Bad Moms

by Nora McInerny

  “It’s okay!” she says, smoothing down her hair. “Oooooh!” Her small, clammy hand clamps itself around my forearm. “Nice tats!” It sounds like she’d practiced saying “tats” before.

  “I’m Kiki,” she announces, sliding her hand down my forearm until we are shaking hands.

  “Okay,” I reply, glancing behind me to see if Mr. Nolan had slipped by while I was being accosted.

  “Hey, would you like to have a special coffee date with me sometime?”

  “Like, an Irish coffee?” I ask. “Because I have some Bailey’s in my bag if you want . . .”

  “Like, a Starbucks?” she asked, which is confusing because why is she asking me an additional question when she hasn’t even answered mine?

  This woman has so many questions: What grade is my kid in? Where do I work? What’s my name? I have one question: What the fuck is wrong with this lady?

  My dreams of bumping into Mr. Nolan dissolve while this happy little Gollum leads me deep into the caverns of McKinley. We end up in the auditorium, where dozens of other moms are gathered in what they’d call “small groups” but I would call very small circles of my personal hell. They are meeting. Gathering.

  My perfect nonparticipation streak is officially over. I’ve accidentally and tragically attended a fucking Mom Squad meeting.

  I’VE WATCHED PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING MY ENTIRE LIFE, and I wish I could take back every penny I ever spent on those tour shows, because going to PTA meetings is free and even a bunch of drugged-up, over-tanned meatheads in spandex can’t bring the amount of energy or drama that a roomful of anxious moms provides.

  You’ve never seen so many moms in your life. They’re everywhere, packed into the McKinley auditorium like they heard there was going to be a pop-up Ann Taylor sale where our kids hold their “talent” shows.

  The crowd here is decidedly more sober than at any WWF event I’ve ever been to, and I’m the only one holding a twenty-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew, but the energy is similar. The most hardcore fans sit right up front in the folding chairs and everyone is in costume: perfect hair, perfect outfits. Even the women who are dressed like they could bust out into a series of walking lunges at any moment are showered and made up.

  Bits and pieces of conversation float into my ears:

  “That’s just one of the pitfalls of having a gifted child, I suppose.”

  “Me? Oh my GOD, I’m disgusting right now. I swear, I’ve gained ten pounds since Max started kindergarten, just eating my feelings!”

  “And I said that . . . I said it right to her face. I said, Jenn, you’re not acting like yourself right now. You’re being very hostile.”

  I need to get out of here, but most of the exits are blocked by tight pods of moms all very intensely discussing whatever it is moms like them discuss: Artisanal diapers? Small-batch peanut-free peanut butter? Grass-fed, organic children?

  This is why people have dogs: they’re a built-in excuse to have to leave at a moment’s notice. Then again, so are kids, and you don’t see a single kid in this room. Not one.

  The lights flicker. The crowd hushes.

  Showtime.

  Gwendolyn takes the stage, and I fully expect pyrotechnics to follow. The crowd applauds before Gwendolyn even opens her mouth, and all I can think is, “I really, really wish I were high.”

  From what I can gather, every woman here is mega into Gwendolyn, the way all the guys I grew up with were mega into Hulk Hogan. Confused, anxious people like a strong leader who promises absolute order. It’s a basic tenet of fascism and pro wrestling. And, apparently, the PTA.

  Gwendolyn doesn’t tan—it “causes premature aging”—but she does pay two hundred and fifty dollars a month to be airbrushed the color of coffee with cream and sugar. It takes a lot of work to make you look like you’re effortlessly beautiful. Personally, I don’t get it. If I wanted to look like I wasn’t wearing makeup, I’d just skip the process altogether. I don’t mind people knowing that I’ve put in some effort. That’s kind of the point, actually. But what’s really in now is for nobody to know that you’ve made any effort at all. That everything from your gel manicure to your highlights look natural, which seems like a big waste of money and gel polish to me.

