Flor

(5:30 P.M.)

Conejo,” Randy said. “Rabbit.”

“You want to name him Rabbit?” For a singer, it was not very creative.

“Well, you already have a goat named Goat. He’ll fit right in, don’t you think?”

“Fit in? Aren’t you going to take him?”

Randy’s laugh came out like a bark. “Ha! There’s not enough room for us inside Wicked Wanda as it is. There’s no way my dad will let me have a pet. You can keep him, can’t you? Maybe your dad won’t even notice one more rabbit.”

“He’ll notice, but he won’t mind. He probably should mind, but he won’t.”

Randy stopped walking and tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“I just mean that Papá loves taking care of animals. I’m not sure he ever meant to turn it into a business. Sometimes I don’t think he knows how.” Randy was quiet. I wasn’t sure why I had told her that. I hadn’t told anyone before. I cuddled Conejo against my cheek. “But you won’t eat too much, will you?”

“Nope,” Randy squeaked in what must’ve been her rabbit voice. “You’ll hardly know I’m there.”

We started walking again, and I tucked Conejo’s head back under my elbow. That way, he wouldn’t see anything that might startle him. Randy skipped up a few steps ahead of me to clear a path.

I wanted to tell her she could come to the petting zoo anytime to visit Conejo. She could still think of him as her pet, even though he didn’t live with her. But I caught myself. If her performance didn’t go well that night, if she didn’t perform at all, she might not be at the carnival very much longer.

And if her performance did go well, there might not be a petting zoo left to visit, and I didn’t know where Conejo, or any of us, would go then. The thought of it brought the sour-sick feeling back to my stomach, but not the eye-stinging anger. The Miranda I’d met at Rancho Maldonado earlier that afternoon didn’t seem like the same person as the Randy who was walking back there with me. But she was. The only difference was that now she was a real person to me. A friend, maybe.

She stopped. “Oh, is that your pig? She’s cute!”

“Betabel? What’s she doing out? She might look cute, but don’t let her fool you.” I caught up and looked over at the zoo, where Papá was standing with a man wearing a gray suit coat with jeans and a straw cowboy hat. Betabel was between them, rooting around the grass, then nibbling out of the man’s hand. It must have been the man from the pig farm, finally here to help us.

His timing was perfect. If he could show us how to get Betabel comfortable around people, maybe Papá could trust her with the guests. Maybe I could finally finish teaching her how to ride that skateboard, and Randy and I could both stay on at the carnival.

I lifted Conejo and whispered into his ear, “Let’s sneak you in while Papá’s busy talking. Then we’ll find out what they’re saying about Betabel.”

Randy followed me around to the back of the petting zoo and into the supply shed, where Betabel liked to nap during the day. Against the wall, there was an empty hutch that we set aside for animals that needed to be kept alone because they were sick or hurt or tired. I showed Randy where to find a clean bottle of water and a dish of feed. Then I set Conejo down inside.

When Randy got back with the feed and water, she reached in and scratched his neck. Then she started humming.

“He likes that,” I said.

Rabbits are nervous animals. They stress easily. But Conejo was calm considering everything he had been through that day. And he did not mind being handled. Lucinda must have done a good job raising him.

We would have to watch for a while—to make sure he wasn’t a biter or a scratcher—but I had a feeling Conejo would fit right in at Rancho Maldonado. He would scamper through the hay and eat oatmeal out of people’s hands. We’d let the littlest kids run their fingers through his fur, the same golden color as four o’clock sunshine.

“So that’s your trailer?” Randy had gotten up and was standing just outside the shed. “You don’t park in the lot with everyone else?”

I gave Conejo one last scratch, swung the top back over his new hutch, and fastened the latch. “There you go, little guy. Welcome home.” Then I dusted off my hands and joined Randy outside.

 “Papá likes us to be close to the animals to make sure none of them need anything and that no one gets in here and tries to bother them.”

She unfolded one of the lawn chairs that leaned against the shed and sat.

“I’ve been thinking all afternoon that you looked familiar somehow, and I wondered if it was because I’d seen you in the RV lot. That’s where we park Wicked Wanda. But I guess not.”

