Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(70)

“I know.” His laugh was a harmless, jovial sort of laugh, not a mean-spirited laugh. “But I can’t help it. And Holly,” he sputtered, “you’re not red-green color blind. Your paint color is fine.” Now he was really laughing. “I use that one all the time. You should see the look on their faces when I suggest that one! They start rethinking the paint on their walls. It’s epic! You gotta see it.”

“You’re a bad person.”

“I know.” He laughed. “But I can’t help it. I’m so bored with this job. I once told a mom excessive temper tantrums were a sign of early-onset Tourette’s syndrome.”

Seriously? He couldn’t stop laughing.

“Ahhhhhh-ha-ha-ha-ha! Ahhhhhh-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Holly banged her head on the kitchen table a few times. “Oh, Caleb. Caleb! You’re going to hell. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he gasped, holding his sides. “And that’s okay. At least I’ll go down laughing.” He caught his breath. “Oh, but it’s so worth it.” He settled down, sighed, and then asked with a devilish grin, “So, you wanna see that pinhole spy camera I was telling you about?”





25





Late morning, almost lunch


There’s an old saying: Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.

Holly could think of multiple reasons why she shouldn’t let Caleb hide a pinhole camera and mic in the neckline of her lightweight white sweater set, but none of those reasons held a candle to the myriad reasons Holly wanted to hide a pinhole camera and mic in the neckline of her lightweight white sweater set.

If she was being completely honest, she wanted to experience life as a documentary filmmaker—if only for an afternoon. She wanted to feel she had a snowball’s chance of creating something for the Wilhelm Klaus Three-Minute Film Festival in October. Because why not. Why not her? And to be honest, if Jack was in this much trouble, Holly needed that prize money. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Holly told Caleb. He should have left two hours ago, but she convinced him to stay awhile so she could fire questions at him from a long list. Do you ever screen before a live audience? How do you meet other filmmakers? Are there any film clubs in Primm I could join? And now, as he was pinning a tiny camera and mic to her clothes, “Are you sure this will work?”

“Sure I’m sure,” he said. “But are you ready for this? This is a bold act.”

“I’m ready.” Ready to take Mary-Margaret down.

When Holly thought of all those conversations she’d had where Mary-Margaret completely ignored her, pretended she wasn’t even there, and then—poof!—talked right over her, it thrilled Holly to know she’d be amplifying her voice through film. Technology put to use to benefit the underdog for a change.

Caleb installed a wireless, one-inch mini–pinhole spy camera powered by a nine-volt battery inside Holly’s sweater. It was so tiny you could hide it just about anywhere. Holly wore leather sandals, soft linen slacks, and a casual white, short-sleeved twinset. One part of the twinset was a sleeveless sweater shell; the other looked like a matching lightweight short-sleeved sweater, buttoned at the neckline by the top button. Big improvement from her piggy days. She looked like a modern June Cleaver and should blend right in at Primm Academy. The tiny mic pinned beneath the neckline and the camera stitched behind the second buttonhole meant no special lighting was required, no boom mic, no nothing. The setup was brilliant.

“There,” Caleb said. “Finished. Just act normal.”

“I can’t act normal. I’m a walking, talking camera.” Holly exhaled, thinking of all the things that could go wrong.

“It’ll be great. When you get worried, remind yourself why you’re doing it.”

“Right.” Holly gave him a thumbs-up. And then, “Why did the rooster cross the road?”

“I give up. Why?”

“To prove he wasn’t a chicken.”

“Now remember.” He pointed. “When you’re capturing the footage, brainstorm. What are you trying to say with this film? Is it a revenge story? Comedy adventure? Underdog disrupts the status quo?”

“I don’t know.” She really didn’t. “Suburban satire?”

“That’s okay. It’ll come to you. If anything, it’ll feel good working with a camera again.”

“Caleb.” Holly touched his arm. “Is it mean what I’m doing? Filming Mary-Margaret without her knowing it?”

“You’re conducting research. Journalists do undercover reporting all the time. Film her only in public settings and then don’t worry about it. Holly”—he deepened his voice to make his point—“we’re living in a digital age. People record other people with their phones—all the time. I think you’re good.”

“I don’t know. But okay.” Holly supposed Mary-Margaret had acted undercover with those cookie ingredients. She manipulated others through speech. And she’d married My Love. Deception surrounded her. “With the Wilhelm Klaus in six weeks,” Holly added, “and that ten-thousand-dollar grand prize . . .”

“Stop worrying about it.” Caleb gave the side of Holly’s arm a friendly slap. “You’re a filmmaker. Tell the world your story.”