Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(32)

“Try scooting past that bus. Just pull up and try getting around it on the left side,” said Mary-Margaret. “I’ll direct this Suburban Godzilla. But you really should know: it smells like sour grape juice in there.”

Excuse me?

“And I see there’s a bunch of crushed-up Cheerios and Goldfish in your back seat. You should probably have it detailed. I find I’m more organized when my car is clean. Right. Car detailing—I’ll try to get you a coupon. Now let’s get you out of the bus lane. Okay, I’ll direct you . . .”

“---.”

“Nope!” Mary-Margaret put her fingers in her ears. “No way, I insist. You can trust me. I’ll direct you.” She skipped to the front of Holly’s SUV, placing herself near the left rear corner of the school bus, positioning herself safely to the side of both vehicles. Mary-Margaret motioned which way she wanted Holly to turn her steering wheel—and Holly was the fool who listened. Holly was the fool who let herself be led by a woman who said, “Hip, hip!” because she felt the “hooray” in her heart.

“Slowly, slowly, slowly, a little bit more,” Mary-Margaret coaxed, “a little bit more . . .” Like she was a traffic cop—in heels. “You can trust me, a little bit more, a little bit more. Punch the gas . . . good, press your foot down; punch it some more.” More hand signals. “Good. Turn your head and look behind you if you want to. I’ll watch your front. That’s right. A little more gas, more, more. Good, now come forward; punch the gas; come forward . . . punch the gas. Forward. Forward. More gas. Forward. More ga—”

Bang!

“Aaaaahhhhh! Sweet cherry pie! Look what you’ve done!” Mary-Margaret raced to Holly’s window. “You just hit a school bus on the first day of school. Are you crazy? I can’t believe you just did that!”

Whatthe

frrrrrruck

just

happened.

Mary-Margaret hooted and hollered. She wouldn’t stop. She signaled the apple brigade. “See this mom?” She pointed. “She just hit a school bus. Someone! Quick. Call 911. Call 911!”

Why did I trust her? How could I be so stupid? Holly closed her eyes, desperately hoping this was just a dream, a figment of her imagination, one of those Walter Mitty moments, a momentary lapse into one of those silly film sequences she imagined when under stress.

Holly opened her eyes. And dang it, this wasn’t the movies.

I hit a school bus?

Me?

Me.

I hit a school bus.

Holly covered her face. She looked at the crunched and shattered front right end of her Suburban, now caught beneath the back left corner of the bus bumper. She’d been inches away from not hitting the bus. Now there was a streak of red paint on the black bumper announcing to the world Holly was there.

Holly was certain the bus driver would want to talk to her. She was sure the principal would want to talk to her. But I didn’t hit it that hard. Did I? No, I couldn’t have.

Holly checked the pack of kids gaping down at her from the rear window of the bus. They appeared to be—fine—thank God. Actually, they were laughing and pointing at Holly like she just did something really embarrassing like walk out of a bathroom with toilet paper stuck to her shoe. She didn’t know what to do, so she sort of gave them all a pathetic little wave and two thumbs up. Like she was the clown hired to entertain them on the first day of school. Holly mumbled to herself, “Get me outa here. Someone—anyone. Help me!”

Afraid of what she might see, she glanced out her driver’s side window and down toward the village square. Gary-Gee had stopped playing “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.” Why? Why did he stop playing “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah?” It was such a nice song. Wait. What? He turned his mic up. Now he was strumming “The Wheels on the Bus.” No! Not that song! Suddenly, that was all Holly could hear. Over and over, ringing in her ears. She covered her ears. I’m going crazy. Mary-Margaret—the Village of Primm—they’re making me crazy. Holly felt her cheeks heat up. I’m red faced. I know I am. Patrons sitting outside Primm’s Coffee Joe turned her way and pointed. Everyone knew. Everyone saw it. Everyone was talking about her. Someone’s yappy little dog was barking at her. Holly hated yappy little dogs. Why was that dog barking? Stop barking, dog!

Looking out her passenger window, over to the cobblestone sidewalk—to Holly’s horror, the apple brigade ground to a halt; apples and pencils hung in the balance. Little children with outstretched hands went unnoticed by the moms. If this were a real bucket brigade of water to douse a fire, the flames would rage out of control because now—especially with Mary-Margaret carrying on—none of the mothers could focus. Their well-oiled machine was broken, and Holly was the louse who broke it. Her heart sank. I’ve broken the apple brigade. Me. I did that.

Mary-Margaret, running in circles, pointed: She hit a bus! That mom hit a bus!

There was nowhere to turn, nowhere to look, so Holly clutched hold of her rearview mirror, twisted it toward her reflection, and pretended she was checking to see if something was caught in her eye. Pretended to check her contacts. Something. “You know what?” she said to herself as she tugged her lower lid down to stare into her own eyeball. “You suck, Holly Banks. You’re a bad mom.” And then, Holly looked. And she saw Ella’s face, and Ella’s face saw Holly’s: Ella. Ella had seen the whole thing.