Tarp Found one half price at the farm supply store.
Spare bike tube and flat kit Bought at the gas station.
Pot for cooking Salvaged.
Matches to start a fire Picked up three books at Gambino’s Pizza Parlor.
Canteen Have two empty plastic bottles.
Jacket My Michelin-Man jacket.
Bungee cord The one Lizzie gave me for pizza delivery.
Money Still need more.
Mementos Need plastic bags to keep them dry and clean. Get from the kitchen.
Triple A maps Need a plastic bag for them, too.
Clothes All set.
“Now all I have to do is wait for the snow to melt—”
I hear a creak on the stairs and see FJ come into view. Hurriedly I close my notebook.
He walks over to me. “What’s this I’m hearing?”
I wonder if Matt squealed about me looking for the tarp? Or if Mr. Puffin told him I was asking questions about when the snow ended?
“Mr. Arnt told me that you were elected Mrs. Bixby’s assistant.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling relieved. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“Well, I hear it was you stepped up to fix the problem. Glad to see you’ve learned what that means.” He points to the definition of responsibility taped to the wall.
He thinks that’s why I did it?
He checks his watch. “Almost time for lights-out. Just wanted to tell you to keep up the good work.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
FJ hesitates at the top of the stairs, a serious look on his face. “Growing up means you accept responsibility, even when it’s not easy. Sometimes that involves difficult decisions.” He looks at me. “You understand what I’m telling you, Frankie Joe?”
I look at the definition on the wall again. “Um, I think so.”
“Good. Lights-out in five minutes.” The stairs creak again as he goes downstairs.
I remove the definition for responsibility from the wall and throw it into the wastebasket.
Woo-hoo. He’s telling me I don’t have to read this definition anymore.
Saturday, January 16
9:30 A.M.
Everything’s a frozen desert when I bike to Miss Peachcott’s house. Dunes of snow are everywhere. But I don’t feel the cold because Miss Peachcott has taken on a new customer, and that means I have an extra delivery.
“Come in, Frankie Joe,” Miss Peachcott says. “Have a cookie while I finish up this order.”
More Girl Scout cookies. Peanut butter this time.
“That divorcée Miz Bloom asked me to fix this up for her.” She screws the cap down on a jar of cream she’s concocted. “I have helped many a woman beat dry, chapped skin, but this one’s been a real challenge.” She pauses. “Could be that job she’s got. Waitressing is hard on a person.”
Yeah. Mom hated her waitress job. If this new deal with her friend works out, maybe she won’t have to do it anymore. I don’t care what she does as long as we’re back together again.
“You got any new blemish concoctions to try before I go?” I ask.
“Check back with me later. I was up most of the night working on this dry-skin formula. My customers must come first.” She hands me a Nova bag. “Get goin’ now. Miz Bloom sounded desperate.”
9:55 A.M.
My Rover Sport’s tires cause the slush on the salted roads to spray like waves. February days are growing longer and that makes me happy. Soon March will be here, and the snow will be gone. Just like me.
“Hey, Frankie Joe,” Ms. Bloom says when I knock on her door. “Come on in. I need to write out a check.”
I set the Nova bag on her coffee table. “Uh, Miss Peachcott mixed this up special,” I say to fill the time as she hunts for her checkbook.
“I hope it works,” she says, sighing. “I look like I’ve been down one too many rough roads.” She glances at me, smiling. “Well, maybe I have. I guess you’ve heard that I hold the record for number of marriages in this town—and divorces.”
I shrug. “I guess you’ve heard about me, too.”
She lets out a little laugh. “People in small towns look hard for ways to liven things up.” She opens the jar of cream I brought. “I figure the dishwater at the café and this cold weather are why my skin feels like grit. It’s as dried out and rough as sandpaper and”—she rubs some cream on her face—“tough as boot leather.”
Just like Mr. O’Hare’s, I think. And mine.
I take a special liking for Ms. Bloom and her face that’s been down too many rough roads. I’ve ridden down some bad ones myself this winter, and the cold wind has blistered my face, too.
