“It happened during my last class, and then I came straight home. Relax—I doubt it’s going to cost you the election.”
“Watch your tone, young lady. Exactly how did you manage to fall out of a tree during class time?”
I handed her Coco’s note. “That should cover it.”
Mom scanned the note, and the lines on her forehead deepened into canals. “We’ll talk about this later,” she hissed. She put the phone back up to her ear and turned away. “I understand your concern, but I think if the Wildflower Society could see their way to supporting me . . .”
I left the kitchen and went upstairs to Carolyn’s room—I mean, Carolyn’s and my room. Grandma Bertie and my great-aunt Mildred both live with us, and since the two of them can barely go five minutes without fighting, they each have to have their own room. Aunt Mildred has my room now, and I share with Carolyn. But Carolyn’s room had already been filled to bursting with her piano and her guitar collection, which meant I had to shove a lot of my things in the attic. Aunt Mildred says I can come visit her and my old room any time I want, but it’s just not the same.
I maneuvered around all Carolyn’s stuff and settled down on my bed with my cookies and backpack. Then I pulled out my textbooks. The teachers at Dandelion Middle like to give out buckets of homework—as if I don’t have anything better to do after sitting in class all day. My policy is, I do just enough to get by. But I figured Mom would be on a rampage after reading Coco’s note, so I decided to complete all my assignments.
Call it a charitable act on my part.
After I finished—several hours later, when I swear my eyeballs were beginning to sweat—I left my room and headed for the back door. I had to watch my step as I zigzagged through the backyard. My dad is an amateur grower of giant pumpkins, and the yard was taken over by humongous orange gourds that each weighed hundreds of pounds.
After I stepped around our largest pumpkin, an Atlantic Giant we named Bozo, I reached my treehouse. It was the one place where I felt like I could be completely alone in my crowded house. And it had a great view of the sky.
Bright stars and clear skies: Those are the things I like to stare at most.
The sky tonight was clear with a million glittering stars winking in the moonlight as I climbed the ladder to the treehouse. Clear enough to give me a good view of Orion and the Big Dipper—my two best friends so far in the sixth grade.
“Hello, Orion. Nice to see you tonight, Big D,” I said, leaning out the window. “Today I got in trouble in Ms. Harmer’s class.”
My two best friends said nothing as I told them about my day, but that’s what I always liked about talking to the stars. They were good listeners and they were a lot easier to understand than the girls at Dandelion Middle.
The opening strains of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” floated from the house. Carolyn must be home from her piano lesson, practicing already. She was playing it in her recital tomorrow night, and I was pretty sure she’d picked it because I told her I liked to listen to it while I stared at the stars. I spread my arms and pretended I was conducting, and that Orion and Big D were my audience.
After I finished I rummaged through the boxes I kept in the treehouse, pulled out a large packet of star stickers—the kind that glow in the dark—and began sticking them on the walls. They come in handy on the nights when you can’t see the real stars. I took my time sticking them on—the backs are really sticky, so once you stick them somewhere, they aren’t coming off.
“Isabella, dinner’s ready!” Mom called.
“Izzy!” I shouted back. I stuck on one last sticker then started down the ladder.
In the kitchen, Mom and Dad sat at either end of the table. Dad was still wearing his uniform. He’s the town’s police chief, but since nothing much ever happens in Dandelion Hollow, most of his calls are about missing cats or teenagers toilet-papering houses. Both he and Mom were sitting ramrod straight, so I could tell they’d been discussing Coco’s note.
Carolyn and I sat on one side, and Grandma Bertie and Aunt Mildred sat on the other. When we were all settled, Aunt Mildred sniffed her bowl and said, “Janine, what on earth did you do to this chili?”
“Don’t sass my daughter,” Grandma Bertie said. “Without her, you’d be out on the street on your hind end.”
“Don’t sass me, Bertha,” Aunt Mildred shot back. “If Janine expects us to eat, she needs to concoct something that doesn’t make your sinuses run.”
