You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

11
There was hardly any time to rehearse. I only had a week to get ready. I was
performing at the 2001 Super Bowl halftime show alongside Aerosmith, Mary J.
Blige, Nelly, and NSYNC. Justin and the rest of his band had special gloves that
shot fountains of sparks! I sang “Walk This Way” wearing a sexy version of a
football uniform, with shiny silver pants, a crop shirt, and an athletic sock on
one of my arms. I was brought to Steven Tyler’s trailer to meet him right before
the show, and his energy was incredible: he was such an idol to me. When we
nished, the stadium lit up with reworks.
The halftime show was just one of the seemingly endless good things
happening for me. I landed the “most powerful woman” spot on the Forbes list
of most powerful celebrities—the following year I’d be number one overall. I
learned that tabloids were making so much money o photos of me, I was
almost single-handedly keeping some magazines in business. And I was starting
to get amazing oers.
At the 2001 MTV Video Music Awards that September, the plan was for me
to sing “I’m a Slave 4 U,” and we decided I would use a snake as a prop. It’s
become an iconic moment in VMAs history, but it was even more terrifying
than it appeared.
The rst time I saw the snake was when they brought it to a little back room
of the Metropolitan Opera House in Manhattan, where we would be doing the
show. The girl who handed it over was even smaller than me—she looked so
young, and she was very tiny, with blond hair. I couldn’t believe they didn’t have
some big guy in charge—I remember thinking, You’re letting us two little
munchkins handle this huge snake…?
But there we were, and there was no going back: she lifted up the snake and
put it over my head and around me. To be honest, I was a little scared—that
snake was a huge animal, yellow and white, crinkly, gross-looking. It was okay
because the girl who gave it to me was right there, plus a snake handler and a
bunch of other people.
Everything changed, though, when I actually had to do the song onstage with
the snake. Onstage I’m in performance mode: I’m in a costume, and there’s
nobody else there but me. Once again the little munchkin came to me and
handed me that huge snake, and all I knew was to look down, because I felt if I
looked up and caught its eye, it would kill me.
In my head I was saying, Just perform, just use your legs and perform. But
what nobody knows is that as I was singing, the snake brought its head right
around to my face, right up to me, and started hissing at me. You didn’t see that
shot on the TV, but in real life? I was thinking, Are you fucking serious right now?
The fucking goddamn snake’s tongue is flicking out at me. Right. Now. Finally, I
got to the part where I handed it back, thank God.
The next night at Madison Square Garden in New York City, just days before
September 11, I performed a duet of “The Way You Make Me Feel” with
Michael Jackson to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of his solo career. In my
heels, I prowled all over that stage. The audience went crazy. At one point it felt
like the whole crowd of twenty thousand was singing along with us.
Pepsi hired me to do commercials for them. In “The Joy of Pepsi,” I started
out as a delivery driver and then wound up in a huge dance number. In “Now
and Then,” I got to wear cute outts from various eras. For the eighties section, I
got made up as Robert Palmer for a version of “Simply Irresistible.” I was in hair
and makeup for four hours, and they still didn’t quite manage to make me
convincing as a man. But in the fties part, I loved dancing at the drive-in. I had
Betty Boop hair. Working in all those dierent genres, I was amazed at how
intelligently done those commercials were.
The rst movie I did was Crossroads, written by Shonda Rhimes and directed by
Tamra Davis. We had lmed it in March 2001, around the same time I was
recording the album Britney. In the lm, I was playing a “good girl” named Lucy
Wagner. The experience wasn’t easy for me. My problem wasn’t with anyone
involved in the production but with what acting did to my mind. I think I
started Method acting—only I didn’t know how to break out of my character. I
really became this other person. Some people do Method acting, but they’re
usually aware of the fact that they’re doing it. But I didn’t have any separation at
all.
This is embarrassing to say, but it’s like a cloud or something came over me
and I just became this girl named Lucy. When the camera came on, I was her,
and then I couldn’t tell the dierence between when the camera was on and
when it wasn’t. I know that seems stupid, but it’s the truth. I took it that
seriously. I took it seriously to the point where Justin said, “Why are you walking
like that? Who are you?”
All I can say is it’s a good thing Lucy was a sweet girl writing poems about
how she was “not a girl, not yet a woman,” and not a serial killer.
I ended up walking dierently, carrying myself dierently, talking dierently.
I was someone else for months while I lmed Crossroads. Still to this day, I bet
the girls I shot that movie with think, She’s a little… quirky. If they thought that,
they were right.
I was a baby, just like the character. I should’ve played myself on camera. But
I was so eager to do a good job that I kept trying to go deep with this character. I
had been me my whole life, and I wanted to try something dierent! I should
have said to myself, It’s a teen road movie. It’s not that deep. Honestly, just have a
good time.
After the movie wrapped, one of my girlfriends from a club in LA came to
visit me. We went to CVS. I swear to God, I walked into the store, and as I talked
to her while we shopped, I nally came back to myself. When I came outside
again I was cured of the spell that movie had cast. It was so strange. My little
spirit showed back up in my body. That trip to buy makeup with a friend was
like waving some magic wand.
Then I was pissed.
I thought, Oh my God, what have I been doing the past few months? Who was
I?

