Girl's Best Friend

Chapter One: Discovery

Everyone calls me a nerd. I have to say, that is one of the best words to describe me, along with Smartie-pants and Teacher's Pet. So on a crisp October Thursday, when the other girls were planning parties and sleepovers, without my name in the guest list, I pulled my stringy brown hair into a ponytail, hauled my backpack over my shoulder, and stepped out of the school bus. Nobody came out with me. I lived about as close to the middle of nowhere as you could get, so every day, I was dropped off a little ways from my house because the school didn't want the bus getting all dirty from the gravel roads. I live on a farm. A huge, sprawling farm in the middle of nowhere. It's about twenty minutes from town, so we get a lot of our food from the farm. When I say we, I mean me, my dad, my mom, my one year old brother Joey, and my eight year old sister, Julia.
When I get home, the first thing I do is put my backpack in the hay loft. Then I feed the cows. I heave the huge bucketfuls of cow food to the long cement "table" that the cows eat off of. Bucketful after bucketful. Finally, the food is on the table and I let the cows in. They gallop toward their food, and nearly trample a flock of sparrows in their haste to get a good spot at the table. When they've all gone in, I close the gate and walk toward the house.
When I get there, I see my mom, in coveralls, holding a beheaded chicken by the feet. Yum. Supper.
"Hannah! Could you pluck this chicken please? I need to pick some beans for canning." says my mom. She is pretty, with long, dark brown hair and hazel eyes. Her hair is always in a ponytail, with short bits hanging out in places.
"Yeah, sure," I say, although I hate the job. Mom knows it too, because she smiles at me. Then she frowns. "Hannah! You did the chores in your school clothes! I keep telling you..."
I shrug. "Sorry?"
Mom just sighs and walks off.
I dunk the dead bird in the pot of boiling water that rests over the fire near me. The hot water loosens the feathers and makes it easier to pluck. Even so, it is hard work, and I'm just finishing up, a half hour later, when my dad yells from the cornfield: "Hannah! Get over here, the pigs are out! And bring two boards while you're at it!"
I sigh. The pigs are always getting out these days. It's because we can't afford a better pen for them. I grab two plywood boards that lean against the house and make my way to the cornfield.
When I get there, I hand a board to my dad. He is tall, really tall, and everyone says that I grow like him. He is slightly balding, but he says that that's because he wears his hat too often and it's wearing away the hair on his head. He is funny, and makes jokes all the time. I try to make jokes like him sometimes, but people end up fake-laughing and staring at me awkwardly.
We herd the pigs back into the pen without anything noteworthy happening, except for when a pig breaks loose and I have to chase it all over the field. This is why we need a dog, I think. My dad doesn't like dogs. He got bitten by one as a kid and "never got over it," as Grams says.
"Ha. We did it." Dad says finally. "I'll nail some boards around the pen tonight to keep them from getting out again."
I nod mutely. He does it at least once a week and it never works. Dad just won't accept that the farm is falling apart.
"Hannah! Now you're herding pigs in your school clothes? I told you to change!" Mom walks toward me.
"Sorry, the pigs were out and-"
"Okay, okay. Change and get ready for dinner now. Oh, and thanks for plucking the chicken,"
"Okay. But I need to get my backpack. I left it in the hay loft."
Mom makes squinty-eyes at me. I shrug and run off toward the barn.
I climb the ladder to the hay loft and shoulder my backpack. I jump down to the ground without bothering to put my feet on the rungs. As I leave the barn, I hear a rustle in the tarp lying in one corner. I will admit, I got scared. All the ghost stories Dad told me came back to me. I remember an especially ominous ending that was almost always used at the end of ghost stories: And he never returned.
I started quivering. I backed toward the door. Suddenly, a face pops out of the tarp. Not a human face. A dog face. A dog face with a pointed snout, perked up ears, and brown and white spots. I recognized the breed, it was familiar somehow, but I couldn't place it.
I started toward it. It stood up and lowered its head. I made sure not to look in its eyes; I remembered somewhere that looking an animal in the eyes was a sign of agression. The dog backed away. Suddenly, it darts into an old horse stable. I left it. But I'd be back, this time with food. "Don't go," I whisper.