Isabelle Shows Her Stuff: The Isabelle Series, Book Two

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Isabelle Shows Her Stuff

The Isabelle Series, Book Two

Constance C. Greene

For Nora

Chapter One

The day Guy Gibbs moved to Hot Water Street was the best day of his life. How could he miss getting into hot water now? What a stroke of luck! What a neat house! What a neat street!

The house, tall and thin and graying, leaned a little into the wind. There was a birdbath in back, a huge old maple tree in front with a vacant bird's nest swinging from its branches, and a path to the front door made of big round stones that reminded Guy of oversized hopscotch potsies.

All in all, that house was just about perfect.

Living on Hot Water Street was going to change Guy's life. He was sure of that. His heart swelled with excitement as he thought of himself marching down to the principal's office.

“Not
you
again!” the principal would exclaim, clutching his head. “What have you done now?”

Guy hugged himself with delight as he imagined himself pulling up to his house in a police car, the street lined with kids watching, mouths open wide in astonishment. He'd been caught snitching apples. Or pumpkins. Or for shooting out streetlights with a BB gun. Which he didn't have. The important thing was, he'd been caught.

No more goody-goody Guy. That was behind him now. From here on in, he, Guy Gibbs, was on a high roll.

The movers were messing around, trying to figure out how to get the piano into the house without bending it, when a girl wearing a red hat with a ripply brim and carrying a newspaper bag on her shoulder came up the path.

She and Guy stood watching.

“A little to the left, Len!” the head mover hollered. “Easy, now, don't break nothing.”

Back and forth they went, trying this way and that.

“You might have to take the legs off,” the girl said at last.

The head mover was hot and tired and ready to call it quits. “Cool it, girlie,” he said. “I been in this business twice as long as you been alive. I know what I'm doing. I don't need no upstart kid telling me my own business.”

“How long have you been in this business?” the girl asked.

The man yanked a gray handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. He cleared his throat and said in a very raspy voice, “How long you been around, toots?”

“I asked you first,” she said.

He cleared his throat a second time and, turning his head to one side, sent a glittering ball of spit onto the grass. Then he turned his back on the girl and shouted, “Let's try it another way, Len, see how that works.”

“How about if you leave the piano outside and when somebody feels like playing, they can open the window and stick their hands out and play from the inside?”

The mover's thick chest moved mightily as he took a deep breath. His little helper, Len, watched anxiously. Guy kept quiet, waiting for the next move.

“That way,” the girl explained, “even if it was winter, even if there was a blizzard, they could put on gloves, wipe off the snow, and still play that old piano.”

“It's not old, it's new,” said Guy. From far away, a dog barked. Trucks rolled on the turnpike. Guy swallowed noisily.

No one spoke. Then the head mover said, “You belong here?” jerking his thumb in the direction of Guy's new house.

“Nope, I'm the paper boy,” the girl said.

“They don't want no paper right at this minute, girlie.” The man spoke slowly, carefully, biting off each word as if it were a piece of tough meat. “Why don't you do us all a big favor and get lost, huh? Take off. Vamoose.”

“I was only trying to help.” She did a little jig.

“Yeah,” Guy chimed in, “you don't hafta get a red nose.”

“Right,” the girl agreed. “What's that mean?”

“My father says it means you don't hafta get riled up,” Guy told her, pleased he knew something she didn't.

“I'm gonna pull that on Herbie,” she said. “How about asking your mother if she wants the paper delivered?” She whipped out a pencil and pad from her bag. “Philip'll kill me if I don't write everything down.”

“Who's Philip?”

“My brother. It's his route. Well, sort of half mine. I'm subbing for him on account of he sprained his ankle. He's got crutches and everything. You'd think he was the first person who ever had crutches.” She sighed. “Boys make such a fuss. He won't even let me try 'em out. And you should see the way my mother waits on him. It's enough to make you puke.” She rolled her eyes. “What's your name?”

“Guy,” he said. “What's yours?”

“Isabelle. Go ask your mom, will you? I'm in a hurry. Herbie's waiting for me. We're fighting at my house today. He might skin out on me if I'm late.”

“Why are you fighting with Herbie? Are you mad at him?” Guy asked. To meet a paper boy like Isabelle his first day in the new house was another sign his luck was changing. He could've talked to her all day.

