Freaky Fast Frankie Joe Read Free Page B

good things for kids to do. You know, like Scouts and 4-H.”
    â€œUh-huh,” I mumble.
    â€œThat’s the school you’ll go to.” He points to a sprawling yellow-brick building. “There’s three wings for the different grades. Primary, Middle School—that’s fifth through eighth—and High School. The primary and middle-school principal’s name is Mr. Arnt. We’ll get you registered tomorrow.”
    I look at the side streets that run off the main one, hoping to see something that looks familiar. The two-story homes on the side streets have porches that stretch around the front and sides of the house. There isn’t a dirt clod or scrap of trash anywhere.
    FJ turns off the main street and drives a couple of blocks. Not as much as a candy-bar wrapper clutters the gutter in front of the two-story house with green shutters where he parks the van. On the front porch, I see shiny, new-looking bikes lined up and remember the money he supposedly sent for my birthday.
    I don’t care, I think. I bet my bike’s every bit as good as those—no,
better
.
    In a field at the end of the block, I see corn and soybeans growing.
    â€œWhere do your kids ride their bikes?”
    â€œWhy, on the street. But there is a park a few blocks away with a paved bike path, in case you’d rather ride there.”
    Paved bike path? The Chihuahua Desert doesn’t have an unpaved bike path, much less a paved one.
    â€œMeteors ever fall out of the sky around here?”
    â€œMeteors?” He looks confused.
    I was afraid of that.
3:30 P.M.
    Four boys burst out the front door and grab FJ around his shoulders, arms, middle, and knees.
    Matt, Mark, Luke, and Little Johnny.
    They’re wearing T-shirts and jeans like I am, except theirs are clean. Mine have mustard and catsup and grease down the front and are wrinkled because I’ve worn them for two days.
    The second-shortest boy wears glasses, but other than that, the four legitimate Huckaby sons look pretty much the same. I don’t look anything like them. Their eyes are chocolate brown, not blue like mine; their hair and eyebrows are thick and brown, too.
    I hear a door slam again. A short, round woman with curly brown hair and chocolate-brown eyes runs down the front steps. She’s dressed in slacks and a plaid shirt, which billows when she stretches out her arms. A tent with legs.
    Lizzie.
    Mom is about as opposite of her as you can get. Mom’s hair is short and blond, all shiny and spiky, and she likes capri pants and bright T-shirts. Lime green is her favorite color because her eyes are green. Sometimes she paints her fingernails and toenails to matchwhat she’s wearing. Just thinking about her makes me homesick.
    Squealing like car brakes when someone stomps on them, Lizzie reaches over the four boys and grabs FJ around the neck. I wonder how he’s able to breathe, but he just gathers them up in his long arms as if trying to squeeze the life out of them. When he lets them go, they turn and stare at me.
    â€œHey.” I nod, holding tight to my suitcase.
    â€œOh, yeah,” FJ says. He walks over to me, puts his arm around my shoulders. “This is Frankie Joe, my . . . my oldest son.”
    â€œThat’s why he’s named after you,” the boy with glasses says. “Right, Dad? ’Cause he’s the oldest.”
    â€œDoes that mean he can boss us around?” the smallest boy asks. “Like Matt does?”
    â€œDo not,” the tallest boy says.
    â€œDo too! ’Cept now, he can boss
you
around.”
    â€œCan
not
.”
    â€œCan too—”
    â€œEnough of that.” Lizzie gives me an ear-to-ear grin. “Why, he’s the spitting image of you, FJ.” She frowns suddenly. “Except he’s thin—way too thin.”
    My face burns. What does she mean, too thin? Mom always told me I was tall for my age and would fill out sideways