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

her. She’s not good at sports as a rule, and it’ll be a tremendous boost to her ego to have won. I’m so pleased.”
    Isabelle left the ladies chatting and walked off by herself. Who cared whether Jane Malone came in first? Only Jane Malone and old Mrs. Malone, that’s all. Old sneaky Jane Malone probably carried some kind of magic wand in that stupid dumb pocketbook that helped her win.
    â€œHey, Iz, the guy’s here from the paper and he wants to take your picture,” Herbie yelled.
    â€œWhat’s he want my picture for? I came in second.”
    â€œHe says he wants first and second winners in the fifty-yard dash.” Herbie hitched his pants up. “I thought you wanted your picture in the paper.”
    â€œOnly if I won,” Isabelle sulked.
    â€œShall I tell him you don’t want him to take your picture?” Herbie asked.
    â€œNo,” Isabelle said hastily, “I’ll come. Tell him I’ll be right there.” She rubbed her new shoes on the backs of her jeans to dust them off, then she sauntered back to the field like the biggest winner of the day.
    Jane Malone ducked her head and smiled at Isabelle.
    That’s the first time I ever saw her smile, Isabelle realized. She looks different. She looks happy. So what. What do I care if she’s happy? I’m not.
    â€œWill you stop by to see me this afternoon, Isabelle?” Mrs. Stern said.
    â€œSure,” Isabelle said.
    â€œIsn’t this the girl who came in first?” Mrs. Stern asked. “Congratulations.”
    Jane kept on smiling. “Thanks,” she said.
    â€œI thought we might get started on mixing the purple paint,” Mrs. Stern said. “I’ve got some red left from the kitchen and a bit of blue from somewhere else and together they make purple. How about it?”
    â€œO.K.,’’ Isabelle said, not looking at Jane. “I’ll be there.”
    â€œYou want to fight at my house or your house today?” Herbie asked.
    â€œI’m going to Mrs. Stern’s to paint the purple room.”
    â€œCan I come?”
    Isabelle lifted one shoulder. “I don’t know if she’d let you paint. She might not.”
    â€œWhat do I care?” Herbie stuck out his tongue.
    Isabelle went home, stomped upstairs, and took her track shoes off. She put them in the box they’d come in and stuffed them way back in her closet.
    She shut the closet door, then opened it and punched the box a couple of times, hard, with her friendship ring. She punched the box the way she punched Mary Eliza Shook.
    â€œI’m going over to Mrs. Stern’s, Mom,” she said.
    â€œWe had a nice talk,” her mother said. “Mrs. Stern told me what a good job you’d done delivering papers, how responsible you were and how much pleasure she got from your visits. She told me she thought you were a very dependable child. I must admit at first I didn’t know we were talking about you. I thought she had you mixed up with someone else.” Her mother smiled. “But it was you, all right. I was very pleased. I guess you’re going to grow up after all.”
    All the way to Mrs. Stern’s Isabelle tried to keep feeling sad and mad about losing to Jane Malone but by the time she pounded on Mrs. Stern’s door, hollering, “It’s me, Isabelle,” her heart was light and happy inside her.
    â€œTry a little more of the blue,” Mrs. Stern said as they mixed the paint. “And then Stella said, ‘The doctor said almost anyone else my age would be bedridden but that, due to my superb condition, I should be up and around in no time.’ Isn’t that just like her?” Mrs. Stern’s silver eyes sparkled with pleasure.
    â€œThat Stella’s too much,” Isabelle agreed happily. “Can we start painting now?”

21
    Aunt Maude stopped in after church on Sunday.
    â€œMy stars, when I saw Isabelle’s