Isabelle the Itch: The Isabelle Series, Book One

by Constance C. Greene

  She crossed the finish line and waited, panting, for the other runners. There was someone beside her, red faced, also panting. Funny Isabelle hadn’t seen her up until now. It was Jane.

  “I came in first,” Isabelle told her.

  “Winner of the fifty-yard dash for the fifth grade,” Mr. Brown shouted through his megaphone, “is Jane Malone of Mrs. Esposito’s room. Second is Isabelle …”

  The rat, Isabelle thought furiously. She never even said she was going to enter the race. Isabelle felt like taking her new shoes off and throwing them in Jane’s face. She stomped off the field and didn’t see Mrs. Stern until she called “Oh, Isabelle, I’m so glad I got here in time to see you race. I loved it!”

  “Hi, Mrs. Stern,” Isabelle said, kicking at the dust. “I didn’t come in first. I lost.” Her lip trembled.

  “What do you care? You ran a beautiful race, fair and square. That’s all that matters,” Mrs. Stern told her.

  Isabelle thought about that. “Maybe,” she said doubtfully. “I’m glad you came to see me. Come on over and meet my mother,” Isabelle said. “She’s the lady sticking the straws in the sodas. Mom, this is my friend, Mrs. Stern,” Isabelle introduced them.

  “I’ve heard a good deal about you,” Isabelle’s mother said. “And this is Mrs. Malone, whose daughter won the fifty-yard dash. She’s new in town, Mrs. Stern.”

  Mrs. Malone was smiling and looked happy. “Isn’t it marvelous Jane won? It’ll mean so much to her. She’s not good at sports as a rule, and it’ll be a tremendous boost to her ego to have won. I’m so pleased.”

  Isabelle left the ladies chatting and walked off by herself. Who cared whether Jane Malone came in first? Only Jane Malone and old Mrs. Malone, that’s all. Old sneaky Jane Malone probably carried some kind of magic wand in that stupid dumb pocketbook that helped her win.

  “Hey, Iz, the guy’s here from the paper and he wants to take your picture,” Herbie yelled.

  “What’s he want my picture for? I came in second.”

  “He says he wants first and second winners in the fifty-yard dash.” Herbie hitched his pants up. “I thought you wanted your picture in the paper.”

  “Only if I won,” Isabelle sulked.

  “Shall I tell him you don’t want him to take your picture?” Herbie asked.

  “No,” Isabelle said hastily, “I’ll come. Tell him I’ll be right there.” She rubbed her new shoes on the backs of her jeans to dust them off, then she sauntered back to the field like the biggest winner of the day.

  Jane Malone ducked her head and smiled at Isabelle.

  That’s the first time I ever saw her smile, Isabelle realized. She looks different. She looks happy. So what. What do I care if she’s happy? I’m not.

  “Will you stop by to see me this afternoon, Isabelle?” Mrs. Stern said.

  “Sure,” Isabelle said.

  “Isn’t this the girl who came in first?” Mrs. Stern asked. “Congratulations.”

  Jane kept on smiling. “Thanks,” she said.

  “I thought we might get started on mixing the purple paint,” Mrs. Stern said. “I’ve got some red left from the kitchen and a bit of blue from somewhere else and together they make purple. How about it?”

  “O.K.,’’ Isabelle said, not looking at Jane. “I’ll be there.”

  “You want to fight at my house or your house today?” Herbie asked.

  “I’m going to Mrs. Stern’s to paint the purple room.”

  “Can I come?”

  Isabelle lifted one shoulder. “I don’t know if she’d let you paint. She might not.”

  “What do I care?” Herbie stuck out his tongue.

  Isabelle went home, stomped upstairs, and took her track shoes off. She put them in the box they’d come in and stuffed them way back in her closet.

  She shut the closet door, then opened it and punched the box a couple of times, hard, with her friendship ring. She punched the box the way she punched Mary Eliza Shook.

  “I’m going over to Mrs. Stern’s, Mom,” she said.

