Isabelle and Little Orphan Frannie: The Isabelle Series, Book Three (5 page)

Isabelle chewed on the inside of her cheek, secretly envying Frannie her laid-back life-style, so different from her own.

“How old are you anyway?” she asked Frannie.

“How old are you?” Frannie replied.

“I'm ten. How about you?”

Frannie stopped walking and stared up at the sky. Isabelle looked up to see what she was staring at. A clump of clouds scudded across the sky, like little lost sheep trying to catch up with their shepherd.

“I'm approximately eight,” Frannie said at last. “I'm not exactly sure. My mother was only a child when I was born.”

“How big of a child?” Isabelle asked.

“Oh, about fifteen or sixteen. She could've put me up for adoption, you see.” Frannie looked directly at Isabelle for the first time. “She had tons of offers from people who wanted me because I was so adorable. She could've got big bucks for me, about a thousand dollars, but she kept me instead. Only she doesn't remember exactly when I was born. My father was away when I was born. He was serving his country, and the hospital lost the records, so we don't know for sure when my birthday is.”

“Then how do you know when to have your birthday party?” Isabelle demanded, standing stock-still in amazement. She'd never known anyone who didn't know when their own birthday was.

“Oh, we don't bother with birthday parties,” Frannie said with a little smile on her face. Her eyes were as round as an owl's and as wise. “Birthdays cost money, after all. And, what's more, my mother's allergic to ice cream. Plus, it makes you fat. Once we had a cake, though.”

On they went. Isabelle walked slowly, sorting out all this information.

“I never heard of anyone who was allergic to ice cream,” she said at last.

“If you ask me,” Frannie said, “there's lots of things you never heard of. How come your brother said you were dead meat? That's not very nice.”

“He's a big goofball,” said Isabelle. “Don't listen to anything he says.”

A strange car was parked in Mrs. Stern's driveway. When Isabelle knocked, a man came to the door.

“Is Mrs. Stern home?” Isabelle asked.

“She is but she's dressing,” he said. “May I ask who's calling?” The man had gray hair, a red necktie, and a nice face.

“I'm Isabelle. Are you her brother?”

“No, I'm just a friend,” he said, smiling. “I'll see if she's presentable.” They stood on the steps twiddling their thumbs.

“What do you want to bet he's her boyfriend,” Frannie said in a piercing whisper.

“She's too old for a boyfriend,” Isabelle said sharply.

“That's what you think.”

“Oh, Isabelle, come in, do,” Mrs. Stern said. She had on an extremely blue dress and shoes with heels. “You look nice,” Isabelle said, although she preferred Mrs. Stern in paint-spattered jeans and sneakers with holes in the toes.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Stern said. “John, this is my friend Isabelle, my sometime paper boy and friend. I wouldn't know what to do without Isabelle,” and she laid her hand on Isabelle's shoulder.

Isabelle remembered her manners. “This is Frannie,” she said. “She's an orphan. Her old daddy died and …” Isabelle slipped a kind arm around Frannie.

“Let me tell,” Frannie whispered, pinching Isabelle on the arm, hard, so that Isabelle gave a little yelp and let go. “It's my story. I should tell it, not you.” Frannie turned to Mrs. Stern and recited, “I'm a norphan, you see,” and Mrs. Stern said, “Poor darling,” giving Frannie her complete attention in the way she had.

John looked at his watch.

“Ada, I'm afraid it's getting late, we'll have to go,” he said. “Our reservation's for noon.”

“Of course. I do want to hear about you, Frannie. Come back soon, girls, will you? We'll have a party. Maybe some cupcakes and …”

“Come along, Ada,” and John ushered Mrs. Stern out to the car, placed her inside as if she were a valuable package, and firmly slammed the door. Then he got in, and they peeled off.

Isabelle and Frannie stood and watched them go.

“I told you he was her boyfriend,” Frannie said.

“Big deal,” answered Isabelle, disappointed at this turn of events.

“That's not a new Caddy,” Frannie said knowledgeably. “Probably it's about five, six years old.”

“Who cares?” said Isabelle.

Across the street the bossy Brady hollered.

“Catch him, catch him!” she shouted as Elvis, bonnet dangling, streaked by, ears laid back, tail flying, on the way to freedom.