“You think this new cream Elsie made for me will help?” she asks.
“Yes ma’am, I do.”
I hope that’s not a lie.
Friday, January 22
6:45 P.M.
“You’re uncommonly quiet, Liz,” FJ says, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He sits down at the table across from Lizzie.
I notice that Lizzie is staring into space. It’s after supper, and it’s my turn to stack the dishwasher. We had sloppy joes on hamburger buns with potato chips and coleslaw, so clean up is easy. The half brothers have gone to the living room to watch TV.
“It’s just”—she lowers her voice—“I heard the Ice Princess race is a runaway. One candidate is getting most of the votes.”
My ears perk up. That has to be Mandy. She’s an A-plus salesperson.
“But the race for Prince is close.”
Woo-hoo! Matt might lose the contest.
“Where’d you hear that?” FJ pours milk in his coffee.
“From a couple of people at the school. Mr. Arnt’s secretary keeps track of ballots, counts them daily.” Lizzie glances at me, and lowers her voice some more. “What if Matt doesn’t win? I don’t know what to do.”
FJ looks at me. “Finish up there, Frankie Joe, and join your brothers in the front room.”
“Yes sir, just got the last dish in.”
I pause outside the kitchen door, listening.
“It would break Matt’s heart,” I hear Lizzie say. “He’s known his classmates all his life.”
“Some things are out of our hands, Liz. He doesn’t win, well … he doesn’t win. He’ll hold up. He’s a Huckaby.”
“But I just don’t want him hurt. I don’t want any of them to get hurt.”
“Can’t hold them in your apron strings forever.”
“I know … I know.”
“Trust me. Our boys might bend in a storm, but they won’t break.”
In the living room, I sit on the opposite end of the sofa from Matt. A movie is showing, but I can’t concentrate on it. I hear Mark and Luke laugh now and then, and Little Johnny squeal. I keep glancing at Matt, but it’s like he’s wearing a mask. One that doesn’t smile or frown.
Friday, January 29
3:20 P.M.
Math class, my last period. I hand in my assignment, pull out my backpack, and wait for the final bell. Suddenly the PA system squeals, and we’re listening to Mr. Arnt’s voice.
“This announcement is for fifth-graders. Today is the deadline for casting your votes in the Ice Crystal Contest. So those of you who haven’t turned in your ballots yet, drop them off at my office right after school.” He pauses. “Voting is a privilege, not something to be taken frivolously. The candidates have worked hard to earn your vote. Don’t let them down.”
Another squeal, and it’s quiet again. I remember the two ballots I stuffed into my backpack and look for them. They’re still there. Lying at the bottom, wrinkled and bent.
I pull them out. One has a girl’s head on it and the words Ice Crystal Princess printed underneath. I catch Mandy’s eye, hold up the girl’s ballot, and smile, letting her know I plan to vote for her. She rolls her eyes at me.
Ouch. I feel my smile turn upside down.
I glance at Matt. He’s looking right at me—and at the boy’s ballot in my hand. I watch
as he begins to chew on his bottom lip and blink a lot. He wants that vote in his box.
When the bell rings, Matt is the first one out the door.
On the way to the after-school program, I go by Mr. Arnt’s office. Mandy’s ballot box is easy to spot. It’s covered in white crepe paper and has pink snowflakes all over it. I know she doesn’t need my vote, but I feel good as I stuff my ballot into the slit on the top.
Because I watched FJ and Lizzie work on Matt’s box, I recognize his box, too. I pull the wrinkled ballot for Ice Crystal Prince out of my backpack and stuff it into his box.
As I turn to leave, I see Matt standing in the doorway with Mr. Arnt. He’s holding some papers, and I figure out he’s been talking Student Council business.
“Good job, Frankie Joe,” Mr. Arnt says, nodding at me. He looks at Matt. “One of your constituents just voted for you. Don’t you have something to say?”
Matt squeezes, “Thanks,” out of his mouth.
Payback feels really good.
“You boys better get going. Don’t want Mrs. Bixby wondering where you are.”