Grandma Bertie and Aunt Mildred are twins. They’re so alike they have the same wrinkles, even though they’ve lived completely different lives. The only way you can tell them apart is by the expression on their face. Grandma Bertie’s eyes usually sparkle, while Aunt Mildred always looks like she’s just smelled something rotten. Grandma Bertie got married and has lived in Dandelion Hollow all her life, but up until a couple months ago Aunt Mildred spent about forty years living in Europe—mostly Paris—and she never married. She says it’s because she never understood what all the fuss was about children and husbands. But Grandma Bertie says it’s because no man ever liked taking his coffee and eggs with a side of pickled prunes.
The last time Grandma Bertie said that, our family was actually eating eggs, and Aunt Mildred threw hers. They splatted on Grandma Bertie’s earlobe. Then Dad mouthed the words senior center at Mom, but his whisper was more of an irritated rasp. After that, Aunt Mildred and Grandma Bertie made up real fast. But nobody talked to Dad for the rest of the day.
“I used a little too much red pepper, but you can put sour cream in it to tone it down,” Mom said.
Aunt Mildred muttered something under her breath. She was probably cussing in French again. Mom doesn’t tolerate cussing in any language, but since she doesn’t speak French she’s never exactly sure what Aunt Mildred is saying. “So, everyone,” Grandma Bertie said in a bright voice, “how was your day?”
“Rotten,” Mom said, stabbing at her salad. “I spent two hours on the phone with the president of the Wildflower Society, only for her to tell me at the end they’re still supporting Kendra Franklin.”
“That’s terrible, dear,” Grandma Bertie said, exchanging glances with Aunt Mildred. “But remember what we talked about? Being positive? Someone tell me the best part of your day.”
I stuck a large spoonful of chili in my mouth so I didn’t have to answer. The best part of my day was that Tyler didn’t try to trip me in science class—he was probably afraid I’d kick him again.
“Come on,” Grandma Bertie prompted. “Carolyn, you first.”
Carolyn swallowed a bite of chili. “I have two best parts. Miss Collins says I’m ready for the recital tomorrow night.”
Of course she was ready for the recital. Carolyn is a musical genius, and everyone knows one day she’ll leave town for a bigger city with brighter lights. Mom is hoping for San Francisco, since that’s only a few hours southwest of Dandelion Hollow. But Carolyn wants to attend Juilliard, some performing arts school in New York. For now, though, the stage at Dandelion High will have to be enough.
“The other part is that I got a pumpkin-gram today.”
Pumpkin-grams are a big fall tradition at Dandelion High where kids pay a dollar to write a special note on an orange construction-paper pumpkin and have it sent to their friends.
“Was it from a boy?” Grandma Bertie’s eyes went wide. “I’ll bet it was, wasn’t it?”
“Horse rubbish!” Aunt Mildred said, brandishing her spoon. “Carolyn is far too young to be receiving pumpkin-grams from boys.”
“Have you forgotten Scooter McGee?” Grandma Bertie said, batting her eyes. “I seem to recall he once sent you a pumpkin-gram.”
“Check your memory, Bertha. That old fool gave me a flower on Valentine’s Day—they didn’t even have pumpkin-grams back in our day. And we were in eleventh grade; Carolyn’s only in ninth.”
“It was from Layla,” Carolyn said. Layla was Carolyn’s best friend, but since Layla had gotten back together with
her boyfriend, Carolyn hadn’t seen her that much recently. Personally, I felt like Carolyn was lucky just to have a best friend.
“That sounds lovely, Carolyn,” Mom said, smiling. Her smile tightened, though, when Grandma Bertie said, “What about you, Izzy? What was the best part of your day?”
“I didn’t have one,” I said, and stuck another large bite in my mouth.
“Well, I can’t imagine that you would,” Mom said. “Seeing as how you got sent to the office again.”
And there it was. When it comes to family dinners, Mom can go from praising our accomplishments (always Carolyn’s) to lamenting our screw-ups (always mine) in zero seconds flat.
Everyone was silent. Carolyn concentrated on her chili, but underneath the table she reached over and squeezed my hand.
