Wrong Way Summer

by Heidi Lang

  CHAPTER 25

  Claire and Patrick managed to find their way out of the woods, although Claire felt like she was bringing half of it with her, leaves and twigs tangled in her hair, and dirt streaked down her face. She’d never wanted a shower so badly in her life.

  Or maybe it was just the sight of Justin up ahead that made her long to dunk herself under scalding hot water.

  She pictured her brother crying while this boy laughed, and her heart turned to stone. How had she ever thought he was handsome?

  Patrick had stopped crying, but he kept the frog cuddled against his chest as he walked, and Claire noticed it wasn’t moving. Once in a while it would make a noise like it was trying to croak, but couldn’t.

  Why would Justin do something so unnecessarily cruel?

  “Go find Dad,” Claire whispered to her brother. “He might know how to help the frog.”

  Patrick stopped walking. “Do you really think Dad might be able to help him?”

  No, was the honest answer. But instead she said, “If anyone would know, he would,” and that wasn’t a lie. Not really.

  He still didn’t move. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to talk to Justin.”

  Justin was walking barefoot across a long cord his parents had stretched between two trees. They called it slacklining. Claire had tried it a few times, but she kept stumbling off. The last time, Justin had laughed and held one of her hands, guiding her along. “Look at you! A natural,” he’d said, followed by that crooked smile, and Claire had thought—

  It didn’t matter what she’d thought. Even though that was only yesterday, it felt like a whole different time in her life. A time Before, when she’d thought she was in love with Justin, and then there was Now, when she knew better. Even if she could still remember the twist in her stomach when he looked at her. And maybe there was an explanation, some . . . misunderstanding. Maybe he hadn’t meant to make the frog eat a rock. Or maybe . . .

  Patrick was staring at her, his lower lip jutting.

  “What?” Claire asked.

  “Why do you want to talk to Justin?”

  “To see what he has to say.”

  That lower lip quivered. “You don’t believe me, do you? He said you wouldn’t. He said you’d listen to him, and—”

  “Patrick.” Claire put both her hands on his shoulders and leaned forward until her face was only inches from his. “I believe you.”

  “Promise?” His eyes searched her face. So intense. Funny how he always looked so much like their dad, except in these quiet moments.

  She gave his shoulders one last gentle squeeze. “I promise,” she said, and then she let him go.

  She curled her hands into tight fists as she walked toward Justin, mentally counting, and then relaxed her hands. But as her fingers straightened, she still didn’t know what she was going to do, just that she would have to do something. “Hey, Justin.”

  He slipped off the line, stumbling a few steps before he caught himself. “Hey, Claire.” His brow furrowed. “You know, it’s not safe to sneak up on someone on a slackline. I know you don’t really know the etiquette, so I won’t blame you, but—”

  “Patrick told me about the frog and the rock.” Claire didn’t care about etiquette or slacklining or Justin and his “you knows.”

  “Ah.” Justin ran a hand through his hair. He did that so often, it was actually kind of annoying.

  “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  Claire took a deep breath, let it out. Her fingers ached. “Did you make a frog eat a rock?”

  He sighed, looking disappointed. “You know, you’re the first girl I ever felt really understood me. Like, we have this connection. Not everyone gets vanlife, or being in nature, but you do. You get me. Or, I thought you did.” He shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes.

  For one traitorous second, she was flattered. But she’d heard enough stories in her life to recognize when someone was spinning a tale.

  Spinning a tale. And now, finally, she knew what to do.

  “You know,” Claire said, “that’s really not an answer.”

  Justin pushed his hair back and finally looked at her straight. “I was just trying to get your brother to back off a little, okay?” he said, annoyed. “He’s always lurking, and I want to spend time with you.” He caught her hands, and she let him. Her fingers felt icy cold, numb, like they belonged to someone else. “Besides, it’s just a frog.”

