Once Upon a Toad

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  I ducked into a doorway for a moment to text A.J., watching as a couple in a wedding dress and a tuxedo posed for pictures on the bridge that arched over a phony canal at the far end of the plaza. Were they for real, or just models? I wondered. It was hard to tell in a city like this, where so many things were fake. They sure seemed like a real couple, though. The groom said something to the bride and she laughed, tossing back her curly blond hair. From a distance she looked like Iz.

  All of a sudden I was struck by a pang of homesickness so strong I nearly keeled over. Dad and Iz had been married on a bridge too—the one in Portland’s Japanese Garden. They’d called the wedding their “bridge to a new life.” One that included me and Olivia, and one that would expand to include our little brother a year later.

  I would have given anything at that moment to see them again, or at least to be able to call and talk to them. I knew they must be worried sick about us. First Geoffrey, then Olivia and me. All three of us had vanished! My mother, too, must be frantic by now. I hoped that Great-Aunt Aby had somehow been able to get a message through to her.

  Great-Aunt Aby.

  I snapped Connor’s cell phone shut and returned it to the pocket of my backpack. A.J. would have to wait. I peered out from the doorway, scanning the crowd. There was no sign of my great-aunt yet, but I doubted she was far behind. I stood there for a moment, trying to clear my mind of anything that might tip her off as to where I was—Don’t think about the big bell tower you passed, Cat, and don’t think about the plaza or the canal or the gondolas or the fancy shops or strolling musicians—and tried instead to think of something entirely different.

  Something like fast-food restaurants.

  I’d been to a zillion in my lifetime, and I quickly flipped through my mental photo album of them, pausing at one in particular. I conjured up as clearly as I could the red booths and jukeboxes, the smell of french fries, the menu board on the wall behind the cash registers. There, I thought. That should throw her off track.

  Then I dashed out of hiding and began to zigzag through the crowd.

  I paused briefly by a kiosk displaying a map of the hotel and its grounds. After quickly locating the YOU ARE HERE dot (I was someplace called Saint Mark’s Square), I tracked down the valet parking area. There were bound to be taxis there.

  Calculating the quickest route, I was surprised to find that it looked to be by gondola. Turning around, I stood on my tippy-toes, craning to see across the crowded plaza to the stairs that led down to the pretend canal. Were there any boats available?

  There were. One was pulling alongside just now, in fact.

  I made a dash for it and arrived breathless, just behind the bride and groom.

  “That’ll be sixteen dollars,” said the gondolier. He was wearing a costume too—black pants, red sash, black and white striped T-shirt, red neck scarf, and a straw boater hat with a matching red ribbon wound around it.

  I drooped. All I had was Olivia’s diamond, and I wasn’t about to waste that on a boat ride. It was my ticket home to Portland.

  Sometimes it helps to be vertically challenged. The bride and groom turned and saw me, then exchanged a glance.

  “Poor little boy,” said the bride. “He just wants to have some fun!”

  “That’ll be sixteen dollars,” the gondolier repeated, unmoved.

  “Tell you what, kid—I’ll pay your fare if you’ll take some pictures of us,” said the groom, holding out his camera.

  I gave him an enthusiastic smile and a thumbs-up in return, and the three of us stepped into the crescent-shaped boat. The bride settled into her seat in a whoosh of white chiffon, like a marshmallow collapsing in a campfire.

  “My name is Marco and I’ll be your gondolier tonight,” said the man in the black pants. He sounded bored. As he thrust his oar into the water and started to sing (something in Italian, of course), I tossed my backpack into the bottom of the boat, hoping that any stray croaks would be drowned out by the music. I needed to dump the toads at some point, but this was neither the time nor the place. Then I switched on the camera and began holding up my end of the bargain.

  Late-night visitors lined the wrought-iron railings of the shopping promenade, whistling and cheering as we passed, and I snapped a picture of the bride and groom as they waved like visiting royalty.

