Page 9 of Mean Moms

“I know it sounds silly, but it’s a big deal at the school,” Morgan continued. “They only give out a couple a year, and everyone goes to the ceremonies—last year, they gave the award to Julie Klein for funding the Atherton Diversity and Inclusion wing.”

“Is that where they hide the other Colombian kids?” said Sofia, deadpan.

No one laughed that time. “Anyway, I don’t like being the center of attention,” she continued.

“He mentioned that we could organize it for later in the fall, and I told him I’d consider it.

And then I went flying down the stairs! I haven’t really thought about it since. ”

“Well, I think you should do it,” said Belle. “We’d all come to support you. And the kids of the award winner get to sit up onstage with them, so that might be nice for Carlos and Lucia.”

Sofia mmmmed. She took a large sip of her martini.

“Ugh, did you all get the lice email?” said Frost, changing the subject.

Everyone moaned in unison. Atherton periodically endured lice epidemics, the bugs spreading through classrooms and grades and sometimes, God forbid, to parents, too.

There was something insulting about these infestations, a feeling that they all paid too much for it to happen, that the vermin should stay in their place in the public schools.

The emails they received from the nurse about it sparked a flurry of WhatsApp chatter speculating as to whose dirty kid was patient zero.

The women eventually finished their drinks and parted ways, Belle and Frost and Morgan splitting the check, treating Sofia, cheek kissing with lots of promises to do it again soon.

Morgan was planning to walk home, so she convinced Frost to go with her, despite the heat and Frost’s protests that her feet were already feeling swollen in her sandals.

The two women turned onto Hudson and went up from there, waving goodbyes to Belle, who was heading off to a dinner, and Sofia, who said she needed to get back to her kids.

“Dude, slow down, I can’t keep up,” said Frost, laughing and hurrying to catch Morgan. “I walk fast, but you’re a speed demon! Save it for the marathon.”

Though you wouldn’t know it by looking at her, all bones and sharp edges, Morgan was a true athlete.

When she was little, a blond cherub, she’d chosen gymnastics, a sport where cheerfulness was not only embraced but required.

She’d been particularly talented at tumbling.

She’d loved to throw her body around, higher and higher, to soar in the air.

At one point, it seemed there might be a chance she’d go all the way, or at least halfway, with a shot at the Junior Olympics in sight.

She’d just been a slip of a thing, muscles but no fat, a straight line up and down.

But early into her preteen years, puberty had taken hold, and she’d been betrayed by her hips and breasts and that fucking added weight.

So much added weight. She’d just wanted to fly.

Morgan now thought of Gertrude, her poor Gertrude.

Her generous stomach, her sturdy legs. The weight stalked Gertrude as it had Morgan, but it had come even earlier for her little girl.

Gertrude was constantly teased about it at school, by ruthless boys who somehow avoided getting caught by any teachers, calling her “Girthy Gertrude,” snorting like a pig when she walked by in the hallway.

Morgan had tried go through the proper channels, get the bullies expelled from Atherton, but none of the teachers could confirm what was happening.

Were they blind? When she’d wanted to elevate the issue to the school’s board, Gertrude hadn’t let her, begging her, weeping, to please not get involved, saying that Morgan would only make it worse.

It haunted Morgan, this idea that she couldn’t help her child, that the proper punishment wasn’t being meted out.

“I wonder what’s really going on with Sofia,” said Frost as they walked.

“Like, how did she actually get into the school? I really like her, but she’s kind of cagey about some things.

Maybe one of your PA friends knows…” Morgan felt a buzz in her bag.

They were standing on Spring and Hudson, a nondescript block on the edge of SoHo.

It was still light out. An e-bike whizzed past, going way too fast; if she’d stepped a foot to her right, she’d have been mowed down.

New York was so dangerous lately. Muggings. Stabbings. Pedestrian deaths.

Morgan checked her phone. It was 6:33. She saw she had one voicemail from an unknown number. She’d save that for later.

While Frost was telling her some story about King and Alfred’s tennis group, an uber-competitive mom she hated, blah, blah, Morgan’s mind ticked through all she had to get done for the spa opening.

Make sure the bookings were set, stock the minifridge out front with La Croix, triple-check the confirmed hours with each practitioner, and test the sound system before the first appointment.

They’d made it up to Hudson and Morton, crossing from Greenwich Village into the West Village, where Morgan lived.

