Frogged (2 page)

Then she told herself:
Fortunate thing for me that I'm only as good as I'm beautiful.

Anyway, truly good and beautiful princesses could no doubt remember such things without having to take notes. They probably knew them without having to read them.

So, instead, Imogene headed toward the mill pond, which was her favorite relaxing place. She guessed that
The Art of Being a Princess
(third revised edition) probably had a whole chapter against princesses at mill ponds.

There were ducks and a pair of swans in the water, but they seemed to have an uncanny ability to know when she did—and when she did not—have bread in her pockets.

Imogene sat on the grassy bank and watched her fickle feathered friends gliding through the water.

Nobody has expectations for
you, she thought.

Lucky things.

The sun was warm enough to make her comfortably drowsy, and she decided to lie down, even though her mother would fuss about grass stains. Imogene herself had low standards when it came to grass stains. Lying on her back made it easier to study the clouds drifting in the sky and to try to find ducks and geese and swans in them to mirror those in the water. But the best she could come up with was a shape that, sort of, looked like the back end of a dog, and another that could be a three-legged cow—if she tipped her head and squinted a bit.

From somewhere surprisingly close—surprising because she had not heard anyone approach—a small but gruff voice called: “Princess! Hey, Princess!”

Guiltily, Imogene jumped to her feet, convinced she was about to get reprimanded for lying down on the grass. But by whom? It was a male voice, and experience told her that most males—including her father—didn't seem as interested as the females of her acquaintance in what was and what was not proper princess-like behavior. Besides, this voice, despite being a bit gravelly, struck her as being somewhere between that of a child and that of an adult, so she expected to see someone close to her own age.

Except she saw no one.

“Hey!” the voice repeated. “Hey, Princess!”

The voice tickled at the edge of her memory, but she couldn't quite place it. And it struck her as being . . . well . . . a bit rude, even for a princess with low standards.

“Who are you?” she asked. “Where are you?”

“Here,” the voice answered, zeroing in on the second question first. “Near your feet.”

Near her feet was the tall grass and weeds at the water's edge, but that was indeed where the voice seemed to be coming from. Had someone swum across the pond? Except . . . the water here was too shallow—and too clogged with marsh weeds—to hide a person.

For a moment, her mind skittered to the ducks and swans, as though one of them had somehow gained the ability to speak—and to inquire why she hadn't brought food.

It was this momentary mental openness to a smaller-than-human speaker that made her notice the frog.

The frog bounced in place on a lily pad to make sure Imogene was looking at him. “Yeah, that's right,” the frog said. “Me, over here.”

“Wow,” Princess Imogene said. “I mean . . . wow.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” the frog croaked. “Mind coming down closer? It's hard for me to shout all the way up to you. I'm getting—you'll pardon the expression—a frog in my throat.” The frog laughed, a mirthless, braying noise that Imogene couldn't help but think sounded more donkey than frog.

Still, she stepped forward and stooped down, even though her shoes squished in the mud and the edge of her dress dipped into the water.

“Whoa!” the frog said, taking a leap back to the next lily pad. “You got big feet there, Princess! Anybody ever tell you that you got big feet?”

Actually, her mother had bemoaned the fact that Imogene's feet weren't as dainty as they should be, but Imogene didn't think this was any of the frog's business. Instead, she said, “You're really talking? You, the frog?”

“A little slow on the uptake, aren't you, Princess? Yeah, sure, it's me talking. You see anybody else in, like, conversating distance? Sheesh!”

“Sorry,” Imogene said. “It's just . . . you know . . . a bit unexpected.”

“No kidding!” the frog croaked. “A day ago I was a prince, walking around on two legs. In my own kingdom, which is not this one, of course—though every bit as grand, if I do say so myself. So there I was, as happy as a clam—though maybe under the circumstances I shouldn't mix my whatta-you-call-'ems?—animal metaphones.”

“Metaphors,” Imogene corrected.

