Isabella for Real

by Margie Palatini

  I carefully step aside and sniff. “Done? Really? I think I still smell bad. Can’t you use a little soap or something?”

  Jeffrey sighs.

  “I’m only thinking of you. You have to smell me. Besides, we can’t sneak into the academy with me wearing dog poop perfume. If Mr. Hansen, the custodian, is walking around the building, he’ll track down that scent before you even slide my mag stripe. Two weeks ago, after four exterminators couldn’t find where an awful odor was coming from, it was Mr. Hansen who located three dead squirrels in the fireplace on the third floor. He’s got a nose like a bloodhound. Trust me.”

  “All right. I’ll get soap. Jeesh.”

  Jeffrey walks over to the tunnel where cars take their showers and talks to the kid in the jumpsuit who’s in charge of the final dry wipes. He comes back carrying a bottle filled with green liquid and a clean towel. I roll up my pants midway to my knees, then turn and toe my sneaker as Jeffrey squirts detergent on the sole.

  “It’s as clean as it’s going to get unless you’ve got a toothbrush on you—and if you do, forget it. I’m not going there.”

  Jeffrey wipes his hands on the towel, and I sniff. “Better. Thanks. Okay, then. Let’s get out of here!”

  He grabs me by the back of Auntie Ella’s sweater.

  “Hold it, zebra girl. Not so fast.”

  “What’s the matter? You didn’t step in anything too, did you?”

  “No. I didn’t step in anything,” Jeffrey says, rolling his eyes. “But I’m starving. I ran over to your aunts’ house right in the middle of a ham and cheese sandwich. I’m hungry, Isabella. How about we stop at Holsten’s? It’s right up the block. I have to eat.”

  “Now?”

  “Hey, don’t go rolling your eyes at me, Isabella Antonelli. I just cleaned dog doo off your sneaker and I’m about to save your life. Are you really in a position to deny me food? Brainpower needs nourishment. Aunt Minnie didn’t even offer me a cookie.”

  “All right, all right. We’ll stop at Holsten’s on our way up to Fortier. But no wasting time. We’ll get take-out.”

  1:21 p.m.

  Scene 29/TAKE 1

  Holsten’s Ice Cream Parlor

  We push through the door at Holsten’s and are greeted by the aroma of burgers sizzling on the griddle and the odd combination of chocolate sauce and french fries. Nicky Lombardo’s bushy eyebrows lift clear to his low hairline as he smiles broadly from behind the black-speckled Formica counter.

  “Look who’s here!” With his hand over his head, Nicky drops a scoop of chocolate ice cream into a waiting fluted sundae glass. “Isabella! The YouTube star!”

  “Great idea you had coming here, Jeffrey,” I say under my breath while forcing a smile and a wave to Nicky as the small room erupts in applause from the dozen or so people sitting at tables.

  “What are you complaining about?” Jeffrey whispers as I feel eyes watching my every step. “Being famous only means we get quicker service.”

  “Counter stools or back booth, kids?” asks Nicky, squirting circles of whipped cream into the glass and tossing a red cherry on top.

  “Booth,” I answer, pointing straight ahead and walking to our usual spot at the back of the restaurant.

  We each slide onto our own side of the red leather banquette and inch close to the wall, trying to ignore the stares, while two people in booth five hold up their phones and take my picture.

  “Menus or the usual, kids?” asks Marie, as I see lights still flashing from the corner of my eye.

  “Pork roll with cheese for me, today. On a kaiser. No seeds, please,” says Jeffrey as Marie scribbles the order on her pad. “Can you add a pickle, too?”

  “Naturally, sweetie. What about you, Isabella? How about a side of your favorite rings?”

  “Sounds good,” says Jeffrey, answering for me.

  I roll my eyes at Jeffrey. “Marie? Can you please ask Nicky to make everything to go? We’re in kind of a hurry.”

  “You got it, tootsie.”

  Marie slides the yellow pencil behind her ear and it disappears into a Brillo pad of gray hair. She stuffs the notebook into her white apron pocket and winks. “I’ll put this on your tab.”

  I lean across the table and whisper to Jeffrey. “So? Do you think my idea will work?”

