《Am I A Man or A Girl?》


 Chapter 1 - I Woke Up Pretty

    Chapter 1 - I Woke Up Pretty


    I woke up pretty, with an unfamiliar hand draped across soft features. My lips have never been so bold and full beneath my palm, let alone free of dry skin this early in the morning.


    My shock felt like a disconnected circuit arcing towards an unfulfilled action. The vivid depth of feeling didn¡¯t worry me. I¡¯d been tossed into dreams where it all felt real and I convinced myself of the changes, but the bedrock of my waking self was always there. All I could say for certain was that nothing would feel as clear as this moment.


    And I really had to pee.


    Despite everything else, that at least felt intimately familiar. But no time to dwell. Navigating around the islands of obstacles that always littered the bedroom, while being overwhelmed beneath a curtain of warm, brilliant red hair that couldn¡¯t be mine, I shuffled my way to the restroom.


    The angle was wrong. Usually, the art prints on my left sat below my eye line. With groggy confusion, I noticed, no matter how I made my legs stretch, I had to look up. The rumble of the central heating pushed my attention away. Struggling past my hamper, at least there wasn¡¯t far left.


    My red-cloaked reflection in the mirror should¡¯ve been a clear alarm, but I continued to the toilet and sat down with my shorts slid off. I didn¡¯t trust myself with a glossy bathmat, let alone my stability on a morning already this weird.


    Clearing my bladder also smoothed away the haze. I didn¡¯t have any of my devices with me. So, all my mind had was the preoccupation of impossibilities that refused to go away. I knew my fingers and hands. I¡¯d been through a lot of things with them. These were not them.


    It was like looking at a key on a ring, in the spot where you always left your house key, but finding something different. Switching to my other hand didn¡¯t help.


    Digging some grit out of my eyes didn¡¯t help make sense of it, but it at least told me I could use these hands.


    Not even sitting felt right, as my legs fumbled for the right way to rest.


    Okay. That¡¯s what I told my brain as it tried to crunch all these mysteries into a rational shape. Just okay. Like a promise I couldn¡¯t keep that we would finish with the important stuff and then I¡¯d go back to the mirror and figure out what was wrong. Like some ethereal thing got stuck to me and that was the reason I felt weird.


    My ass wasn¡¯t helping though, as wiping it (just in case) felt weirder than when I had a strain in my hand and had to do things differently. Pulling my clothes back on took some lingering adjustment as the elastic clung to me without complaint but it felt like a drape diving past my knees even though this should¡¯ve been a pair of my smaller shorts. My underwear also felt sloppy, except for the front. It roused a bit when I adjusted myself.


    Eventually, inevitably, I stood in front of the mirror with my weird hands gripping the old knobs. A lovely, girlish face looked back at me. Not my face.


    My eyes darted between the slim, pert shape of this face¡¯s nose and the fact I could see more out of each eye when I looked down at it, like it was just some clay sculpture and someone had taken out a notch.


    In contrast, my lips were so puffy that unless I drew them back they had a pillowy curve that kept distracting me. The mild awakening between my legs before firmly asserted itself as I twisted my mouth one way and the other.


    I recognized the thickness of my eyebrows but instead of being like a brown puffy cloud, they instead seemed like a sharp, heavy press of a permanent marker with a slight tint of red at the edges. And about the color red¡­ it swaddled my head, consumed my ears, buried my shoulders, and twisted brightly in contrast with my blue shirt.


    Even with the main light off, it was so bright, and with it on it felt iridescent. Traces approached a woody blonde, but the fiery red curled and bloomed across everything else, like a wildfire at its peak.


    ¡°Hello¡°, I tried. Despite that face, it was still my voice. At least, it sounded the same inside my head. Well, inside of a woman¡¯s head or whatever this was. Fuck.


    My arms were slim and coldly free of hair except for a slight dusting of silvery, ghostly ones. My hands felt smaller and absurdly soft. Just holding them beside my face looked like some provocative online photo. And none of this felt like I¡¯d been taken in the middle of the night for extensive plastic surgery. Besides, unless someone secretly shaved my bones down, there was no way to make my hands smaller. Right?


    That wasn¡¯t the only smaller thing though. I pushed up on my toes and that almost brought me closer to normal in the mirror. Shorter, way shorter. Well, not like a foot shorter but it had to be several inches. Best guess. I had a dust-crusted measuring stick somewhere in the closet.


    With a deep breath, I used those unfamiliar hands to probe around my chest. Something was there, with a definite point to it. It was subtle enough that in other circumstances I might mistake it for being blasted by a cold wind without a jacket. Puffiness raised it up a little and it jiggled when I bounced with a knee.


    Lifting up my shirt, it was nice to see how soft and toned I looked. I stopped short of unveiling my chest. Lower, my waist tapered in while my hips spread far. The next part got caught on my waistband before springing free. Though I had gotten smaller overall, that part remained constant.


    It was missing some curls and fuzz but otherwise appeared exactly the same as I''d known it all my life. After checking my reshaped rear, my altered hands traced my slim, smooth legs as far as I could go without accidentally clocking my head with the sink or towel rack.


    Nervously, I returned to the toilet seat a moment before my rumbly little tummy felt like it was going to lose it. Even though I was so much smaller, thatpart still had so much to give. When I was finally done, I sat there for a lingering moment and did my best to explain this all to my bewildered mind.


    I occasionally had dreams that either repeated some point so firmly it eroded my rejection till I had no idea what could be true or it just told me once and I dimly, blindly accepted. If this was a dream, then it had me. I checked the floor and examined the precise details of the restroom. It needed to be cleaned.


    That was good though. It had so many details that if my brain was screwing with me then if something seemed wrong or suddenly altered, or a hole opened up to the center of the earth, then at least I was looking for breaks in continuity.


    Ear-shattering fireworks rattled the window after sizzling like meat on the grill for a few seconds. Did they really have to start this early? Sure, it was summer, but they had all night too. All right, now to double-check reality!


    The towels on the rack had all the same wrinkles in the same tones. No different decorations on the walls. And returning to the mirror after I was done didn¡¯t present me with a different visage.


    It was nice to look at. Really nice. My head felt toasty though. Going to the other bathroom, I was able to find a couple of black hair ties to keep my locks back. They just needed a rinse from when I last used them. I liked to keep my hair long, if I could manage it, but I had my limits.


    After some wrangling, I twisted it into a nice ponytail. The front arched like a blazing comb and the back settled into an even bulb that allowed the morning air to wash over my ears. The face in the mirror still looked pretty.


    Part of me suspected I would soon find myself in bed, returned. However, despite the fact I rationally suspected this was all fake, I thought it might be fun to try a few selfies. It would be as pointless as writing down an idea while still unconscious but couldn''t hurt.


    Unplugging my phone from its charger, I messed around with the photo app until I felt like I had some good light and a fun expression. The first was a little goofy. I pouted my lips and gave a squinty expression that, in my head, felt the most like Gillian Anderson. I had the physical essentials to accomplish the look. Maybe it came down to attitude? Despite how much my face seemed to have changed, it still wore my nerves and shyness.


    Messing around and emphasizing my neckline provided a few shots that would¡¯ve mortified me to ever pass around online before. Although, this wasn¡¯t me, right? This was just an imaginary doll, a fleshed-out paper doll who matched my movements and didn¡¯t want to leave.


    I clutched my chin with my pointer finger and thumb caressing my cheek in a thoughtful expression. Then, I placed a hand against my soft, sleek forehead. Letting those inferno locks fly free again was a necessary sacrifice. It was better, although exaggerating my expressions seemed necessary to really convey anything for the camera.


    I don¡¯t think I gave Narcissus a challenge, but I did rack up several dozen shots. Easing back onto the bed, I folded my arms and traced across the fun, strange, lingering changes to my body.


    What time would it be when I woke up? I hoped I hadn¡¯t missed my alarm. Browsing through the phone, it showed I still had about forty minutes till the angry, math problems-as-a-shutoff alarm let loose. But could I trust that?


