“It’s very good for the eyes,” Mrs. Stern said, pouring two small glasses of carrot juice.
Herbie drank his manfully.
“I can see better already,” he said when he’d finished.
“How about a refill?” Mrs. Stern asked them.
“No thanks,” they both said.
“I’ve been thinking about the purple room,” Mrs. Stern told Isabelle. “It might not be such a bad idea. Or how about a purple front door? That’d be nice and different, don’t you think?”
Herbie took the plastic bag with his boil in it out of his pocket. He didn’t like being left out of the conversation.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked Mrs. Stern, putting the wad of chewing gum on his arm.
“A wart?” she said. Herbie’s face lit up as if he’d just swallowed a neon sign.
“Almost,” he said and told her about his idea for making a mint of money.
“I think you might have something there,” Mrs. Stern said, passing a plate of cookies. “Definitely.”
For a kid with pretty small hands, Herbie sure could palm a lot of cookies in one fell swoop. He loaded his pockets, ignoring the dark looks Isabelle threw his way.
“We’ve gotta go,” she said, making a big deal out of taking only one cookie. “Thanks, Mrs. Stern. See you tomorrow.”
Outside, Isabelle said fiercely, “If you don’t stop giving me such a hard time, loading up with cookies and all, you can’t come again. Where are your manners?” she inquired sternly.
Herbie took a couple of cookies out of his pocket.
“Want one, Iz?” he said.
“Well, O.K. Just one,” Isabelle said.
“She’s some sharp old lady,” Herbie said.
“She jogs too,” Isabelle said. She didn’t tell about Stella. That was just between her and Mrs. Stern.
At Mr. Johnson’s house, the kid with the runny nose was waiting for them.
“Go blow your nose,” Isabelle told her.
“I don’t got a cold, I’m allergic,” the kid said, grabbing the paper.
“You take that right in to your father,” Isabelle directed.
“I don’t got to, he’s at work,” the kid said.
Good. Mr. Johnson had found a job. Philip would be pleased.
At the Olsens’, Isabelle paused. “There’s a ferocious dog here,” she told Herbie. “He might give us some trouble but I’ve got half a sardine sandwich I saved from lunch to give him.” She started up the path.
“I’ll wait here,” Herbie said. He started to put his finger up his nose again.
“Stop that!” Isabelle commanded. He stopped. The dog was shut inside. She could hear him barking. Whew! That was a relief.
There was only one paper left in the bag. Isabelle was tired and Herbie was dragging his feet.
“We have to watch out for the little Carter creep,” Isabelle warned. “Philip says he takes the paper and leaves it in the yard, and it blows away and his father calls up our house and complains he didn’t get it.”
The little Carter creep didn’t show, so Isabelle put the paper in the mailbox.
“That does it,” she said. “Finished.”
“I didn’t know a paper route was so much work,” Herbie said. He took his phony boil out of his pocket. “Is it O.K. if I put it on now?” he asked.
With a nod, Isabelle gave her permission.
Herbie stuck it on his ear. It fell off so he put it on his chin.
“My grandmother came over last week and I had my boil on my neck and she saw it and said my mother had better take me to the doctor right away,” Herbie said, obviously pleased. “Even when I took it off and showed her it was only gum, she said boils came from a poor diet and my mother must not be feeding me right. Then my mother got mad and said she did too feed me right and it turned into a big hassle.”
They sat down on the curb to rest.
“I’m pooped,” Herbie said.
“Yeah.” Isabelle thought for a minute. “A paper route does sort of take it out of you, doesn’t it?”
14
“Life isn’t easy,” Isabelle told Mrs. Stern next day. She held the marsh-mallows in her cocoa down with the spoon until they got slippery and bobbed to the surface.
“Sometimes it’s hard, sometimes easy, sometimes in between. If it was always one or the other, things would be dull, don’t you think?” Mrs. Stern replied. “Variety’s the thing. Something wrong?”
“I got the lowest mark in the class in a spelling test,” Isabelle said.
“Did you mind that?”
“A little.”
Isabelle skimmed the marshmallow fluff off the cocoa. “A bunch of kids had a slumber party and they didn’t invite me.”
