by Marilyn Kaye
“Well, Miss Wilhern,” the doctor said. “Everything about you checks out fine. In fact, you’re in excellent health. You’re completely normal.”
“Normal?” I asked skeptically, and I touched my snout. Just in case he hadn’t noticed.
“Well, there is that, of course. It’s a very interesting anomaly. But other than the fact that your carotid artery runs through it, your snout doesn’t have any impact on your general physical health. You just became overheated, and that was what caused you to faint. There’s no reason for you to stay in the hospital.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Shall I send your family back in?”
“No thank you, Doctor.”
Having spent a few seconds in the presence of Jessica Wilhern, he smiled in complete understanding and left. I took off the hospital gown and put on the clothes I’d worn that morning, with one exception. No scarf. What was the point now?
There was another knock on the door. I wasn’t surprised—I was sure my mother would find her way back here once the doctor had left the corridor. “Come in, Mom,” I said in resignation.
Only it wasn’t my mother. A man in a trench coat slipped in and pulled a notebook out of his pocket. “Penelope, just a few questions, please.”
I groaned—he was obviously a reporter. “Oh, can’t you just leave me alone?” I began, and then I stopped. There was something very odd about the way he was looking at me. Not in shock, terror, horror, fear, disgust—not even in sympathy. He was interested. More than interested—he was fascinated by me.
“What do you want to know?” I asked cautiously.
“How does it feel?”
“I feel fine.”
“No, I mean your … your snout… excuse me, I’m sorry, your nose … whatever you call it. How does it feel?”
“That feels fine, too.”
“But, but… what’s it like? What does it do? How do you smell?”
I took an experimental sniff of my wrist. “Like Chanel Number Five.”
The reporter grinned and jotted that down.
“Excuse me,” I said, moving past him and out the door. My parents came hurrying down the corridor toward me. My mother was carrying a big silk scarf she must have just bought in the hospital gift shop.
“This way, darling, we’re going down to the delivery entrance.” She started arranging the scarf around my face but I pushed her hand away.
“No, I think I’ll go out the front door, like normal people. How’s my hair?”
For the first time in my life, I had rendered Jessica Wilhern speechless. I took advantage of the fact.
“Mom, Dad, I have to tell you something. Something very important.”
My father looked alarmed and Mother clutched her throat. “What, Penelope?”
“I don’t want to live on an island.”
While they absorbed that information, I walked right past them and out the front door. Cameras clicked and a yell went up from the gang of reporters who rushed to converge at the bottom of the steps.
“Penelope, how did you manage to keep yourself a secret for twenty-five years?”
“Were you chained up in an attic or a basement?”
“What are you going to do now?”
By now, my parents had recovered from my announcement and were at my side. “Can’t you leave her alone?” my mother pleaded.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I said. “I can handle this.”
“Penelope, do you have anything to say to the world?”
I thought for a minute. “Hi.” That was when I spotted Annie, on her Vespa, waiting in front of the building. She waved the spare helmet toward me.
I went down the steps. “Later, guys, okay?” The reporters actually parted like the Red Sea for me, giving me the space to get to the street and to Annie. Slipping on the helmet, I climbed on the back of the Vespa.
I’d thought it was all over for me. I was wrong. It was all beginning.
Chapter Twenty-three
Annie had given me a scrapbook, and the first few pages were already filled with things she’d pasted into it. Unlike the old Wilhern family scrapbook, this one was all about me. There were photos, fan mail, a cute little caricature drawing from an artist. I’d been out of the hospital and back in my little rented room for almost a week, and the building manager had started dumping my mail at my door since the mailbox downstairs was too small.
