Freaky Fast Frankie Joe (9 page)

Things are OK. The food is soso here, too. Except I got four stupid half brothers!!! I got a room of my own but I have to study a lot and do chores
.

Let me know what that lawyer says, OK? You think maybe you'll be out by Xmas? I can hardly wait to see you, too
.

Love ya loads
,

Frankie Joe

XOXOXO

I want Mom to write again soon, but I know she won't. She hates writing letters. It's just the way she is, which is probably why Miss Peachcott never heard from her after she left Clearview. “Anything I got to say will be old news by the time the letter arrives,” she used to say. “Besides, I got better things to do with my time.”

I put my letter into an envelope and put a stamp on it, then slip it into my backpack so I can take it to the post office on the way to school on Monday. I'm afraid if I give it to FJ to mail, he might read it.

I look for a safe place to keep Mom's letter—safe from prying eyes. Spying the memento that Mrs. Jones gave me, I slide the letter inside the back, under the dust cover. I put the book back on the shelf, between my rock-collecting guide and the paint sample from Mr. Lopez.

The perfect place. My mementos from home are all together.

Hot water steams me from head to toe. FJ came up to the second floor this morning to enforce the new rule Lizzie made yesterday about showers. Matt was sullen as a bulldog when I got first dibs on the bathroom.

“But Dad,” he protested. “I've always been first.”

“Fair's fair,” FJ told him. “I expect the new rule to be followed—to the letter.”

FJ walked back downstairs as I walked inside the bathroom.

“. . . seventy-five, seventy-six. . . .” I'm counting to a hundred–twenty to make sure I don't go over my two-minute limit—

What's that? I take my head from underneath the nozzle to listen, but decide I was hearing hot water gurgling in the pipes.

I hurry rinsing off, so I don't run over my time. As I slide the shower curtain open, I see my shorts—tied in a knot and floating in the toilet.

Great!
It wasn't water in the pipes.

I wring my shorts out as best I can, but Matt's not cutting me any slack. Listening to him pound on the door for his turn, I pull on wet shorts and my jeans. Within seconds my crotch isn't just damp, it's soggy.

Leaving the bathroom, I find the ninja posse lined up in the hallway. Matt has a cocky grin on his face. The other three smother giggles.

I know Matt's the one who did it—his way of getting even. The others are just following along.

“Look,” Matt says as I walk past. “The jailbird's kid wet his pants.” He points to my wet crotch. “Now we've got
two
with bladder-control problems living here.” He's still laughing when he goes into the bathroom.

Two? I see tears stream down Mark's face.

“You told,” Mark blubbers through the bathroom door. “You said you wouldn't tell!”

I continue down the hall and up the stairs to the attic. Pulling off my wet jeans and shorts, I hang them over the back of the desk chair and put on dry clothes.

I can hear the brothers on the floor below. As one finishes showering and it's time for the next one, the showers get shorter and shorter—a sign the hot water is running out. I figure that Matt took longer than his two minutes. I feel sorry for Little Johnny, who is back to being last today.

It's only once every five days, I think. That's better than every day.

Creak
. I hear another noise as I'm slipping my feet into socks. Mark's head appears above the landing, then the rest of his body snakes up the stairs.

“What do you want?” I snap.

His head hangs low. “I don't do it all the time, you know. I mean, I only have an accident when I'm too tired to wake up.”

I had an accident once, I remember. I was at Felipe's Market one Saturday, and a man with a gun came in. He made all of us lie down on the floor while he cleaned out the till. I had to stand in front of everyone later—the customers, the police who came to investigate,
everyone
—in wet jeans that smelled like pee.

“Accidents happen,” I say, shrugging. “Once when I was a little kid, I got so scared I peed myself.”

“You did?” Mark's face relaxes, then immediately screws up again. “You, uh, you won't tell anyone, will you? I mean, I'm not as old as the rest of the kids in my class 'cause I skipped a grade.”

Yeah, I know. You've got an “excellent brain.”

“They'll make my life miserable if you tell,” he goes on.

