Isabelle and Little Orphan Frannie: The Isabelle Series, Book Three

by Constance C. Greene

  EARLY BIRD BOOKS

  FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY

  BE THE FIRST TO KNOW ABOUT

  FREE AND DISCOUNTED EBOOKS

  NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!

  Isabelle and Little Orphan Frannie

  The Isabelle Series, Book Three

  Constance C. Greene

  To all the Frannies out there

  this book is for you.

  ONE

  “Can I come in?”

  The voice came from outside. Isabelle scooped a fingerful of peanut butter from the jar and held it aloft, listening. A distant baby squalled. A car with a bum muffler rattled past. Some show-off teenagers shouted insults and turned up the volume on their blaster, scattering bits of loud music like feathers on the wind.

  “Who are you?” Isabelle asked.

  “I’m Frannie,” the voice answered.

  “I don’t know any Frannie,” Isabelle said, and scuttled, crablike, across the floor, peering out to see what Frannie looked like.

  A skinny girl with spiky pale hair and wearing a skirt that brushed the tops of her basketball sneakers stood on the path. She wore a huge T-shirt that said “BABY INSIDE,” with an arrow pointing to her flat stomach. It was one of those T-shirts pregnant people wore, and Isabelle would’ve loved one. She imagined her mother’s face if she appeared suddenly, wearing one of those shirts. Preferably when one of her mother’s friends was there for a visit. Lovely, lovely. Every time Isabelle’s mother saw someone wearing one of those shirts, she tch-tched and said, “In my day people didn’t advertise their condition.”

  “Your day is long gone, Mom,” Isabelle liked to reply.

  “That’s what you think,” Isabelle’s mother was apt to reply back.

  “Can I come in?” Frannie asked a second time.

  “Why not?” Isabelle said, and swung open the door. Frannie scooted inside and stood, tapping her foot, checking out everything in sight.

  “I thought perhaps you might have a little something for me to eat,” she said, cool as a cucumber.

  Isabelle held out her finger coated with peanut butter in a gesture of friendship, and slowly, as delicate as a cat, Frannie licked the peanut butter from it.

  “That tickles,” Isabelle said.

  “How about a cracker?” Frannie said.

  “Frannie wants a cracker,” Isabelle parroted, and handed over a box of saltines.

  Frannie frowned. “Not that kind,” she said.

  “Take it or leave it, kid. My mother says if you’re really hungry, you’ll eat anything.” Reluctantly Frannie helped herself to a saltine.

  Fresh from swim practice and smelling strongly of chlorine from the Y pool, Philip crashed into the kitchen.

  “Foo!” Isabelle held her nose. “You stink.”

  “Stand back, turd. I need nourishment before I do my paper route.” Philip grabbed the box of saltines from Frannie and stuffed a handful into his mouth, sending up a spray of crumbs.

  “Who’s the weird-looking chick?” he said.

  “Her name’s Frannie,” Isabelle replied.

  “I’m not weird-looking,” said Frannie. “You got any bananas?”

  “She looks a little bit skeevy to me,” said Philip. “Where’d she come from?”

  “The upper reaches of the atmosphere,” said Isabelle, smiling mysteriously.

  “Just over there,” and Frannie waved an arm.

  “I didn’t know the circus was in town.” Philip laughed hugely, as if he’d said something funny. “I know.” He pointed to Frannie. “You’re a clown. Or maybe a lion tamer. That’s it, a lion tamer. Am I right?”

  Undisturbed, Frannie smiled a snaggle-toothed smile.

  “I’m a norphan,” she said.

  “A what?”

  “A norphan,” she repeated.

  “What’s a norphan?” Isabelle asked.

  “What!” Philip’s eyes bugged out in astonishment. “You never heard of a norphan? Any wonko knows what a norphan is.” He proceeded to make himself a three-decker Dagwood special: cheese, salami, and tomato. Frannie watched with interest.

  “What’s that?” she said.

  “This? This here is fuel for the mighty engine,” and Philip thumped his chest so hard he almost landed on the floor. He was so full of himself Isabelle knew he must’ve won today. Whenever he came in first in the butterfly, his speciality, he practically floated over the treetops, like Mary Poppins coming in for a landing.

