Isabelle Shows Her Stuff: The Isabelle Series, Book Two (4 page)

“Maybe it's catching!” Isabelle cried. “Let us in! It might be catching!”

But Herbie's mother slid the lock into place and waved good-bye to them. “Boy,” said Isabelle, “I bet Herbie's drinking orange juice by the quart today. His mother feeds him vitamin C to keep him from getting colds. He gets colds anyhow. Let's wait out front. Herbie'll come and talk to us out the window. Come on.”

Guy hadn't said a single word except “Jake” when asked what his name was. “I changed my name to Jake,” he told Isabelle.

“When?”

“Yesterday. I figure if my name's Jake, it'll make me tougher, and they won't call me goody-goody Jake, that's for sure.”

“Maybe.” Isabelle looked doubtful. “Don't put any money on it, though. There he is! Hey, Herb,” she called.

Herbie opened the upstairs window and leaned out. “What's that on your head?” he croaked.

“My mother's pantyhose. It's a mask like the ones robbers wear when they rob a bank. So nobody'll recognize 'em. Your mother knew who I was right away, though. By my voice, she said,” Isabelle told Herbie.

“If you rob a bank,” Herbie said, “you write a note and shove it to the person you're robbing. That way you don't have to talk and give it all away.” He coughed loudly to prove he was sick.

“Send some germs down to us,” Isabelle called up. “Me and Guy could use a few germs.”

Herbie opened the window further and breathed out a lot of germs.

“Too bad you can't come with us,” Isabelle said. “My father's making pizza today. I have to go home and help him throw the dough up in the air.”

“What kind's he making?” Herbie said.

“Onion and pepperoni,” she said. It was Herbie's favorite kind.

“Ooh!” Herbie wailed. His mother came up behind him and slammed the window down. Herbie disappeared.

“Let's put the show on the road,” Isabelle said, whipping off her mask and stuffing it in her pocket.

Mary Eliza Shook materialized as if she'd been waiting for them. She wore her jogging suit, a sweat-band, and leg warmers.

Isabelle made a face. “Your legs are all wrinkly,” she said.

Mary Eliza looked at her legs with great fondness. “Those are leg warmers,” she said. “All ballet dancers wear them. Other people wear them too, but they're not professionals. Only ballet dancers should really wear leg warmers. If their legs get cold, they might get cramps.”

“Then what?” Isabelle said.

“Then they can't dance, dummy.” Mary Eliza's arms arched over her head as she prepared her next
pas de chat
.

“Plenty of people wear leg warmers and they're not ballet dancers,” Isabelle told Mary Eliza. “My brother Philip says girls who wear 'em have elephant legs. That's what he calls 'em, Elephant Legs, because they make your legs look all wrinkly, like an elephant's. Who needs it?”

“Who's the boyfriend, dear? Aren't you robbing the cradle?” Mary Eliza let out a blast of her most irritating laughter. Isabelle silenced her with a direct hit from her ring.

“Cut it out,” Mary Eliza said. “If he's not your boyfriend, who is he?”

A line from a TV movie she'd recently seen popped into Isabelle's head.

“He's me little brudder, that's who,” she said. Guy's mouth dropped open in astonishment as she laid a protective arm on his shoulder. He flinched, thinking she was going to belt him.

“Pooh!” said Mary Eliza. “You don't have a little brother and you know it.”

“We just adopted him,” said Isabelle, getting a firmer grip on Guy. All of a sudden, the idea of a little brother was very attractive. She could boss him around and everything. A little brother, Isabelle suddenly decided, beat a big brother all hollow.

“What's his name, Miss Smarty?”

“His name's Jake. Say hello to the lady, Jake.” Isabelle dug her elbow into Guy's ribs.

“Hello,” said Guy, dipping his head and staring at the sidewalk, trying to work free of Isabelle's clinging hands. In case she was going to nudge him again, he'd rather be far away from her.

“Well, all I can say is, it's very strange, very strange indeed,” Mary Eliza muttered. She darted at Isabelle, ready to link arms, a terrible habit of hers. But Isabelle was too fast for her. She stuck out her fist with the point of her friendship ring aimed straight for Mary Eliza's nose. That did it. Mary Eliza backed off. But she didn't take defeat lightly.

