Thankfully, Genny was amped up for the party, and her joy made it a little easier to put on a happy face. She’d just turned nine and was starting to catch on to how I hated everything she loved. The dolls. The stuffed animals. The tea parties. Her father. 

That sounded bad. I do play with her all the time. Does dressing and undressing American Girl Dolls make me want to barf in my mouth? Yes. Yes, it does. Have I secretly fallen in and out of love with Taylor Swift a thousand times? Yes. Yes, I have. But the truth is, I’m a good mother. And good mothers know that sometimes you just have to slip into character, grit your teeth, and bear it. 

Birthday parties, though, are a My Little Pony of a different color. I’m game for a birthday at a local park where I can sit on a bench, sip a latte, and doomscroll on Instagram for a while. But the SKY-ZONE Tramp-O-Rama? The place even sounds like somewhere you’d go to buy weed and pick up a hooker.  

It was one of those blah winter mornings, the kind painted in grays with a chill so deep you could feel it in your bones. I tossed on a pair of sweatpants and one of Lester’s oversized cardigans I stole from him before he left. The cozy outfit and a cup of coffee warmed me up. But so did Genny. All morning long, she had this exaggerated grin plastered on her face. She tried on four outfits, had a dance party in the kitchen, and made six different birthday cards for her friend. 

I was fully prepared for our regular getting-into-the-car argument, but that morning, Genny went without complaint. “Genny, it’s time to…” was all I could get out. That was it. Looking back, I should’ve used that as a teachable moment. I could’ve finished the sentence with, “Learn complex algebra” or “Clean up the dogshit from the backyard.” Our dog, Buster, had been shitting out there for months because I never had the time to walk him. So I open the back door and let him do his business. There you go judging again. I’ve got a full-time job and three kids under 12. I barely have time to take a shit myself, let alone facilitate the shitting of another living creature. 

The Milford Industrial Park off Route Ten might be the most depressing location on the face of the earth. It housed a couple of nondescript businesses and that boarded-up church- the one with the giant football helmet out front. There was also an Arby’s and a massage parlor with blackout windows that everyone knew was a front for a brothel. Lastly, there was the 100,000-square-foot warehouse that held the SKY-ZONE Tramp-O-Rama.

I squeezed Genny’s hand when we went in because I swear to God, entering that space from the outside world is enough to give someone a seizure. We walked through a foyer of frenetic bells, lights, and buzzers. Silly music played loudly over the PA to drown out the jingling from the video games. Unsupervised barefoot children were everywhere, sprinting around recklessly, panting and sweating and manically gripping their overflowing plastic prize buckets. The kids were bug-eyed with adrenaline. They shook with excitement. Like overweight chain smokers parked in front of casino slot machines, those bells and lights had infected these children with a SKY-ZONE trampoline park full-on delirium. 

As soon as we passed through the arcade and crossed into the mania of the SKY-ZONE, Genny spotted her girls, released my hand, and disappeared into a sea of hysterical tweens. Ball pits, rope swings, climbing walls, trampolines, monkey bars, zip lines; the SKY-ZONE looked more like a Navy Seal training facility than a spot for a child’s birthday party. I guess if it had ended there, first off, this wouldn’t have been much of a story, but if it had ended there, I would’ve just walked out to the car and listened to an episode or two of Song Exploder. No harm. No foul. But I couldn’t leave. When I tried to spin around to exit through the arcade, they spotted me. All three of them. Dolled up in their $250 yoga pants and athleisurewear hoodies. Miranda in white. Betty in blue. Alice in red. I didn’t even know their last names. But they stood there with their arms crossed and their Yeezy’s tapping on the floor, restricting my escape like the Great Wall of Yentas. As soon as Betty saw me, she detonated her phony smile and motioned for me to join them. What could I do? There’s a certain social protocol that one must follow at these things. Plus, Genny loved their daughters, and I love Genny. 

By the time I got to the group, I quickly realized that I’d interrupted a firestorm of bullshit. Miranda was flipping her shimmering blond ponytail around her long finger. Betty eyed her jealously, then tied her own blond hair back in a pony and twirled it around her finger, too. Meanwhile, Alice’s frazzled gray hair remained a mess. She didn’t even attempt the whole pony twirl because she knew she couldn’t pull it off. I arched my neck toward the exit behind me. Through the window, I could see it had started to pour.

“And I told Principal Harris I sympathize with how difficult his job must be. Especially now. With the Crisis in the Classroom and all. But to escort my Angelica to the main office like she was some kind of felon? It’s just not right,” Betty explained, breaking into what felt like a rehearsed monologue. “So then, we’re sitting in her office, the three of us. Bradley wasn’t there. He was working, of course, and after a few minutes, I had to stand up right out of my seat. I said, ‘No. I’m not going to let you punish my sweet little angel.’ I had to explain that Bradley and I don’t believe in punishment, that in our household we don’t even use the word no.”

