Chapter Fifteen

Kiev + Festival

 

In my bedroom, late at night, I try to fall asleep, but even with my door closed, I can hear the loud music coming from Vi’s room. I’m tempted to confront her and ask her why she got drunk last night. But, no—she’s too angry right now. Besides, I need to find out who she’s spending her time with. Faith’s words come to mind. I’ve seen her talking to that creepy guy who hangs outside the school.

That’s Chris—the Emo dude. I should talk to him and find out what’s going on. I don’t think he’s selling weed or crap like that, because I remember him as this cool guy who didn’t pay much attention in class.

Shaking this thought off, I get out of bed to get a glass of water, but when I open the door, Pepe scurries out.

“Hey!” I shout to him.

Pepe jumps a couple of feet in the air, startled, then keeps going fast until he crashes head-first against the wall. I rush after him and lift his small body. “You shouldn’t run,” I say to him. “You know you can’t see well.”

Back in my room, I put Pepe in his cage. “Don’t do that again,” I scold him.

He pokes his snout through the cage bars, sniffs, and looks at me with his little black eyes, as if saying, “I like my freedom, Master.”

“Good night, little one,” I say and get back in bed.

The next morning, my alarm wakes me around ten. I groan in disgust as I remember it’s Sunday—festival time. The principal sent an email with instructions—show up at eleven-thirty for orientation dressed in black pants. Just that. I should show up with the pants, and no t-shirt or shoes. Nah.

After showering, I check on Vi’s room again, but I can’t open the locked door. Sighing, I head to the kitchen and inhale a bowl of cereal, then step to Dad’s bedroom and press an ear against the door. I can barely hear him snoring. Which is good since he works all the damn time.

An hour later, I drive north, leaving the city. I spot a sign reading, Piggy Palooza Festival three miles. I wonder about out-of-town visitors—most are the usual championship pig owners, and a few people from surrounding towns. That’s how I remember it—haven’t been there since I was ten years old.

. A paunchy man dressed like a lumberjack stands by the gate leading inside.

I level my Jetta with him and roll down the window. “Morning.”

“We open at noon.” He frowns—someone didn’t get his coffee today.

I point ahead. “I’m a volunteer.”

He scans the inside of my car. “Name?”

“Kiev Jimenez.”

“Wait.” He steps to a backpack resting against a gate post, fishes out a notepad, and slides a finger down, reading a list. He pushes the gate open.

“Thanks,” I say, driving through it.

He points to my right. “Park there.”

There are some cars and dust, and way in the back, I spot the festival’s Ferris wheel. “This far?”

He shrugs. “Employee parking.”

Welcome to hell, I think, but it is what it is, so I park next to a century-old pickup.

Jumping out of my car, I start a long walk in the scorching sun, where wind pushes dust that covers my face and cakes my lungs. As I stop to cough, a green Ford Fiesta levels beside me.

“Wanna ride, cowboy?” a girl asks.

I turn my attention to the car. “Good morning, Lia.”

Smiling, Lia jerks her auburn head to her right. “Hop in.”

Going around the Fiesta, I open the door and slide in next to her. She’s wearing her usual Nintendo cap, backward of course, but her mandatory black pants seem too tight, showcasing her legs. I’m speechless and cannot take my eyes from them.

“What are you staring at?” she asks.

“They’re great,” I blurt. Dammit! My cheeks burn. “Sorry. I mean, your pants look great on you.”

She gives me a dismissive wave. “These were the only black pants I could find.” She shakes her head. “Mom bought them for me when I was thirteen.”

“Nice,” I say. “I mean, not nice about your legs, but the pants.”

Lia points at my face and squints. “Your nose looks even better today, except for that blue spot.” She touches the top of my nose, sending warmth all over it.

I shrug. “I’ll survive.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I’m seriously sorry about that. Before this gets repetitive with me saying this every time I see you, this is the last time I’ll apologize about it,” she hurries on, “but I am sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” I say, and when she tilts her head, I add, “I was just trying to save your ass in class—I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

She nods. “Why were you walking in this desert?”

I jerk a thumb over my shoulder. “Mr. Happy Gatekeeper told me to park by the gate—employee parking. Why didn’t you park there?”

Lia starts driving toward the festival. “Volunteer parking is up ahead.”

