Isabelle Shows Her Stuff: The Isabelle Series, Book Two (3 page)

“I got a copy of
Grimm's Fairy Tales
for being the best reader in my class,” Becca said.

“That beats a sharp stick in the eye. Read that,” and Guy's grandmother snatched up the newspaper and pointed to the headline.

Becca said, “Oh, I only read books,” and twirled out of the room.

Guy's grandmother turned her dark, deep-set eyes on him. He lifted his shoulders as if to say, “What can I do?”

“She's something.” Guy's grandmother tapped her fingers on the table, then dove into her handbag and came up with another cigarette. They both looked at it. She put it back in her bag.

“So they call you goody-goody, do they?” she said. Guy squeezed his hands between his knees and clicked his feet together rhythmically.

“That's not the worst thing in the world,” she said. Guy's feet clicked, lickety split, faster and faster.

“I'm glad I came,” Guy's grandmother said.

Chapter Five

If my name was Jake, things would be different.

Guy stared at himself in the mirror.

If my name was Jake, they would never chase a person named Jake, hollering “Goody-goody Jake!” It would never happen. A person named Jake wouldn't take any guff from anybody. “Everything's jake,” his father said when he meant everything was fine and dandy. Catch him saying “Everything's Guy.” Just catch him.

Guy lifted his lip and sneered at himself. Jake sounded tough. Already he looked different. Mean. Tough. Beware of Jake, they'd whisper. Don't rub Jake the wrong way. You know Jake. He'll take off your ear in one bite.

He turned sideways and sneered some more. He reminded himself of a pro football player he'd seen on TV. Yup, he was definitely a Jake. The thought cheered him as he put on his socks and sneaks. Then the jeans. Oops. He always forgot. The jeans wouldn't go over the sneaks. Off with the sneaks, on with the jeans.

The minute he woke up that morning Guy had smelled Saturday—crispy, spicy, fragrant, as if his mother had taken a freshly baked apple pie from the oven. He planned to spend today with Isabelle, only she didn't know it. He'd better hot-foot it over to her house before she and Herbie went somewhere.

Guy wet his hands and smashed down his cowlick. People named Jake who were mean and tough didn't have cowlicks on the top of their heads. But in its own way, the cowlick was mean and tough, too. It sprang back up like a jack-in-the-box.

On weekdays, Guy dawdled. On Saturdays, he dressed with the speed of a volunteer fireman. Down the stairs he went, two at a time.

“For a little boy,” his mother said in her soft voice, “you make a great deal of noise. Cereal's ready.”

“I'm not eating cereal,” Guy said in a loud, rude voice. “I don't have time for cereal,” Guy/Jake said. “I gotta get going.”

“Have to, not gotta,” said his mother gently. Everything she said and did was gentle.

“Too bad,” she told him. “The cinnamon doughnuts are almost warm.”

He
knew
he'd smelled Saturday. He ate his cereal fast, wishing, not for the first time, for a dog. A dog would sure love that bowl of cereal, Guy thought. A dog would be company, would lick his hand, and would sleep at the foot of his bed at night. A dog would guard the house. A dog would be a friend. But a dog was messy and a lot of trouble. And expensive—to feed, to take to the vet's.

“Guy,” his mother said. He almost said “My name's Jake,” but didn't. “Guy, if those boys bother you again, I want you to promise to tell me. I'll do something about it. That's not right. Dad wouldn't like it either.” They tried never to bother Dad with tales of Guy being teased. Dad didn't like to hear this—he liked to think Guy was an all-around-American-boy-type who was never called names and made fun of. Guy's father was the football coach at the high school. He planned on Guy being a football player someday. Being a football player was way down at the end of Guy's list of favorite things to think about.

“I'm done.” Guy showed his mother the bottom of his dish. The doughnut was his. Cradling it in his hand, he headed for the door.

“I'm going to Isabelle's,” he told her.

“Who is Isabelle?”

“The paper boy. She was here yesterday”

“She called me a twerp,” Becca said.

“You are,” said Guy.

“Guy,” his mother said, “that's not nice.”

“Isabelle asked me over to her house today.” Guy looked at his mother from under lowered lids. He almost never lied, and he was surprised when she seemed to believe what he said. “Isn't Isabelle a trifle too old for you to play with?” was all she said.

