Isabelle Shows Her Stuff: The Isabelle Series, Book Two by Constance C. Greene Page B

luck, son,” the blue-eyed one said to Guy. By this time, quite a crowd had gathered, wondering what was going on. The policemen got back into their car and, lights flashing, drove away.
    â€œCome in, Guy, let me have a good look at you,” Guy’s mother said. As he turned to go in, he heard Becca say in her loud voice, “Oh, it’s my brother. He got into trouble and the police had to bring him home. His name is Guy. Yes, he’s my brother. He’s eight. Yes, his name is Guy. He’s eight. He got into trouble. Yes, he’s …”
    Guy smiled. If Becca had anything to do with it, everyone in town would know who Guy Gibbs was.

Chapter Twenty-one
    â€œSo 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.
    â€œSo 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.
    â€œI doubt it,” Jane Malone answered. “Probably his mother had to take him to the doctor because he lost a lot of blood.”
    â€œGuy 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?”
    â€œOf 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.
    â€œIsabelle,” 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?”
    â€œGuy?” 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.”
    â€œHe 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?”
    â€œHey, 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?”
    â€œI can’t,” Herbie said. “Got too much to do. My assistant editor is coming over after school. We gotta make plans. He—”
    â€œYour 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