Freaky Fast Frankie Joe (13 page)

I shake my head no.

“Means the days are getting shorter. You noticed that?”

I nod, even though I'm still confused.

“I need to dedicate my daylight hours to my formula,” she continues. “My eyes are worn out—cataracts, you see. Makes things blurry. And Nova just returned the trial sample of my latest formula. They say I still don't have it right.” She leans close. “I just made a new batch today. Can you see that birthmark?”

The spot on her face looks like it's throbbing. “Yes ma'am, I can see it.”

“Blast!” She sighs. “So when can you start to work for me?”

“Well, what exactly would I be doing?”

“Why, delivering Nova so I can dedicate myself to my formula!”

More deliveries! I need money bad because, thanks to Matt, I've decided to give up scrounging for things. I didn't like being called a thief. Now I'll have to buy whatever else I need.

“So you want me to drop off Nova bags to your customers?”

“Yes, and pick up the money.”

I can't believe it. She knows Mom's in jail, and she still trusts me. On the spot, I go from liking Elsie Peachcott to loving her.

“Okay,” I say. “Can I start right away?”

“Not so fast, buddy. How much you gonna charge a crippled-up old woman?”

Is she trying to make me feel bad so I'll work cheap? She is—she's haggling with me! I grin, remembering the way Mr. Lopez taught me to haggle with people in the markets across the border. “Never pay the asking price, Frankie Joe,” he told me. “Dicker them down to
your
price.”

“Well, depends on how far I have to travel,” I say now. “Um, how about fifty cents per delivery inside the village limits . . . and a quarter a mile for out-of-town deliveries. That's what I charge Mr. Puffin and Mr. Lindholm—a quarter a mile.”

Miss Peachcott looks thoughtful. “That's gonna add up.”

It might, I think, but I'm running out of time.

“Well, you see,” I tell her, “I got homework to do when I get home. And chores!” I suck the spit from between my teeth and shake my head slowly. “FJ won't let me work for you if I don't get my homework and chores done.”

“He won't, huh?”

“No ma'am. And if Nova buys your formula, you'll be on easy street.”

“That's true.” She looks thoughtful. “Well, I guess we have a deal . . . 
if
—”

Uh-oh.

“If . . . what?” I ask.

“
If
you'll agree to be my tester.”

“Tester?”

“Yes, tester. Someone to tell me if I have got the formula right before I send it off to Nova again. They've given me only one more chance. I
must
get it right.”

I helped Mr. Lopez mix his paint color. How hard can it be?

“Okay—”

“
And
,” she interrupts, “if you help me dye my roots.”

“Roots?”

Exasperated, Miss Peachcott parts her hair, exposing white roots below her black-licorice curls. Then she pulls a small brush from her pocketbook. “I use this slanted eye-shadow brush to dab color on the roots, you see, and my hands are not as steady as they once were.”

Her hands
are
shaky.

“So,” I say, taking a closer look at the black blotches on her scalp. Her hair dye is the blackest black I've ever seen, and her scalp is the whitest white. I can't decide which looks worse—the black blotches on her head or the throbbing blotch on her face. “You want me to deliver Nova . . . and be a tester and a dabber.”

She blinks. “Yes, a tester and a dabber.”

We shake hands on the deal.

Pulling the dictionary from my bookshelf, I hunt up the new word I learned today.

sol-stice
\
noun
: 1 :
either of the two points on the elliptic at which its distance from the celestial equator is greatest and which is reached by the sun each year about June 22 and December 22
2 :
the time of the sun's passing a solstice that occurs about June 22 to begin summer and December 22 to begin winter in the northern hemisphere.

Woo-hoo
. Winter doesn't start until December 22. I have more time than I thought I did.

I close the dictionary, feeling good. Now that I'm working for Miss Peachcott
and
delivering pizzas, I can make the money I need long before then.

Lizzie comes through the back door carrying an armload of shopping bags with JCPenney printed on the outside. As soon as we're through eating, she begins opening them.

