You should see us on the train, Remy with her dark circles under her eyes and me with my terrarium. My plan is to open this dumb terrarium in the forest and liberate this frog. Along with Milo. Who also turned out to be a frog.
The kids across the aisle are very interested in my tree frog, that is for sure. It’s sort of a funny thing. There’s a little blond-haired boy, like a Little Lord Fauntleroy, who keeps crawling all over himself to get to ogle the tree frog. Then there’s another boy, an African-American boy, who is also very curious, but a bit more shy. Now, it’s safe to say these two moms come from very different backgrounds. Like, the Fauntleroy mom could be named Muffy. And the other mom looked like she just got done working a thousand-hour workweek, on her feet, no breaks for lunch. I mean, she looks tired. Exasperated. Over it.
The Muffy mom has a little more energy. More energy to lovingly guide her son to be curious but not impolite. To say please and thank you. To listen. To be respectful. The other mom doesn’t quite have that much energy. I’m assuming because she doesn’t have a nanny at home. Or maybe a chef. Or even a gardener. All things that Muffy clearly has.
So the city boy gets less patience. He doesn’t get yelled at or anything. He just gets more exasperated looks and a few poignant sighs.
Both boys stare into the terrarium, which is perched on my lap. Inside, a red-eyed tree frog is looking back at them. Full of questions, these boys!
“What do you feed him?”
“Crickets.”
“Eww.”
“Or worms.”
“Eww!”
Little Lord Fauntleroy looks at his mom. “Mommy, he eats bugs.”
“Oh my goodness.”
“Even worms.”
“Well, well. Now, honey, next stop is our stop. So let’s get ready, okay?”
The other mom, the exhausted one, calls her son over. She’s had enough. The little boy grudgingly goes back but continues to stare. His mother closes her eyes.
Fauntleroy continues to marvel at the red-eyed reptile.
“Okay . . . Mom! I have a great idea!”
“Yes, dear?”
“Maybe we can get one of these?”
“One of what?”
“A frog! A tree frog!”
“Why don’t we put it on the list, honey.”
“Oh, Mom! Please? Pleeeeease?”
“Honey. I said we’ll put it on the list.”
The train comes to a stop and the little boy looks like he is just about to cry. I mean, he really does look not just like you took his Popsicle but that all the sadness in the world just became clear to him and now he is looking straight into the abyss.
I can’t bear it.
I hold up the terrarium.
“Here, ma’am. Sorry, I just . . . do you want it? I wanna get rid of it. It was a gift, and I really don’t want it, honestly . . .”
“Oh. Really?”
“Mommy, Mommy, please!”
The mom sighs, looking at little pleading Fauntleroy.
“We’re Pembroke girls,” Remy drawls.
I’m not sure if this is supposed to speak to our character and breeding, or perhaps the character and breeding of the frog.
She turns back to me. “Are you quite sure?”
“Mommy, pleeeeeeease?”
“Okay, honey, but only if you give a very polite thank-you. Like a gentleman.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much for the frog.”
I hand the terrarium over to the boy. He squeals with delight. “Froggy! I love you, froggy!”
The mom smiles and gives me the universal expression for “Oh, these crazy kids.”
They get off the train, terrarium lifted high above the seat backs. The train pulls out of the station.
The city boy, tucked in next to his resting mother, looks at me.
Daggers in his eyes.
He wanted the frog. Of course he wanted the frog.
What did I just do? That other kid probably has a million toys in his giant toy room built only for play. And this kid, the one staring swords at me, he probably has one broken G.I. Joe or something.
I’m an idiot.
Remy says the obvious. “Maybe you should’ve given it to the other kid.”
“Yeah, I know.”
The exhausted mom doesn’t notice; she’s asleep. The boy continues to look plaintively.
“God, I feel so guilty.”
Remy looks at me. Then she looks back at the boy.
The train pulls into the next station.
“Now you know how I feel.”