The Charming Life of Izzy Malone Read online

  CONTENTS

  1. TOAD GIRL

  2. STICKS AND STONES

  3. BRIGHT STARS AND CLEAR SKIES

  4. MRS. WHIPPIE’S EARN YOUR CHARM SCHOOL

  5. CATCHING FLIES

  6. EARNING CHARM

  7. STAR-SPANGLED SUNSETS

  8. AUTUMN RAINSTORMS

  9. THE KALEIDOSCOPE CAFÉ

  10. SOMETHING GOES WRONG

  11. SORE THUMBS AND PRETTY PINKIES

  12. A TRAIL OF STARS

  13. LEFTOVERS

  14. CAULFIELD FARM

  15. THE STAR BANDIT

  16. CREATIVE JOURNALISM

  17. THE THREE HENS

  18. COLORING THE WORLD

  19. ODD VISION

  20. EXTRA, EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT!

  21. ORANGE IS THE NEW AWESOME

  22. BOBBLEHEADS

  23. BOY-CRAZY ALIENS

  24. TACKY FAVORITISM

  25. THE CHARM GIRLS?

  26. CRUSH DIBS!

  27. FOURTH TIME’S THE CHARM

  28. BRIGHT LIGHTS ON A DARK NIGHT

  29. PUMPKIN PIE PUKE

  30. WILL THE REAL MRS. WHIPPIE PLEASE STAND UP?

  31. LUNCH?

  32. SLEDGEHAMMERS AND OPEN DOORS

  33. HAMBURGERS AND HOT DATES

  34. THE GREAT PUMPKIN REGATTA

  35. PADDLING ALONE (BUT NOT REALLY)

  36. THE BEGINNING OF A GOOD STORY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT JENNY LUNDQUIST

  For anyone who has ever felt like a sore thumb in a room full of pretty pinkies:

  This one is for you.

  And for the Journey Girls:

  Annie Chin

  Carrie Diggs

  Ruth Gallo

  Cara Lane

  Sarah Mahieu

  Every girl in the world deserves friends as amazing as you five.

  1

  TOAD GIRL

  The bracelet and the first charm appeared the day I punched Austin Jackson in the nose. I didn’t mean to slug him. His face just got in my way. It was a bruising end to a disastrous first month in middle school.

  You know that kid in class that everyone secretly (and not-so-secretly) thinks is weird? The one people laugh and point at behind their back, the one who gets picked last in gym class, the one you wish you hadn’t gotten stuck with for a science partner?

  At Dandelion Middle School, that kid is me, Izzy “Don’t Call Me Isabella” Malone.

  Truthfully, my slide into loserdom started in elementary school and was pretty much an established fact by the time sixth grade started last month. It’s partly because my mouth often has a mind of its own. But I think it’s also because there are a bazillion other things I’d rather do than talk about boys, clothes, and makeup, and I refuse to wear strappy sandals and short skirts.

  (If you ever catch me wearing strappy sandals or a short skirt, you have my permission to kick my butt.)

  I do like skirts, though. Really long, colorful ones I get from Dandelion Thrift. I like to wear them with my camouflage combat boots.

  I call the look Camohemian.

  “I don’t understand how it could be locked,” Ms. Harmer, my English teacher said, tugging on the door of our classroom. “Fifteen minutes ago it was open.”

  “Does this mean class is cancelled?” I asked. Our class was held in an outdoor portable. The day was chilly but sunny, and being stuck indoors writing another round of horrible haikus was the last thing I wanted to do.

  “No, Isabella—”

  “Izzy,” I said.

  “—that is definitely not what that means. Everyone wait here while I go to the teacher’s lounge to look for my keys. Lauren, you’re in charge while I’m gone.”

  Lauren Wilcox smiled, all angelic-like. “I will.” After Ms. Harmer left, Lauren’s smile pulled back, like a beast baring its fangs. “You heard her. I’m in charge.”

  Students clumped off into their cliques. Being the class outcast, I am thoroughly cliqueless, and normally I’d sit by myself. But today I was planning to change all that.