“Try this on, Frankie Joe.” She holds up a blue quilted parka with an attached hood. “Consider it an early Christmas present.”

Cool
. The jacket is just what I need for the trip.

I put on the jacket and stand for inspection, feeling a little bad because I'll only need it to get me back to Texas. It won't get any use once I get home.

“Perfect fit.” Lizzie turns a smiling face to FJ and the four legitimate Huckaby boys. “Not too big and not too little, so he's got room to grow.”

“Perfect,” FJ echoes.

Huckaby Numbers Two, Three, Four, and Five do not reply. Nor do they smile.

Opening another of the shopping bags, Lizzie holds up funny-looking quilted pants with straps that go over the shoulders.

“Put the bibs on,” Lizzie says, handing them to me. “They go over your other clothes.”

“Now?”

“And try them with the jacket, too,” Lizzie says. “I want to see if the entire outfit is the right size.”

Uh-uh, I think. No way.

I don't move.

“Put them on,” FJ says.

I read the unwritten rule in FJ's eyes that says, Do not argue with Lizzie. Taking off the jacket, I tug the pant straps over my shoulders and slip into the jacket again.

“Is that all?” Johnny asks, hunting through the empty bags. “How come we don't get new bibs?”

“The ones I bought you last year still fit you,” Lizzie says. “I bought them big enough to last two years, remember?”

“But mine's got a hole in the knee,” Johnny says.

“Your mom can patch them,” FJ says. “Frankie Joe doesn't have any winter clothes, so we had to buy him some. Besides, we, uh, we've had some other unexpected expenses come up, so the rest of you will have to make do.”

“That's right,” Lizzie says, opening the last bag. “Now put these Wellingtons on, Frankie Joe. I need to
see if they fit. I like to buy them big, too, so they'll last more than one year.”

Wellingtons? I discover they're rubber boots that come almost to my knees. As soon as I have them on, she hands me mittens for my hands. Blue ones. I stand in front of my audience, feeling like the Michelin Man.

“And I got my fifteen-percent discount,” Lizzie says to FJ. “Which will help a lot given the . . . circumstances.”

Like what, I wonder. That my mom's in jail, and you had to take in an illegitimate son? And he's costing you more for food? And clothes? And fees for the after-school program?

“Looks like you're all set,” FJ says to me. “Haul your new duds upstairs now. Your Responsibility Report's due Sunday. Better make sure it's caught up.”

Responsibility Report—my seventh so far. I slump inside the new clothes. They're so new they don't bend, so I waddle out of the room in my “new duds.”

Just as I'm about to go up the narrow stairs to the attic, I hear a whisper coming from behind me.

“Just 'cause you got new stuff, doesn't mean you'll be staying here,” Matt says.

What's he freaking out over?

I don't know how to respond because Matt is talking in riddles. Little Johnny walks up, saving me the need.

“ 'Cause of you, we didn't get early Christmas presents,” he says, looking like he's about to cry. “I wish you didn't come here, Frankie Joe.”

“Me too,” I mutter, clumping up the stairs.

I feel ridiculous. Folks in Texas don't wear such things. I decide it doesn't matter. I'm planning on being gone soon, so I won't need them—except the jacket.

When I get to the attic, I peel off the clothes and pitch them onto the stack of boxes in the storage area. I feel bad. They probably cost a lot, and Little Johnny didn't get anything—not even a pair of mittens.

I only need the jacket, I think. I'll leave the bibs and boots and mittens for him. He'll grow into them.

Mr. Lopez would really like these colors. The leaves look like red and gold and yellow feathers floating in the air.

I sit on the front stoop watching kids race their bikes. I see Mandy in the street along with others from our fifth-grade class. They race through piles of leaves, making them swirl. It looks like a lot of fun.

The four brothers are inside the house, getting ready for their Saturday-afternoon events.

Maybe just once before I leave . . .

Deciding to make a run through the leaves, I haul my Rover Sport off the porch and ride to the end of the block.

