Read Online Once Upon a Toad by Heather Vogel Frederick - Free Book Online Page B

playing field if she was. I could tell Dad and Iz, for one thing. I tiptoed downstairs to see.
    My father was standing in the doorway to the room I shared with my stepsister. Geoffrey was beside him, clutching his blanket. It takes a lot to pry my little brother away from his favorite cartoon, but I guess hearing his sister holler like she was being skinned alive did the trick. I drew closer, craning for a better view.
    Iz was sitting on the edge of Olivia’s bed, surrounded by flowers. Piles of flowers. I spotted bachelor’s buttons and buttercups, marigolds and daisies and rosebuds. My stepsister saw me peeking over Geoffrey’s shoulder and frowned.
    â€œWhat are you staring at?” she snapped. As she spoke, a cluster of thistles fell from her lips, along with something else, something that winked and flashed in the early-morning light. My stepmother plucked it from the bedspread and held it up.
    â€œTim,” she said, her face full of wonder. “This looks like a diamond!”
    My mouth dropped open. “No way!” I whispered.
    Geoffrey whipped around just in time to see my latest toad make its escape. “Cat!” he shrieked, then leaned over and barfed.
    I turned and fled back upstairs to the attic.

CHAPTER 7
    Between cleaning up my little brother and all the excitement over Olivia, nobody noticed my absence.
    I closed the attic door quietly behind me and leaned against it, stunned. How could this be happening? How could I be stuck spouting toads, while Olivia was showered in flowers and diamonds?
    It wasn’t fair !
    I desperately wanted to talk to my mother. Calling her was out of the question, though—for one thing, my cell phone was downstairs. For another, even if NASA didn’t mind connecting another call from me to the space station, the house would be overrun with toads by the time I finished trying to explain all the weird stuff that was happening.
    An e-mail would be better. But all the computers were downstairs too, and no way was I going back down there again. Not just yet.
    For now I was on my own.
    I chewed my lip, trying to imagine what my mother would say if I could talk to her. Pull up your socks, probably. That’s her all-purpose advice for curing the droops, as she calls it whenever I get moody or worried or sad.
    But how? My socks, unfortunately, were full of toads. I knew I had to do something, but what?
    I need a game plan, I thought, glancing around the toad-strewn attic. First things first, I decided. Time to get rid of the evidence. I crossed to the trunk and opened it. It was jammed with ancient camping equipment; Jurassic-era stuff that must have been my dad’s back when he was a Boy Scout. Sifting through the moldering heap, I pulled out a decrepit duffel bag. It would have to do. I spotted a tattered butterfly net and pulled it out, then gave the air a tentative swipe. I had a sudden urge to laugh. Just call me Cat Starr, Toad Huntress.
    Toads aren’t easy to catch, even in the best of circumstances. In a dimly lit attic, when you’re trying not to attract attention, it’s nearly impossible. The little suckers spotted me coming a mile away. Every time I sneaked up on one and brought the net down, it would somehow manage to skitter out of reach. Finally I got down on my hands and knees and waited, motionless, until one of them unwisely hopped into range.
    â€œGotcha!” I said triumphantly, and scooped it up, along with number thirty-one as it sprang from my lips. I was getting better at this.
    Ten minutes later I was breathless, crabby, and covered with dust. So much for getting better at this. I’d corralled exactly three toads in the duffel bag, in addition to my “Gotcha” one. That left twenty-seven more to go.
    I needed a new game plan.
    I went back to the trunk and rifled through it again. A length of frayed rope—useless. A decaying tent and a bag of tent stakes—nope. At the very bottom was a