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  Then he swelled up to the size of a bowling ball. I started needing two hands to lift him. Once he reached the size of a basketball, I definitely needed both hands. He felt like one of those extra-large water balloons.

  He was eating a lot, too. I guess you need plenty of food when you’re growing that much. It wasn’t a problem at first. He did a great job keeping the house free of flies. As long as he stayed inside, there was nothing to worry about. But he got out through the kitchen window one morning and headed straight into the yard next door. Our neighbor, Mrs. Munswinger, used to have five Chihuahuas. Now she has four.

  It was an amazing thing to see. Those five annoying little dogs—looking a lot like nervous rats—were huddled together barking at Jumpy. He just sat there calmly for a moment, then he flicked out his tongue and snatched one of the dogs. The Chihuahua went flying through the air so fast it didn’t even have time to let out more than a little yip of surprise before it disappeared head-first down Jumpy’s wide mouth. Slurp. Its curled tail vanished last, passing through Jumpy’s lips like a dangling strand of spaghetti.

  I dashed over and tried to scoop up my frog. I really couldn’t lift all of him off the ground, but I was able to get enough of a grip so I could slide him back toward our yard. Beneath my left hand, I thought I could feel something kicking weakly in his stomach, but I wasn’t sure and I really didn’t want to think about it. The four surviving dogs just sat there shivering. It was the only time I’d seen them go quiet.

  I dragged Jumpy back to the house. Once we got inside, he followed me up the steps to my room. “We’re in big trouble,” I told him. “There’s got to be a law against eating Chihuahuas.”

  He looked back at me, blinked a couple times, then let out a small burp. Apparently, he wasn’t concerned.

  Fortunately, Mrs. Munswinger never caught on. She cried and wailed about her missing darling, her poor dear Mibsey, who was lost and gone forever, but she never cast a suspicious eye in my direction.

  The next time Jumpy got loose, I caught him right before he hopped into the yard on the other side. That would have been a disaster. Mrs. Hildegarde runs this day care thing in her house, and there are usually a half dozen babies crawling around the yard, eating handfuls of dirt and stabbing at each other with sticks. Most of them are bigger than a Chihuahua, but they’re still pretty small.

  “This can’t go on,” I told Jumpy.

  He looked at me with that frog expression that seems wise and silly at the same time.

  “I have to release you back into the wild. That’s the right thing to do.” I’d been watching a lot of nature movies on the Disney Channel, so I knew all about setting wild animals free. I took a deep breath. It wasn’t going to be easy. “I’ll miss you, buddy.”

  I led Jumpy to the garage and dragged out my old wagon. He was definitely way too big and squishy for me to lift, now. “Come on, boy, get in,” I said, patting the wagon and trying to sound like we were about to have an adventure. “Come on. Good boy.”

  He jumped right up and settled into the bottom of the wagon like a bucketful of pudding. I pulled him along the driveway and out to the sidewalk.

  “My word, what is that?” Mrs. Munswinger asked as I walked past her yard.

  I glanced down at the wagon. Jumpy’s eyes were closed and his legs were tucked underneath his body, so it really was hard to see any shape. “Mom’s cleaning out the fridge,” I said. “This was in the back. Want some?”

  “No!” She turned pale and backed away from me, holding her hands out like she’d seen a monster.

  I headed off. It was a long way to Bear Creek Swamp. I ran into a couple more people, but they just stared at the wagon and didn’t ask any questions. When I got to the swamp, I said, “Come on, Jumpy, here’s your new home.”

  He just sat there. Finally, I tipped the wagon over and spilled him onto the ground.

  “See ya…,” I said. That was all I could manage to choke out. I took one last look at him, then turned and ran off, pulling the wagon behind me.

  I missed him. It would be hard to imagine that any kid ever had a better frog. But there were just too many small dogs and little children in the neighborhood. Things would have gotten out of hand.

