Page 16 of Mean Moms

She looked at Jeff now and wondered if he’d been reminded of that, as well.

They’d been married forever, and she loved him still.

But each year she’d found herself drifting a little further away.

There was nothing wrong , it was all just more of the same, both of them getting older, headed toward what, exactly?

In a marriage with kids, was there any other way?

Belle had never discussed this feeling with anyone, not even her therapist. She’d heard whispers of people finding other…

ways of living. Of being more open. But she didn’t think she could ever broach the subject with Jeff.

“Hey, husband, how do you feel about letting me fuck other men? Specifically, our children’s headmaster?

” Hahaha, yeah right. It would never fly.

They were approached by Ava, in a red sparkly dress with matching red armbands. Her hair was slicked back, and her ears were dripping with diamonds. Belle had to restrain herself from touching her own scalp. Though the lice were gone, she still occasionally had lingering phantom itches.

“You made it!” Ava said, giving Belle a gentle hug, careful not to muss either of their outfits. “You look gorgeous. I adore the dress—and the hair is insane! How did you get it to stand up like that?”

“Extensions!” said Belle happily. She loved when Ava doted on her. “What about you? What’s the story behind this fantastic red dress?” Belle asked. Jeff had already been enveloped into a group of men standing next to a tree that wound all the way up the staircase.

“This was worn by the queen of ‘Autumn in New York’ herself, Ella Fitzgerald! Ella wore it while she sang with Louis Armstrong. How cool is that? I had to alter it to death,” said Ava, her whole vibe a bit googly.

“Ella was bigger than I am…” Belle, feeling supremely sober, wondered how many Tree Houses Ava had already consumed.

“Ava, or should I call you Ella?” said Belle, thinking now might be her chance.

Ava looked pleased. “I was wondering if you’d received The Dress, from my new line, Pippins Cottage Home?

” Belle’s mouth felt parched. She took a small sip of her drink.

Ava’s eyes settled over Belle’s shoulder, and she didn’t respond.

Had Ava heard Belle? Should Belle repeat herself?

“You must go check out the upstairs,” Ava said finally. “Each floor has a different theme.” Ava looked around for the next victim to arrive, and Belle took her cue to leave, heading up the stairs in search of her friends, her body tightened in embarrassment and disappointment.

She was passed by Dr. Broker, on his way down.

Dr. Broker regularly made appearances at Atherton theme parties, to schmooze and push drunken parents for more donations.

Belle had known he’d be here, and had been looking forward to seeing him, like he was a boy she had a crush on at school.

He was in a nubby fisherman’s sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms, and expertly faded jeans.

“Ah, Mrs. Redness, how are you?” Dr. Broker said, pausing briefly on the rung above her. He stepped down closer before she could answer. He licked his lips.

“Great, good, happy to be here,” she said nervously. She was a little warm in her dress. Something about the intensity of his gaze screamed danger.

“You look like a gorgeous tree,” he said. “I’ve always loved your hair. You’re like a real-life Rapunzel.” Belle looked around to see if anyone could hear them. Was he flirting with her? Is this how he spoke to all the moms?

“Uh, thanks,” she said. Belle wasn’t used to getting such a high from male attention. She felt giddy.

He leaned into her, so that she could smell his leathery cologne.

“I hope to see you later in the evening,” he whispered into her ear.

Then he walked past her, down the stairs, and Belle felt his shoulder brush against hers, the wool of his sweater press on her bare skin.

She was both confused by what had just happened, and highly turned on by it.

Belle kept going, thinking about Dr. Broker’s mouth as she did.

When was “later in the evening”? At the top step, she bumped into Clara Cain, in a bright green dress, her shoulder-length black hair dyed silver-gray.

“I’m a Granny Smith!” said Clara, delighted with her own cleverness.

Belle smiled at her but tried to keep walking up alone.

No luck. Clara dragged her to the top of the staircase and then, before Belle could get a good look at the place, into a shadowy side room, perhaps a home office, shutting the door behind them.

In the dim light, Belle could see skeletons hanging from the ceiling, and what looked to be wax figures of witches lined up at the walls.

They were alone. It was scary in there, and Belle wanted to get out.

“I have to speak to you about something,” said Clara dramatically.

