Freaky Fast Frankie Joe

by Lutricia Clifton

  “Oh, and Mom sent up some apple juice. I set it on your table. I’ll, uh, I’ll tell Mrs. Hoople you’ll make up the test tomorrow.”

  “Go. Away.”

  11:38 A.M.

  “I brought you some soup and a sandwich,” Lizzie says. “And your favorite cookies. Chocolate chip.”

  “Not hungry.”

  “You have to eat, Frankie Joe. All you’ve had is a little apple juice—”

  “I said I’m not hungry.”

  “I have to go to work now,” she sighs. “But I’ll leave the lunch on your table. Maybe you’ll feel like eating later.”

  Wednesday, March 17

  5:30 P.M.

  “Hey, Oddball. Thought you was never gonna wake up.” Mandy’s sitting cross-legged on the foot of my bed. Her hair is done up in two ponytails, one over each ear. She looks like a pug-nosed Pekinese dog.

  “Go away, Mandy.”

  “Can’t. I’m here on official business. Your dad sent up a fresh bottle of water with orders for you to drink it.” She points to the bottle on my nightstand.

  “And Mrs. Bixby ordered you to come back to The Great Escape because she needs her assistant.” She shakes her head. “Things are nuts again.”

  She pulls a piece of paper from her pocket. “And Miss Peachcott gave me this to read to you because she’s crippled up and can’t climb the stairs.”

  “Don’t care.”

  “Too bad so sad, you’re gonna hear it anyway.” She unfolds the paper and begins to read: “ ‘Our customers need their deliveries and I need my tester.’ ” She pauses. “What the heck’s a tester?”

  “Go away, Mandy.” I pull the covers over my head.

  “But what am I supposed to tell Mrs. Bixby and Miss Peachcott? They’re expecting me to tell them something.”

  “Don’t care.” The bed squeaks as she climbs off of it, but I don’t hear the stairs creak. She hasn’t left yet.

  “Hey look,” she mumbles, “I’m real sorry I called you that name when you wouldn’t run against Matt. I didn’t know that you had problems—more problems.”

  Swell. Now it’s all over town that my mom dumped me just like her aunt Gerry dumped her.

  “Go away!”

  “Okay, okay!”

  I wait for the stairs to creak. They don’t. From under the corner of my quilt, I see Mandy standing at the top of the stairs.

  “I really really miss you, Frankie Joe,” she whispers.

  I pull the quilt over my head again. Finally the stairs creak.

  Friday, March 19

  8:17 A.M.

  I’m skinny again. FJ and Lizzie asked Dr. Davis to make a house call today. I’ve been poked and prodded and thumped.

  “He’s worked awful hard,” Lizzie tells the doctor. “And been out in the weather.”

  “And studying a lot,” FJ says. “I pushed him too hard.”

  Dr. Davis closes his doctor bag and motions them toward the stairs.

  “He’s suffering from sadness,” I hear him tell FJ and Lizzie as they clomp their way downstairs. “You need to do something to pull him out of the dumps. Not all wounds show up on the outside.”

  10:15 A.M.

  “I drove twenty-five miles to get these,” FJ says. “Stored them on ice. I, uh, I remembered you liked them when we drove up from Texas. One’s an Oreo cookie and the other’s an M&M.”

  He sets two Blizzards on the bedside table and leaves. They melt into goo.

  12:15 P.M.

  Matt, Mark, Luke, and Little Johnny bring me a chocolate-covered pretzel from the gift shop.

  “Not hungry,” I tell them, and pull the covers over my head.

  As soon as they’re gone, I toss the pretzel into the wastebasket.

  2:20 P.M.

  “Miss Peachcott sent these,” Lizzie says. She shows me apples and plums and tangerines. “She said you liked colorful things.”

  “I think I’m gonna throw up,” I tell her.

  She takes the fruit away.

  4:27 P.M.

  “Mr. Puffin sent up a pizza,” FJ says. “Your favorite—pepperoni with extra cheese.”

