Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)
Julie Valerie
1
—Welcome to Primm: Take One—
SCENE 1 — INT. HOUSE — MORNING
HOLLY (V.O.)
Stand by on the set.
Stand by to roll tape.
Roll tape.
Take one.
Action.
Cruel truth? Motherhood on the big screen looks nothing like motherhood offscreen.
“Ella, honey, eat. Eat.” Holly poured Gorilla Munch into a Ziploc. If Ella doesn’t eat her waffle, she can eat Gorilla Munch on the bus. Right? Is food allowed on a school bus? It was the first day of kindergarten; how was Holly to know? “Two bites, Ella. Take two bites.” The bus would be there in six minutes. Maybe five. Where’s her backpack? “Ella.”
“Hmm?”
“Where’s your backpack?”
Arms spread across the table, Ella hung over a half-eaten waffle like a lollygagging drunkard unable to rally. Probably needs a better bedtime routine now that school has started. Add that to the bullet journal, on the things-to-do list. Add “buy a bullet journal” to that list, while you’re at it.
HOLLY (V.O.)
Cue Jack. The ever-handsome, ever-frustrating Jack.
“She’s going to miss the bus, Holly.” Jack crossed the threshold into the kitchen, wringing his hands in that nervous “Jack” way he did when the world was coming to an end. Bills to pay. The fear the front lawn might dry out and turn brown. Not being able to find a clean undershirt or a pair of matching socks to wear to work. “What happened to the alarm?” Look of utter dismay. “Holly. How did you let this happen?”
“I fell asleep on the couch.” Like that’s never happened to you? Holly brushed past him without making eye contact. “I can’t believe you didn’t notice I wasn’t in bed.” If he had noticed, he could have woken her up. Now her neck was crooked, and her back hurt. While spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread, Holly stopped short, knife in one hand, honey whole wheat in the other. She fixed her eyes on something in the distance.
“But where are her shoes?” Jack asked. “Why’s her toothbrush on the kitchen table?” He wasn’t helping. He was taking up space. “And why is she wearing that? Blue? Ella hates dresses.” He waved a hand in Holly’s face. “Hello—earth to Holly? You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“That Walter Mitty thing. You’re a thousand miles away.”
“Should I start the film with a breakfast scene? Or is that cliché?” She dragged a slab of peanut butter across the bread.
“Film? What are you talking about?” He tapped his watch. “You should be on the driveway by now.”
Off camera: Rumbling sound of a bus approaching.
“Hollythebus.” All one word. “Holly—the bus!”
“I overslept!” What’d he want her to do? Yell “run” at Ella? Freak her out? Ella was half-asleep over a half-eaten waffle.
“Mommy? I don’t wanna go to keedergarten.”
Great. Now Ella’s freaked out.
They were still in boxes—newly moved to the Village of Primm. Gilded school district. Land of perfect moms, perfect families, perfect homes. Now Ella would be late for school on her first day of kindergarten. Of all days to oversleep. Of all days to screw up.
Holly closed her eyes. Waited for the voice-over inside her head.
HOLLY (V.O.)
(whispering)
You’re never going to make it in the Village of Primm. Other mothers are way better than you are. Write that in your bullet journal. Make that your opening scene.
2
Four days earlier, Friday
Holly and Ella faced a stack of moving boxes that stood like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The bottom box, the one marked Fragile, had a busted corner and was buckling under the weight of the stack. Holly slid the top box from the pile and grabbed hold of a piece of packing tape. Struggle, their chocolate Labrador, lowered her head, kept real still, and growled.
“You can do it, Mommy.” Ella counted: “One, two . . .”
“Three!” Holly ripped the tape off the box, Struggle went wild, and Ella moved in to claim her prize: Bubble Wrap. Ella hoarded piles of it all over the house, a weapons cache for making the dog bark and fraying her mother’s nerves. Itty-bitty fists snatched. Itty-bitty fingers squeezed. Itty-bitty bubbles went pop-pop-pop!—like tiny gunshots fired in a vaudeville show. Holly wanted to holler, Stop it, Ella! Oh, for the love of all that’s holy, stop popping! but she couldn’t. Because someone was knocking at her front door.
Who was it? A neighbor? Someone welcoming them with a plate of cookies? A cherry pie? She couldn’t invite them inside. Nothing but clutter and corrugated cardboard as far as the eye could see. Her home wasn’t inviting. It didn’t welcome. Didn’t say Martha Stewart in the living room. Julia Child in the kitchen. It repelled. Smelled like dog and last night’s Chinese takeout. What was she wearing? Awful. Worn-out pair of black leggings and one of Jack’s dingy gray T-shirts from his Cosmic Taco collection: I don’t wanna taco ’bout it. It’s nacho business.