Popcorn Thief Read Online Free

he
needed it most, like the fireflies he’d captured as a boy, using them as
nightlights for his room.
    A feeling of stillness beyond the quiet of the morning told
Franklin that he wasn’t alone. When he looked up, he saw Gloria standing at the
end of one of the rows. With a contemptuous hand, Gloria smacked one of his ears
of corn. Power rippled from her, through the stalks and Franklin’s chest.
    Franklin rushed over to the ear Gloria hit. He didn’t see
anything wrong with it: It was still firmly attached to the stalk, not suddenly
iced over or filled with bugs or some other nightmare that only ghosts could give
him.
    When Franklin looked back at Gloria, she merely pointed at
him, her intent clear: This was
merely a warning. More damage was on the way if he didn’t help her.
    Franklin gulped. “Miss Gloria, I can’t steal Karl’s crop.
That wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly. There’s gotta be something
else I can do, that’ll help you.” Franklin wasn’t gonna steal Karl’s corn. Karl
was his competitor. He didn’t hate Karl. He envied him.
    Gloria pressed her lips together tightly, but she didn’t
push any more intent at Franklin.
    Her disappointment was obvious, though.
    She disappeared before Franklin could say much else.
    But what could he have said? He wasn’t a thief.
    * * *
    Later that night, after dinner, Gloria appeared in the
kitchen again, sitting at the table beside Mama. Franklin wondered if they
talked with each other in a way he couldn’t hear, as they kept looking at each
other, Mama with her hair up and her good church clothes, Gloria with her
perfect blond curls, too-tight shirt, and long red nails that she kept clicking
on the table.
    They did seem to be in agreement about one thing: They kept
glaring at Franklin, first separately, then together.
    Well, maybe some more of Sweet Bess’ lard would gentle
Gloria.
    Franklin went down to the basement, then stepped into the
root cellar for another one of his jars. The darkness of the basement never
bothered him much: He’d grown up seeing ghosts, having them give him nightmares.
A little darkness wasn’t ever scary after that. He liked how cool it was down
there. Most of the basement had a concrete floor, but the root cellar’s floor
was dirt and smelled like his fields. A steep wooden staircase took up one
wall, leading up to closed shutter doors. Deep shelves lines the walls, and
Franklin had some spices hanging from the ceiling, gifts from his cousin
Lexine.
    Only a half dozen jars of plain rendered lard remained,
along with some of the snow white, rendered leaf lard from around Bess’ kidneys
that he had stored in the freezer. He’d use the latter for making pies to bring
to the Sorrels’ picnic later that year, as it was pure and had no scent of pork.
    Franklin hadn’t planned on opening another jar so soon. He
justified it to himself by telling himself that it was for Gloria. Maybe he
could please her enough with that, so she’d figure out something else for him
to do, instead of stealing Karl’s crop.
    However, neither Gloria or Mama seemed interested in the jar
when Franklin held it up to show them. After cracking it open, Franklin
approached the table slowly, so as not to spook Gloria: He didn’t want her
disappearing or going after his crop.
    Inch by slow inch, Franklin held out the open jar for
Gloria. Would she understand what he was offering?
    Puzzled, Gloria sniffed at the lard, then curled her nose up
at the smell of it and disappeared.
    Damn it! Why didn’t she want the lard? She’d certainly been
going after it earlier.
    Mama moved her hand from the table for the first time since
she’d started haunting Franklin.
    Startled, Franklin held himself absolutely still. What was
Mama about to tell him?
    Slowly, Mama raised up three fingers. Intent oozed from her, like butter melting over popcorn.
    There were three ghosts haunting Franklin: Mama, Gloria, and
another, unnamed, unseen ghost.
    And Mama was