The Charming Life of Izzy Malone

by Jenny Lundquist

  I faked right and sprinted past him. The basketball sailed through the hoop. Swish!

  “I let you have that,” he said, dribbling the ball back to the sidewalk. “I just wanted to make sure you got on the board.”

  “Sure you did,” I said.

  He stepped in and faked right, then left. As I turned back to sprint left he bumped into me, sending me flying until I smacked the concrete. I groaned and sat up. My knees throbbed and my palms stung.

  “Izzy, are you okay?” Austin dropped the ball and held out his hand. The minute I grasped it and stood up, a strange buzzing feeling went through me, and I could feel my cheeks heating up.

  “Are you okay?” he repeated, glancing down at my knees. “You’re bleeding.”

  “I’m fine,” I snapped, wishing he would stop looking at my legs. “A little blood never hurt anyone.” I yanked my hand out of his, but the buzzing feeling didn’t go away. I looked down and dusted myself off.

  We took a break a while later (after I’d won the first game, I’d like to point out), and Austin said, “Nice work today, climbing the tree. The Hammer looked like she was going to explode.” “The Hammer” was what everyone called Ms. Harmer behind her back.

  “Yeah,” I said, “but my mom is pretty upset about it.” I dribbled the ball a few times. “She signed me up for some weird charm school.”

  “Charm school? You?” Austin looked incredulous.

  “Yes. Me,” I said, and he began to laugh. “What’s so funny?”

  “Your mother would have more luck winning her election than teaching you how to be charming. Izzy Malone, going to charm school! Are you going to walk across the room with a book stuck on your head?”

  “No, it’s not like that at all,” I said as he doubled over with laughter. “And I really don’t see what’s so funny.”

  “It’s just that”—he gasped—“it would be like teaching a hippo to wear high heels!”

  Bam!

  In my defense, I’d like to say I truly didn’t mean to punch him in the face. I just meant to give him a little hey-you’re-being-totally-lame shove. But he was still crouched over, shaking with laughter, and right then was when he decided to look up.

  “Ow! Geez, Izzy, what’d you do that for?”

  “I can be just as charming as the next girl,” I snapped. Then I stalked away, leaving him to wipe up his bloody nose.

  5

  CATCHING FLIES

  The next morning, Mrs. Jackson called and told Mom I’d assaulted her son. Mom nearly choked on her iced coffee and said I’d better apologize to Austin, pronto.

  “But it was an accident. I wasn’t trying to—”

  “I really don’t want to hear your excuses today, Isabella.” Mom picked up her keys and slung her gym bag over her shoulder. “You can walk to school. I have an early campaign meeting with the members of the Rotary Club and then Zumba afterward.” Zumba is this aerobics class where she and a bunch of other moms jump around and pretend they’re teenagers at a dance party. She takes it pretty seriously—I once saw her in the garage practicing her moves.

  I thought about it on the way to school, and figured that since I needed to write a letter to earn Mrs. Whippie’s envelope charm anyway, I’d give Austin a handwritten apology. That way I’d kill two birds with one stone, as Grandma Bertie likes to say. While I was in science class and Mr. Webber was droning on about acids and bases and pH—which made me think of a deodorant commercial—I tried writing him a note:

  Dear Austin,

  I’m sorry your face got in my way. Next time, please move faster.

  Dear Austin,

  Your nose wouldn’t be bloody if you were just a few inches taller. You might want to work on that.

  Dear Austin,

  I’m sorry I hurt your nose. My hand doesn’t hurt at all, though. I think we can both agree this means I’m tougher than you are.

  Dear Austin,

  I wouldn’t have shoved you if you weren’t being so lame.

  I wadded up another piece of paper. When it came down to it, I couldn’t think of a good written apology that wouldn’t get me in more trouble. I figured that meant I’d have to give him a garden-variety verbal one. At lunch I found him eating in the cafeteria with Tyler Jones and Trent Walker. For some reason, I felt nervous approaching him, but I didn’t know why. It was just Austin, after all.

