Frog was never quite the looker: one leg slightly shorter than the other; eyes bulbous, almost yellow; skin freckled and cooked by Australian Sun. This is why, as the hot air rose sweet and thick from the concrete, Frog was last to rise to the occasion.
The game had stopped. Henry pitted the basketball and wiped his face with his hand-me-downs; Gabriel looked at his feet. To the back, Matyas scoffed and chuckled about Miss Kardashian here, his accent turning the last two syllables into one. The court seemed much smaller than usual, for fenced out by the latticed iron stood a wet-eyed white girl, watching. After a moment, Frog took his skinny body to the edge of the court, and someone whistled.
“Ya need something, miss? Kinda killing the vibe, here.”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice seemed to have a sort of music to it. She sniffed. “I’m not usually in this part of town. It just—it appears I have lost... a precious item of mine, and I was wondering if you boys have seen it.”
“Sure, what? You’ll be lucky Tyas hasn’t pawned it off.”
“Oh, it’s this darling golden locket, and I—I just can’t go home without it. I can’t.” At this, she met his eye, and he shrank under the watery blue. Something about the way she talked made Frog want to wash all evidence of his life off his skin.
“Will you find it for me?”
Frog found himself saying things like yes and of course to her. In that moment it was hard to imagine she’d ever been said no to. It didn’t help that her smile was horribly beautiful, either, so when she asked what she could possibly offer in return—new clothes, new rings, new shoes—Frog couldn’t stop himself from saying just this:
“You’ll come see me tomorrow, that’s what.”
“Here?” she replied, and received no answer, for off he hopped. Momentarily, he returned with the necklace. A smile was pulling at his lips.
“So, miss...?”
Against her better judgement, the girl flushed, and she blamed it on the weather. “Penelope.”
“They call me Frog. I’ll seeya soon, miss Penny.”
But Frog didn’t see her the next day, or the next. Something started to grow in him. The boys caught him traveling more than once, and at work, selling turon on the street for his Tita Jess, he noticed they just didn’t glisten in the Sun like they used to. All he could think, day after day: uhaw, uhaw, uhaw.
One night, far from home, Frog caught a glimpse of gold through a lit window. He’d been sent to sell on the other side of town, where the houses stood still and straight, and had to get back before the dark made him harder to see. Then, from across the street, through the glow, the gold became a beautiful girl. Frog stopped. Inside, glass cabinet shelves were lined with porcelain and below them, glittery portraits glazed in yellow light. Penny, dressed in evening white, sat in a chair a dining table away from a hunched man of a kingly size.
Frog should’ve known to get lost before she even told him to.
“What are you doing here?” Standing in the doorway, she shot looks back and forth. From the heart of the house, a voice boomed, “Princess, who’s at the door?”
“Nobody, Father!” Penny responded, before showing Frog off the welcome mat and closing the door behind her.
“You need to go.”
“Thought we had an agreement here, princess.”
The girl winced, like she’d been poked with a needle. “I—I can’t see you.”
“You’re looking at me, aren’tcha?”
“No, you don’t get it. I—I just can’t. I’m sorry. It’s not me.” She took one last glance at the white door behind her, coloured blue with deep night. Turning back to Frog, she felt down his arm, softly squeezing at the wrist before retreating inside.
The next few days were spent between suburbs. Frog would spend an afternoon in the Sun, holding hardened sugar up to the light or copping fouls. Once night came he’d wander the nicer neighbourhood, waiting for a glimpse of the golden hair that never came. Frog started to hear her voice in his head: “It’s not me, it’s not me.” Was it because his clothes weren’t nice enough? His name too strange? On the day he was christened, the boys never explained it. Maybe it was the eyes. His fingers were, admittedly, longer than others. He pictured the tiny wet thing, slick with places it’s been in and out of. Where he came from, people cooked frogs. (He never even learned the language right.) If he ever went home, they’d eat him. (Or was home this new dry land, sucking the sweat off his skin?) They start with the legs. (It’s mostly crunch.) They sell these barbecued frogs on the streets. (Who would miss a few frogs?) He imagined a frog escaping the hot hands of a vendor, bounding from the street, stained with the scent of oil and vinegar. The other frogs don’t recognise him. (He smells like a human.)
Penny came knocking one twilight. Eclipsed in fading light, it was more like a dream. How she’d known this was his house, she wouldn’t say, but she did say that she couldn’t stand it anymore.
She took the window in. It was strange, her pale face shadowed out there, faintly lit with setting Sun, in Frog’s natural habitat. Even stranger was the way she climbed, clinging awkwardly to the popcorn walls, white dress catching on stray twigs.
“What are ya doing here?”
“Let’s just say I had no other choice.” She leaned close and kissed his cheek. Frog let it happen.
“But ya did have a choice.” He paused. “Why’d ya come?”
“Why’d you let me in?” When he didn’t answer, she continued, “Is Frog really your name?”
Frog stilled, then lowered himself onto the mattress, flat on the floor. She joined him, cozying up to his shoulder. He let this happen too.
“Nah... nah it—it’s Benjo.”
“Benjo...” She held his eye, and both were seized in the stare. “Benjo, Benjo, Benjo...”
“What now?” Frog asked, combing his hair back.
Penny blinked under his warmth, arrested by his huge brown eyes, his Sun-kissed skin. “Whatever we want.”