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  One day, while pondering how to find Lukie, I saw that the sky above me was suddenly darkened by a strange gray cloud. Upon closer inspection, I realized that it wasn’t a cloud at all but a flock of pigeons. They swooped across my view as if they were trying to tell me something. Suddenly it dawned on me that notifying the pigeons would be an excellent tactic, since they could see everything in the city.

  This uptown-downtown flock seemed to patrol the airspace above and around Central Park. Maybe — if the pigeons would cooperate with me — I could begin my search for Lukie tomorrow morning after Ellie went to work and the kids were off to school. That left the rest of the afternoon to see the city. I made my way out of the fish tank, down the service elevator, and across the alley to the street. As soon as I stepped onto the sidewalk, I was overwhelmed again.

  A handsome horse smiled at me from where his carriage stood. Green grass and flowers lined the streets. The air was filled with the smell of lunchtime, which brought happy tears to my eyes . . . and a tiny trickle of drool to my lips. I was thrilled to find that there was more to this town than just hot dogs. Everywhere I went, I saw pretzels steaming, popcorn spilling, and restaurant doors wide open. With such dazzling food every few feet, no wonder people were drawn here.

  I sat to observe the locals and was struck by how unlike other humans they were. Each was crisply dressed and pressed for time, and seemed to be suffering from stress. Lacking the plumpness I was used to seeing in Tennessee, the local humans were more angular. Stylish yet emaciated, the ladies shared a facial expression I knew well: the intense longing for something to eat. They were shockingly underfed, considering the abundance of food in sight.

  One man, however, was trying to address the problem. He stood in the park in front of a huge blender, making fruit smoothies, which he was distributing to anyone interested — if they stood in front of the blender. Famished, I ambled over to join the line and lap one up.

  To my amazement, the people nearby screamed at me in fear and backed away, nearly running. Desperate to calm them, I spotted an accordion player and instantly picked up his beat, moving my haunches to the rhythm. But this made the humans more frantic than ever, shouting, “Get back! It must be rabid!” and “Run! It’s about to attack!”

  Their reaction was entirely bizarre. A man poked his head out of a kebab wagon next to the smoothie stand and cursed me for running off his crowd. In a terrible rage, he began hurling soda cans at me, and others followed his lead but used rocks instead. When a sharp one hit my shoulder, I broke into a whimpering run and flew back the way I had come. Bleeding and disheartened, I skidded through the service doors and onto the freight elevator.

  What was the problem? I had come to New York with open hooves to embrace the city, its people, and its animals, but everybody was treating me as if I were a terrorist. I was accustomed to good manners, admiration, and, frankly, even star treatment. Now I was finally where I wanted to be, but everything was wrong.

  How did Lukie survive here, where pigs were considered monsters? By the time I got home, I was emotionally wrung out. For once, I wasn’t hungry. All I wanted to do was get to Maple’s closet, find my Lukieball, and cuddle up.

  When I crept through the kitchen, I heard Barley in the living room, talking to someone. I stopped for a moment at the open door. Barley wouldn’t look at me, but I knew he knew I was there. Something strange was going on, and I had seen enough strange stuff for one day. I headed for the closet. It crossed my mind that Barley might be protecting me . . . and then the truth slapped me in the face: New York was filled with prejudice, and my kind wasn’t welcome.

  When we had arrived that first day, and we saw the Statue of Liberty in the distance, Barley quoted the words written on the base: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses . . .”

  But those words were clearly for people, not pigs.

  CHAPTER 16

  Warning Signs

  BARLEY

  WHEN YOU grow up with a pig as a pet, the click of tiny hooves supporting a lot of weight is an absolute giveaway of her presence. It sounds like somebody is walking around in tap shoes all the time. When I heard the click, click, click come from the kitchen, it wasn’t the sound but the pace at which her legs were moving that clued me in that something was up. Ordinarily, I would have immediately followed and found Rumpy to make sure she was all right, but I had a bigger problem. After I came back from soccer practice, I had encountered a garrulous man with a high-pitched voice who smelled of motor oil and cigarettes. What was most disturbing about this stranger was the fact that he was in our home alone. He introduced himself as the hotel building superintendent and said he was there to check out our pipes and wall sockets, but I had a hunch he was snooping around.

