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

the end of the driveway, I meet up with Bailey. She’s on her bike, too, ponytail sticking out the back of a pink Razor sports helmet. Her bike is pointed in the opposite direction. We live about three miles from the school in one direction, three miles from CountryWood in the other.
    â€œWhere you going?” Spotting the scrapbook, she gets all bouncy. “
Oh
, to see Sid and George. Let’s ride together.” The smile slides off her face. She’s noticed I’m pointed in the opposite direction.
    â€œUh, I’m not going any place special.” Is that a lie? “Where are you going?” A dumb question. She’s wearing her cheerleading outfit. Green shirt, purple shorts. Pom-poms in the bike basket.
    She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are glued on the scrapbook strapped to the rear rack of my bike.
    â€œHey, gotta go.” Rounding the corner toward CountryWood, I look over my shoulder. Bailey’s still sitting in the middle of the road, watching me. I wave. She doesn’t wave back. I feel like a traitor, but I don’t have time to go back and unlie.
    I pedal fast, flying past corn and soybean, oat and alfalfa fields. The countryside is a giant chessboard with barns and silos as chessmen. Oak and ash trees mingle overhead, a green umbrella. Sunshine squirms through the leaves, stippling the road. Yellow freckles on blue asphalt. Pollen floats around me, minuscule gliders riding airwaves. Blue jays and cardinals dart through tree limbs; blackbirds and doves line up on power lines.
    I put on the brake to slow down. Dark evergreens, stiff and bristly, signal that I’ve arrived at CountryWood. Planted before the houses were built, they’re monsters now. Sentries guardingthe entrance. A long white PVC fence stretching along either side guards the rest. The castle wall.
    I look at my watch. Right on time. I pull into line behind trucks and vans at the gate waiting to enter. Carpet cleaners. Plumbers. Utility repairmen. Security people inside a small building interrogate drivers, talking through sliding glass panels. Long yellow gate arms raise and lower like magic, permitting entry to those who pass muster.
    The outsiders.
    To one side of the security hut is another gate. I figure out it’s a special one for cars with green stickers on the windshields. Drivers wave a plastic card over an electronic eye and the gate arm raises for them. No security guard. No interrogation. No having to pass muster.
    The insiders.
    Finally, I reach the front of the line. “Yeah, hey. I’m Sammy Smith and I have an appointment with Mr. Beaumont.”
    â€œIt’s
Chief
Beaumont.” A white-haired woman wearing thick glasses scrutinizes my bike. Then me. “You from town?”
    â€œNo—yes—I mean, I live in between. Halfway between town and here.”
    â€œAnyone lives outside this gate is a Townie.” She hands me a piece of orange paper, the size of an index card. A strip of Scotch tape is stuck to the top. “Put this temporary pass somewhere so it’s visible. Usually that’s on the windshield.”
    I stick the temporary pass on the handlebar post. “How’s that?”
    â€œMake sure you don’t lose it,” she says, eyes skeptical. “You have to turn it in when you leave.” She points a finger at a door and a sign that says SECURITY . “Can’t park your bike on the sidewalk or the grass. Leave it in the parking lot.”
    Geez, even bikes have to follow rules.
    I knock on the door that says SECURITY . A reedy voice bellows, “It’s open.”
    Chief Beaumont could be a blocker for the Green BayPackers. He’s big.
Really
big. A supersized pretzel folded up in an office chair. His skin’s the color of milk chocolate. His uniform is khaki brown. A dark-green design is stitched on one pocket, the silhouette of a tree. A badge pinned to his other pocket says CHIEF . He wears a ball cap with the