Hans Christian Anderson had it wrong about the swans. This notion always struck Samantha when she came in sight of them gliding on the Frog Pond.
         As always too, it was a relief to have left Gwendolyn at the station so she could walk through the Common alone. The trek would have done Gweny some good, with her weight and all, but this customary parting was better for them both. Samantha took the less traveled path along the south end of the pond, and was just beginning to shed enough of Gwendolyn to feel welcome in her sometime sylvan realm. Soon the tiny creatures of the forest would emerge to greet her, in defiance of the aloof swimming royals. This empowering spell had originated with her father, when he still could promise princess things. There was a squirrel, though.
         Far ahead a jogger came in view: a man, slim and possibly attractive. Her step faltered—she should stop and turn, pretend to look toward the pond—but his head was lowered concentrating on the path. She should have known better and inevitably the jogger saw her, raised his head expectantly, intrigued, interested. But when the distance closed his budding smile faded and his eyes quickly trained downward to the path.
         When he passed she whirled around in a fury:
         “Bastard! Would it have killed you to just smile? Just a ‘hello, this is not a commitment, I like everyone’, smile. Bastard!”
         But she really couldn’t have shouted it aloud—there were other people were coming down the path.
         Thank God her bench was just ahead. Her bench: the paint was worn off the slats appearing sodden but she knew this was an illusion. It was her bench, spurned by the uninitiated, hers. She sat and considered putting on her sunglasses, but decided she shouldn’t let things upset her so much. It wasn’t just the jogger. It was Gwendolyn picking at her again and it would be Saturday night and she’d probably wind up again with her sole friend or else stay home watching soppy movies alone in her room, with the distant voice of her father shouting his outrage at Saturday Night Live, her mother soothing him. She would put on her sunglasses. No. She loved the view and they were an old prescription that would make it all fuzzy as well as dark. She wasn’t going to give in to any of it anymore.
         The bench looked away from the path and faced the pond and beyond it massive willows framing the old buildings on Beacon and Park with the golden dome of the State House just visible above. Now she had a good view of the swans gliding in the pond and on the bank one leading a litter of cygnets, hurrying to join the flock.
         Yes, Hans Christian Anderson was wrong about swans. She thought the babies looked adorable, the adults graceful but slick with sinister faces. Graceful: her swan-like neck—and beak. Swan Lake, swan-song. Swans in the Frog Pond. Frogs in a people pond. Her glasses magnified her puffy eyes and conspired with a clenched-mouth grin to make a frog. Today Gwendolyn looked upon her and discovered a horse.
         A young woman approaching on the path from her left with a stroller and an adorable little girl. There were pictures showing Samantha as a cute little child. Maybe all children were adorable but this one had a pretty mother. She had been adorable too until at age thirteen her bones expanded upward and outward in an explosion of growth. Exploded to five-foot-eight, but that stretching phase was terminated so that the rampaging bones could concentrate on her face. Her parents were ordinary looking but she had grown into a cruel caricature of the worst features of both. She adapted by learning to fill her days with study and like her schoolwork if not the school. It was sad that she didn’t find Gwendolyn crying in the girls lavatory until their senior year. They skipped class that day, sitting in the john comparing miseries.
         Her own were not correctable. But Gweny hadn’t given up on her just yet, making Samantha her project, like a grotesque Barbie-doll. Today they had started at Filene’s, shopped for hours, then went to Quincy Market for lunch. They were laughing over something and these three guys were looking at them like: What could these losers possibly have to laugh about? So Gweny gets onto one of her grandiose fantasies:
         “When we are rich and powerful we will travel the world and hire boy toys. Then after we’ve had our way with them we’ll abandon them in the Souk where they will be carved up by scimitars.”
         Samantha exploded into laughter, lost control.
         “What’s so damned funny?”
         “Souk? Scimitars! How many places in the world have Souks, and why scimitars?”
         “Alright then—shivs in a Soho alley. Does that ring more poetic?”
         Samantha laughed again but Gwendolyn wore such a serious look when she said it and you could never know with her.
         “Really Samantha. You already sound like a horse when you laugh, you don’t have to look like one too. Those teeth! Keep your mouth closed when you laugh!”
         “And you have a figure like a sow,” she snapped.