Matt and I walk down the hall together, not talking and not looking at each other.
“You still may not win,” I whisper as we walk into the room.
“I know,” he says, sitting down across from me.
“But if you don’t, it won’t be my fault.”
If Matt doesn’t win, he can’t blame anyone but himself.
Saturday, January 30
9:15 P.M.
It’s almost bedtime, and I take out my escape plan. I glance at the calendar on the wall to check the date.
Going over my escape list now, I add a new item.
W-D 40 The garage in town will have some.
I hear a creak on the stairs. Closing my notebook, I turn to see if it’s one of the ninjas. But it’s FJ, and he has a serious look on his face.
“I do something wrong?”
He sits down on the edge of my desk and pulls a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “Matter of fact, you’ve done something right—very right. Take a look at your latest report card.”
On the left-hand side is a list of subjects: English, Math, Science, History. Each quarter’s grades are shown in columns to the right, next to the subjects. In the first quarter the letters in the grade column had been Ds and even a couple of Fs. In the next one, I see one C, two Bs, and an A.
I feel my mouth drop open. I knew my grades had been getting better. The teachers had been writing things like “excellent” and “good work” on my papers. But I never expected this.
“An A,” I say. “I got an A in Math!”
FJ smiles. “So you see, things are going very right. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes sir!”
I watch his mouth go straight again. There’s something else… .
“You’ve, uh, you’ve done well since you came here to live, Frankie Joe,” he says, “real well. Studied hard, worked hard … very, very well.”
Why is he repeating himself?
“Yes indeed,” he continues. “In the last few months, you done exceptionally well.” FJ begins wiping at his mouth like something sticky is stuck on it. “And we’re thinking—Lizzie and me—that as long as you’re here, you will continue to do well.”
What’s he saying?
“So that’s why we began legal procedures sometime back. I’m going to be sole custodian for you—that means your legal guardian—and Lizzie is going to adopt you. It normally takes four to six months, so it should be final in another few weeks.”
Four to six months? I remember hearing FJ and Lizzie saying those words once before. They were talking in the kitchen when I snuck downstairs to look for matches for my escape. They were talking about me!
“No,” I say. “No no no! I got to go back to Laredo and live with Mom.”
FJ’s mouth is thin as a pencil line. “Your mama needs some time to get back on her feet, son. That might take a good bit of time. She can visit you any time she wants; I’ll see to that—“
“She won’t let it happen! She won’t let you do this!”
FJ hesitates. “I’ve, uh, I’ve discussed this with Martha Jane. She knows we’ve filed the papers.”
“She … what?” My chest feels like it’s caving in. Why didn’t she say something to me?
“Lizzie wanted me to say something earlier,” he says, “but I’ve waited until I could show you that you’d be better off here. Look at your school records.” He points to the report card. “Doesn’t that say it all? And the best news is that Mr. Arnt and I have been talking about allowing you to skip a grade—just like Mark did. If you go to summer school and continue to work hard, you can move up to the seventh grade next year where you belong.”
That was the reason for the school visits?
“Surely you can see it’s best for you to stay here?”
Here again. Here in Clearview, Illinois. A million miles from Laredo, Texas.
I throw the grade report in the wastebasket. “No sir, that doesn’t say it all. I say it all—and I don’t want to get adopted and stay here. I wanna go back home to Laredo.”
FJ stands up and pulls the grade report out of the trash. “It’s all but a done deal, Frankie Joe. All that’s left is for Martha Jane to sign the papers … and I know she will. There’s not a court in the land that would give her custody now, not with her record.” He holds up my report card. “Especially with how well you’re doing here.”
He lays his hand on my shoulder. “Why, people in this town think the world of you—we all do.” He pauses. “Especially me. I want you here with me, Frankie Joe. I want to be a good father to you, make up for all those years we lost.”
I stare at FJ, realizing how much I’ve wanted to hear those words all the months I sat in the attic doing homework. But now all I want to do is cry.
Sometimes words just come too late.
9:45 P.M.
