Bacon Pie by Candace Robinson & Gerardo Delgadillo

Author:Candace Robinson & Gerardo Delgadillo [Robinson, Candace]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Evernight Teen
Published: 2018-04-12T18:30:00+00:00

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.

Soon, I reach a wooden arch with a pink sign, reading, Welcome to the Fifteenth Annual Piggy Palooza Festival. 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.

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