“She's only ten,” he said.
Only
ten! She was practically a teenager, that's what. He didn't tell his mother about Isabelle and Herbie fighting every day after school. She wouldn't like that, he knew.

“Don't wear out your welcome,” his mother told him as he said good-bye.

When he got to Isabelle's, there was no answer to his knock. Guy sat on the back step to wait. Presently the door opened and a man carrying a bag of garbage almost fell over him.

“Oops!” said the man. “Sorry, didn't see you.”

“Is Isabelle up yet?” Guy asked.

“No, thank God,” the man said. “I have the place all to myself. If you promise to be quiet, not say a word, you can come in and wait.”

“I promise,” Guy said.

Once in, the man pointed a floury finger and said, “Sit there. And remember, no talking. I can't cook and talk at the same time.”

Guy sat. The man whistled happily, sifting flour, checking a cookbook spread open on the counter. “I think I've got it!” he cried out once or twice. “I really think I've got it! It's not easy, making pizza from scratch,” he told Guy. “And it's not cheap either. Cheese, sausages, anchovies, all that stuff. But the real trick is the dough. That's the tough part. You have to be quick when you toss it up and catch it. You ever seen 'em throw it up in the air in a pizza store, then catch it on its way down?” Guy shook his head no. “Fantastic! Absolutely fantastic!” the man said. “They never miss. Toss it up, twirl it around, then toss it up again. I wish I could do it. I'm learning, though. Don't want to rush it. Easy does it, eh?”

Guy nodded, smiling. He was enjoying the conversation, even if he hadn't said a word.

Isabelle zoomed into the kitchen and headed straight for the refrigerator. “Hi,” she said to Guy, not at all surprised to see him there. “Dad,” she said to the pizza man, “I've decided to leave my body to science.”

“That so?” Isabelle's father leaned over his cookbook, muttering to himself. A large boy on crutches appeared. Philip, Guy figured, as clever as any detective. That's Philip.

“I'm leaving my body to science,” Isabelle told Philip.

“Suppose they give it back?” Philip speared a pickle from a jar. “What do they want with a wimpy little bod like yours?”

Isabelle gave it one more try. “I'm leaving my body to science,” she told Guy in a loud voice, as if she thought he might be deaf.

Guy nodded to show he'd heard and then laid a finger against his lips.

“Who's he?” Philip aimed a crutch in Guy's direction. “Where'd he come from?”

“He's a new customer on my … I mean, your paper route. Better treat him nice or he might cancel. His name's Guy,” said Isabelle.

Guy opened his mouth to say his name was Jake, then remembered his promise to keep quiet.

“What's your prob, kid? Cat got your tongue?” Philip asked.

Isabelle's father ran his hand through his hair, leaving white tracks. “I've been at this since dawn and I'm still a long way from finishing. You can talk now,” he told Guy. “I'm tired of making bread,” he said to them. “I'm letting my imagination soar and making pizza instead.”

“Go for it, Dad,” Philip said.

“My father always makes bread on Saturday,” Isabelle explained. “I take a loaf to my teacher. She's on a diet, but she eats my father's bread anyway because it's so delicious.”

Guy, who had been wondering what to say now that he no longer had to be silent, said, “My father gave blood once. After, they gave him a glass of orange juice. And my grandmother said she might donate her organs.”

Then he tapped his feet and stared at the ceiling, having talked himself out.

“Cool,” Isabelle said. “I wouldn't mind donating my organs.”

“Which organ did you have in mind?” Isabelle's father asked, pausing in his pizza-making.

“Which one do you think would be best?” Isabelle asked, not having the faintest idea what organs were.

“How about your brain?” Philip suggested. “If you donated your brain to science, they could give it to a monkey and that old monkey would be the smartest monkey on his block.”

“Har-de-har,” Isabelle said.

“The brain isn't an organ,” Isabelle's father said, kneading his dough. Isabelle pointed a finger at Philip, laughing hugely and silently at his mistake.

“Make it your liver or your kidneys,” Isabelle's father said.

“Liver and kidneys!” Isabelle made throw-up noises. Then, as if she'd just made it up, she did an elaborate dance, crooning “excellent, excellent” to herself, praising her own talents.

