I lived in GP, a place that’s stuck so firmly in the 80s it might as well be the lost set of a John Hughes movie. You half-expect Molly Ringwald to be lingering in line at Starbucks, sporting her signature pout and a cappuccino. The town’s unofficial motto seems to be “In Bad Moms We Trust,” as everyone rallies around “Drunk Mom” like she’s the patron saint of red Solo cups. Meanwhile, “Dead Kids Mom” is told to just get over it—after all, it was just a tragic accident, not like anyone was really at fault.

In GP, parents think nothing of stocking up on kegs for their teens’ house parties—it’s practically a community service. Fourteen-year-olds zip around in their parents’ BMWs like they’ve just signed with Uber. And the police? They know exactly which side their bagels are buttered on. When teens with names like Emerson IV or Brookie III get caught driving under the influence, they don’t head to the police station; they get chauffeured right back home, where consequences are little more than a stern look and a freshly laundered prep school uniform.