A Beginner’s Guide to Scrubbing Stains (and Frogs)
Veronica Matthews
Wren didn’t mean to pass out between the rinse and spin cycle. It just . . . happened. One minute she was standing there with a laundry basket overflowing like a clown car of dirty socks, and the next, she was half-draped over the washing machine with a ratty copy of We Have Always Lived in the Castle flopped open on her chest like it had knocked her out cold.
She had even ignored the litany of texts from her friends’ group chat, making plans for spring break. Even though they had been begging her for ages to hang out outside of school, she didn’t have time— not between homework, tests, SATs, college applications, hospital volunteering, and her job. She’d told herself—sworn, really—that she’d sit down at her desk and get some required reading done after work. Maybe just highlight a sentence or two. Be a productive member of society. But nope. Her body rebelled and shut down.
To be fair, it had been a long shift at the nursing home. A very long shift. She’d basically speed-walked a marathon while getting residents out for seated chair exercises, balancing plates of strawberry shortcake during the Sunday social, and repeating “G-47” to hard-of-hearing residents until she thought her head would explode. She hated BINGO with a passion normally reserved for parking tickets and wet socks.
But she liked the job, mostly. The nurses weren’t awful. Angie at the front desk always slipped her mints. Even Linda, her manager, could be tolerable—when she wasn’t breathing down Wren’s neck and watching her like a hawk.
Most of all, she loved the residents. There was Clara with her fat tabby Ringo who she always greeted on her way in, Edith with her walker and fanny pack full of century-old licorice, Alan and Jim who were always accusing the other of cheating during Pokeno, and Bobby who was always mumbling to herself—one time asking Wren if she was a communist spy—and leaving her walker behind. Those were just to name a few. And of course, there was Laney.
The thought of Laney—her laugh, her leopard coat, the way she would roll around backwards seated in her walker, greeting everyone with a smile as she passed them at the table playing UNO—pressed in on her for a second, but Wren quickly shoved the thought aside. Not now. She couldn’t. Instead, she tried thinking of her green planner splayed open on her study table, the words ten pages of required reading, thirty calculus homework problems, SAT practice problems, college applications, and AP Bio exam on Wednesday in red pen playing back to her in a loop.
But the warmth of the washer and its steady hum was too much, lulling her to sleep despite her protests. She leaned her head against the cool wall with the book still in hand, promising herself just five minutes . . . . Her mind flickered for a second to the way Laney had smiled that last time—thin and tired, but kind. Her thoughts sneaked back to the hollow quiet of the nursing home—one empty room, the too-clean smell of antiseptic, and the chair by the window where Mrs. Laney had always sat.
Then—
“WREN!”
She jolted awake, eyes bleary, mouth dry, her sleepy daze crashing to a halt.
“Mavis?” she croaked, wiping drool off her cheek. “What happened?”
Without warning, a green, fuzzy blob was shoved in her face.
It was Hopper, Mavis’s favorite stuffed frog. The one that looked like it had seen things. His beady eyes stared into Wren’s soul.
“He’s bleeding!” Mavis cried, cradling the animal like a wounded soldier. “You have to help!”
Wren blinked, still in that post-nap dimension where nothing makes sense and everything hurts. “Bleeding?” she echoed, her voice dry. “He’s made of plush.”
“There’s a STAIN,” Mavis said urgently, flipping Hopper to show a dark smear across his back. “See?”
Wren closed her eyes and groaned. “I just got home. Mom said not to bother me after shifts. Remember?”
Mavis looked up at her with that face. The Face. Big watery eyes, bottom lip wobbling like Jell-O. Tiny six-year-old guilt trip in full swing.
She sniffled. “But it’s important.”
And just like that, Wren felt it. That tug in her chest. The soft, annoying ache of being someone’s person.
“Fine,” she muttered. “But only if you let me get back to work after. No tea parties. No frog drama. No royal decrees from Lady Penelope Duck.”
Mavis gave a sharp nod, her eyes serious as if she was signing some unspoken pact, her mouth set in that determined line she only used for the most important of things. So dramatic, Wren thought.
As Wren filled the sink and started scrubbing the stain out of Hopper’s plush little butt, Mavis climbed onto a stool next to her, talking a mile a minute about some tea party she had planned to host after watching that DVD Wren had put on for her a week ago with “Princess Mia Hippopamus.”
