The Charming Life of Izzy Malone

by Jenny Lundquist

  I bent down and pretended to retie my shoe. “I got bored and wanted to leave,” I said. “You looked pretty busy dancing with Stella, so I took off.”

  Oops. I promised myself I wasn’t going to mention Stella.

  “What does Stella have to do with anything?” he said as he sank the next basket. That was number eight, and if he kept this up, he was on his way to a new record, which just made me even more annoyed.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I just didn’t think you’d be interested in a girl like Stella.”

  All right, that’s it, Izzy. If you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll duct tape it for you.

  “What are you even talking about?” he said, sinking number nine.

  “Nothing,” I said again. “I just didn’t think you wanted to dance with girls.”

  “I didn’t. But the Hammer was freaking out about everyone knowing she’s dating Violet’s dad and she practically threatened to give us all detention if we didn’t start dancing.” He sank another basket. “Oh, yeah!” he yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “I have just tied you! One more, baby, and it’s a new world record!”

  “Awesome,” I said. “Any time you want to let me have a turn, just let me know.”

  “Don’t be such a sore loser. I let you go first. It’s not my fault you missed.”

  I begged to differ. I was pretty sure if I wasn’t stuck in a crush I would have made my first shot, and I wouldn’t be sitting here watching Austin sink basket after basket, like I didn’t have anything better to do with my time.

  “Where were you, anyway?” he asked as he dribbled the ball a couple times. “I didn’t see you on the dance floor.”

  “Uh . . . I was busy.”

  “Busy . . . doing what?” He raised the ball to take aim.

  I definitely didn’t want Austin wondering too hard where I was during the dance, so I said, “For your information, I was dancing with someone too.”

  Austin’s shot bounced hard off the backboard, and the ball rolled into the street.

  “Ha!” I said. “There will be no new world records today! I am still the reigning champion! I invite you to call me Queen Izzy.”

  “You were dancing?” Austin turned to look at me. “With who?”

  “An eighth grader,” I said, thinking fast. “You don’t know him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “What’s it matter to you?”

  “It doesn’t matter to me. You just sound like you’re lying.”

  “How would you know I was lying? Or don’t you think anyone would want to dance with Toad Girl?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just didn’t see you dancing with anyone.”

  “Oh yeah, well, you were probably too busy dancing with Stella the Terrible to notice. Did you actually look for me on the dance floor?”

  “Yes, I did, okay? Ms. Harmer practically forced me to dance with someone, and I tried to find you, and you weren’t anywhere, and I got stuck dancing with Stella. Why are you acting so weird all of a sudden?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe you should go ask Stella.”

  “Whatever, Izzy, I’m going inside.” He picked up his backpack. “Sometimes I really don’t understand girls,” he mumbled as he walked away.

  I couldn’t blame him. These days, I didn’t understand myself much either.

  24

  TACKY FAVORITISM

  On Saturday, Dad and I were up bright and early, packing picnic lunches to take to Dandelion Lake. With Pumpkin Palooza only a week away, he decided we needed to step up our training sessions.

  “It’s not enough to be fast,” he said as we loaded his kayak onto his truck. “You have to be precise and strong.” He picked up a couple tote bags stuffed with rocks and shoved them in behind the kayak.

  “What are those for?” I asked.

  “You’ll see. Let’s get moving—Mom said she’d drop by to watch you after Carolyn’s through with her rehearsal.”

  Dad has been taking me to Dandelion Lake ever since I could walk. After Mom discovered Carolyn’s emerging musical genius, their Saturdays were full of lessons, leaving me and Dad alone.

  “I haven’t got a musical bone in my body,” Dad once said. “But I know how to row. The lake, Izzy, that’s where I hear music.”

  I can’t say I heard any music as we unloaded the kayak at the aquatic center, but I did hear the students from Dandelion High’s rowing team warming up for their practice session.

  That’s another reason I want to join the Paddlers: You do a couple years with them and you’ve got a good shot at joining the high school team.

