by Jodi Kendall
DEDICATION
For Leslee,
my first reader, since the beginning.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
RUNT RESCUE
Hamlet arrived on Thanksgiving Day, all pink and squirmy and perfect in my brother’s football arms, while my dad stacked a pile of smoked bacon on his plate.
“Not a chance,” Dad said, pointing at Tom with a silver fork. “Pigs don’t belong in the city.”
“But Dad—” Tom’s voice cracked. It always broke like that when he was upset but didn’t know how to say it, as if feelings somehow tickled his throat.
“I want it out.”
The sound of the crispy bacon snapping between Dad’s teeth was a gavel. It meant we couldn’t keep Hamlet. It meant she was destined for death.
Tom made the rounds of staring everyone down. We were all squashed around the family table, my parents on each end, and my younger sister, Amelia, next to me—as if she’d sit anywhere else—and my older sisters Ellen and Sarah across from us, where they’d been fighting over bumping elbows and who got a bigger portion of stuffing. But that was before Tom showed up—late, as usual, although this time for a reason that wasn’t just football.
If it weren’t for the piglet, I wouldn’t even look at Tom. Every time he came home from school it was another reminder of how tall us Shillings are destined to be—Tom could reach the ceiling with his fingertips if he tried. I took a bite of Mom’s homemade cranberry sauce, and the sour taste mirrored how I felt deep down inside.
Tom adjusted Hamlet in his arm cradle. She let out a high-pitched, earsplitting squeal that made Sarah scowl and cover her ears with her hands. My brother might have a big old softie heart, but he didn’t know animals. Not like I did, at least. He wasn’t even holding her right. I’d never held a pig before, but I knew I could do it better than he could. I set down the pepper grinder, ready to leap up and take her from him, but Mom met my eyes and gave a little shake no with her head.
“I can’t take the pig back,” Tom said. “I sorta . . . you know . . . stole it and all.”
Dad’s fork clanged against the edge of his plate. “What do you mean you stole it?”
“Well, it was more like taking it. We were at Natalie’s parents’ farm, and there were too many piglets in the litter, and this one wasn’t strong enough to really squirm in and get milk from the mom pig. Natalie said that as the other piglets grow, they bully the runts out of the way until—until . . .” Tom’s voice trailed off dramatically, letting us imagine what might have happened to her. “She was so scrawny and sad and just moments away from death, so I rescued her. Actually, Dad, the real question here is whether or not I’m a hero!”
Ellen glanced up briefly from the pages of her book, a smirk on her face. Mom touched her hand to her chin. “How long exactly have you had the pig, Tom?” she asked my brother.
He beamed. “Twenty-four hours. Snuck her into my dorm room in my football helmet.” At that moment, the piglet shifted in my brother’s arms, letting out a series of oinks and grunts.
Dad pursed his lips together. “Should I be expecting a phone call from the school about this?”
Tom grinned, all teeth and charm. “No worries, Dad. We just left Nat Geo Wild on the TV while we took our midterms, and Hamlet felt right at home. Our hall monitor never noticed she was there!”
Ellen looked up again from her book. “Hamlet?”
“Oh—yeah, that’s her name. My floor voted on it and Hamlet beat out Oinkment, Hogwash, and Kevin Bacon.”
“I would’ve picked Kevin Bacon,” said Sarah.
“I see.” Dad had no trace of emotion in his voice. “Tom, litter runts aren’t supposed to make it. That’s called natural selection.”
“Let’s keep the pig! It’ll be our pet, like Sugar,” Amelia said, her eyes widening at the idea. “It can stay in my room!”
Like Dad would ever let us keep a pig. Didn’t Amelia know that? She was eight years old now, but sometimes I swear she acted like a kindergartener!
“You mean our room,” Sarah said, “and no.” Sarah was fifteen, a freshman in high school, and had more attitude than anyone I knew.
