Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(60)

“Jack. I love this house. I love Primm. We could be happy here.”

“I know we could. I’m sorry.”

“Then we need to fight,” she said.

“Kick some balls.”

“You and me against the world. Like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt in the closing scene of Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”

From the front porch, with their home behind her, Holly pretended she was Angelina, lifting a high-caliber weapon to her shoulder, cocking her head to take aim at a world that was closing in on them.

Jack scratched his head. “Um, I hate to disappoint you, but I think they die in the end.”

“No they don’t.” Holly peered down the scope of her gun, setting her sights on a neighbor’s mulch bed.

“I’m pretty sure they do,” he said. “They’re in a department store, surrounded. Outgunned and outnumbered.”

“But that’s the magic of movies.” She lowered the high-caliber weapon from her shoulder. “Don’t you remember? They stick together—move in unison. The gunfight’s perfectly choreographed: a metaphor for sticking together, for building a kick-butt marriage. They take on the whole world. They win, Jack. They beat the odds.”

Holly contemplated the sheer nakedness of her front porch. It had been naked too long.

“I want to get back into film,” Holly told him, flat out. “I don’t know how, but it’s what I want. Something I have to do.”

Jack stepped closer, collecting her into his arms.

She wrapped her arms around him, leaned her cheek against his chest. “I hear this voice-over inside my head, and I can’t silence it. I see a script forming, as if it’s being written on the page as I’m living my life. It’s like it’s pushing itself out of me. Like it wants me to do something with it, but I don’t know what.”

“You have to live your art, Holly.”

“But that sounds so crazy. What art? I don’t have any art. I’m a mom. I hardly got through the first day of kindergarten.”

“No offense, but you’re always staring off into space.”

“But where does that come from?”

“Seriously? You don’t know?” He leaned his head back to get a look at her. “That’s your art. Your truth, trying to get out.”

“Stop. I know I do that Walter Mitty thing. But it’s like—lately, it’s gotten really intense. It’s like, one minute, we move to Primm, and the next minute, I can’t stop seeing everything around me as a set. I see characters. And story lines.”

“Maybe Primm’s your muse. Give it a voice.” He spoke matter-of-factly. Like this was the simplest answer to the simplest question in the world.

“But . . .” The answer wasn’t simple to Holly. “What am I supposed to do?”

“The only thing you can do. Take it seriously. Get started.”

“But then I’ll have to finish. And once it’s finished, I’ll have to show people.” Holly felt woozy. Closed her eyes, pressed her head against Jack’s chest. “Wilhelm Klaus is coming to Primm. What if I show him my work and he doesn’t like it?”

“It’s not about Wilhelm Klaus. It’s about you.”

“But he’s huge—he’s like . . . the Steven Spielberg of the German film industry. Or George Lucas.”

“So?”

“So I want him to like it. But he’s coming in, like, six weeks. I won’t be ready.”

“Then forget about Wilhelm Klaus. Shoot a film and upload it to YouTube. See what happens.”

“I’m not doing that. I hate social media. And what if no one watches it? Or worse—what if they make fun of it or hit that stupid thumbs-down button.”

“Then take another film class. Find equipment you can rent. Practice. Do different things. You’ll figure it out.”

It might have been the cookies, but Holly suspected it was the conversation that was making her dizzy. In an arc shot, usually used to convey a big event with far-reaching consequences, a moving camera circled the characters a full, dizzying 360 degrees. J. J. Abrams used an arc shot on Skellig Michael off the coast of southwest Ireland to film the final scene of Star Wars: The Force Awakens, in which Rey reached out to hand the hooded Luke Skywalker a lightsaber.

“Live your art.” Jack kissed her forehead. “It’s certainly living you.”

Jack said live your art, and Holly’s porch became Skellig Michael. Holly became Luke, and Jack became Rey, and Jack climbed the mountain to hand Holly her lightsaber—daring her to come out of hiding to do what must be done. So cool. A wicked grin spread across her face as she heard the orchestra play the closing score: “The Jedi Steps and Finale” by John Williams. A week ago, this porch belonged to Collette, but all she did with it was add a bench and some pillows. So dull. Now it was Holly’s porch: Skellig Michael. Tomorrow? For all Holly knew, her porch might slip under the sea and become a stage for a courageous little mermaid risking it all to find her voice amid Technicolor fish and a prince. You never knew—Holly’s porch could become Jaws. The Titanic. What Holly’s porch became was up to Holly.





20


Tuesday night



Late again but not wanting to miss it, Holly stopped at a convenience store on her way to the Scrap & Swap Fund-Raiser to buy Gatorade and antigas, antidiarrheal remedies. Now, as she sat in the parking lot of Primm Academy—her third visit to the school in one day—she kept wishing she could wait a few minutes to let the medicines and electrolyte-replenishment start to work, but she was already late. The event had started more than an hour ago.