Freaky Fast Frankie Joe (17 page)

“At two dollars apiece? Why, I could get five bucks a pop down here—”

The line goes silent, and dead air crackles in my ear. “Mom? Mom, are you still there?”

“Yes, I'm still here . . . but it's time for me to go. I'm sorry I couldn't send you anything for Christmas. Tell you what. I'll make it up to you soon as I get out, okay? I got a friend that's on top of a sure-fire deal.”

Sure-fire deal. . . .

“No, it's okay. I don't need a present—” I hear dead space crackle in my ear again, and then a buzz. “Mom—Mom!” The connection has been broken.

I look at the Huckabys—all six of them. Even the four ninjas have come downstairs for the occasion. “She liked the quilt,” I say. “It, uh, it was a real good . . . remembrance.”

“Well,” FJ says, looking at Lizzie, “since we're all up, why don't we open presents now and have breakfast later.”

“Good idea.” Lizzie leads the way to the front room.

I follow behind, but I don't care about presents. I've already had the best present of all. Mom loved my quilt.

“But I thought I was gonna get a cell phone,” Matt says, looking at his stash of opened gifts. Mountains of ripped paper and ribbons fill the front room.

“Yeah, and a new electronic game,” Mark says.

Luke and Johnny look disappointed, too.

“We talked about this,” FJ says, giving them his look. “As soon as things have . . . settled down, we'll see about those things.”

He talked to them without me there? Of course, I think. He was explaining how much extra I'm costing them, which is why they didn't get what they wanted.

Even if it's a skimpy Christmas, all of us—legitimate as well as illegitimate—get new jeans and shirts and socks. Plus board games like IQ and Scrabble to share. I figure they're meant to help us be all that we can be.

Lizzie and FJ really seem to like the scarves that I give them. And Huckaby Numbers Two, Three, Four, and Five wolf down their chocolate-covered pretzels before breakfast.

They didn't give me anything, but I don't care.
Considering I'm the cause of them getting ripped off for Christmas, I don't say anything.

At dinner Lizzie lets me pick my favorite piece of turkey because I'm new. I choose a huge drumstick, and FJ takes the other one. I can almost see smoke coming out of Matt's ears. For the first time since I arrived, I like being number one.

“Just wait till summer gets here,” he whispers as we're clearing the table. “I'll show you. I'm gonna leave you in my dust.”

“I already told you,” I whisper back. “I don't wanna race you.”

“Chicken! I'm gonna tell everyone that you're a chicken-livered coward!”

Another nickname. I could hear the taunt that would be thrown at me: Chicken-livered Freaky Sneaky Slow Frankie Joe.

“Well,” Matt says. “What'd'ya say? I'm not gonna quit until you race me.”

I don't need Huckaby Number Two dogging my every move for the rest of the winter. I need to make up for the money I've spent on presents and postage.

“All right, all right,” I mumble. “I'll race you . . . in April.”

Matt looks puzzled. “Why April?”

“Um, because you can't count on the snow being
gone until then.” I don't tell him that I plan on being gone before the race. “Better to play it safe. This winter's been a doozy.”

Matt blinks. “Guess that makes sense. School will be out for spring break, too. Okay then, second week in April. Deal?”

Second week in April. I like that date. I'll be
long
gone by then.

“Deal,” I say, grinning.

I'm watching The Disney Channel with Mark, Luke, and Johnny. Matt is working on a special project in the kitchen.

“I'm thirsty,” Johnnie says. “Go get us some more apple juice, Frankie Joe. We're all out.”

Lizzie made homemade pretzels and caramel corn to celebrate New Year's Eve. FJ said we could stay up to watch the ball drop in Times Square tonight.

“Why me?”

“ 'Cause you're biggest. You can carry heavy stuff.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

In the kitchen, Lizzie and FJ are sitting at the table with Matt. Lizzie is cutting out paper snowflakes, and FJ is gluing blue crepe paper to a shoe box with a slit in the top. Matt is pasting one of his school pictures to a big poster.

Lizzie smiles at me. “You boys doing okay in there?”

“Yes ma'am. But we're out of juice.”

