Mr. Ham points at her head. “You need to lose your baseball cap.”
“It’s a hat, not a ‘baseball cap.’” She shakes her head. “Can I just leave it on?”
“Sorry, Piggy, but you have to take it off,” Mr. Ham says.
Lia gives him a glare. I’m not sure what’s more offensive to her—to call her Ophelia or Piggy.
He lets out a big sigh. “I didn’t choose the festival’s uniforms.”
She looks at him for a long moment before taking off her headband and cap, liberating her hair. She finger combs it, slaps on the pig-ears headband, and stares at him. “Happy?”
Mr. Ham glances at me. “Your turn.”
Rushing toward the door in the back, I look over my shoulder to make sure Lia isn’t punching his nose—nope. After entering a utility room filled with mops and buckets and who knows what else, I switch t-shirts and slap on the ridiculous pig-ears headband. There’s no mirror, but I’m sure I look ludicrous.
I step out, throw my t-shirt inside the box, and extend my arms to the sides, Bugs Bunny style. “Ta-da!”
Lia raises a fist in the air. “Go Palooza, Piggy,” she says sarcastically, then turns her attention to the man at her side. “Does he look piggy enough to you, Mr. Ham?” She wiggles her brows.
He looks at me, then at her, and shakes his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but I surely don’t appreciate the sarcasm.”
Tense silence follows.
He takes a breath. “All righty. Look for Ms. Caroline—she’ll show you around.”
We drag our feet toward the exit, and when we’re about to leave, he clears his throat, making us spin back around.
He gives us a serious face. “Make an effort and show the right attitude.”
“Sure, Mr. Ham,” I say.
“Yeah, okay,” Lia says.
I watch her walk through the door and leave.
“Did you do something to her?” Mr. Ham asks.
I sigh and tell him about school and how we were forced to volunteer.
He steps toward me and pats my back. “You two seem like nice kids, just try to keep a good attitude. And don’t forget to smile!”
I force a grin. “Uh, okay.”
“All righty.” He pats me again, making me stumble a bit. “Go get your girlfriend, Piggy!”
I frown at him. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
“I know love when I see it,” he says, dragging the words out like Matthew McConaughey.
“You’re dead wrong.” I leave before he says another word.
Outside, I search for Lia and find her talking to a dark-skinned woman with curly black hair.
I stride toward them. “Hey, Lia.”
Lia gives me an “I’m not loving this place” nod.
The woman gives me a huge grin. “You must be Kiev.”
“That’s me,” I say.
“I’m Caroline, your festival coordinator.” She offers her hand.
I clasp it like a businessman, but her grip is way stronger than mine.
She points at Lia. “I was telling Ophelia about your programmed activities.”
Lia winces. “Just Lia, please.”
“Okay, Lia and Kiev,” Caroline says. “Follow me.”
As she guides us, we pass by food stands.
“Weird,” Lia says.
“What?” I ask.
She points at a stand. “Deep-fried bacon pizza? Really?”
Her brown eyes illuminate with sunshine, and I can’t help but stare at them like an idiot. I glance around and point at a different stand. “That one beats yours. Bacon-ham ice cream.”
Looking in that direction, Lia chuckles. “What’s next? Bacon-wrapped bananas?”
“Are you coming?” Caroline calls us up ahead.
“We’ll be there in a second,” I call back.
Lia takes off her pig-ear headband, scratches her hair, and slides it back on.
I motion to her head. “You miss your cap?”
“Hat,” she corrects me with a smile.
“Looks like a baseball cap.” I put on an imaginary one and throw a pitch toward her.
She catches the imaginary baseball. “And … you’re out!”
“So you know baseball.” I incline my head. “Do you play it when wearing your baseball cap?”
She gives me a dismissive wave. “You are hat blind.”
“I’ve been told I have poor eyesight,” I say, remembering Cole’s words.
Then she goes on explaining the mystery of the differences between a hat and a cap, which to me they sound the same. Man, I really like her now that she’s relaxed.