  Jeffrey sighs. “Look, Isabella, all I’m promising is to hack into the site. After I get the phone number of that ‘devoted’ fan, it’s still up to you to do a convincing imitation of Aunt KiKi and get the webmaster—whoever he or she is—to add the information.”

  I nervously play with the saltshaker. “You’ll make sure Oakleigh sees it, right? You have to make her believe what is fake is true and what is true is fake.”

  “Relax. Didn’t I say I would?”

  “I knew I could count on my best friend.”

  He smiles. “I thought maybe you’d traded me in.”

  “Jeffrey, you know you’re my best friend. You’re just not my girl best friend. Having girl best friends is different, that’s all.”

  “I get it,” he says, checking his phone for any new messages. “Just make sure you make a full confession after the election. After all the work you said they’ve done on your campaign, they deserve the truth.”

  Three Weeks Ago

  Oakleigh’s House

  Campaign Strategy Sleepover

  “These posters are fabulous, if I do say so myself,” Emory said, sitting cross-legged on her bedroom carpet, colored markers scattered around her. She held up the large cardboard rectangle, nodded, and smiled. “VOTE FOR ISABELLA: Elle est authentique!”

  “Positively brilliant, Em!” said Anisha, jumping off the bed and reaching down for one of the dozens of others piled on the floor, then holding it up arms length in front of her. “I like this one too—ISABELLA FOR REAL. That should knot Jenna’s shorts.”

  “I’ll say,” Emory agreed with a laugh.

  “And don’t worry about your speech, Isabella,” Oakleigh said, giving a puff to each lens of her glasses, then wiping both with the bottom of her sweatshirt. “I’ll work on it with you. Remember, we need to focus on not only the slogan, but your campaign promise too.”

  Emory stood up and cleared her throat.

  “FORTIER ALL THE WAY! HONESTY. FRATERNITY. AND NEW GYM UNIFORMS!”

  “Leave it to you, Isabella, to get down to the most common denominator,” said Oakleigh. “New uniforms is an issue that cuts across every grade level!”

  “That change in attire is something we painfully need and is woefully overdue,” said Anisha. “Girls at Fortier have been wearing those dreadfully awful gray bloomers since the academy was founded in 1912. Isabella, your idea of neon biker shorts was simply aces. How ever did that inspiration of spandex float into your head?”

  “Uhhhhh . . . who knows?” I said with a shrug. “It just sort of . . . came to me out of the blue, I guess.”

  “Blue! That’s the color I need to use here,” Emory said, grabbing a marker and getting back to work on the last poster.

  Anisha sat down on the floor next to me and put her arm around my shoulders. “Isabella, do you think perhaps your mum might have her designers in Milan create a whole new look for us with our regular uniforms as well?”

  “Mmmmm . . . maybe.”

  “How great would that be?” said Oakleigh. “I’m sort of tired of those neckties.”

  “Ditto on weary. You know something, ladies? I’m feeling famished,” Anisha said, rubbing her stomach. “What say we raid your kitchen, Em, and find something to munch?”

  “Food? I’m in,” said Emory, capping the marker and tossing it aside. “Follow me, girls,” she said, heading out the door.

  The three of us followed her down the curved stairwell into the huge kitchen, where we all ran to the refrigerator and huddled around the open door.

  “We have tons of yogurt, and here’s half a melon.”

  “I’m afraid that looks to be a tad moldy,” said Anisha.

  “I
agree,” said Oakleigh, who was the scientist in the group. (I lucked out when she chose me for her lab partner, because I don’t think I could have dissected that frog without her. At least not without barfing up my breakfast.)

  “Wait a minute—I think we have frozen pizza somewhere,” Emory said, pulling out the bottom freezer drawer.

  “Why eat frozen pizza when we’ve got Isabella!” said Oakleigh.

  “That’s right,” agreed Anisha. “Isabella, give us a preview of the eggplant parm you’re going to make for the rally next week.”

  “You mean, make it . . . now?”

  (I was still working on how I was going to convince Nonni to make two trays of eggplant parmigiana, and then bring them to school without her—or Aunt Rosalie—noticing.)

  “How lucky is this?” Emory said, rifling through the vegetable drawer. “My mom bought an eggplant! Isabella, you can teach us the recipe!”

