Life According to Og the Frog Page 4

  “I agree with Heidi,” Sayeh says. “Og should be in the swamp with his friends and family.”

  A.J. wrinkles his nose. “Maybe he doesn’t belong here.”

  It is a blow, I have to say. I’m just starting to feel like I do belong in Room 26. Don’t the big tads like having me in class?

  Do they really want to get rid of me?

  “Maybe he doesn’t belong here, but he’s here now,” Mrs. Brisbane says. “We’ll have to figure out whether he should stay.”

  Whoa! Mrs. Brisbane doesn’t want me here, either?

  I don’t hear anybody say that Humphrey doesn’t belong in Room 26.

  I feel green with envy, the way I felt when Jumpin’ Jack beat me in a leaping contest eight times in a row.

  Eight.

  Oh, but on the ninth try—BING-BANG-BOING! I left him in the dust—or at least in the mud.

  Back in the swamp, even if the bullfrogs bragged and bullied, and even if there were snapping turtles and other unfriendly creatures, no one ever questioned whether I belonged there.

  Now I am in over my head.

  I don’t know what to think, so I plop myself into my nice, clean water bowl to Float. Doze. Be.

  This time, it doesn’t work.

  Thanks a lot, Austin March’s grandfather.

  At Home with the Brisbanes

  IT’S A FOGGY morning in the swamp. On most mornings, you can see everything clearly: the slithering snakes, the soaring birds, the insects darting and swooping. But in the fog, nothing is clear. All I can see are shadows . . . but I don’t know what they are. I hope the fog clears soon, because I’m getting hungry!

  I come out of the fog when Mrs. Brisbane begins our lessons. I’m not sure I understand what she’s talking about. Nouns, verbs. Adjectives? What kind of animals are those?

  The thought of being chased by an adverb frightens me.

  There are a lot of other things I don’t understand.

  Why does Tabitha seem so sad and lonely, and yet she acts rude when someone else is friendly?

  And why on earth do the students always giggle at Humphrey’s annoying antics?

  I feel as useless as a toothless alligator.

  In the swamp, I could hop to it and get things done. I’d grab a cricket with my tongue, challenge Jumpin’ Jack to a hopping contest or discover a new puddle to soak in. Here, I watch things happening, but I can’t do anything to change them.

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon, Tabitha comes over to my tank. I hope she won’t be rude to me!

  “I think Heidi is being mean about you. I bet it’s because you’re new to Room Twenty-six.” Tabitha sighs softly. “I’m new here, too. It’s hard to get used to it. It’s not like my old school.”

  “I know!” I tell her. “It’s nothing like the swamp, either.” My loud BOINGs make her smile.

  “You probably don’t even know what I’m saying,” Tabitha tells me.

  I do a couple of hops and say, “Yes, I do!” My BOING-BOING makes her giggle.

  “You’re funny, Og,” she says. “Do it again.”

  “All right!” I hop again, because Tabitha has a nice smile.

  “You understand me! But why do you always say ‘boing’?” she asks.

  If I tried to explain, she wouldn’t understand. I would like to understand why she keeps Smiley in her pocket.

  I don’t think anybody in Room 26 understands Tabitha. At least not yet.

  I don’t think they really understand me, either.

  “I have a new foster home and a new mom,” Tabitha tells me. “She’s nice, and Mrs. Brisbane is nice, too, but I don’t feel like I really belong here. Do you?”

  “I thought I did,” I answer. “But now I’m confused, too.”

  Tabitha grins. “I love talking to you,” she says. “And when you answer back, it’s almost like you understand what I’m saying.”

  I am trying hard to understand a lot of things. But I wish she knew that I realize how tough it is when so much has changed.

  After Tabitha returns to her seat, Humphrey starts squeaking nonstop.

  Is he jealous because she talked to me? Or does he understand her problem, too?

  I know he didn’t come from the swamp, but he might have had another home before Room 26.

  No matter how hard I listen, one squeak still sounds exactly like another. I’m almost relieved when he stops squeaking and hops on that screeching wheel.