  Lauren and her friends claimed a grassy patch of sunlight—kicking out a couple other girls who’d gotten there first. I stared at them and squared my shoulders, preparing myself to do some major strappy-sandal smooching up. Lauren and her crew are the sixth-grade members of the Dandelion Paddlers, a competitive after-school rowing club. Lauren’s family owns the aquatic center on Dandelion Lake, and you need to get in good with Lauren if you want to be a Paddler.

  I learned that the hard way last summer during Paddler tryouts. I thought the fact that I was a great rower would be enough. There were four open spots, and they all went to Lauren’s friends—even though I came in fourth during the timed heats. The last spot went to Stella Franklin, who had somehow managed to become BFFs with Lauren over the summer. I’m guessing the fact that Stella can kiss butt faster than a frog can catch flies has something to do with it.

  But I wasn’t about to give up. Being on the Paddlers is a big deal in Dandelion Hollow; when my dad was my age he was on the boys’ team. He’s taken me rowing for years, and we trained for tryouts all summer. Dandelion Lake is my favorite place in the world. I love being on the open water, where the only thing I feel is the wind in my hair, and words like “odd” and “strange” blow away like dead leaves on a blustery autumn day.

  Lauren’s locker is right next to mine, and this morning I took an extra-long time loading up my backpack so I could listen while she told her friends they were one Paddler short since Emily Harris moved away last week. I figured now was my chance.

  “Hi,” I said, plunking down next to Lauren. “It’s weird Ms. Harmer can’t find her keys, right?” I took the headphones from my iPod out of my skirt pocket and twirled them around, like I was bored and just making conversation.

  Lauren blinked at me like I was a species she didn’t recognize.

  “Um, excuse me,” Stella Franklin said. “What makes you think you can just sit here?”

  It’s a free country, is what I wanted to say. “I want to join you” is what I blurted instead.

  “You want to join us?” said another of Lauren’s friends. A husky blond girl who was wearing a chunky red headband over her ponytail.

  “I mean, I want to join the Paddlers.” I looked at Lauren. “I know you have an open spot, and last summer at tryouts I finished ahead of her.” I jabbed my finger at Stella, who swelled up like a puffer fish.

  “You did not! We tied.”

  “Nope,” I said, twirling my headphones. “I beat you by three-tenths of a second.”

  Lauren leaned back and looked me up and down. I sat up straight, trying to appear taller. I’m pretty short, but what I lack in size I make up for in won’t-quit-till-I-die persistence.

  “I only have winners on my team,” she said.

  “I’m a winner,” I said. Only my voice squeaked a little, and “winner” came out “wiener.”

  “Did you just call yourself a wiener?” Headband Girl asked.

  Everyone laughed, and I counted silently to ten, because my patience was all puckered out.

  “I think if you saw me paddle again,” I said, crossing my legs, “then you’d realize I’m much better than—”

  “What are those?” Stella interrupted, poking at my combat boots. “Those are the ugliest things I’ve ever seen. Don’t you know boys don’t like to get up close and personal with girls who wear boots like that?” She poked me again.

  “You keep running your mouth,” I snapped, smacking her hand away, “and these boots will get up close and personal with your face.”

  Darn it! The mouth strikes again!

  Lauren directed he
r gaze to Headband Girl, who seemed to take it as a silent command. She snatched away my headphones and flung them in the air. They circled once in the breeze before landing on an overhanging branch of a nearby tree. Then, one by one, Lauren, Stella, Headband, and the rest of them stood up and left in a line of ponytail-swinging nastiness, leaving me sitting alone, while the rest of the class watched me, waiting to see what I would do.

  Yeah, stuff like this is pretty much why I think middle school stinks.

  Let’s just pause for a moment to consider my options. I could:

  a. cry, which would only convince them I didn’t belong on their team.

  b. kick Headband’s butt into the next county. (Or try to, anyway. It’s hard to appear threatening to someone who has biceps the size of Nebraska.)

  c. get my headphones back.

  Here’s the key to surviving as a middle school outcast: Pretend you don’t care. Pretend you have such great self-esteem that everything just rolls off your back. Most important:

  Don’t show weakness. Ever.

