Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(88)

“Ladies, ladies, please.” Penelope motioned for everyone to stop squabbling. “Mary-Margaret, before you sit down, may I remind you? Holly lives in Petunia enclave. I can assure you everything she does is organic.”

“It’s true.” Holly nodded to the crowd before sitting down. “’Frigerator’s filled with kale. And grass-eating cows. With good lives before we eat them. Goji berries! And . . . hmm.” She thought a moment. “Ed-a-my-me.” That’s how it’s pronounced?

Emily rose from her seat to take control of the meeting. “I want to start by thanking everyone for the exposure on Instagram. Great effects and filters. Cherries everywhere, wow. Thanks also for liking and sharing the cherry pie auction on Facebook.”

Facebook? Instagram? Was Holly supposed to do something on social media?

“But the activity on Twitter has been a bit lean,” Emily reported. “I was hoping we’d trend in the top five locally during the Cherry Festival, so if everyone would head to their buffers . . .”

Head to their buffers?

“And stagger a series of tweets to release during the festival, that’d be great.” Emily smiled. “I’ll email tweetables later tonight.”

Tweetables?

“Holly.” What? Why’s she singling me out? “I don’t have your Twitter handle.” Emily readied her pen.

Do I tell her my Twitter handle is @EndofRope?

“Go on,” Mary-Margaret urged with a slight fire in her eyes. “Tell us your Twitter handle.”

Emily explained, “I’m only asking so I can include your handle in a few tweets. That’ll make it easier for you to retweet it to your followers.”

Followers? “Um . . . well, I. Um.” Holly cleared her throat.

Mary-Margaret smelled blood. “Emily, ask Lavender how many followers she has on Twitter.”

Emily didn’t ask outright, but she did look at Holly, anticipating a response.

Spit cakes! Holly didn’t want to answer. “Why does this matter?” Holly asked.

“I’ll answer that.” Mary-Margaret stood. “Knowing how many followers you have on Twitter gives us an indication of your influence as a mom. Top mommy bloggers and social media influencers like me have thousands and thousands of followers across many platforms.”

“Okay, then.” Holly folded her arms across her chest. “I’m sorry, Emily, but I don’t have a mommy blog. Or a gazillion followers on Twitter. My Twitter handle is how I feel most of the time: at EndofRope. So I’m sorry. I guess I’m not an influential mom.” Was this a condition of signing up for the Pie Committee? Holly needed to be a mover and shaker on social media?

“Of course you’re influential,” Penelope interrupted. “All moms are influential. Moms are probably the most influential people on the planet.” Penelope scowled at Mary-Margaret, mouthing the word yellow at her.

“Well, some moms are more influential than others!” Mary-Margaret added. “That’s all I’m saying. I have so many followers I’m running Tide commercials on my blog.”

“You don’t need a website to bake a pie.” Penelope addressed Mary-Margaret directly. This was starting to look more and more like the Land of Oz: a Pink Witch and a Yellow Witch, warring factions in a prolonged conflict.

“Oh, no,” Emily said, jumping in. “I never meant to imply she needed a blog to bake a pie. I was just asking about her Twitter handle so I could include her.”

“Don’t worry about any of this nonsense, Holly. Focus on the pies.” Penelope took a read of the other moms. “We’re just glad you’re here.” Penelope looked around, pausing to make eye contact with certain moms. “Let us all remember that Holly moved to the Village of Primm about a week ago. Not only is she new to the ways of our village, but on Tuesday, she sent her only child to kindergarten. Kindergarten.” Penelope paused for effect, then continued. “I think we should all give Holly a break about social media and instead welcome her to the Village of Primm. Holly”—Penelope spoke to Holly but looked directly at Mary-Margaret—“welcome to the Village of Primm. And welcome to the Pie Committee. We’re so glad you’re here.”

“Thank you,” Holly said. “And I’m sorry, Emily.” Holly hoped Emily knew she was sincere. “About the Twitter thing. I’m just not comfortable disclosing the amount of followers I have on Twitter. Not yet. I’d like to keep that information private—for now.”

“Ha!” Mary-Margaret snorted. “Private?” Hands on hips. “Private?”

What? Was I being rude? “I promise I’ll tell you later,” Holly said to Emily, who looked confused. Maybe I’ve hurt her feelings. “I’ll call you tonight. I’ll tell you over the phone.”

Holly didn’t want the entire Pie Committee to know she had exactly three followers on Twitter. Her mom, Jack, and some guy whose Twitter handle Holly couldn’t remember but whose name was apparently Piz, which, she understood by reading his tweets, was short for lápiz, the Spanish word for pencil. When Holly had looked him up, his profile page indicated his name was Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Martyr Patricio Clito Ruíz y Picasso. When this Twitter account had opened, this guy’s full name—144 characters with spaces—didn’t fit inside a single tweet because Twitter, at that time, limited tweets to 140 characters, so he cubed them all together over a series of tweets. Twitter was hard to follow. Strange at times, almost surreal.