  There’s so much about Room 26 that is foggy to this green froggy!

  * * *

  And then it’s Friday again, and Mrs. Brisbane says that Humphrey is going home with Miranda. I can tell Humphrey really likes her. He always scrambles to the front of his cage when she’s nearby.

  I can tell that she likes him, too. Whenever she looks at Humphrey, she smiles. She must enjoy squeaking more than I do.

  But when Mrs. Brisbane announces the news, Humphrey’s squeak sounds worried.

  Luckily, before Miranda’s dad comes to pick up Humphrey and his cage, Miranda tells him, “Don’t worry, Humphrey. My dog won’t be there to bother you.”

  My furry little neighbor perks up. “Squeak!” he says.

  Now he’s happy. I guess he doesn’t care for dogs. For such a tiny creature, he sure is complicated!

  At least I have a nice quiet weekend to look forward to, with no squeaking and no screechy wheels.

  But I am surprised when Mrs. Brisbane comes up to my tank after school and says, “Og, I worried about you all last weekend, so I’m taking you home with me this time!”

  If she’s worried about me, she must like me at least a little bit. That makes me feel as cozy as a lizard snoozing in a sunbeam. I could almost jump for joy!

  It seems strange to be riding in a car, especially with a blanket covering my tank. It reminds me of the bad day when I was frognapped from the swamp.

  As I was carried away in the sack, I could still hear the muffled “BOING-BOING! BOING-BOING!” of my friends calling to me. “Come back!”

  I hope they understand that I didn’t have any choice.

  * * *

  There is a surprise waiting for me at Mrs. Brisbane’s house.

  His name is Bert Brisbane, and he is her husband.

  Unlike most of the humans I’ve met, Mr. Brisbane doesn’t walk around on two legs. Instead, he gets around in a chair with wheels. The way he rolls his chair in and out of doorways and around corners is very impressive!

  I try to imagine myself in a chair on wheels, but it would be strange for a frog not to leap once in a while.

  An even bigger surprise is that from the moment Mrs. Brisbane carries my tank into the house, Mr. Brisbane is very interested in me.

  “A frog?” Mr. Brisbane leans in close to my tank. “Where on earth did you get a frog?”

  “I told you, Bert. Angie Loomis couldn’t keep him in her room anymore, and so I said I’d take him,” Mrs. Brisbane tells her husband.

  “I thought that was just temporary,” he says.

  I’m glad it’s not, since I never want to be near that bullying bullfrog again!

  “His name is Og,” she tells him.

  Mr. Brisbane smiles and nods. “Og the Frog. I like it. But what does my pal Humphrey think of him?”

  His pal? My teacher’s husband is a friend of the little guy next door?

  “I’m not sure,” his wife says. “I can’t understand either one of them.”

  Then Mr. Brisbane turns toward my tank, looks me straight in the eye and lets out a loud “RIBBIT!”

  I am so surprised, I hop back a few inches. Why do all humans think frogs say ribbit?

  He does it again, in a very odd voice. “RIBBIT!”

  “Bert, he doesn’t understand you,” Mrs. Brisbane tells him.

  “Why
not?” her husband asks. “He’s a frog, isn’t he? And frogs say ‘RIBBIT.’”

  “Not this frog,” Mrs. Brisbane explains.

  She’s right. I never heard one of my fellow green frogs make such a silly sound. Not even a bullfrog.

  Mr. Brisbane leans in closer. “Maybe he doesn’t say anything at all,” he suggests.

  I can’t stand it any longer, so I tell him, “I have a lot to say!”

  Mr. Brisbane jerks back a few inches when he hears my boing. He looks as surprised as a flycatcher bird who’s accidentally caught a bee!

  “What on earth was that?” he asks. “It sounds like a broken guitar string.”

  “That’s the sound this type of green frog makes,” she says proudly. “The scientific name is Rana clamitans. I looked it up.”

  Mr. Brisbane just stares at me. “Rana clamitans,” he repeats.

  “But you can call me Og!” I tell him.

  He bursts out laughing, and then do you know what? He lets out a very loud “BOING!” He even makes it sound twangy, the way I do.