  I don’t get it, but I do appreciate Gwendolyn for bringing this trend to McKinley, because the local beauty community owes her our livelihood. Once she started telling people that the secret to her look was one hundred ounces of water and nine hours of sleep at night, the spa was overrun with women who wanted to look natural. The problem with wanting to look natural in a world that still expects women to look fuckable is that you want to look like you naturally looked when you were twenty, when you were maybe drinking a couple ounces of water a day and stumbling in to work hungover, on three hours of sleep, and were still a straight-up hottie.

  I don’t know how much water Gwendolyn drinks or how much sleep she actually gets, but I can tell you by looking her up in our database that Gwendolyn’s “no-makeup” look is the result of bimonthly facials, quarterly Botox injections, and a half-syringe of filler at the apples of her cheeks, refilled twice per year to add some fat to her skinny-ass face.

  Look, everyone needs a little help. There’s nothing unnatural about that. I like my help to come in the form of a heavy-duty push-up bra, a professional-grade concealer/foundation that could also work to spackle your walls, and the occasional morning margarita. I don’t like the idea that anyone should feel bad about the help they get, or the help they need. And I sure as shit don’t like when people lie about it.

  A face that has trouble matching the tone of your voice is not the “natural and organic” lifestyle that Gwendolyn promotes on her blog and her Instagram, except that botulism is naturally occurring, and our tanning solution is labeled as organic because who the fuck is going to check? Only one woman has ever asked what made it organic. She was standing there in her paper panties bent over at the waist like a Barbie doll so I could tan the crease under her butt cheeks. “It’s made from the skin of naturally felled acorns,” I’d said, and she’d nodded like that made any sense at all. I swear to God you can tell women like this that anything is organic, and they’d pay three times as much for it.

  Speaking of organic, Gwendolyn is now discussing the importance of using an organic, nontoxic homeopathic solution whenever treating head lice.

  “We’re facing a crisis here,” she says, nearly whispering. A pause, and then her voice gets louder. “Our children are facing a crisis.”

  Now, look, I had lice for about ten years growing up. Your head is a little itchy because there are bugs on it, but eventually the bugs die. Big deal. It’s annoying, sure, but it’s not exactly a crisis. A crisis is when your girlfriend has amnesia and doesn’t remember who she is and has been pulled into a crime ring that’s taking advantage of her lack of memory, which somehow doesn’t affect her driving skills. That’s from Fast & Furious, by the way, and Dom Toretto got through it and he and Letty got back together and everything.

  Maybe I am high. Because the crisis Gwendolyn is talking about isn’t even lice.

  “As you know,” she says, smiling, “I’m dedicated to being the change I wish to see in the world. I’m dedicated to making our school and our world safer for our kids. I’m not afraid to cause a stir. Or take on big challenges.” She pauses here, and the crowd applauds in agreement, like Gwendolyn is some sort of freedom fighter. I gotta admit, the energy here is contagious.

  “And that’s why I’m so proud to bring the following issue to your attention. An issue that’s quite literally poisoning our children . . . right in front of us. Every year. An issue that’s been disguised as fun and fundraising, an honored tradition that has been tainted by our own laziness and inattentiveness.”

  Dramatic music rises, and I lean forward in my chair.

  It isn’t quite pyrotechnics, but a projector suddenly turns on, and two words illuminate the movie-theater-size screen behind Gwendolyn. Her nemesis has been named. The
gauntlet has been thrown.

  Gwendolyn James is calling out the bake sale. And with that, I am fucking outta here.

  13

  Amy

  Most people know to sneak in when they’re late. I know to sneak in when I’m late. But sneaking in is for people who are thinking clearly, and there are too many thoughts zipping through my mind, too many things on my ever-growing to-do list. What I’m saying is, I forgot to sneak in. In I walk, like I’m not arriving twenty minutes after the scheduled “gathering time.” Gwendolyn clocks me right away.

  “Oh,” she cries out, shielding her eyes from the stage lights, “Amy Mitchell! How nice of you to join us. Right on time, as usual!”

  The crowd laughs nervously, but I don’t even crack a smile. I just shrug and look around for a seat.

  “I was just naming the lead on our Bake Sale Task Force,” Gwendolyn continues, “and I think you’re just the woman for the job!”

