Isabelle and Little Orphan Frannie: The Isabelle Series, Book Three (2 page)

“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.

As Isabelle and Frannie went out, Frannie said, “Your mother is a very lovely person,” in a penetrating voice.

“She's not so much,” Isabelle mumbled.

“I think she's truly a super person,” Frannie continued in an even louder voice. “You are lucky to have such a super lovely person for a mother.”

Isabelle saw her mother's shadow lingering by the back door, taking it all in. Isabelle's mother was known for her excellent hearing. She was always losing her glasses, but her ears were great. Just ask her.

“Well,” said Isabelle in her hog-calling voice, “she's not
really
my mother.”

“She's not?” Frannie said, surprised.

“Nope.” Isabelle dumped the garbage bag into the can and put the top on tight. “She's really my grandmother, you see.” The shadow gasped, and Isabelle grinned.

“Your grandmother!” Frannie exclaimed. “She certainly doesn't
look
that old.”

“Yeah, well.” Isabelle smiled as she took a couple of swipes at Frannie's head with her friendship ring. “She just got her face lifted.”

THREE

Right after the six o'clock news, Herbie showed up, looking for a fight. Acting as if nothing had happened. Acting as if he hadn't chosen Chauncey Lapidus to be his right-hand man when he was elected art editor of the
Bee
to fill Sally Smith's shoes when Sally moved away. Isabelle still had hurt feelings that Herbie hadn't chosen her, Isabelle, to do the job.

“Let's tangle, Iz,” Herbie sang out, taking his boxer's stance. “I got a couple new moves I want to try. A couple things guaranteed to send you sky-high. Come on out.”

“Go soak your head, Herb,” Isabelle said. “Go pick a fight with Chauncey, why doncha? You and him are such big buddies. Go knock his socks off.” Sarcasm coated her tongue and made it thick in her mouth.

“Gimme a break,” Herbie whined. “What'd I do to you? What's your beef? Why would I want to go pick a fight with Chauncey anyway? That'd be like punching a bag full of marshmallows.”

Isabelle's face remained stony. “Take off, Herb,” she told him. “You and me have had it. We've come to the end of the road.”

“What's your prob? I didn't do nothing. I'm your best pal.” In his agitation, Herbie pushed his face against the screen. “We been pals ever since nursery school. Now you're dumping on me. It ain't fair,” he wailed.

“Fair's fair,” Isabelle said coldly. But it was true. They had been best pals ever since Miss Ginny's nursery school, when they'd discovered they both liked to fight. They'd been fighting ever since, sometimes at her house, sometimes at his. Miss Ginny had threatened to throw them both out if they didn't stop. They were giving her school a bad name, she said.

And now they were in fifth grade.

“You and me go back a long way, Iz,” said Herbie dolefully.

Herbie began jumping up and down, as he always did when he got excited. Isabelle loved it when Herbie did that.

“Chauncey forced me!” Herbie cried. “I wanted you, but Chauncey said he was responsible for my landslide so I had to make him my right-hand man. He said that was the rule. I tell you, Iz”—Herbie shook his head and shot her a somber look—“it was a dark and stormy night when I landed that spot. I don't even know what an art editor
does
, for Pete's sake!”

“I buy that, Herb. I don't either,” Isabelle admitted. “Who does? I don't think even Sally Smith knew, and she was a star. Sally faked it a lot.”

“So now Chauncey's organizing a campaign to make himself art editor of the
Bee
,” Herbie said. “And who do you think's gonna be his right-hand man?”

“Beats me,” Isabelle said. “Who?”

“Mary Eliza Shook, that's who! She already gave Chauncey the word. Put me in office, she said, or else. You got Mary Eliza for an enemy, you don't need anybody else, right?”

“Yeah! Yeah!” Isabelle cried. To celebrate, she decked Herbie with one well-aimed punch to the nose. As he hit the dirt, blood started to flow.

“I'm getting weaker by the minute,” Herbie gasped, catching the drops of blood in his cupped hand. “One, two, three,” he droned. “If I die, Iz, you can have my ten-speed bike and my Havahart trap.”

Isabelle had had her eye on that Havahart trap for a long time. With it, she had high hopes of catching a muskrat or a raccoon or even a skunk. “Stay right there,” she said and raced inside. When she got back, clutching a paper cup full of ice cubes, Herbie was stretched flat out, pale and still, studying the sky. She knelt and pushed an ice cube up each of Herbie's nostrils.

