I had just stepped out of the canoe and was about to head back to the farmhouse when I heard someone behind me cough and say, “Hey.”
I turned around. Violet emerged from between two bushes. We stared at each other, and from the look on her face I could tell she’d seen everything.
“So . . . are you volunteering for Pumpkin Palooza?” I asked.
She nodded. “We were running late today, but Dad volunteers every year.”
She glanced over in the direction where Lauren and the others had gone and said, “It’s sort of embarrassing, the way you hover around them all the time.”
“I don’t hover,” I answered. Do I hover? “I barely even talk to them,” I added.
“But it’s clear you want to. And I heard Lauren telling her friends you hang around her locker, spying on her. I’m just saying,” she went on, when I opened my mouth to argue, “you’re kind of obvious around them, and I think you’re the only one who doesn’t see it.”
That was something else I had forgotten about Violet: She told you God’s honest truth, even if you didn’t much want to hear it.
“Why do you even want to be friends with them?” she asked. “They’re awful.”
I shrugged and looked back at the pond. I didn’t know how to tell her that it was about a lot more than just racing. It was about being part of a team and knowing there was a seat saved for you in the cafeteria. It was about knowing you had friends who always had your back, who would call you up if you stayed home from school and ask, Are you okay?
It had been a long time since anybody had asked me if I was okay. And sometimes it felt like if I stopped coming to school altogether, no one would notice.
“Izzy,” Daisy Caulfield said, coming up behind Violet, “can I talk to you? I was wondering if I could get a quote from your dad for an article I’m writing.” She glanced between Violet and me and said, “Is this a bad time?”
“Not really,” Violet said.
“Why do you need a quote from my dad?” I asked.
“I write for the Grapevine—the school newspaper—and I’m working on a story.” Daisy handed me a notepad. Violet read over my shoulder:
The Star Bandit
This week Dandelion Hollow had more excitement than it’s seen in a long time, not since Stewart and Ethan Franklin, the sons of our own Mayor Franklin, decided to test an urban myth—and the limits of their own intelligence—by filling the fountain in Dandelion Square with soda and Pop Rocks. On Tuesday night, Ms. Zubov, the owner of the Kaleidoscope Cafe, Dandelion Hollow’s premier eating establishment, happened upon vandals in her backyard. According to Ms. Zubov, she first heard the disturbance around 9:05 p.m.: “I came running outside in my bathrobe armed with nothing but my wits and my own two fists to protect me, and that coward couldn’t stand up to an old woman. I’m certain I saw a dim shape fleeing my yard, but by the time I got to Thistle Street, he was gone.”
More perplexing than the vandal’s apparent cowardice is what he left behind. While it seems he went to great lengths to clean up Ms. Zubov’s overgrown garden, he also appears to have damaged campaign materials belonging to mayoral candidate Janine Malone.
Mrs. Malone, a beloved member of our community, was, in her own words, utterly shocked: “I would sincerely hope that good taste and good manners would prevail—no matter how much some people in this community like Mayor Franklin.”
Mayor Franklin bristled at the implication that her campaign or its supporters were somehow involved in the incident. “I’ve known Janine Malone since middle school,” Mayor Franklin is quoted as saying. “Believe me; she’s capable of losing this election all on her own. Of course,” she was quick to add, “I hope these cretins are caught soon.”
The cretins in question left behind a calling card of sorts: a trail of star stickers leading off into the night. Sources say this may be the sign of a compulsive criminal, and that the vandal—who some are calling the Star Bandit—may strike again. Of course, the fact that the Star Bandit apparently cleaned up Ms. Zubov’s garden has many shaking their heads in confusion. And, thanks to the Star Bandit’s efforts, Ms. Zubov wants everyone to know that the Kaleidoscope will now be serving pumpkin muffins, pumpkin pie, and pumpkin cheesecake for the remainder of the month.
So what say you, Grapeviners? Is the Star Bandit a daring do-gooder, or a vicious vandal?
“Vandal?” Violet said when we finished reading. “She thinks a vandal was in her garden last night?” She looked at me with wide eyes.