“Josie, don’t feed Sugar table food. You’re turning her into a beggar,” Dad said. I made a face and gently pushed the dog’s wet nose away from my plate. “Take the pig back, Tom. It’s not up for discussion.”
“But I can’t—the farm is two hours away from the city!—and the game tonight!” Tom’s voice rose again.
Dad sighed. He looked at Mom. “Emily—is this something you can help out with? I’m on deadline here.”
Mom was staring at the piglet, as if she wasn’t sure whose side she was on yet. Finally, she shook her head. “I’m not missing the football game, if that’s what you’re suggesting, Stephen.” It’s true—she never missed one of Tom’s games. His college was about thirty minutes away, and while home games were always a big deal, a night game on Thanksgiving was huge.
“Besides. We agreed no work on holidays, deadline or not, remember?” Mom clamped down on a slice of white meat with the turkey tongs, setting it down on my plate. Then she reached for a ladle. “Gravy?”
I don’t even eat meat anymore. It started because my best friend Lucy and I made a bet that I’d go vegetarian until Christmas. She didn’t think I could do it, but I was three months in already, and I wasn’t about to lose forty dollars. Soon I’d need that money for new grips for gymnastics. Plus, I’m no cheater.
“No, Mom,” I said. “I’ve told you a million times, I’m a vegetarian now.”
“You need your protein, honey.”
“There’s protein in beans,” I argued. “At least I think there is. Right, Ellen?” I glanced over at my older sister for confirmation, but she was back to reading again and ignored me.
“The pig stinks. Can I be excused now?” asked Sarah, scowling. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Tom, can’t you just call someone to pick the pig up?” Dad suggested.
“I tried. . . . It’s a holiday. No one’s picking up the phone. Ow! Hamlet! Her hooves are digging into my jersey . . . can I put her down?” Tom always wore his jersey on game day—a superstition or something.
Dad wasn’t ready to give in. “No. Did you post an ad on the internet?”
Tom wrinkled his nose. “You guys got internet after I left?”
I almost laughed. Fat chance of that happening either. We were probably the only family in the city without cable and internet. Dad said that using the “public library’s services” worked just fine for our needs. I exchanged a look with Sarah, who had secretly hacked
into Mrs. Taglioni’s Wi-Fi network next door months ago so she could check her email on the family computer.
Dad rubbed his temples. “It’s Thanksgiving! Ellen, please put the book away. Josie, it’s about time you quit this ridiculous vegetarian bet. No, Sarah, you are not excused until we’re all finished. Amelia—enough with the cranberry sauce already, or you’ll be sick. Can’t we just finish our meal in peace?”
Ellen snapped the book closed. She traced her finger along the bright yellow dragon across the cover and said cheerfully, “I missed the family vote. Are we keeping the pig?”
“We’re NOT keeping the pig.”
Dad’s voice startled Hamlet, and she oinked so loud that Sugar perked up her ears. Animals might not talk, but they can understand feelings just the same, that much I knew. Some things are instinct.
The more I watched the piglet burrow her snout against my brother’s neck, the more I felt bad for her. She was just an innocent little creature. If Hamlet were sent back to the farm, she’d die. But Dad’s rules were firm and final. . . . What was I supposed to do?
Hamlet tried to wriggle out of Tom’s grasp again, her little hooves digging into his arms. I was ready to burst from my seat, but Mom’s watchful eyes held me back for the second time. I didn’t want to get in trouble. I couldn’t get grounded now, not when I just had gotten to Level 5, and my first big gymnastics meet was around the corner.
But Hamlet squealed at the top of her piglet lungs, and it felt like both of us couldn’t take it anymore. She wanted out of Tom’s arms, and I wanted out of this seat. I pushed back my chair, its pinewood feet grinding rails into the carpet, and lifted Hamlet from his arms.
“Geez, Josie,” Tom said. “You’re nearly as tall as I am now. You up for playing catch later?”