“Guess not.”

I was starting to think Ms. Alverson was right. I should have made friends with Randy earlier that summer. Ms. Alverson—if she had been there—she would have told me it was not too late. She would have said that right that very second would have been the perfect time to tell Randy that she didn’t recognize me from the parking lot; she probably recognized me from the Family Side Stage. To tell her I had seen her show every day since she got here. To admit that I was not just going there for a spot to sit in the shade, but because she was a good singer and I really liked the show.

To tell her what had happened there that afternoon.

I almost said something. She seemed like the kind of person who would have wanted to help. But there was nothing she could do to help. Instead, I asked, “Want to meet Betabel?”

We cut through the hay bales that kept guests from wandering behind the pens, and back to the front of the petting zoo. Two nuns in black habits combed the sheep’s wool while it stood lazily chewing on hay. Cricket nudged a man’s shin with her head until he finally opened up his bag of feed again and knelt to give her what was left. The rooster crowed. Everyone froze, then everyone laughed.

Papá was still talking to the man in the gray suit coat, only now Betabel was wearing a halter. She shook her head, trying to jostle it off.

Papá clipped on a leash. The man took it. I thought, She’s already leash trained. When is he going to teach us something new?

But then he started walking away.

“What’s going on?” I burst out, leaving Randy behind. “Where is he taking Betabel?”

“Flor, there you are!” Papá said. “I’m so glad you’re here. I sent Mikey and Maria out to look for you—I was worried you would be too late.”

“Too late?”

Papá wrung his hands. “Too late to say good-bye. I knew you would want to. This is Mr. Forrest, you know, from the pig rescue. He says there is plenty of room for Betabel at Black Walnut Hollow.” He turned to the man. “Thanks again for meeting us here.”

The man held out his hand to me, but I didn’t take it.

Papá was sending Betabel away with a complete stranger? Sure, she was cranky and stubborn and sometimes she snapped at us, but that was not supposed to matter. We were supposed to look out for one another. We were supposed to be a family.

“No! He can’t have her.”

Papá tucked his hands in his pockets. He looked at Mr. Forrest. “She’s eleven,” he said with small shrug. I despised that.

Mr. Forrest nodded like he understood completely, and I despised that even more. “You know, I’ve just remembered I need to make a quick phone call,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll only be a moment.”

Papá took the leash back, then brushed my bangs out of my eyes.

Randy just stood behind us in the pen, biting her nails and watching.

I swatted Papá’s hand away. “I cannot believe you’re just going to send her away. She belongs with us. She belongs here. This is her home.”

Papá took off his glasses, squinted at the lenses, then wiped them with the edge of his shirttail. “We talked about this, mija.”

“We never talked about this.”

“I told you about the rescue farm and about Mr. Forrest coming to take a look at the pig. You thought it was a good idea.”

“I thought he was coming to help us with her. So she wouldn’t be so crabby all the time.”

Papá put his glasses back on. “Pues, that is just what he came for.”

“So he’s not taking Betabel away?”

“No, Flor, es la razón. That’s why he’s taking Betabel away. To socialize her. She is not happy here. You’ve seen that. She belongs with other pigs. It would not be fair to keep her here.”

I dropped to the ground, threw my arms around Betabel’s neck, and cried into her bristly shoulder. She snorted and tottered away. She could not stand criers either. I scratched her back instead. Her tail swished.

“Pero, did it have to be today? Does it have to be now? I was teaching her to ride una patineta. She was making progress.”

Papá smiled.

“It has to be today because this is the last night of the fair. We will be on the road again tomorrow, and we might not be in Dinuba again for another year.” Then his voice got softer. “And quién sabe if the zoo will last that long. Better for Betabel to go to a good home now than for us to scramble to find someone to take her when we’re desperate, ¿que no?”

So he had noticed what was happening to the zoo, and he was not even trying to save it.

“But I am glad you got back in time to say good-bye,” Papá said. “And Mr. Forrest says we can come visit Betabel any time we’re in town.”

I got up, sniffed, and wiped my eyes. “No,” I said. “What for? She’s just a pig.”