  It was about two years later when I first heard folks discussing the sudden drop in the bird population in Bear Creek Swamp. After that, it was rabbits and squirrels. A couple years later, most of the deer vanished. There were a lot of theories. Everyone tried to explain it. None of the explanations made much sense, but the plain fact was that there was a lot less wildlife in the swamp than people thought there should be. Once, the area had been filled with deer. Now, a deer was a rare sight.

  I realized that things were on their way to getting out of control. Once the deer were gone, Jumpy would probably start on the bears—Bear Creek Swamp wasn’t given that name for no reason. But once the bears were gone, along with the rest of the wildlife, I could just imagine Jumpy wandering out of the swamp and into some place where there were lots of people.

  I had to try to restore the natural order of things. I couldn’t let Jumpy wipe out all life in the swamp. But I didn’t want to do anything to hurt him. There had to be another way. He’d started out eating flies. Maybe that was the answer. If I’d raised one giant pet, I figured I should be able to raise another. So I poured a blob of honey on a piece of paper and put it down in the backyard. Then I waited with a jar until some flies landed.

  I snuck up on the flies, slammed down the jar, and caught a bunch of them on the first try. I brought them up to my room and started taking care of them. I guess flies aren’t supposed to live very long, either. But these did. And they grew.

  One fly, especially, started getting real big real fast. I named her Buzzella.

  After a week, Buzzella was as big as a bumblebee. In two weeks, she was the size of a sparrow. In a month, she was as large as a vulture. I kept her in an old bird cage I’d found in the basement. Soon, I needed to find more cages as the other flies caught up with her.

  I’ll say one thing—as much as a kid is supposed to love his pets, I’d be the first to admit that a fly that size was about as ugly as anything I’d ever seen. And I had a hard time looking her in the eyes. Every time I did, I’d see a million reflections of my guilty face. I felt rotten because I was raising her for one purpose—she and her friends were going to be frog food.

  After three months, I took Buzzella and the rest of the flies out to the swamp. I set them loose and watched as they flew off in-between the trees. All I could do now was hope that they’d produce lots more flies.

  I guess it worked.

  It’s been three years since I set the flies loose. The wildlife made a comeback. But people don’t go into Bear Creek Swamp anymore. After the first few reports of giant flies, everyone learned to stay away. At least the trouble hasn’t spread. Whatever is happening, it’s just happening in the swamp. So far.

  As for me, I’m happy that the flies haven’t gotten out of control. Everything is back in balance. My life would be perfect right now except for one tiny thing. Well, actually, a lot of tiny things. Yesterday, for my birthday, my dad gave me an ant farm. I have a funny feeling those four dogs next door aren’t out of danger yet.

  BLACK FRIDAY

  In a land where nearly all the residents had glutted themselves on turkey, stuffing, gravy, and an abundance of other traditional Thanksgiving foods and fixings, midnight approached. This was the promised evening that was the most exciting, rewarding, and important night of the year for some.

  “Black Friday is almost upon us,” Alba’s mother said.

  “Why do they call it that?” Alba asked. She knew the answer, but she loved to hear her mother tell tales. Her mother dabbled in poetry, and fancied herself something of a writer.

  “Because, dearest daughter, this is the day the stores make their first profit. All year, they’ve worked to pay off their expenses. There are a large number of costs connected with owning a business. Tonight,
the crowds will swarm to the stores. So many people will shop, so much money will flow, that the profits brought in will finally exceed the money the merchants have spent on salaries, supplies, and rent. Losses are written in red ink, as if blood itself were spilled. Profit is written in black. And so, today is Black Friday, beginning at the stroke of midnight.”

  Alba waited. She knew there was more, but she was patient. She savored the silence before the best part.

  Her mother continued. “Black ink. That’s what some people say. Others feel that this is the day when the human heart is at its blackest. Neighbor tramples neighbor for a sweater or a purse. Friend pushes friend aside to save pennies on the price of an unneeded item.”

  “If it’s so dark and evil, why are we going?” Alba asked.

  Her mother smiled. “Because there are bargains to be had and treasures to be seized.”