  “Hi, Austin.”

  He stood up quickly, before I could sit down. “What do you want?” he said.

  I looked at him. Slightly up at him. Had he grown another inch overnight? Also, why hadn’t I ever noticed how blue his eyes were before? Blue and really bright, like the sky on a clear day. “Um . . . I just wanted to say I’m sorry for—”

  “It’s all good.” He smiled tightly and lowered his voice. “I told my mom it was just an accident.”

  “No, really, my mom is on my case and she won’t get off until I properly apologize.”

  “Apologize?” Tyler piped up. “For what?”

  “For punching Austin in the face last night,” I said.

  “Punching him?” Tyler laughed. “Dude, you told us you walked into a door. . . . Hey, everyone! Austin got punched by a girl!”

  “Whatever.” I could never figure out why Austin hung out with those idiots. “Anyway, I just wanted to say I was—”

  “Sorry,” Austin said through gritted teeth. “Got it.”

  “Austin got his butt whipped by Toad Girl!” Tyler shouted, and Trent laughed so hard milk snorted from his nostrils.

  The nearby tables went silent. “Ribbit, ribbit!” someone called.

  Austin stared down at the floor, his cheeks flamed with color, and when he looked up at me, his eyes had hardened. “Go back to your lily pad,” he said, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “I didn’t see any flies on the menu today, Toad Girl.”

  My mouth opened in a perfect O—just wide enough to catch all those flies.

  Then I turned and ran.

  It was raining, so instead of heading for the tree next to English class I went to my backup spot, the hallway outside the library. I liked to sit there because on one of the walls there were small sections of peeling gray paint. The paint underneath was orange, and I always wondered whoever in their right mind thought it was a smart idea to cover it with a boring gray color.

  I settled down against the wall and promised myself I wouldn’t cry. I had thought Austin and I were just after-school friends because we didn’t have any classes together besides English, and we didn’t hang out with the same people. (Well, I didn’t hang out with any people.) But was it something else? Was Austin embarrassed to be my friend?

  A little while later, the bell rang, and I glanced at the gray wall one last time. As I headed off to my next class, it dawned on me that in a drab place like Dandelion Middle, maybe there just wasn’t any room for a color as bright as orange.

  6

  EARNING CHARM

  By the time Carolyn’s recital rolled around later that night, I still hadn’t written a nice note to anyone. I’d been so upset over Austin that I hadn’t thought much about it. In the backseat of Mom’s car on the way to Dandelion High, I turned the envelope charm over and over in my hand, hoping inspiration would strike. But the truth was, I couldn’t think of a single person who’d want a note from Toad Girl.

  “I’m nervous,” Carolyn whispered as we got out of the car, and I knew she was about to engage in her ritual pre-performance freak-out.

  “You’re going to be fantastic,” I said.

  “I’m going to throw up,” she said.

  “You’re going to go out there and show everyone how great you are. Because you are Carolyn the Great.” In these moments, I always feel like I’m the older sister.

  “I’m not great. I’m awful. Really, really terrible.”

  “Well,” I said finally, “I wasn’t gonna say anything, but now that you mention it . . . you’re right: You’re terrible. Would you like me to perform tonight instead?” />
  Carolyn laughed and wrapped her arm around me. “Thanks, Izzy,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “You’d be fine,” I said. “Except your life would be a lot more boring.”

  As soon as we walked inside the auditorium at Dandelion High, Mom went bounding toward a cluster of well-dressed, overperfumed ladies—they were all members of her book club. A few of the women exchanged side glances, and I wondered how much they actually liked Mom.

  Now that I thought about it, a couple girls in my history class had given each other that same look this morning when I was assigned to their small group.

  “I seriously can’t handle the book club ladies tonight,” Carolyn murmured.

  “Want me to run interference for you?” I asked, and she nodded.

  “Janine, what a wonderfully talented daughter you have,” said one book club lady.

