Freaky Fast Frankie Joe (19 page)

“Good job, Frankie Joe,” Mr. Arnt says, nodding at me. He looks at Matt. “One of your constituents just voted for you. Don't you have something to say?”

Matt squeezes, “Thanks,” out of his mouth.

Payback feels really good.

“You boys better get going. Don't want Mrs. Bixby wondering where you are.”

Matt and I walk down the hall together, not talking and not looking at each other.

“You still may not win,” I whisper as we walk into the room.

“I know,” he says, sitting down across from me.

“But if you don't, it won't be my fault.”

If Matt doesn't win, he can't blame anyone but himself.

It's almost bedtime, and I take out my escape plan. I glance at the calendar on the wall to check the date.

Going over my escape list now, I add a new item.

W-D 40
The garage in town will have some.

I hear a
creak
on the stairs. Closing my notebook, I turn to see if it's one of the ninjas. But it's FJ, and he has a serious look on his face.

“I do something wrong?”

He sits down on the edge of my desk and pulls a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “Matter of fact, you've done something right—very right. Take a look at your latest report card.”

On the left-hand side is a list of subjects: English, Math, Science, History. Each quarter's grades are shown in columns to the right, next to the subjects. In the first quarter the letters in the grade column had
been Ds and even a couple of Fs. In the next one, I see one C, two Bs, and an A.

I feel my mouth drop open. I knew my grades had been getting better. The teachers had been writing things like “excellent” and “good work” on my papers. But I never expected this.

“An A,” I say. “I got an A in Math!”

FJ smiles. “So you see, things are going very right. Don't you agree?”

“Yes sir!”

I watch his mouth go straight again. There's something else. . . .

“You've, uh, you've done well since you came here to live, Frankie Joe,” he says, “real well. Studied hard, worked hard . . . very, very well.”

Why is he repeating himself?

“Yes indeed,” he continues. “In the last few months, you done
exceptionally
well.” FJ begins wiping at his mouth like something sticky is stuck on it. “And we're thinking—Lizzie and me—that as long as you're here, you will continue to do well.”

What's he saying?

“So that's why we began legal procedures sometime back. I'm going to be sole custodian for you—that means your legal guardian—and Lizzie is going to adopt you. It normally takes four to six months, so it should be final in another few weeks.”

Four to six months? I remember hearing FJ and
Lizzie saying those words once before. They were talking in the kitchen when I snuck downstairs to look for matches for my escape. They were talking about me!

“No,” I say. “No no no! I got to go back to Laredo and live with Mom.”

FJ's mouth is thin as a pencil line. “Your mama needs some time to get back on her feet, son. That might take a good bit of time. She can visit you any time she wants; I'll see to that—“

“She won't let it happen! She won't let you do this!”

FJ hesitates. “I've, uh, I've discussed this with Martha Jane. She knows we've filed the papers.”

“She . . . 
what?
” My chest feels like it's caving in. Why didn't she say something to me?

“Lizzie wanted me to say something earlier,” he says, “but I've waited until I could show you that you'd be better off here. Look at your school records.” He points to the report card. “Doesn't that say it all? And the best news is that Mr. Arnt and I have been talking about allowing you to skip a grade—just like Mark did. If you go to summer school and continue to work hard, you can move up to the seventh grade next year where you belong.”

That was the reason for the school visits?

“Surely you can see it's best for you to stay here?”

Here
again.
Here
in Clearview, Illinois. A million miles from Laredo, Texas.

I throw the grade report in the wastebasket. “No sir, that doesn't say it all.
I
say it all—and I don't want
to get adopted and stay here. I wanna go back home to Laredo.”

FJ stands up and pulls the grade report out of the trash. “It's all but a done deal, Frankie Joe. All that's left is for Martha Jane to sign the papers . . . and I know she will. There's not a court in the land that would give her custody now, not with her record.” He holds up my report card. “Especially with how well you're doing here.”