“Yeah, whatever, Little Princess Know-It-All,” the frog said. “For someone who's so smart, you never heard of a prince what gets himself in trouble—through no fault of his own, I might add—with a witch what goes and changes him into a frog?”

“Well, yes,” Imogene admitted, “though I've never personally met either a wi—”

“Ta-dah!” the frog interrupted, holding his little frog arms out expansively.

“Where did you say you're from?” Imogene asked.

“Different kingdom,” the frog said. “Not this one.”

“Yes, I understand,” she said. “But what's the name of your kingdom? I'm just wondering if it's someplace I've heard my father mention—if he knows your father.”

“Oh,” the frog said. “Not likely. It's a small kingdom. We're north of here.” Before Imogene could do more than open her mouth, he added, “Well, sort of north-ish. By way of east-northwest. Anyway, it's very small. You wouldn't of ever heard of us.”

“I see,” said Princess Imogene, not wanting to be discourteous, even though it all seemed very strange. “It's only that you don't sound very much like the other princes I've met.”

“Oh, that's very nice!” the frog snapped. “Make fun of my accent.”

“No, it's not so much an accent—”

“And of the fact that I sound like a frog. Come on, Princess, keep up! Weren't you listening to the whole the-witch-changed-me-into-a-frog part? This is the way frogs talk, except you never noticed before on account of you not being a frog and all.”

It made sense. Sort of. Imogene supposed.

“So, you going to help me out, Princess?” the frog asked.

“Help you out?” Imogene repeated.

The frog sighed. “You aren't very well-read for a princess, are you, Princess? A witch puts a spell on a prince, turns the prince into a frog, the only way to break the spell is if a princess comes along and . . . you know . . .” The frog puckered his lips.

“Oh.” Imogene could feel her face begin to flush. “I've never kissed a boy,” she admitted, figuring that kissing her little brother Will on the cheek or forehead didn't count.

“Hello!” the frog said. “I'm not a boy. I'm a frog. Who used to be a prince. Princess, you got to pay attention.”

“I am,” Imogene told him, beginning to feel miffed at the frog's attitude. But she didn't want to sound snooty or overly suspicious, like her mother. “It's just this is all new to me.”

“Well, yeah!” the frog said. “Think how I feel about it!”

And it was by doing exactly that—thinking how the prince-turned-frog must feel—that Imogene decided to help him.

“All right,” she said, “how do we do this?”

The frog rolled his eyes, which is not a pretty sight in a frog. “Well, it seems to me that either the lips gotta come down to the frog, or the frog's gotta go up to the lips.”

Imogene considered. Though the hem of her dress was already thoroughly wet, she didn't want to sit or kneel on the soggy ground. But she didn't relish the idea of picking up the frog, which seemed much more her brother Will's type of interest. Besides, she didn't know how this kissing-a-frog-back-into-a-prince thing worked. Would he
instantly
resume his human form? While she was holding him?

As she was weighing her options, the frog said, “Don't worry, Princess: I got my clothes on. They changed right along with me.”

“Oh my!” said Imogene, who hadn't even thought to worry about
that.
Eager to get this over with, she decided to kneel down after all, which entirely soaked the bottom half of her dress before she thought that what she
should
have done was ask the frog to hop to higher ground with her.

Too late now. She bent all the way down, stretched her neck forward, puckered her lips, and—at the last moment—closed her eyes.

Something cold and slightly spinach-y touched her lips. Imogene forced herself not to shudder, forced herself to kiss.

She hadn't been favorably impressed with the frog, but a tingly sensation washed over her entire body, so she told herself maybe it was true love after all. She rather hoped not, but she'd read about such things.

Except . . . except that the tingling didn't stop when the kiss did. It escalated. She was willing to accept the dizziness, but her body became downright fizzy. Her skin tickled and prickled.
This is what a gherkin must feel like,
she thought,
when it picklefies.
She couldn't recall a single book or love ballad she'd ever heard mentioning such a sensation.

