Narrative

I heard the rusty old swingset creak behind me. I didn't need to turn around to know that Frog was right on my tail, following every move I made like a hawk watching its prey.
I grasped the edge of the roof, and, still clutching it with all my might, hoisted myself up over it. I could still hear Frog catching up, and I felt her more than I saw her in that instant; we collided as she swung herself up onto the shingles with me. We both took our customary positions beside eachother; she, directly next to the chimney, and I on her left.
The evening air was cool that night as I watched a golden sun slowly disappear behind the crest of Maple Mountain. Frog shivered and pulled her threadbare jacket around her shoulders, glancing over at me with a knowing sort of smile on her lips. I pretended not to notice.
We sat in silence for a long while, each lost in her own thoughts.The chirping of the crickets became virtually unbearable after a time, and I thought to clamber off the edge when Frog's voice rang through my ears: "Do you ever --- wish on a star?"
I sighed and shrugged, following her gaze to the darkened sky above us. A solitary star glowed, a diamond amid a thick blanket of cornflower velvet. We both stared up at it for a moment, and I was hypnotized by how bright the star was. My mind raced suddenly, and I saw a handsome, young soldier with sparkling brown eyes and a heart-melting grin that was so boyish, so mischievous, that I couldn't help but smile. He wore a tan combat uniform and thick leather boots, as well as a heavy pack. His hair, so blond and soft that it was practically cornsilk, had been cropped short, close to his head and bristly. He was called promptly to attention, and he snapped erect, his impish expression instantly gone. It was replaced by a hard, serious focus so abrupt it seemed almost curt. It was as though he were suddenly aged by this absolute change, his face lined with seriousness and unbreakable concentration that I admired and hated him for at the same time.
I blinked, and the handsome young soldier disappeared as quickly as he had appeared. Frog sat by my side, worry creasing her face. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"What?"
Her eyes softened, and so did her voice. "Is it --- Cody?"
I put a hand to my cheek, startled by the tears that I discovered cascading. I quickly put both palms to my face and wiped the tears away. "I'm fine," I muttered.
She stared at me a while longer, knowing very well that I was not fine. I heard her tongue click with a little tsk-tsk sound as she stood up, brushing invisible specks of dust off her jeans. She was nowhere to be seen the next second. I heard a thud and peered over the edge of the roof. "Frog," I called, "what are you doing?"
She nursed a scraped elbow. "I told you," she mused, "I'm not afraid of anything."


* * *

Frog is my best friend. Her real name isn't Frog, it's Megan. She earned her nickname in third grade, when she brought a Frog to school to show it off to the kids in my grade, and the first- and second-graders. It got her a sort of strange reputation, and now she's Frog instead of Megan. I guess that the nickname caught on so quickly because nobody really knew who she was. It was her first defining act, the frog. In some way, it defined me too. Marla Kay Simpson, Frog's best friend.
Frog eventually passed into legendary status around Ridgmont Elementary School, and her fame got to the point that she was a character rather than just a girl; a story to tell, a sort of symbol that stood for an entirely different way of thinking. It almost seemed like she didn't even need a last name, and Buchanan went out the window a long time ago, so she remained Frog.
For a while, a few students began to refer to things or people as being "Frog." It was a description that was universally understood. I would walk through the halls of Ridgmont after lunch or skip across the blacktop at recess and hear things like "Come on, that is SO Frog!" and "Don't go Frog on me, man." And so it became more of an adjective than an actual person.Frog's behaviors were cross-examined from every angle, analyzed to the point of scrutiny at times, and I felt a victim of its penetrating magnification.
And last year, when we found out that we'd have to stay back another year at Ridgmont because the teachers at the middle school had held a meeting and decided that the seventh grade should still be part of the elementary school, Frog's popularity skyrocketed. It was as though everyone knew who she was and wanted to be like her, loving the way she thought and did things in general. I found the constant attention annoying, but Frog liked it. I remember always worrying that Frog's charisma would leave me in the dust, but I turned out to be wrong. She never excluded me, not even once, and our friendship was strengthened.