Dear Mom,
FJ told me tonight about becoming my sole custodian and Lizzie adopting me. I told him you wouldn’t let that happen. You got to talk to your lawyer about stopping them. I want to come home to live with you.
Please hurry.
Frankie Joe
XOXOXO
Saturday, February 13
9:00 A.M.
Matt’s trophy sits in the middle of the kitchen table. It’s a bronze snowflake with a plate at the bottom that reads SNOW CRYSTAL PRINCE. He won by three votes, but the way he’s grinning, you’d think it was three hundred.
As she hands Matt some waffles, Lizzie says, “Your brother’s idea to make extra posters probably made the difference, don’t you think?”
“Yeah.” Matt gives me a look. “That’s probably it.”
We’ve never mentioned Mandy’s idea that I run against him.
Mandy won, too—by a landslide. She didn’t need my vote, but I’m glad I voted anyway. Maybe I’ll write to her when I get back to Texas and tell her I voted for her. I wonder if she would write back. Or if she doesn’t believe in writing, either … like Mom.
Why haven’t I heard from Mom?
10:15 A.M.
Miss Peachcott shows me the rash on her neck and face. “The doctor says it’s shingles.”
“What causes it?”
“Chicken pox.”
I take a step back. I don’t want to catch chicken pox. Chicken pox would interfere with my delivery service. And anything that interferes with my delivery service would stop me from leaving. Though I haven’t heard from Mom yet, I’m sure she’s got her lawyer working on it.
“Oh, no need to worry,” she says. “It’s not the catching kind. It affects the nerves. Doctor told me I’ve been carrying this virus since I had the chicken pox as a girl. It’s just come back, that’s all.”
“Why did it come back?”
“Doctor didn’t know why, but I do. It’s because I have to get this formula right for my blemish concealer. That’s why the chicken pox has come back now—beca
use I’m a case of nerves!” She sits down at the table, looking sad. “And to top it off, the doctor told me I cannot put anything on my hair or face. You know what that means?”
I notice that Miss Peachcott’s hair has been cut short and is mostly white now. Snow white and fluffy as a snowflake. And her skin is pink as a Nova bag. Except her birthmark, which looks like nothing more than a giant brown freckle.
I suck the spit from between my teeth. “Yes ma’am,” I say. “It means now you look pretty.”
Her eyes go round as pie plates. “Why, how can you make fun of me at a time like this?”
“I’m not making fun of you, Miss Peachcott. Look at yourself in the mirror. Except for where the shingles show. Don’t look at that.”
She does look in the mirror, but her eyes go straight to the shingles. She plops the mirror on the table. “It’s all I can see—that rash.”
I think a bit, then pick up the mirror again. “Okay, so look at the rash.”
“What? Why would I want to look at that?”
“Just look at it.”
She picks up the mirror again. At first her eyes bobble, but then she holds them steady.
“Do you see the birthmark when you’re looking at the rash?”
“Why no,” she says. “All I see is the—”
She lays the mirror down and sits quiet for a time. I begin to squirm, wondering if I’ve lost another friend. I reach for my parka, getting ready to leave, but Miss Peachcott lays her hand on my arm.
“So what you’re telling me is, a person sees what they want to see. That right, Frankie Joe Huckaby?”
“Yes ma’am, I guess that’s what I’m saying. That and … well, I don’t like you any less because you’ve got a birthmark, and I bet no one else does, either. Your customers come to you ’cause they know you’ll help them. Like Miz Bloom, who doesn’t want leathery skin. And Mrs. Wilkins who needs something for her chapped hands. And—”
“That sweet little newlywed, Mrs. Barnes,” Miss Peachcott interrupts. “Who doesn’t want to smell like baby burp.”
“Yeah, and …” I blow the air from my lungs.
“Well, spit it out,” she says. “You know how I feel about people that diddle-dawdle with their words.”
“Well,” I say, pulling a deep breath, “when you put your newest concoction on the birthmark, that’s all I see.” I wave my hands around the kitchen at jars and tubes of concealer she’s concocted. All failures. “It’s like all this is a rainbow, and you’re looking for—”
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