Franny Parker Read online

  Hannah Roberts McKinnon

  Copyright © 2009 by Hannah Roberts McKinnon

  All rights reserved

  Distributed in Canada by Douglas & McIntyre Ltd.

  Printed in March 2009 in the United States of America by

  R.R. Donnelley Company in Harrisonburg, Virginia

  Designed by Jonathan Bartlett

  First edition, 2009

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  www.fsgkidsbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Roberts McKinnon, Hannah.

  Franny Parker / Hannah Roberts McKinnon.— 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Through a hot, dry Oklahoma summer, twelve-year-old Franny tends wild animals brought by her neighbors, hears gossip during a weekly quilting bee, befriends a new neighbor who has some big secrets, and learns to hope.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-374-32469-8

  ISBN-10: 0-374-32469-7

  [1. Family life—Oklahoma—Fiction. 2. Wildlife rescue—Fiction. 3. Farm life—Oklahoma—Fiction. 4. Droughts—Fiction. 5. Neighbors—Fiction. 6. Family violence—Fiction. 7. Oklahoma—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.M4786847 Frc 2009

  [Fic]—dc22

  2008001702

  For Grace, my reason for everything

  The Facts

  When Grandma Rae Parker stole me away to the preacher on the morning of my kidnapped christening, she told him, “Bless this one just a mite bit more, if you will, dear reverend. She may be a Parker, but she’s got her mother’s look in the eye.” For that fact I am proud, because what Grandma Rae didn’t understand was that any trait shared with my mother was already blessing enough.

  Daddy says Mama is part wolf. Mama’s love has teeth. Like the wolf who carries her pups real gentle in her mouth, then curls her lips back to show a sharp mouthful when she feels the need to be protective. That’s how Mama is with her pack. And that’s what Grandma Rae never understood.

  Now about the kidnapping, I don’t remember any of it, being just a tiny baby at the time. I’ve got to rely on the story as Mama tells it, in a quiet moment before she tucks me in. Or as Daddy tells it at the dinner table, his eyes crinkling with laughter.

  Grandma Rae, being who she is, thought she was doing a kind thing in sneaking my baby self to the preacher like that. Of course, Mama and Daddy didn’t know. They thought I was safe asleep in my crib down the hall. They were in the kitchen making pancakes, with no intention of having me christened on that day or any other day, according to Mama, so I can imagine they were none too pleased. But Grandma Rae wouldn’t hear of raising a baby without the Lord’s official blessing, and said it was bad enough Daddy had gone and married Mama, who was what she called a free spirit. So that balmy summer morning she put on her Sunday best, and she took me off to church. All a secret, until Mama got a feeling she should put down her pancake and go check my crib. The mother wolf has instincts.

  By the time they figured out where I was, I was christened. Of course that was a long time ago. It’s what you’d call a family story, one that may not have started out too funny, but has sort of smoothed out its hard lines over the years, each voice that tells it wearing down the jagged edges like wind on a mountain. We can laugh when we tell it now; the story’s gotten so it’s not so sharp when we hold it. These days when we recall it Mama just shakes her head and laughs in a light way that ripples like water. “It was a gesture, Franny,” she tells me. “Sometimes even the kindest ones get boxed up wrong and arrive on your front porch in pieces. You’ve just got to try to remember what it started out as, is all.”

  I finally understood what Mama meant the summer of my thirteenth year. That summer there were many good intentions that turned out just fine, and quite a few that turned out all wrong. Like the Fire Department’s Fourth of July bonfire. The whole town gathered at the swimming hole, ready for a night of barbecue, toasted marshmallows, the works. But there would be no fire. Hours later, those sticks were just smolder and smoke. Kids cried, and the firemen held up their hands in apology. That was the picnic where we all ate our s’mores cold and hard. The firemen must’ve felt awful bad ’cause the next week they held a redo. And boy, was it! You could roast your marshmallow from fifty feet back. Finally they had to call in one of the trucks and hose down the barbecue. But no one complained. Everyone ate their charcoaled hot dogs in their soggy buns. We knew the firemen had tried their best. Mama was right about good intentions. This is the first thing you need to know.