  I got pictures of them pretending to sing along with the gondolier, and smooching under one of the bridges, and holding hands and gazing deeply into each other’s eyes. It was a little embarrassing, and silly, really, in this place that was so obviously fake, and yet there was something romantic about it too, floating under the arched bridges, past the brightly lit shops and the Elvis impersonator and the woman in the bright pink dress with the beehive hairdo—

  Wait a minute, I thought, zooming in through the camera viewfinder. That wasn’t a dress, it was a uniform. Pearl Slocum’s uniform!

  I slumped down in the boat, hoping she wouldn’t see me.

  “Are you okay?” asked the bride, looking concerned.

  I shook my head and leaned abruptly over the opposite side, away from where Pearl was standing. The gondolier stopped singing.

  “Gimme a break,” he said in disgust. “See if you can hold it in, kid, while I get you to dry land.”

  He maneuvered the gondola swiftly to the next landing, where I hopped out and handed the groom his camera back. Giving him and his brand-new wife another thumbs-up, I shouldered my backpack and melted into the crowd, hoping Pearl hadn’t spotted me.

  No such luck.

  “Catriona!” Great-Aunt Aby’s booming voice echoed across the canal like a megaphone. She and Pearl began to trot toward me. I pulled my hood up and made a run for it, darting down the corridor toward the valet parking and, I hoped, taxis.

  “Catriona!” my great-aunt hollered again. She was moving pretty fast for such a big woman.

  Ignoring her, I sprinted around a corner and through the first open door I saw.

  “Whoa there, little fella,” whinnied a deep male voice as I slammed into a glass wall.

  Ding! A bell rang and the door slid closed behind us.

  “Dang!” I blurted, bending over and spitting a toad onto the floor.

  I was trapped in an elevator with Elvis.

  CHAPTER 23

  Croak.

  I grabbed the toad and stuffed it quickly into my backpack, hoping that the Elvis impersonator hadn’t spotted it. He hadn’t; he was too busy waving to the crowd of people below us as the glass elevator rose in the air.

  A crowd that included my Great-Aunt Abyssinia. She stood with her hands on her hips, glaring up at me.

  There was no sign of Olivia. They must have left her back in the RV. I leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath, closing my eyes. I’d bought myself a little time. My eyes flew open again as I realized that I’d also backed myself into a corner. All my great-aunt had to do was catch the next elevator and the jig would be up.

  Ding! The elevator slowed to a stop and the doors opened to reveal a fancy restaurant.

  “Getting out?” whinnied Fake Elvis. I hesitated. “Or are you going to the helipad, too?”

  Helipad? Maybe I still had a chance to get back to Portland! A helipad meant helicopters, and surely there’d be somebody willing to give me a ride in exchange for a diamond. I nodded enthusiastically, and Fake Elvis punched the button to close the doors again.

  When we reached the top and got out, though, there was no sign of a helicopter. The Elvis impersonator glanced at his watch, shrugged, and strolled over to a bench in the gated waiting area. I paced anxiously back and forth, too nervous to take a seat. I hoped the chopper would get here soon; I couldn’t have very much time before Great-Aunt Aby showed up.

  Croak.

  The toads! I’d forgotten about them. This would probably be a good time to ditch my amphibian companions. Slipping behind a sandwich board announcing helicopter tours of the city, I squatted down and opened my backpack. The toads were wedged sullenly i
n the bottom, and it took some coaxing to get them out. Just as the last one hopped off into the shadows, I heard a loud whip-whip-whip overhead, and Elvis stood up expectantly in the waiting area as a helicopter came in for a landing. I hurried to join him.

  “Usual routine, right? Dropping in on the Tunnel of Love?” the pilot said to Fake Elvis, who nodded. “I see you brought your son with you this time.”

  Fake Elvis peered at me over his tinted sunglasses. “Son? Never seen him before in my life.” He strode across the helipad and climbed aboard the chopper.

  The pilot frowned. “What are you doing out here all by yourself, young man?” he demanded. “This is a dangerous place to be in the middle of the night.” He glanced around, probably looking for security.

  I whipped out my notepad and paper. Time to put my plan into action. I need to get to Portland by morning, I wrote.

  “Fat chance,” he said with a laugh.

  I glanced over my shoulder, certain that the elevator doors would open any minute now to reveal a wrathful Great-Aunt Abyssinia.

  I’m serious. I’m prepared to pay well.