Dad shot Mom a wary look, and Grandma Bertie said, “Janine, dear, I don’t think now is the time to—”
“Stay out of it, Mother,” Mom said. “Stop telling me how to parent my daughter. You know I hate it when you do that.” She turned to me. “Well? Do you have anything you want to say?”
“Not really,” I answered, which I thought was a perfectly acceptable and honest answer, but Mom and Dad both looked annoyed.
“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Aunt Mildred said. “I got sent to the principal’s office all the time when I was Izzy’s age. If you ask me—”
“No one did, dear,” Grandma Bertie said.
“But if they did,” Aunt Mildred said, shooting Grandma Bertie a dirty look, “I’d say everyone is overreacting. It was just a tree. Doesn’t anyone climb them anymore?”
“That’s not the point,” Dad said. “The point is, Izzy keeps getting into trouble, and so far nothing we’ve done seems to be making any difference.” He sighed and pushed his plate away. “Izzy—your mother and I really don’t know what to do. We’ve grounded you, banned electronics, sent you to your room, and these things are still getting sent home.” He held up the note from Coco. “I doubt taking your iPod away again is going to change anything.”
Dad has always made it clear that, as the chief of police, he expects his daughters to behave like Respectable People. This isn’t a problem for Carolyn the Great, musical prodigy extraordinaire. But compared to her and my civic-minded parents, I often feel like an emerging juvenile delinquent.
“Right.” Mom nodded. “So we’ve been exploring more creative options.”
“Creative options?” I repeated. “What does that mean?”
“It means we’ve been looking into a few things, and last week we decided to do something unconventional.” Mom paused. “We signed you up for charm school.”
Charm school? Me? Had they lost their minds?
I snorted. “Um . . . I don’t think I’m charm school material.”
“That’s exactly the point.” Dad crossed his arms, and his police badge flashed in the light. “We’re really concerned. And with your mother’s campaign . . .”
He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to. With election day creeping closer, Mom wanted to project the image of a family who has it all together, and right now I was messing everything up.
Just last week a photographer came to the house to take a family picture for Mom’s new campaign mailers. He said we should go for the all-American look. Then he frowned at me and suggested I change my clothes, and, if it wasn’t too much trouble, could I do something about my hair, too?
I told Mom “all-American” should mean I have the freedom to wear whatever I wanted without anyone getting on my case about it. But apparently, that’s not how politics actually work. So I changed my clothes, tied my hair in a ponytail, and faked a smile. The mailers were supposed to be ready any day now, but I wasn’t in any hurry to see them.
“Now, I’m not able to drive you to a proper charm school,” Mom said, which was just a fancy way of saying she was too busy to be bothered. “So we signed you up for a home-study course.”
“O-kay. What am I supposed to do for this home-study course?”
“You have to . . . well, I don’t remember exactly.” She frowned. “A flier came for it in the mail last week. The name of the school is Mrs. Whippie’s—”
Grandma Bertie started choking on her chili. Aunt Mildred jumped up and began pounding on her back until she hawked a huge chili-scented loogie across the table; it landed in the salad bowl.
“Nice one,” Carolyn said.
“Mildred! You nearly broke my ribs!” Grandma Bertie yelled when she could speak again.
“You were choking,” Aunt Mildred said. “Next time should I sit back and do nothing?”
Dad and Mom glanced at each other. “Anyway . . .” From under the table Mom produced a chunky cream envelope. “Your first assignment came in the mail today.”
“No way,” I said. “I am not joining some stupid charm school.”
“Yes, you are,” Dad said. “Otherwise, you can forget about Pumpkin Palooza, and racing in the regatta. Do I make myself clear?”
4
MRS. WHIPPIE’S EARN YOUR CHARM SCHOOL
One great thing about combat boots: They can make a lot of noise. Mine drummed a booming chorus as I stomped up the stairs after dinner. I went to my bedroom and rummaged through my dresser for my workout gear. My arms and legs needed to burn off some energy before my mouth got me in trouble.
Pumpkin Palooza is Dandelion Hollow’s annual harvest festival. It’s always held the Saturday before Halloween at Caulfield Farm. There are games, prizes, and food, but the biggest attraction is the Great Pumpkin Regatta, where pumpkins weighing hundreds of pounds are hollowed out and turned into small boats and raced across the Caulfields’ large pond.
