“When do you think you’re going to get ready, Marnie?” Fritzie asks. “Did you decide that part yet?”

“Never you mind, it’s all fine,” says Maybelle.

“Well, shall we all walk down to Karen and Josie’s room?” I say. “Meet the teachers and see about these jokes?”

“Okay,” Fritzie says. She looks longingly at Tessa. “You coming, Mama?”

“I’ve got a phone call to make,” says Tessa. “You two go ahead.”

“But don’t you want to see my teachers?”

“It’s fine. They’re going to be busy this morning, and the important thing is that you and Marnie see them. They’ll just be confused if they see two moms coming in.”

Fritzie puts down her backpack and goes over to Tessa, starts fingering her sleeve, running her hands along the hem. She puts her face up close to Tessa’s and whispers something to her. For a moment their heads are together, and then Tessa pats her daughter’s arm.

“You go yourself, Fritz, with Marnie. It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”

Fritzie hangs back. “But, Mama, when I talk to you on the phone, and I tell about Josie, I want you to know who I’m talking about.”

“I’ll know. Of course I’ll know.”

“Mama.”

“You know what?” I say brightly. “Your mom can meet them on a different day. Or maybe at the pickup this afternoon.”

Fritzie and Tessa just keep looking at each other. All around us people are swirling about, with their papers and their questions and their cell phones buzzing, their toddlers whining. But here they are, like they’re in a bubble or something. Separate. There’s something odd.

Fritzie keeps touching her. Tessa keeps looking away. “Mama, you look very pretty, Mama.” She puts her hands in Tessa’s hair, and Tessa tolerates it for a moment and then reaches up and takes Fritzie’s hands down. She stands up.

“Okay then. Go to your classroom. And be good for the teachers. Don’t make trouble the first day. You’ll do your best? All right?”

“Okay.”

Maybelle and I make eye contact, and she widens her eyes, like what the actual hell is going on here, and I shrug just the slightest bit. Fritzie is licking her lips in a manic way, and I put my hand on her shoulder and say, “You ready, honey? Let’s go meet Karen and Josie.”

I don’t know what I’ve just seen, but my heart hurts.

The hallway is paved with moms and kids, all hugging and greeting each other, catching up after the summer, paying us no attention at all. A few of the moms have fat, gurgling, chunky babies on their hips, or toddlers in tow—and I love how they pass the kids around and also how they get so excited talking about how much everybody has grown. They explain about their vacations and the catastrophes, they make plans to get together, to meet on the playground, to schedule a potluck for the end of the week, to go away for Columbus Day. They are so delightfully scary, these moms, with their shiny, just-shampooed hair, and glowing, makeup-free faces, their familiarity with each other’s habits and problems and needs, their stylish clogs and skinny jeans and big leather bags. The universality of motherhood, the oldest language. Not one of them has been into Best Buds seeking a new love, I realize. No, these are the settled Park Slope young moms, the ones you see marching down the street with their Perego strollers. They have found their partners in life and are striving forward, not looking back.

“Are you going to be class mom this year? Oh yeah, well, what if they ask you?”

“Do you know if Vanessa is babysitting for Adam again?”

“Is Raven going to run the fourth-grade musical?”

“Does Maybelle have your contact info? She was looking for you!”

This is mom talk, I think with surprise. I’ll get fluent in this. I’ll be one of them, coming in at pickup time, sighing as I get the homework folder and ask Fritzie if she remembered her sweater or her lunch box. I’ll be the one saying, “Why don’t we invite Annabelle over for a playdate? And we can make some vegan brownies!”

“You know what’s weird about this school?” Fritzie says to me as we thread our way between collections of parents and kids, all talking at earsplitting levels. She practically has to yell over the din: “Why are the teachers called by their first names? I think their names should start with Ms.”

“It’s the way this school does things, I guess. I think it’s kind of nice and friendly, though, don’t you?”

“Aren’t they supposed to be the bosses of us, or what?” she wants to know. “Am I s’posed to say, ‘Hey, Karen, get this kid to stop bothering me’? I mean, how’s that gonna work? Is the kid gonna even listen to somebody named Karen?”

And then she falls quiet. I look over at her, in her blue-and-purple plaid shorts and her sequin shirt—it says HELLO in pink when the sequins are pointed upward, and GOODBYE in blue, when you mash them downward. She has her hair tucked behind her ears and she’s wearing a white baseball cap on sideways and pink plastic clogs. I had some questions about this as a first-day outfit, but when Tessa didn’t say anything, I realized I shouldn’t either.

But now I wonder if Fritzie has suddenly caught the same trepidation I have, if I’ve transmitted it to her like the flu. All these bouncing children and parents, all of them knowing each other, running back and forth, tagging. A little boy bumps into Fritzie, and she yells, “Hey!” and he says, “Sorry!” and keeps going. I should think of something encouraging and positive to say, so I say that there’s a lot of love in this school.

“Don’t get mixed up,” Fritzie says. “This is school, Marnie.”

Then we get to Karen and Josie’s room, or so it says on a piece of blue construction paper decorated with brightly colored hats and horns. Inside the room are tables pushed together in groups of three, and the bulletin boards are bright and festive. The place is filled with parents and kids, all talking at once. Karen and Josie are wearing jeans and identical big smiles, and they welcome the children to their colorful, busy, warm classroom.

“Ah, so you’re Fritzie?” says the one called Karen, who has a blonde high ponytail and big, smiling blue eyes. “There’s a chair for you over there, with a folder on it. And here’s a little companion to keep you company in third grade.” She hands Fritzie a teddy bear and then turns to me. “Hi—welcome to the classroom. You’re welcome to stay for as long as you like, but I’m hoping to get the class all together for introductions and some games by about nine, so if you’re comfortable leaving then, that would be great.” She gives me a big, toothy, Miss Congeniality grin.

“Okay, sure,” I say. I look around at the other parents, some of whom seem to be getting ready to say good-bye. There’s no drama except for a toddler who has decided he’s staying here no matter what, and his mom has to chase him down as he’s starting to dismantle the cute, cheerful folders that have kids’ names written on them. He’s carrying a bunch of them around in his sweet little hands, and then he has a meltdown when it turns out he can’t take them with him.

There’s a class hamster who is doggedly running on his wheel, like that could help him throw off some of the existential angst he must feel, being surrounded by twenty-four curious eight-year-olds and their parents. Fritzie, who isn’t very interested in her chair or her folder, stands and looks at him for a long time.