  “Can I have one?” Frannie asked, eyeing the sandwich.

  “Help yourself.” Philip shoved the bread and fixings toward her. “I’m late.” He checked his new digital watch, bought with money saved from his paper route. You’d think he was the first person on planet Earth to own a digital watch, Isabelle thought sourly.

  “Earth to Philip, vamoose,” she said, but he was already gone.

  “Who’s that?” Frannie asked.

  “Philip. He’s my brother. He’s thirteen. It’s a very bad age, thirteen. My father says he’s feeling his oats. All I know is, he’s very, very obnoxious.”

  Frannie spread the mayo carefully, so it reached the crusts but didn’t ooze over the sides.

  “What’s a norphan?” Isabelle said.

  After some thought, Frannie laid a slice of cheese carefully over the mayo. “A norphan is a person that doesn’t have a father. That’s what a norphan is.”

  “Oh,” said Isabelle, light breaking. “You mean an orphan.”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Frannie took a careful bite. “That’s just what I said. A norphan.”

  TWO

  “So then”—Frannie ran her tongue around her mouth slowly, making sure no stray crumb had escaped her—“My old daddy died and my mom went looking for a new one. She traded in her Chevy for a Caddy and put a bumper sticker on it that says, ‘If You’re Rich, I’m Single,’ then she got her eyebrows plucked and her hair permed and dropped about ten pounds and took off. Now we’re living with Aunt Ruth. Well”—Frannie lifted both hands, palms up—“she’s not really our aunt, you see, but she wants us to call her that. What’s it to me if she is or isn’t? I could care less.”

  “How can you be an orphan if you’ve got a mother?” Isabelle asked, wondering if Frannie was telling the truth or had borrowed her material from a new soap opera.

  “That’s all right.” Frannie had all the answers, apparently. “If your daddy dies, you’re still a norphan. That’s what my mom said. Can I use the facilities, please?”

  “Facilities?”

  “The bathroom.” Frannie pursed her lips. “Aunt Ruth says ladies call it the facilities if they have any class.”

  Isabelle led Frannie to the bathroom. “Don’t forget to jiggle the handle after you flush. It’ll run if you don’t jiggle.”

  When Frannie returned, she said, “I jiggled, but it didn’t do any good.”

  “Isabelle, I told you to jiggle the handle, didn’t I?” Isabelle’s mother appeared and plunked down a huge bag of groceries. “Hello, I’m Isabelle’s mother,” she said, noticing Frannie. “Who are you?”

  “This is Frannie,” Isabelle said. “She’s an orphan.”

  “A what?” said Isabelle’s mother, half in, half out of the refrigerator.

  “A norphan,” Frannie said complacently.

  “Her old daddy died,” Isabelle explained,” and her mom’s out looking for a new one.”

  Isabelle’s mother almost dropped a dozen eggs. Too bad, Isabelle thought. She longed to take off her Adidas and walk barefoot through all those yolks and whites, letti
ng them squish between her toes.

  “Poor little thing.” Isabelle’s mother’s face crumpled, as if she might cry. “I’m so sorry. Poor child. Are you staying with relatives then, Frannie? Someone who looks out for you?”

  “Well, my Aunt Ruth works very hard. When she comes home, she just tosses hot dogs into the microwave. Those things get nuked so fast it makes your head spin. We eat nuked hot dogs almost every night,” Frannie said.

  “Well, then, you must come and have supper with us some night.”

  “I can’t stay tonight,” Frannie said. “It’s pancake night.”

  “Pancake night?” Isabelle said. “I thought people only ate pancakes for breakfast.”

  “Aunt Ruth works at the Pancake Hut, and they give her all their leftovers. So she brings ’em home and nukes ’em in the microwave. We have blueberry ones and strawberry ones and all kinds.”

  “Oh, my.” Isabelle’s mother shook her head, thinking, no doubt, that that was hardly a balanced diet for a child.

  This orphan business was all right, Isabelle thought, narrowly watching her mother. Right off the bat she’s asking a total stranger over for supper. How come? We don’t even know Frannie, for Pete’s sake.

  “Mom.” Isabelle turned to her mother. “If you and Daddy died, would I be a whole orphan?”

  “A little tact is in order, Isabelle,” her mother hissed.

