Isabelle and Little Orphan Frannie: The Isabelle Series, Book Three

by Constance C. Greene

  “Oh, Isabelle,” Mary Eliza cooed, “too bad you’re not a staff member of the Bee so you can go to the meeting this aft.” Mary Eliza liked to say “aft” for “afternoon.” “I guess we’ll decide on our policy. I have all sorts of new ideas I plan to introduce to the board members.”

  Isabelle smiled and nodded, waiting for Mary Eliza to get the full effect of a spider crawling around inside her clothes. She stood quietly as long as she could. Nothing happened. Life is full of disappointments, Isabelle thought as she ran, gathering speed, out to the playground.

  “Slow down!” a sixth grade traffic cop yelled at her. Those traffic cops thought they were such hot shots, Isabelle thought, slowing down, but only a little. Next year when she was in sixth grade, she planned on being a traffic cop. In order to qualify, you had to be responsible and sensible and able to respond in an emergency. She was capable of all those things. She knew she was. Or would be.

  If there was one thing she wanted, it was to be a traffic cop. They were the big shots in the school. She’d rather be a traffic cop than a cheerleader.

  Or even a lifeguard.

  NINETEEN

  “Sound it out, sound it out!” Isabelle yelled.

  “I’m bored with sounding it out,” Frannie said. And she raised her fragile wrist to her mouth as she’d done that other time, the time she’d cried.

  “Don’t,” Isabelle said, clapping her hands over her ears. “Please don’t. I can’t stand it if you make that noise again.”

  Frannie looked surprised. “I’m not making any noise,” she said. “I’m smelling my skin. It smells very sweet. How about yours?”

  Isabelle beat the eraser against the blackboard, raising a cloud of chalk dust. She’d never known anyone who went around smelling herself. Weird.

  “How’s it going, girls?” Isabelle’s mother asked, sticking in her head to see how they were getting along.

  One look at their woebegone, weary faces made her say, “How about coming along to the kitchen? I’ve got a treat for you. Then maybe you could go to the library. If you haven’t been there, Frannie, I bet you’d love it. It’s full of wonderful books.”

  “Okay,” Frannie said promptly. “Let’s.”

  Isabelle popped her eyes at her mother and said, “What kind of a treat?” It wasn’t Christmas or her birthday or the Fourth of July. Those were treat days. Isabelle’s mother didn’t buy treats on ordinary days. Only on special occasions.

  “It’s a surprise,” her mother said.

  The treat was chocolate-covered ice cream bars on a stick.

  “All right!” Isabelle said, taking one, handing one to Frannie. “How come? I thought you said they were too expensive, Mom. That they’d spoil our appetites.”

  “They were on special,” Isabelle’s mother said, smiling weakly.

  “Don’t tell Philip, okay, Mom? If you do, he’ll pig out and there won’t be any left for me,” Isabelle said.

  “Oh, I’ve had these before,” Frannie said, slowly peeling off the wrapper. “They’re very delicious.” She laid her tongue against the cold chocolate and her eyelids fluttered, as if she were waking from a deep sleep. “Very, very delicious.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Isabelle said in a loud voice. Frannie kept licking and smiling. Isabelle gave her the elbow. “Say, ‘Thanks,’” she directed.

  “You didn’t have to tell me,” Frannie said. “I know to say it. Thank you.”

  Isabelle finished her ice cream before they got to the corner.

  “Give us a bite,” she said, putting her head next to Frannie’s. “Come on, share it. My mother gave it to you, after all,” she said and was instantly ashamed of herself. Frannie continued to lick, slowly, silently, savoring every minute.

  “You’re the greediest kid I ever saw,” Isabelle said.

  “I can’t help it,” said Frannie. “Food makes me feel good. When I feel sad and I eat something sweet, I don’t feel sad so much.”

  Isabelle thought about that and felt more ashamed than ever. “When we get to the library,” she said, “we walk the wall. It’s a rule. We always walk the wall.” Frannie said nothing, just kept on licking.

  A sign on the library lawn said, “KEEP OFF.”