  I chose option C. I have a thing for trees, and I’d wanted to climb this particular one for a while. I eat lunch under it every day, on account of the fact that the cafeteria usually smells like burnt burritos.

  Plus, it’s not like I have anyone to eat with, anyway.

  I stood up and stretched. A skip, a hop, and a shimmy later, I was scrambling up the trunk.

  “Go, Izzy!” shouted Austin Jackson, who, at the moment, still had a bruise-free face. A few other kids started cheering; Lauren and the Paddlers were already forgotten.

  See what I mean? Pretend you don’t care. Works like a charm.

  I braced my hands against the rough trunk. The star-shaped leaves were the color of a fiery peach, and they whispered in the breeze. The air smelled sharp and crisp, like shiny red apples, and I breathed deep, enjoying being a little bit closer to the sky.

  “Toad Girl is crazy,” Stella was saying down below. I pretended not to hear. I also pretended I didn’t know that was what most of the kids at Dandelion Middle called me. Stella the Terrible and I went to elementary school together and she gave me the nickname at her fourth-grade slumber party, when I put a toad in her sleeping bag. (I swear, that girl can howl like a werewolf on a full moon.)

  I hadn’t meant to do it. I just got bored watching everyone else test out Stella’s lip gloss collection, and I started playing with her brother’s sand toad, Count Croakula. I guess I must have lost him. But Stella swore up and down I’d done it on purpose, so I wasn’t invited to her birthday party last year. I wasn’t invited to a lot of birthday parties last year.

  Turns out, most girls would rather put on lip gloss than play with sand toads.

  “Come down from there! You’ll get us all in trouble!” Stella was now standing under the tree. Lauren must have dispatched her to keep me in line. “Come on. Ms. Harmer will be back any minute.”

  “Leave Izzy to her solitary pursuits,” said Violet Barnaby, who liked to use fancy words. She was sitting off to the side by herself, scribbling in a glittery purple journal. “Ms. Harmer won’t find her keys in the teachers’ lounge.”

  “How do you know that?” Stella demanded.

  “Because I have them right here.” Violet produced a key ring and jingled it.

  The class gave a collective gasp, as Violet was known for being an A student who never got in trouble. I took the opportunity to climb up the branch. Slowly, I inched my way across it, where my headphones dangled in the breeze.

  “Hey, Toad Girl!” called Tyler Jones. “Think fast!”

  He lobbed an orange at me. It missed by a few feet and Austin said, “Tyler, you moron! Get out from under there. . . . I said, Get Out!”

  “Ouch! All right, all right. I’m going!”

  I kept inching forward, and stretched my fingers out to get the headphones. From up here I had a good view of several clusters of maple trees, which in late September were all colored in shades of gold and red and orange. A part of me wished I could stay up here forever, away from the middle school mean girls, who circled like sharks below me. I picked a few leaves and stuck them in my pocket, so I could paste them into my leaf collection later.

  “What’s going on?” came Ms. Harmer’s voice. “Is someone up there?”

  Startled, I lost my balance and fell. I caught myself on the branch and swung—gymnast style—through the air, landing right in front of Ms. Harmer.

  “Ta-da!” I said, throwing my hands in the air.

  A few kids applauded, but Ms. Harmer’s face turned purple. “Go to the office. Now!”

  As I walked away, I heard Stella say, “Excuse me, Ms. Harmer? You should probably send Violet to the office too. After all, she’s the one who stole your keys.”

  2

  STICKS AND STONES

  Coco Martin, my guidance counselor, was unimpressed with my daredevil skills. She tossed me a tube of ointment and a box of Band-Aids. “Clean yourself up,” she said, gesturing to some cuts and scrapes on my arms. Then she went back to decorating her office for the fall. On her desk sat piles of tiny pumpkins and colorful ears of corn.

  “Someone’s grouchy today,” I said, rubbing ointment onto my elbow. “Can’t you be a little nicer?”

  Coco grunted and stuck a pumpkin on her bookcase. “Consider yourself lucky. The only reason you’re not in Principal Chilton’s office right now is because Ms. Harmer decided stealing keys is a bigger offense than climbing trees. . . . And how many more times am I going to have to tell you not to put your feet up on my desk?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “How many more times do you think I’ll get sent to your office?”

