Immortal Max (6 page)

“I know how to spell
Sunday
, Rosie.”

“Then why did you put
SN
? It should be
SU
. Like
TH
for
Thursday
and
SA
for
Saturday
. Why's it different?”

I stare at the abbreviation. “Don't know. Ask Mom or Beth.”

“I thought you were smart, Sammy.”

Suddenly, I'm jealous of Bailey. Why couldn't I have been an only child?

Rosie picks up a small paintbrush. “Can I have some paint, please?”

“What do you need paint for?”

“To paint my cats.”

I remember the birth certificates on the kitchen table. “I guess, but don't use too much. Mom might want me to paint something else. And wash the brush out when you're done.”

“You're being bossy, Sammy.” She picks up the box of paints and heads toward the house.

“Learn to live with it, runt!” I yell. “After Beth leaves, I'm next boss in line.”

“I'm gonna tell Mom!” Rosie yells over her shoulder.

Great. She will, too. I decide it's time to clean up after the raccoons.

A raccoon can make a big mess. A mother raccoon and three babies, a humongous mess. After cleaning out the leftover dirt, I wash the clay pots and set them in the sun to dry. Clay takes a long time, a lot longer than plastic. But the thermometer on the wall reads ninety degrees, so they should be dry by the time Mom gets home.

It's almost lunchtime when the black cat walks in front of me, a big yellow
F
painted on its side.

“Rosie . . .”

“Samuel Smith—why did you tell Rosie it was okay to paint the cats?” Mom paces the shed, hands gripping her hips like they're holding up her jeans.

Beth is home, too, looking at jars of paint that I rescued from Rosie after I discovered the painted cats. The black one wasn't the only one with a letter on it. Every one of them now has the abbreviation for a day of the week painted on its side or between its ears.

“I didn't. I mean, I thought she was going to use the paint on birth certificates.”

“How could you make a mistake like that?”

“Me? Rosie's the one who screwed up. Where is she, anyway? You should be busting her chops, not mine.”

“Upstairs. I stopped by to talk to your grandmother about costumes. We drew some sketches for Rosie to look at.”

My grandma lives in an assisted living place. My grandpa lived there, too, before he died. I never knew my dad's parents. They lived in Florida and didn't like to travel. I don't miss them because I never knew them. But I really miss Grandpa. He taught me all kinds of things. How to patch a bike inner tube. Change a tire on the car. Use a toothpick to fix a loose screw on a cabinet door. Stuff steel wool in holes to keep mice out of the garage.

“So Grandma's making Rosie's costumes?” I smile at Mom, hoping to get her talking about the pageant so she'll forget about cats.

“No, your grandmother's not up to the job. But maybe with
her help, I can manage a couple . . . if they're not too elaborate.” She shakes her head, glancing across the road. “You were right, Sammy. Bailey's just not the right person.”

An image of Bailey pops into my head. Practicing cheerleading. Alone. She'll be totally flattened if she can't make Rosie's costumes, and it will be my fault.

“Are you
really
going through with this pageant thing, Mom? I mean, how much does it cost, anyway?”

“Yes, I'm going through with it. Rosie has her heart set on it and . . .” Mom rubs the back of her neck, looking tired. “The entry fee is one hundred and fifty dollars—but it's a rare opportunity, one that may not come around again.”

“One hundred and fifty dollars!”

“Now, back to this cat business,” Mom says. “Tell me what happened.”

“Don't remember.” I'm burning. I can't believe Mom is giving Rosie a hundred fifty dollars for a beauty pageant.
And
paying for costumes.

Beth looks up from the paint label she's been reading. “Come on, Spammy, it's important. What exactly did Rosie say?”

“Don't call me
that
. If you have to talk to me, call me by my real name.”

Beth stares at me, eyes wide. “Geez, chill out, little bro. Now, what
exactly
did Rosie say . . . 
Samuel Allen Smith
?” She grins, dimples showing.

I can't help grinning, too. Beth is cool. And pretty. Hazel eyes. Wavy blond hair, which she leaves natural. No dyed pastel streaks. No metal in her nose or navel, either. She'd rather have a 4.0 grade-point average. And the guys she dates aren't greasy creeps. They have swag. Hair clean. Shirts ironed. Pants belted. And they don't talk down to you.

“Sam is okay. Or Sammy. Just not
Spammy
.” I cool down and take a deep breath, trying to sort things out. “Well, see, I asked Rosie what she needed paint for and she said for her cats. She was making birth certificates at the kitchen table and I just
figured . . .” Gravitational pull takes over, dragging my shoulders downward. “She said ‘please.' ”

“You simply must do better.” Mom's hands are still holding up her jeans. “You have to listen to what people are saying.”

“Wh-what? That's all I do, Mom. Listen to what people tell me.”

“I mean
really
saying. You know, read between the lines.”

“Wait up. How can you read between the lines of words people are saying?”

“Don't be a smart-mouth, Sam. You know what I mean.”

I read between the lines. I'm supposed to be a mind reader.

“Chill, Mom. He's twelve years old.”

“I know, I know.” Mom wags her head, sighing. “I'm sorry, Sam. I just need to trust that you're going to watch out for your little sister when I'm gone.”

“I
do
, Mom.”

“Ask more questions to make sure you understand what she's saying.
Exactly
what she's saying.”

“Okay, more questions.”

“The paint's nontoxic, so no harm done.” Beth grins again. “When I asked why she did it, Rosie said it was so she could remember their new names. You have to admit, it was a clever idea.”

“Yeah, clever idea, Mom. And the paint won't hurt them.”

