Isabella for Real

by Margie Palatini

  “Something is fishy—and I’m not talking anchovies.”

  Minnie puts her napkin on her lap. “What’s the matter, Isabella?”

  I take two bites of sandwich. Another two. One more. Then I stuff my mouth with three forks of eggplant. “Nofphing,” I say, resembling a blowfish.

  Ella sucks the life out of another olive pit and then pouches it in her left cheek. “Well, something happened. You’re not keeping no secrets, are you?”

  “Secrets?” I say with a big swallow. “Why would you think that? Gee, all these questions. I’m feeling like I’m on Law and Order or something.”

  Ella licks her fingers. “We only watch Law. We fall asleep before Order.”

  “Ella thinks she’s watching your cousin Anthony. He’s a third cousin on your Poppi Natale’s side of the family.” Minnie sips her Pellegrino. “He’s the detective. Works not far from your fancy school up on that hill.”

  Ella pops another olive into her mouth. Where the first pit went is anybody’s guess, because it’s not on her plate. Her lips pucker as she starts sucking again.

  “I never knew I had a cousin who’s a detective. Did he ever, oh, you know, put a person in jail for . . . fibbing?”

  Minnie stares at me. “You mean lying?”

  Ella spits out two pits. “That’s fraud! I know my law. Or wait a minute—is that order? Penalty is one to three in the slammer. Unless you’re a big-time lying, faking imposter, then you’re headed up the lazy river for a ver-yyyyyyy long time. Like Carlo, your third cousin once removed, the one with the hairy knuckles. For years Constanza told everybody he was in college at Trenton State.”

  Minnie dabs the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Your great-grandmother, what a storyteller. The man didn’t ‘graduate’ for twelve years.”

  Ella laughs. “His varsity sweater was striped.”

  Minnie nods. “That man inherited bad genes from who knows where in the family.”

  I look down and check my hands.

  Do I see a hair on my left pinky?

  “Uh, I think I have to go now. I have to call my mother. Or she has to call me. Or, actually . . . I think I hear her. Uh-huh. Yup. That’s her calling me, all right. I better go. Thanks for lunch, Aunt Minnie.”

  I put my plate with the half-eaten sandwich on the end table and spring from the couch.

  Minnie stands too.

  She puts her hands on her hips and stiffens her back, which is not easy for her to do. She’s giving me a look like ice cream wouldn’t melt in her mouth. (Even Holsten’s.)

  “Is-a-bel-lah Fil-o-me-na.”

  Two names and eight syllables: That many syllables are never a good sign. Especially when the face of the person saying them is turning the same color as her hair. I slowly lower my rear end back down onto the couch.

  “You sit down too, Aunt Minnie. Relax.”

  “Never mind, me relaxing. What’s going on?”

  “Don’t get excited,” I say calmly, hoping Auntie Ella remembers where Minnie keeps her high blood pressure medicine.

  “I’m not EXCITED!” she says, even though her eyes are now bulging and what’s left of her sparse eyebrows have gone up so high, they have disappeared somewhere under her bangs. “See? I am now sitting and listening to what you are going to tell me even though my carotid artery is pulsing out of my neck.”

  That was not an exaggeration. I see a blue vein throbbing from where I’m sitting on the couch.

  “Okay, okay. But promise not to tell Mom or Nonni.”

  Ella looks at Minnie. “Uh-oh. Here comes a good one.”

  “Well, see, it all started as a simple misunderstanding. It could have happened to anybody. Really. A person eats a cucumber sandwich with no crust, drinks something named Earl, and before she knows it, she’s saying stuff she shouldn’t be saying and people are believing stuff they shouldn’t believe, and there you have it. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

  Minnie crumples her napkin in her fist. “No.”

  “No?”

  Minnie pushes her glasses down her nose and leans forward. “Ella, do you know what she’s talking about?”

  Auntie Ella licks marinara sauce off her thumb. “I know cucumbers don’t agree with me, either. They make enough gas to fill the tank on Rosalie’s Buick.”

  Minnie leans back in her chair and rubs her temples with both hands. “I’m getting a headache, and have agita from both of you. Spill whatever you need to spill already. And I’m not talking Pellegrino.”

  “Maybe I should call Jeffrey.”

  “Jeffrey?” Aunt Minnie scowls. “What does he have to do with this?”

