Where it led her was the middle of Nebraska in the dead of a torturous Indian Summer, penniless, alone, stuck. But it had been so fun at first! Whizzing through the Wisconsin countryside past the only life she'd known in her seventeen years, speeding toward no place in particular. The last four days were a fantastic blur of freedom and the thrill of the unknown, but just as suddenly as it had begun, the adventure was over. Frankie, for the first time in her life, had no idea where she was headed.

Wrapped tightly in her memories, she didn't hear the farmer's old pickup squeal to a halt in front of her.

"That your car back there on the road?" The old man yelled over the rattle of the tired engine and Frankie was jolted back to the present.

"Yeah, that's mine. Ran out of gas." Frankie rose to her feet, dusting her jeans with the damp apron.

"Well, you sure picked the wrong way to walk for gas, darlin'. Nearest town's back the other way about five miles." His eyes danced when he said it and Frankie's cheeks flushed with anger.

"I know that. I came through there already and I'm not interested in going back. Anyway, I don't have any money for gas."

"So what are you planning to do, young lady? You got family around here, or were you just countin' on your own skinny legs and the kindness of strangers to get you where you're goin'?"

Frankie didn't answer. Everyone she'd ever known was worlds behind her in Wisconsin, and after what she'd done, it wouldn't surprise her if they never wanted her back. Frustration and exhaustion finally got the best of her, and she sobbed into the apron.

The farmer let her collect herself, and when he spoke again his tone was mild. "Well, I can help you get back on the road, darlin'. Hop on in here."

Humiliated, Frankie dried her tears, staring past the pickup to the empty highway.

"You won't see nobody else come by here for awhile, I can guarantee you that. At least nobody likely to lend you a hand." He patted the torn vinyl seat next to him, beckoning Frankie with a friendly nod. She climbed grudgingly into the cab and slammed the door, her eyes fixed on the apron strings she twisted between her fingers. The farmer made a slow u-turn and headed back toward the Chevy.

"Name's Edgar. Edgar Johnson. You got a name?" The farmer took a long drag on his pipe. The smell reminded Frankie of her grandfather's den and she began to relax.

"Frankie. Just Frankie." She studied his whiskered face. He even looked like Grandpa Vic, sitting there in his overalls and cap, smoking his pipe.

"Frank? What kind of name is that for a girl?"

"Frankie. It's short for Francesca." She paused, her embarrassment fading. "My mother is part Italian and thought it sounded romantic. I think it sounds too stuck up. Frankie suits me much better."

"Francesca." Edgar repeated, glancing at Frankie with a smile. "I think it suits you just fine. Pretty name for a pretty girl." Frankie blushed in spite of herself.

"Long way from home, aren't you, Miss Francesca?"

"I'm taking a little vacation." Frankie kept her eyes on the cornfields, avoiding Edgar's suspicious gaze.

"Little early in the school year for a vacation, isn't it? You a drop-out?"

"No, I'm no dropout," she answered. "I'm going to Brown next year." To her surprise, she couldn't disguise the pride in her voice. She'd dreamed of going to Brown since the 8th grade when Sarah Melvin's sister had come home with fascinating stories about her life on the East Coast. Frankie knew her grades were good enough - always had been - but when the acceptance letter had come last week along with a scholarship award, her stomach had flip-flopped with terror rather than elation. Some part of her hoped they would reject her and she'd have to attend a school close to family and friends. Of course she couldn't refuse a scholarship - her parents were so proud! Their perfect child: the cheerleader, student body vice president, musician, tutor, was really on her way.

Edgar cleared his throat with a cough. "Seems to me a girl like yourself should be in school then, keeping her standing. Your folks know you're on this 'vacation'?" He spoke slowly and kept his eyes on the road. He knew the answer and there was no sense lying to him.

"Not exactly." Frankie clenched her fists, waiting for the harsh words she was sure would follow. But Edgar was silent. He took a few last puffs of his pipe and tapped the remaining residue into the brimming ashtray.

"Well, then," he sighed as they rolled to a stop across the highway from the Chevy. He killed the engine and headed to the back of the pickup, where he fished a gas can out from under a dirty tarp. Frankie followed numbly, watching as he carefully filled her tank and checked the oil. Without a word he dug a grubby hand deep into the back pocket of his overalls, pulling out two twenty dollar bills. He crumpled them into Frankie's hand.

"You'll do the right thing, Francesca," he said softly, his faded blue eyes fixed on hers. He patted her hand, scooped up the gas can and was gone.

The sputtering of the pickup evaporated into the thick September air and Frankie was left again in silence. A few breaths later she was back in the Chevy, whizzing through the Nebraska countryside, speeding toward everything familiar.

Copyright ©2001 Malyssa Woodward.  All Rights Reserved