Isabella for Real

by Margie Palatini

  He cracks his gum. Grins.

  We hear a bing and the monitor lights up.

  “We’re up!” says Jeffrey, leaning in to the computer screen. “Now, let’s see . . . C-O-N-T-E-S-S . . . A. Here we go! Here it is. Top site. This has to be the one the girls were talking about.”

  I look over his shoulder and stare at the image on the screen. “Oh my gosh! There’s the set from Search for Truth, Lies and Love! Wow. Look at Aunt KiKi,” I say, pointing to the photo of her dressed in a pink gown, dripping in fake diamonds, with triple long black lashes stuck on her half-lowered eyelids.

  “Start practicing your best imitation, Isabella. It won’t take long for me to figure out the identity of your Con­tessa worshiper. Then you can make that call and we can get out of here before somebody catches us.”

  The screen fills with numbers, letters, and symbols running side to side. Vanna White wouldn’t even know these combinations of consonants and vowels.

  Jeffrey laughs to himself. “How short is this WPA password? Too easy! Lazy, lazy webmaster person.”

  “Hey, Isabella?” Frankie calls. “Come here. Got a question for you.”

  I squinty-stare like Aunt Minnie. “I thought I asked you not to talk.”

  He blows a pink bubble then raises his hand.

  I sigh. “What?”

  He sucks in the deflated bubble, snaps, and chews. Loudly. “Can you swipe this computer over here so I can play Zombie Balloon Heads?”

  I double-squinty-stare.

  “Monkey Quest? . . . Papa’s Pancakeria?”

  “Quiet! Jeffrey is concentrating. And get your feet off the furniture!” I say, hitting his sneakers.

  Frankie leans back against the wall, balancing the chair on two legs. “I expected more gratitude, Isabella. After all, who was the one who saved your ‘tortellini’ and got you in here?”

  I hate to admit it, but we couldn’t have done it without him. “Okay. I’m”—I swallow and shiver as the word leaves my mouth—“grateful.”

  The chair clunks down on all fours, and Frankie smiles. “Nice.”

  “But keep quiet.”

  “Not nice.”

  “Getting close, Isabella!” Jeffrey calls from the other side of the room. “This was easier than I thought.”

  “Whoa. Whoa! Stop,” I say, looking at you-know-who. “What do you think you are doing?” I step forward, hands on my hips. “What’s in your hand? Do not tell me you are writing my name on your arm with that black marker. . . Are you? . . . Well?”

  “You said don’t tell.”

  “Push down those sleeves! You better hope that ink is washable.”

  Frankie laughs. “Or what?”

  “Almost there!” cries Jeffrey from behind the monitor. “Just cracked his WPA keys!”

  “No way is that English,” Frankie says as I run up to Jeffrey.

  I crouch next to Jeffrey’s chair and stare at the screen. “We’re lucky,” he says. “The person we’re looking for is somewhere in the Northeast.”

  “Really?” I say, wondering how he figured that out when the screen looks like a Scrabble game gone awry.

  “Wait a minute—wait a minute—this person is right here in New Jersey . . . Whoa!”

  “What, whoa? Whoa, what?” I say, watching Jeffrey type like a wild man.

  “The location is coming up. I don’t believe it . . . It says Belleville.”

  “Belleville? As in Belleville, New Jersey? Our Belleville, New Jersey?”

  “On our street!”

  “Broadhead Place?”

  “That’s what this says: four thirty-five.” Jeffrey turns away from the screen and looks at me. “Four thirty-five? Who lives at four thirty-five?”

  I begin picturing every house on our block. “Mr. Colandra is across the street at four twenty-seven. The Fazekas are at four thirty-one . . . Four thirty-five is . . . Mrs. Kostopoulos?”

  “No way!” says Jeffrey. “Can’t be. Mrs. Kostopoulos is your Aunt KiKi’s devoted fan?”

  I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn and Frankie grins.

  “We are busy here! What do you want?”

  “I want to help, that’s what.”

  “You? Help?”

  “I’m not kidding, Isabella. I have some pertinent four-one-one to relay to you.”

  I roll my eyes. “Uh-huh. And what sort of ‘pertinent’ information would that be?”

  “That devoted fan is not Mrs. Kostopoulos . . . It’s Bobby.”

