Freaky Fast Frankie Joe (4 page)

“But Dad, didn't you send money for a new bike—”

“Hush now, Mark,” Lizzie interrupts.

“Bet his mama spent the money on dope,” Matt whispers to his brothers.

“That's not true,” I blurt out, wanting to set the record straight. “It wasn't like that at all. Mom was just helping out a friend. He told her that he'd give her a big tip if she'd pick something up for him. It was all a mistake.”

Matt doesn't reply. Neither do FJ or Lizzie or the other brothers, so I don't say anything else.

What more is there to say? How can I explain to these strangers the way Mom's mind works? How she's always on the lookout for a “surefire deal” that's going to make us a fortune.

“This is gonna make us rich, Frankie Joe,” she said when she invested the last of our savings in a deal that turned out to be crooked. We were supposed to get our money back when new investors signed up, plus make big interest.

Before that, she mortgaged our little house to buy a run-down shack to flip, just like she'd seen people do
on TV. “Just a little paint on the walls and some petunias,” she told me. She not only lost money on the house she flipped but our own house as well. We barely had enough money left to move into the trailer park.

Then a couple of years ago, she'd found the “real” surefire deal. I didn't find out exactly what that “real” surefire deal was until she was arrested for having a bag of dope in her purse. She'd gotten off light because it was her first offense and the dope was ditch marijuana—plants growing wild instead of imported from somewhere else.

But then this last summer, she decided to help that friend, picking up a package that came over the Mexican border so she could get a big tip. I mean, how was she to know what was in the package—and that the person she picked it up from was an undercover border cop? It
was
all a mistake.

I put my once-upon-a-time yellow bike into the metal rack holding four others so new the paint isn't even chipped. I eye those bikes a good long time, and then I hear another whisper, one that comes from inside my head.

What
did
happen to the money for a new bicycle?

“Go right in, Mr. Huckaby.” The Clearview School secretary for primary and middle school is a thin woman with long hair pulled into a knot that looks like a donut stuck on the back of her head. “The principal is waiting to see you. He got a fax from Laredo this morning.”

The donut-headed woman raises her eyebrows when she mentions the fax. She motions me toward a row of chairs outside the principal's office, where I am to wait.

The principal wears a suit and tie, just like all the other principals I've known. The name painted on the glass door in blocky black letters says his name is
MR. ROBERT ARNT
.

“Don't forget that I'm just here temporarily,” I whisper to FJ as he steps inside the principal's office. I put heavy emphasis on the word
temporarily
, which I'm taking a stronger liking to—thanks to four half brothers I didn't know I had, who are all so good at something.

I take a seat on one of the chairs that lets me see FJ and Mr. Arnt. I figure I won't be here but a couple of minutes. Then FJ will be on his way to inspect grain, and I'll follow the principal down the hall. Next I'll be made to stand in front of a class of giggly kids until the teacher assigns me a desk. That's the way it works in Laredo, and I figure it's the same here.

Please let there be a desk at the back of the room. . . .

As the wall clock ticks off minutes, I notice the color of the tiles on the wall. Soybean green. No matter where I go, I can't get away from all that pukey green.

I decide to look inside the blue nylon backpack that Lizzie handed me this morning. It's an old one she recycled from one of her “weeds.” Inside is a green notebook, the kind with enough dividers for six subjects, a pink rubber eraser, and an entire box of yellow number-two pencils, all sharpened.

I sigh and close the backpack. The clock ticks off more minutes. I see FJ and Mr. Arnt looking at some papers. When the principal gets up from his chair, I stand up, ready to be escorted to my room.

“Frankie Joe, you want to come in here, please?”

“In there?” The principal points me to a chair next to FJ, who's rubbing his mouth like there's bubble gum stuck on his lips.

“How are you doing, Frankie Joe?” The happy smile on Mr. Arnt's face does not match the unhappy look in his eyes.

“Um, is something wrong?”

