Isabel the Invisible

by Christine Bush

  Isabel the invisible

  For Isabel, sixth grade at her new school is no better than her old one. The building may be prettier, and she does like the fact that she is living in Gram’s old house, but the kids are just the same. Snobs are snobs, and brainiacs are brainiacs, and mean kids are meaner than ever. Worst of all, she’s lost her Gram. It’s just not fair.

  No one pays any attention to her, not in school, not at home. It’s as if she is invisible….

  But then, the miracle occurs, and she gets a chance to even the odds. What will Isabel do when she finds out that she has to power to become truly invisible? As she explores the possibilities, what will she learn about setting things right?

  The kids of 6A will never be the same!

  Isabel the Invisible

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  © 2012 by Christine Bush

  Cover design by EJR Graphic Design

  Thank You.

  Isabel the Invisible

  By

  Christine Bush

  Dedication

  To my wonderful grandchildren, Andrew, Mary Frances, Catherine, Rebecca, Tina, Sarah, Thomas, Elizabeth, Joanna Maureen, and any more blessings that arrive in the future.

  And to ALL of the sixth graders I have ever had the opportunity to teach. May you always know just how important and special you are, find your own gifts and talents and use them well. And may you teach someone else to do the same.

  And to Miss Patricia Quinter, Principal Extraordinaire, whose dedication to children taught me more than she’ll ever know. Thank you Pat!

  ISABEL THE INVISIBLE

  Chapter 1

  Monday was not only ridiculously boring, it was disgustingly hot. I’m sure I looked worse than usual, which was pretty bad. My hair was frizzing out of its braids from the humidity, and even my freckles were sweating. This kind of hot doesn’t tend to bring on a good mood. I sat on the front porch of the big house, sprawled on the old wooden swing that hangs from the ceiling, thinking about Gram.

  "Find something to do, Isabel," Gram would have told me. "When you keep busy, your mind doesn't have time to worry about the weather. Create, imagine, investigate!"

  So I tried to imagine Gram standing there in front of me, gently lecturing me, wearing her old plaid apron and probably shaking her wooden spoon. But then with no warning, my eyes filled up with tears. I sucked in a deep breath, because crying is definitely not cool for an eleven (almost twelve) year old. I kept trying to swallow because my throat was tight all of a sudden. I felt like I swallowed a tennis ball. So much for imagination.

  Gram was dead. No amount of imagination could change that. It was October now, a long time since we went to Gram's funeral on that cold March morning. The whole thing was such a shock. Gram was never even sick, as far as I could remember. She just had a giant surprise heart attack and died, and that was that.

  "A blessing it was so quick", my mom said, even though Mom cried just about as much as me. "Gram would have wanted to go like that, Isabel."

  Personally, I'm not sure at all about that. To me, Gram wasn't the sort of person to want to "go" at all, no matter if it was slow or quick. Not without saying goodbye, anyway. My nose started running, too, with that thought. One of my greatest wishes was that I had been able to say goodbye to Gram before she died.

  But wishes didn't always come true, and even when they did, they usually weren't much of what you expected. This house was a good example. It was Gram's house.

  At least, it had been. For as long as I could remember, visiting Gram in her big old house in Ryerstown was just about my favorite thing to do.

  My mom and I had lived in an apartment in downtown Philadelphia, near the hospital where Mom worked as a nurse. I went to Riley Elementary School, which was right down the street. Ridley was a big brick building, and pretty ugly.

  I had a father once, or so the story went, but he left the family when I was a baby, and I couldn't remember him at all. Nobody talked about him much, but I know his name was Craig.

  So Mom and I lived by ourselves in the city, where we constantly went to "Neighborhood Taskforce Against Crime" meetings, and always looked forward to the next long weekend or vacation when we would leave the soot and noise of Philadelphia, and travel to the suburban town of Ryerstown to visit Gram.

  A suburb is supposedly a good place to be. I learned about this in Social Studies class. It's not "urban", like a city, built up and crowded and often smelly. A suburb is not "rural", like a farm out in the country, with no buses or sidewalks (Farms are sometimes smelly, too, but I don't mind the animal smells). A suburb is pretty much in between. Suburbs have loads of houses, and shopping malls, and playgrounds, and just about everybody has a yard and a car. Gram's house was in the suburbs.

  The happy times in my life took place at Gram’s house. This was where we made oodles of Christmas cookies, and had stuffed gigantic Thanksgiving turkeys that were way too big for the three of us. But Gram always had a plan, and the extra cookies and turkey dinners were packed up and delivered to neighbors, and elderly people from church. Even that was fun.

  This street was where I learned to ride a bike, and I learned to swim at the pool down the street. I had always been happy here. But not anymore.

  I had always wished that I lived in Gram's house. It was pretty much a secret wish, because I didn't want Mom to feel bad that we were stuck in the city, though I knew that she wished we were out here, too. "Better schools, less crime, room to grow," she used to say.