  The man’s name was Murray, and Freddy, the doorman, had warned me about him a few days earlier. Freddy had also told me that maybe it was best not to have so many people over to see Rumpy do her thing. Then he looked frightened, scanning the lobby to see if anyone was watching us. He leaned down and, in a loud whisper, said, “Boucher, the head chef, is back in the hotel.”

  Murray asked way too many questions, and his eyes never met mine. His neck jerked as he went from room to room with his flashlight on and his tool belt rattling. He had gone through every room except Maple’s and was heading in that direction when I said, “My sister’s asleep in there. She’s not feeling well.”

  Murray shone his flashlight into the hallway and finally looked at me. “Dis uhl only take a second,” he said, and started to open the door.

  “We think she has the mumps,” I blurted out.

  Murray let go of the doorknob and clicked his flashlight off. “Well, I’m sure tings is okeydokey in dere. Hope yaz sistah gets betta.”

  I walked him to the door and watched as he sauntered away across the roof. Then I rushed back to Maple’s room. When I opened the door, Rumpy and Syrup were piled together in the corner of the closet, asleep.

  Something wasn’t right. Mom would be home any minute, and I needed to talk to her.

  CHAPTER 17

  Traveling at the Speed of Dreams

  RUMPY

  I WAS DREAMING. I was back in Vertigo, sitting at a desk. Using my hooves, I was able to type on the computer, and I could see Flutbein’s Hotel on the screen. Barley and Maple were in the fish tank on top of the hotel, but in my dream, it wasn’t a fish tank; it was a spaceship, and they were sending me instant messages, telling me how much they missed me, and they were wondering if I was ever coming back to New York.

  I typed back to them, “Not as long as Boucher is around.”

  Boucher. Now there is a name that can strike fear into the heart of any pig. In French, it means “Butcher” — as in the guy who makes pork chops and hams out of you-know-what. I had overheard that he was the head chef.

  Next thing I knew, I dreamed I was back in the fish tank, and Maple and Barley were all abuzz because I had returned so fast.

  I like to travel at the speed of dreams.

  The twins were smoothing my coat and asking me how I had learned to type so well. Barley mentioned his concern about my love of exploring. Maple seemed to feel I was searching for someone . . . and there the dream melted into cheeses dancing with tomatoes! Though I was sleeping, my very alert and sensitive snout was still on and engaged in its most frenetic twitch, announcing, like the scream of an airport metal detector, a fresh pizza — my second-favorite food next to chicken fingers. This meant Ellie had brought dinner home after a long day of work.

  “Supper’s here, girls,” Barley announced. I was back to reality in a second. I scrambled out of the closet and raced to the living room, where the picnic of my dreams lay spread across the floor. Edible flowers had been scattered like a path to four pizzas, surrounded by freshly baked apples.

  In spite of the hostility below in the mean streets, that night in the fish tank was pure heaven. Ellie raved about the hotel’s modern kitchen. It was every chef’s dream, and she was determi
ned to please Mr. Flutbein with her work. She had introduced herself to the waiters and had asked them for feedback on any dessert. Over coffee, the busboys told her amusing stories about the regular guests, as well as a few good jokes. The senior chef, a Frenchman by way of Hackensack, New Jersey, had returned from his hunting trip. Ellie described the way he snarled at his employees and was constantly ducking into the alley behind the kitchen for a cigarette.

  “You mean Boucher?” Maple asked. Syrup hissed from her shoulder.

  “Sounds like he might be the next candidate for the famous Coach Mom’s cheap-shot payback,” Barley said with a smirk.

  Ellie didn’t see the humor in his statement. “How do you know his name?” she asked.

