Freaky Fast Frankie Joe by Lutricia Clifton Page A

ladybugs to Mr. Lopez. Talking to Mrs. Jones about blight and aphids on corn and soybeans. Being free to ride my bike any time I want. To smell mesquite. Taste the sand that blows in off the Chihuahua Desert. Spook up birds and deer, hunt space rocks—and be there to welcome Mom when she gets home.
    I can just ride straight south on those ruler-straight roads and eat my way back home, I decide. As tall as the corn grows, I could even hide out in it to escape the real posse I’m sure FJ would send after me.
    I’ll need to be careful, not slip up. . . .
    â€œThese fields look like they run on forever,” I say, figuring this is a good chance to test out my escape route. “I bet they run all the way down the middle of the country.”
    Mr. Puffin doesn’t skip a beat. “Well sir, that’s a fact.”
    That’s the best thing I’ve learned all afternoon.
3:15 P.M.
    â€œAll your hard work’s paid off, Harvey,” FJ says. “If it doesn’t rain, you’ll end up with a top-grade crop this year.”
    â€œWell then, let us pray it doesn’t rain. Don’t need any hiccups now that would set the harvest back.” Mr. Puffin looks at FJ and asks, “Got time for a cup?”
    â€œBeen waiting all day for a cup of your good coffee, Harvey.”
    The sun has begun to lower in the west when I follow Mr. Puffin into the white-painted farmhouse. I don’t like that the day is almost over.
    As I sit down at the kitchen table, Mr. Puffin asks, “What’s got you so long in the jaw, boy?” He sets about making a fresh pot of coffee. “You hungry? I bet you’re hungry.”
    â€œUm, no sir.” It’s because I have to go back to the Huckaby house, but I can’t tell him that because FJ is sitting across from me.
    FJ gives me a look, and I remember that I’m supposed to be sensitive. “Well, maybe a
little
hungry,” I say to Mr. Puffin.
    â€œWell, I’d be a
lot
hungry, I was a growing boy like you. What’s your favorite thing to eat?” He searches through cupboards and the refrigerator.
    â€œBurritos,” I say.
    â€œBurritos!” Mr. Puffin pulls a package ofstore-bought cookies from a bread box on the counter. “That’s Mexican food, isn’t it? I like Italian food myself. Pepperoni-and-sausage pizza’s my favorite. That place in Clearview makes the best pepperoni-and-sausage pizza I ever ate. You like pizza?”
    â€œSure do.”
    Mr. Puffin shakes some rock-hard cookies onto a plate and sets it on the table. “Me too. Haven’t had a slice in better’n a year now.”
    â€œWhy, Harvey,” FJ says, “you’re not but . . . what, seven miles from town? Why don’t you just drive in and pick one up?”
    â€œSeven miles?” I say. “That’s nothin’! I bet I do seventy miles a day when I bike in the Chihuahua Desert. I can do seven miles in fifteen minutes—no, ten!”
    FJ looks skeptical.
    â€œThat might be,” Mr. Puffin says, “but I milk cows mornin’ and night, seven days a week. Have to clean the milk shed when I’m done, too.” The old man’s eyes begin to look wet. “Used to be, Mary cleaned the milking shed, and we’d get done early enough to run into town.” He pours two cups of coffee and sets them on the table. “But no more.”
    â€œOne of those big dairies would buy those cows off you, Harvey,” FJ says. “Why don’t you give it some thought?”
    â€œLong as I’ve known you, Frank, you’ve been rightmore than you been wrong. I’ll think on it.” Mr. Puffin pours a glass of milk and sets it in front of me.
    My mind takes off on its own as I dunk hockey-puck cookies into milk. “I could bring you a pizza,” I blurt out.
    â€œWhat?” FJ’s eyes open wide.
    â€œI’d do my homework before I leave.