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

by Constance C. Greene

  “He’s a big goofball,” said Isabelle. “Don’t listen to anything he says.”

  A strange car was parked in Mrs. Stern’s driveway. When Isabelle knocked, a man came to the door.

  “Is Mrs. Stern home?” Isabelle asked.

  “She is but she’s dressing,” he said. “May I ask who’s calling?” The man had gray hair, a red necktie, and a nice face.

  “I’m Isabelle. Are you her brother?”

  “No, I’m just a friend,” he said, smiling. “I’ll see if she’s presentable.” They stood on the steps twiddling their thumbs.

  “What do you want to bet he’s her boyfriend,” Frannie said in a piercing whisper.

  “She’s too old for a boyfriend,” Isabelle said sharply.

  “That’s what you think.”

  “Oh, Isabelle, come in, do,” Mrs. Stern said. She had on an extremely blue dress and shoes with heels. “You look nice,” Isabelle said, although she preferred Mrs. Stern in paint-spattered jeans and sneakers with holes in the toes.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Stern said. “John, this is my friend Isabelle, my sometime paper boy and friend. I wouldn’t know what to do without Isabelle,” and she laid her hand on Isabelle’s shoulder.

  Isabelle remembered her manners. “This is Frannie,” she said. “She’s an orphan. Her old daddy died and …” Isabelle slipped a kind arm around Frannie.

  “Let me tell,” Frannie whispered, pinching Isabelle on the arm, hard, so that Isabelle gave a little yelp and let go. “It’s my story. I should tell it, not you.” Frannie turned to Mrs. Stern and recited, “I’m a norphan, you see,” and Mrs. Stern said, “Poor darling,” giving Frannie her complete attention in the way she had.

  John looked at his watch.

  “Ada, I’m afraid it’s getting late, we’ll have to go,” he said. “Our reservation’s for noon.”

  “Of course. I do want to hear about you, Frannie. Come back soon, girls, will you? We’ll have a party. Maybe some cupcakes and …”

  “Come along, Ada,” and John ushered Mrs. Stern out to the car, placed her inside as if she were a valuable package, and firmly slammed the door. Then he got in, and they peeled off.

  Isabelle and Frannie stood and watched them go.

  “I told you he was her boyfriend,” Frannie said.

  “Big deal,” answered Isabelle, disappointed at this turn of events.

  “That’s not a new Caddy,” Frannie said knowledgeably. “Probably it’s about five, six years old.”

  “Who cares?” said Isabelle.

  Across the street the bossy Brady hollered.

  “Catch him, catch him!” she shouted as Elvis, bonnet dangling, streaked by, ears laid back, tail flying, on the way to freedom.

  “I’m outa here,” Isabelle said sourly, stalking off.

  “Dead meat, dead meat!” Frannie called after her, but she didn’t look back, not once.

  TEN

  “So now I’m grounded for two weeks. They only let me out to go to school. Plus, no flippers, no mask, no skin diving. No baths. No nothing.”

  “Well, at least you get out of taking a bath,” said Herbie, looking on the bright side.

  “Showers,” Isabelle said, shrugging. “And I might have to help pay for a new ceiling. That’s what my father said. But it was so funny, Herb. If you’d been there, you woulda cracked up. Aunt Maude looked so funny with part of the ceiling on her head. I almost laughed. Lucky thing I didn’t. My father might’ve tarred and feathered me and run me outa town on a rail. Lucky for her she had on her hard hat. Aunt Maude is into funny hats.”

  “You’re telling me,” Herbie said.

  “My mother’s taking me for a haircut today,” Isabelle said. “To make me look human, she said. She’s putting André to work on me.”

  “Get him to shave your head, why don’t you?” Herbie suggested. “I’d shave mine, but my mother said if I did, she’d send me to camp for the whole summer. Until it growed out. I hate camp. All you do is make lanyards.”

  “‘Grewed out,’ not ‘growed out,’” Isabelle corrected.

  “So now you’re Mrs. Esposito,” Herbie said. “Think of all the time you’d save if your head was shaved. When you got up you wouldn’t have to comb your hair or anything.”

  On the way to the hairdresser, Isabelle thought briefly of doing her imitation of a police car siren. One look at her mother’s face, however, and she decided not to. Her mother and father had been pretty uptight since the ceiling fell on Aunt Maude.

