Free Pigboy by Vicki Grant Page A

the farmer had come from Holland to raise these special old-fashioned animals. Apparently it was all very fascinating—but I wasn’t listening.
    All I could think was, I knew it.
    Why did I even hope the trip would be cancelled? Something that good would never happen to me. I’m just not a lucky person.
    Whenever I’d say that to my mother she’d go, “Oh! That’s nonsense! Of course you’re lucky. You’re young. You’re healthy. You have a roof over your head and food to eat.” As if that was going to make me feel better. It just made me feel pathetic.
    Basically, she was saying I’m lucky because I’m not dead.
    I looked around the class. Why couldn’t I be lucky the way these other kids are lucky? They’re young and healthy too—but they also get to be tall and good-looking and funny and rich and athletic and popular, and all the other things I have no hope of ever being.
    If I ever said that to my mother, she’d just shake her head and tell me how much worse off I could be. I’m a scrawny buck toothed nerd named Hogg. “Imagine,” she’d say, “how much worse it is to be an overweight Hogg like your cousin Andy. Imagine what he has to go through.”
    Right. I could just picture it. Next time that idiot Shane bugged me about my name I’d say, “Well, at least, I’m not a fat Hogg.”
    And next time he mentioned my buckteeth, I’d point out that at least I have teeth.
    And if he ever brought up the fact again that I could start fires with my coke-bottle glasses, I’d explain how handy that would be if we wanted to have a wienie roast one day.
    I almost laughed when I thought of that, but I could feel Shane looking at me. Only losers laugh to themselves.
    The principal was still yakking away about traditional hog farming. Shane was still whispering stupid jokes to his friends and cracking up. How could my mother think I was lucky?
    I wasn’t even lucky enough to get the flu when I needed it.

chapter three
    People were pushing and shoving for a good spot, but I managed to get a seat by myself in the back of the bus.
    Big surprise.
    I always got a seat by myself. The boys thought I was weird. The girls didn’t think about me at all. No one ever wanted to sit with me. I didn’t care. I was used to it.
    The bus driver said it would take about an hour to get to the farm. That was okay.I could sleep. I was tired after being up the night before. I was going to need all my strength to make it through the rest of the day. It takes a lot of energy to act like those idiots don’t bother me.
    Ms. Creaser was talking to some girls up front. They were having quite a little conversation. Something about her jacket. I guess they liked it, the way they were squealing about it. Ms. Creaser was pretty young and dressed like a VJ—other than the rubber boots, that is. She reminded me of my half sister and her college friends. You know, the clothes, the earrings, the big laugh.
    I didn’t want to act like a weirdo, so I stopped watching them and just looked out the window. There wasn’t much else to do.
    Boring.
    For a while there were houses and, every so often, someone out walking a dog. Once we got on the highway, though, there were just 18-wheelers and gas stations. It was even worse after we turnedon to a country road. We passed this dead little village, a couple of farms—and then there was nothing.
    No houses. No fields. Not even any signs. Just miles and miles of the worst dirt road you ever saw.
    Every time we went over a bump I thought, I’m going to be sick. That was all I needed. If I threw up on the bus, my life would be worthless. They’d never let me forget it. Seriously. Never.
    My mother told me to take a carsickness pill before I left. She kept saying I’d be sorry. I hate it when she treats me like a kid. I didn’t take one. I hoped it wasn’t too late to take one