  That stops me in my tracks. She can’t be serious. I am drowning at work; I am juggling one stressed-out kid, one lazy-ass kid, one sick dog, and a marriage that is hanging by one mangy little thread—and also? I just realized I have to pee. I have not peed today, or if I did, I can’t remember it. I absolutely cannot head some stupid, made-up Bake Sale Task Force. I just cannot.

  The word is out of my mouth and into the atmosphere before I can even think it through.

  “No.”

  It hangs there for a moment, and then incites a ripple of murmuring through the crowd.

  “Pardon me?” Gwendolyn places a hand over her heart as she says this, pretending to truly give a shit.

  “I SAID . . . NO.”

  That came out a little louder than it needed to, I know. It’s a bad idea to cross Gwendolyn. The last mom who pissed her off ended up suddenly moving her family to South Dakota. But fuck it.

  “No, Gwendolyn. I don’t want to be on the Bake Sale Task Force.” Once I started, I couldn’t stop. “Or the Lice Task Force. Or the Community Recycling Task Force, which I’m pretty sure gave me mercury poisoning last year. I don’t want to bring snacks for the class. I don’t want to go to class. I’m done with school! I finished thirteen goddamn years ago! I don’t want to spend my entire life taking care of everything for everyone. I quit!”

  Gwendolyn looks like a robot who has just found out she isn’t a real person. “You . . . quit?” She forces a laugh. “You quit . . . what, honey?”

  “This! All of this! I quit . . . trying so damn hard. I’m done.”

  I don’t wait for a reaction; I just turn and march toward the exit. I can only imagine Gwendolyn’s fake smile and her eyes boring into my spine as I let the door slam behind me.

  I hope I don’t have to move to South Dakota.

  14

  Kiki

  She quit.

  She quit the Mom Squad.

  She walked away from Gwendolyn. From the PTA. From my chance to be friends with her!

  I’m trying to horn in on all the whispered conversations happening around me, but my phone keeps vibrating.

  KENT: Kiki, where are the diapers??

  ME: Top drawer of the changing table. Xo.

  KENT: When are you coming back?

  ME: Meeting goes until 9. Xo.

  KENT: 9pm?? You still have to go to the supermarket.

  KENT: I’m out of protein bars.

  ME: I know! Xo.

  KENT: And milk. Whole, not that 2% stuff.

  ME: I know! Xo.

  KENT: I’m serious, no almond milk.

  ME: Yep!

  KENT: And apples. Green ones.

  ME: You got it!

  KENT: Thick-cut ham.

  ME: Alrighty!

  Carla is gone. She must have left while I was texting, probably because texting in public is so rude.

  My dad always told me that quitting was for quitters. He was talking about smoking, and he later died of emphysema. I never quit anything except my job when I got pregnant, but that’s different. As a kid, I still played hockey even after I dislocated my shoulder. “Get back out there!” my coach shouted when I tried to get off the ice, and I did. At the ER later that night, the doctors said they couldn’t believe I was able to finish the whole game in such excruciating pain. My dad stood there, beaming with pride while they popped my shoulder back into the socket. Junior year of high school, I was diagnosed with mononucleosis. That’s the kissing disease, but you can also get it from borrowing someone’s reed in marching band, or drinking from the same cup as Crystal Baumgartner, which are the two places I could have gotten it, seeing as how I for sure wasn’t kissing anyone after what they taught us in sex ed. Anyway, mononucleosis didn’t stop me from going to the State Finals for Debate even though my doctor said I was in danger of developing hepatitis if I didn’t rest. Hadn’t Amy had a strict father who taught her better than to just . . . quit? And why do I so badly want to follow her out that dang door?

  All around me are the people I had hoped to connect with: moms who I had hoped would want to get a special coffee sometime, or exchange recipes for dessert bars. What did Gwendolyn have against dessert bars? Gwendolyn had a lot against dessert bars, it turns out. I happen to know for a fact that they make people happy, but her entire presentation included photos of sad kids clutching their bellies like they had just swallowed a Tide pod, and I saw on Good Morning America that some kids are actually doing that and it seems like that is a crisis, not my mother’s seven-layer bars. Nobody in Minot could ever get them as gooey as hers, and here’s why: she used two sticks of salted butter in every batch. But butter is now outlawed. So is chocolate. And sweetened coconut. And graham crackers. And caramel. And walnuts. And butterscotch. And condensed milk. Any milk, really. The recipe that I was counting on to win over hearts and minds and stomachs at McKinley was now officially outlawed.

