Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(44)
Above Holly, in the alcove of the brick doorway, a black security camera with a blinking red light and penetrating eyeball lens zoomed in to center its sights on Holly. Freaking pig pajamas. From now on, I’m sleeping in black yoga pants.
When Greta had humiliated Holly at the school gates, she’d worn a trench coat over her horrendous attire, so there was a chance no one had realized how disheveled their situation was at home. Holly’s home on Petunia wasn’t disheveled. It was just messy, and she needed to finish unpacking. And yet, there she was—in piggies—chasing another mom across a schoolyard, firing cookies from her mouth.
Greta had an excuse: her world was falling apart. Those days were dark—but Greta kept the lights on, kept full custody, and by the end of Holly’s third year in school, Greta was sober and on the way toward rebuilding her life.
Odd. The further Holly ventured into Ella’s first day of kindergarten, the closer Holly came to forgiving her mother.
13
Moments later
As the walkway swung closer to the building, Holly hopped off to take a shortcut by squeezing through bushes and pinching past a spot where a tall black gate met with the side of the building. Cutting around the front corner of the school, she emerged about a hundred feet from the same double doors Ella had disappeared through a few hours ago. No Cnaeus Matius Calvinus above the doors like the gates at the Topiary Park, just the words PRIMM ACADEMY EST. MCMXLVII. Holly couldn’t read roman numerals. Looked like MOM XL V11 to her, although she thought it might read 1947. Wouldn’t surprise her a bit to learn the academy opened its doors the year Christian Dior’s “New Look” swept the cultural zeitgeist with its nipped-in waistline, pointed breasts, and expansive skirts. War’s over, gals. Time for elastic-boned corselettes! Nor would it surprise Holly if the school opened in 1957, when Chuck Berry’s “School Day (Ring! Ring! Goes the Bell)” topped the charts. Or 1967, the year Twist ’N Turn Barbie released with a new head mold and long, rooted eyelashes. Any of these would make excellent cultural references in a film set in the Village of Primm the year the academy opened and moms rushed the gates. Maybe that should be Holly’s Wilhelm Klaus story line: Postwar Barbie Moms with Impossible Waistlines Take on Primm. Set to a Chuck Berry soundtrack.
Holly’s Suburban Godzilla was right where she left it. Only now, it had orange traffic cones surrounding it in a perfect circle, some cones stacked horizontally on top of other cones—hold up. Holly took a closer look: the traffic cones were arranged like the sarsen stones at Stonehenge. What the—
Holly marched into the school office, assaulted by the smell of freshly applied perfume. Gardenia. Rose. Something. Smelled like someone blew up a floral cluster bomb and tiny particles of flower were hurtling through time and space, Holly caught in the cross fire. “Excuse me,” she choked, waving her hand beneath her nose to block the smell. “I’m here to see Principal Hayes about an incident with a bus. I need to see him now because I have to get home right away. Can you page him? Call him on the phone? Something?”
The woman behind the counter delivered a blank stare. That was all Holly got. Holly wanted to say, Oh, I’m sorry, did I interrupt? Because you’re acting like I have no business asking you to do anything. Now get me the principal!
The woman tossed her pen onto the counter. Ho hum. Checked her watch. La-dee-dah. Blew the words Principal Hayes? like she was so incredibly annoyed that Holly was standing in front of her in the first place. It’s the first day of school, for criminy’s sake. Be a little more cheerful. And besides, thought Holly, I’m a parent at this school. Wasn’t she hired to help me?
Women like this drove Holly’s mother nuts. “They use what little power they have in this world just to torture us,” Greta would say. “If there’s a counter separating you from another woman, you’d better believe that woman will throw her power around.” Holly had vivid memories of hanging on to her mother’s hand for dear life as she stormed out of a post office or, so help them, the Department of Motor Vehicles. That place was the worst. Lots of power behind those counters.
The woman punched a couple of phone extensions with the eraser on her pencil but came up with nothing: no Principal Hayes. She walked around the counter toward the back administrative offices: nothing. “Principal Hayes?” she called out with no effort whatsoever. No gusto. No nothing. What was she, a sloth? “He’s not here,” she said.
“Hmm,” Holly mocked, slapping an index finger against her cheek the way the woman had. “What should we do now? Maybe we should try harder to find him?”
“Oh, yes, but you see, I’m expecting a UPS package.” Returning to her post behind the tall laminate counter, the woman slipped a lipstick and mirror from her purse and began applying it—right in front of Holly.
Was she immune to Holly’s sense of urgency? Holly was soaking wet from the soccer sprinklers. Her flip-flops covered in mulch. What was this woman doing? Applying lipstick? Running her tongue across her teeth? Puckering her lips into a handheld mirror? “Seriously?” Unfreakingbelievable. “What the monkey. That’s so unprofessional.”
The woman stared back at Holly, folded both her arms. “I just told you. I’m expecting a UPS package.” She repeated, overenunciating, “A U-P-S package.”