Freaky Fast Frankie Joe (16 page)

“Five dollars each. That's . . . that's—”

I finish the calculation for him. “Ten dollars.”

“Plus tax. I took three five-dollar bills out of my savings, and I got money back.” He pulls money from his pocket to show me.

“Your savings? Wow! Where'd you get so much money?”

“Dad sets up a Christmas Club account every year for us. He puts money in it every month. . . .” He pauses. “Only he told us he had to cut back this year 'cause there'll be five accounts now, and he's got other 'spenses.”

Great
. Now I'm the Grinch that stole Christmas.

Johnny adds, “I gotta wrap them up today 'cause we're decorating the tree tomorrow, and I gotta put them under it.”

Tree? I forgot.

“What'd you get them?” Johnny repeats.

“Um, nothing yet. You better leave now so I can go shopping, okay?”

He smiles. “Okay.”

“You think I can get two gifts for ten dollars, too?”

“Sure. They have lots of stuff on sale 'cause Christmas is gettin' close. The lady there gave me a deal on my gloves. She's real nice.”

He leans close and begins to whisper even though there's no one to hear us. “Let's put our stuff under the tree together, okay? It'll be our secret.”

Our secret. If Johnny knew the real secret I was keeping, I bet it wouldn't stay secret long.

I reach the gift shop just thirty minutes before it closes. The store is a Christmas fairyland, with packages of spicy teas in colorful boxes, chocolates stuffed with cherries, and trays of jewelry that sparkle red and green.

“You need help, Frankie Joe?” A thin, silver-haired woman at the counter smiles at me.

I look at her curiously. “You know my name?”

“Well, of course,” she laughs. “Everyone in town knows
your
name. You're that enterprising Huckaby boy that started a delivery service.”

I feel my face turn warm. Sometimes I just want to yell out the reason I'm being so enterprising.

“My name's Ellen Thompson,” she says. “You look around all you want.”

“I guess I'll take these,” I tell her a few minutes later. I hold out two fleece scarves I've picked up off a counter.
One blue floral and one brown plaid. The scarves cost five dollars each, so I hand her three fives. “They're for FJ and Lizzie.”

“Oh, your parents are just gonna love these! And I know they'll get a lot of use from them, too. This winter's turning out to be a doozy.”

Your parents? The words sting like ice pellets. Lizzie is not my mother, I want to say. And FJ is like a warden.

Mrs. Thompson hands me four dollar bills and thirty cents in change. But before I can take the change, she closes her fingers around it.

“Oh wait!” she says, her forehead squeezing into wrinkles. “What about your brothers?”

Brothers? They're mutants, I think, and I don't want to buy them anything. All I want is my change back.

“I know—chocolate-covered pretzels!” Without warning she pulls four chocolate-covered pretzels from a jar on the counter.

I look at the price on the jar: Fifty cents each. “But that's not enough money—”

“Well now, I think it's just enough.”

Before I can blink, the coins disappear into the cash till. My escape money is disappearing faster than snowdrifts in front of a snowplow.

“I'll just gift wrap all this up for you.” She smiles an extraordinarily big smile. “No charge.”

As she tears Christmas paper off a big roll, I
remember something important. I haven't gotten Mom anything for Christmas. As Mrs. Thompson wraps the presents, I walk around the shop.

Mom won't need scarves or earmuffs or gloves in Texas. And I don't have enough money for expensive things, like wall plaques and teapots and coffeemakers . . . unless I spend more of my escape money.

What should I do? Buy Mom a nice gift? Or save my money so I can be waiting when she gets out of jail?

I decide that Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without a package to open. Especially for someone in jail. I pick up a bag of potpourri—a mix of dried flower petals and scented berries—that would make her cell smell nice. The price on the package is marked ten dollars.

Ten dollars! Quickly I do the math, figuring how many deliveries I would need to make to earn that much. Ten dollars divided by fifty cents is twenty. Twenty deliveries to buy Mom a present, unless . . .

“All finished, Frankie Joe.”

I look at Mrs. Thompson, wondering if she would cut a deal for “that enterprising Huckaby boy.” I decide to try dickering her down to
my
price. Five dollars and not a penny more.

