Freaky Fast Frankie Joe

by Lutricia Clifton

  “Okay,” I say. “Can I start right away?”

  “Not so fast, buddy. How much you gonna charge a crippled-up old woman?”

  Is she trying to make me feel bad so I’ll work cheap? She is—she’s haggling with me! I grin, remembering the way Mr. Lopez taught me to haggle with people in the markets across the border. “Never pay the asking price, Frankie Joe,” he told me. “Dicker them down to your price.”

  “Well, depends on how far I have to travel,” I say now. “Um, how about fifty cents per delivery inside the village limits … and a quarter a mile for out-of-town deliveries. That’s what I charge Mr. Puffin and Mr. Lindholm—a quarter a mile.”

  Miss Peachcott looks thoughtful. “That’s gonna add up.”

  It might, I think, but I’m running out of time.

  “Well, you see,” I tell her, “I got homework to do when I get home. And chores!” I suck the spit from between my teeth and shake my head slowly. “FJ won’t let me work for you if I don’t get my homework and chores done.”

  “He won’t, huh?”

  “No ma’am. And if Nova buys your formula, you’ll be on easy street.”

  “That’s true.” She looks thoughtful. “Well, I guess we have a deal … if—”

  Uh-oh.

  “If … what?” I ask.

  “If you’ll agree to be my tester.”

  “Tester?”

  “Yes, tester. Someone to tell me if I have got the formula right before I send it off to Nova again. They’ve given me only one more chance. I must get it right.”

  I helped Mr. Lopez mix his paint color. How hard can it be?

  “Okay—”

  “And,” she interrupts, “if you help me dye my roots.”

  “Roots?”

  Exasperated, Miss Peachcott parts her hair, exposing white roots below her black-licorice curls. Then she pulls a small brush from her pocketbook. “I use this slanted eye-shadow brush to dab color on the roots, you see, and my hands are not as steady as they once were.”

  Her hands are shaky.

  “So,” I say, taking a closer look at the black blotches on her scalp. Her hair dye is the blackest black I’ve ever seen, and her scalp is the whitest white. I can’t decide which looks worse—the black blotches on her head or the throbbing blotch on her face. “You want me to deliver Nova … and be a tester and a dabber.”

  She blinks. “Yes, a tester and a dabber.”

  We shake hands on the deal.

  7:30 P.M.

  Pulling the dictionary from my bookshelf, I hunt up the new word I learned today.

  solstice noun : 1 : either of the two points on the elliptic at which its distance from the celestial equator is greatest and which is reached by the sun each year about June 22 and December 22 2 : the time of the sun’s passing a solstice that occurs about June 22 to begin summer and December 22 to begin winter in the northern hemisphere.

  Woo-hoo. Winter doesn’t start until December 22. I have more time than I thought I did.

  I close the dictionary, feeling good. Now that I’m working for Miss Peachcott and delivering pizzas, I can make the money I need long before then.

  Friday, November 6

  6:15 P.M.

  Lizzie comes through the back door carrying an armload of shopping bags with JCPenney printed on the outside. As soon as we’re through eating, she begins opening them.

  “Try this on, Frankie Joe.” She holds up a blue quilted parka with an attached hood. “Consider it an early Christmas present.”

  Cool. The jacket is just what I need for the trip.

  I put on the jacket and stand for inspection, feeling a little bad because I’ll only need it to get me back to Texas. It won’t get any use once I get home.

  “Perfect fit.” Lizzie turns a smiling face to FJ and the four legitimate Huckaby boys. “Not too big and not too little, so he’s got room to grow.”

  “Perfect,” FJ echoes.

  Huckaby Numbers Two, Three, Four, and Five do not reply. Nor do they smile.

  Opening another of the shopping bags, Lizzie holds up funny-looking quilted pants with straps that go over the shoulders.

  “Put the bibs on,” Lizzie says, handing them to me. “They go over your other clothes.”

  “Now?”

  “And try them with the jacket, too,” Lizzie says. “I want to see if the entire outfit is the right size.”

  Uh-uh, I think. No way.

  I don’t move.

  “Put them on,” FJ says.

  I read the unwritten rule in FJ’s eyes that says, Do not argue with Lizzie. Taking off the jacket, I tug the pant straps over my shoulders and slip into the jacket again.

