Immortal Max (10 page)

“And get used to seeing me on
your
turf 'cause I'm getting a job here. And I'm buying a purebred German shepherd puppy this summer, one with a pedigree longer than Bruno's.” I stretch out my arm as long as I can make it.

“You're going to regret this,
Spammy
.” Justin's face is a scarlet lump.

I respond with an
L
on my forehead.

As he roars down the street, I turn to Anise and Yee. “What's with that guy?”

Anise does a quick shrug. “Just a bully being a bully. He's used to getting his way. His mom and dad buy him and his sister anything they want.”

“He wasn't always like this.” Yee's brow wrinkles. “We went to the same school in the burbs, and he was a real wuss there. All he did was play video games. But since we moved here . . . I mean, it's like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

Anise looks at Yee. “It's 'cause he doesn't have to worry about street gangs anymore. I know
I'm
not so scared now.”

“But it's not right that he gets away with breaking the rules.” I stare down the street where Justin disappeared. “Why doesn't Chief Beaumont stop him?”

“Because Justin keeps track of where he is.” Yee taps her head. “We've decided he must have built-in radar instead of a brain.”

“So? Why don't you just tell the chief?”

“Won't work if you're a kid. Anyone can say anything about someone else. You know, just to get them in trouble. I guess some of the kids here have done that, so the chief prefers catching someone in the act. After three citations, you get your privileges taken away.”

“See, you have to register a golf cart at the office,” Yee says, “and fill out a card saying who's authorized to drive it. You break the rules, you can't drive the golf cart anymore.”

“But first you have to get caught,” Anise says.

“Justin's
never
been caught?”

“Well . . .”
She grins. “My dad's good friends with Chief Beaumont, and he heard that Justin has two citations for speeding already. So one more, and . . .” She uses her hand to pretend she's cutting her throat and chokes out,
“Kaput.”

“Two! How much does a citation cost?”

“Fifty dollars each. His dad pays for them. They have money to burn.”

I see the security gate ahead and say, “Gotta go. The chief gave me strict orders to leave soon as I'm done, and
I
can't break the rules. Besides . . .” I give them an ear-to-ear grin. “You
two
have to figure out how to make a
three
-person pyramid.”

Yee and Anise's eyes bore holes in my back.

Beth is kneeling next to her Subaru when I get home from Country-Wood, air-pressure gauge in her hand. Lately, she has to put air in the rear tires every couple of days. I glance at the tires as I get off my bike. The tread's gone beyond worn. It's morphed to slick.

“How did it go, little bro?” She looks up at me, dirt smeared on one cheek. “Meet lots of rich people?”

“Went good. Got my ad in the newsletter and have my first customer meeting tomorrow. And I'm sure I'll get other calls.”

“Again tomorrow . . .” She pauses, frowning. “Be home about the same time?”

I look at my watch. “Yeah, 'bout noon, I figure.”

“Good. In time to feed Rosie lunch, then.”

“No sweat.”

“
And
check on Max and Birdie.”

Not a question. A command. “
And
Max and Birdie.”

Blackmail sucks.

Beth leaves for work, and I do my duty. Max is on alert, watching to see who's coming around the barn. As soon as I appear, he sticks his nose in his water bowl. It's bone dry. The birdbath, too. He nudges me on the leg.

“Okay, okay, I get it.”

I rummage around the back porch, find an extra water bowl, and haul a bucket filled with cold water back to the barn. I fill up two bowls for Max and refill the birdbath for Birdie. Max drains one bowl, walks to his empty food dish, and looks at me. Expectant.

“Not time for supper.” Max gets Dog Chow morning and night. As I turn for the house, he wags his tail and whines.

Does he want me to stay out here with him?

“No way, buddy. You're the one who fell in love with a bird. You could be lying on the back porch. It's your own fault.”

A low whimper trails me like a shadow.

Rosie slams through the screen door, washes her hands in the kitchen sink, and looks at me. Expectant.

I point to her chair at the table.

Lunch is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, chips, and milk. On real plates and in real glasses. Mom refuses to put more plastic and Styrofoam in the landfill. She won't even use paper napkins. It's her way of saving the planet.

“Did, uh, did Bailey say anything about me?” I can't get Bailey's freckle-spattered face out of my head.

“Bailey doesn't like you no more.”

“She said that?”

“Sort of.”

Sort
of? What does that mean? Remembering the painted-cat disaster, I decide it's time to ask more questions.

“
Exactly
what did she say, Rosie?”

“She said you lied to her, and friends don't do that kind of thing.” Jumping down from her chair, Rosie carries her dishes to the sink. She finished her milk, gobbled her chips, but left half the sandwich on her plate. “I'm going back over to Bailey's. We're designing an extra costume.”

“Why do you need an extra costume?”

“ 'Cause I called the hotel, and Sid said I need two. One for the beauty contest and one for the talent contest. . . .” She pauses, grinning. “But
I
need three.”

“How come?” An extra costume means more money for Mom. Money she doesn't have to spend.

“For when I accept the tiara.” The kitchen floor becomes a trampoline. “That one's going to be long and glittery and . . . and
splendid
.”

Splendid?
Where did she come up with that?

“Hold up, Rosie.” I envision Justin's little sister practicing Polish dances. Her mother buying designer costumes.
Real
designer costumes. “You know, you might not win.”

“That's what Bailey said, too.” Rosie leans close and talks in a whisper. “But I
know
I'm going to win.” She runs for the door. Giggling.

“Wait! How do you know that . . . 
exactly
?”

“ 'Cause you and Sid are best friends.” The screen door slams behind her.