This year Dad is letting me race Bozo in the regatta. Dad says he’s happy to do it; for the last two years Mike Harrison, from Harrison’s Hardware, has won, and Dad says he’s just plain tired of hearing him brag about his superior pumpkins. I think I’ve got a good shot at winning; I’ve been working out on the rowing machine in our garage every night for two months. As motivation, I just visualize the shiny pumpkin trophy and the five-hundred-dollar check they give to the winner.
I’m not sure what I’d do with the money—maybe I’d buy a kayak of my own—but I definitely plan to put the trophy on the same shelf where Mom displays all of the awards Carolyn has won from her voice and piano recitals. Plus, I want Lauren and the other Paddlers to see how good I am.
So if there was anything Dad could say to get me to do this dumb charm school course, telling me I couldn’t compete in the regatta was it.
After I changed into my sweats, I headed for the garage. I sat down at the rowing machine and looked at the envelope Dad gave me. My name and address were written in the middle; the return address was a PO Box in San Francisco. As soon as I ripped the top off, the scent of roses and cream wafted into the air. Inside, besides a folded-up piece of velvety stationery, sat a gold chain-link bracelet and a tiny envelope charm, the kind with a clasp to attach to the bracelet. The envelope charm was a rose-gold color, and the top of it actually flipped open.This was already the strangest letter I’d ever received, and things just got stranger when I opened it and read, sneezing a couple times from the rosy perfume:
Dear Isabella,
Congratulations! You’ve just been enrolled in Mrs. Whippie’s Earn Your Charm School. In order to complete my course, you must perform a series of tasks. Charms to put on your bracelet will accompany each task. The first task: Write a nice letter to someone who could use some cheering up. Then you will have earned an envelope charm, and you may place it on your bracelet. More tasks and charms will follow. Complete them all, and you will have earned your charm, and you will also have earned a prize unlike any other. Please send me a letter letting me know you’ve completed your first task.
I reread the letter a second time. A prize unlike any other? What did that mean? Weren’t charm schools supposed to teach manners and all sorts of fancy things? I had never heard of earning charms
to put on a bracelet before.
A loud thud sounded on the garage door, followed by, “Izzy? Are you in there?”
Austin Jackson lived next door and had the same homework philosophy as I did, which left us plenty of time to shoot hoops in his driveway. Austin and I don’t usually talk at school. It’s like an unofficial rule that we mostly ignore each other all day and then wait until after dinner to hang out. I’m not sure why; that’s just the way it is.
I put the letter and the bracelet on top of the washing machine, then pressed the garage door switch. As soon as it had rolled halfway up, Austin ducked under and came inside.
“Are you training for the regatta tonight?” After I nodded he said, “Take a break. You know you want to lose to me in a half-court game.”
I rolled my eyes but followed him over to his driveway anyways. Austin used to be the shortest kid in our class, but he had shot up over the summer, so now we were about equal height. This had a tendency to make him think he was a lot cooler than he actually was.
“So your big plan is to win the regatta and hope that Lauren Wilcox and the rest of them are so impressed they’ll let you join the Paddlers?” Austin asked, dribbling the ball. After I nodded again, he said, “Okay, but . . . you know that’s totally weird, right?”
I shrugged; it wasn’t like I’d never been called “weird” before, and besides, not many people saw racing a gigantic pumpkin as the answer to their problems. Also, I didn’t want to tell him that sometimes when I trained I imagined myself competing in a race while Mom sat on the sidelines, loudly telling anyone who’d listen how I was a second-generation Paddler and how proud she was of me. Besides, I really had beaten Stella at tryouts over the summer, and I should have been on the team already. I figured they just needed a little reminder.
“It’s on,” Austin said, tossing me the ball. “Prepare yourself for imminent humiliation.”
“Prepare yourself. You’re the one who always loses.”
I dribbled the ball to the edge of the sidewalk, our starting line. I stepped in and Austin planted himself in front of me, hands out front to block my vision. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said.
The Charming Life of Izzy Malone Page 2