But a little saliva never bothered me, so I spit into my own hand before shaking Daisy’s. “Deal,” I said.
“Gross,” Violet said. “The two of you need serious help with your hygiene.”
Daisy ignored that and looked at Mrs. Whippie’s latest letter. “Were you originally planning on going to the dance?”
“No. Definitely not.” In my opinion, school dances are totally lame. I mean, I’ve never actually been to one, since the Harvest Dance is the first of the year. But how much fun can they really be? They’re at school, for one thing. And even though they’re held in the gym, you can’t play basketball. Plus, there are teachers and parent chaperones all over the place, just waiting to squash any fun you might actually have.
But it looked like if I wanted to earn my charm, I was going to have to go anyway.
“What about the other task?” Daisy said. “What can you beautify?”
“I think we could take care of both tasks at the dance,” I said. “Without anyone knowing.”
“Like another secret mission?” Violet asked.
I nodded. I had a plan forming. If I needed to beautify something, I was pretty sure I knew exactly what I would do.
17
THE THREE HENS
Everyone in my house has lots of opinions. The trouble is, they all feel perfectly fine invading my room and giving them to me. Mom, Grandma Bertie, and Aunt Mildred didn’t like the clothes I’d picked out to wear to the dance tonight. The three of them were standing close to my bed, where I’d stashed my walkie-talkie underneath my old teddy bear, and I didn’t want them to find it.
“Well,” Grandma Bertie said, squinting, “your outfit is certainly colorful.”
I knew what that meant. A lot of times, “colorful” is just code for “unacceptable.”
“And you really could do with a haircut,” Mom added. “If you want, we could cut it right now. Think how much easier it would be to brush if it were shorter.”
“I’m allergic to scissors,” I said, and Mom and Grandma Bertie exchanged exasperated glances. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing right now?” I had on an outfit I had gotten from Dandelion Thrift: a neon yellow shirt and a long orange gauzy skirt. With my combat boots, of course.
“It’s perfectly fine,” Grandma Bertie said, “if you want to be a crossing guard.” She turned to Mom. “Does Izzy have a nice dress she could wear? Like maybe navy blue or beige?”
“Beige? Izzy is eleven, not eleven hundred,” Aunt Mildred said, rolling her eyes. I don’t think I’d ever seen someone that old roll their eyes.
“Beige is a perfectly normal color,” Grandma Bertie argued.
“Normal?” Aunt Mildred looked like Grandma Bertie had just said a cuss word. “What an utterly terrible word—it sucks all the spark and creativity right out of a person. I’ve simply got no tolerance for people like that.”
“Yes, dear,” Grandma Bertie said, sighing heavily. “We all know that.”
“I don’t wear beige,” I announced. “Beige is soul-sucking.” I’d heard the word “soul-sucking” from Violet—she was adding it to one of her word lists when I stopped by her locker yesterday to go over our plan for tonight. “Besides, girls don’t wear dresses to this kind of dance. It’s not formal. It’s sort of come-as-you-are.”
But from the look on Mom’s face, going “as I was” just wasn’t going to cut it.
“I’ll be chaperoning tonight, Izzy, and everyone knows I’m running for mayor, and it would really help me out if—”
Chaperoning?
“Wait, what? You’ll be at the dance?” I blurted.
This was a serious problem for me. In order to complete my beautification task tonight, I needed to get deep into the school, which was certain to be off-limits.
“They needed more chaperones. Melanie Harmer mentioned it when I was talking to her about your poetry assignment.” Mom made it sound like it was my fault she’d been roped into chaperoning.
“And you think I’ll make you look bad by wearing this?” I held out my arms and thought about the photo of her and Dad and Carolyn sitting at the piano. She could erase me from her family photo, but she couldn’t stick me in a bland beige dress and erase me from my own school dance.
Mom ignored me. “I think I have something in my closet that might work,” she said to Grandma Bertie, and headed for the door. “I’ll be right back.”