  Claire pictured her brother by that pond, crying, helpless as Justin tortured that frog right in front of him. The numbness spread, washing over her and filling her vision with spots. “Just a frog,” she repeated. Her own voice sounded hollow in her ears, like it belonged to someone else.

  “That’s right.” Justin’s grin was back in full force. “There are literally hundreds by that pond. It’s ridiculous. And that croaking sound . . .” He shuddered. “It’s gross. I mean, I love nature, you know. But I never really liked frogs.”

  Claire blinked, and the numbness slid from her like a blanket, the world snapping into a focus so sharp, it was almost blinding. “I heard a strange fact about frogs once.” The words seemed to slide off her tongue as she casually pulled her hands free of Justin’s. “You know how a group of crows is called a murder?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Well, I bet you didn’t know that a group of frogs is called a suffocation.”

  “What? That’s stupid.”

  “A suffocation of frogs,” Claire said. “And it’s not so stupid when you find out why they got that name.”

  Justin hesitated. But Claire realized she was a better story spinner than he was, and in the end he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “How did they get that name?”

  Hook, line, and sucker.

  Claire smiled. “Ah, that’s an interesting story.”

  Long ago, back before cities and roads and vans, jungles claimed most of this land, and the lions claimed the jungles. And far below the canopy, unnoticed by the lions, lived the humble frogs, who preferred it that way. If no one saw them, no one hunted them. It was only when the sun went down that they would come out to sing to the moon and its beauty, the way it reflected in silvery ripples on the surface of their beloved pond, and to taste the night that surrounded them.

  Back then, frogs didn’t croak. Instead, they hummed melodies. Each frog had a different note, so when a family of them got together, they harmonized. And while there wasn’t a name for a group of frogs yet, if there had been, it would have been a song of frogs.

  As time passed, humans took over the rule of the jungle from the lions. The frogs watched them come with interest, but no real fear. After all, they were just frogs. Who would bother with them? And so during the day, they observed the humans with their axes and ploughs, chiseling away at the edges of the forest, and at night they continued to enjoy the cool waters of their favorite pond.

  But then one day, one of the humans, a lowly boy with a smile as crooked as his heart, noticed the song of the frogs. Intrigued, he followed the sound to their pond. He was tall and clever, with sharp eyes and quick hands, and he liked to catch the frogs, snatching them from their lily pads faster than a frog’s tongue snatches a fly from the air. He’d hang on to them for a little while, and then he’d let them go.

  The frogs weren’t sure what to do about this boy.

  He isn’t hurting us, one family hummed.

  Yet, came the reply.

  Yet.

  Yet.

  The boy grew bolder. He could now snatch whole families at a time, and he’d poke them, prod them, try to get them to sing different notes. Still, as the morning light brushed its tendrils against the surface of the water, he would let them go and return to his home.

  Days passed like this, then weeks. Frogs don’t have a good sense of time, but as the boy kept devising new things to do to them, fear rose up in their throats, changing their songs. He would trap them in cages and submerge the
m slowly underwater. Put them in pots with walls too high for them to climb, and leave them out baking in the sun.

  The frogs were scared and restless. Especially the Mossofrogs. These were a family of the largest frogs. They moved slower, and all too often they were the ones caught by the boy. We need to do something, they sang. We need to fight back, to protect ourselves.

  We are frogs, hummed the other families. We do not fight. We sing.

  As long as we still have our songs, the Mossofrogs reluctantly agreed. But what if we lose them?

  Then we fight, the other frogs agreed.

  Then, we fight.

  And then one day . . . the boy caught the head of the Mossofrog family, a giant bull of a frog, so large he filled both of the boy’s hands.

  The boy was fascinated by how ugly this frog was. Where the boy’s skin was smooth and lovely, this frog’s skin was bumpy, rough, and covered in warts. And when the boy looked into the frog’s large black eyes, he saw reflected back the color of his own heart.

  Furious at this glimpse of the truth, the boy slowly choked the frog, who called out for help. The frog’s lovely, melodic song became rougher, trapped, until nothing but a loud croak emerged.