“I won't tell.” I pull on my shoes and tie the laces.

“Promise?” Mark's eyes have a pleading look in them.

“Sure. Guess it's not easy being the smartest kid in school . . . or the dumbest.”

“It's not.” He hesitates. “You want, I can help you
with your schoolwork. Mom's helping you with spelling, maybe I can help you with math. That's my best subject.”

I don't like a fourth-grader—especially one who should be a third-grader—reminding me that I'm slow.

“Thanks, but I'm doing okay.” When Mark still doesn't leave, I give him a look. “What?”

“Nothin'. I just thought I'd walk with you to breakfast. I smelled ham, which means Mom will have applesauce with it. I
love
ham and applesauce.”

“Yeah? Well, let's go.” I've never had applesauce with ham, but it sounds good. On the way downstairs, my nose fills with goods smells that make my stomach growl.

“Race you to the kitchen,” Mark says. When he reaches the bottom floor, he takes off running.

Before I can think, my legs start pumping for all they're worth. I catch him midway down the hall and burst through the kitchen door a length ahead of him.

“You won!” Mark yells. “I had a head start, and you beat me!
Kowabunga, dude
! You are freaky fast!”

Freaky
fast
. I like it.

FJ and Lizzie and the other boys are sitting at the table, looking at us like an explanation is in order.

“Well,” I say, shrugging. “Some get excellent brains and some get long legs.”

Everyone laughs. Except Matt.

Lizzie stops me at the foot of the stairs as I'm going up to start homework. She and FJ are going to a meeting.

“Did I mention that I spoke with Mrs. Bixby today? She's planning to start tutoring you next Saturday at Quilt Circle. Isn't that great?”

“Um . . .” I let it go at that.

“We'll just be gone an hour or so,” she continues. “These Oktoberfest planning meetings don't last long. I'm in charge of the Quilt Booth. That's when we start selling chances on our Christmas quilt.”

“Octo—
What
?”

“
Oktoberfest
. It's an annual festival that's held here. There's a parade and booths, even live entertainment. Everyone comes. It's a lot of fun.” She turns to FJ. “Okay, I'm ready.”

He points to a check lying on the hall table. “Did you intend to leave that there?”

What? It's not safe to leave a check around with a jailbird's kid in the house?

“Yes, I did. Thanks for reminding me.” Lizzie calls Matt to the front door. “Miss Peachcott's making deliveries today and plans to drop off my Nova order.” She looks between Matt and me. “When she comes, one of you give her this check. Okay?”

“Oh,” I say, feeling dumb. “Well, I was going upstairs to do homework, but sure—”

“I'll take care of it,” Matt says, taking over. “You know you can depend on me.”

Mr. Responsibility!

After FJ and Lizzie leave, Huckaby Number Two gives me a flinty look. First I pushed him out of slot Number One. Then I ruined his long, hot shower routine. Now I've been given equal responsibility with him. Not wanting to get into it with him, I double-time it up the stairs.

I'm sitting at the desk doing long division when I hear the front door slam. Through the window, I see Matt ride his bike into the street. Before I know it, the entire block fills up with Matt's friends.

Mandy's out there, too. She sees me through the window and waves me to come down, but I wave her off. She's insistent, so I open the window.

“I got homework,” I call to her.

Matt slows down when he hears me. He circles in front of my window and yells to the others. “Hey, did you know Frankie Joe got a letter yesterday from his jailbird mama? She got arrested for dealing dope!”

Things screech to a stop. I see Mandy's mouth drop open. Everyone's mouth drops open.

“Jailbird's kid . . . jailbird's kid,” Matt yells again and again. A few of the other kids take up the chant, too.

Mandy starts yelling, “Shut up! Shut up!” at them.

I want to kill Matt.

As I pull back from the window, I see someone with a cane standing at the corner, watching.

Oh no . . .

Matt and his gang see Miss Peachcott, too, and take off down the street.

The doorbell rings.

Where are you, Mr. Responsibility?

I hear another ring.

I clump down the stairs and open the door. Miss Peachcott steps into the house and hands me a pink paper bag with
NOVA
printed on it. Silently she takes the check that I fumble into her hand.