“You know, dear,” Grandma Bertie said after Mom left, “it couldn’t hurt to be a little accommodating, just this once. Your mother is working awfully hard on her campaign.”
“Well, so what?” Aunt Mildred snapped. “Izzy isn’t the one running for mayor.”
Times like these, I didn’t mind Aunt Mildred, or her cranky attitude. I figured maybe one of these days I should take her up on her offer to visit my old room and chat with her. Just then, my walkie-talkie crackled to life: “Wordnerd to Stargazer, do you copy?”
“Did you hear that?” Grandma Bertie said. “Something just talked.” She eyed my teddy bear suspiciously.
“I didn’t hear anything, Bertha,” Aunt Mildred said. “Maybe you should get a hearing aid.”
“You’re the one who needs a hearing aid,” Grandma Bertie retorted.
“Grandma Bertie, Aunt Mildred,” I said quickly. “Do either of you have any jewelry I could borrow tonight?” They both looked delighted I’d asked, and after they left to go look, I picked up the walkie-talkie. “I read you, Wordnerd. But we have a major problem. The Hammer talked my mother into chaperoning tonight.”
“Tell me about it.” Violet sounded sour. “My dad will be there too.”
“We’ll figure something out. But I can’t talk right now. Over and out.” I had just tucked my walkie-talkie back under my teddy bear when Mom returned holding a brown bag. Or maybe it was a dress? Aunt Mildred and Grandma Bertie followed behind her, both of them holding pairs of dangly earrings.
“Isabella,” Mom began, “I’m going to have to insist that you—”
“What’s going on in here?” Carolyn wandered into the room, followed by her best friend, Layla.
“Everyone is ganging up on me,” I said.
“No one is ganging up on you,” Mom said.
“Yes, you are. You want me to change everything about myself so I’ll look better for your stupid campaign.”
“Now, wait just a minute! I never—”
“I’ll handle this,” Carolyn said. “Everyone out.”
That’s one thing about being a child prodigy: You can get away with stuff other people can’t. If I tried to order everyone out of the room, Mom would tell me to stop being so difficult and disrespectful. But since Carolyn the Great said it, Mom just threw up her hands and left.
“Go on, Grandma Bertie and Aunt Mildred,” Carolyn said, shooing them from the room. “I’ve got this.” She shut the door behind them and said, “So, what’s wrong?”
“The usual. Mom doesn’t think I’m good enough, so she’s trying to change me.”
“That’s not true.” Carolyn shook her head. “Mom doesn’t think she’s good enough, so she’s trying to change herself. You’re just getting in the way of how she’s trying to do that.”
You know, sometimes I hate having a sister who’s really talented, and really smart.
“Whatever. But she’s still on my case about my hair and clothes.”
“Your hair is pretty crazy,” Carolyn agreed.
“Well, I like it.”
“Fine,” Carolyn said. “I don’t actually care. I just kicked everyone out because I thought you’d want a break from the three hens.”
“The three hens” is what Carolyn secretly calls Mom, Grandma Bertie, and Aunt Mildred. She says it’s because they squawk and cluck more than any real chicken she’s ever met.
“You really do have nice hair, though,” Layla spoke up. “And you have a pretty face—it’s just hidden behind so much hair.”
I looked in the mirror. My hair was the color of a toasted
bagel, and it hung down nearly to my waist, tangled in knots as usual. I hadn’t intentionally set out to grow it so long. One day a couple years ago, Mom was in a cranky mood and said I was way overdue for a haircut. She ordered me into the bathroom so she could chop it off.
“It’ll be easier to take care of that way,” she had said. “Since you can’t ever be bothered to brush it.”
“It’s my hair,” I’d answered. “Why should you get to decide when it gets cut?” After that, I refused to sit down whenever she brought out the scissors.
“I guess it is a little out of control,” I said now.
“We could cut your hair if you want,” Carolyn said. “Layla wants to be a hairdresser one day, right, Layla?”
Layla nodded and snapped her gum. “That, or a computer engineer.”
“Do you think you can fix Izzy’s hair?” Carolyn asked.
