Freaky Fast Frankie Joe

by Lutricia Clifton

  I chew a cookie slowly, wondering what I should do. I like this little woman; she reminds me of my friends at the trailer park. But she cautioned me to keep my business close to my chest—and all she’s done is talk about other people.

  I think about the kids in the after-school program calling me “the big slow kid.” If word got out about Mom, would they call her names, too?

  I can’t let that happen.

  “I’m just here temporarily,” I say, picking up my backpack. “Only a few months.”

  “Stop right there, buster.” Miss Peachcott grabs me by the sleeve. “What’s the rest of it? Now you look me in the eye and tell me what your mother’s been up to down there in Texas all this time.”

  I turn away from the woman who can look into a person’s eyes and tell when he’s lying. “Stuff,” I say as I push through the screen door. “Just … stuff.”

  That’s what my mouth says. But in my mind, I hear a voice say, “Chasing rainbows; she’s been chasing rainbows.”

  6:35 P.M.

  “How did your first day at school go, Frankie Joe?” Lizzie dishes me up a big plate of mashed potatoes and corned beef and cabbage.

  “All right,” I say, ignoring the sputtering giggles coming from Matt. Following in his footsteps, Mark, Luke, and Little Johnny start giggling, too.

  He’s told them how dumb I am.

  “So … you have any problems?” FJ looks at me, then eyes the other boys. They lower their heads and chow down like a herd of wild, dark-eyed pigs called javelina that live in the Chihuahua Desert.

  I hate them all. Every last one of them.

  “No sir,” I say, biting my tongue. “No problems.”

  More sputtering from Matt.

  “I got lots of homework,” I say as soon as supper is over. I get up from chair and head for the stairs.”

  “Hold up,” FJ says, stopping me. “We have some unfinished business. Remember?”

  I don’t.

  “Follow me,” he says. In the living room, he pulls a dictionary from the bookshelf. “Look up the word responsibility.”

  I remember. In the principal’s office that morning, FJ swore he would personally teach me about responsibility. I thumb through the dictionary as my mutant ninja posse troops into the room.

  “Here it is,” I say, hoping he doesn’t ask me to read it aloud.

  “Good,” he says, checking the dictionary entry. “Now write it down.” He points me to his desk and fishes a pencil and index card out of a drawer. Huckabys numbers two, three, four, and five sit down on the sofa to watch.

  What is this?

  “Don’t you boys have homework to do?” FJ asks, seeming to read my mind. In unison they shake their heads no. “Then go to your rooms and play games.”

  “We got all our homework done,” Matt says, appointing himself spokesperson for the group. “We’ve earned the right to watch TV.”

  “Later.” FJ points at the stairs. “Frankie Joe and I need some time alone. You’ll have to find other things to do.”

  Matt glares at me. The other Huckaby boys whine, but they go upstairs.

  I write the definition down as FJ watches.

  re-spon-si-bil-i-ty noun: 1: the quality or state of being responsible: as a: moral, legal, or mental accountability b: RELIABILITY, TRUSTWORTHINESS 2: something for which one is responsible: BURDEN

  Burden. You can say that again! I hand the completed card to FJ.

  “Your penmanship could use some work, too,” he says, reading the definition. “I’ll have Lizzie talk to Mrs. Bixby.”

  Swell.

  “I want you to put this on the wall above your desk,” he says, handing me the index card, “and read it every day.”

  Taking the card, I head for the stairs.

  “I’m not finished,” FJ says. “I also expect a report every Sunday showing what you’ve done to satisfy that definition.”

  “A report?”

  “Homework counts … and your chores.” He takes a paper from his pocket. “On my lunch hour, I made out this chore schedule. Five boys, five days worth of chores. In addition to taking care of your own room and hauling down your laundry, there’s helping with meals and cleaning up afterward. On weekends you’ll be expected to help with outside work.” He hands me the list and nods toward the stairs. “Now get to that homework. Lights out at ten—house rule.”

  Another rule. As I head upstairs with my definition and chore list, FJ stops me again.

  What now—more rules?

  “When you’re done with your homework,” he says, “come on down and watch TV with the others.”

