Franny Parker by Hannah Roberts McKinnon Page B

almost at the door when we crashed into Mr. Harland himself. He was not pleased.
    â€œThis is not a racetrack. You’ll trample my customers!” Mr. Harland crossed his arms.
    I nodded fiercely, covering my shirt pocket. I glanced over my shoulder, remembering the smashed boxes we’d just left. Pearl’s cheeks burned crimson.
    â€œWe’re very sorry, sir. There’s something we should tell you—”
    â€œOh, here you are, sir.” Suddenly Lucas appeared behind us. “Mr. Harland, these girls need your
expert
opinion.”
    Mr. Harland’s eyes twinkled. “Oh?” Mr. Harland was a man of strong opinions, though it was not every day they were referred to as expert. He straightened his expert back, uncrossed his expert arms. “Why yes, yes, of course! What may I assist you with?”
    Lucas nudged me and winked.
    â€œUm, broccoli,” I blurted. “We need your opinion on broccoli.”
    Mr. Harland nodded. And very gently, so you almost wouldn’t notice, Lucas placed his arm on Mr. Harland’s, guiding him slowly toward the produce section, one step at a time.
    â€œAnd how are you preparing it?” Mr. Harland asked, wringing his mustache.
    â€œPreparing it?” I wondered.
    Mr. Harland looked impatient. “How are you cooking your broccoli?”
    â€œWe’re making a pie!” Pearl shouted.
    Mr. Harland cringed. “Broccoli pie?”
    I closed my eyes.
    â€œMy mother’s recipe,” Pearl mumbled.
    â€œI see.” Mr. Harland thought this over, his brow furrowedin concentration. Indeed, this was a job for an expert. “I can’t say I’ve ever made broccoli pie . . .”
    â€œThen what about banana?” Pearl asked, pointing to the display before us. Far away from the mess in the dairy aisle.
    Well done!
I thought, as we headed to the bananas.
    Mr. Harland brightened. “We have wonderful bananas. Bright yellow, fresh-off-the-truck bananas!” He smiled widely, pleased with himself. By now we were in the colorful safety of the fruit section, standing before a giant case of yellow bananas. “Behold!” Mr. Harland pointed.
    I glanced around. Lucas had long since disappeared. Surely the mess was gone by now.
    â€œA fine fruit for a pie. Banana nut. Banana cream. Everyone loves bananas!” Mr. Harland was practically singing.
    â€œMaybe we’ll think it over,” I said, inching back toward the door.
    But Mr. Harland wouldn’t hear of it. “Nonsense!” he cried. “Let’s go, bananas!”

    â€œYou still owe me an ice cream,” Pearl muttered as we pedaled away, our bike baskets loaded with bananas. I felt the soft ball in my pocket and breathed relief. The afternoon opened up around us, making me feel brave.
    â€œHey, Pearl, ever heard of a rain dance?” I asked.
    â€œThat’s just crazy talk,” she said.
    As we turned onto my road I was about to correct Pearl, to tell her what the Busy Bees had said. But I was startled by the roar of an engine coming from the Dunns’. I stopped my bike where the driveways forked. Lindy would love the rain dance; I’d tell both her and Pearl about it.
    But when I pedaled up, I saw it wasn’t Lindy’s truck I’d heard. There, in front of the cabin, a black car idled in a cloud of smoke. It was an old car, with a dented fender and broken taillight. I stopped my bike. A pale-faced man stared back at me from the driver’s seat.
    â€œThis your house?” he asked in a gravelly voice. I flinched. Before I could answer, the man revved the engine and sped away, dust riding on the heat behind him like a dark veil.

The Black Car
    I t took me a day to get up the courage to face Lucas. Late the next afternoon I found him kneeling in his yard rubbing Jax’s belly.
    â€œCome get your ferocious dog,” he teased.
    â€œHe bothering you?”
    â€œNah, he’s a great dog.” Lucas was