Isabelle the Itch: The Isabelle Series, Book One (8 page)

Jane poked her head out from behind a door. “Hey,” she said.

“Jane dear, don't you want to ask your little friend to stay and chat?” Jane's mother said.

“I can't. I've gotta finish delivering. I'll see you,” Isabelle said, handing Jane the paper. “It's ninety cents a week and Saturday's collection day.” Isabelle was halfway down the path before she remembered about field day. “If you want to help spread mustard on hot dogs and stuff at field day,” she came back to tell Jane's mother, “maybe you'd make some friends. My mother and a lot of mothers help.”

Mrs. Malone looked startled. “When is it?” she asked.

“Next Friday. If it doesn't rain, that is. If it rains, it'll be week after next. And if it rains then, the week after that. They'll tell us at school.”

Herbie was sitting on the curb in front of his house, looking dejected. Even his boil looked dejected.

“Hey, Herb, you wanna fight?”

“Nah,” Herbie said.

“You wanna do anything?”

“Nah,” Herbie said again. Sometimes he got like that.

“I'm having a bad mood,” he said.

“You had me fooled. I thought you just won the lottery.”

Isabelle went home and watched a soap opera on TV. The lady was either having a nervous breakdown or a baby. Isabelle wasn't sure which.

She dialed Mary Eliza's number.

“Shook residence. Hi, it's Mary Eliza speaking.”

Isabelle breathed heavily into the receiver and said nothing.

“Hello, hello,” Mary Eliza said.

Isabelle breathed even more heavily.

“I know who it is!” Mary Eliza said shrilly. “I bet it's Isabelle. You better stop or I'll tell my father!”

Isabelle hung up, stomped into her room, and wrote on her blackboard:

HERBIE ISN'T SUCH A HOT SHOT.

I CAN BEAT HIM UP.

What was it Abraham Lincoln had said? Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.

“Hey, Philip,” Isabelle called, “what was the name of that guy who shot Lincoln?”

“John Wilkes Booth, dumb head.”

Isabelle erased the blackboard clean.

JOHN WILCS BOOTH STINKS she wrote, and then the chalk broke.

17

Saturday morning Isabelle woke to the smell of bread baking. It must be late. She got out of bed, pulled up the covers, straightened the spread. The bed looked lumpy, as if she were still in it.

“How's the paper girl?” her father said. The kitchen and everything in it was covered with a fine dusting of flour, like a light snow. Isabelle ate her breakfast standing up, shuffling, tapping. She was getting better at it.

“That's what I like about you, perpetual motion,” her mother said. “You'll clean up?” she said doubtfully to Isabelle's father.

“Don't I always? You won't even know I've been here,” he said. “I don't think you realize how lucky you are to have a husband who bakes his own bread,” he said in a hurt tone of voice.

“I think I do,” Isabelle's mother said quietly.

“Today Philip pays me, Mom. Will you take me downtown to buy the track shoes?” Isabelle said. “Field day's next week if it doesn't rain and I've gotta have them for the fifty-yard dash. This year I'm going to win,” Isabelle said, loud and sure.

“Is it time for field day again?” her mother asked. “Seems like only yesterday I was dishing up the franks for you and your pals.”

“You remember the new girl I told you about in our class? The one from Utah? Well, she lives on Blackberry Lane and her mother said nobody even brought a casserole or anything over when they moved in and I said you'd call her up and tell her about field day so's she can make some friends,” Isabelle said in a rush.

“Oh, Isabelle,” her mother wailed, “with all I've got to do!”

“You told me to try being kind,” Isabelle said primly. “How do you expect me to be kind if you're not?”

“Touché,” her father said.

“Where's my money bag?” Philip came hurtling downstairs.

Oh, oh.

“I've got it,” Isabelle said. “I forgot to put it back. Anyway, I got a new customer for you and you didn't even say thanks. The Malones on Blackberry Lane want to get the paper.”

“You keep your mitts off my stuff or else,” Philip threatened.

“Mrs. Stern paid for two weeks,” Isabelle said, “so you don't have to collect there today. She said we should split the tip.”

“Give you an inch and you take a mile,” Philip said sourly. “Next thing you know it'll be your paper route and your customers. Go get the bag, baby.”