“Um, thanks,” I say, looking at the floor. Reaching out, she lifts my chin so that I have to look at her.

“You done something you're ashamed of, Frankie Joe Huckaby?”

“No ma'am. Not that I know of.”

“Then you look people in this one-horse town in the eye. You understand?”

“Yes ma'am,” I say, even though I don't.

She shuffles to the door and closes it behind her. As the door clicks shut, I understand what Miss Peachcott was telling me. Word about Mom being in jail will be all over town by tomorrow.

I want to cry. I leave the Nova bag on the hall table and climb the stairs, two at a time. At the desk, I push my notebook aside. I don't care if I flunk Math and English and History and Science. Fail
everything
. All I
want to do is leave Clearview in my dust. I lay my head on the desk and squeeze my eyes shut.

Please please, I think, let Mom get out of jail early.

All at once, I have a startling thought. What if she does?

Raising my head, the first thing I see is the definition I wrote for
home
and the constant answer: The Lone Star Trailer Park.

“I'm going home,” I whisper.

By bedtime I've put together a runaway plan—my own “great escape.” I've even found an empty cardboard box in the storage area to keep things I'll need for the trip. No one will notice it because it fits right in with the others.

I have to leave soon, I think, remembering that FJ said it would start snowing in December. That means I'll get home before Mom does, but that's okay. I'll be there waiting for her, no matter when she gets out.

I review the list, thinking through every step to make sure I haven't overlooked anything.

Bedroll
Maybe I can find one in an alley before the garbage men come.

Tarp
It might rain. I'll look for one while I'm looking for a bedroll.

Spare bike tube and flat kit
How am I gonna buy this? I don't have any money.

Pot for cooking
There's always old pots and pans in alleys.

Matches to start a fire, and a Ziploc bag to keep them dry
In the kitchen maybe.
Canteen
Plenty of rivers along the way. I can recycle an empty plastic bottle.

Jacket
FJ is taking care of that.

Bungee cord
For strapping down stuff in my bike basket. I'll check the storage shed.

Money
To buy food and other stuff I can't find for free.

Where am I gonna get money? Maybe the grocery store manager will let me sweep out the back room like I did at Felipe's Market.

“No way FJ will let me get a job,” I mumble. “A job would interfere with my chores and homework.”

What am I going to do?

Shush . . . shush
 . . .

Leaves are starting to fall fast. It's my chore to sweep them off the porch. Lizzie wants it clean when her quilt group arrives; but as soon as I get the leaves off, they're back again.

We all have regular chores to do and take turns doing other things. Clearing the table after meals, stacking the dishwasher, taking out the trash, yard work. The others got their chores done this morning because they have things to do Saturday afternoons—fun things. Matt rides along with FJ to visit farms. Mark goes to 4-H. Luke, to Chess Club. Little Johnny has karate. While he was waiting for his ride to pick him up, he ran around the house in his white trousers and jacket and belt, yelling, “kowabunga!”

I have leaves that won't stop falling—and Mrs. Bixby.

I watch a leaf devil race down the street, swirling into the sky like a miniature tornado. Back home in Texas, we have dirt devils, not leaf devils. I miss dirt. And rocks. I bet Mr. O'Hare's out looking for space rocks today . . . without me.

The front door squeaks as it opens. “Want a cookie?” Lizzie steps onto the porch. “Fresh out of the oven.”

“Um, sure.” I set my broom aside and take an oatmeal-and-raisin cookie. I wish Lizzie wasn't so nice to me. I want to hate her as much as I hate everything else in Clearview. Liking her makes me feel like I'm being a traitor to Mom.

Clunk . . . thump
.

I recognize the noises coming from the front room. FJ is setting up Lizzie's quilting frame. The Quilt Circle will be meeting soon, which means Mrs. Bixby will be here, too. I can't believe my luck. To have to face fidgety-eyed Mrs. Bixby five days a week
and
on Saturday afternoons. Last week she had me read in front of the whole group. It was humiliating.