  “Is that all?” Johnny asks, hunting through the empty bags. “How come we don’t get new bibs?”

  “The ones I bought you last year still fit you,” Lizzie says. “I bought them big enough to last two years, remember?”

  “But mine’s got a hole in the knee,” Johnny says.

  “Your mom can patch them,” FJ says. “Frankie Joe doesn’t have any winter clothes, so we had to buy him some. Besides, we, uh, we’ve had some other unexpected expenses come up, so the rest of you will have to make do.”

  “That’s right,” Lizzie says, opening the last bag. “Now put these Wellingtons on, Frankie Joe. I need to see if they fit. I like to buy them big, too, so they’ll last more than one year.”

  Wellingtons? I discover they’re rubber boots that come almost to my knees. As soon as I have them on, she hands me mittens for my hands. Blue ones. I stand in front of my audience, feeling like the Michelin Man.

  “And I got my fifteen-percent discount,” Lizzie says to FJ. “Which will help a lot given the … circumstances.”

  Like what, I wonder. That my mom’s in jail, and you had to take in an illegitimate son? And he’s costing you more for food? And clothes? And fees for the after-school program?

  “Looks like you’re all set,” FJ says to me. “Haul your new duds upstairs now. Your Responsibility Report’s due Sunday. Better make sure it’s caught up.”

  Responsibility Report—my seventh so far. I slump inside the new clothes. They’re so new they don’t bend, so I waddle out of the room in my “new duds.”

  Just as I’m about to go up the narrow stairs to the attic, I hear a whisper coming from behind me.

  “Just ’cause you got new stuff, doesn’t mean you’ll be staying here,” Matt says.

  What’s he freaking out over?

  I don’t know how to respond because Matt is talking in riddles. Little Johnny walks up, saving me the need.

  “ ’Cause of you, we didn’t get early Christmas presents,” he says, looking like he’s about to cry. “I wish you didn’t come here, Frankie Joe.”

  “Me too,” I mutter, clumping up the stairs.

  I feel ridiculous. Folks in Texas don’t wear such things. I decide it doesn’t matter. I’m planning on being gone soon, so I won’t need them—except the jacket.

  When I get to the attic, I peel off the clothes and pitch them onto the stack of boxes in the storage area. I feel bad. They probably cost a lot, and Little Johnny didn’t get anything—not even a pair of mittens.

  I only need the jacket, I think. I’ll leave the bibs and boots and mittens for him. He’ll grow into them.

  Saturday, November 7

  12:15 P.M.

  Mr. Lopez would really like these colors. The leaves look like red and gold and yellow feathers floating in the air.

  I sit on the front stoop watching kids race their bikes. I see Mandy in the street along with others from our fifth-grade class. They race through piles of leaves, making them swirl. It looks like a lot of fun.

  The four brothers are inside the house, getting ready for their Saturday-afternoon events.

  Maybe just once before I leave …

  Deciding to make a run through the leaves, I haul my Rover Sport off the porch and ride to the end of the block.

  “Hey, Oddball,” Mandy says, ridi
ng with me to the start line. “Glad to see you’re not hidin’ out anymore.”

  I can’t help but grin at the other oddball. But when I turn around to begin my run through the leaves, I find she’s not the only one who will be riding along with me. One by one, our classmates line up on either side of us.

  “They want you to race them,” Mandy whispers.

  Yeah, I got that.

  “I’m not racing,” I tell them. “I just wanna make one run through the leaves.” I take off before anyone can answer.

  Mandy takes off after me. They all take off.

  Kids and bikes surround me. One kid behind me bumps my Rover Sport, so I pedal faster to get ahead of him. All at once, another kid pulls right in front of me.

  “Move over!” I yell. “We’re gonna crash!” He doesn’t move, so I swerve to one side and begin to pump. When I near the finish line in front of the house, I lean forward, using my weight as momentum. I leave everything behind—trees and houses and bikers.

  “Yahoo!” I yell, wheeling to a stop. The leaves swirl around me like I’m in the middle of a leaf tornado.

  “You won!” Mandy yells, pulling up next to me. “You won the race!”