  So every night before I went to sleep I said my prayers, and part of the prayer would be for us to move to Ryerstown. Maybe I didn't say the prayer exactly right. Maybe I left out the most important part. I think I should have said "Please let us move to Ryerstown, and PLEASE make absolutely sure that Gram is still there, too." But I didn't think of it at the time, I just assumed that Gram would always be there.

  After Gram died, Mom inherited the house. We just about flooded out our apartment with our tears when we packed to move. We moved to Ryerstown at the end of the summer, just in time for me to start a new school. I'm in 6th grade.

  I hated my old school. It was dark, and crowded, and the playground had only about three blades of grass, and they were growing out of a big crack by the fence.

  The basketball hoops had no nets, because every time they put a new one up, someone stole it during the night. Finally they gave up, and I didn't really blame them. I sure don't like shooting without a net, but I wouldn't want to have to buy a new one every day.

  My old teachers were pretty nice, as far as teachers go. It was the kids I could do without. I just didn't have any friends. I don't think I will ever understand why some kids have to get such a kick out of being mean. The ones who are smart feel like they have to rub it in, the ones who are rich always like to brag, and the ones who are good at sport
s like to make everybody feel like dirt.

  Personally, I'm not that smart, I'm not rich, and I'm not that good at sports, except for shooting foul shots in basketball. But I would never brag. So why people choose to pick on me is a mystery. But there you are. It happens. Some days I feel like I am wearing a "kick me" sign on my back, the way kids would act at school.

  I'm not gorgeous like the girls in the shampoo ads (though Gram always told me I was beautiful.) I have a very full head of curly red hair, which I hate. My hair is always pulled back into a pony tail or braids to keep it out of my face.

  In my opinion, I’m a little too chubby, but my mom says I'm "big boned" and will grow into myself. I sure hope she's right. I always wished I was fantastic looking, and popular, like the girls in Teen Magazine, but I'm not. And Mom won't hear a word about makeup until I'm in junior high.

  When I left my old school, I thought my school troubles were over. I was happy to start school in Ryerstown in September, once we settled in the house. What a mistake. I hate the new school even more.

  The new school is definitely prettier. The classrooms are new and bright, with big windows (no bars or cracks). The playground is great (yes, basketball nets) and the grass is green like a carpet. Flowers, too. They have music class and art class, and the teachers are nice. Now, while that all sounds good, there is a major, glaring problem. The kids. The kids just don't like me here, either.

  But it is somewhat different than my last school. I don't really get teased or picked on, except for this one big maniac named Milton. Everyone is a little bit scared of Milton.

  The problem is--I am just ignored. No one talks to me, and I don't talk to anyone. I sit by myself in class, at lunch, on the big yellow bus. No one even seems to notice I am around. I have a feeling if I just disappeared, it wouldn't be an issue. No one would say "Where's Isabel? We miss Isabel!"

  I felt, actually, as if I was invisible. The first few days of school were a nightmare, as this feeling began. I felt so alone! Everyone seemed to have at least one best friend, or at least someone to talk to. Except me. I just stayed in the background and watched.

  Some kids are mean here, too, just like in the city. I made up names for the kids in the class, to describe them. If "Claire the Clothes Queen" doesn’t like what someone was wearing, she makes sure to point it out. Then everybody else joins in.

  If somebody flunks a quiz or a test, "Brenda the Brainiac" proudly announces her fantastic grade with a clever comment like "My, my, George, a 62! I have a 98 on my test. Let's see, that's 36 points higher, in case you can't figure it out, George." You can imagine how great that makes George feel.

  "Alex the Smart Alec", thinks he is the greatest athlete since the beginning of time. He makes fun of the kids who aren't good at gym class. Then Alex complains about people who are on his soccer team, and makes them feel really bad. (Unfortunately, I was in this category because I never played soccer before in my life. But when basketball season comes, and he sees my foul shots, it will be a different story.)

  Of course, the worst is "Milton the Maniac", who likes to intimidate anybody he can. In this one particular case, I don't mind not being noticed. I do just about anything just to keep out of Milton's way. Milton terrifies me.

  So my wish to live in Ryerstown came true. I am living in Ryerstown, out of the city, and going to a new school. And I am totally miserable. What a wish. I would do anything to be able to turn back the clock to last spring. I would live in the city forever, if I was able to visit Ryerstown and still have my Gram. But you can't change the past, my mom always says. You have to go on. But I must say I have learned to be very careful about wishes.

  Chapter 2

  Lately, the front porch is just about my favorite place to be. First of all, even though it’s early October, it is still hot during the day. The trees that grew along the street were turning all the fall colors, but the weather didn't seem to get the message. The porch was shady and pretty cool, and when I sat there, I had a really good view up and down the street. I like to watch people come and go.

