It’s still dark when I crawl out of bed and pull on my clothes. The stairs creak when I go downstairs, and I hope a certain someone doesn’t hear me. Matt’s been dogging my tracks ever since the night I made excuses for not watching the movie. I’ve had to get sneaky to find what I need for the trip. December and snow will be here in a month.
I slip out the back door and head for the storage shed, hoping to find an old tent or tarp. I’ve already found a ragged sleeping bag and a dented skillet in an alley, picked up before the garbagemen came. And I took a few Ziploc bags from the kitchen. I felt bad that I couldn’t pay Lizzie for them. I plan to leave her a dollar when I go. I also plan to pay for the tarp or tent, too, if I find one in the shed.
If ninja-dog Matt will let me find one, that is. He’s been on me like a bloodhound.
It’s cold in the shed so I scrounge hurriedly through cardboard boxes stacked in the corner. I pull a blue polyurethane tarp out of one.
Pay dirt!
“What’cha doin’ in there?” Matt stands in the doorway of the storage shed, his eyes drilling a hole in me.
“Looking,” I say. “That a crime?”
“It is if you’re planning on stealing whatever it is you’re looking for.”
Stealing? It’s not really, I think, because I’m gonna pay for it when I leave. But I can’t tell him that.
I decide to play dumb. “What makes you think I’m planning on stealing something?”
“Because you’re being sneaky.” He looks at the tarp I’m holding. “What’re you planning on doing with that?”
Busted. No way out. I have to lie.
“Uh, I’m planning on setting my bike on it so I can grease the gears. They’re sticking and, uh . . . the Oktoberfest parade’s today. I got up early to fix them.”
“If you weren’t so stupid, Sneaky Freaky Slow Frankie Joe, you’d know grease would just gum up those gears. WD-40’s what you need to use, and there’s a can sitting right there on the workbench.”
Yeah, I know. Mr. O’Hare taught me that. I’m just a bad liar.
“Oh, right,” I say. I put the tarp back into the box and return it to the shelf.
Matt hesitates before going back in the house. “I know what’s up, you know.”
“You do?” My heart thumps. How did he figure out that I’m planning to run away?
“Yeah, and I’m gonna find a way to stop it. Then you won’t be number one anymore.”
Huh? If I leave, he’ll be number one automatically.
“What are you talking about, Matt?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
Who’s playing?
“Matt, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar! Like you haven’t noticed those meetings Dad’s been going to.”
I feel my hands curl into fists, angry because Matt called me a liar. Then I uncurl my fingers, thinking, I am a liar.
As Matt walks back to the house, I think about what he said. “You mean those school conferences with Mr. Arnt?” I call out. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
The door slams behind him, so I don’t get a reply. I stand there alone, shivering in the dark.
Busted and insulted, I think. And no tarp.
“Oh . . . no,” I mumble as I walk back to the house. “And now I have to ride in that stupid parade.”
The embarrassment is huge. I’m the biggest kid riding a bike in the parade. And there are red, white, and blue streamers tied to my handlebars and clickers on the spokes.
Booths are set up all around the square, selling sauerkraut and brats, dumplings and hot potato salad, apple cider and root beer. Mr. Lindholm and his wife wave at me, and Mr. Puffin is with them. All my teachers are there, too, even Mr. Arnt. I figure the entire county has turned out. When I pass the Quilt Circle booth, Lizzie and Mrs. Bixby run into the street, whistling at me.
I want to ride off the edges of the earth. As soon as I reach the end of the block, I rip the streamers off my Rover Sport. A familiar voice coming from behind makes me jump.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”
“Oh. How ya doin’, Miss Peachcott? I’ve been busy, real busy. You know, with homework and chores and delivering pizza.”
“Yes, I hear you’ve started a delivery business. That’s why I needed to see you.”
“It is?”