“I'm off to Angelo's now. Hands off my dough. Your mother's still asleep, so keep the noise down, please. Angelo's giving me a lesson in how to toss the dough up and catch it coming down. I'll be back in an hour.”

The telephone rang and Isabelle raced to answer. Philip gave her a hip check and sent her crashing against the wall.

“Hello,” their father said. “No, I'm sorry. They're both busy misbehaving. Call back, please.” He hung up. “Shape up or ship out,” he said. “You both behave like troglodytes.”

“What's that?” Isabelle asked.

“Cave men. And they didn't have telephones.”

“Who was it?” asked Philip.

“I didn't ask. The young lady didn't leave her name.”

“I knew it was for me!” Philip howled.

“I bet it was Mary Eliza Shook. She always checks up on me on Saturday.”

“Remember what I said. Hands off the dough.” They listened as their father started the car and drove away.

“Turkey,” Philip said.

“I'm telling Dad you called him a turkey!” Isabelle cried.

“Not him, scuzz. You.”

“Dinosaur breath,” said Isabelle.

Guy scrooched down in his chair and folded his hands on his stomach, like an old man taking the sun on a park bench, enjoying himself.

Disgusted, Philip crutched his way out, muttering “spoiled brat” and “stink baby” and other endearments.

Isabelle took a can of Reddi Wip from the refrigerator and shot some into her mouth.

“Open,” she said to Guy, like a dentist. He opened and she shot some into his mouth.

“It's sweet,” Guy said, surprised.

“What'd you expect, sour?” Isabelle took something out of a drawer and pulled it on over her head.

“What's that?”

“It's my mother's old pantyhose. I'm trying it out on Herbie's mother. I like to freak her out. Robbers wear pantyhose masks when they don't want people to know who they are. I bet Herbie's mother won't know who I am. Maybe she'll think I'm a robber. That oughta really get her,” she announced with satisfaction.

“It makes your voice sound funny,” said Guy. “And it makes you look funny, too.”

“Good.” Isabelle lifted the cloth her father had placed over his pizza dough and poked it with one finger. “I'm just testing to see if anything's happened yet,” she said.

“You father said hands off,” Guy reminded her.

“I only touched it a tiny bit. He won't know. Not unless you tell him,” she said, scowling at Guy.

“Cross my heart,” he said. “I won't tell.”

“All right,” she said. “Let's go.”

Chapter Six

“Herbie can't come out today. He's got a cold.” Herbie's mother looked straight at Isabelle and didn't scream once. Not even a tiny little scream.

“He didn't have one yesterday,” Isabelle said indignantly, from behind her pantyhose mask.

“Well, he has one today.” Herbie's mother opened the door a fraction and said to Guy, “What's your name?”

“Guy,” said Isabelle.

“Jake,” said Guy.

Herbie's mother looked surprised. “You kids better get your act together,” she said.

“Don't you notice anything?” Isabelle slowly turned her head from left to right, right to left.

Herbie's mother narrowed her eyes and studied Isabelle carefully. “Now that you mention it,” she said, “I
did
think you were Mary Eliza Shook for a minute.”

Isabelle crossed her eyes and tried to stick her thumbs in her ears and waggle her fingers to show how she felt about looking like Mary Eliza Shook, but the pantyhose got in the way.

“But when I heard your voice,” Herbie's mother said, smiling, “I knew it was you.”

“Let 'em in, Mom!” Isabelle heard Herbie shout. She looked through the door and saw Herbie teetering on the top step. He had on his astronaut pajamas and his crash helmet. He didn't look the least bit sick.

Herbie's mother turned her head and shouted, “Get back to bed!” And in a flash Isabelle thrust the toe of her Adidas in the crack in the door, an opening wedge.

“Hey, Herb!” she cried, her mouth against the crack. “How about a game of Crazy Eights or Monopoly?”

Isabelle and Herbie hadn't played Monopoly since the time when she'd made some counterfeit money and tried to pass it off as the real Monopoly stuff. Herbie was still sore about that.

“Sorry.” Herbie's mother almost shut Isabelle's nose in the door. “Herbie's off-limits today. He had a temperature last night.” She shut the door firmly in their faces.