Read Online Immortal Max by Lutricia Clifton - Free Book Online Page A

are you doing? It’s getting late.”
    The clock on my nightstand says 10:06. “Working on something. I’ll be done in a minute.”
    â€œWorking on something . . . like what?”
    â€œYou know, getting ready for tomorrow. I have to go to CountryWood in the morning.”
    â€œWell, don’t stay up too much longer.”
    â€œAlmost done.”
    I go back to working on my ad for the CountryWoodnewsletter. I’ve been studying ads in the
Services/Businesses
section of the want ads, trying to figure out the important things to say. Like, the job I’m looking for. And why I’d be good to hire. And how much I charge. And how to contact me.
    I read what I’ve written.
Do you need someone to walk your dog? Hire me! I’m full of energy. Have tons of experience and credentials. And I will pick up your dog’s poop. Call Samuel Allen Smith at . . .
    I pause, wondering if phone numbers count as words. If I count the number as one word, I have thirty-four words. If two, thirty-five. I decide it counts as one, but it’s still too many. And I haven’t mentioned cost yet.
    I study the want ads in the paper some more. A few minutes later, I rewrite my ad and count the words again.
Rent a dog walker. Experienced. Can provide credentials. Will pick up and dispose of dog poop. Fair rates but you need to pay in cash every day. Call Sammy Smith at . . .
    â€œAw, man. Thirty-two words!”
    I notice none of the ads in the newspaper mention names and decide not to mention mine. Fifteen minutes later, I’ve worn out the eraser on my pencil, but the ad includes all the really important things. Now, if only it’s short enough.
Will walk dogs. Credentials. Includes picking up dog poop. Payment in cash required. Call . . .
    Fifteen words
exactly
.
    Exhausted, I turn off the light. Who knew writing fewer words would be harder than writing a lot? But now it’s done. And since Yee and Anise are meeting me tomorrow morning at CountryWood, everything else will be a snap.

Chapter 8

    Monday, 8 AM . My stomach is crawling with roaches. Hard-backed bugs with stiff antennas. Yee and Anise called at seven to say they couldn’t meet me today because of cheer practice. I have to interview with the chief of security and the woman who does the newsletter by myself. An outsider, crashing the gates at CountryWood.
    I can’t do it. I might mess up. They might not like me. . . .
    Then I think of my grandpa and feel ashamed. He never let anything stop him. Broken water line. Rusted-out muffler. New pump for the well.
Let’s roll up our sleeves and get this done, Sam
, he’d say.
Time’s wasting
. If he were alive, he would be proud because I’m interviewing for my first job. My first
real
job. And I’m doing it on my own.
    The roaches in my stomach morph to balloons. I’m floating. And to top it off, I get to see the mysterious land of CountryWood.
    Because fashion expert Bailey says first impressions are important, I shower, rub deodorant in my armpits, and dress in good clothes. Camo cargo shorts. Blue short-sleeve tee. Crew socks with a matching blue stripe around the top. I
really
want to make a good impression.
    What Beth said about CountryWood is what I’ve heard, too. Rich people live there. Big fancy houses. Private lake for boating. Boats with 100-hp motors. They water-ski and fish, play bocce ball and tennis. Swim in the private pool. Have laptop computers and flat-screen TVs in every room. People with money to burn.
    Not like us. Our TV is the old kind with a cathode-ray display that snows perpetually in one corner. We joke about being the only people on the planet to see blizzards in places like Death Valley and the Sahara Desert. Our computer’s the old kind, too. A big tower with monster speakers, a fat display.
    I strap on my bike helmet. Stretch a bungee cord around my scrapbook. Push off. At