|Chapter 2: Soft Touch|

The next morning, I got up early. I didn't mean to, but I heard the sound again: a sniffling shuffle, a deep resonant oink that sounded like someone complaining about the traffic.

I went from completely asleep to bolt upright in about 0.7 seconds. "You can't be here," I hissed. I threw on a pair of jeans and a ratty old Aerosmith T-shirt I'd gotten as a hand-me-down from someone, somewhere on someone's family tree, and took the time to put my Converse on this time on my way out the front door.

The piggy from the previous night was standing there in all his hideous glory.

"Oinker," I complained, "you're not supposed to be here. I found you all that nice grass and bushes."

The pig came up to me and nuzzled my hand.

"You're hungry," I groaned.

Of course. A seventeen-year-old high school foster kid, about to get kicked out, no job, no money for her own future. Yeah, adopting a hundred-pound beast that's always hungry is a good move.

I was kicking myself thoroughly.

"Just hang on. I probably have oatmeal," I grumbled.

Soft touch. Pitiful.

Plain oatmeal went in the bowl. Water went in the bowl. That was probably enough, right? I stared at the spice shelf as I passed it.

"Pumpkin spice oatmeal," I told the big guy grandly.

He ate with relish and enthusiasm. Little bits of oatmeal splattered the steps in every direction—and when he was done, he nosed the bowl upside down.

"We gotta find you something sustainable," I murmured, scritching behind his ears.

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When I got home from school, there was a strawberry pot on my porch. That is, it wasn't a pot that looked like a strawberry; it was a pot that had a fairly mature bush in it, bearing strawberry fruit. About two-thirds of them were gone, as was most of the dirt from the bottom of the pot, but somehow the root ball had managed to hang on, wisps of it growing out of the bottom, giving me some idea why.

A trail of dirt led up the road from the pot—mute evidence as to where it had come from—and dirty hoof prints led to the shrubbery, so I knew where the other two-thirds had gone.

But why hadn't he eaten it all?

"Bad piggy," I said out loud, but quietly, just in case he heard me.

He wasn't a bad piggy. He was trying to find food, and then he brought it home. I think he was trying to share. In case anyone's wondering, this is not normal behavior for a pig.

"Best pig in the whole world," I said out loud. "Most generous of Oinkers. I name you Mr. Oinkers."

I had given up pretending.

That was my pig now—we both were aware of it.

"I'm going to have to get you a tag," I said ruefully. There were five strawberries left on the plant, which was probably going to die, but at least the pot was in good shape.

"I've got to go give this pot back to the nice lady you stole from," I told the pig, putting the berries in my pocket. I wondered if they were still any good.

Yum, berries.

They were a little bit squished and had dirt on them, but it wasn't like I'd never called the five-second rule on something that'd fallen under the couch before.

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They tasted just fine.

My shoes slapped against the asphalt. I'm a little flat-footed, and Mr. Oinkers's hooves made a 'clack, clack, clack' sound as he followed me. He’d nuzzled me in mute apology after I told him that we had to go return the stuff he'd stolen, and he'd fallen in beside me like a trained animal. I didn't know just how smart he was. I knew pigs were supposed to be smart, though—like preschooler-smart in some ways.

He totally knew what I was saying.

The trail of dirt from when he'd dragged the pot to my house didn't go very far: up four houses and across one, to the Pendergast residence.

I used to be on the track team, and we'd had to go door-to-door asking if people wanted to buy cookies for our bake sale. I remembered Mrs. Pendergast having purchased everything I had, her husband looming behind her like a friendly shadow with eyes for nothing but the cookies. It had left me with a favorable impression.

It was morning, but the sun was still hot. No clouds, no shade. I wondered how Mr. Oinkers was doing, what with the no sweating and all.

I patted his hide. It felt kind of like mine, temperature-wise.

And then the world started spinning.

The sun was suddenly way too bright, and the reflections didn't look right. I was dizzy. The pot in my hand was glowing a pure, silvery color.

That looks like the Prendergast yard, my brain connected fuzzily. And it was true. My altered vision showed their house, their grounds, glowing silver. Not their neighbors', though.

I tossed the pot. I had meant to go up and knock on the door, but this was important.

The colors were wrong. I was seeing glowing things.

I needed to talk to my dealer.

I knew it was stupid. I was trying to save up, and here I was, blowing money.

But most nights, I couldn't bear the idea of going home at all.

It's not even like they beat me or anything. It's just like going to prison on purpose.

It's like when you're in the car and someone turns on a CD that you don't like and starts singing along and wants you to sing along, and now you're not allowed to think any thoughts for the whole car ride because you have to try to remember the lyrics.

It's like when you wake up and you've rolled over too much and your arms are pinned to your sides by your blankets.

Waking up and looking at the ceiling that you don't have a right to—it's not actually yours, and someday soon, it's all going to go away.

Going home to that place where you know you're going to wake up feeling like that...

I know doing drugs is stupid.

So sue me.

I was still screwed up when I went to Walmart hours later.

Of course, he said his shit was good shit.

Of course, he denied everything.

"Drink lots of water, stay away from heights, don't be stupid."

"Thanks, man."

And I went home.

Even under my new perspective, it was a dump. That's not nice of me to say, but the place was built in, like, the forties or something and renovated half-heartedly a couple of times by people with no style who wanted to save money.

One of those renovations had been to add enough bedrooms for all the fosters. The other ones were very young. The idea had been, I think, that I would help raise them. But no. That did not work out for them.

Honestly, some of my irritation is probably due to my suspicion that they're going to adopt those kids someday, maybe soon after they kick me out. And don't get started on the drugs; I knew they were kicking me out way before I met Toby.

'Mom' says I'm too jaded to be good company. I heard her say that once when 'Dad' asked why she always goes to the store alone.

Maybe I'm broken.

And now I couldn’t even see straight. I hadn't been through the door for more than a few minutes when I got the call-out: “We're out of pizza. Do me a favor; you can spend the rest of the twenty.”

That was how 'Dad' liked to do his grocery runs.

So off I went.

I had my provisional license—you can get those at seventeen—but I really hate driving. So I took my bike.

Yes, I have a bike. Yes, they got me a license. I'm not saying they don't provide. I'm just saying I'm not happy.

I don't think they love me.

The grocery store looked weird. From the outside, it looked like a grocery store. I mean, the reflections were a little bit wrong, the lights shone too brightly, the shadows were too dark.

But when I went inside and saw the people... I hadn't really seen anybody, you know, since everything went wrong, except for Toby and 'Dad'. They just kind of had weird colors on their skin. But so did Mr. Oinkers, who I'd left outside with my bike. He seemed to know to stay put. Weirdest thing.

But in the store, there was this big bubble—blue-green to purple-silver, like watching a big drop of unicorn-spit paint glimmering on the end of a paintbrush strand—except it was wandering around the store slowly.

I had to know.

As I turned down aisle five, I saw the center of the bubble.

Mrs. Pendergast.

As I stepped through, I felt nothing, but her eyes jumped up from the wine bottle she'd been inspecting, and her face turned a horrified white.