I'm not exactly sure at what point a friend becomes a best friend, because I guess I wasn't really keeping track of Frog's and my friendship. It's not that I wasn't interested; I'd have constantly monitored where she was, what she was doing, and who she was with if I had actually been able to do it. She was always on her feet, and kept me on my feet often enough. I found I could not curtail her freedom. I tried over and over to pin her down like I would pin a butterfly to corkboard, but time after time she merely wriggled out and flitted away like she had been only a figment of my imagination.

* * *

"Ouch," I muttered, pulling a thorn from my finger. "Stupid weeds."
I was having a hard enough time as it was, without Frog's constant yammering as we trudged through the huge cornfield. Slender green stalks lined our path, keeping Frog from straying the course as she would probably have done had the ears of corn not existed on either side of us. "Weeds?" She seemed offended. "This is my uncle's land, Mar. There are no weeds."
I couldn't see how she could claim such a thing. Just because her uncle owned the land, it wasn't an exception to any other huge field. She went on, "My grandparents owned this property since 1924. During the war, they shipped food to the soldiers" - the word made my gut twinge - "for money. That's why they were so wealthy. They decided to buy more tractors, more equipment at lower prices so they could make even more money from the produce that they harvested" - she gestured to the field with a general wave of her hand - "but then the war ended and Europe didn't need food anymore. So you know what happened?"
Of course I know what happened. I've listened to Frog's mom tell this story before. Once when I spent the night at her house, she and her family had a nice little rehashing of all their family's old memories and stories. Not that I minded at all; we all sat cross-legged around the Christmas tree in our pajamas, listening to each other's recollections and thoughts, and I even laughed a few times, although I never really contributed anything to their reminiscing. Was I expected to infringe on their age-old traditions with my dad's old farm stories? My mother's tales of city life before moving to Idaho? Somehow I found it too awkward to know how to phrase such things, and my memoirs were left unspoken.
Frog kept on talking about how her grandparents suffered through the Great Depression. I knew it was rude, but I cut her off mid-sentence. "Frog, why are we even here?"
She eyed me in disbelief for a second then repeated what we'd already reviewed at least four times this morning. "My uncle is a pilot, Mar. He's in town and he brought his hot air balloon" - how do you just haul around a hot air balloon? - "and my mom called him and asked if we could have a ride today. You know, just to see what it's like to... fly."
Her voice was so alight in that moment, I could have sworn I was flying myself. This was my best friend, my inspiration to become more fearless, as she was. I tried to imagine myself, Marla Kay Simpson, soaring over trees and fields and rivers and lakes, high above the ground. The sensation seemed so real for just a second that I felt nauseated from being up too high. An irrational fear of heights, my dad would say. Nevertheless, it did seem to be a novel experience for me - actually imagining myself, flying - flying! How can we, as humans, fly? It's impossible. My logic, perhaps, is flawed but - nevertheless - it's been proven physically impossible for a human to be so aerodynamic that he or she could actually fly. And how casually Frog said the words!
I whirled around to face her. Her huge brown eyes glistened with youthful innocence as she smiled mischievously. I couldn't blame her though. I mean, who could? It was Frog.
A bit of a grin played on my own lips as I spoke. "Fly?" I asked quietly. "Did you say fly, Frog? You know you aren't really flying. That's not possible."
She sighed and bit her lip. I felt a pang of guilt for smothering her little moment, but then I realized that I had only enlightened her understanding of the truth. Her face then lit up like a rekindled campfire.
"Fly," she repeated firmly, a slow smile spreading steadily across her face. "I said fly."
This time it was I who sighed. We came to the edge of the cornfield and faced a bent, barb-wired fence. Frog surveyed the scene with one quick scanning. "Looks like we'll have to climb in between, Marla." She carefully parted the wires for me and bent them into position. "You can go first."
I gingerly stepped over the wires, praying that I wouldn't be jabbed by a vicious barb in the process. "I'm... too... tall," I grunted, ducking as low as I could without losing my balance altogether. I stood on one foot as it was, trying to maneuver my way around the barbs while avoiding them with my head.
I stumbled over the last barb, nearly catching my shoelace. "What a relief," I muttered as Frog glided through the wires with ease and perfection. I watched in dubiety. "How did you do that so easily?" I screeched.
She shrugged it off with a simple "all in a day's work" and hurried on. The cornstalks were behind us now, and as I turned my face out to the horizon I could see a huge, colorful bulbous structure. I squinted and could see that a tiny wicker basket was attached to the gigantic balloon with thick cords. When I turned back to Frog, she was ten yards ahead of me. I sighed and started after her, jogging to keep up. "Frog," I called, "wait up."