  “See? This is it,” and Isabelle climbed the low stone wall surrounding the library’s green lawn. She stretched out her arms and, putting one foot in front of the other very carefully, she prepared for her tightrope act. It was very dangerous; death defying, in fact. One false step meant curtains. Her heart ticked in her throat as she leaned for a look at the crowds massed below, making bets on whether she’d make it. After she returned to earth, victorious, the news media would then bombard her with requests for interviews, talk shows, maybe even make an offer in six figures for exclusive rights to the story of her life.

  Isabelle took a deep breath of the cold, thin air, filling her lungs with oxygen to keep herself going. It was like being on a mountaintop when you were up this high, Isabelle decided. Frannie was behind her, but she was leading the way. “Keep going!” she shouted, giving Frannie encouragement.

  “Hey!” Isabelle shouted, enraged to see Frannie skinning down the steps of the children’s room. “Hey, wait up!” and Isabelle fell off her tightrope and skinned her knee. But Frannie didn’t pause.

  “Oh, yes,” Frannie was saying when Isabelle made it inside, “I read all the time. I read lots of books. I’m a norphan, you see, and I live alone. I don’t even have a dog.”

  Isabelle watched the librarian’s face crumble.

  “Oh, you poor child,” she said.

  To make matters worse, Becca was standing at the desk, with a huge pile of books ready to check out.

  “Hello, Isabelle,” Becca said. “What are you doing here? I thought you didn’t like to read.” Becca was Guy’s sister, Becca of the paper chains made for every book she read, Becca, the gifted and talented, the piano player, the six-year-old know-it-all.

  The last person in the world Isabelle wanted to see right this minute.

  “Oh,” Isabelle said, bending the truth a touch, “I come to the library all the time.”

  “She says I can have a library card as I can write my name,” Frannie told Isabelle. “This is Isabelle,” Frannie introduced Isabelle to the librarian.

  “Yes,” Ms. Totten said, smiling a welcome, “I know Isabelle.”

  “Who’s that girl?” Becca said.

  “Frannie. She’s an orphan,” Isabelle said. It was the only thing she could think of to say.

  Becca marched up to Frannie and said, “I’m Becca. I’m six. I’ve read fifty-nine books. How many have you read?”

  Frannie’s tongue touched her upper lip, and she said, “I’ve lost count.”

  “Do you go to our school? How come I’ve never seen you?” Becca asked.

  “I’m only visiting,” said Frannie.

  “Want to come over to my house? Want to see my chains?” Becca said.

  The thing that killed Isabelle was, Frannie didn’t even say, “What chains?” All she said was, “Sure. Let’s go.”

  TWENTY

  “My mother says you can sleep over Friday night, Jane,” Isabelle said.

  “I can’t,” Jane Malone said, ducking her head and hiding behind her hair. Jane was still shy, even though she and Isabelle had been friends for a while.

  “How come?” Isabelle asked. “I been grounded, and now I’m not anymore, and I dearly want you to come sleep over at my house. Please, Jane, please please please,” and Isabelle rocked and rolled on the playground to show Jane how very much she wanted her to sleep over.

  “I told Mary Eliza Shook I’d sleep over at her house, that’s why,” Jane said.

  “Mary Eliza Shook thinks she’s the greatest thing since sliced bread!” Isabelle hollered. “Tell her you have a virus or a toothache or something. We’re watching Sound of Music, and my father’s making popcorn with real butter. Please, Jane, please please please.”

  “I can’t, Isabelle. I promised Ma
ry Eliza,” Jane said. “Next time I’ll come to your house and bring my telescope so we can look at the planets. I love to look at the planets.” Jane was good in science. She could name all the major planets. Isabelle could name all the seven dwarfs, and Mary Eliza Shook could name all thirteen of the original colonies. It depended on what you were interested in, Isabelle decided.

  “I never saw a planet, I don’t think,” Isabelle said.

  “Well, my uncle gave me a telescope just because he knew I wanted one,” Jane said, “and it’s a very good one. You can see all kinds of wonderful things in the heavens. I saw Sound of Music about eight times. I liked it,” Jane said, “but I like scary movies better.”

  “You do?” Isabelle was amazed. Jane didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d like scary movies. She was so quiet and shy. Scary movies scared Isabelle. Every time she came home from one, Philip chose that moment to hide in the dark at the top of the stairs and pounce out at her, waving his arms and shouting. That scared her more than anything else. She didn’t let Philip know, but somehow he seemed to anyway.

