Franny Parker Read Online Free PDF Page A

prize money might prove motivating.
    â€œNot to be squandered on junk!” Mrs. Tibble added, yanking a book cart to a sudden halt behind Miss Thorn’s chair, like a dark shadow. She leaned ominously over the cart. “Personally, I find it’s bad enough you kids think you ought to be paid for reading. A good book should be reward enough!” She slapped the top of the cart for extra emphasis.
    Miss Thorn cleared her throat delicately and said, “I’m sure the winner will use the money wisely.”
    Ben raised his hand. “What about worms?” he asked. I elbowed him.
    â€œWhat about them, dear?” Miss Thorn asked.
    â€œSpeed Bump eats worms. Could I buy a hundred dollars’ worth of worms?”
    â€œWho eats worms?” Miss Thorn looked puzzled.
    Mrs. Tibble threw up her hands in disgust. “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” She turned to go, shoving her book cart with a giant heave, the back wheel wobbling crookedly in protest.
    Soon a frantic sea of hands was waving and everyone was inquiring how the money could and couldn’t be spent. Ice cream? Skateboards? An iguana? It was exhausting. As far as I could tell, none of the kids with the silly questions were likely winners in the first place.
    â€œWhat book are you on?” Pearl asked, as we hopped down the library steps. I was so tired from waking up every few hours to feed the mice that I wasn’t in the mood to have this talk.
    â€œMy third,” I lied. I was really on my seventh.
    â€œOh,” Pearl said and sighed. She fingered her Nancy Drew book. It was the second in the series.
    â€œHurry, girls, hurry,” Mrs. Jones ordered. She was parked in front of the library, squished into the driver’s seat of her red convertible, her pearl necklaces spilling over the steering wheel. Mrs. Jones was large. Her car was not. I shimmied into the tiny backseat, pressed tightly against Pearl’s baby sister, Mable, who was already sandwiched behind her mother in a car seat.
    â€œWoof!” Mable barked, waving a soggy Cheerio at me.
    â€œYou mean
hello
,” corrected Mrs. Jones. Not even the baby was allowed to enjoy baby talk.
    I sank into the seat, pulling a Cheerio off my shorts.
    â€œHurry, Pearl, I’m burning up!” Mrs. Jones wailed again, fanning herself with her long sparkly nails. Her red hair was drawn back severely, and her pasty skin glowed sharply against the red car wrapped around her. Mrs. Jones looked like a peeled, hard-boiled egg stuck behind the wheel.
    The car was hardly practical for a family of eight, and so two or three kids were always being left at home. Although Mrs. Jones said she liked the wind in her red hair, I suspect she didn’t mind a few missing kids from time to time either.
    â€œSo give me the update! Who’s in the lead?” she asked as we spun away from the curb.
    â€œJulie Mills,” Pearl shouted above the roaring engine.
    â€œAgain? She won last year!” her mother shrieked. In front of me, Pearl sank a little in her seat.
    â€œSo how many? Don’t tell me. Three, four?”
    Pearl sank lower. “Twelve.”
    â€œTwelve?”
Mrs. Jones almost swerved off the road. She tore up Main Street, past Harland’s Market and the feed store. Pedestrians fled the crosswalks as we blazed by the post office, the Methodist church, and Tweedy’s Bakery. We passed Grafton Tractor Supply and the firehouse at warp speed, then swerved left at the hospital, heading out of town to the farms. Moments later, we roared down my dirt road like a red rocket, halting in a cloud of dust in front of my house.
    â€œFranny, what about you?” Mrs. Jones glared at me, her forehead wrinkling in the rearview mirror.
    â€œUm, three books,” I lied again.
    Her forehead smoothed out, and she said, “Well, Pearl, that is just one more than you. Franny’s no threat. But twelve? That Mills girl is lying. I’m calling her