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

by Constance C. Greene

  “Isabelle,” he whispered in a hoarse voice, “I’m going to close this door, Isabelle, get my glasses and go back to the Warrens’. I’m going to have a nice dinner. I’m not saying a word of this to your mother. I wouldn’t want to spoil her evening. We’ll discuss it in the morning. Good night.”

  What’d I do this time? Isabelle wondered. I didn’t get the floor wet, I didn’t break my promise not to use mask or flippers. I didn’t skin-dive. What the heck was he so uptight about, anyway?

  TWENTY-TWO

  Isabelle scrubbed the bathroom until her arms gave out. Her mother stood at the bathroom door, arms folded, supervising the cleanup job.

  “Health spa, indeed,” her mother muttered.

  “Can I go now, Mom?” Isabelle said at last. “I’ll be late for the party.”

  “Not before I run a final check,” her mother said, peering into the corners, peering into Isabelle’s ears. “That old gag about being able to grow potatoes in your ears applies here,” she said. “How about your hair? Did you wash it?”

  “Can’t you tell?” Isabelle said.

  “Okay, you can go now. But, Isabelle”—her mother held her by the shoulder, preventing her from skinning out—“next time you get a marvelous idea, ask me first. If I could anticipate some of your wild and wonderful plans, I’d be ahead of the game. But, as it is, it’s sort of frightening. What goes on inside your head, I mean. I never know what you’re going to come up with next.”

  “Me either,” said Isabelle. “It’s really weirdsville.”

  “You’re telling me,” her mother said, with feeling.

  “Tell Frannie, if she comes, to go over to Mrs. Stern’s house,” Isabelle said. “Tell her I couldn’t call her up because I don’t know her telephone number. Tell her…”

  “Get going.” Her mother patted Isabelle’s rear end. “If Frannie shows up, I’ll run her over.”

  “How do you like this shade?” Mrs. Stern said, holding up a paintbrush. Isabelle was glad to see Mrs. Stern had on her old “CAPE COD” T-shirt and paint-spattered jeans. She liked her better that way, she decided.

  “It’s kind of phewey, if you ask me,” Isabelle said. “What color is it?”

  “Plum,” said Mrs. Stern. “Maybe a touch of blue. Yes, that’s better. And perhaps a spot of white, and a touch of scarlet. I do like scarlet, don’t you? There. What do you think, Isabelle?”

  “It’s better.”

  “Let’s slap some on to get the effect,” Mrs. Stern said, handing Isabelle a paintbrush.

  That was the part Isabelle liked, slapping on the paint.

  “Oh, yes, I like that,” Mrs. Stern said, standing back to study the job. “Very nice, Isabelle.” She narrowed her eyes. “Very nice indeed.”

  “Did John go yet?” Isabelle asked, as if she’d just realized John wasn’t there.

  “Yes, he left two days ago,” Mrs. Stern said.

  “Is he coming back?”

  “Oh, yes, he’ll come back to visit me.” Mrs. Stern slapped some plum on. “I told him no, Isabelle. I told him I was flattered at being asked for my hand, but I didn’t think I wanted to marry again at this late date, that I was quite content as I was and I found him wonderful company and hoped we’d still be friends. And he said we would be, always.

  “Yes, that’s a very nice warm color,” she said. “I thought you’d want to know,” Mrs. Stern said. Isabelle nodded, and they painted away in a companionable silence.

  “I’m glad you’re not going to Florida,” Isabelle said at last.

  “Me too,” said Mrs. Stern.

  Then Herbie and Guy showed up, with Frannie not far behind.

  “I went over to Herbie’s house,” Guy said, “and he said Mrs. Stern was having a party so here I am.”

  “And very welcome you are too, Guy,” Mrs. Stern said. “Here, slap a little paint on and be careful with the spattering. I hate a messy painter.”

  “If you need any worms, Mrs. Stern,” Guy said, painting as if he were walking on eggs, “me and Bernie are in the business. We guarantee our worms. They’re the best worms in the world.”

