Isabelle and Little Orphan Frannie: The Isabelle Series, Book Three

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Isabelle and Little Orphan Frannie

The Isabelle Series, Book Three

Constance C. Greene

To all the Frannies out there

this book is for you
.

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,” Frannie 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.