A Frog In Her Pocket (TrainReads) Read online

  A Frog In Her Pocket

  Phoebe Walsh

  TrainReads 4: short stories to read on your commute to work

  If a pretty princess kisses a frog, it turns into a prince. If an ugly princess kisses a prince, he turns into . . . you get it.

  If you like this story, be sure to follow the TrainReads series: short stories in a variety of genres, but all of them with a very human heart.

  A frog in her pocket

  The King spread his hands in a jovial, inebriated gesture. Miranda had only spent half a day with her brand-new father-in-law, but already she recognised that toothy, forced smile as he concluded his speech with the words, "And that is why we are so happy to witness today the joining of these two marvellous young people."

  All those around the table applauded, but the clapping soon died down in the clinking of cutlery on the royal household's gold plates.

  Princess Miranda wiped her sweaty hands on her dress, but the hideous frilly material, bunched around her waist, didn't dry them very well. Stupid dress. She had been too polite to tell her mother that these types of dresses where intended to accentuate well-endowed young women's curves. If you were unlucky to have those curves in the wrong places, well, it accentuated those, too.

  See, mother, I've done what you wanted. Joined one powerful kingdom with another. I'm a married woman now.

  But her mother didn't even notice her. She sat across the table giggling with that silly Duchess Georgina.

  Miranda shrugged, trying to forget the look on George's face when he lifted her veil in the church. The wide, horrified eyes at the sight of her huge nose, mismatched eyes and crooked mouth. He had placed the ring around her finger, but hadn't even kissed her. She would probably have to hear about that for the rest of her life.

  Well, suppose I've lived with those taunts all my life, I can cope with a few more.

  She looked away, but caught a sneer from George's cousin, Princess Adelie, seated at her other side. About Miranda's age, Adelie glowed with youthful beauty. Although her father was king of only a very small country, Adelie had everything Miranda didn't, from her peachy-perfect skin, to a wasp-thin waist and golden tresses that flowed over her back. Miranda had tried to make conversation and asked what sort of books Adelie had read recently. With an arch of her elegant eyebrows, the Princess had informed her that reading was something academics did.

  So Miranda fidgeted with her dress under the table, fearing what would happen when the music stopped and the guests went to bed.

  * * *

  George pushed the door shut, took off his jacket while he crossed to the window. "Beautiful night, isn't it?"

  Standing on the thick carpet in the middle of the room, Miranda managed a tiny squeak. Her throat constricted with fear. She could only see the pillow-covered bed. Still, she had to admit he was right. A full moon shone down on the palace garden. From her guest room window that morning, Miranda had admired the pond, with its cover of white lilies and rim of yellow-flowered irises.

  George slid open the window letting the heavy perfume of flowers into the room. Then he turned; Miranda tensed again.

  "Well," he said, and a bemused smile crossed his face, "if we're to provide the kingdom with a lawful heir, we'd best get on with it."

  Miranda shivered and clamped her arms around herself. "I'm happy, if you don't want to . . ."

  But he had already closed her in his arms. "Nonsense," he said, and slipped the veil off her head. "I won't hurt you." Then he pulled the lacing out of her bodice. The dress slid off her shoulders and a few rolls of flab tumbled back to their rightful places. It certainly felt a lot more comfortable.

  George grinned, squeezed the skin on her voluminous hips and muttered to himself, "Good, very good, you'll make a perfect one."

  What was he talking about? The cold touch of his hands sent goosebumps over her skin. But as much as she had wanted him to kiss her in public, she preferred if he didn't do this in private. Too late. With one hand, he pushed her back on the bed, while the other hand undid the buttons of his shirt. Miranda's heart thumped in her chest. A lawful heir—using her body. At least there was a chance that the heir would be just as ugly as her. That would teach them.

  His handsome face came closer; his breath tickled her cheek. He closed his eyes and murmured soft words; the warmth of his lips enveloped hers.

  A flash tore through the room turning everything white. Miranda screamed.

  And on her chest sat a cold, wet, and very green frog. She screamed again and sat up.

  The frog sailed through the air onto the ground, where it sat, eyes roving and throat sac vibrating.

  Black spots dancing before her eyes, Miranda climbed from the bed. George, where was George?

  "Ribbit," said the frog.

