Horse Camp

For Isabella and Mitchell and Phillip

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – Percy and the Pigs

Chapter 2 – Penny and God's Challenges

Chapter 3 – Percy in the Granary

Chapter 4 – Penny Defends Her Faith

Chapter 5 – Percy's Friend Elle

Chapter 6 – Penny Ponders Temptation

Chapter 7 – Percy and June Bug

Chapter 8 – Penny Has Questions

Chapter 9 – Percy versus Penny

Chapter 10 – Penny versus Percy

Chapter 11 – Percy and Violence

Chapter 12 – Penny's Many Moods

Chapter 13 – Percy and the Chicken

Chapter 14 – Penny and the Talent Show

Chapter 15 – Percy Meets Jimmy

Chapter 16 – Penny Considers Womanhood

Chapter 17 – Percy, Pauly, and Lightning

Chapter 18 – Penny, Future Medical Professional

Chapter 19 – Percy Celebrates His Birthday

Chapter 20 – Penny Celebrates Her Birthday

Chapter 21 – Percy at the State Fair

Chapter 22 – Penny and the Whirlwind

Chapter 23 – Percy and the Tornado

Chapter 24 – Penny Counts Her Blessings

Chapter 25 – Percy the Survivor

Chapter 26 – Penny at Home

U
NCLE STRETCH sits on a wooden three-legged stool in the corner of the pig barn, holding a knife in one hand. He is not what I would call a good role model.

The pig barn on Uncle Stretch's farm in Minnesota is my least favorite place in the world. It smells like a garbage dump, and it's packed with about fifty grunting, squealing pigs of all sizes. Outside the pig barn isn't much of an improvement, with chickens running about in the farmyard and a bunch of tractors and other farming machines all over the place. It is not what I would call the sweetest place to spend your summer, which I can already tell, having been here a whole week.

Uncle Stretch points the knife at a pack of smaller pigs trying to stick their noses through a crack in one of the wooden boards holding them inside the pen. “Get me one of those,” he says.

“Are you crazy?” I say, my arms rising in protest like a professional football player's when he's forced to argue with refs who call unfair penalties.

Uncle Stretch scrapes the blade of the knife on his boot heel. He lifts one eyebrow at me. “I said, go get me one, Perseus.”

“How come Penny doesn't have to help?” I ask, even though if I know one thing about my twin sister, it's that she can't deal with dirt and germs, which happen to be about 99 percent of what pigs are made.

“She's got her own chores in the house,” says Uncle Stretch.

“C'mon!” I say. “This is the most disgusting thing in history.”

Uncle Stretch twirls the knife in his hand, then points it at the pack of pigs. “I ain't gonna tell you again, young gun,” he says.

When our parents sent us here to Uncle Stretch's farm, they called it Horse Camp.
Oh, you'll have a great time at Horse Camp. Yeah, Stretch always has bunches of horses out on his farm. You can ride and ride and ride. It's the best place in the world for a kid to spend the summer. You'll love it! And if you don't, remember it's just temporary until we get this mess all sorted out.
All I can say to that is,
Yeah, right
.

Stretch has got just two horses now—one a worndown steed named Bernie, who looks like he was in the Civil War, and the other a mean mare named Brenda, who would rather bite your whole hand off than eat the carrot you're holding out for her. I wouldn't dream of riding those two creatures even if the world was on fire, and I had to get away from it fast. Horse Camp? Ha. More like Annoying Camp. Or Foolish Camp. Or Camp for Crazy People and Animals.

I walk over to the pack of pigs. They ignore me and keep nosing at the crack in the boards. The pigs I've seen around here act pretty dumb. I saw one eating a paper feed bag yesterday. Another was eating something smelly and steaming that I don't even want to talk about. All the pigs in the group I'm approaching now are smaller, not quite grown-up. They probably weigh as much as a little kid, like a two-year-old. I used to have to carry around my brother, Pauly, when he was two, so I know what I'm talking about.

I step into the middle of the pack and reach down to pick one up. It squeals and takes off.
Whatever.
I reach for another one, but it squeals and dashes after its friend.
Stupid, filthy animals.
The other pigs in the pack have stopped nosing the crack and are nosing my knees now. I look over at Uncle Stretch and throw my hands up again. He points the knife at me and shakes it.
What the heck is that supposed to mean?