    Well, one way or the other, this would resolve itself.


    Listlessly, I scrolled around my apps for a while before finally landing on a short podcast about some rural, British mystery. Curling up in my blanket felt roomier but also stifling with the end bunched up around my feet. It wasn¡¯t long before I drifted off. And it was mere moments later to me when the persistent cries of the angry alarm jostled me awake.


    The crimson locks that settled around my enormous lips refused to fade back into the blank dreamscape as I groaned my way through the math questions.


    When I finally managed to silence it, I swallowed a rough lump and took a slow breath before nervously tapping open the photo app. The awkward lighting did no favors for the camera. Still, I looked nothing like myself.


    I kept a tight grip on my phone case because I didn¡¯t trust my slim, new fingers. In a quick video, I saw a cute girl with pouty lips, sleek soft features, and all the nerves that I felt. It didn¡¯t take much effort to find the other shots that I thought only existed in a dream featured in my main folder.


    My nails were stubby but I still had enough to pinch my lean arms. Obviously, that hurt and didn¡¯t even prove anything to me because my brain knew plenty of dreams hurt just the same.


    Swinging to the side of the bed, I marveled at the tidal wave of sensations. Standing felt weird, but I didn¡¯t stumble. I smirked and tried a few steps around the bed.


    I felt good. And kinda felt like taking a shower. It would be a good way to really understand the differences. First, I set my phone over on the counter and asked my semi-obedient AI for something loud and bombastic. News, narrated stories, and even lyrics often got washed out in the wet static of the shower.


    Once the music settled in, I got to work lifting my top over my head. After a glance in the mirrors, I had to stop and look. What had become of my face appeared so cute, especially with that red hair all askew.


    Even though I¡¯d slimmed down, a noticeable squishiness at my chest remained. They could barely be considered mounds and even though my nipples announced themselves, they didn¡¯t look especially bigger or brighter. With the framing though, there was no doubt that I looked like a topless girl. One who had been conservative in her development, but still indisputable.


    My slinky lower half also had the presence of a feminine shape, except for one key feature, as I slid my shorts and underwear off. If I posed both hands over my crotch (because one wasn¡¯t enough), then I looked practically transfigured.


    ¡°Hello there¡­¡± Practically, as my voice also lingered the same way. I could push it in the direction of soft and high without too much effort, but it sounded neither naturally cute nor pretty.


    Standing there naked, I felt good. I expected my key, lingering attribute to be heavily engorged and gung ho about the situation. While it certainly didn¡¯t shrink from events or the relative coolness of the room as the music continued, it also seemed relaxed. Maybe strange hormones or chemicals were lingering in my body from all this and held it back? I could only guess.


    But what could so completely change me in ways that didn¡¯t make sense and yet leave some areas untouched? Magic, obviously.


    Magic that only seemed possible in dreams. But here it was. Would it have been better if this strange happenstance left me with more than little jiggly mounds? I certainly would¡¯ve noticed much quicker if I had boobs in dire need of a bra.


    I made my way to the shower and stretched to the side as I waited for the cold water to turn warm. The fiery blooms of my locks stretched like heavy strands plastered against my soft shoulders. I wished for more than simple unscented soap to lavish on my shape, but it sufficed.


    The water spilling over my flesh didn¡¯t meet the sensory concentration of hairs, rather it flowed like a whisper of weighty warmth. This finally got some blood flowing. I was used to showering imaginations, where a little depilatory provided the fuel for thoughts of more.


    I shivered, despite the fact I didn¡¯t feel cold, as I tingled more in my thoughts than my body. My hands felt like a stranger¡¯s across familiar flesh. No matter the other changes, that part of my body still worked as expected. It even felt a little painful and urgent with a clock-like throb in the aftermath.


    As I finished rinsing, I lingered beneath the showerhead. A familiar melody settled from the phone as I finished the last of my scrubbing. Only it wasn¡¯t the last, as I had to pop back in several times to get the soap out of some neglected swell of my hair.


    In the bedroom sink and mirror it was freaky to see someone else bearing just a few reminders of my body. Not bad though, although that was a long story I didn¡¯t even really want to tell myself. But staring into the mirror and seeing the face of a cute girl trying on a shy smile, at the same time I felt it, was nice. Like a lingering fog that wasn¡¯t too cold but carried the dust away on billowing curls. And every breath I took felt refreshed, as if sitting in the sweet spot of a humidifier that actually worked right. I used to have one in my room when I was really young to clear up my allergies and colds. When you live in a sandblasted desert, those are the little things you treasure.


    And a cute face that reflected and amplified my mood with playful, damp hair was truly a treasure. Analogies were tough and embarrassing though. The best I could reach for in the moment was the notion of those online programs where it captures your motion and translates it into something cartoony or animated. A vaulting across an uncanny valley and into something that felt truer. What would be a subtle smirk with my normal face, felt like a distilled, heightened grin. The lips helped.


    It all felt so naturally true and gleeful. Worry followed me though. This face was amazing and my compressed shape delighted me. But how would the maintenance go? I did stuff for my pores back in high school and when my hands dried out. Beyond some simple reminders to put cream on, I had no clue how to take care of this.


    Perhaps it was for the best then that I hadn¡¯t been further gifted with something pendulous at my chest and inwardly complicated between my legs. Not that anything about this morning felt simple.


    For clothes, one of the smaller shorts now felt roomy. And I slipped on one of my nicer tops. It angled down like it was fitted without really tracing my shape while bearing loose sleeves.


    My brain recoiled from the idea that I looked like a model in a catalog no longer printed. But I had no other frame of reference. I wasn¡¯t lanky like them though.


    I had to take a few more shots with a mix of playful and animated expressions. It was fun to tip to the side with one hip bent forward and my free hand resting on the other. It was silly but really cute.


    Eventually, seeing the time relentlessly advancing on my phone pulled me away from the mirror. I had to get set up.


    My laptop plopped down on the free space next to the couch with the foldout table which had evolved into a permanent piece of furniture. As I let it start up and go through its routine, I cleared a space on the drainboard and scowled at all the little things I¡¯d left undone.


    Though rinsed, sorted, and mostly dried, plates, utensils, and bowls stacked up in the side sink. Some trash vanished as I bowed and pivoted around areas that needed attention. I wasn¡¯t a rooted stone, but the beautiful craziness had definitely kicked off some moss and I wanted to keep the momentum going.


    After just a few minutes, it didn¡¯t feel as though everything had been refreshed, in fact my little nose tickled at all the dust that had been displaced, but I accomplished something.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Though my stomach considered scrambled eggs and spam, I brushed off the thought and settled before my laptop with a tightened thermos of orange juice. Only once I¡¯d logged on and checked my messages did it occur to me that today might be challenging.


    Through a tutoring service, I had nine students to check up on. It was a charter school I spent some time at and, because of lingering events, they had the infrastructure to tutor remotely. They were good kids, although junior high aged. So, that meant methodically picking apart every single aspect of my life that slipped past the screen and offering strong opinions about it.


    Fortunately, it was easy to find excuses not to let them know about my personal life. It was stressful but nowhere near as stressful as standing before an army of them in a regular class, in masses of three and four dozen.


    As I imagined scarfing down so many things I might cook, I adjusted the feed on the camera. Books on the sides at least made it look academic. But my face. Forgot to brush my hair. God.


    Given a few minutes and some fussing with a tie, it was clear there was no way I was going to hide my hair length and tone. At least keeping it back worked with the way the light spilled through the drapes. Sucking my lips in only went so far, but there was no way anyone could mistake my nose.


    With resignation like a balloon slowly deflating, I sat there and decided I would just have to field the questions as they came. Not that different from the usual but, considering they were questions that I couldn¡¯t even answer, they felt like a vision of claws digging in a deep wound.


    The sharp heat of the awakening summer day didn¡¯t help the tumbles of my stomach or the sweat sticking to the underside of my hair. I left on the box fan to circulate some of the air without aiming it right at me because of the inevitable backwash of dust and sinus destroying breeze.