  Then she realised. Oh no, this was meant to happen the other way around. A princess kisses a frog and it turns into a prince.

  "Ribbit," said the frog. It took a giant leap towards the dressing table chair, jumped onto the table, onto the windowsill . . .

  Miranda gasped. "Oh, no, you don't!" She dived forward and, however much she hated frogs, she clamped her hand around it while slamming down the window with the other hand.

  "Ribbit," said George the frog, and if frogs can look put-out, he did.

  Oh God, what now?

  Kiss it, said a voice in her head.

  "But I just did."

  Frogs turn into princes when a princess kisses them. That's what the fairytale says.

  "Fair enough." It was worth a try.

  Miranda scrunched up her face and gave a tiny peck on the frog's cold back.

  George the frog stayed green, wet and very froggy.

  As Miranda slumped on the bed it hit her. Stupid. How could she forget the simplest things about fairytales? In the stories, the frog was kissed by a beautiful princess. And she might be a princess, but she wasn't beautiful by anyone's standards.

  * * *

  Before everyone got up the next morning, Miranda donned a hooded cloak, stuffed George in the pocket and left the palace through the servants' entrance. In the marketplace, she bought the biggest, frilliest dress she could find, and the shoes with the highest heels. She also bought enough face creams, hair tonics, hair removers and freckle bleachers to fill a wheelbarrow.

  All day, she spent in George's room washing, combing and squishing her odd body into even odder shapes.

  When the maid called for dinner, she was just putting the finishing touches to a big elaborate bun which sat on top of her head like a beehive. No time to test her beauty on George, she stuffed him in the pocket of her frilly dress. By the time she had stumbled three floors down the marble staircase to the dining room, she felt like a badly stuffed sausage.

  The Queen merely raised her eyebrows and resumed her talk with Duchess Georgina.

  The King said, "Where is my son?"

  Miranda blushed. "He . . . he's got a sore back." All the male guests around the table burst out in laughter; Adelie stuck her nose in the air and George the frog wriggled in Miranda's pocket.

  Her head held high, but feeling close to tears, Miranda stumbled to the table. The butler pulled back her chair and when she sat down Adelie said, 'Why are you dressed up like that? You look like a hippopotamus in fancy dress. '

  Tears in her eyes, Miranda got up from the table. She almost crashed into a servant at the door. Up the stairs she ran, and into the royal bedroom. The straps of her shoes cut into her feet. Her elaborate bun had half-slid down her head, and one of her earrings was all tangled up. Yet she pushed up her hair, stumbled towards the mirror and took George out of her pocket. Make-up running down her face, she declared, "I think I'm beautiful." And she kissed George's cold and wet back.

  George didn't agree. He stayed as he was, cold, green and very froggy.

  Miranda threw him down on the bed. "I hate you." And she spent a long time glaring at him. But she discovered frogs have much greater patience than princesses. And hating him was not going to turn him back into a prince. Eventually she would run out of excuses to tell her in-laws.

  And she got another idea. If she needed a beautiful princess, she would get a beautiful princess.

  She snatched George from the bed and jammed him in her pocket.

  "Ribbit," he said in a strangled sort of way.

  A stab of sympathy went through her. She inserted her hand in her pocket and took him back out. He sat there very forlorn and sad, looking at the window. Her finger traced the smooth slope of his back. "Poor George. I'm sorry for throwing you. I know you can't help it. And I'm sorry I can't take you to the pond. I have to turn you back into yourself."

  * * *

  The moment Miranda took George from her pocket, she knew she had made a mistake. Adelie backed away, her face twisted in a mask of horror. "Oh, it's horrid, it's disgusting. Take it away."

  Miranda clutched George to her chest. She felt like thrusting the contents of the water pitcher in the stupid girl's face, but then she would be certain her plan wouldn't work. Taking a deep breath, she managed to say, "He isn't disgusting at all. He's a frog prince. If he's kissed by a beautiful princess—"

  Her beautiful nose up in the air, Adelie snorted. "Oh surely, Miranda, you don't still believe in fairytales."

  "Won't you kiss him? It'd be fun if he did turn into a prince."

  Adelie batted painted eyelids at her. "Yeah, of course it wouldn't work if you kissed him."

