Isabelle Shows Her Stuff: The Isabelle Series, Book Two Read online

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  Isabelle Shows Her Stuff

  The Isabelle Series, Book Two

  Constance C. Greene

  For Nora

  Chapter One

  The day Guy Gibbs moved to Hot Water Street was the best day of his life. How could he miss getting into hot water now? What a stroke of luck! What a neat house! What a neat street!

  The house, tall and thin and graying, leaned a little into the wind. There was a birdbath in back, a huge old maple tree in front with a vacant bird’s nest swinging from its branches, and a path to the front door made of big round stones that reminded Guy of oversized hopscotch potsies.

  All in all, that house was just about perfect.

  Living on Hot Water Street was going to change Guy’s life. He was sure of that. His heart swelled with excitement as he thought of himself marching down to the principal’s office.

  “Not you again!” the principal would exclaim, clutching his head. “What have you done now?”

  Guy hugged himself with delight as he imagined himself pulling up to his house in a police car, the street lined with kids watching, mouths open wide in astonishment. He’d been caught snitching apples. Or pumpkins. Or for shooting out streetlights with a BB gun. Which he didn’t have. The important thing was, he’d been caught.

  No more goody-goody Guy. That was behind him now. From here on in, he, Guy Gibbs, was on a high roll.

  The movers were messing around, trying to figure out how to get the piano into the house without bending it, when a girl wearing a red hat with a ripply brim and carrying a newspaper bag on her shoulder came up the path.

  She and Guy stood watching.

  “A little to the left, Len!” the head mover hollered. “Easy, now, don’t break nothing.”

  Back and forth they went, trying this way and that.

  “You might have to take the legs off,” the girl said at last.

  The head mover was hot and tired and ready to call it quits. “Cool it, girlie,” he said. “I been in this business twice as long as you been alive. I know what I’m doing. I don’t need no upstart kid telling me my own business.”

  “How long have you been in this business?” the girl asked.

  The man yanked a gray handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. He cleared his throat and said in a very raspy voice, “How long you been around, toots?”

  “I asked you first,” she said.

  He cleared his throat a second time and, turning his head to one side, sent a glittering ball of spit onto the grass. Then he turned his back on the girl and shouted, “Let’s try it another way, Len, see how that works.”

  “How about if you leave the piano outside and when somebody feels like playing, they can open the window and stick their hands out and play from the inside?”

  The mover’s thick chest moved mightily as he took a deep breath. His little helper, Len, watched anxiously. Guy kept quiet, waiting for the next move.

  “That way,” the girl explained, “even if it was winter, even if there was a blizzard, they could put on gloves, wipe off the snow, and still play that old piano.”

  “It’s not old, it’s new,” said Guy. From far away, a dog barked. Trucks rolled on the turnpike. Guy swallowed noisily.

  No one spoke. Then the head mover said, “You belong here?” jerking his thumb in the direction of Guy’s new house.

  “Nope, I’m the paper boy,” the girl said.

  “They don’t want no paper right at this minute, girlie.” The man spoke slowly, carefully, biting off each word as if it were a piece of tough meat. “Why don’t you do us all a big favor and get lost, huh? Take off. Vamoose.”

  “I was only trying to help.” She did a little jig.

  “Yeah,” Guy chimed in, “you don’t hafta get a red nose.”

  “Right,” the girl agreed. “What’s that mean?”

  “My father says it means you don’t hafta get riled up,” Guy told her, pleased he knew something she didn’t.

  “I’m gonna pull that on Herbie,” she said. “How about asking your mother if she wants the paper delivered?” She whipped out a pencil and pad from her bag. “Philip’ll kill me if I don’t write everything down.”

  “Who’s Philip?”

  “My brother. It’s his route. Well, sort of half mine. I’m subbing for him on account of he sprained his ankle. He’s got crutches and everything. You’d think he was the first person who ever had crutches.” She sighed. “Boys make such a fuss. He won’t even let me try ’em out. And you should see the way my mother waits on him. It’s enough to make you puke.” She rolled her eyes. “What’s your name?”

