The Unlikely Story of a Pig in the City

by Jodi Kendall

  “I saw that,” she said with a smile.

  “Saw what?”

  “Your face got all red when Sully said good-bye to you.”

  It felt like flames danced across my cheeks. “No, it didn’t.”

  “You can’t fool me! I’m your best friend, remember? You like Sul-ly! You like Sul-ly!” she singsonged as we stomped up the stoop of my house.

  “Shhhhhhhhh! And no, I don’t.”

  Did I?

  “Well. He likes you,” said Lucy, shrugging.

  My hand froze on the doorknob, and it wasn’t because the metal was iced over. “How do you know?”

  “Because he told me.”

  “What! Lucy!” I exclaimed, my eyes wide. “When?”

  “Last week.”

  “And you’re telling me this now?!”

  “I know, it’s totally been the hardest secret ever to keep!” Lucy grinned. “But I couldn’t tell you until the gymnastics meet was over. So you could focus. Mind over matter, you know?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Or think.

  Sully actually liked me?

  My face burned again. I couldn’t think about him now. I had other things to think about. I swung open the front door and was greeted with the warmth of the crackling fireplace in the living room across the hall. “Let’s talk about it later,” I said to Lucy. “We’ve got to find Hamlet a home.” I kicked off my snowy boots. “We’re gonna need a miracle . . .”

  “Hey, if we can stick our Level Five routines, we can do anything, right?” Lucy said, hanging her coat on a wall hook. My heart raced as I glanced at the clock above the fireplace mantel. I wish I felt as confident as she did. “Oh!” Lucy peeled off her wool socks and tucked them in her snow boots. “And don’t forget the gymnastics registration money is due on the first.”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled, flopping on the couch and flipping through the yellow pages again. “I didn’t forget.”

  One thing at a time, I breathed. I had phone calls to make.

  Chapter 25

  CRUNCH TIME

  For the next two days, Lucy and I pored over the yellow pages and made phone calls during every free moment. We went to the library and sent emails to our local politicians, requesting a change to the livestock law. We asked our principals to send out an email to the schools’ listservs, and since I didn’t have a Facebook account, I asked my older siblings to post our digital flyer on their pages. We taped more posters to utility poles around the neighborhood and printed out another batch so Fernanda, Carlos, and Sully could pass them out to their friends and families also.

  Then I begged my parents to help me. Mom searched online message boards for leads with me at the library one afternoon, and I even overheard Dad calling a few of his friends, asking if anyone might be interested in adopting a pig.

  No luck.

  With every passing day, Hamlet gained another pound. I thought she was massive a month ago—but she was a downright dinosaur pig now and ate practically as much food as Tom!

  I had to hand it to Dad, though. He hadn’t complained about Hamlet in . . . I don’t know when. And now that she was way too big for her Cave beneath the stairs, he let her roam the house. Hamlet mostly followed Sugar everywhere she went and slept in front of the fireplace, but when we ate meals, she bullied her thick body past our legs and sat beneath the table, ready to scarf up fallen food.

  Okay. Sometimes I snuck her food off my plate. But I wasn’t the only one! Even though Dad didn’t realize I saw him, he slipped Hamlet green beans under the table the other night. And you know what? Dad didn’t even reach for the hand sanitizer afterwards!

  There were a few times I wondered whether we could just secretly keep Hamlet. No one would really notice, right? It’s not like the mayor was driving by our townhouse every day making sure the livestock law was being followed.

  But I stopped wondering after the call happened.

  At first when I heard the man say, “Hello, Josie?” I thought it was Lucy’s dad’s voice. But I was totally wrong.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Officer Brady. Do you remember me? I checked on your pig awhile back, with Officer Chou.”

  It felt like I stopped breathing. It was three days before New Year’s Day—Deadline Day for Operation Home for Hamlet. We still had time! So why was he calling?

  “Hi, officer,” I said, twisting the phone cord around my finger. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Do you still have livestock on the premises?”

