Isabelle Shows Her Stuff: The Isabelle Series, Book Two

by Constance C. Greene

  “You’re not in Guy’s class, are you?” his mother said.

  “Nope. I’m in fifth grade,” Isabelle replied.

  “I thought you were too tall to be in the third grade. And Herbie? Is he in fifth grade too?”

  Isabelle nodded.

  “I would like Guy to have some friends his own age,” Guy’s mother said.

  “Oh, he will,” Isabelle said grandly. “Just wait. Once he gets toughened up, he’ll have plenty of friends his own age.”

  Guy’s mother raised her eyebrows. “Toughened up?” she said.

  “Can I go up and see if he’s ready yet?” Isabelle asked, wishing Herbie would come out of Becca’s chain room and that Guy would come down in his old clothes and they could get the show on the road.

  Guy came clattering downstairs just then, and Isabelle breathed a sigh of relief. Herbie came back too, looking stunned by his experience.

  “He’s only read thirty-five books,” Becca told her mother. Isabelle glared at Herbie but he refused to meet her eyes. They both said “Thanks” to Guy’s mother and traipsed outside.

  “Thirty-five!” Isabelle leaned on Herbie so hard he almost fell. “Who are you kidding?”

  “How many books have you read?” Herbie asked Guy.

  Guy looked at the sky, counting. “Oh, about a hundred, I guess,” he said.

  “Have you got paper chains, too, in your room?”

  “Some. Not as many as Becca. She’s a show-off.”

  “How come you read so many books? How come your sister can read and she’s only six?” Isabelle asked.

  “Well, she’s a gifted child,” Guy said.

  Herbie’s eyes popped. “You shoulda told me!” he wheezed. “I never woulda gone into her room to see the chains if I knew that.”

  “And also,” Guy said, “my mother read to us while we were still inside her stomach. That way, she figured we’d get started early.”

  Astounded at this piece of information, Isabelle said, “Could you hear her?”

  “I don’t remember,” Guy said truthfully. “I must’ve, though. My mother’s a librarian, too.”

  “Oh.” Isabelle nodded wisely. “That explains it.” Herbie nodded wisely, too. They both felt better, knowing Guy and Becca’s mother was a librarian.

  “Bet she’s always telling you to be quiet, huh?” Isabelle said, laughing.

  Guy put his hand over his mouth and laughed through it, the way he did when he didn’t get something.

  “Don’t you like to read?” he asked.

  “I’d rather fight,” said Isabelle.

  “Can’t you do both?”

  Isabelle looked at the ground, then up at both boys. The thought had never occurred to her.

  “I guess,” she said, doubtfully.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I corrected them all, like you said. Check it.” Isabelle thrust her arithmetic test under Mrs. Esposito’s nose. “Please.”

  With her coat still on, Mrs. Esposito checked.

  “Perfect,” she said. “Now I want to see you do this the first time around next time. You can do as well. Can’t you?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess.” Isabelle thought a minute “Sure.”

  “That’s the way. Now would you mind opening the window a trifle? This room smells like bologna sandwiches.”

  “Don’t you like bologna sandwiches?”

  “Not enough to smell them all morning.”

  Isabelle flung open the window, sending the papers on Mrs. Esposito’s desk flying.

  “I said a trifle, not the whole way.”

  Isabelle closed the window to a slit and picked up the papers.

  “If they called you a goody-goody because you never did anything wrong, never even had to go to the principal’s office once,” she said suddenly, “and kids teased you and chased you and called you names, what would you do?” Isabelle watched Mrs. Esposito with her bright brown eyes and waited to hear what she’d say.

  “That’s a tough one,” Mrs. Esposito said, frowning. “I assume you’re not talking about yourself, Isabelle,” she said, winking.

  “It’s a friend of mine.” Isabelle didn’t feel like joking. “It’s this really nice little guy. He’s, well, he’s sort of, well, sweet. I really like him. I feel bad because these crummy creeps make him miserable and there’s nothing he can do about it. I tried to teach him how to fight so he can punch ’em out, but he doesn’t like to fight. How can he be mean and tough if he’s not mean or tough?”

  “He probably can’t. How old is he?”

  “He’s only eight.”

  “Give him a while. Maybe he’ll figure out something in a couple of years.”