I peek over Matt's shoulder. One of his school pictures is stuck in the middle of a giant snowflake. Smaller snowflakes are glued around the edges. Underneath the picture, he's printed, #1
BEST CHOICE FOR ICE CRYSTAL PRINCE
.

“Ice Crystal Prince? What's that?”

“A contest held for fifth-graders,” FJ says. “It's a way to break up the long winter. Snowflakes look like ice crystals, which is how the contest got its name.” He laughs quietly. “We've got plenty of both this time of year.”

“So . . . it's a popularity contest?”

“Oh, it's more than that,” Lizzie says. “It's a way to recognize an outstanding fifth-grade girl and boy. Winners are announced in February. Each fifth-grader is given two ballots—one for a girl and one for a boy—and have this month to vote.” She indicates the shoe box that FJ is working on. “Ballot boxes are placed in the school principal's office. Students go there to cast their votes.”

She hands me a liter of apple juice. “Matt came up with his own slogan. What do you think?”

I think Matt has number one on the brain, I think, reading his slogan again.

FJ and Lizzie are looking at me. Matt is waiting for my answer, too, his eyes narrow slits.

“I think he's a shoo-in,” I say, turning to leave.

“You got that right,” Matt says, grinning his cocky grin.

“Well now, I heard Pete Riley is running,” Lizzie says. “And Freddy Mendez, too. They're both nice boys.”

Matt's face clouds up. “Are you saying I might lose?”

“Your mother's just saying it doesn't pay to count your chickens before they're hatched,” FJ says. “You have a month to convince your classmates you're the best candidate.”

Lizzie smiles her big smile. “That's right. You just have to make sure your classmates know you're running.” Suddenly she looks at me. “You're in the same grade, Frankie Joe. Do you have any ideas?”

Great
.

“Um, maybe more posters? The more people that see him, the more votes he'll get. That's what politicians do.”

“Your brother's right.” Lizzie hands Matt another piece of poster board. “I'll cut out more snowflakes.”

Brother? No way!

“I'll help,” FJ says, giving me an approving nod.

I leave with the apple juice, listening to the sound of scissors going
snip-snip
.

“Tomato soup and grilled-cheese sandwiches for supper,” Lizzie announces.” She sets the food on a table. “Show your brothers the posters you made, Matt.”

Even though they are all the same, Matt shows us each of the six posters he plans to put up on the first
day back at school. The others applaud every time he holds up a new one.

At nine o'clock, the four ninjas and I go upstairs to put on our pajamas and slippers. “To save time later,” FJ explains. When we get back downstairs, Lizzie has ice-cream sundaes waiting for us.

Little Johnny falls asleep around ten o'clock, and FJ carries him upstairs.

Just before midnight, Lizzie passes around whistles. We blow them as the ball drops; then Lizzie leads us in the wave. Horns honk up and down the block.

When everyone stops laughing, we carry the dirty dishes to the kitchen sink.

“Go on to bed, boys,” FJ says. “Your mom and I will take care of this. And everyone can sleep in late tomorrow morning.”

It's been a nice New Year's, I decide as I walk upstairs. But as I crawl into bed, I think of Mom and feel sad. She loved New Year's Eve. I wonder if she got to watch the ball drop this year . . . or if the prison guards turned off the lights.

The soybean green walls at school are covered with paper snowflakes and candidate posters. Mandy is running for Ice Crystal Princess. I smile as I look at her poster, which reads
GOOD THINGS COME IN LITTLE PACKAGES
.

Matt left early for school so he could tape his posters to the walls. Wherever I turn, I run into a smiling Matt Huckaby. Instead of being Mr. Show-off in class, now he's Mr. Nice Guy: volunteering to tutor kids who need help, running errands for the teachers. He's working overtime to make sure he gets recognized.

In last period, we're all given two paper snowflakes: one for Ice Crystal Prince and one for Ice Crystal Princess. I stuff mine inside my backpack. I don't care who wins.

The Great Escape is busting with kids. Because it's bitterly cold outside, more parents have put their children
into the program. Mrs. Bixby has to work double hard to watch everyone. Even so, she can't keep up.