Miranda and Alice could’ve gotten whiplash from the speed of their agreeable nods. Betty smiled proudly. When you spend any time at all with people like Miranda, Betty, and Alice, you learn rather quickly that they’re never actually paying attention; they’re just waiting for a chance to hop in and one-up whoever just finished talking. 

“That’s why we haven’t given up on co-sleeping. We just think….” Alice began while forcing herself into a newscaster’s smile, but Miranda, that bitch, held up a single finger and cut her off.

“This is what I’ve been telling you, sweetie. It’s time to get Angelica out of that prison. Public schools are so over. They’re too political to service gifted children like ours,” Miranda preached with a glow in her eye. “When Jessa was six, we pulled her out and put her into a CLAP school. You know, the ones where adults and children are treated as equals,” she continued, batting her eyelashes. Miranda fluttered those lashes so hard that the cake from her mascara flaked off her lids in black Revlon snow flurries.

“The CLAP school? Maybe that’s an option Bradley should explore,” Betty said.

“What about Genny or the boys? Desi, would you ever send them to a private school?” she asked me.

“Nope,” I said. 

Miranda coolly scanned the arcade, ignoring Alice, who was biting her raw fingernails and rambling on about some fucking scientific study she had read in the journal of who gives a shit. A dad in a tight black t-shirt behind us was helping his son hunt pixelated big game animals with a plastic machine gun. He had muscular arms, a full head of hair, and a great smile. At our age, that’s the holy trinity. The little boy blew the head off a doe who was sipping fresh water from a babbling brook in a snowy forest. On the screen, blood was geysering everywhere, turning the white snow to the color of plum JELL-O. The little boy jumped up and down with pride.

Coincidentally, Miranda also knew how to hunt. She already had the boy’s father in her crosshairs, preparing for the kill. He caught Miranda looking him over and smiled at her. Miranda ignored him. Alice was still yapping on about something when Miranda bent over to pretend to tie her shoe. She stuck her magnificent ass into the air so the father got a good look at her red thong, clearly visible through her white yoga pants. Standing up, she fanned herself with her hand and unzipped her hoodie. In only a sports bra, she let the girls breathe, and the good-looking father behind us was lost in her spell. You might be wondering, who would wear something like that to a child’s party? Miranda would. That’s who.

“I think you misunderstood me, Alice,” Miranda corrected, returning her attention to the ladies.

“No, I was just explaining….”

“Alice, enough. Please. We all know what you were saying. But really, do not even bother with the CLAP schools. Their whole program is so 2010. That’s why we pulled Jessa out of there last fall and sent her to the Winkle Academy,” Miranda explained.

“The Winkle Academy,” Alice gasped, “isn’t that place like seventy grand a year?”

“Eighty,” Miranda corrected.

“That’s so funny. Bradley was just over there last week for a consultation. Wouldn’t that be something? If our girls were roomies next fall?” Betty said with a little giggle.

“That would be something,” Miranda confirmed. She saw the hot dad had left and zipped her hoodie back up.

Now, I’m as polite as the next girl, but at some point, enough is enough. I had to get out of there. Back when we were dating, Lester taught me this great trick to sneak out of dinner parties when we needed to grab a smoke and didn’t want to be shamed for it.

“I’m sorry, ladies, I think I left my car lights on,” I said.

Seriously, it worked like every time. But to Miranda, Betty, and Alice, it was like I never said anything at all. They just closed ranks around me. Betty patted my shoulder and scooched closer, so close that I could smell her perfume. God, that woman smelled delicious, like some miraculous blend of Chanel Number 5 and cotton candy.

“Alice, honey, you should have Bob look into the Winkle Academy, too. If he can find the money,” Miranda said cuntishly while stroking her waxed arms.

“Well, we’ve been considering….” Alice began.

“I haven’t seen him around much, your Bob. Have you seen him around much, Betty?” Miranda asked.

“Bob? No, not recently,” Betty said.

“Trouble in paradise, Alice?” Miranda asked. 

Then she looked my way and said, “The only reason I ask, of course….”

I cut her off. “The only reason you ask is because of me, right?”

Miranda grinned knowingly and placed her hands over her heart. “I would never! My God, sweetie, after all you and Les have gone through.”

“Les?”

I’ve never been a jealous woman. Lester can sleep with whoever he wants. That’s none of my business anymore. But when Miranda called him ‘Les,’ I nearly lost it. Was she Lester’s type? Not really. Then again, Miranda could very well be everyone’s type. She had the body. The boobs, the butt, the tight tummy. And her eyes. Miranda had these astonishing deep blue eyes. They might have been the only natural thing about her. It was easy to get lost in there for a minute and forget that she was such a raging bitch. 

