Isabelle Shows Her Stuff: The Isabelle Series, Book Two (7 page)

Mrs. Esposito regarded her steadily. “Are you sure?”

“I'm sure I'm sure,” Isabelle said, enjoying the rhythm of her words. “I'm very sure I'm sure.”

“This is not a joke, Isabelle. This is serious. Think about it for a while. On the one hand, you're trying to help your friend Guy out of his problem. And on the other, you're making another boy unhappy. To be mean for meanness' sake is a terrible thing. You wanted to put Chauncey down. You knew exactly what to say to bring this about. I'm disappointed in you. Now, I'm afraid I have work to do.” Mrs. Esposito bent over her desk, shutting Isabelle out.

What do I care? Isabelle thought. She ran, shouting and screaming as loud as anybody, out to the playground, looking for some action.

Chapter Thirteen

“How do you like it?” Mrs. Stern asked, pointing to her tomato-red front door. “I think it's the best I've ever done. Mixed it myself, too. Mr. Brady across the street told me when he comes out on his way to work and sees that door, it makes his day. Come on in, both of you.”

Isabelle and Guy followed her down the hall to the kitchen. “This is my friend Guy Gibbs,” Isabelle said. “He's a customer on my route. This is my last day to deliver. Philip's off his crutches, darn it. I was hoping he'd have to use 'em a lot longer.”

“Hello, Guy. One or two?” Mrs. Stern bustled about, getting down a bag of marshmallows.

“What are they?” Guy whispered.

“Marshmallows, dummy.” Isabelle said. “Take two, I'll eat yours.”

“Two, please,” Guy said.

“Well, this is indeed a pleasure.” Mrs. Stern's silver eyes twinkled. “I haven't seen you in so long I thought you'd forgotten me.”

“I've been here but you were always someplace else,” Isabelle said.

“To tell you the truth, an old friend is in town,” Mrs. Stern said. “He's been taking me dancing and to the movies and the museums. Oh, it's been grand!” She clasped her hands, a dreamy expression on her face. “It's been lovely,” she said.

Isabelle was astonished. She had thought Mrs. Stern was an old lady. A very sharp old lady, but nevertheless an old lady. And now she was behaving like a teenager. Well, the dancing and the movies were teenage things. She wasn't sure about the museums.

Mrs. Stern poured out the cocoa and sat down with them. Marshmallows bobbed cozily on the hot cocoa. “Is he your age?” Isabelle asked, having decided it was better not to say, “Is he as old as you?”

“No, he's older.” Mrs. Stern punched down her marshmallow with her spoon. Isabelle let out a little gasp. Mrs. Stern grinned.

“I knew that'd get you!” Mrs. Stern laughed. “He's the older brother of my dearest friend. When she died, she left me a ring in her will, and he came to deliver it personally.”

“Did that make you sad?” Isabelle asked.

“We had been friends for almost sixty years,” Mrs. Stern said simply.

Isabelle and Guy looked at one another and said nothing.

“Tell me about you,” Mrs. Stern said briskly, looking straight at Guy. To put off answering her, he put both marshmallows into his mouth at once. It was more than he could handle. Mrs. Stern tactfully left the table.

“Spit 'em out!” Isabelle ordered. Guy's aim was good. The slightly soggy marshmallows landed neatly in his cup.

“More cocoa?” Mrs. Stern said.

Guy nodded, incapable of speech at the moment.

“He lives on Hot Water Street,” Isabelle said. “He's in third grade. His sister is six. She reads books. His father is a football coach. His mother is a librarian.”

“Well,” Mrs. Stern said, after a small silence, “I guess that takes care of Guy. How is life treating you, Isabelle?”

“So so,” Isabelle said, shrugging. “Pretty good. Not great.”

Guy sat up very straight. “Maybe you and my grandmother could be friends,” he said suddenly. “She's about your age. She comes and stays with us sometimes. Her name is Maybelle Gibbs.”

“I hope someday we may meet,” Mrs. Stern said. “That's very kind of you to think of, Guy.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes at Guy. “We better go now,” she said. “I have lots of papers to deliver.”

“Don't be such a stranger, Isabelle, even if Philip is back on his feet,” Mrs. Stern said. “I've missed you. You come again too, Guy.”

