Isabelle the Itch: The Isabelle Series, Book One (6 page)

“My father's making cheese bread Saturday,” Isabelle said. “You want me to bring you some?”

Mrs. Esposito gazed at the ceiling.

“Isabelle, how can you do this to me? I gain three pounds every time I eat his marvelous bread.”

“You want me not to bring you some?”

“I didn't say that,” Mrs. Esposito said hastily. “How about half a loaf? Do you think he'd cut a loaf in half for me?”

“Sure. Half a loaf's better'n none, I guess.”

“Listen, Isabelle,” Mrs. Esposito said, “I want you to stay after school. I have a list of the words you misspelled on the test and I think it would help if you wrote them out ten times each.”

“I have to do my brother's paper route this afternoon,” Isabelle protested. “He's paying me to do it and I might even have to collect.”

“Liar,” Chauncey said. “You're too young to deliver papers. You're only ten. I'm going to call up the paper and tell 'em they're using child labor and they'll probably go to jail. So will you.”

“That's enough Chauncey.” Mrs. Esposito turned to Isabelle. “You can do much better, Isabelle, if only you'd set your mind to it.”

“I promise I'll do the words at home,” Isabelle said. “But I have to do Philip's route right after school. Please, Mrs. Esposito?” Isabelle begged.

“All right. If you promise. Everybody get to his seat now,” she said as the room filled up.

“Liar, liar,” Chauncey said under his breath.

“Old fat green tooth Chauncey,” Isabelle whispered, catching him a good one with her friendship ring.

“I think I'm having a slumber party,” Mary Eliza said to everyone and no one.

“Order, please,” Mrs. Esposito raised her voice.

LIFE ISN'T EASY Isabelle wrote in big letters on her paper. The words popped into her head for no reason.

LIFE ISN'T EASY she wrote again. Every word was spelled perfectly.

You can do much better, she told herself.

13

“If you're going to help me deliver, you've gotta take that off,” Isabelle said when school was out. She pointed to Herbie's boil, which hung precariously from the end of his nose. “Philip said you couldn't go with me if you had it on.”

Reluctantly, Herbie took the lump of chewing gum and put it in the plastic sandwich bag he'd saved from his lunch.

“It stays real nice and clean in there,” he explained.

“If you're coming, come on.” Isabelle took giant steps.

“I have to let my mother know where I'm going. She has fits if she doesn't know where I am,” Herbie said.

“Parents always want to know where you are. Half the time you're not where you tell 'em you're going to be, so what difference does it make?” Isabelle asked.

“Maybe you're being kidnapped or fell down a well or something and they have to call the police or the fire engines. It makes 'em feel better if they know where you are even if you're not there,” Herbie explained.

“How far does this route take you?” Herbie's mother asked suspiciously when they told her about delivering papers. She didn't trust Isabelle.

“Up Blackberry Lane,” Isabelle said, making vague motions, indicating the journey, “then around to the left and down. It's a long way,” she added. Herbie's mother was about to fire more questions. “I gotta go.” She started down the path.

“See you later,” Herbie shouted, taking off fast before his mother got a chance to stop him.

When they got to the drop-off box, a bunch of guys with long hair and pimples were standing around, smoking cigarettes and talking in loud voices.

“Looka here,” one said when Isabelle opened the box to get Philip's papers. “Whatcha want, kid? Your mama know you're out all by yourself?”

Herbie stood off to one side with his finger in his nose. He always stuck his finger up his nose when he was scared.

“I said, whatcha want, kid?” the guy said again, coming toward them.

“My brother's papers,” Isabelle said. “I'm doing his route.”

“You gotta be kidding! A pipsqueak like you! Hey, you guys hear the little lady? She's doing her brother's route. How about that!”

The rest of them stood around, spitting and smoking and not doing much else, peering out from behind their hair.

“Where's the fire?” Herbie demanded crossly when they were finally on their way.

“Listen,” Isabelle said, “you gotta shape up if you want to come with me. No more finger up your nose. We're going to see Mrs. Stern first and if she sees you like that, she won't ask us in or anything.”

“Who's Mrs. Stern?”

“She's really old, only she paints and cleans out her gutters and everything. She has silver eyes, too.”

