Isabella for Real Read online

  I watched as Jeffrey waved goodbye to Oakleigh until she and Emory disappeared around the corner by Pottery Barn.

  “Excuse me,” I said, grabbing him by the arm, “but I thought you wanted me to tell the truth. How am I going to that sleepover at Emory’s house without my mother wanting to first talk to her parents?”

  “Sorry. My bad. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “You were thinking about Oakleigh, is what you were thinking.”

  “Oakleigh?”

  “I saw the way you looking at her.”

  “I wasn’t looking at her.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “If I was looking at Oakleigh, then you look at Frankie Domenico.”

  “Jeffrey Levandowski! I cannot believe those words came out of your braces-free mouth. You deserve Palmol​ive for that one. And just how do you suppose I’m going to tell those girls the truth now, after your addition to my story? They’ll think I’m a even bigger fibber than before.”

  “You graduated to lying all by yourself before today.”

  “Well, you’ve helped it along.”

  I sat back down on the leather seat cushion and leaned my head on the smooth, fat arm. “And now I have to make eggplant, too!”

  “You started this, not me.”

  “Yeah, but I was going to take your advice and get out of it. Now you’ve made that impossible. I’m ruined. Dead meat. Toast.”

  “Wait a second.” Jeffrey snapped his fingers. “Stop groaning. I’ve got an idea. I think we can do this.”

  “We?”

  “Follow me. See that fancy stationery store four down on the left?”

  Stationery store?

  “Well?” he called over his shoulder, running ahead. “Are you coming or not?”

  I had no idea what was in Jeffrey’s head, but I knew from experience, the boy had his moments. Besides, being a genius on the computer, it was because of Jeffrey we made all that money by letting kids get stuck and unstuck on Nonni’s plastic slipcovers. I figured one hundred thirty-six dollars and eighty cents at least deserved the respect of following him into a card store.

  “Listen,” he said in a low voice as we stood huddled next to each other in front of skirted table stacked with boxes of note cards. “Emory’s parents think your mother is the Contessa, and a very private person, correct?”

  “Correct. So?”

  “So her parents will totally understand if your mom, ‘the Contessa,’ doesn’t call them personally, and thank them for having you over to their house.”

  “They will? Why?”

  “Because she writes them a thank-you note on one of her fancy ‘C’ for Contessa note cards. Get what I’m saying? But it’s your real mom, Corinne, who writes the note on the ‘C’ stationery that you give her as a gift today.”

  “So I buy one of these,” I say, tapping a pile. “How am I going to convince my mom to write a note instead of meeting Emory’s parents? Or phoning? Or not signing her own name on the note? What about all that?”

  “Your lack of faith deeply hurts me, Isabella. Don’t you think I already thought of that? You are going to tell your mom that writing a note to other parents is the way it’s done at Fortier Academy. You ask her to sign her name using only her initial C, because . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”

  “Well, I’d say that’s the most important part, Jeffrey.”

  “Hey, you’re the one with the big imagination around here. You think of something.”

  I chewed on my thumbnail and thought. “I don’t know . . . What about signing one letter is more French? How’s that?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “I suppose if she resists, I could beg a little, too. I’m not too bad at that. I convinced Nonni to keep a cat in the house, so convincing my mother to do this should be a piece of cake.”

  I picked up a small package of note cards. “Here’s one with a gold C. Embossed, too.” I smiled at Jeffrey. “I think this idea might just work.”

  1:00 p.m.

  Scene 24/TAKE 1

  Aunt Minnie and Auntie Ella’s Living Room

  I look at Aunt Minnie.

  “If it wasn’t for Vincent’s videos, I think I could have pulled off this double-life thing right through twelfth grade. Mom hardly ever had time to go to my parent-teacher conferences at Merciful Sisters—and that school is only down the street. I think I really could have gone seven years without her ever showing up at Fortier. It could have worked.”

  “Except for the eggplant,” Jeffrey says.

  I nod. “I don’t know how many times I could have come up with a good enough reason to convince Nonni to make more pans of eggplant. She was suspicious with the story I gave for the first batch.”

