The Unlikely Story of a Pig in the City

by Jodi Kendall

  “So this is a Handmade Secret Santa Christmas?” asked Ellen.

  “Exactly.” Dad watched as she drew the next name. “It’ll be fun to see who can guess who made them a present. So remember, it’s a secret!” He cleared his throat again. “And there might be a little surprise in there, too.”

  “All I Want for Christmas is You” blasted on the radio, and I felt a shiver bolt down my spine, sending a tingle throughout my body. I hugged Hamlet’s neck and whispered, “You’re such a good piggie” into her ear. She oinked softly and touched her wet snout to my cheek.

  “Aw, peanuts! I got my name!” laughed Amelia.

  “Just put it back and grab another one,” said Mom.

  I wondered who got my name in the hat and what they might make me for Handmade Christmas. I’d gotten enough hand-me-downs in my life, but this felt totally different. This felt . . . special. Because you had to think hard about what the other person might like and create something totally new.

  I grinned. Handmade Christmas suddenly sounded awesome.

  As the hat was passed around, I secretly hoped that Sarah’s name would still be in there so I could repay her kindness from yesterday. When it came time for my turn, there was just one scrap of paper left in the hat. I reached for it, carefully opened up the little piece of scrap paper, and read the name.

  My jaw dropped.

  What in the world?

  This had to be a joke. Right? I blinked, reading the name again.

  Mrs. Taglioni.

  I glanced at Dad, wanting desperately to ask him the question nagging at me, but not wanting to give away my Secret Santa either.

  But still.

  It was really confusing, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

  Mrs. Taglioni was going to celebrate Christmas with us?

  Chapter 21

  HANDMADE CHRISTMAS

  Christmas morning was unusually quiet in our house. Even with the aroma of pancakes sizzling in butter floating up the stairs, we were preoccupied combing through our things, trying to figure out what objects we could remake into a gift for somebody else.

  Handmade Christmas was harder than I thought it’d be. All I had was random homework papers and projects from school, broken pencils at the bottom of my backpack, an empty allowance mason jar, and some boring toys that were mostly all hand-me-downs anyways.

  I stretched out on my bed, staring at the ceiling where old glow-in-the-dark stickers formed the shapes of constellations that probably didn’t even exist in real life.

  Okay.

  I had a few options. I could ignore the challenge and not make a present for Mrs. Taglioni at all, but that seemed really mean. Or I could just create whatever I wanted, even if she didn’t like it. But that didn’t seem right either. . . .

  I kept replaying that day outside on her stoop, when Dr. Stern was leaving and Ralphie her sugar glider had died. I couldn’t get the image of Mrs. Taglioni’s red, swollen eyes out of my mind.

  Poor Mrs. Taglioni.

  She hadn’t always been the nicest person to my family, but still. Ralphie’s death had left her heartbroken. I felt a little bad for her. And I never once thought about what she did on holidays. She never decorated her townhouse with lights or cinnamon brooms or inflatable reindeer. Did she even have family somewhere out there? Did she celebrate Christmas? She was always alone. And no one should have to spend the holidays alone.

  But how was I supposed to even know what Mrs. Taglioni would like? I knew maybe five things about her. She hated noise—especially Shilling noise. She liked things super organized, if her pristine backyard was any clue as to the inside of her townhouse.

  I bit my lip. What else?

  She wore glasses. Carried her handbag with her everywhere. Was always scowling.

  I deflated my lungs and it felt like my spirit was deflating, too.

  There were the weird animals, too, I guess. Ralphie. Maybe another secret sugar glider inside her house. All those cats. All those plants.

  “GOT MINE!” announced Amelia, sliding into our bedroom on her socks. She was still wearing her red-and-black penguin pajamas.

  Great. Here I was still brainstorming, and even Amelia had figured out her handmade gift!

  “You’re not supposed to give anything away,” I reminded her.

  “I’m not!” She hid her hands behind her back and swayed from side to side. “You almost done?”

  “No. Now go away.”

  “SHEESH!” Amelia stuck her tongue out at me and bolted out the bedroom just as fast as she had zipped in. I swear, that girl should be on Tom’s football team—they would score more touchdowns than anyone!

