Freaky Fast Frankie Joe (7 page)

“Oh good grief how did you stand it?”

Mandy's running her words together like she's on a sugar high.

“It wasn't easy,” Lizzie says, grinning. “But having sisters—and brothers—is a good thing.” She looks at me. “Right, Frankie Joe?”

“Um, sure.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire. . . .

Concentrating on the cookie list, I decide on mint and peanut-butter cookies, and hand the form to Mandy.

She downs the last of her soda and gets up to leave. “Thanks,” she tells Lizzie. “You're just the greatest.”

“I hope things start to look up for you.” Lizzie walks Mandy to the back door.

“Well actually, I guess it already has,” Mandy rattles on. “At least I'm not the oddball at school now that Frankie Joe's here.”

Lizzie puts her hand on Mandy's shoulder, stopping her from leaving. “What do you mean, ‘oddball'?”

Don't
, I eye-telegraph Mandy. But she's still on her high.

“Well you see, I got teased a lot 'cause I was the shortest kid in the class. You know, the
oddball
. Now Frankie Joe's the oddball 'cause he's the tallest.” She laughs. “He's a
double
oddball.”

I send Mandy the eye-telegraph again. She gets it this time.

Lizzie looks between Mandy and me, and waits.

Mandy's mouth looks like it's been glued shut with super glue.

“It's not a big deal,” I mumble. “Besides, I just made a new friend who's an oddball, and she doesn't let it bother her.”

Lizzie frowns. “Who are you talking about, Frankie Joe?”

“Miss. Peachcott—”

“Miss Peachcott! Ohmigosh, she's got this . . . 
thing
on her face—”

“Mandy!” Lizzie gives her a look.

Mandy seals her lips tight again.

“So what? You're short, I'm tall, and she's got a birthmark.”

“There you go,” Lizzie says, smiling again. “And Elsie doesn't let a birthmark get in the way of running a successful business. She's a fine role model for both of you.” She opens the door and lets Mandy out. “So don't let anything stand in your way just because you're short”—she glances my way—“or tall.”

As Mandy leaves, I pick up the trash bag for the second time. I plan to strangle Mandy on the way to the garbage can for the “double oddball” crack.

“Not so fast,” Lizzie says. “What did Mandy mean, ‘double oddball'?”

Too late.

“Um . . .” I hesitate too long.

“Spit it out, Frankie Joe, or I'll call the principal.”

“I'm slow. They call me names 'cause I'm slow.”

“Names.” She frowns. “Who's calling you names?”

“I'd, uh, I'd rather not say.”

She probably wouldn't believe me, if I told her.

“O-kay.” She stretches the word out like it's a rubber band. “Then why do they think you're slow?”

“ 'Cause I read slow and can't spell.”

For beginners. . . .

Lizzie starts blinking fast. “Well, I can't fix ‘tall' but maybe I can help fix ‘slow.' Come with me.”

I set the trash bag down again and follow Lizzie. When we reach the front room, she hands me the dictionary from the bookshelf.

“This is yours now. Take it to your room so that it's handy when you need it. The boys have one in each of their bedrooms, and it's only fair that you do, too.”

Great
.

“Thanks,” I say. I start for the stairs to put away the dictionary, but Lizzie stops me again.

“My goodness, I've helped four boys with homework for years. I'll just start helping you, too.”

I'm gonna kill Mandy.

“
And
I'll talk to Mrs. Bixby. Did you know she's a good friend of mine? I know she won't mind putting in some extra time with you—maybe on Saturdays when we quilt.”

All I wanted to do was finish my Responsibility Report! I put a fake-mouth smile on my face.

Lizzie smiles, too. “No need to thank me, Frankie Joe. That's what family's are for. . . .” Her voice trails off, and her eyes start blinking again.

Uh-oh
.

Quickly Lizzie writes something down on an index card. “Here,” she says. “This can be the first word you look up in your very own dictionary.”