  The second thing is the importance of family. Our family is very close, and by that I mean that some of us are close in how much we like each other, and some of us are just close in geography. Grandma Rae says it makes no difference. “Franny,” she says, “family is all you’ve got.” On the walls of her buttercream parlor hang pictures of Daddy’s Oklahoma roots. Deep roots, back to the first settlements in the Cimarron Valley. Grandma likes to refer to those pictures often, especially the ones where skinny-legged farm kids stand like poles, hands crossed stiffly in front of them. Very respectful, she tells us. Personally, I think those kids look miserable. But I like looking at my people.

  Only a bike ride away from Grandma’s is our farmhouse, with its crooked porch swing that’s never empty for more than a minute, and Mama’s flowers busting out of the shrubs that line our porch. Out of control, as Grandma Rae says. In the back, Daddy’s vegetable garden rolls down our sloping yard to the river, and by August, when it’s close to bursting, it unravels itself, leading a parade of tomato and pepper and squash right to the water’s edge. In the fall, we keep an extra close eye on the pumpkin vines so we don’t lose a good jack-o’-lantern down the river. It’s happened before. Across the way is the red barn where my chestnut pony, Snort, lives, and by it the old silo leans toward the fields where Daddy likes to bird-watch, almost like it’s pointing to our well-traveled route into the hills. My little brother, Ben, and I liked to lose ourselves in those fields, though it seemed a little harder to get lost each summer as I got older.

  Finally, you need to know that summer is a state of mind. Picture the way it looks on a person: a sticky ice cream mustache, a late-afternoon hammock dream, a gauzy dress rolled loosely at the knee. Summer has a mood different than any other season, and it sort of infects people. Maybe it’s the hazy afternoons that go on and on, or the too-sweet lemonade, or the full-bellied moons that hang extra low in the sky, but I’ve noticed that kids and grownups are under a bit of a spell come summer. It usually strikes around July, and you can always tell when it starts. People act just a little crazy: gardening in the hot sun, wading into a farmer’s stream, declaring love beneath dark windows. Mama calls it summer fever. And that year the fever started on the same day a blue truck rolled into the neighbors’ driveway, the first Friday of July, beyond our red barn.

  Plans

  No turtles at the table!” Sidda shrieked.

  “But he loves you! L-O-V-E loves you!” Ben giggled, dangling his pet turtle, George, over Sidda’s plate.

  “Mom, make him stop!”

  I covered my ears before I even reached the kitchen.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in!” Daddy said by way of greeting me. He handed over the last piece of bacon with a wink.

  “All right, everyone, what’s the plan?” Mama asked. She pulled a pencil from the thick tangles of her curly hair.

  “I’m off to the pool,” Sidda announced, fussing over the pink skirt of her new bathing suit. Even though my sister was just a year older than me, she was a professional teenager.

  “Well, I’m off to the bank,” Daddy said, gathering up the morning newspaper. “After I stop by the river bend. I think that egret has an egg in her nest.” His eyes flashed with excitement. Da
ddy was a loan officer at Morton Savings, but most people in town called him the Bird Man. He never left home without his binoculars.

  Ben peered at his scrambled eggs suspiciously. “Is this egret?”

  “Of course not,” Mama replied with a smile. “It’s dinosaur.”

  Ben’s eyes widened. “Cool! T. rex for breakfast.” And then he stood on his chair and abruptly launched into his day of friends and swimming lessons and peanut butter sandwiches and more friends, which basically boiled down to one word. Camp.

  “Whew!” Mama laughed, pretending to wipe her forehead with exhaustion. “You are the busiest five-year-old in town!”

  Ben nodded proudly. “It’s a tough job,” he said, reaching for another pancake.

  Mama turned her smile on me. “How ’bout you, Franny?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Just taking care of the patients,” I said.

  Mama nodded her approval. In June I’d started a bit of a makeshift hospital for injured animals in our backyard barn. Just like Mama, I was a lifelong animal lover, and it seemed I had a special knack for crossing paths with broken-winged birds or orphaned mouse babies. It had turned into quite a project for the whole family, except for Sidda, of course.

  “I have an idea,” Ben whispered, reaching into his overalls pocket. “Babysit George and Martha.” He placed a second turtle right on Sidda’s plate.

