Great! It wasn’t water in the pipes.
I wring my shorts out as best I can, but Matt’s not cutting me any slack. Listening to him pound on the door for his turn, I pull on wet shorts and my jeans. Within seconds my crotch isn’t just damp, it’s soggy.
Leaving the bathroom, I find the ninja posse lined up in the hallway. Matt has a cocky grin on his face. The other three smother giggles.
I know Matt’s the one who did it—his way of getting even. The others are just following along.
“Look,” Matt says as I walk past. “The jailbird’s kid wet his pants.” He points to my wet crotch. “Now we’ve got two with bladder-control problems living here.” He’s still laughing when he goes into the bathroom.
Two? I see tears stream down Mark’s face.
“You told,” Mark blubbers through the bathroom door. “You said you wouldn’t tell!”
I continue down the hall and up the stairs to the attic. Pulling off my wet jeans and shorts, I hang them over the back of the desk chair and put on dry clothes.
I can hear the brothers on the floor below. As one finishes showering and it’s time for the next one, the showers get shorter and shorter—a sign the hot water is running out. I figure that Matt took longer than his two minutes. I feel sorry for Little Johnny, who is back to being last today.
It’s only once every five days, I think. That’s better than every day.
Creak. I hear another noise as I’m slipping my feet into socks. Mark’s head appears above the landing, then the rest of his body snakes up the stairs.
“What do you want?” I snap.
His head hangs low. “I don’t do it all the time, you know. I mean, I only have an accident when I’m too tired to wake up.”
I had an accident once, I remember. I was at Felipe’s Market one Saturday, and a man with a gun came in. He made all of us lie down on the floor while he cleaned out the till. I had to stand in front of everyone later—the customers, the police who came to investigate, everyone—in wet jeans that smelled like pee.
“Accidents happen,” I say, shrugging. “Once when I was a little kid, I got so scared I peed myself.”
“You did?” Mark’s face relaxes, then immediately screws up again. “You, uh, you won’t tell anyone, will you? I mean, I’m not as old as the rest of the kids in my class ’cause I skipped a grade.”
Yeah, I know. You’ve got an “excellent brain.”
“They’ll make my life miserable if you tell,” he goes on.
“I won’t tell.” I pull on my shoes and tie the laces.
“Promise?” Mark’s eyes have a pleading look in them.
“Sure. Guess it’s not easy being the smartest kid in school … or the dumbest.”
“It’s not.” He hesitates. “You want, I can help you with your schoolwork. Mom’s helping you with spelling, maybe I can help you with math. That’s my best subject.”
I don’t like a fourth-grader—especially one who should be a third-grader—reminding me that I’m slow.
“Thanks, but I’m doing okay.” When Mark still doesn’t leave, I give him a look. “What?”
“Nothin’. I just thought I’d walk with you to breakfast. I smelled ham, which means Mom will have applesauce with it. I love ham and applesauce.”
“Yeah? Well, let’s go.” I’ve never had applesauce with ham, but it sounds good. On the way downstairs, my nose fills with goods smells that make my stomach growl.
“Race you to the kitchen,” Mark says. When he reaches the bottom floor, he takes off running.
Before I can think, my legs start pumping for all they’re worth. I catch him midway down the hall and burst through the kitchen door a length ahead of him.
“You won!” Mark yells. “I had a head start, and you beat me! Kowabunga, dude! You are freaky fast!”
Freaky fast. I like it.
FJ and Lizzie and the other boys are sitting at the table, looking at us like an explanation is in order.
“Well,” I say, shrugging. “Some get excellent brains and some get long legs.”
Everyone laughs. Except Matt.
5:10 P.M.
Lizzie stops me at the foot of the stairs as I’m going up to start homework. She and FJ are going to a meeting.
“Did I mention that I spoke with Mrs. Bixby today? She’s planning to start tutoring you next Saturday at Quilt Circle. Isn’t that great?”
“Um …” I let it go at that.
“We’ll just be gone an hour or so,” she continues. “These Oktoberfest planning meetings don’t last long. I’m in charge of the Quilt Booth. That’s when we start selling chances on our Christmas quilt.”
