Isabelle Shows Her Stuff: The Isabelle Series, Book Two (6 page)

Mary Eliza was the only person in the fifth grade, maybe even in the entire school, who had a briefcase.

Isabelle squinted at the picture. “It looks just like you,” she said, “only not as ugly.” Then she put out her arms and soared in circles around Mary Eliza, making airplane noises, preparing for takeoff.

Insults bounced off Mary Eliza like bullets off Superman. “It's interesting you should say that, because it
is
me,” Mary Eliza said with pride. “A good likeness, if I do say so. Notice the placement of the feet, how the arm is extended. Perfect form. I am the artist as well as the artist's model. You might say I'm a shoo-in to be the new art editor of
The Bee.
”

“
You
might but you won't catch me saying it,” Isabelle said. “I wouldn't say you were a shoo-in if you tied me to a tree and poured honey on my nose so the ants would lick me to death.”

“Ants can't lick you to death,” Mary Eliza said, crossing her arms on her chest and slitting her eyes, getting ready to pounce.

Isabelle backed off. She wondered if it was possible to run backwards. She'd never find out until she gave it a try. Moving backwards, she picked up speed.

“Hey! Watch where you're going!” Herbie hollered, as she bumped into him.

“Oh, hi. I thought you were still sick,” Isabelle said. “I thought maybe your mother locked you in so the germs couldn't find you.”

“She wanted to, but I told her if I missed any more school, I might get left back. So she wrote a note to excuse me from recess and gym so I wouldn't get overheated,” Herbie explained.

“I thought only cars got overheated,” Isabelle said. “I didn't know people did too.”

“There's your little brother!” Mary Eliza shouted as Guy came down the hall.

“She doesn't have any little brother,” Herbie said, scowling.

“I knew it! I knew it!” Mary Eliza cried.

“You can come to my house today if you want,” Guy said. “My mother said it's all right.”

“Today's my last day to do the route,” Isabelle said. “Philip owes me a buck fifty times two.”

“A buck fifty times two!” Herbie whistled.

“Whose little brother is he, then?”

“Go paint yourself into a corner, why don't you?” Isabelle suggested.

Mary Eliza twirled a few times to clear her head. “I might just do that,” she said. “A portrait of the artist sitting in a corner. Another first for me.”

“How about sitting on a tuffet, eating your curds and whey?” Herbie said.

“What's a tuffet?” Mary Eliza said.

“You don't know what a tuffet is?” Isabelle exclaimed, popping her eyes out.

“I bet you don't know what a tuffet is either, smarty pants. What's a tuffet, then?” Mary Eliza yelled.

“I'm not telling,” Isabelle said. She made herself stand quietly and smile at Mary Eliza. It was easier to smile than it was to stand quietly. Much easier. But she did it. Then she turned and walked away—walked, not ran. All the way down the hall, she felt Mary Eliza's eyes on her.

Slowly, slowly. Walk, do not run.

Once around the corner she broke into a fifty-yard dash.

“Slow down!” she heard someone yell.

A sixth-grade traffic cop, the worst kind. Isabelle slowed down, feeling, in some way, victorious.

What
is
a tuffet anyway?

Chapter Eleven

“Mother, this is Herbie and this is Isabelle,” Guy said.

“I've met Isabelle,” Guy's mother said, not exactly unfriendly, but not exactly friendly, either. “Hello, Herbie,” she said.

Herbie was not at his best in front of strangers. He mumbled hello back and hid behind Isabelle.

“Would you like some juice and crackers, children? Guy, you may pour the apple juice and Becca will get the crackers.”

“Read any good books lately?” Isabelle asked Becca, joking.

Becca sighed elaborately and handed Isabelle a graham cracker.

Isabelle felt Herbie tugging on her. She reached around and slapped at him to cut it out.

Herbie drank two glasses of apple juice as if he'd just come from the desert. “Okay, where's the hot water?” he demanded, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“If you'd like to wash your hands, Guy will show you to the lavatory,” Guy's mother said.

“Outside, I meant.” Herbie slid halfway under the table as all eyes turned on him.

“There's no hot water outside, only inside,” Becca said.