“All right, then!” she shouted. Words failed her.

“You shout too much,” Guy said.

“She sure does!” Mary Eliza said, at the top of her voice.

“Not her, you,” said Guy. “You make me tired, you shout so much.”

“Let's go get some of Dad's homemade pizza,” Isabelle said. “I'm hungry, Jake. How about you?” They left Mary Eliza doing a perfect
entrechat
for anyone passing by to see.

“Thanks for calling me Jake,” Guy said.

“That's okay. Anytime,” said Isabelle, filled with a glow of well-being.

Which didn't last long, for the minute she saw her father's face, she knew he'd discovered her fingerprint in the pizza dough.

“You just can't keep your hands off, can you?” he said. “I ought to put you over my knee and give you an old-fashioned spanking. That's what you deserve. I should've known better than to leave it within your reach.” He swatted her with his rolling pin. It wasn't a very hard swat, but it left flour on her rear end.

Isabelle's mother, washing her hair at the kitchen sink, peered up at her and asked, “Who's that?” meaning Guy.

“He's me little brudder,” Isabelle said, fooling around.

“What did you say?” her mother asked, through her dripping hair.

“He's Guy from my paper route, Mom.” Isabelle didn't want to push either of her parents any further today. “I brought him home for a piece of Dad's pizza.”

“The pizza won't be much good,” her father said. “The crust's ruined. When I said ‘hands off' I meant exactly that. But Angelo gave me a lesson in throwing the dough up and catching it, so I'm going to go ahead.”

The telephone rang. “That's for me,” Isabelle's father said. “I'm expecting a call.” He wiped his hands on his pants and went into the hall to answer the phone. Isabelle looked at the large circle of dough lying on the counter. Isabelle's mother wrapped a towel around her head and disappeared. The kitchen was very still. Isabelle listened to her father talking on the telephone.

It would be so easy, she thought. Toss it up, catch it coming down. She'd watched Angelo plenty of times. The way he did it, it looked like a snap.

“Oh, no,” Guy said very softly, as she scooped up her father's dough from the counter and held it in both hands.

With a flourish, Isabelle flipped it up into the air. She and Guy watched it go, circling lazily overhead, moving slowly, like a miniature flying saucer. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Things got out of control. The circle of dough descended much faster than it had risen. Swift as a falling star, it came down to earth and landed smack on Isabelle's head.

Guy put his hand over his mouth to hold back his giggles. “You look so funny!” he said. Isabelle's father stood in the doorway. Isabelle's mother came downstairs. Silently, she handed Isabelle a hand mirror.

She did indeed look funny. The dough hung limply around her ears, covering her hair and most of her face.

“Tell you what, Isabelle.” She heard her father's voice, although she couldn't see him through the curtain of dough. “We'll make the pizza anyway. Just gather it together off your head and roll it out again. It'll be terrible, probably very tough, but it's the best you're going to get today. And you know what?”

“No, sir,” Isabelle said.

She could hear her father smiling.

“You get the piece with the most hair in it,” he said.

Chapter Seven

Guy sped toward home. After they'd eaten the pizza, which turned out to be not bad after all, he'd helped Isabelle deliver papers. An old lady named Mrs. Stern wasn't home, which disappointed Guy. Isabelle had told him Mrs. Stern painted her front door, as well as the rooms of her house, a different color any time she felt like it—sometimes just to cheer herself up. Guy liked that idea and thought about painting his room dark blue so he could paste some stars on the walls and ceiling. Then he could lie in bed and see the stars shining above and around him and pretend he was camping out.

The wind was rising, making whispery noises in the trees. “Tell your mother I'll collect next week,” Isabelle had said. “I'm hoping Philip will still be on crutches. Then she smiled and added, “If his hurt ankle gets better, I can always put a skate at the top of the stairs, and he might fall over it and hurt his other ankle. We'll see.” She would, too, Guy thought, full of admiration. Even if Philip was a teenager, Isabelle could handle him. She was awesome.