“What'd you say that for?” Isabelle demanded when they were outside. “What a dumb thing to say. Telling Mrs. Stern she was about the same age as your grandmother. Sheesh!”

“What's so dumb about that?” Unexpectedly, Guy defended himself. “She said her best friend died, didn't she? So I thought my grandmother and her could be best friends. What's so dumb about that?”

“Oh, come on. Quit dragging your feet.” Isabelle stalked ahead angrily. Mrs. Stern had said that Guy was kind. She'd never said Isabelle was kind. Isabelle wished she'd thought of suggesting Guy's grandmother and Mrs. Stern might be friends. Then Mrs. Stern might've smiled at her and told her she was kind.

“Tell your mother I'm collecting today,” Isabelle directed when they reached Guy's house.

“She's not home. My grandmother's staying with us. My mother's working,” he said.

Isabelle heard Becca playing the piano. She tiptoed to a window and peeked in. I wonder how they got it inside, she thought. If I ever run into those moving men, I'll ask. I wonder if they took off the legs.

When she turned, Guy was right behind her.

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

“Nope,” she said. “Maybe you better ask your mother and father if they can figure out how to make those geezers stop teasing you.”

Guy's face crumpled. “My mother and father?” he said in a cracked voice. “I counted on you.” All of him drooped, including his cowlick. “I counted on you, Isabelle,” he said.

Isabelle hoisted her newspaper bag from one shoulder to the other. Guy held one hand over his mouth. Over it, his huge eyes looked at her, unblinking.

“Well,” she said in a gruff voice, “maybe I'll come up with something. But don't stand on one leg until I do, okay?”

The corners of Guy's mouth turned up a little. He put one hand on Isabelle's arm where it rested, as weightless as a leaf.

“You're my friend,” he said. “My best friend, Isabelle.”

“Pooh!” Isabelle cried. She turned and ran, as fast as she could, as if she were running in the fifty-yard dash, the canvas bag thumping rhythmically against her back. Guy waved at her but she never once looked back.

“Jane Malone's mother is having a farewell party for Sally Smith. The whole class is invited. I said you'd help,” Isabelle gasped, bursting into the kitchen.

“You remember Mrs. Stilson, Isabelle,” Isabelle's mother said in her “mind your manners” tone.

“Sure. Hello, Mrs. Stilson.”

“Hello, Isabelle.” Mrs. Stilson's stomach billowed under her maternity dress.

“I didn't know you were having a baby,” Isabelle said. “When's it coming?” She almost pointed at Mrs. Stilson's stomach but stopped herself in time. Beside her, she heard her mother sigh.

“In five weeks,” Mrs. Stilson replied.

Isabelle pondered this information.

“You want me to read to it?” she said at last.

“That would be nice.” Mrs. Stilson looked startled.

“Isabelle loves babies,” her mother said. One never knew what Isabelle might say. One often wished Isabelle would keep her trap shut.

“I'll read to it right now,” Isabelle announced.

“Okay,” Mrs. Stilson said.

“I think I'll go down to the cellar and do a load of wash,” Isabelle's mother said. She sometimes did this when Isabelle got to be too much for her. Isabelle dashed up to her room and dashed back, bearing her favorite Dr. Seuss.

“Did you know if you read to your baby while it's still in your stomach, it'll probably be an ace reader when it gets out?”

Mrs. Stilson digested this information while Isabelle sat and aimed herself at Mrs. Stilson's stomach. In a loud and penetrating voice, Isabelle pronounced each word very clearly so the baby would hear each one.

“There you are,” Guy's grandmother said.

“Where'd you think I was?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Something wrong?” she asked.

“No,” Guy said.

Becca came in and said, “Did you hear me practicing the piano?”

“Yeah,” Guy said, “you stink.”

“Guy, what's come over you?” his grandmother said.

Becca sat down at the table with her crayons and began coloring Snoopy's nose bright red.

“He's just mad because he doesn't have any friends,” Becca said.

“That'll be enough, miss,” Guy's grandmother said.

Calmly Becca colored Snoopy's ears purple.

“You may be a gifted child but you sure are a lousy colorer,” Guy told her.

“I have three friends. Their names are Donna and Michelle and Amy.” Becca colored Snoopy's arms and legs yellow.

“Yeah, well, I have three friends too,” Guy said. “Their names are Isabelle and Herbie and Mrs. Stern.”

