Immortal Max (5 page)

“Oh, Scottish would definitely be best,” Mom says. She's seen Bailey's original Barbie doll clothes, too.

“What would that look like?” Rosie looks between Mom and me.

I turn to a statue, knowing when to keep my mouth shut.

“Well, I know the Scots wore kilts. . . .”

“Kilts? They wore dead things?”

“A kilt is a skirt. The Scots wear beautiful plaid skirts and
matching shawls over their shoulders. Your grandma could make you one easy.” Mom hesitates, eyes blinking. “But I'm not sure she's up to it. Her memory's slipping so fast, worse every day.”

I like the idea of my grandma making Rosie's costume, but she moves like a snail now and doesn't remember things the way she used to. It's like an invisible curtain is closing in front of her, the opening getting narrower and narrower with every tick of the clock.

“Yeah, and I'll rig up a fake bagpipe for the talent part.” I squeeze a make-believe bagpipe under my arm and spew screeching noises out of my mouth.

Rosie scowls at me, not amused. “I'm going as a Chippy-wa and do an Indian dance. And Bailey will make me an Indian princess dress with sequins all over it.”

Another groan slips out of my mouth. Mom gets the message.

“Slow down, Rosie. I'm not positive we
are
Chippewa. I mean, we don't have proof.”

“Grandpa wouldn't lie.”

Mom's shoulders droop, a sign she's giving up. “Who's to know we can't prove it?” She sighs, looking at me.

I give up, too. Why should I be the only Smith to look like a fool?

But when Rosie starts stomping in a circle and grunting like a caveman, I start to waffle. Justin's sister has been taking dance since she was three years old, and her parents can buy her fancy costumes because they're rich. Rosie
will
look like a fool if Bailey makes her costume, especially if she dances like Bigfoot. But how can I stop her?

The same way you were stopped
, says a voice in my head.

“Wait, Mom—it costs money to enter the contest.”

“Money? How much?”

“Don't know. There's a phone number on the slip.”

Mom looks at the yellow slip. “I'll call right way. Opportunities like this don't come along every day, and Rosie's been dreaming about something like this for a long time.” She pauses,
looking at me. “Oh, and the sign out front needs touching up, Sammy. First thing tomorrow morning?”

“Mom, summer just started—”

“Which is the busiest time of the year in my business. Plenty of time to rest come winter.”

“I'm in school all winter.”

“I'm not going to argue with you, Sammy.”

“Okay, okay. I'll paint the sign tomorrow morning.”

“Good. And raccoons paid us a visit last night. They broke flowerpots and dug up the compost pile. Looked like four sets of tracks. I figure a mother and three kits.”

That explains the smell of compost everywhere. Dried leaves. Sphagnum moss. Earthworms.

“So you know what that means.” Mom grins at me. “Add another job to your list.”

“Aww, Mom.” I speak up before she can bust my chops again. “Okay, I'll clean up after the raccoons, too.”

She gives me a quick hug. Turning for the house, she pushes aside a big shaggy lump. “Not now, Max. I need to call the hotel. Hopefully I don't have to break someone's heart.”

Oh, sure! Wouldn't do for someone in our family to have a broken heart.

Max noses my hand, his mouth a leaking faucet. “Go find someone else to pester, Max. I told you, I just want to be alone.”

Saturday. The first morning of summer break. I open my eyes and stare at lint buildup on the blades of the ceiling fan. We have fans in every room and keep the windows open for a cross-breeze in the summer. Sunlight dapples the walls and dust motes swim in the air. Lots of big trees keep the house shady except in the winter, which works well because the sun warms the house up fast after the leaves fall.

I watch the fan spinning . . . spinning . . . slightly off center so one blade complains when it reaches the high spot.

Sgreak
.

I look at the clock—almost seven—close my eyes again. I sleep late in the summer, get up around seven-thirty . . .

Sgreak
.

Usually.

Sighing, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and change sleeping shorts and tee for daytime shorts and tee. Reeboks. No socks.

Mom's already in the garden shed, getting an order ready for a customer in town to pick up. I know because she told us her schedule last night at supper. After that, she's doing a garden plan for someone at CountryWood. Which means the rest of us are on our own for breakfast. But we learned to fend for ourselves a long time ago. Mom's never been much of a housekeeper or cook. Plants are her specialty.

Downstairs, Beth stands at the kitchen counter. Faded jeans,
cotton shirt tied at her waist, blond hair in a ponytail. She's fixing a breakfast sandwich, cream cheese on a whole-wheat bagel, which she'll eat as she drives to the animal hospital. After that, she'll go to the shelter. Both jobs are important since she wants to become a vet.

“Don't forget to feed the cats,” she tells Rosie on her way out the door. She pauses, looking at me. “And Max.”

“I know, I know!” I don't know which is worse. A bossy older sister or a little one who cries to get her way. “I've been feeding him for four years now. You know, the dog who was supposed to be on his last legs?”

“Who knew he was immortal?” The back screen slams and Beth's old Subaru chokes to life, wheezing down the driveway.

That word again.
Immortal
. But I know Beth was just joking around. We've all learned that nothing lives forever. All at once, I think of my dad, who I never really knew, my grandpa, who I did, and feel empty inside.