“I know what he means,” Guy said, coming to Herbie's rescue. “When my father first said we were moving here, I dreamed that I fished out of my bedroom window. Just let the line down and lots of fish swimming under my window bit and I hauled 'em up and ate them right there on the rug. They were delicious,” he said dreamily. “I thought that was the way it was going to be, a little stream filled with hot water running under my window. I was disappointed for quite a long time.”

“That's what I meant,” Herbie said. “I thought hot water ran down the street.” He didn't say he was disappointed too, but Isabelle thought he was.

“You want to see my chains?” Becca asked Herbie, having taken a sudden fancy to him.

Herbie blinked. “What kind of chains?”

“Chain chains,” Becca said. “Come on.”

Herbie went reluctantly, sticking his thumbs in his belt and walking like a cowboy, which wasn't easy considering he was wearing his old sneakers. Wait'll he found out what all those dangling chains meant! Herbie'd freak out, Isabelle was sure. He'd only read about one book in his whole life. Every time he had to give an oral book report, he got up and said, “This is a story of a boy who was raised in the wild.”

Last time he'd pulled that, the class had groaned in unison.

“That will be quite enough, boys and girls,” Mrs. Esposito had said, trying not to smile.

Guy went upstairs to change his clothes before going out to play. That left Isabelle alone with Guy's mother. Isabelle considered doing a tap dance to entertain Guy's mother and started moving her feet, getting them warmed up.

“You're not in Guy's class, are you?” his mother said.

“Nope. I'm in fifth grade,” Isabelle replied.

“I thought you were too tall to be in the third grade. And Herbie? Is he in fifth grade too?”

Isabelle nodded.

“I would like Guy to have some friends his own age,” Guy's mother said.

“Oh, he will,” Isabelle said grandly. “Just wait. Once he gets toughened up, he'll have plenty of friends his own age.”

Guy's mother raised her eyebrows. “Toughened up?” she said.

“Can I go up and see if he's ready yet?” Isabelle asked, wishing Herbie would come out of Becca's chain room and that Guy would come down in his old clothes and they could get the show on the road.

Guy came clattering downstairs just then, and Isabelle breathed a sigh of relief. Herbie came back too, looking stunned by his experience.

“He's only read thirty-five books,” Becca told her mother. Isabelle glared at Herbie but he refused to meet her eyes. They both said “Thanks” to Guy's mother and traipsed outside.

“Thirty-five!” Isabelle leaned on Herbie so hard he almost fell. “Who are you kidding?”

“How many books have you read?” Herbie asked Guy.

Guy looked at the sky, counting. “Oh, about a hundred, I guess,” he said.

“Have you got paper chains, too, in your room?”

“Some. Not as many as Becca. She's a show-off.”

“How come you read so many books? How come your sister can read and she's only six?” Isabelle asked.

“Well, she's a gifted child,” Guy said.

Herbie's eyes popped. “You shoulda told me!” he wheezed. “I never woulda gone into her room to see the chains if I knew that.”

“And also,” Guy said, “my mother read to us while we were still inside her stomach. That way, she figured we'd get started early.”

Astounded at this piece of information, Isabelle said, “Could you hear her?”

“I don't remember,” Guy said truthfully. “I must've, though. My mother's a librarian, too.”

“Oh.” Isabelle nodded wisely. “That explains it.” Herbie nodded wisely, too. They both felt better, knowing Guy and Becca's mother was a librarian.

“Bet she's always telling you to be quiet, huh?” Isabelle said, laughing.

Guy put his hand over his mouth and laughed through it, the way he did when he didn't get something.

“Don't you like to read?” he asked.

“I'd rather fight,” said Isabelle.

“Can't you do both?”

Isabelle looked at the ground, then up at both boys. The thought had never occurred to her.

“I guess,” she said, doubtfully.

Chapter Twelve

“I corrected them all, like you said. Check it.” Isabelle thrust her arithmetic test under Mrs. Esposito's nose. “Please.”

With her coat still on, Mrs. Esposito checked.

“Perfect,” she said. “Now I want to see you do this the first time around next time. You can do as well. Can't you?”

“I'm not sure. I guess.” Isabelle thought a minute “Sure.”