         Without moving they retreated to far corners and sat in silence. As always one of them would have to give in. Samantha went to the ladies room and Gweny had to follow later. (“I was only trying to be helpful”) They hugged and apologized with tears, but that wasn’t enough for Gwendolyn. She had to experiment with Samantha’s face, deciding finally on a single line of mascara on her lower lids. It would be her job to approach the boys.
         “There that’s not too bad. Nice actually. A shame you can’t lose those glasses.”
         The doctor said her eyes were too weak for contacts. At least everyone had given up on her steel wool hair, which could only be raked, bundled and tied together behind her neck.
         A really good looking jogger approached and she quickly turned her head, wishing she had a scimitar.
         Being with Gweny was like that Steinbeck story: “Tell me how it’s gonna be, Gweny!” Another version was how when they were done with school, they would make some great discovery, start a business, and live together in a fabulous apartment. Then they’d take turns having babies sired by Einstein’s sperm or someone else just as brilliant. Gwendolyn’s fantasies were all anti-male, but they all revolved around male expectations. Samantha could live without all of it: men and babies, dates and dances. She would go on for her M.S., and then a Ph.D. She’d have a fine career and be very happy. It had nothing to do with men.
         She heard voices and saw a mother and teenaged daughter chirping happily about their silly shopping triumphs. Shopping with her own mother had become too much to take. Mom would always pick out something drab and sensible for Samantha then say:
         “This isn’t too bad. Try it on.”
         But Samantha would pick out something prettier, more colorful or frilly which only earned a demeaning: “Whatever.”
         She was glad she had gotten these white Capri pants last time. She had decent calves, hips too. It was probably her hips that fooled the jogger. Her loose pants and sweatshirt were noncommittal. Still her calves looked nice in these pants and she had decent ankles and feet. Capris were the best she could do. Her knees were knurly knobs and her thighs shapeless posts. She had no ass—just less assertive bone. But she raised her legs and admired how her feet and ankles looked with her smart new sandals. Heck, she had pretty feet. She could be a model for shoe advertisements. But then a handsome producer would see the ads and break down doors seeking the object of his obsession. She would have to go into seclusion, watching her royalties dwindle. She laughed, then raised her legs again, turning them side to side in unison, in opposite directions, toes pointed demurely out then up.
         “I hope I’m not spoiling your view. I’ll only be a minute.”
         How had he gotten past her? He must have been on the path behind her then walked around her bench while she was sitting there grinning at her toes like a perverse idiot. Had the grin been frog or horse-like? Or were her lips just pursed as they were now like a grotesque fish?
         He was busy taking pictures of the view, turning toward her now and then. God, he was handsome with his amber hair, blue eyes, tan muscular legs and arms. He was dressed smartly with a blue striped golf shirt—with the stupid swatch—but smart tan pants and stylish walking shoes. He finished his pictures and walked toward her smiling. It was the right kind of smile: I like everyone and that does include you.
         “Wow, you have the best view of Boston, right where you are.”
         “Yes, it’s my favorite place … in the whole world.”
         She regretted adding the last part. It sounded childish. But he sat on the bench next to her, close enough for her to smell his cologne. It smelled of something pleasant burning: pipe tobacco, roasting chestnuts, cherries. He leaned over and was staring at her empty sweatshirt. She took a deep breath knowing it wouldn’t help. Good god! Oh yes, the shirt had her new school seal and it was probably wasn’t hard to read.
         “Massachusetts Insti … wow, MIT! You must be like some kind of genius.”
         “Oh, no, not at all. I had to work very hard to get there—two years in a special program at a junior college. Then I had to get perfect marks to earn admission. I’ll be sort of a sophomore-and-a-half when I start this fall.”
         She was amazed at how relaxed she was. Maybe because it was the way he smiled or because he was so beyond her hopes. He said:
         “Still you made it. That’s great! I’ll be a senior at UCLA. I’m in media studies. It’s really a pretty good program. What are you into, physics?”
         “No. I was chemical engineering, but I’d like to get more into bio-chemistry.”
         “Discover new miracle cures!”
         “Something like that.”
         She and Gwendolyn would go into the Amazon forests to find ways of synthesizing the miraculous native elixirs, thereby saving the forest as well. The natives would worship them for their stature and their purity.