Layla turned my chin this way and that, studying my face and hair, before finally nodding again.
Carolyn retrieved Mom’s haircutting scissors and handed them to Layla, who told me to sit still.
“Do you have much practice cutting hair?” I asked.
“Loads,” Layla answered, taking her first snip. “Just . . . not on actual people.”
“What?” My head snapped back.
“Calm down,” Carolyn said. “It’s not like she could make it any worse.”
“Thanks a lot.” I stuck my tongue out at Carolyn, who crossed her eyes at me.
“I normally practice on old dolls,” Layla said. “But if you don’t like it, we can always shave it off. You could say you were making a statement or something.”
“A statement about what?” I asked.
“Who knows?” Carolyn said. “But wouldn’t you like to see the look on Mom’s face if you shaved your head?”
Carolyn and I both thought about that for a second. Then Carolyn frowned and turned to Layla. “Make sure you do a really good job.”
Layla began cutting, stopping every few minutes to step back and make sure she wasn’t accidentally giving me a Mohawk, I guess. “You missed a spot,” Carolyn would say occasionally, or, “Even it out a little more.”
After a while Layla put down the scissors and said she was done. She handed me Carolyn’s hand mirror. “What do you think?”
My once-long hair was shaped in a spiky sort of bob. Best of all, I’d hardly ever have to brush it. “I like it,” I said.
“What about your clothes?” Carolyn asked. “Do you want to change them?”
“I like your look,” Layla said. “It’s really funky. You stand out a mile away.”
I paused while I considered that. Standing out a mile away was about the last thing I wanted to do tonight. Not with what I had planned to earn my next charm. Maybe just for one night, I needed something different. Something darker. My eyes fell on Carolyn’s black jacket. Something sleeker. And footwear that didn’t make a sound.
“Can I borrow that?” I pointed to Carolyn’s jacket. “And your black ballet flats? We wear the same size now.”
“Sure.”
Tonight I needed to blend in. Disappear, even. That way, when the Star Bandit struck again, no one would be the wiser.
18
COLORING THE WORLD
The only thing more embarrassing than showing up to a school dance alone is showing up with your mother. We were running late because Mom got tied up with campaign stuff, and afterward, she locked herself in her bedroom, where I heard her talking to herself again (“You are powerful, Janine. You are strong . . .”), so the dance had already started by the time we walked into the gym at Dandelion Middle.
“I can’t believe this is your first middle school dance,” Mom said. “It seems like my own first dance was just yesterday.” She flinched, like she’d just remembered something painful. “You know, Isabella, we’re not as different as you may think.”
“Izzy. And we’re not? Really?” I found that hard to believe. Sometimes it seemed like we didn’t even live on the same planet.
“Really.” She looked like she wanted to say something else, but then seemed to decide against it. Then she was hurrying away to check in with the other chaperones, calling over her shoulder that she hoped I’d have a good time.
Maybe that was a good thing, because she hadn’t had time to notice the walkie-talkie or the paintbrush I tucked under Carolyn’s jacket, both of which I needed to complete Mrs. Whippie’s tasks. Everything else, I’d smuggled into my locker over the last couple days.
I hung back in the doorway and looked around. Tables and chairs had been set up around the edges of the room, leaving the center free for people to dance, although right now everyone just hovered at the edges. The girls were camped out on the left side of the room by the refreshment table talking to their friends, while the boys lounged against the opposite wall, nodding their heads to the pounding music and generally trying to look cool. It was like there was an invisible line drawn down the middle of the room.
If this was what middle school dances were like, I was not about to change my opinion regarding their lameness.
“Hi, Izzy.” Austin came up behind me. His brown hair was slicked into spikes, and he was wearing a white collared shirt, complete with a tie. His face was red and frozen in a grimace; it looked like his tie was trying to choke him. “My mom made me come tonight. She said I needed to do more with my life than play basketball and video games. But she did say I could walk home with you if I wanted to leave early.”