The sky was smeared with scarlet and gold and looked, Guy thought, like a finger painting he'd done last year. It was his favorite and still hung above his bed. When he grew up, he was going to be an artist. He'd seen paintings done by grown-up artists that looked like finger paintings and which had been sold for a lot of money too. If they could do it, why couldn't he?

The dark clumps of bushes took on the shape of people. “Here he comes,” the wind whispered. “Here he comes,” they sighed.

Here who comes?

A small, dark shape rushed out at him, and Guy let out a little shout of fear.

“Oh,” he said, drawing a deep breath when he saw the little brown dog. “It's only you.” He knelt down and patted the dog's soft fur. The dog licked Guy's hand with his rough tongue, and they became immediate friends.

“You're just the right size,” Guy told the dog, who wriggled with pleasure. “You could come home with me if my mother would let you,” Guy said. “She might let you stay. I'm not sure. If you're good. If you don't go to the bathroom on the rug. Or chew the furniture. Or eat a lot. A dog is a big responsibility, you know.” The dog tilted its head to one side and considered this information. It was a frisky little dog, with a tail like a feather duster and eager amber eyes. It would be a good dog to play Frisbee with, Guy thought. It would be a good watchdog, even though it was small, because it could be fierce when fierceness was needed.

“I could hide you in the attic,” Guy said aloud. “Keep you a secret until I talked her into loving you. Why don't we try it?” The more he thought about hiding the dog in the attic, the better the idea seemed.

The dog laid a stick at Guy's feet and backed off, barking. So Guy threw the stick and the little dog brought it back, triumphant. Guy threw the stick a second time and the dog went after it again. Guy heard him barking but he didn't return. Guy called and called—“Hey, I'm over here!”—but still the dog didn't appear.

“All right for you!” Guy shouted at last, when he could hardly see the outline of the trees, it was getting so dark. He scurried homeward, turning now and then, checking to see if the dog was following him. But he was alone.

“It's late, Guy,” his mother said. “You should have been home long ago. I was very worried.”

“I had to help Isabelle deliver her papers,” he said. “Here's ours,” and he handed over the paper.

“She called,” his mother said.

“Isabelle?” he asked, surprised.

“She said for you to come over tomorrow. She said she and Herbie are probably going to fight and you could watch. What's that all about?”

“Oh, they fight all the time. They're friends but they just like to fight,” he said, making it sound perfectly normal to like to fight.

“I don't want you fighting, Guy,” she said. “You might get hurt.”

“I don't know how to fight,” he said, and went up to his room and lay on his bed, looking at the ceiling, trying to imagine how it would look pasted all over with stars. His mother found him there.

“I would like to paint my room dark blue and paste stars on it so it would be like the night,” he told her.

“Guy.” She laid an anxious hand on his forehead. “Do you feel all right?”

“I feel fine,” he said, bounding up and down to prove he felt fine. “I just want to paint my room dark blue to cheer myself up. That's all.”

Chapter Eight

“Aunt Maude, this is my friend Guy,” Isabelle said.

“How do you do? I'm happy to meet you,” said Aunt Maude, who had stopped in after church, as usual, to show off her new hat. Guy said hello. Aunt Maude turned to Isabelle's mother and said in a loud whisper, “Hasn't he shrunk?”

“Shrunk?”

“Yes. The little boy, I mean. He seems to have gotten smaller.”

“Oh, you've got him confused with Herbie, Maude. This is a different boy. His family has just moved into a house on Hot Water Street.”

“Oh, my.” Aunt Maude's eyes rolled, and she said, “I've always thought that would be a very hazardous place to live. All that water boiling around, don't you know.” Aunt Maude settled herself on the couch like a hen on its nest.

“My hair seems to be getting thin,” she said, patting her freshly washed, newly blonde coiffure.

“Who wants fat hair?” Isabelle said, poking Guy and avoiding her mother's eye, knowing it would be shooting daggers at her.

Fortunately, Aunt Maude's hearing wasn't what it had once been. “I'll take a bald man any day,” she continued, “but I do think there's something rather unattractive about a bald woman, don't you agree?”

Isabelle's mother murmured something about having to see to dinner. On her way out she stepped over Isabelle, who was lying on the floor, reading the comics. “Watch it,” she said, putting her foot in the middle of Isabelle's back.