The combination was too much for Herbie. He hid behind Isabelle as she knocked on Mrs. Stern's pink door.

Once, twice, three times, she knocked.

“She's probably deaf,” Herbie whispered hoarsely.

“Are you kidding?” Isabelle said scornfully.

“I thought I heard someone, but with the blender going I wasn't sure.” Mrs. Stern had on a navy blue T-shirt with CAPE COD written across the front and paint-spattered pants. “Come in and try some carrot juice.”

“Yuck,” said Herbie. Isabelle stepped on his foot, hard.

“Mrs. Stern, this is my friend Herbie. He's helping me deliver today. Just for today,” she said firmly.

“Hello, Herbie.” Mrs. Stern shook hands. Herbie put out his right hand first off.

“It's very good for the eyes,” Mrs. Stern said, pouring two small glasses of carrot juice.

Herbie drank his manfully.

“I can see better already,” he said when he'd finished.

“How about a refill?” Mrs. Stern asked them.

“No thanks,” they both said.

“I've been thinking about the purple room,” Mrs. Stern told Isabelle. “It might not be such a bad idea. Or how about a purple front door? That'd be nice and different, don't you think?”

Herbie took the plastic bag with his boil in it out of his pocket. He didn't like being left out of the conversation.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked Mrs. Stern, putting the wad of chewing gum on his arm.

“A wart?” she said. Herbie's face lit up as if he'd just swallowed a neon sign.

“Almost,” he said and told her about his idea for making a mint of money.

“I think you might have something there,” Mrs. Stern said, passing a plate of cookies. “Definitely.”

For a kid with pretty small hands, Herbie sure could palm a lot of cookies in one fell swoop. He loaded his pockets, ignoring the dark looks Isabelle threw his way.

“We've gotta go,” she said, making a big deal out of taking only one cookie. “Thanks, Mrs. Stern. See you tomorrow.”

Outside, Isabelle said fiercely, “If you don't stop giving me such a hard time, loading up with cookies and all, you can't come again. Where are your manners?” she inquired sternly.

Herbie took a couple of cookies out of his pocket.

“Want one, Iz?” he said.

“Well, O.K. Just one,” Isabelle said.

“She's some sharp old lady,” Herbie said.

“She jogs too,” Isabelle said. She didn't tell about Stella. That was just between her and Mrs. Stern.

At Mr. Johnson's house, the kid with the runny nose was waiting for them.

“Go blow your nose,” Isabelle told her.

“I don't got a cold, I'm allergic,” the kid said, grabbing the paper.

“You take that right in to your father,” Isabelle directed.

“I don't got to, he's at work,” the kid said.

Good. Mr. Johnson had found a job. Philip would be pleased.

At the Olsens', Isabelle paused. “There's a ferocious dog here,” she told Herbie. “He might give us some trouble but I've got half a sardine sandwich I saved from lunch to give him.” She started up the path.

“I'll wait here,” Herbie said. He started to put his finger up his nose again.

“Stop that!” Isabelle commanded. He stopped. The dog was shut inside. She could hear him barking. Whew! That was a relief.

There was only one paper left in the bag. Isabelle was tired and Herbie was dragging his feet.

“We have to watch out for the little Carter creep,” Isabelle warned. “Philip says he takes the paper and leaves it in the yard, and it blows away and his father calls up our house and complains he didn't get it.”

The little Carter creep didn't show, so Isabelle put the paper in the mailbox.

“That does it,” she said. “Finished.”

“I didn't know a paper route was so much work,” Herbie said. He took his phony boil out of his pocket. “Is it O.K. if I put it on now?” he asked.

With a nod, Isabelle gave her permission.

Herbie stuck it on his ear. It fell off so he put it on his chin.

“My grandmother came over last week and I had my boil on my neck and she saw it and said my mother had better take me to the doctor right away,” Herbie said, obviously pleased. “Even when I took it off and showed her it was only gum, she said boils came from a poor diet and my mother must not be feeding me right. Then my mother got mad and said she did too feed me right and it turned into a big hassle.”

They sat down on the curb to rest.

“I'm pooped,” Herbie said.

“Yeah.” Isabelle thought for a minute. “A paper route does sort of take it out of you, doesn't it?”