  “I think you two might speak the same language,” Mrs. Brisbane says with a laugh.

  I only wish we did!

  As the evening goes on, Mr. Brisbane continues to watch me closely.

  Thank goodness, Mrs. Brisbane insists that he come to the kitchen and eat dinner. Finally, I can relax.

  But as soon as they finish, Mr. Brisbane rolls back to my tank and watches me.

  What does he think this is, television?

  I’m hoping the Brisbanes will watch television—especially a nature program, set outdoors. I wouldn’t even mind seeing a show about hamsters, if it would help me figure out Humphrey.

  Mr. Brisbane’s pal, Humphrey.

  All this attention makes me a little nervous, so I slide into the water dish and soak. I think it’s boring to watch someone soak, but Mr. Brisbane seems to be fascinated.

  He’s full of questions for Mrs. Brisbane, who pulls up a chair next to him.

  “Don’t some frogs live in the water all the time?” he asks.

  “There are all kinds of frogs—even frogs that live in trees,” she answers.

  That’s news to me!

  “If he had a bigger tank, he could swim around,” Mr. Brisbane suggests.

  I pop my head out of the water. “That’s a great idea!” I tell him.

  Mr. and Mrs. Brisbane both laugh at my loud boing-boing!

  I’m still jumpy and jittery from all that staring, so I launch into my weekend workout to unwind: hearty splashing, followed by a set of jumping jacks.

  I am surprised to see that the Brisbanes are impressed with my performance.

  “Will you look at that?” Mrs. Brisbane says.

  “That is one lively frog!” Mr. Brisbane replies.

  After that comes my froggy version of a push-up.

  Mrs. Brisbane gasps. “I didn’t know frogs could do that!”

  I finish off with a series of big leaps.

  “I can hardly believe my eyes,” Mrs. Brisbane says when I stop. “He’s never behaved like that in class.”

  “I guess he wanted to put on a show for us,” her husband replies.

  I can hardly believe how exhausted I am! If I were warm-blooded, like humans, I’d have broken out into a sweat.

  Amphibians like me don’t sweat.

  While I’m resting, the Brisbanes talk about frogs.

  Mrs. Brisbane brings in several books, which they read together.

  “Look!” Mr. Brisbane points to a page. “Some frogs can jump over twenty times their own body length!”

  “I certainly think Og can,” Mrs. Brisbane says.

  I’m glad she thinks so. Me? I’m not so sure.

  “That reminds me of an old joke,” her husband says. “What do you get when you cross a frog and a bunny?”

  I’m thinking the answer has something to do with hopping, so I’m surprised when he tells her, “A ribbit!”

  I guess he already forgot that green frogs like me don’t say “ribbit.” Still, it’s as good as any of Kirk’s jokes.

  Then he has another riddle. “What did the bus driver say to the toad?”

  Mrs. Brisbane shakes her head, and Bert replies, “Hop on!”

  If Mr. Brisbane had ever spent time with toads, he’d know I’m nothing like them. But I don’t mind. He reminds me of one of my favorite swamp creatures, Uncle Chinwag. He’s a kindly old green frog who tells good stories but also is a good listener.

  I learned a lot from Uncle Chinwag, like how to make my boings carry a whole mile and how to catch a tiny mosquito with my big tongue.

  He likes to tell jokes, too. I especially like this one: What do they call an alien in the swamp? A marshian!

  I’ll bet Mr. Brisbane would like that joke, but if I tried to tell him, he’d just laugh at my “BOING-BOING! BOING-BOING!”

  “This frog is a treasure,” Mr. Brisbane tells his wife. “You should enter him in one of those frog jumping contests. They really have such things.”

  I like the way he thinks. Of course, I’ve been in many frog jumping contests in the swamp. Sometimes I even won!

  Mrs. Brisbane sighs. “I like Og, but I do have a problem with him.”

  Those words would have given me a chill, but amphibians don’t get chills. It’s that cold-blooded thing again. But why on earth would she have a problem with me?