  Barley then told her about finding Murray in the apartment, snooping, and about Freddy’s warning to watch out for the head chef.

  “Well, we are all new here, and we will just have to learn to get along with everybody. I assure you that the good apples here at the hotel certainly outnumber the bad ones.”

  Apples. Mmmmm. I confess I wasn’t thinking about the rotten apple that had just appeared in my dreams an hour earlier. No, I was thinking more about the nicely baked ones placed around the pizzas. I didn’t need an invitation. I gobbled the apples while the kids were telling Ellie about their day at school. Barley was excited he had made the varsity soccer team, and Maple announced that Barton’s “pet day” was coming up next week. Normally I would have jumped at the opportunity to perform, but after my day at the park, I was relieved that Maple was going to take Syrup to class — so she could exhibit the extensive cat wardrobe she had made.

  After dinner, Ellie came over and sat by me and scratched my head. “You seem tired, Rumpy,” she said. She removed her apron and placed it next to my snout so I could get a whiff. Drenched with flavor, it was a delicious record of every meal she had served that day, and it sent me off to dreamland again — but that night, I slept fitfully on the couch. I guess three whole pizzas kept the snake dreams fueled.

  In my next dream, Ellie was in the hotel kitchen, and I was her assistant. The kids were seated at a table in the dining room with Lukie, and he and Barley were wearing tuxedos. The kitchen had a glass wall, and everyone was staring at us. Ellie was creating a very strange dessert — a toffee tarantula, suspended in a spun-sugar cobweb, with yellow eyes that scanned back and forth for prey.

  I should have taken it as a warning.

  CHAPTER 18

  More Soccer than a Boy Could Want

  BARLEY

  THINGS MOVE quickly here in New York. Back on the first day of school, I barely had time to get my locker straightened out because soccer tryouts started right after the end of class. The next day, the team list was posted on the bulletin board, and that afternoon, I had a practice uniform on. I was running plays as a member of the Barton Academy Falcons on the Great Lawn of Central Park. Being a new kid in a city school like Barton was not easy, but it certainly helped that I could kick a ball.

  Let’s just say that the Great Lawn of Central Park is a very different home field than Pancake Park. On any given day, more people are playing soccer than football! That is why the Great Lawn is where you will find me most of the time I am not in school.

  Barton Academy is only a few blocks from the park, and we practice every afternoon and play our games there as well. Then there is the big difference, and it is a huge one: the Red Bulls practice at Giants Stadium, just across the Hudson River in New Jersey. I finally figured out the subway-and-bus route there, and Mom is going to take me over next weekend. The Red Bulls are tied for first place in the East with D.C. United. Who knows, I just might get to that play-off game with Dad after all.

  In the meantime, our first game was simply amazing. I have to say I’ll never forget running onto that field in the middle of Central Park, scoring the winning goal, and actually hearing more than four people cheer. It kind of signaled that I had really arrived in New York — even more than when I had tumbled out of the stretch limo. Mom and Maple were in the crowd, and all of Maple’s new school friends were text-messaging her, asking if I had a girlfriend. Yuck!

  When I am not playing for the Falcons, I can just go to the park with my ball and find any one of a dozen pickup games on the lawn. I play with everybody, from kids my age to grown men who don’t speak much English. Already my Spanish has improved tremendously. So I can honestly say that soccer is not only fun but also educational. Still, I have to leave time to do my schoolwork back in the fish tank. Soccer is sure more fun, but Barton is an academic challenge, and I promised Mom that I would make good grades in order to play soccer. It’s only been a few weeks, but so far so good.

  There is only one problem with having all the soccer a boy could want. Because of the almost unlimited supply of games, players, and shots on goal, my longtime goalie, Rumpy, sort of slipped off my radar and onto the sidelines. Back in Vertigo, Rumpy was always in goal, because most of the time we didn’t have enough humans to make up a team. But in New York, that just wasn’t the case.

