The Unlikely Story of a Pig in the City

by Jodi Kendall

  The song’s opening notes floated across the gym. I stretched my arms high above my head, as if catching the music in my palms. Here we go. Stay tight. Reach high. I leapt into my first straddle jump, pointing my toes.

  So far, so good. The dance choreography came easy today. It was the tumbling pass I needed to hit. I felt my eyes shift from my fingertips to the team, their eyes locked on my movements. Coach studied me hard, her knuckles raised to her chin.

  The only one holding you back is you.

  I ran three steps and punched into a tight front tuck, flipping forward. “Reach up! Release and STICK!” Coach shouted, and I unwound my body into the standing position, feet pounding the floor, giving me too much bounce.

  “Snap—and stand up! UP, JOSIE!”

  The music trilled on. My nerves were getting the best of me. I sashayed into a leap. The new tumbling skill was still another thirty seconds way, but my mind was already preparing for it. I hit each standing jump and arm movement with precision. I pointed my toes. Spun my full turn. Kept my chest and chin lifted high.

  I can do this.

  I pranced toward the corner of the floor and turned to face its center. Five seconds of music passed. Five seconds to catch my breath.

  I didn’t let myself think about Coach not being there ready to spot me. I only thought about what my body needed to do. I pumped my arms and ran, then lifted my left knee up, propelling myself into a strong roundoff. As soon as my feet hit the floor, I stretched high and back, arms lifted, body tight.

  I felt free. I felt FIERCE.

  It wasn’t my power that surprised me this time. It was my control.

  The back handspring was surprisingly solid. I squeezed my muscles and kept long and lean until my feet hit the floor again. It was almost too easy. I could’ve stopped myself on the landing, but I was so strong that I just SKYROCKETED upward into the air, and without even thinking it through, I tucked my knees to my chest, feet rotating over my head, and threw myself backward into the tuck.

  “Look, look, LOOK!”

  I looked for the floor, squeezing my body tight. Once I saw the flash of gray, I released the grip on my knees. The landing was solid, and I kept tight as I lifted my arms above my head, sticking it.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  I nailed it. I totally nailed it, for the first time by myself, ever.

  The music ended with me stretching out into a big lunge, hands in front of my chest, fingers curled, my chin tilted back. The sound of cheering reached my ears. I looked over at the team. Coach had a huge grin on her face as she clapped along with the girls. Lucy was jumping up and down.

  I smiled so big my cheeks hurt.

  “Nicely done, Josie,” Coach said, nodding in approval. She’d never said I’d nicely done anything before.

  I raised my eyes to the bleachers, searching for my dad. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was typing on his laptop. He didn’t even notice that the biggest moment of my life had just happened in this very room.

  I walked over my team. “Whoa, Josie, that was ah-MAZING,” Lucy whispered in my ear.

  But I hardly heard her. My dad was here—and he hadn’t even watched. I blinked back the tears and sat down on the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees while the other girls took their turns.

  After practice, we sat in silence for most of the drive home. Dad’s cell phone kept ringing over and over, but the van didn’t have Bluetooth—of course—so he couldn’t answer it. It just rang and rang. Even though I wanted to chuck it out the window, I didn’t.

  “Can I turn off the volume?” I asked Dad after the fourth call in five minutes.

  Dad glanced my way. “Sure,” he said, but his voice had a worried quality about it.

  I turned toward the window. Even though it got dark super early in the winter, at least the city was lit up from lampposts and streetlights, and I could study the passing buildings and try not to think about how betrayed I felt inside.

  “So, how’d practice go?” Dad said after a few minutes.

  It was my greatest workout ever, I wanted to say. Sour words came out instead.

  “You were there, weren’t you?”

  “Watch your tone, Josie.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I need new grips.” It was the only thing I could say out loud without crying.

  “Grips?”

  “Yeah. You know, for the uneven bars?”

  Dad cleared his throat. “How much do grips cost?”

  “I dunno. Forty dollars? Maybe fifty? There are different kinds.” The stoplight turned red, and Dad slowly pressed the brake, bringing us to a full stop. An uncomfortable silence filled the air. “Forget it,” I sighed, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll see if Lucy has old ones I can use.”

