“Yeah, but you hafta think about when it’s out at night and you’re trying to get it to come in. So you’re out there, calling, ‘Here, Isabelle! Come on in, Isabelle!’ I don’t think that sounds too hot.” She’d been told she looked like lots of things, but never, not even by Philip, had she been told she looked like a dog.
“Besides, if you call it Isabelle,” Isabelle said, trying to talk Guy out of it, “it’d sound silly. ‘Here, Isabelle’”—she imitated Guy calling his dog—“‘Good boy, Isabelle! Supper’s ready! Come inside, Isabelle, before your tootsies get all wet.’
“How would that sound?” Isabelle asked indignantly.
“So? I don’t think there’s anything bad about that,” Guy said.
“What’s bad is, you would sound exactly like my mother. That’s what’s bad.”
“So what if I sound like your mother.” There was something he’d forgotten, something important he’d left out.
“I know!” Guy remembered what it was. “You know how I got home? After they bonked me on the head?”
“No. How’d you get home?”
“In a police car,” Guy said, in hushed tones.
Isabelle narrowed her eyes at him and scratched herself, knowing what was coming, pretending she didn’t care.
“With the lights flashing?” she said, leaning down to pull up her socks so he couldn’t see her face.
“Yup.”
“How about the siren?” she asked, inspecting a hole in the toe of her Adidas.
Guy only nodded.
“I can’t stand it,” Isabelle said, clapping a hand to her head. “I cannot stand it!”
“I know.” Guy couldn’t help grinning. “And you know something else?”
She shook her head.
“I’m gonna be on the six o’clock news. Tonight.”
Mary Eliza Shook came hurtling by at that moment.
“How’s your little brudder?” she said sarcastically. Mary Eliza was always the last to get the word.
“Watch the six o’clock news tonight and find out,” Isabelle said.
No actress ever had a better exit line. Mary Eliza stood there gawking at them.
“The six o’clock news?” she finally squeaked.
“Yeah, you can’t miss it,” Isabelle said, smiling sweetly. “It comes on at six o’clock.” There were so many good things about Guy’s adventure and its aftermath that Isabelle couldn’t pick her favorite. But certainly one of her favorites was telling Philip about Guy being on the six o’clock news.
“You’re putting me on,” he said scornfully when she told him. “Not that little squirt. I don’t believe you.”
She shrugged, knowing that for once she had the upper hand. “Okay, don’t,” she said. “See if I care.”
And, although the rule was no television on school nights, Isabelle’s mother made an exception.
At two minutes to six, the family gathered in front of the TV set. “It’s Channel Eight,” Isabelle said. Philip just looked at her. He was the official dial twirler.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Channel Eight here.” The anchorman had a silly face, Isabelle thought. He laughed too much, too. The first story was about a suspicious fire set in a downtown hotel. The second story was about a group of concerned citizens picketing a proposed motel in the next town.
“If he’s gonna be on, why don’t they put him on?” Philip groused.
“If you don’t wanta watch, don’t.” Isabelle sat on the floor and waited.
“Now for the last story, last but certainly not least,” the anchorman said. “An eight-year-old boy became a hero yesterday when he stood off the attacks of three hoodlums who captured him and held him hostage against the release of a stray dog the hoodlums offered to sell to the boy for a thousand dollars.”
The camera zoomed in and Guy stood there in his own front yard. He didn’t smile but looked straight at the camera.
“Guy Gibbs,” the person holding the microphone said, “how did you have the courage to do what you did?” The microphone waited for Guy to speak.
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“The kid’s lost his voice,” Philip said.
Isabelle clutched herself around the middle with both arms, rocking back and forth, willing Guy to speak.
He cleared his throat as the camera ground away.
“It was Isabelle,” he said, in a loud, clear voice. “My friend Isabelle.”
“Isabelle?” the interviewer asked animatedly.
“She’s my friend and she learned me, I mean, taught me how to stand up to things. So when they came at me, I tried to figure what Isabelle would do. And I did it.” Guy’s mouth clamped shut.
Isabelle’s mother laid a hand on her arm, gently. Philip said, “Sheesh!” but that was all.