  “We had a nice talk,” her mother said. “Mrs. Stern told me what a good job you’d done delivering papers, how responsible you were and how much pleasure she got from your visits. She told me she thought you were a very dependable child. I must admit at first I didn’t know we were talking about you. I thought she had you mixed up with someone else.” Her mother smiled. “But it was you, all right. I was very pleased. I guess you’re going to grow up after all.”

  All the way to Mrs. Stern’s Isabelle tried to keep feeling sad and mad about losing to Jane Malone but by the time she pounded on Mrs. Stern’s door, hollering, “It’s me, Isabelle,” her heart was light and happy inside her.

  “Try a little more of the blue,” Mrs. Stern said as they mixed the paint. “And then Stella said, ‘The doctor said almost anyone else my age would be bedridden but that, due to my superb condition, I should be up and around in no time.’ Isn’t that just like her?” Mrs. Stern’s silver eyes sparkled with pleasure.

  “That Stella’s too much,” Isabelle agreed happily. “Can we start painting now?”

  21

  Aunt Maude stopped in after church on Sunday.

  “My stars, when I saw Isabelle’s picture in the paper, I went right out and bought ten copies to send to my friends,” she said. “And wouldn’t you think, buying that many copies, they’d give me a discount? Not at all!”

  The feathers on her hat quivered indignantly.

  “That’s some hat,” Isabelle said truthfully.

  Aunt Maude turned so they could see all sides of her hat.

  “What smells so good?” she said in the middle of her turn.

  “Roast lamb,” Isabelle’s mother said. “Set another place, will you, Isabelle?”

  “I wouldn’t think of staying,” Aunt Maude said firmly. “Are you having mint sauce?”

  “And cherry pie for dessert.”

  Isabelle turned her bright brown gaze on her father. He pretended great interest in something outside.

  “It’s Herbie,” he said as the doorbell rang. “I guess he’s come for combat.”

  Sure enough.

  “Come on out and fight,” Herbie said. “But no fair using feet.”

  “Dinner in half an hour,” Isabelle’s mother said.

  “That’s the same little boy I saw last week,” Aunt Maude said. “Is he still in the army?”

  Without speaking, Isabelle and Herbie began to wrestle on the front lawn. Isabelle pinned Herbie down right off and got her knee in the middle of his chest. They struggled silently.

  “Oh dear,” Aunt Maude sighed and went inside. She hated violence of any kind except in old movies on television.

  Herbie looked over Isabelle’s shoulder.

  “Wow!” he said.

  When Isabelle turned to see what was up, Herbie flipped her over and got his knee in the middle of her chest.

  “You sneak!” she shouted. “You cheated!”

  “Say ‘uncle’” Herbie said quietly. He was always quiet when he was winning.

  “I will not!” Isabelle thrashed around, trying to free herself. “That’s stupid. What’s ‘uncle’ supposed to mean anyway?”

  “How do I know? It’s what you’re supposed to say when you give up.”

  “Who says I give up?” With a giant effort, Isabelle heaved Herbie into the air, using her feet for a slight assist.

  “Talk about cheats!” Herbie cried as he hit the dirt. “I said no fair using feet. You lose! You lose!”

  “Isabelle, dinner time!”

  “I have to go,” Isabelle said, dusting herself off. “See you, Herb.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Herbie pulled up his pants. He started for home.

  “When I say no fair using feet that’s what I mean,” he muttered. “She never pays attention to what I say.”

  22

  “I brought you a present, Herb,” Isabelle said next morning on their way to school.

  “What’s
that for?” Herbie asked suspiciously as she showed him the six pennies she’d taken from her bank.

  “You’ll see. Let’s hurry so we’re not late.” She started off at a fast trot. Herbie hung back. He didn’t have to do everything she said to do.

  “Say, I saw your picture in the paper,” Ken said when they went in. “I showed it to Pearl and she growled. I don’t think Pearl’s growled like that in five, ten years. I think she knew you.”

  Isabelle slapped the pennies on the counter. “I’m treating him to a pack of gum,” she said grandly, pointing to Herbie. “He can have whatever pack of gum he wants.”

  Herbie took a long time choosing, despite Isabelle’s hissing, “Step on it!” and continual punching and poking at him.

  “I’ll take the Juicy Fruit,” he said at last.

  “You don’t even have to share it with me,” Isabelle said.