I reach down a third time and get ahold of a leg. The pig whose leg I've got starts screaming like I'm killing it, and the rest of the pack runs away, but I hold on. The pig pulls and tries to run with only three legs on the ground. I yank on the leg and try to drag it, but the screams the pig lets out make me feel sorry for it. Maybe I'm breaking its leg. I try to switch my grip to its belly, and I get it about a foot off the ground when it's like a bolt of lightning hits the pig and it jolts and all its legs run in the air at once. Suddenly, a jet of yellow liquid comes out of the pig's butt and lands all over the sleeve of my Minnesota Vikings sweatshirt.

“Jeez!” I say, flinging the thing away from me and shaking my sleeve. My mom and dad would kill me for taking the Lord's name in vain, but what's on my sleeve looks and smells so evil that I have to say something. The little devil runs off with its pack of buddies.

I walk over to Uncle Stretch, holding my arm out straight like it's not a part of me. I stand in front of him and stare.

“Well?” he says. “What happened?”

“Uh, look what that pig did to my arm!” I say. “He probably ruined my sweatshirt.”

“The Vikings have always stunk,” he says, pointing the knife at the purple helmet with the white horns on it in the middle of my chest. He smiles.

I don't laugh at his dumb joke. “I'm leaving,” I say. I turn and take a couple of steps before I feel a yanking on my neck. Uncle Stretch pulls me back in front of him by my sweatshirt hood.

“Ouch!” I say. “You're choking me!” I rub my neck.

“You need to go get me one of those pigs now,” he says, not smiling at all. I wonder if he'd beat me up if I try taking off again. Uncle Stretch's eyes are real squinty, like my mom's when she's mad at us. It makes sense, since they're brother and sister.

“I can't get 'em,” I say. “They're too …” I want to say
fast
, but that would mean I think they're faster than me, and I don't think that's true. “They're too gross,” I say.

“They're pigs,” says Uncle Stretch.

He's got a point, so I just say, “I've never done this before.”

Uncle Stretch looks at my sweatshirt. “You like football, right?” he says.

“Yeah.”

“You ever play it, or just watch on TV?”

“I play it all the time,” I say, offended.

“You ever tackle anybody?” he asks.

“Millions of times,” I say.

Uncle Stretch points his knife again. It's aimed at a little pig wandering off by itself. “Go tackle that one,” he says. “And then bring him over to me.”

“What if he craps on me?” I say.

“A little pig crap never hurt anyone,” says Uncle Stretch. “Some even use it as an antibiotic.”

I can't help but smile at that. My parents are missionaries and they never swear or say words like
crap
, at least around me. The little pig is sniffing at the ground, but it looks around and grunts when it sees me sneaking up on it. I make a mad dash and dive for it, but it jumps out of the way. I pound the dirt like a cornerback might when he just misses an interception. Then I get up, dust off my pants, and start after the pig. It's joined the pack again, and I figure if I dive into the middle of the pack, I'll land on at least one pig. I let out a big yell and go flying through the air.
BAM!
I land on parts of at least three pigs and suddenly am surrounded by crazy squeals and flying hooves. One of the hooves is coming straight for my eyes. I jerk my head back, but the hoof clips me, like a knife on the chin. The pain is instant and sharp, and when I touch my chin, I feel something slimy dripping into my fingers. I pull my fingers away, and they're red. Blood!

I can't help it. The tears start to come. I get up with my head down and limp over to Uncle Stretch, cupping my chin with my hand.

“Let me see,” he says, and takes my hand away to look. He squints one eye at me and says, “That's a deep one.”

His words scare me. More tears. I try to make them stop because I'm embarrassed—embarrassed that a pig did this to me, and embarrassed that Uncle Stretch saw the whole thing. I could have a scar! Because of a pig!

“How far's the hospital?” I say.

Uncle Stretch ignores me and opens a cabinet on the wall. He takes out a bottle of something and grabs a roll of duct tape.

“What're you gonna do with that?” I say, but I think I already know.

“C'mere,” says Uncle Stretch.

I really have no choice. I take a step toward Uncle Stretch, and he has me kneel and lay my head across his lap. He smears some stuff on my chin, and it stings. Then he unrolls a length of duct tape with a ripping sound.

I try to stop crying, but I'm truly in pain here. I want my mom or dad, not Uncle Stretch.

“Hold still,” says Uncle Stretch. “Think about something else for a minute. This is gonna pinch a little bit.”

I try to think of something else, but it's hard. I try to think of football, or other places I wish I could've gone this summer instead of Uncle Stretch's Horse Camp, but mostly I just try to stop crying. Uncle Stretch rips the duct tape into strips and presses them to my chin. I finally think of something else. “What were you gonna do with that knife if I brought you a pig?”

“Castration,” says Uncle Stretch.

I'm pretty sure I know what that means, but if I'm right, I don't want to think about it.