Franny Parker (2 page)

I covered my ears before I even reached the kitchen.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” Daddy said by way of greeting me. He handed over the last piece of bacon with a wink.

“All right, everyone, what's the plan?” Mama asked. She pulled a pencil from the thick tangles of her curly hair.

“I'm off to the pool,” Sidda announced, fussing over the pink skirt of her new bathing suit. Even though my sister was just a year older than me, she was a professional teenager.

“Well, I'm off to the bank,” Daddy said, gathering up the morning newspaper. “After I stop by the river bend. I think that egret has an egg in her nest.” His eyes flashed with excitement. Daddy was a loan officer at Morton Savings, but most people in town called him the Bird Man. He never left home without his binoculars.

Ben peered at his scrambled eggs suspiciously. “Is this egret?”

“Of course not,” Mama replied with a smile. “It's dinosaur.”

Ben's eyes widened. “Cool! T. rex for breakfast.” And then he stood on his chair and abruptly launched into his day of friends and swimming lessons and peanut butter sandwiches and more friends, which basically boiled down to one word. Camp.

“Whew!” Mama laughed, pretending to wipe her forehead with exhaustion. “You are the busiest five-year-old in town!”

Ben nodded proudly. “It's a tough job,” he said, reaching for another pancake.

Mama turned her smile on me. “How 'bout you, Franny?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Just taking care of the patients,” I said.

Mama nodded her approval. In June I'd started a bit of a makeshift hospital for injured animals in our backyard barn. Just like Mama, I was a lifelong animal lover, and it seemed I had a special knack for crossing paths with broken-winged birds or orphaned mouse babies. It had turned into quite a project for the whole family, except for Sidda, of course.

“I have an idea,” Ben whispered, reaching into his overalls pocket. “Babysit George and Martha.” He placed a second turtle right on Sidda's plate.

“Eew!” she shrieked.

“You mean turtle-sit?” I asked.

“It'll only cost you fifty cents,” Ben stated. He clapped his hands as George climbed slowly over Sidda's toast.

“Ben,” Daddy said, “I believe
you're
supposed to pay the person who does the sitting.”

Mama pulled Ben down by his overalls and smacked a big kiss on my head as she swept up his lunch box and the loose turtles in one hand.

Ben caught my arm in a sticky-milk grip. “Okay, okay. I'll only charge you twenty cents. Please, Franny?”

Sidda smirked. “She's got no plans. Other than her stinky critters.”

“How would you know?” I asked, watching them stand from the table.

“I'm sure Franny has all kinds of excitement planned,” Dad said, grabbing his car keys.

“Don't forget to feed them lunch,” Ben told me, as he placed his turtles back in their bin. “You'll have to dig up worms. Big, fat ones.”

Mama smiled sympathetically from the doorway. “I'm dropping Ben and Sidda off, then going shopping. No riding Snort until Daddy or I get home, right?”

I nodded glumly. The Parker Pony Rules of Safety. I'd heard them for years, and had yet to break one. Helmet, boots, grownup. Check, check, check.

“I believe these are for you,” Sidda said as she dropped a plastic bin at my feet with a disgusted thud. I peered at the two turtles inside. They were carefully nestled on a bed of damp moss, rocks, and leaves placed around the plastic perimeter. Ben's true loves.

Dad was wrong, I thought. No exciting plans for me.

Until I heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

I
was ankle-deep in river mud, on worm patrol for Ben's turtles, when I heard it. Peering up over the riverbank, I caught sight of a faded blue Ford pickup truck veering left, where the driveway split to the neighbors' empty cabin. It had been empty over a year. Now, the truck rolled to a stop and the doors swung open on either side.

Woo, woo, woof!
Jax, our yellow Lab, sprang off our porch and loped across the yard.

“Get back here, Jax!” I hollered, clambering out of the riverbed after him. He looked over his shoulder as if to say,
I know I'm a bad dog, but I just can't help it
. I chased him next door as a woman lowered the tailgate with a bang and began pulling boxes off the truck. Big boxes, like the kind that mean you plan to stay awhile.

