Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(35)

“It’s not my fault,” Holly told him, pointing to the front courtyard, where Mary-Margaret dashed about, handing out Ticonderoga pencils and Red Delicious apples. “She made me do it. It’s her fault.”

“I’ll be with you in a moment.” Principal Hayes disappeared into the school office.

Holly started counting black and white floor tiles, wondering what Ella was doing. Wondering what Ella was thinking. She leaned over the edge of the wooden bench to peer down the hallway, and then, wouldn’t you know it, in through Primm’s front wooden doors, she sauntered in: Mary-Margaret St. James. Had they been batwing doors from an old western, and had Mary-Margaret been Clint Eastwood—a pale-riding, ethereal drifter pushing her way into the joint on a cloud of dirt and smoke—Holly would be choking on plumes of dust as a cameraman, trained to film a shot like the great Sergio Leone, captured first a panoramic shot and then a close-up of Mary-Margaret’s baby blues as they stared down at Holly, the dying man on the saloon floor in Unforgiven, the pathetic soul at the receiving end of Mary-Margaret’s cocked-and-loaded gun. I don’t deserve this, Holly would say, referring to the bus, the sign-up sheets, the humiliation.

Holly shook her head, snapping out of it. I gotta stop doing this. Life isn’t a movie. Mary-Margaret isn’t an ethereal drifter. Every “kill” is not a moral question for Mary-Margaret the way it was for Clint Eastwood’s character. Mary-Margaret is a volunteer school mom. There’s no killing in the PTA. Showdowns, yes. But no actual killing. At least, Holly hoped not.

“Whew!” Mary-Margaret breezed her way across the ceramic tiles, swinging a basket like she was a leggy fashion model working the catwalk. “I’m going to need more pencils.” She winked at Holly as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t just coaxed the front end of Holly’s SUV into the back end of Bus 13. “Ticonderoga.” Mary-Margaret spoke with wistful breathiness. “World’s best pencil, don’t you think?”

Holly didn’t respond. She wasn’t going to offer her point of view only to be ignored.

There’d be no statements from Holly. “---.”

No questions. “---?”

Not even the occasional interjection or exclamation. “---!”

Although there were lots of interjections Holly’d like to exclaim right about now. She’d love to hurl all eight parts of speech at Mary-Margaret—dump a bucket of punctuation marks on Mary-Margaret’s head.

But Holly kept her cool and kept her mouth shut. She folded both arms across her chest and simply glared at Mary-Margaret, devil incarnate, so she’d know Holly hadn’t forgotten about the bus—or the photo Mary-Margaret just took of her carpooling in pajama bottoms. But while Holly crumpled her eyebrows, showing Mary-Margaret her evil eyes, resolving to punish Mary-Margaret with her silence and utter lack of concern, Mary-Margaret blathered on about pencils. Holly sure hoped Mary-Margaret wasn’t ignoring the fact that Holly was ignoring her.

“Why aren’t you in the Community Helper Annex with Officer Knapp?” Mary-Margaret pointed at Holly with a pencil. “The time-out chairs in the annex are upholstered. Easier on the tushy.”

Time-out chair? Holly wasn’t in a time-out. Was she? No, of course not. Holly was a grown woman.

Mary-Margaret blew on the tip of her pencil like it was the barrel of a smoking gun, then turned on her heel and sauntered down the hallway toward some distant supply closet filled with more pencils. Good riddance.

Holly slipped over to the windows to check on her SUV. From Holly’s view, the front right headlight needed replacing, and there was a bit of bodywork to be done. Seriously? I didn’t hit it that hard. Bus bumpers must be made of kryptonite. Holly needed to call Jack and tell him she wrecked the Suburban.

Bree-with-an-E burst into the sunlit foyer, furiously scratching her arms. She nodded hello to Holly as she rushed past the row of floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Are you okay?” Holly asked, scurrying after her, hoping she’d stop. Holly wanted that photo. Holly needed that photo.

“I’m fine,” Bree-with-an-E snapped. “Why wouldn’t I be? Because I worked all summer on the Crayons-to-College Symposium scheduled for this weekend and now no one’s coming to it because they’re all going to that stupid Cherry Festival on The Lawn? Is that why you’re asking?”

Actually, Holly had no idea Bree-with-an-E was running the—what’d she call it? The Crayons-to-College Symposium?

“Because I’m fine, thank you. I’m just”—she raked her nails across her arm—“I’m just a bit . . .” She scratched the back of her neck. “I think it’s hives.”

“Bree,” Holly said, sweet as sugar. “I’m so sorry about your hives, but would you mind deleting that picture Mary-Margaret took of me?”

“Is that all you care about? A photo? The kids are starting their education today. Soon, they’ll surrender their crayons in pursuit of a college education, and all you can think about is a photograph? I suppose you’re skipping my event too?”

“What do you want for it, Bree? Name your price.” When Holly thought about politicians and Hollywood celebrities who, over the years, probably paid tons of money to stop incriminating photos from being circulated, it made her wonder what it would take to get an incriminating photo away from a mom. What was considered a lot of money in the mom world? What offer could Holly make that no mother in her right mind would refuse? “I’ll give you fifty bucks.”