  “Guy,” he said. “What’s yours?”

  “Isabelle. Go ask your mom, will you? I’m in a hurry. Herbie’s waiting for me. We’re fighting at my house today. He might skin out on me if I’m late.”

  “Why are you fighting with Herbie? Are you mad at him?” Guy asked. To meet a paper boy like Isabelle his first day in the new house was another sign his luck was changing. He could’ve talked to her all day.

  “Heck, no. We’re friends. We just like to fight. We fight every day after school. Go ask, will you? I’ve got to blast off.”

  Guy raced inside, and Isabelle, snapping her fingers and whistling, began to dance. The movers stopped to watch.

  “Whaddya call that?” the little mover asked, scratching his head.

  “It’s a dance,” she said. “I made it up.”

  “Loony-bin time,” the big mover said. “Get to it, Len. Time’s a-wasting.”

  “You said it,” Isabelle agreed.

  “She says you can start tomorrow,” Guy shouted, racing back.

  “Okay.” Isabelle was all business. “Name and address, please,” she said, pencil poised.

  “Guy Gibbs,” said Guy.

  “Father’s name, dodo,” she said.

  “Peter Gibbs, Twenty-two Hot Water Street,” he answered proudly.

  “Lucky you. I always wanted to live on this street,” she said, tucking her pad and pencil into her bag.

  “Don’t forget what I said about the legs,” she hollered to the moving men, and then she was off and running, on her way to fight with Herbie.

  “Sonny,” the big mover said, “count your lucky stars that kid ain’t related to you.”

  “Right,” the little mover agreed.

  “But maybe she’s got something,” he said. “Maybe the legs unscrew or something. Let’s give it a try.”

  The big one gave the little one a black look, and they went back to trying to figure out the best way to get the piano into Twenty-two Hot Water Street.

  Chapter Two

  Guy hadn’t made a lot of important decisions in his short life. Should he have chocolate or vanilla, or should he wear his red shirt or his blue—things like that.

  But when he decided to follow Isabelle that first day in his new house, he acted as if he’d been making big, important decisions all the days of his life.

  She traveled fast. Guy managed to keep up, but only just. He got a bad pain in his side. He wanted to stop and rest. But he was afraid he might lose her. That wouldn’t do. So he kept going. When he was at the end of his rope, his tongue hanging out like a dog who’d been chasing cars or sheep, when his heart was pounding so hard it threatened to pop out of his chest, Isabelle got where she was going.

  “Where ya been? I almost left!” he heard someone shout.
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  Guy hid behind a narrow tree, bulging out from behind it on either side. A baby could’ve spotted him, but neither Isabelle nor Herbie (for surely this was Herbie) seemed to notice him. He watched Isabelle throw down her newspaper bag, settle her hat firmly on her head, and leap like a tiger upon Herbie. Herbie howled as his head hit the ground. They rolled around in the dirt, exchanging blows. Guy came out from behind the tree and squatted at a respectful distance, watching them, entranced. It was like watching a TV Western, he thought. They weren’t wearing high-heeled boots. Or ten-gallon hats. And they weren’t even breaking chairs over each other’s heads, and there wasn’t any shooting. But Herbie and Isabelle were making the same noises the TV cowboys made, grunting, groaning, sending up shouts of rage. And it was all live, real—much more exciting than watching TV.

  “No feet!” Isabelle hollered suddenly. “We said no feet!” She had relaxed her grip for a second. That was all Herbie needed. He flipped her over, with the aid of his feet. He was winning.

  “How come it’s okay if you use feet but it’s not okay if I do?” Herbie asked quietly. Herbie always got quiet when he was winning.

  Isabelle had big feet and she was proud of them. Her feet came in handy, both for fighting and for running.

  “Besides,” Herbie explained, “I only used one foot. And that’s because you were crushing all the bones in my stomach.”

