When Mean Girls Grow Up, They Become Mean Moms

No one writes about the rich and beautiful behaving badly quite like bestselling author Emma Rosenblum. Her debut novel, Bad Summer People, was a whodunnit set in a coastal, upper-crust enclave; and her follow-up, Very Bad Company, centered around a high-powered corporate retreat gone very, very wrong. Now, with Mean Moms, Rosenblum sets her sights on the exclusive world of elite private school parents.

The new novel, out July 29 from Flatiron Books, follows a group of mothers whose children are enrolled at the ultra-prestigious Atherton Academy. When a mysterious new mom shows up at school, she quickly joins their clique — but as things start going wrong, the women begin to wonder whether this newcomer is to blame.

Below, check out an exclusive excerpt from the book — and to read more, pre-order Mean Moms.

Morgan Chary was tired of being so f*cking cheerful. She’d been cheerful her whole life. Why did some women always have to be cheerful? She’d been the cheerful kid, the middle daughter of three, the one who always had a happy face on while her two sisters got to be total sticks in the mud. She was the cheerful friend, the one who pepped everyone up when they were low, who brought cupcakes when they were sick, with herbal remedies and recommendations for the best acupuncturists. She was the cheerful mom, never yelling at Gertrude, always gentle parenting, letting her feel her feelings. Sometimes Morgan just wanted to shout at her, “I know you don’t want to go to swimming today, but sometimes we HAVE TO DO THINGS WE DON’T WANT TO DO! That’s f*cking life!” But she kept it in. She always kept it in. And she was also the cheerful wife, supporting Art in his career, keeping everything perfect at home with a smile, her one cheek dimple in overuse, sunny and positive.

She’d been cheerful for 39 years. That was a long time to be smiling. She looked in the mirror in the bathroom of Thyme & Time, the walls a pale shade of moss, the sink an attractive block of gray marble with a hanging gold faucet. She studied her jutting cheekbones, giving her all-American appearance an alluring angularity. Sharp. Her face had changed shape as she’d aged, hollowing out in a way she liked. She’d just gotten her hair colored with Jacob Schmidt at Sally Hershberger, the best (Ask Morgan!), toning down her summer blond into a lovely fall honey. She looked good. She rubbed the scar on her forehead, the one she’d gotten the day she and Art met, just a faint line at this point. She frowned, her mouth curving downward, her face muscles unused to such an expression.

Morgan then reached into her purse, a dainty green Bottega Bucket Bag, and unzipped the side pocket. There, alongside her Chanel lipstick, was a thin, blue container that looked like a cross between a tampon and a pen, plus a clear plastic packet. She took both out and opened the top of the larger one, revealing a vial of water-like liquid. Then she unwrapped the second piece, a needle, a silver sliver of metal. She inserted it into the vial, then pulled down her high-waisted leggings, all the way to the top of her pubic bone. She stuck the instrument into the flesh right above her underwear, just to the left of her C-section scar, and held it there for a count of six, until the medicine had entirely drained into her body. She pulled her leggings up and put the mechanism back in her bag — she’d dispose of it later in a New York City trash can.

Morgan felt a jolt of exhilaration, the semaglutides coursing through her veins. She was energized and ready to face the rest of the day. Her weekly Wegovy shot was her little secret, not even Art knew. It was none of anyone’s business how she remained so fit, and she loved the way it made her life so much easier, not having to worry about food, not having to exert all that self-control. For years, Morgan had felt almost nothing; a black hole wrapped in an Alo Yoga matching set. She’d been hiding in plain sight. Now her appetite was suppressed, but her true self had been unleashed. She felt free. She felt angry. She felt everything lately. It was a new Morgan.

Next up, she had early drinks with the girls — Belle, Frost, and Sofia — whom they’d been seeing quite a lot of lately. Morgan stripped out of her workout garb and into a crisp white shirtdress, its collar popped up, walking out through Thyme & Time, which officially opened later that week. She’d had an architecture firm, Ronan Lev, known for designing the Goop offices, outfit the three-1,000-square-foot space. The granite shelving was filled with gorgeous books with titles like Chakras, Enchantments, and Art in the Age of Anxiety, interspersed with essential oils, sleekly designed gut supplements, and clean skincare, all available for purchase.