  “Not that much, but he’s better at explaining things than I am.”

  “Wait a minute! Is he the fibber?” Ella says, making her shocked face again.

  “Not exactly. He’s more the helper to the fibber. Jeffrey is very organized and excellent at keeping track of complications. You’d be surprised how a few little fibs can get very confusing. It’s not easy living a double life. It really isn’t. Especially when you’re running for class president.”

  Now it was Aunt Minnie’s turn to make the shocked face.

  Auntie Ella reaches into her pocket. “I’m texting that kid to get over here right now.”

  “You text Jeffrey?” I ask.

  “After Vincent and Cheng’s Chinese Take-Out, he’s number three on my contacts list.”

  12:45 p.m.

  Scene 23/TAKE 1

  Jeffrey squirms in the flowered wing chair with the singed cushion, nervously rolling and unrolling the cuffs on his checked shirt. “Uhhhh . . .” he says, looking up to each corner of the ceiling, chewing on his lower lip. “Should I start from the beginning?”

  Aunt Minnie sucks in her cheeks. “Beginning is good.”

  “Actually,” Jeffrey says meekly, turning toward me, “I wasn’t there at the beginning beginning. I came in at the second part of the beginning. Or was it the third part of the beginning?”

  “Third. I wasn’t even at the first. It was Mrs. Bedermeyer who started it.”

  Ella looks at Minnie. “Who is Mrs. Bederwhatsits?”

  “She’s the secretary to Madame Bonier, the headmistress at the academy,” I explain. “While taking a tour of the school back last summer, Aunt KiKi somehow found her way to the grand staircase and began singing an aria from La Traviata. That’s how Mrs. Bedermeyer recognized her as the Contessa from Search for Truth, Lies and Love.”

  Minnie leans back in her chair and looks to the ceiling. “Again with those steps.”

  “Aunt KiKi asked Mrs. Bedermeyer to keep her identity a secret, but Mrs. Bedermeyer didn’t. She told someone ‘the Contessa’ had enrolled a new student. Then that person told another person, who told somebody else, and—”

  “Telephone!” cries Auntie Ella.

  Aunt Minnie raises an eyebrow at Ella.

  “What?” Ella says with a shrug, popping another olive into her mouth. “You never played that game before?”

  “She’s right, Aunt Minnie. It was just like telephone. That’s why the facts got all mixed up!”

  “Exactly,” interrupts Jeffrey. “By the time the rumor got to Isabella’s friends, the story turned into Isabella being the daughter of an Italian countess. Then the girls Googled ‘The Contessa’ and found some crazy fan site that made it seem like KiKi’s plot line from the soap opera wasn’t fiction, but the truth.”

  “I tried to convince them I wasn’t who they thought I was, but nobody would believe me. After a while . . . I just went along with it.”

  “You ‘embraced’ it!” said Ella, spitting a pit onto her plate.

  Minnie gives Ella another hard stare, then rolls her eyes to the ceiling and sighs. “Anything else, Isabella?”

  “Well . . .” I turn to Jeffrey.

  “The biggest mess is from those videos going viral. Now Isabella and her real life are all over TV and her friends from Fortier probably think she’s a fibbing, faking, phony.�
��

  “Outed,” Minnie says.

  “Fraud!” Ella says with a decisive nod. “Just like your second cousin Carlo!”

  “I know I’m an old lady, and nobody ever wants to listen to me—”

  “Are you looking at me?” interrupts Ella.

  “Yes, I’m looking at you. And now I’m looking at Isabella. Ciò che una contorta storia!”

  Jeffrey looks at me. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t ‘whoopee.’”

  Minnie frowns. “Isabella, why did you pretend to be somebody else?”

  I lean back on the couch and sigh. “I don’t know . . . the gargoyles made me do it?”

  Minnie shakes her head and sighs. “A comedian like her grandfather, this one.”

  Ella pouches the olive pit in one cheek. “Minnie doesn’t think that’s funny, Isabella. I know because I’ve seen the face for the last ninety-one years.”

  “I guess I was afraid I wouldn’t fit in at my new school, Aunt Minnie,” I answer softly as I hang my head.

  Jeffrey—a smart boy like you, and you let your best friend carry on with that ridiculous charade?”