“He doesn't have to be such a pain,” Isabelle said as she marched up to get the bag. “He hired me for cheap and I did a good job, too.”

Downstairs again, she told Philip, “I want my money now. I need it.”

“This afternoon, freak head. I don't have it now,” he said.

“I'll advance it to you,” her father said. “So you can get your shoes.” He smiled at her. “As a matter of fact, I want to get to the post office before it closes. Let's go right now. Can I trust you to take my bread out when it's done?” he asked Isabelle's mother.

“I'm not sure I can accept such a responsibility,” she said. “I'm not sure I'm up to it.”

“I think you can handle it,” he said. “Tap the crust and if it sounds hollow, it's done.”

“Wait'll I write that down,” she said and made a big deal about writing the instructions on a piece of paper.

“Your mother is a fine figure of a woman,” Isabelle's father said. “A wonderful woman. Just make sure you don't get involved on the telephone and let my bread bake too long.”

“Out,” Isabelle's mother pointed a finger at them.

“We've gotta go to Newley's Shoe Store, Dad,” Isabelle said as they drove. “They've got Adidas there.”

“They've got what?” he said.

“The kind of track shoes I want. So I can win the fifty-yard dash.”

“What makes you think the shoes make the winner?” he asked.

“They will,” she said positively. “They have to. I'm tired of coming in second.”

“I hope you're not disappointed,” her father said.

“I won't be,” she said, smiling.

18

“Tell Herbie when he comes over that I went to Mrs. Stern's to show her my new shoes,” Isabelle said after lunch. “Tell Herbie I went to his house to show him and he wasn't there. Tell him—”

“Listen, if you have that much to say to Herbie, you'd better stick around and tell him in person,” her mother said.

Skimming the ground like a bird, Isabelle took off. She felt as if she wore wings.

“They're beautiful,” Mrs. Stern said. “I never saw such a beautiful pair.”

“Field day's next week and I'm going to win the fifty-yard dash. That's why I got these shoes. Usually I come in second. I'm tired of coming in second. I want to be first,” Isabelle told her.

“I'll keep my fingers crossed,” Mrs. Stern said. “I suppose I won't be seeing as much of you now that you're finished doing Philip's route. I'll miss you,” she said.

Her telephone rang and when she went to answer it, Isabelle put some sunflower seeds in the bird feeder. Mrs. Stern kept food for the birds even in good weather, when they could find their own. “I like having them come to call,” she told Isabelle.

Mrs. Stern came out and sat on the back steps heavily, like a fat woman.

“That was Billy on the phone,” she said. “Stella fell and broke her hip. The doctor says he doesn't know if she'll ever walk again.”

“I guess she can't tell you what good shape she's in anymore,” Isabelle said.

Mrs. Stern's face crumpled up like an old rag. Isabelle was afraid she might cry. “Poor Stella. She'll go all to pieces if she's an invalid. She'll just fall apart. Don't you see?” she asked. “Don't you see that without Stella around to keep me on my toes, I'll wind up being just another old lady creaking around my house waiting to die? It was Stella that kept me going. Mean as she was, she was good for me. She kept me going.” Mrs. Stern stared at nothing. “I don't know what I'll do without her.”

Isabelle thought about that. She could see Mrs. Stern's point. Sometimes people pushed other people into doing things they might not have done otherwise.

“Mary Eliza Shook keeps me on
my
toes,” Isabelle said. “She's plenty mean too. But maybe Stella will get better. Maybe the doctor's wrong,” Isabelle tried to cheer Mrs. Stern up. “Doctors are wrong sometimes, you know.”

“Maybe.” Mrs. Stern didn't sound very hopeful. “You better be on your way now, child. I think I might just have a little rest.”

“In the middle of the day?” Isabelle asked, shocked. “You never take a rest in the middle of the day.”

“I know,” Mrs. Stern said. “But I might today.”

That wasn't a good sign, Isabelle thought, as she retied her shoelaces. Mrs. Stern taking a rest. I better go check on her every day and see that she doesn't feel too bad. Then she raced off to the school field to do a couple of laps.

