The Pigman by Paul Zindel Page A

the kitchen door, wiping forks a mile a minute. I should have said nothing, but it was a conditioned reflex.
    “Do you mean
real
whipped cream or that horrible, prepared-mix, fake whipped cream?”
    “Don’t give the ingrate anything.”
    “He’s only joking.”
    The Hyper was off again.
    There was a terrible pause.
    “I apologize.”
    “One of these days it’ll be too late to apologize. Your mother isn’t going to be around forever either, you know. When she’s dead, you’re going to wish to God you’d been nicer to her. Mark my words.” He sliced another piece of steak and groaned when the knife wouldn’t go through a bit of gristle.
    “Oh Dad, can’t you see all I want to do is be individualistic?”
    “Don’t worry about that.”
    “I want to be
me
.”
    “Who’s asking you not to be?”
    “You are.”
    “I am not. I don’t want you to go along with the crowd. I want you to be your own man. Stand out in your own way.”
    “You
do
?”
    “Of course I do. Take your plate out to the kitchen.”
    “Just give me a little longer to find out who I am,” I said, heading for the kitchen door while the getting was good.
    “Be yourself! Be individualistic!” he called after me. “But for God’s sake get your hair cut. You look like an oddball.”
    “How nice of you to remember to bring your plate out,” the Old Lady said, squirting some whipped cream out of a can. “Are you going to have dessert?”
    “No, Mom.”
    She looked me over carefully, checking for any clues as to what mood I left Bore in.
    “Your father’s a little tired tonight. Maybe you’d better go over to a friend’s house to do your homework? I mean he’s worked hard, and I don’t think we should aggravate him, do you?”
    “No, Mom.”
    “Would you like a glass of wine?” Mr. Pignati offered, straightening up a few things in the living room. It was great how happy he was to see us. I can’t remember Bore, or my mother either for that matter, ever looking happy to see me, let alone when I came into the house with
a friend.
    “That would be pleasant,” Lorraine said.
    “This is a great house you’ve got,” I said. “It’s well… interesting.”
    He beamed.
    “Come on, and I’ll show you around,” he said, smiling to beat the band.
    He took us through the downstairs part, and the less you know about that the better. The first time we were there we saw the hallway when we came in and the stairs that went to the upper floor—and the living room that was really lived in. There was also this dining room affair with the kind of furniture you see everybody put out on the street for the Sanitation Department in the spring.
    Then on the other side there was a door leading to a porchlike room that looked like someone had tried to fix it up so it could be lived in but had failed. And the only other thing on the first floor was a kitchen, and that’s where we stopped because Lorraine was hungry. I mean, we were really making ourselves at home there after awhile. At first we had just stood around, bashful about touching his things. We’d walk over to a bookcase and touch a book and stroll by a table and admire the handle on a drawer. But in fifteen minutes we were laughing with the Pigman like it was a treasure hunt, and he kept smiling and saying, “Just make yourself at home. You just go right ahead and make yourself at home.” But it was really all a lot of junk. The most interesting thing I found was a table drawer full of old
Popular Mechanics
magazine, and the most interesting thing Lorraine found was the icebox.
    “Try some of this,” Mr. Pignati insisted, holding up a bowl of little roundish things that looked as if they were in a spaghetti sauce.
    “Ummmm!”
Lorraine muttered as she stuffed a few into her mouth. “What are they?”
    “Scungilli,” the Pigman said. “They’re like snails.”
    “May I use your bathroom?” Lorraine asked her face turning stark white.
    “Right upstairs.”
    Mr. Pignati