Isabelle Shows Her Stuff: The Isabelle Series, Book Two (5 page)

“What smells so good?” Aunt Maude sniffed the air delicately.

“Roast pork,” Isabelle's mother called out.

“Nobody noticed my hat,” Aunt Maude said, getting up and revolving slowly, showing off her hat from every angle. It was made of pale felt and had a wide brim.

“Where on earth did you get it?” Isabelle's mother said, coming back into the room.

“At a tag sale. I don't know what I did before someone invented tag sales. They are a marvel. Absolutely a marvel. There's nothing you can't find at a tag sale.”

“If only you had a black mask,” Isabelle told Aunt Maude, “you'd look like the Lone Ranger.”

“My stars! The Lone Ranger! I haven't heard anyone mention him in donkey's years. Where'd you hear about him?”

“My friend Mrs. Stern told me about him and his horse Silver. They were always doing good deeds, she said. She used to listen to them on the radio. She showed me a picture of him and his friend Tonto. After the Lone Ranger did a good deed, he hollered, ‘Hi yo, Silver, away!' and you heard the sound of galloping hooves.”

“Sounds like a drag to me,” said Philip, in his super bored voice.

“Then a voice said, ‘Who
was
that masked man?' like he was the Incredible Hulk or something,” Isabelle went on, “and a voice said, ‘That was the Lone Ranger.'”

“And Tonto called the Lone Ranger ‘Kemosabe,'” Aunt Maude put in. “I remember that much, although of course I was very young at the time.” She gently patted her thin hair.

“El Wimpo Kemosabe,” Philip said under his breath.

“I always say roast pork isn't roast pork without applesauce,” said Aunt Maude, getting back to the matter at hand. “Are you having applesauce?”

“If it isn't roast pork, what is it?” Philip asked Isabelle. Philip got away with murder around Aunt Maude. Never having had any children of her own, she was partial to boys.

“Of course, darling, we're having applesauce. I've set a place for you—I hope you'll stay.”

“Oh, I couldn't possibly!” Aunt Maude cried. They went through this every Sunday. She always stayed.

“Would you like to stay for dinner, Guy? We've plenty of everything,” Isabelle's mother said.

“I've already aten,” Guy said. “Eaten, I mean.” He blushed furiously, embarrassed at having mixed up his words. He hadn't eaten dinner, he was just too shy to say he'd like to stay. Plus, he was a very picky eater, and he couldn't remember whether he liked roast pork or not.

“Why,” Guy said, really looking at Aunt Maude for the first time, “you look just like my uncle!”

“How so?” she said in a somewhat haughty manner, not at all sure she liked being told she looked like Guy's uncle.

“He's a state trooper,” Guy said, “and he has a hat just like yours. Plus, he carries a gun.”

Aunt Maude gave a little scream of pleasure at this interesting information. “Perhaps this is a state trooper's hat and I didn't even know it,” she said, running her hand over her hat's brim.

When dinner was announced, Guy sat with the family, even though he wasn't hungry. The roast pork certainly smelled good. Maybe he'd never had any. Suddenly, he was starving. But he didn't have the nerve to say he'd changed his mind.

As if he knew what Guy was thinking, Isabelle's father said, “Send this down to the young man from Hot Water Street,” slicing off some pork and putting it on a plate. Guy ate it in one gulp. It was delicious. He folded his hands in his lap and kept an eye on the other plates. “Help yourself to applesauce and pass it down,” Isabelle whispered, giving him an elbow in the ribs. Then the corn pudding was passed, and Guy had a spot of that. All in all, he did pretty well, especially for someone who'd already eaten.

Aunt Maude asked Philip what he was up to these days. When his ankle was better, that is.

“Well, I'm on the Y swim team,” Philip said. “I'm a Webfoot. I do the butterfly in record time. I won a race last month. Next month I swim against the state champs.”

Each time Philip said “I” Isabelle counted, mouthing the numbers “One, two, three, four, five” so everyone would know Philip had said “I” five times.

“Isabelle, we can do without that,” her mother said. When dinner was over, Isabelle's father said, “Why don't you repair to the parlor, Maude, and put your feet up and rest so we can clear the table.”