Rosie comes in, wearing denim shorts, pink tee, and sandals. She gets out a box of cereal and a carton of milk and fills a bowl. Cats start showing up in twos and threes at the screen door, then the entire back porch is full. All of them screeching.

“Geez, Rosie. Feed them quick so they'll shut up.”

“Have to rinse out my bowl first.” On the way to the sink, she dribbles milk across the linoleum. Twenty-eight clawed feet attack the screen door, trying to get to the spill.

“Just
go
. I'll clean up.”

Rosie turns into a pigtailed Pied Piper, toting a bag of Cat Chow as she leads the horde to their food dishes. To me, they're just cats. But to Rosie, they're her children.

“You'll be Sunday,” she tells the white one, sounding like a schoolteacher giving an assignment. “And you're Monday. . . .” Her voice fades as she moves away from the house.

Finally, the kitchen is quiet. I clean up the spill, put a frozen waffle in the toaster, and stare at poster board squares on the table. Rosie spent last evening making birth certificates for her
cats. On each square is a picture of a cat, tail sticking straight up, and underneath, a printed description.
White with black spots. Black with white spots. Gray tiger. Orange tiger. Calico. Siamese blue. Black
. Spotting her box of crayons on the table, I figure the pictures will be colored in before lunch.

I spread grape jelly on my waffle and look over the stack of certificates as I eat. In the
Name
spot are different days of the week, but the vital statistics all read the same.

Date of Birth: Unknown

Sex: Neutered

Place of Birth: U.S.A
.

Parents' names: Mama Cat and Daddy Cat

I can tell Beth helped Rosie with the certificates because the wording sounds official. There's even a drawing that looks like a government seal in the bottom corner, complete with what's supposed to be an American eagle.

Pushing Rosie's birth certificates aside, I pick up the morning paper where Mom left it. Before I know it, I'm reading the section on
Pets and Supplies
in the want ads.

The first ad is an eye-opener. Justin was right, purebred dogs
do
cost a lot of money. I read on.

I can't believe it. The cost is going up. Geez, have I been living in a cave?

One ad is of real interest. For Sid, though, not me.

Sid wants a Chihuahua, but if he could only afford $9.98 at PetSmart for George, he'll never get one. I look at the listing again, wonder what CKC stands for. AKC stands for American Kennel Club. Maybe Chihuahua Kennel Club? Could this tiny little dog have its own club? It's the only thing that makes sense. I move to another ad.

“Aww, man. They're getting higher.”

“Fifteen hundred dollars—that can't be right.” I read the ad again. Not a mistake. The puppies cost fifteen . . . hundred . . . dollars.
Each
.

Only halfway through the ads and my stomach is churning. Realizing the listings are alphabetical, I skip down the page. Drumbeats pound my chest when I find the listing.

The ad includes the picture of a puppy just like the one I want. A sable German shepherd. Three hundred fifty dollars is a fortune, but compared to the rest, it's a bargain.

I skip over ads for other dogs—Min Pin/Chi-Weenie mix pups, poodle-Bichons, and Shih-poos—all of which cost from $300 up. Even crossbred puppies cost more than I've saved up.

Suddenly, an idea slips into my head. What if I
could
earn enough money to buy one of the German shepherd puppies?

“Yeah, right.”

I toss the paper in the trash can, slam the back door, and trudge to the plant shed. Outside, someone yells my name. Underneath a big shade tree across the road, purple-and-orange pom-poms wave at me. Bailey is practicing cheerleading. Alone.

The sign in front of our place says:

Hours of business and our phone number follow. Before Mom left this morning, she wrote out instructions for the sign to make sure I got it right. Jars of paint—red, yellow, and blue—sit on the counter.

I like working in the shed. The musty-earth smell. Rust- colored clay pots. Living rainbows of geraniums and petunias. And it's quiet. Most of the time, there aren't any people. Just butterflies and bees buzzing around and sucking up nectar.

Rosie walks in as I put the final touches on the sign.

“What does that mean?” She points to the line that reads
M
-
TU
-
W
-
F
: 9:00
AM
– 5:00
PM
.

“That stands for Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday, from nine in the morning until five in the afternoon.”

“And that?” She points to the line that reads
TH
: 9:00
AM
– 9:00
PM
.

“
TH
stands for Thursday. Mom stays open late that night.”

“
Oh
, I get it. It's the first
two
letters of the word.”

“Right. Some days of the week start with the same letter. Like Tuesday and Thursday.”

“So
that
means Saturday?”

I look where she's pointing. “Yeah,
SA
stands for Saturday. We're open from nine in the morning until eight at night on Saturday. You know, for people who work during the week.”

She frowns. “Then what does
that
mean?” She points to the line that reads
SN
: 1
PM
– 4
PM
.

“Sunday from one o'clock until four o'clock. Lot of people go to church on Sunday mornings, so Mom doesn't open up until later.”

She frowns again. “But that's not right.”

I look at what I've painted, check it against Mom's note. “Is too. See?” I show her the note. “It says 1
PM
to 4
PM
.”

“Not
that
. It should be SU, not
SN. Sunday
is spelled
S-U-N-D
—”