“Because I’m a frog,” I would explain in reference to my essay where I used finger-paint instead of words.  But Mr. Slater, formally Jonathan, crouched down over his knees with the kind of incredulous look that had irritated authority knotted up in it.  The bundled disgust in his face made uneven lines, like veins, fold across his forehead.  What on earth possessed me to make up such a story, he asked.  “Because I have webby fingers!  Look!” I would say.  Everyone has the same fingers, he said, rolling his eyes.  “So maybe we’re all frogs!”  Danielle…—and here he would gesture with his fingers to look him in the eye—we’re just not frogs and that’s that; the whole idea is poppycock and even in poor taste of imagination.  “You just think that ‘cause you’re a frog and you don’t know any better.”  So I know I’m a frog.  And I’ll never believe anything he says otherwise.  Besides, he’s the one who said I couldn’t start sentences with conjunctions.


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