  “Uh . . .” I looked up at the clock. “Gosh, it’s so late.”

  “It’s ten o’clock! It’s not even a midnight snack. Besides, this is a sleepover. We can stay up all night. Come on, make us your specialty,” Emory urged.

  “How do you start?” Oakleigh asked as she leaned against the big center island, her elbows resting on the granite.

  “Start?” I said, staring at the big purple thing now in my hands. “Um. Well, with this, of course.”

  “Here’s a knife,” said Emory, pulling one from a block of wood on the counter. “Will this work for you?”

  “Oh. Wait,” I said. “What about the tomatoes? Do you have San Marzano tomatoes?”

  “San who?” Emory said over her shoulder as she opened the double pantry door. “I’m not sure if we have a can of tomatoes with that name.”

  “Well, the sauce really should be made with those. It won’t be the same using something else. In fact, sorry to say, but it’s just not worth the effort without using the proper ingredients. The most important thing in any recipe is good ingredients, you know.”

  Emory moved several cans on the pantry shelves and then she groaned. “Darn. All we have is one small can of chopped tomatoes.”

  “Yeah. Darn,” I said, doing my best pretend groan. “Not going to work.”

  “So now what?” asked Oakleigh.

  “Isabella, why don’t you check out what else is in the fridge and whip something up?” said Anisha.

  I took my time strolling back to the refrigerator and tried to think of something that was easy enough for me to cook and that I had seen Nonni make a million times. I pulled open the door, staring at the mostly empty shelves, and then tugged open the vegetable bin, where I saw three long light green peppers. Cubenelles. I smiled and turned.

  “How about pepper and egg sandwiches?”

  “Sounds yummy!” said Anisha.

  “Good for me,” said Emory, pulling out a large frying pan from one of the cabinets as I reached into the refrigerator for the carton of eggs. “Are these hoagie rolls okay?” she asked, taking a bag from the bread drawer.

  “Perfect!”

  I quickly began chopping the peppers on the wooden cutting board and nodded toward the bottle of olive oil near the cooktop on the far side of the island. “Pour some in the pan will you, Oak?”

  “How much?”

  “Just to cover,” I instructed. I cupped the cut peppers in my hand and tossed them into the pan, then turned the burner to a medium flame. “Let them get all soft and sweet, and then I’ll scramble in some eggs.”

  “Mmmm,” said Emory, taking a whiff as the peppers sizzled. “Smells good.”

  I smiled. “Yeah. You can’t beat pepper and egg sandwiches . . . unless we toss in some potatoes, too!”

  1:25 p.m.

  Scene 30/TAKE 1

  Back Booth

  Jeffrey is still scrolling. I pull a napkin from the dispenser and watch him read as I nervously fold and unfold the paper rectangle, making bad origami. Suddenly, a clean, flat napkin slides onto the tabletop next to my awful-­looking paper sailboat, followed by the sound of a high, shy voice.

  “May I have your autograph, pleath?”

  I turn my head and see a little girl, her chin barely clearing the edge of the table, her smile showing off big dimples and two missing front teeth.

  “An autograph? From me? Really?”

  Her blond curls bob with repeated nods. I look across the room and see her parents waving at me from three booths away.

  “Uh, gosh. Sure. I’ll be glad to give you an autograph,” I say, thinking of Aunt KiKi. “The thing is . . .” I reach into both of my pockets but come up empty. I look down at her and frown. “Sorry, I don’t have a pen . . .”

  A black Sharpie flies over my shoulder from the booth behind us and drops on the table.

  “Here.”

  I don’t need to turn around to know who said that.

  I recognize that voice.

  Frankie Domenico.

  1:30 p.m.

  Scene 30/TAKE 2

  I uncap the pen, scrawl “Isabella” across the napkin, then hand it to the little girl before the a begins bleeding into the l. She gives a polite thank-you and is heading back to her parents when Frankie climbs over the banquette. He slides his butt down against the back of the leather bench until he lands with a plop, sitting so close to me, our shoulders touch.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Nothing much.” He leans back and folds his arms in front of his chest. “Feeling hungry, I guess.”

  “Well, feel hungry somewhere else. Preferably out of state.”