The camera zoomed in on a shot of Guy holding his dog.
“Just thirty seconds left now,” the anchorman said jovially. “Tell us what your dog’s name is, Guy Gibbs.”
“Isabelle,” said Guy. “I was going to call it Jake, but we found out he was a girl. So I’m calling it Isabelle.”
A commercial about breakfast cereal came on. In Isabelle’s living room there was silence.
“Well, that certainly is quite a testimonial,” Isabelle’s mother said at last, in a little choked-up voice.
“Not too many guys I know have a sister who gets a dog named after her,” Philip said. The telephone rang. Isabelle ran to answer it. It was Aunt Maude.
“The strangest thing just happened,” Aunt Maude said. “I was watching the six o’clock news and a little boy who looked familiar was on. He was getting some sort of award, don’t you know, and he said his dog was named Isabelle. Was that the little boy who comes over every Sunday to fight or was that the little boy who said I looked like his uncle? It was one or the other. The strangest coincidence, isn’t it? There he was on the television. He looked a little peaked, too. I really think his mother should’ve kept him in bed.”
Aunt Maude sneezed three times: choo, choo, choo. Isabelle thought she sounded like a kitten sneezing.
“I must be coming down with something,” Aunt Maude said. “Probably the same thing the little boy had. I couldn’t make head or tail of it but just thought I’d call to let you know he was on the six o’clock news. Tell your mother I’ll stop by after church on Sunday. I’ve got a new hat I want to show her. Good night, dear.” And Aunt Maude hung up.
Chapter Twenty-three
“Well, I’m off.” Guy’s grandmother announced, suitcase in hand.
“I thought you were staying longer,” Guy said.
“I’ve been here long enough. Time to go. Your room looks nice, Guy. I like the color.”
“Mrs. Stern helped me mix it. How do you like the stars?”
“They’re lovely. Look real.”
“I’m sleeping out in a tent at my friend Bernie’s house,” Guy said. “He said I could borrow his brother’s sleeping bag. His mother leaves the back door open in case Bernie gets scared.” He looked at his grandmother. “Sometimes Bernie says he gets scared if a big animal comes along in the night and makes noises. Or if it starts to lightning and thunder. That’s why his mother leaves the door open—so’s he can get back in.”
“That’ll be fun,” Guy’s grandmother said.
“I told Mrs. Stern about you,” Guy said. “I thought maybe you and her could be friends.”
“That’s nice, Guy. Maybe next time I come I’ll meet Mrs. Stern. I’d like that.”
A taxi beeped outside.
Guy’s grandmother put out her arms. “How about a hug before I take off?” she said.
“Okay.” He put down his books. “I’ll miss you,” he said. He put his arms around her and kissed her cheek.
“Well,” she said, smiling, “that’s better. Hugs are for everybody. Kisses you save for somebody special.” She set her hat straight on her head.
“Give my regards to the paper boy,” she said. And, “Good-bye,
Isabelle,” she said to the dog. Guy watched her go down the path and get into the taxi. Then he got down on the floor and rested his head alongside the dog’s.
“I might call you Jake, after all,” Guy said. Isabelle licked his face. “You look more like a Jake. Jake’s a better name for a dog, anyway. Right, Jake?” Isabelle wagged her tail in agreement.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Isabelle series
ONE
“Can I come in?”
The voice came from outside. Isabelle scooped a fingerful of peanut butter from the jar and held it aloft, listening. A distant baby squalled. A car with a bum muffler rattled past. Some show-off teenagers shouted insults and turned up the volume on their blaster, scattering bits of loud music like feathers on the wind.
“Who are you?” Isabelle asked.
“I’m Frannie,” the voice answered.
“I don’t know any Frannie,” Isabelle said, and scuttled, crablike, across the floor, peering out to see what Frannie looked like.
A skinny girl with spiky pale hair and wearing a skirt that brushed the tops of her basketball sneakers stood on the path. She wore a huge T-shirt that said “BABY INSIDE,” with an arrow pointing to her flat stomach. It was one of those T-shirts pregnant people wore, and Isabelle would’ve loved one. She imagined her mother’s face if she appeared suddenly, wearing one of those shirts. Preferably when one of her mother’s friends was there for a visit. Lovely, lovely. Every time Isabelle’s mother saw someone wearing one of those shirts, she tch-tched and said, “In my day people didn’t advertise their condition.”