“No—no. Just looking over your records. It seems you were well liked at your school, got along well with the other students and your teachers. . . .” He clears his throat, and his smile disappears. “Well, it appears we
do
have somewhat of a problem.” He shuffles the papers on his desk. “Given the information we just received from Laredo, we're not sure what to do with you—where to put you, I mean.”

“Did you really go to school just eighty-two days last year?” FJ stops rubbing his mouth and looks at me. “Eighty-two days!”

“Maybe I better handle this,” the principal says, giving FJ the fake-mouth smile. He turns his unsmiling eyes on me. “Is that a fact, Frankie Joe? Or are these records in error? If they're incorrect, I'll call down to Laredo and get it sorted out.”

“Um, I don't know if they're correct or not. You see, I just go to school . . . temporarily.” I hear FJ groan.

Principal Arnt clears his throat. “Well then, given your attendance record”—he pauses to pull a paper from the pile on his desk—“and your grade reports . . . I have no choice but to put you in . . . the fourth grade.”

Fourth grade! I remember that Mark, the half brother with the “excellent brain” is in the fourth grade—and he's only old enough to be in the third!

Rubbing my mouth as though something sticky is on
it, I turn to FJ to make a last-ditch effort. “Remember,
Dad
, I'm, uh, I'm just here temporarily—”

“Be quiet,” FJ snaps. He turns to the principal. “Let's reconsider this, Robert.” When he calls the principal by his first name, I figure he's making a last-ditch effort of his own. “If you can't put him in the sixth, how about the fifth?”

Fifth—but I'm a sixth-grader!

“We have rules, FJ.”

“I know you do, but I have rules, too—one of which is I expect my boys to be all they can be. All I'm asking is that you meet me half way. And I'll put him in the after-school program with the other boys.”

“He's old enough to go home on his own—”

“I know that, but I figure he can do some catching up in there. It's done a world of good for the others.” He looks at me. “And I will personally take charge of teaching him about responsibility.” He puts heavy emphasis on the word
responsibility
.

The principal sighs. “All right then, we'll give it a try.” Neither his mouth nor his eyes are smiling. “But mark my words, FJ. If he doesn't succeed there, I'll pull him out and put him where he belongs. Those are the rules.”

“He
will
succeed,” FJ says, looking at me again. “All my boys succeed. That's
my
rule.”

“Okay then,” Principal Arnt says. “I'll walk him
down to the classroom and let Mrs. Bixby know that The Great Escape is getting a new Huckaby.”

Even though we won the battle, I feel like a loser.

I follow them out of the office. FJ leaves through the front door, and I follow the principal down the long soybean-green hallway. When he stops in front of one of the classrooms, I pause long enough to read the sign on the door:
MRS. HOOPLE, FIFTH-GRADE ENGLISH
.

Man-oh-man, I can't believe I have to do fifth grade again! As I enter the room, I look to see if there are any empty places at the back.

Cool
. Four empty desks.

Then my eyes wander back to the front and come to rest on Matt, the half brother with the spark in his eye. Only now his eyes are round as saucers.

Yeah, I think. I didn't expect to see me standing here, either.

Mr. Arnt finishes saying what he needs to say to Mrs. Hoople and walks out the door, leaving me to my fate.

“Um, how about I take one of those desks at the back of the room?” I ask, putting a fake-mouth smile on my face. “You know, where it's not so crowded.” But as soon as Mrs. Hoople looks at me, I know I'm sunk.

“Oh, I think not, Frankie Joe.” Neither her mouth nor her eyes are smiling. “I think the best spot for you is next to my best student—the one who makes the honor roll every quarter and is fifth-grade representative to the Student Council. Sit yourself down right there next
to your brother. Mr. Arnt has assigned him to be your buddy. He'll show you the ropes.”

I give Matt a sideways glance as I plop into the chair next to him.

“Kowabunga, dude,” he whispers.

One corner of Matt's lip curls up in a grin. It's the kind of grin that says he's gonna show me the ropes, all right.

There are four sentences in the paragraph. I'm on the third. “Ex . . . ex–tra . . . ex—tra-or—”

“It's
extraordinary
, retard,” Matt whispers.

