Once Upon a Toad by Heather Vogel Frederick Page B

even exist anymore? And how would my mother have known which one to call, anyway? Before I could ask, though, my great-aunt gave a cry of triumph.
    â€œAha!” She plucked a tome off the shelf and blew on it. Dust flew everywhere, and Archibald sneezed. The book’s green leather cover was shabby and worn; the gold lettering onits spine faded. I couldn’t make out the title. Great-Aunt Aby leafed through the pages.
    â€œNo, no, not that one,” she murmured, scowling. “Nasty side effects.” She flipped a few more pages, then paused again. “This could work.” She tapped a large finger against the side of her equally large nose. “Hmmm. Perhaps not, though. Those scales were most unpleasant.”
    What on earth was she talking about?
    I opened my mouth to ask, but just then Archibald leaped up onto the fabric-covered bench beside me and started kneading my leg.
    â€œOuch, Archie! Quit it!” Distracted, I carefully detached his claws from my jeans and placed his paws on the bench instead.
    â€œNow, this one,” continued my great-aunt, “this might just do the trick. Yes indeed, folks, I think we have a winner.”
    â€œWinner of what?” I asked her.
    She snapped the book shut, sending up another puff of dust. Beside me, Archibald sneezed again. “None of your beeswax,” Great-Aunt Abyssinia replied loftily. “Let’s go say hello to your father.”

CHAPTER 6
    Monday morning I was the first one up, which was unusual. Most days I’m awakened by the sound of my father rattling around in the kitchen or by the smell of his coffee. The two of us are early birds, but he’s a really early bird. He’s always first in the shower, then me, then Olivia. Except when Olivia decides to sneak in ahead of me and hog it.
    Today, though, the house was completely silent. Well, except for what sounded like a flock of geese coming in for a landing behind Geoffrey’s door but which was only his snoring, of course.
    I figured my father must have been wiped out from the field expedition and all that driving yesterday, to sleep in past six. The two of us had had a long talk last night after dinner, and he’d managed to convince me to go back to school.
    â€œI’m not saying it was okay for Olivia to call you that name, because it wasn’t, but you don’t need to do a belly flop into the puddle of self-pity because of it,” he’d said, using oneof his favorite expressions. “Suck it up, Kit-Cat. ‘Sticks and stones,’ remember? We Starrs are made of strong stuff. Your ancestors came across the Oregon Trail in a covered wagon!”
    I gave him a crooked smile. That’s another of my dad’s favorites, one he loves to trot out whenever he feels I need encouragement.
    â€œPlus,” he continued, “the Hawkwinds need you. You can’t bail on them the day before the talent show.”
    He had a point.
    I squinted at the clock by my bed, yawning. I had enough time to eat breakfast first, before it was my turn in the bathroom. Putting on my robe and slippers, I started to tiptoe out of the room, pausing by Olivia’s bed. She was sound asleep on her back with her mouth wide open. I fought the temptation to do something, like maybe drop a dirty sock in it. Dad had read us both the riot act last night, though, and made us promise to shape up. So I left her where she was and crept quietly out of the room.
    On my way downstairs I glanced through the stained-glass window on the landing. Great-Aunt Aby’s RV was gone, just as she had said it would be. For a fleeting second I found myself wishing I could have gone with her. But maybe now that Dad was home things would be different. Besides, I was starting to look forward to the talent show. Great-Aunt Aby had asked me to play my bassoon for her, and she’d praised my Bach piece to the skies.
    She hadn’t asked Olivia to tap-dance, I’d noticed.
    I was