  I puckered my lips. What a horrible word: livestock. It reminded me of the way I felt when Dad didn’t want me to call Hamlet by a name, back on Thanksgiving, because it’d make me get attached to the pig.

  Well, I was attached now. And maybe Hamlet was livestock or whatever, but she was also my pet pig until a nice family decided to adopt her.

  My gaze shifted down the hall where Hamlet was stretched out in front of the fireplace on top of Dad’s blue slippers. “Yes,” I admitted. “Hamlet is still in our house. But we still have three days left—”

  “Good news,” he broke in. “We found a home for your pig. They’ll pick her up on December 31st.”

  “Wait—what?” I shook my head, like I was some remote control that didn’t work right.

  “They’ve got a pickup truck and a crate, so your parents will just need to be on-site to oversee the transfer, but luckily they’re off the hook with transportation. Does eight o’clock work? Will someone be around, even though it’s a holiday weekend? The man might call you to coordinate the details, but I wanted to give you a heads-up.”

  Was this good news, or bad news? I wasn’t sure.

  I swallowed hard, choosing my words carefully. “Officer Brady, I just have a few questions, okay? Who is this person?”

  I heard a shuffle of papers. “Hmmm. A man named Grimson. Like the color crimson, but with a G. First name Reggie.”

  “Where does he live?”

  Officer Brady paused, like he was squinting to read tiny handwriting. “Let’s see . . . about thirty miles outside the city. He’s got fifty acres of land. That’s bigger than most city parks, you know. Sounds like it’s for his kid to take care of? Oh, and he’ll pay you market price, too.”

  “Market price?”

  “A hundred bucks. That’s the going rate for a pig her size, gender, and age, apparently.”

  “He’s going to pay us for Hamlet?” I felt frozen in place. I didn’t know what to say, or what to do, so I just whispered, “I—I don’t know about this, Officer Brady. Can I meet him first?”

  The policeman sighed. “Listen, kid. I know this must be real hard for you. I had some strange animals as pets when I was your age, too. But if the livestock remains in your home on the first of the year, animal control is scheduled to come and pick her up—then her future will be out of your hands and you’ll have to face the judge for city violations. Take the hundred bucks and let the pig go, okay?”

  It felt like her future was out of my hands now, but I didn’t say that out loud. Instead I just nodded and said, “Yes, officer. Is—is Mr. Grimson a nice man? He likes pigs?”

  I heard a phone ringing in the distance. “I’ve gotta take this call now. Yes, yes, I’m sure he’s great. Reggie Grimson. December 31st—eight o’clock in the morning. Happy holidays!”

  “Um. Happy holidays.”

  Click. The phone’s dial tone buzzed in my ear for another moment, and then I hung up the phone, stunned.

  This was a good thing.

  Wasn’t it?

  Someone with a farm wanted Hamlet—and they were willing to pay for her, too. A hundred dollars didn’t quite cover my gymnastics registration fee, but it was pretty close. . . . I’d have a better chance of convincing Mom and Dad if we had some extra cash to pay for it.

  This should be a win-win. . . .

  So why didn’t it feel like one?

  I ran my hands through my hair, trying to quiet my worrying mind. But I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried.


  Hamlet was going to have a new owner, and his name was Reggie Grimson.

  Who was this guy?

  I had to find out, and I knew just the person to help me with research.

  Chapter 26

  DOWN FOR THE COUNT

  Sully was waiting on the library steps by the time I arrived. “Sorry I’m late!” I said, stomping the muck off my boots. Mrs. Taglioni was right—a warm front did sweep through the city, and the once-white snow was now all dark and slushy. “I had to walk Hamlet and Sugar, and Hamlet flipped her water bowl, so all her newspapers got soaked. . . .”

  “No problem. The library closes in an hour, so we’ll need to hurry.” Sully slung his backpack over his shoulder, and we entered through the revolving glass door. As we walked through the main lobby, Sully whispered, “Are you sure about this?”

  “Sure about what?” I whispered back.

  “You know . . . checking into this Grimson guy.”