  “Can’t,” I mumble.

  “Look,” he says. “I know you’re disappointed—and hurt. You have every right to be, but that’s part of life. You have to learn to deal with it. That’s what being an adult is all about. Remember our talk about responsibility?”

  I pull a pillow over my head.

  “Maybe later,” he says, sighing. He sets the pizza on the steam radiator to keep it warm. It curls up into a Frisbee.

  Saturday, March 20

  3:30 P.M.

  “Wake up, Frankie Joe.” FJ gives me a shake.

  “Not … hungry.” I’m not lying. My lips are cracked, and my stomach feels hollow, but I can’t stand the thought of eating.

  “I didn’t bring food. The postmaster is here with me. She called to tell me a package came for you today and she worked late so she could deliver it.”

  “It came all the way from Texas,” the postmaster says.

  Mom sent me a package! I feel an emptiness in my chest when I remember that Mom isn’t in Texas anymore.

  “It’s from the Lone Star Trailer Park,” FJ says, “and it’s been sent Registered Mail—Restricted Delivery.”

  “That means you have to sign for it—personally,” the postmaster says.

  “That’s right.” FJ slides my pillows behind my back so I have to sit up. “It’s time to buck up. Now sign for this package.”

  The postmaster hands me a ballpoint pen and yellow receipt, and points to where I’m supposed to sign.

  “Okay,” she says, after I sign my name, “the package is officially delivered.” Turning to FJ, she says, “I’ll show myself out.”

  “Must be important to send it Registered Mail.” FJ hands me the package. “Cost a pretty penny to do that.”

  Looking at the stamps on the package, I calculate the postage. Holy cow! Twelve dollars and forty-nine cents!

  The package is the size and shape of a shoe box. The outside is wrapped in a brown paper bag that has been cut apart and smoothed out and taped up with silver duct tape. The return address says, “Lone Star Trailer Park, Laredo, Texas.”

  FJ helps me peel off the duct tape and brown paper and, indeed, there is a shoe box inside. And inside the box is a rock.

  I examine the rock. It’s not granite, or quartz, or sandstone—

  I catch my breath. No, he didn’t … it can’t be—

  “Ohmigosh,” I blurt out, “it’s a space rock. He found it!”

  “Space rock?”

  “Yeah. It’s part of a meteor.”

  “There’s a note, too,” FJ says. “From a Mrs. Jones, a Mr. O’Hare, and a Mr. Lopez?”

  “They’re my friends.”

  “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to hear what they have to say.”

  He hands me the note, and I read it aloud.

  Dearest Frankie Joe,

  We are so sorry we didn’t write sooner, but we kept hearing rumors that your mother was getting out of jail early, so we thought you would be back home soon. We looked for you every day. But when your mother pulled up stakes, she told us you wouldn’t be returning at all. We didn’t know what to think because we had all gotten Christmas cards that said you would be coming to see us soon. We decided not to wait any longer to give this to you, and we hope you keep your promise to come see us. We will look forward to that day.

  Your friends,

  Mrs. Jones, Mr. O’Hare, and Mr. Lopez.

  “You promised your friends that you’d come see them?”

  “Yes sir … sort of.”

  “I see.” He takes the rock from my hand and examines it. “So this is really from outer space?”

  “A meteor broke apart over the Chihuahua Desert last year. Mr. O’Hare and me have been looking for pieces of it for a long time.”

  “Amazing!” he says, handing the rock back to me.

  4:10 P.M.

  A
fter FJ leaves, I carry my space rock to my desk. I feel shaky all over, like a bobble-head doll on the dashboard of a car. A spot between my eyes throbs like a tom-tom.

  Opening the curtains, I realize that the days have gotten much longer. In the late afternoon light, the rock actually looks alien. It’s not exactly brown, or black, or yellow. And it’s heavy for something that’s the size of a hockey puck.