  “Yeah, but what does he do for a couple of years? Just stand there and take it?”

  “Perhaps the best thing would be to tell his mother and father, and they could handle it,” Mrs. Esposito suggested.

  “He doesn’t want to do that. You know how mothers and fathers are.” Isabelle lifted her shoulders and turned her hands palms up, trying to explain mothers and fathers to her teacher.

  “They’re supposed to protect children until children are big enough to take care of themselves,” Mrs. Esposito said. “I think eight is too little to handle something like this by himself. Why don’t you tell your friend to tell his parents and they might be able to help.”

  Isabelle shook her head from side to side, letting her brown hair swing across her cheeks. “He won’t,” she said firmly. “I know this kid and I guarantee you, he won’t.”

  A little knock came at the door. “Come in,” the teacher called. The door opened and Guy stood there, hair slicked down, cowlick waving from the top of his head. His cheeks were shiny with soap.

  “I came to talk to her,” Guy said, pointing to Isabelle.

  “Well, talk then,” Isabelle said. He looked very small to her. Very clean and very small.

  “Did you figure out anything yet?” He came right up to her and whispered, so Mrs. Esposito wouldn’t hear. “You promised. Did you?”

  “Not yet,” Isabelle said.

  “I thought so.” Guy stuck his hands in his pockets and dug the toe of his sneaker against the nearest desk. “I was counting on you.” He looked at her with his enormous eyes. “If you can’t figure out something, then I guess nobody can.”

  Isabelle’s face got warm. She was blushing. She tried to think of something to say to make Guy feel better and couldn’t.

  “Guess what!” Chauncey Lapidus charged into the room like a bull. Or a steamroller. “I’m invited to a party!” He looked around at their faces, wanting them to share his joy and pleasure at this singular event. “I’m invited to Sally Smith’s farewell party! I never been invited to a party before. But I’m going to this one!” Chauncey’s face glowed.

  “Oh, everybody’s going to the party for Sally Smith,” Isabelle said airily. “The whole class is invited.”

  Chauncey’s face fell.

  “How nice, Chauncey!” Mrs. Esposito cried. “I like parties, too.”

  When Chauncey stomped to his desk at the back of the room, Mrs. Esposito said in a low voice, “That wasn’t nice, Isabelle. That was unkind and you know it. Why couldn’t you let him enjoy his invitation without telling him everyone was going? I’m ashamed of you.”

  Isabelle’s head drooped like a wilted flower on a stalk. Tears stung her eyes. She knew she shouldn’t have said what she said. Chauncey felt special, being invited to the party. And she’d destroyed that feeling. Isabelle raised her head, peeking up at Mrs. Esposito’s feet tucked neatly under her desk. Mrs. Esposito didn’t raise her eyes. Isabelle checked out the hall. It was empty. Guy had gone. The day had just begun.

  When the recess bell rang, the entire class rose as one and exited, shouting and screaming their joy at being released. Isabelle stayed behind.

  “I didn’t mean to be mean,” she said to Mrs. Esposito.

  Mrs. Esposito regarded her steadily. “Are you sure?”

  “I�
��m sure I’m sure,” Isabelle said, enjoying the rhythm of her words. “I’m very sure I’m sure.”

  “This is not a joke, Isabelle. This is serious. Think about it for a while. On the one hand, you’re trying to help your friend Guy out of his problem. And on the other, you’re making another boy unhappy. To be mean for meanness’ sake is a terrible thing. You wanted to put Chauncey down. You knew exactly what to say to bring this about. I’m disappointed in you. Now, I’m afraid I have work to do.” Mrs. Esposito bent over her desk, shutting Isabelle out.

  What do I care? Isabelle thought. She ran, shouting and screaming as loud as anybody, out to the playground, looking for some action.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “How do you like it?” Mrs. Stern asked, pointing to her tomato-red front door. “I think it’s the best I’ve ever done. Mixed it myself, too. Mr. Brady across the street told me when he comes out on his way to work and sees that door, it makes his day. Come on in, both of you.”

  Isabelle and Guy followed her down the hall to the kitchen. “This is my friend Guy Gibbs,” Isabelle said. “He’s a customer on my route. This is my last day to deliver. Philip’s off his crutches, darn it. I was hoping he’d have to use ’em a lot longer.”

