Page 50 of Mean Moms
Yes, Morgan was going to ruin her best friends’ lives. If that sounded a little dramatic, well, Morgan was an intense (and intensely cheerful!) person. When she was younger, she would play little vendetta games—a frenemy from gymnastics had mysteriously broken her leg on a faulty beam; a college acquaintance who’d made out with Morgan’s boyfriend had been roofied, ending up asleep, naked, in the middle of the quad; a nutritionist competitor had lost her entire business after allegations of emotional abuse emerged on a Reddit thread.
Morgan was extremely good with details, and with covering them up, and she loved the internal satisfaction of quietly defeating her enemies, no one the wiser. From a young age, Morgan had understood that shelikedhurting people, that she was different from her friends. She would lie for fun—creating elaborate stories for no reason, telling teachers things that were wildly untrue, crafting narratives to get what she wanted: better grades, money from her friends, attention from men, among other things. She loved to steal, even small amounts, sneaking into her friends’ parents’ wallets and taking a dollar or two when no one was looking.
She didn’t understand “feeling bad” about something. Her friends always “felt bad.” What did that mean? Her parents had been in denial, Morgan was sure, because they must have seen it in her. The family didn’t get pets because her dad was “allergic.” But really it was because they’d had a cat, Ollie, and her mom had caught Morgan systematically pulling off its whiskers, one by one. No more cats after that. Ollie was quietly euthanized.
After a while, Morgan had developed into, well, Morgan. She’d adopted that “amazing,” “so cool,” “love it” exterior as a shield. She took up gymnastics as a way to channel her rage. How could anyone suspect someone so nice of being so cruel?
No one knew this about her besides Art, and even he didn’t know the full picture. (That romantic comedy scene of how they’d met? Morgan had orchestrated it, crashing into the bar on purpose, cutting her head to secure Art’s attention. He had no idea.) Over the years, Art had witnessed little things here and there, bad, bizarre, darkly coincidental things happening to women whom Morgan disliked.
Art, insatiable, stupid Art, didn’t think Morgan was aware of the extent to which he cheated on her, but Morgan knew everything. She knew about Julie Klein. She knew about Margo Mahler. She knew about the sound bath bimbo, Tilly. But Art was Gertrude’s father, and Gertrude was Morgan’s everything. She’d never do anything to hurt Gertrude. So Art was safe.
But Frost? Last spring, Morgan had put her nose to Art’s discarded clothes only to smell the unmistakable stench of Blush by Marc Jacobs. It was Frost’s favorite perfume; she stocked up on it on eBay, as it had been discontinued for years. How could Frost look Morgan in the eye? Frost wasn’t like Morgan; she had a conscience, she had morals, she “felt bad.” How could Frost spend time with Morgan and laugh and act as if she weren’t turning around and fucking Morgan’s husband? Frost with her red hair like guts and her dreams of being an artist and her useless husband, Tim, and her twins with their shaggy Gen Z hair. Morgan would kill her.
At the same time, Gertrude had started coming home, day after day, sobbing about how mean Miles Redness was to her. Pinching Gertrude’s side when she wasn’t looking. Whispering “fatty Chary” and “Girthy Gertrude” when she walked by. So Belle was put on the list, too. But really, Belle was more about Morgan’s recent mood to destroy. She’d been all pent up since Gertrude was born, trying her best to keep it in for her daughter’s sake, denying herself opportunities because she worried it would somehow—though she didn’t know how—come back to haunt Gertrude. It was as apt a metaphor for motherhood as anything, swallowing Morgan’s own self for this new person and this new life role.
But, for Morgan, it was never going to last. Twelve years was long enough. Twelve years of “Hiiiiii!” and “You look so great!” and “Can I bring anything?” and “Thank you for a wonderful evening!” and “Love it!!’ and “Looking forward!” Twelve years of channeling her rage into exercise, into starvation, into thank-you notes and PA memos and unbearable family ski trips. Twelve fucking years of “Ask Morgan!”
Tonight was the night it all would come together. Sofia’s Surrealist Ball. It felt as if Morgan was about to attend her own prom, that’s how excited she was to make everyone around her suffer. She’d thought long and hard about her costume—a custom-made fabric clam covering her whole head, plus a slinky white Versace dress. She’d put Art in a similar getup, as a life-size oyster, in a glimmering silver suit, plus an enormous replica pearl, the size of a tennis ball, sitting on his shiny hair.
Because Morgan was on the PA, she’d arrived early at Sofia’s apartment to help set up. Sofia lived in the same building as Hailey and Justin Bieber, in a slick four-bedroom loft with twelve-foot ceilings and eight-foot-high casement windows. To see the place, you’d think Sofia was rich, rich, rich; apartments in the buildingstartedat $7 million. But Morgan knew better. The benefit was an Atherton affair, paid for by the school, and so Morgan had been sure Sofia would volunteer to host. Having Sofia join the PA was all part of the plan.
Everyone was already in costume when Morgan walked in—surrealist moms gone wild. Dre Finlay was dressed as a unicorn, onelarge horn cemented to her forehead. She was speaking with Gemma Corder, who’d come as a living clock, in a nude bodysuit with numbers painted on, and giant clock hands that were, somehow, ticking around and around.
Morgan saw Sofia across the room, directing the party planner here and there, pointing out areas that still needed themed decor. She was in what looked to be a Schiaparelli tear dress, though it must have been a reproduction, as the originals were museum-quality pieces. It was white with pink fabric “tears,” plus the matching hooded veil, covered in the same pattern.
