In the grass before her was a frog. She crept along, bare feet on wet grass, the day now twilight, the birds silent, the rain gone, and time swinging back and forth in heavy sighs. The frog was a surprise, an unexpected distraction from a distraction, God’s gift to her to forget her knotted thoughts. The sight presented possibility, her body suddenly quiet and tense, her purpose clear, her breath short and silent. She swept through space like mud, her hands moving slightly faster than her bending body. The sadness she felt she transferred to the frog–suddenly it was more fragile than she, and her hands were the protectorate of all tortured creatures. Life is cruel, her feet said, as the chill of cool rainwater pulled dirt, grass, and bugs to her toes. After a silent year of approach, she flung her hands in a cup and grabbed the frog.
The frog violently leaped against the skin of her hands. She flinched at the viciousness of the revolt, but held steadfast. She imagined the boys that sat behind her in class watching her, waiting for a moment to point at her and laugh. She stood silently wrestling against disgust, and the boys crossed their arms and whispered amongst themselves. She watched them from her hair, smiling softly as she imagined them walking away with no smart ass remark to make. One or two smiled at her before moving on, a genuine sign of respect that would later lead to a partnership against a bully-free America.
The frog was unaware of her imagination, and had defecated upon the surface of her hand, but the girl did not notice, because a wet frog was a wet frog, and dirt was dirt, but winning was winning, and she did not have a winning day before now. She started to walk toward the lake that was a hundred meters away, clutching the frog tighter and tighter, resolute and determined not to let the frog go until he was safe in the water. She imagined the frog thankful for her noble care, calm and passive now that someone else would guard him and take him away from the sadness of life.
She placed the frog on the ground at the edge of the lake. Finally seeing the mess on her hands, she thrust her hands in the water and washed them. The frog, started, hopped into the lake and swam away.
“Yuck,” she said, but she didn’t mean it, deep down, and she apologized reverently to the absent frog, afraid that in the last she had been less than perfect in her equanimity. No one was watching. Well, she was. That was enough. Thankfully she saw someone stronger, and as she walked home down the lonely dark road, she was determined to do all of her math homework, this time preparing to get a 100% on the math quiz tomorrow. She would, she swore, even put the hardest homework question on the board, and show everyone how good she was. But when she sat down and stared at the problem:
3x + 2y = 16
5y – 5x = 12
…she panicked. Where, inside that mess, was the frog, the lake, the strength? She got up from the table, got two slices of American cheese, and sat back down, tearing the yellow flesh of her snack triangle by triangle. The math before her bent to her will, and problem number 10 was hers, and her mind, after one hour of struggle, was tired, but she smiled, folded her notebook, homework, and math book, and put them into her school bag.
The next day she entered math class and sat down, silently brooding while putting on her best hello and ha ha. The math teacher asked for volunteers, and as he went question by question, she felt a tension that threatened to kill her instantly. #6 was assigned. #7: should she take an easier one? #8…#9…
“Number 10.”
She raised her hand. The teacher raised his eyebrows as he looked at her. Three boys in the class were waving their hands like fury, outpacing her confidence by a light year. The teacher looked around the room and then looked at her again. He laughed. Her hand was heavy, so she held her hand up by propping up her elbow with her other hand.
“Well, this is a surprise Ms. Charmichael. #10 it is.” He laughed again.
She rose to put the problem on the board. The boys who were not chosen for #10 dared her to fail. Her friends whispered behind her back wondering what kind of weird drug she was on. The people who had already put their work on the board were sitting down, calmly satisfied that their work was done. She was the last to return to her seat. The teacher went over the homework. #3 was wrong. #7. #9. Her heart was pounding.
“#10 is right. Ok, put away your notebooks, time for a quiz.”
She was happy to have done well. She was happier the quiz was coming up. She was going to ace it. When she got that 100% tomorrow in class, she promised herself that she would look for a smile in the crowd.
“It’s a boys’ world, girls,” the teacher said for some strange reason.