  The Paddlers themselves were also practicing at the opposite end of the lake. Dad and I stopped to watch them. They were in individual kayaks, cutting through the lake the way eagles cut through sky. (All of them except for Stella, who struggled a few strokes behind.)

  “They look really good,” I said.

  “They’d look a heck of a lot better if you were with them,” Dad grumbled. When he’d found out what had happened at tryouts over the summer, he’d been pretty steamed.

  “Are you sure you can’t arrest any of them for favoritism?” I asked.

  “Hmmm, now that’s a temptation. But this is a private club. Favoritism might be tacky, but strictly speaking, it isn’t technically illegal.”

  Dad and I each lifted an end of the kayak and carried it, me walking forward, Dad walking backward. Over at the shore, Mrs. Wilcox and Mayor Franklin were drinking cups of coffee and chatting while they watched the Paddlers practice.

  “Hi, Chief,” Mrs. Wilcox said, after we’d checked in at the aquatic center. “You and Izzy seem to be coming here more than usual.”

  “We’re training,” Dad said. “Izzy’s entered the regatta—she’ll be racing one of my own pumpkins.”

  “Izzy entered the regatta?” Mayor Franklin asked, a strange edge to her voice.

  “Yep,” Dad said, slinging an arm around me. “She’s going to be the first middle schooler to win it. You two and the Paddlers should come out to see her.”

  I haven’t told Dad about my plan to convince Lauren I belonged on the Paddlers, but I’m pretty sure he’s figured it out.

  “That’s right,” I said. “I’ve gotten much faster since tryouts.”

  “You have?” Mrs. Wilcox asked, studying me.

  “Loads faster,” Dad said, smiling widely. “Anyways, we’ll see you around.”

  “That was fun,” he said in a low voice as he dragged the kayak into the water. “I thought Mayor Franklin was going to choke on her coffee. Too bad your mother wasn’t here to see it.”

  Once I’d put on my life vest and some sunblock, I grabbed my paddle. I was ready to shove off—until Dad loaded up my kayak with the tote bags full of rocks.

  “We need to add weight,” he said, when I started to protest. “The kayak is sleek and smooth, but when you race Bozo, there will be more pounds to account for.”

  The rocks definitely added more weight, but I paddled as fast as I could, and surprisingly enough, I still made good time. I practiced for a couple hours, until Dad suggested we take a break for lunch.

  We spread out a blanket and unpacked our lunches. The day was sunny and warm, and I dug my toes into the sand as I ate. “Autumn in Northern California,” Dad said, stretching out and tipping his head back. “I love days like this.”

  I loved them too. But I’d love this particular one a whole lot more if Mom were here. “When did you say she was coming?” I asked.

  Dad didn’t have to ask who I meant. “Soon, Izzy.”

  We continued eating, and a man who worked at the olive oil shop near the Kaleidoscope came jogging by. When he saw us, he slowed down and removed his earbuds. “Hi, Chief. Any leads on catching the Star Bandit?”

  “Sure,” Dad answered. “Everyone at the station is working round the clock on it. New tips come in all the time.”

  They do? I put my sandwich down. All of a sudden, I didn’t feel so hungry anymore.r />
  “That’s good to hear,” he said, putting his buds back in. “Keep up the good work!”

  After he’d jogged away I said, “Is that true, about all the tips?”

  “Not even a little bit,” Dad answered briskly. “But you can’t actually say that. It’s bad for morale.” He shook his head. “That Star Bandit is a ghost.”

  “Do you think he’s a bad person?” I asked, feeling a pit in my stomach.

  “I don’t know what to think. Maybe he’s misguided—and maybe he’s not a he at all. Maybe the Star Bandit is a girl. Maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to give all the credit to a boy.”

  I glanced over at Dad to see if he was becoming suspicious, but he was just staring at the lake while he talked, an easygoing expression on his face.

  “Credit?” I repeated.

  Dad laughed. “Or blame, depending on how you look at it. I’m sure we’ll catch him—or her, or them—soon.”

  “I’m sure you will,” I said.

  I promise, I added silently to myself.