“I'm outa here,” Isabelle said sourly, stalking off.

“Dead meat, dead meat!” Frannie called after her, but she didn't look back, not once.

TEN

“So now I'm grounded for two weeks. They only let me out to go to school. Plus, no flippers, no mask, no skin diving. No baths. No nothing.”

“Well, at least you get out of taking a bath,” said Herbie, looking on the bright side.

“Showers,” Isabelle said, shrugging. “And I might have to help pay for a new ceiling. That's what my father said. But it was so funny, Herb. If you'd been there, you woulda cracked up. Aunt Maude looked so funny with part of the ceiling on her head. I almost laughed. Lucky thing I didn't. My father might've tarred and feathered me and run me outa town on a rail. Lucky for her she had on her hard hat. Aunt Maude is into funny hats.”

“You're telling me,” Herbie said.

“My mother's taking me for a haircut today,” Isabelle said. “To make me look human, she said. She's putting André to work on me.”

“Get him to shave your head, why don't you?” Herbie suggested. “I'd shave mine, but my mother said if I did, she'd send me to camp for the whole summer. Until it growed out. I hate camp. All you do is make lanyards.”

“‘Grewed out,' not ‘growed out,'” Isabelle corrected.

“So now you're Mrs. Esposito,” Herbie said. “Think of all the time you'd save if your head was shaved. When you got up you wouldn't have to comb your hair or anything.”

On the way to the hairdresser, Isabelle thought briefly of doing her imitation of a police car siren. One look at her mother's face, however, and she decided not to. Her mother and father had been pretty uptight since the ceiling fell on Aunt Maude.

“André, this is my daughter Isabelle,” her mother said. “See what you can do, will you?”

André circled Isabelle, regarding her with narrowed eyes. “It is indeed a challenge,” he said. “André loves a challenge. Sit,” he ordered Isabelle, as if she were a dog who'd just graduated from obedience school. “Sit. And be absolutely still.”

She sat, and André threw a large white towel over her so only her head showed.

“Now. One move and I will not be responsible for what occurs,” André said. “One move and I might take off one of your ears, and that would not be nice.” He smiled at Isabelle in a tight-lipped way, and she knew he meant business.

“If you picked up my ear and rushed me to the hospital they could sew it back on and it would work good as new,” Isabelle said. “I've heard about that happening to people. And how about that famous painter who cut off his ear? He kept on painting, like nothing had happened.”

André bared his teeth like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. “One does not paint with one's ear, isn't it so?”

“Could you make me look like a punker, please?” Isabelle asked.

But André did not answer, so absorbed was he in cutting Isabelle's hair. His scissors flashed, skimmed the back of her neck, and she fell silent, watching torrents of hair fall from her head. She put out a hand to catch some, and André shrieked, “I said still! I will not tolerate the movement. I will make of you the little gamin.”

Isabelle shut her eyes and thought about how she could pay for the ceiling. She could try a lemonade stand, but it wasn't hot enough yet. She could babysit only she didn't know of anyone who'd hire her.

“Denise,” André called sharply, “see if Mrs. Boop is dry. And, Denise, please, no more gum. This is not a shop for chewing gum.”

“You sound just like my teacher,” Isabelle said.

Isabelle longed to scratch the back of her itchy neck, but she didn't dare. No telling what André might do.

“So now.” He whipped off the towel and handed her a mirror. “See if André has not made another miracle. From ugly duckling to swan, in”—he consulted his heavy gold wristwatch—“a mere fourteen minutes. A record, even for such a one as André.”

“I look like a boy,” Isabelle said, not displeased.

“From waif to gamin. Ah, an adorable boy, it is true,” and André snapped his fingers.

“Denise, the broom. I must check the color on the countess. Sweep.”

Isabelle took the broom from Denise's unresisting hand. “I love to sweep,” she said. “Boy, that's a lot of hair. I could use it for something, only I don't know what.” She wielded the broom with a flourish.

“Want a job, kid?” Denise asked, yawning. “You got it. Minimum wage and half an hour for lunch.”

Before Isabelle could reply, André came steaming back. “Denise, see to Mrs. Boop. She is very upset. She has been abandoned under the dryer. Soothe her. Take out her rollers. Give her a cup of tea. Anything. I will be there in the instant.”