  The light turned green, and we started driving again. “What’s the latest with finding Hamlet a home?” Dad asked me lightly, changing the subject.

  Like I wanted to talk about Hamlet right now, especially with him. I tucked my chin into my scarf. “No news.” My words garbled from behind the soft fabric.

  “I’m firm on our deal, Josie.”

  “Yeah, Dad. New Year’s Day. I know.”

  He gave me another hard look. “I’m not sure I like your attitude tonight.”

  I knew I should stop snapping at him, especially since I wanted to convince him that we should keep Hamlet as a pet, but I couldn’t help it tonight. All I could think about was that moment I looked up into the bleachers, hoping he saw me land my back tuck for the very first time without a spotter at my side, and saw that he wasn’t even paying attention to my routine.

  It’s like that one little moment was poisoning everything good that had happened today, and I couldn’t forgive Dad for it. I’d have given anything to turn back time, just to look up at the bleachers and see Dad’s big smile and a thumbs-up.

  “Did Mom tell you that Ms. Coburn is coming over for dinner on Sunday?”

  “Yep, Dad. Mom told me.”

  Ms. Coburn was Dad’s boss, and Mom had been prepping us on the Big Boss Dinner all week. Use your manners, Mom had instructed us. Sarah and Ellen, no fighting. Amelia, no feeding Sugar scraps under the table, and Josie, whatever you do, make sure Hamlet is secured in her Cave!

  Later that night, after I showered and did my homework, I made a bottle of milk for Hamlet, let the piglet out of her Cave, and snuck her into the girls’ bedroom. Amelia was already out cold in the bottom bunk, Ellen was downstairs reading a library book in the living room, and Sarah sat at the corner desk with headphones in her ears and a small desk lamp above her textbook, so it wasn’t like anybody noticed.

  I lifted Hamlet onto the ladder steps as far as I could, and it seemed as if her legs knew just what to do next. With only my hands gently supporting her, she pressed her hooves onto the rungs and climbed onto the top bunk. I quickly followed with her bottle of milk in hand, and snuggled up next to her with the covers lifted to our chins.

  As I fed Hamlet her milk and felt the gentle thump of her heartbeat against my skin, the heaviness I felt inside began to lift. The piglet oinked softly into my ear as she nestled against my chest, like she was telling me everything was going to be okay, even though it didn’t feel like it. I petted her head, and she slowly closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep.

  I rested my head on top of hers and stared out the window, where the streetlights twinkled in the darkness, and snow began to fall lightly from the sky. The first snow of the year always feels magical, like there’s this electricity buzzing through the air and anything can happen. But not this time, not this snow.

  I shifted my gaze to the closed bedroom door, where faint horizontal pencil marks had been carved across the paint with various dates and names, marking each of our heights as we grew. I stared at the little dash mark next to my name and the last time I was measured, on my eleventh birthday. A sour tang filled my mouth as I imagined turning twelve and Mom’s cheerful voice announcing, “Let’s get your birthday measurem
ent!” and Tom teasing, “She’s too tall for the door now, Ma!”

  I couldn’t fight the tears any longer. I curled closer to Hamlet and she rubbed her snout against my neck, softly oinking, and I cried until my pillow was soaked from my quiet sobbing and my exhausted body sunk into the sheets.

  Chapter 7

  TREE DAY TRADITIONS

  The next day I came home to a house smelling of cinnamon and baked apples. I dropped my backpack and gymnastics bag on the floor and checked on Hamlet quickly before walking to the kitchen, where Mom stirred a wooden spoon over the stovetop. She didn’t even notice me walk in.

  Invisible Josie. Typical.

  “Um, hi,” I said, pressing my palms on the countertop and boosting myself up.

  “Oh! Josie! Sorry, I was just thinking about something. How’s it going?”

  “Fine. I’m glad it’s Friday.”

  I hadn’t told Mom about what happened the other day with Dad, but I knew she sensed tension between us because she’d been hovering at bedtime the last few days.

  You sure you’re okay, Josie? she asked the first night.

  Anything you want to talk about, Josie? was the second night.