“So then she came up to me and said, ‘How many private lessons are you doing? Because Henry’s doing three a week, and we were thinking of going up to four,’” continued Frost. Morgan found her mind wandering, as it often had been lately.

She thought back to yesterday. She’d skipped dinner, then gotten woozy heading up to her bedroom—the Wegovy at work. She’d had to sit down on the stairs to regain her sense of balance. Gertrude had found her there.

“Mom, are you okay?” Gertrude had asked, plopping down next to Morgan on the wooden step.

“I’m fine, honey, just a little tired,” Morgan had said, rubbing Gertrude’s back.

Gertrude was wearing a crop top, the current, and, in Morgan’s opinion, cruel uniform of tween girls in New York City.

Gertrude’s exposed stomach was pushing out over her bottoms, and Morgan had the urge to tuck her sweet child’s flesh back into her pants.

She looked just like Morgan; there was barely any sign of Art in her at all.

In Morgan’s darker moments, she sometimes thought Art might be relieved by this.

They’d sat there in silence, Morgan listening to Gertrude’s breath. Morgan had suffered through her pregnancy with Gertrude, never feeling quite right. She’d hated the heaviness of carrying a baby in her body, the scale ticking up, the feeling of being out of control.

“Mom, I don’t want to go back to school tomorrow,” Gertrude had said. She’d turned to Morgan with tears in her round eyes, her lips shaking. “It’s Miles Redness. He’s just so mean.”

“I know, sweetie,” Morgan had said with a sigh. “I know.” Gertrude had put her head in Morgan’s lap, and Morgan stroked her hair, still soft like a baby’s. “I’m taking care of everything,” she’d assured her precious daughter. She’d felt like punching a wall.

It was now 6:37. Morgan and Frost were at a grungy intersection, with a nail place, a cannabis shop, and a pizza parlor on each corner.

Though Morgan felt sticky and soured, she was still light on her feet.

“Let’s cross,” Morgan said, hopping off the sidewalk onto the street.

She looked to the right to make sure no cars were coming, and took two steps forward, fast, Frost following behind.

There was a loud whiz and then a crack, and Morgan turned to see her friend Frost flying up in the air, her blousy top rippling in the wind, the whole thing happening as if in slow motion.

For a split second, Morgan was reminded of what it felt like to do a tumbling pass on the mat, a back handspring into a back tuck, her head facing down before she’d miraculously land, boom, right side up.

Instead, Frost crashed, scraping her cheek along the hot asphalt as she came to a rest a few steps from where she’d been knocked off the ground.

Morgan ran to Frost, hauling her to sitting as she yelped in pain, inspecting Frost’s face, blood trickling down Frost’s pale cheek.

She looked at Morgan with shocked, glassy eyes, not quite registering what had happened.

Her left arm was sitting at an angle that an arm really shouldn’t be sitting at.

Beside them was a guy in Nikes, a blue baseball cap pulled low on his head and an N95 mask covering most of his face.

He was crouching next to his electric scooter, checking it for damage.

He glanced at the two of them and then swiftly stood up, got back on his scooter, and zoomed off down Hudson Street, weaving in and out of traffic as he went.

A few pedestrians were now surrounding them, including two older women, expressing concern.

“Are you okay, sweetheart? Your face is bleeding. Maybe you should call an ambulance?” one of them asked.

“Can we help you two up?” Frost hadn’t said anything yet, though she was quietly crying.

Her hair had escaped the bun and she had dirt and scrapes on her hands and knees.

Morgan, with the women’s assistance, pulled Frost to standing, careful not to touch her injured arm.

Frost wobbled a bit but found her footing.

“Is it bad?” Frost asked. One of the women handed Frost a napkin, and she held it to her face, pulling it away to look at her own blood. The bleeding was minimal. It was mostly surface scratches, though it looked nasty.

“I think you’re okay, but you probably need an X-ray for your arm. Let’s get you to my house and call a doctor,” said Morgan.

“Did you see the guy on the scooter?” Frost asked. “Where did he go?”

Morgan shook her head. “Not really. He drove away before I could really get a good look at him or say anything. What an asshole.”

“I saw the whole thing,” one of the women interjected. “It looked like he headed directly for you. On purpose!”

“What a maniac,” said Morgan. “New York is filled with them.”