Isabelle the Itch: The Isabelle Series, Book One (3 page)

Herbie's mother answered the door.

“He went to his cousin's to spend the night. He won't be back until tomorrow,” she said.

“He didn't tell me he was going,” Isabelle said indignantly.

Herbie's mother gave a little scream. She had just got the full effect of the ketchup. “What on earth happened to you?” She made a grab for Isabelle. “You had better come in and I'll call your mother.”

Isabelle darted out of her reach. In a minute, Herbie's mother would have her in bed, a thermometer in her mouth, and would be feeling her pulse.

From a safe distance, Isabelle called, “I'm wounded.” She staggered to show how weak she was from loss of blood. A big glob of ketchup oozed out from under the bandage and landed on Isabelle's arm. She scooped it up and put it in her mouth.

Herbie's mother stared at her, speechless.

“It's better when you have a hamburger with it,” Isabelle said.

Herbie's mother went inside and shut the door. Isabelle thought she could see her peering out from behind the curtains.

“Goodbye, goodbye,” she shouted, racing off in search of some action.

6

She didn't have far to go. Halfway down the block, Philip caught up with her.

“Hey, I want to take you around on my route now,” he said, slamming on his brakes and kicking up a flurry of dust. “So's you'll know what to do Monday.”

“What's to know? All I need is a list of your customers and where they live,” Isabelle said.

“It's not that simple,” Philip said, frowning. “A lot of people think all a paper boy does is throw the paper at the house and leave. People want their paper put a certain place. Some of them are very particular. A lot of them are crabs. You gotta use psychology. Just don't think it's a cinch, because it isn't.”

He took out his route book. “We start on Red Barn Lane with Mrs. Stern,” he said. “She gives you cookies and she paints.”

“Like Grandma Moses?” Isabelle asked. “I saw this neat thing on television about her. She was this really old lady and she started to paint cows and chickens and farms and everything and she sold her pictures for a pile of dough and she never even had a lesson,” Isabelle marveled. “She's famous.”

“Not that kind of paints,” Philip said in his most insufferable tone of voice. “She paints her kitchen or her living room when she gets bored or sad. Last week she painted her kitchen red to cheer herself up. And you never know what color her front door is going to be. Last week it was pink. Today maybe it'll be black.”

Mrs. Stern's front door, still pink, opened as they approached. A very small lady with wisps of white hair escaping from the bandana she wore on her head came out.

“I started in on the green,” she said to Philip, “and now I'm not absolutely sure I like it. Come and see.”

“This is my sister Isabelle, Mrs. Stern,” Philip said, very formal. “She's doing my paper route for me next week and I'm showing her the ropes.”

“I didn't know you had a sister. Very nice to meet you, Isabelle.” Mrs. Stern put out her hand. Isabelle stuck out her left hand and immediately realized her mistake. You were supposed to shake with your right. She always got mixed up. Mrs. Stern smiled and shook Isabelle's left hand as if it were the proper one.

“Do you two fight? I had three brothers and we fought as long as there was breath in our bodies. It didn't mean anything. We liked each other fine. There it is. What do you think?” Mrs. Stern had led them to a small room with a lot of books and half-painted walls.

“You have to be careful with green, you know. You don't want to feel as if you're twenty thousand leagues under the sea,” she told them. “On the other hand, the illusion of being in a huge meadow with the sun shining isn't to be sneered at.”

She put her head to one side and squinted. She reminded Isabelle of a little bird. Her eyes were very light blue and sparkly. Her sneakers had holes in both toes.

“It looks great,” Philip said.

“It's pretty nice,” Isabelle agreed.

“The good thing about paint is,” Mrs. Stern said, leading them into her red kitchen, “if you don't like it the day after, you just do it over. Have one.” She passed a plate of brownies. Isabelle took a long time selecting hers.

“I bet you're looking for the one with the most nuts,” Mrs. Stern said. “That's what I always did.”

“We have to get going,” Philip said, chewing. “There's a lot of things I have to explain. She's only ten.”

Isabelle pinched him. Ten wasn't a baby.