“My mom said the same thing.” I glanced over and saw Tyler Jones making fart noises with his armpit. “And I predict I will want to leave early.”
Right after I finish my task, I added silently to myself.
Austin looked around the room. “Do you think they’ll make boys and girls dance? Together, I mean?”
“I’m not sure; I don’t know what the rules are. But I don’t think you have to if you don’t want to. I dislike touching people with sweaty palms.”
“Exactly.” He smiled. “I would much rather touch a basketball!”
“Me too.”
We high-fived. Then Austin stuck his hands in his pockets and took a deep breath. “So, listen: I’m sorry about what happened in the cafeteria. I’m sorry I called you Toad Girl.”
“It’s okay. Everyone calls me that.” Although, actually, that wasn’t true. Violet and Daisy never called me anything but Izzy.
“It’s not okay,” Austin said, shaking his head. “Tyler was going on and on about you punching me, and I was embarrassed. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you even friends with him?” I asked, moving aside for a few other kids who wanted to get into the gym. “He’s mean.”
Austin shrugged. “We’ve known each other since kindergarten. It’s hard to imagine not being friends with him. Anyways . . . I miss playing basketball with you.”
“Me too,” I said.
“So . . . truce?”
“Truce.”
We were standing in the doorway, facing each other. The wind from outside was tickling at my newly exposed neck, which made me feel both excited and nervous. A part of me wanted to stay there and forget about the dance, and Mrs. Whippie’s task, and another part of me wanted to run away and hide.
Austin frowned. “You look different,” he said.
I patted my hair. “Carolyn’s friend gave me a haircut.”
“No, it’s not that.” He squinted at me.
“Different clothes?” I tugged at Carolyn’s black jacket.
“No, it’s not that.” He kept squinting, until he smiled and snapped his fingers. “You’re getting shorter!”
I rolled my eyes. “Way to be observant, Austin.”
Boys, I swear.
“Austin, Izzy—over here!” Tyler Jones waved at us and made loud kissing noises. Did he think we’d come to the dance . . . together?
Austin must have wondered the same thing, because his cheeks reddened to boiling and he muttered, “See you,” before practically r
unning for the right side of the room.
I turned left and smiled as I passed by Sophia Ramos, who waved at me. I was looking for Daisy and Violet, but unfortunately, I ran into Stella the Terrible first. Her lips were pursed, and she was glancing around the room, her hands fluttering nervously at her sides.
“Hello, Izzy. Have you seen Lauren?”
“No, I haven’t,” I said, surprised. “I think that’s one of the only times in almost two years you’ve called me Izzy, instead of Toad Girl.”
“My mom told me I need to be nice to you because you’re weird and you don’t have any friends,” Stella said, still glancing around the room.
Nice. “Actually, that’s not true,” I said.
Because all of a sudden, I realized it wasn’t. Stella wasn’t the only one looking for someone; I was looking for Violet and Daisy—didn’t they count as friends? After all, what else do you call two people who’ve promised to help you sneak into school and perform a secret task?
Accomplices, maybe. But also friends.
Stella spotted Lauren and the Paddlers and, with a relieved sigh, hurried off to join them. I found Violet sitting at a table, writing a new list in her journal:
Words That Annoy Me:
Punch
Dances
Chaperones
Tyler Jones
“Where’s Daisy?” I asked, sitting down next to her.
“Casing the joint,” Violet replied, not looking up from her list. “She’s trying to figure out the best way to get you inside.”
I hadn’t told Daisy and Violet exactly what I was planning. I just told them I needed to get into the school. I figured that gave them plausible deniability if I was caught. Although I wasn’t too worried about getting caught this time. After all, I was only trying to beautify something.
Violet looked up from her journal. “Wow. I love your hair.”
“Thanks. Have you been here long?”
Violet rolled her eyes. “Since an hour before it started. My dad decided since he was a chaperone we needed to be here early.”
I followed her gaze. Mr. Barnaby was standing near the sound system, nodding his head to the music. When he caught sight of us staring at him, he waved.
The Charming Life of Izzy Malone Page 8