“What an idiot,” I say through gritted teeth. “Not you—him.” I want to stomp on his foot or something.

“Shit happens.” She smirks.

We reach the volunteer parking next to the festival entrance and get out of the car. Another huge pink sign welcomes everyone to Piggy Palooza. We step to the woman in a pig costume guarding the entrance—tail and all.

She gives us a wide smile. “Welcome to the best festival in West Texas, y’all.” She extends a hand, palm up, as if expecting admission tickets or a bribe.

Lia pushes her backward cap down, as if it’d became loose with the walk. “Volunteer orientation?”

The woman gives us a once over. “You’re just kids.”

I’m tempted to reply that the principal forced us to volunteer, and how she looks five-hundred years old. Instead, I say, “Not really. We’re seventeen.”

She scans us again, then rolls her eyes and jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “Trainin’s in the Pig Shack.”

“Thanks,” Lia says, brushing past her.

I join Lia inside. “Your relative?” I ask.

“Nope.” She adjusts her cap and looks at me intently, the way you concentrate on a cute puppy. “Yours?”

Is she flirting? No, my brain’s playing tricks. I shrug. “Who knows?”

She points ahead to a round house made of dried leaves. “There.”

“The Pig Shack,” I say, reading the sign on its wooden door.

“You’re such a genius, Captain Obvious.” Lia paces toward it.

I follow her, passing game stands—ring-a-bottle, catch-a-ball, spin-da-wheel, and so on. They look exactly the same as the last time I was here years and years ago, just a bit rustier. Soon, we enter the shack. Folding chairs of the cheapest-I-could-find kind line the circular wall.

A rat-skinny man with a thin mustache stands in the back. “Don’t be shy, piggies.” He waves us over. “Oink, oink.”

“Did he just oink us over?” Lia whispers in my ear.

“Who’s being Captain Obvious now?” I whisper back.

She glares at me before turning her attention to him. “We’re here for volunteer orientation.”

“I’m your guy,” he says. “Come here.”

Once we join him, he rubs his hands like a cartoon villain. “. What are your names, piggies?”

Once we tell him our names, he produces his phone and slides a finger over its screen, then looks up and nods. “My name is Mr. Ham. Ham comes from pigs, get it?” He guffaws at his own pun.

Lia and I exchange a “that’s so lame” glance.

“All righty.” He pads to a cardboard box lying on the floor, where he digs out t-shirts and headbands.

“Is that what I think it is?” I whisper to Lia.

“Yep.” She glances at him, then whispers back, “I don’t want to wear that crap.”

Mr. Ham trudges toward us and hands us the pink t-shirts. I hold mine in front of me and look at the pig image with a sign reading, Go Piggy at the Palooza!, then flip it around to find the festival logo plastered on the back—a pig family walking over a bacon-covered road that leads to a big pork ham. I forgot the logo screams savage, but that’s how the tumbleweed rolls down here.

I show the t-shirt to him and become Captain Obvious, asking, “Do we need to put them on?”

He taps his forehead. “My bad—I didn’t tell you they’re part of your uniform, along with these.” He holds a headband on each hand and offers them to us. “Wear your volunteer outfits proudly.”

I reluctantly take a headband, while Lia just glowers at the other, as if Mr. Ham were holding a dead lizard by the tail. After an excruciating minute, she snatches it.

“All righty,” he says, pointing at a little door in the back. “You can change down there.”

“Ladies first,” I say to Lia, smirking.

She frowns. “You go first.”

I bow. “I insist.”

Lia clutches her t-shirt and headband against her chest, curling her fingers. “Fine.” She marches to the back like a soldier, opens the door, and closes it behind her.

Mr, Ham lifts a brow. “Is…” He checks something on his phone. “Is Ophelia your girlfriend?”

“Shh.” I press a finger to my lips. “She dislikes her full first name. And, no, we aren’t dating or anything.”

“You two sure behave like a couple.” Mr. Ham winks at me.

I give him a “whatever” shrug.

A minute later, Lia steps out of the room carrying her baggy t-shirt. “Where should I put my shirt?”

Mr. Ham points to the wall at her right. “In that box.”