Aunt Maude always got out of KP duty because she broke things. When Isabelle caught on to this, she broke a plate (old) and a cup (new) the next time she was called upon to clear. All she got was yelled at.

“You take out the salt and pepper,” Isabelle told Guy. “You didn't eat much so you don't have to do much.”

“I ate quite a lot. I had two pieces of meat and some applesauce and—”

“Just do what I say, and when we're finished, I'm going to give you a lesson.”

“Doing what?” Guy asked.

“In fighting,” Isabelle said.

Guy dropped the salt shaker on the floor. Isabelle picked it up and said, “Lucky for you it didn't break. Wait'll I crumb the table, then we'll head out.” Crumbing the table was Isabelle's favorite part of Sunday dinner. With a large napkin and her usual enthusiasm, she brushed all the crumbs that had fallen on the table during the meal into a tray. The floor needed crumbing, too, after she'd finished.

“Okay.” She regarded the clean tablecloth with a practiced eye. “Mission accomplished. Let's go.”

“Is Herbie still sick?” Guy asked, longing for Herbie to be up-and-at-'em so
he
could fight with Isabelle.

“I called him up this morning,” Isabelle said, “and his mother said he was in bed. But I could hear him hollering in the background that he was fine. He called his mother a mean old witch because she wouldn't let him out. If I called my mother a mean old witch, she'd wash my mouth out with soap. Come on,” and she dragged Guy behind her as she left.

“Don't go far,” her mother said.

“Why not?”

“I don't know,” her mother said, surprised. “If I call you, I want you to be able to hear me.”

Outside at last, Isabelle said, “Okay, put up your dukes.”

“I don't have any dukes,” said Guy. “I just remembered—I didn't thank your mother. I better go back in and thank her.”

Isabelle grabbed Guy's sweater and wouldn't let go. “You don't have to thank her,” she said. “We better get going. Dukes are fists, dummy. You got fists. Make a fist.” She showed him how. “That's right. Now hit me. Here.” She stuck her chin at him. “Hit me as hard as you can. I can take it.”

He swung at her and missed.

“Again!” Isabelle shouted.

Fists flailing, Guy stirred up the air around Isabelle's head, but he never hit her.

“You're not trying,” she said, sounding like Mrs. Esposito. “You're not concentrating. How can you fight if you don't try?”

“I don't know,” Guy said.

Suddenly, two creeps from the fourth grade came swooping down the street on their bikes. They headed straight for where Isabelle and Guy were standing.

“Guy, schmy, couldn't hurt a fly!” one of the boys bellowed. Guy darted behind a tree and Isabelle took off after the boys. But as fast as she could run, their bikes were faster. One of them spit at her and the other cackled and called names all the way to the end of the block and around the corner until they were out of sight.

When she came back, panting and out of breath, Guy was still behind the tree, waiting for her.

“I don't know what we're gonna do,” she said. “You don't want to fight. You can't get into trouble. It's hopeless.”

He nodded. “I know,” he said. “I thought you could help me.”

“I'll think of something,” Isabelle said. “But it won't be easy. You're a tough case. I'll need a couple of days. But I'll think of something.”

Chapter Nine

The next morning Guy pounced on Isabelle as she came out of her classroom.

“Did you think of anything yet?” he said.

“Give me a break. That was only yesterday,” she told him.

“Isabelle, may I see you for a minute, please?” Mrs. Esposito said from the doorway.

“Uh-oh.” Isabelle knew that meant trouble.

“Look at this.” Mrs. Esposito waved a paper marked with a large red F in Isabelle's face. “Last week's test. Multiplication tables, the ones I drilled you in. The ones I told you we'd have on the test. There's no excuse for the number you had wrong. Absolutely no excuse. You don't concentrate. You don't pay attention. Your mind is always someplace else. I want to help, Isabelle.” Mrs. Esposito's pretty eyes were troubled. “But I can't do it without your cooperation.”

If Mrs. Esposito felt bad about Isabelle's F, Isabelle felt worse. Already she could hear her father saying, “Pull yourself together, Isabelle, or we lower the boom.” Lowering the boom meant no television, no fun, no nothing. She could see her mother's disappointed face as she said, “I thought you were going to do better.”

Isabelle spent a lot of time trying to do better, but it was like running in place. She never got anywhere.

