Free Isabelle the Itch: The Isabelle Series, Book One by Constance C. Greene

“Hey,” she said.
    â€œJane dear, don’t you want to ask your little friend to stay and chat?” Jane’s mother said.
    â€œI can’t. I’ve gotta finish delivering. I’ll see you,” Isabelle said, handing Jane the paper. “It’s ninety cents a week and Saturday’s collection day.” Isabelle was halfway down the path before she remembered about field day. “If you want to help spread mustard on hot dogs and stuff at field day,” she came back to tell Jane’s mother, “maybe you’d make some friends. My mother and a lot of mothers help.”
    Mrs. Malone looked startled. “When is it?” she asked.
    â€œNext Friday. If it doesn’t rain, that is. If it rains, it’ll be week after next. And if it rains then, the week after that. They’ll tell us at school.”
    Herbie was sitting on the curb in front of his house, looking dejected. Even his boil looked dejected.
    â€œHey, Herb, you wanna fight?”
    â€œNah,” Herbie said.
    â€œYou wanna do anything?”
    â€œNah,” Herbie said again. Sometimes he got like that.
    â€œI’m having a bad mood,” he said.
    â€œYou had me fooled. I thought you just won the lottery.”
    Isabelle went home and watched a soap opera on TV. The lady was either having a nervous breakdown or a baby. Isabelle wasn’t sure which.
    She dialed Mary Eliza’s number.
    â€œShook residence. Hi, it’s Mary Eliza speaking.”
    Isabelle breathed heavily into the receiver and said nothing.
    â€œHello, hello,” Mary Eliza said.
    Isabelle breathed even more heavily.
    â€œI know who it is!” Mary Eliza said shrilly. “I bet it’s Isabelle. You better stop or I’ll tell my father!”
    Isabelle hung up, stomped into her room, and wrote on her blackboard:
    HERBIE ISN’T SUCH A HOT SHOT.
    I CAN BEAT HIM UP.
    What was it Abraham Lincoln had said? Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.
    â€œHey, Philip,” Isabelle called, “what was the name of that guy who shot Lincoln?”
    â€œJohn Wilkes Booth, dumb head.”
    Isabelle erased the blackboard clean.
    JOHN WILCS BOOTH STINKS she wrote, and then the chalk broke.

17
    Saturday morning Isabelle woke to the smell of bread baking. It must be late. She got out of bed, pulled up the covers, straightened the spread. The bed looked lumpy, as if she were still in it.
    â€œHow’s the paper girl?” her father said. The kitchen and everything in it was covered with a fine dusting of flour, like a light snow. Isabelle ate her breakfast standing up, shuffling, tapping. She was getting better at it.
    â€œThat’s what I like about you, perpetual motion,” her mother said. “You’ll clean up?” she said doubtfully to Isabelle’s father.
    â€œDon’t I always? You won’t even know I’ve been here,” he said. “I don’t think you realize how lucky you are to have a husband who bakes his own bread,” he said in a hurt tone of voice.
    â€œI think I do,” Isabelle’s mother said quietly.
    â€œToday Philip pays me, Mom. Will you take me downtown to buy the track shoes?” Isabelle said. “Field day’s next week if it doesn’t rain and I’ve gotta have them for the fifty-yard dash. This year I’m going to win,” Isabelle said, loud and sure.
    â€œIs it time for field day again?” her mother asked. “Seems like only yesterday I was dishing up the franks for you and your pals.”
    â€œYou remember the new girl I told you about in our class? The one from Utah? Well, she lives on Blackberry Lane and her mother said nobody even brought a casserole or anything over when they moved in and I said you’d call her up and tell her about field day so’s she can make some friends,” Isabelle said in a rush.
    â€œOh, Isabelle,” her mother wailed, “with all