  My phone buzzes again.

  KENT: Mild salsa.

  KENT: And chips.

  Heart thumping, I grab my purse and stand up.

  I’M NOT FOLLOWING AMY; I’M JUST WALKING BEHIND HER FOR a few blocks without saying anything. I want to say something, but when I try to think of what I could call out to her on a dark street without alarming her, nothing comes to mind. So I just hang back, hoping that the right opportunity will present itself. I’m just thinking about how much I like the sound of her boots clicking on the pavement when she darts across the street without even looking both ways, and walks into a low, plain building with a big neon sign. The Office.

  I’ve never been to The Office. Kent says that bars are for creeps and lowlifes, but the moment I step inside I realize that he forgot to also list sad-looking people, regular-looking people, and McKinley moms, apparently.

  It smells a little bit like the inside of Bernard’s mouth after he’s had the stomach flu, or maybe the inside of a sippy cup you find on the floor of the van on a hot summer day. It smells bad, but when my eyes adjust to the dark, I see her. My future friend.

  Be normal. Be normal. Be normal.

  “Hi, I’m Amy! You’re Amy. I’m Kiki. My kids go to McKinley.” My voice sounds like me, but not like me. I sound like an alien doing a bad impersonation of a human mother.

  Good job being normal, Kiki.

  Amy Mitchell has the prettiest skin I’ve ever seen in my life. She has no pores. It’s like she’s been airbrushed, except you know that she doesn’t wear makeup—maybe a swipe of mascara, if she’s feeling like it. She’s just that beautiful. Her hair is so glossy I want to weave it into a pillowcase and sleep with it every night. Even my thoughts are not being normal.

  “Oh God.” She moans. “You were there? I’m not normally like that. I just have a lot going on right now.”

  Her voice is so warm and kind that I want to take a nap inside of it. I know that what I say next really matters; I rehearsed this conversation in my head the whole way here. It’s my chance to turn the fact that I followed her from a school to a bar several blocks away into the beginning of an actual friendship.

&
nbsp; I’m interrupted by Carla, who has been busy ripping through the pile of pull tabs in front of her. Are she and Amy . . . friends? Did I totally blow it by ignoring her to text my husband? Does she totally hate me now?

  “Hey!” Carla smiles. “I know you! I tried to get you out the door with me, but you were glued to that fucking phone. It’s a tracking device, you know. So. What’re you drinking?”

  When I was little, my mom would take me with her down to the VFW for the Friday-night fish fry, and I’d get two dollars to spend. I’d get myself one Shirley Temple with extra cherries and six pull tabs, even though it’s technically gambling and for sure illegal to sell them to children. I took my time with each tab, double-checking every symbol to make sure I didn’t miss a winner.

  “Helloooo! Kiki! Drink?” Carla is snapping her long fingers in my face.

  “Shirley Temple, extra cherries.”

  At first I’m afraid that she is gravely injured, but the sound coming from her mouth and throat is apparently a laugh, which turns into a cough that really should be treated by a medical professional.

  “You’re nuts,” she says, stepping behind the bar.

  What she hands me is too dark to be a Shirley Temple, so I assume it’s a Roy Rogers. I try not to drink Coca-Cola Classic after five PM because it keeps me up, but this is a special friend date and I want to be polite.

  It tastes like acid mixed with nail polish remover and whatever is leaking out of the bottom of our van right now, but I keep drinking. The faster I get this over with, the better.

  “Easy, mama!” she says. “That’s a Manhattan. It’s like, pure alcohol. You’re gonna be on your ass if you drink it that fast.”

  Alcohol! And not just alcohol, but a Manhattan. Kent and I went to Manhattan once. I thought we’d go to FAO Schwartz and the Statue of Liberty and the Museum of Natural History, but mainly I just stayed in the hotel room while Kent went to his work conference because he said the city was filled with crooks and pickpockets. We did go to the Olive Garden in Times Square, though, and when we were walking back to the hotel, Kent stepped in human poop.