You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

CHAPTER 11
After they put Blue and Korey to bed, Patricia told Carter everything.
“I’m not saying it was your imagination,” he said when she’d
finished. “But you’re always keyed up after your meetings. Those are
morbid books y’all read.”
“I want an alarm system,” she told him.
“How would that have helped?” he asked. “Listen, I promise for
the next little while I’ll make sure I’m home before dark.”
“I want an alarm system,” she repeated.
“Before we go to all that trouble and expense, let’s see how you feel
after the next few weeks.”
She stood up from the end of the bed.
“I’m going to check on Miss Mary,” she told him, and left the room.
She checked the deadbolts on the front, back, and sun porch doors,
leaving the lights on behind her, then went to Miss Mary’s room. The
room was lit by the orange glow of Miss Mary’s night-light. She
moved softly in case Miss Mary was asleep, then saw the night-light
reflecting off her open eyes.
“Miss Mary?” Patricia asked. Miss Mary’s eyes cut sideways at her.
“Are you awake?”
The sheet moved and Miss Mary’s claw struggled out, then ran out
of energy and flopped down on her chest without getting where it
was going.
“I’m.” Miss Mary wetted her lips. “I’m.”
Patricia stepped to the bed railing. She knew what Miss Mary
meant.
“It’s all right,” she said.
The two women stayed like that for a long quiet moment, listening
to the hot wind press on the windows behind the drawn curtains.
“Who’s Hoyt Pickens?” Patricia asked, not expecting a reply.
“He killed my daddy,” Miss Mary said.
That took the air out of Patricia’s lungs. She’d never heard that
name before. Besides which, Miss Mary usually forgot about the
people who floated to the surface of her mind seconds after she’d
spoken their names. Patricia had never heard her link the person and
their importance together.
“Why do you say that?” she asked softly.
“I have a picture of Hoyt Pickens,” Miss Mary rasped. “In his ice
cream suit.”
Her ragged voice made Patricia’s scarred ear itch. The wind tried
to open the hidden windows, rattled the glass, looked for a way in.
Miss Mary’s hand found some more energy and slithered across the
blankets toward Patricia, who reached down and took the smooth,
cold hand in her own.
“How did he know your father?” she asked.
“Before supper, the men and my daddy used to sit on the back
porch passing a jar,” Miss Mary said. “Us children had our supper
early and played in the front yard, then we saw a man in a suit the
color of vanilla ice cream come up the road. He turned into our yard
and the men hid their jar because drinking was against the law. This
man walked up to my daddy and said his name was Hoyt Pickens and
he asked if my daddy knew where he could get himself some rabbit
spit. That’s what they called my daddy’s corn whiskey, because it
could make a rabbit spit in a bulldog’s eye. He said he’d been on the
Cincinnati train and his throat was dusty and it’d be worth two bits
to him to wet it. Mr. Lukens brought out the jar and Hoyt Pickens
tasted it. He said he’d been from Chicago to Miami and that was the
best corn liquor he ever had.”
Patricia didn’t breathe. It had been years since Miss Mary had put
this many sentences together.
“That night Mama and Daddy argued. Hoyt Pickens wanted to buy
some of Daddy’s rabbit spit and sell it in Columbia, but Mama said
no. It was ten-cent cotton and forty-cent meat back then. Reverend
Buck told us the boll weevil had come because there were too many
public swimming pools. The government taxed everything from
cigarettes to bow legs, but Daddy’s rabbit spit made sure we always
had molasses on our cornbread.
“Mama told him the snake that stuck out its head usually got it
chopped off, but Daddy was tired of scratching a living so he ignored
Mama and sold twelve jars of rabbit spit to Hoyt Pickens and Hoyt
went to Columbia and sold those right quick and came back for