Whereupon Herbie let out a bloodcurdling war whoop and leaped upon Isabelle as if he'd been fired from a cannon.

“You turkey! You toad! You rat cheat!” Isabelle hollered as she fell.

With one foot firmly on her stomach, Herbie felt like king of the hill. His nose had stopped bleeding, and he was, for the moment, victorious.

“Next time you get a nosebleed, I'm gonna sit there and watch,” Isabelle stormed. “Wait and see. No tourniquet, no nothing, I'm just letting you drip until there's no more to drip. You'll be the original drip-dry kid. Just rinse you out and hang you up and, boy, will you be pale! You'll look like a ghost. Ghosts don't have any blood, you know. And when Dracula takes a peek at you, he'll say phooey, because it won't be worth his while to suck your blood out of you because it's all gone. What a mess.”

Unmoved by all this, Herbie pressed his foot down harder and said, “Okay, if that's the way you feel, I'm taking back my ten-speed and my Havahart.”

“So you're an Indian giver and a cheat and a toad and all the rest.” Isabelle looked past Herbie and said, “Oh, hi, how are you, little orphan Frannie. Meet Herbie, the biggest creep on the block. Frannie's old daddy died, Herb, and her mom's out looking for a new one.” Isabelle spoke in her best hostess manner as she performed introductions.

Herbie turned to see who was there. No one. In the flick of an eye Isabelle seized the advantage and succeeded in flipping Herbie off her and down to the ground. Once there, she pounded Herbie's head into the dirt.

“I'm bleeding, I'm bleeding!” Herbie cried. “No fair using feet. That's cheating.”

“Look who's talking.”

“Isabelle! Time!” Her mother's voice rang out.

“Coming!” Isabelle gave Herbie's head one last thump and took off at a high rate of speed for home.

Herbie got to his feet, hitched up his trousers and, muttering to himself, headed for home. His mother would have a fit when she saw the blood all over his shirt. So who cared. His mother had lots of fits. She always recovered.

And after supper Isabelle went to her room and wrote on her blackboard in big letters: “
HERBIE IS A WEASEL AND A TOAD AND A CHEAT
.”

She stood back to see how it looked. Then she added: “
AND A TURKEY
.”

Then, after further scrutiny, she wrote in very small letters: “i have read 43 books.”

That looked good, if not exactly the case.

She went back to the blackboard, crossed out the “43” and put in its place “½” and erased the “s” on “books” so it read right.

“At least I tell the truth,” Isabelle announced to the empty room. “That's more than some people I know.”

FOUR

“I got a postcard from Sally Smith,” said Jane Malone next morning before the bell rang. “She loves her new school. She's made two new friends already. Her new teacher is nice, she says, but not as nice as Mrs. Esposito.”

“I probably got one too,” Isabelle said. “I forgot to check the mail. Sally said she was going to write me every day. Maybe she lost my address. I wrote it on a teeny little piece of paper.”

She felt a sharp stab of pain. Maybe Sally Smith had written to everybody except her. Sally was her friend. Maybe she'd run out of stamps. Maybe she had writer's cramp from writing postcards to everyone in town except Isabelle.

“Hello there.” Quick as a wink, Mary Eliza shot her arm through Isabelle's and held her in her iron grip.

“Guess what?” Before Mary Eliza opened her big bazoo, Isabelle knew what she was going to say.

“I got a postcard from Sally Smith.” Mary Eliza said it. “She has two cute boys on her new block. One of them's in her class. She cried for two whole days, she was so homesick. But now she likes her new house and her new school and the two cute boys. Isn't that too much?” Mary Eliza relaxed her grip for a second and Isabelle took off. If Chauncey told her that he got a postcard from Sally Smith, she thought she might throw up.

“Hey, Isabelle! How ya doing?” Guy Gibbs yelled.

“Hi, Guy,” Isabelle said. “How's it going?” She could tell from looking at him that Guy was doing fine. His face was shiny with happiness, and he swung his arms when he walked, like a big shot. Anyone could see he was a new man.

