Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(96)

“I know, I know.” Holly set Ella down, wet a washcloth, and wiped her face. Poor kid still had her eyes closed, and her hair was absolutely wild from a night of tossing and turning. Lumped up in the back. Tangled. Looked like she hadn’t bathed in weeks, like she was starting dreadlocks—in kindergarten. “Jack. Where’s Struggle?”

“Backyard.”

“We’ve got to make that bus, Jack. We can’t blow through the entire first week of kindergarten missing the bus.”

“She rode it yesterday.”

“My mom did that. You and I didn’t do that.” Holly made eye contact with Jack. “I want her on that bus. We have to get her on that bus.”

“Okay,” he said. “Laser focus. Let’s do this!” He clapped like he was in a locker room. “What should I do?”

“Get me an outfit.”

Holly squeezed bubble gum–flavored toothpaste onto Ella’s My Little Pony toothbrush. “Open up, sweetie. Open up for Mommy. We’re going to catch that bus. We’re going. To catch. That. Bus.”

Ella was so groggy she had trouble keeping her head straight. Holly placed her hand at the back of Ella’s neck for support so she could get the toothbrush inside her mouth, but Ella’s head kept swinging to the side. “You can do this, baby girl. Wake up, sweetie. Wake up.”

Jack returned with a pair of Holly’s jeans and a T-shirt.

“What’s this?” Holly asked.

“You said to get you an outfit.”

“Not me.” You idiot. “Ella. Get Ella an outfit!”

“Crap! Okay.”

Ella’s eyes sprang open. Her head lifted from Holly’s hand, and she turned to stare at Jack, mouth hung open. “Dad.” Ella furrowed her brow. “You said a bad word.”

“That’s not a bad word, Ella,” Jack rushed to explain. “I mean, it is. I guess. Sort of. Because you can’t say it. You’re too young. But some people think that particular word is okay to use—you see, Ella. Um. It’s hard to explain . . .” He scratched his head. “It’s like this. There are different types of bad words. Like hell, for instance. It’s the name of a place. It’s in the Bible.” His eyes pleaded with Holly, but Holly wasn’t helping. She let him squirm. “But don’t say that word, Ella. Even if Jesus said it—and I’m not saying Jesus did. He may have; I don’t know. But you can’t. Because you’re not Jesus. Holly?”

“Oh, for criminy’s sake, who gives a split, Jack? We have a bus to catch.” Holly waved him off, saving his ass from the wrath of Ella. “Get me an outfit!”

Off he ran.

“Ella. Spit.”

Ella spat. Holly grabbed a washcloth. Wiped her mouth. Wiped her face.

Now, Holly had wanted to help the guy out, she had. The thing was, Holly didn’t have time to explain to Ella the nuances between curse words, cuss words, swear words, profane words, obscene words, and vulgar words. Because they were all slightly different, and sometimes—well, they slipped out. Nonetheless, after that thesaurus assignment, Holly had grown even more impressed with the power words possessed. If there’s a way to play with language and avoid using actual “bad” words—while still harnessing their power—then sign me up. Can’t say I’ll be perfect all the time. But I’ll give it a shot. “I love you, Ella.” She touched the tip of Ella’s nose. “Know this: hate is a bad word. It’s worse than all the others.”

Jack returned with a pair of purple-and-orange plaid leggings and a worn-out pink dress with a banana-eating monkey on it.

“Seriously? That doesn’t even remotely match,” Holly told him.

“What are you talking about? Ella loves this outfit.” He pulled her pajama top off while Holly slid her bottoms down.

“It’s fine,” Holly said. “Just get her dressed. Wait. Jack. We need shoes—for Ella.”

Jack ran off again, shaving cream on half his face, and to Holly’s horror, he came back with a pair of red boots. “Noooo, Jack. That’s a crazy outfit.” Holly was so overwhelmed. “Pink monkey dress? Purple-and-orange leggings? Red boots?”

Ella brightened. “I’ll look like Dora the Explorer!”

“Grab your backpack,” Holly said. “Let’s go!”

“Vámanos!” Ella squealed, as Holly swung Ella into her arms and raced with her to the foot of the stairs, where Holly saw Ella’s actual backpack and a packed lunch bag leaning against the front door. Charlotte was curled up beside the backpack. She lifted her head to hiss at Holly but saw Ella in Holly’s arms and stopped mid-hiss to instead swing her tail in a show of pleasure at the sight of Ella. So Charlotte likes Ella? Maternal instincts, Holly supposed.

“Mom?” Holly hollered. Where was she? Was she in the kitchen?

Charlotte slunk away, and Holly found a banana and a bag of crackers on the top of the backpack. “Ella, breakfast.” Holly handed Ella the banana and crackers. “You can eat them on the bus. Now listen to me. We have to run.”

Holly opened their front door, heard the bus—heard brakes being applied, a loud whoosh!—and Bus 13 came to a stop, its doors opened wide at the end of their driveway. Holly found that so odd. Odder still, the bus wasn’t moving. It idled in front of their house. “Mom?” Holly yelled over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “Where are you?” For some reason Holly couldn’t explain, she wanted Greta to see this. Wanted Greta to watch her put her child on a bus to kindergarten. It felt important. It felt . . . Holly didn’t know . . . full circle. Something. Where was she? “Mom!” Where are you? “Let’s go, Ella. You and me? We’re going to catch that bus.”