  Miranda wasn't sure how lo
ng Adelie would stay beautiful if she remained in this room. Trembling with anger, she clutched George in her hands until he squeaked, and added in a strangled tone, "Please?"

  Adelie gave her a scornful look. "You have to be out of your mind." And she stomped out of the room.

  Miranda threw herself on the bed and cried. All her ideas had come to nothing. How was she meant to turn George back into a prince? How long before the King and Queen would find out that their son was not in bed in his room? And when they found out, what would happen?

  "Ribbit."

  She looked up. George had escaped from her pocket and had hopped over to the bookshelf.

  Through her tears, Miranda smiled at the way he sat there as if he was reading the titles. He looked rather smart and, in his own froggy way, was quite beautiful.

  "Ribbit," he said again.

  "Sorry George, that's getting a bit repetitive. I have no idea what you mean."

  But he was jumping up and down on a book, so she wiped her eyes, crossed the room and pointed to the book. "This one?"

  "Ribbit, ribbit."

  Suppose that meant yes.

  She pulled the book off the shelf. Magic lore and other myths.

  Raising her eyebrows, she opened the book. Magic? That was something only practiced by… certain royal families…?

  Coloured pictures of the most hideous creatures came past, and the descriptions of spells. How to turn your enemy into a pig. Miranda had visions of Adelie running around squealing with a pig tail. And Seven ways to curse your mother-in-law (and be sure no one notices!). If only she could do spells like that, wouldn't it be wonderful to pay back the Queen for her taunts?

  There were nice spells, too, like The only spell you need for everlasting love. Miranda skipped that one; it was too late for her.

  A large section of the book was dedicated to The art of kissing frogs (and other animals). It described how one could kiss a frog, or a lizard or a snake and make a wish come true.

  A wish, a wish . . . Staring dreamily at the ceiling, Miranda wondered what she would wish for. For George to become normal again? So she could miserably go on being married to a man who wasn't interested in her and whose family hated her?

  Oh, she was being ridiculous. Of course she had to do this. George's family deserved him to be the man they knew. The combined kingdom would never accept her as Queen; they might even blame her for George's disappearance.

  She read the page, memorised the spell, but when she went to pick up George, he jumped away, again and again. Over the bed, the bookshelves, the desk, the chair, under the bed . . . When he stopped on the desk, Miranda glared at him, and approached him, chest heaving. "You darned frog, why do you keep running away? Don't you understand I'm doing this to help you?"

  "Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit." He sat on a stack of paperwork and jumped up and down so much that she was sure he was trying to tell her something. Miranda pushed him gently aside and took the first sheet. Budget of the kingdom and colonies. The next one read Proposed schedule of duties for senior knights, and the next one Review of taxes on bridges and roads.

  She put it down. "But this is so boring. Is this what you have to do when you're a king?"

  "Ribbit, ribbit."

  Miranda sank down on the bed. And understood.

  Her gaze went from the pond to the magic book still open on the shelf to George on her knees. And she thought of how the King and Queen had gasped when they saw her face and how Adelie had called her a hippopotamus.

  She made up her mind; she turned to the bookshelf.

  George jumped up and down in her hands. "Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit."

  Halfway across the room, Miranda froze. "Oh—the window. I better open the window first."

  He blew air out of his throat sac.

  She put him down and slid up the window. Outside, the pond glistened in the evening light.

  Quickly, she grabbed the book and checked the spell. Then she picked him up again, she closed her eyes and thought very hard of her dearest wish. She murmured the words. Her lips touched his cool body.

  A flash blinded her eyes.

  And the world span.

  And she fell, and fell and fell . . .

  Until she sat amongst unneeded clothes on the bedroom floor.

  "Ribbit," George said from the dressing table.

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway. "Miranda, George, my dears." Oh no, the Queen. Quick!

  She jumped up on the chair, from the chair to the dressing table and from the dressing table to the windowsill, where George was waiting.

  Just as the door opened and the Queen entered the room, they hopped out into the dew-kissed evening.

  The Queen's screams echoed through the entire palace.

  "Ribbit," said Miranda.

  George responded, "Ribbit." And headed for the pond.

  They lived happily ever after.

  * * *

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  Walsh, Phoebe, A Frog In Her Pocket (TrainReads)

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