And worst of all, she could hear Philip singing under his breath, singing songs about Scuzzy Izzy. And worse.

“I tried,” Isabelle said, jigging first on one foot, then the other. “I really tried.”

“No, Isabelle, I don't think you did. If you had, this wouldn't have happened. What am I going to do with you?”

“I know.” Isabelle snapped her fingers, delighted with the idea that had just occurred to her. “I could come home with you and stay at your house a while. A week or a month, maybe. Then you could drill me on my multiplication tables every morning before school. How would that be?” Isabelle had never been to Mrs. Esposito's house and had always wanted to see what it was like.

Mrs. Esposito shuddered slightly. “No,” she said, “I'm sure your mother and father would never permit that.”

“They might,” Isabelle said. “They get fed up with me. Maybe if I went to live with you, they'd be sorry they were so mean to me.”

“I'm sure your mother and father aren't mean to you, Isabelle.”

“Oh, yes, they are. They say I'm a pest and a terrible itch and they make me go to my room until I simmer down. My mother says I'm making her old before her time, and my brother kicks me in the stomach when they're out and locks me in the bathroom and steals my candy. Even when I hide it in my shoes, he finds it and eats it. He says it smells of feet but he eats it anyway.”

Mrs. Esposito laughed. “One thing about you, Isabelle, you always cheer me up. Even when I'm cross with you, you cheer me up.”

“That's good.” Isabelle danced around Mrs. Esposito. “My father made pizza Saturday. The crust was a little tough but he said to tell you next time it'll be better and you can have some.”

“Tell your father I'd like that.” Mrs. Esposito handed Isabelle her test paper. “Take this home,” she said, “and go over it. Correct all the mistakes you made and bring it back tomorrow.”

“Do I have to have my mother or father sign it?” Isabelle asked.

Mrs. Esposito sighed. “Not this time. This will be between you and me. Just this once.”

Isabelle threw her arms around Mrs. Esposito and almost knocked her down. “I love you!” she cried. “You're the most excellent teacher in the whole world!”

She raced out of the room and almost bumped into Jane Malone.

“Sally Smith is moving,” Jane said. “My mother said I could give her a farewell party.”

“Neat. Who're you going to ask?”

“The class.”

“The whole class!” Isabelle said, astonished.

“Yep. My mother says she doesn't think it would be nice to leave anyone out.”

“You mean Chauncey and Mary Eliza and everybody?” Isabelle said, remembering parties she'd been left out of.

“Yep. Everyone,” said Jane.

“That's a lot of mouths to feed,” Isabelle said. “Maybe my mother could help.”

“That'd be nice.”

Isabelle raced back and caught Mrs. Esposito just as she was putting on her jacket.

“How many people are there in the class?” Isabelle cried.

“Twenty-one, I think.” Mrs. Esposito did a little mental arithmetic. “Yes, that's right. Not counting me,” she said, smiling.

Isabelle charged back into the hall.

“There are twenty-one people in the class,” she told Jane. “Not counting Mrs. Esposito. Don't forget her. You don't want to leave her out, do you?”

“Oh, no,” said Jane. “Thanks for reminding me.”

Isabelle felt she had done her good deed for the day. Sort of like the Lone Ranger.

“You're welcome, Kemosabe,” she said.

Chapter Ten

“Have you heard the news?” Mary Eliza popped out from behind her locker. “Sally Smith is moving!”

“I know. Jane told me,” said Isabelle. “She's having a farewell party for Sally. She's inviting everyone.”

“Everyone?” Mary Eliza drew herself up haughtily. “That's a lot.”

“It's twenty-two, including Mrs. Esposito. My mother's helping Jane's mother.” Isabelle aimed a neat blow in Mary Eliza's direction. “Only one cupcake to a person,” she hissed. “That's the rule.”

Mary Eliza backed off and hissed back, “I'm getting Sally's job!”

“What job?” Isabelle asked, knowing perfectly well what job.

“Art editor of
The Bee.” The Bee
was the class paper. Some kids wanted to call it
The Bumble Bee
but that was voted down as being too buzzy.

“It just so happens I have a picture with me I drew only this morning.” Mary Eliza dove down into her briefcase and pulled out a drawing of a girl in a ballet suit.