“Good grief,” someone behind me says. “It's been five minutes, and he's still on the first paragraph!”

The bell rings, and I make for the door.

I take a back seat in U.S. History, but Mrs. Carter, the teacher, immediately moves me to the front. She issues me a book that weighs at least ten pounds.

As it turns out, it's test day. We have to identify all the states and their capitals. I look at the blank map she lays on my desk, wishing I had paid more attention to the Triple A maps on the drive up from Texas.

I'm still working on my map when Mrs. Carter picks it up. She pauses long enough to make a
tsk-tsk
sound before moving on.

I stuff my book into my backpack five minutes before the bell rings, ready to make my getaway.

The Science teacher's name is Mr. Burke. He points to a desk in the front row when I walk in and plops another ten-pound book on it. I get the feeling that he's been alerted that I'm coming. Of course, my desk is right next to Matt's.

Mr. Burke asks, “Who can tell me the freezing point of water?”

I struggle to understand the importance of frozen water. That's what refrigerators are for, right? Ice cubes.

Mr. Burke holds his hand flat like a crossing guard stopping traffic. Around the room, hands fly into the air, but no one speaks.

I get it. We're supposed to talk to the hand when we're called on. I don't raise my hand or open my mouth.

“Let's see . . .” Mr. Burke looks at his roll, the one he just added my name to. “Frankie Joe,” he says, looking at me. “What's the freezing point of water?”

“Um, I didn't raise my hand.” I hear giggles behind me.

Mr. Burke frowns and turns to Matt.

“Thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit or zero degrees Celsius.” Matt grins at me. “And the boiling point is two hundred twelve degrees for Fahrenheit and one-hundred degrees for Celsius.”

Showoff.

Mr. Burke nods, looking pleased. “Then what would be the degree of difference between boiling point and freezing point for each?” Hands fly as he raises the crossing-guard hand again.

“Okay, Mandy?” Mr. Burke calls on a short, blonde-haired girl sitting on the other side of me.

“A hundred and eighty for Fahrenheit . . . and, um, one hundred for Celsius.”

“Right! Now for a test of your science
and
math skills. What would the Fahrenheit to Celsius ratio be?”

Ratio?

Only one hand goes up this time. Matt's. Even though it's not my hand, Mr. Burke looks at me again.

“Um,” I say, and leave it at that. Mr. Burke frowns again, then gives Matt a nod.

“Well, there's a hundred-and-eighty degrees difference with Fahrenheit and one hundred for Celsius, so the ratio would be 1.8 to 1.”

Huh?

“What would that look like?” Mr. Burke looks around the room. Matt's hand is the only one in the air again, so Mr. Burke points him to the white board.

Matt writes 1.8:1 on the board. “It's just comparing one thing to another,” he says, “only in shorthand.”

FJ probably taught him that, I think. His job is to analyze things.

Matt gives me the cocky grin again when he sits down.

Yeah, I get it. You're smart.

I'm relieved when the bell rings.

In Math class, I mechanically take a front-row seat. The teacher, Mrs. Beard, nods her approval and hands me another huge book. She talks about estimating sums and how to check subtraction problems. Because we have a few minutes to kill just before class is over, she decides to do a quick review of multiplication tables, starting with the sevens.

I remember that Luke, the second-grader, knows how to count by sevens. I look at the clock. Five minutes to go.

“Volunteers?” she repeats, looking around the room.

Of course, Matt's hand shoots into the air. I cross my fingers and stare at my desk.

“Frankie
J-o-o-o-e
.” Mrs. Beard lets the “o” in my name hang in the air like a balloon. “You start off. Do your sevens, please. One through fifteen.”

When the final bell rings, a rush of kids flies past me on their way home—but I stand outside the kindergarten room where the after-school program is held.

Lizzie explained this morning at breakfast that the program is for kids from kindergarten through fifth grade whose parents work. They don't want their kids
staying alone until they get home, so they pay for them to stay at the school.

That doesn't make sense to me. I don't need a babysitter. I've stayed home alone for as long as I can remember, except when I was really little or nights when I stayed with Mrs. Jones.