TEEN GIGGERS

TED AND I MOVED SILENTLY along a well-worn path close to the river’s edge. Moonlight lit this path and us as well, so we bent low to keep from being seen. The unceasing songs of crickets and jug-o-rum of bullfrogs filled the humid night air. But Ted and I could hear another sound, we could hear the sloshing of men wading in the river, two men carrying flashlights. Ted and I were also carrying something—we were carrying stones. 

We had seen the beams of the wader’s flashlights from our bedroom window and slipped out of the house without waking our brother, Steve. Mama and Papa were also sleeping; Papa snored softly. It was late, very late. The glow-in-the-dark numbers on the wind-up clock sitting on Ted’s dresser showed 12:45. 

Ted and I were careful not to make a sound when we opened and closed the front door. We were on a secret mission, one that we had ventured on several times before, usually with Steve. But this time we chose not to wake him up fearing that he might blurt out and awaken Mama and Papa. We were on a sacred mission, one that we did not want terminated. Ted was nine-years-old, I was seven, and Steve was eleven.

We knew what the men were doing. They would have said they were giggers, but we knew they were murderers. We knew that they scanned the water’s edge with a flashlight beam hoping the light would reflect a frog’s eyes. We knew that the men carried three-pronged spears, spears for empaling beam-blinded bullfrogs, spears for empaling our beam-blinded bullfrogs. These men were not only murderers, they were intruders. The river banks that the beams of their lights scanned were our river banks. They were the edges of our island, the edges where our island’s soil met the river, and the water they waded in was our water, our Fox River water.

We crept slowly following the sound of the men sloshing and the flashlight beams. Then, I stepped on a twig and it snapped, not a little snap, a loud snap. Ted and I froze and dropped to the ground. 

“Did yah hear that?” one of the men asked in a low voice. “Someone or something’s up there.” He scanned the brush above the shoreline with the beam of his flashlight. “I bet it’s them brats, them river brats,” he murmured.

“It’s after midnight. Those kids wouldn’t be out now. It’s probably just a racoon.”

Ted and I lay flat on the path while the flashlight beam searched the bushes above us.

“Yah, probably just a racoon,” the man searching with his flashlight replied and returned to scanning the river bank. However, for a moment his light shown on his partner and revealed that these were not men, they were teenagers. 

“Oh no,” Ted moaned under his breath. We knew about teenagers. We had an older teenage brother named Chuck. We called him Huck. These weren’t just giggers, they were teen giggers and that made them worse; teens were unpredictable. However, discovering that we were dealing with teen giggers didn’t discourage Ted and me from our frog-saving mission. We just knew that we had to be extra careful.

“Gotcha,” one of the teens said softly while pointing the beam of his flashlight into the large reflecting eyes of a bullfrog. He aimed his spear as the frog sat hypnotized by the light. But before he tossed the spear, Ted lopped a stone into the water near the frog frightening it and it quickly submerged. 

“Was that what I think it was?” said the teen gigger who had scanned with his flashlight.

“Nah. Just another frog jumped from the shore. I told you it’s after midnight. Those kids are sleeping. Keep quiet.” 

The two continued wading and scanning the water’s edge, and Ted and I continued creeping silently along the shoreline path. 

When we heard them stop wading, we knew they had mesmerized a frog. Ted stood up and lopped another stone in the water. 

“That was no frog. That was a stone! I saw it!” shouted the suspicious teen gigger, and as he sloshed noisily to the shore, he shouted, “I’ll get you. You’re going to be sorry!” 

Ted and I turned and raced back to the house with the sound of feet pounding behind us. 

“Run, Judy! Run!” Ted shouted.

“You’re going to be sorry! You worthless river brats!” the angry teen yelled. 

“Ah, just leave them alone!” the other teen called.

“No way! I’m going to teach them a lesson!”

Ted and I ran into a wooded area, a short cut to the house and when I looked back, I could see that the two had followed us into the woods. “They’re getting closer!” I screamed.

“Don’t look back,” Ted yelled. “Just run!”

Barely able to breath, we reached the house! Ted yanked the front door open and slammed it shut behind us!

Mama and Papa hurried into the living room. “What’s wrong?” Mama asked in a worried voice.

“Where have you been?” Papa questioned.

“Giggers! Teen giggers are chasing us!” Ted and I blurted. 

“Giggers?” Papa questioned. “Have you been tossing stones again?  You know what I told you!” 

“But they’re our frogs!” I protested. “They were spearing our frogs!”

“You and your brother spear carp and sell them and think that’s okay,” Papa continued. “Some people like to eat fish. Some people like to eat bullfrog legs.”

         “But that’s what’s wrong about it! Frogs have legs and toes. They walk and hop! Fish just swim,” I continued to protest.

         “And frogs call to one another,” Ted added.

         “Let’s all go to bed,” Mama interrupted. “We can talk about this in the morning.

         While Ted was climbing into bed, Steve asked from the top bunk, “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

         “You were sound asleep, even snoring. We were afraid you might blurt and wake up Mama and Papa,” Ted answered softly. 

         “You should have woke me up,” Steve mumbled. 

By the sound of his voice, Ted and I could tell his feelings had been hurt.