Isabelle Shows Her Stuff: The Isabelle Series, Book Two (8 page)

“Don't worry, Sally,” Isabelle said. “You'll make friends. I bet you'll be the art editor at your new school. I bet you'll be the best speller and the best in arithmetic, too.”

“I don't want to be a baby,” Sally said. “But I couldn't help it.”

“I'll miss you,” Isabelle whispered at the edge of Sally's ear. “You are my friend, Sally. You are the best person in the entire world. You are the best …” she paused, trying to think of other comforting words to offer Sally. Herbie arrived and stepped hard on Isabelle's Adidas.

“Knock it off,” Herbie said, scowling. “We're having a game of musical chairs, so come on and stop being a jerk.”

Musical chairs! Isabelle's favorite. All the pushing and shoving! Lovely.

“Come on, Sally,” and Isabelle dragged her new friend's hand and pulled her into the game.

Isabelle had never even been to Sally's house. She had not been invited to Sally's birthday party, which took place in Sally's rec room. Sally had one toe out the door, so to speak, and here they were, best friends. She promised to write her every day.

That night, before lights out, Isabelle wrote on her blackboard
SALLY SMITH IS COOL
.
SALLY SMITH IS MY PEN PAL
.
SALLY SMITH IS MY NEW BEST FRIEND
.

And underneath, written in letters so small she had to push her nose against the blackboard to read them, Isabelle wrote:
YEAH
!
ISABELLE
.
NEW ART ED
.
OF THE BEE
.
YEAH
!

Chapter Fifteen

“They followed me home from school yesterday,” Guy said. “Calling me goody-goody Guy, Mama's boy, all that. I went to your house and you weren't there. I sat and waited for you and you didn't come.”

“I was at Sally Smith's farewell party,” Isabelle told him. “I told you about that. You knew I was going to her party. I can't just not go because you want me to figure out a way to make 'em stop, can I?”

“No,” said Guy.

“I thought about it, though. A lot. I thought and thought. How about if you throw a stone through the principal's window. And it breaks. Not a big stone, only a little one, so if it hit Mrs. Prendergast, it would only bounce off her head and wouldn't even cut her or anything. Only scare her a little. How about that?” asked Isabelle, who had only just that minute thought of this plan.

“My father'd get awful mad at me if I did that,” Guy said. “Besides, I like Mrs. Prendergast. She never did anything to me. Why'd I want to do that to her?”

“For crying out loud!” Isabelle cried. “What difference does it make if you like her or not? You want them to stop calling you names, don't you? You want to do something bad so they won't call you a goody-goody, don't you?”

“Yes,” said Guy.

“Well then. If you did that, everybody would find out about it and they'd say, ‘Hey, that's the little creep we were always calling a goody-goody. Guess he's not one after all.' Isn't that what you want?”

“I'm too scared to do something like that,” Guy said.

“Well, you could break into the school on Saturday when it was empty and write stuff on the walls and mess up the classrooms.” He looked at her with great, sad eyes and was silent.

“Sheesh! I'm running out of ideas,” Isabelle said.

“That's okay. I know you tried. Maybe my grandmother will think of something.”

“Your grandmother?” Isabelle stood on her head. “Your grandmother?” She liked the way the words came out when she talked standing on her head. They sounded odd, not like her at all. “I'll bet she doesn't know squat about getting into trouble.”

“She was a child once,” Guy said.

“Yeah, like about a hundred million years ago.” Spots began to dance in front of Isabelle's eyes, but she stayed put.

“She may be old,” Guy defended his grandmother, “but she's young at heart.” He'd heard that in a song on the radio once and thought it described his grandmother perfectly.

Isabelle collapsed and lay outstretched on the ground. At that instant Herbie's mother drove by. Herbie leaned out and yelled, “Hey, you finally got her! Yippee!” and the car kept going until it was out of sight.

Made bold by this, Guy planted one of his feet firmly on Isabelle's stomach, holding her down. “How about you and me fighting?” he asked, tempted to put both feet on her and take a little walk. But he wasn't
that
bold.

“You whippersnapper!” Isabelle hollered, struggling to get up. Guy removed his foot and started running. He wanted to put distance between himself and her.