    Despite everything, I logged onto the tutoring client right on time and punched my digital time card. Not long after, the most diligent students, who were taking this as part of an extensive academic prep, joined.


    For a moment, I considered reciting a sing-songy introduction my mother often gave her classes.


    Good morning to you! Good morning to you. We''re all in our places, with bright shining faces. Good morning to you¡­


    I couldn¡¯t bring myself to say it. Never. All I could hear whenever I attempted it was gravel stuffed into my nose, like my body was trying to suffocate itself from embarrassment.


    It was the same whenever I tried to be cute or playful: brutal silence. The only way I survived those moments was by envisioning myself as a dinosaur everyone was too terrified to address. They reverted to the primal instinct of holding still, as though my awareness was based on the movement of words, and maybe I¡¯d just leave them alone.


    This did have some evidence to back it up. In one of the prior sessions, I accidentally heard one student commanding the others not to say anything more about the topic, so class could end early. Literal shunning that accidentally slipped through the technology.


    I wrote up their behavior, but I couldn¡¯t do anything else except save my tears and exhaustion for when my laptop was off.


    With a deep breath, I spoke in my best fake-confidence tone as I folded my little arms below the scope of the camera. Stomach gurgles, which I spoke over, betrayed my nerves as I did what I could to cloak my lips without something as obvious as a hand. All that would do would make me harder to hear and lure everyone¡¯s attention.


    Balancing an even keel to my words, I ran through a careful summary of the last week along with assignments that needed to be in promptly relating to vocabulary lists, progress updates on diagramming varieties of articles, and levels of deduction.


    ¡°Oh my God!¡± I immediately recognized the voice as belonging to Sophie, who regularly rerouted discussions far afield. Just a tiny slip of my tongue would give her enough material for whispers and giggles for the rest of the week.


    I braced myself and presented, ¡°Yes, Sophie? Do you have a concern?¡±


    She shrieked out a combination of Spanish garbled by the connection and the edges of some profanity. ¡°My sister just like shit herself! You did¡­fuck you! You did!¡±


    I pulled a breath tight and told her, ¡°Relax relax. If you need to step away, do it, but don¡¯t make trouble for your classmates. We¡¯re all here in summer, in the worst part of summer, because we¡¯re here to learn. You¡¯re doing good, Sophie. Don¡¯t throw it away.¡± Jesus, that sounded so lame to say.


    Of course, she had a whole diatribe ready to go about how her sister was doing this and that and screwing around and so many other things I heard before. It was just like normal. Like nothing about me had really changed since last week. I rolled with it.


    It felt weirdly normal to deal with the usual bullshit. Focusing on mere subject confusions felt great. After an interval of live lecture followed by recordings and supplementary materials, I let them work on a segment of independent study.


    Soon after, my phone gave a brisk ¡°DING¡±. Checking the message, I saw it read, ¡°MOM¡±, with the local area code. My fingers gripped the phone and I swiped the banner away as fast as it dropped. Not today. Screw you, not today.


    It was bad enough to receive an endless barrage of calls about extended warranties and how I took a trip with some company I never heard of. But I drew the fucking line here. Don¡¯t you dare try to impersonate my dead mom to squeeze some money out of me. Only once I¡¯d adamantly set ¡°Do Not Disturb¡± did my racing heart settle and my attention return to tutoring.


    We had a little bit of fun as I alluded to textbook graphs missing or having an unclear X-axis. I knew I couldn¡¯t really get into anything political, but there was a certain line that I enjoyed bending my toe towards. Really, all I had to do was to be the braking system for discussions that occurred amongst the group. Youngsters that age didn¡¯t know shit and at the same time they had quite a lot of accidental insight.


    It was easily the hardest part of trying to cut through digressions into the things they were going to be tested on and try to fill in the holes left by chasms of lost school hours. I had to be in control even if I didn¡¯t feel like I was. This wasn¡¯t a chat or gossip group, to paraphrase something I said to them a lot. This was trying to help them through the summer, so they could tread water when schools snatched them back in the dog days. After that, the group would shuffle depending on need.


    Focusing on the standards, lessons, and points for study not only helped to cull a bouncy nervousness, but also helped me reestablish some grounding. Was it fucking weird that no one asked that my face looked different? It should¡¯ve been.


    ¡°Can you give us some sample questions, Miss Jones?¡± Carmella asked that as though just getting up enough strength to speak was her marathon and she was prepared to collapse once the last word left her mouth. I could relate.


    Miss Jones? I waited a thoughtful moment, doing my best not to terrify Carmella into reneging on her question. No one laughed, no one commented. And her whole question had been clear.


    I even made a point of verifying what she asked and she squeaked out, ¡°Yes, Miss Jones¡­ If that¡¯s OK, I guess. Yeah. About the questions.¡±


    What the fuck? I directed them to some web hosting related to the tutoring agency for a PDF download. While they took care of that link, I did my best to gather my thoughts without losing my mind.


    Miss Jones. I was Jacob Jones. I mean, it felt like a little splash of acid on my ear every time they called me Mr. Jones, but I never corrected them about it or said anything at all. What was the point of trying to force them into that sort of thing when they were junior high kids who rolled in contradiction? It wasn¡¯t worth it.


    So hearing ¡°miss¡± casually uttered without taunting sent a shiver through me. It was so very little, yet so much at the same time. It also made my still toasty neck become a raging inferno.


    And it was impossible. Everything so far was impossible. People just didn¡¯t get shorter and smaller all over. Faces didn¡¯t turn beautiful. And a group of junior high kids certainly wasn¡¯t going to call me what I daydreamed about. But I was awake.


    If I could call this any measure of reality, then I had to accept that the impossible had enveloped me. Sure, the kids could be trolling and they suddenly had the best poker faces. I could be experiencing a long-term hallucinogenic episode either from exposure to something in the house or something I consumed last night. That was just a chicken Caesar salad though.


    After pressing a hard nail into my soft slender arm enough that it started to ooze blood, I still have no idea what to think. So, I continued my routine. I made some herbal tea and tested my students on the sample questions. A few of them had their mindset in the right direction, others were seriously overthinking this too hard, and the rest were just patiently waiting to be told what the answer was, more preoccupied with getting that down than figuring out how to get to it. I had to burn a few mental creativity logs to shove the questions into a shape that got them to try to think rather than recite.


    The tutoring agency wanted to work in references to a few YouTube videos because someone who ran it had the idea it would earn them some tech-savvy coolness points. All I could think was how when I was about their age everyone was trying to jump on the same coolness wagon and it felt just a stupid then as now. Fortunately, I had some links that weren¡¯t painfully bad.


    And I had them stop every so often to point out things they might¡¯ve missed or to direct them to pay attention to this or that more so. It wasn¡¯t brilliant shit, but it did the job. After a small break that included some independent reading and group chat, I brought them through a closing rhetorical lesson.


    It all felt so normal until my sign-off was answered by a wave of, ¡°Bye! Thank you, Miss Jones!¡± Only after everyone present had signed off and I shut my laptop, did I start laughing with girlish fingers sliding over my soft forehead.


    How? How? What? Shame I didn¡¯t have anything worth drinking in the fridge, just a liter bottle of some soda with aggressive bubbles to fill my mouth. After lunch, I had a second session followed by independent help until the evening along with an open line for all sorts of questions. I used to do a bit of essay proofing on the side till late but that had its own sticky mess of challenges.


    Checking my phone, I saw a few new notifications shuffle to the side of the do not disturb function. Freeing them, two calls and voicemails had been saved while a pair of text messages sat in the same thread. Swiping over to my contacts, I frowned at the presence of not only one labeled MOM but another titled DAD.


    Both appeared to be in the same area code, mine. Mom had been dead for seven years and dad for four. I certainly didn¡¯t put those contacts in there and they didn¡¯t even have phones. Well, they had cheapie ones for a time, but they didn¡¯t really use them.