  “The best thing is to look at a scary movie through a straw hat,” Jane said. Jane came up with lots of surprising ideas, Isabelle thought.

  “I have a hat I found in the lost and found,” Isabelle told Jane. “It’s red and it has a lovely floppy brim. Could I watch scary movies through it, do you think?”

  “No,” said Jane firmly. “It has to be a straw hat.”

  “Why?” Isabelle wanted to know.

  “Because of the holes,” Jane said. “Straw hats have tiny holes in them and if the movie gets really weird, with slimy green creatures coming through the walls dripping blood and stuff like that, oozing all over everything, well, you just hold your straw hat to your face—over your eyes, that is—and look out through the holes so you only see a little bit, not the whole thing, and it’s not so bad. Try it sometime.”

  “Can I borrow yours?” Isabelle asked.

  “Sure,” said Jane. “If I’m not using it. Or if we went to the movie together, we could take turns.”

  That Jane, Isabelle thought on her way home. She was a peach of a person. Even if she had won the fifty-yard dash that Isabelle planned on winning on field day, Jane was a star. Sally Smith was a star too, but in a more flaming way. Jane was a quietly burning star whose light was very dependable. If Jane promised to write to somebody, she’d do it. Not like Sally Smith, who didn’t keep her promises.

  Her mother had left a note to call Mrs. Stern. “Party on Sunday.” Her mother’s handwriting was like chicken tracks, Isabelle thought. “Old clothes. Let know how many.”

  Isabelle went over to Herbie to tell him about the party and also to fight. They hadn’t fought for a while, and she was ready. When Herbie came to the door, he looked befuddled, as if he’d just gotten up from a nap.

  “Mrs. Stern’s having a party Sunday, and you’re invited, Herb,” she said.

  “Can’t make it,” Herbie said. “I’m all tied up.”

  “What’s with you, twerp? I said ‘party.’ Eats and stuff.”

  “I’m an executive now,” Herbie informed her. “I’ve got responsibilities. Times have changed, Iz. As art editor of the Bee, I’m a big wheel.”

  “Now I’ve heard everything,” Isabelle said, rolling her eyes. “I thought you wanted out of the job. You said you didn’t even know what an art editor does, and now you’re all gung ho. You sure do change your mind fast, Herb.”

  “Yeah, I’m power hungry now,” Herbie said, hitching up his trousers. “Chauncey and them tried a hostile takeover and I outfoxed ’em, so now I’ve got the job. When the principal called a staff meeting, he asked me for my advice. That kinda gets to you, Iz. Until you’ve been through it, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Isabelle.

  “I’m the boss,” Herbie told her, a slow smile filling his face and lighting up his ever-present orange-juice mustache. “I’m on a power trip, Iz. Try to understand.”

  “First thing you know, you’ll be wearing a three-piece suit,” Isabelle said scornfully. “With a vest.”

  “Never!” Herbie vowed, horrorstruck at the thought.

  “And if you foul up, Herb, you’ll be out on your ear. That’s when you find out who your real friends are,” Isabelle said, shaking her head.

  “My mother’s flipping,” Herbie said. “She calls me ‘My son, the art editor.’ It’s kind of nice having your mother look up to you, Iz.”

  “Well, I guess that puts the kibosh on you and me fighting every day,” Isabelle said. “You being all tied up with the bigwigs.”

  “I’ll always have time for you, Iz, you know that.”

  “How about right now?” and Isabelle put up her dukes.

  Herbie checked his watch.

  “No can do,” he said. “I’m late for a meeting right now,” and he opened the door and zoomed past Isabelle, almost knocking her down. She put out a foot, hoping to trip him, but Herbie was long gone.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “We’re going out for dinner, lsabelle,” her mother said. “And Philip’s going to a party. Mrs. Osborn’s coming to sit. And, lsabelle”—her mother lifted lsabelle’s chin so they were looking directly into each other’s eyes—“I know I don’t have to tell you no mask, no flippers, no skin diving while we’re gone.”

  “Mom!” Isabelle was shocked. “Of course not.”

  “Please repeat after me, ‘I will not use my mask or flippers in the bathtub. I will not skin-dive in the bathtub.’”