  “Wow,” I say, talking to the space rock like it’s Mr. O’Hare. “Wish I coulda been there when you found it.” I look through the window again, feeling sad.

  The outside world is turning green again. But all I can see is the bitter winter I’ve spent here in Clearview. The freezing cold, the deep snow, the ice crystals, the smothering gray. My skin turning tough as boot leather … my lungs aching as if they would burst … my leg muscles cramping from all the pumping. I see and feel and taste all of it again. And I know that none of it was what made me sick.

  I begin to cry. I cry a flood, but the tears are not for my wasted planning and hard work. Or for all the anger I’ve had against FJ and my mutant ninja posse and their cruel nicknames.

  I cry because Mom sold her remembrance of me.

  Monday, April 5

  4:15 P.M.

  “Thanks, Frankie Joe,” Mr. Puffin says. “Sure glad you’re delivering pizza again.”

  “Me too.” I look at the thermometer as I walk down his porch steps. Fifty-three degrees.

  It’s the first day of spring break, so I’m in no hurry to head back to Clearview. Mr. Puffin and Mr. Lindholm were my only deliveries today. They’re working hard planting corn and soybeans.

  The bike trip out was pretty tiring, but I’m almost good as new. After I got all that sadness out of me, I started eating again—and no one stays skinny in Lizzie’s house for very long. I’ve started delivering for Miss Peachcott, too. I’m saving my money for our vacation. Dad and I are taking Lizzie and my brothers to see the Lone Star State of Texas. And I’m keeping the promise I made to go see my friends. Dad’s real big on a person keeping his promises.

  I hear yelling come from behind me. Pulling off, I wait for Matt to catch up.

  “Hey,” he says, pulling up next to me. He looks at the pizza container strapped to my bike basket. “You done with your deliveries?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where you going now?”

  “Nowhere special.”

  “Mind if I tag along.”

  “Nope.” I start pedaling again.

  “Let’s go this way,” Matt says after we’ve ridden a couple of miles. He swerves onto the two-lane highway that leads into Clearview.

  I swerve onto the highway, too, and catch up with him. We have to ride on the shoulder to avoid traffic. Matt in front; me behind.

  I call out, “Why are you going this way? The shoulder’s gotta be rough on those skinny tires.” Matt glances over his shoulder, grinning like a monkey.

  What’s he up to? …

  When we reach the green-and-white sign that reads Clearview, he suddenly stops in front of me, forcing both of us into the ditch.

  “Are you crazy? I almost crashed into that sign!”

  “I figured you’d be sure to see it that way,” Matt says. The monkey-face grin shows up again.

  I look at the sign that reads BUSINESSES IN CLEARVIEW. A new business has been added to the list in fresh red paint: FRANKIE JOE’S FREAKY FAST DELIVERY SERVICE.

  “Huh,” I grunt, feeling a grin spread across my face.

  “Race you home,” Matt says, peeling off down the highway.

  “No fair!” I yell. “You got a head start.”

  I see Huckaby Number Two pumping for all he’s worth, so I take off, too. I smell the rain that’s fallen on the newly planted corn and soybeans, and feel my leg muscles rippling beneath my jeans. I fly past the arrow-straight rows and pencil-line roads, sunshine warming the top of my head and shoulders. If I had wings, I just know I could fly.

  In my mind’s eye, I lift off the ground and rise above a patchwork of squares the color of soybean green and corn gold and Harvestore blue and barn red. I see myself flying over Wisconsin, which is only five miles to the north, where everything is a buttery yellow. Next I’m over Alberta and the Canadian Rockies, which are colored an icy blue. When I reach the edge of the Arctic, I see the purest white I’ve ever seen—even whiter than Miss Peachcott’s hair. And then I reach the Arctic Circle and …

  At the Arctic Circle, I see myself transported into a rocket ship that is fueled with corn and heading to places that aren’t on any maps. There isn’t even a color for that place “out there.”

  But I’m not afraid because I know I won’t get lost. All I have to do is follow the road map of colors … back home.