Page 53 of Mean Moms
“What time is it now?” Belle asked Morgan. Her stomach was starting to roil from nerves. She was worried she’d have to go to the bathroom, but her dress rendered the act nearly impossible.
“Ten twenty,” said Morgan.
Frost grabbed them both, pulling them into the corner where no one else could hear.
“We’re not doing this, right? Please tell me it’s called off. It wasn’t Sofia. I don’t care what you say, Morgan.” Morgan shook Frost off. Frost looked as tense as the bird sitting on her head.
Art had gotten back on the podium, the pearl on his head shimmering like a mini disco ball.
“Okay! Let’s start. Who’s the opening bid?”
Dre Finlay held up the little “A” signs that had been distributed for bidding.
“Ten thousand dollars!” she said, to whoops.
“Fifteen thousand!” shouted someone else.
“Twenty!”
“A hundred thousand!”
“A hundred and twenty!”
“Two hundred thousand!” People were cheering now, everyone drunk on the special punch, a blend of whiskey, some kind of orange liqueur, and copious amounts of maraschino cherries.
“Get more punch,” Art kept imploring. “The drunker you are, the more you’ll bid!” The benefit always devolved into debauchery—last year’s had ended with over a million dollars raised and two moms, Genevieve Thomas and Armena Justice, nearly coming to blows over an auction item for a meet and greet with Anna Wintour (Wintour’s daughter, also an Atherton parent, had donated the item).
Things were stacking up to be just as wild this year, and as the auction went on and the bids went even higher, Belle snuck off to see if she could somehow figure out how to pee in this stupid dress. She passed a group of parents enjoying Sofia’spostre de natas, licking their spoons with delight. Midnight was coming.
Sofia Perez just knew that something awful was going to happen tonight, which is why she’d called in backup. Well, that wasn’t the only reason why. She looked over at that extremely handsome backup now, standing behind the bar, pouring premade punch into crystalglasses. Michael caught her gaze and winked, causing Sofia’s eyes to water with happiness. She had to actively restrain herself from running over and jumping into his muscled arms, nuzzling into that silly gladiator costume she’d bought for him at Abracadabra on Twenty-First Street. At least he was here with her. At least she had him back. It had taken only one phone call. “I love you,” she’d said. “I need you.” He’d driven straight to MIA and had landed at LaGuardia three and a half hours later.
But, unfortunately, she still hadn’t been able to figure out what was coming. This is what shehadfigured out:
Morgan had been behind her invitation to Atherton. After seeing Morgan with Rodrick, Sofia had done some digging, scrolling through Morgan’s social media, back and back and back. Years ago, Morgan had been tagged in a picture at a Welly charity dinner sitting at a table with Sofia’s friend, Andrea, the connection that Sofia had been searching for. She’d called Andrea to confirm her findings.
“Sofia Perez! How’s NYC? Are you coming down to Miami soon?” Andrea, who had a bit of a drinking thing, already sounded tipsy. It was 3:00 p.m. on a Monday.
“No plans to come to Miami anytime soon. New York is okay. The women here are… a lot. But I’ve made some new friends, including a woman named Morgan Chary. Do you know her?”
“I know Morgan,” Andrea had slurred. “We always chat at those Welly events that Harold is involved with. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman who’s more cheerful or energetic. It’s like, give it a rest, lady! I leave those dinners feeling like I’ve run a marathon just by talking with her. She always seemed very interested in you. I’d pointed you out when we were at a dinner at Casa Tua, years ago. I thought she had a girl crush or something.”
Sofia had gotten chills.
“Did you ever happen to discuss my, um, marital situation with her?”
Andrea had paused, thinking.
“You know, I can’t really remember, but I might have?” That was woman code for: she’d done it.
“I think it was right around the time you and JP had split up, and so maybe that was on my mind.”
“Andrea, did you happen to mention Michael to her?” Andrea had paused again, this time for even longer. Sofia had hung up before she’d had a chance to answer, texting her afterward, “Sorry, bad connection! I’ll call you in a few days.” She’d not spoken to her since.
Morgan had known Sofia needed an out from Miami, and that Atherton would draw her away. So she’d gotten Dr. Broker, her kinky sex buddy, to pull strings in order to secure spots for Carlos and Lucia at the school.
What kind of a game was Morgan playing? Sofia’s working theory was that Morgan was behind everything. That she’d lured Sofia up to Atherton to give her cover, then systematically destroyed her friends over these past months. The scooter hit-and-run, The Dress rash, theNew York Postarticle, the fake nudes, the lice email! Everything. Sofia had heard a group of women at drop-off the other day tittering about it, how “Belle fell” and “Frost lost.” Morgan must have paid Rodrick to work for her—and then exposed him—to convince Belle and Frost that Sofia was the bad guy. All in pursuit of what, exactly? Revenge on Frost for fucking Art; punishing Belle for birthing a “beast,” as Morgan had put it at Friendsgiving.
“Why do you think she picked you?” Michael had asked her. They were lying in Sofia’s bed the previous night, spooning after sex. Sofia, nuzzling into him, had been happy to be alive. “Ay, who knows,” Sofia had said. “I don’t understand these women. They have everythingthey want—healthy children, money, husbands who love them. And they’re still miserable.”