twelve more. He sold those, too, and soon Daddy had a second still
and was gone from the house from sundown to sunup and sleeping
all day.
“Hoyt Pickens sat regular at our table every Sunday and some
Wednesdays and Fridays, too. He told Daddy all the things he should
want. He told Daddy he could get more money if he laid up his rabbit
spit in barrels until it turned brown. That meant Daddy had to lay
out considerable and he wouldn’t see his money back for six months
until Hoyt took it to Columbia and got paid. But the first time Hoyt
laid that thick stack of bills on the table we all got excited.”
Something sharp tickled Patricia’s palm. Miss Mary was scratching
her nails against Patricia’s skin, back and forth, back and forth, like
insects creeping across the inside of her hand.
“Soon everything became about the rabbit spit. Once the sheriff
saw what Daddy was doing he touched him for a taste of that money.
Daddy needed other men to work the stills and he paid them in scrip
while they waited for the rabbit spit to turn brown. Banks closed
faster than you could remember their names so everyone held on to
their money, but Daddy bought a set of encyclopedias, and a mangle
for the wash, and the men all smoked store-bought cigars when they
sat out back.”
Patricia remembered Kershaw. They’d driven the hundred and
fifty miles upstate many times to visit Carter’s cousins, and Miss
Mary when she lived alone. They hadn’t been in a long while, but
Patricia remembered a dry land populated by dry people, covered in
dust, with filling stations at every crossroads selling evaporated milk
and generic cigarettes. She remembered fallow fields and abandoned
farms. She understood the appeal of something fresh, and clean, and
green to people who lived in a small, hot place like that.
“Around then the Beckham boy went missing,” Miss Mary said.
Her throat rasped now. “He was a pale little redheaded thing, six
years old, who’d follow anyone anywhere. When he didn’t come
home for supper we all went looking. We expected to find him curled
up under a pecan tree, but no. Some people said the government
inoculation men took him away, others said there was a colored gal
in the woods who churned white children into a stew she sold as a
love spell for a nickel a taste. Some folks said he fell in the river and
got carried away, but it didn’t matter what they said—he was gone.
“The next little boy to vanish was Avery Dubose. He was a tin
bucket toter and Hoyt told everyone he must have fell in one of the
machines at the mill and the boss lied about it. That stirred up bad
feelings between the mill and the farmers, and with so much rabbit
spit around tempers ran hot. Men started showing up at church with
their arms in slings and bruises on their faces. Mr. Beckham shot
himself.
“But we had presents under the tree that Christmas and Daddy
convinced Mama sweet times were here. In January her belly got
tight and round. I was their only baby who’d lived out of three, but
now another baby had taken root.
“They’d never have found Charlie Beckham if that combine
salesman hadn’t stopped his horses at the Moores’ old place and seen
the water from their pump flow thick with maggots. They had to let
that little boy’s body sit in the icehouse for three days to let all the
water drain before he’d fit in his coffin. Even then, they had to build
it extra wide.”
White spit formed gummy balls in the corners of Miss Mary’s
mouth, but Patricia didn’t move. She worried that if she did anything
to break the spell this thread might snap, and Miss Mary might never
speak like this again.
“That spring, nobody could afford to plant nothing,” Miss Mary
went on. “Nobody had nothing in the ground so Daddy and Hoyt had
to spend big to bring corn all the way from Rock Hill, and they had
all their money tied up in the rabbit spit barrels. The banks didn’t
care about no scrip and they started taking everyone’s tools, and
their horses, and mules, and no one could do nothing. Everyone