14

“Life isn't easy,” Isabelle told Mrs. Stern next day. She held the marsh-mallows in her cocoa down with the spoon until they got slippery and bobbed to the surface.

“Sometimes it's hard, sometimes easy, sometimes in between. If it was always one or the other, things would be dull, don't you think?” Mrs. Stern replied. “Variety's the thing. Something wrong?”

“I got the lowest mark in the class in a spelling test,” Isabelle said.

“Did you mind that?”

“A little.”

Isabelle skimmed the marshmallow fluff off the cocoa. “A bunch of kids had a slumber party and they didn't invite me.”

Mrs. Stern looked at her without saying anything.

“I minded that more than the spelling test,” Isabelle said.

“Of course.” The way Mrs. Stern said that made Isabelle feel better. “I remember when I was about your age, a girl down the street from me had a birthday party and invited everybody on the block but me. I thought maybe she'd forgotten and I even went out and bought a present just in case. I can still remember sitting in my window and watching all the guests arrive.” Mrs. Stern patted Isabelle's hand. “That sort of thing happens to everybody. Don't feel too bad.”

“Can I see upstairs in your house?” Isabelle asked. “I like to see people's houses. Especially closets and attics.”

“My closets are always a mess,” Mrs. Stern said.

“That's O.K.,” Isabelle told her, “ours aren't very clean either.”

Mrs. Stern's bedroom was yellow. “Butter yellow or lemon yellow I couldn't decide, as I'm fond of both butter and lemons,” Mrs. Stern said. “I made it in between. It's a very pleasant color, yellow is.”

Isabelle looked out the window.

“Hey, there's an old lady and a man coming up the walk,” she said. Mrs. Stern looked over her shoulder.

“If she could hear what you just called her,” Mrs. Stern said delightedly, “she'd explode! That's Stella. And Billy.”

As they hurried down to open the door, Mrs. Stern told Isabelle that Stella often dropped in. “She's hoping she'll catch me sick in bed or taking a nap,” she said. “Never has yet,” and Mrs. Stern knocked on the bannister. “Knock on wood,” she said.

“Is Billy Stella's husband?” Isabelle asked.

Mrs. Stern raised her eyebrows.

“Boyfriend,” she whispered and opened the door. “Come in, Stella, Billy. Nice to see you. Won't you sit down? You must be tired after your drive.”

“You're looking peaked,” Stella said before she said hello. “Who's this child?” she asked, her little eyes taking in everything. “You know nothing tires me. Certainly not driving.”

“This is Isabelle, my paper boy,” Mrs. Stern said.

“I know it's hard to tell the difference in this day and age,” Stella said, sniffing, “but she looks like a girl to me.”

Billy's shoulders heaved and his nose grew pink. Isabelle thought he was laughing.

“But my dear, of course she's a girl,” he said.

“I've got some fresh carrot juice. Good for the eyes. How about a glass?” Mrs. Stern asked them.

“Isn't it strange you should say that?” Stella said. “Only last visit to my doctor, he said he'd seldom seen a woman of my years with such exceptional vision. You look as if you could use a liver shot or two, Ada,” Stella said. “Your color's not good.”

“Never felt better in my life. Isabelle and I are thinking of painting a room purple. It's her idea,” Mrs. Stern gave Isabelle credit. “You don't see too many purple rooms.”

“And for a very good reason,” Stella shot a dark look in Isabelle's direction. “Purple is a very depressing color, an old lady color. Don't you agree, Billy?”

Isabelle thought Billy had just dropped off for a snooze. He started out of his chair, opened his eyes wide and said, “Absolutely, my dear, absolutely.”

“And your arthritis, how is it?” Stella inquired.

“I'm in tiptop condition, never fear. Sure you won't have a glass of carrot juice?”

“We've got to be going along.” Stella put on her gloves. “Billy doesn't like to drive on the turnpike so we take all the back roads. It takes rather longer that way but, my, such scenery!” She grasped Mrs. Stern's arm. “Remember,” she said, “if you ever need me, I'm there.”

Arm in arm, Billy and Stella crept to the car. He got behind the wheel and after considerable maneuvering, pulled out of the driveway and drove off at a snail's pace.