Wren fought a smile. Ever since Dad had told Mavis that she and Wren were named after birds, Mavis had been convinced everyone would be better off with an animal name.
“It’s Thermopolis,” Wren corrected, deadpan. “Mia Thermopolis. And it’s pronounced hippopotamus, you goose.”
Mavis was unfazed, already dunking her hand into the soapy water to blow bubbles like it was her job. Wren rolled her eyes but didn’t stop her. She needed to get back to her required reading soon. The faster she could wash the stain out, the better.
It was kind of nice though—watching her sister’s tiny hands turn soap into magic. For a moment, it was peaceful. The kind of quiet chaos she could actually live with.
When Mavis blew a particularly big bubble, she jabbed Wren on the shoulder like she had just discovered fire. “Wren, look! Look at this one!”
Wren turned, already bracing herself for whatever kind of sticky nightmare Mavis was about to create.
When she turned her head, she paused, and her eyes caught the watery orb. They both watched entranced as the bubble, iridescent and colorful, floated delicately in the air. Time seemed to slow as it drifted higher and higher, the faint glow from the light above catching on its surface. Wren half-expected it to pop at any moment, but it took its sweet time.
Then, finally, it did. Plink. A soft pop, scattering into tiny droplets that caught the light like sad little dying stars disappearing in the dull, sterile air of their small laundry room.
Once Hopper was sufficiently soaked and smelled aggressively like liquid detergent, Mavis declared him “medically cleared for sunlight.”
“He needs air,” she said seriously. “He’s claustrophobic.”
“He’s a stuffed frog,” Wren muttered, but she still followed her outside, bare feet dragging across the porch.
Wren rubbed her temple but followed Mavis down the stairs and into the kitchen anyway, clutching the soggy green frog.
She froze. The kitchen looked like a small tornado had passed through it. Seriously, how long had she been asleep? Slices of bread, some torn in half, lay scattered alongside open jars of raspberry jam and marmalade, their lids carelessly tossed aside. Plastic containers of berries had spilled over in the sink, a few of them dripping onto the counter.
Mavis, however, passed by the wreckage as if everything were perfectly normal, humming to herself. She was already pulling the sliding door to the back porch open with all her weight, completely unfazed by the mess she’d left behind.
Wren blinked, shaking herself out of her stupor, remembering that her mom had promised she wouldn’t have to deal with Mavis after work. She wasn’t about to break it to their mom that Mavis’s idea of responsibility meant making herself lunch—yes—but also destroying the kitchen in the process.
Mom’s gonna have a fit when she gets back from ShopRite, Wren thought, imagining her mom’s face when she saw the disaster as she trudged over to help Mavis with the door to the back porch.
The air was warm and soft, the cherry trees down the street blooming full and blinding. Spring had arrived all at once, like it always did—sudden and arrogant, painting everything too bright.
She clipped Hopper to the clothesline with two wooden pins, his long limbs drooping in the sun like a soggy martyr.
“Okay Mavis, I need to go inside now. I have homework.”
“But I made raspberry jam for the tea party!” Mavis protested, already laying out plastic cups and an old sheet in the grass.
“Mavis, please—”
The warmth, the birdsong, the blue sky—it was too much. Wren’s breath hitched. The sunlight was so sharp it made her flinch. It reminded her of this morning—Room 206, stripped bare. The empty dresser where Mrs. Laney’s bangles used to rest. The pale indent where her antique vanity had sat on the carpet. Even her flowery scent was gone. Only the window remained, the curtains drawn open wide, flooding the hollow room with warm light, the cherry trees in full bloom outside. Taunting. Cruel.
“Wren? You okay?” Mavis looked up, her hand hovering over the raspberry jam she had brought out. Her stuffed animals were lined up in a neat circle on the sheet now—Lady Penelope Duck, Sir Reginald Rabbit, Captain Paws the cat, and a few nameless others. They sat there, their beady eyes locked on her, as if they were impatiently waiting for her to join them for tea.
Mavis stared at her, confused, before asking, “Are you sure? Wren— “
“I said I’m fine!” Wren snapped, the words leaving her mouth before she could catch them. Mavis’s eyes went wide, like Wren had just knocked the wind out of her.
Wren turned and stormed back inside and up the stairs, her heart pounding in her ears. She didn’t need a tea party. She didn’t need her friends, jam, the stupid spring day, or her sister and her dumb animals.