  Minutes dragged on as I stared at the ceiling. Ellen popped in a few minutes later, retrieving a book off her nightstand.

  I sighed. “You’re done too?”

  “Oh!” Ellen looked up at the top bunk in surprise. “Hi, Josie. You scared me. I thought everyone was downstairs.”

  “Ugh. No.” I punched my pillow.

  “Well . . .” She tucked the book into the back pocket of her jeans. “Good luck. See you later!”

  “Yeah, I mean, I KNOW.” Sarah breezed through, clutching the cordless house phone tight to her ear. “Wait—seriously? He’s already asked her to the prom?” She was probably talking to Trisha, Sully’s older sister, I guessed. They hadn’t always been close friends, but ever since this school year started, it seemed like they were always calling each other and talking about boys. Sarah rummaged through her desk drawers. Open, slam! Open, slam!

  “Um, hellllo?” I said, throwing my hands in the air. “You’re so loud!”

  “Oh, Josie.” Sarah switched the phone to the other ear, as if the receiver was too hot. “You should make more noise, I didn’t even know you were there.”

  Typical. I rolled onto my side and tried to zone out Sarah’s voice. A wall bookshelf caught my eye. It was my gymnastics shelf—the only little space that I got to decorate with whatever I wanted in this room I shared with my three sisters. My new, shiny trophy now glistened from the center of the shelf, with my favorite old leotards tacked against the wall on either side of it. There were a few dangling ribbons and medals here and there from my old Level 4 meets and a messy stack of DVDs with my favorite clips of Olympics gymnastics routines. Aly Raisman—my favorite gymnast of all time—stretched across a poster in a sky-high jump.

  Mrs. Taglioni and I had nothing in common.

  She’d probably hate whatever I gave her, no matter what.

  But then I spotted it—nearly teetering over on the edge of the shelf, practically hiding behind a wilted-up rose from my fifth grade graduation ceremony and a glass figurine of a sea turtle.

  Practically invisible.

  Not flashy enough for anyone to notice.

  But it was something I’d loved almost my whole life—something that was worth more than money could buy.

  Could I give it up forever?

  I sat upright in bed and stared at it another moment longer before climbing down the ladder and moving toward the shelf. My heart swelled with excitement. Suddenly it didn’t matter that it was one of my personal treasures and I’d have to practically destroy it to create something new.

  Because all of a sudden, it wasn’t mine anymore. Not really. It was Mrs. Taglioni’s, and I just had to prepare it for her, make it perfect.

  Maybe this was why I’d been safekeeping it for practically forever—for this very day, for my strange, old next-door neighbor who needed cheering up. I gripped it in my hand and my lips stretched into a smile. I had to get to work.

  Suddenly I couldn’t wait to see Mrs. Taglioni again.

  Chapter 22

  THE LEGEND OF THE TUXEDO PIGEON

  I was five when Tom first told me about the Legend of the Tuxedo Pigeon.

  We’d been playing in the backyard while Mom gave baby Amelia a bath. Tom threw a Nerf ball at Ellen, who in turn tossed it to Sarah, who then kicked it over Mrs. Taglioni’s fence and started cryi
ng. After Tom climbed over the fence and got the ball, he told us he saw a Tuxedo Pigeon in her yard.

  “What’s that?” I remember asking him.

  Tom’s eyes were as big as full moons. “The Tuxedo Pigeon is a very rare and exotic creature,” he said, bending at the knees to meet me at eye level. Even at thirteen, my brother seemed like a giant.

  “Is it magic?”

  “Very.” Tom nodded. “The Tuxedo Pigeon has the power to change the color of its feathers. Legend has it that the bird blends in with the regular pigeons by turning itself brown. But, when the Tuxedo Pigeon has been called on a special mission, it turns its feathers black and white, so it looks like it’s wearing a tuxedo suit.”

  “What kind of special missions?”

  “All kinds,” Tom said. “And usually they include fancy parties. That’s why it gets all dressed up.”

  Sarah put her hands on her hips. “You’re teasing.”

  I jumped up and down. “I want to see one!”

  “Sorry, JoJo. It flew away as soon as it saw me coming. But . . .” He pulled a feather out from behind his back. It was an intricate black-and-white pattern that I’d never seen before, and the sight of it took my breath away. “It left this.” Tom placed the feather in my open palm.