Sitting on the bed, I spread out the clippings and other stuff I needed to put in the scrapbook. PENELOPE SAYS “HI,” declared the headline that accompanied the photo of me leaving the hospital. There were follow-up articles from the same newspaper—PENELOPE DENIES RUMORS OF ABUSE (“I don’t blame my parents—they did what they thought was best for me”), SALES OF CHANEL NUMBER FIVE SKYROCKET (“This is what Penelope smells like!”), NEW HYBRID SNOUT-SHAPED TULIP NAMED PENELOPE. On the gossip and entertainment page, there was a picture of me with my arms full of shopping bags (THIS LITTLE PIGGY GOES TO MARKET!).
When I finished pasting in the photos and clippings, I started opening the stack of mail. There were invitations—one was to a fund-raiser given by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, another was to a gay rights benefit (“Penelope came out of her closet, you can come out of yours”), and a request to use my name for a half-girl, half-pig Penelope doll.
There was a rap on my door followed by a call of “It’s me!”
“Come on in, Annie,” I called out.
She looked fabulous—hair piled on top of her head, gold glitter minidress, sky-high heels. We were going to a disco, another first for me. And not just any disco—we were actually going to try to get into the most exclusive club, where models and playboys hung out. “Ready?” she said.
“Just about.” I hopped off the bed and checked my reflection in the mirror. My outfit was pretty hot, too, red and slinky and cut-down-to-there.
“Have you seen this?” Annie opened a magazine she was carrying. Under the heading “Celebrity Central,” there I was, on the same page as royalty and movie stars.
“Thanks.” I put it in my scrapbook pile, and we left the room. As usual, outside the building there were a couple of young preteen girls wanting autographs.
After I signed and they took off, Annie said, “You’re going to have to start disguising yourself, like movie stars with sunglasses. Maybe you could invent noseglasses.”
I felt sort of embarrassed. “I don’t know, Annie. Sometimes I feel like a fraud.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re making all this fuss about me, and it’s just because of my nose.”
Annie gave a nonchalant shrug. “So what? Your nose is a part of who you are.”
“But that’s just it,” I said. “It isn’t a part of who I am. This isn’t my face. It’s the curse.”
She’d heard the whole story by now, of course. She knew all about Great-great-great-grandfather Ralph and Clara and the witch, how I’d been hidden for twenty-five years, how I needed a man “of my own kind” to marry me for the curse to be broken.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m going to spend my whole life just waiting for someone to lift this curse.”
Annie laughed. “Hey, don’t knock it. Your nose is going to get us into the hottest club in town. And there should be a lot of cool guys in there.”
“But how will I know if any of them are blue bloods?” I wondered worriedly.
“Girlfriend, why don’t you just try to relax, have a good time, and not worry about finding a husband tonight?” Annie suggested.
“If we get in,” I reminded her. “You’re so pretty, you could get into any chic place, but me …”
“Are you kidding?” Annie laughed. “Penelope, you’re a star! I’ll get in tonight because I’m with you!”
Sure enough, the bouncer at the door of the club was lifting the velvet rope and beckoning us forward. The people who were waiting to get in cheered and applauded. Maybe Annie had a point. This wasn’t me—but at least no one was running
away from whoever I was.
Inside, the club was spectacular, huge, all purple and silver and flashing lights. The music was blasting, and all over the place were beautiful people, dancing and drinking and laughing. I recognized several faces from movies and TV, and I was sure I had a goofy expression on my face as I looked around in awe.
“I guess I should act more casual,” I screamed into Annie’s ear. “I know it’s not supposed to be cool to stare at famous people.”
“Why not?” Annie screamed back. “They’re staring at you.”
She was right. As my eyes adjusted to the crazy lighting in the club, I could see that a lot of people, even some of the celebrities, were staring right back at me. And with the same awestruck expression that I felt pretty sure was plastered on my face.
We made it over to the bar, where we ordered our drinks. The bartender refused to take our money. “It’s an honor to have you here, Penelope,” he said.
For someone who’d been living in solitude for twenty-five years, all this attention was difficult to handle. Annie understood this, and we moved around the dance floor to a table in a corner, where I could be less conspicuous. I did notice a couple of very hot guys looking in our direction, though. Annie saw them, too.