Her pace slowed considerably but she was still ahead. "I can see my uncle! UNCLE RAY!" She shouted toward the balloon. "UNCLE RAY!"
A thin, frail-looking man stepped into view. He was wearing a brown leather jacket and a helmet. As we drew nearer, he slipped his helmet off, and I got a look at his face. The first thing I noticed about him was his crooked smile. I could tell that he meant it as a friendly gesture, but when his mouth turned up in a grin, I got the heebie-jeebies. It sort of curved to one side and his teeth only showed if he smiled enough. His eyes, two sparkling sapphires, were set in stone above his high cheekbones and prominent, pointed nose. He reminded me of a politician that I saw in a movie once. The said Politician was running for president one year. His opponent had a better campaign, however, and consequently pulled out of the election with more votes than he did. So the Politician tracked down the new President, and he murdered him to get his revenge. It was pretty extreme.
Frog threw herself at this Politician-looking Uncle Ray, and he greeted her with a stiff hug. "How are you doing, young lady?"
His voice was coarse and a little high. It grated on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. I resisted the urge to shudder.
He turned his blue eyes to my gaze. "Are you going to introduce me to your acquaintance?" He smiled knowingly at me, like we had met before. I didn't really want to shake his hand.
Frog nodded. "Uncle Ray, this is my best friend, Marla Simpson." She smiled and turned to me. "Marla, this is my uncle."
I had gathered as much. He smiled woodenly and stuck out his hand to me. We shook hands, against my silent preference.
For an awkward moment, we all stood looking from one to the other, until he queried rigidly, "Shall we get started?" He reached into the wicker basket and retrieved two helmets and two pairs of gloves that he promptly doled to each of us. I took mine with an uncertainty, but I fastened the strap and climbed into the little basket. A couple of small cardboard boxes were nestled between various tanks and hoses and an object which resembled a car engine. I sighted a dusty first-aid kit and a dented fire extinguisher in the corner.
Presently Frog's uncle climbed in, gesturing to the cardboard boxes with a mumbled explanation of not being able to install seats so early in the season. Frog seemed to accept his statement as being arbitrary and she sat down on the smaller of the two boxes, settling into the cozy little nook. I seemed to have no choice, so I followed suit. At that point it occured to Frog to raise her eyes to the engine-looking mechanism that was suspended directly overhead. Before she could ask, "What does that do?" her uncle began to explain.
"That, Megan, is the burner," he quipped, gesturing to the device. He waved his hand toward the hoses on either side of our shoulders. "These are the fuel hoses. Be careful," he added, "because if you touch any of this equipment, things could get..." his scratchy voice trailed off for a moment before continuing. "...dangerous."
I shivered, unable to suppress my convulsions any longer. Frog pretended not to notice.
Her uncle continued, "Now, this machine isn't what I'm used to flying, girls - what I have back home is a dual-burning balloon. It's a little more safe" - my eyes widened and twitched a little - "in terms of redundancy, that is. You see, on a two-engine plane, if one engine fails, the pilot can still get back to earth safely, so in the hot air balloon, a pilot can maintain much more control over his destiny to call upon, if need be."
Frog glanced over at me reproachfully. I felt like I was going to be sick.
"And this" - he tapped the tank at our feet lightly with his shoe - "is the fuel tank. Don't wanna have that sucker leaking. Then you'd have a real problem."
Frog just nodded.
He went on, "This steel-and-aluminum frame happens to provide an excellent shock absorber in the case of a less-than-perfect landing." His words caught my attention, even frightened me a little. I sat rigidly on the cardboard box, just waiting to get this over with. I hadn't really even wanted to come in the first place. It was my dad who had made me. I remembered when Frog's mom had called him and arranged the entire thing.
"Just try it once, Mar," he had pleaded. "You never know how fun it will be until you at least try."
"I don't want to try, Dad."
He had just sighed and shaken his head. "Kids these days. You don't know how lucky you are. Why, when I was a kid..." he had paused momentarily, undoubtedly pondering his childhood memories and searching for an opportunity to preach to me. "You know, I would have died to have an opportunity like this. Hot air ballooning! You should be ashamed of yourself, Marla."