  Ella coughs and spits another pit. “I like playing charades too!” She taps two fingers on her forearm. “First word—second syllable.”

  Minnie rolls her eyes and I turn to the wing chair. “Go ahead, Jeffrey. Tell Aunt Minnie.”

  “Uh . . . well, I did. I told Isabella to come clean about everything. And she was going to tell the truth. She was . . . but . . .”

  Aunt Minnie impatiently drums her fingers on the arm of the chair. “But?”

  Jeffrey gulps. “I sort of made things more complicated.”

  “WAIT!” Ella shouts, holding up her hand. “Is this intermission? Sounds like we’re getting to another good part, and before we get there, I want to microwave some popcorn.” She claps her hands. “Hey! Who’s up for Orson Rodentbacker?”

  Seven Weeks Ago

  That Particular Saturday Afternoon . . .

  The Mall

  Jeffrey and I went to the mall with his mom. It’s the very fancy mall that doesn’t even have a food court, but that’s okay because it has big soft leather chairs where people can sit and watch other people, which is what Jeffrey and I like to do because we don’t have money to buy anything anyway.

  Jeffrey and I were sitting in the comfortable chairs in the center of the mall while his mother shopped for shoes in Bloomingdales.

  (My mom does not buy shoes there. I don’t know much about dating, but I keep telling her that if she wore better-looking shoes and something besides baggy nurses’ scrubs, maybe she wouldn’t be spending every Saturday night with Grandma and Nonni playing Bingo in the church cafeteria. But I’m only eleven, so what do I know?)

  Jeffrey tore off a piece of the pretzel we were sharing and handed me the rest. “Want to play handkerchief, Kleenex, or sleeve?”

  That’s a game we made up sitting on the curb in front of our houses the summer we were six. We looked at people walking down the sidewalk and called out if they used a handkerchief, Kleenex, or their sleeve. In our neighborhood, sleeve was mostly the winner.

  “Sure,” I said, chewing a piece of soft pretzel. “Your mom’s probably trying on tons of shoes. We have lots of time.”

  “Me first,” said Jeffrey. “Coming toward us: The lady pushing a stroller. Kleenex.”

  “Man in suit. Handkerchief.”

  “Sneaker guy. Sleeve. You’re going to tell your new friends the truth, right?”

  “Definitely sleeve. Good one. Of course I’m going to tell them the truth . . . eventually.”

  “Bald guy to your right—Kleenex. Not eventually, Isabella. Soon!”

  “Lady with glasses and weird hat. Kleenex. Yes, after the election.”

  “Not after the election. Lady in shades: handkerchief. With monogram.”

  “Wow. Excellent. Gray-haired lady to your left: handkerchief. Telling them is harder than you think, Jeffrey. They really like me—or like that Isabella, anyway. I’m kind of popular at this new school.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re not even you! On the left. Mother with three kids: tissue.”

  “I’m the me they think I am. And like KiKi says, ‘reality is only perception.’”

  “Aunt KiKi?” Jeffrey rolled his eyes. “You’re quoting Aunt KiKi? Let me refresh your memory, Isabella. Your aunt was the woman who broke into song on that staircase at Fortier Academy and started this whole snowball rolling.”

  “I know, I know. But I can’t tell them about me just yet. The girls are counting on me to win the election and beat Jenna Colson. I told you about her, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. Guy in cowboy boots: sleeve? Jenna isn’t a good excuse, Isabella. You have to tell your friends the truth. Promise me you will.”

  “All right already. Nag nag. I promise. I’ll tell them. Next week.”

  “This week.”

  “Okay, this week. Wednesday. Or Thursday. Maybe Friday.”

  “Isabella!”

  “Tuesday! I’ll tell them Tuesday.”

  Jeffrey was just about to make me do our secret handshake (minus the spitting, of course, since we were at the mall), when we heard my name being called out from somewhere.

  “Hey! ISABELLA!”

  I turned behind me to see Emory and Oakleigh waving, and walking toward us. Jeffrey leaned across the fat arm of the maroon leather chair. “Are those girls the girls I think they are? Wow.”

  “What do you mean, wow?”

  “Just, you know . . . wow, that’s all.”

  “Hi, Isabella!” said Emory.

  “Hey! Emory! Hi, Oakleigh,” I said, getting off the chair.