  “Sully! I have to find out who’s taking Hamlet.”

  “Shhhhhhhh!” An employee stopped reshelving books from a cart and raised a finger to her lips. I mouthed Sorry! and motioned Sully over to the computer room.

  Once the door shut behind us, I saw we were the only ones in here. Good. We could talk without bothering anyone. I glanced over at Sully, who tossed his Lakers backpack and navy coat down on an empty chair, and felt my face turn red again.

  I was alone with Sully!

  Suddenly, even though we’d been friends and neighbors for ages and ages, I felt nervous. Thank goodness he didn’t seem to be. Sully got to work, logging onto a computer with his library card bar code.

  “Okay,” he said, leaning toward the computer screen and looking serious. “Operation Home for Hamlet is in full effect. Let’s check criminal records first.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Sure. That’s what Google is for. . . . What’d you say his first name was?”

  “Reggie,” I said, pulling up a chair beside Sully and trying not to think about my shoulder touching his.

  Sully opened up a new browser window. He could type like a billion words a minute! In no time we were looking at a search page. Click, click, click. “No strong leads . . .” Sully said, squinting his eyes as we scanned through the search results. “I don’t think this is right. Everyone is online. It’s called a Digital Footprint. This Grimson guy is MIA.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, maybe it’s a good thing?”

  “Maybe,” Sully said, but his knee started bouncing, like he was trying to shake off a thought. “He could have an alias, though. Happens all the time in the movies.”

  “A fake name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hmmm . . .” I snapped my fingers. “Try Reginald. That’s probably his real name anyways.”

  “Good thinking!”

  Sully typed Reginald Grimson into the search bar, and a banner reading NO RESULTS flashed across the computer screen. “Do you have his phone number?” Sully asked. “If it’s listed, we can double-check that with public records to see if the number matches his name.”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t get it. . . . Officer Brady said he might call us later. But if this Reggie guy calls the home phone, we don’t have caller ID. If he calls Dad’s cell, it’s going to be hard to get that number without looping my parents in. . . .”

  We sat there, thinking. Finally Sully looked over at me and said, “Want to come to one of my basketball games sometime?”

  I practically jumped out of my seat. “Oh! Um, that would be fun,” I said, trying to keep it cool.

  “I think I found something!” Sully sat upright. “Here we go. Grimson’s Gables. There are photos, too.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’m too nervous. I can’t look!”

  “Okay, okay . . . It looks nice, actually. . . . There’s a lake, and a big brown barn, and chickens. Oh, wait.”

  “What?” I peeked out of one eye. Sully quickly exited out of the window browser. “Sully—what’s wrong?! You’re freaking me out here.”

  He adjusted his baseball cap and turned to face me. “Josie, this Grimson guy can’t take Hamlet.”

  “What do you mean? What was on the website?”

  Sully’s face had gone pale. “That guy, Reggie? He’s a hog farmer, Josie. Trust me. Hamlet’s not gonna be a pet.”

  A dark silence filled the computer room. I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. We’d raised Hamlet from a little piglet to a feisty big pig. I’d grown to love her wild, curious personality, and over these last couple months, she’d become part of our family.

  I’d promised her a good, long life.

  And now I’d failed her.

  Over the loudspeakers, the librarian announced, “This is just a friendly reminder that the library is closing in twenty minutes.”

  “What’re you going to do now?” Sully whispered.

  I looked at the wall clock. It was almost five o’clock—practically dinnertime. Reggie Grimson was going to be at my house in less than three days. He had our address and phone number and Officer Brady’s contact information and everything.

  There was no time left to do anything.

  I needed to think bigger, but I didn’t know how anymore.

  “I don’t know, Sully,” I said, sliding my arms into the sleeves of my winter coat. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Chapter 27

  INSPIRATION STRIKES

  Later that night, I was stretched out on the floor of my bedroom, hunched over one of Sarah’s horse magazines looking for a potential home for Hamlet, when Mom knocked gently on the bedroom door.

