Roads running north and south intersect with others running east and west, straight as rulers. I feel like we’re running a maze as FJ turns down first one road, then another. On every road, I see the same sign posted at the end of rows. The sign has a picture of an ear of corn on it—the corn painted bright yellow; the leaves, bright green—and the word AgriGold.
“What’s that mean? AgriGold?”
FJ glances at the sign. “That’s a type of corn farmers around here plant. Good tolerance to disease, heavy producer. It’s called that because it’s a big moneymaker. You know, agri–culture and gold. Gold’s another way of saying money.”
“Oh, I get it.”
He glances at me. “Grow more grain crops here than any other country. That’s why it’s called the Bread Basket of the World.”
Yeah, I learned that in kindergarten.
I regret telling FJ that I’m stupid. Now he’s treating me like I’m slow.
We drive close enough to look inside the red barns I saw on the way up from Texas. FJ points out tractors and spreaders, pickers and harvesters stored inside. We get close enough to the missile-size blue silos to read the word Harvestore on their sides.
Cool. Harvest + Store = Harvestore.
FJ looks at me, and I figure he’s getting ready to explain it to me.
“I get it,” I blurt before he can speak. “Harvest plus Store equals Harvestore. I’m not that dumb.”
FJ gives his head a little shake. “I know, Frankie Joe. We just talked about that. That’s not what I was going to say.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No.” He turns down a lane leading to a big white house. “Mr. Puffin’s wife died last year, so be sensitive with what you say. He’s still grieving.”
Now I do feel dumb.
An old man is waiting for us. He wears a sweaty ball cap, plaid flannel shirt, faded blue dungarees, and leather work boots. Behind him I see black-and-white cows behind a long row of bushes.
I pinch my nose as we get out of the truck. “Wow, what’s that stink?”
FJ shakes his head.
What’d I do?
The old man laughs and points to piles of manure in the pasture. “You get used to it after a while. Except Mary never did. That’s why she planted all them lilac bushes.” He waves an arm toward the row of shrubs next to the pasture. “Lilacs hide the smell of manure. Too bad they don’t bloom year round.”
FJ shakes hands with Mr. Puffin and introduces me. “Frankie Joe’s my oldest boy …”
Yeah, I think. The dumb, insensitive one.
“… and he’s staying with us for a spell.”
I can see the curiosity in the old man’s eyes, but he just holds his hand out to me so I can shake it.
“Pleased to meet you,” I say. “Sorry to hear of your loss.” I give FJ a how-was-that? look.
He gives me a smile, then looks toward the pasture. “When are you gonna give up these cows, Harvey? I doubt they’re making you enough to pay for their keep.”
“Probably right, Frank. But I got nothin’ better to do, now Mary’s gone.”
I trail behind FJ and Mr. Puffin as they pull ears of corn off stalks, peel back husks, and talk about how the ears are filling out. Watching them puncture kernels with their thumbnails to test for moisture, I ask if I can try.
“Sure thing.” Mr. Puffin pulls another ear off a stalk and hands it to me. “You know why too much moisture’s bad?”
“Frankie Joe’s not from around here,” FJ says quickly, “so he doesn’t know about such things …”
I feel my shoulders droop. I’m back to being dumb.
“… but I’m sure he’d like to learn.”
Mr. Puffin turns to me. “You don’t want too much moisture ’cause then the corn has to dry before we can store it. You don’t, it’ll mold.”
“I know what mold is.” I think about of our refrigerator back in Texas. “Mold grows on food, and you have to throw it out. Except on cheese; you can cut it off of cheese.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Puffin says. “What about shrink on corn? You know what that is?”
“No sir.”
“It’s the weight loss that occurs during the drying process. It’s better if the corn dries natural in the field, else we have to use mechanical processes to dry it out. That’s costly, affects your profit.”
I push my thumbnail into a kernel to see how dry it is.
“Smell it,” he tells me.
“The corn?”
“Yeah. See if it smells musty or sour or garlicky.”
Garlicky? I take a sniff as he tells me about other things that can affect profit, like smut balls and insect infestation.
“Smut’s a fungus that looks just like what it’s called—black soot—but it’s really a parasite.” He grins. “And I’m sure you know what bugs like to eat.”