  “Thanks, but I got a ton of it.” I can’t think of anything I’d rather not do than spend the evening with the legitimate Huckabys. I take the steps two at a time, for the first time in my life glad for homework.

  Taping the definition and chore list to the wall above my desk, I spend the rest of the evening on English and Math, History and Science. I try to push the echo of the half brothers’ sputtering giggles out of my head, but it stays there in the background.

  At ten o’clock when I finally close the books and crawl into the squeaky old bed, I’m thinking just one thing.

  Soon as I can, I’m gonna rid myself of this one-horse town … just like Mom did.

  Sunday, September 27

  4:20 P.M.

  Lizzie walks into the kitchen as I’m getting ready to take out the trash—one of my chores today. Tonight I have to hand in my first Responsibility Report.

  Since I know how to multiply by four, I figure how many reports I have to do in the ten months I’ll be there. Four weeks in a month times ten months—

  Forty reports!

  I look over the list of chores and homework. One more chore will fill out a full page of notebook paper. I’m determined to fill in that last line, and this chore will do it.

  “My, aren’t you the busy one,” Lizzie says, smiling her big smile. She’s barely hung up her jacket when there’s a knock on the door.

  I’m slow recognizing the munchkin in the Girl Scout uniform that she invites inside. Mandy. A miserable-looking Mandy.

  “Puh-leeze, Mrs. Huckaby,” she says. “Puh-leeze buy a box of cookies from me. I’ll do anything for you if you do.” She looks around the kitchen. “I’ll sweep the floor … or wash the dishes or”—she jerks the trash bag out of my hand—“I’ll take out the trash.”

  “No way!” I take the trash bag away from Mandy. She’s not about to cheat me out of a full page.

  When she reaches for it again, I hold it over her head. She jumps for it like she’s on a trampoline.

  “Stop it, you two.” Lizzie places her hands on her hips, frowning, and then turns to Mandy. “Of course, I’ll buy a box, Mandy. Now why the long face?”

  Mandy collapses onto a kitchen chair. “Oh thank you thank you, Mrs. Huckaby.” She hands Lizzie the order form for cookies. “What’s wrong is I wasn’t born an only child. Do you know how hard it is to sell cookies when you have two older sisters who are Girl Scouts, too? My sisters have regular customers who buy from them every year. The youngest kid in the family doesn’t stand a chance!”

  Lizzie hands me the cookie list. “Pick out something, Frankie Joe. Two somethings.”

  All right. A list to look at that doesn’t involve work. I sit down at the table next to Mandy.

  Lizzie pulls some sodas out of the refrigerator and sits down at the table across from us. “You’re preaching to the choir, Mandy.” She pushes the sodas toward Mandy and me. “I was the youngest child in my family—and it was a family of seven!”

  “Oh good grief how did you stand it?”

  Mandy’s running her words together like she’s on a sugar high.

  “It wasn’t easy,” Lizzie says, grinning. “But having sisters—and brothers—is a good thing.” She looks at me. “Right, Frankie Joe?”

  “Um, sure.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire… .

  Concentrating on the cookie list, I de
cide on mint and peanut-butter cookies, and hand the form to Mandy.

  She downs the last of her soda and gets up to leave. “Thanks,” she tells Lizzie. “You’re just the greatest.”

  “I hope things start to look up for you.” Lizzie walks Mandy to the back door.

  “Well actually, I guess it already has,” Mandy rattles on. “At least I’m not the oddball at school now that Frankie Joe’s here.”

  Lizzie puts her hand on Mandy’s shoulder, stopping her from leaving. “What do you mean, ‘oddball’?”

  Don’t, I eye-telegraph Mandy. But she’s still on her high.

  “Well you see, I got teased a lot ’cause I was the shortest kid in the class. You know, the oddball. Now Frankie Joe’s the oddball ’cause he’s the tallest.” She laughs. “He’s a double oddball.”

  I send Mandy the eye-telegraph again. She gets it this time.

  Lizzie looks between Mandy and me, and waits.

  Mandy’s mouth looks like it’s been glued shut with super glue.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I mumble. “Besides, I just made a new friend who’s an oddball, and she doesn’t let it bother her.”

