“Yer a rude one, being so late,” Mama Lu said. “I’ve got better things to do than wait around fer you.”
“Sorry,” Isabelle said, knowing Mama Lu had nothing better to do.
“Sorry,” Mama Lu repeated in a whiny voice. “Sorry don’t mean nothing to my swollen feet.” She pointed to her feet, which were crammed into pink fuzzy slippers. Swollen or not, they sure looked enormous.
Isabelle dipped the wooden spoon into her bowl and sipped. The thin broth, a tasteless brew made from cabbage and carrots, was still a bit warm and it felt good going down. Isabelle would have voluntarily worked dish duty for just a dash of salt, but Mama Lu would let no one touch her salt. She considered salt to be a sacred weapon in her one-woman battle against the slugs of Runny Cove. She always carried a canister in her bathrobe pocket and would pull it out quick-draw style upon spotting a slug. It wasn’t a pretty sight when a slug got salted because the salt sucked all the moisture from the slug’s plump little body, leaving a puddle of goo. Isabelle hated it when Mama Lu salted slugs.
But that evening, Isabelle wasn’t thinking about slugs. I found an apple, I found an apple, I found an apple, she sang in her head.
Mama Lu tossed a basket of rock-hard biscuits onto the table, then went to powder her nose. Isabelle pulled the basket close, took one of the biscuits, and quickly warmed it between her palms. No one understood why, but Isabelle’s hands had always been warmer than everyone else’s hands. She never needed mittens, a luxury that few could afford. In winter, when the rain turned to hail and the front doorknob froze, she simply gripped the knob until it thawed. When her grandmother’s arthritic knee acted up, she wrapped her hands around the knee until the muscle relaxed. But biscuit-warming could only be done in Mama Lu’s absence, so Isabelle hurriedly warmed another and another, passing them down the table.
Mama Lu returned, her nose all powdery, and climbed onto her observation chair—a tall chair with ladders on each side that sat at the head of the kitchen table. The mysterious words LIFEGUARD ON DUTY had been painted on the back a long time ago. The chair creaked as Mama Lu heaved her large thighs up each rung, pausing halfway to catch her breath. At the top, she adjusted her blue bathrobe, then sat down with a loud “hmphhh.”
From her perch, Mama Lu kept an eye on her tenants in case one of them tried to steal something. Bert had told Isabelle that sitting higher than everyone else made Mama Lu feel important. Being the only person in Runny Cove found on a doorstep made Isabelle feel important.
“Which one of ya stupid dunderheads is going to bring me my cheese?” Mama Lu asked, her two chins jiggling. “Get a move on. I’m starvin’ to death.”
Isabelle hoped it wasn’t her turn, because if she had to climb that ladder, the apple might slip out from under her waistband. But to her relief, Mrs. Wormbottom climbed the ladder and handed up a platter that held slices of yellow and white cheese, some with holes, some with crusty rinds, and some with specks of blue mold. As Mrs. Wormbottom returned to her bland soup, Mama Lu began feasting.
“Moos gmph sumpin interumbling to smph?” Mama Lu asked with a mouth full of cheese. Even though they couldn’t understand the words, everyone at the table knew the question because every night Mama Lu asked, “Who’s got something interesting to say?” It was a dreaded question. Having something interesting to say was as rare in Runny Cove as an apple. For most of the tenants, each day yielded the exact same events so the days blended together, forming one gigantic blob of uninteresting. Since Isabelle often managed to find bits of interesting, it usually fell upon her shoulders to answer the dreaded question.
But on this night she held her tongue. No way was she going to tell Mama Lu about the apple.
“Rain came down extra hard today,” Mr. Wormbottom said. “Sprang a leak in my window.”
Mama Lu scowled and pointed a floppy slice of white cheese at him. “Ya wouldn’t be complaining about yer accommodations, would ya?”
Mrs. Wormbottom gulped. “No, he’s not complaining. Not complaining one bit.”
“I’m just making conversation,” Mr. Wormbottom said. “Interesting conversation.”
“Pathetic conversation, that’s what yer making. I don’t want to hear no more about the rain. In fact, anyone who talks about the rain ever again will lose spoon privileges,” she snarled. “One of ya morons better come up with something interesting.”
All eyes turned toward Isabelle.
She sank low on the bench, burying her nose in her soup bowl. No way.
“Don’t anyone got anything to say? Yer the boringest tenants in the whole world. Bunch of dimwits, the whole lot of ya.”
“Got a rock stuck in the heel of my boot on the way home,” Mr. Limewig said, widening his eyes hopefully.
“Rock?” Mama Lu cried. “What’s interesting about a rock?”
“Found a mushroom growing under my bed,” Mrs. Limewig said.
Like slugs, mushrooms cropped up all over Runny Cove—along the road, in ditches, under kitchen sinks. But only Isabelle grew them between her toes and no one knew why. And while most everyone in Runny Cove had to deal with itchy mold patches, Isabelle grew more mold patches than anyone else. She had a tendency to grow lichen on her scalp, as well.
“Mushroom? There’s nothing interesting about a mushroom.” Mama Lu’s face turned red. “What about you?” She pointed at Isabelle. “Ya always got something to say. Ya think yer so special just because ya got found on a doorstep and the rest of us didn’t.” She shoved two cubes of orange cheese into her mouth. “My yus ya
