Chapter Twenty-one

“So there I am, my father’s driving me to school, and all of a sudden the radio announcer says, ‘An eight-year-old boy fought off three hoodlums yesterday in an effort to rescue a stray dog the hoodlums were holding captive. The boy, Guy Gibbs of Hot Water Street, told police the dog was being tortured by the three and he …’ blah, blah, blah,” said Isabelle, filling in for what she couldn’t remember.

“So I said, ‘That’s Guy!’ and my father says, ‘Unh huh,’ the way he does when he’s not really listening. When I got to school I told Mrs. Esposito and she said I could run down to Guy’s room and check. His teacher said he’d be in later, that his mother called and she was taking him to the doctor. You don’t think there could be two eight-year-old boys both named Guy Gibbs living on Hot Water Street, do you?” Isabelle said.

“I doubt it,” Jane Malone answered. “Probably his mother had to take him to the doctor because he lost a lot of blood.”

“Guy lost a lot of blood? My gosh, I can’t believe it. That little weasel. Why wasn’t I along? If I was there, I could’ve pinned their ears back. I could’ve helped Guy. I miss all the good things. Boy, they’ll never call him a goody-goody again.” Isabelle’s eyes widened and she clutched Jane’s arm. “You don’t think Guy’s gonna die or anything, do you?”

“Of course not,” Jane said in her practical way. “I like that word ‘hoodlum.’ Hoodlum. It sounds just like what it is. Hoodlum.” Jane was getting carried away by the word. Jane was a word person, always trying out new words.

“Isabelle,” Jane said, “can you come—”

But Isabelle was distracted by the sight of Herbie, staggering under a load of books and papers. “Hey, Herb!” she hollered. Jane flinched and stuck a finger in each ear. “You hear about Guy getting rescued by the cops yesterday?”

“Guy?” Herbie said vaguely. As if he’d never heard of Guy. “What happened? Did they have a shoot-out?”

Isabelle stopped moving. Hands, eyes, legs, arms, feet, all came to a dead halt. “A shoot-out?” she said. “My gosh, maybe they did. Maybe that’s why Guy lost so much blood.”

“He lost blood?” Now she had Herbie’s full attention. “Maybe we oughta go down to the hospital and offer to give him blood. You know what your blood type is? Maybe it won’t match Guy’s. Maybe mine will.”

Herbie screwed up his face. “I never gave blood. I’m scared it might hurt. How much blood did Guy lose?”

“Hey, slow down, Herb,” Isabelle urged. “He’s gonna be all right. He’s at the doctor’s now, but he’ll be in school later on. You wanna fight at my house today?”

“I can’t,” Herbie said. “Got too much to do. My assistant editor is coming over after school. We gotta make plans. He—”

“Your assistant editor!” Isabelle’s voice rang out. People turned to stare. “Your assistant editor!” she screeched. “I thought I was your assistant editor! What goes on?”

Herbie looked embarrassed. “Well, Chauncey called up and said he would be my assistant editor on account of he voted me into the job in the first place. So I said okay. So Chauncey’s my assistant editor.” Herbie looked at the floor, not willing to meet Isabelle’s indignant gaze.

“Well, all right for you. That’s the last time I offer to help you, Herbie. Fine pal you are. I said I’d be your right-hand man. All right for you, Herb.”

Chauncey came chugging up to Herbie. “Meet me outside right after the bell goes,” Chauncey directed, looking at his watch. “We have a tight schedule. I’m trying to line up a photographer. It’s not gonna be easy, though. Remember”—again Chauncey checked his watch—“right after the bell rings. Outside.” Chauncey chugged away.

“Boy, you got your work cut out for you, Herb. I’ll say that. I bet you’ll wind up in the booby hatch with that guy on your side.”

“You’re just jealous, Isabelle,” Herbie said with dignity. “You’re jealous because you’re not the assistant editor.”

“That’s what you think!” Isabelle cried. “Next time you want somebody to fight with, try fighting with your assistant editor. That oughta be a barrel of laughs. Don’t forget who your friends were before you were somebody. That’s all I’ve got to say. Just don’t forget who your friends were before you turned famous.”

“Isabelle, can you come—” Jane Malone said. And stopped talking.

“Can I come where?” Isabelle demanded.

Jane looked around. “Are you listening to me?” she asked.

“Sure,” said Isabelle.

“Well, my mother said I could ask a friend to come to stay at my house for dinner and the night on Saturday,” Jane said. “And I picked you. My father might take us to the movies and to McDonald’s after. Can you?”

Isabelle was stunned. Never before had she been asked to Jane’s house. “Can I!” she cried. “I would very much love to come to your house, Jane.”

“That’s good.” Jane smiled. “Ask your mother when you go home today, all right? Then call me up and tell me.”

“Sure.” Isabelle punched Jane gently on the arm. “Sure,” she said again, smiling at Jane.

I didn’t even know she liked me that much, Isabelle thought. Jane is my best friend.

The thought warmed her.