  Ella sucks salt off her fingers and shakes her head. “I am disappointed in you, Isabella. Very disappointed. Extremely disappointed. Minnie!” she says, slapping the arm of the sofa. “Are you hearing what our great-grandniece just told us? Can you believe it? Traitor! . . . She used Constanza’s eggplant recipe instead of yours!”

  Aunt Minnie looks up to the ceiling and sighs. “I need a sip of limoncello.”

  “I need more popcorn!”

  “I need to go to the bathroom.” I shoot a quick glance in Jeffrey’s direction and lift my chin toward the stairs. “Bathroom? Jeffrey? Bathroom.”

  “Bathroom?”

  “You know. Upstairs,” I say, signaling with a nod to the floor above.

  “Oh! ‘Upstairs.’ Right . . . I think I have to go to the bathroom too.”

  Minnie folds her arms. “You go to the bathroom together?”

  “No-no, not together together. I wait for Jeffrey. Jeffrey waits for me.”

  “Or I wait for Isabella. She waits for me.”

  “I really, really have to go,” I say, bolting from the couch and running for the stairs.

  “Me too,” Jeffrey says, following so close behind that he bumps into me.

  “I don’t want you two wasting time up there,” orders Minnie when we are already halfway up the stairs. “I’m ninety-one and not getting any younger. I want all the facts before going to the grave, so make it snappy.”

  1:03 p.m.

  Scene 25/TAKE 1

  Aunt Minnie and Auntie Ella’s Upstairs Hallway

  Jeffrey walks past me heading for the bathroom, and I grab him by his checked shirttails.

  “You want to go first?” he whispers.

  “No, I don’t want to go first. Or second. I don’t have to use the bathroom.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Coming up here was an excuse so we could talk. Plan our next move.”

  “What move?”

  “How to get out of here and figure out what I’m going to say to Emory, Oakleigh, and Anisha before Nonni gets a hold of me and I’m swallowing soapsuds—that move.”

  “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I really do have to go to the bathroom,” Jeffrey says, crossing his ankles.

  I sigh. “Oh, sweet ravioli.”

  1:05 p.m.

  Scene 26/TAKE 1

  Outside the Bathroom Door

  I hear a flush . . . squeaking faucets . . . and running water with way too much splashing in the sink.

  Jeffrey opens the door, steps back into the hall, and I grab his arm.

  “Okay, Levandowski, exactly what have you been up to?”

  “Huh?” he says, scratching his head. “What do you mean, what have I been up to? I peed.”

  “I know you did that. Why have you been texting Auntie Ella?”

  “Oh, that. I sold her wrapping paper from my school’s fundraiser. I update her on the order. She’s my best customer. She bought seventy-five dollars’ worth of merchandise: two rolls of red, one of—”

  “I don’t want to hear about wrapping paper!”

  “Want to hear about Emory, Oakleigh, and Anisha driving me crazy with the texts they’ve bee
n sending since last night?”

  “They texted you?”

  “See for yourself.” Jeffrey takes the phone from his back jeans pocket. “First one is from Oakleigh. ‘OMG. IzzB on TV? UGTBK!!!!’ That means ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’”

  “I know what it means.”

  “Somebody is cranky.” He hands over the phone. “There are at least fifty from Oakleigh saying, ‘CALL ME’—cap letters—followed by a row of exclamation points. Three more dozen saying ‘CMON!!!!!!!’ Oh, and this one from Emory—‘R.I.Diculous.’”

  “Do you think that means R.I.Diculous bad, or R.I.Diculous good?”

  Jeffrey rolls his eyes. “Seriously?”

  “So you’re saying they’ve seen the videos?”

  “Dude. You’re really asking me that? Yes, there is more than an excellent mathematical probability that Emory, Oakleigh, and Anisha are three of the eleven million people who have seen those videos.”

  I quickly scroll through the messages. “Did they say they hate me?”

  “Didn’t see, but wouldn’t blame them. You told some whoppers, Izzie. Oh, and you might want to take a look at that text from Frankie.”

  I grit my teeth. “Domenico.”

  “Well, what did you expect from Domenico? You never saw that coming?”