Great. My little sister thinks Sid and I have rigged the contest.

“Oh,” she says, peering through the screen. “And you're supposed to call him. It's urgent.”

I carry my dishes to the sink and eye Rosie's half-eaten sandwich. Mom's always after us not to waste food, but I've already downed two sandwiches and half a bag of corn chips. I could wrap it up, but pb"j sandwiches get soggy fast. Ordinarily, I toss any scraps in Max's food bowl, but that bowl is now behind the barn. A long walk under a scorching sky.

I scrape the sandwich into the trash can and start cleaning up. But the sandwich develops eyes.

Load the dishwasher! . . .

Sandwich stares.

Put the jelly and peanut butter away . . .

Sandwich stares.

Wipe the table . . .

Sandwich stares.

“Aww, man.” I fish the sandwich out of the trash and carry it to the barn. Max gives me a doggy grin.

“I'm saving the planet,” I tell him.

“You said you would call me.” Sid's tone is accusing.

Geez
, school's only been out three days.

“Yeah, I was going to. I've been kinda busy.” I tell him about my job walking dogs.

“Does that mean you're not going to invite George and me over?”

“No. I'll only be working three days a week.” The line goes quiet. I decode the silence. “Are you needing out of your cage, Sid?”

“In a very big way, Sam. It is chaotic here. Pageant entries to sort. Entry deposits to keep track of. Phone calls to answer. Questions, questions, and
more
questions about costumes. And my mother changes her mind every day about how to decorate the pageant room. Real plants or plastic. Greenery or flowers. Red carpet or purple for the stage.”

“Deposits?” The one word I latch on to. Mom said it cost a hundred fifty dollars to enter the contest. But if she only had to put down a deposit, how much was it? Exactly? “How does that work, Sid?”

“Entrants must put down half the entry fee, which means they pay us seventy-five dollars. The balance is due ten days before the pageant, which is the middle of next month. But it is a nonrefundable deposit, so if someone drops out, we keep it.”

“Did my mom put down a deposit yet?”

“Oh, yes. The very first day.”

Bummer. That means Mom would lose seventy-five dollars if for some reason she couldn't pay the rest.

“The deposits must be taken to the bank daily because my father worries the money will be stolen. I tell you, the hotel right now is
nuts
.”

I grin into the phone. “Come over tomorrow afternoon. I have to watch Rosie, but she's spending a lot of time over at Bailey's house.”

“What time?”

I've never heard excitement in Sid's voice, he's the calmest person I've ever met, but I hear it now.

“Oh, I don't know . . . round one o'clock. How's that sound?”

“Splendid.”

Ha!
So that's where Rosie learned that word.

The phone calls Sid mentioned begin to make sense. Especially the ones about costumes. Rosie has to be the costume caller, and now she's decided she needs three. How am I going to convince her she only needs two like everyone else?

All at once, the bell in the plant shed rings. Someone is waiting to be helped.

“Gotta go, Sid. See you tomorrow.”

Jogging to the shed, I spot Mom in the driveway. Plaid shirt tied at the waist. Denim shorts exposing rust-colored knees. Ponytail stuck through a ball cap.

If she's home, why does she need me?

Then I see it. A big black SUV that dwarfs our minivan. On the SUV's front window is a green sticker. A Burbie has ventured outside the walled kingdom of CountryWood.

“S'up, Mom?”

Mom's face is bright scarlet. I can't tell if she's steamed, excited, or just hot. The sun is beating down, relentless. A red afternoon.

“Sammy . . .” Mom pauses, breathing hard. Sweat circles stain her underarms. Dirt ribbons circle her neck. “Grab the end of this flat, help me load it.” She points with her eyes at a long plastic tray filled with pots of geraniums. Red. Pink. Fuchsia. Three more flats sit next to it.

I get it. The red face signals excitement. Mom scored a big sale.

We haul the flat to the rear of the SUV, where a suntanned woman stands at the hatch. Helmet of straight brown hair. Snow-white shorts showing off dark tanned legs. A white polo shirt highlighting tanned arms. Arms so muscular she could be on the Olympic rowing team.

“How come she's not helping?” I whisper as we return for the next flat. “Her biceps are bigger than mine.”

“Because she just had her
nails
done.” Mom's eyes are glinting daggers. “She's throwing a patio party.”

Ow!
Wrong guess. The red face signals anger. I wonder if
Mom ever had her nails done and decide she wouldn't need to. She keeps them worn down to the quick.

When the next load goes in the van, I chance a look at Mrs. Biceps's fingernails. Miniature rainbows, rhinestone studs on the tips. Money to burn . . .

By the time we're through loading flats, Mom and I are soaked with sweat, but the back of the SUV is a greenhouse on wheels. A stunning testimony to Mom's hard work.

“As hot as it is . . .” Mom smiles at Mrs. Biceps. “You'll need to check the soil moisture often. Don't want the plants to dry out and die.”

Mrs. Biceps shrugs. “Party's this weekend. After that, it won't matter.”

The SUV drives away. Mom's shoulders slump. A fireball goes off behind my eyelids.

“I vote we make those people load their own stuff, Mom—and I'll paint the sign.”

“Believe you me, Sammy, there's plenty of times I'd like to do just that.” She removes her leather work gloves, permanently shaped like her hands, and tosses them on the potting table. “But if it wasn't for ‘those people,' my business would've gone belly up years ago.”

I trudge back to the house, hating to admit she's right. But if it weren't for “those people,” I wouldn't be getting my puppy, either.

The phone rings right after supper. The call is from a man named Muller who wants to talk to me about walking his dog because he's just had his knee operated on.