“Friends are supposed to be the same age you are,” Becca said. “Isabelle and Herbie are older'n you. I don't know any Mrs. Stern.”

“Yeah, well, she's the same age I am,” Guy said.

Becca opened her mouth, then closed it and went back to her piano.

“Well done,” Guy's grandmother told him.

Chapter Fourteen

The day of the party dawned bright and clear. Isabelle bounded out of bed, wrote
PARTY
! for the fifth time on her blackboard, then bounded downstairs.

Isabelle's mother stood at the sink, stabbing at a floating eggshell. “What time's the movie let out?”

“I can walk home,” Philip said.

“Where's he going?” Isabelle rested her elbows on the table.

“It's none of your business!” Philip shot one of his laser-beam stares at her, guaranteed to cut her in half.

“There's a bunch of people going. We'll walk home together.”

“Does he have a date?” Isabelle asked her mother.

Philip's face went from pink to red to purple. Once, years ago, Philip had had a tantrum. He might be having another, Isabelle thought, shivering in anticipation.

“Shut your face,” he ordered, from the corner of his mouth.

“I forgot,” he said, remembering. “Billy's brother is picking us up when it's over.”

“Is he the one who's been arrested for speeding?”

“No, that's Chuck's brother,” Isabelle said. “He plays cool disco,” and she did a brief disco dance to illustrate.

Philip unclenched his hands and went for Isabelle's throat.

“Good morning.” Isabelle's father, all suited up for work, greeted his happy little family. “What's up?” he asked, snapping open his newspaper, reaching for his coffee.

“Philip has a date,” Isabelle said. “With a girl.”

Philip made a gargling noise. Isabelle picked up her bowl and drank the remaining milk. No one told her not to. This day was off to a fine start. Invigorated, she jogged outside, looking for Guy. He wasn't there. She jogged all the way to school, turning now and then to see if he was following her. He wasn't in the playground either. Just as well. She still hadn't come up with a solution. After the party she would. She promised herself she would.

“Class, we all know today is the big sendoff for Sally,” Mrs. Esposito said. “Tomorrow, we're going to hold an election to see who will fill Sally's shoes.” Chauncey stuck one leg straight up in the air and wiggled his foot. Everybody laughed, then looked at Sally. She only smiled and bent over her book. Sally Smith was a star. She not only was art editor, she was lots of other things. Everyone wanted to be Sally Smith.

Mary Eliza flipped back her hair and preened like a peacock. Isabelle studied her Adidas. Sally's feet were small and hers were big. Still, she knew she could fill Sally's shoes nicely. It would be grand to be an art editor. Even if she didn't know what one did.

“Each of you is allowed one vote,” Mrs. Esposito went on. “Drop your votes in here,” and she pointed to the box on her desk. It was the box that served as a Valentine box on Valentine's Day, and it had a large, faded red heart pasted on its front.

“I want you to vote for the person you think will do the best job,” Mrs. Esposito told them. “Don't vote for yourself unless you're prepared to work hard.” A wave of snickers rolled over the room. Isabelle shot one of her laser beams in Mary Eliza's direction. But Mary Eliza was so busy looking modest, she didn't notice.

The party got off to a good start. Chauncey kicked a soccer ball which landed smack in Mary Eliza's mouth, jarring her retainer and sending blood spurting down her chin. Mary Eliza was brave and poor Chauncey felt terrible. When the excitement had died down, refreshments were served. Isabelle's mother's cupcakes were a big hit. Isabelle was extremely proud of her mother and told everyone whose cupcakes they were. The high spot was when Mrs. Malone brought out a large chocolate three-layer cake with
FAREWELL
,
SALLY
written on it in pink icing.

“Here, Sally,” she said, handing Sally a cake knife, “you do the honors.”

With a big smile, Sally cut the first slice. Then, to everyone's amazement, she burst into tears.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Malone said. “What's wrong, dear? Do you feel all right?”

“I feel fine,” Sally blubbered. “It's just that I hate to move. I'm sad about leaving. I don't want to go.”

Isabelle was dismayed by Sally's tears. She didn't think Sally ever cried. Sally was a leader. Leaders didn't cry.

“Nothing will ever be as nice as here,” Sally snuffled. “This is the best place in the world. Nothing will be as much fun.”