George looked back down the garden, at the path along which he’d come. He knew he should go back and get his parents. Even if he had to admit to his dad that he’d climbed through the fence into Next Door’s garden, it would still be better than standing there all alone. He would just peek through the window to see if he could catch a glimpse of Freddy and then he would go and get his dad.
He edged closer to the beam of bright light coming from the empty house. It was a golden color, quite unlike the weak candlelight in his own house or the cold blue neon strips at school. Even though he was so scared his teeth had started to chatter, the light seemed to draw him forward until he was standing right by the window. He peered closer. Through the narrow space between the window frame and the blind, he could just see into the house. He could make out a kitchen, littered with mugs and old tea bags.
A sudden movement caught his eye and he squinted down at the kitchen floor, where he saw Freddy, his pig! He had his snout in a bowl and was slurping away, drinking his fill of some mysterious bright purple liquid.
George’s blood ran cold—it was a terrible trick, he just knew it. “Yikes!” he shouted. “It’s poison.” He rapped sharply on the pane of glass. “Don’t drink it, Freddy!” he yelled.
But Freddy, who was a greedy pig, ignored his master’s voice and happily kept slurping up the contents of the bowl. Without stopping to think, George flew through the door and into the kitchen, where he grabbed the bowl from under Freddy’s snout and threw its contents into the sink. As the violet-colored liquid gurgled down the drain, he heard a voice behind him.
“Who,” it said, in distinct but childish tones, “are you?”
George whirled around. Standing behind him was a girl. She was wearing the most extraordinary costume, made of so many different colors and layers of flimsy fabric that it looked as though she had rolled herself in butterfly wings.
George spluttered. She might look strange, this girl with her long tangled blond hair and her blue-and-green feathery headdress, but she definitely wasn’t scary. “Who,” he replied indignantly, “do you think you are?”
“I asked first,” said the girl. “And anyway, this is my house. So I get to know who you are, but I don’t have to say anything if I don’t want to.”
“I’m George.” He stuck out his chin as he always did when he felt cross. “And that”—he pointed to Freddy—“is my pig. And you’ve kidnapped him.”
“I haven’t kidnapped your pig,” said the girl hotly. “How stupid. What would I want a pig for? I’m a ballerina and there aren’t any pigs in the ballet.”
“Huh, ballet,” muttered George darkly. His parents had made him take dance classes when he was younger, and he’d never forgotten the horror. “Anyway,” he retorted, “you’re not old enough to be a ballerina. You’re just a kid.”
“Actually, I’m in the corps de ballet,” said the girl snootily. “Which shows how much you know.”
“Well, if you’re so grown up, why were you trying to poison my pig?” demanded George.
“That’s not poison,” said the girl scornfully. “That’s grape soda.”
George, whose parents only ever gave him cloudy, pale, fresh-squeezed fruit juices, suddenly felt very silly for not realizing what the purple stuff was.
“Well, this isn’t really your house, is it?” he continued, determined to get the better of her somehow. “It belongs to an old man with a long beard who disappeared years ago.”
“This is my house,” said the girl, her blue eyes flashing. “And I live here except when I’m dancing onstage.”
“Then where are your mom and dad?” demanded George.
“I don’t have any parents.” The girl’s pink lips stuck out in a pout. “I’m an orphan. I was found backstage wrapped up in a tutu. I’ve been adopted by the ballet. That’s why I’m such a talented dancer.” She sniffed loudly.
“Annie!” A man’s voice rang through the house. The girl stood very still.
“Annie!” They heard the voice again, coming closer. “Where are you, Annie?”
“Who’s that?” asked George suspiciously.
“That’s . . . uh . . . that’s . . .” She suddenly became very interested in her ballet shoes.
“Annie, there you are!” A tall man with messy dark hair and thick, heavy-framed glasses, set at a crooked angle on his nose, walked into the kitchen. “What have you been up to?”
“Oh!” The girl flashed him a brilliant smile. “I’ve just been giving the pig a drink of grape soda.”
A look of annoyance crossed the man’s face. “Annie,” he said patiently, “we’ve talked about this. There are times to make up stories. And there are times . . .” He trailed off as he caught sight of George standing in the corner and, next to him, a pig with purple stains around his snout and mouth that made him look as though he were smiling.
