Horse Camp Read online

  First published by Egmont USA, 2012

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © Nicole Helget and Nate LeBoutillier, 2012

  All rights reserved.

  1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

  www.egmontusa.com

  www.nateandnicole.com

  Book design: ARLENE SCHLEIFER GOLDBERG

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Helget, Nicole Lea, 1976-

  Horse camp: a novel / by Nicole Helget and Nate LeBoutillier.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When their mom sends them to their uncle’s farm for the summer, twins Percy and Penny are excited to spend the summer riding horses, until they discover it’s a pig farm.

  ISBN 978-1-60684-351-2 (hardcover) — ISBN 978-1-60684-352-9 (e-book) [1. Farm life—Minnesota—Fiction. 2. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 3. Twins—Fiction. 4. Uncles—Fiction. 5. Family problems—Fiction. 6. Missionaries—Fiction. 7. Minnesota—Fiction.] I. LeBoutillier, Nate. II. Title.

  PZ7.H374085Hor 2012

  [Fic]—dc23

  2011038114

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  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

  Chapter 1

  Percy and the Pigs

  UNCLE 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.

  Chapter 2

  Penny and God’s Challenges

  Dear Diary,

  You’d expect a girl my age to be exploring her deepest thoughts on a laptop or maybe texting, Facebooking, or Tweeting everyone about the horrible, really awful, and unfair tragedies that have befallen her these past few weeks. Instead, I write these thoughts by hand in a spiral notebook like people used to do centuries ago. If I ever require emergency surgery for carpal tunnel syndrome, here’s who to blame: Uncle Stretch!

  Here’s why:

  Me: I can’t stand it here. This farm is like the eighteenth century but way worse! (It’s totally worse.

  The water has a rusty taste, and all the meat used to be animals on the farm. But I was trying to be calm.)

  Uncle Stretch: (Raises his eyebrows in confusion, as though he doesn’t even know what century we’re in.) What are you talking about?

  Me: Hello? Are you listening to me? Is there a wireless signal anywhere near here?

  Stretch: (Grimacing, since his idea of living is running this farm as old-fashioned as possible. He acts as though he wants to be Charles Ingalls from the Little House books. He expects me to behave like Half-Pint, who would have been delirious with happiness over receiving one orange for Christmas or going on a walk with an old person or wearing a hand-me-down.) Are you always this dramatic?

  Me: You know, wireless, like, for the Internet? Don’t you have a cell phone or something? Where’s the phone reception? Do you have a cell phone tower around here?

  Stretch: (Taking a lazy bite from an apple he picked from his own tree. The apple probably has a worm in it because Uncle Stretch’s whole farm is organic, which means he doesn’t use pesticide. All his fruits are probably writhing with worms and bugs. Using the apple to gesture toward the wall.) I have the rotary over there that you can use to talk to your mom when she calls.

  Me: THAT’S your actual phone? I thought that was an antique for decoration. No way! How am I supposed to talk to my dad? What if he’s trying to call my cell phone, but it’s not getting through? (Holding up my dead, nonreceptive cell phone for extra effect.)

  Stretch: He’s not calling. Won’t call. (Taking another bite and staring out the window to his fields, which have lots of weeds he makes us pull by hand.) You may as well throw that celly-phone in the junk drawer.

  Me: (Clutching my cell phone to my chest.) It’s called a cell phone. I can’t live here. I have to have access to the outside world!

  Stretch: Snap out of it. I don’t like hysterics. (Picking up the notebook from the counter near the phone and handing it to me.) Here. You can pour your heart out in there if that’s what you need to do to keep from flapping around like a chicken with its head cut off.

  Me: This notebook smells like horse feed.

  Stretch: When you’re done writing in that thing, meet me in the end rows with a hoe. Gotta get them cockleburs out of the field before they choke out the beets.

  Even in the poorest countries I’ve lived in, Internet and phone service were readily available, and we always lived in the nicest house in the town or village because everyone respected my dad. He was kind of like a celebrity to them because he was bringing the good news about Jesus and being saved. And he needed the Internet to podcast his sermons and take online donations. Uncle Stretch’s farm is not at all what I’m used to. Even though it’s in the state of Minnesota, the heart of civilized America, it’s the most remote, most lonely place I’ve ever lived. But I’m going to do my best to endure this sacrifice and pray that the Lord makes my will strong.

  Anyway, here’s some information about me: I am Penelope Rachel Pribyl. I am almost thirteen years old. I am a Christian. I am five foot two and getting taller. I have long brown hair, which is not at all frizzy like some girls’ hair. When we lived in Africa, the little kids there used to try and touch my long hair all the time, because they thought it was so pretty. I have brownish-green eyes that have little flecks of yellow in them. I have a twin brother, Perseus. I have a little brother, Pauly, who is adopted from the Philippines. I have been all over the world, including the continents of Africa, South America, and Asia. I have bee
n mostly homeschooled and test far above my age group. I don’t have a best friend, though I have many acquaintances. I have never been in love. I want to minister to the poor and lost when I grow up, just like my dad.

  Dad always preaches that the disintegration of the nuclear family is at the heart of all the world’s troubles and sins, and I couldn’t agree more! It’s just not right that my own nuclear family is disintegrating! In Africa, Dad mostly preached to the women and children. (The men never came to church unless they wanted to collect their wives to come home and make them something to eat.) They rarely seemed to care about Jesus or being saved. Most of the time, they just came because Mom would give their kids free checkups, medicines, and immunizations. She had a brief career as a registered nurse before she met Dad and got involved in his ministry. She has a college degree and everything.

  But when your husband is called by God to be a minister, you’re supposed to go along with it and be a good pastor’s wife. Dad said that Mom should stop running around like a feminist and get busy worrying about the spirits of the parishioners rather than their little aches and pains. But Mom just couldn’t stop herself from nursing, no matter what Dad or us or even God wanted. She nursed wherever we went and never seemed very interested in being a dutiful pastor’s wife.

  We left Africa after a short time because it was just so obvious that the people there didn’t care about the disintegration of the nuclear family, and they wouldn’t donate any money to build a decent church building. I got really sick once, too, and Mom had to sit by my bed day and night with cool washcloths and give me droppers of medicine. Finally, one night, Dad said a prayer of healing over me, and the very next day, I sat up and felt a lot better. It was a miracle! I, for one, believe in miracles.

  After moving here and there, we lived in the Philippines for a little while. That was my favorite place. The Philippine government has laws against divorce, for one thing. Married people can’t just wake up one morning and get a divorce, like they can here. And the people there are very, very concerned about keeping the nuclear family together. They also have very pretty beaches and water. They have good food, not like roasted goat or yams, which is all they seemed to eat in Africa unless you order special food from America. That’s what we did most of the time because Dad said the native food gave him gas.