“You mean it, Denise?” Isabelle stopped sweeping to ask. “You're serious?”

“Why not?” said Denise, filing her nails in a languorous fashion, Mrs. Boop or no.

“How much is minimum wage anyway?” asked Isabelle.

ELEVEN

The man came to fix the ceiling.

“What's the damage come to?” Isabelle asked him.

“Plenty,” the man said. “You responsible for this here?” and he jerked his thumb upward.

Isabelle pretended she hadn't heard and charged noisily up the stairs. “USE YOUR IMAGINATION,” she wrote on her blackboard. That's what Mrs. Esposito was always telling the class.

“Your imagination's like a muscle,” Mrs. Esposito had said. “The more it's used, the better it works. Use it every day. Keep it well oiled, like your bicycle or your lawn mower.” Isabelle rather liked that. She imagined herself pushing her imagination around the yard or down the street. Or up the steepest hill.

Mary Eliza's hand shot up.

“Yes, Mary Eliza. What is it?”

Mary Eliza hoisted her rear end up from her seat and said, as if it were a whole new idea and totally hers, “Your imagination's like a muscle in your head.”

“Yeah, and just as hard,” said Chauncey from behind his grimy hand. Chauncey was definitely feeling his oats these days, Isabelle thought as the class tittered. She stacked her fists on her desk and rested her chin on them and, without moving her head, slipped her eyes from side to side, to see what was what. Not a whole lot. Herbie was chewing gum, working on his phony boil, no doubt. Mary Eliza was busily scribbling in a little black book.

“Let your imagination soar, children,” Mrs. Esposito said. “Like a kite. Let it go as high as it will. The sky's the limit.”

It was a grand thought.

Now “
ONCE UPON A TIME
,” Isabelle wrote on the blackboard. That was her favorite beginning. Anything could happen. Unfortunately, no other words came. She must be suffering from writer's block.

“Once upon a time,” Isabelle said out loud.

Outside her door someone coughed. Isabelle hid in her closet in case it was a burglar. Or a fire-breathing dragon. Or her father, wanting to have A Talk. About Responsibility.

“The door was open so I just came in,” said Frannie.

Isabelle sprang out of the closet and said, “I'm writing a story. Let's take turns. First I write a sentence, then you. Let your imagination soar.”

“No,” said Frannie, surprisingly. “I won't.”

“Come on, do it,” Isabelle commanded.

“Try and make me.” Frannie clenched her fists and stuck out her chin. “Listen, it's your house and your blackboard. You write anything you want. But I don't have to. I'm not doing it. Even if you torture me, I won't.”

Torture. It was something Isabelle hadn't even considered and now did. Once again she let her imagination soar. Drive sticks under Frannie's fingernails. Tie her to a tree on top of an anthill and pour honey on her stomach so the ants could lick it off. Hang Frannie by her thumbs.

The possibilities were endless.

“Know something? You're a brat,” Frannie said. “You think everything you do is so great. You're so tough, so cool. You can't keep pushing people around. You're not a queen or a president or anything. All you are is a brat.”

Then, as if somebody had pushed a button, tears fell from Frannie's eyes. Great round tears just dropped from her eyes like pebbles. They didn't slide down her cheeks, they just fell, soundlessly. Most people squinched up their face when they cried. They got red and looked ugly. Not Frannie. Her eyes stayed open and her face remained pale. Most people, when they cried, had to blow their nose. Not Frannie. She didn't so much as snuffle.

But the sounds Frannie made were the most amazing part of all. She raised her knobby wrist to her mouth and as if she were playing a musical instrument, she produced the most incredible sound Isabelle had ever heard.

Frannie wailed. The wails went up and down the scale and raised goose bumps on Isabelle's arms.

“Stop,” she said. Frannie went on wailing. The sounds dismayed Isabelle, and she wondered how Frannie made them.

At last Frannie drew a long, shuddering breath and said, “I can't. Don't you see, I just can't.”

“Hey,” Isabelle said softly. “I'm sorry. I only wanted for us to have fun. That's all, have a good time.” She patted Frannie awkwardly.

“Let's read this horse book. I just got it out of the library. It's a wonderful book, the librarian said. I'll read you a chapter, then you read me one. How's that?”