  “Thank you so much,” I said loudly, stepping in front of them while Carolyn slipped around and headed backstage. “I am wonderful, aren’t I? But talented? That’s debatable.”

  “Ah yes, well . . .” The book club lady looked momentarily flummoxed, before turning away from me. “Janine, how is the campaign coming along?”

  I left Mom and the other ladies and found our seats. It seemed nearly half of Dandelion Hollow had come out tonight. Violet and her dad were settling into a row to my left. The concert began a few minutes later, and one high schooler after another took the stage to sing, or play the piano or some other musical instrument. But I could tell that most of the audience was waiting. It was Carolyn’s first concert as a high school freshman, and everyone in town had been hearing for years about the chief of police’s musical prodigy daughter.

  Finally, it was Carolyn’s turn. She sat down at the piano, and a hush fell over the audience as she began to play her selection from Beethoven. Once she finished, she started right in with another song. This one had words; it was a song Carolyn had written herself. She said she just woke up one day and the music and lyrics were floating in her head, like wispy clouds on a spring morning. Her song was as soft as a lullaby but as powerful as a tornado.

  While I listened to her perform, I felt like I could cry from the beauty of her voice and how she could take a complicated piano piece and make it appear effortless. That was my sister up there, Carolyn the Great.

  But all too soon, something changed, and I felt an acidic, green-eyed monster eating at my insides, especially when I glanced at Mom and saw the tears in her eyes, and how she mouthed every word right along with Carolyn. For some reason, I thought about the times I’d begged her to come along when Dad took me rowing, but she was always too busy driving Carolyn to voice, piano, or guitar lessons.

  How can you compete with a sister who sang before she could speak, who taught herself to play the piano when she was five, then turned around and taught herself to play the guitar when she was eight? (Mom had a special one made, because Carolyn’s hands were too small to hold a regular size.)

  The simple answer is: You can’t.

  I glanced over and saw Violet crying. I remembered it was Violet’s mom who gave Carolyn her first piano lesson. The piano in Carolyn’s room—our room—actually came from the Barnabys. Mr. Barnaby gave it to Carolyn after Mrs. Barnaby died.

  I figured if anyone needed a nice note right now, it would be Violet.

  I took a wadded-up piece of notebook paper from my coat pocket, grabbed a pen from Mom’s purse, and started writing. This time, I knew just what to say:

  Dear Violet,

  This song reminds me of your mom. I sure do miss her. She was really beautiful. I hope she’s in heaven, and that the music the angels make is as pretty as the songs my sister sings. I hope you are enjoying middle school.

  P.S.: I thought it was pretty awesome how you stole Ms. Harmer’s keys.

  Once Carolyn finished, everyone gave her a standing ovation. Then they started filing out of the room for intermission. Violet and Mr. Barnaby stood up; Mr. Barnaby said something about getting some fresh air. Mom was busy with a line of well-wishers (aka potential voters) waiting to congratulate her for having the good sense to give birth to someone as amazing as Carolyn. I excused myself and slipped over to Violet’s seat and tucked the letter into the pocket of her peacoat.

  I took my bracelet and the envelope charm out of my pocket. “I have earned my charm,” I whispered to myself. The overhead lights dimmed, signaling intermission was almost over, and people began returning to their seats. After I hooked the charm on and slid the bracelet onto my wrist, the lights flickered again, and the tiny envelope seemed to illuminate and sparkle. A few minutes later, as I watched Violet curiously dig into her coat pocket and pull out my note, I felt a little lighter.

  7

  STAR-SPANGLED SUNSETS

  Dear Mrs. Whippie,

  I wrote someone a note tonight. Her name is Violet, and we used to be best friends. I watched her read it, and I know it made her smile.

  I wish someone would write me a nice note. Sometimes at school I hear kids telling their friends to text them. I don’t own a cell phone, but even if I did, there isn’t really anyone I could text.