  “Oh, that’s good to know, Guy. I could certainly use some for the garden. They make the flowers grow better, I understand,” Mrs. Stern said.

  “This is Frannie.” Isabelle introduced Frannie to Guy. “She’s an orphan.”

  “I was over at your house,” Frannie told Guy. “I saw Becca’s chains. They’re not so much. I’m going to make my own chains when I go to Michigan.”

  “Oh, Frannie dear, I didn’t know you were going to Michigan,” Mrs. Stern said.

  “My mother’s coming for me soon,” Frannie said. “She said she was coming for me very soon.”

  After they finished painting the hall, they all trooped into the kitchen for refreshments.

  “This is indeed a joyous occasion,” Mrs. Stern said, smiling around at them all. “Good friends gathered together is my idea of a real party, a real celebration. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “We’re glad we’re here too,” said Isabelle, eyeing the plate of Oreos, and Frannie patted the bowl of fruit in the center of the table and said, “That’s a very lovely banana.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Mrs. Stem’s boyfriend John asked her for her hand in marriage, but she decided not to give it to him,” Isabelle told her mother and father next morning at breakfast. She sprinkled brown sugar on her cereal.

  “She didn’t want to go to Florida to live, she said. There are too many old people there, you see. Plus, John wanted her to live in his condo where she wouldn’t have to lift a finger. She likes to lift her fingers so she’s not going, she’s staying here.”

  Isabelle’s father finished eating his egg, wiped his mouth, and said, “I’m glad to hear that, Isabelle. Now.” He patted his pockets, checking for his wallet. “A word to the wise is sufficient, I believe. Listen carefully, Isabelle.”

  “Yes, Dad,” Isabelle said meekly.

  “No more mud baths. That is an order. I’m not asking, I’m telling.”

  “Yes, Dad,” Isabelle said again.

  “Of course, I’d feel safer if you stayed out of the bathroom entirely,” he said. “If there were some way I could work it out, I would. One way or another, you’re bad news in the bathroom, Isabelle.”

  Isabelle nodded, enjoying the crunchy sound of the cereal between her teeth.

  “I’ve been thinking, Dad,” she said.

  “Of what?” her father said, looking alarmed. “What now?”

  “Well,” she said, “how about an outhouse? You could build one in the backyard. Wouldn’t that be kind of neat?”

  Isabelle’s father pushed back his chair and rose hastily.

  “Got a tough day coming up, dear,” he told Isabelle’s mother. “I’ll probably be late tonight. Don’t wait supper for me.” He kissed his wife and daughter.

  “Do me a favor, Isabelle,” he said. “Go out and climb a couple trees, why don’t you? Dig a ditch, run a few miles. But don’t get any more bright ideas, all right?”

  “Sure, Dad,” Isabelle said, thinking fathers sometimes acted very weird, very strange.

  “It must be tough, being a father,” Isabelle said after her father had gone. “Having to go to work every day to earn money. Dad must get tired of it sometimes. Maybe he needs a vacation.”

  “Nothing wrong with Dad that time won’t cure,” her mother said. “Once you and Philip are out of college and off on your own, he’ll be a new man. When that happens, we’ll go off on our own, too. Maybe go on safari in Africa or go around the world, on a tramp steamer or something.”

  “Hey, neat!” Isabelle cried. “Can I come too?”

  Summer lingered, spinning out its lazy days, drawing the children into its web as surely as any spider, lulling them into a false sense of permanence, giving the illusion it was here to stay.

  Then, one morning in early September, Isabelle went out to the yard, barefoot, as usual. The dew on the grass was cold. “I
mean, cold,” Isabelle grumbled, going back in to put on her new droopy socks and her Adidas.

  “Just when you think summer’s forever,” she said, “it pulls a fast one.”

  And where was Frannie? Frannie had disappeared from the face of the earth, or so it seemed.

  “Where’s your pal, the space cadet?” Philip asked. “The weird-looking chick? She fall into a well or something? Maybe got gnawed on by a grizzly? Or did she just cut and run, take off, never to be seen or heard from again?”

