Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(78)

“But she’s my daughter.” Holly poked a thumb into her own chest. “My daughter. My business. You got that? Stop telling her teacher bad things about me.” Rosie was listening from the front office. She had to be.

Greta remained quiet. Something in the way she held her shoulders told Holly she’d been cruel.

“I understand.” Greta took the ukulele from Holly. “She’s your daughter.” She rested the ukulele against her leg. “And she’s in an unfamiliar world, probably wondering where she fits in. You’re worried about her.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So you check in on her. Want her to be happy.”

“Of course I do. She’s my daughter.”

Greta touched the tip of Holly’s nose. “I’ll wait with Rosie while you’re finishing with Miss Bently. I wouldn’t want to interfere.”

“You’re not interfering.”

Greta said nothing.

Ugh! “Fine.” Holly stomped her foot. “You can come in. But be quiet, and let me do the talking. You hear me? Don’t say a word.”

Greta trailed behind Holly into the conference room, promptly forgetting everything Holly just said. “So Ella’s adjusting to school, yes?” Greta asked Miss Bently.

“Oh, sure,” Miss Bently said. “She cried on the first day, but when her dad dropped her off this morning, she was fine. Walked right in with the other children.”

What? No. Holly’s shoulders slumped. No.

“Is something the matter, Mrs. Banks?” Miss Bently set her pen down.

“No. I mean—yes. Actually.” So the headband woman was right? “Is it true what they say?” Holly shifted in her seat. “Children stop crying once the mother leaves?”

“Usually.” Miss Bently thought about it. “Typically . . . yes.”

So Holly was the reason Ella didn’t want to go to school. Ella did fine this morning with Jack, no problem. With Jack, she never sucked her thumb. With Jack, she cleaned her plate at dinnertime. With Jack, she brushed her teeth without protest. With Jack, she walked boldly into school. With Holly? Ella was a mess. Fell behind. Stayed little. Didn’t progress. Have I done this to her?

Greta reached over to rub Holly’s back. Greta’s hand, though small, felt so big.

“Loving someone is easy,” Greta explained. “Separating from them is the hard part.”

Holly lowered her head, refusing to cry. Down to her core, she missed Ella. And she knew it was “just” kindergarten, that she’d get over it, but she missed her. Intensely. “Psychic Betty said feelings are neither right nor wrong. They just are.”

“I’m sorry.” Miss Bently leaned in. “Did you just say ‘Psychic Betty’?”

“Who?” Holly tried to divert, not sure she should be telling her daughter’s kindergarten teacher she was seeking guidance from an online psychic named Betty. Holly glanced at Greta for help, but Greta didn’t know about Psychic Betty. Greta had no clue what Holly was talking about.

Greta offered, “She said ‘Sidekick Sweaty.’”

“I’m confused. Who is Sidekick Sweaty?” Miss Bently readied her pen.

Help!

“I am,” Greta said quickly, lifting an arm to smell her armpit. “I’m Sidekick Sweaty.”

“Here’s the problem,” Holly confessed. “I don’t want Ella to start kindergarten. I’m not ready. Am I, Sidekick?”

“No. No, of course not,” said Sweaty.

They stared at Miss Bently, waiting.

“Um.” Miss Bently stared at her pen. Checked her notebook for a clue of what to say.

From Holly: “I want Ella home with me. I don’t want a quiet house—I want Ella in my house. On Petunia. And I’m fine that there’s no storage. Or curtains. I just want Ella. And I want ponies—My Little Pony ponies. But I don’t want a pregnant cat!” She got stern, shook a finger at Greta. “Send Charlotte back to Vegas. You’re not a cat doula. There’s no such thing.” Holly returned to Miss Bently. “I do want watered-down white grape juice.” Holly smiled. “Lots of it. And I don’t care if it’s in a juice glass, or a sippy cup, or a sports cup because Ella’s already lost a tooth—but she doesn’t have a speech delay; don’t write that down—and she didn’t lose it because of thumb-sucking. It’s buried beneath Anna.”

“What is?” Greta asked.

“Ella’s tooth.”

Miss Bently lifted her pen. “Who is Anna?”

“Our topiary.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m really not following you.” Miss Bently exhaled.

Holly would have explained, but it was too late. She’d already turned to face her mom. “This feels cathartic,” Holly said. “It’s like, I’m okay”—she touched her chest—“and you’re okay.” She pressed her hand against Greta’s chest. To Miss Bently, Holly said, “I’m a hot mess.” Then she returned to Greta. “And you. You were a hot mess at the fence that day—I saw you. You were all drunk and trench coat—but I walked away, spinning my Hula-Hoop. You were like: Ais me, hit’s your mom, Holly. Comes to me. Comes to Mommy.”