“Kids!” Caroline shouts.
“Duty calls,” I say and pace toward her.
“I’m not a freaking kid,” Lia says as she joins me.
A minute later, we get to Caroline.
“Your first station will be at the Whack-a-pig game,” Caroline says.
I straighten myself up to realize we’re standing by a machine with little tunnels. Inside each of them, there’s a pig. “Oh,” I say. “Is this like Whack-a-mole?”
“That’s right, Captain—” Lia starts, forces a smile to Caroline, and adds, “Captain Kiev.”
“All right.” Caroline tucks a black ringlet behind her ear. “Your mission will be to watch kids from hurting themselves with the hammers.” She points at them with a manicured hand.
Lia shoots up a hand, as if asking a teacher permission to speak.
Our activity coordinator cocks her head, a bunch of ringlets falling over her shoulder. “Yes, Lia?”
“We’re talking about little kids, right?”
Caroline nods, ringlets flying in all directions. “Also, kids your age.”
Why does she insists on calling us kids? Oh, well. Another life mystery. “Really?” I ask.
“Yes.” Caroline brushes her hair, putting it into place. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
After she leaves, swaying her hips, I turn my attention to Lia. “You wanna play before dangerous kids our age show up?”
She rubs her hands. “I’m so gonna beat your ass.”
“Bring it on.” I step to the machine and grab a hammer. “Ready?”
She grips one, and we sword fight, hammer style. As she moves, I admire her … woman parts, her face—everything her.
“How come we didn’t do this before?” I ask.
“Play Whack-a-pig?” She knocks her hammer against mine.
I lower my hammer. “Not this-this. Hang out.”
She looks up at the clear blue sky for a moment. “If I remember correctly, you were Mr. Topper.”
“That’s right, and you were Miss Talk to the Hand.” My hand touches her arm, as if it has a life of its own. I yank it back right away when I realize what it’s doing.
She seems stunned.
My face’s temperature raises ten degrees. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
We freeze, looking at each other, until she raises her hammer. “Ready for round two?”
From the corner of my eye, I spot Caroline. I put my hammer away. “We should concentrate on our duty,” I say and avert my eyes toward the coordinator.
Lia puts her hammer back in place. “This is going to be boring.”
I look around at the semi-deserted festival and then smile at her. “Looks like no dangerous kids will show up.”
On cue, a megaphone-enhanced man’s voice announces, “Welcome, y’all, to the Fifteenth Annual Piggy Palooza Festival. The doors officially open now!” I recognize him—Mr. Ham.
Lia points at something over my shoulder. “You were saying?”
I whirl around to spot a tsunami of people walking through the entrance.
What follows is difficult to describe. For some reason, teens love whacking pig heads with their hammers. Or whacking each other.
“Hey, don’t do that,” I say to a guy built like a football player, as he slams the side of the Whack-a-pig machine.
Dropping
his hammer, he turns to me, his shadow covering me like a total solar eclipse. “Or what?” he asks.
“Or you’ll be expelled from the premises,” Lia says, motioning her hand from his feet all the way up to his head—he’s that tall.
He glares down at her. “Says who?”
“Dude, it’s against the festival’s rules,” I point out, trying to salvage the situation.
He pushes me, and I stumble back.
“Let’s just leave, Bo,” a tiny girl says to him. “This game’s boring.”
“But—” he says.
She grabs his gigantic hand. “Win a stuffed teddy bear for me.”
He grins at her. “Sure.”
After they leave, I let out a huge sigh.
“Against the rules?” Lia asks.
“I was…” I scrunch my face for a moment. “It wasn’t the best way to save a girl in distress.”
“Actually,” she says, “you were the one in need of saving.”
The tension inside me goes away, as I chuckle. “You’re a real lady in shining armor.”
An hour later, Caroline comes by. “Are you guys ready for your next activity?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say in a firm voice, as if she were the general of festival activities.
“You’re such a nerd,” Lia whispers.
“Follow me.” She spins and strolls ahead.