    I decided to check the voicemails first, since that feature had gotten pretty good with sifting out a quiet, mumbling recording from an actual human being.


    Instead of garbage though, I got a transcription that made sense, for the most part.


    ¡°Hi sweet tea this is mom I was just calling to see how you were doing I left you a message last night about what we talked about we¡¯d love to stop by around noon and maybe we could catch lunch things are fine your dad just had to do some routine bloodwork he¡¯s doing great make sure your phone is turned on I know you don¡¯t have the house line anymore will be stopping bye.¡±


    The second one read, ¡°mom again just checking in again to make sure you got my message I love you and I hope you have this in your phone I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯s getting through I think I have this figured out but you know me sometimes I¡¯m sorry I do my best but will be stopping bye to see how you¡¯re doing hone take care.¡±


    So far as the pair of text messages, I was about to check them when a new call came in, from MOM. A tightened ball of irritation clustered in my throat as I tried to take a breath and push the right thing to accept the call.


    ¡°Hello? Are you there? It¡¯s mom.¡±


    Oh, fuck! I had to be losing my mind. It was her voice, her voice and not even the voice from my last memories of her when she struggled to speak or even after she had to relearn how to speak. It was the voice she spoke with from my childhood, clear and bright and animated.


    I had to say something. ¡°Mom?¡°


    ¡°Oh, I finally caught you. Hello, sweetie! Are you home right now? Is this a good time?¡±


    My mother was talking to me. And I answered, ¡° I just¡­ I just finished with my morning students¡­ Not too long ago. My phone was off for that. Yeah but yeah¡­ I guess.¡±


    None of this felt real, as though I had somehow separated from my body and someone else was providing the words and holding my phone. That made more sense, since my body was barely my own anymore.


    The voice of my mother said, ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I wasn¡¯t sure of the timing. Your father had some routine bloodwork and since we were halfway there we really wanted to see how you were doing. We can order something along the way and just bring it or we can make a stop at the grocery store down the block and I can make you a lovely lunch. How¡¯s that sound?¡±


    Beyond the impossibility that my parents were coming, I got hit with the realization that the house really needed a lot of help to be presentable for company.


    ¡°We could go out somewhere¡±, I proposed. No specifics occurred to me, but one step at a time. Even though I urged it would be my treat, mom¡®s voice said she didn¡¯t want to trouble me. No matter where we went, it was clear they would be meeting me. The me I had woken up to this morning. And that was the most terrifying part.


    Nervously, fervently I threw myself into whatever tidying I could do along the kitchen while wrestling the listless anaconda of the canister vacuum hose over to the living room. At least my arms didn¡¯t feel too weak. But before I could even rush across the carpet of one room, the screen door at the front opened and a polite but steady knock echoed through the front hallway.


    As extra confirmation, my phone started to buzz. Letting the vacuum sit to one side, I steadily but cautiously made my way up the steps and to the front door.


    In the harsh wash of the noonday sun, an older woman stood there with a cordial smile on her face. My mother. Although, so many things were different. First of all, I was shorter than I¡¯d been in decades, so we came up to about the same height.


    Her hair was permed like she always kept it when I was young. Even in her last days, it held a rich auburn hue without any traces of gray. The same held true here. She had a sharp, potent perfume that preceded her. In the last days, she was thin in ways I only glimpsed in old photos shared by her half-sister. She was also quite busty and (according to her half-sister) well regarded.


    Those genes were half in me. And I envied it. Playful black-and-white shots from when she was my age and didn¡¯t need makeup to strike a look. I saved her bras but felt embarrassed and ashamed to do anything with them.


    Though the lady standing before me was elderly, she looked like she popped out of one of those late night ads where smiling old women put on some magic cream and looked decades younger than they actually were. She was my mom though, that much was clear. She had the subtle details of my face, before today and even now, although the details of what I looked like still rocked me. My dad stood nearby with several bags in each arm and a silvery beard groomed with a fancy mustache. Aside from a thick head of hair, he didn¡¯t seem that different.


    Urgently, I offered to relieve him of his bags but he only let me take one of the smaller ones. In the kitchen, I felt flush embarrassment that the bag in my hands barely had space to sit, let alone his haul.


    Before I could stammer out some excuse, he wrapped me in a big hug and assured me, ¡°I¡¯ll take care of all this, you go see your mom. Love you, sweetie.¡±


    Back in the hallway, mom ambushed me with a hug of her own. I was awash in her aroma. It enveloped everything. With closed eyes, I started to cry. She could tell, even without seeing my face.


    ¡°Sweetie? What is it? What¡¯s wrong?¡± With concern, she held me in place. I couldn¡¯t stop the tears, not that I wanted to try. But I was able to get some words out, ¡°I¡¯m¡­ glad to see you. I missed you. I missed dad. It¡¯s been...today it¡¯s been¡­crazy today. Really busy. Everything. But I¡¯m glad you¡¯re here¡­ Mom.¡±


    She chuckled to herself and stroked my shoulder. ¡°Aww, Maggie. We missed you too. I love you. Your dad loves you and we¡¯re just happy to spend some time with you. Let me help you tidy up a bit. Your father¡®s got the heavy stuff. It looks like you could use a hand around here. And I¡¯m going to make a wonderful lunch for all of us.¡±

 Chapter 2 – Maggie Jones?

    Chapter 2 - Maggie Jones?


    Maggie? Maggie Jones. Made sense, since the name Margaret had been in my family as far back as they cared to keep track. If I had been born a girl, mom said that was the only name she picked out for me. Compared with Jacob Aaron Jones as the only choice for a boy.


    Made sense, as much as anything since I woke up made sense. Crazy just crazy. Beautiful craziness though. Madness that brought heartfelt tears to my eyes and peace to my soul. Maybe that was it. Maybe¡­


    It was hard to put into words. But if I was dead, then this finally made sense. I remembered something about bodies, pure bodies, and something holy like that. I sure looked better than usual, and I felt good. And everything with my parents.


    So, the Afterlife? Heaven? Somewhere in between, like the constant media joke of weird shit explained by taking place in purgatory? So, where was God? I flinched at even articulating the question inside my head. If I might be being judged then no way did I want to be flippant or blasphemous.


    But when people had all sorts of divine or near-death experiences usually there was a light and a bunch of happy people walking along or going to church or doing all sorts of stuff like that. Surely, someone would come along and explain what happened or I would just know, right?


    Although, I never really looked into how purgatory supposedly worked. All I could remember about the topic specifically was a web novella about a mobster who wound up there and swapped bodies with a ¡°dame¡±. I mostly checked it out for the fun part, but it seemed like he didn¡¯t know that he was dead and actually stuck in an eternal, hedonistic realm where he had the choice to repeat the mistakes of his past or learn from them and carry on.


    I dunno, I never really finished it. I just read it for a couple scenes. By now, it had probably slipped between the crevices of the old Internet.


    As I reflected on all this, I helped mom tidy up with some light cleaning in the living room. I considered apologizing for the state of things, but my brain darted out ahead of my words and wondered all over the place. When did they last visit? Had it looked like this? Was it vastly different? Were they just as confused as me but taking it in stride?


    As I dusted off the area under the crucifix where their urns would¡¯ve been, I traced the stray thought that I first put up that crucifix as the beginning of a memorial for mom. Why was it still there?


    ¡°So, how were the kiddies today?¡± Mom organized a few things and gently opened the drapes to let some sun filter in.


    Automatically, I looked towards my shut laptop, as though the summary of my workday was inscribed on the lid. ¡°Productive. I mean they all seemed to be doing well. The usual troublemakers tried things, but I was able to keep them on task.¡±


    It was jarring to witness my mother listen attentively and with genuine curiosity. The mother who consumed my memory languished with atrophied, twisted feet in a home hospital bed. Sure, she asked what I was up to but just as a momentary distraction before the pain returned to her thoughts. She wanted me to help her when there was nothing I could possibly do.