When he looked back, she was standing there, shaking her fist at him. “You bozo!” she cried.

Elated by an unaccustomed feeling of power, Guy waved and kept on going. He'd never stepped on anyone in his entire life. It was an exhilarating experience.

When Guy got home, his grandmother was soaking her feet in Epsom salts.

“My dogs are barking,” she said, rubbing one dripping foot against the other.

Becca turned her head, listening. “I don't hear anything,” she said.

“She means her feet hurt, you whippersnapper,” said Guy.

“You're getting feisty,” his grandmother said. “I detect the influence of the paper boy.”

“When you were a child, were you ever bad?” Guy asked suddenly.

“Once in a while. The worst thing I ever did was try to sell my baby sister to some new people who moved on our street.” She threw back her head and laughed. “I wasn't very old, only about four. And I was very jealous of my sister. She was getting entirely too much attention, it seemed to me. So when the new people moved in, I bundled up the baby and pushed her in her pram down the street. I rang the bell, and when the lady of the house came to the door, I said, ‘Would you like to buy this baby? She's for sale. Cheap.' I'll tell you, they never let me forget that.”

“Did they buy the baby?” Guy wanted to know. He was entranced with the story. If only he'd thought of that when Becca was little. It was too late now, of course. Nobody would want to buy a gifted child.

“No. They had children of their own. I would've tried it again but they kept a close eye on me from then on. Then there was the time I took my brother's bicycle. Molly McCabe and I wanted to go on a picnic. I guess I had a bicycle, but the tires were flat or some such thing. Anyway, I took Bob's. He was older than I and had a terrible temper. As luck would have it, he came home and wanted to ride his bicycle. And it was gone. Well, there was some fracas when Bob discovered I'd taken it, I can tell you. I was shut in my room without supper that night. We'd always been taught to respect other people's property, you see. That was a fair old time. What fun we had! We never did anything really bad. Not like some of the things that happen these days.”

Guy sat still, hoping she'd think of some other tales of her childhood. None of them were of any use to him, of course, except for the baby-selling one. If only he'd thought of that before Becca could talk. Come to think of it, she'd been born talking. Life was full of missed opportunities, it seemed to him.

“This water's getting chilly,” Guy's grandmother said. “I better dry my feet before I take cold. Bring me a towel, would you please, Guy?”

He sat on the floor and watched while she dried her feet. Her legs were very white. Blue veins ran every which way up and down them, then trailed a slender tracing across her feet.

“Did you ever get sent to the principal's office?” Guy wanted to know.

“Once or twice. Our principal was an old lady who wore glasses and her skirts to the floor. She looked like somebody's grandmother. But she was tough.” Guy's grandmother rolled her eyes at him. “My Lord, but she was tough. Nobody got away with anything with her. She was allowed to cane the boys and not the girls. Those were the days, you see, when girls were supposed to be the gentler sex. We both know that's not the case, don't we?” Guy nodded, afraid to speak, afraid to break the spell.

“She'd say to me, ‘Maybelle, it pains me to see you here again,' meaning her office. She knew my name, you see, knew the name of every child in the school. And their family situation, too. She was a very smart woman. Hand me my slippers, will you, Guy?”

He handed them to her and said, without thinking, “I like you.”

“I like you too,” she said.

“I'm not much for kissing,” he told her, so there'd be no misunderstanding.

“How about hugging?”

He thought about that. “I guess hugging's okay as long as you don't hug too hard or too much.”

“Listen,” she said, “I've had lots of experience. I always hug just right.” He allowed her to give him a sample.

“How was it?” she asked.

“Just right,” Guy said.

Chapter Sixteen

The afternoon stretched slowly, slowly, like Rip van Winkle waking from his twenty years' sleep. The clock seemed to have stopped ticking. A fat black fly beat its head against the window. Outside, someone tried repeatedly and unsuccessfully to start a car's engine. Inside, Isabelle read about how many coffee beans there were in Brazil.

Something was crawling around inside her T-shirt. Isabelle pulled it away from herself with one finger and peered down. There was nothing there except her undershirt. She hooked the T-shirt over her nose and looked out at the room over it, hoping someone was watching her.

