by Jim Benton
isn’t she here bugging you about your dad and the
plate company?”
“I have no idea.” I took another huge bite of salad
and tried to talk as I chewed it. “But I need to tell you
something, and you have to promise not to tell Angeline.”
Isabella smiled weirdly.
“I promise,” she said.
“It’s about the plates.”
She nodded.
“That woman isn’t going to make them,” I said.
“Bummer,” Isabella said. “Maybe we can change
them somehow
.
.
.
you know, make something that
the woman will make.”
“There is no woman making the plates,” I
confessed. “I made it all up.”
I looked into Isabella’s eyes, expecting some
sort of judgment, but I saw none. She wasn’t even
looking at me. She was looking at something just over
my head
—
and she was shaking her head
no
.
She was looking at Angeline.
Angeline reached down and grabbed my Coke.
She looked me right in the eyes, with a combination of
anger and hurt feelings on her face, and slowly poured
the Coke all over my salad.
Then she opened her hand and let the empty can
fall on the floor. She walked away quickly.
“Angeline, wait!” I said, running after her. “I was
trying to make you feel better.”
“Funny how rarely lying to your friends makes
them feel better,” she said coldly. Really coldly.
Really, really coldly. Colder than a baby bunny
with the flu lost in the middle of a snowstorm in
the dead of night with one sock wearing a soaking
wet sweater listening to wolves howling a hundred
yards away.
You just don’t know what to say to a bunny like
that. I walked back to the lunch table.
Where Isabella had finished my salad.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HARD TO WASH OFF
“You ate my salad?”
“It was good with the Coke dumped on it,”
Isabella said.
“There was dressing on it, too,” I said.
“I don’t know what to tell you.” She shrugged.
“It wasn’t bad. Somehow it tasted less like a plate of
assorted garbage than most salads do.”
I had to wonder what was going on inside
Isabella’s body at that exact moment when it was
faced with plants for the very first time.
I spent the rest of that week trying to talk to
Angeline. She was really, really mad at me.
I knew this because when Angeline is really,
really mad at you, she sends you a letter on really
pretty stationery to let you know. The envelope had
stickers on it, sure, but I could tell that they were the
worst stickers on the whole sheet of stickers.
It read:
Dear Jamie,
We’ve been friends for a very long time, and I even
feel like we’re family since your Aunt Carol married my
Uncle Dan. It’s difficult for me to understand why you
would be so insensitive to me at a time when I really needed
my friends the most.
I’m very sorry to inform you that your services as
a friend are no longer required, and I’ll thank you for not
contacting me again in any way.
Very truly yours,
Angeline
P.S. The word I used at the end there is “truly,” and it
refers to something called the truth. I know the word is
unfamiliar to you. It means “sincerity, honesty, or
accuracy.” As in the sentence “The girl was truly hurt
when the gross warthog-person lied to her.”
And on top of that it, the letter was unscented.
EVERYTHING of Angeline’s smells good. The
fact that this letter was unscented meant that she
took the time to actually wash the perfumey
fragrance off of it. It probably took her a half hour.
Angeline stayed mad.
For weeks, I tried everything I could think of to
bring her around.
I decorated her locker with spectacular
glittery wonderfulness. But one slash, and it fell
to the ground in shreds. Those nails of hers are as
sharp as they are gorgeous.
I started working extra hard on the recycling
at our house and sent her pictures of me doing it
—
rinsing things out, separating the different materials,
all that stuff. Angeline is big on recycling, and I
thought she’d approve. Isabella never recycles. She
says she won’t wash her garbage.
I even started a fund to help supply guide
dogs to the older guide dogs who had lost their
vision in the line of duty, but still wanted to help
their blind masters. I realize now that this probably
isn’t a real thing, but it seemed like a good idea at the
time, and I liked the poster I came up with.
Nothing worked.
Isabella was over one day after school so that we
could
not study together. (It’s a thing we do.) She sat
on my bed with her feet up on Stinker. She knew I was
still trying to apologize to Angeline.
“I’m glad she’s not bugging us about those dumb
plates anymore,” she said. “You should be glad, too.
How many more of those fake things did you want to
make, anyway? And why do you even care what
Angeline thinks? Since when are we really friends with
her?”
I couldn’t answer that. Sometimes friendships
grow
—
like flowers, or stuff in the shower drain.
