Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(65)

“Stop saying that, Lavender! This isn’t Hunger Games: Mom Edition,” Mary-Margaret whined, placing both hands on her hips. “Winter isn’t coming. This is scrapbooking. Not Game of Thrones.”

“Oh, yes it is!” Holly coughed, stumbling forward. Moms in front of them gasped, moved quickly to part ways to let Holly through. Holly staggered toward the end of the line. “Your cookies suck, Mary-Margaret.”

Mary-Margaret was taken aback. “No. Don’t say that.” Both hands covering her mouth.

So Holly said it louder. “Your cookies suck.”

“Stop that!” Mary-Margaret shook her head no. No doubt she was horrified that others were listening. “You’re a Petunia Mom. I thought you’d appreciate curdled nondairy vegan milk. Do you know how hard it is to find Medjool dates?”

“You suck at baking!” It felt cathartic. So Holly yelled louder. This time, with her hands cupped around her mouth, so her voice was really amplified. “Mary-Margaret St. James Sucks at Baking. Do you hear me, Primm?” Holly pointed. “She sucks at baking.”

Mary-Margaret, covering her ears: “Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah!” But it was no use. Everyone heard Holly, and Mary-Margaret knew it. Everyone talked in hushed voices, and no one—not a soul—made eye contact with Mary-Margaret. Except Holly.

“You. Suck. At. Baking!” Holly roared—

*

With a burp. She climbed her way past the moms, clomping sideways like a cavewoman with a lame and injured leg, still clutching her bag of scrapbooking goodies, toward the side door, toward her salvation. I need to get outside, she told herself, panting. I can’t puke on anyone. I can’t. I’m okay. She hadn’t thrown up. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. She hadn’t thrown up. Yet.

Then whoa! Criminy. She crouched down, grabbing her sides. The acid. Her stomach. Someone reached down to help her to her feet. Think fast. Only ten more feet and I’m outside and away from this crowd. Move it, people. Move away. Oh, please. Oh, please don’t let me throw up on anyone. This sucks. This sucks so much.

A split second later, surrounded by moms and their precious scrapbooking pages, Holly had no choice. She snatched open her Primm Paper shopping bag and—

:-O ====

Puked all over everything.

“No!” she cried to the heavens, hurling chunks of peanuts and castor oil sludge into her scrapbooking bag. “No!”

:-O ====

It burned. Set her throat aflame. Holly heaved chia seeds.

:-O ====

Oat bran.

Dandelion whacky-jikky root. Stuff.

:-O ====

Medjool. Dates. Or whatever Mary-Margaret had called them. Butter-crapped peanut-butter-what-the-fluck. Holly’s scrapbook pages were ruined. Her chance to slow time and capture the precious moments in Ella’s life, ruined. Scrapbooking, the one thing that made Holly feel better about Ella starting kindergarten, ruined. All ruined! Holly was winded, wheezing, breathless. Exhausted. Someone grabbed her by the arm and ran with her toward the door.

“Thank you,” Holly managed, slamming her hip against the metal bar, releasing the door. She slumped into the parking lot, into the night air, cow hocked: legs dragging, bent inward. Head hung heavy like a lead weight. Grateful, she gasped for breath. “I got this,” she told the mom who had followed her out to the parking lot. “I’m okay.” She panted, hand raised to keep her distance. “I’m okay.”

But then bluuurp—Holly opened her scrapbooking bag—and hurled a crock of oily stomach jam.

:-O ====

Turtle.

Verrr-rock!

Again.

:-O ====

Vrock!

“This is all her fault,” Holly sputtered, stumbling toward the Buick, swiping tears from her eyes. “Her fault.”

Any pride Holly had felt scrapbooking Ella’s kindergarten year turned to cat piddle. Any swagger in her step? Turned to swigger.

Stabbing her key into the door lock, up from the depths of Holly’s anger and frustration, she cemented a solemn vow. A vow that took root deep within her heart. A vow—to finish that woman once and for all. I’m gonna get that Betty Crocker mother frocker. If it’s the last thing I do.

:-O ====

All over the side of the Buick.

Holly didn’t know exactly what Mary-Margaret put in those cookies, but every peanut, every egg replacement, every single solitary flax and chia seed Mary-Margaret mixed into that castor oil shitake battersplat left Holly’s body in reverse order. What went in—came back out. Like a recipe read backward.

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.setunim 01–8 rof ekaB





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.lortnoC esaesiD rof retneC SU eht emalb





.tluaf s’teragraM-yraM ton s’ti esuaceB





.tluaf s’teragraM-yraM reven s’tI .on ,hO





22





Wednesday, second day of kindergarten


Holly had been up all night, puking peckled peanut butter cookies into the toilet. The hurling was so loud it woke Ella up, twice. On a school night. Struggle did what Struggle did: kept watch, whining most of the time.