  “Anyway, it’s just as well she can’t stay tonight.” Isabelle stood on her head, showing off. “Oh, how I love the library! I have to go to the library tonight to get out some books.” Her voice had a grand hollow ring when she talked standing on her head, she thought.

  “Since when?” asked Isabelle’s mother. “It’s news to me.”

  “I just love books!” Isabelle crooned, flipping over and lying on her back on the kitchen floor. “I just love to read. I read books all the time. Do you like to read?” she asked Frannie.

  “How many books did you read?” Frannie said.

  Isabelle closed her eyes and pretended to count. “I’d say about a thousand. Give or take.”

  “Yeah, give or take quite a few.” Her mother’s voice floated over her head like a hot air balloon. “Isabelle, garbage, please.”

  “Why can’t Philip do it?” Isabelle whined. “He’s a boy. Boys are supposed to carry out the garbage. He always gets out of doing stuff like that.”

  “If you please.” Her mother stood over her, brandishing a bulging plastic bag as if it were a sword.

  “Yech,” Isabelle said.

  “Right away, please.” The garbage bag seemed to swell, and Isabelle imagined it full of moving things: spiders, ants, and tiny, well-fed grubs.

  As Isabelle and Frannie went out, Frannie said, “Your mother is a very lovely person,” in a penetrating voice.

  “She’s not so much,” Isabelle mumbled.

  “I think she’s truly a super person,” Frannie continued in an even louder voice. “You are lucky to have such a super lovely person for a mother.”

  Isabelle saw her mother’s shadow lingering by the back door, taking it all in. Isabelle’s mother was known for her excellent hearing. She was always losing her glasses, but her ears were great. Just ask her.

  “Well,” said Isabelle in her hog-calling voice, “she’s not really my mother.”

  “She’s not?” Frannie said, surprised.

  “Nope.” Isabelle dumped the garbage bag into the can and put the top on tight. “She’s really my grandmother, you see.” The shadow gasped, and Isabelle grinned.

  “Your grandmother!” Frannie exclaimed. “She certainly doesn’t look that old.”

  “Yeah, well.” Isabelle smiled as she took a couple of swipes at Frannie’s head with her friendship ring. “She just got her face lifted.”

  THREE

  Right after the six o’clock news, Herbie showed up, looking for a fight. Acting as if nothing had happened. Acting as if he hadn’t chosen Chauncey Lapidus to be his right-hand man when he was elected art editor of the Bee to fill Sally Smith’s shoes when Sally moved away. Isabelle still had hurt feelings that Herbie hadn’t chosen her, Isabelle, to do the job.

  “Let’s tangle, Iz,” Herbie sang out, taking his boxer’s stance. “I got a couple new moves I want to try. A couple things guaranteed to send you sky-high. Come on out.”

  “Go soak your head, Herb,” Isabelle said. “Go pick a fight with Chauncey, why doncha? You and him are such big buddies. Go knock his socks off.” Sarcasm coated her tongue and made it thick in her mouth.

  “Gimme a break,” Herbie whined. “What’d I do to you? What’s your beef? Why would I want to go pick a fight with Chauncey anyway? That’d be like punching a bag full of marshmallows.”

  Isabelle’s face remained stony. “Take off, Herb,” she told him. “You and me have had it. We’ve come to the end of the road.”

  “What’s your prob? I didn’t do nothing. I’m your best pal.” In his agitation, Herbie pushed his face against the screen. “We been pals ever since nursery school. Now you’re dumping on me. It ain’t fair,” he wailed.

  “Fair’s fair,” Isabelle said coldly. But it was true. They had been best pals ever since Miss Ginny’s nursery school, when they’d discovered they both liked to fight. They’d been fighting ever since, sometimes at her house, sometimes at his. Miss Ginny had threatened to throw them both out if they didn’t stop. They were giving her school a bad name, she said.

  And now they were in fifth grade.

  “You and me go back a long way, Iz,” said Herbie dolefully.

  Herbie began jumping up and down, as he always did when he got excited. Isabelle loved it when Herbie did that.

  “Chauncey forced me!” Herbie cried. “I wanted you, but Chauncey said he was responsible for my landslide so I had to make him my right-hand man. He said that was the rule. I tell you, Iz”—Herbie shook his head and shot her a somber look—“it was a dark and stormy night when I landed that spot. I don’t even know what an art editor does, for Pete’s sake!”