Mom sighs again. “All right . . . this time.” She waves a finger in front of my nose. “But next time—”

“I'll ask lots of questions.”

“Good. Now, let's go have lunch. I'm bushed. My customer this morning was picky. Had to move some of the plants three times.”

The garden shed where Mom sells plants is on the side of the road and has a gravel drive where customers can park. A gate leading to our backyard separates the business from the house. If customers come while we're inside, they can ring a big dinner bell outside the shed to get our attention.

“At least you and Rosie remembered to water the animals.” Beth checks the dishes on the screened back porch. A pet door allows Max and the cats to come and go at will.

But I did forget.

I look at Max's water dish. Still full, but cloudy. Bugs floating.

Beth leans closer, inspecting the food dishes. First the cats'. Then Max's. When she's done with Max's, she looks at me. Eyes not blinking. Brows reaching for the sky.

I look, too. See Dog Chow, greasy from heat. More bugs. A stream of ants.

I think back to when Beth brought Max home, how he wouldn't eat or drink unless I brought it to him. Mom figured he probably belonged to a kid my age and I reminded Max of him. Like it or not, next thing I know, I'm the one training him. Brushing him. Picking up after him. Feeding him.

So why isn't he eating now?

I follow Mom into the kitchen to help with lunch. She's just calmed down, and I want her to stay that way.

Beth takes sandwich makings and a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. I retrieve plates and glasses from the cupboard. Mom checks the answering machine. Finding the light blinking, she hits the Listen button.

Call us, Sammy
. Yee's voice booms out of the answering machine.
Soon as you can
.

Yeah
. Anise's voice this time.
It's important
.

Mom and Beth look at me.

“They're friends from school. I'll, uh, I'll call from the living room.”

“You
are
growing up, little bro,” Beth says, grinning. “Two girls at a time?”

“It's not like that.”

Mom smiles, too.

I give up. Let them think what they want.

“I'm going to do
what
?”

I'm at Mom's desk in the living room, which looks onto the
county road. Anise is at Yee's house. They're talking on the speakerphone in her dad's office. Both are so excited, I have to listen hard to understand what they're saying.

“We talked to someone who works at the CountryWood office,” Anise says. “The woman who does the newsletter. She works part-time—on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday—and she sounded
real
interested when we told her our idea. See, she'd like someone to walk her dog on the days she's working 'cause she can't.”

“So it's all decided,” Yee says.

“
What?
Who decided
what
?” I watch a car approach, but it doesn't stop at our place.

Like a lot of old houses, ours sits close to the county road. The rooms are small with high ceilings and old-fashioned woodwork, except the kitchen and bathrooms. Grandpa remodeled those when rusty pipes turned the water orange. Things that wouldn't fit in Grandpa and Grandma's retirement apartment mingle with things Mom and Dad owned. Grandma's knitted afghans hug furniture. Dad's John Grisham paperbacks stuff bookshelves. Grandpa's can of Prince Albert tobacco perfumes the house. Mom's ivy droops from tall things; floor plants reach for the ceiling. And squeezed among all of it are bits and pieces of Beth, Rosie, and me. Outside, the house is plain beige rock; inside, a Goodwill store.

Something else outside the window gets my attention. Bailey, sitting on her front porch.

“Me and Yee,” Anise says. “We decided.”

“Yee and I,” Yee tells Anise. “That's the correct way to say it.”

“Yee and I,” Anise repeats. “You're going to run an ad in the newsletter to find people who want their dogs walked on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. An ad costs ten dollars up to fifteen words, and twenty cents a word after that. Oh, and you have to pay with cash, a money order, or a check.”

Ten dollars! I only have a hundred saved . . . but I could make a lot more if I got enough customers.

“And the deadline's Monday,” Yee says. “So you need to get
your ad to her that morning. Oh, and bring your credentials so you can show her how much you know.”

“Credentials?”

“Your dog book.” Yee lets out a long sigh that says
Catch up, Slug Boy
.

“How much will she pay me for walking her dog?”

Silence. Then Yee says, “You'll have to negotiate that yourself. Do you expect us to do everything?”

Translation: They forgot to ask.

“And you have to talk to Chief Beaumont, the head of security,” Anise says. “But he lives across the street from us so there won't be a problem. He said he could issue you a special pass for the days of the week you'll be coming out, but he needs to explain the rules to you.”

“There's rules for walking dogs?”

“Of course.”
Yee's using her matter-of-fact tone. Miss Know-it-all. “What time Monday can you be here?”

“Uh, better call you back.” I glance toward the kitchen, where Mom and Beth are still discussing painted cats. “Need to talk to my mom first.”

“Well, hurry up,” Anise says. “Chief Beaumont's expecting you Monday.
Early
. We're supposed to let him know so he can get you on his calendar.”

“Call you right back.”

Back in the kitchen, Mom and Beth stare at me. I look between them, searching for the right words to tell them about my new job.

Tactful
, the voice in my head says.
Be tactful
.

“I got a job!” Words gush out like water over a broken dam. “I'm gonna walk dogs for people at CountryWood three days a week. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

Mom stares at me, mouth hanging open.

“
Wow
, that's cool.” Beth gives me a knuckle bump.

Mom closes her mouth and glares at Beth. “What do you mean,
cool
? Now that you're working full-time and leaving home in August, I need him here.”

“Mom, I really want to do this—I
need
to do this. It's . . . it's important.”

“You just can't, Sammy. It won't work.”

“Sure it will,” Beth says. “You said the same thing when I got a job, remember? All we have to do is work out a schedule. I can move things around so I'm working alternate times from Sammy.” She looks at Mom, eyes serious. “Sammy's growing up, needs some independence.”