The Pigman's Legacy (The Sequel to The Pigman) by Paul Zindel Page A

moving it seemed like his joints became greased and he was able to handle himself pretty well. We really only had to help him off the back porch to the yard. The garage doors looked like termite city, but when I flung them open there was a terrific beat-up canary-yellow old Studebaker convertible waiting inside.
    “It's a honey, isn't it?” Gus asked.
    “Oh, it's a honey,” I said.
    From the look of the car, I almost expected to see a sign on the rear bumper saying “See if you can hit me.” And it was hard to tell which end was the front and which was the back.
    “You can drive, can't you?” Gus wanted to know.
    “Oh, sure ,” I said.
    “John!” Lorraine screeched, her eyes giving me a look like I was insane. “John, I think you should tell the truth.”
    “I am telling the truth. Besides, this is no time to argue with your chauffeur. You know my father lets me drive the car.” Of course Lorraine and I both knew that my father only lets me back his car out of the driveway on certain occasions like when there's too much snow and he doesn't want to get his feet wet. But I always felt that if I really got my hands on a car I would be a natural driver. A driver's license is only a piece of paper, I've been known to utter. And the point was that Gus needed us. Of course there were probably about 30,000 other old people hobbling around on Staten Island who could have used us too, but I figured we had a certain responsibility to the old guy since we did crash into the house and make the poor guy cry.
    I got behind the wheel and put the old guy next to me, and Lorraine sat in the death seat on the far right. I was thrilled when Gus actually gave me the key. I put it in the ignition and turned it. I couldn't help looking past Gus to Lorraine as the engine began to turn over. She had fear written all over her face as the piston chambers commenced their little explosions ordinarily known as starting. The clanking and coughing were earsplitting.
    “Purrs like a kitten,” Gus sighed.
    “Be careful, John,” Lorraine kept saying over and over again. “Be careful, be careful…”
    Well I tell you, we had no trouble getting out of the driveway. I only stalled seven times, and before you knew it we were rolling down the hill toward Louis Street. Part of the way we were literally rolling because the engine had quit, but I finally managed to start the car and get the pistons crashing away again. Within five minutes I was driving like a pro and hardly ever swerved over the center line. I think any cop on Staten Island could have seen me drive by and thought I was at least twenty-five years old, with many years of driving experience behind me, and one thing I found out from pumping the accelerator straight off was that I would never get arrested for speeding. On a straightaway I tried to floor it, but it took a block before I hit twenty miles an hour.
    “Lorraine, you can tell your facial capillaries to let the blood back into them,” I told her.
    “Please be careful” was all she kept repeating.
    “Do you mind if we put the top down?” I asked Gus.
    “Love it,” he said.
    “I don't think we should,” Lorraine advised.
    I immediately pulled over and unsnapped the roof. I even knew enough to gas the engine while I pulled the little button, and wango! the roof leaped up into the air like a dragon opening its mouth. I could have sat there all day just watching that roof go up and down, seeing the plastic rear window fold into place. The motor that drove the roof made twice as much noise as the car engine, and I saw at least three people walking on the street stop and stare. To me it was like a fantasy coming true. I had always had a dream that I would be behind the wheel of a convertible driving up and down Victory Boulevard, and all the kids from school would be made to stand along the curb and applaud me as I drove up and down. In my dream I am usually in a Mercedes-Benz or a Rolls-Royce, but I figure a kid's got to