  “Our classroom isn’t anything like the swamp,” she continues. “Is he happy in his tank? I mean, Humphrey has always lived in a cage—that’s different.”

  That’s the truth! That hamster is as different as any creature I’ve known, including crickets and mosquitoes.

  “I didn’t understand Humphrey at first,” she says. “But he seemed so happy. He helped the students. And when I brought him home, he cheered you up.”

  Mr. Brisbane nods. “I was pretty hard to live with after the accident that landed me here.” He pats his wheelchair. “But Humphrey did help.”

  Humphrey? Are they talking about the Humphrey I know? The annoying neighbor in the cage next door?

  “He helps everyone,” Mrs. Brisbane agrees. “He really goes beyond his job as a classroom pet.”

  Wait a second! Being a classroom pet is a job? I’d never thought of that before.

  And if it is a real job, will I be the first classroom pet ever to be fired?

  Mrs. Brisbane rises. “I’ll make some tea.”

  Mr. Brisbane follows. “I’ll get the cookies.”

  The Problem with Me

  “LISTEN, ALWAYS LISTEN,” Granny Greenleaf tells us tads. “You can learn more from a falling leaf or a passing breeze than from all the loudmouth bullfrogs in the swamp. And remember: Bad things happen when you don’t listen,” Granny warns us.

  “That hit the spot,” Mr. Brisbane says.

  The Brisbanes are back. I may not have ears the way humans do, but I listen carefully to what they are saying.

  “Now tell me about your problem with Og,” Mr. Brisbane says.

  “The biggest problem is . . .” she begins.

  I can’t imagine what’s coming next.

  “The crickets!” she continues.

  “Crickets! What’s wrong with crickets?” I blurt out.

  Bert chuckles. “I think Og has a problem with your problem with crickets,” he says.

  BING-BANG-BOING! Right again.

  “Miss Loomis told me that according to her research, frogs like to eat live crickets,” she explains.

  Yum! I think.

  “Oh,” Bert says. “I think I see the problem.”

  The problem is, I can’t get enough of them!

  Mrs. Brisbane looks so upset, I feel sorry for her.

  “I like crickets,” she says. “They’re thought to be lucky in s
ome countries. And I know some people think their chirping is annoying, but I don’t.”

  I like their chirping, too. It helps my fellow frogs and me zero in on their location.

  Just thinking about yummy crickets puts a smile on my face . . . until I look at Mrs. Brisbane.

  She is not smiling.

  “The thought of feeding live crickets to Og is so upsetting,” she says. “Even though I understand that’s what he ate in the wild.”

  True. On a perfect day, I ate crickets. On other days, I made do with less tasty bugs.

  “Also,” she adds, “that cricket jar has an awful smell. You know how I feel about bad odors.”

  “Can’t your students feed him?” Bert asks.

  Mrs. Brisbane looks down. I think she is embarrassed. “I can’t ask them to do something I don’t want to do. What kind of role model would that make me? I’ve been having Aldo feed him after school.”

  Mr. Brisbane nods. “Sue, I don’t want you to be upset every time you feed Og. Are crickets the only thing frogs eat?”

  “No,” I tell her. “You could feed me mosquitoes and dragonflies and spiders, fish, crayfish, shrimp, small snakes and snails.”

  “BOING!” Mr. Brisbane snaps back in a very froglike way.

  “BOING!” I answer, and I’m truly sorry that’s all he hears.

  “Oh, Bert,” Mrs. Brisbane moans. “Do I sound silly?”

  “Never,” her husband says.

  I have to admit, Mrs. Brisbane is the least silly creature I’ve ever met.

  “And there’s another problem,” Mrs. Brisbane continues, looking at my tank. “Some of my students are upset that Og was stolen from his home and probably misses it. Some of them think he should be returned to the swamp!”

  “BOING!” I say.

  “Is that a good idea?” Mr. Brisbane asks.

  Mrs. Brisbane bites her lip. “I don’t know. I have to figure that out.”

  I’m not sure, either. If I’m not going to get any more crickets, I’ll have to move back to the swamp. But how?