“Thanks,” I say as I take the bag holding my packages. “I'll be back tomorrow. I, uh, I need a gift for someone else, too.”

“Oh?”

I can read the curiosity in Mrs. Thompson's eyes, but I leave the shop without answering. Some secrets can't be trusted to anyone. Especially in a one-horse town like Clearview.

I sneak past the Saturday Quilt Circle. Since I've started my delivery business, Lizzie has given me a reprieve from Saturday tutoring. But I know if Mrs. Bixby sees me, I'm doomed. I need to get to the gift shop so I can buy Mom a Christmas present. I pause, trying to remember which board on the landing is the squeaky one.

Creak
. Wrong one.

Mrs. Bixby is in the front hallway in a flash. “Stop right there, Frankie Joe,” she says. Her eyes are extra fidgety.

The rest of the Quilt Circle troop is behind her. Including Lizzie. The entire group stares at me as if an expectation hasn't been met.

Mrs. Bixby says, “Well?”

I look to Lizzie for a translation.

“The village president drew for the quilt.” Lizzie's voice sounds hoarse, and her eyes are round as quarters.
“And no one's claimed it yet. The winning number is 7–7–7.”

7–7–7. My heart is pounding. I bolt upstairs.

“Where'd I put it?” I look inside my book from Mrs. Jones, and the one from Mr. O'Hare. Then I remember that I'm using the raffle ticket for a bookmark in my dictionary. Pulling it out quickly, I read 7 . . . 7 . . . 7.

“I won,” I whisper. Then I start yelling, “I won I won I won!”

Clear from the first floor, I hear the Quilt Circle calling out, “He won! He won!” The stairs creak, and I see that Lizzie has climbed all the way to the attic.

“Oh, Frankie Joe,” she says, rushing to me. “I'm so happy for you. Do I need to guess who you're giving it to?”

For a second, I wonder if she thinks I'm giving it to her. Then I decide that's a dopey idea because Lizzie has closets full of blue-ribbon quilts. So I just grin.

“I knew it! Martha Jane's getting a handmade quilt from home. It's just the
perfect
Christmas present.” She smothers me with a hug.

Yeah, it
is
perfect. Now I can save my escape money to give Mom the best present of all.

Me.

Lizzie helps me package the quilt for mailing. The squares of soybean green and corn gold look like an aerial photograph of Clearview, Illinois.

“This will be a good remembrance,” Lizzie says. “Don't you think so, FJ?”

He's sitting at the table, writing out an address label for the package. “Real nice remembrance,” he says.

Remembrance. That's a new word for me. It sounds like a nice word, but did Lizzie's eyes look sad when she said it? I file the word away to check on later.

Lizzie brings out a box of Christmas cards. “Pick out one for your mother,” she tells me. “And if you like, take some for other friends you'd like to send cards to.”

FJ pulls a ten-dollar bill from his wallet. “This should cover postage for the package. Post office closes soon. Better hurry.”

I look at the money that FJ hands me. It doesn't feel right that he should have to pay to mail Mom's present.

“Thanks,” I say, “but I'll use my own money.” I pick out four cards and rush upstairs.

Watch the mail for a present
, I write in Mom's card.
Be seeing you soon! XOXOXO
. I address the card to her in care of the Webb County Texas Jail.

I write the same thing in cards to Mrs. Jones, Mr. O'Hare, and Mr. Lopez:
I'll be coming to see you soon. Keep an eye out for me. Your friend, Frankie Joe Huckaby
. I address their cards in care of the Lone Star Trailer Park, Laredo, Texas.

Making a dash down the stairs, I put the package and cards into my bike basket and head for the post
office. It's five minutes before closing when I burst through the door.

“My goodness, Frankie Joe,” the postmaster says, looking startled. “What's your hurry?”

“Need to get this package to Texas by Christmas Day,” I say, breathless.

“Let me check the zone.” She looks at the zip code on the package and checks a chart. “Oh my goodness, I need to hold the truck!”

I watch as she races to the back door.

She's smiling when she comes back. “Good thing you weren't five minutes later. If the package leaves today, it should have a good chance of reaching Laredo by Christmas.”

