Immortal Max

by Lutricia Clifton

  “That would be stupendous.” Sid is all smiles again. “I can strap George’s cage on the back of my bike.” A frown replaces the smile. “Of course, it depends on the pageant. I have to help my parents build a stage and set up chairs—”

  Suddenly, Sid’s mouth freezes in the shape of an O. Quickly, he turns to face the kids on the bus. “Our motel is hosting a contest this summer!” he yells. “A Little Princess Beauty Pageant. It is a big deal for us, so please show the slips I gave you to your parents.”

  He exits the bus, grinning. “I will call you later, Sammy.”

  “A beauty pageant? For real?” Rosie’s face is a hundred-watt bulb. “What slip’s he talking ’bout?”

  Bailey pulls out her yellow slip. Yee and Anise look at theirs, too. Curious, I dig mine out of my backpack.

  BE DISCOVERED! BE A STAR!

  ENTER THE LITTLE PRINCESS BEAUTY PAGEANT!

  WINNERS TAKE HOME CASH PRIZES AND TIARAS

  TALENT SEARCH CONTEST FOR MOVIES AND MODELING

  PORTRAY YOUR CULTURAL ROOTS IN THE ETHNIC BEAUTY CONTEST

  SUBMIT ENTRY FORM AND ENTRY FEE BY JUNE 15

  CATEGORIES INCLUDE:

  Baby Miss (2–3 YRS)

  Little Miss (4–5 YRS)

  Pre-Junior (6–7 YRS)

  Junior (8–10 YRS)

  Contact Midwest Jewel Inn for information about entry fee

  “June fifteenth!” Rosie’s eyes turn to round saucers. The bus seat a trampoline. “But today is June first. I have to enter quick. I always wanted to be a princess.”

  “Not so fast, Rosie.” I read the slip again. “Where you gonna get the money to enter?”

  “It costs money? How much? I got five dollars and thirty-nine cents in my bank.”

  “Doesn’t say …” Bailey pauses, reading her slip again, too. “But your mom can call and find out. And you can still be thinking about your costumes and the talent show—” Bailey starts bouncing on the seat, too. “Ohmigosh, I can design your costumes—just like on TV. It’ll be my first professional job.”

  Forget the tiara… .

  “Cool,” Rosie says. “And I got lots of talent. I can sing and dance, and I already have a costume. A ballerina tutu.”

  “That won’t work.” Yee looks up from her yellow slip. “At least, not for the ethnic beauty contest. Your costume needs to portray your cultural roots.”

  “What’s cultural roots?” Rosie twists in her seat so she’s facing Yee.

  “Like Chinese American. If I were going to enter, which I’m not because I’m too old, I would dress up as Fu Hao. You know, someone Chinese.”

  “I never heard of Hu Fao,” Bailey says.

  “Fu … Hao.” Yee’s face pinches up, like she’s in pain. “She was a high priestess and military general in the Shang dynasty. If I were going to enter, that’s who I would go as.”

  “And I’m African American,” Anise says. “So if I were entering, I would dress as Cleopatra.”

  “Cleopatra wasn’t African. She was Egyptian.”

  “I believe Egypt’s in Africa, Sammy,” Bailey whispers across the aisle to me.

  “Oh … yeah.”

  Anise claps her hands. “No, wait—I’d wear my Igbo Mmwo costume.”

  “Your what?” Yee’s eyebrows turn into little black worms wiggling across her forehead.

  “Ig-bo Mm-wo. It means ‘maiden spirit.’ They’re humongous costumes. Bright colors and weird designs all over them. The mask hides your face so no one can tell who you are. My oldest sister had one but she didn’t want it anymore so she gave it to me.” Anise pauses. “But I don’t wear it because it’s a keepsake. Besides, I’m almost twelve—way too old.” “I don’t have a little sister,” Bailey says. “Or an older one, either. I’m an only child.”

  Lucky her.

  “I do,” Justin says, butting in again. “My little sister Patty’s been taking dance since she was three. She’s really good at Polish dances ’cause that’s what we are.” He glances at Yee and Anise, looking smug. “Wysocki’s a Polish American name. I bet Mom enters her right away. She’s dying for her to become a New York model.”

  “What’s my culture, Sammy?” Rosie looks at me, eyes expectant.

  “You don’t have one.” Our house is the next stop, so I slip into my backpack.

  Rosie’s eyes dissolve. Two Alka-Seltzer tablets in water.

  “But if I don’t have a culture,” she says, “I can’t be in the contest.”

  “Come on.” Bailey leads Rosie to the bus door. “Your mom can call and get more information.”

  Yee tugs my sleeve and leans close. “We need to check on some things, then we’ll call you.”

  “Yeah …” Anise glances at Justin. “When the Jerk’s not around.”

  Why are they whispering?

  Bailey hears them, of course. “Call me, too.” She’s also whispering. “You can get me a gate pass, and I’ll bike out so we can practice together. I’ve been dying to see what CountryWood’s like.”

  Yee and Anise morph into stone statues.

  “Okay?” Bailey’s smile is plastic now.

  Yee and Anise nod. Barely.

  Though Bailey doesn’t stop smiling, I know she reads the same thing in those nods that I do. She’s not going to get a call from either of them.