“Corn and beans,” I say, grinning, too.
After the corn, we move to another field and do similar kinds of tests on soybeans. I learn how to pop open the shells and run my thumb inside the pale green pods to break the beans loose. I also learn about orange ladybugs that eat tiny insects called “aphids,” which suck the sap out of plants. We walk up and down rows of soybeans, eyeballing the leaves and plants for signs of fungus and insect damage, which can stunt the plant and affect yield.
“Good shrink on the corn, Harvey,” FJ says at the end of all the eyeballing and squeezing and smelling. “Beans look good, too.”
The old man looks pleased when FJ makes his final assessment. We walk back toward the house through corn so tall the sky all but disappears. The long leaves on the corn wrap around me, making me feel invisible.
A person could disappear in all this corn… .
Before I know it, I’m thinking about my plan to light out for Texas. Seeing my friends again. Telling Mr. O’Hare about the farm machinery inside the big barns. Describing the color of the ladybugs to Mr. Lopez. Talking to Mrs. Jones about blight and aphids on corn and soybeans. Being free to ride my bike any time I want. To smell mesquite. Taste the sand that blows in off the Chihuahua Desert. Spook up birds and deer, hunt space rocks—and be there to welcome Mom when she gets home.
I can just ride straight south on those ruler-straight roads and eat my way back home, I decide. As tall as the corn grows, I could even hide out in it to escape the real posse I’m sure FJ would send after me.
I’ll need to be careful, not slip up… .
“These fields look like they run on forever,” I say, figuring this is a good chance to test out my escape route. “I bet they run all the way down the middle of the country.”
Mr. Puffin doesn’t skip a beat. “Well sir, that’s a fact.”
That’s the best thing I’ve learned all afternoon.
3:15 P.M.
“All your hard work’s paid off, Harvey,” FJ says. “If it doesn’t rain, you’ll end up with a top-grade crop this year.”
“Well then, let us pray it doesn’t rain. Don’t need any hiccups now that would set the harvest back.” Mr. Puffin looks at FJ and asks, “Got time for a cup?”
“Been waiting all day for a cup of your good coffee, Harvey.”
The sun has begun to lower in the west when I follow Mr. Puffin into the white-painted farmhouse. I don’t like that the day is almost over.
As I sit down at the kitchen table, Mr. Puffin asks, “What’s got you so long in the jaw, boy?” He sets about making a fresh pot of coffee. “You hungry? I bet you’re hungry.”
“Um, no sir.” It’s because I have to go back to the Huckaby house, but I can’t tell him that because FJ is sitting across from me.
FJ gives me a look, and I remember that I’m supposed to be sensitive. “Well, maybe a little hungry,” I say to Mr. Puffin.
“Well, I’d be a lot hungry, I was a growing boy like you. What’s your favorite thing to eat?” He searches through cupboards and the refrigerator.
“Burritos,” I say.
“Burritos!” Mr. Puff
in pulls a package of store-bought cookies from a bread box on the counter. “That’s Mexican food, isn’t it? I like Italian food myself. Pepperoni-and-sausage pizza’s my favorite. That place in Clearview makes the best pepperoni-and-sausage pizza I ever ate. You like pizza?”
“Sure do.”
Mr. Puffin shakes some rock-hard cookies onto a plate and sets it on the table. “Me too. Haven’t had a slice in better’n a year now.”
“Why, Harvey,” FJ says, “you’re not but … what, seven miles from town? Why don’t you just drive in and pick one up?”
“Seven miles?” I say. “That’s nothin’! I bet I do seventy miles a day when I bike in the Chihuahua Desert. I can do seven miles in fifteen minutes—no, ten!”
FJ looks skeptical.
“That might be,” Mr. Puffin says, “but I milk cows mornin’ and night, seven days a week. Have to clean the milk shed when I’m done, too.” The old man’s eyes begin to look wet. “Used to be, Mary cleaned the milking shed, and we’d get done early enough to run into town.” He pours two cups of coffee and sets them on the table. “But no more.”
“One of those big dairies would buy those cows off you, Harvey,” FJ says. “Why don’t you give it some thought?”