“That's the way. Now would you mind opening the window a trifle? This room smells like bologna sandwiches.”

“Don't you like bologna sandwiches?”

“Not enough to smell them all morning.”

Isabelle flung open the window, sending the papers on Mrs. Esposito's desk flying.

“I said a trifle, not the whole way.”

Isabelle closed the window to a slit and picked up the papers.

“If they called you a goody-goody because you never did anything wrong, never even had to go to the principal's office once,” she said suddenly, “and kids teased you and chased you and called you names, what would you do?” Isabelle watched Mrs. Esposito with her bright brown eyes and waited to hear what she'd say.

“That's a tough one,” Mrs. Esposito said, frowning. “I assume you're not talking about yourself, Isabelle,” she said, winking.

“It's a friend of mine.” Isabelle didn't feel like joking. “It's this really nice little guy. He's, well, he's sort of, well, sweet. I really like him. I feel bad because these crummy creeps make him miserable and there's nothing he can do about it. I tried to teach him how to fight so he can punch 'em out, but he doesn't like to fight. How can he be mean and tough if he's not mean or tough?”

“He probably can't. How old is he?”

“He's only eight.”

“Give him a while. Maybe he'll figure out something in a couple of years.”

“Yeah, but what does he do for a couple of years? Just stand there and take it?”

“Perhaps the best thing would be to tell his mother and father, and they could handle it,” Mrs. Esposito suggested.

“He doesn't want to do that. You know how mothers and fathers are.” Isabelle lifted her shoulders and turned her hands palms up, trying to explain mothers and fathers to her teacher.

“They're supposed to protect children until children are big enough to take care of themselves,” Mrs. Esposito said. “I think eight is too little to handle something like this by himself. Why don't you tell your friend to tell his parents and they might be able to help.”

Isabelle shook her head from side to side, letting her brown hair swing across her cheeks. “He won't,” she said firmly. “I know this kid and I guarantee you, he won't.”

A little knock came at the door. “Come in,” the teacher called. The door opened and Guy stood there, hair slicked down, cowlick waving from the top of his head. His cheeks were shiny with soap.

“I came to talk to her,” Guy said, pointing to Isabelle.

“Well, talk then,” Isabelle said. He looked very small to her. Very clean and very small.

“Did you figure out anything yet?” He came right up to her and whispered, so Mrs. Esposito wouldn't hear. “You promised. Did you?”

“Not yet,” Isabelle said.

“I thought so.” Guy stuck his hands in his pockets and dug the toe of his sneaker against the nearest desk. “I was counting on you.” He looked at her with his enormous eyes. “If you can't figure out something, then I guess nobody can.”

Isabelle's face got warm. She was blushing. She tried to think of something to say to make Guy feel better and couldn't.

“Guess what!” Chauncey Lapidus charged into the room like a bull. Or a steamroller. “I'm invited to a party!” He looked around at their faces, wanting them to share his joy and pleasure at this singular event. “I'm invited to Sally Smith's farewell party! I never been invited to a party before. But I'm going to this one!” Chauncey's face glowed.

“Oh, everybody's going to the party for Sally Smith,” Isabelle said airily. “The whole class is invited.”

Chauncey's face fell.

“How nice, Chauncey!” Mrs. Esposito cried. “I like parties, too.”

When Chauncey stomped to his desk at the back of the room, Mrs. Esposito said in a low voice, “That wasn't nice, Isabelle. That was unkind and you know it. Why couldn't you let him enjoy his invitation without telling him everyone was going? I'm ashamed of you.”

Isabelle's head drooped like a wilted flower on a stalk. Tears stung her eyes. She knew she shouldn't have said what she said. Chauncey felt special, being invited to the party. And she'd destroyed that feeling. Isabelle raised her head, peeking up at Mrs. Esposito's feet tucked neatly under her desk. Mrs. Esposito didn't raise her eyes. Isabelle checked out the hall. It was empty. Guy had gone. The day had just begun.

When the recess bell rang, the entire class rose as one and exited, shouting and screaming their joy at being released. Isabelle stayed behind.

“I didn't mean to be mean,” she said to Mrs. Esposito.