I look at the word.
Home
?

“I don't think a one of us ever welcomed you to our home, Frankie Joe. It's high time we did. I want you to feel comfortable here—comfortable enough to tell us when something's not going good. Okay?”

I stretch the fake-mouth smile wider.

“Now you better get that trash out before Frank gets back. Might as well get one more thing on your Responsibility Report before you turn it in. Right?”

That was the idea.

As I dump the trash, I wonder if Mandy's still selling cookies. Figuring she hasn't gotten far, I go in search of her. I stop at the end of the alley, look both ways, and spot a Girl Scout uniform a block away. I head toward her, but stop when I hear a familiar voice behind me.

“What'cha doin', Frankie Joe? Dumpster diving?” Matt's biking with some of our classmates. Laughing, he tells the others where I got my bike.

I leave them hooting and catch up with Mandy, who's still long-faced.

“Still no luck, huh?” Her order form hasn't gotten any fuller.

“Not much,” she says. “Look, I didn't mean to cause you any grief back there.”

“What's a little more grief.” When she looks at me funny, I say, “Forget it. Come with me. I got an idea.”

“Where we goin'?”

“You'll see.” A few minutes later, I walk her up the steps to Miss Peachcott's back door.

Mandy hesitates. “But this is—”

“Yeah, the third oddball.” I knock on the door.

“Frankie Joe! I was hoping you'd stop by.” Miss Peachcott has been experimenting again. The spot on her face looks radioactive.

“This is Mandy. She's selling Girl Scout cookies.” I shove Mandy forward. “I ate most of your cookies when I was here last time. And since you're so busy with your
project
”—I raise my eyebrows meaningfully when I say “project”—“I thought you might want to shop at home.”

“Well now, isn't that clever of you.” Miss Peachcott raises her eyebrows, too.

Mandy's frozen, so I take the order form from her hand and give it to Miss Peachcott.

“Why don't I just take a box of each,” she says, making checkmarks across the page. “They all look too good to pass up.” She returns the form to Mandy and gives
me another raised-eyebrow look. “Now I must get back to my . . . 
project
.”

After saying good-bye to Miss Peachcott, I walk Mandy to the end of the alley.

“Gee thanks, Frankie Joe.” Mandy stares at her order form, looking stunned. “This is absolutely great—
super
great.” She looks at me. “Any time I can help you out—”

“Thanks,” I say, walking away quickly, “but I've got all the help I can stand.”

home
\
noun:
1 a :
one's place of residence :
DOMICILE
b :
HOUSE
2 :
the social unit formed by a family living together
3 a :
a familiar or usual setting : congenial environment;
also
:
the focus of one's domestic attention [
home
is where the heart is]

b.
HABITAT
4 a :
a place of origin [salmon returning to their
home
to spawn];
also
:
one's own country [having troubles at
home
and abroad]
b :
HEADQUARTERS
5 :
an establishment providing care for people with special needs [
homes
for the elderly] [a
home
for unwed mothers]

Reading the definition a second time, I decide I like it. Grabbing a pencil, I rewrite the definition and tape it next to the
responsibility
card on the wall.

HOME
—

One's place of residence
Lone Star Trailer Park

The social unit formed by a family living together
Lone Star Trailer Park

A familiar or usual setting : congenial environment
Lone Star Trailer Park

Where the heart is
Lone Star Trailer Park

One's own country
Lone Star Trailer Park

An establishment providing care for the elderly
Lone Star Trailer Park

An establishment providing care for unwed mothers
Lone Star Trailer Park

I slide the dictionary into the bookshelf next to my mementos from Mrs. Jones and Mr. O'Hare and Mr. Lopez. Missing them, I start to wonder what they did today. But I already know.

Mr. O'Hare would have gone hunting space rocks . . . without me. The last time we went out together, he packed peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and bottles of water for when we got tired. We sat in the shade of a big red boulder and some mesquite bushes, and fed crumbs to a desert horned lizard.