  “Her name’s Frannie, for your information,” Isabelle said. “And she’s not any weirder looking than those dudes who call you up all the time. ‘Hello’” Isabelle let her voice go high and whiny, imitating the girls who called Philip. “‘Is Phil there?’ Next time one of those totally gnarly dudes calls, I’m telling her you’re going to the bathroom and you left strict instructions not to be disturbed. On account of…”

  Philip’s face darkened. “You do and I’ll… How’d you like to wind up twisting in the wind, toots?” he snarled.

  Isabelle shrugged. She’d heard worse threats.

  “Maybe she’s got a virus,” she mused. “Or maybe she broke her leg.”

  “Maybe she robbed a bank,” Philip suggested. “Or went off with the circus. Or there’s always the bubonic plague.”

  “What’s that?” Isabelle said. “What kind of plague’s that? I never heard of that.”

  “Well,” Philip said slowly, “it’s nearly always fatal. Wipes out thousands just like that,” and he snapped his fingers. “I know. She’s probably doing TV commercials, scarfing down everything in sight and getting paid for it. I can hear her now. ‘This cereal will make you the strongest kid in your class.’ Chomp, chomp. Or ‘Drink Poopsy Cola and win friends.’ Or ‘Make your sandwiches with Fatty’s bread and develop your muscles.’” Philip chortled hugely at his own wit.

  “Man, that’d be the life,” he sighed. “Eating up a storm and getting paid big bucks for it. Man, oh, man.”

  But where was Frannie?

  “If anything had happened to her,” Isabelle’s mother said soothingly, “we would’ve heard.”

  “Who from?” Isabelle demanded. “We don’t know where she lived or her telephone number. I don’t know her Aunt Ruth’s name, even. And she didn’t go to school so we can’t even check with the principal to find out. There’s nobody who would tell us if anything had happened to Frannie.”

  Then Isabelle stopped worrying and got mad.

  “Boy, she has her nerve,” she said. “After we were so nice to her and all, she could’ve at least told us she was going away.”

  “Such a sad little thing she was,” Isabelle’s mother said, shaking her head.

  “Sad!” Isabelle cried. “She wasn’t sad. She was a tough character is what she was. A really tough character. I never knew anybody like her.” She thought a minute. “Not even Mary Eliza Shook.”

  “But she had to be tough, didn’t she?” Isabelle’s mother said. “She didn’t have much choice.”

  Once in a while Isabelle’s mother astonished her.

  “Yeah,” she said, mulling over what her mother had said. “Yeah, I guess you’re right, Mom. She didn’t have much choice.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The day before. Halloween, a postcard arrived for Isabelle.

  “Mail for you, scuz,” Philip said, tossing it at her.

  “Oh, no,” Isabelle said with a big grin. So Sally Smith had kicked through at last. Good ole Sally, she’s true-blue, Isabelle told herself. There was a picture of a big moose standing by a very blue lake. It was a beautiful picture and struck Isabelle as very artistic. She turned it over to see what Sally had to say.

  But it wasn’t from Sally Smith.

  The message read:

  Dear Isbel,

  I go to scool now. I can read some.

  Your a good teach. Thanx.

  Yr frend, Frannie D.

  “Yippee!” Isabelle shouted. “Hurrah!” And although she was already late for school, she dashed up to her room, and wrote, “ONCE UPON A TIME” in big letters on the blackboard. Then she raced back down.

  She’d finish the story when she got back.

  About the Author

  Constance C. Greene is the author of over twenty highly successful young adult novels, including the ALA Notable Book A Girl Called Al, Al(exandra) the Great, Getting Nowhere, and Beat the Turtle Drum, which is an ALA Notable Book, an IRA-CBC Children’s Choice, and the basis for the Emmy Award–winning after-school special Very Good Friends. Greene lives in Milford, Connecticut.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1988 by Constance C. Greene

  Cover design by Connie Gabbert

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-0436-7

  This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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