“Your day is long gone, Mom,” Isabelle liked to reply.
“That’s what you think,” Isabelle’s mother was apt to reply back.
“Can I come in?” Frannie asked a second time.
“Why not?” Isabelle said, and swung open the door. Frannie scooted inside and stood, tapping her foot, checking out everything in sight.
“I thought perhaps you might have a little something for me to eat,” she said, cool as a cucumber.
Isabelle held out her finger coated with peanut butter in a gesture of friendship, and slowly, as delicate as a cat, Frannie licked the peanut butter from it.
“That tickles,” Isabelle said.
“How about a cracker?” Frannie said.
“Frannie wants a cracker,” Isabelle parroted, and handed over a box of saltines.
Frannie frowned. “Not that kind,” she said.
“Take it or leave it, kid. My mother says if you’re really hungry, you’ll eat anything.” Reluctantly Frannie helped herself to a saltine.
Fresh from swim practice and smelling strongly of chlorine from the Y pool, Philip crashed into the kitchen.
“Foo!” Isabelle held her nose. “You stink.”
“Stand back, turd. I need nourishment before I do my paper route.” Philip grabbed the box of saltines from Frannie and stuffed a handful into his mouth, sending up a spray of crumbs.
“Who’s the weird-looking chick?” he said.
“Her name’s Frannie,” Isabelle replied.
“I’m not weird-looking,” said Frannie. “You got any bananas?”
“She looks a little bit skeevy to me,” said Philip. “Where’d she come from?”
“The upper reaches of the atmosphere,” said Isabelle, smiling mysteriously.
“Just over there,” and Frannie waved an arm.
“I didn’t know the circus was in town.” Philip laughed hugely, as if he’d said something funny. “I know.” He pointed to Frannie. “You’re a clown. Or maybe a lion tamer. That’s it, a lion tamer. Am I right?”
Undisturbed, Frannie smiled a snaggle-toothed smile.
“I’m a norphan,” she said.
“A what?”
“A norphan,” she repeated.
“What’s a norphan?” Isabelle asked.
“What!” Philip’s eyes bugged out in astonishment. “You never heard of a norphan? Any wonko knows what a norphan is.” He proceeded to make himself a three-decker Dagwood special: cheese, salami, and tomato. Frannie watched with interest.
“What’s that?” she said.
“This? This here is fuel for the mighty engine,” and Philip thumped his chest so hard he almost landed on the floor. He was so full of himself Isabelle knew he must’ve won today. Whenever he came in first in the butterfly, his speciality, he practically floated over the treetops, like Mary Poppins coming in for a landing.
“Can I have one?” Frannie asked, eyeing the sandwich.
“Help yourself.” Philip shoved the bread and fixings toward her. “I’m late.” He checked his new digital watch, bought with money saved from his paper route. You’d think he was the first person on planet Earth to own a digital watch, Isabelle thought sourly.
“Earth to Philip, vamoose,” she said, but he was already gone.
“Who’s that?” Frannie asked.
“Philip. He’s my brother. He’s thirteen. It’s a very bad age, thirteen. My father says he’s feeling his oats. All I know is, he’s very, very obnoxious.”
Frannie spread the mayo carefully, so it reached the crusts but didn’t ooze over the sides.
“What’s a norphan?” Isabelle said.
After some thought, Frannie laid a slice of cheese carefully over the mayo. “A norphan is a person that doesn’t have a father. That’s what a norphan is.”
“Oh,” said Isabelle, light breaking. “You mean an orphan.”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Frannie took a careful bite. “That’s just what I said. A norphan.”
TWO
“So then”—Frannie ran her tongue around her mouth slowly, making sure no stray crumb had escaped her—“My old daddy died and my mom went looking for a new one. She traded in her Chevy for a Caddy and put a bumper sticker on it that says, ‘If You’re Rich, I’m Single,’ then she got her eyebrows plucked and her hair permed and dropped about ten pounds and took off. Now we’re living with Aunt Ruth. Well”—Frannie lifted both hands, palms up—“she’s not really our aunt, you see, but she wants us to call her that. What’s it to me if she is or isn’t? I could care less.”