  “You don’t have bones in your stomach,” Isabelle said scornfully. “You’ve got guts. Gobs and gobs of guts. If you stretched ’em out, those guts of yours would probably reach down to the end of the street and around the block.”

  Herbie didn’t like to hear about guts, his own or anyone else’s. Guy didn’t either, but he listened anyway.

  Slowly, lovingly, Isabelle described Herbie’s guts to him. “They’re all pink and wobbly,” she said. “Like giant worms, miles and miles of giant worms, all pink and wobbly, squiggly and slippery.”

  Guy’s stomach began to do flip-flops. Herbie’s must’ve too, because he jumped up and ran over to the curb and began heaving.

  Isabelle, a small smile of triumph on her face, went over to investigate.

  “You’re a faker, Herb,” she said. “You didn’t throw up one drop. Not one. Some faker you are.”

  “Leave me alone,” Herbie said crossly. “Maybe you don’t have bones in your stomach, but I sure do in mine. Who’s that?”

  Guy had blown his cover and was practically breathing down their necks by now.

  “He’s my new customer on my paper route,” Isabelle said.

  “Wait’ll I tell Philip you called it your route!” Herbie howled.

  Isabelle assumed her boxer’s stance: knees bent, fists held close to her face. She bobbed in circles around Guy, punching at the air around his head. His eyes, shiny and still as two pebbles at the bottom of a pond, followed her. The rest of him was still.

  “How old are you?” Isabelle said, still punching.

  “Eight,” he said softly.

  “I’m ten!” Isabelle crowed. “I’m in fifth grade and doing fine in life. How about you?”

  “I’m in third grade,” he said.

  “So? So?” she said, as if he was trying to start trouble. “Hey, Herb, this kid lives on Hot Water Street.”

  Herbie hooked his thumbs into the waist of his pants, partly to appear tough, partly to hold them up. His mother bought his pants a size too big to allow for shrinkage in the dryer. Herbie was constantly in danger of losing his pants. He sauntered over to Guy, eyes narrowed, sneering a little.

  “You look like a straight shooter, pardner,” Herbie said. He wiped his hand on his pants and said, “Shake.” Guy shook.

  “How about you and me wiping up the floor with her?” Herbie suggested. “Two against one? How about it?”

  “Okay, you little twerps!” Isabelle roared, advancing on them, fists ready.

  At that very moment a voice cried, “Isabelle! Time!”

  “Coming!” Isabelle shouted, still advancing on Guy and Herbie.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Guy said in a quavery voice. For the first time he thought perhaps he should’ve stayed at home.

  “You better go, Iz,” Herbie said. “I can tell when your mother means it or if she’s only fooling around.”

  “My mother never fools around,” Isabelle said.

  “Isabelle! Last call!”

  Isabelle took one last lucky swing and decked Herbie. He howled as she took off, her Adidas a blur in the gathering dusk.

  “She fights dirty,” Herbie said, rubbing his ear. “They don’t call her Isabelle the Itch for nothing. She’s always punching out people. She didn’t really hurt me. I always holler and she stops. I was only pretending. If I holler loud enough, she lays off. See you,” and Herbie was gone too, flying low.

  It was almost dark.

  I hope I don’t get lost, Guy thought. I hope no monsters are hiding in the bushes. Excitement crowded him. He had made two new friends—big kids, tough kids. Isabelle the Itch and Herbie.

  Noises came from the shadows, but he kept going. At long last the street sign said Hot Water Street.

  He was home.

  Chapter Three

  “Where’d they put the piano?” Isabelle asked, mashing her face against the screen door, mouth open, enjoying the slightly bitter taste of metal.

  Without moving her chin from its nesting place in her hand, the little girl looked at her and said, “Who’re you?”

  “The paper boy. Where’s the piano?” Isabelle opened the door and, uninvited, eased herself inside.

  “You looked like a guppy,” the little girl said. “With your mouth open like that. Just like our guppy when I feed him.”