  He looked at me sharply. “I’m listening.”

  I slipped my hand into my pocket, pulled out the diamond, and held it up.

  The pilot shook his head in disgust. “You think I was born yesterday? This is Vegas, haven’t you heard? Crossroad of phony and fake.” He started to turn away.

  I grabbed his arm. It’s real, I wrote, digging in my backpack for the clincher. I pulled out Iz’s black drawstring bag. I’d stuffed it in there after emptying the jewels out, and there was a piece of paper inside. It was from the jeweler who’d examined Olivia’s first gems and certified their authenticity. I passed it to the pilot. I was practically jumping out of my skin by now. Great-Aunt Aby would be here any minute!

  He glanced at it, then took the gemstone from my hand. He gave me a long, hard look. “Okay, then,” he said. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” He checked his watch and rubbed his chin. “We’ll drop Elvis off at his gig, and afterward I’ll take you to the little airfield where I keep my charter plane. I could have you in Portland by, say, eight a.m. That work for you?”

  It was cutting it close, but what choice did I have? I nodded.

  I followed him across the helipad, climbed aboard, and strapped myself into the seat next to Fake Elvis. He raised his eyebrows when he saw me, but didn’t say anything.

  The pilot seemed to be taking a ridiculous amount of time getting seated and checking his instruments. I jiggled nervously in my seat. I’d never flown in a helicopter before, plus I was sure Great-Aunt Aby would be arriving any second.

  The engine finally whined to life. We were off! And not a moment too soon. As the helicopter lifted into the air, I saw the elevator doors slide open and my great-aunt come staggering out. Pearl was right behind her, clutching her updo with one hand and Great-Aunt Abyssinia with the other as the backdraft from the helicopter blades kicked up a sharp gust of wind.

  I barely had time to glance in their direction before we angled steeply to the side and dropped over the edge of the hotel roof.

  My stomach lurched, and to my intense embarrassment, I clutched Fake Elvis’s arm and only just managed to squelch a scream. This was worse than a roller coaster! Way worse. Was this what it was like for my mother when she blasted into space? I closed my eyes, hoping I wouldn’t pull a Geoffrey. We swooped down in what felt like a freefall, leaving my stomach up in the air—and then suddenly we straightened and the ride smoothed and we were floating effortlessly over Las Vegas.

  After a few moments I felt brave enough to open my eyes. I gazed out at the city below us. It was beautiful from up here, not garish at all. The lights glowed like, well, gems. As we floated along over the Strip, I searched for the RV. There was no sign of it. Maybe my great-aunt had given up on me. I hoped so.

  I didn’t need any more of her “help.” I didn’t care if she was my fairy godmother, she’d meddled—and muddled—enough already.

  We dropped lower, and the pilot pointed to a neon sign below, whose flashing red hearts announced the Tunnel of Love wedding chapel. Fake Elvis gave him a thumbs-up.

  Who gets married in the middle of the night? I wondered, counting three wedding parties waiting in the parking lot. One couple was on a motorcycle. My mouth dropped open as I realized that the Tunnel of Love was a drive-thru chapel. Only in Las Vegas.

  The brides’ dresses and veils started flapping like crazy as the helicopter whirred lower and lower. No one seemed to mind, though—they all just laughed and grabbed at the billowing fabric, waving their hems like flags.

  The helicopter came to rest on the roof of the Tunnel of Love. As it whined to a stop, Fake Elvis opened the door, flung out a rope that was clipped at one end to a metal loop inside the helicopter, then clipped a carabiner on the belt of his white sequined jumpsuit to it. Waving to his audience, he leaped out.

  This was obviously a well-practiced grand entrance.

  I watched as he slid down the rope to the parking lot below, then grabbed the waiting microphone and launched into “Burning Love.” The partygoers went wild, twisting and gyrating along with him to the lively beat. Definitely not Bach, I thought, wincing slightly as he hit a wrong note. But catchy.

  The helicopter pilot took off his headset and turned around. I knew the minute I saw the look on his face that the game was up.

  “You’re Diamond Girl’s sister.” It was a statement, not a question. “Did you think I wouldn’t put two and two together? The gem, the receipt—it was from a jewelry store in Portland, Oregon!” He smiled at me. It was not a nice smile. “Guess this is my lucky day.”