  “Well, what did you expect from him? Come on, it’s Frankie. You never saw that one coming?”

  “I should have seen that one, all right. Especially after what happened at Holsten’s two weeks ago. The girls had all been inviting me to their homes, so I knew the polite thing to do was invite them to my house too. But since there was no way I could bring them to a penthouse apartment that only existed on the set of Search for Truth, Lies and Love, and sitting next to a hissing furnace in Belleville while listening to my grandparents argue about spoons might have been just a little difficult to explain, I took them all to Holsten’s.

  I had an open tab thanks to my deal with Vincent, so I treated. And because Marie, who’s been a waitress there forever, always treats me like royalty, I figured going there was a no-brainer.

  My luck that Domenico would be showing his face at Holsten’s the same day I was there with Emory, Oakleigh, and Anisha.

  Everything was working out fine until Frankie strolled in and plopped his rear end down on the booth behind us. The big eavesdropper heard stuff he shouldn’t have heard—but did.

  “You should have never picked up his tab, Isabella,” Jeffrey said, shaking his head.

  “I should have unless I wanted him to blab the truth about me right then and there in front of Emory, Oakleigh, and Anisha.”

  “ISABELLA! We’re getting closer to ninety-two down here! Get down here—and make it snappy!”

  “Be right there, Aunt Minnie.” I turn to Jeffrey. “Listen, when you were in there doing what you were doing, I came up with an idea. Suppose—just suppose . . . I blame everything that happened on my evil twin sister.”

  Jeffrey stares at me. “Evil twin?”

  “Who took over my identity.”

  “Evil twin?”

  “It worked on Search for Truth, Lies and Love. Twice. I even remember some of the dialogue. I can do it! I’ll tell them my very twisted twin sister, Gabriella—that’s a good name, right? Yeah, Gabriella escaped from one of those ‘asylums.’ I was kidnapped and she’s been holding me hostage while pretending to be me since the day of the tea.”

  “Isabella, are you hearing yourself?”

  “The twin thing isn’t working for you, huh? What about amnesia?”

  “Isabella.”

  “Amnesia always works.”

  “Isabella.”

  “Jeffrey, I can’t have my new friends think I’m a fibber, faker, and phony!”

  “Yeah, well, that’s a tough one, because you are a fibber, faker, and phony.”

  “ISABELLA!” shouts Aunt Minnie from the living room. “You two get yourselves downstairs this minute.”

  “We better go, Isabella,” Jeffrey says, turning me toward the stairs. “You aunt sounds like she’s going to burst a corpuscle.”

  “Wait. Wait! Wait a minute!” I snap my fingers. “I’ve got another idea.”

  “Like your last one? Forget it. Let’s go,” he says with another nudge.

  “Just hear me out . . . Look, the whole mess spun out of control because of the worship website to the Contessa, right?”

  “So?”

  “So, if the website got me in, maybe the website can get me out. At least buy me some time until Tuesday and the election against Jenna.”

  “And how is that going to happen?”

  “I convince the girls it’s not me that’s fake—it’s those videos!”

  “Hold it! Rewind, Antonelli. True is fake and what is fake is true?”

  “Good idea, right?”

  “Excuse me, but there are eleven million people who have seen you as you!”

  “But I only have to convince three of them it’s the videos that are pretend.” I smile at Jeffrey. “With your help, of course.”

  1:09 p.m.

  Scene 27/TAKE 1

  “ISABELLA and JEFFREY! Don’t make these arthritic feet climb those stairs and come after you! Hurry up!”

  “But don’t slide on the bannister,” shouts Auntie Ella. “I was seeing stars when I hit the newel post after taking that shortcut myself last week.”

  Jeffrey looks at me. “Ouch.”

  “Never mind Auntie Ella. You’ll help me, right?”

  “Me?”

  “Well, you don’t think I’m going to ask Frankie, do you?”

  Jeffrey folds his arms and sighs. “Okay. So what do I have to do?”

  “No big deal. Just hack into the worship website.”

  “What?”

  “Can’t do it?”