Mrs. Stern looked at her without saying anything.
“I minded that more than the spelling test,” Isabelle said.
“Of course.” The way Mrs. Stern said that made Isabelle feel better. “I remember when I was about your age, a girl down the street from me had a birthday party and invited everybody on the block but me. I thought maybe she’d forgotten and I even went out and bought a present just in case. I can still remember sitting in my window and watching all the guests arrive.” Mrs. Stern patted Isabelle’s hand. “That sort of thing happens to everybody. Don’t feel too bad.”
“Can I see upstairs in your house?” Isabelle asked. “I like to see people’s houses. Especially closets and attics.”
“My closets are always a mess,” Mrs. Stern said.
“That’s O.K.,” Isabelle told her, “ours aren’t very clean either.”
Mrs. Stern’s bedroom was yellow. “Butter yellow or lemon yellow I couldn’t decide, as I’m fond of both butter and lemons,” Mrs. Stern said. “I made it in between. It’s a very pleasant color, yellow is.”
Isabelle looked out the window.
“Hey, there’s an old lady and a man coming up the walk,” she said. Mrs. Stern looked over her shoulder.
“If she could hear what you just called her,” Mrs. Stern said delightedly, “she’d explode! That’s Stella. And Billy.”
As they hurried down to open the door, Mrs. Stern told Isabelle that Stella often dropped in. “She’s hoping she’ll catch me sick in bed or taking a nap,” she said. “Never has yet,” and Mrs. Stern knocked on the bannister. “Knock on wood,” she said.
“Is Billy Stella’s husband?” Isabelle asked.
Mrs. Stern raised her eyebrows.
“Boyfriend,” she whispered and opened the door. “Come in, Stella, Billy. Nice to see you. Won’t you sit down? You must be tired after your drive.”
“You’re looking peaked,” Stella said before she said hello. “Who’s this child?” she asked, her little eyes taking in everything. “You know nothing tires me. Certainly not driving.”
“This is Isabelle, my paper boy,” Mrs. Stern said.
“I know it’s hard to tell the difference in this day and age,” Stella said, sniffing, “but she looks like a girl to me.”
Billy’s shoulders heaved and his nose grew pink. Isabelle thought he was laughing.
“But my dear, of course she’s a girl,” he said.
“I’ve got some fresh carrot juice. Good for the eyes. How about a glass?” Mrs. Stern asked them.
“Isn’t it strange you should say that?” Stella said. “Only last visit to my doctor, he said he’d seldom seen a woman of my years with such exceptional vision. You look as if you could use a liver shot or two, Ada,” Stella said. “Your color’s not good.”
“Never felt better in my life. Isabelle and I are thinking of painting a room purple. It’s her idea,” Mrs. Stern gave Isabelle credit. “You don’t see too many purple rooms.”
“And for a very good reason,” Stella shot a dark look in Isabelle’s direction. “Purple is a very depressing color, an old lady color. Don’t you agree, Billy?”
Isabelle thought Billy had just dropped off for a snooze. He started out of his chair, opened his eyes wid
e and said, “Absolutely, my dear, absolutely.”
“And your arthritis, how is it?” Stella inquired.
“I’m in tiptop condition, never fear. Sure you won’t have a glass of carrot juice?”
“We’ve got to be going along.” Stella put on her gloves. “Billy doesn’t like to drive on the turnpike so we take all the back roads. It takes rather longer that way but, my, such scenery!” She grasped Mrs. Stern’s arm. “Remember,” she said, “if you ever need me, I’m there.”
Arm in arm, Billy and Stella crept to the car. He got behind the wheel and after considerable maneuvering, pulled out of the driveway and drove off at a snail’s pace.
“Old fools,” Mrs. Stern said. “Neither one of them can see well enough to drive. She brings Billy along as chauffeur. He’s ten years younger than Stella but to look at him, you’d think he was on his last legs. He’s a mama’s boy, Billy. Always has been, always will be, I don’t care if he was married for over twenty-five years. His first wife died and left him well fixed. Don’t think Stella doesn’t appreciate that fact.”
