Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(6)

The woman onstage pointed a remote control at the ceiling behind her, lowering a giant screen. As it descended, the woman’s larger-than-life face slid onto the screen, filling it from top to bottom. All eyes in the auditorium fixed on that close-up shot: flawless skin and a turned-up nose, blue eyes squinting above a brilliant smile—a wad of pink bubble gum hidden at the back.

“Can everyone hear me?” the woman at the podium asked. “Is this mic on?” Tap, tap, tap. “Oh. Ha! Ha! It is. Thank you, everyone, thank you.” Her voice amplified, her eyes slowly scanning the room before coming to rest on Holly’s shirt. From the woman’s point of view, Holly sat front and center, about six rows into the audience. Everyone was clapping except Holly because she couldn’t clap without splashing her coffee. “I see everyone read the tip sheet in the Proper.”

Tip sheet? What?

“Great show of pink. Thank you, New Moms. Thank you for your show of support for this school function.” Slight twitch of the eyebrow.

Holly followed the woman’s line of sight as it moved from Holly’s yellow shirt to Penelope’s. Penelope smiled at the woman, waved hello with the slightest wiggle of her fingers, triangulating the tension.

Undaunted, the woman at the podium produced a smile so piquant, so rehearsed, so tightly polite it spoke volumes: We’re not children. We’re moms. We know our colors. Yes? “Warm welcomes are so important in the Village of Primm.”

The mom sitting beside Holly leaned, a slow creep to the left, positioning herself as far away from Holly as she could get.

“And newcomers? Newcomers are always welcome.” The edge of the woman’s lips curled into a pinched position of authority. “Welcome, New Moms.” Because, clearly, she wasn’t a New Mom. She was an Established Mom. A been-there-done-that, zero-tolerance, scheduled-playdate mom. The double entendre type, a mother bird both for and against the concept of free-range chickens. “Welcome to the Village of Primm and to New Parent Orientation at Primm Academy. I see we have lots of incoming kindergarten and transfer families in attendance.” She gazed down upon her flock, her face enlarged to Orwellian size on the screen behind her. “If there’s anyone in the auditorium who doesn’t know me, or hasn’t met me but wants to know me, or pretends to know me but hasn’t met me, or has met me and knows me, or knows my family, or knows of my family . . .” She tucked a lock of honey-blonde hair behind one of her diamond-studded earlobes. There was a twinkle in her eye, and something . . . something that gave the impression she was about to make a grand announcement—winning numbers to a lottery, a list of ingredients for a secret cookie recipe. Instead, with arms spread wide, she declared, “My name is Mary-Margaret St. James, and I am the proud, proud president of the Primm Academy PTA!”

Bingo! It was her—Penelope’s cousin: the woman who, as Penelope had said, made everything in Primm, well, prim. Holly sat up to get a better look at the woman responsible for Holly shelling out top dollar for her modest home on Petunia Lane. Holly didn’t see a cape. No tiara. So what made her so special?

“She’s a bit over the top, don’t you think?” Holly noted to the other moms near her.

“I paid good money for my home,” the mom beside Holly whispered, “and I’m not about to go underwater if this school district tanks because Mary-Margaret St. James decides she wants to quit the PTA or move to Southern Lakes or some other such thing. If she’s our parent-teacher president and whatever it is she’s doing is working—and apparently, it is working—then sign me up.”

Holly folded her arms across the PRIMM on her yellow shirt. “I was just saying I’m sure you or I could do as good a job as she does.” In the end, Mary-Margaret St. James was probably no different from any other mom: flawed—and hoping no one would notice.

A folded piece of paper arrived at Holly’s arm, passed by a row of moms.

Yellow is a protective color.





Trust me. You’ll see.





—Penelope





P.S. Get out while you still can.





Penelope sold a ton of houses in Southern Lakes and the Village of Primm. Holly knew because she had stalked the two housing markets every time she logged into Feathered Nest Realty. But as far as Holly could remember, when she and Jack were looking at houses with Penelope, Penelope made it appear as if Southern Lakes were built on a cemetery next to a nuclear power plant. It clearly wasn’t—but Penelope gave that impression. According to Penelope, Southern Lakes parents were more concerned with having a good time than with having a good school. According to Penelope, the affordability of Southern Lakes came at the expense of standardized test scores. According to Penelope—

From the podium: “For those of you taking copious notes, and I know you all are, that’s Mary-with-a-hyphen-Margaret, St. James with an S, T, and a period. St. James. Mary-Margaret St. James. That’s me! But then, you know that.” She winked from the podium and extended an arm to wave like a beauty queen on parade. “I’m sure you’ve all heard of my husband, ‘My Love,’ Michael St. James? My Love is a huge philanthropist in the Village of Primm. Everyone knows My Love. My Love, Michael, sends his best wishes.” Big smile. Hand placed gently over her heart. “From our happy family to yours: we wish you a happy, memorable, A-plus-plus school year. From My Love and me, Mary-Margaret St. James, to you.”