“What do I have to do to make it up to her?” I
shouted, as if shouting might help.
“Get her dad his job back,” Isabella said.
I knew that she was right, and that it was
impossible for me to do.
I reached under my bed and grabbed the
stack of plates I had made. I had drawn the designs,
but Angeline had given me all the calorie and
nutritional information. I had to admit, she knew a
lot about food.
“How about if you and I go downstairs and make
something for me to eat?” Isabella suggested as she
slid off my bed, dragging the sheets and blankets onto
the floor.
Stinkette jumped up on me and barked. The word
“EAT” was all she needed to hear. Both she and
Stinker have a large vocabulary of food-related
words
.
.
.
and very few others.
Stinker didn’t move at all. He must have already
eaten a pair of my rubber boots or something, and
wouldn’t be ready for another snack for an hour or so.
Downstairs, Mom was getting dinner ready when
we walked into the kitchen.
“No snacks,” she said. “I don’t want you to spoil
your appetites.”
“That’s your job,” I whispered under my
breath.
“Isabella can stay for dinner if it’s okay with
her folks.”
/>
“It’s okay,” Isabella said.
“Don’t you have to call them?”
“Nope. It’s easier on everybody when I’m not
there. Or when my brothers aren’t. Or when my parents
aren’t. Actually, I’ll bet the best dinner we ever had
together was when none of us were there.”
My mom didn’t question it. Long ago, she came
to the understanding that Isabella’s family isn’t really
a huggy-kissy kind of family. Accepting a hug means
that the person is close enough to choke you, and a
kiss is just two lips away from a bite.
We sat down for dinner and waited patiently for
Mom to bring it in from the kitchen. I’m always willing
to help, but Mom likes to be in charge of the
presentation. It’s like that thrilling moment just before
Dracula leaps out and bites you.
I hate Mom’s cooking less when Isabella is over
because it’s fun to watch Isabella try to guess what is.
Dad sat down and nodded at us.
“Hey, Jamie. Hey, Isadora.”
“Hi, Mr. Gardenhose,” Isabella said
without flinching.
“Dad,” I barked. “It’s Isa
bella
. Why do you
get it wrong every time?”
“Well, she got my name wrong.”
“She only does that when you do it to her first.”
Mom brought in dinner, and Isabella actually
made a little gasping sound. Mom thought it was
because she was impressed, but it was really because
she was startled by how severely saladish the
dinner was.
It was a giant chef’s salad. It had lots of meat
and cheese, but also lots of vegetables.
And then there was a knock at the door, followed
by my Aunt Carol’s voice as she let herself in.
“Hello! Hope we aren’t interrupting,” she sang.
“We’re on our way to the movies, and I thought we’d
stop by and see if anybody wanted to join us.”
Angeline followed Aunt Carol around the
corner and eyed me scornfully. It was clear that this
visit was NOT
her idea. She wouldn’t have even come
in, except that her good manners are more powerful
than her hate, and waiting in the car would have
been rude.
“If you can wait until they finish eating, I bet
Jamie and Isabella will go,” Mom said. “Will you join us?
I’ll get you some plates.”
Isabella stood up and walked into the kitchen,
presumably to help my mom.
“
Plates
,”
Angeline hissed.
“I know, right?” Dad said as he chewed. “I’m
with you, Angela. Enough already.”
“No, thanks. We already ate,” Aunt Carol said.
“Plates,” Angeline repeated.
“What was that?” My mom asked her.
“NOTHING,” I said loudly, but Angeline
seemed to be on a tattletale mission. I knew I was
going to be in trouble in a minute.
I bent down under the table and smacked myself
in the nose. Nobody could be mad at me if I was
bleeding, right?
It didn’t work. My nose wouldn’t bleed.
“I said
plates
, Mrs. Kelly,” Angeline said.
“Jamie, Isabella, and I were working on a plate project.
I really had high hopes for it.”
Isabella piped up as she returned from the
kitchen. “Right. Because her dad got fired and now
they’re broke and Angeline can’t go to college and will
probably end up poor and maybe miserable.”
I sprayed bits of salad when I yelled.
“ISABELLA!”
“She’s right,” Angeline said. “Isabella’s telling
the truth. And my plate idea was dumb. I know that
now. But Jamie lied to me. She said that somebody
named Kirsten Hall was interested in helping with the
plates. Remember? Even you told me that, Mr. Kelly.