  “That’s a mystery to me. You’ve only been here a month, and I think you already hold the school record. It’s been—what?—two days since I last saw you? When you kicked Tyler Jones in the shin.”

  “That was totally not my fault. Tyler called me a weirdo and a waste of space.”

  “ ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me.’ It’s a saying,” Coco said. “Ever heard of it?”

  “You know what? Now that you mention it, I think I have!” I nearly sprained my eyeballs, I was trying so hard not to roll them. Words are a weapon, and rotten kids like Tyler Jones get a free pass when it comes to using them, because the marks they leave are invisible. Why don’t more adults realize that?

  “Tyler trips me every day in class,” I pointed out. “He just never gets caught. He hates being my science partner.”

  “Be that as it may, you need to stop showing up in my office. . . . You know, your sister spent three whole years here, and I don’t think I ever even met her.”

  “Right,” I said, feeling the familiar twinge I got whenever Carolyn the Great was mentioned. “But you know your day is always more interesting when me and my sparkling personality make an appearance in it.”

  Coco pressed her lips together, like she was trying not to smile. “Maybe so. But,”—her voice became stern—“sparkling personality or not, I still have to send a note home. School policy and all.”

  Coco scribbled on the incident report form I was intimately acquainted with and handed it to me just as the bell rang. “Have your parents sign this and bring it back to me,” she said.

  “I know the drill,” I answered, shoving the note into my skirt pocket.

  On the walk home from school I passed Violet, who lives in my neighborhood. Violet and I used to be best friends, the kind that played together at lunch and every day after school in my treehouse. Sometimes we’d pretend we were secret CIA agents, or sometimes we’d throw sand at each other and pretend it was fairy dust. But after Violet’s mom got sick, and especially after Mrs. Barnaby passed away, Violet never wanted to play.

  I considered slowing down to say hi, but Violet was hunched forward, her red peacoat fluttering in the wind as she stomped through a pile of fallen leaves. She didn’t look like she wanted company. I bet she’d gotten into a heap load of troubl
e for stealing Ms. Harmer’s keys, and I felt a little bad, because maybe Stella wouldn’t have told on her if I hadn’t climbed the tree.

  I sped up and came upon a group of kids who were laughing. “Hey, Toad Girl!” a boy said as I passed. “Caught any flies lately?” Something small pinged off my shoulder.

  “Dude, she looks like a toad,” said another boy, as everyone laughed. “Ribbit, ribbit.”

  Sticks and stones, I told myself.

  I felt the ping again and saw a yellow candy corn bounce off my arm and onto the ground—they were throwing them at me. I picked it up and yelled, “Thanks for the snack!” before popping it in my mouth and running ahead.

  3

  BRIGHT STARS AND CLEAR SKIES

  As soon as I got home I headed for the kitchen. Mom was sitting at the table; she had an iced coffee in one hand and her cell phone in the other, pressed close to her ear. “Yes, I understand,” she was saying, “but Kendra Franklin has never been the business-friendly sort, has she? If you support my campaign and I’m elected, I promise that will change.”

  Mom has run just about every fund-raiser in Dandelion Hollow; I guess it was just a matter of time before she decided she should become mayor and run the whole town. The only problem is that Dandelion Hollow has a really popular long-serving mayor: Kendra Franklin, Stella the Terrible’s mother. Mom and Mayor Franklin went to middle and high school together. They didn’t like each other much way back then, but now their relationship is iceberg cold. The election is in early November, and so far, things aren’t looking all that great for Mom.

  Before I could make a quick getaway with the bag of cookies I grabbed from the pantry, Mom glanced at me and tucked the phone under her ear. “Hold it right there, Isabella. Why are your arms all scratched up?”

  “Izzy.”

  “What?”

  “Izzy. You know I hate the name Isabella.”

  “Fine. Why are your arms all scratched up, Izzy?”

  “I fell out of a tree.”

  “You fell out of a tree? Lovely. How many people saw you walking around town looking like this?”

  By “people,” Mom actually means “potential voters.”