Mary Eliza Shook was paying close attention to her book. Isabelle made a few faces in that direction, but Mary Eliza never once looked up. So Isabelle crossed her eyes at Herbie over her T-shirt. But Herbie was involved in making a spitball and didn't even notice.

Mrs. Esposito cleared her throat loudly. Everyone jumped. Mrs. Esposito glared at Isabelle, who took her T-shirt down from her nose and went back to Brazil.

“All right, class. You can put away your books now.” At last Mrs. Esposito took pity on them. A great crashing and banging followed her announcement. They were ready.

“I have counted all the votes and I'm happy to announce the name of the new art editor,” Mrs. Esposito said.

Everyone sat up very straight, trying not to look self-conscious. A couple of kids in back starting horsing around.

“There will be no announcement, class, until everyone comes to order,” Mrs. Esposito said.

I bet she'd make a good army person, Isabelle thought in admiration. They wouldn't dare disobey Mrs. Esposito.

When at last the class was totally still, Mrs. Esposito said, “When I announce the winner's name, I would like that person to stand, please.”

Isabelle got her feet ready.

“Our new art editor is …”

Isabelle closed her eyes and clasped her hands in front of her, as if she were praying.

Mary Eliza lifted her backside off her chair, ready to spring.

Mrs. Esposito's voice seemed to come from the end of a long tunnel.

“Our new art editor is …” Mrs. Esposito liked to tantalize them.

“Herbie!” she cried.

Isabelle's eyes snapped open, and she said, “Herbie?”

Herbie looked as if he'd been hit over the head with a shovel.

“Herbie!” yelled Herbie. “That's cuckoo! I don't want to be no art editor! I won't—”

“Will the winner please stand?” Mrs. Esposito said, in measured tones. The boy sitting behind Herbie punched him in the back and growled, “Stand up, wonko.”

Hitching up his pants, Herbie staggered to his feet, his orange-juice mustache giving him a somewhat sinister look.

“Congratulations, Herbie,” said Mrs. Esposito. “We know you'll do a good job. And class, it's my pleasure to tell you that Herbie had more votes than any other candidate. Let's give him three cheers.”

“Hip hip hooray!” the class thundered, three times. Herbie sat down and his expression was one of total amazement.

“I don't know what happened,” he mumbled. He shook his head once or twice, like a boxer down for the count. “I don't want to be no art editor. I don't know what an art editor's supposed to do, so how can I do it?”

“I'll give you a hand, Herb,” Isabelle soothed him. “I'll be your right-hand man.”

“Yeah, but how about my left hand? My left hand needs help, too.” Herbie was definitely in the pits.

“If you ask me,” Mary Eliza stormed up, “it's a put-up job.”

“So who asked you?” Imitating prizefighters she'd seen on TV, Isabelle dabbed at her nose with her thumb several times.

In a rage, Mary Eliza flounced away without speaking.

“All I know is,” Herbie said glumly, “it musta been somebody who hates me. Who else would vote for me? They knew I didn't want the job. I have an enemy and I didn't even know it.” Herbie's face wore a hunted look.

“It wasn't me, Herb,” Isabelle said. “You can count on that.”

“You're a pal, Iz.” Herbie called Isabelle Iz when his emotions were stirred. “Thanks for not voting for me. You voted for yourself, right?”

“Sure. Who else would've?” She took a few pokes at him, trying to cheer him up. Herbie was not in a laughing mood, however.

“Wait'll my mother hears I'm art editor,” Herbie said. “She'll flip.”

“How about if we have a good fight? That'll make you feel better,” Isabelle suggested.

“No, thanks. I'm not in the mood,” Herbie said. “I'm going home.”

“What're you gonna do when you get home?” Isabelle wanted to know.

He looked at her, his eyes full of woe. “Think,” he said.

“Think?” Isabelle echoed.

“Yeah, think.”

“Awesome,” said Isabelle.

Chapter Seventeen

“Take that! And that! And that!” Guy shadow-boxed his way around his room, ferocious, fearless, unbeatable. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, fists held up the way Isabelle had taught him, Guy smiled quietly at his own power.