Freaky Fast Frankie Joe

by Lutricia Clifton

  No more work? But I don’t have enough money yet!

  “But—but what about your cows? You need to milk them morning and night.”

  Mr. Puffin laughs. “Where’s your head, son? You mean you rode right past the barn and never noticed them cows are gone? I decided to take your daddy’s advice. Sold every one of those Holsteins. Got a good price, too.” He smiles at me. “No cows to milk, and the crops are outta the field. Lookin’ at them clouds, I’d say it’s in the nick a time. No need to have my pizza delivered anymore. Least not until next spring when the seed goes into the ground.”

  He helps me slip into the jacket, and I ride slowly back to town, looking at fields the color of a brown paper bag.

  3:10 P.M.

  The Saturday Quilt Circle is still meeting when I get back. I try to slip past the roomful of chattering women, but I don’t make it.

  “Sit down next to me,” Mrs. Bixby says. “I’ll quiz you on your multiplication tables. You still need to learn to count by sevens.”

  I stifle a groan. “I know how to count by sevens.”

  “You do? Well then, show us. Recite your sevens.”

  “Now?”

  “Now,” Lizzie says.

  I moan silently, then recite sevens clear up to seven times thirty. The women in the Quilt Circle smile. Lizzie beams.

  “I taught him that,” Mrs. Bixby says, looking pleased. “Well then, time to move on to eights.”

  I moan loud this time. “But I was gonna go upstairs and look up something in my dictionary.”

  “Oh? Well, no need to go upstairs.” Mrs. Bixby pulls a dictionary out of her quilt bag.

  Of course. She carries one with her. I turn the pages quickly and read silently.

  Al-ber-ta clipper noun : a severe storm, often with a heavy snowfall, coming from Alberta, Canada, and the Canadian Rocky Mountains and swiftly moving east and southeast across the USA’s Midwest.

  But it’s not time for snow. It’s only November!

  “You feeling all right?” Lizzie brushes her fingers across my forehead.

  “He is looking a little peaked,” an old quilter with white hair murmurs.

  “Indeed,” another one says.

  “Oh, nothing wrong with him,” Mrs. Bixby says. “He just needs to practice his eights.”

  “No, I think he needs to rest,” Lizzie says. “He’s been working real hard.”

  Wordless, I head for the stairs.

  “Wait,” Mrs. Bixby calls out. “Now that you’re working, you can buy a raffle ticket.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Lizzie says.

  Mrs. Bixby frowns. “Why Lizzie, we had a thousand tickets printed up and have lots of them left. Don’t forget, the raffle helps fund The Great Escape. Besides, what’s he doing with all that money he’s making?”

  Lizzie blinks, then looks at me.

  I buy a ticket.

  Monday, November 23

  6:20 A.M.

  Snow! Lots of snow! The Alberta clipper blew in like a Texas tornado last night, burying everything in fluffy, white, cold snow. The house shook from the windblasts. Though Lizzie gave me two more blue-ribbon quilts, my teeth chattered as I lay in bed.

  Finally it’s morning. Even though the days have gotten shorter, and it’s still dark outside, I can see a white blanket through the attic windows, covering everything.

  I’m excited until I realize what it means. My delivery business is doomed.

  At breakfast Lizzie asks, “Where are your new clothes and boots?” I look around the kitchen table and see the four brothers are dressed in bibs. Then I look at the coatrack at the back door and see four parkas. In the boot tray are four pairs of Wellingtons.

  FJ gives me his look, and I go to get into my new duds.

  7:45: A.M.

  Walking to school, I see a plow pushing snow to the curb along the street and people shoveling sidewalks. I pick up a handful of snow, shape it into a ball, and throw it against the side of a building. My first snowball! I make another, then another.

  I wish my school friends in Laredo were here. They’ve never seen snow either. We could make a snow fort—and have a snowball fight!

  I debate skipping school altogether so I can play in the snow, but I have a test in Math today. As I turn toward school, I notice other kids in similar clothes, looking like miniature Technicolor versions of the Michelin Man.