  2:47 p.m.

  Scene 32/TAKE 1

  Broadhead Place

  We cut through the Murphys’ yard on Molnar Avenue, which backs up to Broadhead Place. Frankie makes a detour down their kids’ slide before the three of us squeeze between two garages and head out front to my street.

  “Stop!” Jeffrey says, puffing, as the three of us run down the driveway to the sidewalk. “This is no good. We can’t get to the house, Isabella. Look. The TV trucks are still on the street. Two of them are right in front of Mrs. Kostopoulos’s house.”

  “But we have to get past them so we can talk to Bobby.”

  Frankie swings around the street pole. “If either of you two is interested, I might have an idea that could work.”

  I look over at Jeffrey, then back at Frankie. “And that would be exactly what?”

  “We get you a disguise.”

  I sigh and look up at the graying sky. “A disguise?”

  “That’s what I said. Then you can walk right past those TV people and nobody will recognize you.”

  “Uh-huh. And just where would I get a costume right now?”

  Frankie stops twirling around the pole and walks over, hands in pockets. “I’m not talking a costume, Isabella. I said disguise. And that you can get from me.”

  “You?”

  “That’s right, me. And Jeffrey. Between the two of us, I think we can change you into a guy.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “A boy? Excuse me, but nobody is going to believe I’m a boy.”

  “Wait a minute, Isabella,” says Jeffrey. “I think Frankie’s got something.”

  “Jeffrey Levandowski, are you saying I look like a boy too? Listen, just because I don’t exactly have the same shape as Emory doesn’t mean I can pass for a—”

  “Take it easy. Nobody is saying you look like either of us, but I think Frankie is onto something.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Look, you want to get to Mrs. Kostopoulos’s house, don’t you? Well, nobody is going to pay attention to three eleven-year-old boys when everyone is looking for a girl. So take off that zebra sweater and put on my shirt.”

  “This too.” Frankie tosses me his hat. “Hide your hair under this.”

  I put on Jeffrey’s checked shirt, then push my hair under the cap. Frankie bends down, picks up the striped sweater, and chucks it behind the bushes in front of the house on the corner.

  “Hey! What are you doing? That’s my aunt’s favorite sweater!”

  “Don’t worry. It’s safe,” says Frankie. “Nobody is swiping a sweater that makes you look like a zebra. We’ll get it later.” He stands facing me. “So let’s see what what we’ve got here. What do you think, Jeff?”

  “Mmmmm. I don’t know. She needs something else.”

  Frankie drapes his arm around Jeffrey’s shoulder and nods. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

  Jeffrey places his wire-rims on the bridge of my nose and Frankie grins.

  “Sweet.”

  “If it’s okay with the Hardy Boys, can I go now?” I say, heading up the sidewalk.

  Jeffrey grabs my arm and pulls down the bill of the cap. “Remember not to walk like a girl, Isabella.”

  “Yeah. Give it some swag. Cool-ability. Just follow my lead. Can you do that?”

  I stare at Frankie over Jeffrey’s glasses. “I think I can figure it out.”

  Frankie laughs. “Just asking.”

  2:48:25 p.m.

  Scene 33/TAKE 1

  435 Broadhead Pla
ce, Mrs. Kostopoulos’s House

  I keep my head down as we walk past the hot dog truck and the aroma of those “all-the-ways.”

  I’m afraid Manny will recognize me, as he’s been seeing my face along with Uncle Babe’s almost every Tuesday since I was four (which is when Mom stopped being afraid I would choke on a hot dog).

  Looks like Frankie was right. The disguise works. The three of us make our way through the crowd without anybody even turning their head. We get to the Kostopoulos house and Frankie leads the way down the driveway and then around to the back of the house.

  “I’ll do the talking,” says Frankie, pushing up the sleeves on his hoodie as we all step up to the back door.

  “You will be quiet,” I say, giving him back his hat and then handing Jeffrey his glasses. I nudge Frankie aside and knock on the door.

  “Isabella, Bobby and I are tight. He umps my ball games. He’s a good guy. Let me talk to him.”

  I poke a finger in his chest. “No. And spit out that gum.”

  “It’s still got flavor!”

  “Spit.”