  “Eew!” she shrieked.

  “You mean turtle-sit?” I asked.

  “It’ll only cost you fifty cents,” Ben stated. He clapped his hands as George climbed slowly over Sidda’s toast.

  “Ben,” Daddy said, “I believe you’re supposed to pay the person who does the sitting.”

  Mama pulled Ben down by his overalls and smacked a big kiss on my head as she swept up his lunch box and the loose turtles in one hand.

  Ben caught my arm in a sticky-milk grip. “Okay, okay. I’ll only charge you twenty cents. Please, Franny?”

  Sidda smirked. “She’s got no plans. Other than her stinky critters.”

  “How would you know?” I asked, watching them stand from the table.

  “I’m sure Franny has all kinds of excitement planned,” Dad said, grabbing his car keys.

  “Don’t forget to feed them lunch,” Ben told me, as he placed his turtles back in their bin. “You’ll have to dig up worms. Big, fat ones.”

  Mama smiled sympathetically from the doorway. “I’m dropping Ben and Sidda off, then going shopping. No riding Snort until Daddy or I get home, right?”

  I nodded glumly. The Parker Pony Rules of Safety. I’d heard them for years, and had yet to break one. Helmet, boots, grownup. Check, check, check.

  “I believe these are for you,” Sidda said as she dropped a plastic bin at my feet with a disgusted thud. I peered at the two turtles inside. They were carefully nestled on a bed of damp moss, rocks, and leaves placed around the plastic perimeter. Ben’s true loves.

  Dad was wrong, I thought. No exciting plans for me.

  Until I heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

  New Neighbors

  I was ankle-deep in river mud, on worm patrol for Ben’s turtles, when I heard it. Peering up over the riverbank, I caught sight of a faded blue Ford pickup truck veering left, where the driveway split to the neighbors’ empty cabin. It had been empty over a year. Now, the truck rolled to a stop and the doors swung open on either side.

  Woo, woo, woof! Jax, our yellow Lab, sprang off our porch and loped across the yard.

  “Get back here, Jax!” I hollered, clambering out of the riverbed after him. He looked over his shoulder as if to say, I know I’m a bad dog, but I just can’t help it. I chased him next door as a woman lowered the tailgate with a bang and began pulling boxes off the truck. Big boxes, like the kind that mean you plan to stay awhile.

  “Lucas, come help,” she called. In response Jax leaped up and licked her nose.

  “Well, you’re not Lucas,” she said to him. She smiled at me, pushing at the long hair piled on her head, all wispy. Pretty. I smiled back.

  “That’s Jax,” I said, reaching out to shake hands. It was then I realized I was still holding a worm. There it was, wriggling in my hand, right under her nose. Not knowing what else to do, I stuck the worm in my pocket and shrugged.

  “Sorry about that. I’m Franny.”

  She laughed, and to my surprise she shook my wormy hand anyway.

  “Did we interrupt your fishing?”

  I looked at my dirty feet, feeling shy. “Oh, no. The worm’s for my little brother.”

  The woman frowned.

  “For his pet turtles,” I explained.

  “Ah, well, it looks like a good juicy one. I’m Lindy. And this here,” she said, pointing to a boy climbing out of the cab, “is Lucas.”

  The first thing I noticed about Lucas Dunn was his eyes. They were gray-blue, like the stones Ben collects in the stream. They were cool and watery, and for just a moment they made me feel a little sad. His hair was light like Lindy’s and he was tall. He looked down at my muddy toes and smiled. Suddenly I felt foolish standing there like a kid, saying nothing.

  I sucked in my breath. “I’m Franny.”

  “Short for Frances?” Lucas asked.

  “Francesca,” I said, blushing. “It’s my aunt’s name.”

  “Nice.” And he hopped onto the tailgate and began rummaging through boxes.

  “Where are you from?” I asked Lindy.

  “Oh, here and there,” she said, taking down a box Lucas handed her.

  I brought them lemonade while they unpacked, stacking the boxes on the dusty front porch of the cabin. They didn’t have a lot, but what they did have was interesting. There was a heavy potting wheel, which took a lot of careful maneuvering to unload, that Lindy said I could try. And a small square kiln with a dented lid. And several boxes of clay she opened to show me. Red like the desert.