  I follow her and Rosie off the bus, take a last look at the Burbies lining the windows, and exhale slowly, relieved to be rid of them. As the bus starts up, Justin’s face appears at the rear window. An L pressed to his forehead. His mouth, grinning ear to ear.

  My face flames. My hands clench into fists.

  As the bus rolls away, the tailpipe stutters a-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh.

  Aww, man.

  Like always, Max is waiting on the side of the road, imitating a pile of dead brush. Everything sticks to him like Velcro. Sticks. Leaves. Bird feathers. Stringy hair covers his eyes, a shaggy curtain he peeks through. His nose glistens like a shiny black ball, perpetually wet. The first thing he does is stick his nose in my hand, giving it a big slurpy lick.

  “Not now, Max.” I push him away and wipe drool on my pant leg.

  He walks over to Rosie, but she pushes him away, too. “Go ’way, Max. I’ve got to find Mama.” She runs toward the plant shed, the pageant slip a paper butterfly fluttering in her hand.

  Max migrates to Bailey, but she’s hypnotized. Eyes glued on the school bus, she watches as it rounds the corner for CountryWood and disappears in a brown dust cloud.

  “We’ve been here longer than they have,” she mumbles. “Why are we the outsiders?”

  I figure Bailey isn’t expecting me to answer, so I don’t. At least she’s stopped smiling. She’s always Miss Happy Face with everyone else. I don’t know why I’m the only one she shows that other face. The real one.

  “See you tomorrow, Sammy.” Bailey heads for an old white farmhouse across the road, cradling her treasure chest. A cardboard box filled with purple-and-orange plastic strings stapled to sticks.

  On the way to the house, the show-and-tell begins to replay. A bad movie on rewind.

  Did I really brag that I would make hundreds of dollars this summer? And buy a pedigreed puppy?

  A lopsided shadow streams ahead of me, pointing the way. Mine and Max’s, blended together. I had forgotten about him.

  “Go away, Max. I just want to be alone.” Our shadows stay linked.

  Dumb old dog.

  Leaving Max and his shadow on the back porch, I trudge upstairs to my bedroom, toss my backpack in the closet, and flop on the bed. Summer has finally started, but the excitement I felt this morning has faded.

  Just once, couldn’t something go my way?

  “Samuel Smith! Get down here this minute!” Mom’s voice is loud. So loud, I can hear it all the way from the plant shed.

  And she called me Samuel.

  Great, just great. What’ve I done now?

  Chapter 4

  “How could you tell Rosie she was uncultured?” Mom is wea
ring her furious face. A traffic light blinking chili-pepper red. “Are you ashamed of us? Is that it? Why? Because we live in an old house instead of a … a warehouse with cement floors and granite countertops? I’ll have you know this house has an upstanding history. It was built the same year Lincoln freed the slaves. Why, it could be on the historic register … if we had the money to restore it.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that, Mom. I like our house. It’s cool. Not because of that historic stuff. Because it belonged to Grandpa before we moved in.”

  Our house is made of limestone blocks. Settlers who came to the Midwest dug quarries in the hillsides and chiseled building stones out of huge chunks of limestone. A lot of the houses they built are still lived in. Like ours.

  “Then why?” Mom’s faded blond hair is tied on her neck. Her chambray shirt is dirt-stained. Her jeans are grubby at the knees. “It’s because I do this kind of work, isn’t it?” She holds out her hands, studying fingernails worn to nubs.

  Mom’s sore spot is showing. Someone has made her feel like they’re better than she is. When she’s really tired, she talks to herself. Saying things like What’s so important about Bluetooth technology? And When did a secretary become an executive assistant? And So what if I don’t know how to play Mah-jongg? Mom didn’t go past high school, but that didn’t matter until Dad died. She’s determined that Rosie and I go to college. Like Beth.

  “Not that, either.” I tell her about the bus ride home, replay the talk about cultures, and watch the traffic light blink from red to normal: suntanned and weathered. “Read the slip, Mom.”

  Her face blinks red again, from embarrassment this time. She turns to Rosie and wipes tears off her freckled cheeks. “I didn’t understand, Rosie. You see, everyone has a culture, ours is just mixed up. We have a little bit of a lot of things in us. That’s the way it is for people who’ve been in this country a long time.”

  Rosie’s eyes light up. “So I can dress up as anything I want?”

  Mom nods.

  “Then I want to be an Igloo Mojo. I just know Anise will loan me her costume.”

  I groan and tell Mom about Anise’s Igbo Mmwo costume and Yee’s talk about Chinese warrior priestesses.

  “Maybe I spoke too soon.” Mom’s eyes blink slowly. “Some things we’re not. Chinese or African, for example. But we are part Scottish. And Indian, too.”

  “We’re Indian like Sid?”

  I let out a bigger groan and explain that Sid is from the country of India.

  “No, not that kind of Indian.” Mom blows out her breath, looking tired. “I don’t have any proof of it, but your grandpa told me once we were part Chippewa. A great-great-grandmother, I think.”

  I envision a pink feather headdress, green sequins on fake buckskin, and tell Mom that Bailey wants to design Rosie’s costumes. “But since we can’t prove we’re Indian, maybe Rosie should dress up as someone from Scotland.”

  “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.”

  Chapter 5

  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.