Like now, Morgan had first spied Sofia from afar. A few years ago, in Miami at one of Art’s work dinners, Morgan had spotted a stunningly voluptuous woman at the bar, waiting for her party to arrive. The woman was drinking a large martini and had ordered snacks—olives, cheese, cured meats—which she was enthusiastically sucking down, licking her fingers after each bite. Morgan had been captivated by the woman’s erotic flesh, her flushed cheeks, the way her mouth chomped, chomped, chomped. It was so… animalistic. So different from the control that Morgan exerted over her own body.
One of Morgan’s dining companions had gotten up to say hello to this woman and had shared her name afterward: Sofia Perez. And so Morgan did what Morgan always did: She found out everything about this Sofia Perez, about her family, her life, her marriage. And when the time came, Morgan had used that knowledge to get Sofia to New York, to import the perfect scapegoat for all that she wanted to accomplish. She’d ordered up a South Beach bimbo, a mom who’d cheated on her husband with her trainer (eye roll), who wanted money so badly and nakedly that it would be easy to convince Belle and Frost that she was after theirs. A kind of stock character whom Morgan could use and dispose of. But Morgan had made a mistake. A big one. Because Sofia wasn’t like that at all.
Morgan went over to a group of PA moms and asked if there was anything she could help with. She needed to pretend to be busy until she made her next move. Tonight was a night without helpers (other than Belle, who was useless), and so Morgan needed to zone in. She was on the defense, which wasn’t a place she was used to.
Morgan and Sofia hadn’t spoken since the night of Frost’s art show. They’d been on the same WhatsApp chains, sure, moms asking about summer schedules, end-of-term logistics, sending memes about the craziness of being a parent in May. But they hadn’t communicated directly since Sofia had told Morgan she’d seen her at City Hall Park, with a “guy.”
That man had been Rodrick, Sofia’s driver; the man with the baseball hat, the man whom Morgan had been paying to torment Belle and Frost, to threaten them and photograph them and do them bodily harm. Morgan wasn’t sure if Sofia had seen his face, but from the way she’d said it, Morgan was concerned that she had. And then what? Morgan hadn’t planned for that possibility, and thinking about it was giving her hives. But she also felt confident that tonight’s events would prove definitive, and then she wouldn’t have to worry about Sofia ever again.
There had been others involved in her schemes; Rodrick wasn’t nearly the only one. There was the homeless man, now cozily ensconced with all the other crazies at a mental health facility on Morgan’s dime. There was Greg Summerly, the “private detective.” There was Art, unwitting Art, who’d taken nude pictures of Frost in their little love nest on Twenty-Second Street. He’d deleted themfrom his phone but not before sending them to his own email, to which Morgan had the password.
She’d studied the pictures alone one night in bed, the curve of Frost’s breasts, Frost’s hand caressing herself. In the background, Morgan had seen Frost’s collages, and so she’d sent them anonymously to Ethel Zeigler, knowing Ethel would be interested in that sellable storyline of a former It Girl and her It Girl artwork. Setting Frost up to tear her down.
Sometimes Morgan did the dirty work herself, like rubbing itching powder into the samples of Belle’s Dresses when she was helping her set up for the event. And cutting Belle’s hair had been a highlight. Morgan had even used her own scissors, those sharp ones she’d bought after reading about them on Wirecutter. In some ways, she’d been lucky: the fake nudes of Hildy? She didn’t know who was behind those, but it hadn’t been Morgan. Just a middle-school prank, probably, possibly Ozzie Cain acting out.
Then there was Dr. Broker, the most helpful of them all. Paul. So easily manipulated by his frankly pedestrian kink. So willing to do whatever she’d asked, including alerting Morgan to Belle’s lice email, and then blasting it out to the entire school for her. Morgan had to admit, she’d enjoyed their time together. But it wasn’t like she “felt bad” about what was about to happen to him. He’d soon be out of Atherton, and with him the risk of Morgan getting exposed. It had been in the works for a long, long time.
Morgan went up to Sofia to say hello.
“Hiiii, this place looks amazing!” said Morgan. Sofia, who’d been bending down to arrange a vase filled with gigantic ceramic bananas, stood up, surprised.
“Gracias, Morgan,” she said. “And thanks for coming with the PA girls to help. You have a nice break?”
“Oh, yes, we went to our Hamptons house,” said Morgan. “I can’t wait for summer to officially start. How about you?”
“Ah, I just stayed in the city,” said Sofia. “The kids went down to Miami to see their dad. I was supposed to go but decided to have some alone time here instead. I missed them, but it was nice to have some days to myself.” Morgan nodded understandingly. Both women were saying nothing, acting the parts they were supposed to act.
“How’s Thyme & Time going? I walked by the other day! It looked busy!” said Sofia. Polite, polite, polite. Isn’t that how moms always were with each other?
“Great!” said Morgan, matching her tone. “We’re actually thinking about opening up a second location, if you can believe it.”
“So I guess the robbery was just a tiny problem to overcome,” said Sofia. “A liiiiittle blip. Too bad Belle hasn’t been so lucky with her business.” Belle had made the choice to shut down Pippins Cottage Home for good; the taint of all that negative press had been too big to overcome. The combo of Morgan’s business succeeding while Belle’s failed had been particularly traumatic for Belle.