  Mandy’s coat and pants are strawberry pink. “Hey,” she says, waddling up next to me. The snow is knee-deep for her. “Don’t walk so fast,” she complains. “In case you haven’t noticed, my legs aren’t as long as yours.”

  “What’s that stuff the snowplows are putting on the street?” I ask, slowing down.

  “Cinders and sand. It helps the snow melt and gives the tires traction.”

  Cool. At least I can still deliver Nova for Miss Peachcott.

  Saturday, November 28

  7:15 A.M.

  It’s so depressing, I think, looking out the attic window. Everywhere, white … white … white. Another clipper blew in during the night, dumping six more inches of snow. One more thing to interfere with my escape plan. No corn to hide out in. Nothing to eat along the way. Snowdrifts too big to bike through. I almost yearn to see soybean green again.

  Every day this week has been the same. Snowplows wake me early, growling their way up and down the streets. I leave for school in the dark and come home in the dark, slipping and sliding on sidewalks covered with chunky ice. I like making snowballs and snowmen when the snow is soft, but now there’s an icy crust on the top, making it hard. The snowplows pile dirty snow everywhere, and I have to take turns shoveling the front porch and sidewalk.

  But then I smile, remembering that today is different. Today is my first day as tester and dabber.

  I decide to take Mr. Lopez’s paint memento to show Miss Peachcott. The treads on my Rover Sport’s fat tires grab onto the cinders and sand without much sliding, just as they do on desert hardpan. And even though I don’t like them, my Michelin-Man jacket and pants keep me warm.

  “Come in, Frankie Joe,” Miss Peachcott says when I wade through the knee-deep snow to her door. “I’ve got your deliveries all sacked up. But we have other business to tend to first.”

  I peel out of my parka and boots and sit down. A box of Girl Scout cookies is on the kitchen table. Shortbread.

  “Help yourself to a cookie while I set up.” She pauses as she’s gathering things. “And tell me when that jackrabbit mother of yours gets out of jail.”

  I knew it! I knew she’d ask! I chew on a cookie for a long time, considering how much to tell her. Just the good stuff, I decide.

  “Um, Mom gets out in July, but she’s talking to a lawyer about a new hearing. She’s thinking about going into business with her new friends, so I figure that will work in her favor. It shows she’s being enterprising.”

  “Business?” She frowns. “What kind of business?”

  “I dunno. She didn’t say.”

  “Oh my, I hope she’s not chasing rainbows.”

  Rainbows again. I feel my shoulders droop.

  “There’s lots of things she can do,” I say. “She’s worked all kinds of jobs before—in clothes stores and cafés and even a hardware store once. And I’ll help her in her new business. Maybe I’ll do deliveries for her.”

  She looks surprised. “You’re planning on going back to Texas?”

  “Well sure, why wouldn’t I? Mom needs me. I help her out a lot.”

  She hesitates. “Well now, it’s just that you seem to be settling in here so well. I’m sure Frank and Lizzie would hate to see you go.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Is she coming to get you? Or is Frank planning to drive you back?”

  Enough questions. I don’t want to slip up and say something about my escape plan. “Maybe we better get started. I have lots of homework.”

  Miss Peachcott sits still as a stone as I work the black dye into white root hairs wit
h the slanted eye-shadow brush. Stepping back, I survey my work.

  Not one smudge.

  My job as dabber done, we turn to testing colors. I pull Mr. Lopez’s paint sample from my backpack and show it to Miss Peachcott.

  “Why, the man has real talent! I’ve never seen such unique colors.”

  “He let me help mix this one—and name it.”

  “Very nice blue, not too overpowering. What did you name it?”

  “Blue Moon, like the ice cream. It’s one of my favorite flavors. It tastes like bubble gum.”

  “Oh? I’ve never had that flavor.” She looks at the paint swatches again. “You think there’s one here I can use?” She points to a shade of pink. “This one is pretty.”

  “Too dark,” I say, considering the color. I look around the room for a closer match. “This is the color of your skin.” I hold a Nova bag next to her face so she can see it in the mirror.

  “Why, so it is. I’ll see if I can duplicate it.” She mixes and mashes creams and powders together, then smears a dab on her birthmark.