  Isabelle solemnly repeated what her mother had said, word for word.

  “Amen,” said Isabelle’s father.

  Isabelle and Mrs. Osborn got along fine. Mrs. Osborn spent her days watching the soaps and knitting. When Isabelle’s parents had gone, Mrs. Osborn filled Isabelle in on what had happened since they’d last met.

  Marylou, it seemed, had had a miscarriage, and Teddy’s girlfriend was killed in a car crash, and Nicole signed a million-dollar modeling contract with a no-good advertising genius. “I never trust the ones with the gold chains, Isabelle,” Mrs. Osborn said. “They’re no good, each and every one. No man worth his salt would wear a gold chain around his neck with his chest hair sticking out, and that’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

  Then Mrs. Osborn’s daughter called her up to chat, and Isabelle watched a program about health spas. The people who went there ate special food, drank special water, did special exercises, and took baths made of special mud. All of this cost a mint, of course, but it was worth it.

  Isabelle watched, fascinated, as a woman was coated with mud from head to toe. She wore a towel wrapped around her head; otherwise she was mud.

  “Delicious,” the woman kept saying, “perfectly delicious,” as if she were eating the stuff. “A mud bath makes me vibrant, desirable,” she went on. “My skin feels so soft and smooth when I’m through, it’s like a newborn baby’s. A mud bath makes me look twenty years younger. I feel reborn. I feel beautiful, and I am beautiful.”

  “Well, you look pretty funny to me, toots,” Isabelle told the woman.

  But why not? Isabelle asked herself. Why the heck not?

  So, as Mrs. Osborn chatted up a storm, Isabelle went out to the backyard and filled a bucket with dirt from her father’s garden. He’d never miss it. There was plenty more. It was nice clean dirt, smelling of the earth, which, when you came right down to it, it was. She brought the bucket full of dirt inside and slowly added water to it, careful not to make it too thick or too thin. When she’d got it just right, she lugged the mud up to the bathroom, closed the tub drain, took off her clothes, and dumped the mud into the tub. Then she put on her mother’s plastic shower cap and climbed in, careful not to skid.

  “Aaaaahhhh,” sighed Isabelle, lying full-length so the mud would cover her completely. She could’ve used another bucketful, she thought, but it was too late for that. “Aaaaaahhhh, yes, but this is delicious,” she said, patting herself on the cheek a
nd under her chin, as the woman had done on TV. “Like a baby’s behind, it’s so smooth. And just as messy.” That made her laugh so hard she swallowed some mud. It didn’t taste bad. Not something you’d order if you went out to a restaurant, but not bad at all.

  She closed her eyes and lay there, feeling her skin getting purer, more beautiful with every passing moment. How vibrant she would be, how desirable. Too bad she didn’t have a camera. How long was she supposed to lie there anyway? Half an hour should do it.

  “Isabelle!” Mrs. Osborn tapped on the bathroom door. “Are you all right, dear?”

  “Super!” Isabelle shouted.

  “Well, your father’s home. He came after his eyeglasses,” Mrs. Osborn said, “and when I said I thought you were in the bathroom, he said, ‘Oh, Lord, better go see what she’s up to,’ and here I am.”

  “Isabelle.” It was her father speaking. “You in there?”

  “Yes, Dad,” Isabelle said.

  “You’re not up to any mischief, are you?” he asked. “Anything wrong?” His voice sounded so anxious she said, to reassure him, “I’m taking a mud bath is all.”

  A silence, thick as the mud that bathed her, filled her ears. Then her father said, quite calm, quite cheerful, considering, “You’re what?”

  “Taking a mud bath,” Isabelle said. “They showed it on TV. You put mud in the tub, then you get in. It’s very good for you. It’s …”

  She saw the doorknob turn, ever so slowly. She hadn’t locked the door; as long as Philip wasn’t home there was no need.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said, waving as her father’s face appeared, cautiously, around the edge of the door. “Hi,” and she waved, scattering mud all over.

  Her father opened and closed his mouth without saying a word. His head waggled back and forth, back and forth, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  “How do you like me?” Isabelle said. “Pretty funny looking, huh? When I’m finished I’ll look twenty years younger too. When I wash it all off.”