  “I wasn’t racing.” Rolling my bike to the curb, I see the four brothers on the porch.

  “Boy, Frankie Joe,” Johnny calls out, “you’re pretty fast!”

  “Real fast,” Luke says. “You beat those others by a mile.”

  “I can beat him,” Matt growls. He pulls his bike off the porch and pushes it into the street.

  “I don’t know.” Mark sounds doubtful. “Frankie Joe beat me in that race, remember? And he’s even faster on his bike.”

  “Shut up,” Mandy tells Mark. “Let them race. Just once, I’d like to see someone put Matt in his place.”

  All the kids start yelling, “Race! Race!”

  “I’m ready,” Matt says, pulling his bike up next to mine. “Let’s get to the starting line.”

  I look at the racing tires on Matt’s bike. I don’t stand a chance against those tires. “I’m not gonna race you,” I tell him. “I just wanted to make one run.”

  “I dare you,” Matt says.

  “No.”

  “Double dare you!”

  “No.” I’m not about to give Matt, the honor student and Student Council representative, another chance to rub it in.

  Matt blows up like a bag of microwave popcorn. “You’re chicken!” he yells, turning to the other kids. “Scared Sneaky Freaky Slow Frankie Joe’s a chicken!”

  Everyone’s yells, “Scared Sneaky Freaky Slow Frankie Joe’s chicken.”

  I can’t take it. Before I know it, I’m racing back down the street. I hear the others behind me, yelling “He’s gonna race! He’s gonna race Matt!”

  Are they going to be surprised. They think I’m heading for the starting line, but I’m not.

  When I reach the cornfield at the end of the block, I don’t stop. I race down a corn row without slowing down. The long leaves slap me in the face, and I bounce over the roots; but I don’t look back. I know that no one will follow me because their skinny tires aren’t right for off-road biking.

  Only a little longer, I think, letting the corn swallow me up. Soon I’ll leave this one-horse town in my dust.

  9:47 P.M.

  Delivering pizzas has made me tired, but before bed, I revise my escape-to-Texas plan again.

  Bedroll Got it.

  Tarp Have to buy one.

  Spare bike tube and flat kit Buy at the garage downtown.

  Pot for cooking Got it.

  Matches to start a fire Maybe in the kitchen.

  Canteen Use plastic bottles.

  Jacket Got one.

  Bungee cord Got it.

  Money Working on it.

  Triple A maps Got them.

  Mementos Can’t leave them behind.

  “Wait,” I mumble. “I’ll need a change of clothes for when I wash out my dirty ones in the rivers.” I add a pair of jeans and shirt, socks and underwear to my list and look it over again. I decide to make a quick run downstairs to check out matches. On the ground floor, I wait, listening to see if Matt’s following me.

  The coast is clear.

  I inch my way down the hall but stop at the kitchen door. Someone’s talking.

  Swell. FJ and Lizzie are still up. I stand quiet, listening.

  “How long you think it’ll take?” Lizzie asks.

  “He wasn’t sure,” FJ answers. “Four to six months, I figure.”

  “That long?”

  “These kind of things don’t happen overnight,” he says.

  “You think there’ll be any … problems?”

  Silence.

  Wonder what problems they’re worried about?

  I sneak my way back down the hall and up the stairs. I have my own problems. December 22—when winter begins—is a little over a month away, and I still don’t have everything I need.

  Saturday, November 21

  1:20 P.M.

  I’m racing to Mr. Puffin’s farm with a large pepperoni-and-sausage pizza when I hear a grumbling that sounds like a giant growling dog. As I get closer, I see dirt swirling into the sky. Under the dust, I can make out farm equipment. The tractors and harvesters and trucks that were parked inside the red barns are in the fields now.

  Like giant insects, the harvesters devour corn and soybeans. The machines shoot yellow kernels into the back of big trucks with tall sideboards that keep the grain from falling out. Truck after truck loaded with shelled corn and soybeans leave the fields. I can’t believe it. In the blink of an eye, the ground is barren as a brown paper bag. Just like the Chihuahua Desert.

  My plan has developed a huge case of the hiccups. I start pedaling again and make it to Mr. Puffin’s back door just as the old farmer is coming in from the fields.