She puts her t-shirt away and heads in our direction. I look in disbelief at her body-hugging pink t-shirt. No, it isn’t that tight, but, man, Lia is hot. Something hovering over her head catches my attention, and I stifle a laugh when I realize it’s the headband over her backward cap. I mean, the headband features pig ears.

When she joins us, she puts her hands on her hips. “What are you looking at?”

My recently-punched nose reminds me to stay silent, but I can’t stop myself from admiring her hot figure.

Mr. Ham points at her head. “You need to lose your baseball cap.”

“It’s a hat, not a ‘baseball cap.’” She shakes her head. “Can I just leave it on?”

“Sorry, Piggy, but you have to take it off,” Mr. Ham says.

Lia gives him a glare. I’m not sure what’s more offensive to her—to call her Ophelia or Piggy.

He lets out a big sigh. “I didn’t choose the festival’s uniforms.”

She looks at him for a long moment before taking off her headband and cap, liberating her hair. She finger combs it, slaps on the pig-ears headband, and stares at him. “Happy?”

Mr. Ham glances at me. “Your turn.”

Rushing toward the door in the back, I look over my shoulder to make sure Lia isn’t punching his nose—nope. After entering a utility room filled with mops and buckets and who knows what else, I switch t-shirts and slap on the ridiculous pig-ears headband. There’s no mirror, but I’m sure I look ludicrous.

I step out, throw my t-shirt inside the box, and extend my arms to the sides, Bugs Bunny style. “Ta-da!”

Lia raises a fist in the air. “Go Palooza, Piggy,” she says sarcastically, then turns her attention to the man at her side. “Does he look piggy enough to you, Mr. Ham?” She wiggles her brows.

He looks at me, then at her, and shakes his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but I surely don’t appreciate the sarcasm.”

Tense silence follows.

He takes a breath. “All righty. Look for Ms. Caroline—she’ll show you around.”

We drag our feet toward the exit, and when we’re about to leave, he clears his throat, making us spin back around.

He gives us a serious face. “Make an effort and show the right attitude.”

“Sure, Mr. Ham,” I say.

“Yeah, okay,” Lia says.

I watch her walk through the door and leave.

“Did you do something to her?” Mr. Ham asks.

I sigh and tell him about school and how we were forced to volunteer.

He steps toward me and pats my back. “You two seem like nice kids, just try to keep a good attitude. And don’t forget to smile!”

I force a grin. “Uh, okay.”

“All righty.” He pats me again, making me stumble a bit. “Go get your girlfriend, Piggy!”

I frown at him. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“I know love when I see it,” he says, dragging the words out like Matthew McConaughey.

“You’re dead wrong.” I leave before he says another word.

Outside, I search for Lia and find her talking to a dark-skinned woman with curly black hair.

I stride toward them. “Hey, Lia.”

Lia gives me an “I’m not loving this place” nod.

The woman gives me a huge grin. “You must be Kiev.”

“That’s me,” I say.

“I’m Caroline, your festival coordinator.” She offers her hand.

I clasp it like a businessman, but her grip is way stronger than mine.

She points at Lia. “I was telling Ophelia about your programmed activities.”

Lia winces. “Just Lia, please.”

“Okay, Lia and Kiev,” Caroline says. “Follow me.”

As she guides us, we pass by food stands.

“Weird,” Lia says.

“What?” I ask.

She points at a stand. “Deep-fried bacon pizza? Really?”

Her brown eyes illuminate with sunshine, and I can’t help but stare at them like an idiot. I glance around and point at a different stand. “That one beats yours. Bacon-ham ice cream.”

Looking in that direction, Lia chuckles. “What’s next? Bacon-wrapped bananas?”

“Are you coming?” Caroline calls us up ahead.

“We’ll be there in a second,” I call back.

Lia takes off her pig-ear headband, scratches her hair, and slides it back on.

I motion to her head. “You miss your cap?”

“Hat,” she corrects me with a smile.

“Looks like a baseball cap.” I put on an imaginary one and throw a pitch toward her.

She catches the imaginary baseball. “And … you’re out!”

“So you know baseball.” I incline my head. “Do you play it when wearing your baseball cap?”

She gives me a dismissive wave. “You are hat blind.”

“I’ve been told I have poor eyesight,” I say, remembering Cole’s words.

Then she goes on explaining the mystery of the differences between a hat and a cap, which to me they sound the same. Man, I really like her now that she’s relaxed.