I hunched my shoulders and cradled Hamlet close. Like I’d ever play catch with Tom. My palms were calloused enough from learning the new uneven bars routine.
Besides, I couldn’t risk a broken finger.
“Josie’s like a foot taller than Lucy now!” piped in Amelia.
I glared at her. “Not a foot.”
Sarah smirked. “I’m not sure I can call you Shortcake anymore.”
“I call next to hold Hamlet!” Amelia raised her hand in the air.
“No one should be holding the pig.” Dad’s ears now burned a deep red. “Farm animals carry all sorts of diseases.”
The piglet snorted and nestled against the crook of my neck, hiding behind my brown hair. I couldn’t help but smile. I’d seen pigs up close before on a class field trip, and I’d heard the sounds they made, but I was surprised by how Hamlet smelled like fresh cedar chips. She smelled clean.
A tremble roared through Hamlet’s body. Her fine, white-colored hairs stood on end, and I stroked them down, whispering into her twitching ears. “There, there, Hamlet,” I whispered. “Everything will be okay. . . . Now you just sit right here.” I gently placed her down in front of the air vent. She curled into a little half-moon position, her skin turning warm from the shock of heat filtering into our dining room. She was mostly pink in color, with some light gray spots across her back.
“Tom,” Dad started, his voice low and calm. “Go scrub your hands with antibacterial soap and come back here and eat. You need your energy for tonight’s game.” Then he turned to me. “Josie, put that pig in the doghouse out back, clean up, and finish eating with us. Your mother and I will discuss what to do with it when we’re done.”
“Her name is Hamlet,” I said, my shaky words barely audible. “Not it.”
Dad reached for the cranberry sauce. “You shouldn’t name the animal. It’ll only make it harder to say good-bye later.”
A knot formed in my throat. I didn’t argue with him often because it seemed pointless. No one listened to me in this family anyway. I was almost at the bottom of the food chain. Average at everything. Nearly invisible.
“If Tom keeps the pig, I want a horse,” said Sarah.
“You’re not getting a horse.” Mom shook her head. “Our backyard is barely big enough for the grill.”
“And my bike,” added Amelia.
“We could board it—”
“Wait, it’s not my pig,” Tom interrupted, coming back to the table. He took a heaping spoonful of stuffing and said with a full mouth, “I’ve got football!” He said it like we didn’t know. Like it wasn’t always about being a starter for his university team and his whole obsession with the championship season.
Sarah glared at Tom. “Nice earring.”
Tom’s spoon fell from his hand to the carpet. He quickly brushed the longer ends of his hair over his ears. But it didn’t do much. Now that Sarah said it, it was obvious—something round and small sparkled in the middle of his right lobe.
“You got your ear pierced?” Dad fumed.
POUND! POUND! POUND!
The sound was a hard knock against our dining room wall. We knew that sound all too well: our neighbor, cranky old Mrs. Taglioni, always pounds on it when we get too loud.
Dad cleared his throat and said more calmly and quietly, “Let me see that earring.”
Tom picked up his fallen spoon, dusting it off with a napkin. Then he dusted off Dad’s comment by saying, “Whoa, whoa, guys. I think we’re losing sight of the real problem here. What in the world are we going to do with Hamlet? I mean, a pig in the city! Whoever heard of such a thing?”
I stretched out next to Hamlet on the floor, peeled the fleece socks off my feet, and rubbed my toes into the dining room carpet. Even though it was Thanksgiving and I should be giving thanks for everything, inside I just didn’t feel thankful. All I wanted was a break from my family. There were always people in my space and voices arguing in my ears. And the Ohio winter was just starting to roll in. There’d be months and months of shoveling snow from the front stoop, having nothing else to wear but Sarah’s ratty sweaters from last year, and waiting at the bus stop while my lips shriveled up like raisins in the crisp air while all my friends got rides from their parents. Not that I wanted my parents to drive me in our embarrassing beat-up van, either, with its big white stripe and strange rattling noise.