  Herbie unwrapped a stick. He still couldn’t figure it out.

  “It’s to start a new boil,” Isabelle told him. Light broke over Herbie’s face. “Gee, thanks,” he said.

  “I figure if you get a new one started you can sell it and make a mint,” Isabelle said.

  Herbie put a second stick of gum in his mouth. Already he looked more like himself, cheeks filled out, jaws moving.

  “I like you,” he said. “I don’t care what my mother says.”

  “My mother said I could have a slumber party,” Isabelle walked backwards, facing Herbie. “I’m having Jane and Mary Eliza because she said she might ask me to hers, and Sally Smith.”

  “Who else?” Herbie stuffed a third stick of gum into his mouth.

  “You,” Isabelle said.

  “Me?” Herbie’s voice quavered. He took the gum out and put it in his plastic sandwich bag.

  “Yeah,” Isabelle said briskly.

  “Boys don’t go to slumber parties,” he managed to say.

  “That’s because nobody invites ’em. But I figure you’re my best friend and I want to invite you.”

  Herbie started jumping up and down on the sidewalk. “I’m not going to any old slumber party,” he shouted. “You can’t make me!”

  “O.K., if you feel that way about it,” Isabelle crossed the street to walk on the other side. “If you don’t want to come, it’s perfectly all right with me!” she shouted to him.

  They skidded into class just before the bell. Isabelle marched up to Mrs. Esposito’s desk and put a loaf of bread down.

  “Tell your father how much I appreciate his gift, Isabelle, but I’ve made up my mind,” Mrs. Esposito said. “No more bread for me.” She stood up. “See this dress?”

  “It’s nice.”

  “More than that. It’s size twelve. I had it before I got so fat and I dieted all weekend and it fits again. If I ate that bread, it wouldn’t fit tomorrow. It’s a matter of living with myself. I like myself better this way,” she said, smiling at Isabelle.

  “That’s a gorgeous dress, Mrs. Esposito,” Mary Eliza said. “You look super.” She handed Isabelle a piece of paper which said:

  COME TO SHOOKS HOUSE SAT. FOR EATS

  AND TREATS. FROM 7 TO??????

  BRING SLEEPING BAG

  AND EAT DINNER BEFORE YOU COME.

  “My mother said I should invite you,” she said. “Just please don’t punch people. I can’t stand it when you punch people.”

  “I don’t know if I can come,” Isabelle said grandly. “I might be having a slumber party myself.”

  “Jane is coming and Sally Smith and maybe my cousin,” Mary Eliza said.

  “I’m asking Jane and Sally Smith too,” Isabelle said. She could feel Herbie’s hot breath on her neck. “Maybe I can have mine next week.”

  “Hello, Isabelle,” Jane said, still smiling.

  “Hi,” Isabelle said.

  Sally Smith came in with a note from the principal.

  “Hi,” she said, “how’s tricks, Isabelle?”

  Chauncey stood on the sidelines, his mouth slightly ajar.

  Isabelle did a couple of shuffles off to Buffalo.

  “Hi,” she said.

  All around were friendly faces.

  Isabelle took a few jabs at the air, keeping her head down, watching her footwork.

  If I channel my energy, I can scale mountains. I’m a dependable child. I like myself better this way, just like Mrs. Esposito says, Isabelle thought.

  And it was true.

  Tap, heel, toe, tap.

  “You know, Mary Eliza,” Isabelle stopped dancing, “you keep me going. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Mary Eliza looked stunned. “Well,” she said. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or not. “Well,” she said again. It was the only time Isabelle had ever seen her wordless.

  Tap, heel, toe, tap. Isabelle closed her eyes and did a couple more shuffles. When she got home, she was going to take her Adidas out of the closet and put them on. It wasn’t their fault she hadn’t won the fifty-yard dash. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Jane Malone just ran faster, that’s all.

  “Isabelle,” Mrs. Esposito’s voice was patient, “please sit down and stop being such an itch.”

  “Who, me?” Isabelle said.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Isabelle series

  Chapter One

  The day Guy Gibbs moved to Hot Water Street was the best day of his life. How could he miss getting into hot water now? What a stroke of luck! What a neat house! What a neat street!