    It just became a loop where she asked for help, said it was just a little bit of help she needed, said oh don¡¯t do anything then, because it¡¯s fine but yet she needed help just a little bit of help oh don¡¯t do anything because she just needed help a little bit of help oh don¡¯t do anything because she just needed a little bit of help just a little bit some help oh don¡¯t worry about it it¡¯s just a little bit of help just the help just to help just do a little bit a little bit a little bit a little bit just a little bit just a little bit¡­


    As relentlessly as a wind-and-water shaped stone, something fundamental was eaten away inside me from those years. Something I had to talk about, even though I didn¡¯t have words for it. Now, was it all inside my head?


    I plastered over reflection to give the appearance of trying to search my memories for something cute to say about my students. Carmella was easy to talk about like that.


    Mom had familiar stories about how often her family had to move at that age and how it made learning to read and be confident difficult in classes. I hinted at strategies I would just gloss over to the other version of her. This mom was sharp though, she recited all related approaches to reading. She had opinions about dual immersion, Montessori, and phonics. I trembled and fought to keep my words from wavering.


    To say it was refreshing to actually talk to my mom in such a friendly way fell far short of encapsulating my emotions. Like finding a rich, cool oasis in the desert that clung perfectly to my soul. I wanted to cry again but that would just worry her.


    It didn¡¯t take long before dad had somehow brought the kitchen back in order, aired things out through the screen door without inviting the noonday heat inside, and had several cleaned electric fans with wet towels to spread a cool breeze where the AC seemed unable to reach.


    Fervently, I thanked him. He laughed with easy confidence and disarming warmth, unlike the tormented hyena cackles he unleashed in the depths of his advancing dementia.


    When questions came of lunch, I thought small, maybe some repeat of my salad from last night with a little fresh chicken. Mom had more ambition, presenting the idea of a thick, rich chicken stew that I could have for several meals. She also had a few recipes, which could be made with all the groceries they brought, annotated on her phone.


    Who were these people? And where had they been until this day in my life? The questions sat like a sickly stone deep in my gut. I didn¡¯t really want answers, I just wanted to shake loose my fears.


    ¡°You¡¯ll love it. Come on, Maggie. Mother-daughter cooking time. Let¡¯s get to work.¡± Fetching a broom from the laundry room, dad went out to clear the dust from around the sliding door.


    And I had no words. That felt like most of my morning. What was wrong with me? Why wasn¡¯t I happy? Why, instead of beaming at mom, did I feel I was about to hurl into the sink? Why did even tears feel like something painful caught inside me?


    I had to excuse myself to the bathroom, to just sit there and tremble. Soon, I started chewing on my nearest thumbnail, nibbling off the end until it became jagged. Again, I thrust the point of it into my side, my arm, my face, anything that might truly feel it. It hurt and this time drew a full trickle of blood from my arm.


    I pressed on a little bandage as I nibbled the nail down. Unlike when I usually did this kind of thing for nerves, I didn¡¯t find any dry skin to rub off nor did it start bleeding.


    The pretty girl in the mirror expressed all of my nervous fear. I tried not to inflict too much on her. In the kitchen, mom soon put me to work with vegetables, cutting and rinsing. The regular whisk sound of dad with his broom echoed from the carport.


    As we got through the first part of the recipe, mom asked, ¡°Anyone special lately?


    It was a familiar question, especially from my mother. But also the sort of thing I got asked by caregivers for my parents through the years. Old ladies are terribly preoccupied with whether you¡¯re getting any. Although, maybe that¡¯s a cynical read. They want to make sure you¡¯re hooked up with someone, especially someone with money and looks. It was one aspect of by-birth girlhood which I was glad not to catch the full hurricane force of.


    It was noticeable to me that mom didn¡¯t specify a special boy or a girl. We had a few chats about the sort of thing when I was younger. Firstly, she asked me for precise information about how lesbians ¡°do it¡°, as if I was some sort of secret one or had other insider knowledge. Then, she asked me not to be gay, with the heartfelt explanation that she didn¡¯t want things to be ¡°made harder¡± for me. I told her that wasn¡¯t it, but left unspoken, ¡°If only it were that simple¡±.


    The strange but familiar woman preparing chicken stew with me wore a kindly expression with her question.


    Sincerely, I answered her, ¡°I don¡¯t know. It¡¯s hard to tell.¡±


    No matter what version of my mother I was dealing with then, that answer would¡¯ve been easily questionable. At least this one responded reasonably with a careful iteration of my claim, ¡°Hard to tell?¡±


    Fortunately, my prior experiences with my mother prepared me for enhanced interrogation. It was simple to segue into, ¡°Who were we talking about last?¡±


    That question was a risk, especially with my mother as I knew her. But her questions were never as subtle as asking if I had someone special. It would sound like a joke to say she basically asked, ¡°Are you fucking?¡± But not inaccurate. When I was in my teens she had the schism of desperation between wanting to conjure up a grandchild and claiming I should just be happy.


    Not as though she wanted to speedrun grandmotherhood, but more like she was far behind and things finally fell into place, so she was mashing B to keep me from turning into anything but an inseminator. That thought process amused the hell out of me as she never played a video game in her life. Although she did enjoy Skee-Ball.


    Essentially, at random times, my mother would present pointed questions about whether a girl I had mentioned in passing from class or elsewhere was girlfriend material, like I should be interviewing her for the job. Her scrutiny extended to all of my friends in a way that totally reminded me of the clich¨¦ of an Asian mother, but which was still quintessentially Eastern European by legacy.


    That was the war of words I knew. Now, it seemed like there had never been a conflict. Which made my evasive questions all the more difficult to stick to. I couldn¡¯t just pretend not to know friends and lovers mentioned to my mother.


    In my head, my question felt like yanking out a critical, foundational block on a wobbly tower. The only way I could even imagine stability was by pretending my question had layers. A sense of melancholy. Romantic trepidation. And a moody sort of loneliness. I probably failed at such subtlety, but I had no other options.


    ¡°Jess, your high school friend. Her mother finally retired recently but didn¡¯t want to have a party. Your father and I helped her pack up her things. It was nice seeing the old school. One of my kiddies is actually back and teaching. Camille Lawrence, Miss Lawrence. She had a crush on you waaay back then."


    Everyone secretly had a crush on me. Half a dozen guys in high school and well over a dozen girls. And then some of the shy kids in my mother¡¯s classes. Camille, I actually remembered. I was in high school and she was ten years my junior. While I was helping with a reading lab, she snuck up and kissed me on the cheek. I figured it was mostly a dare from that class¡¯s infestation of girls. Half of me was embarrassed and the other half wished I lived a life like a little girl. This day, I¡¯d gotten half that wish.


    How long have I been like this, so far as my mother was concerned? Was this me on hormones? Before I could respond to the hints she¡¯d given me, mom washed up and went for her purse and her cell phone with a plastic and metallic case showing breaching whales and dolphins in a heavenly landscape. She smoothly showed off photos taken recently that included Camille standing amidst an elementary school classroom with images of ladybugs, numbers, and words sprinkled everywhere.


    My mind both acknowledged and rebelled against recognition of the young woman in the photo. On the one hand, she clearly looked like a version of the little girl I¡¯d seen regularly when helping my mom. At the same time, she couldn¡¯t possibly be that adult, because she was supposed to be eight years old inside my head.


    Mom didn¡¯t overtly say that she was single, but she did highlight the fact that she was ¡°Miss Lawrence¡° and she further offered to send the photo over to my phone. Jess or Jessica Katz felt a little more comfortable to discuss. I had discussed her with mom, back in college, when my relationships were her preoccupation. She had naturally red hair to challenge the radiant locks I¡¯d been granted.


    We hung out a little although I made every possible, boneheaded social mistake and she shrugged them off with a smile. All that on top of quietly, nervously wishing I could stand in her shoes. Well, not in every respect. She had plenty of health issues that I wasn¡¯t keen to inherit along with her body. At the same time, it all felt like a fair trade-off since I had my own issues. She also fervently, earnestly held views that weren¡¯t popular around school at that time. If only I hadn¡¯t fucking cared so much about popularity with groups that didn¡¯t matter. Maybe I could¡¯ve been more of myself, or at least a better friend to her.