“And these cards, too?” I hand her the four Christmas cards.

“I'll get them on the truck as well.”

“Thanks,” I say.

Now everyone will know that I'm coming home soon.

The front room smells like pine air freshener. The Christmas tree is huge, the biggest tree I've ever seen. FJ strings lights around it, and the tree twinkles like a thousand stars. Lizzie pops corn, and we make strings out of it. Then we do the same thing with cranberries. Because I'm taller, I hang glass balls on the upper
branches, and my half brothers fill in the middle and bottom.

“What do you think, Frankie Joe?” Lizzie asks, standing back to admire the tree.

“It's the first real Christmas tree I've ever seen. My Mom thinks Christmas trees are a waste of money. But Mrs. Jones lets me help decorate her artificial tree every year.”

“Artificial ones are nice too—and almost as real-looking as a live one,” says Lizzie.

“Sounds like you have nice friends back there,” FJ says.

“Yes sir, the best.”

“It's time, Frankie Joe.” Johnny grins as he pulls his Christmas gifts from behind his back.

“Oh yeah.” I run upstairs and bring mine down. I place my six wrapped gifts next to Johnny's.

Lizzie begins to cry.

The brothers are speechless when they see that they have presents, too.

“That was real nice, Frankie Joe,” FJ tells me, putting his hand on my shoulder.

I wish it had been my idea.

Just before lights-out, I look up a new word in my dictionary.

re-mem-brance
\ noun : a memory of a person, thing, or event.

I crawl into the squeaky metal bed underneath the window that looks onto the snowy backyard. But in my mind's eye, I'm seeing a different scene: one with cactus and sagebrush and colored like a brown paper bag. . . .

All at once, it's last year, and I'm back at the Lone Star Trailer Park. Mom is waiting for a friend to pick her up to go dancing. She's wearing her new blouse with fringe on the sleeves and her red cowgirl boots. “Come on,” she says, “I'll teach you to line dance.” We laugh as I try to follow her feet. When we hear a car horn outside, she tells me not to wait up for her. “You forgot again,” I yell as she races out the front door. “I'm staying over at Mrs. Jones's tonight, remember?” She gives me a wave, and I head for Mrs. Jones's trailer.

I love helping Mrs. Jones decorate her tree. Her ornaments are fun because she made them herself. Fuzzy snowflakes crocheted out of white yarn. Tin drums made out of Vienna sausage cans she glued felt on. Toy soldiers made from wooden clothespins she painted red and blue. Mr. O'Hare always comes, too, since he doesn't have a family like Mr. Lopez. Like always, he brings a fruitcake he bought at Felipe's. After we finish decorating the tree, Mrs. Jones heats apple cider in a pot on the stove, and we eat fruitcake, which I pretend to like. . . .

A remembrance, I think. I'm having a remembrance. I feel warm all over.

But as my eyes grow heavy, a question slips into my half-asleep, half-awake mind. Why would such a nice word make Lizzie look sad?

Early Christmas morning, Lizzie calls to me from the bottom of the stairs. “Your mom's on the phone. Hurry down!”

I'm downstairs in two shakes. When I reach the kitchen, I hear FJ talking.

“. . . and he's doing real well in school, too, making giant strides.” He glances my way. “Wait, he's here now. I'll put him on.” He hands me the phone. “She can't talk long, and the reception's poor.”

I'm so breathless, I can hardly talk. “Hi Mom, did you get the package?”

“Yes I did! The quilt is beautiful! It got here yesterday.”

“You like it? The Quilt Circle made it.”

“Well of course I like it. It's amazing.”

“It would probably win a blue ribbon at the county fair.”

She laughs. “They still have those things? Tell me, how could you afford such a pretty thing? It looks expensive.”

“Oh no. Two dollars is all the ticket cost me.”

“Ticket? I don't understand.”

“It was a raffle. Each ticket cost two dollars and I bought one ticket and I won. I won the quilt!”

“Well now,” she says, pausing. “That is an amazing story, a
most
amazing story. Tell me, how many tickets did the Quilt Circle sell for this raffle?”

“Um, I don't know exactly. They printed off a thousand tickets and my number was 7–7–7, so I figure they sold at least that many.”