The Unlikely Story of a Pig in the City

by Jodi Kendall

  I didn’t dare correct Mom that Hamlet was a her not a him. I liked the idea just fine.

  “I’ll move the bookshelf!” I volunteered.

  “Josie, do you even know what pigs eat? And who’s going to pay for its food?” Dad crossed his arms over his chest. “Sugar’s dog food is over thirty dollars a bag.”

  I bit my lip. I hadn’t thought of that. I’d been saving my measly eight-bucks-a-week allowance money for a while now, because I knew it was coming—the day Mom and Dad would make me quit the gymnastics team because we couldn’t afford it anymore. Then I’d have to start paying dues on my own. I didn’t want to quit. Gymnastics was everything to me.

  “I have allowance money saved,” I said. Plus, I was this close to winning the bet with Lucy, so that’d be a little extra. Hamlet snuggled against my leg. “I can help pay for her food.”

  “You’re wasting your breath, Shortcake.” Sarah’s mouth was full of food, but I could hear her attitude crystal clear. “It took us six months to convince Dad to adopt a dog. He barely even pets Sugar, and she’s like ancient now.”

  “I prefer Sugar’s company from afar.” Dad scooped up mashed potatoes with his spoon. “And pigs are dirtier than dogs. Josie, please go wash your hands—and besides, I’m not sure an eleven-year-old is ready for the responsibility of rearing a farm animal—”

  “I’m almost twelve,” I broke in. “And don’t forget I’m the one who walks Sugar most of the time. It’s just a month. Then Hamlet will be gone. I promise!” I crossed my fingers behind my back.

  “Actually, thirty-eight days to be exact,” corrected Ellen, the know-it-all. “That’s over a month away.”

  More time to convince them why we should keep the piglet.

  Perfect!

  “I help walk Sugar!” Amelia protested, plunking a fork into her heaping pile of fluff stuff. It’s what we call this dish that Mom makes with chopped grapes and walnuts and whipped cream, and it’s everyone’s favorite side dish on Thanksgiving. So if you don’t scoop your serving right off the bat, no one’s saving it for you. That’s how it is in big families. You have to take what you can get.

  I scratched behind Hamlet’s ears. She was just a runt piglet trying to stay alive in a family with a ton of kids. We had that in common.

  Dad sunk into his seat. He made eye contact with my mom. “Emily?” he said, without stating the question.

  She smiled at him, then at me. “I think it’s a good idea.”

  Dad sighed. He stared for what felt like forever, sizing me up like he does football players at Tom’s games. “Okay,” he finally said.

  From across the room, Tom gave me an air high five. I grinned.

  “We saved Hamlet! We saved Hammmmmmlet!” Amelia cheered. “We’re going to be the coolest family on the block!”

  “Doubt that,” grumbled Sarah, pushing her blond hair from her face.

  “This will be a disaster,” predicted Ellen.

  “We trust you, Josie,” Mom said, nodding my way.

  “And whatever the pig does is on your shoulders, Josie,” Dad warned. “You’re responsible for everything she needs: exercise, food, cleaning. And I mean everything. If that pig so much as sniffs my slippers, I’m turning her loose.”

  I nodded. Dad would never turn her loose in the city—he’s much too sensible for that. But he would give the pig away to a bacon farm, and I had exactly thirty-eight days to convince my parents why we should keep her.

  My heart swelled with excitement. This was gearing up to be the best holiday season of my life, even though I was still stuck in central Ohio, hadn’t nailed my back tuck yet, and felt squished like a sardine in this tiny jam-packed house.

  But what I did have was Hamlet.

  I’d never thought about having a pet pig before today—and suddenly, I couldn’t imagine life without her. I couldn’t wait to bathe and feed her, introduce her to my friends, walk her around the yard, and snuggle up on the couch watching holiday movies.

  The little piglet nestled up against my neck, burrowing beneath my hair. I could feel her racing heartbeat begin to slow down as I gently stroked her head.

  She was the cutest thing I’d ever seen. How bad could a piglet be?

  “No problem, guys,” I said. “You won’t even notice she’s here.”

  Chapter 2

  THE CASE FOR KEEPING HAMLET

  I told myself I wouldn’t think about what Coach said at practice, but her words stung then, and they hurt now, even a week later when I was back at school.