  “Of course I can do it, but—”

  “Great! Get into the site and send an IM to the webmaster saying the Contessa wants to talk. A devoted fan won’t refuse an offer like that. We get a phone number, then I call doing my imitation of Aunt KiKi and ask for a personal favor. Something like this: Please include the name of my long-lost daughter, Isabella, on your fabulous site, dahling. It would make me immensely happy! And I would be eternally grateful if you add that she is a young actress working incognito.”

  “Incognito?”

  “Undercover, Jeffrey. Undercover . . . She’s involved with making mockumentary films in New Jersey with her brother, the talented Vincent Palumbo.”

  Jeffrey shakes his head. “Are you kidding? You’re an actress making a movie? That’s the best you can come up with?”

  “You didn’t like evil twin, and yes, in less than five minutes, that’s the best I can come up with. Why can’t it work? Vincent said I sound just like Aunt KiKi. Sort of. Anyway, once the new info is on the website, you convince Oakleigh to look at it, she’ll read it, tell Emory and Anisha, and then they’ll think what’s on those videos with me being the real me is not the real me but me acting the part for a movie. I have to make them believe I’m still the Contessa’s daughter, who is an actress making a film in New Jersey with her brother. At least until after the election on Tuesday. They’re counting on me to beat Jenna, and once that happens, I’ll confess everything and come clean.”

  “Really?” Jeffrey’s brows furrow low behind his glasses and he squints as he stares into my face. “You promise?”

  I nod. “Promise. Cross my heart. So . . . are going help me?” He sighs. I sigh. “Great! Now all we have to do is get to a computer.” I snap my fingers. “Your house!”

  The kitchen door slams.

  “IS-A-BELL-AH! Are you here?”

  “Oh no! Vincent! He found me! I hear him coming through the kitchen!”

  “ISABELLA!” Ella calls. “Pupserapsies and that cutie-patootie Frankie are on the porch here banging at the front door!”

  “ISABELLA!” Vincent shouts, now tramping through the dining room. “The reporter is next door at my house waiting for you! ISABELLAAAAAA
HHHHHH!”

  I grab Jeffrey’s hand. “We gotta get out of here!”

  “Out where?” Jeffrey says with a look of panic on his face. “We’re on the second floor!”

  “This way!” I say, pulling him into Aunt Minnie’s studio. I spin around the room and point. “Open one of these windows!”

  “Did you not hear me, Isabella? We’re two floors up!”

  “Stop talking and help me open this,” I say, pushing my shoulder into the window, which won’t budge.

  “Whoa!” Jeffrey stands frozen in the middle of the room, staring at the row of canvases on the far wall. “Do you know Aunt Minnie is painting people who aren’t wearing their clothes? Double WHOA! Is that one in the corner . . . Auntie Ella?”

  “Bingo!” I say, lifting the third window with my first try.

  “Out. Now! You first!” I say, giving him a push.

  “Isabella,” he cries, straddling the windowsill, eyes like saucers as he looks down. “We are on the SECOND FLOOR!”

  “Stop worrying. See the trellis? It’s like a ladder—only with ivy. It’s been done. Trust me.”

  1:17 p.m.

  Scene 28/TAKE 1

  Bernie’s Car Wash, Corner of Watchung and Bloomfield Avenues

  “You stink, Isabella.” Jeffrey winces as he bends closer to my sneaker. “You really do.”

  I turn and toe my right foot on the cement as Jeffrey works the hose. “Is the you-know-what coming off?”

  “A little. It’s not easy.”

  “I didn’t ask if it was easy. I asked if it’s coming off.”

  “Cranky. Cranky. Cranky. You try getting Boomer’s gift to lawn fertilizer out of these crevices.”

  Jeffrey aims the nozzle closer to the bottom of my foot, and the spray suddenly shoots up.

  “Hey! You’re getting my pants wet!”

  “Isabella, cleaning smushed dog poop off the bottom of a sneaker is not as simple as you seem to think.”

  “I know. Sorry. You’re doing a good job . . . I just don’t want to be drenched to my knees, that’s all.”

  “There. Done.” Jeffrey drops the hose, and we watch a light-brown puddle grow around my feet.