  “I’m a potter,” she explained, showing me her fingernails, dry and red like the clay.

  “My mother’s an artist,” I told her. “Her hands are a different color every day.”

  Besides the pottery supplies, there was a giant box of books, barely stuck together with tape. Novels spilled out of the top, like they were leaping off the truck.

  “My boy sure likes to read,” Lindy said.

  “Me, too,” I told her, watching Lucas out of the corner of my eye.

  In no time Lindy was pulling the last box off the truck. “Thanks for the lemonade, Franny. Come by for a spin on the potting wheel.” And she disappeared into the cabin. Lucas followed, tossing a book in the air.

  “Francesca, catch.” And then he, too, disappeared into the little cabin. I looked down at the worn cover in my hand. The Yearling.

  “Yay!” Ben shouted, when I announced we had new neighbors that evening before dinner. “Maybe there’s a boy like me. Maybe he likes turtles!”

  “Let’s hope not,” Sidda said, thunking down a dinner plate by my new book. “Move your junk, Franny, so I can set the table.”

  “Now, Sid,” Mama warned. She set the leftover squash soup on the stove and turned her attention to unpacking the shopping bags strewn across the kitchen floor.

  “There is a boy,” I told Sidda, whisking The Yearling away. “About our age.”

  This sparked Sidda’s attention, and now she was suddenly Miss Manners. “Well let’s have them over! We are neighbors, after all.” She finished with the plates and started on the silverware, pausing to admire her reflection in a giant soupspoon.

  “So, you’ve met them?” Daddy asked, joining us in the kitchen.

  “Yeah, Franny, how do you know?” Sidda asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “It’s just two of them, Lucas and Lindy.” I turned to Sidda. “Lucas is the one who gave me the book.” Her eyes widened.

  “Good. There’s a boy and he likes turtles.” Ben nodded.

  “We don’t know that, Ben!” Sidda snapped.

  “Well, it’ll be good to have a new neighbor,” Mama
said. “Did they say where they came from?”

  I shrugged. For all her talking, it was the one thing Lindy Dunn hadn’t said.

  Dad took over the groceries, and Mama carried a bag of new paints over to her easel in the family room, dumping them into her art bin.

  Ben reached for a blue one. “Wow, aquamarine! I bet the turtles would love to be aquamarine!” he declared.

  Sidda scoffed. “You are not painting those disgusting turtles!”

  “But they’re painted turtles!” He waved the tube at her.

  “That’s their name, Ben. Just a stupid name. It does not mean they are supposed to be painted aquamarine!” Sidda argued. Her hands were on her hips now.

  I poked Ben, trying not to giggle. He was a master at stirring Sidda up.

  “Mom,” she complained, “tell him he cannot paint the turtles aquamarine.”

  Mama was unpacking canvases now. “Ben,” she warned, but I could see the grin through her wavy hair.

  “Okay, okay,” he groaned, grabbing a tube of red. “Then how about magenta?”

  Saddle Up

  Early Monday morning, I was in the barn grooming Snort when a freckled face popped over the stall door.

  “What page are you on?” Pearl Jones’s wild red hair stood on end and Snort reared back in fright.

  “Easy, boy,” I said. “It’s just Pearl.” Pearl was my best and oldest friend, but her wild hair and sudden appearances never failed to startle the pony, or the family, for that matter.

  The barn was the only place to escape the heat, and I’d spent the morning tucked in a corner of Snort’s dark stall with The Yearling. Snort didn’t mind.

  “Want to ride?” I asked.

  Pearl’s eyes narrowed and she stared at the book resting on the stall door. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “Oh, Pearl, not again,” I said with a sigh.

  The summer reading frenzy had begun last month. Poor Pearl. Her mother had a hand in this, I knew. The Aubree Library began its annual summer reading contest the day school let out, and Mrs. Jones’s eye was always on the lookout for a prize: in this case, $100 and a tall gold trophy for the kid who read the most books. Pearl, for being such a shy and reasonable girl, had the misfortune of a not-so-shy and rather unreasonable mother.