  “Honey?” she said. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  “We missed you at dinner.” She entered the room, and it filled with the smell of spaghetti with marinara sauce. “I brought you a plate.”

  My stomach growled, but I was too upset to eat. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Why don’t I just set it here in case you change your mind.” Mom lay down on the floor beside me. “Do you want to talk?”

  I shook my head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “I know how attached you are to Hamlet. Why not spend this evening with her, instead of cooped up in this room? Dad grilled an ear of corn for her and chilled the two halves in the fridge. Would you like to give her one as a special treat?”

  “Because . . . I can’t bear to look in her eyes,” I admitted, and Mom’s face fell.

  “Oh, sweetie. I know you’re worried about Mr. Grimson, but your father spoke to him on the phone today. I think he plans on giving Hamlet to his daughter. He was happy to hear that Hamlet got along well with dogs. It sounds like Hamlet will have lots of new friends.”

  I felt myself start to panic. “Mom, Mr. Grimson just can’t take Hamlet. He can’t!” My chin began to tremble. “That man’s lying! Hamlet will be you know what before Valentine’s Day.”

  Mom’s lips pursed together. “I’m afraid there’s no other option, sweetie. You gave Hamlet such a good life here, making her that cozy Cave, and you did such a wonderful job of taking care of her. I’m really proud of you. And I know that she’s special to you but, sweetie, it’s time for Hamlet—and our family—to move on now, okay? It’s best for her to live on a farm.” She pushed the plate toward me and got back on her feet. “You’ll feel better after you eat something. And if you change your mind, I’ll save that ear of corn in the fridge. It’ll be there when you want to give it to Hamlet.”

  I said nothing when Mom left the room and closed the door behind her. I just stared at the firefly twinkle lights hanging in our bedroom, and I didn’t speak to my sisters when they came up to bed. Amelia tried to talk to me on her handmade telephone, but when she pressed a cup up against my ear, I only held it and listened.

  Don’t be sad, Amelia whispered.

  All I wanted to do was head downstairs and wrap my arms around Hamlet’s neck and tell her everything was going to be okay. But I cou
ldn’t. She was a smart pig. One look into my eyes, and she’d know that I failed her.

  I let Amelia’s telephone cup fall from my ear and climbed up the rungs of the bunk bed ladder, curling into a ball beneath the covers. Tears stung my eyes, and I didn’t bother holding them back anymore. The harder I cried into my pillowcase, the heavier my body felt.

  “Josie?” said Sarah lightly. “Do you need anything?”

  I didn’t answer. It was hopeless.

  I slid my hands beneath my pillow, rolling to face the wall. One of my sisters switched off a lamp, and the room fell into darkness. My fingertips grazed something rigid beneath my pillow: a book, and my reading flashlight.

  I slid beneath my patchwork quilt, flipped on the light, and opened up Ellen’s copy of Charlotte’s Web, the present she’d given me on Handmade Christmas. The bookmark my sister made stuck to the inside pages. I peeled it off and read her cursive handwriting again.

  Thought you could use some inspiration.

  I wiped away my tears and began to read. I started with my favorite parts first, like when Wilbur first met Charlotte the spider, and how she rattled off the names of body parts, totally grossing Wilbur out, and then flipped forward to when Charlotte weaves words into her web, and the Zuckerman pig becomes world famous.

  I slammed the book shut. That was it!

  I slipped down the bunk bed ladder and tiptoed over to Ellen’s lower bunk bed. It was almost pitch-black in the room, except for a single butterfly-shaped nightlight that glowed along the wall.

  “Psssst! Ellen!” I whispered, pressing my fingers into her forearm.

  Her eyes fluttered open. “Josie, what is it? I have to be up at five for my paper route!”

  “I need your help,” I said, barely able to contain my excitement. Maybe, just maybe, I could pull this whole thing off and Hamlet actually stood a chance.

  “Do you actually know people at the paper?”

  Ellen rubbed her eyes. “Yes . . . why? What is it?”

  “Like, do you know any reporters who might be interested in a story?”