  Lizzie frowns. “Who are you talking about, Frankie Joe?”

  “Miss. Peachcott—”

  “Miss Peachcott! Ohmigosh, she’s got this … thing on her face—”

  “Mandy!” Lizzie gives her a look.

  Mandy seals her lips tight again.

  “So what? You’re short, I’m tall, and she’s got a birthmark.”

  “There you go,” Lizzie says, smiling again. “And Elsie doesn’t let a birthmark get in the way of running a successful business. She’s a fine role model for both of you.” She opens the door and lets Mandy out. “So don’t let anything stand in your way just because you’re short”—she glances my way—“or tall.”

  As Mandy leaves, I pick up the trash bag for the second time. I plan to strangle Mandy on the way to the garbage can for the “double oddball” crack.

  “Not so fast,” Lizzie says. “What did Mandy mean, ‘double oddball’?”

  Too late.

  “Um …” I hesitate too long.

  “Spit it out, Frankie Joe, or I’ll call the principal.”

  “I’m slow. They call me names ’cause I’m slow.”

  “Names.” She frowns. “Who’s calling you names?”

  “I’d, uh, I’d rather not say.”

  She probably wouldn’t believe me, if I told her.

  “O-kay.” She stretches the word out like it’s a rubber band. “Then why do they think you’re slow?”

  “ ’Cause I read slow and can’t spell.”

  For beginners… .

  Lizzie starts blinking fast. “Well, I can’t fix ‘tall’ but maybe I can help fix ‘slow.’ Come with me.”

  I set the trash bag down again and follow Lizzie. When we reach the front room, she hands me the dictionary from the bookshelf.

  “This is yours now. Take it to your room so that it’s handy when you need it. The boys have one in each of their bedrooms, and it’s only fair that you do, too.”

  Great.

  “Thanks,” I say. I start for the stairs to put away the dictionary, but Lizzie stops me again.

  “My goodness, I’ve helped four boys with homework for years. I’ll just start helping you, too.”

  I’m gonna kill Mandy.

  “And I’ll talk to Mrs. Bixby. Did you know she’s a good friend of mine? I know she won’t mind putting in some extra time with you—maybe on Saturdays when we quilt.”

  All I wanted to do was finish my Responsibility Report! I put a fake-mouth smile on my face.

  Lizzie smiles, too. “No need to thank me, Frankie Joe. That’s what family’s are for… .” Her voice trails off, and her eyes start blinking again.

  Uh-oh.

  Quickly Lizzie writes something down on an index card. “Here,” she says. “This can be the first word you look up in your very own dictionary.”

  I look at the word. Home?

  “I don’t think a one of us ever welcomed you to our home, Frankie Joe. It’s high time we did. I want you to feel comfortable here—comfortable enough to tell us when something’s not going good. Okay?”

  I stretch the fake-mouth smile wider.

  “Now you better get that trash out before Frank gets back. Might as well get one more thing on your Responsibility Report before you turn it in. Right?”

  That was the idea.

  5:16 P.M.

  As I dump the trash, I wonder if Mandy’s still selling cookies. Figuring she hasn’t gotten far, I go in search of her. I stop at the end of the alley, look both ways, and spot a Girl Scout uniform a block away. I head toward her, but stop when I hear a familiar voice behind me.

  “What’cha doin’, Frankie Joe? Dumpster diving?” Matt’s biking with some of our classmates. Laughing, he tells the others where I got my bike.

  I leave them hooting and catch up with Mandy, who’s still long-faced.

  “Still no luck, huh?” Her order form hasn’t gotten any fuller.

  “Not much,” she says. “Look, I didn’t mean to cause you any grief back there.”

  “What’s a little more grief.” When she looks at me funny, I say, “Forget it. Come with me. I got an idea.”

  “Where we goin’?”

  “You’ll see.” A few minutes later, I walk her up the steps to Miss Peachcott’s back door.

  Mandy hesitates. “But this is—”

  “Yeah, the third oddball.” I knock on the door.

  “Frankie Joe! I was hoping you’d stop by.” Miss Peachcott has been experimenting again. The spot on her face looks radioactive.