  The only one holding you back is you.

  But it’s not me! Or, at least, anything I can control. It’s not like being outrageously tall was part of my grand plan or anything. All I’ve ever wanted was to be a great gymnast, not some freakish giant.

  I slammed my locker shut, and a face appeared behind it.

  “Welcome back to school!” he said.

  “Sully! You scared me!” I exclaimed, nearly dropping my math book. Sully lived two townhouses down from me—just past Fernanda and Carlos’s place—and we’d been close friends for as long as I could remember. He was one of the few kids on my block that went to HMS.

  “Ahhhh,” he said, studying me. “You’re doing that thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “You know. The wrinkled forehead thing. When you’re thinking too hard about something.”

  I felt my cheeks burn hot. I wasn’t about to blab to Sully about my gymnastics problems. But I did have something to tell him. It seemed like everyone—except my family, of course—had left town this year for Thanksgiving break, and I’d been waiting anxiously to introduce Hamlet to my friends.

  “Do you have basketball practice today?” I asked, and Sully nodded. “Okay. Meet at the Three Stoops after. Loop the bike chain, so everyone knows, okay?”

  The Three Stoops got its name back in fifth grade when Carlos and Fernanda moved in next door to me, and we all became friends because our three townhouses in a row—Sully, me, and the twins—all had identical redbrick steps.

  Sully and I were two of the only people we knew who didn’t have cell phones. Years ago, when we first started our regular meetings on the stoop, we started a secret way of communicating to our group: looping an old, rusty pink bike chain that once belonged to Sully’s older sister around the front gate. Now whenever we see it, we spread the word to our friends on the block that someone has called a meeting.

  “A meeting? Why?” Sully squinted his eyes as if he was trying to read my thoughts. I grinned. I wasn’t about to give this secret away. I wanted to see his face when he met Hamlet for the first time.

  “I have a surprise.”

  “What is it?”

  “It won’t be a surprise if I tell you!”

  Sully threw me one of his classic goofy grins as he slowly backed away toward the Science lab. “You got it!” he said, pretending to shoot a ball into a basket, before slipping into the classroom.

  The school day dragged on like it always does during the holiday season, when all you want is a magical snowstorm to sweep through so you can stay home, drink hot chocolate with peppermint sticks, and watch all your favorite Christmas movies. I sat alone on the bus home and squeezed my eyes shut, visualizing the Level 5 balance beam routine, pretending I was step, step, stepping down the length of it, until finally the bus pulled to a stop on my street.

  The bus doors squeaked open, and a cool beginning-of-winter breeze swept across my open neck as I hopped off. The air this time of year always feels crisp against the skin, with a sharpness that makes you wide-eyed and alert. Soon the snow would be rolling in, and the brisk winds would blow for months on end.

  I turned up the street and fiddled with the zipper of my puffy winter jacket, the bluish-purple one that Sarah wore all last year. I looked like a giant blueberry wearing it and there was a hole in one pocket, but it wasn’t like Mom was going to buy me a new coat when this one fit me just fine.

  Fallen, dried leaves gathered on the steps
to our house, and a breeze sent them spinning. I call it a “house” but it’s not a real one, not in the normal way that you see in movies, with a big grassy lawn and driveway. Houses in this part of the city are long and thin, like matchbooks stacked right alongside one another, with two or three levels to each one. We all have tiny backyards and shared walls and fences, which was why Dad was always saying, “Quiet down, kids! There are humans around!” His catchphrases drove my sisters and me bonkos, but we also knew what my dad knew: too much noise, and we’d be dealing with Mrs. Taglioni next door. Ugh.

  Inside the house, Hamlet was practically screeching until I leaned over the old plastic baby gate we’d put across the nook and picked her up. Her heartbeat raced faster than mine at gymnastics practice! She wriggled for a moment before her muscles relaxed, until finally she rooted her snout right into my warm scarf. It tickled, sending me into hysterical laughter. It seemed like Hamlet knew just how to make me feel better.