  “I buy that, Herb. I don’t either,” Isabelle admitted. “Who does? I don’t think even Sally Smith knew, and she was a star. Sally faked it a lot.”

  “So now Chauncey’s organizing a campaign to make himself art editor of the Bee,” Herbie said. “And who do you think’s gonna be his right-hand man?”

  “Beats me,” Isabelle said. “Who?”

  “Mary Eliza Shook, that’s who! She already gave Chauncey the word. Put me in office, she said, or else. You got Mary Eliza for an enemy, you don’t need anybody else, right?”

  “Yeah! Yeah!” Isabelle cried. To celebrate, she decked Herbie with one well-aimed punch to the nose. As he hit the dirt, blood started to flow.

  “I’m getting weaker by the minute,” Herbie gasped, catching the drops of blood in his cupped hand. “One, two, three,” he droned. “If I die, Iz, you can have my ten-speed bike and my Havahart trap.”

  Isabelle had had her eye on that Havahart trap for a long time. With it, she had high hopes of catching a muskrat or a raccoon or even a skunk. “Stay right there,” she said and raced inside. When she got back, clutching a paper cup full of ice cubes, Herbie was stretched flat out, pale and still, studying the sky. She knelt and pushed an ice cube up each of Herbie’s nostrils.

  Whereupon Herbie let out a bloodcurdling war whoop and leaped upon Isabelle as if he’d been fired from a cannon.

  “You turkey! You toad! You rat cheat!” Isabelle hollered as she fell.

  With one foot firmly on her stomach, Herbie felt like king of the hill. His nose had stopped bleeding, and he was, for the moment, victorious.

  “Next time you get a nosebleed, I’m gonna sit there and watch,” Isabelle stormed. “Wait and see. No tourniquet, no nothing, I’m just letting you drip until there’s no more to drip. You’ll be the original drip-dry kid. Just rinse you out and hang you up and, boy, will you be pale! You’ll look like a ghost. Ghosts don’t have any blood, you know. And when Dracula takes a peek at yo
u, he’ll say phooey, because it won’t be worth his while to suck your blood out of you because it’s all gone. What a mess.”

  Unmoved by all this, Herbie pressed his foot down harder and said, “Okay, if that’s the way you feel, I’m taking back my ten-speed and my Havahart.”

  “So you’re an Indian giver and a cheat and a toad and all the rest.” Isabelle looked past Herbie and said, “Oh, hi, how are you, little orphan Frannie. Meet Herbie, the biggest creep on the block. Frannie’s old daddy died, Herb, and her mom’s out looking for a new one.” Isabelle spoke in her best hostess manner as she performed introductions.

  Herbie turned to see who was there. No one. In the flick of an eye Isabelle seized the advantage and succeeded in flipping Herbie off her and down to the ground. Once there, she pounded Herbie’s head into the dirt.

  “I’m bleeding, I’m bleeding!” Herbie cried. “No fair using feet. That’s cheating.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “Isabelle! Time!” Her mother’s voice rang out.

  “Coming!” Isabelle gave Herbie’s head one last thump and took off at a high rate of speed for home.

  Herbie got to his feet, hitched up his trousers and, muttering to himself, headed for home. His mother would have a fit when she saw the blood all over his shirt. So who cared. His mother had lots of fits. She always recovered.

  And after supper Isabelle went to her room and wrote on her blackboard in big letters: “HERBIE IS A WEASEL AND A TOAD AND A CHEAT.”

  She stood back to see how it looked. Then she added: “AND A TURKEY.”

  Then, after further scrutiny, she wrote in very small letters: “i have read 43 books.”

  That looked good, if not exactly the case.

  She went back to the blackboard, crossed out the “43” and put in its place “½” and erased the “s” on “books” so it read right.

  “At least I tell the truth,” Isabelle announced to the empty room. “That’s more than some people I know.”

  FOUR

  “I got a postcard from Sally Smith,” said Jane Malone next morning before the bell rang. “She loves her new school. She’s made two new friends already. Her new teacher is nice, she says, but not as nice as Mrs. Esposito.”