  Frankie rolls his eyes and reaches for the wrapper in his jeans back pocket. He takes the gum from his mouth, rolls it up in the paper, and stuffs it back in his pocket.

  “She’s tough. Very tough,” he says, turning to Jeffrey. “Lucky for her, I like tough.”

  “Shush!” I say just as Mrs. Kostopoulos opens the door.

  “Oh my goodness! Isabella, is that you?” She primps her cemented hair and unties the flowered apron from her waist. “Our neighborhood star! Goodness gracious!”

  “Hi, Mrs. Kostopoulos. How are you today?”

  “Wonderful. Wonderful!” She opens the door wider. She smiles and with both hands smoothes wrinkles from her cotton housedress. “Come inside! Everybody. Jeffrey. Frankie. Sit. Let me get you kids a soda or somethin’.”

  Frankie pushes me aside. “Thanks, Mrs. K. I could go for a—”

  I grab him by the bottom of his sweatshirt and pull him backwards. “Thank you, but we’re fine, Mrs. Kostopoulos. We don’t need anything.”

  “How about a piece of candy? Look at all that I got here ready for the trick-or-treaters.” She takes a basket from the kitchen table and Frankie grabs a Tootsie Pop. “Sure, have some candy while we visit.”

  “Actually, we’re here to see Bobby,” I say as Frankie unwraps the lollipop and sticks it in his mouth. “The three of us were wondering if we could talk to Bobby.”

  “Robert? Oh, dear.” Mrs. Kostopoulos says chewing on her long, red-polished thumbnail. “You want to talk to my Robert?”

  I nod. “Can we? Could we?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, chewing and thinking. “He never sees anyone while he’s working.”

  “We really need to talk to him, Mrs. Kostopoulos. It’s very important.”

  “Life and death!” says Frankie, the round pop bulging from one of his cheeks.

  Jeffrey and I turn and do a double squinty stare.

  Frankie takes the pop out of his mouth and gives it a lick. “Make that . . . just life.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Kostopoulos says with a heavy sigh, “he’s very busy. He’s in his office right now.”

  “His office?” I say, craning my neck for a peek into the living room.

  “No, no. He doesn’t work in there, sweetie. Robert’s office is in the garage out back.” She grabs a sweater from a hook on the wall. “I can’t promise he will see you, since you don’t have no appointment or nothin’, but come. Follow.”

  Mrs. Kostopoulos throws the bulky woolen gray sweater over her shoulders, her slippers flapping and snapping as she leads us across the weedy backyard. We reach the side of the stucco garage and Mrs. Kostopoulos knocks on the small window covered on the other side by a pulled-down shade.

  “Robert, dear?” she says, mouth against the glass. “Some people want to see you.”

  “I don’t know any people I want to see, Ma,” comes a deep voice from inside the garage. “I’m busy. Go away.”

  Mrs. Kostopoulos puts up one finger, telling us to be patient. “He’s the sensitive, creative type,” she whispers.

  “But, Robert, dear, it’s Isabella.”

  “Don’t know any Isabella. Don’t want to know any Isabella. Not interested, Ma.”

  “Isabella from across the street.”

  “Bye, Ma.”

  Mrs. Kostopoulos shrugs. “See? What did I say. He cannot be disturbed.”

  Frankie pokes me in the back and I turn around to see him with his arms folded and the lollipop sticking straight up from the side of his mouth like a five-inch toothpick.

  “What now?” I whisper.

  Frankie takes the pop from his mouth. “Let me handle Bobby. Like I said before. I got hidden talents.”

  2:50 p.m.

  Scene 34/TAKE 1

  Bobby’s Office

  (AKA: The Kostopoulos Garage)

  Frankie holds the lollipop with one hand, knocks with the other. “Hey, Bob! Open up. It’s me, Domenico!”

  “What? Are you kidding?” The door swings open. “Hey! My boy, Frankie!”

  All six feet three inches, three hundred pounds of Big Bobby Kostopoulos swallows Frankie in a bear hug.

  “Domenico!” He takes off Frankie’s cap and ruffles his dark, wavy hair. “Come on in!”

  Frankie motions for Jeffrey and me to follow, and the three of us step inside.

  “It’s okay, Ma. I love this guy!” He gives Frankie another bear hug and turns to me with a wide, gap-toothed smile. “What a shortstop! Some glove on this kid. He can hit ’em, too. Hall of Fame. Hall of Fame. Domenico is great. I told his dad, this kid is totally underrated.”