And at Henderson Middle School, I felt like an outsider, too. I only had a few friends from the block who went there, and this year I had just one class with Sully and another with Fernanda. I barely even saw Carlos unless we were hanging out on the stoops. It seemed like everyone at school already had friend groups and I just wasn’t a part of them. How do you make friends with people who don’t want to get to know you?
Outside of school, most of my free time was spent with my gymnastics team, but none of my teammates went to dumpy HMS. They went to fancy private schools, which, of course, we couldn’t afford.
All I had that was just mine was gymnastics—and every year, with every inch I grew, I felt even that slipping away from me. It was getting harder to launch my body from the mat into a perfect glide kip on the uneven bars. I could land a back walkover on the beam, but my balance was off, and the more I worried about it, the more I wobbled. I tried to get stronger in practice, but I only felt more awkward, unable to determine how much power I needed to stretch to reach or leap to land. My body was tricking me, and just when I figured it out, I seemed to grow another inch, and my form turned sloppy all over again. And I wasn’t the only one noticing.
I closed my eyes, trying to listen only to the sweet piglet sounds coming from beside me on the floor. I wouldn’t think about what Coach said. Not now. Not ever.
Hamlet’s body shifted beneath the palm of my hand, her legs stretching out against the heating vent on the wall. She slept a lot like Sugar did, on her side, with her head tilted back. Sugar had retreated to the living room a long time ago. She’d gotten over her initial curiosity about Hamlet. My gaze shifted to my family, sitting around the table. It seemed like they all had, too. If it were up to them, Hamlet would be ham—and that was her destiny if I didn’t stand up for her.
“Mom, Dad . . .” I started, but
I stopped when tears glazed across my eyes. If I told them my idea, I was positive they’d say no. But now that I’d held Hamlet, I felt connected to her. I couldn’t let them get rid of her.
My parents ignored me. Mom cut her turkey up into perfectly sized cubes while Dad took another swig of iced tea. “Hello?” I tried again, more firmly this time, but soft enough that my parents wouldn’t get angry at my tone. “Mom and Dad, please listen to me! She can’t go to a farm that will kill her. She’s only a baby pig. Hamlet has lots of life left in her.”
Dad sighed. “That’s what pigs are for, Josie. They’re raised for meat.”
Hamlet licked my knuckles. “Not this one,” I whispered, leaning over to hug the piglet. Then, with more courage, “I’ll find her a home, okay? Just give me some time, and I’ll find someone who wants her as a pet.”
Mom watched Hamlet burrow against my neck, and her eyes softened. “Stephen, perhaps we should talk about this. Maybe Josie has a good idea?”
“It’s really not,” Ellen said, reaching for a shiny hologram bookmark on the table. “Having a pig in a city isn’t practical. And it’s not fair to the animal.”
“Plus it’s gross,” added Sarah.
“I’m glad I’m not the only rational one in this family,” grumbled Dad.
I felt my heart rate skyrocket, the way it always does when I’m outnumbered in a family vote. I had to do something. Fast. “Mom, Dad, please—just give me until New Year’s,” I blurted. “I’ll find her a home by then. Promise.”
“That’s a whole month away, Josie.” Dad clasped a hand over his heart like the idea of living with a pig was physically painful. Then Dad gave my brother a hard look. “And Tom, you’re not off the hook with that earring. Your mother and I will discuss that later.”
“At least it wasn’t a tattoo,” Tom said, reaching for another slice of turkey with his bare hands. “Turkey, Josie?”
I glared at him. My brother’s the king of changing the subject.
“A whole month outside is much too cold for a baby animal,” said Mom, her hand raised to her chin again. “What about that little nook under the stairs? We could move the bookshelf out of the way, maybe lay down some old newspapers. I’m sure Ellen has leftovers from last weekend, don’t you, Ellen? That would make a nice little temporary home for him.”
