The (Almost) Perfect Guide To Imperfect Boys (19 page)

“Right,” Maya agreed. “He hasn't changed, Hanna; he's just hiding things better. What did you get?”

“Not much,” Hanna said, flipping through her book. “It's a myth that frogs give you warts. Frogs are cold-blooded, they hibernate in winter, blah blah. Oh, but
this
is interesting. Did you know that only the male frog croaks?”

“Seriously?” Maya said. She seemed offended. “You're saying female frogs don't even communicate? They just sit there boringly on their lily pads and—”

“No, Maya, will you please shut up? Females communicate when they have something to say—they make distress calls. But male frogs croak just for the sake of croaking.”

“Because males like sound effects,” I said, then immediately realized I was talking exactly like Mom.

• • •

In Spanish Señor Hansen gave us another test, only this one was an essay on “My First Day of School.” To write it you had to use the preterit, switching sometimes to the imperfect, so I didn't have tons to say on this subject. In fact, after about three minutes I ran out of verbs I was semisure how to conjugate, so I started doodling frog eyes.

And thinking:
Frog eyes are weird. Maybe the weirdest thing about frogs, really. Especially that eating thing: the way they force food down by blinking. Sort of a cross between cool and disgusting. Also the way they catch bugs on their tongues—that's cool and disgusting, too.

On the back of the exam I wrote this list:

Possible Payback Themes

1-Something with frog eyes?

2-Something with eating?

3-Something with bugs?

Unfortunately, Señor Hansen snatched my exam before I could erase these questions.

“Once again, I see we're focusing on Spanish,” he sneered.

The next morning Maya, Olivia, and Hanna were waiting at my locker.

“So?” Olivia said eagerly. “Is there a plan yet?”

Maya grinned. “Hey, I've got one. What about hopping?”

“Hopping?” I repeated, as I unbuttoned my jacket. “How is that a plan?”

“We could randomly hop, just spontaneously leap out of our chairs whenever we felt like it. You know, like frogs.”

Hanna patted Maya's shoulder. “You
would
think of something like that, Maya.”

“Right, I would. Because it's brilliant.”

“Okay, but how is it payback?” I said. “I mean, I get that hopping is froglike, but—”

“Or we could hop on cue,” Maya offered. “Like every time a boy went ‘ribbit.' Or every time a boy acted like an immature jerk.”

Olivia laughed. “Then we'd be hopping nonstop, Maya. And I'm not sure teachers like Hansen would be too thrilled.”

“Oh. Well, if we're caring about
Señor Hansen
 . . .” Maya rolled her eyes.

“What about dying our hair green,” Olivia suggested. “Not with permanent dye or anything. Just to outdo the boys on the color-coordination thing.”

“Ooh, I love that, actually,” Maya said. “Green hair is awesome.”

“But it's not revenge,” I protested. “It doesn't
say
anything. It doesn't show we
know
anything. Also, frankly it's a bit St. Patrick's Day.”

“You have a better idea?” Maya challenged me. She crossed her arms.

“No,” I admitted. “I've been thinking about frog food, but I'm not there yet. What about you, Hanna?”

She nodded. “Warts,” she said, beaming.

• • •

Warts. That was it. Everyone fell passionately in love with warts.

And even though warts-from-frogs were only a myth, and not scientific fact, which had been the whole point of going to the library, I had to agree that warts were better than green hair and hopping. Hanna's idea was: Since we'd come in contact with amphibian boys over the years, sitting next to them in classes, banging into them at the lockers, and occasionally even holding their hands, we now had these (awful but fake) warts on our faces and fingers. Ha ha.

Not exactly payback for the croaking and the water down my back. But whatever. Warts told the boys:
You are all froglike specimens, stuck somewhere in the tadpole–frog life cycle. And see the effect you've had on us girls? Eww.

And anyhow, it was now obvious that we needed to do something—anything—immediately. That morning, the boys had shown up wearing swim goggles over their eyes. A few of the boys (Jonathan, Cody, even Wyeth) wore the goggles on top of their heads, which I had to admit looked vaguely amphibian.