“Ten is a nice age,” Mrs. Stern said. “I wouldn't mind being ten again. Ten or eighteen or maybe even fifty. In retrospect, fifty wasn't bad either. Stop and see me on Monday, Isabelle. I should have the paint job finished by then.”

“She has silver eyes,” Isabelle said, running alongside Philip's bike. “How old do you think she is? Why didn't you tell me about her? She's special.”

“She's old,” Philip said positively. “She's a lot older than Mom or Dad or even Grandfather, I think.”

“What's ‘retrospect' mean?” Isabelle asked.

“Look it up,” Philip said, which meant he didn't know either.

“I wish you'd told me about Mrs. Stern,” Isabelle said.

Philip shrugged. “I have forty-eight customers,” he said. “You can't expect me to fill you in on all of them.”

“But she's special,” Isabelle insisted.

“In that house there, for instance,” he said, ignoring her, “is old Dragon Lady Cudlip. You watch out for her. If you don't put her paper in between the screen door and the front door, she comes screaming out of the house and makes you do it. You know what she gave me last Christmas? One whole nickel, that's what.”

Philip paused dramatically. “A paper route teaches you a lot about human nature. It also teaches you how to separate the cheap skates from the rest of the world, I'll tell you.”

They turned into Cottage Street. “Mr. Ball, on the corner, he likes his tucked under the mat with just a corner sticking out.”

“Why's he want the corner sticking out?” Isabelle asked.

“That way he doesn't have to open his door on cold nights to see if it's there. He knows whether it is or isn't. It's psychology,” Philip said, tapping his forehead. “I'm not sure you're up to all this.”

Isabelle had been thinking exactly the same thing but she didn't want Philip to know. She frowned and thought of things like Monday's spelling test and pollution and stuff like that to make herself look older. After she finished thinking, she thought she must've aged a lot.

Philip had three more customers on Cottage Street. “Better give Mr. Johnson his paper next. He lost his job a couple of weeks ago and he likes to see the want ads to see if he can find another one.”

“How do you know he lost his job?” Isabelle asked.

“He has this kid, four or five I guess she is, her nose is always running and she tells me everything. They ought to put a gag on her, she tells so much.”

Isabelle said, “I think I'll wear my hat when I deliver the papers. And you better teach me how to fold them.” Philip had this really neat way of folding each paper into a square.

“It took me about a month to learn how to fold them,” Philip said. “I'm not sure you could do it.”

“I can try,” Isabelle said.

“You want to watch out for the Olsens' dog.” Philip pointed to the Olsens' house. “He knows me, but he might think you were a robber or something. He almost bit me the first couple of times, but I fed him an old banana I had in my pocket and we've been friends ever since.”

Isabelle shivered. There was more to this paper route stuff than met the eye.

But then Philip winked at her.

“You're teasing! Dogs don't eat bananas. You're only teasing, aren't you?” She punched Philip on the arm with her friendship ring.

“You ever see me tap dance?” she asked. “I might be a tap dancer when I grow up.” The expression on Philip's face showed that he wasn't impressed. It took quite a lot to impress him. Isabelle jumped into the air, waved her arms, and crossed her eyes.

“That's how Mary Eliza Shook looks,” she said.

“Crazy,” he murmured. He checked his list. “I guess that about covers it. Oh, just don't give the paper to the little Carter creep. He waits for me every day, like he thinks it's a big deal to bring the paper in to his mother himself. Half the time he drops it or can't remember where he put it or he leaves it outside and it blows away. What the world needs is more creeps like that one.

“One more thing. Don't forget to count the papers in the bundle when you pick them up at the drop-off box. Some crooks, if they don't have the right number of papers in their bundle, swipe yours so you're short. And when a customer doesn't get his paper, he calls up and hollers.”

“What'll I do if I'm short a paper?” Isabelle asked.

“Buy one out of your own money. Or two, however many you're short. I'll pay you back. And use my bag because those papers get pretty heavy.” He handed her the bag, which was old and faded and said
“Courier-Express”
on the side in dim letters.

