In the distance, I see the other inn. It’s a bed-and-breakfast, like Todd said, the type of big, tin-roofed, Key West–style house Mom always wanted to stay in. Emily’s Butterfly House, it’s called, and butterflies flutter around red and purple flowers.
But the fox said I had to stay at the rough hotel. I’ll obey. I’m turning away when I see something else moving in the flowers.
It’s a frog.
It’s just a frog. Any old frog, not my frog.
But why not my frog? I take a step toward it, then another. The frog stays still. I keep my eye on it, afraid that if I stop looking, it will disappear.
“Philippe!” I call.
He doesn’t look. I take another step, bending forward, and as I come closer, I see it.
A red stripe on the frog’s head.
I’m in. I won. I don’t need the fox or the inn or anything. I’m not going to get shot at. I just have to catch the frog, something any little boy can do. For once in my life, something is easy!
The best way to catch an animal is to use a towel or blanket. Without taking my eyes off the frog, I reach into my backpack and draw out the cloak.
The frog doesn’t twitch.
I take a step forward, then another, never allowing my eyes to leave him. I can see the wart, the red spot. This is my frog. I want to run toward it, but I control myself. The frog isn’t moving. He trusts me. I can’t scare him away.
Finally, I’m almost close enough to throw the fabric.
One last step.
The frog hops onto the front stairs of the inn.
No. No! Don’t hop away. Still, I remain calm. It’s just one step. There are three. I try not to think about the crawl space under the house. If he goes through the stairs, I’ll have to grub underneath for him.
I move forward. Calm. Calm.
The frog hops onto the second stair.
No!
Calm. Calm.
I take another, larger step. It brings back memories of playing Mother May I on the beach with Meg, sneaking forward, hoping not to be noticed. I hold the cloak out farther, ready to throw.
The frog hops onto the porch.
The inn’s door opens, and the frog hops inside.
“No!” I can’t stop the shout. The old lady who opened the door stares at me, perplexed. I try to smile, and she lets the door close behind her.
It’s okay. The frog’s inside now. Trapped. I can get him.
Calm.
Maybe they’ll even chase him out.
I try to imagine the prince, getting hit with a broom. Better get moving.
I stuff the cloak in my backpack, then start up the stairs.
Inside, it’s all blue flowers and white wicker, but there’s no frog anywhere, only a group of tourists, balancing plates in their laps, eating muffins. They stare at me, and I imagine how I must look, seventeen, backpack on back, dirty, and stinking of garbage. I look homeless.
It’s okay. I’m not staying. I’ll just take my frog and leave.
“May I help you?”
A middle-aged woman with a leather tan, Birkenstock sandals, and a pot of coffee approaches me. She’s trying to look friendly, like nothing’s wrong.
“No,” I say. “I mean, sorry. I mean, I’m trying to catch a frog.”
“Frog?” She wrinkles her nose.
“The one that hopped in here when that last guest left.” I look around. I don’t see it, nor do I see the grossed-out faces of guests whose breakfast has been invaded by a frog. No. They look calm. I bend over and start looking under the tables (all of which have tablecloths) and chairs (all of which have people on them).
“Young man, there was no—”
“There was.” I pull the cloak from my backpack. Something—garbage, food, falls off of it, and I get a whiff of the smell, like beer and B.O. The breakfast eaters wrinkle their noses while still trying to pretend they don’t see me. They’re very accepting here in the Keys.
Still, the coffeepot lady swats at my cloak. “Please put that away.”
“I’m sorry. It’ll just be a minute.” I can’t get thrown out of here, not without my frog. I get on hands and knees and start crawling around, through the Clarks and Easy Spirits, brands you’d never see at the Coral Reef. There’s a big, wicker sofa with three people on it. Bet he’s under there. My knees ache, but I crawl toward it.
“Young man! Young man, please!”
The guests squirm and look at the coffee lady. They move their legs aside.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but do you want a frog loose in your place?”
“Frog?” A shriek from one of the sofa ladies.
“There’s no frog,” the coffee lady says. I crawl through a forest of legs, looking from side to side, Topsider to Mephisto.
I reach the sofa. “Excuse me. Would you mind if I look under that cushion?”
A lady in Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville sandals jumps up.
There’s no frog under the sofa or tables. There’s no frog under the buffet or television. There is no frog anywhere.
“Maybe it went back out,” says the coffee lady. “Why don’t you go look?”
I realize I should. With one final glance around, I start toward the door.
But when I try to leave, the door won’t open. I tug at it, then harder. I pull the knob back and forth. Nothing.
“It’s stuck,” I tell the coffee lady.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” She puts down her pot, laughing through gritted teeth. “Of course it’s not.” She opens it easily and gestures me out.
“Thanks.” I brush past her and step onto the porch.
When I do, my stomach is seized with a knifing pain. I double over, then stagger back into the room, clutching my gut.
“Are you okay?” I see the coffee lady’s Birkenstocks, her clenched toes.
“Fine.” The pain has subsided. I pull myself up and try to step outside again.
Again, the pain pierces through me. But now, it’s in my head as well. I stumble back. “I’m going. I’m fine.” I take another step forward. My field of vision narrows so it seems like I’m looking through a toy telescope. My stomach and guts roll inside each other. My head has a heartbeat. I have to go. Have. To. I can barely feel my leg. But still, I take a step.
That’s when my legs buckle under me.
Chapter 18
I’m surrounded by shoes. Ugly shoes. Someone puts something clammy on my head.
“Are you okay?” the coffee lady says. “I’ll call the paramedics.”
“No, don’t,” I say, because in that second, I understand. It’s the magic. Something, or someone, is keeping me from leaving the inn, maybe to stop me from following the fox’s orders about spending the night in the dive motel. Did they lure me here in the first place? Was the frog a mirage?
I know if I step out that door, the pain will come back.
“I don’t need the paramedics.” The clammy thing on my head is a washcloth. It drips down my face. “But I think I need a place to stay.”
“Oh no.” The toes clench again. “This is a hotel, not a shelter.”
I get it. I’ve reached the limits of Key Largo casualness. “I have money.” I grope for my backpack. Someone’s put it in a corner, and I gesture toward it. Finally, a lady in orange-and-white Mephisto Allrounders hands it to me.