  Anyways, I guess that means I have earned my envelope charm. It sure is pretty. It reminds me of the jewelry I sometimes see at Dandelion Thrift. I tried to show the bracelet to my mom tonight after my sister Carolyn’s concert, but she was really busy talking to Dandelion High’s drama teacher. He offered Carolyn the lead in the school musical. She didn’t even have to audition. He said she was so talented the role was hers if she wanted it, which of course she did.

  But anyway, go ahead and send me that second charm. So far your school isn’t too lame. I thought you’d make me do stupid stuff like walk across the floor in high heels or learn how to properly hold a teacup, which, if you knew me, you’d know that was a lost cause.

  Also if you knew me, you’d know most people think I’m strange. Sometimes I feel like in middle school you’re only supposed to care about boys, clothes, and makeup, and if you don’t, people think you’re weird or wild. I guess I just don’t understand. I collect leaves, not lip gloss, and I still like climbing trees and splashing in ponds, and sometimes I wish I could fly. I wonder if the stars would look any different if I was just a little closer to the sky.

  The other day I was in my treehouse watching the sunset, waiting for the stars to come out, and I swear the sky was striped reddish and white with blue clouds. It was like a star-spangled sunset. I thought my mom would appreciate that, since she’s running for mayor of our town, but when I told her, she just looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. I get that look a lot, actually. Anyway, thanks for the charm.

  Your Friend,

  Izzy Malone

  P.S.: Please don’t call me Isabella. That name belongs to a really pretty girl who never wrecks her clothes and who never gets dirt under her fingernails. That’s definitely not me. My name is Izzy.

  8

  AUTUMN RAINSTORMS

  Over the weekend, Dad took me kayaking at Dandelion Lake. He timed me, and sure enough, all my work on the rowing machine was starting to pay off. I practiced till my arms ached so badly I thought they were going to fall off, but when we drove home that afternoon, I was smiling. I was getting faster, and I was pretty sure the next time the Paddlers saw me race, they’d realize I belonged on their team.

  A few days later, I was at school sitting under my tree. It was lunchtime, and all around me leaves were fluttering to the ground like a blazing autumn rainstorm. I was examining a couple leaves that looked like they blew in from a different tree. They were thin and oblong, mostly green at the edges, but bright pink in the middle. They reminded me of something. . . .

  “Lizard tongues,” I whispered, pasting them into the notebook where I kept my leaf collection. “They look like lizard tongues.”

  “Did your mom tell you to write me a note?”

  Startled, I looked up. “What?”

  Viole
t was standing over me, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. Her hair hung down her back in dark brown curls. Her pale skin was flushed from the cold, and her rosy lips were screwed up in a scowl.

  “The note you slipped me last week at the concert. Did your mom tell you to do that?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then why did you write it?”

  I had forgotten how bossy Violet could be, and I reminded myself to keep my mouth shut. We don’t know what she’s going through, my mom would always say after Mrs. Barnaby died, when Violet ignored me at school or her dad said she didn’t want to come out of the house and play after I’d knocked on her door.

  It was true I didn’t know what Violet was going through, but what I was going through was losing Violet right about the time everyone started calling me Toad Girl. That would have been a great time to have a best friend.

  “Well?” She practically tapped her foot while she waited for me to answer.

  I never liked it when she bossed me around. “Why do you care?” I countered. “And why aren’t you eating in the cafeteria?”

  “I loathe the cafeteria. I find it positively revolting, so I usually eat outside the music room.” That was Violet for you. It wasn’t enough to say she hated the cafeteria. No, she loathed it. “And I care because I am sick of everyone being nice to me just because I’m the girl with the dead mother.”

  I flinched. I’d also forgotten how blunt she could be.

  “I sent you the note because I wanted to . . . and because I’m trying to win a prize.”

  Violet had green eyes with flecks of gold. Those eyes always seemed to hold a question, like she was trying to figure out if you were worth her time or not. And the minute I said the word “prize,” her eyes lightened, like she’d decided I was.

  “A prize? What kind of prize?”

  “Someone sent me a letter telling me I had to send someone else a letter.”