“Lucas, come help,” she called. In response Jax leaped up and licked her nose.

“Well, you're not Lucas,” she said to him. She smiled at me, pushing at the long hair piled on her head, all wispy. Pretty. I smiled back.

“That's Jax,” I said, reaching out to shake hands. It was then I realized I was still holding a worm. There it was, wriggling in my hand, right under her nose. Not knowing what else to do, I stuck the worm in my pocket and shrugged.

“Sorry about that. I'm Franny.”

She laughed, and to my surprise she shook my wormy hand anyway.

“Did we interrupt your fishing?”

I looked at my dirty feet, feeling shy. “Oh, no. The worm's for my little brother.”

The woman frowned.

“For his pet turtles,” I explained.

“Ah, well, it looks like a good juicy one. I'm Lindy. And this here,” she said, pointing to a boy climbing out of the cab, “is Lucas.”

The first thing I noticed about Lucas Dunn was his eyes. They were gray-blue, like the stones Ben collects in the stream. They were cool and watery, and for just a moment they made me feel a little sad. His hair was light like Lindy's and he was tall. He looked down at my muddy toes and smiled. Suddenly I felt foolish standing there like a kid, saying nothing.

I sucked in my breath. “I'm Franny.”

“Short for Frances?” Lucas asked.

“Francesca,” I said, blushing. “It's my aunt's name.”

“Nice.” And he hopped onto the tailgate and began rummaging through boxes.

“Where are you from?” I asked Lindy.

“Oh, here and there,” she said, taking down a box Lucas handed her.

I brought them lemonade while they unpacked, stacking the boxes on the dusty front porch of the cabin. They didn't have a lot, but what they did have was interesting. There was a heavy potting wheel, which took a lot of careful maneuvering
to unload, that Lindy said I could try. And a small square kiln with a dented lid. And several boxes of clay she opened to show me. Red like the desert.

“I'm a potter,” she explained, showing me her fingernails, dry and red like the clay.

“My mother's an artist,” I told her. “Her hands are a different color every day.”

Besides the pottery supplies, there was a giant box of books, barely stuck together with tape. Novels spilled out of the top, like they were leaping off the truck.

“My boy sure likes to read,” Lindy said.

“Me, too,” I told her, watching Lucas out of the corner of my eye.

In no time Lindy was pulling the last box off the truck. “Thanks for the lemonade, Franny. Come by for a spin on the potting wheel.” And she disappeared into the cabin. Lucas followed, tossing a book in the air.

“Francesca, catch.” And then he, too, disappeared into the little cabin. I looked down at the worn cover in my hand.
The Yearling
.

“Yay!” Ben shouted, when I announced we had new neighbors that evening before dinner. “Maybe there's a boy like me. Maybe he likes turtles!”

“Let's hope not,” Sidda said, thunking down a dinner plate by my new book. “Move your junk, Franny, so I can set the table.”

“Now, Sid,” Mama warned. She set the leftover squash soup on the stove and turned her attention to unpacking the shopping bags strewn across the kitchen floor.

“There is a boy,” I told Sidda, whisking
The Yearling
away. “About our age.”

This sparked Sidda's attention, and now she was suddenly Miss Manners. “Well let's have them over! We are neighbors, after all.” She finished with the plates and started on the silverware, pausing to admire her reflection in a giant soupspoon.

“So, you've met them?” Daddy asked, joining us in the kitchen.

“Yeah, Franny, how
do
you know?” Sidda asked, narrowing her eyes.

“It's just two of them, Lucas and Lindy.” I turned to Sidda. “Lucas is the one who gave me the book.” Her eyes widened.

“Good. There's a boy and he likes turtles.” Ben nodded.

“We don't know that, Ben!” Sidda snapped.

“Well, it'll be good to have a new neighbor,” Mama said. “Did they say where they came from?”

I shrugged. For all her talking, it was the one thing Lindy Dunn hadn't said.