But it was Ben Santino who grabbed everyone's
attention, because he showed up to school in a black wet suit, a snorkel and mask, and orange flippers. He made this sort of Darth Vader noise as he breathed through his snorkel, and as he walked up and down the hall, his feet smacked the floor in an irrelevant walrus-type way. But even so, the whole costume still said
water-inhabiting creature
, and by second period the entire school was giggling hysterically.

In art Chloe announced, “Don't you love it? Isn't Ben hilarious? I guess
certain people
are wishing they could take back what they wrote.”

“Well, too late,” Sabrina said, smirking. “Because they can't.”

All day long, no one could stop pointing at the boys, talking about how cute they looked in goggles, how funny Ben was in his costume. Only Señor Hansen was unimpressed.

“No swim gear in Spanish class,” he declared, as if he were reciting a passage from the Fulton Middle School Code of Behavior.

• • •

I went straight home after basketball practice, determined to come up with warts—gross, misshapen, deformed-looking warts that no one could ignore,
especially the boys. Luckily, our house was full of art supplies, so the first thing I did was open the kitchen pantry, which was where Mom stashed the Terribles' No Worries Organic Play-Clay.

The big trick was getting the warts to look like warts and not zits. Which meant they needed to be round but not smooth, and any color other than pink or red. I also needed to find a way to make the warts stick to our faces and hands. But I was sure I could come up with something—Mom wasn't just obsessed with Play-Doh alternatives; she was also a big believer in all-natural adhesive alternatives, so the Terribles had a huge supply of pastes, glues, tape, and other sticky substances sent in sample sizes by companies hoping to earn Mom's Chemical-Free Mommy Seal of Approval.

That afternoon at least I had the house to myself, because Mom had taken the Terribles to Gymboree. So I was able to focus on the Play-Clay, which was a faded yellowy-brownish color, sort of a compromise between my own paleness, Maya's olive skin, Hanna's pinkness, and Olivia's cocoa brown, but decent enough for all-purpose warts, I guessed. I rolled some clay between my fingers, made about fifteen warts of various shapes and sizes, turned on the oven to 275
degrees, then placed the warts on an ungreased cookie sheet, just like the Play-Clay canister instructed.

At five-fifteen Mom, Max, and Addie burst through the door.

“BOOMZOOM,” Max shouted, as he came crashing into the kitchen, followed by Addie, who immediately spotted the open canister of No Worries on the counter.

“Finnee, play dat?” she asked, pointing excitedly.

“Sorry, Addie, I wish I could, but tons of homework,” I answered. “Where's Mom?”

“Schlepping groceries from the car,” Mom announced, panting a little as she walked into the kitchen and dumped a cloth tote bag on the counter. “I could really use some help, Fin, honey.”

“Oh, sure.” I went out to the driveway to get two more overflowing bags from the Toddler Mobile. And on the way back inside I spotted a small pizza box on our front step.

That was funny. We almost never ordered pizza; whenever we had pizza at our house, it was usually because Dad made an entire pie from scratch. Besides, this box was big enough for a single slice, maybe two—and we were the kind of family who always ordered
family-size. I mean, the rare times when we ordered pizza.

I rested the bags on the step. Then I reached down to pick up the pizza box, which had obviously been littered there sometime since I'd gotten home from school. Who would do such a thing? How disgusting: Litter anywhere was bad enough, but litter dumped in front of your house was truly repulsive, I thought.

All of a sudden, the pizza box twitched.

I shrieked and dropped it on the step.

Out raced a tiny frog. AN ACTUAL FROG.

“Finny, you all right?” Mom was at the door holding a cucumber, which presumably she intended to use to fight off marauding attackers.

“Absolutely fine,” I sputtered. “Someone delivered a frog.”

“Delivered?”

“As a joke. An idiot boy in my class. Probably a bunch of idiot boys.”
An army,
I told myself.

“Well, that's not funny,” Mom said indignantly. “It's way too cold out here for frogs.”

She handed me the cucumber. Then she squatted behind the step and started groping around in the frozen soil behind the pachysandra bushes.

“Want some help?” I asked doubtfully.

“No, Finny, I've got this,” she said, frowning.