  And in the trees, under logs, below lily pads, the other frogs watched as the boy laughed his cruel, mocking laugh. As the boy took the song from this defenseless frog, forever.

  After he was done, the boy dropped the frog and went back to his home.

  He liked to sleep out under the open sky, because he enjoyed feeling the trees around him, even though the trees were always whispering, You don’t belong here. You don’t belong. But he never bothered to actually listen to the trees. He wanted to be a part of nature, but also a little above it, so he shut his ears to anything but his own noisy thoughts.

  Which is too bad, because on this night, as the boy made his bed in the forest, the trees had another message for him: They are coming. The boy ignored the rustling of the leaves, the creaking of the branches. He didn’t listen to the way the wind shifted, or how the forest grew still. And he definitely didn’t hear the song of a thousand silent frogs, all creeping up to him, closer, closer . . .

  “Stop it!” Justin took a step back, his face twisted into an ugly mask. “I know what you’re doing. You’re making all this up!”

  Claire blinked. For a second she’d been in that forest, she’d been one of the frogs creeping silently toward her unsuspecting prey. She could almost taste the night around her, feel the blades of grass beneath her webbed feet. Was this why her dad told troll stories? Because he enjoyed them? Because he liked imagining another world running below theirs?

  “Don’t you want to know how the story ends?” she asked. “I haven’t gotten to the best part yet.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You see, while he was sleeping, the frogs covered the boy, every inch of him. And when he woke and tried to scream—”

  “I said stop!” Justin took another step back, his eyes wide and fearful. This boy who claimed he was so brave he could face down bears, scared of a story about frogs.

  Claire almost felt bad, but then she pictured that poor frog, helpless in Justin’s hand, the way it must have felt when he shoved that rock down its throat. Could it still breathe? Did it know it would die soon? “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “The frogs paid a price for their actions.”

  Justin stopped backing away from her. “Oh yeah? Did the boy stomp them all to death?”

  Claire shook her head. She felt strangely calm, as if all her anger had been channeled out into this story. “They lost the ability to sing, and that’s why they croak now instead. But sometimes, if you get enough of them together, it still almost sounds like they’re singing. If you listen closely enough. Which is good, because as long as they still have their songs, they’re content to be frogs. But if one of them loses that song . . .”

  Justin’s eyes narrowed, becoming slits in his red, puffy face. “What?” he sneered. “They attack?”

  Claire shrugged.

  Justin leaned away from her, but he needed to have the whole story before he could go. “What happened to the boy in the story?”

  Claire paused. “Like I said before, there’s a reason they’re now called a suffocation of frogs.”

  Justin’s mouth fell open, and he scrambled away from her. “You’re sick, you know that? You’re a freak, just like your brother. Just like your dad!” He turned and ran, disappearing inside his van.

  Claire waited for the anger to come roaring back, but it didn’t. Maybe it was because his words didn’t matter. She’d forget them long before he’d forget her words. “Just try sleeping outside in your stupid hammock now,” she whispered. He’d hear the frogs in the night, and he’d lie awake and picture them creeping toward him. And it would serve him right.

  She turned. Patrick stood behind her, half-hidden in the trees. “That,” he said, “was awesome!”

  “As good as one of Dad’s stories?”

  “Better! Seriously, I think I’m more scared of frogs now than I ever was of trolls.”

  Claire laughed, and it only hitched a little. “Don’t tell Dad that. The last thing we need is for him to tell us more troll stories.” She bit her lip. Patrick’s hands were empty. “How’s the frog?”

  He looked away from her. “Dad . . . he said he’d be able to remove the rock if he took it to the pond. But he didn’t want me to watch. Because it’ll be messy.” Because he’s lying, Claire realized. Her dad was making up a frog story, too, and Patrick knew it. Patrick knew the truth, but could pretend to believe the story instead, if he wanted.

  It was like her dad was giving him a choice.