I know I should be ashamed of myself. I guess I'm just not willing enough to try new things. I'm sorry I'm not more like Frog, Dad. I'd wanted to say all these things but had, as usual, kept my mouth shut rather than spoken up for myself. And it's true, Dad. Sometimes when I'm all alone and I'm laying in my bed staring up at the ceiling in the dark, I think about how deficient I am next to Frog. Everyone loves Frog. No one can get enough of her adventuresome spirit. And who am I? What sort of spirit do I have? I doubt anyone loves it, Dad. In fact, I don't know if I even have one. Yes, I should be ashamed of myself. And, Dad, sometimes I am.
But now, just to please my dad, I'd agreed to this crazy scheme. Suddenly the thought occurred to me just how high up in the air we would be. My stomach went crazy. I didn't want to throw up here. Not right now. Somehow I silently willed my nausea to calm itself, and it did, very slowly. I thought about seeing the treetops and being up in the clouds again, and my gut shifted violently. I bolted to the edge of the basket and threw up everything I'd eaten for breakfast. I stood there, my body quivering and my stomach still lurching, pained from dry heaving after my stomach had been emptied. I gripped the edge of the basket for support, gasping for breath and trying to hold back the tears. I breathed deeply, spat, and wiped my mouth. My breaths were shaky and loud. I closed my eyes, still fighting the urge to cry. Oh, boy. Now I really didn't want to go through with this.
A loud whoosh rang through my ears and I felt a wave of heat wash over me. I opened my eyes a few minutes later and was alarmed to find that there was no ground visible just over the edge of the wicker basket. What a strange sensation! I stumbled back over to the cardboard box, not wishing to talk to Frog about my "irrational fear" of heights. Surprisingly, she didn't bring it up. She pulled out a stick of gum and handed it to me. I unwrapped it with a sigh.
Her uncle was busy fumbling around with the burner above us. I watched his nimble hands in awe, imagining myself piloting such a craft as this one. Would I be able to? Would I get scared and refuse to even leave the ground? I half-smiled at the thought. Yes, I would definitely be too unsure to attempt something like this. Yet here I was, who knows how high above the ground - my stomach twisted, but I forced my panic down - in a little basket.
I relaxed a little bit, surveying the scene around us. It was very bright, much brighter than I'd expected it to be. Colder, too. I pulled my jacket around my shoulders a little more tightly and folded my arms across my chest.
It seemed like a long while before Frog spoke to me. I could barely hear her, what with the burner above us and our helmets besides, but she said to me, "How are you holding up, Mar?"
I shrugged. I was glad she couldn't see my face very well. I feared it was a little too expressive.
She just laughed.
I think it was about an hour later that I actually realized what was going on. I must have dozed off, I thought, sitting up quickly and looking around. Something was wrong. The loud noise of the burner was gone. My mind raced. "Frog!" I screamed. Frog was peering up into the engine-like burner, looking very unsure. I didn't have time to think about the look on her face. I only knew that we were going to die if the burner wouldn't turn back on.
My eyes were desperately scanning anything and everything that could possibly retrigger the burner. My heart raced madly in my ears, and the blood pumped to my head in a rush. I could barely even think, yet somehow my eyes settled on a lever near the burner's edge. Without stopping to think about it, I reached up and yanked it, hard, twice - out of desperation the first time, and out of panic the second. I noticed that the tiny needle in the pressure gauge on the side of the burner shot up instantly, and next I knew, the vapor ignited, sending a seven-foot flame into the huge hollow of the balloon. I was nearly knocked back from the force, and the sudden rush of air was almost deafening. The burner roared steadily once again. I had never, never heard a sweeter sound. I collapsed on the floor of the wicker basket, praying gratefully, when I caught sight of Frog's face. Her mouth was agape, her eyes were wide as dinner plates and tears streamed down her cheeks. It was hard to determine through the misty screen of the helmet she wore, but I was pretty sure she was crying. Frog, crying. Something I had never seen, nor would I see again.
