protest.
“No exceptions,” she said sternly. “Now get that thing out of here, before I bring him to the fryer myself.”
Fisher stalked out of the hotel with FP in his arms, fuming. Amanda and Veronica followed him out.
“What are we supposed to do now?” Amanda whispered fiercely. “Your stupid pig is going to mess up our whole plan to find …” She trailed off when she realized Veronica was right behind her. She settled for crossing her arms and frowning.
“I’m really sorry, Fisher,” Veronica said. “Maybe we can rig up a bed for FP on the bus. He’ll be happy there, won’t he?”
“Maybe.” He didn’t add:
when FP really
does
fly
. He headed dejectedly toward the tour bus, trying to calculate the odds that FP would be content to sleep on the bus without chewing through all of the seat cushions—and possibly the engine cables—in protest.
Trevor Weiss was tugging his oversized suitcase with all of his strength, still trying to wrestle it out of the luggage compartment. A final yank sent Trevor rollingbackward onto the ground. The suitcase sprang open, and its contents tumbled onto the pavement: some clothes, a small blanket, and a metal contraption that looked like a miniature instrument of torture.
“What’s this?” Fisher said, picking up the little blanket.
“My feet get cold, so I always carry an extra blanket,” Trevor explained, pulling himself to his feet unsteadily.
“And the other thing?” Fisher said. “What
is
that?”
“Orthodontic stuff,” Trevor said. “I’m supposed to hook it to my braces when I sleep.”
Fisher looked back and forth between the blanket and the headgear and the pig. And he had an idea.
“May I borrow those?” Fisher asked Trevor, indicating the two items. Trevor shrugged and nodded, curious, and Fisher deftly wrapped FP up in the blanket so that only a small part of his head was visible. Then he wrestled the headgear onto FP’s head, pinning down the pig’s ears. FP squirmed and honked a little in protest, but ultimately relented.
“Voilà!” Fisher said triumphantly. Amanda recoiled. Veronica giggled.
Fisher had succeeded in making FP resemble a very, very unattractive baby.
He tucked FP into his arms and strolled back throughthe lobby, whistling loudly and trying to look casual.
A young couple strolled up to Fisher and looked down at FP.
“Oh, hello there!” said the tall young woman, waving at the sleeping pig. “Is that your little brother?”
“Er, yeah, that’s right,” Fisher said. “His name is FP. That’s, um, short for … Frederick Percival.”
“Sounds very noble,” said the man, adjusting his glasses. They both bent down to take a closer look.
“Gee, he’s got such a … distinctive face. Don’t you agree, sweetie?” the woman said with a forced smile.
“Oh, yes,” the man choked out. “Very distinctive.” He cleared his throat. “Well, have a good day.”
“You too,” Fisher said as they walked away, before letting out a sigh of relief.
Fisher found the rest of the class already seated in the restaurant’s massive dining room, sat down, and set FP in his lap. The blanket seemed to have a tranquilizing effect on him, and Fisher listened for FP’s light snoring, to make sure the little pig didn’t suffocate under all the headgear.
Veronica plopped down next to him.
“Sheesh. This trip has hardly begun and it’s already crazy,” she said.
“Y-yes, crazy it has, uh, been,” Fisher said. Veronica’s elbow was touching his, and a feeling of numbness creptinto his mouth, as though he’d just been shot with Novocain. He gestured to the sleeping pig in his arms. “He definitely … superbly … he’s trouble.”
“At least he’s cute,” Veronica said, smiling down at the odd bundle in Fisher’s lap. “So … did you
really
submit a taped audition to a studio?”
“I … did, yes,” Fisher said. The pang hit him like a club right to the middle of his chest. More lies.
“No exceptions,” she said sternly. “Now get that thing out of here, before I bring him to the fryer myself.”
Fisher stalked out of the hotel with FP in his arms, fuming. Amanda and Veronica followed him out.
“What are we supposed to do now?” Amanda whispered fiercely. “Your stupid pig is going to mess up our whole plan to find …” She trailed off when she realized Veronica was right behind her. She settled for crossing her arms and frowning.
“I’m really sorry, Fisher,” Veronica said. “Maybe we can rig up a bed for FP on the bus. He’ll be happy there, won’t he?”
“Maybe.” He didn’t add:
when FP really
does
fly
. He headed dejectedly toward the tour bus, trying to calculate the odds that FP would be content to sleep on the bus without chewing through all of the seat cushions—and possibly the engine cables—in protest.
Trevor Weiss was tugging his oversized suitcase with all of his strength, still trying to wrestle it out of the luggage compartment. A final yank sent Trevor rollingbackward onto the ground. The suitcase sprang open, and its contents tumbled onto the pavement: some clothes, a small blanket, and a metal contraption that looked like a miniature instrument of torture.
“What’s this?” Fisher said, picking up the little blanket.
“My feet get cold, so I always carry an extra blanket,” Trevor explained, pulling himself to his feet unsteadily.
“And the other thing?” Fisher said. “What
is
that?”
“Orthodontic stuff,” Trevor said. “I’m supposed to hook it to my braces when I sleep.”
Fisher looked back and forth between the blanket and the headgear and the pig. And he had an idea.
“May I borrow those?” Fisher asked Trevor, indicating the two items. Trevor shrugged and nodded, curious, and Fisher deftly wrapped FP up in the blanket so that only a small part of his head was visible. Then he wrestled the headgear onto FP’s head, pinning down the pig’s ears. FP squirmed and honked a little in protest, but ultimately relented.
“Voilà!” Fisher said triumphantly. Amanda recoiled. Veronica giggled.
Fisher had succeeded in making FP resemble a very, very unattractive baby.
He tucked FP into his arms and strolled back throughthe lobby, whistling loudly and trying to look casual.
A young couple strolled up to Fisher and looked down at FP.
“Oh, hello there!” said the tall young woman, waving at the sleeping pig. “Is that your little brother?”
“Er, yeah, that’s right,” Fisher said. “His name is FP. That’s, um, short for … Frederick Percival.”
“Sounds very noble,” said the man, adjusting his glasses. They both bent down to take a closer look.
“Gee, he’s got such a … distinctive face. Don’t you agree, sweetie?” the woman said with a forced smile.
“Oh, yes,” the man choked out. “Very distinctive.” He cleared his throat. “Well, have a good day.”
“You too,” Fisher said as they walked away, before letting out a sigh of relief.
Fisher found the rest of the class already seated in the restaurant’s massive dining room, sat down, and set FP in his lap. The blanket seemed to have a tranquilizing effect on him, and Fisher listened for FP’s light snoring, to make sure the little pig didn’t suffocate under all the headgear.
Veronica plopped down next to him.
“Sheesh. This trip has hardly begun and it’s already crazy,” she said.
“Y-yes, crazy it has, uh, been,” Fisher said. Veronica’s elbow was touching his, and a feeling of numbness creptinto his mouth, as though he’d just been shot with Novocain. He gestured to the sleeping pig in his arms. “He definitely … superbly … he’s trouble.”
“At least he’s cute,” Veronica said, smiling down at the odd bundle in Fisher’s lap. “So … did you
really
submit a taped audition to a studio?”
“I … did, yes,” Fisher said. The pang hit him like a club right to the middle of his chest. More lies.
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