  Last night, she actually climbed up the bunk bed ladder—which she never does anymore—and planted a big kiss on my forehead. “Are you worried about Hamlet, JoJo?” she asked quietly.

  I just nodded, because I was worried about Hamlet, but I was worried about lots of other things, too. “She’s a nice little pig,” Mom said, smiling. “Remember how Lou’s mom said it was good for Hamlet to hang out with other animals?” I nodded again. She leaned forward onto my down comforter, lowering her voice. “Well, don’t tell your father, but I’ve been letting Hamlet loose in the house sometimes before my afternoon shift at the Community Center.”

  “Really?” I grinned.

  “Really. She follows me all around the house, right at my heels like a puppy.”

  “Yeah.” I hadn’t been able to stop smiling. “She gets attached to people like that.”

  “She does seem to have a good heart.” Mom had planted another big kiss on my forehead and said, “Night night, sweetie. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

  But come to think of it, I hadn’t asked why, I was so consumed with imagining Hamlet exploring the house while I was sitting in Language Arts class.

  But now that I was home from school the next day, I was curious. Big Day?

  “What’re you doing?” I leaned toward the open pot, sniffing. “Ohhhhhh, it’s apple cider! Can I have some?”

  Mom frowned. “You know I don’t like you girls sitting on the counters.”

  “But there’s no place to sit in here,” I protested, waving my arms around our tiny kitchen. We didn’t have bar stools, like at Lucy’s place. Mom reached for a ladle, scooped steaming cider and mulled spices out of the pot, and poured it into a thermos. She spun the top on nice and tight and handed it to me. The warmth of the thermos felt good against the cracked blisters on my palms.

  “How was gymnastics practice?”

  I unscrewed the top of the thermos and gently blew cool air into it. “Pretty good.”

  “You thanked Lucy’s mom for the ride . . . ?”

  “Yes, Mom. It was no big deal.” Lucy’s family gave me rides all the time, so it really wasn’t. Besides, we had worked hard on vault today, so we had lots to talk about after our workout.

  “I CAN’T FIND IT!” yelled a voice from upstairs.

  Mom turned toward the stairwell and yelled back, “KEEP LOOKING!” Then she glanced my way before sprinkling some nutmeg powder over the pot. “Your hair looks cute.”

  “Thanks. The Level Seven girls taught us how to do fishtail braids.” I twisted the top back on the thermos and pressed my lips against it, tentatively taking a sip from the hole at the top. The sweet, warm tang of apples and cinnamon burst across my tongue. I started to pull an arm out of my coat, but Mom stopped me.

  “Keep your coat on,” she said with a knowing smile.

  “Why—what’s going on?” I looked at her suspiciously. Tom’s football game was tomorrow, so it couldn’t be that. A series of loud oinks reached my ears, and I felt my face twist in horror. “No, Mom, not Hamlet—”

  “No, honey. Not Hamlet, don’t worry. Although she’s been making quite the racket, so I think she needs a walk.” Mom turned off the stove and poured the rest of the cider into her own large travel mug. “It’s Tree Day!”

  I felt my face light up. Tree Day wasn’t a national holiday or anything, but it was one in the Shilling household. It’s the day we cut down a Christmas tree from a nearby farm and decorate it in our living room.

  I jumped off the counter. “Yay! Where is everybody?”

  “Dad and the older girls went to shovel the van out. It’s parked a few blocks over, so we have about ten minutes. One of Amelia’s mittens has gone missing again. Have you seen it?”

  “The purple striped ones? Those are mine.” I threw my hands in the air. “Ugh! She’s always taking my stuff without permission and then losing something. If Millie just learned to put things back where they belong. . . .” I exhaled, releasing my frustration with my breath, the way Coach had been teaching us. It was Tree Day, one of the best days of the year! I couldn’t be annoyed with my little sister today. “Fine. She can borrow my mittens. My hands are plenty warm now.” I held up my hot thermos. “I’ll go take Hamlet out now.” I emphasized the words, so Mom would see how responsible I was being.