  Frankie laughs. “Hostile environment on this end.”

  He slides off the seat and then crosses over to Jeffrey’s side of the table. “Thing is, Isabella, I’m feeling hungry right here. Right now. In fact, feeling like a double burger and an order of fries.” He pats his stomach. “Chocolate shake, too.”

  He takes off his baseball hat and pulls it down over Jeffrey’s forehead. Jeffrey takes off the hat and tosses it on the table in front of Frankie.

  “Isabella and I are busy, Frankie, so . . .”

  I put the cap on the marker and roll it across the table. “Take your pen and go.”

  Frankie rolls the Sharpie back to me. “But I’m really hungry, Isabella, know what I’m saying? And since I’m going to have to walk all the way back to your street to show that news lady with the blond hair this great picture I took of Jeffrey and you being chased by Boomer—”

  “You took a photograph of us?” Jeffrey asks.

  Frankie puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out his phone. “A pretty good one, too, if I say so myself—considering I’m what you call one of those amateurs. You want to take a look at yourself from behind, Isabella?”

  “Not really,” I say, picturing myself trying to climb over that fence.

  Frankie grins. “Hey, how’s that penthouse of yours, Isabella? And that castle you’re always flying off to in your ‘Mom’s’ private jet. Where is it again? Scotland? Ireland? I forget. I wonder if your new best friends can fill me in on that? . . . Whaddaya think?”

  Jeffrey shakes his head. “Blackmailing for a burger is low, Domenico. Even for you.”

  Frankie laughs as he pockets his phone. He puts his hat on backwards and grins, looking at me from across the table.

  (How anybody even thinks that human being is cute is a mystery to me. And his eyelashes are not that long. They aren’t.)

  Marie walks over to the booth, and places our take-out bag on the table. Frankie winks at me and gives his burger and shake order. As soon the pad is in her apron and Marie is heading for the grill, I stand and motion to Jeffrey.

  “Let’s get out of here. Take him with us.”

  “You’re kidnapping me?” Frankie says as Jeffrey nudges him out of the booth.

  “Are we, Isabella?” asks Jeffrey, wide-eyed.

  I look at Jeffrey. “We can’t leave him here. He knows too much.” I take a step and go eye to eye with you-know-who. “And I can’t
trust him to keep quiet.”

  “Hey, what about my food?”

  I turn toward the counter. “Excuse me, Marie. Put that last order on my tab and give it to your next customer.”

  “You got it, sweetie.”

  I nod to Jeffrey and point at the take-out bag on the table, but Frankie grabs it before Jeffrey has a chance. He grins and stuffs it into the pocket of his hoodie.

  “Where are we going?” he asks with a smirk.

  “You’ll find out,” I mutter as Jeffrey hustles him past the row of leather booths and gives him a poke in the back as we all exit. “You got a problem with that, Domenico?”

  He smiles at me, showing off that dumb-looking dimpled chin.

  “Me? No problem at all, Antonelli. Where you lead, I follow.”

  2:10 p.m.

  Scene 31/TAKE 1

  Computer Lab, Fortier Academy

  “Wow! Look at this place! It’s Computerland!”

  I glare at Frankie as the three of us walk into the room filled with rows of desks topped with computer monitors. I point my finger to his chest. “No talking. No touching. No nothing.”

  Jeffrey pulls out a chair and sits in front of one of the monitors in the back of the room. Frankie grins, then blows a bubble and swaggers to the other side of the room.

  “Swipe your ID, Isabella,” Jeffrey says. “Looks like the system here uses a wireless NIC card, so I just have to get the router to reboot. Once I figure out the administrator’s code, we’ll be in business. Don’t worry. That’s an easy hack.”

  I walk over to Jeffrey and reach into my pajama pants for the card. I swipe the mag stripe and his fingers fly on the keyboard.

  “Open Run and enter cmd . . . net user/add, type a username, space . . . my favorite, easy-to-remember password—WozniakWonk—enter it into the prompt, and log off. Now I can log on to the Internet without anyone here at Fortier knowing, because I’m the administrator with full Internet-access privileges.”

  “Hey, Jeff? You talking English?”

  I spin around to Frankie. “Shhhhhhhh!”