She needed control. She needed her schedule. She needed her desk and her planner, and her college applications. She didn’t need anyone else but herself.
The laundry was finished in the dryer. She yanked open the dryer door and pulled out the warm sheets, clutching them like a shield. She was alone. No distractions. That was better. That was safe. She was in control again.
The warmth, the scent of clean fabric and dryer sheets, the soft folds—they reminded her. Mrs. Laney’s small room in 206, where the antique dresser once held framed photographs of Nantucket summers and family gatherings in the grand house that had been passed down for generations. The glint of her old jewelry, delicate clothing neatly pressed, and the white gloves she wore when she had time to dress up, even if it was just for a card game. Wren used to listen to her stories, sitting beside her as Laney recounted her days as a debutante, the elegant parties, the grand house by the shore. In that room, it felt like Laney could almost reach back to a time when everything was still hers—the house, the wealth, the family.
But over time, Wren watched as Laney’s strength slowly disappeared. Between setting up card games for the residents, Laney would wheel by, using her walker like a wheelchair, rolling herself backward with a defiant grin, wrapped in her leopard print coat, still smiling brightly at everyone. The arthritis grew worse, and the woman who had once been so vibrant began to fade. Wren remembered sneaking into her room when Linda wasn’t looking, painting Laney’s nails white because Laney said it was the latest trend. But as the days passed, Laney’s once-energetic body grew frail, her voice faded to a mere whisper, and the pain became too much to bear. She’d often be too doped up on painkillers to even speak, her smile slipping away as she lost herself bit by bit. And Wren would rub lotion on her swollen feet, watching her once-lively friend become a shadow of herself, too tired to even hold on to the woman she once was.
Wren shook herself out of the memory, trying to focus on the present, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of loss that weighed down her chest. And Linda’s words from that morning came ringing back to her, “Unfortunately, room 206 has passed on and we’ll be expecting a new resident to move in tomorrow . . .” confirming her worst fears.
And suddenly, she was on the floor. Sobbing. Into a pile of laundry. The sheets wrapped around her like arms, failing to comfort her, and the crushing realization that she wasn’t in control anymore.
She didn’t hear Mavis enter—just felt small hands around her shoulders. Then a wad of toilet paper pressed to her nose.
“Blow with your mouth open,” Mavis said gently, patting her back like she’d seen Wren do all those winters Mavis would get sick. “Don’t blow out your brains.”
That made Wren laugh, a sharp, wet laugh, still cracked in the middle. She sniffled, looked down at the mess of tangled sheets, then back at Mavis’s proud face.
“Oh no,” Mavis said solemnly, “We still have to fold these.” Her sister seemed only to notice messes that weren’t hers.
Wren sat up, wiping her eyes. “I have a better idea,” she said with a small smile.
Later, a blanket fort stood triumphantly in the living room, made from clean-but-slightly-damp sheets. Inside, under the fort’s canopy, Mavis and Wren curled up on pillows, a picnic of jam and crackers between them, Hopper reclining beside them with a tissue tucked under his chin.
On the TV in front of them, The Princess Diaries played, and Mavis kept giggling at Mia’s name.
“Mia Rhinoceros,” she whispered.
“That’s a mouthful,” Wren smirked. “How about Mia the Platypus?”
“That’s two words,” Mavis said, taking a matter-of-fact tone that seemed almost all too similar to Wren’s own. “Cheater,” she added smugly.
Wren threw a pillow at her sister’s head. “Stickler,” she said, laughing.
“Fine, Mia . . . ” Wren said, tapping her chin. “ . . . Tyrannosaurus.”
They both cracked up. The room echoed with laughter, with jam-sticky fingers and warm sheets and the TV’s glowing screen.
For the first time in a long while, Wren’s green planner stayed splayed open on her desk upstairs, untouched, and the red boxes unticked.
Veronica Matthews writes, “What started as Veronica Mathews scribbling down imaginary scenarios, relatable characters, and a few poems just to humor herself somehow found its way to others after she shared her work in a creative writing class. Now she writes not only for herself, but with the small hope of helping someone else or at least making them laugh. These days, you can find her up late juggling her classes, studying, looking for internships, and working all while running on black coffee and insisting that writing is the best form of therapy.”