Stagwood Forest was just beyond the schoolyard and it was riddled with frogs, but they always avoided people. Maybe some frogs blinked, but with its eyes smushed against the glass, this one didn’t. We were locked in a staring contest with unknown stakes. I couldn’t stop looking at the frog and it couldn’t stop looking back. My pencil stopped dead in its stubby tracks. Its little green face was pressed up against the window nearest to me. It was a moment of exceptional boredom when I saw it. I had barely gotten started when the frog appeared and changed my life forever. But, on that day, I never even got to the first pair of wings. They were odd, and they each had a story that I wanted to tell. They had horns where horns don’t go, fur where scales should be, and all the wings. Most classes, I drew imaginary places and then whipped up some creatures to fill them. Instead of trying my hardest to listen, I spent most of class drawing in my notebook. The professional football player who was good at math. The first couple of times weren’t bad, maybe even kind of interesting, but by the second week of school she had started repeating herself, just like her outfits.īy then, I knew all the stories by heart. She was obsessed with tales of former students who had become some kind of famous. The biggest problem, though, was the stories.
The kind of boring that makes your eyes shut without your permission. For another thing, she was mind-numbingly boring. For one thing, she did, in fact, wear the same outfit every day the colors changed, but she always had on striped pants and a striped jacket. Before the school year started, I’d heard rumors about her, and within a week I realized that they were all true.
Miss Weaver had been my teacher for a few months, and was best known around Stagwood for having a stack of black hair that rose a foot above her head. I was sitting in class the first time that I saw the frog.
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