Chapter Sixteen

The afternoon stretched slowly, slowly, like Rip van Winkle waking from his twenty years’ sleep. The clock seemed to have stopped ticking. A fat black fly beat its head against the window. Outside, someone tried repeatedly and unsuccessfully to start a car’s engine. Inside, Isabelle read about how many coffee beans there were in Brazil.

Something was crawling around inside her T-shirt. Isabelle pulled it away from herself with one finger and peered down. There was nothing there except her undershirt. She hooked the T-shirt over her nose and looked out at the room over it, hoping someone was watching her.

Mary Eliza Shook was paying close attention to her book. Isabelle made a few faces in that direction, but Mary Eliza never once looked up. So Isabelle crossed her eyes at Herbie over her T-shirt. But Herbie was involved in making a spitball and didn’t even notice.

Mrs. Esposito cleared her throat loudly. Everyone jumped. Mrs. Esposito glared at Isabelle, who took her T-shirt down from her nose and went back to Brazil.

“All right, class. You can put away your books now.” At last Mrs. Esposito took pity on them. A great crashing and banging followed her announcement. They were ready.

“I have counted all the votes and I’m happy to announce the name of the new art editor,” Mrs. Esposito said.

Everyone sat up very straight, trying not to look self-conscious. A couple of kids in back starting horsing around.

“There will be no announcement, class, until everyone comes to order,” Mrs. Esposito said.

I bet she’d make a good army person, Isabelle thought in admiration. They wouldn’t dare disobey Mrs. Esposito.

When at last the class was totally still, Mrs. Esposito said, “When I announce the winner’s name, I would like that person to stand, please.”

Isabelle got her feet ready.

“Our new art editor is …”

Isabelle closed her eyes and clasped her hands in front of her, as if she were praying.

Mary Eliza lifted her backside off her chair, ready to spring.

Mrs. Esposito’s voice seemed to come from the end of a long tunnel.

“Our new art editor is …” Mrs. Esposito liked to tantalize them.

“Herbie!” she cried.

Isabelle’s eyes snapped open, and she said, “Herbie?”

Herbie looked as if he’d been hit over the head with a shovel.

“Herbie!” yelled Herbie. “That’s cuckoo! I don’t want to be no art editor! I won’t—”

“Will the winner please stand?” Mrs. Esposito said, in measured tones. The boy sitting behind Herbie punched him in the back and growled, “Stand up, wonko.”

Hitching up his pants, Herbie staggered to his feet, his orange-juice mustache giving him a somewhat sinister look.

“Congratulations, Herbie,” said Mrs. Esposito. “We know you’ll do a good job. And class, it’s my pleasure to tell you that Herbie had more votes than any other candidate. Let’s give him three cheers.”

“Hip hip hooray!” the class thundered, three times. Herbie sat down and his expression was one of total amazement.

“I don’t know what happened,” he mumbled. He shook his head once or twice, like a boxer down for the count. “I don’t want to be no art editor. I don’t know what an art editor’s supposed to do, so how can I do it?”

“I’ll give you a hand, Herb,” Isabelle soothed him. “I’ll be your right-hand man.”

“Yeah, but how about my left hand? My left hand needs help, too.” Herbie was definitely in the pits.

“If you ask me,” Mary Eliza stormed up, “it’s a put-up job.”

“So who asked you?” Imitating prizefighters she’d seen on TV, Isabelle dabbed at her nose with her thumb several times.

In a rage, Mary Eliza flounced away without speaking.

“All I know is,” Herbie said glumly, “it musta been somebody who hates me. Who else would vote for me? They knew I didn’t want the job. I have an enemy and I didn’t even know it.” Herbie’s face wore a hunted look.

“It wasn’t me, Herb,” Isabelle said. “You can count on that.”

“You’re a pal, Iz.” Herbie called Isabelle Iz when his emotions were stirred. “Thanks for not voting for me. You voted for yourself, right?”

“Sure. Who else would’ve?” She took a few pokes at him, trying to cheer him up. Herbie was not in a laughing mood, however.

“Wait’ll my mother hears I’m art editor,” Herbie said. “She’ll flip.”

“How about if we have a good fight? That’ll make you feel better,” Isabelle suggested.

“No, thanks. I’m not in the mood,” Herbie said. “I’m going home.”

“What’re you gonna do when you get home?” Isabelle wanted to know.

He looked at her, his eyes full of woe. “Think,” he said.

“Think?” Isabelle echoed.

“Yeah, think.”

“Awesome,” said Isabelle.