“Long as I’ve known you, Frank, you’ve been right more than you been wrong. I’ll think on it.” Mr. Puffin pours a glass of milk and sets it in front of me.
My mind takes off on its own as I dunk hockey-puck cookies into milk. “I could bring you a pizza,” I blurt out.
“What?” FJ’s eyes open wide.
“I’d do my homework before I leave. I mean, it’s only seven miles out and seven miles back.”
Mr. Puffin laughs. “Sounds like the boy needs a break from all that studying.” He shakes his head, looking unsure. “You’d have to figure out a way to carry it.”
“I already got a basket on my bike for carrying things. I delivered things for people in Laredo.”
“That a fact? How much did you charge?”
“Tips. I worked for tips.”
Mr. Puffin shakes his head. “Delivery charge would be better. So much a mile, maybe.” Turning to FJ, he says, “I’m open for it. What do you think?”
A rare thing happens: FJ smiles.
“How far out and back would that be, Frankie Joe?” he asks. “You know, seven times two?”
“Huh? Oh, seven times two is … fourteen. Fourteen miles is easy.”
“And if you come out twice a month, how many miles would it be? Round trip. In other words, four trips at seven miles each.”
Is he serious? Two times a month away from the mutant ninja posse and the Saturday Quilt Circle?
My heart begins to pound. “Uh, that would be … twenty-eight miles.”
Oh—he’s teaching me to count by sevens!
“And what if you come out four times a month?”
My heart flip-flops like a Mexican jumping bean. I never dreamed I’d have a reason to count by sevens, but now I do: to earn money to get back home.
I’m so excited I can’t think straight. “I don’t know right now, but I’ll figure it out before we leave today!”
“Okay then,” says FJ. “You can do it if …”
I hold my breath.
“… you wear a helmet. Won’t have you out on the road without one. I’m sure we have a spare one at the house.”
“I never wear a helmet.” I watch FJ’s smile turn to a frown. “But okay. I’ll wear a helmet.” I’ll do anything to get free of Mrs. Bixby and the Quilt Circle on Saturdays.
“Well now,” Mr. Puffin says, raising his eyebrows at FJ. “You’ve got an enterprising boy here.”
Enterprising? I wonder if that’s a good thing.
Mr. Puffin asks, “You got a name for your new business?”
“Yes sir,” I say without hesitating. “Frankie Joe’s Freaky Fast Delivery Service.”
6:42 P.M.
en-ter-prising adj : marked by an independent energetic spirit and by readiness to undertake or experiment.
I read the definition again before I close the dictionary, thinking, Mandy’s not the only one who’s good at business.
Impatient to get started, I decide to make a sign for my bike. I search out a scrap piece of cardboard in the storage part of the attic and find a felt-tip marker in the desk drawer. In my best penmanship, I letter FRANKIE JOE’S FREAKY FAST DELIVERY SERVICE.
Creeping downstairs I go to the kitchen where I know Lizzie keeps twist-ties from bread wrappers. I find four, then look for an ice pick in her odds-and-ends drawer. I punch holes in the four corners of the cardboard and push the plastic twist ties through. With everything I need to secure the sign to my bike basket, I head for the front porch. In a matter of minutes, the sign is wired on my basket, and I’m in business.
I sneak back upstairs to my bedroom and turn in. Lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling and think about my escape-to-Texas plan. I decide to add maps to my list, just to be on the safe side.
FJ can get more free from Triple A if he needs them … but I bet he won’t be driving back to Texas again. As soon as I’m back with Mom, things will go back to normal.
As I drift off to sleep, I start to dream. It’s the day I arrived in Clearview, Illinois. I’m sitting at the table with all the Huckabys, and Lizzie asks me to tell everyone what I’m good at. I hear myself say, “Enterprising. I’m enterprising.”
Friday, October 16
4:50 P.M.
“How much you gonna charge for delivery?”
It’s Friday afternoon, and Mandy’s invited herself to walk home with me. She’s excited that I’m going to be delivering pizzas on Saturdays, starting tomorrow.
“Depends on how far it is,” I tell her.