“How can you be an orphan if you’ve got a mother?” Isabelle asked, wondering if Frannie was telling the truth or had borrowed her material from a new soap opera.
“That’s all right.” Frannie had all the answers, apparently. “If your daddy dies, you’re still a norphan. That’s what my mom said. Can I use the facilities, please?”
“Facilities?”
“The bathroom.” Frannie pursed her lips. “Aunt Ruth says ladies call it the facilities if they have any class.”
Isabelle led Frannie to the bathroom. “Don’t forget to jiggle the handle after you flush. It’ll run if you don’t jiggle.”
When Frannie returned, she said, “I jiggled, but it didn’t do any good.”
“Isabelle, I told you to jiggle the handle, didn’t I?” Isabelle’s mother appeared and plunked down a huge bag of groceries. “Hello, I’m Isabelle’s mother,” she said, noticing Frannie. “Who are you?”
“This is Frannie,” Isabelle said. “She’s an orphan.”
“A what?” said Isabelle’s mother, half in, half out of the refrigerator.
“A norphan,” Frannie said complacently.
“Her old daddy died,” Isabelle explained,” and her mom’s out looking for a new one.”
Isabelle’s mother almost dropped a dozen eggs. Too bad, Isabelle thought. She longed to take off her Adidas and walk barefoot through all those yolks and whites, letting them squish between her toes.
“Poor little thing.” Isabelle’s mother’s face crumpled, as if she might cry. “I’m so sorry. Poor child. Are you staying with relatives then, Frannie? Someone who looks out for you?”
“Well, my Aunt Ruth works very hard. When she comes home, she just tosses hot dogs into the microwave. Those things get nuked so fast it makes your head spin. We eat nuked hot dogs almost every night,” Fran
nie said.
“Well, then, you must come and have supper with us some night.”
“I can’t stay tonight,” Frannie said. “It’s pancake night.”
“Pancake night?” Isabelle said. “I thought people only ate pancakes for breakfast.”
“Aunt Ruth works at the Pancake Hut, and they give her all their leftovers. So she brings ’em home and nukes ’em in the microwave. We have blueberry ones and strawberry ones and all kinds.”
“Oh, my.” Isabelle’s mother shook her head, thinking, no doubt, that that was hardly a balanced diet for a child.
This orphan business was all right, Isabelle thought, narrowly watching her mother. Right off the bat she’s asking a total stranger over for supper. How come? We don’t even know Frannie, for Pete’s sake.
“Mom.” Isabelle turned to her mother. “If you and Daddy died, would I be a whole orphan?”
“A little tact is in order, Isabelle,” her mother hissed.
“Anyway, it’s just as well she can’t stay tonight.” Isabelle stood on her head, showing off. “Oh, how I love the library! I have to go to the library tonight to get out some books.” Her voice had a grand hollow ring when she talked standing on her head, she thought.
“Since when?” asked Isabelle’s mother. “It’s news to me.”
“I just love books!” Isabelle crooned, flipping over and lying on her back on the kitchen floor. “I just love to read. I read books all the time. Do you like to read?” she asked Frannie.
“How many books did you read?” Frannie said.
Isabelle closed her eyes and pretended to count. “I’d say about a thousand. Give or take.”
“Yeah, give or take quite a few.” Her mother’s voice floated over her head like a hot air balloon. “Isabelle, garbage, please.”
“Why can’t Philip do it?” Isabelle whined. “He’s a boy. Boys are supposed to carry out the garbage. He always gets out of doing stuff like that.”
“If you please.” Her mother stood over her, brandishing a bulging plastic bag as if it were a sword.
“Yech,” Isabelle said.
“Right away, please.” The garbage bag seemed to swell, and Isabelle imagined it full of moving things: spiders, ants, and tiny, well-fed grubs.
Isabelle Shows Her Stuff: The Isabelle Series, Book Two Page 9