Freaky Fast Frankie Joe (8 page)

Great
. I attempt another escape. “Hold up, Trailer Trash.” Matt's eyes are sparking like hot coals. “You're not part of this family.
Understood?
So keep your nose out of our business!”

Don't you mean
your
business, Control Freak?

“No problem,” I say, and walk out the back door.

I wheel my Rover Sport off the front porch and look for Mandy. At school today, she said that she was going
out to sell cookies after supper. Wondering how she's doing, I make a fast run around the neighborhood. I've learned my way around Clearview pretty fast because it isn't that big. I've ridden across rock outcroppings in the Chihuahua Desert that are bigger.

I figure Mandy's looking for new territory. Sure enough, I find her in front of the pizza place downtown, hawking cookies to those going in for the Friday-night two-for-one special.

“Just think,” she's telling a woman as I pull up. “If you keep boxes of cookies in your freezer, you'll have dessert ready on Friday nights. Pizza and cookies—instant supper!”

Not bad, I think. She's pretty good at selling things. The woman buys it, too.

When we're alone, I ask, “How many did she take?”

“Four! Does your mom want to buy some more cookies, too?”

“Lizzie's not my mom,” I snap. Mandy looks surprised, so I don't say anything for a few seconds. Then I start thinking about Friday-night movies and arguments over treats. “But she might buy some more. Mark and Johnny are getting tired of popcorn.”

“Cool! I'll mention that when I talk to her.”

“Matt usually makes the call on treats, though.”

“I don't know how you stand living with Matt Huckaby,” she says, frowning. “He's so full of himself.”

“Yeah. Um, it's probably better you don't mention
my name if he's there when you talk to Lizzie.” I hesitate. “And that's not why I'm here.”

“Oh? Then why?”

All at once, I feel foolish.

“Hurry, Frankie Joe. Another car's pulling up—more customers.”

“It's about tiebreakers,” I blurt out. “The thing about odd-numbered families is there's always a tiebreaker. You got three kids in your family—an odd number. Maybe you can use that with your older sisters. You know, when they get pushy.”

“What a great idea!”

“Run it by your folks first,” I tell her. “Get them on your side.” Seeing a man and woman walking up, I say, “Gotta go.”

“Thanks,
Oddball
,” Mandy yells as I wheel off. I can still hear her laughing when I round the corner.

I know she didn't mean anything bad. Still, the name stings.

The water feels like needles hitting my skin. I haven't had a hot shower since I arrived. Two weeks of cold showers. Every . . . Single . . . Day.

The half brothers have a pecking order for shower-taking. Which means Matt is always first, followed by Mark, Luke, and Little Johnny. Then me. Bottom of the pecking order. By the time I get the shower, the hot water is gone. Down-to-the-last-drop gone.

My teeth are chattering when I get out. I'm too cold to towel-off good, so my shorts stick to my butt when I pull them up.

Who's gonna know?

I pull my jeans over damp shorts, and then a sweatshirt over my head and socks on my feet. Glancing in the mirror, I notice my lips are blue. I brush my teeth fast, so they won't crack from the icy water. In Laredo I don't have to worry about a cold butt and frozen
teeth. With just Mom and me, we never run out of hot water.

I gather my wet towel and pajamas and add them to pile of dirty laundry I left in the hallway. Lizzie does the bedding on Saturdays, and I have to haul my other things down, too. I clump downstairs, loaded down with cold-wet-stinky clothes.

“Don't have to deal with cold, damp clothes in Texas, either,” I mutter, pulling damp shorts out of my crotch. Texas is so hot, clothes dry fast.

But I did get stinky, I remember. Off-road biking in the Chihuahua Desert is a dirty business. But so much fun.

When I walk into the kitchen, Lizzie asks, “Did you sleep late?”

“No ma'am. I just had my turn in the shower. I'm always last.” I drop my cold-wet-stinky clothes off in the laundry room and sit down.

Huckaby Numbers Two, Three, and Four are already at the table. Number Five is sitting on a stool next to Lizzie. A giant box of Bisquick, a carton of eggs, and a gallon of milk sit on the counter. She's helping Johnny measure ingredients into a bowl. FJ is missing, so I figure he had an early-morning appointment with a farmer.