“Not bad, huh?”
I nodded. “I think they’re checking you out.”
“How do you know they’re not checking you out?” Annie countered.
It was sweet of her to say that, but these guys didn’t seem the types who were interested in a pig, not even a celebrity pig. One of them looked like a surfer dude, blond and tan and lanky. He wore a tank top that showed off sinewy arms. The other one had long dark hair, a diamond stud in one ear, and looked like a rock star. I thought I’d died and gone to cute-guy heaven.
“They’re coming over,” Annie declared happily. “I hope you’re feeling flirty.”
“I don’t know what to say to them,” I said nervously. “I don’t have any flirting experience.”
“Well, I know this sounds corny and like something a mother would say, but just be yourself.”
I wanted to laugh. “Annie, my mother would never say that to me. How can I be myself when I’m not myself?”
“Sorry, that’s a little too existential for me,” Annie said. “Hello, boys. Have a seat or two.”
They pulled over chairs and joined us at the table. “So, how’s it going?” Surfer Dude asked.
“It’s going fine,” Annie replied. She gave me a look that said speak.
“Yes, it’s fine with me, too.”
The Rock Star spoke. “I’m Steve. This is Mike.” He looked directly at me. “And you’re Penelope.”
Desperately, I tried to think of something more clever to say than yes. “Oink,” I replied.
It was pretty feeble, and Annie rolled her eyes at me, but the guys laughed as if I’d been sparkling and witty. After a few minutes more of chatting, I realized why. They were both utterly boring, wit-free, and conversationally challenged. Annie took action.
“Hey, Penelope, look at those girls who just came in. They look so familiar. Is there a top-model convention in town?”
The boys leaped up from their chairs and took off. I searched the crowd in the direction Annie had been looking. “I don’t see any top models.”
“That’s because they’re not there. I was just trying to get rid of them.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Didn’t you think they were stupid?”
“Well, sure,” I said. “But the dark-haired one, I think he kind of liked me.”
Annie looked at me thoughtfully. “Did you like him?”
“Not particularly, but…” I remembered what Wanda had once said. “Beggars can’t be choosers. And pigs can’t be picky.”
“You’re not a beggar, Penelope. Or a pig.”
“Easy for you to say,” I replied. “You’re beautiful.”
Annie didn’t try to deny it. “I’m pretty,” she said. “You’re unique.”
“Because I have the face of a pig. Which has nothing to do with who I really am.”
Annie groaned. “Okay, who are you, Penelope? And don’t give me that story about your great-great-greatgrandfather and the witch again. I’m asking who you really are, deep inside where it counts.”
“How should I know? I told you, I won’t know who I am until I’m married and I become myself.”
Annie studied her beer. “I almost got married once.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “I was engaged. Joe was a nice guy. Smart, decent looking. He had a good job, he wasn’t an alcoholic or a druggie or anything like that. And I wanted to be married. You know why?”
“Because you had a pig face?” I joked.
She didn’t laugh. “Yeah, in a way. I thought I was nobody, and I had to get married to be someone. You know, Mrs. So-and-So. Some guy had to want me.”
“What happened?” I asked her.
“I got smart, just in time,” she said. “I looked at friends who got married, and I realized that they were the same people they’d been when they were single. And I realized something else, too.” She smiled. “I was already someone, I’d been someone all along. And I wasn’t in love with Joe, which meant I’d be using him if I married him just to change myself. Which wouldn’t happen anyway because I didn’t need to change. Does that make sense?”
“It’s a little transcendental,” I told her. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“The thing is,” she said, “you have to stop thinking about what you will be, and just be.”
“Now you’re going way over my head,” I said. “Why don’t we have a couple more beers and talk about something easy?”
Chapter Twenty-four
This wasn’t the kind of assignment Lemon particularly liked. Finance wasn’t his thing, and covering the announcement of a merger didn’t sound like much fun. But it was considered a prestigious assignment at his newspaper, and lately the editor had been rewarding him with so-called plums like this. Discovering Penelope had finally given him a notable name in journalism circles.