    ¡°There¡¯s a lot on your mind¡°, mom expressed during one of the obvious lulls. I resisted grimacing but couldn¡¯t stop fiddling with my hair. We went back to cooking and I took a few deep breaths before I found the words, ¡°I¡¯m just glad you¡¯re both here. You¡¯re special to me. Both of you.¡±


    It was a copout answer, and I could tell from mom¡®s expression that she recognized it as such. Still, she gave me a little rub on the back and the kindest look I¡¯d ever seen from her.


    ¡°And you¡¯re a special young lady and I just wanna make sure you have someone who complements you and understands.¡±


    A chill, like a cold but invisible waterfall, rushed through me. I wanted to cry, as it collected into prickly fear. Either she didn¡¯t know, or she was humoring me. It felt good. Even though it didn¡¯t feel true.


    I remembered my mother raged about how men could not possibly understand a woman¡¯s ways. All the torments cast upon a girl, all the agonies, all the burdens, and all the inescapable realities. That¡¯s why I kept silent. That was the baseline, and I couldn¡¯t even get to it in this life. I still couldn¡¯t. I had a pretty face without a girlish voice. I had a womanly shape but a small bump up top. I possessed long hair, velvety soft skin, and meager height but none of the internal complexity.


    So these new words, these placating words felt so good yet so hollow. I answered simply, ¡°Thanks, mom.¡± And gently assured her, ¡°I¡¯ll be fine. It¡¯s okay.¡±


    She didn¡¯t press on this sensitive point, where I had no idea what reality now reflected. Instead, she mentioned all the little nice things around the classrooms. She discussed who on the campus was pregnant, who was in charge, who had been replaced, and all the little silly things with the kiddies she saw here and there. I offered up enthusiasm in the form of succinct answers like ¡°Ooh¡±, ¡°I see¡±, and ¡°goodness¡±.


    I could tell from mom¡®s expression every so often that she was expecting more from me in reply, but I was empty. Anything I could tell her beyond this morning would be drenched in doubt. Dad¡¯s sweeping provided an ever-present background sound.


    When the stew was ready, I assisted with tidying up the spots in the kitchen we both could reach. It was still disconcerting to be on the same level with my mom and several inches below where I used to be on everything else.


    Out of all changed, I didn¡¯t mind that at all. I had some navy blue hoodies for fall. They were a few sizes too big, and I liked the way they nearly reached my thighs. Now, depending on if they still existed, they would surely feel more like a little dress with my small hands completely enveloped in their sleeves as the bottom likely reached my knees.


    The weather was still too hot for them, but that was something to look forward to, especially if today persisted. If only whatever magic could work on me completely. If only I had a kaleidoscope of forms to choose from. If only I had all the clothes I could richly imagine. If only I could truly feel the words my mother shared with me. If only I had a history growing up the way that felt most natural to me. If only I could stop hating myself¡­ if only.


    But I had this at least and it was a respite. A respite from loneliness, where the flaws of myself came back severalfold. I thought about helping my dad clean up, but a sudden spell of sneezes when I approached the door led me back over to mom. She handed me some tissues.


    For the stagnant air, we wiped off a few more fans with damp towels and set them to run. That circulated the central unit¡¯s cooling. After a rinse, mom continued wiping down the dining room table. I drew in a tight breath and had to say, ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    Foremost in my thoughts, that apology was for a dozen little things and countless big things. It was for the embarrassment I felt at how much the house needed this cleaning and how eagerly these versions of my parents tidied up for me. I also felt sorry that I couldn¡¯t provide the answers and enthusiasm of this version of my life. The apology also landed on one moment that could never be reconciled.


    The day my mother died was a day of shame. I had been dragging what still lived of her through all the strain and care I could bear. People came, but not often enough. Help was there but only in the worst moments. Care was provided, but only at the greatest cost.


    On the day my mother died, I was afraid. She had persisted through several rough days of laborious breathing and physical strain. Na?vely, I set up a family board game around her hospice bed. All it provided was a negative memory for my dad and the assurance he would never bother with such games again. That morning, the nurse plopped down in front of me that my mother was actively dying, which seemed like an impossible notion.


    Even though I watched her struggle for each breath like a pale fish cast on the shore, and sometimes stop, it didn¡¯t make sense that she could die like this and in this moment. I wasn¡¯t with her in those moments. Rather, I called for an ambulance, checked her out of hospice, and tried to roll the dice once more. She barely made it out the door and into the ambulance. She passed somewhere along the way, alone.


    I never saw her body again as the hospital took her right to the mortuary and I needed to make sure dad was alright with all of his own health problems. At least dad was with me during her cremation and memorial.


    When it was dad¡®s turn, he went out with a sneeze. I was there but blindly I didn¡¯t realize he had stopped breathing for several minutes after that last sound. As recompense, I held him tight in a hug.


    Movies, shows, theater, and so many other things characterized death a certain way. He didn¡¯t smell of anything, especially since we had just bathed him in bed. He felt lukewarm but not cold. He didn¡¯t shit himself. In fact, that he hadn¡¯t passed much of anything for several days was a matter of concern that morning.


    It was a cruel morning, one with uneasy, achy sleep that I dragged myself from one sliver of brief rest to another. Denial followed everyone but me for several minutes. I hugged him and laid out a river of words against his ear. No way he heard me. He hadn¡¯t said much of anything in weeks, except to plea for the same rote notes of help.


    Still, as I numbly watched his forever resting face, I felt a subtle pressure on my left shoulder, as though a tender weight rested there. One of the caregivers randomly remarked that I had an angel on my shoulder. Reflective uncertainty but also stoic ease settled on me.


    Perhaps there¡¯s no way to deal with anyone¡¯s death without the racing, continual scrutiny that you could¡¯ve done something else or something more in the end. I didn¡¯t deserve to hate myself, yet it was still unavoidable.


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    And that was just a sliver of what my apology stood for. The woman before me, who was my mom and wasn¡¯t at the same time, gave a sweet lilting chuckle. ¡°Oh honey, don¡¯t you worry. It¡¯s fine. I love you. And your dad loves you so much too. Anything that¡¯s stressing you out is yesterday¡®s news. Don¡¯t let it get ahold of you. Tomorrow brings a new day, and let¡¯s enjoy the precious gift of this moment together.¡±


    Serenity swaddled me while the clearing breeze of the fans washed away the intensity of the summer. I didn¡¯t feel like I was in my body and that was actually true. A good half of this wasn¡¯t the body I was used to. But I also felt like I was floating on my shoulder, which my rational brain reminded me was where my brain sat. Rather, it felt like I was experiencing everything and I was separate from it at the same time and still intimately a part of it. That contradiction was exactly the point.


    I expected to wake up and see that the world still made sense, in all the terrible and beautiful ways it had before. But I sat there as dad sprayed water along the side of the house to get the dirt that the broom couldn¡¯t.


    ¡°That¡¯s a lot better, haha,¡± he proclaimed, with a brush of his broad hands. I practically jumped into his arms and he didn¡¯t wobble as he shut the sliding door behind him. When I was young, my father loomed even though my mother had the broadest, most soul-shaking presence. With almost half a foot lopped off my height, I had to reach up to embrace him again.


    He rubbed my shoulders with strength shown through moderation. ¡°How¡¯s my little girl?¡±


    Another tingle dropped through me. I was so happy to hear that, to feel those words.


    He received my full, heartfelt apology for things he couldn¡¯t possibly understand. His reaction was to twist his mustache and beard into the shape of bristled confusion. I tried to cling to my emotions like the edge of a receding cliff, but I soon plunged into tears.


    I flowed with blubbering, incoherent words and sounds which echoed in my head and left the moment I spoke them like an incantation of desperate hope released into the world. He brushed my hair and kissed my forehead.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay. Everything is fine. And it looks great outside too. I made sure of that. It smells fantastic in here. Is everything ready?¡±


    Mom responded, ¡°In a minute, just need your help serving it.¡±


    And he went to work without complaint. I darted about and asked what I could help with. They both made sure I sat down with a napkin and a place setting.