  After we were finished eating, Dad asked me to throw away our trash while he made a quick phone call. On the way back, I caught the tail end of his conversation:

  “Janine, call me back. I’m serious—you need to get here this time and watch. Izzy’s waiting.”

  I kept on waiting. We trained for a few more hours. I kept glancing over my shoulder, hoping I’d see Mom standing on the shore, watching me. We stayed longer than usual—long after my arms and legs were aching—until we finally decided to quit for the day and head home.

  I’d like to say I was surprised Mom never showed up, but I wasn’t.

  In the truck, a sad silence stretched like a chilly shadow over me and Dad. “Your mother always wished she could sing,” he said finally, as he turned the car into our neighborhood. “It must be pretty exciting for her, watching Carolyn get the lead as a freshman.”

  “I know.” Grandma Bertie once told me that Mom tried out for the high school musical every year and every year she came home crying when the cast list was posted and her name wasn’t on it. Then, ironically, she gave birth to a daughter who was a bona fide musical genius. I guessed it was pretty exciting for her. Carolyn, too, of course.

  But not so much for me.

  After Dad and I unloaded the truck, I headed inside and found Carolyn in the den, strumming her guitar. “How was rehearsal?” I asked, and my voice sounded strange.

  Carolyn stopped strumming; her eyes went on high alert. “Fine. How was the lake?”

  “Fine. Did you memorize your lines?”

  “Not yet. Did you improve your time?”

  We kept on that way, like our conversation was a ball we were tossing back and forth. Except we weren’t talking about kayaking, or Carolyn’s rehearsal. Sometimes you can be saying one thing, but actually talking about something totally different.

  “Where’s Mom?” I asked.

  “She just left,” Carolyn answered, still watching me with careful eyes. “We were hungry, so she went to pick something up for dinner.”

  “That must be real nice, having someone at your beck and call all the time. Is she going to cut your meat and do your dishes for you too?”

  “Izzy.” Carolyn let out a long breath. “I told her she didn’t have to stay, and that I could catch a ride home with someone else.”

  “I guess technically you could have,” I said. “But that would imply you have a friend other than Layla.”

  I saw the hurt spreading across Carolyn’s face, but I couldn’t bring myself to apologize. Here’s the thing we never talk about: There’s a cost to being a musical genius. While Carolyn is at her lessons on the weekends, other girls her age are going to the movies, or the mall. They’re becoming friends. Meanwhile, Carolyn is by herself, practicing. If it weren’t for Layla, who Carolyn’s been friends with since kindergarten, she might actually be friendless.

  “That’s not fair, Izzy. I didn’t—”

  “You have no idea what’s fair,” I said. “Everyone works around your schedule like you’re the president of the universe, and you don’t even realize it.”

  My mouth was like an angry puppy let off his leash: full of energy and ready to make a mess out of everything. I knew if I stuck around I’d say all the nasty things I was thinking, so I ran upstairs and lay down on my bed. I stayed there for a while, long enough for the sky outside to turn thick and gloomy.

  Two soft taps sounded at the door—Carolyn’s signature knock.

  “Go away!” I yelled, even though I knew I couldn’t keep her out. It was her room, after all.

  The door opened, and Carolyn padded across the room and slid into bed beside me.

  “The mouth strikes again,” I said, as she wrapped an arm around me. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry too.”

  “For what? You didn’t do anything.”

  Carolyn was quiet for a second. “I guess I’m sorry things aren’t fair—I do realize it. I just don’t know what to do about it.” She rolled over to look at me. “Mom barely pays attention to me at the rehearsals. She’s always trying to talk to the other moms.”

  “Yeah, but when she’s talking to them, she’s bragging about you, right?”

  “Yeah . . . but I think she does it more for herself, not for me.”

  We lay there in silence, until Carolyn said, “Want to go spy on Grandma Bertie and Aunt Mildred? They’re fighting over the TV remote again.”

  “I was thinking about going outside to hang out in the treehouse.”