  I stroked my palm across the soft hairs along her back and whispered, “I know you don’t like being left alone, but sometimes we just have things to do.” Hamlet’s ears twitched, listening. “And you’re going to have to keep it down with all your squealing, or Mrs. Taglioni will come pound on our door. Trust me, neither of us want to deal with her! Okay, ready for a walk?”

  I reached for her leash. Well, technically it was Sugar’s old ratty leash. It was another thing Hamlet and I had in common: hand-me-downs.

  We slipped out the back door. But as the screen door slammed behind me, I tripped over Amelia’s bicycle, let go of Hamlet’s leash, and totally wiped out on the patio. Hamlet danced across the yard as I got to my feet, kicking my little sister’s bike tire. Ugh! She was going to get a mouthful next time I saw her!

  “Ahhhhh, c’mon Hamlet,” I said, reaching for her leash. But each time I got close to catching it, she galloped across the yard, until finally she scrambled up the porch steps and discovered an old potato chip bag—probably Amelia’s—and nuzzled her snout right into it.

  “Not a chance! Gotcha!” I snatched up her leash and tugged her back. “There’s no way you’re still hungry. You ate all the corn in your bowl! Now, let’s go.”

  Hamlet squealed and oinked in protest, pulling and rooting her snout deeper into the bag until all I could see was her ears sticking out. I carried her out the back gate and down the little alleyway, past the garbage Dumpsters and recycling bins, until I was back on the main street outside my house.

  I peeked down the block—no sign of Sully, the twins, or Lucy yet, and the bike chain wasn’t looped on Sully’s front gate. Hamlet was so happy to be outside, she sniffed at the air with her tongue half-sticking out of her mouth.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, finally giving in to her squirming, and set her down on the sidewalk. I glanced around nervously; there were only one or two taxicabs driving down the street, and no one seemed to be paying attention to the pig. “But don’t tell Mom and Dad. I’d be in so much trouble if they knew I was walking you down the block!”

  A shiver passed over her body, but she pranced down the sidewalk, her hooves going clip clop against the cement. It made me laugh. She was more graceful than I’d been lately in my floor routines. Happier, too.

  As we walked up and down the block, a smile crept across my face. Lucy, my best friend from my gymnastics team, was going to FREAK. OUT. She lived around the corner from us, but she’d been at her grandmother’s house all weekend for Thanksgiving and was one of my friends who went to private school during the week, so I hadn’t seen her in days.

  She spotted me first, calling out, “Hey, Josie!” from down the street. Then, “Wait—what is that?!” She ran up to us and dropped to her knees. “A piglet! How do you have a pig?! Awwwwww, it’s soooooooo cute! I can’t believe this!”

  Hamlet jumped into her lap and licked her face, making Lucy giggle. “I’ll explain everything at the Three Stoops meeting!” I told her, giving the piglet’s leash a gentle tug. “Bike chain’s not up yet—want to walk her for a bit and loop back?”

  “Sure!” Lucy said.

  Since I was saving the piglet details for the group, our conversation shifted to gymnastics. It was usually my favorite thing to talk about, but lately I found myself wanting to avoid it.

  “Have you . . . thought about what Coach told you?” Lucy asked, quickening her pace to keep up with my long stride. I felt my face flush, even though it was like forty degrees outside. Lucy was as best as best friends could get. She could read me like a book.

  But still, I wasn’t ready to talk about it.

  “Um—what?” I mumbled, watching the streetlight turn from yellow to red. We both came to a stop at the intersection. I began to hum “Jingle Bell Rock,” hoping she’d drop the whole conversation.

  “Oh, c’mon, Josie.” Her dark hair was flat ironed today, and she smoothed down her part with a palm. “The back tuck thing? You can’t get frustrated. Then you’ll never nail it.” She smiled easily. “Mind over matter, you know?”

  Lucy was quoting Coach. Coach always said that.

  I promised myself I wouldn’t cry about it, so I fought back the tears.

  I wasn’t going to break that promise. No way.

  “Yeah. I know,” I said.

  Lucy probably heard the quiver in my voice, but she didn’t push the issue. We walked in silence for the next block. I lowered my eyes to the sidewalk, avoiding the cracks in the cement.

  Hamlet trotted alongside us. Another breeze swept through, making her shiver. “Oh, Hamlet! Here, I’ll warm you up,” I said, lifting the piglet into my arms.