As we follow her, I ask Lia, “Do you know what this is about?”
“Yep. I know.” She gives me a wide smile. “It’s a surprise involving bacon.”
“Bacon? Here? No, I don’t believe you,” I say in the most sarcastic way. “Can’t hardly wait.”
Chapter Sixteen
Lia + Salt
Caroline points me and Kiev in the direction of the pie contest where we’re going to be judging. I follow to where her wide-set brown eyes are looking. The judging station is some rinky-dink wooden table—not very well put together. I recognize a blonde already there, sitting with her back rod straight and appearing excited—Sophie. I didn’t know she was going to be at our station. At least I’ll know the other person, then.
Kiev nods his head at Caroline, and I furrow my eyebrows but still nod along with him. Caroline’s black ringlets sway, her grin motioning us forward, like we’re her own personal little piglets that she’s trying to get into formation.
“This station doesn’t seem bad,” Kiev whispers.
I adjust my pig ears because the tips of the stupid headband are digging into the sensitive areas behind my ears. “It really doesn’t. We get to eat pie, and choose the winner.” Easy enough.
“Are those bugging you?” Kiev asks.
“What?”
“Your headband.” He taps his own headband for emphasis.
“A little.” Actually, more than a little.
“Here.” Kiev reaches deep into his pocket and pulls out a white napkin, tearing off two medium-size pieces. He then proceeds to fold them into small squares. Stretching his hand out for the edge of my headband, he lifts it and tucks one of the pieces in. I just stare at him.
“Don’t look at me like that.” He laughs.
I shift my gaze to his pocket. “Well, apparently, you just carry napkins around with you.”
He places the other piece on the other side of my head where the slight ache is still twinging. “Not usually, but I grabbed some extra paper towels from the bathroom, because this shit was digging into my skin.”
I grin because he doesn’t seem to be one that usually complains, that would be me. “Thanks,” I say.
“Anytime. Just say the word”—he pats his pant pocket like it’s filled with jewels, which it kind of is since my head’s not throbbing anymore—“and I’ll whip you up a napkin.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
We head over to the wooden table that’s actually plywood put together. Thank goodness the seats aren’t made of the same crap—they’re gray metal fold-up chairs, gleaming with rust.
“Hey, guys.” Sophie’s pig ears are in place as she waves, ecstatically. Eyebrow makeup back on today, but not an over-the-top creation.
I take a seat beside her. “I didn’t know you had this station, too.”
“I personally requested it when I knew Barnabas was going to enter the contest, but now I regret it.” She sighs. “I wasn’t going to rig it or anything. They just hand us pies with numbers, so I wouldn’t know which one is his anyway.”
Honestly, I would have rigged it. But there’s nothing to rig because Barnabas is going to win this.
Kiev leans over the table, and I think it may break under his upper body weight. His index finger scans the area as he counts without any sound coming out of his mouth. “His chances are one in ten.”
“I’m glad I don’t know which pie is his,” she mutters.
I would have replied with bacon apple pie, but there seems to be quite a few of those with that label.
“Look, Sophie, about Friday night, I’m going to let you know—”
A loud crackly clatter interrupts my Barnabas confession that he should be giving her. “Welcome one and all for today’s pie contest at the Fifteenth Annual Piggy Palooza Festival,” a rough growl of a voice booms through the portable speaker. The man’s body is round like a ball, skin red like a tomato, and his hair falls in gray waves to mid-back but balding on top—interesting.
He calls the contestants to come and take a seat, and I see Barnabas saunter forward, wearing his terrible jeans with a tight, black, long-sleeve shirt. His thumbs are pushed through finger holes at the ends of the sleeves that he cuts himself. I don’t know how he’s not burning up in all that gear—the sun is like fire today.
Sophie claps fiercely but suddenly stops, probably remembering she’s mad at him. By the lovelorn look on her face, I’m sure it won’t be long for her to cheer up when she finds out her love may not be a one-way street.