         “Do you actually live in Boston?”
         “In Brookline, that’s a ways West, but it’s on the T. That’s our sort of subway.”
         “I love Boston. I may spend more time here than I planned.”
         He looked wistful then suddenly seemed to remember something.
         “Oh, geez. Here we are talking away and I never ….”
         He extended his hand and she sprung ahead too quickly.
         “Samantha. My name is Samantha.”
         She took his hand and shook it business proper. Gweny would have offered hers palm down like a queen. His hand was warm and electric, sparking reassurance.
         “Samantha, that’s a pretty name. I’m just plain Tom.” He ended on a mock-sad base note.
         “Oh no, not plain. Let’s see. Tom the pipers son, tom-toms in the forest, tomfoolery, tommyrot—oh my, some are so negative—tomcat, tomcod, Tom and Jerry, brave Tommies in the trenches.”
         It was like being on the big quiz show and she had won her thirty-two thousand and could take a wild guess for sixty-four. Now he was laughing, a genuinely delighted laugh.
         “That was brilliant. I said you must be a genius and you are.”
         “Oh, I’m just good at word games. It’s one of the things I do.”
         ‘ Samantha-ranna-banana-sammy. See, I can only do that silly old thing. Does anyone call you Sammy?”
         “My father … does … sometimes still.”
         When was the last time her father called her Sammy? About the time her bones went wild. His first consolation was telling people she might have Abe Lincoln’s disease. It gave him something to talk about. Now of course he had her grades at school. She wasn’t going to let that spoil this now. She said:
         “I like Samantha better.”
         “Samantha. Well, as I said, I like Boston but it is expensive. What is Brookline like?”
         “Just a place to live, no sights or hotels or anything.”
         “You should see my hotel. It’s way up Route One—I think it’s like in Saugus. Ever hear of flea-bag motels? Mine is so small the fleas have to leave their bags outside.”
         She burst into laughter and instinctively covered her mouth. Tom said:
         “Oh, don’t cover your face. You have a very nice smile. It lights you up. Heck, it lights up the whole park.”
         She was going to say something Victorian like “Oh, stop”. The compliment was so lame and untrue he had to know she knew. But she decided he was just saying that she looked better smiling than not. That was not so bad.
         “Thank you. But what are you doing in Boston—just a long vacation?”
         “Not really. I couldn’t find a decent summer job, so this is sort of a project. If I keep a journal, and actually get three credits. Really! I got this neat digital camera for the trip. It’s just an inexpensive Kongi, but four mega-pixels, amazing for the price.”
         “I guess that’s good,” she said.
         He laughed. “I’m not going to bore you with camera specs. But I’ve been to D.C., Baltimore, Philly, and now here. I think I like Boston the best. On the way back it’ll be Chicago and Denver but I like the East best. I like the history, all the old things, the green parks, everything. When I’m done with school, I’m going to try and get a job back here.”
         “Well, I hope you succeed. I love it here, too.”
         She told him about her own special Boston, the best of sunrises and sunsets, of autumn, winter, and spring vistas.
         “Hey, speaking of pictures. I have to get myself into some of them or they’ll think I just downloaded some stuff. Could you take my picture over there? It’s really simple to do.”
         “I’ll try.”
         Tom showed her the viewfinder and the zoom and the button to take the image. He was so close for a moment—pipe smoke and cherries—she was afraid he would hear her heart pounding. He walked towards the pond a ways and she thought she had done a good job of framing him with the willows on each side and State House above. She handed him the camera when he returned.
         But when she sat down he stepped back and took her picture.
         “Oh, I wish you hadn’t.”
         “But I want to remember you. I bet it’s nice. Look, I’ll show you.”
         Tom scrolled the pictures on a small screen in the back of the camera. The one she took was nice. She didn’t look bad in hers. Her smile was a shy little girl smirk, almost cute, more tadpole than frog. Her prince had a magic camera. But the sun on the water must have been reflecting off her glasses obscuring Gweny’s mascara art.
         “Could you try one without my glasses.”
         She desperately tried to remember the smile she had when he caught her unawares and she almost had it again. Like the best hopes of her mother and Gwendolyn, it was “not bad”.