Mrs. Stern opened her purse. “I didn’t pay Philip last Saturday when he brought you over. Suppose I give you the money for last week and this week and you can see he gets it. I tip him ten cents a week and I’ll give you the same.” She handed Isabelle eight quarters.
A tip! Isabelle thought the sound of those quarters was sweet as honey.
A face appeared at Mrs. Stern’s door, nose pressed against the glass.
“Chauncey Lapidus, you big sneak!” Isabelle said when Mrs. Stern opened the door. “You followed me.” Only just in time she remembered her manners. “Mrs. Stern, this is a kid in my class, not exactly my friend.”
“Hello, Chauncey,” Mrs. Stern said. Chauncey said “Arragh,” or something that sounded like it, and tugged at his hair and looked at the ground.
Isabelle stalked down the path, Chauncey a close second. It wasn’t until they got to the Olsens’ house that Isabelle acknowledged his presence. She could hear the dog barking. Too bad she didn’t have a leftover sandwich in her pocket.
“All right.” Isabelle turned abruptly, treading on Chauncey’s toes. “You want to help, you can deliver here. Make sure you get it under the mat. Tuck it under good so it doesn’t blow away.”
Chauncey’s chest swelled visibly. He practically saluted. He took the paper and started up the path. Isabelle saw the Olsens’ dog rounding the side of the house.
Even if she’d had her Adidas on, she couldn’t have run any faster. Philip must’ve been teasing about the Olsens’ dog, though, because she didn’t hear Chauncey crying for help.
15
That night, after her father had hollered “Go to sleep!” for the third time, Isabelle combined Mrs. Stern’s quarters (she’d forgotten to tell Philip about them) with the contents of her piggy bank. She dumped all the money on her bed and ran her fingers through the pile, pretending it was gold and she was a pirate.
Humming softly with pleasure, Isabelle thought that no one at school had ever seen that much money before. What a nice noise it made, jingling and jangling. And what a beautiful bulge it’d make in Philip’s money bag! Chauncey’s eyes would practically fall out of his head when he saw that much money. And Mary Eliza would have a fit!
And Herbie would flip. Herbie wouldn’t be able to fight for a week when he saw all that money.
Isabelle smiled to herself in the dark. (She’d turned out the light because she thought she heard her father coming up the stairs.) The last time she checked Philip’s closet to see what was new, she’d seen his money bag hanging on a hook. In the morning, after he’d gone, she’d take it.
“You’re going to miss your bus if you don’t hurry!” Isabelle’s mother stood at the foot of the stairs next morning, as she did every morning, warning Philip. “And if you do miss it, I’m not going to drive you.”
Philip thundered down as the bus approached. His timing was superb. He never missed that bus.
Sure enough. The money bag was right where she remembered.
Maybe some other customers would want to pay early, as Mrs. Stern had. And if they did pay her, she’d have to have something to carry the money in, right? Besides, Philip would never know. She’d be home long before his play rehearsal was over.
When she got out of sight of her house, Isabelle put the bulging money bag in her lunch box and transferred her lunch into her pocket.
“I’m reporting you,” Chauncey said when she got to school. “Letting me deliver the paper where there’s a monster dog.” Chauncey was always threatening to report somebody.
“Where’d he bite you?” Isabelle asked. “Let’s see. How many stitches did you have? Did you have to go to the emergency room?”
Isabelle liked the emergency room at the hospital. It was her kind of place, with something always happening.
“It’s just lucky for you he didn’t bite me,” Chauncey said.
“It’s pretty lucky for the dog too,” Isabelle said. “He might’ve got poisoned and died.” She let a dribble of spit ooze out one corner of her mouth to show Chauncey how she felt about him.
“Don’t be disgusting,” Mary Eliza said.
“Who asked you?” Isabelle oozed a bit more.
“Mrs. Esposito wants you, Herbie.” Mary Eliza delivered her message with a smile. She loved delivering messages. “I think she wants to bawl you out.”
“I didn’t do nothing,” Herbie started to stick his finger in his nose until he saw Isabelle frown at him. The day before Herbie had got a giant splinter in his rear end sliding down an old wooden slide and his mother had rushed him to the doctor’s for a tetanus shot.