Morgan walked the two short blocks to The Odeon to meet her friends. It had been Frost’s choice for cocktails, because “it makes me nostalgic for my youth,” she’d written to their group text, followed by a slew of Old Woman emojis. The restaurant was full at the early hour, mostly with polished 30-and 40-somethings, all of whom likely had the same idea as the Atherton moms. Morgan spotted Sofia in a booth toward the back, radiant in a printed silk tank, which dipped low in the front and displayed the tops of Sofia’s bouncy, possibly fake breasts. A handful of delicate gold chains hung around her neck, and her lips were covered in a striking matte red. Morgan suddenly felt self-conscious, as if she were dressed for a PA meeting while Sofia was off to a fabulous evening event.

Sofia was sipping a large martini and already had a plate of french fries in front of her, dragging each one through ketchup the color of blood. Morgan felt nauseated at the sight of them.

She slid in next to Sofia, not quite sure what to say to her.

“Nice to see you,” enthused Sofia, looking at her intently. “How are you doing? How’s the spa?” The rings around Sofia’s pupils were nearly glowing.

“All set for opening,” said Morgan. “We already have bookings through the month, which is a great start.”

“Have you always wanted to open a spa?” asked Sofia. “Belle told me she’d been dreaming of launching a company for her entire life, so I wanted to know if you felt the same way. You women up here are so smart and focused. In Miami, we just like to work out and shop.” She giggled.

They were interrupted by Belle and Frost, who’d come into the restaurant together. After hugs and hellos and drinks delivered to the table (another vodka martini for Sofia, who’d polished off her first in a jiffy; a champagne for Frost; a chardonnay for Belle; and a room-temperature water, no ice, with lemon, for Morgan), the ladies settled into a chat. The three originals had known each other forever, so this was more about Sofia, as most of their meetings had been lately.

“Please, we’re all dying to know: How did you choose Atherton?” Frost asked. Frost’s red hair was pulled back into a bun, and she was wearing a blousy shirt in that boho style she liked. Her face was tastefully expressive, with soft lines around her eyes. The current trend was to age gracefully, which meant targeted Botox use instead of vials and vials, and lots of facials, lasers, and expensive serums instead of filler. Puffy and frozen was so five years ago. Sofia seemed to be getting the memo; in the short time she’d been at Atherton, her face had gone from plumped to natural, and she was even prettier for it, like a mannequin that had suddenly come to life.

“I’m going through a divorce, as you all know.” All the women murmured “I’m so sorry” at once. “And I just had to get away from Miami. It was too hard to be around my old life there; I needed to be on my own. Our split was mutual. No hard feelings, no scandal, we just shouldn’t have been married in the first place. We ended up being friends, you know what I mean?” (They nodded, though they didn’t know what she meant.) “New York is going to be our place — me and Arturo and Lucia, together. I was worried about uprooting them right as Mommy and Daddy were separating, but children are resilient. My father grew up in Colombia, with gangs and drugs and poverty. He survived, providing me with the opportunity to do better. I plan to not only survive this ordeal but to thrive here in New York.”

“Wow,” said Belle. “That’s really brave of you.”

Belle was wearing the prototype of her own The Dress, a nude-colored caftan thing that reminded Morgan of the hospital gown her grandmother had worn when she was dying.

“And I know you’re all wondering how I got the kids into Atherton,” continued Sofia. No one said a word. This was the gossip they’d been waiting for. Morgan’s heart quickened in anticipation. “I f*cked that gorgeous man, Dr. Broker. He could barely handle me, but it was worth it for admission.” They all laughed out loud at her bawdy joke.

“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 school about it sparked a flurry of WhatsApp chatter speculating as to who was patient zero; no mom wanted to be known as the one who’d brought the bugs to Atherton.

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 also 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 f*cking 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, ruthless boys who somehow avoided getting caught by any teachers, calling her “Girthy Gertrude,” stealthily 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 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, still bright outside. 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 Major’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 and Vitamin Water, 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 had 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 OK?” 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 printed crop top, the current, and, in Morgan’s opinion, cruel uniform of 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 for a moment, 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 suddenly. 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.

Excerpted from MEAN MOMS by Emma Rosenblum. Copyright © 2025 by Emma Rosenblum. Excerpted by permission of Flatiron Books, a division of Macmillan Publishers. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.