He lays his hand on my shoulder. “Why, people in this town think the world of you—we all do.” He pauses. “Especially me. I want you here with me, Frankie Joe. I want to be a good father to you, make up for all those years we lost.”

I stare at FJ, realizing how much I've wanted to hear those words all the months I sat in the attic doing homework. But now all I want to do is cry.

Sometimes words just come too late.

Dear Mom
,

FJ told me tonight about becoming my sole custodian and Lizzie adopting me. I told him you wouldn't let that happen. You got to talk to your lawyer about stopping them. I want to come home to live with you
.

Please hurry
.

Frankie Joe

XOXOXO

Matt's trophy sits in the middle of the kitchen table. It's a bronze snowflake with a plate at the bottom that reads
SNOW CRYSTAL PRINCE
. He won by three votes, but the way he's grinning, you'd think it was three hundred.

As she hands Matt some waffles, Lizzie says, “Your brother's idea to make extra posters probably made the difference, don't you think?”

“Yeah.” Matt gives me a look. “That's probably it.”

We've never mentioned Mandy's idea that I run against him.

Mandy won, too—by a landslide. She didn't need my vote, but I'm glad I voted anyway. Maybe I'll write to her when I get back to Texas and tell her I voted for her. I wonder if she would write back. Or if she doesn't believe in writing, either . . . like Mom.

Why haven't I heard from Mom?

Miss Peachcott shows me the rash on her neck and face. “The doctor says it's shingles.”

“What causes it?”

“Chicken pox.”

I take a step back. I don't want to catch chicken pox. Chicken pox would interfere with my delivery service. And anything that interferes with my delivery service would stop me from leaving. Though I haven't heard from Mom yet, I'm sure she's got her lawyer working on it.

“Oh, no need to worry,” she says. “It's not the catching kind. It affects the nerves. Doctor told me I've been carrying this virus since I had the chicken pox as a girl. It's just come back, that's all.”

“Why did it come back?”

“Doctor didn't know why, but I do. It's because I have to get this formula right for my blemish concealer. That's why the chicken pox has come back now—because I'm a case of nerves!” She sits down at the table, looking sad. “And to top it off, the doctor told me I cannot put anything on my hair or face. You know what that means?”

I notice that Miss Peachcott's hair has been cut short and is mostly white now. Snow white and fluffy as a snowflake. And her skin is pink as a Nova bag. Except her birthmark, which looks like nothing more than a giant brown freckle.

I suck the spit from between my teeth. “Yes ma'am,” I say. “It means now you look pretty.”

Her eyes go round as pie plates. “Why, how can you make fun of me at a time like this?”

“I'm not making fun of you, Miss Peachcott. Look at yourself in the mirror. Except for where the shingles show. Don't look at that.”

She does look in the mirror, but her eyes go straight to the shingles. She plops the mirror on the table. “It's all I can see—that rash.”

I think a bit, then pick up the mirror again. “Okay, so look at the rash.”

“What? Why would I want to look at that?”

“Just look at it.”

She picks up the mirror again. At first her eyes bobble, but then she holds them steady.

“Do you see the birthmark when you're looking at the rash?”

“Why no,” she says. “All I see is the—”

She lays the mirror down and sits quiet for a time. I begin to squirm, wondering if I've lost another friend. I reach for my parka, getting ready to leave, but Miss Peachcott lays her hand on my arm.

“So what you're telling me is, a person sees what they want to see. That right, Frankie Joe Huckaby?”

“Yes ma'am, I guess that's what I'm saying. That and . . . well, I don't like you any less because you've got a birthmark, and I bet no one else does, either. Your
customers come to you 'cause they know you'll help them. Like Miz Bloom, who doesn't want leathery skin. And Mrs. Wilkins who needs something for her chapped hands. And—”

“That sweet little newlywed, Mrs. Barnes,” Miss Peachcott interrupts. “Who doesn't want to smell like baby burp.”