“Octo—What?”
“Oktoberfest. It’s an annual festival that’s held here. There’s a parade and booths, even live entertainment. Everyone comes. It’s a lot of fun.” She turns to FJ. “Okay, I’m ready.”
He points to a check lying on the hall table. “Did you intend to leave that there?”
What? It’s not safe to leave a check around with a jailbird’s kid in the house?
“Yes, I did. Thanks for reminding me.” Lizzie calls Matt to the front door. “Miss Peachcott’s making deliveries today and plans to drop off my Nova order.” She looks between Matt and me. “When she comes, one of you give her this check. Okay?”
“Oh,” I say, feeling dumb. “Well, I was going upstairs to do homework, but sure—”
“I’ll take care of it,” Matt says, taking over. “You know you can depend on me.”
Mr. Responsibility!
After FJ and Lizzie leave, Huckaby Number Two gives me a flinty look. First I pushed him out of slot Number One. Then I ruined his long, hot shower routine. Now I’ve been given equal responsibility with him. Not wanting to get into it with him, I double-time it up the stairs.
I’m sitting at the desk doing long division when I hear the front door slam. Through the window, I see Matt ride his bike into the street. Before I know it, the entire block fills up with Matt’s friends.
Mandy’s out there, too. She sees me through the window and waves me to come down, but I wave her off. She’s insistent, so I open the window.
“I got homework,” I call to her.
Matt slows down when he hears me. He circles in front of my window and yells to the others. “Hey, did you know Frankie Joe got a letter yesterday from his jailbird mama? She got arrested for dealing dope!”
Things screech to a stop. I see Mandy’s mouth drop open. Everyone’s mouth drops open.
“Jailbird’s kid … jailbird’s kid,” Matt yells again and again. A few of the other kids take up the chant, too.
Mandy starts yelling, “Shut up! Shut up!” at them.
I want to kill Matt.
As I pull back from the window, I see someone with a cane standing at the corner, watching.
Oh no …
Matt and his gang see Miss Peachcott, too, and take off down the street.
The doorbell rings.
Where are you, Mr. Responsibility?
I hear another ring.
I clump down the stairs and open the door. Miss Peachcott steps into the house and hands me a pink paper bag with NOVA printed on it. Silently she takes the check that I fumble into her hand.
“Um, thanks,” I say, looking at the floor. Reaching out, she lifts my chin so that I have to look at her.
“You done something you’re ashamed of, Frankie Joe Huckaby?”
“No ma’am. Not that I know of.”
“Then you look people in this one-horse town in the eye. You understand?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say, even though I don’t.
She shuffles to the door and closes it behind her. As the door clicks shut, I understand what Miss Peachcott was telling me. Word about Mom being in jail will be all over town by tomorrow.
I want to cry. I leave the Nova bag on the hall table and climb the stairs, two at a time. At the desk, I push my notebook aside. I don’t care if I flunk Math and English and
History and Science. Fail everything. All I want to do is leave Clearview in my dust. I lay my head on the desk and squeeze my eyes shut.
Please please, I think, let Mom get out of jail early.
All at once, I have a startling thought. What if she does?
Raising my head, the first thing I see is the definition I wrote for home and the constant answer: The Lone Star Trailer Park.
“I’m going home,” I whisper.
9:55 P.M.
By bedtime I’ve put together a runaway plan—my own “great escape.” I’ve even found an empty cardboard box in the storage area to keep things I’ll need for the trip. No one will notice it because it fits right in with the others.
I have to leave soon, I think, remembering that FJ said it would start snowing in December. That means I’ll get home before Mom does, but that’s okay. I’ll be there waiting for her, no matter when she gets out.
I review the list, thinking through every step to make sure I haven’t overlooked anything.
Bedroll Maybe I can find one in an alley before the garbage men come.
Tarp It might rain. I’ll look for one while I’m looking for a bedroll.
Spare bike tube and flat kit How am I gonna buy this? I don’t have any money.