  “André, this is my daughter Isabelle,” her mother said. “See what you can do, will you?”

  André circled Isabelle, regarding her with narrowed eyes. “It is indeed a challenge,” he said. “André loves a challenge. Sit,” he ordered Isabelle, as if she were a dog who’d just graduated from obedience school. “Sit. And be absolutely still.”

  She sat, and André threw a large white towel over her so only her head showed.

  “Now. One move and I will not be responsible for what occurs,” André said. “One move and I might take off one of your ears, and that would not be nice.” He smiled at Isabelle in a tight-lipped way, and she knew he meant business.

  “If you picked up my ear and rushed me to the hospital they could sew it back on and it would work good as new,” Isabelle said. “I’ve heard about that happening to people. And how about that famous painter who cut off his ear? He kept on painting, like nothing had happened.”

  André bared his teeth like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. “One does not paint with one’s ear, isn’t it so?”

  “Could you make me look like a punker, please?” Isabelle asked.

  But André did not answer, so absorbed was he in cutting Isabelle’s hair. His scissors flashed, skimmed the back of her neck, and she fell silent, watching torrents of hair fall from her head. She put out a hand to catch some, and André shrieked, “I said still! I will not tolerate the movement. I will make of you the little gamin.”

  Isabelle shut her eyes and thought about how she could pay for the ceiling. She could try a lemonade stand, but it wasn’t hot enough yet. She could babysit only she didn’t know of anyone who’d hire her.

  “Denise,” André called sharply, “see if Mrs. Boop is dry. And, Denise, please, no more gum. This is not a shop for chewing gum.”

  “You sound just like my teacher,” Isabelle said.

  Isabelle longed to scratch the back of her itchy neck, but she didn’t dare. No telling what André might do.

  “So now.” He whipped off the towel and handed her a mirror. “See if André has not made another miracle. From ugly duckling to swan, in”—he consulted his heavy gold wristwatch—“a mere fourteen minutes. A record, even for such a one as André.”

  “I look like a boy,” Isabelle said, not displeased.

  “From waif to gamin. Ah, an adorable boy, it is true,” and André snapped his fingers.

  “Denise, the broom. I must check the color on the countess. Sweep.”

  Isabelle took the broom from Denise’s unresisting hand. “I love to sweep,” she said. “Boy, that’s a lot of hair. I could use it for something, only I don’t know what.” She wielded the broom with a flourish.

  “Want a job, kid?” Denise asked, yawning. “You got it. Minimum wage and half an hour for lunch.”

  Before Isabelle could reply, André came steaming back. “Denise, see to Mrs. Boop. She is very upset. She has been abandoned under the dryer. Soothe her. Take out her rollers. Give her a cup of tea. Anything. I will be there in the instant.”

  “You mean it, Denise?” Isabelle stopped sweeping to ask. “You’re serious?”

  “Why not?” said Denise, filing her nails in a languorous fashion, Mrs. Boop or no.

  “How much is minimum wage anyway?” asked Isabelle.

  ELEVEN

  The man came to fix the ceiling.

  “What’s the damage come to?” Isabelle asked him.

  “Plenty,” the man said. “You responsible for this here
?” and he jerked his thumb upward.

  Isabelle pretended she hadn’t heard and charged noisily up the stairs. “USE YOUR IMAGINATION,” she wrote on her blackboard. That’s what Mrs. Esposito was always telling the class.

  “Your imagination’s like a muscle,” Mrs. Esposito had said. “The more it’s used, the better it works. Use it every day. Keep it well oiled, like your bicycle or your lawn mower.” Isabelle rather liked that. She imagined herself pushing her imagination around the yard or down the street. Or up the steepest hill.

  Mary Eliza’s hand shot up.

  “Yes, Mary Eliza. What is it?”

  Mary Eliza hoisted her rear end up from her seat and said, as if it were a whole new idea and totally hers, “Your imagination’s like a muscle in your head.”

  “Yeah, and just as hard,” said Chauncey from behind his grimy hand. Chauncey was definitely feeling his oats these days, Isabelle thought as the class tittered. She stacked her fists on her desk and rested her chin on them and, without moving her head, slipped her eyes from side to side, to see what was what. Not a whole lot. Herbie was chewing gum, working on his phony boil, no doubt. Mary Eliza was busily scribbling in a little black book.