Barnabas tilts his head up to look at me, and I just pretend like I don’t know him, so it doesn’t look too conspicuous that we’re friends. His gaze tilts to Sophie, and he chews the edge of his lip before glancing to the crowd—again, interesting.
The man on the speaker calls out each of the ten contestants’ names, and most seem to be older women. When he gets to Barnabas, there’s a loud ruckus from the crowd with cheers from his younger sisters.
“Barnabas!” Channery yells.
“Barnabas! Barnabas! Barnabas,” Dara chants, both her fists pumping in the air.
Dara doesn’t stop chanting, so Mrs. Lao has to calm her down, or she’ll keep on going. I see Mr. Lao in the audience, and he looks like an older version of Barnabas, just take away all the black clothing.
“You ready for this?” I lean over and ask Kiev.
“I’ve been ready.” He rubs his hands together in anticipation.
“Since we learned about this five minutes ago?”
“Exactly.”
It’s weird how Kiev and I are getting along so well. I can’t help but notice the details of his face. I always knew he looked good, but was never attracted to him. My heart’s steady beat quickens, so I glance back toward Barnabas, who’s watching Sophie again.
The speaker makes a horrendous squeal before the man speaks again. “We are going to start with pie number one now.”
An elderly Hispanic woman with thin gray streaks in her hair cuts three slices and places them each on paper plates. She hurries over to us like her life depends on it. I want to say, let’s calm down here—it’s only pie. Only pie! I believe the winner gets a twenty-five-dollar gift card to Wal-Mart—it isn’t some five-hundred-dollar prize or anything. The people probably spent the same amount of money making the pie.
The first pie is bacon pecan. Sophie seems to think it’s okay after she takes a bite. I don’t like pecans, so I may be biased here, because it has an odd taste. Kiev eats it like a pig, which goes well with the theme.
I hold up the number four out of ten for my score. Kiev raises up a ten, and Sophie has a si
x. Next pie is a bacon apple pie. When I get the slice, I observe it really well to see if it’s Barnabas’s. Damn, I’m not sure if it’s his.
There’s a little bit too much cinnamon, so I give it a five. Kiev has a ten again. Sophie has an eight.
The next four pies are all right, which consist of two bacon apple pies, a pumpkin which is actually decent, and a bacon cherry pie. My scores are six, six, eight, and seven. Kiev throws up another ten at the bacon cherry pie, as he did for the others.
“Is that the only number card you have?” I whisper at him.
“What? All the pies have been amazing so far.” He grins.
Rolling my eyes, I get prepared for the next bacon apple pie. It appears Barnabas should have been a little more creative in the pie department, but it doesn’t matter because I know his will taste the best. I would have known by the flavor alone if the others had been his.
The Hispanic woman brings us pie number seven with new forks again. Apparently, the forks can be tainted from previous pies. I rolled my eyes when she said that the first time, and she feels the need to repeat it each time, but I just give her a fake happy smile because this really isn’t so bad.
There are two other bacon apple pies at the table after this piece, and one other labeled bacon pie that must be filled with just bacon? Not really sure.
Lifting the white plastic fork, I glance at Sophie who has already taken a bite. She seems to like it at first, but then her chin starts to quiver. As she stands up and tries to run for something, she knocks down the metal chair with a clank.
“Trashcan,” Sophie mumbles as her eyes peer around. She doesn’t make it to one, though. The pie comes hurling up, and my face scrunches in disgust.
“You okay?” Kiev and I ask at the same time.
“No!” she shouts.
I turn back to the pie and examine it. It doesn’t look that bad. Kiev appears skeptical with stiff shoulders but places a bite in his mouth, chewing slowly. His shoulders relax, so maybe Sophie just might have been crazy.
Placing a large bite in my mouth, I taste the sweetness of the apples, like a slice of heaven. But then the bitterness hits me like a blade to the throat—the thing seems to have absorbed all the salt from the ocean and placed it into its hidden layers to deceive the taster. In this case, me.
Bacon Pie Page 14