  “Hello, Guy. One or two?” Mrs. Stern bustled about, getting down a bag of marshmallows.

  “What are they?” Guy whispered.

  “Marshmallows, dummy.” Isabelle said. “Take two, I’ll eat yours.”

  “Two, please,” Guy said.

  “Well, this is indeed a pleasure.” Mrs. Stern’s silver eyes twinkled. “I haven’t seen you in so long I thought you’d forgotten me.”

  “I’ve been here but you were always someplace else,” Isabelle said.

  “To tell you the truth, an old friend is in town,” Mrs. Stern said. “He’s been taking me dancing and to the movies and the museums. Oh, it’s been grand!” She clasped her hands, a dreamy expression on her face. “It’s been lovely,” she said.

  Isabelle was astonished. She had thought Mrs. Stern was an old lady. A very sharp old lady, but nevertheless an old lady. And now she was behaving like a teenager. Well, the dancing and the movies were teenage things. She wasn’t sure about the museums.

  Mrs. Stern poured out the cocoa and sat down with them. Marshmallows bobbed cozily on the hot cocoa. “Is he your age?” Isabelle asked, having decided it was better not to say, “Is he as old as you?”

  “No, he’s older.” Mrs. Stern punched down her marshmallow with her spoon. Isabelle let out a little gasp. Mrs. Stern grinned.

  “I knew that’d get you!” Mrs. Stern laughed. “He’s the older brother of my dearest friend. When she died, she left me a ring in her will, and he came to deliver it personally.”

  “Did that make you sad?” Isabelle asked.

  “We had been friends for almost sixty years,” Mrs. Stern said simply.

  Isabelle and Guy looked at one another and said nothing.

  “Tell me about you,” Mrs. Stern said briskly, looking straight at Guy. To put off answering her, he put both marshmallows into his mouth at once. It was more than he could handle. Mrs. Stern tactfully left the table.

  “Spit ’em out!” Isabelle ordered. Guy’s aim was good. The slightly soggy marshmallows landed neatly in his cup.

  “More cocoa?” Mrs. Stern said.

  Guy nodded, incapable of speech at the moment.

  “He lives on Hot Water Street,” Isabelle said. “He’s in third grade. His sister is six. She reads books. His father is a football coach. His mother is a librarian.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Stern said, after a small silence, “I guess that takes care of Guy. How is life treating you, Isabelle?”

  “So so,” Isabelle said, shrugging. “Pretty good. Not great.”

  Guy sat up very straight. “Maybe you and my grandmother could be friends,” he said suddenly. “She’s about your age. She comes and stays with us sometimes. Her name is Maybelle Gibbs.”

  “I hope someday we may meet,” Mrs. Stern said. “That’s very kind of you to think of, Guy.”

  Isabelle rolled her eyes at Guy. “We better go now,” she said. “I have lots of papers to deliver.”

  “Don’t be such a stranger, Isabelle, even if Philip is back on his feet,” Mrs. Stern said. “I’ve missed you. You come again too, Guy.”

  “What’d you say that for?” Isabelle demanded when they were outside. “What a dumb thing to say. Telling Mrs. Stern she was about the same age as your grandmother. Sheesh!”

  “What’s so dumb about that?” Unexpectedly, Guy defended himself. “She said her best friend died, didn’t she? So I thought my grandmother and her could be best friends. What’s so dumb about that?”

  “Oh, come on. Quit dragging your feet.” Isabelle stalked ahead angrily. Mrs. Stern had said that Guy was kind. She’d never said Isabelle was kind. Isabelle wished she’d thought of suggesting Guy’s grandmother and Mrs. Stern might be friends. Then Mrs. Stern might’ve smiled at her and told her she was kind.

  “Tell your mother I’m collecting today,” Isabelle directed when they reached Guy’s house.

  “She’s not home. My grandmother’s staying with us. My mother’s working,” he said.

  Isabelle heard Becca playing the piano. She tiptoed to a window and peeked in. I wonder how they got it inside, she thought. If I ever run into those moving men, I’ll ask. I wonder if they took off the legs.

  When she turned, Guy was right behind her.

  “Did you think of anything yet?” he asked.

