Isabelle and Little Orphan Frannie: The Isabelle Series, Book Three (6 page)

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?

“
Rolling Stones
,” Isabelle said, head bobbing, feet moving with the speed of light.
“Rolling Stones
,” she said, opening the girls' room door and rocking and rolling out into the hall.

“Is that where she's sending it?” Mary Eliza hissed. “Is that the magazine?”

“I don't think so,” Jane said doubtfully. “I think that's who she's dancing to. That's the music she's dancing to, I think.”

THIRTEEN

After school Isabelle went over to Mrs. Stern's, in search of some TLC. She wanted to talk about the ceiling falling on Aunt Maude. About her plans to teach an unnamed person to read and write. And she wanted to discuss people who promised to write to her and didn't. All that and more.

Mrs. Stern was in the backyard, weeding.

“You're here in the nick of time, Isabelle,” and Mrs. Stern put out a hand. “If I stayed on my knees much longer, I might never be able to get up.” As Isabelle pulled her to her feet, Mrs. Stern winced. “You're never old until your knees give out. Remember that, my child.”

They went inside. “I know I have a fresh box of cocoa somewhere, but to tell the truth, Isabelle, I've been on such a tear I don't know what I've got and what I don't. Oh, here it is.” Mrs. Stern took out the cocoa. She poured some milk in a saucepan and stood at the stove, stirring it.

“I was so sorry to rush off the other day,” Mrs. Stern said, “but John had made a reservation at the Yellow Cat and they won't hold a table if you're late. Please bring Frannie over soon. I promised you both a party. I scarcely had a chance to say hello. I hate being rushed. I seem to rush a good deal lately, what with one thing and another. Get the cups, please.”

Isabelle got down the cups with a flourish. Then she opened a fresh pack of marshmallows and put one in each cup.

“It's dining and dancing and Lord knows what gallivanting with John here,” Mrs. Stern said as they sat down. “I'm all worn out,” and she smiled, and Isabelle could see she didn't look in the least worn out.

“John must be a party animal,” Isabelle said.

“Isabelle!” Mrs. Stern exploded in laughter. “I must remember to tell him that. ‘Party animal!' Wonderful.”

“Has he gone for good?”

“No, he's visiting friends. He'll be back again. To tell the truth, Isabelle, it's nice having the house to myself.” Mrs. Stern drank her cocoa and left her marshmallow. Isabelle liked to hold hers in her mouth, swishing it about until she swallowed it whole.

“I like being alone,” Mrs. Stern confided. “And it's a good thing, too. If you don't enjoy your own company, you're in trouble.”

“Where does John live?” Isabelle asked.

“In Florida. I hate Florida. Too many old people there.” They both laughed.

“John loves to go, you see. He likes to dance and go to the track to watch the horses race, and would you believe”—Mrs. Stern rolled her eyes—“he's learning to tango.”

“Is that a game or what? I never heard of tango,” said Isabelle.

“It's a dance, a very tricky, exotic dance. John says he'll conquer the tango before it conquers him, and he probably will.”

“He must be a very nice man,” Isabelle said primly. “If you like him.”

“He's a lovely man.” Mrs. Stern stared down into her empty cup. Isabelle could see the marshmallow sitting there, all soft and squishy, just the way she liked them.

“Isabelle, I'd like to discuss something with you, something private and something I'd like you to keep to yourself. May I?”

“Sure.” Isabelle dragged her eyes away from Mrs. Stern's marshmallow. “Shoot.”

“Well, it's an adult sort of thing, and I know you're a child and I'm an old woman, but still, you seem a sensible child.”

Isabelle was stunned. She'd been called many things but “sensible” was a first.

“I certainly can't tell Stella, although I must admit I'd
love
to.” Stella was Mrs. Stern's sister-in-law, who was always bragging about what great shape she was in, even if she was seventeen months older than Mrs. Stern.

“If you want to borrow some money,” Isabelle said, “I have forty-four dollars in my savings account.”

“Bless you.” Mrs. Stern's silver eyes glistened. “No, it's not money. I have enough money.”

“Boy, you're probably the only person I know who does,” Isabelle said.

Mrs. Stern cleared her throat and laced her fingers together. “John has asked for my hand,” she said.

“Your hand? How about the rest of you?” Isabelle asked indignantly. “Didn't he ask for the rest of you?”

“That's an old-fashioned expression, Isabelle. To ask for one's hand means you want to marry the person you ask, hand and all.”

Isabelle was shocked and tried not to show it. Mrs. Stern married! A bride? Bizarre.

“Well, if you gave him your hand,” she said in her new sensible fashion, “then he could live here and help you clean your gutters and weed the garden and paint and all. Then you could take it easy.”

“No,” said Mrs. Stern. “We would go to live in his condo in Florida, and John said I'd never have to do another lick of work in my life. Everything would be done for us. For me.”

“Would you like that?”

“Well, no. No, I don't think so. As a matter of fact”—Mrs. Stern tapped the table with her finger—“I think I'd hate it. It's odd how sometimes if you put things into words, you get a clearer picture, isn't it?”

Isabelle knew Mrs. Stern didn't expect an answer, so she clammed up and only nodded in her sensible way.

“Yes, I think I'd absolutely hate it,” Mrs. Stern said. “I thank you, Isabelle, for your help. You've been a great help.” Mrs. Stern smiled. “Now I must get back to the weeds before they take over.”

“Sure.” Isabelle got up. “Mrs. Stern, if you're not going to eat your marshmallow, can I have it?” she asked.

“It's the least I can do,” said Mrs. Stern. “Take it and how about one more for the road?”

Isabelle skipped home. She hadn't skipped in a while and had forgotten how good skipping made her feel. She hadn't told Mrs. Stern any of the things she'd planned to tell her. She'd only listened to Mrs. Stern's problems. She'd been a great help. She was a sensible child. She was making progress, no matter what anyone said.

FOURTEEN

Frannie was perched on the back step, waiting, when Isabelle chugged up the drive.

“I can stay tonight,” Frannie announced. “For supper. Like your mother said. I asked my aunt and she said it'd suit her a treat on account of she's hosting a Tupperware party, and she said she needs to clean up the joint.”

“I don't know. I better ask,” said Isabelle. She decided on her way inside to take the positive approach and tell instead.

“Frannie can stay for supper tonight,” she told her mother.

It was not a good time. Isabelle could see that. Her mother's hair and face were both frazzled. She'd been working on her word processor all day, and she was losing the battle. It was new and she said she was going to master it if it killed her.

“Oh, not tonight, kids. Sorry, Frannie. We'll be lucky if we
eat
supper at all tonight. The way it looks now it's bread and milk for everyone.” Then she took a look at Frannie and said, “How about coming for Sunday dinner? We always have a gala feast then. Isabelle's father fixes dinner on Sunday. We'd love to have you, Frannie. Think you can come?”

“Well,” Frannie said, “I guess. But I can stay tonight too.”

“Sunday's better,” Isabelle's mother stated, and went back to her work.

“What time?” Frannie asked.

“About twelve thirty, after church,” Isabelle said.

“What's he fixing?” Frannie said.