  “Let your imagination soar, children,” Mrs. Esposito said. “Like a kite. Let it go as high as it will. The sky’s the limit.”

  It was a grand thought.

  Now “ONCE UPON A TIME,” Isabelle wrote on the blackboard. That was her favorite beginning. Anything could happen. Unfortunately, no other words came. She must be suffering from writer’s block.

  “Once upon a time,” Isabelle said out loud.

  Outside her door someone coughed. Isabelle hid in her closet in case it was a burglar. Or a fire-breathing dragon. Or her father, wanting to have A Talk. About Responsibility.

  “The door was open so I just came in,” said Frannie.

  Isabelle sprang out of the closet and said, “I’m writing a story. Let’s take turns. First I write a sentence, then you. Let your imagination soar.”

  “No,” said Frannie, surprisingly. “I won’t.”

  “Come on, do it,” Isabelle commanded.

  “Try and make me.” Frannie clenched her fists and stuck out her chin. “Listen, it’s your house and your blackboard. You write anything you want. But I don’t have to. I’m not doing it. Even if you torture me, I won’t.”

  Torture. It was something Isabelle hadn’t even considered and now did. Once again she let her imagination soar. Drive sticks under Frannie’s fingernails. Tie her to a tree on top of an anthill and pour honey on her stomach so the ants could lick it off. Hang Frannie by her thumbs.

  The possibilities were endless.

  “Know something? You’re a brat,” Frannie said. “You think everything you do is so great. You’re so tough, so cool. You can’t keep pushing people around. You’re not a queen or a president or anything. All you are is a brat.”

  Then, as if somebody had pushed a button, tears fell from Frannie’s eyes. Great round tears just dropped from her eyes like pebbles. They didn’t slide down her cheeks, they just fell, soundlessly. Most people squinched up their face when they cried. They got red and looked ugly. Not Frannie. Her eyes stayed open and her face remained pale. Most people, when they cried, had to blow their nose. Not Frannie. She didn’t so much as snuffle.

  But the sounds Frannie made were the most amazing part of all. She raised her knobby wrist to her mouth and as if she were playing a musical instrument, she produced the most incredible sound Isabelle had ever heard.

  Frannie wailed. The wails went up and down the scale and raised goose bumps on Isabelle’s arms.

  “Stop,” she said. Frannie went on wailing. The sounds dismayed Isabelle, and she wondered how Frannie made them.

  At last Frannie drew a long, shuddering breath and said, “I can’t. Don’t you see, I just can’t.”

  “Hey,” Isabelle said softly. “I’m sorry. I only wanted for us to have fun. That’s all, have a good time.” She patted Frannie awkwardly.

  “Let’s read this horse book. I just got it out of the library. It’s a wonderful book, the librarian said. I’ll read you a chapter, then you read me one. How’s that?”

  Frannie shouted “No!” and scrambled to the center of the room, where she stood, fists at the ready, knees slightly bent, ready for a fight.

  “You’re stupid!” she shouted. “Don’t you understand?”

  Isabelle shook her head, unable to speak.

  “I can’t write and I can’t read. And if you tell anybody, I’ll say I can, I’ll say you’re a liar, so there.”

  Isabelle and Frannie stared at each other. Neither said a word.

  “So that’s it,” Isabelle said. A wonderful idea occurred to her.

  “I will teach you, child,” Isabelle said in her most kindly way.

  “No, you won’t,” Frannie snapped. “I don’t want you to. I won’t let you teach me. I’m fine the way I am,” and she marched out with her head in the air.

  Isabelle listened to Frannie hurtle down the stairs, heard the front door slam.

  Isabelle lay on her bed with her feet propped up on the wall and thought about Frannie not being able to read or write. How would that be, how would it feel? She could only imagine.

  Then she got up and went over to her blackboard and after: “ONCE UPON A TIME,” she wrote: “THERE WAS A CHILD WHO COULDN’T READ OR RIGHT.”

  Something was not quite right there.

  Ah.

  Isabelle erased “RIGHT” and wrote “WRITE” instead.

  Her writer’s block was over, almost before it had begun, she thought, well pleased.