Dad took over the groceries, and Mama carried a bag of new paints over to her easel in the family room, dumping them into her art bin.

Ben reached for a blue one. “Wow,
aquamarine
! I bet the turtles would love to be
aquamarine
!” he declared.

Sidda scoffed. “You are not painting those disgusting turtles!”

“But they're
painted
turtles!” He waved the tube at her.

“That's their name, Ben. Just a stupid name. It does not mean they are supposed to be
painted
aquamarine!” Sidda argued. Her hands were on her hips now.

I poked Ben, trying not to giggle. He was a master at stirring Sidda up.

“Mom,” she complained, “tell him he cannot paint the turtles aquamarine.”

Mama was unpacking canvases now. “Ben,” she warned, but I could see the grin through her wavy hair.

“Okay, okay,” he groaned, grabbing a tube of red. “Then how about
magenta
?”

E
arly Monday morning, I was in the barn grooming Snort when a freckled face popped over the stall door.

“What page are you on?” Pearl Jones's wild red hair stood on end and Snort reared back in fright.

“Easy, boy,” I said. “It's just Pearl.” Pearl was my best and oldest friend, but her wild hair and sudden appearances never failed to startle the pony, or the family, for that matter.

The barn was the only place to escape the heat, and I'd spent the morning tucked in a corner of Snort's dark stall with
The Yearling
. Snort didn't mind.

“Want to ride?” I asked.

Pearl's eyes narrowed and she stared at the book resting on the stall door. “You didn't answer the question.”

“Oh, Pearl, not again,” I said with a sigh.

The summer reading frenzy had begun last month. Poor Pearl. Her mother had a hand in this, I knew. The Aubree Library began its annual summer reading contest the day school let out, and Mrs. Jones's eye was always on the lookout for a prize: in this case, $100 and a tall gold trophy for the kid who read the most books. Pearl, for being such a shy and reasonable girl, had the misfortune of a not-so-shy and rather unreasonable mother.

Pearl was the oldest child in a family of six kids, which meant she had the dubious distinction of being the first representative of the Jones family in every endeavor the public might witness. No accomplishment or event occurred without Pearl's mother pushing her toward every opportunity for glory. During Girl Scout cookie sales, Mrs. Jones bought and ate every box that Pearl couldn't sell just to increase their tally. She gained at least twenty pounds. At soccer games, Mrs. Jones was known to stick out her foot when a girl on the opposing team ran into the sidelines. And at horse shows, Mrs. Jones would swat a pony playfully on the rear end, causing it to buck and launch the poor rider clinging to its back.

Despite her mother's foul play, poor Pearl still hadn't come in first place in anything. So this year her mother had aimed her powers at the reading contest as their big chance. Every moment was a reading moment, according to Mrs. Jones. Pearl even had to read in line for the ice cream truck at the town pool. Mrs. Jones most likely wouldn't notice if Pearl was drowning, but Pearl had better not lay out her beach towel without at least two books on it.

“So?” Pearl asked, swiping at a red curl hanging in her eyes.

“Page thirty,” I said, giving up. “How's Nancy Drew?”

Pearl frowned, sinking onto a bale of hay. “Boring, that's how.”

“Let's go for a ride,” I said, dusting off my saddle.

I went to the tack room for Snort's saddle. The day Mama had given the saddle to me was the day I got Snort, four years ago, on my eighth birthday. I'd been tearing through the presents looking for a brush, a hoof pick, any sign of a pony. As the pile of presents got smaller and smaller, I'd tried to put on a brave face. A diary from Sidda, a sweater from Grandma Rae, a macramé necklace from Ben. When all the boxes were open, I sat in the pile of wrapping paper and thanked everyone, trying hard not to let the tears pushing at my eyelids escape. And then Mama took my hand, pulled me out to the porch, and led me to the swing where it sat. A saddle with a big red bow.
Her
childhood saddle. The same tired old saddle I'd climbed onto in our attic for years. And now it was mine. With my very own pony to wear it.