And Mr. Lopez would have painted a house. He works every day so he can send money to his family in Mexico. I wonder what color he created for today's house. He let me name the last batch he created, which looked like
caramel sauce for ice cream. He came up with all kinds of names, but he liked mine best. Butter-Brickle Yellow.

It's Sunday, the day after the last Saturday of the month, so Mrs. Jones would have gone to the library to pick up “retired” books from her friend. Maybe she brought home another adventure book, like
Treasure Island
and
Kidnapped
. I bet she waits until I get home so we can read it together. I wish I were there to help her put the new books on her shelves. She likes me to help her because sometimes she has to move a whole shelf of books, which is a lot of work. Last time we shelved books, she fixed us ice cream sundaes as a reward.

I wish I were there with them now. Most of all, I wish I was home with Mom. She liked to do fun things on Sundays, like go to the movies. Instead of fixing lunch, she'd say, “What'll it be, kiddo? Popcorn or pretzels with mustard?” Then we'd each get something different at the movie and share with each other.

I read the definition for
home
one more time, then pull on my pajamas and turn back the covers.
I'll read this definition every day, too
, I think as I switch off the light.
Maybe twice a day
.

Squeezing the last plate and bowl into the dishwasher, I close the door and push the
START
button. I can hear the half brothers in the front room, talking loud. Friday nights are movie nights, which means arguments. What to have for snacks? Who's going to sit where? Which movie to watch?

None of which involves me. What involves me is my Responsibility Report. It's due on Sunday. I put
dishes
on the list and look it over. Another page is filling up fast. My second week is almost over.

Only two weeks? It seems like two years.

All four brothers burst into the kitchen. “It's gonna be popcorn,” Matt says, scrounging in the pantry for microwave popcorn.

“Why do you always get to choose?” Little Johnny's bottom lip droops, and his eyes look wet.

Lizzie walks into the kitchen. “What's all the noise about?”

“Nothing,” Matt says. “I got it under control.” He shuts the door on the microwave and punches in three minutes.

“But Mark and me wanted to make instant pudding,” Johnny says. “Why does Matt always get what he wants?”

“ 'Cause he's a control freak,” Mark says.

Right on, Mark! Deciding to leave the noisy kitchen to Lizzie, I head for the door.

“Hold up, Frankie Joe.” She points me and the other boys to the kitchen table. We sit down and listen to popcorn
ping!
in the microwave. Lizzie removes the bag and dumps it into a bowl, then sits down, too.

She stares into space awhile, looking thoughtful, then turns to me. “Did I ever tell you that I came from a family of seven, Frankie Joe?”

“Yes ma'am. That night Mandy came by. You said you were the youngest.”

“That's right,” she says, munching on popcorn. “There was my mom and dad and two brothers and two sisters. I was the baby.”

The brothers dip into the popcorn bowl, looking bored. I stare at Lizzie, wondering if she's through talking to me. She's not.

“You know what's so nice about
odd
-numbered families?” she asks me, her eyes twinkling.

I get it.
Odd
ball . . . 
odd
-numbered families.

“No ma'am,” I say.

“There's always a tiebreaker!” She gives me her big smile and then looks around the table at her “weeds.” “Whenever there was an argument among us five kids, we'd take a vote. And because there was an odd number, there was never a tie.”

She turns to me again. “So you see, seven is the perfect number. And
you
made that happen, Frankie Joe. See what a nice addition you are to our family?”

I don't like being lumped with the “weeds.” From the look on his face, Matt doesn't like it, either. Figuring Lizzie doesn't really expect me to answer, I don't. Sure enough, she keeps on talking.

“So new rule! Now that we have enough in the family to break a tie, I don't want to hear any more arguments.” She marches her eyes around the table. “Understood?”

Hearing a chorus of “yes ma'ams,” she smiles, then leaves the room.