“Kids!” Caroline shouts.

“Duty calls,” I say and pace toward her.

“I’m not a freaking kid,” Lia says as she joins me.

A minute later, we get to Caroline.

“Your first station will be at the Whack-a-pig game,” Caroline says.

I straighten myself up to realize we’re standing by a machine with little tunnels. Inside each of them, there’s a pig. “Oh,” I say. “Is this like Whack-a-mole?”

“That’s right, Captain—” Lia starts, forces a smile to Caroline, and adds, “Captain Kiev.”

“All right.” Caroline tucks a black ringlet behind her ear. “Your mission will be to watch kids from hurting themselves with the hammers.” She points at them with a manicured hand.

Lia shoots up a hand, as if asking a teacher permission to speak.

Our activity coordinator cocks her head, a bunch of ringlets falling over her shoulder. “Yes, Lia?”

“We’re talking about little kids, right?”

Caroline nods, ringlets flying in all directions. “Also, kids your age.”

Why does she insists on calling us kids? Oh, well. Another life mystery. “Really?” I ask.

“Yes.” Caroline brushes her hair, putting it into place. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

After she leaves, swaying her hips, I turn my attention to Lia. “You wanna play before dangerous kids our age show up?”

She rubs her hands. “I’m so gonna beat your ass.”

“Bring it on.” I step to the machine and grab a hammer. “Ready?”

She grips one, and we sword fight, hammer style. As she moves, I admire her … woman parts, her face—everything her.

“How come we didn’t do this before?” I ask.

“Play Whack-a-pig?” She knocks her hammer against mine.

I lower my hammer. “Not this-this. Hang out.”

She looks up at the clear blue sky for a moment. “If I remember correctly, you were Mr. Topper.”

“That’s right, and you were Miss Talk to the Hand.” My hand touches her arm, as if it has a life of its own. I yank it back right away when I realize what it’s doing.

She seems stunned.

My face’s temperature raises ten degrees. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

We freeze, looking at each other, until she raises her hammer. “Ready for round two?”

From the corner of my eye, I spot Caroline. I put my hammer away. “We should concentrate on our duty,” I say and avert my eyes toward the coordinator.

Lia puts her hammer back in place. “This is going to be boring.”

I look around at the semi-deserted festival and then smile at her. “Looks like no dangerous kids will show up.”

On cue, a megaphone-enhanced man’s voice announces, “Welcome, y’all, to the Fifteenth Annual Piggy Palooza Festival. The doors officially open now!” I recognize him—Mr. Ham.

Lia points at something over my shoulder. “You were saying?”

I whirl around to spot a tsunami of people walking through the entrance.

What follows is difficult to describe. For some reason, teens love whacking pig heads with their hammers. Or whacking each other.

“Hey, don’t do that,” I say to a guy built like a football player, as he slams the side of the Whack-a-pig machine.

Dropping his hammer, he turns to me, his shadow covering me like a total solar eclipse. “Or what?” he asks.

“Or you’ll be expelled from the premises,” Lia says, motioning her hand from his feet all the way up to his head—he’s that tall.

He glares down at her. “Says who?”

“Dude, it’s against the festival’s rules,” I point out, trying to salvage the situation.

He pushes me, and I stumble back.

“Let’s just leave, Bo,” a tiny girl says to him. “This game’s boring.”

“But—” he says.

She grabs his gigantic hand. “Win a stuffed teddy bear for me.”

He grins at her. “Sure.”

After they leave, I let out a huge sigh.

“Against the rules?” Lia asks.

“I was…” I scrunch my face for a moment. “It wasn’t the best way to save a girl in distress.”

“Actually,” she says, “you were the one in need of saving.”

The tension inside me goes away, as I chuckle. “You’re a real lady in shining armor.”

An hour later, Caroline comes by. “Are you guys ready for your next activity?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say in a firm voice, as if she were the general of festival activities.

“You’re such a nerd,” Lia whispers.

“Follow me.” She spins and strolls ahead.

As we follow her, I ask Lia, “Do you know what this is about?”

“Yep. I know.” She gives me a wide smile. “It’s a surprise involving bacon.”

“Bacon? Here? No, I don’t believe you,” I say in the most sarcastic way. “Can’t hardly wait.”