  Alba and her mother approached the mall as midnight drew near. They were far from the first to queue up by the main entrance. People had lined up hours ago for a chance to be the first through the door. The mall had five entrances, but the largest crowd was in front of Dresher’s, a department store known for its Black Friday bargains. More shoppers soon stepped in behind Alba, adding to the mass of bargain hunters.

  “It’s sad that people have to work so late.” Alba looked up at the stars. “Or is it so early?”

  “Sad for them, good for us,” her mother said. “And late or early all depends on when they started.”

  Alba studied the mob. She was skilled at reading people. So was her mother, who narrated a description of actions around them in whispered tones meant for only one pair of ears. “See them? Excitement and fear. That’s what’s coursing through their veins and pulsing through their minds. They are excited by the thought of bargains.” She paused.

  Alba filled in the rest. “And afraid someone else will snatch their bargains away.”

  “There will be scuffles,” her mother said. “We’ll stay safely clear of them. What’s the rule?”

  “Never attract attention,” Alba said. She studied the people closest to them. She was pleased nobody was even looking at her or her mother, and she was positive nobody who did look at them would guess they came not to buy but to steal.

  “That’s my girl,” her mother said. “Never stand out. Never be memorable.” Her head turned sharply, as if she’d heard something significant.

  Alba heard it, too. The clack of a bolt being thrown open. A door unlatched. The mob pressed forward, pushing against the very doors that needed to swing outward to admit them.

  “See. They fight against their own best interest,” Alba’s mother said.

  “I see.”

  “It would be so much easier if they cooperated.”

  Life was a lesson for Alba. All of life. Her mother took every opportunity to teach her about the joys and perils of existence. That was good. Alba had a deep thirst for knowledge, perfectly matched with her mother’s deep hunger to pass along her wisdom.

  Swept toward the mall by the sea of flesh, they reached the entrance. The night was still dark, but no longer silent. All the primal sounds of humanity rose from the crowd. Excitement. Anger. Sorrow. Joy.

  “I got it!”

  “That was mine!”

  “Stop pushing!”

  “Look, I see the headphones!”

  “You stepped on my foot!”

  “They’re sold out…”

  “Jewelry,” Alba’s mother whispered to her. “We’ll find our treasure there.”

  Alba was still balancing her love of solitude with the thrilling sensory overload that came from being at the center of this frenzied collection of flesh and blood. She took her mother’s hand. She wasn’t afraid, but she felt the need to remain in contact with the only one in the mall who wasn’t caught up in the madness.

  They pushed their way toward the jewelry department.

  Unlike socks and scarves, the gold bracelets and diamond pendants couldn’t be heaped in bins for shoppers to grab. The precious metals and gems were locked behind glass cases. Three harried clerks stood on the other side of the counter, trying to serve three dozen customers who clamored for their attention.

  Alba stopped at a spot where she could both study the crowd and watch her mother study them. She still had much to learn.

  “Who?” her mother asked, testing her.

  Alba chose carefully. “Him?” she said, pointing at an angry man on the fringe of the mob, who looked like he was about to start lifting people up and tossing them out of his way.

  “Well chosen,” her mother said. “Watch him. This will be interesting.”

  She watched. The man barged forward with the aggressiveness of someone who lived his life as if others had no feelings. Or even as if others weren’t real. He reached the counter and stole the attention of one clerk away from a young woman who, like Alba’s mother, also had a daughter in tow.

  Alba watched the man purchase a necklace that, though deeply discounted, was still absurdly expensive.

  “How precious,” her mother said.

  “He must love someone,” Alba said.

  “Just himself,” her mother said.

  Alba was sure her mother was right about that.

  The clerk put the necklace in a hinged box covered with black velvet. She put the box in a bag, and the bag in the man’s hand. The instant his fingers met the bag, he snatched it from the clerk and clutched it to his chest, as if he were afraid it would be stolen. Hunching his shoulders to further guard his treasure, he pressed against the tide of shoppers as he left the counter and forced his way toward a clear aisle.