  Carolyn smiled. “If you do, I’ll open our window and play Beethoven, as loud as I can. After that I’ll—Oh . . . Hi, Mom.”

  I looked over. Mom was standing in the doorway, glancing nervously between me and Carolyn. She held a bulging brown paper bag.

  “I brought home Chando’s,” she said.

  Chando’s is a taco stand a few towns over. It’s my favorite, but we hardly ever go there because it’s an hour drive one way. Mom must have broken a bunch of speeding laws to be back already.

  “Chando’s,” I said, sitting up. “Really, you bought me a taco?”

  “Really—and not just one taco. A whole bag of them. I also stopped off and picked up some mint chocolate chip ice cream.”

  Mint chocolate chip, also my favorite.

  Mom and I stared at each other. We were quiet, but our eyes were saying a lot.

  “I thought we could eat in the den and watch a movie together.” She paused, then added, “Is that okay?”

  “Yeah, Mom,” I said, pulling back the covers and standing up. “It’s okay.”

  Like I said, sometimes you can be saying one thing but actually talking about something totally different.

  25

  THE CHARM GIRLS?

  The opportunity to redeem myself arrived with Mrs. Whippie’s fourth letter, on the afternoon the few remaining green leaves in town exploded into fiery shades of red, orange, and yellow. The next day, I went to school and found Daisy, Violet, and Sophia, and asked each of them to meet me at my house after school.

  They all said they’d be there.

  “Wow,” Sophia said, as she pulled herself up through the hole in my treehouse floor and saw the star-stickered walls. “Is this the Charm Girls’ secret hideout?”

  “Charm what?” Violet asked.

  “Charm Girls,” Sophia answered as she settled herself on the floor. “I guess that’s how I think of you guys. So what’s up?”

  “I know why you asked us to meet,” Daisy said eagerly. “The next letter came, right?”

  I nodded and held up the creamy envelope, which I’d already opened. I had told myself I wouldn’t open it until the other girls arrived, but my hands aren’t always the obeying kind. The envelope was extra chunky, so I figured Mrs. Whippie had included a bracelet for Daisy along with the charms for our new tasks.

  I was right. When I opened the envelope and fished inside, there was Daisy’s bracelet, along with a jukeb
ox and a paint palette charm. Also inside were three pink cupcake charms.

  “I love cupcakes!” Daisy said, after I showed everyone the envelope’s contents. “I hope we get to eat a ton of them!”

  “Don’t get too excited,” I said. “There’s a little more to it than that.”

  “So if I help with this task I can get a bracelet the next time, right?” Sophia asked as Daisy put hers on.

  I nodded. “I’ll write to Mrs. Whippie and ask.” I unfolded the letter and read it to everyone:

  Dear Izzy,

  I’ve sent along Daisy’s bracelet and charms for the last task—please welcome her to my school. No, a prize unlike any other doesn’t refer to cash. I’m talking about something much better than money, but you’ll just have to wait and see what it is!

  What’s all this nonsense about odd vision and not fitting in? There are plenty worse things in this world than not fitting in—like fitting in way too much. You strike me as a real original, Izzy Malone, in a world that loves carbon copies. If you think you beautified something, I believe you. I’ve never understood why folks love safe, neutral colors so much. Colors are what make this world worth living in. If God wanted a world full of gray-loving, cranky sourpusses, he would have made us all like my grandmother!

  Now, for your next task, I found out that the Dandelion Historical Society’s dessert auction is coming up. I’d like you and your friends to bake a bunch of cupcakes and donate them. Then you all will have earned your charm, and you may place it on your bracelet. Write me a letter and let me know how it went.

  “Mrs. Whippie’s letters are extremely bamboozling,” Violet said when I finished.

  “Bam-what?” Sophia asked.

  “Bamboozling,” Daisy said. “That’s Violet speak for . . . well, something. You’ll get used to it.” She scowled. “I hate baking. Can’t we just buy a ton of cupcakes and donate them?”

  “No,” I said. “I want to bake them. As many as we possibly can. Then we’ll put stickers on them and say they’re from the Star Bandit.”