  “How do you know it’s a him? I told the movers they might have to take off the legs if they wanted to get the piano inside. Either that or leave it outside, and when your mother wants to play, she could open the window and play from inside.”

  “My mother doesn’t play the piano,” the child said. “I do. I take lessons.”

  “I can play ‘Chopsticks,’” Isabelle said. “What’s a little twerp like you doing taking piano lessons?” She opened the refrigerator door absent-mindedly and looked inside. It was amazing what some people kept in refrigerators. She knew a girl whose mother was a writer and kept her manuscripts in the refrigerator, in case the house burned down. That way her manuscripts would be safe.

  “My mother says you should never open somebody’s refrigerator,” the little girl said. “It makes her mad when kids do that.”

  Isabelle closed the door. There was nothing good in there anyway. “Have you got an ice maker?” she asked. Isabelle’s father said they were expensive and unnecessary, but she longed for one. They made such neat noises. Little clinking sounds, like fish coming up for air. Or mice having a party.

  “We only moved in yesterday. We haven’t got settled yet,” the little girl said. “I’m not a little twerp. I’m a child.”

  “You could’ve fooled me,” said Isabelle.

  “What’s your name?” the child asked.

  “Isabelle. What’s yours?”

  “I’m Becca. I’m six. Do you want to see my chains?”

  “Sure. Are they gold?”

  “No, silly.” Becca got down off her chair. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  There was nothing Isabelle liked better than inspecting other people’s houses. Closets were her specialty, but she also liked cellars, attics, bathrooms, rec rooms, and master bedrooms. So far she’d never seen a master in a master bedroom, but she kept trying. My daughter the real-estate lady, her mother sometimes called her.

  “They’re in here.” Becca opened the door to a small room off the kitchen. “This is our playroom, except when my grandmother comes to visit.”

  The room was crowded with paper chains. The ceiling was festooned with them and they decorated the walls, moving in a slow dance as the draft from the open door stirred them to action. They hung every which way.

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sp; “They’re like cobwebs,” Isabelle said, brushing the chains away from her face. “How come you’ve got so many?”

  “Every time I read a book,” Becca said, “I make a chain. That way, I keep count of how many books I’ve read.”

  In spite of herself Isabelle was impressed. “I bet you didn’t read this many,” she said, starting to count Becca’s chains.

  “There are forty-three,” Becca said. “And I read them all. How many books have you read?”

  “Oh,” Isabelle said, waving her hands in the air, “I don’t have time to read. I’ve got too many things to do. I play soccer. And tap-dance. And fight and do Philip’s paper route. And practice the fifty-yard dash. That’s my specialty, the fifty-yard dash.”

  “Everyone has time to read books,” Becca said, unimpressed by Isabelle’s busy schedule. “If they want to, that is.”

  This little squirt sounded like Isabelle’s teacher, Mrs. Esposito, or like Isabelle’s own mother, for Pete’s sake.

  “What grade are you in?” Isabelle wanted to know.

  “I’m in first,” Becca said. “I’m a gifted child.”

  “Okay,” said Isabelle, “say something gifted.”

  “You’re cuckoo!” Becca replied, laughing.

  “If you’re so gifted, how come you’re not in high school already? I read about a thirteen-year-old kid who was so smart he was going to college. What’s holding you up?” Isabelle demanded.

  “I’m too little to be in high school,” Becca said calmly.

  “Becca, who are you talking to?” a voice called from upstairs.

  “I’m talking to Isabelle, the paper boy,” Becca called back. “My mother’s up in the attic, unpacking things,” she told Isabelle.

  “Where’s your brother? Did he have to stay after school or something?” Isabelle asked.

  “Of course not. Guy never has to stay after school.”

  “He doesn’t?” Isabelle asked, amazed. Staying after school was as natural to her as breathing.

  “Guy never gets into trouble,” Becca said, leading the way back to the kitchen.

  Loud noises from outside interrupted them. Isabelle went to the window. “Looks like he’s in it now,” she said.