“I heard about it earlier,” I said carefully, with a quick glance at Daisy, “but I didn’t get the chance to tell you.”
“Isn’t it great?” Daisy said. “This is the juiciest story to hit Dandelion Hollow in a long time!”
“Who’s calling the vandal ‘The Star Bandit’?” Violet asked, looking again at the article.
“No one,” Daisy admitted. “I made the name up. But it has a nice ring, don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” I said, “but you got some of the details wrong. Ms. Zubov had a Taser. She didn’t come outside to fight anybody off with her fists.”
Excuse me, but if someone is going to write an article about me, they could at least get their facts right, and not call me a coward.
Violet elbowed me in the ribs, and Daisy narrowed her eyes. “How do you know that?” she asked.
“Oh,” I said quickly, “my dad told me at breakfast this morning.”
“Yeah,” Violet said. “So why are you lying about it?”
“I’m not lying. It just sounds better my way,” Daisy said. “Besides, it’s just the school newspaper. Hardly anyone is going to read it, anyway.”
16
CREATIVE JOURNALISM
Daisy was wrong. Everyone read her article in the Grapevine. It was so popular the Dandelion Gazette, the town newspaper, reprinted it (except they took out the part about the Franklin brothers).
“I never said I thought anyone connected to Mayor Franklin was responsible,” Mom grumbled at breakfast the day after the article came out.
“Then what did you say, dear?” Grandma Bertie asked.
Judging by the fact that Mom wouldn’t answer, what she actually said was probably close enough that I didn’t think Daisy was taking too many liberties with her words. Ms. Zubov became an instant town celebrity, and she didn’t bother to correct Daisy’s account. Dad (who refused to give Daisy a quote) pretended to be annoyed over the idea that the Star Bandit was going to be a repeat offender. But I think he was secretly thrilled to have a real bona fide troublemaker to catch, and was just waiting to see if the Star Bandit would strike again.
Everyone was.
Some girls in my science class were convinced it was a cute boy they’d seen eating at the Kaleidoscope a week ago. Grandma Bertie thought it was an ex-con who she’d heard had escaped from prison last month.
“Why does everyone assume the Star Bandit is a boy?” I complained one afternoon to Austin. He and I still weren’t talking, but he had come over with his dad to check on Bozo. Mr. Jackson and Dad were close friends, and Mr. Jackson was going to help Dad get Bozo ready on the day of the regatta. Austin and I were sort of hanging out while they chatted about pollination strategies. I hoped this could be the beginning of a truce between us.
“The Star Bandit has to be a boy,” Austin said. “It couldn’t be a girl, could it?”
“Do you want me to punch you again? A girl is just as capable of being the Star Bandit.”
“Geez, Izzy, I just meant a girl wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave so much evidence behind.”
“Stupid?” I put my hands on my hips. “Who are you calling stupid?”
“The Star Bandit, that’s who!” After that, Austin stomped back to his house.
So much for a truce.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Whippie’s third letter arrived. Mom wordlessly handed it to me while she sorted the mail and talked on the phone to one of the book club ladies. It was sort of hurtful how she never as
ked about the charm school. Hurtful but not surprising. I guess she figured since I’d gone a whole two weeks without getting in trouble at school, her work was done.
If she only knew.
Violet and I avoided each other; we were both afraid someone would figure out the two of us together were actually the Star Bandit. But the day after Mrs. Whippie’s third letter arrived, I tracked Violet down in front of her new English class and asked her to come to my house after school.
“It’s about Operation Earn Your Charm,” I whispered. “I have something for you,” I added.
Violet glanced around and nodded. “I’ll be there.”
As soon as Violet arrived, we went to my treehouse, where no one would disturb us.
“Nice,” Violet said, when she saw the star stickers I’d stuck on the walls. “You’d better hope neither of your parents comes up here, though.”
“They won’t—I’m the only one who uses it.”