Pot for cooking There’s always old pots and pans in alleys.
Matches to start a fire, and a Ziploc bag to keep them dry In the kitchen maybe. Canteen Plenty of rivers along the way. I can recycle an empty plastic bottle.
Jacket FJ is taking care of that.
Bungee cord For strapping down stuff in my bike basket. I’ll check the storage shed.
Money To buy food and other stuff I can’t find for free.
Where am I gonna get money? Maybe the grocery store manager will let me sweep out the back room like I did at Felipe’s Market.
“No way FJ will let me get a job,” I mumble. “A job would interfere with my chores and homework.”
What am I going to do?
Saturday, October 10
1:20 P.M.
Shush … shush …
Leaves are starting to fall fast. It’s my chore to sweep them off the porch. Lizzie wants it clean when her quilt group arrives; but as soon as I get the leaves off, they’re back again.
We all have regular chores to do and take turns doing other things. Clearing the table after meals, stacking the dishwasher, taking out the trash, yard work. The others got their chores done this morning because they have things to do Saturday afternoons—fun things. Matt rides along with FJ to visit farms. Mark goes to 4-H. Luke, to Chess Club. Little Johnny has karate. While he was waiting for his ride to pick him up, he ran around the house in his white trousers and jacket and belt, yelling, “kowabunga!”
I have leaves that won’t stop falling—and Mrs. Bixby.
I watch a leaf devil race down the street, swirling into the sky like a miniature tornado. Back home in Texas, we have dirt devils, not leaf devils. I miss dirt. And rocks. I bet Mr. O’Hare’s out looking for space rocks today … without me.
The front door squeaks as it opens. “Want a cookie?” Lizzie steps onto the porch. “Fresh out of the oven.”
“Um, sure.” I set my broom aside and take an oatmeal-and-raisin cookie. I wish Lizzie wasn’t so nice to me. I want to hate her as much as I hate everything else in Clearview. Liking her makes me feel like I’m being a traitor to Mom.
Clunk … thump.
I recognize the noises coming from the front room. FJ is setting up Lizzie’s quilting frame. The Quilt Circle will be meeting soon, which means Mrs. Bixby will be here, too. I can’t believe my luck. To have to face fidgety-eyed Mrs. Bixby five days a week and on Saturday afternoons. Last week she had me read in front of the whole group. It was humiliating.
It’s just not fair. The Huckaby brothers go their happy-go-lucky ways on Saturday afternoons. Not me.
“Take another cookie,” Lizzie says. “I made plenty.”
“Thanks.” As I chew, I wonder what I’ll be made to do today. Read? Say my multiplication tables? Recite important dates in history?
As Lizzie goes back inside the house to finish setting up, I sit down on the front steps to watch Matt. Until FJ is ready to leave, Huckaby Number Two is racing his bike with some other kids. They stir up the leaves in the gutters, making them swirl overhead.
The Huckaby house has been designated the official finish line, so I have a front row seat. Matt comes in first every time. The racing tires on his bike help a lot, but he knows how to run a race, too.
I watch as he starts out, pumping hard and fast. Shifting into a faster gear once he’s going good. And leaning forward at the finish line so his weight carries him forward. No two ways about it, Matt’s fast.
Wonder if I could beat him… .
“Hey, Oddball. When are you gonna stop hidin’ out?” Mandy rides up next to the front steps on her old Mongoose BMX with twenty-inch wheels. It’s almost as beat up as my Rover Sport. She’s been bugging me for two weeks to participate, ever since Matt opened his mouth about Mom being in jail.
“I’m not hidin’ out.”
She drops her bike to the ground and sits down next to me. “Um, I got an uncle who went to jail.” She glances at me sideways. “He drank too much and got thrown in the drunk tank—”
“Shut up, Mandy.”
“Okay.”
She manages to stay quiet a couple of seconds.
“Did I tell you Miss Peachcott ordered more cookies? I took by her order, and she bought a bunch more. Isn’t that great?”
“Yeah, great.”
“You don’t mean that,” she says, looking hurt.
I feel bad. Mandy is okay.
