Freaky Fast Frankie Joe by Lutricia Clifton Read Free Book Online

nails. The foundation sags on one end, causing the house to tilt to one side. The grass has been mowed hit-or-miss, and hoes and rakes and garden tools are scattered around the yard.
    I like this place. It’s messy, like home.
    A trash can sitting in back of the house looks like asoda-pop can that a giant squeezed between its fingers. The can has no lid, so I look inside.
    Empty. No treasure this afternoon. No looking for meteors from outer space. Just homework.
    Life is very unfair. I take a kick at the beat-up garbage can; and because it’s empty, it goes flying against a neighboring fence where it bounces and spins down the alley, rattling as it goes.
    â€œUh-oh,” I whisper as I hear the squeak of a screen door. A woman comes outside, one hand shading her eyes so she can see better. The other hand holds a cane with a black rubber stop on the end.
    â€œYou there—you live around here?” she calls out.
    â€œYes ma’am.”
    Temporarily, I think. I set her trash can upright.
    â€œWell, I don’t recall seeing you before, and I know everyone in this town. I sell Nova, you see.” She eyes me when I don’t respond. “You know what that is? Nova?”
    I shake my head no.
    â€œCosmetics! You know, makeup for women’s faces? Lipstick, rouge, face powder, lotions. You never heard of Nova?”
    I shake my head again.
    â€œSo you don’t know me and I don’t know you.” She studies me like I’m a bug under a magnifying glass. “I’d say from looking, you’d be related to Frank Huckaby. That right?”
    â€œYes ma’am.”
    â€œThought so. I’ve watched the kids in this town grow up, and you are the spitting image of Frank when he was a boy.”
    â€œI am?”
    She nods. “A boy related to the Huckabys should know how to introduce himself properly.”
    â€œOh. My name’s Frankie Joe. Frankie Joe Huckaby.”
    â€œFrank’s oldest boy?”
    â€œYes ma’am.”
    How did she know that?
    â€œWell, my name’s Peachcott. Miss Elsie Peachcott.”
    Elsie Peachcott is the kind of person you can’t help but stare at, even though you know it’s not polite. It’s not because she’s wrinkled and stooped like a troll that lives under a bridge. Or because she has black-licorice hair and eyebrows, and red-licorice circles painted on both cheeks. It’s because of a large, muddy-brown spot on the side of her face. That spot draws my eyes like a magnet.
    â€œWhat are you staring at?” Her watery blue eyes become slits. “Don’t you know it’s not polite to stare?”
    â€œNothin’, I’m not looking at nothin’.”
    â€œDon’t lie to me, boy. I’ve been the object of ridicule all my life. I can look in a person’s eyes and tell when he’s not being truthful. Now tell me, what are you looking at?”
    â€œYour . . . face,” I whisper.
    â€œMy face,” she repeats. “My entire face? Or something on my face?”
    I suck the spit from between my teeth. “Something on your face.”
    â€œYou mean my birthmark? What, you’ve never seen a birthmark big as a silver dollar before?”
    I shake my head no.
    â€œOh.” She pauses. “Well, I suppose a person can’t be held accountable for things they don’t know.” She leans closer. “Tell me, is it real obvious? Or just a little bit obvious?”
    I’m not sure I want to get closer to the woman, but I do. I step through the gate and walk half way to the porch. But even then, I can’t see the spot clearly because something has been smeared on top of it.
    â€œI can’t tell ’cause there’s something chalky-looking on it.”
    Without warning, Elsie Peachcott pounds her cane on the porch. “Blast it all, I still don’t have it right!” Looking around, she lowers her voice. “I been working