After we settled on the floor, I pulled out a photo box where I stored a few small treasures: some leaves I hadn’t yet pasted into my journal, a rock I’d found at Dandelion Lake, a miniature trolley car Dad bought me on our last trip to San Francisco. I kept Mrs. Whippie’s letters there. I took out her newest and turned it upside down and shook it. Along with the letter, out fell a bracelet, treasure box charm, and two charms each of a palette of paint and a jukebox. The jukebox charms were brown-and-brass-colored and bits of them were painted purple, red, and aqua. The paint palette charms were gold with tiny colored rhinestones for different paint colors.
“These are for you.” I handed Violet the bracelet and treasure box charm. “I told Mrs. Whippie how you’d helped me and that you wanted a bracelet.”
Violet shrugged like she didn’t care all that much. But after she put the bracelet on, she smiled and said, “It’s really pretty. How come you’re not wearing yours?”
“I am wearing it,” I said, rolling up my sleeve. “I just don’t want anyone asking me questions about it.”
“Yeah, well, no one will notice it at my house,” Violet said. “My dad’s busy with other things.”
“What things?” I asked, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she picked up Mrs. Whippie’s letter and read it aloud:
Dear Izzy,
I’ve enclosed a bracelet and charms for Violet. I’d be honored to have her join my school. I have certainly heard of the Subtle Art of Shutting Up, but I can’t say I’ve practiced it all that much. I greatly prefer the underappreciated genius of Speaking My Mind. I figure if someone doesn’t like what I have to say, they shouldn’t put their ears in close proximity to my mouth.
What’s all this talk of pretty pinkies and sore thumbs? In my opinion, the thumb is much more valuable than the pinky. The pinky, though important, is the window dressing of digits, if you ask me. It’s thin, it gets a lot of attention if you hold a teacup incorrectly (pinkies in, you know!), but otherwise, my money is on the thumb. Why, most tasks in this world require the use of two good, strong thumbs.
And speaking of tasks, I have two for you this time! Your hometown sounds lovely, and I found out that Dandelion Middle School is having their Harvest Dance this Saturday night. I want you to go to the dance and enjoy yourself. After that, it’s time to make something beautiful. There are lots of things in this world that need beautifying. My ankles, for one thing, but that’s a lost cause! Find something that could use a little sprucing up, and work your magic on it.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Whippie
“Her letters are so peculiar,” Violet said when she finished reading. “And I don’t understand all the stuff about thumbs and pinkies.” She looked up. “Is that a metaphor for something?”
I shrugged instead of answering. The truth was, I was coming to love Mrs. Whippie’s letters. Somewhere out there in San Francisco, she was reading my words, and she didn’t seem to think I was weird or odd or a late bloomer (I heard Grandma Bertie tell Aunt Mildred that’s what I was right after Aunt Mildred moved in with us). Mrs. Whippie talked about star-spangled sunsets and sore thumbs like they were all perfectly normal. Like I was perfectly normal.
“Izzy? Are you around?” Daisy Caulfield’s voice floated up from below.
“Put this away,” Violet whispered, handing me back the letter. “We can talk about the tasks after Daisy leaves.”
“Izzy? Your Mom told me you were back here.”
Violet poked her head out the window. “We’re up here,” she said before I could stop her.
“No!” I whispered. “No one can come up here.”
Violet looked around at the star-stickered wall and stood up quickly. “Actually, Daisy, we’ll come down to you!”
But it was too late. Daisy was already climbing the ladder and pulling herself up through the hole in the ground. “Izzy, I need to talk to you. I still want that quote from . . .” She stopped when she saw the stickers, which were faintly glowing in the fading afternoon sun, and her eyes widened.
“You?” she said. “You’re the Star Bandit?”
“No! I just . . . I like star stickers.”
Daisy studied me for a second, then shook her head. “You’re lying, I can tell. I know we don’t know each other that well, but I never would’ve thought you’d try to mess up your own mother’s campaign.”
“I didn’t! Look—We cleaned out Ms. Zubov’s garden, and the stickers fell out of my backpack, but all that stuff with the campaign materials, that was just an accident.”
“We?” Daisy glanced at Violet.