  After our second Falcons game, Mom pointed out that I had left Rumpy out. She was right, and I felt bad. Not only was Rumpy our pet but she was my pal — and kind of like a roommate, too. That night, I promised Mom that I would spend time with Rumpy in the park. I had just gotten distracted by all the great things to do in the city, especially in Central Park. There were concerts, bike trails, restaurants, and the zoo. There was even a castle on the Great Lawn.

  Mom laughed and reminded me that she, too, had been a country girl who had come from Mississippi to the Big City. “No matter what great changes life brings you,” she said, “you have to make time for your true friends, Barley.” And that is exactly what I did. After practice the next day, I sprinted to the Barton bookstore and bought Rumpy a surprise. But when I got home, I found her buried in the corner of Maple’s closet, hugging that football of hers.

  There was no wiggle and no rush to rub my leg and get scratched. She showed no interest in my gift, and she didn’t even react when I told her about our upcoming one-on-one playdate. Instead, she simply looked up at me, rolled over, and closed her eyes. Maybe she was feeling bad after eating three pizzas the night before, or maybe she was just homesick for the farm. Anyway, it was my job to cheer her up, and I was taking that job seriously.

  CHAPTER 19

  Not So Fast There, Rumpy

  RUMPY

  I GUESS I needed that fourteen-hour nap after the incident in the park and the pizza dreams. I woke up early the next morning feeling much better. I had a faint memory of Barley in the closet talking to me, but I couldn’t remember what he had said. Then I saw his gift — the prettiest red jersey with falcons written across the front and my name and the number “1” stitched across the back. Next to it was a snout guard that Maple had designed with the Barton Academy colors. They hadn’t forsaken me! I was back in the game. I was still Barley’s goalie, and I was still Maple’s favorite star to dress.

  It was exactly the medicine I needed. Maybe New York wasn’t such a bad place after all. I jumped up and began to scratch around Maple’s bed, even before her alarm rang. She rolled around in the covers, but I pulled on her sheets.

  Just then, Barley popped his head in the door. “There’s my goalie!” he said with a smile. I ran over to him and snuggled up, grunting and spinning at his feet, stopping only long enough for Barley to get my new jersey on. Maple took a picture of me.

  As usual, the kids got dressed for school, fixed their breakfast and mine, and packed up their schoolbags. Ellie’s absence during this morning ritual wasn’t unusual; she often dashed to the kitchen early to make sure the overnight bakers had cooked the morning pastries properly. I walked in front of the mirror in the hallway and admired my new jersey. I was ready to take on New York again.

  I had often walked the kids to school in Vertigo, and I had figured it would be the same in New York. However, I opted to lie low. I was scared to go out. But the jersey cheered me up and boosted
my confidence. Suddenly I was looking forward to exploring the route to Barton Academy and seeing what kind of goalie the Falcons had. Once the twins were safely in class, I could scout the streets around the campus for Lukie scents before checking out soccer practice in the park. Then I would try to connect with the uptown pigeons. My hope was that they were in contact with other pigeon squadrons in the city. Working together, they could help me locate Lukie. I was back on the job.

  THAT AFTERNOON, I was chewing away on the last carrot in my bowl when the scent of fresh-baked croissants made its way into the kitchen. Ellie must have returned from the restaurant. “What?” I heard Barley yell. “That’s outrageous!”

  I stopped eating and ran for the living room.

  “Oh, Rumpy . . .” Maple said in a shaky little voice.

  “It’s just not fair!” Barley shouted. He had tears in his eyes, and his voice was angry.

  Ellie stooped down and stroked my head. “Rumpy, you can’t go out anymore.”

  Apparently one of the waiters had been telling everyone that a pig at a hot-dog stand had been chased by a mob through the park.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” Ellie asked.

  The truth was written all over my face.

  Ellie was crying now. “Oh, Rumpy,” she said, “it’s all my fault. I was too busy worrying about the move. I never imagined the problems city life would present for a pig. And then this showed up under our door this morning.”

  Barley held up a letter written on hotel stationery. He read the large print at the top: