Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(10)

Penelope Pratt waltzed over. “How are you, Holly?” Penelope placed a hand on Holly’s arm. “Settled in?”

Holly hated that question. Of course she wasn’t settled in—because she didn’t have any storage. Holly didn’t know how she’d missed that little detail when they were looking at houses. All she saw was Collette’s bright-white porch with that wooden aqua-blue initial hanging from the front door knocker on a beautiful silk ribbon, and she thought, I want that. Well, not that exactly—not that initial. Holly wanted her own swirly initial on a chunky silk ribbon hanging from a door knocker on a bright-white porch. And she wanted a coir welcome mat with a trellis motif like Collette’s. And she wanted a pair of polka-dotted red rubber boots like Collette’s, to sit next to that beautiful welcome mat. Porches ruled the world of first impressions. They set the tone for what came next. Holly had even made a mental note to tuck fresh white daisies into the red rubber boots once she found a pair—she’d wanted everything Collette had. She still wanted everything Collette had. Holly made a silent note never to look at Pinterest again. Or Facebook. Or Instagram. Or Houzz. Or whatever else came next.

“If you need any help with decorating or home organization,” Penelope offered, “Feathered Nest has many services for homeowners. I sell real estate, but I’m also a professional home organizer.” Pointed to her shirt. “Think hearth and home? Think yellow.”

“Thank you, Penelope. But I think I’m good. I just need a few more days. To unpack.” Unpack everything. Paint. Hang drapes. Hang window blinds. Maybe get a new couch. Maybe then she’d find time to label the sections of her utensil drawer like Collette had: Knife. Fork. Spoon.

Penelope’s coal-black hair was (yet again) pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and she was wearing yellow. How did she get away with wearing yellow to a pink event? And why was pink a school color? Pink wasn’t one of the academy’s colors. The academy colors were gold, black, and white. If anything, it was Penelope who looked most like a Primm Academy Honeybee with her coal-black hair and pale-yellow attire—not Mary-Margaret.

“What Penelope is trying to say is . . . moms tend to take sides,” Mary-Margaret explained. “In Frisbee and in life. Some moms focus their energies on their homes, others on school . . . Gym Moms versus Sports Moms—similar in concept, but in reality, the two can be quite different.”

“Holly, you have my card. Excuse me,” Penelope said, taking her leave.

Penelope’s skillful exit was so clean and so swift Holly decided she’d try it. Chin up, Holly touched Mary-Margaret’s arm, excused herself, then marched toward the door at the other end of the room. But Mary-Margaret stopped her, pulling her back into a web of excessive blather.

“Sign your name. Somewhere. Anywhere. Please. That’s all I ask,” Mary-Margaret said, tossing Available on Short Notice onto the table, grabbing Miscellaneous Tidbits, and pushing it toward Holly. “Pick anything. Doesn’t matter. The break is almost over, and I’m needed at the podium. Hurry. Sign up, and then I’ll leave you alone. Volunteer. Volunteer! Volunteer!”

Fine!

Holly snatched the clipboard. Signed her name. Handed it back.

“Oh. My. Gosh.” Nose down in the clipboard, Mary-Margaret opened her eyes wide. “You signed up to send in napkins for the next kindergarten class party? That’s it? Nothing else?” She looked at Holly. “That’s totally lame. A pack of napkins weighs like, what? An ounce? It’s not even heavy or troublesome for your child to lug into school. You simply chuck it into their backpack the morning of the Presidents’ Day Picnic. Whoopee! On Presidents’ Day? My child? In addition to carrying a backpack, a laptop, and a cello, my child will lug a gallon of apple juice and a veggie tray to school for her country. Meanwhile, you think you’re outsmarting everyone. You think you’re the only one to figure out the napkin strategy? Even the teachers know about that. Napkin Moms are everywhere. Napkin Moms smile and chitchat during school functions, proud their yellow and black napkins are on the spelling bee table; then you know what they do? They go home and let the teachers and all the other moms do the real work.” She jerked her chin toward Holly’s coffee. “Your type usually shows up hugging a cup of coffee. You know what I always say? Moms who sip on mocha frappa soon head home to take a nap-a.”

“---.”

“Don’t walk away from me.” Mary-Margaret grabbed Holly by the arm. “I’m not done explaining.”

The auditorium was spacious, but there were pockets of moms gathered everywhere. Mary-Margaret must have sensed nearby moms were listening, because she changed her demeanor, clearing her throat to speak more softly. “At Primm, sending in napkins is not volunteering. Finding nut-free, sugar-free, egg-free, gluten-free, free-range pumpkin bread recipes to bake for the Pilgrims and Native Americans Festival when your child isn’t even allergic—that is volunteering. Handling the paint table in a classroom filled with kindergarteners making fingerprint pictures of themselves on oyster shells is volunteering.”

Mary-Margaret led Holly to a nearby row of seats. Presumably so no one would hear them. “Did you know,” Mary-Margaret said, “that during Johnny Appleseed Week, I’ll give up three afternoons of my life visiting each and every second-grade math class with a wagon filled with apples that I personally handpicked with them during the field trip to Pip’s Mountain? The kids always vote on the best-tasting apple. Granny Smith? Always a close second, but in the end, too sour. Fuji? Never makes the list. And yet, there I am. Year after year, producing a ginormous graph chart of second-grade apple preferences—when we all know Red Delicious will win. For parent-teacher conferences in November? I’ll stay up all night scooping out cantaloupes and muskmelons with a baller so I can fill an intricately carved watermelon for the refreshment table. You know why I do that? To serve others. So when you leave your teacher conference in tears because your child needs remedial help in reading, I can say, ‘Here. Here’s a fruit cup.’