  “This is Mandy. She’s selling Girl Scout cookies.” I shove Mandy forward. “I ate most of your cookies when I was here last time. And since you’re so busy with your project”—I raise my eyebrows meaningfully when I say “project”—“I thought you might want to shop at home.”

  “Well now, isn’t that clever of you.” Miss Peachcott raises her eyebrows, too.

  Mandy’s frozen, so I take the order form from her hand and give it to Miss Peachcott.

  “Why don’t I just take a box of each,” she says, making checkmarks across the page. “They all look too good to pass up.” She returns the form to Mandy and gives me another raised-eyebrow look. “Now I must get back to my … project.”

  After saying good-bye to Miss Peachcott, I walk Mandy to the end of the alley.

  “Gee thanks, Frankie Joe.” Mandy stares at her order form, looking stunned. “This is absolutely great—super great.” She looks at me. “Any time I can help you out—”

  “Thanks,” I say, walking away quickly, “but I’ve got all the help I can stand.”

  8:22 P.M.

  home noun: 1 a : one’s place of residence : DOMICILE b : HOUSE 2 : the social unit formed by a family living together 3 a : a familiar or usual setting : congenial environment; also : the focus of one’s domestic attention [home is where the heart is]

  b. HABITAT 4 a : a place of origin [salmon returning to their home to spawn]; also : one’s own country [having troubles at home and abroad] b : HEADQUARTERS 5 : an establishment providing care for people with special needs [homes for the elderly] [a home for unwed mothers]

  Reading the definition a second time, I decide I like it. Grabbing a pencil, I rewrite the definition and tape it next to the responsibility card on the wall.

  HOME—

  One’s place of residence Lone Star Trailer Park

  The social unit formed by a family living together Lone Star Trailer Park

  A familiar or usual setting : congenial environment Lone Star Trailer Park

  Where the heart is Lone Star Trailer Park

  One’s own country Lone Star Trailer Park

  An establishment providing care for the elderly Lone Star Trailer Park

  An establishment providing care for unwed mothers Lone Star Trailer Park

  I slide the dictionary int
o the bookshelf next to my mementos from Mrs. Jones and Mr. O’Hare and Mr. Lopez. Missing them, I start to wonder what they did today. But I already know.

  Mr. O’Hare would have gone hunting space rocks … without me. The last time we went out together, he packed peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and bottles of water for when we got tired. We sat in the shade of a big red boulder and some mesquite bushes, and fed crumbs to a desert horned lizard.

  And Mr. Lopez would have painted a house. He works every day so he can send money to his family in Mexico. I wonder what color he created for today’s house. He let me name the last batch he created, which looked like caramel sauce for ice cream. He came up with all kinds of names, but he liked mine best. Butter-Brickle Yellow.

  It’s Sunday, the day after the last Saturday of the month, so Mrs. Jones would have gone to the library to pick up “retired” books from her friend. Maybe she brought home another adventure book, like Treasure Island and Kidnapped. I bet she waits until I get home so we can read it together. I wish I were there to help her put the new books on her shelves. She likes me to help her because sometimes she has to move a whole shelf of books, which is a lot of work. Last time we shelved books, she fixed us ice cream sundaes as a reward.

  I wish I were there with them now. Most of all, I wish I was home with Mom. She liked to do fun things on Sundays, like go to the movies. Instead of fixing lunch, she’d say, “What’ll it be, kiddo? Popcorn or pretzels with mustard?” Then we’d each get something different at the movie and share with each other.

  I read the definition for home one more time, then pull on my pajamas and turn back the covers. I’ll read this definition every day, too, I think as I switch off the light. Maybe twice a day.

  Friday, October 2

  5:48 P.M.

  Squeezing the last plate and bowl into the dishwasher, I close the door and push the START button. I can hear the half brothers in the front room, talking loud. Friday nights are movie nights, which means arguments. What to have for snacks? Who’s going to sit where? Which movie to watch?

  None of which involves me. What involves me is my Responsibility Report. It’s due on Sunday. I put dishes on the list and look it over. Another page is filling up fast. My second week is almost over.

  Only two weeks? It seems like two years.