  We walked past the library, around the big church on the corner, and down the block. By the time we circled back to the Three Stoops, Sully, Carlos, and Fernanda were waiting on the cement steps.

  Carlos was in the middle of a story—he was always talking about something!—but stopped short when he saw us. “Josie!” he exclaimed. “What in the WHAT?!”

  They all jumped to their feet and suddenly everyone was talking at once. Hamlet galloped right up to the Three Stoops like she was one of the gang, nestling into Fernanda’s polka dot coat, while the questions fired my way, one right after another.

  “Her name is Hamlet,” I told my friends. “She’s a runt. Tom saved her from his girlfriend’s farm.”

  “She’s sooooo little,” cooed Fernanda.

  I nodded. “She’s only a few weeks old, but boy, does she have some appetite! I feel like I’m constantly feeding her.”

  “What does she eat?” asked Carlos.

  “Mostly milk right now. I’m using one of Amelia’s baby doll bottles! And we picked up some dry pellet food for her over the weekend, but since she’s so young, I have to soak it with milk until it’s super mushy.”

  “Awwww, she’s sure SOME PIG!” said Lucy. She was quoting Charlotte’s Web, one of our favorite books. I grinned. Being with Lucy was always so carefree and easy. I felt lucky that she was on my gymnastics team, but life would be even better if we went to the same school.

  But as Lucy moved to stand next to me, the smile vanished from my face. My little sister, Amelia, was right—I was practically a whole foot taller than Lucy now, and standing side by side in front of all our friends made my height seem weirdly obvious. I hunched my shoulders and sat down on the stoop next to Carlos.

  “I heard pigs are really smart,” said Carlos. “Oh, hey, cool! Her tail uncurls when you scratch her back, right on her spots.”

  Sully spun his baseball cap around. “I can’t believe your parents are letting you keep a pig.”

  “Ugh, they’re not. . . . That’s also why I called a meeting. I need your help.”

  “Help for what?” asked Fernanda. “Ack—Hamlet! She’s getting tangled in my hair!”

  Her brother laughed, reaching for the piglet’s collar and pulling her back. “Ohhhh, we’ve got a slobbery one here, guys.”

  I smiled, remembering the moment I got to hold Hamlet for the first time, and how she couldn’t s
top licking my hands, and how all I wanted to do was stare at her adorable snout and into her big brown eyes.

  “I promised my parents that I’d find Hamlet a home by New Year’s Day, but I want to keep her,” I explained. “So I have about a month to convince them why that’s a good idea.”

  “Hmmm.” Fernanda tapped her chin.

  “Can I take a picture of her?” Lucy asked. “My gran won’t believe this when I tell her!”

  Hamlet’s eyes were half-closed and her tongue flopped out of her mouth a little, which reminded me of Sugar when she sunbathes too long. But Hamlet wasn’t hot—it was much too cold out for that. She was just happy.

  “Sure.”

  Lucy pulled her cell phone out of her back pocket and snapped a picture of Hamlet. The great thing about Lucy is that she did it casually and quickly instead of rubbing it in my face that I didn’t have a phone.

  It’s not like we were poor or anything. The Shilling household was just full. My parents carefully considered every purchase during their weekly budget meeting in the living room. “To protect our future,” they told us. I believed them. It’s just how things were. If I wanted something badly enough, I saved my allowance money for it.

  “So, you guys,” I continued, “I need to open up a new Case File.”

  Sully’s eyes widened, the way they always do when a new case is opened. He wants to be a police detective when he grows up, and he’s always investigating all sorts of things in the neighborhood.

  “Wait! Wait!” he said, reaching into his backpack. He retrieved a little spiral notebook with a pencil tied to the wire with a rubber band, flipping to a new lined page. At the top, he carefully wrote out: “THE CASE FOR KEEPING HAMLET.”

  “Perfect.” I grinned. With all five of us thinking on this, it would be a piece of cake to convince my parents why Hamlet should be our new pet.

  “Wait a sec,” said Carlos, reaching for the colored pencil tucked behind his ear. He took the notebook from Sully, drew a quick sketch of a pig at the top of the page, and handed the notebook back.