Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(66)

FADE IN:


INT. MASTER BEDROOM — MORNING


Wednesday. Second day of kindergarten. JACK and HOLLY still in bed.


HOLLY

(Tries to sit up. Head aches.)

I need to wake Ella up.





JACK

Holly, sleep. I got this.





But clearly, Jack didn’t “got this.” Because twenty minutes later, from Holly’s warm bed and soft pillow, she heard Bus 13 toot its horn as it approached House 12.

HOLLY

(Springing to her feet.)

Jack! Ella! The bus! THE BUS!





Her head hurt, her stomach was still sour, but she rushed down the stairs nonetheless, intercepting Jack in the front foyer.

“Holly. Stop the bus!” He wrung his hands together, doing that “Jack” thing he did while Struggle did that “Struggle” thing Struggle did: barked. “Ella’s not wearing any shoes,” Jack blurted. “Stop the bus, Holly. Stop the bus!”

With Struggle by her side, Holly barreled out the front door and onto her porch, ready to grab the bus by its ball bearings. In seconds flat, woman and dog leaped from the top step to the bottom step. Holly, on the grass, running barefoot like a crazed ape across her lawn—arms flailing above her head, dog by her side. “Bus Thirteen! Wait!” she yelled. “Wait!” No bra. Hair not brushed. “Stop. Stop!”

But it was too late. The driver didn’t hear her and instead tooted his horn, toot toot—so long, sucka!—and headed off up the hill, taking with him the dent Holly had left on his back bumper. Holly stopped chasing the bus, but Struggle kept running.

“Struggle!” Holly yelled. “Get back here!”

The bus driver saw her. Holly knew he saw her.

“Struuuuuu-ggle!” Stupid dog was still chasing the bus. They were halfway up the hill already. “Come, Struggle. Sit! Stop running. Stop! Struggle.” Dang it.

Holly turned to look down her street. A few moms were stopped on their sidewalks, watching all the braless, ape-haired commotion unraveling at 12 Petunia Lane. None of them had welcomed Holly to the neighborhood yet. Why? Because, as a mom, she was clearly incompetent? Couldn’t even get her own kid on a bus?

“Struggle!” Freaking stop running already, you stupid dog.

Struggle eventually stopped midway up the hill. Probably got tired and pooped out—Holly was sure it wasn’t because Struggle was a good listener. That dog needed to repeat obedience school. Oh, who was Holly kidding? Struggle had flunked the first day of obedience school because she kept biting her leash, thinking the whole time they were in class they were just there to play tug-of-war—not to learn how to sit and stay and freaking listen. All the other dogs paid attention. All the other dogs got treats. The German shepherds, the border collies—Struggle didn’t stand a chance. If she’d just given up the struggle, stopped biting down all the time, stopped tugging at every little thing that floated past her nose. But Holly couldn’t say they weren’t warned. The breeder had Struggle named before they picked her up.

Struggle trotted toward Holly with what looked like a smile on her face. Panting, tongue slopping out the left side of her mouth.

“Git inside, Struggle,” Holly spat from behind gritted teeth.

Holly lumbered up her porch steps, hearing a creak in the door she’d never heard before—only to find Ella crying in the front foyer, clutching Pinkie Pie because her parents’ desperate attempt to connect her with public transportation had resulted in yelling and irrational behaviors that scared her.

“What happened?” Jack was aghast. “Why didn’t you stop it?”

“I tried to, but what was I supposed to do, Jack? Throw my body in front of a moving bus?” I’m sure the other moms would love to see that.

Ella said, “Mommy missed the bus again?”

“No, Ella, Mommy didn’t miss the bus.” Holly pointed at the guilty shoe in Jack’s hand. “Daddy missed the bus.”

Ella slipped her thumb into her mouth. “I’s no wanna goes to school.”

“Ella! We can’t understand you,” Holly snapped, head pounding from a night vomiting detox cookies. “And take that damn thumb out of your mouth!”

Ella gasped—eyes wide.

“Really, Holly?” Jack scowled.

“Really,” Holly mocked the way he said it. Jerk. If she was being truthful, she felt horrible for cursing in front of Ella, but she was so frustrated about that da—dang bus it slipped out. So I cursed—big deal. It’s a word. Not a mortal sin. “I’m sorry I said that, Ella. I am. I made a mistake. I’m human. But you’ve got to stop sucking. You’re in kindergarten now.”

“I don’t want to go to kindergarten,” Ella said, looking straight at Holly.

“Well, too bad,” Holly said, rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers. “We’re in school now. And the sooner we all figure out how to fit in and do this thing—the better.”

“Fit in?” Jack scratched his head on this one. “Really, Holly? Who’s this about?”

Holly snatched Ella’s green dinosaur from the banister. Tucked him into her backpack. “We’ll do your project tonight. I’ll find the thesaurus. If not, I’ll buy one from Papyrus, Parchment & Paper.”