Chapter Twelve

“I corrected them all, like you said. Check it.” Isabelle thrust her arithmetic test under Mrs. Esposito’s nose. “Please.”

With her coat still on, Mrs. Esposito checked.

“Perfect,” she said. “Now I want to see you do this the first time around next time. You can do as well. Can’t you?”

“I’m not sure. I guess.” Isabelle thought a minute “Sure.”

“That’s the way. Now would you mind opening the window a trifle? This room smells like bologna sandwiches.”

“Don’t you like bologna sandwiches?”

“Not enough to smell them all morning.”

Isabelle flung open the window, sending the papers on Mrs. Esposito’s desk flying.

“I said a trifle, not the whole way.”

Isabelle closed the window to a slit and picked up the papers.

“If they called you a goody-goody because you never did anything wrong, never even had to go to the principal’s office once,” she said suddenly, “and kids teased you and chased you and called you names, what would you do?” Isabelle watched Mrs. Esposito with her bright brown eyes and waited to hear what she’d say.

“That’s a tough one,” Mrs. Esposito said, frowning. “I assume you’re not talking about yourself, Isabelle,” she said, winking.

“It’s a friend of mine.” Isabelle didn’t feel like joking. “It’s this really nice little guy. He’s, well, he’s sort of, well, sweet. I really like him. I feel bad because these crummy creeps make him miserable and there’s nothing he can do about it. I tried to teach him how to fight so he can punch ’em out, but he doesn’t like to fight. How can he be mean and tough if he’s not mean or tough?”

“He probably can’t. How old is he?”

“He’s only eight.”

“Give him a while. Maybe he’ll figure out something in a couple of years.”

“Yeah, but what does he do for a couple of years? Just stand there and take it?”

“Perhaps the best thing would be to tell his mother and father, and they could handle it,” Mrs. Esposito suggested.

“He doesn’t want to do that. You know how mothers and fathers are.” Isabelle lifted her shoulders and turned her hands palms up, trying to explain mothers and fathers to her teacher.

“They’re supposed to protect children until children are big enough to take care of themselves,” Mrs. Esposito said. “I think eight is too little to handle something like this by himself. Why don’t you tell your friend to tell his parents and they might be able to help.”

Isabelle shook her head from side to side, letting her brown hair swing across her cheeks. “He won’t,” she said firmly. “I know this kid and I guarantee you, he won’t.”

A little knock came at the door. “Come in,” the teacher called. The door opened and Guy stood there, hair slicked down, cowlick waving from the top of his head. His cheeks were shiny with soap.

“I came to talk to her,” Guy said, pointing to Isabelle.

“Well, talk then,” Isabelle said. He looked very small to her. Very clean and very small.

“Did you figure out anything yet?” He came right up to her and whispered, so Mrs. Esposito wouldn’t hear. “You promised. Did you?”

“Not yet,” Isabelle said.

“I thought so.” Guy stuck his hands in his pockets and dug the toe of his sneaker against the nearest desk. “I was counting on you.” He looked at her with his enormous eyes. “If you can’t figure out something, then I guess nobody can.”

Isabelle’s face got warm. She was blushing. She tried to think of something to say to make Guy feel better and couldn’t.

“Guess what!” Chauncey Lapidus charged into the room like a bull. Or a steamroller. “I’m invited to a party!” He looked around at their faces, wanting them to share his joy and pleasure at this singular event. “I’m invited to Sally Smith’s farewell party! I never been invited to a party before. But I’m going to this one!” Chauncey’s face glowed.

“Oh, everybody’s going to the party for Sally Smith,” Isabelle said airily. “The whole class is invited.”

Chauncey’s face fell.

“How nice, Chauncey!” Mrs. Esposito cried. “I like parties, too.”

When Chauncey stomped to his desk at the back of the room, Mrs. Esposito said in a low voice, “That wasn’t nice, Isabelle. That was unkind and you know it. Why couldn’t you let him enjoy his invitation without telling him everyone was going? I’m ashamed of you.”

Isabelle’s head drooped like a wilted flower on a stalk. Tears stung her eyes. She knew she shouldn’t have said what she said. Chauncey felt special, being invited to the party. And she’d destroyed that feeling. Isabelle raised her head, peeking up at Mrs. Esposito’s feet tucked neatly under her desk. Mrs. Esposito didn’t raise her eyes. Isabelle checked out the hall. It was empty. Guy had gone. The day had just begun.

When the recess bell rang, the entire class rose as one and exited, shouting and screaming their joy at being released. Isabelle stayed behind.

“I didn’t mean to be mean,” she said to Mrs. Esposito.

Mrs. Esposito regarded her steadily. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure I’m sure,” Isabelle said, enjoying the rhythm of her words. “I’m very sure I’m sure.”

“This is not a joke, Isabelle. This is serious. Think about it for a while. On the one hand, you’re trying to help your friend Guy out of his problem. And on the other, you’re making another boy unhappy. To be mean for meanness’ sake is a terrible thing. You wanted to put Chauncey down. You knew exactly what to say to bring this about. I’m disappointed in you. Now, I’m afraid I have work to do.” Mrs. Esposito bent over her desk, shutting Isabelle out.

What do I care? Isabelle thought. She ran, shouting and screaming as loud as anybody, out to the playground, looking for some action.