Clara was usually glib and self-satisfied, but not dramatic—she was a lawyer; it was her job to be dull.

“It’s about Hildy.” Belle’s jaw clenched.

Hildy? Hildy and Miles were home with their babysitter, watching reruns of Friends . What about Hildy?

“I heard something from Ozzie,” said Clara, nearly spitting Belle’s way. “I heard that there were some photographs going around… explicit photographs.” Belle’s chest contracted, but she tried to breathe through it.

“But not of Hildy, right?” Belle said, shaking her head.

Clara just blinked, not saying anything.

“Hildy doesn’t even undress in front of me, let alone take naked pictures.

She doesn’t have a boyfriend—or girlfriend.

She hasn’t even gone through puberty! There’s just no way.

Has Ozzie seen the pictures?” Belle looked over at a wax witch, its long nose covered in warts.

“No, but he heard from a good source. I’m telling you; I think they’re out there,” said Clara, enjoying contradicting Belle.

Could it be true? Her little Hildy? Belle really didn’t think she’d be that stupid.

Plus, Hildy had been in a better mood than usual lately, saying she was enjoying her new classes. Nothing about this felt right.

“All right, I’ll look into it. Even if it’s a rumor, thanks for letting me know,” said Belle. “Now can we get out of this weird witch room?” Belle suddenly felt desperate to get home and speak to Hildy. Clear everything up over a bowl of ice cream.

They walked out and into the most stylish haunted house Belle had ever seen.

The servers were dressed as movie-quality-level zombies, and things—axes, black cats, spiders—kept jumping out at Belle, scaring the crap out of her.

“Ava hired the set designer from The Walking Dead for this floor. Apparently, the guys who did Night of the Living Dead were already, well, dead,” said Clara.

But it was hard to see anyone in the foggy, thick air, and so instead of lingering, Belle ditched Clara and went up one more flight.

Her friends had to be somewhere . And maybe Dr. Broker would be up there, too.

She emerged onto the third and top floor, relieved that the lighting was soft and flattering.

The area was styled as a replica of Grand Central Market, with ministalls filled with riffs on New York classics.

The air smelled of maple, smoked nuts, and cotton candy.

She passed a circle of men and women, their voices elevated by alcohol and merriment.

“Oh my god, I know, I can’t keep up,” said a woman in a brown dress, a small, furry tail attached to her backside.

“She, he, they, it… I don’t care what gender you are, we live in New York, after all, but my issue is: it’s incorrect grammar!

It hurts me to say ‘ they is such a sweet kid.’” The group laughed loudly.

“I still think the teachers are encouraging it, even after this last election,” said the man next to her, his voice lowered.

Belle assumed he was her husband, as he was in a similar costume, but wearing a brown suit and a pair of wall-mount-worthy antlers on his head.

“Where else are they getting this from?” The rest of the listeners nodded in agreement.

“I think it’s not as bad uptown. It feels like the schools up there are more traditional.

We love Atherton, but it’s getting out of control.

We’re thinking about touring Buckley next fall… ”

Belle found Morgan and Frost standing next to the Cronut bar, steam rising out the tops of the delicate, golden pastries.

Morgan was in a bright pink bustier and an enormously full pink skirt, a white bonnet, and a scarf around her neck.

Frost, meanwhile, had gone full Halloween, in a sexy black Elvira gown, bright red lips, and a long black wig.

She’d decorated the bandage on her face with sparkly spiders, and she’d switched out her white sling for a black one.

The front of Frost’s dress went nearly down to her navel, and her still-perky breasts were standing at attention on either side.

“Wow, wow, wow, look at you two,” said Belle, remembering that she was still holding the same drink as when she’d arrived. She downed it in a gulp, the whiskey burning her windpipe.

“Wait, Morgan, who are you again? Snow White? Cinderella?” Belle asked. She hadn’t meant to be rude, but she could tell it came out that way as she’d said it.

“No, I’m Katrina from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow —a Disney movie about fall in New York. I told you a million times,” said Morgan, annoyed. “And Art is Ichabod Crane. Remember?”

“Oh, right, right,” said Belle. “How’s Thyme & Time doing? Great, I hope!” she said, trying to recover.

“Yes, it’s doing amazingly well. We’re fully booked for next week. Not reporting the robbery was the best decision.”