    I just couldn¡¯t sit still though. First, I had to hop over to the bathroom, where I freshened up my deodorant and briefly marveled at my reflection. And then, I adjusted my hair, gently washed my fresh face even fresher, and considered washing my feet in the sink for just a moment.


    The stew was already set when I returned. A little bit of bread with garlic seasoning sat off to the side and mom had prepared a tossed salad. I couldn¡¯t stop grinning.


    And I was asked to say grace.


    ¡°God¡­ Thank you for this meal and the warm presence of my family. Thank you for the blessings You have given all of us. Thank you for this time that we have with one another. Thank you for health, love, and beautiful little days we treasure even though we don¡¯t understand them. Thank you in so many ways. God bless and keep us. Amen.¡±


    My parents thanked me. I nodded. I said so many empty or rambling versions of that before. Usually, when I was asked to say grace, I tried to offer what I thought others would want. I had no idea what to ask for or present. I couldn¡¯t sincerely speak the needed words. They felt so hollow. I couldn¡¯t believe them.


    This day felt like an overwhelming blessing from the moment I woke up. The morning teaching session had its moments of trial, but not even divine providence could do anything about that. Just being Miss Jones, Miss Maggie Jones, left me practically stupefied.


    If someone out there was looking out for me and was responsible for the opportunities of the day laid out before me then it only felt right to thank them. And the stew was good.


    It didn¡¯t have the kind of seeped in, fall apart flavor it would have if it had been cooking throughout the day, but it was good enough for a nice lunch. I started coughing at one point and realized I was eating too quickly, so I slowed down and sipped my drink between. My parents made sure I was all right and we all laughed at the fact I was scarfing it down, which mom took as a subtle compliment. I was just used to eating alone so often, ever since the caregivers and anyone who hung around afterward had left.


    Sitting up in the chair was different than usual because of my height and the form of my lower body. It felt like when I had something turned the wrong way, however, it was in every angle of myself in this chair. I enjoyed the chair. It and the others around the table had been here longer than me and survived so many of my childhood antics. They were durable. A wobbly but still worthwhile one sat in the side office for many years and provided a place where I could sit and type. I preferred it to an office chair or even the couch I currently used because it was hard and numbing to all the discomfort of sitting for endless hours.


    Usually, I would wind up with too much of my legs underneath and either cross them or shift them off to the side and cling to the edge of the table nervously to find a spot for them. Because of this I often wound up shaking tables when I didn¡¯t mean to and got brow beaten by mom before. Now, with the new shape of things, it felt like I had just enough leg for this table. They still felt a little itchy where glossiness met its match.


    The food was amazing, mainly because of the company. I savored the time and the flavor. Some casual conversation clued me in that my parents lived at a hybrid retirement community known as Santa Maria Crescent, a place out to the west and close to the hills where all the Basque farmers lived. They had some hot springs out that way. It was also where my grandparents lived until my grandmother passed away. I was too young to remember what she or their place was like. All I could say about that time was a story my mom recounted for me where my childish brain said that grandma was in a treasure box. In my unreliable memory, I just knew that I touched her face a lot and prayed that I could rouse her. Then she would sit up and smile. Mom told me to stop doing that.


    When dad passed, I tried the same thing when he was still warm. I tried to pull open his eyes and reveal that he was just really zonked out from being moved around and cleaned. For an instant, I could imagine he was still there. I removed a disk of dry skin in his mouth and tried to see if something had blocked his airway. I never knew how he died, despite the sneeze. At his stage, accurate causes of death were like searching for individual snowflakes in a blizzard.


    And yet despite that horrible way to wake up and tiredly care for him in his last moments, begging him just to hold on and bear moving back-and-forth painfully, he sat before me, in the way I knew him best, blowing on the hot stew as his silvery mustache fluttered. Part of me scolded myself for dwelling on such painful memories, but they were a foundational part of who I was and what I could be certain of.


    For all my dreams where they were resurrected irrationally like this, with the dream stress that I would have to deal with making sure everyone knew they were alive again, waking reality returned to sternly remind me of what was true.


    All this had to be a dream, or the biggest whoops reveal of quantum immortality anyone had ever seen. Honestly, that seemed like a silly notion. We die a million deaths in lost quantum realities. Every glitch that doesn¡¯t match our memory is a twinkle left behind from an abandoned world.


    Sure, I felt like I had cheated death in a dozen random ways that people usually attribute to a guardian angel. Breaking on a green light in an intersection only to see a crazed driver plow through and just barely miss me. Nearly choking from a fever only to wake up and hear your babysitter did the right thing at the right time. And then all the Internet stories of lives lived in an instant and deaths ditched.


    The world has its mysteries, but it usually held them close to its chest. Like a girl on Reddit who claimed to remember being a boy until some random trip to the hospital where her entire life changed and she woke up totally different. I felt solidarity with that random user. She figured that she would remain as she was before or be butch and hold onto some measure of her past self. But she adapted, as though it was nothing but a fever dream and a mild imposition. The universe shifted her into line. Or she just had a moment of madness that she never forgot. Or she was just telling a story.


    There were more like them though. And there was me. Would I forget that this was ever special to me? Did it matter one way or another that I remembered? I forgot so many things, from random shit on any given day and countless passwords to entire people that I knew growing up and what they looked like. Whole grades of school were a gray haze, even on a good day.


    Beyond a dream or a hiccup of reality, there was one notion I felt like I had orbited but not touched seriously. Perhaps¡­ this is what happened when someone died. Someone with preoccupations of devotion and responsibility. Get up, doubt yourself, get to work, cry and fuss over a beautiful day, and hope it goes away. Like a spirit trapped in routine. When I turned on the faucet, was it like that movie with the mother and her two kids that couldn¡¯t be out in the sunlight? The one that tried to be a creepy twist on top of a creepy twist. If there was a real world, how much time has passed in it while I remained here? Who was I scaring with cold spots and mysterious noises?


    I let the aroma of the stew, with just enough seasoning and smell wafting up to my nose, linger on my spoon before licking it off. If only due to idealized versions of my parents visiting me, the idea this was some sort of limbo or afterlife made sense. Maybe a scaffold of the mortal world to ease me towards whatever came next. I got what I wanted with parents free of pain and dementia. My body had all the cute compliments of a girl¡¯s shape without the complication of a uterus or the intimidating pressure and presence of a resounding set of breasts. Oh, that¡¯s sad¡­I would¡¯ve preferred a cuter voice but mine wasn¡¯t outside the range of some.


    Voice seemed more about attitude. When I had the presence and preoccupation of a female self, it was impossible for me to be recognized as a man over the phone or inattentive conversation. Heck, in some of my previously treasured moments, I had to put on rebuffing amusement for walking into a restaurant with my hair grown out and the server accidentally asking, ¡°Where would you like to sit, miss?¡±


    I wanted it. I enjoyed it, even though I had to put on the airs of being casually amused but not offended. Plenty of padded-out self-help books seized onto the notion and power of the human mind to reshape reality. For me, it only happened when I wasn¡¯t thinking about it. Like an idle notion crossed, like a misconception floating by. The most casual of determinations. Like thinking about a turtle in your front yard for a split second and it emanates like mental smoke into the air. Randomly tomorrow you encounter such a creature crossing your path on the stoop. It happened to me all the time, especially when I didn¡¯t intend it. None of them could be ascribed more than random cosmic coincidence. But I like to daydream that it was the possibility of an immense, untapped human power to reshape reality.


    Against dreams that didn¡¯t wanna quit, afterlife segue, or universe reshuffling, it made the most sense. I had done this to myself, by no conscious choice but an idle fancy, since forgotten, wishing my parents were alive and like they had been decades ago with me feeling cuter and girlier.