“No joke,” I say, looking at her, “that’s really great.”
“Miss Peachcott asked about you. She’d like it if you came to see her. She said her project wasn’t going so good—whatever that means.”
I decide Miss Peachcott is okay, too.
“Well, you should go see her sometime,” Mandy says when I don’t say anything.
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Oh, stop pouting,” she says, poking me in the rib with her elbow. “C’mon, grab your bike. Bet I can beat you.”
“In your dreams—”
The front door squeaks again, and FJ walks outside.
“Hi, Mr. Huckaby.”
“Hey, Mandy. How are you?”
“Okay. Trying to talk Frankie Joe into biking with me. He’s being pigheaded.”
FJ looks at me. “Why won’t you go? Lot of fun, riding your bike through leaves. I did it when I was a kid.”
“Not in the mood,” I say. “Besides, I got chores to do and”—I nod toward the living room—“it’s … you know, Saturday.”
Mandy climbs back on her bike. “That’s not the real reason he won’t ride.” Giving me a so-there! look, she wheels across the yard and bumps over the curb into the street.
I want to strangle her.
FJ sits down next to me. “Look, Frankie Joe. If I could, I’d buy you another bike, but it’s not in the budget right now. I’m real sorry you’re stuck with a trash bike, but—”
“It’s not a trash bike,” I say, feeling angry. “Mr. O’Hare was a mechanic in the air force. He worked on jet planes! He helped me fix it. It’s as good as any of those bikes out there.” I jab my finger toward the street.
“Then what’s Mandy talking about? What’s the real reason you won’t ride with them?”
Caught off guard, I blurt out the truth. “ ’Cause they don’t like me.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The names they call me.”
He looks at me like I’m corn or soybeans that he’s analyzing. “What names?”
“Well, the one I hate most is Freaky Slow Frankie Joe.” I know I’ve gone too far to turn back, so I keep talking. “They think I’m stupid because … well, because I am stupid. Mark can do ratios, and I can’t even count by sevens. Even Luke can count by sevens!”
As FJ’s voice trails off, he turns to face me. “Martha Jane made rash decisions, didn’t think about the consequences. But that doesn’t mean you’re stupid. You hear me?”
“Yes sir.” Part of me doesn’t like what he says about Mom, but another part of me knows it’s true. Her ending up in jail is proof of that.
“Good. Next time anyone says that to you, you tell them you just didn’t go to school like you should and got behind. All right?”
“Yes sir,” I mumble.
“Well, all right then.”
We watch the boys riding bikes a while longer.
All at once, FJ says, “How about you ride out with me today? You’ve been working hard and could use a break. Matt can stay home and do the leaves. Since you’ve started sharing chores, the rest don’t have as many to do.”
For one heartbeat, I wonder what Matt will think about having to give Freaky Slow Frankie Joe a turn. I’m sure he’ll find a way to make me pay.
Still I say, “Yes sir, I’d like to go. But, what about Mrs. Bixby?”
“I’ll talk to Lizzie, then tell Matt.”
I watch as FJ goes inside the house. When he returns, he waves Matt to the curb. The two talk for a good bit. While I can’t make out all their words, I’m certain more than just taking a turn is being discussed. One thing for certain, whatever else they’re talking about is not making Matt happy. Even from the stoop, I can see his face turning red. But when I get the wave from FJ, I’m off the porch in a flash.
FJ climbs into the driver’s seat of his work truck as I head for the passenger side. I have to go by red-faced Matt on the way.
“Kowabunga, dude,” I whisper in passing.
1:45 P.M.
I stick my head out the window, looking at field after field of corn and soybeans. The sky is clear and bright blue, and the air, cool and fresh. The wind blows my hair back from my face, and the air fills my lungs so fast, I have to gulp to take it all in.
Freedom feels great! I want the day to never end.
“We’re going to see a farmer named Puffin,” FJ says. “Mr. Puffin.”
I get it. Treat Mr. Puffin with respect because he grows corn and soybeans. And they pay the bills.
Freaky Fast Frankie Joe Page 7