Page 30 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

She glared at the water. “Okay, I hate this.”

“Nope, try again.”

She let out a frustrated groan but picked up another rock anyway. This one was flatter, smoother—maybe it'd bring her better luck. She gave it a determined flick across the surface of the water. It skipped once with a satisfying plunk, gave a second, half-hearted bounce that barely counted, and then surrendered to gravity, sinking with a quietglubthat somehow felt personal.

Her face lit up like she’d just seen fireworks. “Three skips! Did you see that?”

“Not bad for a beginner.”

We kept at it, tossing rock after rock. I told her about my grandfather, Hurst, and how he’d taught me how to do this when I was seven. He swore a five-skip toss meant you were ready to marry, but I was still skeptical about that. I also described the competitions we used to have at every family cookout, with all of the Townsend cousins lined up, our pockets full of river stones, and our unearned confidence.

Gabby laughed genuine, belly-deep laughs. Throughout my story, she missed half her throws from watching the water too hard and waiting for snakes or “swamp ghouls,” as she called them, but she never stopped trying.

“I used to want an emu when I was little,” she told me suddenly, mid-throw.

I stared hard at the side of her face. “An emu?”

“Yeah, they're big, weird, and aggressive birds, but I thought it would protect me. Or ride me into battle. I was unclear on logistics,” she shrugged.

“Sounds about right.”

She grinned and picked up another stone, her tongue poking out as she aimed. Then she threw it. It skipped once, twice...and nailed a massive frog floating belly-up near the reeds.

She gasped and let out a quiet scream. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“I killed it! No, maybe it was already dead, and I disturbed its funeral float. Webb, get in there, we have to do frog CPR!”

I took a step back. “Frog CPR?”

“You have to do something!”

“I am not?—”

But then, as we both stared in horror, the frog moved. Or, more specifically — something moved it. A smooth swish just under the surface that caused a small ripple. Then, the frog’s limp body disappeared beneath the water without a sound.

Gabby turned to me slowly. “What. Was. That.”

“Probably a fish,” I said quickly. “Or a turtle.”

“Or a Kraken.”

I started to laugh—I couldn’t stop it—but she was already panicking, rifling through the gravel and picking up the biggest rocks she could find.

“No. Nope. I am not going out like this, do you hear me?” She chucked a rock the size of a grapefruit into the water with a splash that nearly reached the bank.

“Come out and face me, you slimy murder noodle.”

Another rock sailed through the air, arcing with just enough spin to give it promise. It landed with a sharpsplashright where the dead frog had been moments before, like a clumsy, watery tribute. The ripples spread outward as if the bayou itself was reacting to the oddly timed ceremony. She stared at the spot, half expecting the frog to float back up like some kind of amphibious ghost seeking revenge.

Not getting the reaction she wanted, she yelled, “Leave the frogs alone!”

I doubled over, clutching my sides, full-on laughing now, with tears leaking from my eyes as Gabby launched rock after rock with all the fury of a woman fighting invisible swamp demons. She threw one so hard she spun herself around and had to grab my arm to keep from tumbling straight into the marsh.

“I’m not dying in flip-flops, Webb! Not today, at least.”

“You really need new shoes or to wear those boots you had on.”

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