         “I have a really good idea. I’ll take a picture of us together.”
         He reached into the a belt sack she hadn’t noticed before and produced a strange clamp-like object which he fixed to the camera then mounted on the back of the bench.
         “This is really neat. You’ll see. Go stand about there, just even with that bush.”
         He squatted behind the bench, adjusting and focusing.
         He joined her and when they faced the camera he put his arm around her waist and she stiffened. She had always thought of herself as a scrimshaw creature, all bone, not to be squeezed or fondled. Somehow his hand had found soft flesh above her hip and he pulled her close, hip to hip, shoulder to warm shoulder. She hardly saw the remote device he had, her mind in a swirling panic mastering face muscles, savoring vital flesh against hers, resisting fantasies.
         “This is a really neat feature,” he said, palming the remote to conceal it. “Done. Let’s do another. And another.”
         They were sitting close on the bench again, reviewing the pictures. In one she looked really bad and she asked him to delete it, but there were four others. She made Tom bring up pictures he had taken earlier just so she could stay close to him. He said:
         “I’d better get your e-mail address so I can send you these. And I hate to ask, but could I have your home address. In case you don’t have a good printer, I can send prints, and the paper is so expensive.”
         “No, no—I don’t mind at all,” and she reached in her purse for a pencil and note pad. Now flushed, she dared go for the full million. “I’ll give you my phone number too … just in case.”
         It seemed that his smile had changed, solidified, but he said:
         “That would be great—all of it.”
         “Not that I’d expect anything but if you’re alone in town and need someone to talk to—like recommend some places to go … ”
         “I might do that. Right now I was going to walk up to the harbor while the light is good.” He hesitated, then said: “Want to come along?”
         She should, she shouldn’t—she looked at her watch and it was encroaching five o’clock. The harbor was an hour’s walk and everything so far had been so much. She had walked all day and was exhausted, her parents would be worried, and she would have to call Gwendolyn. She was dying to call Gweny.
         “Are you sure you want to walk—the harbor is very far.”
         “I have a car but parking places are like impossible over there. Hey, I can call you later and there is always tomorrow.”
         “Yes, there is always tomorrow.”
         She smiled without worrying how it looked. He was still sitting close and he turned to look into her face. If he just kissed her once she would cease to be a frog forever. He only took her hand and gave her a peck on the cheek.
         “I’m really grateful, Samantha. You’ve made it a real pleasure being here today. I hope to see you again.”
         “Yes. I hope so, too.”
         Samantha sat watching Tom walk the path back the way she had come, toward the city center. Then she sighed and stood up to walk toward her station. It might not be impossible, she thought, some men didn’t care that much about beauty. As long as you were pleasant company, natural, charming—and she had done so well with the Tom Tom thing and talking to him about Boston and school.
         As she walked, she allowed other speculations. If he called she could ask her parents if he could stay with them. After all, he was a nice boy from UCLA, alone in a fleabag hotel way up near Saugus. She would go down for a late night snack and run into him in the downstairs hallway. What happened next would be unavoidable: he in his short pajamas, she barefoot in her nightgown, swan neck and calves glowing silver in the moonlight.
         She reached Boylston Street and was about to cross when something caught her eye among the cars parked bumper to bumper along the street. Kongi! Against her better judgment she walked on and saw that it was a small billboard mounted with suction cups on the roof of a small car.
         “Kongi—the Ultimate in Digital. Test our new 4.4.”, followed by a net address.
         She already knew the answer but any doubt would have tormented her forever. The car had California plates and a few reluctant steps farther made visible a registration and picture mounted on the sunscreen.
         She had read about these people—leaners they called them. It was true that they were not selling. Just there to “lean” people toward a certain brand. She had no doubt she would get her pictures, from some faceless, nameless thing. Her own name today was MIT.
         Samantha almost stepped into the street without looking but caught herself and took a deep breath. It might be all right: no nausea, just a tightness in her chest. She fumbled in her purse for the sunglasses. They would be needed for the train.

GERALD BUDINSKI is a retired Engineer.   His reading and writing preferences are historical, hard sci-fi, and stories inspired by social issues embedded in current events. He lives in Pittsford, New York with his wife of thirty years in the home of a West Highland terrier named Hildy.