Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(73)

Holly narrowed her eyes at Mary-Margaret, thinking of Clint Eastwood in every gritty western he’d ever starred in. Holly wished she had a piece of straw to chew on, wished she had a hat like Eastwood—and maybe some dusty cowboy boots—but she didn’t. It was just her, little ole Holly in her twinset and film gear, sipping a badass cup of coffee from Primm’s Coffee Joe.

“Jhone!” Mary-Margaret pulled her close. “Jhone, whose name used to be Joan but, at my suggestion, is now spelled with an h, Jhone. How are you, Jhone?” Mary-Margaret smiled. “Life’s more exciting as a Jhone, isn’t it, Jhone?” She winked. “Husband more attentive?”

Why do they put up with this? Why doesn’t anyone stand up to her?

“Bree! Bree-with-an-E! Hello, my lovely.” Kiss, kiss. “What is it, Bree?” Mary-Margaret asked. “What’s the matter?”

The two began quietly discussing something, and then Mary-Margaret looked over Bree-with-an-E’s shoulder and pointed directly at Holly. “Lavender! Come quick.” She signaled. So Holly walked to the head of the line. Once there, Mary-Margaret eyed her with suspicion, taking a step back. Did she sense something?

“Do I frighten you, Mary-Margaret?” Holly asked, emboldened by her hidden pinhole camera and wanting to catch good footage.

“Bree-with-an-E has to leave,” Mary-Margaret announced. “Right away. She has chicken pox!”

Holly gave Bree-with-an-E the once-over, wondering if she’d followed through with Mary-Margaret’s request from yesterday to file an article about the bus incident with the Primm Gazette. “Where’s my photograph?” Holly asked Bree, taking a few steps toward her. “Can I have that photograph?”

Bree backed away.

So Holly confronted Mary-Margaret. “You took the photo with her camera. Tell her to destroy it. Better yet, give it to me. I want that photograph.”

“Bree-with-an-E has to go home, Lavender. Right away! She can’t be around the children, and she certainly can’t be around any of the moms who might be pregnant.” Mary-Margaret looked at Holly’s stomach. “Oh, gosh. Are you pregnant?”

“What? No!” That’s ridiculous. “No, of course I’m not pregnant. Thanks, Mary-Margaret.”

Mary-Margaret waved Bree away. “You go home, Bree-with-an-E. I’ll take care of this.”

Holly called out, “I want that photograph, Bree!”

Mary-Margaret grabbed Holly’s shoulders. Shook her. “You have to run the Crayons-to-College Symposium this weekend on Bree’s behalf. You’re the secretary.” Shake, shake, shake. “You have to step in when these things happen.”

“No way. I won’t do it.” Mindful of the camera stitched behind her buttonhole, Holly rolled onto tippy-toes and pointed her left breast in Mary-Margaret’s direction, hoping to capture a face shot. Holly spoke loud and clear, knowing the mic was picking up their conversation. “I’m not on the PTA executive board, Mary-Margaret. I said no, but you signed me up against my will.” Holly made a mental note to insert a Beethoven instrumental duh-duh-da-dummmm during film editing. Duh-duh-da-dummmm.

“What? Well, that’s ridiculous.” Mary-Margaret lifted her nose into the air. “I didn’t sign you up against your will.”

“Oh, yes, you did.”

“Fine then, Lavender, you’re dead to me. If that’s the way you want it, I’ll remove your name from the polka-dotted lines. You’re no longer a school volunteer. Because you’re a quitter. A PTA dropout. No longer welcome at this meeting. Goodbye.”

Whoops. Wait a minute. Holly wasn’t expecting that. How was she supposed to film Mary-Margaret if she didn’t have access to her? How was Holly supposed to tell the tale of well-oiled apple brigades and volunteer school moms if she wasn’t one of them? How was Holly going to capture a grand-prize-winning mockumentary about schools that exploited an unpaid labor force of volunteer school moms if she didn’t have access to the underground world of school moms in the first place?

“Wait,” Holly stammered. “Maybe there’s something I can do.”

Mary-Margaret placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t want to pressure you, Lavender. Goodness knows, you’ve had a lot on your plate in the last twenty-four hours.”

“Maybe if I just sit in on today’s meeting, have another look at the clipboards, maybe I’ll find something that fits my unique talents and family schedule.”

Mary-Margaret narrowed her eyes at Holly. So Holly thrust her left breast out, hoping to catch a close-up of that little wedge of pink bubble gum always hiding at the back of Mary-Margaret’s pearly whites.

“Fine,” Mary-Margaret said at last, stepping aside. “You may enter. But if you can’t find a volunteer job that suits you, please leave. Nothing frustrates hardworking volunteer school moms more than a nonvolunteer mom eating all of our snacks.”

Holly slipped past her, entering the boardroom.

“Speaking of snacks,” Mary-Margaret reminded her. “Where. Are. Your. Cupcakes!”

Holly took a seat beside Emily at a long conference table. Volunteer clipboards from Parent Orientation Night lined the center of the table, perched prettily on gilded gold display stands.

“Those poor moms,” said Emily, nodding toward the clipboards, “thinking they were attending a harmless back-to-school function. They probably didn’t know what hit them.”