  “Great, thank you, Josie.” Mom walked toward the stairway, calling over her shoulder, “FIVE-MINUTE WARNING! Millie, grab Josie the old red mittens!” Mom moved to her purse resting on the hall table and pulled out her white wool hat. “Take Sugar with you, okay, Josie?”

  Hamlet wiggled as soon as she saw me round the corner. The lower half of her body was tucked beneath the unfolded Sports section of City Centennial, so she looked like a rustling newspaper. She oinked happily, and I reached down while she jumped up on her hind legs. “Hi, Hammie. I’m happy to see you, too. Ah ah ah! No jumping.” I shifted the baby gate to the side. She nestled her warm body against my legs, snout lifted eagerly toward my thermos.

  “No way, Hamlet!” I yanked my arm away, out of her reach. She pushed her way against me again, snorting, jumping on my legs. She was not only hungry, she had energy to burn off! “Careful, Hammie!” I said. “It’s hot cider. Now let’s get your leash. . . .”

  Even though we live in a bustling city, the beginning of winter can bring a quietness with it, which makes the world seem like it’s on pause. By this time of year, the trees are barren of their leaves, and the plants seem to fall asleep.

  A thin blanket of fresh snow coated our patio set. The black of Amelia’s bike tires now looked white, and I was careful to watch my step for the garden hose, which I couldn’t see on the ground anymore, but I knew it was around here somewhere. Sugar padded around the yard off leash, her snout pressed down, as if she was suddenly interested in what might be hiding beneath the layer of snow.

  I followed Hamlet and Sugar, just listening to the soft crunch of my boots on the frozen dead grass and pretended I was walking on the balance beam, heels angled in and toes pointed out.

  Step, step, step—Ta-da!

  I raised my right arm high above my head. I had just two weeks until our team gymnastics meet. Practice your posture every single day, Coach had told us. Shoulders back. Chin lifted. Visualize your routines!

  Hamlet tugged me toward a tree stump, and I watched as she rooted her snout into a pile of snow. I felt a shiver trickle down my spine, and I knew it wasn’t from the cold wind.

  I only had a few weeks to convince my parents we should keep Hamlet, too.

  I couldn’t fail in either mission. But I needed more time.

  As we walked along the fence we shared with Mrs. Taglioni, I gripped Hamlet’s leash more tightly in my hands. Hamlet was growing so quickly, and every day her tugging felt stronger than the day before.

  I hadn�
�t seen Mrs. Taglioni since that day I told her we were pet sitting a puppy. That probably made her happy. I scowled, looking over at where her townhouse came into view. The gutters were scraped clean of leaves, and the house siding had a bright blue paint, which wasn’t peeling off or anything. Mrs. Taglioni was probably inside now, hanging out with her cat and sugar gliders and polishing thumbprints off her spectacles.

  Whatever. That was just fine with me. I was glad I hadn’t bumped into her, either.

  I spun a half-turn and raised my left arm to the sky. My muscles felt sore from yesterday’s conditioning—push-ups and pull-ups—but it felt good to be gaining strength.

  Back inside, Amelia pulled knee-high socks over her jeans.

  “That looks ridiculous,” I told my little sister.

  “What? They’re waterproof!”

  Sometimes it takes us Shillings a whole ten minutes to get out the door. But today I didn’t sulk on the couch. Instead, I tucked Hamlet back into her Cave and secured the baby gate in front of it, and then waited patiently on the front stoop until Dad honked the horn from the van out front. We were off!

  The tree farm was a twenty-minute drive outside the city. It smelled fresh like pine needles and as earthy as garden soil, and it felt about fifty degrees colder than in our backyard. My boots sunk into deep snow out here, too.

  I took another sip of my still-warm cider as we wandered through the trees. Almost immediately, Sarah and Ellen decided on different trees. They rarely agreed on anything these days.

  “But Dad, this is a Douglas fir,” Ellen said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Its needles won’t drop as fast. Who wants to sweep up needles every day? Good luck with a blue spruce. And it’s not even fragrant, Sarah. Isn’t that the whole point of live Christmas trees? We might as well buy an artificial tree if we get that thing.” Ellen made a face at Sarah, who was examining the branches of a nearby tree.