Princess Izzy and the E Street Shuffle

Princess Izzy and the E Street Shuffle by Beverly Bartlett Page B

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Authors: Beverly Bartlett
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was sorely afraid that it would only encourage Her Highness into more high jinks. Prince Raphael was delighted. Sir
     Hubert was mortified.
    Isabella was scared to death.
    She read it that morning over tea. Her husband handed it to her and told her that though he normally discouraged her from
     reading the columns, he thought she should see this one. She smiled pleasantly at the end and said, “That’s nice.” But she
     was thinking that it wasn’t nice at all. It was the most awful thing that had ever happened.
Ethelbald Candeloro knows about Geoffrey!
she thought.
    Ethelbald, she was convinced, was like a cat batting around the mouse rather than biting its head off. She realized suddenly
     that she hated Ethelbald. She hated his ugly mustache and she hated his sick grin and she hated the way he was looking up
     from that column, smugly, as if to acknowledge that he was toying with her.
    It was, she thought, quite apparent. For out of the whole column, one line stood out starkly: “I half expected before the
     first year was out to find photos of her straddling a motorcycle and French-kissing a long-haired American auto mechanic with
     a criminal record.”
    Strictly speaking, Isabella knew that this warning, which she was certain it must be, was a bluff. After all, her one kiss
     with Geoffrey had been leaning against a pickup, not straddling a motorcycle. Besides, it wasn’t a
French
kiss but a good wholesome Bisbanian kiss, she could assure you of that. Geoffrey didn’t have a criminal record. (That high
     school marijuana charge would not have been considered criminal in most of Europe.) And she would have noticed if cameras
     had been sported by any of the dozens of people who had passed them that evening in the dorm parking lot where she and Geoffrey
     had lingered and talked and hugged and finally kissed. Wouldn’t she have noticed?
    In fact, the only person she particularly remembered passing by that night was Jimmy Bennett, a classmate who was himself
     leaving—unenthusiastically, it must be said—that same weekend for his home in Green Bay, Wisconsin. He had been entertaining
     friends for months by loudly lamenting his return home, portraying it as a place so remote in location and so insular in attitude
     that some of the more cynical townspeople claimed Elvis Presley was living out his waning days there, unnoticed by his neighbors.
    “Trust me,” Jimmy would say, “it’s possible. Elvis could jog up and down the streets of Green Bay every day for years, and
     no one would notice. They’re an unobservant lot.”
    “Jog?” Isabella would ask. “Wouldn’t Elvis be rather old by now?”
    “They also can’t count,” Jimmy would say.
    Isabella thought Jimmy was a harmless, funny guy, and so she’d never thought much about how he’d seemed to linger longer than
     strictly necessary that night when he came by to pick up something that Isabella’s roommate had left for him. But now that
     Isabella was thinking about it, she was beginning to remember a few troubling details. For example, the “something” her roommate
     had left for him was a camera. Also, the camera was one the roommate and Jimmy had used on a class project—a journalism class
     project.
    Jimmy had seen her in the parking lot with Geoffrey. Isabella remembered that he’d approached in a hesitant, curious way.
     She had told him to go on up to the dorm room. She’d probably gestured to the window of her room, three flights up and with
     a direct line of sight to where Geoffrey’s truck was parked. She’d said that the door was unlocked, that the camera was on
     the desk. “Help yourself,” she said, and added with a giggle, “Have fun in Green Bay.”
    Jimmy had rolled his eyes and grimaced a little and headed on up. A little later, she saw him leave. At least she thought
     she remembered that, though she could not say for sure now if “a little later” had been minutes or hours. Time had seemed
     to stand still that

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