  His hand clamped down onto my wrist in a viselike grip. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he told me. “When Elvis there is done sweatin’ to the oldies, we’re going to drop him back at the hotel. Not a word out of you, or I’ll drop you there too. Only from a lot higher up, understand? Then we’ll head to the airport and take my plane to Portland. Let’s just say I want a whole lot more than one lousy diamond if your family wants you back.”

  My plan had backfired worse than Great-Aunt Aby’s RV.

  There was only one thing to do.

  Leaning toward him in order to give the inevitable toad maximum propulsion, I yelled, “FAT CHANCE!”

  The pilot yelped, recoiling. I wrenched my wrist free, and while he swatted at the toad, I unbuckled my seat belt, grabbed my backpack, and lunged for the open door. Before I could shimmy down the rope and make my escape, however, the pilot leaned over and grabbed the waistband of my jeans.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he said as I dangled there, half in and half out of the helicopter.

  I reached for the landing skid—the long metal runner that the helicopter had instead of wheels—and wrapped my arms around it tightly as he tried to pull me back inside.

  “Yoo-hoo! Catriona!”

  I looked down in disbelief. A familiar RV was pulling into the Tunnel of Love’s parking lot below. Great-Aunt Abyssinia’s bright orange head was sticking out of the driver’s window. She honked and waved at me.

  “Who the heck is that?” asked the pilot, hollering to be heard above the soulful warbling of “A hunk, a hunka buuuuuurning love.”

  “The cavalry,” I hollered back, dropping a toad on Fake Elvis. He sang on, oblivious, his eyes shut tight.

  Great-Aunt Aby climbed out of the RV and looked up at us, the flashing hearts of the neon sign reflecting in her glasses. The wedding parties fell silent at the sight of all that purple fleece.

  I heard the helicopter’s engine roar to life, and a breeze kicked up as the rotor blades began to spin. I began to struggle, but the pilot still had tight hold of me with one hand.

  “Do something!” I hollered at my great-aunt, launching another toad. The rotors were whipping around now at full speed, and Fake Elvis reached up to grab his black pompadour wig as it was knocked askew.

  As the helicopter lifted skyward, I shrieked,
spattering the rooftop of the Tunnel of Love with terrified toads. The chopper gave a lurch and I finally managed to twist free, but at the same time I lost my grip on the landing skid. I flailed wildly for a second, then somehow managed to grab hold of Fake Elvis’s grand entrance rope. In a flash I found myself swinging wildly back and forth at the end of it as the helicopter continued to rise into the air.

  So much for improvising, I thought. I’d gotten myself into a real fix this time.

  “Hold fast, Catriona!” Great-Aunt Abyssinia shouted up at me. “Hold fast!”

  My birthday necklace had slipped out from under my T-shirt, and I clutched instinctively at its golden charm. Hold fast. What exactly did those engraved words mean, anyway? Just what was I supposed to hold fast to? And why didn’t Great-Aunt Aby hurry up and turn this stupid helicopter into a pumpkin or something?

  “That’s a great idea!” she bellowed, her front teeth making their own grand entrance as she grinned up at me.

  I was directly above her now. I took a deep breath. Maybe Great-Aunt Aby was occupationally challenged, and maybe she was scatterbrained and unreliable and really, really odd, but she was my fairy godmother and she was family, and it was time to take a leap of faith and trust her.

  Holding fast to my necklace, I let go of the rope.

  CHAPTER 24

  I opened my eyes and lay still for a long moment, trying to get my bearings.

  There wasn’t a speck of neon in sight; just ordinary daylight. I sat up and looked out the window, rubbing my eyes. Outside lay a familiar expanse of green, with the snowcapped peak of Mount Hood hovering on the far horizon. Just beyond the curb where the RV was parked was row upon row of lush, colorful blooms.

  “The Rose Garden,” I whispered, my hand automatically cupping my chin to catch the unavoidable toad.

  We were home!

  Maybe last night’s wild ride in Vegas was all a dream, I thought. Then I turned and saw Elvis asleep in Great-Aunt Aby’s armchair.