I reached out to take her hand and gently pull her to her box. When I touched her, she convulsed and I discovered that she was trembling like a leaf. I couldn't touch her without being frightened myself. Frightened beyond all reason, which hardly made sense because we were alive. We were alive. I realized that I was quaking violently as well. And so it was, a pair of frightened, shuddering girls, we stumbled back to our seats in a daze. My breath gradually returned to me in little wisps of air, but my body felt very tired in just a second, and I then experienced the weakest moment I've ever had. My whole body, every muscle and every joint, ached with pure fatigue. There are hardly words to describe how powerless, how absolutely devoid of energy I really was in that exact moment. But I was alive.
I somehow found the courage to peer over the edge of the wicker basket but looked back just as quickly, not wishing to dwell on the altitude that we were at when we nearly were killed. I grasped Frog's shaking hand tightly with two trembling hands of my own and inhaled slowly. There would be no more Fearless.

* * *

I poked my fork around in my mashed potatoes and pushed them to one side of my plate. My mother just kept blustering. "Marla, Megan, we're so proud of our girls," she babbled. "I can't believe how brave you two were today."
Her words made me feel sick to my stomach. I prodded my steak unwillingly and avoided Frog's eyes. "Megan's uncle told me that you were over 3,000 feet in the air when the burner failed. That's really something, girls."
Frog beamed. I stared at my plate.
"We really had no other choice," I heard Frog say without a trace of modesty in her voice. She sounded proud more than anything else, though. You didn't do anything, I wanted to say out loud. I was the one who turned on the stupid burner. I was the one who saved our butts. And who was taking the credit? I pushed my plate away from me and slid my chair out. "Excuse me," I muttered, leaving the dining room. I could feel their stares on my back as my sneakered feet pounded up the stairs.
I slammed my door and collapsed onto my bed, angry with myself for not speaking up when I'd had the chance. I glared up at my ceiling, breathing heavily, mentally admonishing myself when I heard a tapping sound at my window. I sighed and rolled off the bed, undoing the hatch and tugging on the pane. It slid open with no little difficulty, and I peered out at the ground twenty feet below my window. Frog stood there with a small rock in her hand, preparing to toss it at my window, when she saw that I had opened it. "What do you want?" I yelled.
With a shake of her long dark hair, she laughed musically. "I just wanted to say good night."
I sighed, my anger evaporating instantly. "Whatever. Good night. Now get off my property."
Her face clouded a little, her mouth turning up at the corners as a wide grin spread from ear to ear. "Make me!"
"No." I began to close the window.
"Wait!" She exclaimed. "I was just kidding. Mar, come out here. Or I'll come up there." Why didn't you just come up here in the first place? I wondered silently. "Would that be all right?"
No. "I guess so," I shrugged. She could tell I didn't mean what I'd said, though. She half-smiled and began to back down the driveway. "Hey," I called, "aren't you gonna come up?"
"I don't think you want me to, Marla."
You're right. I just want you to leave. "I do," I lied. I sounded so pathetic, and I hated it. I was almost pleading for her to stay.
She shook her head again, and she started down the sidewalk. I watched her go, having the urge to call her back but at the same time loathing the way it sounded. I kept my mouth shut, and she was gone. I groaned. Resting my elbows on the window pane, I propped my chin up with my fist and stared out at the fading evening sky. A star, the one that was so bright, sparkled just a little way off into the night, it seemed. It was so close that I might have been able to climb out of my window and reach it if I balanced on my tiptoes. In my mind's eye, Frog stood beside me at my window, staring up at the night sky, at the one star that glowed with fascinating incandescence. Her words sounded in my head again, this time with an irrevocable curiosity that burned deep within her brown eyes: "Do you ever... wish on a star?"
I rolled my eyes at her question, although something within my chest wrenched itself anxiously from the shadows and into the radiance of her words. There seemed to be an inexplicable eagerness in my tone as I retorted, "How do you do it?"
Her voice sounded far away and surreal when she answered me with a little chuckle. "Oh, it goes like this: 'Star-light, star-bright, first star I see tonight...' " She paused for a moment, casting her deep sienna eyes up to the ceiling and biting her lip, although she was trying to remember the rest of the rhyme. How do you forget things, Frog? I wanted to ask her. You've never forgotten a thing in all of your thirteen years. " 'I wish I may, I wish I might...' " Her voice trailed off again before she continued slowly, " 'have the wish I wish tonight.' "
Suddenly, we weren't at my window anymore, but at sitting around her table while she tore the wrapping paper off various gifts with excitement shining brightly in her tawney eyes. Her tenth birthday party. "Blow out your candles!" Her mother gushed. All ten of the tiny flames flickered out in that moment. "Make a wish, Megan! Make a wish while you blow out your candles!"
