Freaky Fast Frankie Joe (12 page)

“Yes ma'am,” I say, staring at the floor.

She smiles, then looks at me and the other boys. “Oh, I signed you all up to ride in the Oktoberfest parade. It's on the thirty-first, so you need to get streamers on your bikes before then.”

Streamers? No way!

“Okay,” the four “weeds” say in unison.

“There's a good movie on The Disney Channel tonight,” Lizzie says, “and I made a batch of cereal-snack mix. I put two liters of soda in the frig, too, but only
use one. I don't care which, but save the other one for tomorrow. Understood?”

I nod, and the half brothers sing out, “Understood.”

As soon as they're gone, Johnny plops onto the footstool in front of the TV. Mark and Luke sprawl on the oval rug on either side of him. Matt scrunches up on one end of the sofa, and I scrunch up on the other—a no-man's land in between.

“Hey, let's fix our drinks now,” Luke says just before the movie starts. “That way we won't miss any of it. The commercials are only a minute-and-a-half long. That's ninety seconds, not enough time for us to get our drinks.”

“Jeez, Luke,” Mark groans. “How do you know how long the commercials are?”

“I timed them.”

Luke leads us to the kitchen and pulls five glasses from the cupboard. Mark removes a tray of ice from the freezer and pops cubes into the glasses. Matt opens the refrigerator door and takes out a liter of cola.

“Wait,” Johnny says. “I want orange.”

“Well, you're getting cola!” says Matt.

Johnny's bottom lip starts to quiver.

“Don't be a crybaby,” Matt says. “You can have orange tomorrow.”

“Um, I actually want orange, too,” Mark says. “We had cola last time.”

“
Too
 . . . 
bad
,” Matt says, making his voice sound whiny.

“I wanna vote,” Johnny pipes up.

“Vote?” Matt stares at him. “What do you mean, vote?”

Mark jumps in. “Yeah! Remember what Mom said about odd-numbered families? Let's take a vote.”

Before I can protest, Numbers Three, Four, and Five yell, “Vote . . . vote . . . vote!”

Matt's eyes turn slitty. “You want a vote,” he growls, “then we vote. I vote for cola.” He looks at Luke. “What do you want, Luke? Mark and Johnny already decided.”

No fair. He's putting Luke on the spot.

Vote for orange
, I eye-telegraph Luke. But when Luke takes a step backward, I read the writing on the wall.

“I guess cola's okay with me,” he says. “But, uh, that makes it a tie, so”—he turns to me—“that means you have to be the tiebreaker, Frankie Joe.”

I want to strangle Luke. I don't want to be the tiebreaker. What do I care what flavor soda we have?

I shake my head and turn toward the door. “Leave me outta this.”

“No fair,” Johnny says. He's blocking the doorway like he's a three-hundred-pound tackle instead of a forty-pound first-grader. “You gotta play by the rules.”

Great
. Now Little Johnny's throwing rules at me. I suck the spit from between my front teeth. I have nine
months to go until Mom gets out of jail, and if I buck Matt, he'll make my life miserable the whole time—

Wait! I'll be long gone before then!

“I vote for orange,” I blurt out, looking at Matt.

“Orange it is!” Luke uncaps the bottle and sloshes orange soda into glasses. Everyone grabs a glass and heads back to the front room.

On the way, Luke sidles up to me. “Thanks,” he whispers, “I really wanted orange, too. We have cola ninety-eight percent of the time 'cause it's Matt's favorite. It gets real boring.”

Matt's the first one back to the living room, only he doesn't sit down on the sofa. He takes over the footstool in front of the television.

“You're too big,” Johnny says. “Let me sit there.”

“Yeah, move over,” Mark says. “We can't see.”

But Matt won't budge. Mark and Luke lay down on either side of him so they can catch a sliver of the screen. Little Johnny settles next to me on the sofa, where we see a little of the movie and a lot of Matt's head. For the first time in four weeks, I get the feeling that I'm not the only one who hates Matt's guts.