  “Perfect timing,” he says, removing the insulated bag from my basket. “I done worked up an appetite. Let’s have a slice while it’s good and hot.”

  Wordless, I follow Mr. Puffin into his kitchen. Pocketing the money he hands me, I watch him plate up pizza. I stare at my slice. How can I eat pizza when giant shredders are ripping apart my escape-to-Texas plan?

  Mr. Puffin looks at me. “You tired of pizza? I got some peanut butter and jelly, you want a sandwich.”

  “No sir, it’s just—they’re cutting down the corn and beans! They’re taking everything. The cornstalks and bean plants and … there’s nothing left.”

  “You’ve never seen a harvest before, have you, Frankie Joe? You see, we got equipment these days that shells the corn and beans right off the stalk, then takes the stalks down to the ground. Well, almost to the ground. There’s a little stalk and root left to the corn. Roots rot, making fertilizer for next year’s crop. Cornstalks are chopped up, made into silage to feed cows. Farmers sell off the shelled corn and beans, or put them in storage until prices are better.”

  Storage. I’d forgotten about the big blue silos.

  “Oh sure. The corn and beans are stored in those Harvestore silos.”

  I begin to breathe easy again. I can get food out of the silos when I need it. I still have to figure out a way to hide if I need to, but at least I’ll have plenty to eat.

  Mr. Puffin shakes his head. “Silos are for storing silage. Or used to be. You see, not too many farmers raise dairy cows anymore. Most silos just sit empty now. Lot of the barns, too.”

  “You mean silos are for storing food for cows?”

  “That’s right. Corn and beans are hauled straight to river barges—that’d be on the Mississippi River for us here—or straight to the processing plants.”

  “But don’t farmers save back enough for themselves?”

  “Themselves? Oh, you mean those that feed their own livestock. Don’t feed corn and beans to dairy cows. Feed silage.”

  I shake my head. “No sir, for eating. You know, corn and beans for making things like … burritos.”

  He laughs. “Why, don’t eat none
of it, son! We grow field corn, not sweet corn. Field corn’s tough, not that tasty. What we grow is processed for other things. Lot of what we grow ’round here goes for ethanol.”

  “Eth–a … what?”

  “Ethanol! You know. Gasoline.”

  I fall back in my chair. “Corn is made into gasoline? But—but this is the Bread Basket of the World.”

  Mr. Puffin helps himself to another slice of pizza. “That’s right, it is. Wheat and oats, barley and rye are still grown for human consumption. Corn, too, other places. But most of what we grow here is not the eatable kind.

  “Big changes in farming nowadays,” he goes on. “Not like it was back in the last century. When my grandpa came here, was nothing but tall-grass prairies. Grass grew taller than a man’s head. Now corn grows taller than a man’s head and is turned into fuel for cars. By the time you’re growed up, probably be using corn to fly rocket ships to one of them planets out there.” He points upward. “How about it, Frankie Joe? You thinking of turnin’ corn into fuel for rocket ships?”

  “No sir, I was thinking of eating it.”

  “Oh, can’t be doing that. Crops are treated with pesticides and insecticides to keep the molds down and kill the bugs.” He eyes me. “You been eatin’ the stuff that grows ’round here?”

  “No sir.”

  My slice of pizza has gotten cold, but I don’t notice. I’m imagining myself hiding out in country barren as the moon and glowing in the dark like a radioactive mutant because I have nothing to eat but chemical-tainted corn and soybeans.

  Mr. Puffin gets up from the table. “Gotta get back outside. Need to get my equipment in the barn before it gets too late.”

  I follow him out the door.

  “Better wear this wool jacket home,” he tells me as I climb onto my bike. He points to a thermometer hanging on the side of his back door. It reads thirty-two degrees.

  The freezing point of water, I remember.

  “Thanks. I’ll return it soon as I can.”

  Mr. Puffin looks toward the horizon. “Well now, look at that. I swear that looks like an Alberta clipper comin’ in.” He looks at me. “And you know what that means.”

  I eye the blue-gray sky beyond the colorless fields. “No sir. What does that mean?”

  He grins. “It means I can drive into town now and eat my pizza at Gambino’s. It’s time to close down shop for the year. No more work to do.”