Page 18 of Mean Moms
Caroline Press
Welcome to Atherton, Sofia! Ramy takes indoor soccer at Chelsea Piers. I’ll send you the info. There are also options at Asphalt Green and the Y, but that’s all the way uptown. Barf.
Julie Klein
Hi, all. I’ve started a separate WhatsApp group for the ice hockey team—Puck Moms—so let me know if you’d like to be included. Smelly equipment complaints welcome.?
Jenna Worthy
Sorry to be a downer, but here’s a NY Times article link about the enormous risks for youth football and ice hockey players. It’s something like one in every three players will get CTE in their lifetime, which increases the likelihood of dementia and suicide.
Julie Klein
Thanks for that super-helpful info, Jenna. I assume you don’t want to be added to the Puck Moms chat?
Katrina Lowry
Reminder: Please check your date for the safety patrol. Each parent is assigned one afternoon to walk the neighborhood from 3:30 p.m. to 5:00 p.m. Let’s keep our kids safe!
Cat Howell
I heard the man who spit at Belle Redness is still on the loose! Does anyone have an in with the police commissioner? We can’t have someone crazy like that nearAtherton.
Gabby Mahler
Cat, this is New York, there are homeless people. Most of them are mentally ill, notcrazy.
Dre Finlay
Don’t forget to preorder your Atherton Valentine’s Day cookies!
Chapter 6A Night on the Town!
Frost Trevor had just experienced one of those life-changing moments—the first time you meet the man you ultimately marry; the big job interview that goes your way; the double lines on the pregnancy test—that come about once a decade. She’d been walking on Houston Street, headed to Nolita for a quick dinner with Sofia, when she saw an unrecognized number pop up on her phone. She picked up (when you have children, you always pick up), fumbling with the device before putting it to her ear. Though she’d been out of the sling for months, she still felt a pang each time she bent her arm, reminding her of the accident.
Frost silently cursed herself for not buying earbuds because they were so ugly, remembering that her therapist had told her she needed to work on her practicality. She’d never been good at being practical.
“Hello, Frost? This is Ethel Zeigler. I own the Zeigler gallery on Twenty-Fourth Street. Nice to meet you.” Frost held her breath. Why would Ethel Zeigler, one of the most famous art dealers in New York, be calling her?
“Hi, Ethel, I’m a big fan of yours. How can I help you?” Frost continued walking toward her destination—Peasant, on Elizabeth Street—as she spoke. The sharp February wind cut into Frost’s exposed hands.
“Someone who shall remain nameless sent me pictures of your work. I’m interested,” she said. Her voice was deep, with an old-school Brooklyn accent and a slight smoker’s rasp.
“What? How? I’m not sure I understand,” said Frost. She’d paused at the corner of Elizabeth and Houston, in front of a jeans store called Still Here. Inside, she could see a lithe young woman looking at herself in the mirror, inspecting her perky butt in the denim. Frost remembered when her butt used to look like that.
“I’ve seen your work. Your collaging. I like it. I want to see it in person. Do you have an agent I can call? I asked around, but no one seemed to know. I even thought about calling your mother, who I’ve known for years,” said Ethel.
“Thank you for calling me directly,” said Frost. She was having a hard time processing what Ethel was telling her. How could Ethel have possibly seen Frost’s collages? They were stashed in her apartment on Twenty-Second Street. But that was a mystery to solve later. Now, she just had one thing to say.
“You can absolutely see my work. I’d be honored. A few are still in progress, but you’ll get the idea. I don’t have an agent; I don’t even consider myself an artist,” said Frost. “I never even thought about showing them. They were just… for me.” She physically shut her mouth to stop herself from saying anything else idiotic.
“Well, maybe not, young lady,” said Ethel with a laugh. “I only show what I can sell. I think you have a story here, and pieces that people will want to buy. Why don’t you email me and we can set up a time for me to swing by.”
“That sounds great. Thank you so much!” said Frost.
Ethel Zeigler was interested in her collages! Frost skipped along to Peasant, humming with happy energy, and saw Sofia already sitting at a table, sipping a tequila. Sofia was in an oversize black blazer, jeans, and suede boots, her thick hair blown out in flattering waves. She’d fully shed the bodycon dresses and logo’d bags for a subdued, quiet-luxury aesthetic. She looked very Atherton right now, and it suited her. Even her breasts seemed to have shrunk since September.
“Mi amor, how are you?” asked Sofia warmly. Over the past six months, Frost and Sofia had become a tight unit. Sofia was now always included in their mom drinks, was invited over for Sunday family playdates, and had become a permanent part of their drop-off clique. And she was proving herself to be an invaluable member of the Atherton Parents’ Association, too. She’d joined the fundraising committee and volunteered to run the Christmas food drive, tasks that Frost, as a rule, staunchly avoided. New Yorkers liked to see other peoplework, no matter how much money they had, and Sofia’s efforts had not gone unnoticed. It had been quite a speedy triumph, that’s for sure. Frost knew of moms who’d been trying for years to be accepted into the downtown hierarchy. Some never got there at all.