  “Nope,” she said. “Maybe you better ask your mother and father if they can figure out how to make those geezers stop teasing you.”

  Guy’s face crumpled. “My mother and father?” he said in a cracked voice. “I counted on you.” All of him drooped, including his cowlick. “I counted on you, Isabelle,” he said.

  Isabelle hoisted her newspaper bag from one shoulder to the other. Guy held one hand over his mouth. Over it, his huge eyes looked at her, unblinking.

  “Well,” she said in a gruff voice, “maybe I’ll come up with something. But don’t stand on one leg until I do, okay?”

  The corners of Guy’s mouth turned up a little. He put one hand on Isabelle’s arm where it rested, as weightless as a leaf.

  “You’re my friend,” he said. “My best friend, Isabelle.”

  “Pooh!” Isabelle cried. She turned and ran, as fast as she could, as if she were running in the fifty-yard dash, the canvas bag thumping rhythmically against her back. Guy waved at her but she never once looked back.

  “Jane Malone’s mother is having a farewell party for Sally Smith. The whole class is invited. I said you’d help,” Isabelle gasped, bursting into the kitchen.

  “You remember Mrs. Stilson, Isabelle,” Isabelle’s mother said in her “mind your manners” tone.

  “Sure. Hello, Mrs. Stilson.”

  “Hello, Isabelle.” Mrs. Stilson’s stomach billowed under her maternity dress.

  “I didn’t know you were having a baby,” Isabelle said. “When’s it coming?” She almost pointed at Mrs. Stilson’s stomach but stopped herself in time. Beside her, she heard her mother sigh.

  “In five weeks,” Mrs. Stilson replied.

  Isabelle pondered this information.

  “You want me to read to it?” she said at last.

  “That would be nice.” Mrs. Stilson looked startled.

  “Isabelle loves babies,” her mother said. One never knew what Isabelle might say. One often wished Isabelle would keep her trap shut.

  “I’ll read to it right now,” Isabelle announced.

  “Okay,” Mrs. Stilson said.

  “I think I’ll go down to the cellar and do a load of wash,” Isabelle’s mother said. She sometimes did this when Isabelle got to be too much for her. Isabelle dashed up to her room and dashed back, bearing her favorite Dr. Seuss.

  “Did you know if you read to your baby while it’s still in your stomach, it’ll probably be an ace reader when it
gets out?”

  Mrs. Stilson digested this information while Isabelle sat and aimed herself at Mrs. Stilson’s stomach. In a loud and penetrating voice, Isabelle pronounced each word very clearly so the baby would hear each one.

  “There you are,” Guy’s grandmother said.

  “Where’d you think I was?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Something wrong?” she asked.

  “No,” Guy said.

  Becca came in and said, “Did you hear me practicing the piano?”

  “Yeah,” Guy said, “you stink.”

  “Guy, what’s come over you?” his grandmother said.

  Becca sat down at the table with her crayons and began coloring Snoopy’s nose bright red.

  “He’s just mad because he doesn’t have any friends,” Becca said.

  “That’ll be enough, miss,” Guy’s grandmother said.

  Calmly Becca colored Snoopy’s ears purple.

  “You may be a gifted child but you sure are a lousy colorer,” Guy told her.

  “I have three friends. Their names are Donna and Michelle and Amy.” Becca colored Snoopy’s arms and legs yellow.

  “Yeah, well, I have three friends too,” Guy said. “Their names are Isabelle and Herbie and Mrs. Stern.”

  “Friends are supposed to be the same age you are,” Becca said. “Isabelle and Herbie are older’n you. I don’t know any Mrs. Stern.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s the same age I am,” Guy said.

  Becca opened her mouth, then closed it and went back to her piano.

  “Well done,” Guy’s grandmother told him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The day of the party dawned bright and clear. Isabelle bounded out of bed, wrote PARTY! for the fifth time on her blackboard, then bounded downstairs.

  Isabelle’s mother stood at the sink, stabbing at a floating eggshell. “What time’s the movie let out?”

  “I can walk home,” Philip said.

  “Where’s he going?” Isabelle rested her elbows on the table.

  “It’s none of your business!” Philip shot one of his laser-beam stares at her, guaranteed to cut her in half.