“
Ow
,” Mandy yells as a book bounces off the back of her head. “This is ridiculous, Mrs. Bixby. I can't finish my homework with kids throwing stuff and yelling. You need an assistant.”

“I've already checked, Mandy. There's no money to hire one.”

A pencil flies past my nose. “Hey,” I say to the kindergartner that threw it. “Cut it out.”

“Who did that?” Mrs. Bixby says, looking around. “You could put an eye out.”

The kid who threw the pencil gives me a please-don't-snitch look. “Not sure,” I say. The boy telegraphs
thank you
with his eyes, then lowers his head over his book.

“I got it!” Mandy says to Mrs. Bixby. “You could use students. Those of us in fifth grade could be your helpers.”

“Can't break the rules,” she says. “Everyone must practice their spelling and math; then do their homework.” She shakes her head as she looks around the hectic room. “Besides, the other kids wouldn't do what you tell them. They only listen to grown-ups.”

Right
. Like they're listening to you.

The noise is deafening. Kids are yelling to go to the restroom. Others howl for games and coloring books.
Some complain because it's past snack time and they're hungry. The first-grade table starts throwing crayons at the kindergartners. I have a mountain of homework, and I feel like there's a hundred coyotes howling at me.

“There's no way we can study!” I yell, jumping to my feet. “You gotta give Mandy's idea a try!”

Mrs. Bixby comes to a stop in the middle of the room. All the kids freeze in place. The quiet is extraordinarily loud.

“It's just”—I look at the faces around the fifth-grade table—“I don't want to haul all these books home through the snow. Do you?”

“Yeah,” Mandy says. “We're never gonna get our homework done if you don't let us help, Mrs. Bixby. You can be the boss; we'll do other things. Like hand out snacks. Or take the little ones to the restroom. And Frankie Joe's as tall as you are, so he can reach the games at the top of the storage cabinet.”

“He's older than everyone else, too,” Luke yells. “He's almost a grown-up.”

“Yeah, and he's a good tiebreaker!” Little Johnny says from across the room. “He's the tiebreaker in our house. He's a real good tiebreaker.”

“And fast,” Mark says from the fourth-grade table, “because his legs are so long.”

“Let Frankie Joe be in charge,” Mandy says, grinning at me. “He can delegate to the rest of us.”

“But I'm Student Council representative,” Matt protests. “I should be in charge—”

“Oh shut up, Matt,” Mandy says.

“Vote! Vote!” kids begin to yell. “All for Frankie Joe?” Hands shoot into the air.

At that moment, Principal Arnt walks into the room. His mouth falls open as he takes in the bedlam. “What's going on here? I can hear the commotion clear down at my office.”

Mrs. Bixby's mouth thaws out so she can talk again. “Why, we're just reorganizing, Mr. Arnt. You see, I've just appointed a student to help me out. Frankie Joe Huckaby's going to organize the fifth grade to assist with snacks and games and restroom duty. That way I can handle study assignments.” She pauses to catch her breath. “And we did it the democratic way, with an election. That's what the noise was all about.”

“Oh,” Mr. Arnt says. “Well now, that sounds like a good idea.” As he turns to leave the room, he stops and looks at Mrs. Bixby again. “Did you say
Frankie Joe
Huckaby?”

“Yes, that's exactly what I said.”

Quickly she turns to me. “Well don't just stand there, Frankie Joe,” she whispers. “Start delegating!”

“Mandy, you're in charge of snacks! Um, you two, line up those who need to go to the restrooms—one line for girls, one for boys! The rest of you, pick up crayons
and erasers!” I take down a handful of games from the storage cabinet and hand them to Matt. Looking dazed he passes them out to waiting kids.

As Mr. Arnt leaves the room, Mrs. Bixby remains frozen to the floor, a look of shock on her face. “Why it's working,” she mumbles. “It's actually working.”

The only one in the room more dumbfounded than Mrs. Bixby is me.

Suddenly Mrs. Bixby smiles at me. “I'm proud of the way you took charge, Frankie Joe.
Very
proud.”

“Thanks.”

Mom would be proud of me, too, I think. I can hardly wait to tell her.

I like being in charge. It makes me feel . . . taller.