Freaky Fast Frankie Joe (15 page)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?”

I nod.

“How lucky we ran into each other. I need to talk business with you.”

“What kind of business?”

“Delivery business. Now that winter's here, I thought you could pick up groceries for me on Saturday mornings. I can call in the order ahead of time.”

A new customer!

“Sure! I charge a fee.”

“Elsie Peachcott told me. Fifty cents a delivery, I believe?”

“Yes ma'am. You wanna start tomorrow?”

“Indeed. Oh, and my neighbor Mr. Perkins thought you could do some errands for him, too. He's on a walker, you know. I'll introduce you to him when you bring my groceries by. Now I must get out of this weather. It's freezing out here. See you tomorrow.”

It
is
freezing—colder than freezing. The temperature drops below thirty-two degrees all the time now. But I don't let the cold interfere with my delivery service. Or snow or ice. And my quilted clothes and Wellington boots keep me plenty warm.

Which is good because my business is really growing. Miss Peachcott. Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Barnes. And now Mrs. Wilkins and Mr. Perkins.

I start pedaling again. I'm going to Gambino's Pizza Parlor, hoping Mr. Puffin is there. The muscles in my legs feel like cords of steel when I pump the pedals up and down. My lungs don't even burn anymore when I breathe in the cold Canadian air. The slivers of ice that fall off the knotty tree limbs don't hurt my face, either, because my skin has weathered, like tough leather.

Just like Mr. O'Hare's, I think. Thinking of him makes me wish I were in the desert with him today, hunting space rocks.

Soon I think. Soon.

“Frankie Joe!” Mr. Puffin says as I walk into the pizza parlor. “Pull up a chair and have some pizza with me. I been missin' you. I ordered a twofer, so we can have a whole one each, you want.”

“I better have just have one slice. Lizzie's fixing supper right now. And I came to see you about—” I think fast. How can I get the information I need without spilling the beans about my escape plan? I eye the pizza in front of me.

Of course! Talk about our business deal.

“I came to find out when you'll need me to start delivering pizza again. Last time I saw you, you said something about planting seed in the spring.”

“That's right.”

“So when do you do that . . . 
exactly
?”

“Well now, depends on when the soil's warm enough. I like to get mine in the ground early—before the rains
begin. Seeds need water to sprout, you see. Late March usually, maybe first of April.”

“So the snow should be gone by the end of March?”

“About then, yeah.”

My new escape date.

“What'cha get Mama and Daddy for Christmas?”

Little Johnny is standing at the top of the stairs, his hands behind his back and his eyes sparkling.

Oh no. I glance at the calendar on the wall. Christmas is only a week away.

“Nothing . . . yet. What did you get them?”

“You have to promise me that you'll keep it a secret.”

Secret? When did Johnny decide I was trustworthy? Maybe when I became the tiebreaker?

“Okay, I promise.”

“Gloves!” Huckaby Number Five pulls two pairs of knit gloves from behind his back. One large brown pair for FJ, one smaller blue pair for Lizzie.

I finger the soft yarn. “These are nice. Where'd you get them?”

“At the gift shop.”

“The one we walk past it on the way home from school?”

“Yep, they have lots of gifts at the gift shop.”

“That makes sense,” I say, grinning. “How much you pay for these gloves? For the two pair?”