“Hey, Oddball,” Mandy says, riding with me to the start line. “Glad to see you're not hidin' out anymore.”

I can't help but grin at the other oddball. But when I turn around to begin my run through the leaves, I find she's not the only one who will be riding along with me. One by one, our classmates line up on either side of us.

“They want you to race them,” Mandy whispers.

Yeah, I got that.

“I'm not racing,” I tell them. “I just wanna make one run through the leaves.” I take off before anyone can answer.

Mandy takes off after me. They all take off.

Kids and bikes surround me. One kid behind me bumps my Rover Sport, so I pedal faster to get ahead of him. All at once, another kid pulls right in front of me.

“Move over!” I yell. “We're gonna crash!” He doesn't move, so I swerve to one side and begin to pump. When I near the finish line in front of the house, I lean forward, using my weight as momentum. I leave everything behind—trees and houses and bikers.

“Yahoo!” I yell, wheeling to a stop. The leaves swirl around me like I'm in the middle of a leaf tornado.

“You won!” Mandy yells, pulling up next to me. “You won the race!”

“I wasn't racing.” Rolling my bike to the curb, I see the four brothers on the porch.

“Boy, Frankie Joe,” Johnny calls out, “you're pretty fast!”

“
Real
fast,” Luke says. “You beat those others by a mile.”

“I can beat him,” Matt growls. He pulls his bike off the porch and pushes it into the street.

“I don't know.” Mark sounds doubtful. “Frankie Joe
beat me in that race, remember? And he's even faster on his bike.”

“Shut up,” Mandy tells Mark. “Let them race. Just once, I'd like to see someone put Matt in his place.”

All the kids start yelling, “Race! Race!”

“I'm ready,” Matt says, pulling his bike up next to mine. “Let's get to the starting line.”

I look at the racing tires on Matt's bike. I don't stand a chance against those tires. “I'm not gonna race you,” I tell him. “I just wanted to make one run.”

“I dare you,” Matt says.

“No.”

“Double dare you!”

“No.” I'm not about to give Matt, the honor student and Student Council representative, another chance to rub it in.

Matt blows up like a bag of microwave popcorn. “You're chicken!” he yells, turning to the other kids. “Scared Sneaky Freaky Slow Frankie Joe's a chicken!”

Everyone's yells, “Scared Sneaky Freaky Slow Frankie Joe's chicken.”

I can't take it. Before I know it, I'm racing back down the street. I hear the others behind me, yelling “He's gonna race! He's gonna race Matt!”

Are they going to be surprised. They think I'm heading for the starting line, but I'm not.

When I reach the cornfield at the end of the block,
I don't stop. I race down a corn row without slowing down. The long leaves slap me in the face, and I bounce over the roots; but I don't look back. I know that no one will follow me because their skinny tires aren't right for off-road biking.

Only a little longer, I think, letting the corn swallow me up. Soon I'll leave this one-horse town in my dust.

Delivering pizzas has made me tired, but before bed, I revise my escape-to-Texas plan again.

Bedroll
Got it.

Tarp
Have to buy one.

Spare bike tube and flat kit
Buy at the garage downtown.

Pot for cooking
Got it.

Matches to start a fire
Maybe in the kitchen.

Canteen
Use plastic bottles.

Jacket
Got one.

Bungee cord
Got it.

Money
Working on it.

Triple A maps
Got them.

Mementos
Can't leave them behind.

“Wait,” I mumble. “I'll need a change of clothes for when I wash out my dirty ones in the rivers.” I add a pair of jeans and shirt, socks and underwear to my list
and look it over again. I decide to make a quick run downstairs to check out matches. On the ground floor, I wait, listening to see if Matt's following me.

The coast is clear.

I inch my way down the hall but stop at the kitchen door. Someone's talking.

Swell
. FJ and Lizzie are still up. I stand quiet, listening.

“How long you think it'll take?” Lizzie asks.

“He wasn't sure,” FJ answers. “Four to six months, I figure.”

“That long?”