Page 42 of Mean Moms
The auction always started off with a bang.
First up, a private John Legend concert for fifteen people (he and Chrissy were considering Atherton for their children; this was a good way to lock in an acceptance).
Impressed murmurs went up in the crowd as couples grouped off, seeing how much money each would be willing to spend for this once-in-a-lifetime experience.
“I’ll give everyone five minutes to solidify their bidding plans,” said Art, stepping down from the platform. Belle saw him pass by Clara Cain, whose body was covered head to toe in black feathers, and whisper something to her.
Belle looked over at Morgan. She couldn’t be sure, given she couldn’t really see Morgan’s face, but she thought that maybe Morgan had seen the exchange, too. How odd. What could Art be speaking to Clara about?
“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’s postre 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 crystal glasses.
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 she had figured 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, the New York Post article, 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 everything they want—healthy children, money, husbands who love them. And they’re still miserable.”
The only thing that Sofia was certain about was that tonight was when she was going to get screwed.
In the middle of her party, somehow. That’s why she’d made her announcement about her new job; she had to get her narrative out before anything else happened.
Morgan was trying to blame her for things that she didn’t do!
Sofia was a cheater, yes, but she was a good person with good intentions.
She hadn’t meant to break up her family.
She’d just fallen in love. And now she’d fallen in with a bunch of psycho moms.
As the auction raged on, Sofia took a moment to walk around her apartment, checking in with the caterers, making sure the coat attendants were fine.
She’d decided to stay sober that night—she needed to be sharp, to watch for any potential pranks or worse.
She’d also set up hidden Nest Cams all over the apartment, stashed behind the surrealist decorations. She didn’t want to take any chances.
Frost hadn’t answered her text from the night of her art show, and Sofia was convinced that Morgan had turned both Frost and Belle against her.
The three of them had looked very cozy all evening, as if Sofia hadn’t existed for all these months.
Sofia wasn’t the type to get maudlin, but it did hurt her feelings that Belle and Frost were so quick to think she might be their enemy.
The whole thing was like something out of the stories about Colombia her father used to tell her.
The gangs, the violence, the allies who turned on each other for money.
But this wasn’t Bogotá! It was Tribeca, for crying out loud.
Sofia pulled her Schiaparelli veil tightly over her head (the dress was a dupe; she’d found it hanging in a storefront on Canal Street, next to fake Prada purses).
The wacky decor was making her paranoid.
Would Morgan release rats into her apartment?
Would a bomb go off, killing them all? What horrible thing could Morgan think up next?
The auction was popping off. Sofia could hear people bidding hundreds of thousands of dollars on items they didn’t need. Being poor again had reminded Sofia of how much richer rich people were than the rest of the world imagined.
“Sofia! I’d love to be your first client.” It was Armena Justice, in a neon bodysuit, her feet clad in Moon Boots the size of small children.
“Oh, thank you, Armena,” said Sofia. She tried to focus, though she was distracted by the noise and the feeling that everything was about to fall apart.
But this was important—it was what she’d been working toward this entire time.
Becoming a trusted member of the community, someone that the other moms felt good about paying to help them live their best lives.
“We would love to go to a private island for next Christmas break,” said Armena. “Just our family. Somewhere out near Aruba—but nicer than Aruba, obviously. I’m thinking a budget of around eighty thousand. Think you could get me some options by next week?”