We scuff our feet through leaves, which are really dropping now that October is half gone. The leaves aren’t pukey green anymore. Now they’re the color of dirty gym socks.
“I figure a quarter a mile is fair,” I say. “That would be a dollar seventy-five for seven miles—that’s how far it is to Mr. Puffin’s place.”
“Sounds a little cheap to me. It’s a round-trip, you know.”
“Yeah, I know, but I wanna be fair.” I don’t tell her that my new business has an extra benefit. It gets me away from the Kowabunga gang and Mrs. Bixby.
“How do you plan on keeping the pizzas hot?”
“Uh-oh. Didn’t think of that.”
“I bet Mr. Gambino would help figure something out. Since he runs the pizza parlor, selling more pizzas would help him out, too.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.”
“Come on, let’s go talk to him.”
A few minutes later, we’re inside the pizza place, where Mandy points out Mr. Gambino. He’s talking to a man standing at the counter who’s paying his check.
“This is Frankie Joe,” Mandy tells Mr. Gambino when he finishes with his customer. “He’s starting a pizza-delivery business.”
“A pizza-delivery business! Well that’s good.”
“Hey, I heard about you,” the man who just paid says.
“This is Mr. Lindholm,” Mr. Gambino tells me.
“You’re that enterprisin’ boy my neighbor Harvey Puffin mentioned,” Mr. Lindholm says. “My place is right next to his.” He pauses. “Say, how about you bring one along for me, too? Gonna be gettin’ real busy.”
I’m speechless. Two customers?
Mandy pokes me in the ribs. “Um, yes sir, I could do that,” I say. “Only I don’t have an insulated bag to keep the pizzas hot.”
I turn to Mr. Gambino. “That’s what I came to ask you about.”
“Insulated bag …” Mr. Gambino disappears into the backroom for several minutes. “I knew I kept this thing for a reason,” he says when he returns. He hands me a dust-coated plastic bag with a zipper. “It holds two, maybe three pizza boxes.”
I can’t believe my luck. “Thanks! Thanks a lot!”
“Not doin’ me any good stuck in the storeroom. It’s left
over from old times when Clearview was busier.” He sighs. “Them days is gone. Now I have to run a twofer on Friday nights to get people to come in.”
“Not anymore,” Mandy says, grinning at me.
Before Mandy and I leave, I arrange to pick up two pizzas the next afternoon: a pepperoni and sausage for Mr. Puffin and a meat-lover’s for Mr. Lindholm.
“You’ll have to trust me until I get paid,” I tell Mr. Gambino. “Soon as I get back to town, I’ll bring you your money.” I hold my breath, knowing he’s probably heard that my mother is in jail.
“I got no problem with that,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say to Mandy when we’re outside.
“We businesspeople have to stick together,” she says. “Anyway, I owed you one. Miss Peachcott turned out to be a good customer.” She pauses. “You been by to see her yet?”
“I’ve been busy.”
She raises her eyebrows at me.
“Really,” I say. “You don’t have the homework I do.”
Or a mother in jail that Miss Peachcott is bound to ask about.
“Sure,” she says. Her eyebrows go up again.
I’m going to have to get better at this lying business.
Saturday, October 17
3:15 P.M.
The cardboard sign on the front of my bike flaps like a bird because I’m pedaling so fast. I have two pizzas in the insulated bag on my bike basket, one for Mr. Puffin and one for his neighbor, Mr. Lindholm. Because the bag is so big, I used a bungee cord to strap it on top of the basket to keep the pizzas from sliding around inside. It was Lizzie’s idea. She found the bungee on her back porch.
I can use it on my escape, too.
I memorized the map FJ drew showing me all the roads and turns to get to Mr. Puffin’s and Mr. Lindholm’s. But I still pause at corners to read county road markers, just to make sure I don’t get turned around. The corn is so tall, it’s hard to tell which direction I’m going.
I begin to worry about getting lost on my trip home. Then I remember something Mr. O’Hare taught me once when we were hunting rocks in the desert. “Let the sun be your guide, Frankie Joe. Just remember that it rises in the east and sets in the west. And when it’s warmin’ the top of your head, it’s high noon.”
Freaky Fast Frankie Joe Page 8