  “Can I keep it?” I whispered.

  “Yes,” he whispered back.

  “Do you think it’ll come back again?”

  Tom shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe after its special mission.” Then he tossed the Nerf ball at Sarah. “Heads up!”

  “I don’t want to throw anymore,” said Sarah, barely catching the ball before it clunked her on the shoulder.

  “We’ll kick it then,” said Tom.

  I sat down on the cool grass and spun the Tuxedo Pigeon feather between my fingers, careful to not damage it.

  A magic pigeon.

  I hadn’t known such a creature existed.

  I held on to the feather for years, a little piece of magic all to myself.

  Until now.

  Later that day, after we had secretly created presents for Handmade Christmas, gone to church, and stuffed our bellies with pizza, we gathered in the living room.

  Still no sign of Mrs. Taglioni. Was she even coming over?

  I know I didn’t read her name wrong on that little piece of paper. I’d reread it a thousand times since that morning.

  “I can’t wait anymore,” whined Amelia. “We always open presents on Christmas morning. And now Christmas is practically over!”

  “It only feels that way because it gets dark earlier in the wintertime, so don’t exaggerate,” said Ellen, stretching out on the carpet. “And it shouldn’t be a surprise that Christmas is a little different this year.”

  “It’s almost time,” said Dad from the doorway. He raised a cup of eggnog to his lips and smiled. “Just waiting on a few more people . . .”

  Sarah sighed as if something was on the tip of her tongue, but she held her words back. Maybe she was excited for Handmade Christmas, too.

  I bounced my knees on the couch. “Stopppp!” Amelia said. “You’re shaking me.”

  “Sor-ry.”

  The doorbell rang, and Tom jumped up on his feet. He was football-fast to the door, swinging it wide open.

  “Hiya, Lou,” he said. “Dr. Stern.”

  “FINALLY!” Amelia zoomed to the hallway, and I followed at her heels to help hang their coats while Tom shut the door. “Look at all the snow on your boots!”

  Dr. Stern laughed and tugged off her hat, sending a sprinkle of powdery-soft snow across the wood floor. “It’s coming down fast out there,” she said. “Hi, everyone! Thanks for the invite again this year. You know I can’t pass up your mulled cider.”

  Mom smiled. “Of course! Your company is a Christmas tradition.”

  Dad turned up the radio in the living room as we all piled in, flopping on the couch and leaning on armchairs.

  Dad checked his watch. “Should be any minute now . . .”

  Amelia patted the floor for Sugar to stretch out by her feet, and I asked Mom if I could get Hamlet out of her Cave to join us.

  “All right, honey. Just keep her under control, okay?”

  “Promise, Mom!”

  Just as I led Hamlet back into the living room, the doorbell rang. It felt like my heart did a somersault in my chest.

  “Guess I’m the family butler?” said Tom, getting to his feet again.

  “Well, at least you have one viable career option,” said Ellen, rolling onto her stomach.

  “Tom has plenty of career options,” Mom said gently, raising her palm in the air.

  “Not if he keeps changing majors,” commented Sarah.

  I looked at Mom. “You can change majors in college? I didn’t know that.”

  “Of course, Josie. It’s okay to have a shift in interests.”

  “Uh, hi, Mrs. Taglioni. Are we being too loud?” Although I couldn’t see Tom in the hallway, the surprise in his voice was unmistakable.

  The old woman cleared her throat. “Your father invited me. For Christmas?”

  I’ve heard Mrs. Taglioni’s voice all my life—from on the other side of the fence, while banging on our dining room wall, or rasping away about something at the front door, but I’d never heard it sound like this before.

  It was shaky. Small. Higher pitched than normal.

  Was Mrs. Taglioni actually nervous?

  “Oh! Uh, can I take your coat?”

  At least Tom found his manners! He emerged from the dark hallway, and Mrs. Taglioni slowly appeared behind him, giving the group an awkward half wave.

  “Good evening,” she said, patting her nest of hair. “Merry Christmas.”

  “So glad you could make it, Molly!” Mom gushed. “Won’t you have a seat? Sarah?” Mom motioned for my sister to give up her prime spot in the leather recliner, and Sarah slowly slid down it onto the carpet like she wasn’t quite sure what to make of our new guest either.

