We’re dissecting frogs. I don’t like it. It’s gross, plus I feel sorry for the poor frogs, having their insides twisted around by students with scalpels. I hope the frogs don’t have moms who are wondering where they are. Do mom frogs miss their frog children when they leave home?

I’m at a student workstation. My partner is Parusha. We’re both wearing protective goggles. We pull faces at each other.

Parusha’s eyes really are vivid green, I notice with admiration. I wish my eyes were green, not this boring, standard brown.

“Poor little thing,” remarks Parusha, prodding the dead frog in front of us lightly with the tip of her pencil. “Bet he didn’t imagine he’d end up like this.”

This is so gross. Do we really have to do this?

I procrastinate by copying a diagram of the frog’s leg from the white-board. Parusha doesn’t touch the frog. She just looks at it in a sad, dreamy way. We are not doing the assignment.

“Parusha, are you with us, young lady?” asks Mr Beyers, who is bald but with some hair round his ears, like Homer Simpson.

“Didn’t this frog have as much right to live as we do, Mr Beyers?” she says. She doesn’t ask it in a bratty way, she just says it.

“Parusha, can we please not have philosophical questions from you every time we have a lesson? This is a science room, not a poetry forum.”

Parusha doesn’t answer. She just looks at him. Shy of her green gaze, Mr Beyers looks away.

Saskia has paired up with that same boy she was kissing yesterday at break. He whispers things into her ear, and she giggles loudly. She catches my eye and grins. I look away.

I hear a “ribbit”. Then I plainly see a frog from three workstations over jump up into the air and plop onto the floor.

“Mr Beyers, my frog is alive!” screams Zoleka, who is a chubby girl with a loud pink streak in her hair.

“Nonsense,” says the mega-boring Mr Beyers, not even looking up from his notebook.

“It’s true sir! Look! Please sir!”

Mr Beyers looks up. His eyes widen. The frog is hopping around by Zoleka’s workstation. He rushes over, and tries to scoop it up with his hands cupped, but it defies him, jumping away.

“Don’t kill it! Let it live!” shouts Parusha, and runs over to where the frog is jumping senselessly against the closed window. She stands defiantly inbetween the frog and Mr Beyers. Her cheeks are flushed with passion.

“Step aside,” says Mr Beyers. His voice is dead and metallic.

“It’s wrong to kill a living thing,” Parusha says boldly.

“Get out of my way,” he says, and his voice has no kindness in it.

“You’re not allowed to touch us, Mr Beyers,” chimes Saskia.

Mr Beyers glares at Saskia, who is sitting with a grin on her face like she’s a cat who has got the cream.

While he is looking at Saskia, Parusha rapidly scoops the frog up with one hand. With the same hand she unlatches the window, raises the glass, leans out dangerously.

“Parusha!” explodes Mr Beyers. “Get away from that window!” He is hollering, and rushes toward her.

Before he does so Parusha leans out further with her body, so far that I am sure she will fall. She doesn’t though. She balances, somehow, and the little frog jumps from her palm to the bough of a tree.

Just as Mr Beyers is about to reach and grab her, she pulls herself back through the open window and stands normally, as if nothing has happened.

“I’m safe inside, Mr Beyers. I didn’t fall.”

Mr Beyers looks at her with shocked eyes. He is angry, but he doesn’t know why. He looks at her carefully for a second, then says, sounding tired: “Just return to your desk, please.”

He doesn’t have the energy for us, this guy. I would like to feel sorry for him, but I don’t like him enough. Tough!

Parusha returns to our workstation. She is silent. Pearl looks at her with an expression I can’t understand. Saskia is smirking. The sandy-haired boy who is smitten with her looks angry. He narrows his eyes at Parusha threateningly, but she doesn’t even notice. She is as calm and regal as a queen.

The bell rings. Time flies when frogs come to life. I’m thankful to leave Mr Beyers’ creepy laboratory, with his cruel experiments.

***

Tell us what you think: Could Parusha be a witch because she handled a frog?