They’re not rolling around on the scraggly grass that lives in bundles of tufts, nor are they stampeding past the tractor, which has hay creeping out around the tires.
There’s not a piggy in sight.
I groan.Great.Justgreat.
“You don’t see them, do you?” Sally says victoriously.
My jaw clenches. What a way to start the day—first Mom and now this. “I don’t appreciate you calling my pigs ‘stupid.’ They are highly intelligent.”
“Who gives a crap? If you don’t get your ass over here right now, I’m going to shoot ’em. One by one. Little piggy by little piggy.”
She wouldn’t! But then again, Sally very wellwould. “Don’t you touch one hair on their heads,” I fume.
“I got rights. They’re on my property, destroying it.”
There is a special place in hell for murderers and Sally Ray. She is the blight on my potato, the absolute worst person in the world. Imagine a small Southern woman with big hair and an even bigger attitude, and you’vealmostgot Sally Ray. Now addevil villainonto that, and you’ve got her pegged for sure.
My gaze skims the room, looking for my dad’s old boots. As if my thoughts were heard, an ivy vine shoots out from under the floorboards, scoops up the boots from where they sit on the other side of the room, and deposits them beside me.
I jam my feet into them and say to Sally, “If you hurt evenoneof my drove, I swear you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
“Like hell I will, Rowe. I’ll be eating bacon for months.”
I suck air. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Just try me,” she says nastily. “If you don’t get these damn piggies off my property in five minutes, they’ll become feed for myunis.”
She pronounces the worduu-nee.
“Making bacon’s a new low even for you, Sally.”
“You don’tknowlow, then, Rowe.”
The line goes dead, and I have no doubt she’ll keep her promise and start shooting in less than five minutes.
“Who was it?” my mom shouts from upstairs.
“Sally Ray! The pigs are out!”
Mom’s face appears on the stair landing. Her wavy, gray hair is now pulled back, and her necklace dangles over the railing. “You need me to call the sheriff?”
“No! We don’t need the law getting involved.” Last time they showed up, we nearly got fined for the pigs being out. Not our fault, I explained. Bobby John, the one and only deputy in town who does anything, barely let us off the hook. I had to promise him it wouldneverhappen again.
And nowit ishappening, it isvery muchhappening, and Sally’s about to make bacon.
My arms shoot out. “Don’t call anybody! I’ll be right back.”
I dash onto the back porch and head straight for the bag of feed. The pigs won’t come home by themselves. They’ll take one look at me, stick their pink snouts in the air, and prance like ballerinas in the opposite direction. Which means I have to lure them.
But the fifty-pound brown sack is down to crumbs. Crap. Why don’t we have their feed? Why are we out? Mom was supposed to buy it.
There’s no time to point fingers; I’ve got piggies to save. I stuff what looks like cereal crumbs in my pockets and charge out.
I sprint across the two-lane highway and climb over Sally’s pristine white wooden fence. Just before I’m clear, my jeans catch on a nail. I yank to pull free, but the fabric rips.
I hiss as the nail rakes across my inner thigh. When I’m over the fence, I inspect the damage. A triangle of denim has been torn away, and there’s an angry red scratch swelling on my thigh.
Ouch! And dang! These were my good jeans.
