Page 26 of Mean Moms
“I heard that last year, one family gave Mr. Chin two tickets to the Eras Tour. In Berlin! With airfare!” said Ava to audible tsks-tsks. “Those cost thousands and thousands,” she said.
Morgan took that moment to duck out, pushing through the heavy auditorium door into the hallway, then to the nearest bathroom. The Atherton facilities looked nothing like the ones she’d had in her public school growing up, with their rusty stall doors and scribbled graffiti on the walls. No, the bathrooms at Atherton were shiny and clean, with stainless steel faucets, Toto toilets, and toilet paper that felt like a cloud. The room was empty, and Morgan slipped into a stall and locked it. She pulled out her phone and sent a text—“15 minutes? This meeting is wrapping up.” Then she took out her needle pack, quickly pulled down her pants, and gave herself the shot. Her thoughts went to Gertrude, who’d told her that sometimes she sat alone in the bathroom during lunch to cry. It made Morgan want to scream. Instead, she violently kicked the side of the stall as hard as she could, smashing her On running sneaker into the gleaming metal. Then she did it again. She felt better. Lighter. It would all be okay. She reminded herself that everything was going according to plan.
Morgan took a deep, calming breath (“I’m a monster on the hill”) and opened the stall door, stepping out to see Sofia looking directly at her, hands on her hips. Morgan swallowed an expletive. She looked down at her purse to make sure she’d hidden her Wegovy, but it wassticking out, the top of the needle visible. She saw Sofia’s eyes clock it before looking away. Morgan took her bag off her shoulder and shoved its contents down in one nonchalant movement.
“Sofia! You scared me,” said Morgan with a little laugh. Sofia smiled.
“Why would I scare you? I had to pee, too,” she said.
“But why are you standing here like that?” said Morgan.
“I was just thinking,” said Sofia. “You must have been deep in thought, too. You didn’t even flush!” Morgan felt heat rising up her face. “But I did hear you kick. Is everything okay?”
“I’m amazing,” said Morgan lightly, brushing her off. “And I must have forgotten to flush. Silly me; there’s just so much going on lately. It’s exciting about the benefit,” she continued, stepping around Sofia and heading to the sink.
“Yes, I think it will be a perfect first party for my new apartment,” said Sofia. “I’ve even thought of a theme.”
“Already? That was quick,” said Morgan, washing her hands. The water was too hot, and her fingers were burning, but she kept going anyway.
“A surrealist ball,” said Sofia. “With a New Year’s Eve twist—though it’s in May.”
“That’s clever,” said Morgan, moving past her. “I’m going back to the meeting now. See you in there.”
But Sofia blocked her from exiting, standing directly in front of the door.
“I really need this party to go perfectly,” she said, putting her hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “Will you do your best to help me?Por favor?”
“Of course,” Morgan answered, shaking Sofia’s hand off. The rings around Sofia’s dark eyes were pulsating. “I’d do anything for a friend.”
Morgan, who rarely made errors, silently cursed herself for underestimating this woman.
A Note from Mary Margaret, Secretary, Atherton
Greetings, Atherton mothers and fathers and caregivers,
We want to announce a change to front desk security, in the wake of a few concerning incidents in the surrounding area involving persons experiencing homelessness. If you plan on coming to the school for any reason—a PA meeting, to pick your child up for a doctor’s appointment, if you’re volunteering for the food bank—you must first register on our proprietary app, Atheroo, at least 24 hours in advance. There will be no exceptions granted. We all know that I know you, but please don’t put me in the position of not allowing you into your own child’s school. Thank you for your cooperation. We at Atherton appreciate your support, as always.
Take care,
Mary Margaret
Mary Margaret was two years to retirement, and it couldn’t come soon enough. She’d worked at Atherton for thirty years, in various administrative positions, and had seen the school transform from a sweet, low-key haven for downtown families into the utter insanity of today, a mecca for super-wealthy, pushy parents holed up in $10 million apartments in the West Village and Tribeca.
Yes, the Atherton community still lived in New York City, but in an enclosed bubble of money, their children shepherded from place to place in black Escalades, experiencing nothing of Manhattan beyond the walls of their fancy private school, designer homes, and restaurants that were way too expensive for ten-year-olds to beeating in. Students coming in on Monday mornings talking about the omakase at Shuko and sitting in their dad’s box at the Knicks game and flying private to London for a long weekend.
Why live in New York, anyway? Mary suspected it had to do with status, the desire to be hipper than their contemporaries in Greenwich and Chappaqua and even on the Upper East Side. So parents couldsaythey lived there. In the old days, the children took the bus to school, they walked from their nearby apartments, some of them took the subway from Brooklyn. Alone! Not anymore. Mary had overheard a recent conversation between two fifth-grade boys, one expressing shock that the other had taken the 6 train to soccer practice in Central Park (with his nanny, of course).
“My mom would never let me take the subway,” he’d said to his friend snidely. “That’s why we have our driver.”
In the last ten years, the moms had become more overprotectiveandmore negligent, diverging traits that somehow overlapped in the Venn diagram of modern parenting. The kids had neither freedom—they were trapped in their rooms on their devices instead of sent out to explore the world—nor true attention from their mothers, who were all glued to their phones reading about the “right” way to parent instead of doing it. (Fathers had always been useless and continued to be.) It was certainly a toxic combination.
Mary had grown up in Garden City, Long Island, attending Catholic school. The nuns would slap you on the face if you misbehaved. Imagine a student getting hit now? Mary’s childhood felt as far away as the Middle Ages. She still lived in the same town with her husband, who’d retired a few years ago from his job importing office furniture, in a small house they’d bought for $50,000 in 1979.
Mary was one of seven children and had four children of herown, plus six grandchildren. She’d been around kids her whole life—babysitting for her siblings, raising her babies, helping care for her precious grandkids, and in her role at Atherton, which for years had been an absolute joy. She’d loved taking the LIRR to Penn Station every morning, then the N train down to Union Square, walking to the majestic school building from there, with its red brick and impressive white columns. She’d loved the smell as she entered for the day, the cookie aroma wafting from the kitchen, manned by Chef Nancy, a dear friend of Mary’s.
Her job at the front desk meant she saw everything. She knew which child was depressed and which was a liar and which was going to crack if he didn’t get into Harvard. She saw their fights, their fun, their breakdowns. She knew who was using vapes in the bathroom and who’d written a term paper with AI. She knew each mom clique and who was up and who was down. She knew that Gabby Mahler and her wife, Margo, were going through a divorce; Mary helped Sue Grossman, Atherton’s psychologist, with her schedule. Mary knew that Ava Leo and David Chung were having money problems—they’d contacted the school about potential financial aid. She knew that Dre Finlay, the current PA president, was a total gossip. Mary had been in the bathroom when Dre and Julie Klein had come in after a recent PA meeting.
“Like, we get it Morgan, you’re ‘amazing’ and no one else is quite as perfect as you. Ugh, it’s so annoying how superior she is,” said Dre. Julie clucked in agreement.