“Pretty good,” said Guy. “My friend Bernie and me are raising worms. We expect a bumper crop. We're opening a stand in Bernie's front yard this summer. Our worms are guaranteed first class. If you don't catch anything with one of our worms, you get your money back,” Guy said, very serious. “Purchase one of our worms and you can't go wrong.” Guy reeled off his sales pitch without a hitch.

“What if all I catch with one of your worms is a beat-up tire or somebody's underwear or something?” Isabelle said. “Do I get my money back then too?”

“Bernie and me will have to talk it over then, I guess,” Guy said.

“Fishing's boring,” Isabelle said. “All you do is sit there and wait for a bite. My father took me once and never again! He said I was too itchy to be a fisherman and he's right. Good luck, Guy, on your worms.”

“Thanks,” Guy said. “Me and Bernie plan to clean up. See ya,” and he set off, arms swinging to beat the band.

“I don't care if it
is
spring,” Mrs. Esposito was saying as Isabelle skidded into her seat. “I want and expect to see a change in behavior in this class. There's entirely too much horsing around. Drastic action will be taken if it continues. No recess, no free periods, extra homework.” People rustled in their seats and let out little groans. When Mrs. Esposito went on the war path, watch out.

“Now please listen carefully to tomorrow's English assignment. I want you to …”

A sudden loud pop came from Herbie's desk. He'd blown a super duper bubble and it had burst. All over his face. He was covered with bubble gum from his eyebrows to his chin. He looked so funny the class roared. Even the corners of Mrs. Esposito's mouth turned up for an instant.

“Go for it, Herb!” Isabelle yelled.

“Herbie, go to the boys' room and get rid of that stuff. Wash your face. Scrape it off it you have to. And if I catch you chewing gum in class one more time, you go straight to the principal's office.”

Isabelle ran her finger across her throat and said in a loud voice, “She means it's curtains for you, Herb.”

“That's enough!” Mrs. Esposito snapped. “That's yet another example of the kind of behavior I meant, the kind I will not tolerate. One more peep out of you, Isabelle, and you go the same route. Now sit down and be quiet.”

Isabelle sat.

Mrs. Esposito cleared her throat.

“One more thing, class, before I give you the assignment.” Her voice was calmer now.

“I want to read you a postcard I got from Sally Smith.”

“Oh, no!” Isabelle cried, slapping herself on the forehead. “I can't stand it! I positively, absolutely cannot stand it.”

Mrs. Esposito waited.

“Are you finished, Isabelle?” she said at last.

“Yes, sir,” said Isabelle.

FIVE

“I'm painting my guest room pale blue,” said Mrs. Stern. “Did you know pale blue wards off evil spirits?” she asked, smiling so Isabelle would know she was only fooling around.

“Have you got any evil spirits?” Isabelle asked excitedly. She had always longed to see some evil spirits, not necessarily up close, though.

“It's just an old superstition,” Mrs. Stern said. “Down South they paint the trim on doors and windows pale blue because it's supposed to ward off evil spirits. Don't ask me why, but I rather like the idea. I wouldn't know an evil spirit if I fell over it.”

“Me either,” Isabelle agreed. “Maybe it'd look like Mary Eliza Shook. I wouldn't be surprised to find out Mary Eliza Shook was queen of the evil spirit club. Why not paint the guest room the same color as your front door? That's a neat color, that bright red. It's very peppy and sparkly. You can't ignore that color even if you try.”

“Well, it's one thing to have a front door that color and quite another to paint a guest room bright red. It might give your guests jangly nerves, and that would never do.” Mrs. Stern gave Isabelle's shoulder a friendly pat. Already Isabelle felt better. Mrs. Stern was a cheerer upper, and Isabelle felt in need of cheering up. It had been a bad day.

“Are you having guests?” Isabelle asked.

Mrs. Stern bustled about, getting down the marshmallows and the Oreos. Oreos always cheered
her
up, Isabelle thought, getting her teeth ready for that first bite.

“Yes, I am,” Mrs. Stern said. “An old friend is coming to stay. I want the room to look nice. He'll stay for a week, maybe longer.”

“Oh, it's a boy, then,” Isabelle said.

“A man, yes,” Mrs. Stern said, blushing. Isabelle almost fell over in surprise. She didn't know old people knew how to blush. She thought only kids blushed, mostly when they did something embarrassing.