“Anyway, as I was saying, the Winkle Academy is way more progressive than CLAP,” Miranda went on while casually checking her phone.

“There’s something more progressive than CLAP?” I asked.

“Of course. At Winkle, they build a child’s agency. You know, give them a real voice.”

“Children don’t have a voice?” I asked.

“Agency, dear. Agency,” she confirmed. I had no earthly idea what that meant, but Miranda just kept on preaching the gospel of Winkle as if she’d written the promotional pamphlets. “They’re known as the model, in the U.S. anyway, for fostering robust student mental health. Betty, poor little Angelica would never have been shamed by the principal at Winkle. The kids have so much agency that they actually run the classes. They create their own assignments, develop their own set of rules, and they’re the ones that grade the teachers.”

“You’re kidding me,” I said.

“And on top of all that agency, they also have a 95% Ivy League acceptance rate,” Miranda gloated.

“Ivy League? The girls are still in grade school,” I said. 

Miranda ignored me, so Betty and Alice ignored me. But I could tell they all wanted me there. I was another metric with which they could judge themselves.

Suddenly, I saw Genny scampering around on the other side of the SKY-ZONE with their daughters. They all played so nicely and without judgment, taking turns on the rope swing and sharing the trampoline run. Genny even gave Alice’s daughter, whatever her name was, a big old bear hug. They were so happy. It’s funny; I don’t ever remember feeling that way around another girl, not my old roommates from the city or any of my female co-workers or academic peers. I certainly didn’t feel that way about any of the girls I was with that day.

The girls. Miranda, Betty, Alice. They had the perverse superpower to find me everywhere. At the market, the gym, and even my favorite little coffee kiosk over by Promenade Park. They didn’t work. They stood around all day like strip mall aristocrats, yammering on about private schools and private summer camps and private country clubs. For hours on end, they’d chit-chat about the true crime podcasts they listened to during carpool, the true crime novels they pretended to read for book club, and the true crime TV programs they’d watch late at night while sipping away at a half a gallon of chardonnay through a biodegradable straw. 

Miranda’s eyes examined the group. I could feel them inspecting my shoes, my sweatpants, my top, my hair, even the pores on my forehead. Betty’s eyes followed in a similar fashion. Alice’s were last because, well, it was Alice. Then Miranda started spinning her glacial engagement ring around her finger. Betty copied the action. Alice came in third.

“Oh Alice, what a darling diamond. It’s adorable,” Miranda said, igniting another bitchy smile. This might have been the bitchiest of Miranda’s arsenal of bitchy smiles because she knew Alice’s husband was gone. He’d been a contestant on that game show Bank on It, if you can believe that. The guy won 300k and then ran off with Alice’s personal trainer, Esteban. It was a fresh wound, and Alice still wore the ring. Alice dropped her eyes to the floor. Her lip quivered a little. Honestly, I thought she was definitely going to cry, and she didn’t, so good for her.

“I read a fascinating article this morning about how American men are suffering from a friendship recession,” Miranda said while putting on her non-prescription glasses.

“It’s just sad, isn’t it?” Betty asked.

They tried to hide it, but I could see them for what they really were. Competitors. They competed over the size of their houses, the number of landscapers they employed, the make and model of their cars, and the PTA positions they held. They competed over whose husband made more money and whose was in better shape. They competed over whose daughter got the highest grades, whose made the soccer team, and who's made All-County orchestra. The only thing in the world that bonded these women together was their silent judgment of one another. 

“It’s like I always say to Bradley,” Betty began again, “He only goes out with the boys to golf or play poker. Everything’s a competition with them. That’s probably why they don’t have any real friends, though,” she explained. “Not like us. Let’s never forget how lucky we are to have each other.” She wrapped her toned arms around Miranda and Alice. “You girls are my besties.”

Her heartfelt statement was interrupted when a seemingly innocuous announcement came over the speakers. “All right, parents, now it’s your turn to take a shot at the SKY-ZONE challenge.”

At first, I didn’t think the announcement was even directed at us. After all, there must have been a hundred parents there. But then another announcement followed. “I see you hiding back there, ladies. Come on up here moms!” 

We shook our heads and pretended to laugh off the invitation until we heard yet another message over the PA.

“The winning mom in the SKY-ZONE challenge gets a free super-sized wine spritzer from our Slippy Dippy Saloon.”

That lit a fire under Miranda’s ass. She prodded Betty and Alice toward the obstacle course. Looking back, this was my opportunity to leave. They were distracted and probably wouldn’t have even noticed if I slipped out at that point. But I didn’t. We lined up at the starting point and listened to a curly-haired sixteen-year-old boy in a black Adidas tracksuit explain the rules.