A second later she was beaming, showing me the tiny creature clasped in her hands.

• • •

Right away Mom went into troop-leader mode.

“Finley, there are some ancient mason jars on the top shelf in the left cabinet,” she announced. “Get one down, wash it in that new veggie-based soap I'm reviewing, and then poke some holes in the lid with fork prongs.”

“Prong!” Max shouted. He was spinning like a top.

“Yes, prong,” Mom repeated distractedly. “And we'll need some food for the little guy. Remember that Green Girls badge we did, Finley, on animal habitats? I'm trying to remember what frogs eat.”

“Bugs, snails, spiders, worms, and small fish,” I blurted. Mom raised her eyebrows. “But mostly bugs,” I added casually, poking the lid with a fork.

“Impressive you remember that,” Mom said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Even without a mnemonic.”

She smiled. “Well, I'm sure we can get some bugs at Pet World tomorrow morning. But I wish we could feed him something right now. He's probably
traumatized, poor little thing. All shut up in that dark cold pizza box—”

“Frogs hibernate during the winter, so he should be fine,” I said. “And why are we assuming it's a he? Did you compare the relative eye and ear size? Or hear croaking? Because it could be a female.”

“Yes, of course,” Mom said. She gently dropped the tiny frog into the jar and screwed on the lid. “You sure do know a lot about frogs,” she commented, scooping up Addie to give her a peek.

“Not really,” I said.

“I WANNA HOLD,” Addie shouted, squirming.

“No, sweetie, we're going to let the little froggy rest quietly in her jar,” Mom said.

“Or his,” I said.

“Or his.” Mom's face brightened. “I know. Why don't we all think of a good name.”

“Little Teeny,” Addie said. “Barbie.”

“Prong,” Max said.

Mom's eyes met mine, and we burst out laughing.

She kissed Max's curly head. “Prong,” she agreed. “Although, really, it's Finley's frog, so she should decide.”

“Who says it's mine?” I argued.

“It was a gift,” Mom said. “Delivered to your doorstep by a bunch of silly boys. Or
one
boy in particular. Right?”

“Yeah, right,” I muttered. “But Prong is fine with me.” My cheeks were heating up. Although the kitchen was warm, so that was probably the reason.

And just at that moment Mom's face puckered. “Hey, is that the oven I'm smelling? Are you baking something, Finley?”

“Oh, right. Warts,” I said.

“
Warts?
I'm sorry, did you just say—”

“Science project.” And then I jumped up to rescue the cookie tray.

When Dad got home that evening, Mom was putting the twins to bed. So I showed him Prong, and the first thing Dad said was, “But what do we feed him?”

I'm not joking. Seriously, it was like both my parents were obsessed with frog nutrition. Or maybe they didn't want to face the Amphibian Police:
So. You're claiming that after some Stupid Unnamed Boys in Finley's class dumped this innocent little frog on your doorstep (in a pizza box, no less) you let him/her go
an entire night
without a properly balanced frog meal? And you call yourselves
responsible parents
?

“I really think this guy could use some bugs,” Dad remarked.

“It's possibly a she,” I said. “And Mom says she'll get some in the morning. At the pet store.”

“I'm not sure we should wait until the morning,” Dad said. “He's not acting very energetic.”

“Because he or she is
in a jar
,” I said. “And hibernating, right? Dad, you think it should be practicing hook shots in there?”

“Don't be so hilarious, Finster,” he said, messing my hair. “I'm just saying that in my learned opinion, the little fella is hungry.”

He left the kitchen. A few minutes later he came back with a strip of orange-brown sticky-looking paper that smelled like rotting apples. If you looked closely at the strip, you could see flies. Whole flies and fly parts, mostly wing fragments, dried up like ashes.

“Eww,” I said. “What
is
that thing?”

“Flypaper,” Dad replied. “Some nice green company sent Mom like a dozen boxes of the stuff to review on her blog last summer. It's a bit old-school, but a totally safe, nontoxic alternative to pesticides and bug sprays.” He sniffed it and made a face. “A few months ago I hung a strip next to the furnace,
and now we have a home-cooked meal for Froggy.”