Page 15 of Mean Moms
A Bouquet of Newly Sharpened Pencils!
Belle Redness had just had the worst week of her life.
The whole family had gotten lice—lice! It had started with Miles, predictably, with that shaggy Alpaca hairstyle he refused to get trimmed.
Belle had noticed him scratching his head after school, the telltale sign, and had forced Ivanna to search his scalp thoroughly as Belle held the flashlight, bracing herself.
They’d seen the tiny insects crawling everywhere, not even trying to hide, flaunting the fact that they’d taken up residence in her son’s hair like a crew of uncooperative squatters.
Belle swallowed a scream, trying her best not to scare the shit out of Miles.
First came the lanternflies, then came the lice. Was God punishing her for something?
“Mom, what’s happening?” Miles had said. He was cradling Belle’s phone, checking NFL scores.
“Does he have lice ?” said Hildy with disgust. She’d walked in, her hoodie pulled over her head. “Your turn, sweetie,” Belle said, her stomach roiling with queasiness. Hildy had looked at her mother with alarm.
After finding nits in Hildy’s hair, Ivanna had checked Belle, combing through Belle’s thick, heavy mane. It felt good, like getting a wash at the salon. But then Ivanna squeaked, stopping the search midcomb.
“I’m sorry, Miss Belle,” said Ivanna quietly. “I see them. Lots of them.” Her head hadn’t felt itchy beforehand, but at that moment Belle’s scalp had felt like it was on fire. She’d had to sit on her hands not to scratch, for fear of drawing blood.
Belle had immediately called Licenders, the premier delousing service (Ask Morgan!).
They’d arrived that evening, a pair of competent middle-aged women in vaguely medical-looking uniforms and full face and hair masks.
First, they’d checked the rest of the family—Jeff and Ivanna had nits, as well—and then treated them all with a onetime hair mask.
The duo spent the rest of the night, the night of Morgan’s Thyme she was sitting with her head tilted to the side, her hair steeple obstructing Jeff’s view, developing a large crick in her neck.
She looked down at her dress, a deep amber creation from Jason Wu’s latest collection, that she’d bought at Bergdorf’s for the bargain price of $3,895.
They only had the size down—0 instead of 2—but Belle had been able to squeeze into it with deep breaths and Skims. The stars of her outfit were her jewels; Tiffany’s yellow diamond studs, her necklace a stunning chain of rubies from Bulgari.
In all, her look cost upward of $600,000. The 1 train wasn’t exactly an option.
The car crawled along on Sixth, stopping at a red light.
They were at Bleecker Street now, and Belle looked out the window to see a scuffle taking place on the sidewalk, two young men shouting at each other.
One started waving a glass beer bottle at the other.
Then, to Belle’s shock, he threw it right at him, hitting him directly in the face.
That’s when the light changed to green, letting Fred move nearly an entire block.
Belle strained backward, but she’d lost her view.
“Did you see that?” she asked Jeff. He was in a bright yellow suit from Tokyo James. On his head, he was wearing a crown of leaves, fashioned by Philip Treacy himself.
“What?” he said, not looking up.
“A fight,” she said. “New York is going down the tubes. I still can’t believe Frost was the victim of a hit-and-run.
And right after I was attacked! Plus, the robbery at Morgan’s party.
I worry about the kids walking around the city.
” She wanted to say more, but she could tell he wasn’t paying attention to her.
They finally pulled up to the front of Ava and David’s building.
The Leo-Chungs owned a penthouse triplex, spare and minimalist, and Belle and Jeff entered the apartment to see that Ava had entirely reimagined the space for the event.
It felt as though they were walking into Central Park on a glorious fall day.
The air smelled like crisp leaves and roasting chestnuts, and the lighting had just the right golden hour glow.
An attendant swooped in to take their coats, and a server handed them, in his words, “The Tree House, made with rye whiskey and aged rum. David took inspiration for the cocktail menu from classic New York City bars—this is the signature fall drink at the Clover Club.”
Belle took a sip and was instantly transported to an autumn in her twenties when she and Jeff were still just dating.
She’d been working at Deutsche Bank and at the same time hatching plans to launch her first company, a wedding registry app—for men—that never got off the ground.
Jeff was in the middle of establishing himself at his private-equity firm, and though he was supremely busy, he’d made time for Belle nearly every day.
They’d roamed Manhattan, trying new restaurants and bars, going to museums and movies and holding hands the whole time.
People would do double takes—the stunning girl with the long hair canoodling with that guy?
But Belle didn’t care. Jeff was charming and sweet.
He wasn’t intimidated by her beauty, her background, or her dad, who’d petrified every other man she’d been with.
They’d meet for nightcaps when Jeff worked late, a whiskey for each as they chatted through their day.