Everyone clapped and sang "Happy Birthday" while Frog laughed and grinned like crazy. I leaned over and whispered, "What did you wish for?"
"I can't tell you," she answered, and it wasn't in a whisper. All sound seemed to cease in that second. Everyone stared at us, and I felt my ears turn red. Frog, pleased at having everyone's attention, continued with her raucous reply. "If I tell you, then it won't come true."
I stared at my jeans, and my ears were burning. "Oh," I managed to mumble, avoiding her intent, brown-eyed gaze.
The star seemed to glimmer even more brightly as I heard the words seep past my lips reluctantly. "Star-bright, star-li -- "
"Star-light, star-bright," Frog prompted.
I rolled my eyes and began again. "Star-light, star-bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight." I smiled a little, feeling triumphant at being able to remember the words. Frog sighed. "What did you wish for?"
I turned to stare in disbelief, then decided to use cruel irony to my advantage in the situation. You know, give Frog a little taste of her own medicine. "I can't tell you. If I tell you," I added, "then it won't come true."
She seemed confused for a brief moment, then cocked her head to the side in disappointment. "Why?"
I shrugged. "Frog, that's just what you told me. I really have no idea."
She seemed to understand. "I guess," she replied, then turned back to the window to gaze at the star intently. I thought I sensed a bit of longing in her voice as she muttered bitterly, "But all of the things I wish for couldn't come true."
In that moment I felt a strange urge to ask her to leave. Instead, though, I turned and strode out of the room, down the hallway and descending the stairs, all the way to the front door, where she caught up with me. "What's wrong?" She asked.
Frog, don't you know me well enough by now? Nothing's wrong. "I dunno," I heard myself say. "I guess that the things I wish for could actually come true. Maybe someday." When I said those words, I froze at the realization I had just uttered aloud. She stood there a moment more, then nodded, then grabbed the doorknob and wrenched the door open. "Nothing's fair, Frog," I called after her as she trod down the sidewalk. "Just because my brother's coming home..." Before I finished the sentence she disappeared into the blackness beyond the pickett fence that lined my front yard.
I slammed the door shut, disgusted with my best friend. Some friend. She was gone before I could even finish what I had to say.
A knock sounded on the door no sooner than it had been shut. Knowing it had to be Frog, I determined to ignore the knocker. A second pounding followed shortly after the first, however, and I yelled at the door, "Frog, just go away!"
A third knock came.
Annoyed, I thrust the door open, expecting to find Frog standing on my doorstep. I looked up to find a young soldier on the porch, still dressed in combat uniform, pack and all. His short, white-blond hair and his innocent, brown eyes triggered a painful memory in my personal archive, one I preferred to keep out of reach for its excruciating effect on my mind. I gasped. "Cody!"
It was then that I realized that his white-blond hair was matted with dried blood, his once-ardent eyes were bloodshot and ruined. Dust and dirt adorned his tanned skin unceasingly. I dared not peer closer. His military attire was mangled and stained with blood, ripped at the shoulder where a festering gash gaped unfettered and oozed with blackened blood. He raised his once-vivid brown eyes to my gaze, and they were lifeless and haunted, penetrating each and every inch of my soul.
I woke up.

* * *

I kicked bits of stray gravel back onto the playground where they belonged. Frog's eyes swept inquisitively over the jungle gym, then back to me. "You know," she muttered in a cunning undertone, "if we could kick those fourth-graders off the monkey bars..."
I didn't really want to hear Frog's crazy idea. I couldn't really concentrate on anything today. I couldn't get my mind off of that awful, awful dream that I'd had last night. I'd opened my eyes and looked at my alarm clock: 1:26 AM. I grabbed my comforter from the foot of my bed and burrowed deep into it, as far as I could. My heart rate had quickened considerably, and my stomach contorted in all sorts of unnatural ways. I had a feeling I was going to have that horrible vision stuck in my head for a very long time. I was shivering uncontrollably and realized that I was drenched in cold sweat. I'd hugged my arms to my chest and buried my face in my pillow, tears streaming down my cheeks.