“I mean me,” I answered quickly. “Me, myself, and I.”
Daisy still looked like she didn’t believe me. “So you’re the Star Bandit, but you didn’t mean to mess with your mom’s stuff? How exactly could that be an accident?”
“Show her Mrs. Whippie’s letters,” Violet said suddenly.
“What’s a Whippie?” Daisy asked.
“Not what, who,” Violet said. “I helped Izzy clean the garden, and it’s just like she said. It was an accident.” To me, Violet said, “You might as well show her.”
Silently, I took the letters from the photo box and handed them over to Daisy.
“ ‘A prize unlike any other,’ ” Daisy repeated as she read the first letter. “What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know, but it had better be a darn good one, for all the trouble we might get in,” Violet said.
Daisy glanced at Violet over the top of the letter. “Are you in the charm school too?”
Violet held up her wrist with the bracelet. “Yeah, I guess I just joined.”
“You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” I asked Daisy after she’d finished reading the last letter. “No one will believe that we cleared out the garden, but that I didn’t mean to vandalize anything.”
Daisy thought about it for a second. “I guess I won’t.”
“Thank you. Because if—”
“On one condition.” Daisy crossed her arms over her chest.
I stared back at her. “What condition?”
“I came here to try and get that quote from your dad—but now I want something even better. I want to come with you when you do your next two tasks. And I get to interview you afterward, as the Star Bandit.”
“That’s blackmail,” Violet said.
Daisy shrugged. “I call it creative journalism.”
“Well, it’s still wrong,” Violet said, “and I won’t—”
“Wait.” I put my hand up. “I’ll handle this, Violet.”
This was serious business. No one could find out I was the Star Bandit. Not until I could figure out a way to fix things with Mom, at least. I could just imagine what people would say if they knew it was me. Yep, that Izzy Malone, we all knew there was a screw loose somewhere, didn’t we?
Mom would be so embarrassed. I don’t think she could even look me in the eyes. Instead, I think she’d spend most of her time trying to convince everyone my screw-ups weren’t her fault.
“What�
�s in it for me if I agree?” I asked.
“What do you want?” Daisy asked.
“Um . . .” Okay, so I hadn’t gotten that far. I just wanted to say something tough and cool-sounding.
“We want consultation rights,” Violet said suddenly.
“What?” Daisy said.
“What are consultation rights?” I asked. I swear, sometimes I wished Violet would just speak plain English.
“It means we insist on reading and editing your article before you publish it,” Violet said. “That way we know you’ll tell the truth.”
Daisy and Violet stared at each other until Daisy sighed. “You’re no fun at all, you know that? Okay, fine. You two can look at the article before I turn it in.”
“I don’t understand why you want to go with me on the next task, though,” I said. “Couldn’t you just interview me and be done with it?”
“Sure, but let’s think big. You perform the task and beautify something, leaving a bunch of your star stickers as your calling card, and I’ll write an article about how you were misunderstood. Anonymously, of course—I won’t use your actual name. I’ll turn you into Dandelion Hollow’s version of Robin Hood.” Daisy’s eyes were glittering with the possibilities, and I had to admit, blackmail aside, I admired her style.
“What do you get out of all this?” I asked.
“Exposure as a journalist. I wanted to be the sixth-grade editor of the Grapevine, but they gave it to someone else because I was homeschooled last year. Some girl named Olivia Van something.”
“Olivia Vanderberg.” Violet nodded. “I know her. She’s also president of the Eco Club and on the baton twirling team. She’s Ms. Harmer’s daughter.”
“She is?” Daisy looked surprised. “But they don’t have the same last name.”
Violet shrugged. “The Hammer went back to her maiden name after she got divorced.”
I stared at Violet. For someone she absolutely hated, Violet sure seemed to know a lot about Ms. Harmer.
“Well?” Daisy said, turning back to me. She spit into her hand and stuck it out. “Do we have a deal?”
“Ew, Daisy, that’s disgusting,” Violet said.
The Charming Life of Izzy Malone Page 7