The movie's a science-fiction flick, one of my favorite kinds, but I want to search the attic for things on my escape to Texas plan. I don't like taking things that don't belong to me, but as soon as I get back to Texas and make some more money, I plan to pay for anything I take. I have the six dollars I made today hidden in my
cardboard box in the storage area, but I need it for the trip home.

As soon as I finish my soda, I slide off the sofa.

“Where ya goin'?” Johnny asks.

“To my room to study,” I whisper.

“But why? It's Saturday night. We don't gotta study on Saturday nights.”

I wish for a roll of duct tape to use on his mouth. “Yeah, but I want my grades to get better.”

Mark rolls over and looks at me. “You don't need to worry. I overheard two of the teachers at school talking about you.”

I hesitate. “What'd they say?”

“That you're improving fast.”

I'm improving?

“Yeah,” Luke chimes in. “I saw Dad at school today. He met with Mr. Arnt, and I heard him say that you're doing good.”

FJ's having school conferences with Mr. Arnt and didn't tell me?

“Well . . . that's great,” I say, “but I still want to go upstairs to study.”

Matt turns around slowly and looks at me. “Family rule is NO studying on Saturday night. Why are you insisting on going upstairs?” His eyes are back to slits.

Maybe I shouldn't have gotten so cocky.

“Yeah, well it's not a very good movie. I'd rather read a book.” I leave the room, glancing over my shoulder at Matt. He's watching every step I take, his eyes like daggers.

I'm going to have to be very, very careful around him.

“There's more groceries in the van,” Lizzie says. Matt and I are setting the table for supper. “One of you want to bring them in?”

“I'll get them,” I say. In the van, I search hurriedly for the Triple A maps and find them stuck in a side pocket. I don't feel too bad taking them because I know FJ can get maps free from Triple A. Stuffing them under my shirt, I carry the grocery bag inside and set it on the counter.

“Be back in a minute,” I say to Lizzie. Hurrying upstairs, I hide the maps in the box with my money stash.

“Where'd you go?” Matt asks when I get back to the kitchen.

“Bathroom to wash up.” Ever since I left the room early on movie night, Matt's been watching me like a hawk.

“Why didn't you use the one down here?”

“Didn't think about it.” When his eyes become slits, I decide to take out the trash.

“Frankie Joe volunteered to bring in the groceries,” Lizzie tells FJ when I get back. As we sit down to eat, she smiles approvingly at me. So does FJ.

I put a fake-mouth smile on my face, feeling like a traitor.

“Suck up,” Matt whispers.

I bury my head in the Triple A maps, calculating mileage between Clearview and Laredo. I'm glad now that FJ marked all the highways with a yellow highlighter because it means I don't have to do any navigating on my own. I'll take roads that run alongside them. County roads. Farm roads. Since I'll be able to hear the traffic on the highways, I won't lose my way.

A long column of numbers fills an entire notebook page—the mileage numbers between points on the maps for Illinois, Missouri, Oklahoma, and Texas. I add them up.

Fourteen hundred miles! Did we come that far?

Maybe we did. I slept a lot.

I look at my paper again to make sure I put the comma where it belonged. No mistakes.

One thousand, four hundred miles.

Wonder how long that's gonna take?

An hour later, I'm still working—doing calculations and checking my answers and making adjustments for bumpy back roads and hiding out in cornfields. Finally I'm satisfied.

“Fifty miles a day. I can do that easy.”

I divide total miles by my daily average: 1400 divided by 50 equals 28 days.

“A month! A month to make the trip that took us two days to drive!” My stomach starts to hurt. “Jeez, I can't do this. . . . It's too long. . . . I'll never make it.”

Mr. O'Hare wouldn't give up
. The voice comes from inside my head.
He's been looking for a space rock for ages and still goes out every day. He'd never give up
.

“Yeah . . . he wouldn't. And I'm not a quitter, either.”

I think back to my going-away party at Mrs. Jones's. She told me to look upon my trip here as an adventure. And now the trip home will really be one.

I start to feel better. Even excited.

“Lights out, Frankie Joe,” FJ calls from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes sir,” I say.

I fold up my work, put it into my backpack, and turn out the light. My plan is taking shape. All I have to do is make sure to leave before it snows.