  “What will he be driving?” Alba’s mother asked her as they followed the man toward the exit.

  “Something fancy and expensive,” Alba said. “So the world will know he’s important.”

  “Right. And where will he park?”

  Alba thought about what she’d learned over the years. “Either as close as possible to the entrance, because he’s lazy and he feels entitled, or far off, so nobody will dent his door with theirs.”

  “So, will it be close or far?” her mother asked.

  Alba studied the man. He was strong and lean. “Far. He’s in good shape. He won’t mind walking. He’s probably a jogger.”

  Her mother rewarded her with a fond squeeze on the shoulder. “Very good, my dear.”

  They followed the man across the main lot, and then across an access road, all the way to the farthest row of the overflow lot. His car, very expensive and very red, was parked at a slant, taking up two spaces.

  “Other people don’t matter to him, do they?” Alba asked. She felt she had to justify what they were about to do.

  “No. He only sees himself. Others are just paper cutouts to him. They exist for his benefit. He’s a taker.” She smiled at Alba. “It’s our turn to take.”

  As the man reached out to open the car door, Alba’s mother moved with the natural speed of her kind. It was a speed that would be a blur to human eyes. She took the man down before he could utter a cry, or even a gasp, muffling his mouth and nose with one hand, pulling down the collar of his coat with the other, exposing his neck.

  She offered her daughter first blood. Alba was happy to accept the gift. She’d been waiting a long time for it.

  “We found a bargain,” her mother said, after both of them had drank their fill.

  Alba wiped a small spill of blood from her chin with her handkerchief. The blood, pumped rich with adrenalin and oxygen from the thrill of the victorious battle for a bargain, was especially satisfying. There was nothing like it. Her whole body buzzed in a good way from the experience. “I love Red Friday,” she said.

  “Black Friday,” her mother said.

  “Maybe to them,” Alba said, pointing across the road toward the mall, where cries of triumph and rage still echoed as the humans continued their hunt for bargains. “But not to us.”

  “You’re right, my dear,” her mother said. “For us, it
’s Red Friday. Always and forever.”

  ROMEO, ROMEO, WHEREFLOOR ARGLE ROBLIO?

  It was Karzoy’s idea. He came up with it while I was whupping him severely at Arena Duel. His gladiator had already lost an arm and part of one foot. Victory was mine. I was just getting ready to cleave his player in half from head to toe when he threw down the controller, leaped up from the floor, and shouted, “Infinite monkeys!” He clenched his fists and shook them like he’d just kicked a fifty-yard field goal. “Yes!”

  “Huh?” I was coordinated enough to cleave him as originally planned, despite the interruption, and follow up with a horizontal slash at waist level while I spoke.

  “You know—Mr. Cantor told us about it in math class last year. If infinite monkeys typed at infinite typewriters, they’d produce all the works of Shakespeare.”

  “What’s the point?” I hit the button to replay Karzoy’s death in slow motion, and captured the video for later viewing pleasure and massive sharing. “We already have all the works of Shakespeare. I don’t see why we’d want some monkeys to type them up all over again. Seems like a total waste of good monkeys.”

  “But we don’t have our essays,” he said.

  Okay. Now he sort of had my attention, though the magnificent gore on the screen was hard to tear myself away from. We were only in sixth grade, but Ms. Fezniak, who, along with Mr. Adamola and Mrs. Epstein, made up our teaching team, decided it wasn’t too early for her students to learn the joys of writing a ten-page paper. Yeah. Ten pages. With footnotes.

  “We don’t have any monkeys,” I said. “And I don’t think anyone has a typewriter, except for my uncle Andy. He’s got one in the basement. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work. There’s about an inch of dust on it.”

  “We don’t need monkeys,” Karzoy said. “It’s the principle that’s important. If you bang at a keyboard for long enough, you’ll produce every possible thing that could be written. Including a totally awesome essay.”