  Claire swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “We should probably pack up our stuff,” she managed, eyeing Justin’s van. The side door had just opened, and Celeste poked her head out, looking murderous. “I have a feeling we’re not going to be super popular around here anymore.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Claire watched her dad’s neck muscles bunch as he drove. His jaw kept twitching, too. And his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. He was really angry. Really, really angry. Even without those telltale physical signs, she’d know that; she could feel the anger radiating off him like waves in a storm.

  This was the first time she and Patrick had argued—silently—over who got to sit on the cooler in back. Claire had won, for once. And even though she still didn’t trust her dad’s seatbelt, she knew she felt safer perched on this cooler than Patrick felt sitting up front.

  “So,” their dad said finally. They’d been driving for almost an hour in complete silence. Not even music. Nothing. “You thought it would be funny to scare some poor kid with some kind of, of horror story.”

  “Oh, real nice, coming from you,” Claire huffed. “Mister ‘trolls kidnap children in the night.’”

  Her dad had the grace to flinch, but a second later, his face was as stern as before. “That’s because my kids are Jacobuses. I knew they could handle it.”

  “Justin claimed he was very brave,” Claire said.

  “You know as well as I do that only someone who is pretending to be brave would be so loud about it. Truly brave people don’t go around proclaiming it.”

  “Well, Justin deserved that story,” Patrick said darkly.

  “That’s right,” Claire said. “Really, he’s just lucky his parents kicked us out of camp before Patrick and I could implement phase two.”

  “Phase two?” their dad asked. Claire could see him struggling to hold on to his anger, but in the end, he was a sucker for a story, too, and he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “What was phase two?”

  “We were going to collect a bucketful of frogs and dump them into Justin’s hammock while he was sleeping.”

  Their dad chuckled. And then his chuckle turned into a laugh, and then a bellow, until finally he had to pull over to the side of the road, he was laughing so hard. Eventually, he wiped his streaming eyes and shook his head.
“Ah, kiddos, I’m sorry. I’m sure if you were both united in such an . . . unusual plan, then Justin must have done something, and I didn’t even notice. I was too busy vanlifing it up.” He sighed. “Want to tell me about it?”

  Patrick shrugged.

  “Does it have something to do with the frog I rescued? The one you just happened to find?”

  Patrick shrugged again, and then the words tumbled out, about Justin and the pond and Claire’s story. When he was done, their dad nodded once, slowly, like he was making a decision.

  “Well,” he said. “I can see I’ve certainly rubbed off on you, Claire.” He rubbed his jaw uneasily, and then broke into a grin. “Not quite sure how I feel about that, honestly.”

  “Me neither,” Claire admitted.

  “I bet Justin practices smiling in a mirror,” Patrick said. “No one smiles like that unless it’s on purpose.”

  Claire snorted. “You’re probably right. And his parents? Celeste? Like that was her real name. And P-Sign? You don’t see me going around calling myself C-Sign, do you? So ridiculous.”

  “C-Sign?” Her dad raised his eyebrows. “Oh. You thought he meant . . .” He chuckled, shook his head. “He meant Peace Sign, honey. It was a play on the first letter of his name, and yeah, a little ridiculous, but”—he shrugged—“van people.”

  “Whoa, no way,” Patrick breathed.

  “What?” Claire glanced at her brother. His eyes were wide, mouth open like he’d just figured out the secret of the universe.

  “I thought he meant . . . um”—Patrick dropped his voice—“pee sign,” he explained. “Like, you know, in a toilet?”

  Claire got it. “Pee sign,” she said, exchanging a look with her dad. And then they were laughing again, and Claire thought she might die because she couldn’t breathe. “Peesign,” she choked.

  “This whole time,” Patrick giggled. “This whole time, whenever someone called him, I thought, I thought,” he gasped, took a deep breath, “I thought there must be some wacky story behind that name.”

  And they all roared with laughter until the walls of the van shook with it. It filled every last inch of space, and as Claire finally caught her breath, she realized that for the first time since they’d left their house behind, she felt like she’d finally come home.