Scratch that, I think, seeing a place has been set at the table for him, too. I wonder where he is.

“Okay, Frankie Joe, let's get started,” Lizzie says. “Wy–o–ming.” She's looking at my spelling list.

Can't a kid catch a break around here? It's Saturday!

I don't answer right away. My mind is still on Texas. Quickly I calculate how much longer I have to stay in Illinois. It's the first week of October, and Mom gets out of jail in mid-July. Only nine-and-a-half months to go.

Only
nine-and-a-half months. . . .

“Wy–o–ming,” Lizzie repeats slowly. She gives me a cautious look. “Remember what we talked about with those vowels. Sometimes they can get tricky.”

Since Mandy's Girl-Scout-cookie visit, Lizzie has been quizzing me on my spelling words every morning. Along with that came tutoring on things such as “silent vowels” and “sound-alike letters” and rules like “
i
before
e
except after
c
.” It's enough to put my mind in a fog.

“Wy–o–ming,” I repeat. I study the patterns on the wallpaper, wishing the pictures were of cactus and sagebrush instead of red and green apples. Breathing deep, I begin. “W–i—” I stop, hearing Lizzie catch her breath. “Um, I mean, W–
Y
–o–m–i–n–g.”

“Right,” she laughs. “One hundred percent right.”

“Wow, that was a tough one,” Little Johnny says as he stirs blueberries into pancake batter. Flour dusts his face, and milk dribbles down the front of his shirt. He's happy because he got to choose what we have for breakfast this morning.

“That's not tough,” Matt snorts. “I can spell it easy. I can spell all the states
and
the state capitals.”

If I had food in my stomach, I'd throw up.

“Well that's good,” Lizzie says, ladling pancake batter onto a griddle. “But right now, I want to talk about whose turn it is to choose breakfast next Saturday.”

Without hesitating, Matt speaks up. “Johnny had his turn today, so it's my turn next.”

“Nuh-unh,” Luke says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Now there's five of us—” His face turns as red as one of the apples on the wallpaper. “What I mean is, uh . . .”

“What he means,” Lizzie says, dishing pancakes onto plates, “is a rotation system's the way we've always done things. Oldest down to the youngest. And I don't see any reason not to continue that way.” She pauses to look at Matt. “And
that
means it's Frankie Joe's turn to pick a favorite food for next Saturday's breakfast.”

I sit silent as a rock. I don't want a turn. A turn would just make things worse for me. Huckaby Number Two would make sure of that.

“And that's not all,” Lizzie says. “From now on, the same rotation system goes for the shower. I know it's a lot, having all of you take your showers in the morning. But I have to do laundry in the evening—and run the dishwasher, too—which only leaves enough hot water for your father and me to bathe in the evenings. So we're going to a rotation system.”

“But I'm the oldest—the
real
oldest,” Matt protests. “And besides, I have to be to school earlier than the others 'cause I'm the fifth-grade representative on the Student Council.”

“Does that mean I don't have to shower last no more?” Johnny screws up his face like he's thinking hard about something. “Except now that Frankie Joe's here, he showers last. It's not fun 'cause Matt hogs the hot water so there's not enough for all of us. I know 'cause I was always last till Frankie Joe got here.”

“Is that right?” Lizzie looks at Matt, her eyebrows raised. “Well, no more being last all the time—for
any
of you. You'll take turns. And you're limited to two minutes each, no more.”

“Cool,” Mark says as he butters his pancake. “I hated lukewarm showers all the time.”

As he reaches for the syrup bottle, Luke says, “Yeah, double cool! I hated chilly showers all the time, too.”

There are daggers in the look Matt gives me.

“Now,” Lizzie says, looking at me. “What do you want for your special breakfast next Saturday, Frankie Joe?”

“Something tells me he'd like burritos.” FJ stands at the back door, holding a bunch of letters in one hand.

He must have been at the post office. I didn't hear him come in and don't know how long he's been standing there. But the smile he gives Lizzie says that he's heard all her announcements.