  The house, tall and thin and graying, leaned a little into the wind. There was a birdbath in back, a huge old maple tree in front with a vacant bird’s nest swinging from its branches, and a path to the front door made of big round stones that reminded Guy of oversized hopscotch potsies.

  All in all, that house was just about perfect.

  Living on Hot Water Street was going to change Guy’s life. He was sure of that. His heart swelled with excitement as he thought of himself marching down to the principal’s office.

  “Not you again!” the principal would exclaim, clutching his head. “What have you done now?”

  Guy hugged himself with delight as he imagined himself pulling up to his house in a police car, the street lined with kids watching, mouths open wide in astonishment. He’d been caught snitching apples. Or pumpkins. Or for shooting out streetlights with a BB gun. Which he didn’t have. The important thing was, he’d been caught.

  No more goody-goody Guy. That was behind him now. From here on in, he, Guy Gibbs, was on a high roll.

  The movers were messing around, trying to figure out how to get the piano into the house without bending it, when a girl wearing a red hat with a ripply brim and carrying a newspaper bag on her shoulder came up the path.

  She and Guy stood watching.

  “A little to the left, Len!” the head mover hollered. “Easy, now, don’t break nothing.”

  Back and forth they went, trying this way and that.

  “You might have to take the legs off,” the girl said at last.

  The head mover was hot and tired and ready to call it quits. “Cool it, girlie,” he said. “I been in this business twice as long as you been alive. I know what I’m doing. I don’t need no upstart kid telling me my own business.”

  “How long have you been in this business?” the girl asked.

  The man yanked a gray handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. He cleared his throat and said in a very raspy voice, “How long you been around, toots?”

  “I asked you first,” she said.

  He cleared his throat a second time and, turning his head to one side, sent a glittering ball of spit onto the grass. Then he turned his back on the girl and shouted, “Let’s try it another way, Len, see how that works.”

  “How about if you leave the piano outside and when somebody feels like playing, they can open the window and stick their hands out and play from the inside?”

  The mover’s thick chest moved mightily as he took a deep breath. His little helper, Len,
watched anxiously. Guy kept quiet, waiting for the next move.

  “That way,” the girl explained, “even if it was winter, even if there was a blizzard, they could put on gloves, wipe off the snow, and still play that old piano.”

  “It’s not old, it’s new,” said Guy. From far away, a dog barked. Trucks rolled on the turnpike. Guy swallowed noisily.

  No one spoke. Then the head mover said, “You belong here?” jerking his thumb in the direction of Guy’s new house.

  “Nope, I’m the paper boy,” the girl said.

  “They don’t want no paper right at this minute, girlie.” The man spoke slowly, carefully, biting off each word as if it were a piece of tough meat. “Why don’t you do us all a big favor and get lost, huh? Take off. Vamoose.”

  “I was only trying to help.” She did a little jig.

  “Yeah,” Guy chimed in, “you don’t hafta get a red nose.”

  “Right,” the girl agreed. “What’s that mean?”

  “My father says it means you don’t hafta get riled up,” Guy told her, pleased he knew something she didn’t.

  “I’m gonna pull that on Herbie,” she said. “How about asking your mother if she wants the paper delivered?” She whipped out a pencil and pad from her bag. “Philip’ll kill me if I don’t write everything down.”

  “Who’s Philip?”

  “My brother. It’s his route. Well, sort of half mine. I’m subbing for him on account of he sprained his ankle. He’s got crutches and everything. You’d think he was the first person who ever had crutches.” She sighed. “Boys make such a fuss. He won’t even let me try ’em out. And you should see the way my mother waits on him. It’s enough to make you puke.” She rolled her eyes. “What’s your name?”

  “Guy,” he said. “What’s yours?”

  “Isabelle. Go ask your mom, will you? I’m in a hurry. Herbie’s waiting for me. We’re fighting at my house today. He might skin out on me if I’m late.”

  “Why are you fighting with Herbie? Are you mad at him?” Guy asked. To meet a paper boy like Isabelle his first day in the new house was another sign his luck was changing. He could’ve talked to her all day.