I blinked and sighed, lost in my own thoughts. The notion occurred to me that Frog had left my side. I looked around and spotted a cluster of girls convened around the slide. In their midst, I saw Frog standing like some sort of ringleader. I sighed and started after her.
A rapid succession of screams erupted from the girls as Frog stooped down and came back up a moment later with a long, slender tan snake in her hands. A berth was cleared and I was able to see more closely. I had to admit, even I was alarmed by the snake's quick movements as it writhed desperately against Frog's stone grasp. Frog wore a smug expression on her face, almost boastful, and certainly triumphant. She seemed to be proud that she had conquered the classic fear of snakes in the female students' eyes. All the boys stopped and stared at the snake. Some shouted, "cool!" and some looked a little pale themselves. Some gawked in utter disbelief at the squirming reptile in Frog's grip. I was one of the latter.
The bell resonated across the grounds, signaling recess's end. Frog dropped the snake like a hot potato and it wriggled through the gravelly surface of the playground toward the grass. Girls screamed and jumped out of its way like it was a dragon. I had to admit, it was a fairly frightening prospect when the snake writhed toward my feet, and I dashed into the school building before I could look back at it.
Mrs.Wilson's classroom was feverish with excited chatter of Frog and the snake as we all filed in from the playground. Everyone was so taken aback that a girl would actually pick up a snake and hold it nonetheless. Word of the snake traveled fast, and the story had virtually passed into legendary status with its dramatically overwrought details. "Did you know that Frog picked up a python at recess?" "Its fangs were huge!" "It nearly killed her!" And so on.
Mrs.Wilson easily spent five minutes trying to calm us all down before she could speak. "We're going to do a little activity now. Everyone clear off your desks."
I hate being in elementary school. Frog and I were actually going to complain to the district office that, as seventh graders, we should be in Junior High rather than Ridgmont. The problem with Ridgmont was that the halls smelled like crayons and the teachers treat us like second graders. I hate it when teachers say stuff like "it will be fun" or "we're going to do a little activity now." For goodness sake, we're not babies.
At the Junior High, we would actually get lockers instead of desks, and we would actually have to have eight classes, with eight different teachers... the mere thought made my head spin, but I found myself delighted at the notion of actually being treated like a grown-up, or even a teenager. Nobody thinks of us as teenagers, because we're in elementary school. It's embarrassing. With our luck, being kicked back into the elementary school one more year, this year will probably turn into two years and after that it will become three, and so on, until we're seventeen years old and we still haven't left the elementary school. The thought repulsed me.
Mrs.Wilson paced around our desks, handing out a small index card to each of us. We were instructed to think about someone we were very close to, and write down the quality that we admired most about that person. Almost invariably, Frog came to my mind. I sat there and thought about her for a long while, watching her from across the classroom. She was chewing on her pencil eraser and staring up at who knows what, obviously lost in deep thought. She was, or seemed to be, unaware that I was inspecting her closely from a distance, and her eyes wandered from time to time, at the people sitting near her, but were always replaced somewhere on the ceiling after a moment or two. She fascinated me.
So what? I turned back to the little card before me, at loss for words with a ballpoint pen in hand. I blinked, thought for a very long time, and heard only the scratching of pencils against paper, thirty invisible pencils scrawling undefined words. I could only guess what the rhythmic scribbling sounds actually spelled. It was driving me crazy. I turned my focus back to the paper before me, pondering Frog's qualities. Funny. Smart. Desperate for attention. No, that couldn't be it. Loyal? A step in the right direction, but my mind still hadn't stumbled across the word that I would use. Courageous, brave, fearless. I felt myself nod in approval. Fearless. What a beautiful word. I glanced over at Frog, and discovered her eyes still drifting about unseeingly. I knew I had chosen the right word. I knew that was Frog. Fearless.
I scrawled the word on the little card and smiled to myself as I folded it in half.

* * *

Chris and my parents were gathered around the phone when I came home from school. I heard excited chatter and Cody's husky voice filling the hallway. Someone had pushed the speakerphone button so that they could all listen to Cody's adventures and talk to him at the same time. My own excitement rose as I crept through the kitchen and into the dining room, careful not to make too much noise.