“Heck, no. We're friends. We just like to fight. We fight every day after school. Go ask, will you? I've got to blast off.”

Guy raced inside, and Isabelle, snapping her fingers and whistling, began to dance. The movers stopped to watch.

“Whaddya call that?” the little mover asked, scratching his head.

“It's a dance,” she said. “I made it up.”

“Loony-bin time,” the big mover said. “Get to it, Len. Time's a-wasting.”

“You said it,” Isabelle agreed.

“She says you can start tomorrow,” Guy shouted, racing back.

“Okay.” Isabelle was all business. “Name and address, please,” she said, pencil poised.

“Guy Gibbs,” said Guy.

“Father's name, dodo,” she said.

“Peter Gibbs, Twenty-two Hot Water Street,” he answered proudly.

“Lucky you. I always wanted to live on this street,” she said, tucking her pad and pencil into her bag.

“Don't forget what I said about the legs,” she hollered to the moving men, and then she was off and running, on her way to fight with Herbie.

“Sonny,” the big mover said, “count your lucky stars that kid ain't related to you.”

“Right,” the little mover agreed.

“But maybe she's got something,” he said. “Maybe the legs unscrew or something. Let's give it a try.”

The big one gave the little one a black look, and they went back to trying to figure out the best way to get the piano into Twenty-two Hot Water Street.

Chapter Two

Guy hadn't made a lot of important decisions in his short life. Should he have chocolate or vanilla, or should he wear his red shirt or his blue—things like that.

But when he decided to follow Isabelle that first day in his new house, he acted as if he'd been making big, important decisions all the days of his life.

She traveled fast. Guy managed to keep up, but only just. He got a bad pain in his side. He wanted to stop and rest. But he was afraid he might lose her. That wouldn't do. So he kept going. When he was at the end of his rope, his tongue hanging out like a dog who'd been chasing cars or sheep, when his heart was pounding so hard it threatened to pop out of his chest, Isabelle got where she was going.

“Where ya been? I almost left!” he heard someone shout.

Guy hid behind a narrow tree, bulging out from behind it on either side. A baby could've spotted him, but neither Isabelle nor Herbie (for surely this was Herbie) seemed to notice him. He watched Isabelle throw down her newspaper bag, settle her hat firmly on her head, and leap like a tiger upon Herbie. Herbie howled as his head hit the ground. They rolled around in the dirt, exchanging blows. Guy came out from behind the tree and squatted at a respectful distance, watching them, entranced. It was like watching a TV Western, he thought. They weren't wearing high-heeled boots. Or ten-gallon hats. And they weren't even breaking chairs over each other's heads, and there wasn't any shooting. But Herbie and Isabelle were making the same noises the TV cowboys made, grunting, groaning, sending up shouts of rage. And it was all live, real—much more exciting than watching TV.

“No feet!” Isabelle hollered suddenly. “We said no feet!” She had relaxed her grip for a second. That was all Herbie needed. He flipped her over, with the aid of his feet. He was winning.

“How come it's okay if
you
use feet but it's not okay if I do?” Herbie asked quietly. Herbie always got quiet when he was winning.

Isabelle had big feet and she was proud of them. Her feet came in handy, both for fighting and for running.

“Besides,” Herbie explained, “I only used one foot. And that's because you were crushing all the bones in my stomach.”

“You don't have bones in your stomach,” Isabelle said scornfully. “You've got guts. Gobs and gobs of guts. If you stretched 'em out, those guts of yours would probably reach down to the end of the street and around the block.”

Herbie didn't like to hear about guts, his own or anyone else's. Guy didn't either, but he listened anyway.

Slowly, lovingly, Isabelle described Herbie's guts to him. “They're all pink and wobbly,” she said. “Like giant worms, miles and miles of giant worms, all pink and wobbly, squiggly and slippery.”

Guy's stomach began to do flip-flops. Herbie's must've too, because he jumped up and ran over to the curb and began heaving.

Isabelle, a small smile of triumph on her face, went over to investigate.

“You're a faker, Herb,” she said. “You didn't throw up one drop. Not one. Some faker you are.”

“Leave me alone,” Herbie said crossly. “Maybe you don't have bones in your stomach, but I sure do in mine. Who's that?”