Freddy Frog Eyes

The shooter came on a Tuesday, right after lunch. Nobody knew about it until they heard the shot that hit the shoulder of Mrs. White, the art teacher. Only one of the kids would be able to guess that the cartridge was nine millimeter.

Scenic View Elementary School had performed active shooter drills once a month ever since the incident at the high school. Most kids didn’t listen any more. Freddy did.

Freddy Winters was too serious for a twelve-year-old. “An old soul,” Mrs. Bumble called him. Straight A’s. He never smiled. Kids made fun of him for being the biggest nerd in sixth grade. And because he wore thick glasses.

Spike was the worst. His name was George Peterson, but he made everybody call him Spike. He claimed he and his dad were great deer hunters but Freddy thought it just sounded like bragging.

Freddy was too serious during the active shooter drill, so Spike shot spitwads at the back of his neck. Spike’s obedient friends giggled. Freddy just wiped the goop off and ignored him.

He studied the school map and took notes from the officer’s presentation. About where to hide, how to keep quiet, how to avoid being a hero. Kids shouldn’t be heroes.

Afterward in the hallway Spike shoved him into the lockers. “Hey, Frog Eyes! Don’t be a hero. You’re too little. Listen to the cop. Don’t do something stupid.”

Megan helped him up. Spike roared, “Hey, Megan! You’re my girl. Leave the runt alone.”

“Oh, shut up, Spike!” She helped Freddy with his glasses. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, thanks.” He could feel his face burning. He was sure everybody could see his red face. He took a deep breath to make it stop.

Spike yelled at the crowd in the hall. “Frog Eyes wants to be a hero. Don’t you all be that stupid. You heard the cop. If the guy’s got a gun, just hide and be quiet. You can’t do anything about it. Hell, I’m the biggest kid here—and I know how to shoot—but I’m just going to hide and be quiet. Quiet as a deer hunter.” He shoved Freddy. “You understand, runt? Hide. Be quiet as a deer hunter.” He laughed. “And don’t scream like a little kid.”

Freddy snapped his heels and gave Spike a mock salute. Everybody sucked in a breath. Then they laughed. Freddy saw Spike double his fists but Megan touched him and he relaxed.

Freddy walked toward the cafeteria, breathing deep to cool his face.

* * *

Yesterday Mrs. Bumble had told him, “You wait. Something big will happen to change their minds about you.” She often gave him an extra chicken nugget. And he often volunteered to wear a hair net and mop the cafeteria after lunch. Of course the kids laughed at him, but the teacher gave him extra credit.

He leaned on the mop. “No it won’t. Nothing big will ever happen. They will never like me. Heck, they wouldn’t like me even if I was Batman.”

He pushed up his glasses. “You know I have foster parents, right?”

She screwed the cap on the big oil can. “I remember that.”

“Well, I never told you my dad is Sgt. Mason Winters. But I can’t live with him anymore.”

He looked at Mrs. Bumble, then put a hand up to cover his frog eyes. “He served as an Army Ranger.” Freddy swallowed. “He was a sniper. He wouldn’t tell me about it, but he said it messed him up.”

She slipped on a slick spot. “Whoops! Here, let’s put more vinegar in your bucket.” She waved her hand over the floor. “If your water is too weak to cut the oil, you’re just spreading it around.”

“What do you mean?”

She laughed. “One of my kids mopped with just hot water. That floated the grease everywhere.” She spread her fat legs and struck a pose. “Just like a skating rink. Lucky I caught it before people fell down.”

He wrung out the mop and scrubbed silently. He could tell she was trying to cheer him up. After she wiped it, she swung the cast iron skillet around like a ten-pound baseball bat, but even that didn’t make Freddy didn’t smile. Even though he wanted to. She wiped her hands on her apron and tried to keep him talking. “So…he was an Army Ranger?”

“Dad taught me how to shoot.” Freddy squeezed his fist. “And how to survive.” He pointed at his head. “Just in case.”

She folded her arms across her belly. “Wow. That could be handy. Was that fun?”

“Well...it wasn’t proper training for a boy. Miss Perkins, my case worker, said it was dangerous. Especially because of my dad’s condition.”

“PTSD?”

“Yeah. That’s what she called it.”

* * *

That was yesterday. Mrs. Bumble was his only friend. Other teachers tried to make him smile. None of the other kids tried. Spike just called him Frog Eyes. 

Today they would all be surprised about Freddy Winters. Everybody except Mrs. Bumble.

He was filling the mop bucket with hot water when he heard the pistol shot. Nine millimeter. Kids were screaming. Spike—Spike was screaming like a little kid.

Freddy shoved up his glasses and saluted Mrs. Bumble. She opened the oil can and glug-glugged it on the floor. Freddy spread it around the door with the hot mop. Then he threw it on the floor, jumped into the pantry and scrunched down as small as he could. The shooter barged in and slid on his butt, firing rounds into the ceiling. Mrs. Bumble hit him with the skillet—just like a ten-pound baseball bat.

Minutes later Freddy peered out at the two policemen in flak jackets marching in, slipping and sliding like it was a skating rink. They had trouble rolling the jerk over to put the cuffs on. They were laughing because they said he was as slick as a goldfish.

Next month when the officer presented the active shooter drill, several kids scooted their desks next to Freddy. Some of them even took notes. Spike tried to get some attention, but a couple of kids told him to be quiet.

And Megan? After the drill she kissed his cheek. Of course he felt his face burning again. But he didn’t try to stop it this time. A few other kids hugged him.

He felt it coming but he couldn’t help it. Freddy looked at Megan with his frog eyes and smiled.

Freddy smiled.