I promise I'll go to see her every day, without fail, Isabelle told herself.

19

But the days sped by. Isabelle got so involved in preparing for field day that she forgot Mrs. Stern. Her mother called Jane's mother and they made plans for hot dogs and soda. Mrs. Esposito announced that a photographer from the paper would be there to take pictures of the winners. Mary Eliza said she'd probably have her picture in the paper when she got the lead in
The Nutcracker Suite
, so it didn't matter if she won a race or not.

The day of the track meet dawned sunny and warm. Isabelle was up before anyone else in the family. She wanted to have plenty of time to digest her breakfast before the big race.

“Is Jane Malone going to be in the meet?” her mother asked.

Isabelle looked surprised. “Anybody who wants can be in one,” she said. “I don't know. I never asked her.”

“It might be a nice idea if you did. There's a good chance they didn't have a field day at the school she went to in Utah. It's probably new and strange to her. I don't know why I didn't think of it before. But then if her mother's going to be involved, she will be too.”

“I'm going to stop at Mrs. Stern's on the way to school and ask her if she wants to come watch me race,” Isabelle said.

“Oh, Mrs. Stern, the painter. Don't you think that's sort of early to go calling? Especially on an old lady? She probably likes to sleep late,” Isabelle's mother said.

“Not Mrs. Stern. She's up with the birds.”

Isabelle had forgotten about Stella. She knocked on Mrs. Stern's door but there was no answer. The shades in Mrs. Stern's bedroom were drawn, so she took a sheet of paper from her notebook and wrote in big letters:

COME TO FIELD DAY TODAY AT SCHOOL.

WATCH ISABELLE THE GREAT

WIN THE FIFTY-YARD DASH.

She slipped the note under Mrs. Stern's door and ran off to meet Herbie.

“You're late,” Herbie said sourly. “I almost went without you.” He hoisted his new pants up under his armpits. “My mother bought 'em big because they shrink when she sticks 'em in the dryer,” he explained gloomily.

He stuck his boil in the middle of his forehead.

“You better put that in the plastic bag when you race,” Isabelle told him.

The boil slid off Herbie and landed on the sidewalk. He started to pick it up and dust it off. He changed his mind, stamped it flat, and smashed it into the sidewalk.

“What'd you do that for?” Isabelle cried.

“It's no good,” he said disconsolately. “It don't fool anyone.”

“Sure it does, Herb.” Isabelle tried to scrape the boil up, but it was finished.

When she looked up from the spot where it lay, Herbie had already started on his way to school and Mary Eliza, arm in arm with Jane, was walking toward her.

“How come you carry that big dumb pocketbook everywhere?” Isabelle asked Jane, who ducked her head and looked at her pocketbook as if seeing it for the first time.

“Everybody carries one where I come from,” she said.

“It looks pretty stupid,” Isabelle said.

“Don't mind her, dear,” Mary Eliza whispered in a loud voice. “She's not coming to my party. All she does is punch people on the arm. Her problem is she's mean. She thinks she's going to win the fifty-yard dash and get her picture in the paper. Just because she's got new shoes. Let's go,” and she pulled Jane with her.

Isabelle crossed her eyes and yelled “Yah, yah,” while she jumped in the air and waved her arms.

“Guess who this is?” she hollered. But there was no one to see.

She walked to school alone, slowly, so she wouldn't use up her energy.

Just wait.

20

“Remember, anyone who has more than two false starts is disqualified,” Mr. Brown, the gym teacher, told them. “Wait for the ‘go' signal.”

Isabelle's heart thundered in her chest. This was the moment she'd been waiting for.

“On your mark, get ready, get set, go!”

A rush of air and Isabelle was off. The wind whistled in her ears, she heard cheers and shouts. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except that she come in first. She felt free and wild and ran as fast as it was in her power to run.

She crossed the finish line and waited, panting, for the other runners. There was someone beside her, red faced, also panting. Funny Isabelle hadn't seen her up until now. It was Jane.

“I came in first,” Isabelle told her.

“Winner of the fifty-yard dash for the fifth grade,” Mr. Brown shouted through his megaphone, “is Jane Malone of Mrs. Esposito's room. Second is Isabelle …”