Olive checked the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes more and this class would be over. Twenty minutes more and she could leave the poor dead frog on her desk and go another day without being subjected to the inner workings of an amphibian.

Olive was not easily grossed out, but when she was five, she accidentally cycled over a frog and squashed it. She decided then and there that she never needed to see the insides of another one ever again — and this still held true today, seven years and eight months later. But, if she didn’t do this dissection, Ms Ogier (who was not-so-affectionately known as ‘The Ogre’) would fail her. And Olive needed a good grade on this assignment. Really, really needed a good grade. Her entire future happiness depended on it.

At the workstation in front of her, Jake Webster stabbed the scalpel into his cadaver.

‘Slice the skin, Webster, don’t jab it,’ Ms Ogier barked as she marched between the desks. ‘We are scientists not barbarians.’

Olive glared at the back of Jake Webster’s stupid head. How did he even make it into Advanced Science?

Ms Ogier stopped next to Olive and eyeballed the pristine frog. She was one of those stern, frosty teachers who you couldn’t imagine having a life outside the classroom. It made her seem older than she probably was; like she’d never once been a kid herself. ‘Are you planning on joining our lab exercise today or do I detect an “F” in your future?’

Olive scrambled for her scalpel. ‘I was just about to start.’ Ms Ogier raised an eyebrow then continued her lap around the classroom. ‘Being squeamish will get you nowhere in life, Olive Selverston-Myers.’

Next to Olive, Lola finished her dissection and was labelling body parts on the activity sheet. ‘You can copy my answers,’ she whispered. ‘But you still have to cut the thing open or The Ogre will know you’ve cheated.’

Olive shook her head. She wasn’t a cheater and she didn’t plan on becoming one. She regarded her frog sadly. There was
no escape now — not for her or the frog. Very tentatively, she touched a finger to its skin. It was cold, but not as slimy as she imagined. ‘I wish you’d come back to life and hop out of here,’ she muttered under her breath.

For a fraction of a second her insides fizzed and popped, sort of like she was filled with soda and someone had given her a really good shake. She leaned against the workstation to steady herself.

Lola frowned. ‘You okay?’

The fizzy feeling was there and gone so quickly that Olive thought she must have imagined it. ‘Yeah. Just wishing I didn’t
have to do this.’

‘It’s not so bad,’ Lola said. ‘Think about slicing roast chicken or something.’

Olive grimaced. ‘Do you want me to puke?’

‘On the count of five,’ said Lola. Olive took a breath and positioned her scalpel over the frog’s stomach. ‘One…two… three…’

And then the frog moved.

Olive and Lola jerked back. Olive’s chair clattered to the floor. They looked at each other, and then the frog. Its belly was rising and falling. Rhythmically. Like it was breathing.

Like it wasn’t dead.

‘Ms Ogier!’ Lola squeaked. ‘Olive’s frog is alive!’…