“Well then”—Lizzie returns his smile—“burritos it is!”

“What's a 'bri–to'?” Mark asks, looking skeptical. His “excellent brain” obviously doesn't include the word in its vocabulary.

“It's made from corn and beans,” I say.

“Oh,” Mark says, helping himself to another pancake. “Cool!”

“And it's bur–ri–to,” I say. “B–u–r–r–i–t–o.”

FJ follows me to the front room after breakfast. “Here you go, Frankie Joe.” He hands me a letter. “This came for you today.”

My heart jumps when I look at the returning address on the envelope. It says “Webb County Texas Jail.” Racing upstairs I sit down at my desk and open the envelope carefully so I don't tear the letter inside. I'm disappointed when I see there's only one page.

Can't be much to write about when you're locked up, I think. I would know.

My hands begin to shake when I see Mom's handwriting. I try to read slow, but I can't. It's like she's right there, talking to me.

Hi Kiddo!

How are things there in Dullsville, Sillynois? (ha-ha) Did you ever see so much corn in your life?

Jail's OK I guess. The food's soso and the bunk
could be softer. The mattress is thin as a pancake. Not much privacy ether. Guards are everwhere you look; they stick their nose in everthing. But I've met some neat gals; we play cards and talk to pass the time. A couple of them are talking about going into business together and asked me if I would be interested. I told them I might be
.

I can have visitors on Tuesdays. That jerk Ricky came to see me last week. He's that friend I told you about. You know, the one that set up that deal that went bad. He apologized for getting me in trouble, swore he thought it was on the up-and-up. I'm still mad at him for not coming forward when I got arrested. He told me he'd been checking out a deal in Nevada and said he'd make it up to me. I'm planning on talking to a lawyer soon to see if I can get a new hearing. Keep your fingers crossed!!!

Hey look, kiddo, I'm real sorry about this mess. I was just trying to make a few bucks. I'll be out of this joint before you know it
.

I'm not much of a writer, but that doesn't mean I'm not thinking of you. I can hardly wait to see you. Love ya loads!

Marti

XOXOXO

I read the letter a second and third time, and then read my favorite parts again.

I'm planning on talking to a lawyer soon to see if I can get a new hearing
. . . .

I wonder how long that will take. My heart pounds like a drum. Maybe she'll get out early!

Keep your fingers crossed!!!

“You can bet on it, Mom.”

I can hardly wait to see you
. . . .

“Me too—”

Hearing a creak, I turn toward the stairs. It's FJ.

“Lizzie thought you might want to write to your mom.” He lays a stack of envelopes and a book of stamps on my desk. “You got paper?”

“Yes sir.” I indicate the open notebook on my desk. “Thanks.”

“Thank Lizzie. It was her idea. I'll take your letter to the post office when you're done, if you want. It closes at noon on Saturdays.” He stands there, rubbing his mouth, then says, “You, uh, you mind if I read it?”

Read Mom's letter! But she wrote it to
me
.

Though I don't like it, I say, “Guess not.”

FJ shakes his head slightly as he reads the letter. “You ever meet this Ricky?” he asks, frowning.

“No sir.”

After he returns the letter to me, he picks up my pencil and jots down “Web County Texas Jail” on a page in my notebook. I watch as he tears out the page and folds it into his pocket.

“Okay, then,” he says.

As FJ turns to leave, he notices the Chore List taped to the wall. “Oh, I've been meaning to tell you. Now that fall is here, you can cross off ‘cut the grass' and add ‘sweep and rake leaves.' And soon as leaves are done, you'll take your turn shoveling snow.”

“Snow!”

He pauses. “You ever seen snow, Frankie Joe?”

“No sir, but I always wanted to. When's it gonna snow?”

“Hard to predict, but most likely around December.” He looks thoughtful. “You bring a coat? A warm one?”

“Never needed one.”

“I'll have Lizzie pick one up for you. And some warm clothes, too. She can get a discount.” As he heads down the stairs, he says, “Better get to that homework now.”

I groan. Chores and homework. Is that all he knows?

Dear Mom
,