With that bag on her shoulder and her hat on her head, Isabelle knew she'd feel like a king.

“If only I could collect,” she said in one last effort.

“Give up.” Philip turned the corners of his mouth down.

“I might ask Herbie to help me deliver,” Isabelle said.

“If he does, tell him to leave his boil at home,” Philip warned. “My customers might complain.”

“O.K.,” Isabelle said, “I'll tell him.”

7

Philip rode off on his bike and Isabelle headed for the playground. There was usually something going on there Saturday morning.

In the distance, a figure appeared, leaping, twirling, waving its arms. It was Mary Eliza, practicing her ballet for the entire world to see.

“She is disgusting,” Isabelle said aloud. “She is about the most disgusting person on this planet.”

Saturday was garbage collection day. Luckily an empty can lay on its side. Isabelle crawled into it and put her chin on her knees, waiting for Mary Eliza to go by. It smelled of old orange peels and coffee grounds and other things.

Presently a pair of feet stopped on the pavement outside Isabelle's hiding place. The toes of the feet pointed daintily in her direction.

“Oh my,” Mary Eliza's voice said, “I expect I'll get the lead in
The Nutcracker Suite
my ballet class is putting on and get my picture in the paper.”

Point, point. Mary Eliza's feet spun round and round and round. They made Isabelle dizzy.

A face looked inside the garbage can.

“My goodness, what are you doing there?” Mary Eliza asked, amazed. “I thought you were going hiking with your father today.”

Isabelle was speechless for the first time in her life.

“Isn't it icky in there?” Mary Eliza wrinkled her nose disdainfully. “Your mother'll have a fit when she finds out you were inside a garbage can.”

“How's she going to find out?” Isabelle got her voice back.

“How do I know?” Mary Eliza raised her eyebrows. “Hey,” she hissed, looking over her shoulder, “here comes a lady and I think you're in her garbage can. You better get out fast before she finds you.”

Isabelle scrambled out. All she could see were some teenagers whose car had stalled.

“I think it's the carburetor,” one said, peering inside.

“Nah, it's probably the points,” the other one decided.

“Where's the lady?” Isabelle demanded.

In a flash, Mary Eliza had her arm through Isabelle's.

“I've got to go buy Sally a present,” she said. “Either a photograph album or a diary. Come with me to pick it out.”

Isabelle plonked her feet firmly on the sidewalk and took a few swipes at Mary Eliza with her friendship ring.

“Ouch!” Mary Eliza let go. “What'd you do that for?” she asked crossly.

“I felt like it,” Isabelle said.

“Oh well.” Mary Eliza looked at her wristwatch, which she did about a hundred times a day. “I've got to go anyway. My mother said I had to take a rest before the party on account of we're having it in Sally's rec room that's soundproof and we'll probably stay up all night. It's certainly too bad she didn't invite you,” she said sweetly. “I guess she didn't have room on account of she invited Jane. The new girl, you know.”

“I couldn't go anyway,” Isabelle said. “My mother and father are taking me out to dinner and the movies and my brother's coming and we'll probably stop and have a soda after.”

“Don't stay up too late,” Mary Eliza said. Forming an arch over her head with her arms, she leaped high in the air, made a half turn, and landed on her other foot. “That's a
tour jeté
” she said. “In case you didn't know.”

“So?” Isabelle did a few shuffles off to Buffalo. “You know how to tap dance?” she asked.

Mary Eliza's laugh traveled up the scale, then down. She grabbed Isabelle's arm.

“What's the biggest river in the world?” she hollered.

They'd just studied that. Isabelle racked her brains.

“It begins with an ‘A,'” she said.

Mary Eliza laughed and laughed. “You don't know,” she shouted.

Isabelle stared at her feet. Sometimes she wrote valuable bits of information on her sneakers if she happened to have them on in school. That was another good thing about having big feet. It gave you a lot of space to write on.

Rats. Her sneakers were clean and sparkling. Her mother must've washed them.

“It's the Amazon!” Mary Eliza shouted triumphantly. “That's the biggest river in the world—the Amazon!”