It was incredible. Within a week, the girl had gone from being a well-kept secret to a celebrity. Penelope was everywhere. Paparazzi followed her, and any photographer lucky enough to get a candid shot was pulling in a fortune. Her views on everything from fashion to politics were sought and reported. Just that morning, Lemon had seen a health-and-fitness magazine with a picture of Penelope on the cover and a banner reading SHE’S NO PIG! HOW PENELOPE KEEPS HER FABULOUS FIGURE.
He joined colleagues from other newspapers who had already gathered for the press conference at Vanderman Industries. They greeted him with a warmth and respect he’d never known before—something else he could thank Penelope for. If he ever saw her again. By now, she was being courted by the big-time papers, the high-circulation mags, and rumor had it that 60 Minutes, Dateline, and 20/20 were in a three-way struggle over who would get the first televised interview. Penelope was now out of his league. He just hoped she was happy.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen of the press, I am Edward Vanderman Senior.”
Lemon grinned. It wasn’t that common for a man to use “senior” in his name, unless he was trying very hard to distinguish himself from his “junior.” Sure enough, the younger Vanderman was sitting on the podium with some other men in suits.
The father continued. “I have called you here today to announce the merger of Vanderman Industries with Clifton Enterprises, which will become known as Vanderman Enterprises. We are awaiting the approval of federal agencies, but of course, as a publicly traded company, our main concern is the reaction of our shareholders.”
Blah, blah, blah, boring, boring, boring, Lemon thought. He actually thought longingly of the days when he was working on Elvis sightings, or tracking down an image of the Virgin Mary on a microwave oven.
“According to Wall Street analysts, the impact of this merger on the stock exchange …”
Lemon tuned out. He was more interested in looking at Vanderman Junior and contemplating what might be going on in his head. They hadn’t had any contact since the ad for Penelope’s pictures was placed. He wondered how Edward felt, now that the world finally knew he’d really seen a girl with the face of a pig and hadn’t had a nervous breakdown. Had he finally won his father’s approval and respect?
And how did he feel when he saw Penelope’s face everywhere? Lemon remembered what Edward had been like that first day they met in the police station. The poor fellow had been shaking; he’d been in a state of shock. What was it like for him now? Did he start shaking every time he passed a newsstand? Or had he gotten used to her looks, the way others had? Lemon couldn’t say he liked Edward, but there was just something so pitiful about him.
Lemon was feeling kindly and generous that day. He thought that maybe he could offer the poor boy a chance to impress his father today.
A smattering of unenthusiastic applause told him that Papa Vanderman had finished his announcement. Now he was calling for questions. Lemon’s hand shot up.
“I have a question for Edward Vanderman Junior.” Vanderman looked surprised, but he nodded at his son, who jumped up from his chair and joined his father at the microphone.
“Yes?” he asked.
Lemon winked at him surreptitiously. “It’s my understanding that you are responsible for bringing Penelope Wilhern to the attention of the media and the public at large,” he intoned solemnly. “And there are rumors that you may have had a relationship with the so-called pig-girl. Could you comment on this?”
“You know, I’m glad you asked that question,” Edward said. “I’m furious, I’m outraged by the attention the media has given this—this creature. The woman is a freak, she’s a monster, she belongs in a zoo! Putting her on your front pages—you’re frightening small children!” He was getting so excited he didn’t seem to notice the hostile rumble that was spreading through the room.
Lemon looked around at his colleagues and experienced some trepidation. They seemed to be taking Edward’s criticisms very personally. Not that journalists were all that sensitive or susceptible to hurt feelings. They were reacting to Edward’s comments the way parents would react if someone insulted their children. Didn’t Edward have any idea how beloved Penelope had become? Couldn’t he see the response he was provoking? Any minute now the reporters were going to start looking for things to throw at him.