waited for those barrels.
“The third little boy to go missing was Reverend Buck’s baby and
the men got together on our back porch and I heard them speculate
through my window about one person or another, and the jar kept
getting passed, and then Hoyt Pickens said he’d seen Leon Simms
around the Moore farm one night, and I wanted to laugh because
only a stranger would say that. Leon was a colored fellow and
something had happened to his head in the war. He sat in the sun
outside Mr. Early’s store, and if you gave him candy he’d play
something for you on the spoons and sing. His mother took care of
him and he got a government check. Sometimes he helped people
carry packages and they always paid him in candy.
“But Hoyt Pickens said Leon liked to wander at night and had been
creeping in places he shouldn’t. He said this is what happens when
people come down from up north and spread ideas in places that
weren’t ready for them. He said that Leon Simms sat outside Mr.
Early’s store and licked his lips over children and took them to secret
places where he slaked his unnatural appetite.
“The more Hoyt Pickens talked, the more the men thought he
sounded right. I must have nodded off because when I opened my
eyes it was full dark and the backyard was empty. I heard the train
pass, and a hoot owl carrying on out in the woods, and I was slipping
back to sleep when the land lit up.
“A crowd of men came in following a wagon and they had lanterns
and flashlights. They were quiet but I heard one hard voice talking
loud, giving orders, and it was my daddy. Next to him stood Hoyt
Pickens and his ice cream suit glowed in the dark. They pulled
something off the back of the cart, a big burlap bag we used for
picking cotton, and they lifted one end and something flowed out wet
and black onto the dirt. It was Leon, all tied with rope.
“The men got shovels, and they dug a deep hole underneath the
peach tree and dragged Leon to it and he must not have been dead
because I heard him call my daddy ‘boss’ and say, ‘Please, boss, I’ll
play you something, boss,’ and they threw him down in that hole and
piled dirt on top of him until his begging got muffled, and after a
while you couldn’t hear it anymore, but I still could.
“When I woke up early there was mist on the ground and I went
out back to see if maybe I’d had a bad dream. But I could see the
fresh-dug dirt and then I heard a noise and saw my daddy sitting real
quiet in the corner of the porch and he had a jar of rabbit spit
between his legs. His eyes were swollen red and when he saw me he
gave me a grin that came straight out of Hell.”
Patricia realized that was why Miss Mary let the peaches rot. The
memory of the fruit’s sweet juice running down her chin, its meat
filling her stomach, now tasted sour with Leon Simms’s blood.
“Hoyt Pickens left before the rabbit spit turned brown,” Miss Mary
croaked. “Daddy took the wagon to Columbia but he couldn’t find
who’d been buying from Hoyt. All our money was in those barrels
but no one in Kershaw could buy the rabbit spit at the price Daddy
needed and he drank up most of it himself over the next few years.
Mama lost my brother child and Daddy sold his stills for eating
money. He never worked another day, just sat out back, drinking that
brown rabbit spit alone because no one would come by our place
knowing what we had buried there. When he finally hanged himself
in the barn it was a mercy. When hard times came a few years later
some people say it was Leon Simms that poisoned the land, but I’ll
always know it was Hoyt.”
In the long silence, water overflowed Miss Mary’s twitching eyelids
and ran down her face. She licked her lips, and Patricia saw that a
white film coated her tongue. Her skin looked thin as paper, her
hands felt cold as ice. Her breathing sounded like tearing cloth.
Slowly, Patricia watched her bloodshot eyes lose their focus, and she
realized telling the story had set Miss Mary adrift. Patricia started to

