The Frog and The Beast

The Frog Chapter 1

My family owned the best shoe store in Fiore, New Hampshire, a legacy that traces back to my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. According to my dad, he once cobbled shoes for Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt, though I'm not entirely sure if that's true. Regardless, our family has been designing, building, and repairing shoes for generations, and we love every minute of it.

Now, before you ask, no, we don't have a foot fetish; we just genuinely enjoy making shoes. When my sister and I were little, Dad would tell us that if shoes were made right, they could be magical—proper shoes could take anyone anywhere without causing any discomfort or pain to one's feet. Talk about embellishing a career! But honestly, Wendy and I thought the family business was pretty cool.

Among all of us, my dad was the greatest shoemaker. He had a natural talent for crafting the perfect shoe, from selecting the finest materials to meticulously hand-stitching each pair. People would pay a fortune for his custom creations, always amazed by the comfort and quality of his work.

Growing up, Wendy and I learned the ins and outs of the shoe business. She had a knack for design and creativity, while I excelled in the technical aspects of shoemaking. As kids, we couldn't wait to take over the family business and follow in Dad's footsteps.

Unfortunately, my classmates didn't seem to admire what my family did. I vividly remember the day it all came crashing down: career day in sixth grade. I had given a presentation about my dad and expressed my desire to follow in his footsteps. No pun intended.

That's when Lyon Vastia shouted, "Ha-ha! Natsu's dad makes stinky shoes!"

The room erupted in laughter, and soon everyone was chanting "Stinky Shoes" while pointing at me. What hurt the most was that among those taunting me was Glen Grisham—though that wasn't even his real name. He had changed it to associate himself with his famous uncle. How lame is that? We had been friends since kindergarten, but come middle school, he started hanging out with Lyon, the popular athlete, and suddenly pretended not to know me. What a jerk!

From that day on, I felt like I was no longer on the same level as my classmates at Fairy Tail Academy. Even though my family was just as wealthy as theirs, the source of our income—shoe-making—made me a target. They labeled me the "rich loser." As a result, I found myself without friends and doubted I ever would.

But everything changed the day they appeared.

I had just finished getting my math book from my locker when a cold chill ran down my spine. I turned around to see three girls walk in who, I hate to say, weren't the most conventionally attractive. Erza Scarlet, Minerva Orland, and Kagura Mikazuchi were sisters—half-sisters, to be precise. They shared the same mother but had different fathers. Rumor had it that back in the eighties their mom, Irene, was a troubled goth who once tried to start her own Satanic cult and ended up in a mental institution for the rest of her life.

Erza stood in the center, her face ghostly white, lips smeared blood red, and long red hair messy with white streaks and red feathers. She resembled a broken porcelain doll, the kind you'd find forgotten in an attic—perfect for a horror movie. Gossip claimed her father was Irene's high school boyfriend who had abused her, and she later poisoned him.

On the right was Kagura, who was overweight with small, rodent-like eyes, acne blotches covering her face, and brown hair streaked with neon green. She reminded me of a goth version of the witches from classic Grimm tales, the kind that would try to fatten up children and eat them. One of the dumbest rumors I heard about her was that her father was an actual bloodhound, which supposedly explained her sharp nose.

Minerva, on the left, had buck teeth, a hooked nose, poofy hair in shades of eggplant purple, and barely a hint of chin. Out of the three, she always gave me a strange feeling. While all of them were odd, there was something particularly unsettling about her—the way she moved, spoke, and looked at you. Perhaps it was because people said her father was an actual demon from hell that her mother had summoned.

All three girls dressed in flowing black clothes that resembled something a terrorist or witch might wear, which is why they were dubbed "The Witches of Fairy Tail Academy." No one ever talked to them; they only talked about them. I felt a pang of sympathy. Just because they were different didn't mean they weren't human. They deserved friends and a chance to fit in. Maybe I should try to make them feel welcome and be their first friend?

"I think you should just leave them alone, Natsu," Wendy advised when I brought it up on the way home from school that afternoon. "Far be it from me to be shallow like all those elitist snobs, but if I didn't know better, I'd swear those three are trying to cause trouble."

"That's ridiculous, Wendy," I scoffed. "Why would someone intentionally make themselves look ugly? They can't help it if they're overweight, have buck teeth, pale skin, and zits."

"I'm not talking about their looks. I'm talking about their clothes and hairstyles. Nowadays, anyone knows that dressing like that is practically asking to be bullied."

"So?"

"So maybe they're trying to provoke bullying toward themselves."

"Now why would anyone do a stupid thing like that?"

"I don't know, but that's how it seems to me. If someone is trying to be a target, it usually means there's something seriously wrong with them. I really think you should stay away."

"Wendy, do you know how many times people have said that about me?"

"That's different! You're a sweet guy who tries to make friends and doesn't try to rub people the wrong way. Those idiots at your school just want a reason to tease you, and they've chosen your dad's career as their target."

"Right, and everyone is teasing them based on their background and appearance. There's no difference."

"There is. You don't know them."

"I'll never know them unless I make an attempt."

Wendy sighed.

"Okay, I know I won't be able to talk you out of this, but promise me you'll be careful? You're very kind, and that's great, but a lot of people see kindness as a sucker's game."

For a ten-year-old, she was surprisingly wise. She often reminded me to be cautious, warning that people could take advantage of my kindness. It was funny how my little sister was more protective than I was.

"Don't worry," I chuckled, humoring her. "I promise I'll be careful."

"Pinky promise?" she extended her pinky, a gesture we'd shared since she was four and I was nine.

"I promise." I sealed my vow by locking my pinky with hers.

I thought she was just being paranoid. Turns out, I really should have listened to her.