  “How’s that?”

  “Um, now it’s more the color of a raspberry.”

  She sighs. “I have spent a good bit of time with color theory, but the birthmark makes it difficult.”

  We work our way through various colors: peaches, red grapes, ripe plums. We’re trying apple colors now.

  “How’d I do this time?”

  I hold a Nova bag up next to her latest creation. “I think you used too much red. It’s the color of a flamingo.”

  “Blast!” Miss Peachcott throws the Nova bag on the floor. “It must be the dyes that Nova is providing me. I could do better using food coloring from the grocery store.”

  As she cleans the latest concoction off her face, I notice the more she takes off, the smaller the birthmark seems to get. I begin to think that she’s making it more noticeable with her creations.

  “Um, you ever think of not putting anything on it? I mean, no makeup at all on that spot.”

  Her eyes go round. “I’m a beauty consultant! A beauty consultant cannot have a blemish on her face. People would have no confidence in me if I let that birthmark show.”

  I consider this. “Well then, you ever think of having it cut off? I had a wart on my hand cut off once—a big one.” I show her the scar on my hand. “Maybe they can cut that birthmark off.”

  She examines my scar. “I cannot have my skin puckering up that way! Why, my nose wouldn’t sit straight on my face if I had that birthmark cut off.”

  She walks to the oven, which serves as her pantry, and takes out a package of food coloring. “Maybe I will give this a try.”

  I slip into my parka and boots. “I need to do your deliveries.”

  “Yes, yes, go on,” she says, waving me toward the door. “I have work to do.”

  I feel a hollowness fill my chest as I wade through snow to my bike. I’m beginning to think that Miss Peachcott is the one who’s chasing rainbows.

  9:05 A.M.

  Mrs. Brown is cooking breakfast when I knock on her back door.

  “Oh, come in,” she says when she sees the Nova bag in my hand. “Elsie said you would be handling deliveries.” I stand at the back door to keep from dripping on her floor, but she waves me toward a chair. “You’ll have to wait until I’m done here. Can’t let breakfast burn.”

  Sitting down, I watch her fry sausages. According to Miss Peachcott, Mrs. Brown was skinny as a beanpole before her husband died. Now the square lump of a woman looks more like the entire bean patch.

  “The doctor didn’t say a word about my weight,” she says, seeming to read my mind. “He just told me I needed to lower my cholesterol. You know anything about cholesterol, Frankie Joe?”

  “Only what I see on the TV. I, uh, I think you’re supposed to watch what you eat. You know, vegetables and fruits instead of fried foods?”

  “I saw that, too. But I always fixed sausage and eggs for my husband, and he never put on a pound.” She breaks three eggs into the frying pan. “I know he’s gone, but I still fix the same breakfast. Five sausages and three eggs, over easy. And … well, waste not want not.”

  She turns to me, smiling. “How about you help me out this morning. You need to eat hearty food in the winter to keep warm.”

  “Guess I could do that.” I have noticed I’m hungrier than usual since the snows started. As I put away three of the sausages and two of the eggs, Mrs. Brown talks.

  “I’m sure the medicine the doctor’s put me on will help.” She hesitates. “Say, do you make deliveries for people other than Elsie? You know, like prescriptions from the pharmacy? I’m not as steady as I used to be when I was lighter on my feet. Especially in all this snow.”

  “Sure! It’s fifty cents a delivery.”

  We work out a schedule.

  12:15 P.M.

  The newlywed Mrs. Barnes is my last delivery of the day. She gave birth to twin girls a few weeks ago. When she invites me into the kitchen, the smell almost knocks me down. The mix of burned toast and dirty diapers and baby burp is overpowering. Right off, she shows me her twin daughters.

  “My little twofers,” she calls the two bundles wrapped in pink blankets. “I got two for the price of one.”

  “Just like at the pizza parlor,” I say, eyeing the babies.

  “Why, that’s right.” She laughs. “Used to be, I thought pizza was the only thing that came two for the price of one.”

  “Yes ma’am. Nothing better than two pepperoni pizzas on a Friday night.”

  “I remember.” She pauses. “Gee, that seems like such a long time ago.”