“Yeah, and . . .” I blow the air from my lungs.

“Well, spit it out,” she says. “You know how I feel about people that diddle-dawdle with their words.”

“Well,” I say, pulling a deep breath, “when you put your newest concoction on the birthmark, that's
all
I see.” I wave my hands around the kitchen at jars and tubes of concealer she's concocted. All failures. “It's like all this is a rainbow, and you're looking for—”

“The pot of gold at the end of it,” she says, interrupting me again. She pauses. “I was hoping to sell my formula so I could retire, live the good life. If I quit now, I'll have to keep on working.”

Quit! She can't quit. Neither of us are quitters.

“Wait,” I say. “What would you do if you did retire, Miss Peachcott?”

“What?”

“I mean, is it because you want to leave this one-horse town in the dust?”

Like I do?

She looks startled. “Why no, Clearview's my home. I'd never leave Clearview.”

“Oh. Well then, do you want to travel? Is that why you need the money, so you can see other places? Is that the good life you're talking about?”

“Heavens no, I don't like to fly. I get airsick—and it's not safe anymore. All that violence out there . . .” She waves a hand toward the TV. “Watching the Travel Channel is better than flying hours and hours, especially now you have to take off your shoes and go through those machines and get patted down like a criminal.”

She looks around her kitchen laboratory. “It's just that, without my formula, there's . . . nothing.”

“You can still sell Nova.”

“Oh, anyone can sell Nova! It's just that”—she waves her arm at the dozens and dozens of pink paper bags—“none of it is
my
creation.”

A lightbulb goes on. “Work on your other formula, then—the one you made for Miz Bloom. There's plenty of people here that need help with rough skin. These Alberta clippers suck the moisture out of people like a sponge.”

“What?” She sits quiet, considering this. “Why, of course. An emollient tailored exclusively for Clearview. The one I made for Miz Bloom is working better than what Nova sells—and I bet I can make it even better!”

“E–molly–
what
?”

“E–mol–li–ent. It's a remedy for skin problems. Why I could use Miz Bloom as my test subject.”

She grows quiet again, so quiet I begin to squirm. “You want me to leave?”

All at once, she comes alive. “Well, of course I want you to leave! We must take care of our customers. They're depending on us.”

Her eyes light up like a fire is heating them. “You know, Mrs. Barnes needs an air freshener in the worst way. She had her baby girls into the doctor's office for colic while I was there. Their milk is souring their stomachs, you see—makes them spit up; it smells bad. Maybe I'll just create a new air freshener, too.”

“Lilac,” I say, grinning. “Lilacs cover the smell of most anything. That's why farmers plant them around their cow pastures.”

She smiles. “Lilac it is.”

Dear Mom
,

I haven't heard from you about the lawyer yet. Please let me know what is happening. FJ reads your letters, so maybe you can call me. Let me know when your lawyer is finished talking with his lawyer about stopping things. Hurry!!!!

Frankie Joe

XOXOXO

I quickly put the letter into an envelope and put a stamp on it. The post office closes at noon on Saturdays
now that Christmas is over, and I want to get this to Mom right away.

“Another letter?” the postmaster asks when I walk in.

“Yes ma'am. Can you still get it on the truck?”

“Consider it gone,” she says, smiling.

The man at the garage asks, “Can I help you find something, Frankie Joe?”

“No sir, I just found it.” I set a can of WD-40 on the counter and pull out enough money to pay for it.

“Thanks.”

It's the last thing I need to buy for my escape.

Just before lights-out, I look up
emollient
in my dictionary. Definitions are tricky. Sometimes there's more than one for a word. I read through them all until I find the one that I like best for Ms. Bloom.

emol-lient
\
adj
:
making less intense or harsh.

I climb into bed feeling good because of my talk with Miss Peachcott. Now I can skip town without feeling like I deserted her. And I'm positive that her shingles rash will clear up as soon as she gets her case of nerves under control.