“You see, I’m crippled up.” She holds her cane with its black rubber stop in front of my nose. “And we’re nearing the winter solstice. You know what that means.” She pauses, studying my face. “You do know what that means?”
I shake my head no.
“Means the days are getting shorter. You noticed that?”
I nod, even though I’m still confused.
“I need to dedicate my daylight hours to my formula,” she continues. “My eyes are worn out—cataracts, you see. Makes things blurry. And Nova just returned the trial sample of my latest formula. They say I still don’t have it right.” She leans close. “I just made a new batch today. Can you see that birthmark?”
The spot on her face looks like it’s throbbing. “Yes ma’am, I can see it.”
“Blast!” She sighs. “So when can you start to work for me?”
“Well, what exactly would I be doing?”
“Why, delivering Nova so I can dedicate myself to my formula!”
More deliveries! I need money bad because, thanks to Matt, I’ve decided to give up scrounging for things. I didn’t like being called a thief. Now I’ll have to buy whatever else I need.
“So you want me to drop off Nova bags to your customers?”
“Yes, and pick up the money.”
I can’t believe it. She knows Mom’s in jail, and she still trusts me. On the spot, I go from liking Elsie Peachcott to loving her.
“Okay,” I say. “Can I start right away?”
“Not so fast, buddy. How much you gonna charge a crippled-up old woman?”
Is she trying to make me feel bad so I’ll work cheap? She is—she’s haggling with me! I grin, remembering the way Mr. Lopez taught me to haggle with people in the markets across the border. “Never pay the asking price, Frankie Joe,” he told me. “Dicker them down to your price.”
“Well, depends on how far I have to travel,” I say now. “Um, how about fifty cents per delivery inside the village limits . . . and a quarter a mile for out-of-town deliveries. That’s what I charge Mr. Puffin and Mr. Lindholm—a quarter a mile.”
Miss Peachcott looks thoughtful. “That’s gonna add up.”
It might, I think, but I’m running out of time.
“Well, you see,” I tell her, “I got homework to do when I get home. And chores!” I suck the spit from between my teeth and shake my head slowly. “FJ won’t let me work for you if I don’t get my homework and chores done.”
“He won’t, huh?”
“No ma’am. And if Nova buys your formula, you’ll be on easy street.”
“That’s true.” She looks thoughtful. “Well, I guess we have a deal . . . if—”
Uh-oh.
“If . . . what?” I ask.
“If you’ll agree to be my tester.”
“Tester?”
“Yes, tester. Someone to tell me if I have got the formula right before I send it off to Nova again. They’ve given me only one more chance. I must get it right.”
I helped Mr. Lopez mix his paint color. How hard can it be?
“Okay—”
“And,” she interrupts, “if you help me dye my roots.”
“Roots?”
Exasperated, Miss Peachcott parts her hair, exposing white roots below her black-licorice curls. Then she pulls a small brush from her pocketbook. “I use this slanted eye-shadow brush to dab color on the roots, you see, and my hands are not as steady as they once were.”
Her hands are shaky.
“So,” I say, taking a closer look at the black blotches on her scalp. Her hair dye is the blackest black I’ve ever seen, and her scalp is the whitest white. I can’t decide which looks worse—the black blotches on her head or the throbbing blotch on her face. “You want me to deliver Nova . . . and be a tester and a dabber.”
She blinks. “Yes, a tester and a dabber.”
We shake hands on the deal.
Pulling the dictionary from my bookshelf, I hunt up the new word I learned today.
sol-stice \ noun : 1 : either of the two points on the elliptic at which its distance from the celestial equator is greatest and which is reached by the sun each year about June 22 and December 22 2 : the time of the sun’s passing a solstice that occurs about June 22 to begin summer and December 22 to begin winter in the northern hemisphere.
Woo-hoo. Winter doesn’t start until December 22. I have more time than I thought I did.
I close the dictionary, feeling good. Now that I’m working for Miss Peachcott and delivering pizzas, I can make the money I need long before then.