  “We almost didn’t recognize you, Isabella, in your civilian clothes,” said Emory with a hug.

  “Oh, right. These old things,” I said brushing pretzel crumbs off my khaki shorts and Sisters of Mercy green sweater. “This sweater is from ages ago.”

  “Isabella, I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “In the mall?”

  “In New Jersey.”

  Emory leaned close to my ear and whispered, “We thought you spent every weekend you-know-where with you-know-who.”

  “Gosh, Isabella, if we had known you were here for the weekend, we could have all come to the mall together.”

  “Yeah. Right. I should have thought of that. But, um, coming here was kind of . . .”

  “Unplanned,” interjected Jeffrey. “Spontaneous. No planning involved.”

  “Yes. That’s right. No planning involved.”

  Oakleigh looked at him and smiled. “Thank you for clarifying,” she said, curling a strand of her dark hair around her finger. “So, um, Isabella . . . who’s your friend?”

  “My friend?” Jeffrey jabbed my side with his elbow. “Ow—oh—him? You mean this person here? This is Jeffrey.”

  “Hi. I’m Oakleigh.”

  “I’m Jeffrey.”

  “I just told her that,” I said under my breath.

  Jeffrey looked at me. “I heard you.” Then he looked at Oakleigh. And smiled. (Ever since he got his braces removed, he used any excuse to show off his straight teeth.) “I like your glasses, Oakleigh.”

  “I like yours too, Jeffrey.”

  Jeffrey turned to me. “See? Oakleigh and I have something in common.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “So, Isabella, what are you doing in the mall with Jeff-​rey?” Oakleigh asked.

  “Doing? Oh . . . uh . . . What are we doing, Jeffrey?”

  “You mean what are we doing here?” he answered, as he tried to make himself taller than Oakleigh. (Which, wasn’t working.)

  “Yes. What are we doing here and why are we together?”

  He looked at me and stammered, “Well, uh, you see my . . . my . . . aunt . . . Rosie. . .”

  I gave a whiplash turn. “Your Aunt Rosie?”

  “The Contessa’s assistant?” said
Emory.

  “Uhhhhhh. Yes. Her. See . . . Rosie, who is my aunt, came to visit my mom, who is her sister, younger sister—a lot younger sister, and Isabella came with Rosie to visit me and we came along with my mom to the mall to just . . . you know . . . hang out while she’s buying shoes.”

  “That’s right. We’re just hanging out,” I said, nodding. “Because, like Jeffrey said, we’re friends.”

  “Not boyfriend, girlfriend friends,” said Jeffrey, still smiling at Oakleigh. “Just friends.”

  “Brainstorm,” squealed Emory. “Isabella, if Jeffrey’s aunt drives in from New York next weekend to visit her sister and your you-know-who is flying you-know-where, you could come home with me Friday and Oakleigh, Anisha, and both of us can work on our campaign.”

  “Great idea, Em,” agreed Oakleigh. “We really should spend a whole weekend mapping out strategy. Don’t forget, we’re going to war against Jenna’s candy with your eggplant parmigiana, Isabella. Maybe you whip up a batch over at Emory’s to freeze for the rally.”

  Jeffrey turned to me. “You know how to make eggplant parm?”

  “Yes, Jeffrey,” I said through a gritted smile. “Of course I know how to make eggplant parm. You know that.”

  “Oh. Right. Yeah. Sure. I know that.”

  Emory reached into her bag and took out a tube of light pink lip-gloss. “Let’s plan for Friday night.”

  “Maybe Rosie can drop Jeffrey off at Emory’s on Saturday and we could all go to a movie or something together,” said Oakleigh.

  “Yeah! That sounds gr—”

  “Mmmmmmm?” (My turn for the stealth elbow jab.) “I think Jeffrey is busy, aren’t you, Jeff?”

  “I am?” he said, rubbing his side as I shot him a hard stare. “I mean, I am.”

  “Oh well, another time, I guess,” said a disappointed Oakleigh.

  Emory dropped the gloss back into the bottom of her bag. “Oops, look at the time. We better head out, Oak. My dad is picking us up at four by the Neiman entrance. Remember Isabella: Sleepover and election strategy at my house.”

  “And eggplant!” said Oakleigh. “Hope to see you again, Jeffrey.”