  When we first moved in, the trees were all bright green, and they were so tall and full of leaves on either side of the street that they came together at the top like an umbrella. The street looked like a tunnel through the leaves. Now with the yellows and oranges and reds, it looks totally different. I like it a lot. I think I'm going to like it even more when the leaves all fall down in a few weeks. There is nothing like a good pile of leaves to play in.

  Of course, playing is always a million times better if you have someone to play with. Which I don't. A lot of the neighbors nearby are a bit older, more like Gram's age, and so there are no kids my age. A few of the houses have been sold to new families, but mostly, they seem to have a bunch of little kids. Little kids are cute and all, but they can be a pain, from my experience.

  In our apartment house in the city, there was a little kid named Charlie who used to practically torture me. He was a tiny kid, maybe five years old, and he liked to steal our newspaper every chance he got. He didn't even mind that we knew that he did it. I would bounce out of bed the second I woke up, and run for the hall door to get the newspaper before he beat me to it. If I was even a couple of minutes late, I'd have to go chasing him through the hallways to retrieve it.

  One time I even knocked on their apartment door, and asked for it. Believe it or not, his mom was sitting at the table calmly reading my paper. You'd think she would have wondered where he got it. She gave it back, of course, but it was all opened up and messy, which I hate. After that, if he beat me to the newspaper, I didn't bother. It was just too embarrassing.

  I love the newspaper, and I love it when it's fresh. It's like I'm the first person in the world to read the news or something. Since Mom goes to work early, it works out great. I read the paper in the morning, and she reads it at night. She doesn't mind recycled news like I do. We all have our little pet peeves, you know.

  But to get back to kids, at least there are no paper thieves like Charlie in this neighborhood. I get the newspaper promptly every morning.

  But there's no one close by for me to hang around with. I won't say that there is no one who is my age in the neighborhood, because that would be a lie. I try to lie as little as possible.

  But here, the truth is painful. There is somebody who is my age in the neighborhood. I know, because it's a person in my class. But it's not somebody I'm going to hang around with, because the person I’m talking about is mean Milton the Maniac.

  Milton lives around the corner, down the street a bit. I'm not even exactly sure which house, but I know where he gets on the bus. Milton is probably the meanest kid I ever met. He's also very large. Being large and mean is a totally bad combination in the sixth grade. Milton is a biker, which means that every spare minute when he is not in school, he is on his bike. He rides around and around the neighborhood, usually looking for trouble.

  In the short time we've been here, I've seen him dart in front of cars, practically giving the driver a heart attack. Milton has run his mean old bike tires right over people's flower beds. I’ve even seen him scare little kids who were riding big wheels on the sidewalk.

  Now if Milton has done all those things just while I was watching, (safely hiding on the porch), you can just imagine how long the list would probably be if you were going to write down all the things he's done to aggravate people.

  So jumping in the leaves with Milton is out of the question. I just want to avoid being thrown into the leaves by the bully, if you know what I mean.

  Right next door, there is one really cute little kid in the neighborhood. He moved in right before we did, and he just started kindergarten. For a five year old, he's pretty neat, especially compared to old Charlie the newshound from my old neighborhood. His name is Danny, and he lives just with his dad. His dad works a lot as a painter.

  No one tells me these things about people, I just figure them out. My mom calls me "Nancy Drew" sometimes because of my excellent de
tecting skills. Danny's dad leaves early every morning in his red van. The van has a couple of ladders on the top, and it says "Daniel Davis and Son, Painters". He wears a white coverall, with many colors of paint splattered all over it. He also always wears a red baseball hat. For a guy who's about as old as my mom, he's kind of cute. I told my mom this, and she told me to "mind my own business." So I just watch, and keep my mouth shut.

  You'd think that because he was a painter, my mom would be interested. Painting is her favorite thing in life right about now.

  After we moved into the house, and after we stopped crying about Gram, my mom got energized to "redo the house". In my opinion, the house was absolutely perfect just the way it was. It reminded me of Gram.

  But Mom was pretty excited about having a house, and she wanted to fix it up. So she started painting. And painting. And painting. When you have three stories of house, there is much opportunity to paint. I will probably have the paint smell in my nose for the rest of my life.

  One of the reasons that I'm out on the porch so much, other than getting cool, and watching the neighbors, is to stay out of her way. When my mom tackles a project, she really tackles it. Right now, she's painting everything in sight. I figure, if I stand still in one place for too long, she'll attack me with the roller, too, and I'll end up "Sunflower Yellow" or "Aztec Tan". I would rather avoid that. I don't like my red hair, but "Sunflower or Aztec" would not be much of an improvement.

  So I like to avoid the paint, and avoid the work, and sit on the porch. It's not that I don't like the "fresh, uplifting look" that she is so happy about. It's just that I miss Gram. And every time she paints over that wall paper with the big old red roses, or the wall paper with the funny stripes of lavender ribbon, it's like a little more of Gram disappears.