Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(30)
She relished her front-row seat on opening day at Primm Academy because the two buses in front of her hadn’t unloaded, so her SUV was perfectly positioned at the centermost point of the academy’s front circular drive. Mary-Margaret was a scant two bus lengths away, a safe distance for Holly to study her from while not feeling she needed to interact. Like she was on safari, the lioness fascinated Holly, but she didn’t want to get too close. She nursed her vanilla hazelnut coffee, remembering how the mothers fell into orbit around Mary-Margaret the other night, while all Holly wanted to do was escape. How did one mom manage to position herself as the sun in the center of Primm’s little solar system? As PTA president, Mary-Margaret reigned supreme over all the school moms at Primm Academy. According to Penelope, as a founding member of the Magnolia Society, Mary-Margaret reigned supreme over all the philanthropists in the village. That was a lot of power. Maybe Mary-Margaret was the sun.
Good gravy, you’d think these buses would unload a little faster. And then she saw the culprit behind the slow unload: an equally slow volunteer mom staging photographs of the children as they stepped off the bus. Mary-Margaret: greeting, apple, pencil—wait for it . . . smile. Next child. Greeting, apple, pencil—wait for it . . . smile. Holly sipped her coffee, admiring the photographer and the dedication of the moms in the apple brigade. She should volunteer for something at the school. She was grateful for the school moms. Had Ella made the bus that morning, she would be enjoying an apple and a welcome pencil. And yet, somehow, Holly couldn’t bring herself to sign on the dotted line when Mary-Margaret asked for help the other night.
Outside Holly’s car window, over the din of school buses and kids, she heard Gary-Gee playing his guitar outside Primm’s Coffee Joe—catchy acoustic tunes, folksy renditions of “You Are My Sunshine” and “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” played into a microphone that fed into a large speaker. Holly and Ella had stopped to sing with him the other day after leaving the Topiary Park during one of those fleeting moments when Holly found herself believing their new life in the Village of Primm would be perfect. She knew that wasn’t entirely realistic—nothing and nowhere was perfect—but she desperately wanted a happily ever after for this once upon a time in their family’s life.
Taking a quick sip, Holly choked on her coffee. Did Mary-Margaret just point at me? Why is she snapping her fingers? What’d I do? Holly looked over her shoulder. There must be some mistake. Why is she leaving the apple brigade? Don’t leave the apple brigade, Mary-Margaret. Someone might need you.
She tried to ignore it. Mary-Margaret must be walking somewhere else—toward the flagpole—not toward Holly. Holly leaned back in her driver’s seat, trying to act chill as she focused on the bumper of the bus in front of her, but the sight of Mary-Margaret marching down the cobblestone sidewalk, past the open gate flanked by those perfectly manicured topiaries, made Holly feel like she was back in film school. She couldn’t help but imagine Mary-Margaret as the Queen of Hearts, stomping about in a comically blind fury, about to swing her Tudor rose in Holly’s direction and command, Off with her head!
Mary-Margaret was practically shouting. “Used car park thar!” Something.
What was she saying?
“You!” Mary-Margaret snapped and pointed. “Used car park thar!”
What’s going on? Why the panic? Holly hated panic. Hated confrontations. She found herself fighting the urge to throw her SUV into drive, pull onto the grass, and gun it past the flagpole, then out onto Village La-La, tires screeching, leaving behind the pungent smell of rubber as it hit the road. But she couldn’t go anywhere because she was trapped. Bus 13, with its wide black bumper, was a thick line across Holly’s windshield, and there was another bus behind her.
Holly wished Ella would let go of that woman’s hand, leave the line, and jump into the back seat, clapping and saying, Move it, Mommy. Move it, move it, move it! Like Holly was Butch Cassidy, and Ella the Sundance Kid. Like this wasn’t reality. This wasn’t Primm Academy, and they didn’t live in the Village of Primm, and Mary-Margaret St. James wasn’t rushing toward Holly at this very moment. Holly’d give anything to be on a movie set, pulling off a bank robbery, a casino heist, a dramatic escape from kindergarten. Holly and her little Ella, driving off into the sunset. Holly with her coffee; Ella, her sippy—er, sports cup—of watered-down white grape juice.
“Excuse me. Woman in the car!” Mary-Margaret brushed past Ella, who was still standing near the pair of triple-sphere topiaries. Mary-Margaret stepped off the sidewalk and onto the circular drive. “Yoo-hooo!” She got closer. Closer . . . closer.
“Me?” Holly mouthed, pointing to her chest. She was a bit alarmed by Mary-Margaret’s brazen attention. Holly didn’t want to be noticed by anyone in Primm yet. She wanted to unpack her house, get settled with school, enjoy a little peace and quiet, and then venture into the mom world. The privacy she was enjoying was kind of nice right now.
Mary-Margaret marched toward Holly—and by default, so did the school crest embroidered in golden threads on the left breast pocket of her starched white shirt. Mary-Margaret’s walk was prissy but efficient. Elbows bent, hands clenched, hips swinging from side to side in her tailored black pencil skirt. Holly wondered, How long does it take for Mary-Margaret to get dressed in the morning? Holly had visited all three clothing stores in Primm—Prim & Proper, the World of Primm, and Drunken Plaid. None of them had clothes that nice, and that said a lot. Where’d Mary-Margaret shop? Was everything custom made? Holly had read about devils who wore Prada.