the counter without a thank-you. Then she announced, “School starts at eight thirty. Your daughter can come tomorrow. I’ll inform the principal today so she can make a class assignment.”
“Great—thanks very much,” chirped Karen, trying to sound upbeat but not so appreciative that her enthusiasm would seem suspect. After all, wasn’t it her daughter’s right to attend the public school that her family’s home was zoned for?
“You’re welcome,” Frosted Hair muttered ungraciously before she turned her back.
Could that really be it? Karen wondered as she made her way out of the office, then back down the hall. She couldn’t believe how easy it had all been.
She couldn’t believe what she’d just done either. But when she pushed open the double doors to the street and an undulating ribbon of crystalline sunlight appeared over the clouds, it didn’t seem like a coincidence. It seemed as if spring had been merely waiting for Karen to solicit it herself.