“First, you need to traverse the balance log,” he said. There was no fucking way that kid knew what the word ‘traverse’ meant. He was clearly reciting a script. “Then, you’ll need to scale the eighteen-foot climbing wall, run through the trampoline scoot, zip line down over the ball pit, and cross over another balance log before you rope swing over to the finish line. The winner gets the free drink. You catch all of that, ladies?” the boy asked. 

The three of them nodded. Then, almost in unison, Miranda, Betty, and Alice removed their hoodies. With Miranda in that sports bra, our sixteen-year-old umpire became tongue-tied. He just stood there gawking with a whistle in his mouth and half a boner in his pocket. 

The race started innocently enough. We took our time on that first balance log. We each had our own log, and they were only about three feet off the ground with netting below. We held our arms outstretched for balance like we had dictionaries on our heads in charm class and took it one step at a time. Hell, Betty was even giggling when she got over that first obstacle. 

Something happened, though, when we got to the climbing wall. A little sweat started to build on our brows. The adrenaline started to pump, and by the time the four of us started scaling that wall, Betty’s playful look changed. She was in the lead. She got to look down at Miranda. She’d never looked down on Miranda before, and I could tell that Betty liked the view. Miranda grabbed hold of the faded butterfly tattoo on her slender ankle. Betty struggled for a moment, but Miranda was strong. Shit, the woman had two personal trainers; she better be strong. She yanked Betty off the wall onto a pile of gym mats ten feet below.

Without Betty, Miranda was the first over the wall, but I was close behind. I had no idea where Alice was. I could see Betty squirming on the gym mats below us, grabbing onto the knee she’d recently tweaked while skiing in Aspen. 

I caught up to Miranda on the trampoline scoot. The only reason I caught her was because she kept stopping to pick her thong out of her ass. The two of us bounced on all fours down a small trampoline hallway that led to the zip line. 

I’ve got to admit it felt pretty good flying down that zip line. For just a few seconds, I forgot about my mortgage, my work bullshit, and my car payments. I even forgot about Lester’s soon-to-be new wife until Betty came out of nowhere and knocked me into a pit of geometric foam blocks. And that was it. I was out. Betty had felt the thrill of being the alpha. She wanted it back. Spritzer or no spritzer, she was out to win.

“I’m right behind you, you bitch!” Betty yelled, scurrying across the second balance log.

Miranda stopped in her tracks. Mid-log, she turned around and grappled with Betty. It wasn’t much of a fight. Miranda was too damn strong. She easily tossed Betty off the log. This time, Betty’s beautiful face slammed into a log beam before she hit the ball pit below. She was all bloody and broken when her head reappeared from that rainbow sea of plastic balls. One of her front teeth was missing, her lip was split clean open, and blood was gushing out of a gash on her cheek.   

The sixteen-year-old umpire blew his whistle wildly, trying to stop the race. But that only fueled Miranda toward the finish line. She didn’t hear the whistle or the jingling of the arcade machines or Betty’s screams. Miranda was in the zone, solely focused on getting to the finish line first. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t see Alice coming. Alice, who grabbed Miranda’s ponytail from behind, spun her around, and cold-cocked her with a left hook. Her adorable engagement ring punctured Miranda’s right eye and ripped the flesh free from her brow. A thin flap of flaccid skin flopped over the lid, and thick, milky pus oozed from the perforated eyeball. Next to childbirth, it was easily the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. 

When she crossed the finish line, Alice hopped up and down triumphantly, her flabby arms reaching into the air like she was Rocky Balboa. She waited there for a beat, looking back at the course. She saw Betty and Miranda, her two besties, writhing in pain and moaning out for medical attention. She saw the sixteen-year-old umpire, medical kit in hand, vomiting into the ball pit while tending to Miranda’s lactescent eyeball. She saw our daughters, silent witnesses to the entire scene, staring at us with open mouths and horrified stares.

A little later, Alice caught up with me by the hunting machine where we had spotted the hot dad earlier. She was still sweaty and breathing heavily, but she looked like a brand-new woman.

“Hey Desiree.”

“Hey.”

“Our girls look like they’re having a blast,” she said with a genuine smile. 

Through the window behind us, I could see the rain was letting up. The sun was trying to break through the cloud cover.

“Yeah,” I said.

“I’m Alice,” she said, her neck perched up proudly.

“I know,” I said.

“You see what I did back there?” she asked.

“Yeah, Alice. I saw what you did.”

“Pretty great, right?” she said.

“Yeah, Alice. It was pretty great.”

She was right. I could see Genny holding hands with her besties. I envied that. 

“Hey, want to share that free wine with me?” she asked. And maybe it was just the way the glimmer of the fresh sunlight touched her face, but there was this new glow about her. And that smile? Where had that been?  

“I’d like that,” I said.