“Ah, a pig . . . in the kitchen . . . I see . . . ,” he said slowly, taking in the scene. “Sorry, Annie, I thought you were making things up again. Well, hello.” The man crossed the room to shake hands with George. Then he sort of patted the pig rather gingerly between the ears. “Hello . . . hi . . .” He seemed unsure what to say next.
“I’m George,” said George helpfully. “And this is my pig, Freddy.”
“Your pig,” the man echoed. He turned back to Annie, who shrugged and gave him an I-told-you-so look.
“I live next door,” George went on by way of explanation. “But my pig escaped through a hole in the fence, so I had to come and get him.”
“Of course!” The man smiled. “I was wondering how you got into the kitchen. My name is Eric—I’m Annie’s dad.” He pointed to the blond girl.
“Annie’s dad?” said George slyly, smiling at the girl. She stuck her nose up in the air and refused to meet his eye.
“We’re your new neighbors,” said Eric, gesturing around the kitchen, with its peeling wallpaper, moldy old tea bags, dripping faucets, and torn linoleum. “It’s a bit of a mess. We haven’t been here long. That’s why we haven’t met before.” Eric ruffled his dark hair and frowned. “Would you like something to drink? I gather Annie’s already given your pig something.”
“I’d love some grape soda,” said George quickly.
“None left,” said Annie, shaking her head. George’s face fell. It seemed very bad luck that even Freddy the pig should get to have nice drinks when he didn’t.
Eric opened a few cupboards in the kitchen, but they were all empty. He shrugged apologetically. “Glass of water?” he offered, pointing to the faucet.
George nodded. He wasn’t in a hurry to get home for his supper. Usually when he went to play with other kids, he went back to his own mom and dad feeling depressed by how peculiar they were. But this house seemed so odd that George felt quite cheerful. Finally he had found some people who were even odder than his own family. But just as he was thinking these happy thoughts, Eric went and spoiled it for him.
“It’s pretty dark,” he said, peering out of the window. “Do your parents know you’re here, George?” He picked up a telephone handset from the kitchen counter. “Let’s give them a call so they don’t worry about you.”
“Um . . . ,” said George awkwardly.
“What’s the number?” asked Eric, looking at him over the top of his glasses. “Or are they easier to reach on a cell phone?”
“They, um . . .” George could see no way out. “They don’t have any kind of phone,” he said in a rush.
“Why not?” said Annie, her blue eyes very round at the thought of not owning even a cell phone.
George squirmed a bit; both Annie and Eric were looking at him curiously, so he felt he had to explain. “They think technology is taking over the world,” he said very quickly. “And that we should try and live without it. They think that people—because of science and its discoveries—are polluting the planet with modern inventions.”
“Really?” Eric’s eyes sparkled behind his heavy glasses. “How very interesting.” At that moment the phone in his hand burst into tinkling song.
“Can I get it, can I get it? Pleasepleaseplease?” said Annie, grabbing the phone from him. “Mom!” And with a shriek of joy and a flounce of brightly colored costume, she shot out of the kitchen, phone clasped to her ear. “Guess what, Mom!” Her shrill voice rang out as she pattered along the hall corridor. “A strange boy came over . . .”
George went bright red with embarrassment.
“And he has a pig!” Annie’s voice carried perfectly back to the kitchen.
Eric peered at George and gently eased the kitchen door closed with his foot.
“And he’s never had grape soda!” Her fluting tones could still be heard through the shut door.
Eric turned on the faucet to get George a glass of water.
“And his parents don’t even have a phone!” Annie was fainter now, but they could still make out each painful word.
Eric flicked on the radio and music started playing. “So, George,” he said loudly, “where were we?”
“I don’t know,” whispered George, who could barely be heard in the din Eric had created in the kitchen to block out Annie’s telephone conversation.
Eric threw him a sympathetic glance. “Let me show you something fun,” he shouted, producing a plastic ruler from his pocket. He brandished it in front of George’s nose. “Do you know what this is?” he asked at top volume.
“A ruler?” said George. The answer seemed a bit too obvious.
“That’s right,” cried Eric, who was now rubbing the ruler against his hair. “Watch!” He held the ruler near the thin stream of water running from the faucet. As he did so, the stream of water bent in the air and flowed at an angle rather than straight down. Eric took the ruler away from the water and it ran down normally again. He gave the ruler to George, who rubbed it in his hair and put it close to the stream of water. The same thing happened.