  TWELVE

  “Who scalped you, dear?” Mary Eliza Shook whistled, nailing Isabelle to the girls’ room wall. “You look like the moths got to you. I’m never cutting my hair. Not ever, it’s my crowning glory.” Mary Eliza tossed her head and sent her hair flying into Isabelle’s open mouth. Isabelle clamped it shut and chomped on Mary Eliza’s hair as if it were a dish of chicken nuggets with honey sauce.

  “Stop!” Mary Eliza shouted and backed off.

  “Yuck.” Isabelle spit out some remaining strands of Mary Eliza’s hair. “Disgusting. This is a punk haircut, if you want to know. I’m dyeing it pink and getting my ears pierced, too.”

  “Who cares?” Mary Eliza lifted both arms and, briefcase dangling from one hand, executed several pliés and entrechats. Mary Eliza had been taking ballet lessons since she was three. It didn’t seem to Isabelle she was making any progress at all.

  “I’ve got a new tutu,” Mary Eliza said. “It’s pale blue and sparkly. It matches my eyes,” and she shoved her face close so Isabelle could check out her eyes.

  “Pale blue wards off evil spirits,” Isabelle told her. “Bet you didn’t know that.”

  “I don’t know any evil spirits,” Mary Eliza said, “except you.” She burst out laughing, and Isabelle aimed the tip of her friendship ring at Mary Eliza’s stomach and fired off a couple of random punches.

  “Cut it out,” said Mary Eliza crossly. “I’m allowed to ask a friend over every day this week to see my new tutu. Which day shall I put you down for?” and she rooted around inside her briefcase like a pig looking for truffles and brought forth a small black book, the one she’d been scribbling in in class.

  “What’s that?” Isabelle asked against her better judgment. She knew better than to show interest in Mary Eliza’s possessions, but this time she was curious.

  Mary Eliza’s eyebrows soared. “It’s my date book,” she said. “It’s for writing down all my dates in. Shall I put you down for Wednesday at four P.M.?”

  “Down for what?” Isabelle asked.

  “For coming over to see my new tutu, of course,” said Mary Eliza, pencil poised.

  “Are you gonna be inside it? Because if you are, I don’t want to be there. Only if it’s empty.” And Isabelle rocked and rolled around Mary Eliza, bobbing her head, sticking out her chin and making faces, shuffling in time to
music only she could hear.

  Jane Malone came into the girls’ room.

  “Hi, Jane,” said Isabelle. “What’s new?”

  “I got a letter from Sally Smith yesterday,” Jane said.

  “A letter.” Isabelle’s heart fell. “A real letter?” She hadn’t even gotten a postcard, and Sally Smith had promised she’d send one.

  “Sure. Sally’s doing fine. She cried for about a week when she got there, but now she says she’d probably cry if they said she was moving back here. She wanted to know what was happening, what was new. How about if we all write a letter to Sally? I’ll begin and then you can write on the same piece of paper.” Jane’s face shone with pleasure at the idea.

  “Neat!” said Mary Eliza, whipping out her ballpoint pen.

  But Isabelle’s feelings were bruised.

  “I can’t,” she told them. “I have to go home and work on my story.”

  “What story? Did Mrs. Esposito give us a story assignment?” and Mary Eliza flipped open her date book one more time. “What day is it due? What’s it supposed to be about? I’ll write it down so I won’t forget.”

  “This isn’t anything for class,” Isabelle said. “It’s a story I’m writing and sending in to a magazine who might publish it. They’ll pay me money and I’ll get my name in print.”

  Mary Eliza bit her lip. Isabelle knew from the expression on her face that she wished she’d thought of writing a story and sending it to a magazine who would publish it and pay her for the story and put her name in the magazine.

  “That’s great, Isabelle,” said Jane Malone. “What’s the name of the magazine? Maybe I’ll write a story and send it to them too.”

  “I forget,” Isabelle said. “I’ve gotta split now, Jane. See you.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Mary Eliza said in a booming voice. “That’s the first I heard that you can write stories for money and send them to a magazine. If anyone gets their name in a magazine, it should be me.”

  Isabelle flapped her elbows like a bird about to take flight and rocked and rolled around Mary Eliza some more. Who cared about old Sally Smith anyway? Sally Smith was a traitor, a breaker of promises. Who cared?