After meticulous planning, I orchestrate my first “accidental” encounter with Emily Clark and Campbell Reed from Thornfield Estates. The aim is to introduce myself not as the dog-walker but as Eddie’s girlfriend, subtly shifting their perception of me from an outsider to an integral part of their circle. Walking Adele, Eddie and my shared dog, gives me the perfect opportunity. Upon spotting me, their reactions are reserved, obscured by large sunglasses, but the surprise is evident when they learn of my relationship with Eddie.

Our conversation swiftly moves from the streets to Emily’s house, where the dynamic begins to change. As a guest, I navigate their curiosity and skepticism with careful charm, aiming to win them over without appearing boastful. The scenario unfolds with Emily and Campbell’s cautious interrogation about my sudden closeness with Eddie, which I manage with a balance of modesty and assertiveness. This tactful engagement earns me an acceptance hinted at by Emily’s enthusiasm and a reluctant congrats from Campbell, signaling a tentative welcome into their fold.

Despite this, my interaction with them at Emily’s kitchen counter reveals the complex social undercurrents of Thornfield Estates. Their shared history, marked by the absence of Bea and Blanche, hints at a depth of relationships and tensions I’ve yet to fully grasp. The juice drinking and the casual talk mask an intricate web of friendships, rivalries, and secrets that I’m only just beginning to perceive. My newfound acceptance by Emily and Campbell is a step into their world, yet as we discuss the past, I’m reminded of the intricate social layers that distinguish insiders from newcomers, challenging my sense of belonging in this community.

In Chapter 11 of “The Beasts of Tarzan,” after burying the loyal Kincaid’s cook, Tarzan relentlessly continues his pursuit of Rokoff, now certain that his wife, Jane, is once again in the Russian’s clutches. The jungle presents Tarzan with numerous challenges, including confusing trails and a severe storm that wipes away any tracks left by Rokoff’s party. For a week, heavy rains and winds hinder Tarzan’s progress, making him feel lost in the jungle for the first time. He worries for Jane and their son, imagining the horrors they might be enduring at the hands of Rokoff.

Determined to locate Rokoff, Tarzan decides to head northeast, hoping to encounter natives who could provide information. He soon finds a village, but the inhabitants flee, fearing him due to Rokoff’s warnings of a “white devil” and his demonic pack. Tarzan captures a young warrior who, under duress, reveals that Rokoff had indeed passed through, turning the locals against Tarzan with tales of terror. The village chief, M’ganwazam, sees an opportunity to claim the reward for Tarzan’s death and shifts from hostility to hospitality, hoping to trap Tarzan.

Tarzan’s instincts alert him to danger, and he narrowly avoids an assassination attempt in his hut, realizing too late M’ganwazam’s duplicity. An old woman, Tambudza, whom Tarzan had previously shown kindness, warns him of the plot on his life, explaining that M’ganwazam is eager to collect a reward by killing him. She reveals that Rokoff hasn’t traveled far and offers to lead Tarzan to him. Unseen by them, the chief’s son, Buulaoo, overhears their conversation, likely planning to use the information against Tambudza.

This chapter, rich with pursuit and intrigue, highlights Tarzan’s struggle against both human treachery and the merciless jungle, further complicating his quest to rescue his family. The introduction of local politics and betrayal adds depth to the narrative, showcasing Tarzan’s reliance on both his primal instincts and the unexpected kindness of strangers.