Freaky Fast Frankie Joe Read Free

There’s nothing but a pool of black beyond the light, so I can’t even see the skyline of Oklahoma City.
    â€œYou take the backseat,” he says. “I’ll take the front.”
    I stretch out on the backseat, but I can’t stop the questions from squirming around in my head. Finally they worm their way out.
    â€œWhat am I supposed to call her? Your new wife, I mean.”
    He takes his time answering. “Her name is Lizzie. But she probably won’t mind if you call her Mom. That’s what the boys call her.”
    â€œI’ll call her Lizzie.” Mom is what I call
my
mother. “What are the boys’ names—my stepbrothers?”
    â€œWell, actually they are your half brothers. Matthew’s the oldest—next to you, that is. We call him Matt for short. Then there’s Mark, Luke, and John—mostly he’s called Little Johnny.”
    â€œYou mean, like in the Bible?”
    â€œIt’s a tradition in Lizzie’s family. They’re into names that withstand the test of time, not goofy names. No one’s gonna forget what the Huckaby boys’ names are, that’s for sure.”
    Goofy names. I wonder if he thinks Frankie Joe is goofy. Why he didn’t give me a name that would withstand the test of time? All at once, I realize I don’t even know
his
name.
    â€œSo, what’s your name? I mean, all Mom ever called you was FJ—when she spoke of you at all, that is.”
    â€œIt’s Franklin. Franklin Joseph Huckaby, same as yours.” He’s quiet for a couple of minutes. “It was your mom’s idea to name you that, and . . .” He pauses. “Even as a baby, you had my hair, my eyes, so . . .” He glances away, then back at me. “So you’ve got my name. If you want, you can call me Dad.”
    â€œI see,” I say, but I don’t really. I’m wondering why my name wasn’t his idea. “Thanks, but I’ll call you FJ.”
    He remains quiet for several more minutes. “I tried to keep in touch, but . . . well, I got busy with things.”
    I translate “things” to mean his new wife and four other sons.
    â€œAnd there’s something else . . .” His voice sounds funny, like he’s choking on a french fry. “Lizzie’s the only wife I ever had.
Legal
wife, that is.”
    â€œUh-huh,” I say. “What exactly does that mean?”
    â€œIt, uh, it means your mom and I never got married.”
    I understand. His other sons are legitimate, and I’m not.
    â€œBut we used my name on your birth certificate,” he says. “So legally, your name is Huckaby.” He looks at me. “Okay?”
    I say okay, but I don’t feel better. I stare out the window at dark space lit up by an eerie white light, feeling like I’ve been kidnapped. Then I remember that it won’t be for long—only ten months. Just until Mom gets out of jail.

Sunday, September 20
8:37 A.M.
    â€œAre we there yet?” I rub the sleep from my eyes.
    â€œNot by a long shot.”
    A sign alongside the road tells me we are now on I-44. A different Triple-A map is lying open on the console, and I discover we’re in Missouri, west of St. Louis.
    FJ pulls into a drive-through at the next McDonald’s. “Hop out and wash up. I’ll get breakfast sandwiches to go.”
    When I get back, he folds up the Missouri map and hands me another one. “We’ll be crossing into Illinois soon.”
    Back on the road, I see corn growing—really tall corn—and something else I don’t recognize. “What’s that stuff?” I point to bushy plants growing in arrow-straight rows that alternate with the cornfields.
    â€œThat? Why, that’s soybeans. Corn and soybeans are the major crops here. They pay the bills.”
    I stare at him.
    â€œI work as a grain inspector for the state,” he