Page 4 of Mean Moms
The other moms, in their Toteme flats, their The Row pants, their Rachel Comey jumpsuits, stared at the colorful zoo animal in their midst.
“Should we say hi to her? Be friendly?” asked Frost.
Clara had taken off, leaving the three friends standing alone. Sofia and her children walked up the school steps, stopping in front of Atherton’s headmaster, Dr. Broker, who was greeting students as they entered for their first day. Dr. Broker was in a worn plaid shirt and Levi’s that hugged his fit behind. He had springy, salt-and-pepper hair, and bore a distinct resemblance to Patrick Dempsey. He was unmarried, though definitely not gay—Belle had heard a rumor that he was dating a downtown actress—and he spoke to the moms with a combination of adoration, appeasement, and control that drove them all mad with lust. Frost liked to joke that Dr. Broker should put himself up on the auction block at the annual school fundraiser, generously fucking the mom who paid the most for the privilege. The scholarship tuitions would be covered for years.
Sofia said something to Dr. Broker and then handed her kids off to him, kissing their heads and hugging them into her body before they disappeared into the grand building. She slowly wound down the stairs, careful not to trip in her high heels, lifting her sunglasses and rubbing her eyes briefly, a gesture that could only mean she was wiping away tears. Belle couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried when saying goodbye to Miles and Hildy.
Then Sofia was right in front of them. She paused, taking her phone out of her Gucci logo bag, checking something or other. Or maybe she was just stalling, without anywhere to go.
“Hi! I’m Morgan Chary!” Morgan extended her hand brightly, and, for a second, Sofia looked at it like it was a hot pan she didn’t want to touch. Then she seemed to remember herself, taking Morgan’s fingers in her own.
“I’m Sofia, it’s so nice to meet you. Are you all Atherton mamas?” Her voice was deep, with a hint of a South American accent.
“Yes!” they all said in unison.
Sofia took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were dark, with surprising yellow rings around her pupils that reflected golden in the light.
“My son is in fourth grade, and my daughter is in second. We’ve just moved from Florida. I’m so happy to have them at such a wonderful school. I’m a little nervous for them, being new.”
“Atherton is great at acclimating new kids,” said Morgan reassuringly. “I’m sure they’ll fit in just fine.”
Sofia smiled and a mysteriously creepy feeling came over Belle, her stomach dropping as if she were on a roller coaster. She had the bizarre sense that her head was lighter. Had someone cut off her hair? She reached back and felt its comforting weight.
“I’m Belle and this is Frost,” said Belle, trying to shake it off. “We’d love to get coffee soon and get to know you! We’ve been atthe school since pre-K. It’s the best. It’s like this little safe haven in the middle of Manhattan.”
Their attention was then directed to a commotion at the entrance, some sort of scuffle. Belle couldn’t see exactly what was happening, but it looked as though people had started to run in the other direction. Someone let out a frightened squeal, and before the women could move, the homeless man, the one whom Belle and Hildy and Miles had passed by, was standing directly in their sight line. Belle could have touched him, he was that close. He was in a ripped black shirt and hospital scrubs, and was shoeless, his feet swollen and bloody. His barnyard smell made Belle feel ill. Should Belle run? Would he chase her? She momentarily made eye contact with him, breaking that cardinal New York City rule, unable to look away. He winked at her. He winked! Then he made a strange gargling sound, deep in his chest, and abruptly coughed out a white ball of phlegm. The spit went flying straight into Belle’s wide-open mouth, like a dart hitting its human bull’s-eye.
Belle stood there, stunned, trying not to swallow but feeling the slime slip down her throat. The man lurched toward her. She didn’t know what to do other than cover her face with her hands, closing her eyes in panic, hoping he somehow wouldn’t reach her.
“Ayuda! Ayuda!” Belle heard someone shout. There was a thud and then Belle felt herself wrapped tightly in an embrace. “Te tengo,” the voice said into her ear. “I’ve got you.”
Belle, relieved to be alive, opened her eyes to see she was entwined with Sofia, Sofia’s face so close to Belle’s that it felt like they were about to kiss. The man had vanished, leaving behind a pack of petrified women in sweaty designer clothing.
Frost joined them, taking Belle’s hands in hers. “Belle, Sofiawhacked that crazy guy with her purse and then he took off running.” Sofia looked down at the ground shyly.
Dr. Broker arrived, taking in the scene. He put his hand on Belle’s shoulder and looked at her with deep concern.
“Are you hurt?” he asked. She shook her head, making sure her hair swung sexily as she did. It was an old trick she used when she wanted male attention.
“I’ve called the police,” Dr. Broker said. Belle noticed, with interest, that Dr. Broker’s wrists were thick, before remembering that she’d nearly been mowed down by a vagrant. Dr. Broker assured the parents that their children were safe, and that this would be taken care of. “Atherton is on it,” he kept repeating to concerned sighs.
“Sofia, let us take you out for a drink sometime, it’s the least we can do,” said Frost.
“I’d love that,” said Sofia gratefully.
“Our hero!” said Frost.
“Our hero,” echoed Belle. She still felt a little trembly. What a disastrous first day of Atherton drop-off. On cue, a lanternfly landed on the sidewalk in front of the women. Belle squashed it with her Manolos, feeling it die beneath her Mary Janes with a satisfying crunch.
Chapter 2A New Friend!
“You arebad, Frost,” breathed Art Chary into Frost Trevor’s neck. Frost kept going, grinding down on her friend’s husband, as if trying to rub a stain out with her entire body. She did it over and over, until she felt her pelvis start to tingle and her legs begin to shake. Then she seized, her hair flying forward, her breasts swinging, her nipples catching in Art’s mouth. She collapsed on top of him, gently nibbling his shoulder as she allowed herself to relax. “Bad girl,” he said again, his face nuzzled into her neck.
Frost lay like that for a few minutes, inhaling Art’s scent. Then she rolled to his side, staring at his defined chest, almond colored with barely any hair, rising with slow breaths. His left hand was placed gently on top of it, his gold wedding band dulled by time. Frost knew that its inside was inscribedHONEYDEW FOREVER, matching the inside of Morgan’s ring. It was a private joke between the two of them: the name of the dive bar in Cambridge where they’d met, when Art was getting an MBA at Harvard and Morgan had been studying for her master’s in nutrition from Tufts. Morgan, her high-heeled boots still covered in snow, had slipped on spilledbeer, crashing into the bar and cutting her forehead on its edge. Art, who’d been premed at Yale before deciding to switch to econ, had rushed to her aid, whisking her away to the emergency room with a supportive arm around her shoulder.
Out of all of them, Frost thought as she gently licked Art’s salty skin, Morgan loved her husband the most. And she didn’t blame her. He was the most handsome dad at school and one of the most successful. Art was also charismatic and kind; though he’d made a killing on Welly, the company’s mission included charity as part of its ethos. For every pair of sneakers purchased, Welly gifted another to a person in need. Morgan seemed to absolutely adore Art—she was always touching the dramatic swoop of his hair, giving him kisses on the cheek, banging into him like a fly to a zapper—which wasn’t something Frost could say about her own husband, Tim.
Frost looked at her phone. It was already two forty-five, and she needed to be at Atherton for pickup by three thirty. King and Alfred had tennis lessons at the John McEnroe Tennis Academy at Randall’s Island, and they were excited to show their coach how much progress they’d made over the summer. The family had brought along a private pro to Europe, the boys training on dusty clay courts in Spain and France while Frost had watched them, plying herself with white wine.