  As the tired-looking woman begins to droop, I pull up chair so she can sit down. Before I know it, she’s crying.

  “It’s just that I’m so tired,” she says, blowing her nose in a tissue. “Do you know I average three hours of sleep a night?” She looks at me, her eyes liquid. “I never changed a diaper before the twins came … or had baby spit all over me … or cooked!” Her eyes begin to flood again.

  I push the tissue box closer.

  “I use to smell like Nova cologne. Now I smell of baby poop and burp and burned food. If I’m not standing in front of a stove, I’m trundling the twins to the store for groceries and detergent.”

  I feel as helpless as the pink bundles in the crib.

  Lowering her head to the table, she says, “Lord help me, I don’t know what I’d do if I ran out of detergent. All this snow just makes it harder to get to the store.”

  Something flashes in my mind. “I got an idea, Mrs. Barnes! I run a delivery business, you know—just fifty cents a trip. If I pick up things for you, maybe you could take a nap.”

  “Oh, what a wonderful idea!”

  “And I could even bring you two pizzas on Friday nights.”

  She wipes her nose and smiles at me.

  This enterprising business is easy, I think, wading through the snow back to my bike.

  Saturday, December 12

  11:45 A.M.

  The letter is postmarked December 5. Mom mailed it a week ago.

  Dear Frankie Joe,

  I was real glad to hear from you. I am SO bored.

  I knew about the four half brothers, FJ told me when I called him to come get you. Guess I forgot to mention it. I’m glad you have your own room. I have no privacy in this joint.

  No news yet from the lawyer but he was optimistic. Ricky talked with him, too. I guess I’m over my mad at Ricky.

  My new friends still want me to go into business with them. Don’t know what yet. One gal’s got this friend who has the scoop on something big. They are a lot of fun. One gal is from New Jersey. Boy does she talk funny. And another one is from Las Vegas. She used to deal cards at one of those casinos! She’s showing me how to deal like the professionals do.

  My friends were set up, too, just like me. None of us belongs in here.

  I’ll write when I know more.

  Love ya,

  Marti

 
XOXOXO

  FJ’s sitting on the bed, watching me. I hand the letter to him to read before he asks. I can’t afford to raise his suspicions now.

  He reads the letter fast, then hands it back to me. “You need any more stamps … envelopes?”

  “No sir. I got plenty, especially since Mom’s gonna get out early.”

  He hesitates. “I wouldn’t count on her getting out before her sentence is up.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not her first offense”—he hesitates, rubbing at his mouth—“and it sounds like she’s making big plans.”

  “Right,” I say hotly. “She’s being enterprising!”

  He gives his head a little shake. “Martha Jane was always one to chase rainbows.”

  Aargh. Now he’s talking about rainbows.

  “She’s not chasing rainbows!”

  He gives his head another shake. “A lot can happen between now and then, Frankie Joe.”

  It already has, I think. It snowed too early, so I can’t leave until the snow melts. I begin to wonder just when that will be.

  Mr. Puffin would know.

  As FJ turns to leave, he looks around the attic. “You, uh, you doin’ okay up here? You want, I can move those boxes to the storage shed. Need to get rid of a lot of this stuff anyway.”

  No! He’ll find my escape box if he does that.

  “That’s okay,” I say quickly. “I mean, I got plenty of room … and, uh, the storage shed is all snowed in.”

  “That’s true. Well, okay then. When it warms up, we’ll get things cleared out and give the place a fresh coat of paint. In the meantime, you can be thinking about what color you’d like it painted. Okay?”

  “Sure.” All these lies make my insides feel moldy, like I have smut balls inside me.

  1:10 P.M.

  The off-road tires on my Rover Sport are perfect for the slushy mix of rain and snow that falls early this afternoon. The legitimate Huckabys stored their bikes in the storage shed when the first Alberta clipper came through. But not me.

  “Yoo-hoo, Frankie Joe.”

  I slow down, recognizing one of the women from the Quilt Circle. “Um, how are you doing, Mrs… .”

  “Wilkins. I’m Mrs. Wilkins. Remember?”