Imogene opened her eyes, and the dizziness doubled, tripled, quadrupled. The world tipped and broke into little pieces, then reassembled itself differently, reminding her of the time she had looked through the wrong end of her father's telescope.

She quickly closed her eyes again, squeezing them tightly to keep that disorienting world out.

“Princess?”

Imogene wondered if the frog prince was experiencing the same effects.

“Princess, you all right?”

Except his voice sounded much steadier than she felt.

And loud.

And high up.

It must have worked,
she thought. He'd turned back into a person, and he was standing up over her, while she still knelt in the mucky weeds.

“I'm sorry, Princess,” the frog prince said. “It was the only way to take the spell off of me.”

Sorry
didn't sound good.

Imogene opened her eyes, and the world once more shifted a bit, then settled.

The prince—Imogene didn't like to think of herself as a snob, but she thought he had a very shabby appearance for a prince, even for one just recently rescued from frog-hood—the prince absolutely loomed over her.

More oddly, so did the marsh grass.

Imogene looked down to the ground—which was a lot closer to her than she'd have expected.

That was when she saw her skinny green legs. And her webbed feet.

A startled “Rrrribitt” escaped from her mouth.

And that was how Princess Imogene Eustacia Wellington became a frog.

Chapter 2:

(Of course, “good” doesn't mean she should believe everything she hears)

 

 

Princess Imogene glared at the boy who had formerly been a frog, the boy who had never been a prince—the boy who was, in fact, the son of the wagon maker, the wainwright's boy. “Did you know that was going to happen?” she demanded. Her voice was small and a bit croaky, just as his had been, back when he'd been a frog.

“What?” the boy asked—difficult to tell if he was going for innocent or dimwitted. Neither was believable. By the way he wouldn't meet her gaze, she saw that he knew exactly what she was talking about.

“That wasn't very nice,” she told him. Even as she said it, she thought it was perhaps the biggest understatement of the world.

But he only shrugged. Which was pretty halfhearted if meant as an acknowledgment, and woefully inadequate as an apology.

“How do I turn back to myself?”

Again the shrug.

And—once again—she suspected she already had the answer. She just didn't like it. “I have to get somebody else to kiss me,” she said, not even asking, “and then that person will become a frog in my place.”

For such a talkative frog, the boy now seemed beyond communicating except through lifting and dropping his shoulders.

“Well, that's just . . . just . . .” In her agitation, another “Rrr-bitt” escaped from her little green lips. “Well it goes beyond
mean
. I could never do that to someone.”

And yet if she didn't, would she stay a frog?

Forever?

Surely there had to be another way.

Didn't there?

The boy gave another silent shoulderly answer.

But after a moment, he suggested, “Maybe you could choose someone you don't like, someone who”—again with a shrug—“deserves it. Then it might not be so bad.”

“Excuse me,” Imogene said, drawing herself up to her full two and a half inches. “You're saying you don't like me? You're saying I
deserved
to be turned into a frog?”

“You were here,” the boy told her, which was not exactly a strong affirmation of his high regard for her.

“But you chose to use me,” Imogene said. What was she hoping for? He'd already apologized. Sort of. As much, she suspected, as he ever would.

The boy said, “Look, Princess, you're a princess. You always got good things your whole life. Me, I got a father what smacks me on the side of the head when he thinks I'm not working hard enough. And more squalling brothers and sisters than it's fair for any one boy to have to deal with. And a ma what's too tired to keep up with 'em.”

Never mind,
Princess Imogene thought, feeling just the slightest bit sorry for herself,
that I saw all that and tried to help.

But before she could decide if she should remind him that she sometimes brought bread for him to eat, he finished, “Maybe it was my turn to have a little bit of luck.”

Luck,
Imogene thought. It was just her
bad
luck that she'd come here.

“Well, I gotta go, Princess,” the boy said. “I already been gone overnight, and my father is like to be really mad.”