  I wrapped my arms more tightly around Hamlet’s neck. Hopefully Mrs. Taglioni wouldn’t freak out over the pig. It’s not like they had the best introduction. But I was glad Mrs. Taglioni was here, too.

  “Hi, Mrs. Taglioni,” I offered with a smile. She nodded in response as she sat down, clutching her handbag close to her chest.

  “Angels We Have Heard on High” blasted through the speakers and Doug’s tree lights twinkled in the corner. Once Mom and Dad were finished passing around drinks and German spice cookies and lemon squares, Dad clapped his hands together and said in a big, booming voice, “Kids, thanks for being patient today. . . . Your mom and I wanted to make sure this holiday was extra special, so we invited over a few guests.” Dad turned his hand palm up and gave a grand gesture toward Mrs. Taglioni, Dr. Stern, and Lou. “Welcome to the first Handmade Christmas at the Shilling household!”

  “At least he didn’t say first annual Handmade Christmas,” Tom joked in my ear. “There’s still hope for next year!”

  “Shhhh!” I hissed back, narrowing my eyes at him. “This is fun.”

  “Does everyone remember the rules—er—challenges?” Dad asked, and we all nodded. I noticed that Mrs. Taglioni seemed in agreement, too. Had she brought a recycled present for someone here? “Good.” Dad grinned. “Looks like most of the presents are under the tree. But I’ll walk around with this blanket in case you need to discreetly slip a gift beneath it. . . .”

  Dr. Stern, Mrs. Taglioni, and Mom all pulled things from bags and slid them beneath the blanket, and then Dad covered the tree while he rearranged the presents underneath. When the blanket came down, it felt like curtains on a stage, and the show was about to begin.

  Chapter 23

  ROCKING AROUND THE CHRISTMAS TREE

  Goose bumps sprouted across my arms. I glanced over at Mrs. Taglioni and watched as she adjusted her spectacles.

  What if she didn’t like my gift?

  Mom passed the presents around. Most of them were messily wrapped with old newspapers, catalo
g covers, or recycled birthday wrapping paper.

  “Youngest to oldest,” Mom said. “Like always.”

  “Yay! Me first!” Amelia squealed, tearing at her gift. “It’s . . . It’s . . .” She unwound it, revealing two paper cups connected by a long cord. But it wasn’t a cord—it was straws taped together, then with yarn wrapped around it. “A telephone!” Amelia exclaimed, raising a cup to her mouth. She tossed the other end to Lou and turned her cup around, pressing it against her ear. Lou whispered something on his end, sending Amelia into another fit of giggles.

  “How’re we supposed to know who it’s from?” Sarah asked.

  “Easy. It’s Mom’s yarn!” Amelia said. “Thanks, Mom!”

  “Glad you like it.” Mom’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink, and it made me smile. I didn’t know Mom was so creative. The handmade telephone was actually pretty cool. Maybe Amelia and I could attach it to our bunk bed and play with it later that night.

  Lou’s turn was next. It was one of Tom’s old football jerseys, but with the sleeves cut off, so it looked more like the mesh pinnies we wore in gym class. “Awesome!” Lou exclaimed, pulling it over his head. The jersey was huge on his small frame, but Lou didn’t seem to care. “We’ll practice throwing this summer, right?” he asked my brother.

  “Sure thing, buddy.” Tom gave him a thumbs-up.

  “I want to play, too!” said Amelia.

  “Millie’s super fast these days,” I told everyone.

  “Really?” Tom suddenly looked interested. “Spring training is just around the corner, Millie. Maybe you should start doing sprints with me!”

  “My worst nightmare,” said Sarah, making a face and making me laugh. Running wasn’t my favorite thing to do either.

  “Hmm . . .” Mom glanced thoughtfully at my little sister. “Maybe there’s a spring soccer league or something that we could look into for you, Amelia?” She winked at Dad. “It might be a good idea to channel all that energy.”

  My little sister grinned. “Really? Yeah, that’d be so fun!”

  “Can I play, too, Mom?” asked Lou, looking up at Dr. Stern. She nodded.