Dad practically parted the Red Sea to let me through Chris and Mom to the phone. "Here's Marla!" he said to the receiver. "She wants to talk to you, Code." He grinned hugely and handed me the phone. I smiled and pressed the "Speakerphone Off" button before I spoke. "Hello?"
"Mar!" There was genuine excitement in my brother's voice. I smiled. "How's everything going?"
"Great," I told him. In the back of my mind a little voice was muttering everything's not okay, if you really want to know the truth, Cody. My best friend and I almost got killed in a hot air ballooning accident last weekend.
I could hear the smile in his voice. "That's awesome." He paused, then laughed. "I heard from Mom that you and Frog got in a serious accident the other day."
I groaned. "Almost," I replied, "it was really scary."
"What happened?"
"It was Frog," I admitted. "She accidentally turned the burner off..."
He chuckled. "And you saved the day, didn't you, Mar?"
I felt my ears turn bright red. "No," I muttered. "I could never save any day."
"Aw, sure you could." His voice cut out for a moment and the line crackled. My heart leapt. "Cody?" I asked.
"Yeah? Sorry. Damn camp phone." The connection wavered again, then broke. My heart slowed a little as his voice resurfaced. "Hel-- Marla? You still there?"
"I'm here, Cody."
"Sorry," he repeated. "Everyone's just trying to get their breakfast before we head down to the magazine for posting."
"Oh," I heard myself say, as though I understood exactly what he was saying.
"Yeah, so..." Cody's voice cut out several times before I could actually understand what he was saying: "Can I talk to Dad for a minute?"
His usually calm, assured voice had taken on a tone of urgency that made my heartbeat race. "Are you okay, Code?"
I couldn't hear his reply except for occasional "Yeah... just... I ... we've been..." My blood pumped frantically in my ears. "...to Dad," he finished.
I handed the phone to my father and folded my arms across my chest, trying not to scream out and plead for someone to tell me what was going on with Cody. My dad's face was suddenly lined with seriousness as he listened to Cody's crackling voice over the line. I could only make out bits and pieces of what he was saying - something about the phone, something about the magazine, and something about ... strong?
"Cody?" My dad's voice overtook the frail connection and we all listened closely for what he was saying. I could hardly hear. It sounded like my heart was thumping right in my ears. "What did you say?"
A sharp sound, almost like thunder, roared into the receiver and the line went dead with a little click. Dad went white around the mouth and held the phone to his ear for a long time, listening for anything. Nobody dared to speak. My eyes were boring holes into the phone, willing Cody to answer. Please, Cody. Please...
Slowly, very slowly, the phone slipped from my dad's grasp and clattered to the countertop. He leaned on his elbow, supporting his tall, wiry frame. "Dad?" Chris asked. I looked at my mom. She hadn't moved an inch.
Just then, my dad let out a sharp, sudden gasping sound. His voice was just above a whisper. "Oh," he moaned. "A bomb."
The world seemed to go still, just as it had last weekend when Frog had shut off the burner. My heart stopped beating. I felt all the color drain from my face. Suddenly it seemed as though my lungs had collapsed; I couldn't breathe, and the air that seeped past my lips came in short little spurts. I shook my head. This couldn't, couldn't, couldn't happen. It wasn't as drastic as my nightmares had been, but it was drastic enough. Too drastic, too serious.
My mom fainted dead away on the floor with a loud thud. Chris ran to her side and said, "Marla! Mom - I think she fainted!"
Of course she fainted, stupid. The words formed behind my teeth but I couldn't make them go past my lips. I could barely even breathe, could barely even think straight. I kept on seeing horrible images of Cody's body lying mangled in Iraqi soil. To even think of it was so awful, but the thoughts just wouldn't leave my head. The room began to spin, and I felt so dizzy. I leaned against the wall for support, but lost the little balance I'd claimed quickly as I crashed into a barstool. I felt like I was going to throw up, but I couldn't remember which way the sink was...
Presently I felt my dad's hands grab my shoulders and guide me to my bedroom. "Marla?" I heard his voice but it sounded so distant. "Marla?"
Somehow I found the words. "Dad, I'm... fine..." I felt myself drifting off again. My stomach churned incessantly.
"Marla?"
Why wouldn't he just leave me alone? "Dad," I tried to explain, "sick, don't I ... can't..." I couldn't concentrate on what I was saying.
I blacked out.



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