Why did you lie to me, too?”
“Yeah, Dad,” I said, skillfully trying to deflect
the blame. “You made up that whole thing about
getting Mom new plates. You’re a bigger liar than me
when you think about it because, you know, you’re
bigger. By at least a hundred pounds.”
“Wait! I did get her new plates!” Dad said. “The
saleslady had to order them. Her name was Kirsten
Hall.” Dad left the room and came back with a receipt.
Mom read the receipt. “This says Katherine
Hess.”
“Right. Katherine Hess. That’s what I said.”
“Hang on,” I protested. “If you’re telling the
truth, where are these new plates?”
Isabella held up her TOTALLY
empty plate. She
was the only one who had finished her salad. It dripped
with the remains of the Coke she had poured over it
while we were arguing.
“Iff thif ff?” she said through a mouthful of
lettuce.
“Yes!” Dad said. “See? Brand-new plates. Just
like I said. From Katharine Hepburn.”
It
was
a new plate. I moved some of my salad
heap aside. I hadn’t noticed the plates before. I had to
admit, they were lovely.
“Isabella, did you pour a Coke on that salad?”
my mom asked.
Isabella dragged her sleeve across her mouth
and grinned. “Yup.”
“Isabella!
You can’t do that! You can’t put
Coke on a salad. Think of the calories!”
“Two tablespoons of ranch dressing has a
hundred and fifty calories,” Angeline said without
hesitating. “An entire can of Coke has a hundred and
forty. The dressing has at least five times as much
sodium. I’m not saying it’s a good idea, but in lots of
ways, it’s no worse.”
“Go get me a Coke,” Dad told me
.
.
.
but Mom
shook her head.
“Plus, she
did
eat the whole salad,” Angeline
said. “So at least she got vitamins A, C, and K, plus
potassium, folate, and some fiber. It’s not ideal, but
I’ve never seen her eat anything with a leaf on it
before. It’s a start.”
I had to give Angeline credit. That cupcake
knows a ton about food, and I couldn’t help smiling at
her
—
a real, authentic, I’m-So-Impressed-
With-You Smile. Angeline wanted to stay mad, but
she could see the sincerity in my eyes.
I mean, how the heck did she know so much
about food like that? And right off the top of her
ha
ir
head?
Dad took another bite of his salad and suddenly
stopped chewing. “Angelo got fired?”
“Who’s Angelo?” I asked him.
“My dad,” Angeline said quietly.
“His name is Angelo?” I asked.
She nodded.
THIS name my dad gets right.
The next day, Angeline still sat at a different
table at lunch.
/>
I figured that the United States and England
must have had a time, sometime after the
Revolutionary War, when they sat down at a lunch
table together.
And George Washington would have, like, made
eye contact with The King of England.
And The King would be all like, “Hey. I saw they
put you on the dollar bill or whatever.”
And George Washington would have been all like,
“Oh yeah. They didn’t even tell me they were doing
that. I would have done something about my weird
hair.”
And The King of England would have laughed and
said, “It was kind of weird.”
But George Washington would have been okay
with that and known it wasn’t really an insult, and they
would have just eaten their lunches and not had
another war or anything.
Angeline and I have to be AT LEAST as smart
as those guys.
So I got up and sat at her table.
I made eye contact, just like George Washington
probably did.
“Get lost,” Angeline said, just like how The King
of England didn’t.
I took a deep breath. “Angeline, I lied to you to
try to make you feel better. I lied to you because I
hated how sad you were. I lied to you because you’re
my friend.”
“That does make me feel better,” Angeline said.
“But how do I know that you’re not just lying NOW to
make me feel better? YOU DO THAT, you know. You
just said so.”
Isabella sat down next to me with a salad.
“Give me your Coke,” she said.
“I don’t have one. I have a Sprite today.” I
handed it over, and she dumped it all over her salad.
Mike Pinsetti, who was walking past, stopped to watch
Isabella drown her lunch in soda pop.
“Look, Angeline,” I said, “I’ve been trying to
apologize for weeks now. Would I have recycled all that
stuff if I wasn’t sincere?”
“You should be recycling anyway.”
“Would I have tried to set up that dumb guide
dog thing?”
“
You’re dumb, Jamie. Nobody notices when
you do one more additional dumb thing.”
