Early Christmas morning, Lizzie calls to me from the bottom of the stairs. “Your mom’s on the phone. Hurry down!”
I’m downstairs in two shakes. When I reach the kitchen, I hear FJ talking.
“. . . and he’s doing real well in school, too, making giant strides.” He glances my way. “Wait, he’s here now. I’ll put him on.” He hands me the phone. “She can’t talk long, and the reception’s poor.”
I’m so breathless, I can hardly talk. “Hi Mom, did you get the package?”
“Yes I did! The quilt is beautiful! It got here yesterday.”
“You like it? The Quilt Circle made it.”
“Well of course I like it. It’s amazing.”
“It would probably win a blue ribbon at the county fair.”
She laughs. “They still have those things? Tell me, how could you afford such a pretty thing? It looks expensive.”
“Oh no. Two dollars is all the ticket cost me.”
“Ticket? I don’t understand.”
“It was a raffle. Each ticket cost two dollars and I bought one ticket and I won. I won the quilt!”
“Well now,” she says, pausing. “That is an amazing story, a most amazing story. Tell me, how many tickets did the Quilt Circle sell for this raffle?”
“Um, I don’t know exactly. They printed off a thousand tickets and my number was 7–7–7, so I figure they sold at least that many.”
“At two dollars apiece? Why, I could get five bucks a pop down here—”
The line goes silent, and dead air crackles in my ear. “Mom? Mom, are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here . . . but it’s time for me to go. I’m sorry I couldn’t send you anything for Christmas. Tell you what. I’ll make it up to you soon as I get out, okay? I got a friend that’s on top of a sure-fire deal.”
Sure-fire deal. . . .
“No, it’s okay. I don’t need a present—” I hear dead space crackle in my ear again, and then a buzz. “Mom—Mom!” The connection has been broken.
I look at the Huckabys—all six of them. Even the four ninjas have come downstairs for the occasion. “She liked the quilt,” I say. “It, uh, it was a real good . . . remembrance.”
“Well,” FJ says, looking at Lizzie, “since we’re all up, why don’t we open presents now and have breakfast later.”
“Good idea.” Lizzie leads the way to the front room.
I follow behind, but I don’t care about presents. I’ve already had the best present of all. Mom loved my quilt.
“But I thought I was gonna get a cell phone,” Matt says, looking at his stash of opened gifts. Mountains of ripped paper and ribbons fill the front room.
“Yeah, and a new electronic game,” Mark says.
Luke and Johnny look disappointed, too.
“We talked about this,” FJ says, giving them his look. “As soon as things have . . . settled down, we’ll see about those things.”
He talked to them without me there? Of course, I think. He was explaining how much extra I’m costing them, which is why they didn’t get what they wanted.
Even if it’s a skimpy Christmas, all of us—legitimate as well as illegitimate—get new jeans and shirts and socks. Plus board games like IQ and Scrabble to share. I figure they’re meant to help us be all that we can be.
Lizzie and FJ really seem to like the scarves that I give them. And Huckaby Numbers Two, Three, Four, and Five wolf down their chocolate-covered pretzels before breakfast.
They didn’t give me anything, but I don’t care. Considering I’m the cause of them getting ripped off for Christmas, I don’t say anything.
At dinner Lizzie lets me pick my favorite piece of turkey because I’m new. I choose a huge drumstick, and FJ takes the other one. I can almost see smoke coming out of Matt’s ears. For the first time since I arrived, I like being number one.
“Just wait till summer gets here,” he whispers as we’re clearing the table. “I’ll show you. I’m gonna leave you in my dust.”
“I already told you,” I whisper back. “I don’t wanna race you.”
“Chicken! I’m gonna tell everyone that you’re a chicken-livered coward!”
Another nickname. I could hear the taunt that would be thrown at me: Chicken-livered Freaky Sneaky Slow Frankie Joe.
“Well,” Matt says. “What’d’ya say? I’m not gonna quit until you race me.”
I don’t need Huckaby Number Two dogging my every move for the rest of the winter. I need to make up for the money I’ve spent on presents and postage.
“All right, all right,” I mumble. “I’ll race you . . . in April.”
Matt looks puzzled. “Why April?”
“Um, because you can’t count on the snow being gone until then.” I don’t tell him that I plan on being gone before the race. “Better to play it safe. This winter’s been a doozy.”
Matt blinks. “Guess that makes sense. School will be out for spring break, too. Okay then, second week in April. Deal?”
Second week in April. I like that date. I’ll be long gone by then.
“Deal,” I say, grinning.