Page 15 of Mean Moms
“I still think the teachers are encouraging it, even after this last election,” said the man next to her, his voice lowered. Belle assumed he was her husband, as he was in a similar costume, but wearing a brown suit and a pair of wall-mount-worthy antlers on his head. “Where else are they getting this from?” The rest of the listeners nodded in agreement. “I think it’s not as bad uptown. It feels like the schools up there are more traditional. We love Atherton, but it’s getting out of control. We’re thinking about touring Buckley next fall…”
Belle found Morgan and Frost standing next to the Cronut bar, steam rising out the tops of the delicate, golden pastries. Morgan was in a bright pink bustier and an enormously full pink skirt, a white bonnet, and a scarf around her neck. Frost, meanwhile, had gone full Halloween, in a sexy black Elvira gown, bright red lips, and a long black wig. She’d decorated the bandage on her face with sparkly spiders, and she’d switched out her white sling for a black one. The front of Frost’s dress went nearly down to her navel, and her still-perky breasts were standing at attention on either side.
“Wow, wow, wow, look at you two,” said Belle, remembering that she was still holding the same drink as when she’d arrived. She downed it in a gulp, the whiskey burning her windpipe.
“Wait, Morgan, who are you again? Snow White? Cinderella?” Belle asked. She hadn’t meant to be rude, but she could tell it came out that way as she’d said it.
“No, I’m Katrina fromThe Legend of Sleepy Hollow—a Disneymovie about fall in New York. I told you a million times,” said Morgan, annoyed. “And Art is Ichabod Crane. Remember?”
“Oh, right, right,” said Belle. “How’s Thyme & Time doing? Great, I hope!” she said, trying to recover.
“Yes, it’s doing amazingly well. We’re fully booked for next week. Not reporting the robbery was the best decision.”
Belle smiled but burned a little inside. “I’m hiding from Clara Cain,” said Belle softly, stepping behind Frost. She saw Clara out of the corner of her eye, at the pasta station. Behind the booth, set up like a classic New York red-sauce joint, was Mario Batali himself, his face red and jolly like Santa Claus.
“I thought Batali got canceled?” said Frost. “Didn’t he sexually harass his staff or something?”
“I think he did—that must be why he’s here instead of at a restaurant,” said Tim, who’d sidled up to them. “He’s a client of Clara Cain over there.” Tim was in a black suit, black shirt, and bow tie, and his still-plentiful hair was slicked back and shiny. Tim was an independent movie producer—though Belle always thought of his job in air quotes, as really, what had he produced lately? Not much. Belle knew that Tim’s career, or lack thereof, was a sore spot in his and Frost’s marriage, and felt for her about it. No matter how much family money you had, people needed to feel useful, like they were contributing to their own lives. Look at Belle, launching her own business. And she’d always appreciated that Jeff had a real job, and earned real money, even though they didn’t, technically, need it.
“What are you, Tim?” said Belle, thinking of how normal he looked compared to her canary-yellow husband.
“I’m just the date of the beautiful Mistress of the Dark,” he said, giving Frost’s shoulder a squeeze. She smiled weakly.
“Have you seen Sofia?” Frost asked her husband, looking aroundthe room. Belle did, too, spotting the regular characters—Clara chatting with Gabby, in herAutumn in New York–Richard Gere–silver fox getup, and Gabby’s wife, Margo, making a rare appearance, in a slip dress, her hair styled into a Winona Ryder pixie. There were Trina and Bud Cunningham, both in all white, designer ghouls. Then she saw her own husband, bright as a tennis ball, holding two drinks, one of which he handed to Belle, who accepted it gratefully. Jeff and Tim fist-bumped and then went off to find food, leaving the women alone.
They were interrupted by an ebullient Sofia, sashaying over. She was in an orange catsuit and had stuffed the already generous area around her hips with two balloon-like structures.
“I’m a gourd. Get it?” she said to the group, laughing. Sofia somehow pulled it off in a way that didn’t make her look hideous.
“I’m also drunk,” she said. “I got here by myself an hour ago, didn’t see any of you, and so had to drink my way to the top floor.” Belle had been surprised by the swiftness with which Sofia had integrated herself into their group, and by the readiness of their collective acceptance, including her own. But so many Atherton moms were too something or other: too uptight, too intense, too flakey, too weird, too clingy. Clara was too annoying. Ava was too bitchy. Gabby was too harsh. Trina was too boring. Sofia was none of these things. She completed their pod like the final piece of the puzzle.
“Frost! I love your spider bandage,” said Sofia. “Que linda.”
“Speaking of, our private detective wants to talk to you about the scooter accident at some point this week, if that’s okay?” said Frost. Sofia nodded.
They were joined by Gabby, sans Margo, who’d left for bed. Gabby was in an oversize gray overcoat, and she’d done her hair ina wavy, handsome way that really did resemble Richard Gere’s. She was eating a bowl of perfect pasta pomodoro.
“What’s the goss over here?” said Gabby. No one offered anything up. “Have you seen Armena Justice’s outfit?” No one had yet.
“It’s crazy,” Gabby continued. “She’s dressed as ‘sixty-four,’ the average temperature in New York in October. It’s a funny idea—an odd idea—and she fully committed to becoming a sixty-four-year-old. She had the makeup artist who worked onBenjamin Buttondo it. You’ll do a double take. It’s like stepping thirty years into the future.”
As if summoned, Armena Justice walked by, or what looked to be Armena Justice’s mother—a tastefully dressed woman in her midsixties. She smiled at them, and Belle experienced a disorienting wave of déjà vu, like she’d witnessed everything that was happening before.
To get her bearings, Belle walked away from her friends and over to the pasta station, watching as Batali shoveled penne onto plates. A few moms she didn’t recognize walked by, and Belle had the uncanny feeling they were glaring at her. She saw Dre Finlay and Caroline Press, whispering to each other, glancing at Belle, and then checking their phones. A different group of women, standing across the room, was laughing and pointing her way. What was happening?
Without getting food, Belle walked back to her friends, but they’d disbanded. Only Sofia was still standing there, her gourd hips protruding, a fruity sexpot. She was staring at her phone and looked startled when she glanced up to see Belle, like she’d seen a ghost.
“Come on, tell me what’s going on,” said Belle. “Are people talking about me for some reason?” Belle took a step toward Sofia, who, seemingly on instinct, backed away.
“What the hell, Sofia?” snapped Belle, harsher than she’d meant to. She was already feeling on edge about Hildy and unsettled by her encounter with Dr. Broker.
“You haven’t seen it yet?” asked Sofia. Belle shook her head.
Sofia handed Belle her phone. It was open to Gmail and Belle saw she’d been reading an official email from Atherton, from the automated school address, with the subject line “Our Lice Journey.” Belle’s heart dropped as soon as she saw it—that was the subject of her email to the school nurse. She scrolled down to read, though she didn’t have to; she’d written it herself.
Dear Nurse Weiss,
Belle Redness here, mom of Miles and Hildy, with some bad news to share. No, this time it’s not strep (shocking, I know). It’s… wait for it… I’ll give you a clue: it rhymes with mice but it’s creepy and crawly. That’s right, it’s LICE. Ugh ugh ugh. They’ve come for us. And we’ve ALL got it, including my husband and housekeeper. We just got the treatment from Licenders, thank God, because I could literallyfeelthem on my head, making themselves comfy, like they were about to settle in for a season ofWhite Lotus. I know it’s standard policy to let you know. The kids will be back in school on Monday, lice free. Thanks for keeping this quiet! You know how all the Atherton bitches like to talk.