All of a sudden, I feel disappointed. I really wanted to see snow.

It's still dark when I crawl out of bed and pull on my clothes. The stairs creak when I go downstairs, and I hope a certain someone doesn't hear me. Matt's been dogging my tracks ever since the night I made excuses for not watching the movie. I've had to get sneaky to find what I need for the trip. December and snow will be here in a month.

I slip out the back door and head for the storage shed, hoping to find an old tent or tarp. I've already found a ragged sleeping bag and a dented skillet in an alley, picked up before the garbagemen came. And I took a few Ziploc bags from the kitchen. I felt bad that I couldn't pay Lizzie for them. I plan to leave her a dollar when I go. I also plan to pay for the tarp or tent, too, if I find one in the shed.

If ninja-dog Matt will let me find one, that is. He's been on me like a bloodhound.

It's cold in the shed so I scrounge hurriedly through cardboard boxes stacked in the corner. I pull a blue polyurethane tarp out of one.

Pay dirt!

“What'cha doin' in there?” Matt stands in the doorway of the storage shed, his eyes drilling a hole in me.

“Looking,” I say. “That a crime?”

“It is if you're planning on stealing whatever it is you're looking for.”

Stealing? It's not really, I think, because I'm gonna pay for it when I leave. But I can't tell him that.

I decide to play dumb. “What makes you think I'm planning on stealing something?”

“Because you're being sneaky.” He looks at the tarp I'm holding. “What're you planning on doing with that?”

Busted. No way out. I have to lie.

“Uh, I'm planning on setting my bike on it so I can grease the gears. They're sticking and, uh . . . the Oktoberfest parade's today. I got up early to fix them.”

“If you weren't so stupid, Sneaky Freaky Slow Frankie Joe, you'd know grease would just gum up those gears. WD-40's what you need to use, and there's a can sitting right there on the workbench.”

Yeah, I know. Mr. O'Hare taught me that. I'm just a bad liar.

“Oh, right,” I say. I put the tarp back into the box and return it to the shelf.

Matt hesitates before going back in the house. “I know what's up, you know.”

“You do?” My heart thumps. How did he figure out that I'm planning to run away?

“Yeah, and I'm gonna find a way to stop it. Then you won't be number one anymore.”

Huh? If I leave, he'll be number one automatically.

“What are you talking about, Matt?”

“Don't play dumb.”

Who's playing?

“Matt, I
really
don't know what you're talking about.”

“Liar! Like you haven't noticed those meetings Dad's been going to.”

I feel my hands curl into fists, angry because Matt called me a liar. Then I uncurl my fingers, thinking, I
am
a liar.

As Matt walks back to the house, I think about what he said. “You mean those school conferences with Mr. Arnt?” I call out. “What's that got to do with anything?”

The door slams behind him, so I don't get a reply. I stand there alone, shivering in the dark.

Busted and insulted, I think. And no tarp.

“Oh . . . no,” I mumble as I walk back to the house. “And now I have to ride in that stupid parade.”

The embarrassment is huge. I'm the biggest kid riding a bike in the parade. And there are red, white, and blue
streamers tied to my handlebars and clickers on the spokes.

Booths are set up all around the square, selling sauerkraut and brats, dumplings and hot potato salad, apple cider and root beer. Mr. Lindholm and his wife wave at me, and Mr. Puffin is with them. All my teachers are there, too, even Mr. Arnt. I figure the entire county has turned out. When I pass the Quilt Circle booth, Lizzie and Mrs. Bixby run into the street, whistling at me.

I want to ride off the edges of the earth. As soon as I reach the end of the block, I rip the streamers off my Rover Sport. A familiar voice coming from behind makes me jump.

“If I didn't know better, I'd think you were avoiding me.”

“Oh. How ya doin', Miss Peachcott? I've been busy,
real
busy. You know, with homework and chores and delivering pizza.”

“Yes, I hear you've started a delivery business. That's why I needed to see you.”

“It is?”

“You see, I'm crippled up.” She holds her cane with its black rubber stop in front of my nose. “And we're nearing the winter solstice. You know what
that
means.” She pauses, studying my face. “You do know what that means?”