“That old splinter must’ve been about a foot long,” he told Isabelle. Herbie still wasn’t himself.
“Not ‘nothing,’” Mary Eliza corrected. “Anything, Herbie, you didn’t do anything.”
“That’s what I said.” Herbie put his boil on his neck which was pale gray because his mother let him skip his bath because of the tetanus shot. That boil wouldn’t have fooled anyone.
Isabelle took her apple and sandwich out of her pocket. “Where’s your lunch box?” Mary Eliza asked. She was the nosiest girl in school.
“It’s full of money.” Isabelle shook it in Mary Eliza’s face and the sweet jingle jangle filled the air. “A five pound box of money.”
“You robbed a bank and I’m going to tell!” Mary Eliza shouted.
Nonchalantly, Isabelle crossed one foot in front of the other. “It just so happens it’s collection day,” she announced. “My paper route you know.”
Chauncey made a grab for the lunch box. “I’m going to report you to the authorities if you don’t let me help you collect,” he said.
“What’s all the commotion about?” Mrs. Esposito asked, coming into the hall.
“I like your dress, Mrs. Esposito,” Mary Eliza said in sugary tones. She was always complimenting Mrs. Esposito on her dress or her shoes or her pocketbook. She thought she’d get in good and get a better report card if she did that. She made Isabelle sick to her stomach.
“It’s a size fourteen,” Mrs. Esposito said sadly. “I bought it last week and it’s a size fourteen. I thought I’d lost weight but it turned out I was just kidding myself.”
They all stood and looked at the ground.
“Mrs. Esposito”—Isabelle handed her the lunch box —“would you keep this for me until after school? It’s full of money and I’m scared somebody might pinch it.”
“Oh, Isabelle, who would do that?” Mrs. Esposito asked. She carried the lunch box into the room and placed it in a desk drawer.
“Sally Smith’s father told her somebody called up Saturday night and complained about noise we were making at the slumber party,” Mary Eliza said, narrowing her eyes. “With a soundproof rec room and everything. I bet I know who it was,” she said, staring at Isabelle. “I’m having a slumber party this coming Saturday. My mother said I could have all my friends.”
&n
bsp; “Boy”—Isabelle bobbed and weaved around Mary Eliza—“that’ll be some crowd. Both of them?”
16
“My mother said to tell you she wants you to start delivering the paper,” a voice said to Isabelle.
Jane, the new girl, stood with one long leg wrapped around the other, like a stork. She was tall, much taller than Isabelle and her eyes, behind their glasses, were sand-colored to match her hair. She looked as if she were always smelling something bad.
“How’d you know I delivered papers?” Isabelle asked.
“We live on Blackberry Lane. I saw you yesterday with that fat boy. I just happened to be looking out the window and I saw you and him walking by,” Jane said.
“That Chauncey. He followed me. He’s a pest.”
“Anyway, my mother said if you want, you can start delivering today.”
“It’s really my brother’s route,” Isabelle told her. “He’s paying me to do it this week.”
“Well,” Jane shrugged, “if you want you can start today. My mother says if we want to be a part of the community we better take the local paper.”
“Feel this.” Isabelle hefted the money bag. “That’s full of money.”
“The paper boy we had at home had lots more in his bag,” Jane said.
“Does your father have three cars?” Isabelle asked.
“Sure. One for him, one for my mother, and one for my sister. She’s a market analyst. My father has his own business. We moved here because he says there’s more room for growth here.”
“Did you want to move?” Isabelle asked. She’d lived in the same town all her life.
“I hated to. I tried to get them to let me stay with my best friend or even my grandparents but they wouldn’t. I cried for eight days straight,” Jane announced with somber pride. “My eyes were so swollen I could hardly see.”
“Gee,” Isabelle said. Against her will, she was impressed. She didn’t think she could cry for eight days straight even if she forced herself. “Do you like it now?”
“I hate it. People are snobs here,” Jane said flatly. “My mother says nobody even came to call when we moved in. At home, if new people moved into the neighborhood, my mother would take over a cake or a casserole or something. Here they don’t even say good morning.”
Isabelle the Itch: The Isabelle Series, Book One Page 5