  Frankie looks at me and grins. I’m ignoring the dopey dimple in his chin because I can’t take my eyes off Bobby’s “office.” How he got all the stuff, I don’t want to ask, but except for the faint aroma of Pennzoil, everything is an exact replica of the Contessa’s living room from Search for Truth, Lies and Love. From the lavender carpet and curved pink silk couch to the colored pillows, and each and every accessory including the pretend family photographs that sit on round end tables, it’s all here in Bobby’s garage.

  Even the entire cinderblock back wall is unrecognizable, covered from side to side, top to bottom with a mural-­size photograph of Central Park. (Looks like Bobby painted fake windowpanes. Didn’t do a bad job, either. Aunt Minnie would be impressed.)

  Leaning against the middle of the double garage door is a fake fireplace with a portrait of the Contessa above the mantel. Aunt KiKi never looked better. To one side is a large desk with a big computer monitor. I’m guessing that’s where Bobby does his webmastering.

  “Sit down. Relax,” Bobby says, the pink cushion buckling into a V as he plops down on one end of the curved sofa. He pulls up the baggy knees of his sweatpants, then places his hands in back of his head of buzzed hair.

  Jeffrey and I follow Bobby’s lead and take a seat on the couch.

  Frankie wiggles in between us, still sucking on his lollipop. He settles back and turns to me with a wide grin. I roll my eyes and ignore him by looking around the garage.

  “I like your . . . office, Mr. Kostopoulos.”

  “Bobby. Call me Bobby,” he says with nod. “Glad you like the place. Some people might think it’s a little on the feminine side for a guy like me, but I was one of Search’s biggest fans. When the soap was canceled, it almost killed me. I was so depressed I couldn’t get out of bed for a week. No kidding. But my mood brightened when I got lucky with some of my contacts in the city. I was able to pick up a lot of props from the original set for a song.”

  Bobby looks around the room and smiles. “I like the environment. Gives me inspiration.”

  Jeffrey nods. “Impressive. Especially your technical equipment,” he says, gesturing toward the computer.

  “Eh. That’s only for the job where I make the big bucks. I consult for a few of the top Fortune Five Hundred on the Big Board, but the Contes
sa’s website is what you might call . . . my passion.” He sighs. “A lot of fans, including me, miss our story. Wasn’t right that show ended before its time.” He swallows hard and wipes away a tear.

  Jeffrey arches an eyebrow as Bobby takes a handkerchief from his sweatpants pocket and blows his nose.

  “So, kid,” he says with a sniffle as he stuffs the handkerchief back into his pocket. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  Frankie places his arm across the back cushion and I feel his hand slowly creep down to my shoulder. “Well, see, my friend Isabella here needs your help, Bob. Isabella is in a bit of what you might call . . . a jam.”

  Bobby leans his big frame against the back silk cushion and rubs the stubble on his chin. “A jam, huh?” he says as I brush Frankie’s fingers off my arm.

  Jeffrey slips his wire-rims into his checked shirt pocket and clears his throat. “You see, somehow, which we don’t have time to fully explain and is way too complicated anyway, your website—which we think is a very well executed tribute site, by the way—is sort of responsible for causing a seriously messed-up situation. The site you created is so incredibly credible, Isabella’s friends believe the Contessa is a real person, and that person is her mother.”

  “And because my cousin Vincent’s videos went viral and I’m in them being me—as in ‘for real’—my life as I know it is in the sewer . . . Get what I’m saying?”

  Bobby stares.

  “At my new school.”

  Bobby is still staring.

  “With my new best friends.”

  “Who she lied to,” says Frankie.

  “Fibbed. I fibbed.”

  Jeffrey pushes his glasses up his nose. “Bob, all we’re asking is that you alter a bit of information, which would get Isabella off the hook—temporarily—for being a fibbing, faking phony.”

  “Only one teeny, tiny change,” I plead, clasping my hands.

  “And once we make sure Isabella’s friends have read it, you can hit delete, because she never really wanted to live a double life—”

  “True. I didn’t.”

  “And she wants to tell the truth about who she is—and she is going to tell the truth about who she is—”