Chapter Three

“Where’d they put the piano?” Isabelle asked, mashing her face against the screen door, mouth open, enjoying the slightly bitter taste of metal.

Without moving her chin from its nesting place in her hand, the little girl looked at her and said, “Who’re you?”

“The paper boy. Where’s the piano?” Isabelle opened the door and, uninvited, eased herself inside.

“You looked like a guppy,” the little girl said. “With your mouth open like that. Just like our guppy when I feed him.”

“How do you know it’s a him? I told the movers they might have to take off the legs if they wanted to get the piano inside. Either that or leave it outside, and when your mother wants to play, she could open the window and play from inside.”

“My mother doesn’t play the piano,” the child said. “I do. I take lessons.”

“I can play ‘Chopsticks,’” Isabelle said. “What’s a little twerp like you doing taking piano lessons?” She opened the refrigerator door absent-mindedly and looked inside. It was amazing what some people kept in refrigerators. She knew a girl whose mother was a writer and kept her manuscripts in the refrigerator, in case the house burned down. That way her manuscripts would be safe.

“My mother says you should never open somebody’s refrigerator,” the little girl said. “It makes her mad when kids do that.”

Isabelle closed the door. There was nothing good in there anyway. “Have you got an ice maker?” she asked. Isabelle’s father said they were expensive and unnecessary, but she longed for one. They made such neat noises. Little clinking sounds, like fish coming up for air. Or mice having a party.

“We only moved in yesterday. We haven’t got settled yet,” the little girl said. “I’m not a little twerp. I’m a child.”

“You could’ve fooled me,” said Isabelle.

“What’s your name?” the child asked.

“Isabelle. What’s yours?”

“I’m Becca. I’m six. Do you want to see my chains?”

“Sure. Are they gold?”

“No, silly.” Becca got down off her chair. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

There was nothing Isabelle liked better than inspecting other people’s houses. Closets were her specialty, but she also liked cellars, attics, bathrooms, rec rooms, and master bedrooms. So far she’d never seen a master in a master bedroom, but she kept trying. My daughter the real-estate lady, her mother sometimes called her.

“They’re in here.” Becca opened the door to a small room off the kitchen. “This is our playroom, except when my grandmother comes to visit.”

The room was crowded with paper chains. The ceiling was festooned with them and they decorated the walls, moving in a slow dance as the draft from the open door stirred them to action. They hung every which way.

“They’re like cobwebs,” Isabelle said, brushing the chains away from her face. “How come you’ve got so many?”

“Every time I read a book,” Becca said, “I make a chain. That way, I keep count of how many books I’ve read.”

In spite of herself Isabelle was impressed. “I bet you didn’t read this many,” she said, starting to count Becca’s chains.

“There are forty-three,” Becca said. “And I read them all. How many books have you read?”

“Oh,” Isabelle said, waving her hands in the air, “I don’t have time to read. I’ve got too many things to do. I play soccer. And tap-dance. And fight and do Philip’s paper route. And practice the fifty-yard dash. That’s my specialty, the fifty-yard dash.”

“Everyone has time to read books,” Becca said, unimpressed by Isabelle’s busy schedule. “If they want to, that is.”

This little squirt sounded like Isabelle’s teacher, Mrs. Esposito, or like Isabelle’s own mother, for Pete’s sake.

“What grade are you in?” Isabelle wanted to know.

“I’m in first,” Becca said. “I’m a gifted child.”

“Okay,” said Isabelle, “say something gifted.”

“You’re cuckoo!” Becca replied, laughing.

“If you’re so gifted, how come you’re not in high school already? I read about a thirteen-year-old kid who was so smart he was going to college. What’s holding you up?” Isabelle demanded.

“I’m too little to be in high school,” Becca said calmly.

“Becca, who are you talking to?” a voice called from upstairs.

“I’m talking to Isabelle, the paper boy,” Becca called back. “My mother’s up in the attic, unpacking things,” she told Isabelle.

“Where’s your brother? Did he have to stay after school or something?” Isabelle asked.

“Of course not. Guy never has to stay after school.”

“He doesn’t?” Isabelle asked, amazed. Staying after school was as natural to her as breathing.

“Guy never gets into trouble,” Becca said, leading the way back to the kitchen.

Loud noises from outside interrupted them. Isabelle went to the window. “Looks like he’s in it now,” she said.

Guy came running up the path. Behind him was a gang of boys, all bigger than he. They were singing and shouting and waving their arms. Guy banged in and slammed the door, standing with his back against it, breathing hard. His sweater was torn and his pants were muddy. Tears made tracks through the dirt on his face.

“They followed me,” he said.

Outside, the boys sang, “Goody-goody-goody-goody,” imitating a train picking up speed. “Goody-goody Guy, wouldn’t hurt a fly!” they sang with enthusiasm.

“I thought it would be different, living on Hot Water Street,” Guy said sadly. “But it’s no use, it’s no use at all.”

“I’ll get ’em for you!” Isabelle cried, exploding out the door and into the midst of the gang. “Pick on somebody your own size, why don’t you!” she shrieked, fists flying, feet churning.

Someone stuck out a foot. Isabelle tripped and fell to the sidewalk, where she lay, feeling sick to her stomach.

“Izzy, Izzy, tin-lizzy Izzy!” they sang. “Izzy, Izzy is a bear, in her flowered underwear!” They must’ve picked that up from Chauncey Lapidus, Isabelle thought. He’d made up that verse. “Izzy’s in a tizzy!”

Then, in the flick of an eye, they disappeared—as if a gigantic eraser had wiped them off the board. As if a trap door had opened and swallowed them all whole.

From where she lay Isabelle watched as a taxi pulled up and a woman wearing a large black hat got out and paid the driver.

“Who are you, little girl?” the woman asked.

“I’m the paper boy,” said Isabelle, for what seemed like the tenth time.

“From my experience,” the woman said, “that is not the proper way to deliver newspapers.” She reached down a hand to help Isabelle to her feet. Then they both marched up the front path, and the woman opened the door to Guy’s new house as if she belonged there.

“Who are you?” Isabelle asked the woman, figuring tit for tat was fair.

“I’m Guy’s grandmother. I’ve come for a visit, to help out until they get settled. They’re not expecting me, but I’m sure they’ll be glad to see me. I haven’t been to visit them in ages.”

A woman was standing at the sink bathing Guy’s dirty face. “Good heavens, Mother Gibbs!” the woman cried. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you!”

Isabelle wanted to stay to see what was going to happen, but her canvas bag still bulged with undelivered papers. She laid one on the table and took off.