    Because I had no intimate knowledge of what everything down there was supposed to look and feel like, my spell cast on myself hadn¡¯t done anything to that. Furthermore, my voice was an innate part of myself. However, in the shadowy recesses, I knew what it was like to be smaller, and I had some presence of hairlessness, softness, and a cute face.


    Of the theories, it made the most sense in a weird sort of way. That also left it as the most terrifying possibility because, if I was responsible for all of this, then what would happen if I had another stray thought that got lodged in reality? Anything could happen to anyone at any time. A trickster God playing a kindly trick on me almost felt more reassuring.


    By the time my spoon started to clink around the bowl, mom delighted in mentioning a board game at Santa Maria called Settlers of Catan. She had purchased several apps in the same vein for her phone and laid it out just to show me. The strangeness of my mother talking about games and sharing them with me left me briefly silent before I tried to wrestle up to the surface all the interesting board game knowledge I could conjure into words.


    Granted, my parents were wholehearted, unabashed nerds but ones who preferred literary strangeness and William Shatner shirtless.


    I liked both of those too, but games were pretty much an exclusive thing to myself aside from a simple Atari collection my dad had for several years in the 90s, more as an object of fascination that such simple collections of bits could be used for such complexity as a space shuttle simulator. Now, it turned out that dad had a space in Santa Maria where he collected snippets of every generation of game console. As he described it with a smile, I kind of wanted to see it and both of them were eager for me to visit and bring any ¡°special someones¡° I could find with me. I was just eager to make a better last game memory together with my family.


    Despite all the fans, this side of the house was starting to get warm. I could really go for a trip to the small civic waterpark a mile down the road. Granted, how would that work for me? Did I have to wear a proper bikini, one-piece or two, or would they treat me about the same? I didn¡¯t mind the idea of going shopping with my modestly-altered shape, I just wasn¡¯t sure where I stood.


    A casual mention of the water park brought mom to a similar notion of me trying on clothes. She always had that preoccupation. My focus when looking for clothes tended to be laser-tuned. It had to be material that didn¡¯t trigger a skin reaction, which breathed nicely, and which promised a decent amount of durability after several washes without fading in color, for a fair price.


    With her arms folded, mom speculated about a variety of skirts I could try on in colors ranging from a sharp red to a sea blue. I barely breathed as she sincerely listed off styles that she thought would look nice on me. Resisting my cheeks from growing flush was a quiet but challenging struggle. I spent far too much time fiddling with the material of my shorts, as though that might transfigure it into such a skirt.


    Long ago, I had saved an image with many of the names given to common types of skirts. It was lost somewhere in the archives. Mom didn¡¯t know the names either, but she demonstrated by pantomiming their shapes and descriptions, comparing some to flowers and others to curtains. We both agreed that something loose would be best.


    Her phone returned as she brought up the inventories of some local stores along with the outlet mall to the north. She saved pictures of ones that she thought would look nice on me and then slowly segued into asking about my hair. Except for the occasional bright tangle that popped loose from my tie, it was easy to forget it was around. Idly, I pondered what it would be like to brighten it up to a red of absurd incandescence. Then, I immediately squashed that idea since I had fretted over idle notions becoming powerful spells.


    Not that I didn¡¯t like the idea of the color but with all the changes to me lately, I felt anxious about how many eyeballs I might catch in public. A certain part of me slyly hoped it was all of them and for all the right reasons, which immediately caused the rest of me to recoil in horror.


    By the time we finished lunch, my parents had penciled in plans for, not only our usual respite by the beach over the summer, but a clothes-shopping excursion and an opportunity for dad to show off the recent greats of his gaming collection along with the outline of so many other possibilities. I was daunted by the exuberance and energy they infused me with.


    Despite my pleas not to worry about it, dad snuck in tidying up one of the bathrooms before they left. Mom kept to social concerns, still mindful that I hadn¡¯t given her much of an answer about my interactions with others. Instead of trying to confabulate something, I just told her that things were still busy and it often felt like I never had enough time, even though I worked from the house. She answered that she understood and smiled about tutoring work and even kindly alluded to my writings.


    I had no sense of how this version of me and the one who went to bed last night compared so far as our writings and what stories were under their belt from their experiences versus mine, and I wasn¡¯t quite ready to look at what places things might be posted online. However, this meant I could only tell her my thoughts about old story concepts of self-aware weapons in post-apocalyptic worlds, along with World War II retellings of alternate realities, and weird baseball games.


    She enjoyed my little mentions of characterization more than anything else conceptual. And she encouraged me to keep at it. Once the table was clean, she helped me arrange leftovers and other foods for later.


    I made sure they had plenty of water and they took care of themselves getting in the car and slowly driving away. The front of the house seemed a little less desolate than usual with an invisible gardener tending to things even more rigorously than my father possibly could¡¯ve. It certainly wasn¡¯t perfect or even as well attended as sometimes, but it looked incrementally better.


    The same could not be said for my little car, which was approaching its college years in actual age. Whether there was some translation like human years to dog years when it came to vehicles, I didn¡¯t know it.


    It still bore signs of a crack on the right side bumper where I had struggled to fit my father¡¯s wheelchair when I still ferried him to regular doctor appointments. Reality felt like a twisted bread of elements that didn¡¯t exactly fit together. That was fine. But I would have a problem if it decided things needed to go back.


    Despite the natural state, I already had warm feelings about these parents and spending more time with them. And I appreciated my reflection in the mirror. If I had to lose at all, then so be it. I just wanted some time.


    It didn¡¯t have to be years, let alone the supposed eons it was said some spent in layers of the afterlife. But just a little time, to be happy and let some regular days permeate me.


    Afternoon instruction and tutoring would provide me with something to focus on for the rest of the day. Meanwhile, I stood with the full sun blazing down on me as the underside of my bundle of bright hair crawled with sweat.


    Back inside, I went through the motions of a little more tidying up where it could use it as I basically flirted like a coy Narcissus with my passing reflections in the mirror. It was like puppeteering a cute girl¡¯s expression as she lingered where I should¡¯ve been.

 Chapter 3 – Further Changes

    Chapter 3 - Further Changes


    It occurred to me that with the right presentation and venue, images of me could be worth something, even if I was just counting pointless Internet prestige. Nothing too flashy or salacious, because I had dipped into the wrong end of that with confessions during substituting and heard no end of comments. Something fun but still professional.


    Setting up my phone as well as the angle and the table would allow, I adjusted my top and considered lightly stuffing it to give slightly more of an expression. The first few shots suffered because, even though my parents had opened some of the drapes and cast pools of noon day light around, we had eventually drawn them to try to control the summer heat. Eventually, I just got lucky with a good angle on the couch and enough spill light from the kitchen. I undid the ponytail and posed my hair for different moods.


    I tried a flaming waterfall of hair, then a wannabe seductive glance with my locks carelessly askew, as though I¡¯d just woken up. Making fancy hair compositions was beyond me but a variety of ponytails were kind of fun. I still had that X-Files season one Gillian Anderson look, a style that very much felt like a work in progress. I crossed my legs as tightly as I could bear.


    After about a dozen worthwhile shots, I linked up my laptop with my photos account and checked how they looked on the larger screen. I saw my face in the webcam preview for instruction but it was a pitiful resolution compared to what my phone could create.


    In some of them, my eyeline had issues. But I picked out a couple that I thought weren¡¯t too bad. This was stupid though. Where was I going to post them and why? It would have to be somewhere that focused more on faces, maybe?


    I knew some of those. Pretty fast, I realized it was like taking a few swings at a batting cage in an arcade fun land with a putt putt golf course and then making the next step signing up for minor-league baseball. Every post was basically a perfect celebrity. Or it was someone with maximum cleavage and a top that showcased it. Even posting areas that supposedly focused on faces had their images cropped to the contours of the neckline.


    Instantly, I just wanted to back out and not even bother trying to find somewhere to post. That said, I considered maybe a theme. Playing up a teacherly look was the opposite of what I wanted to do though. And everywhere I went was just boobs.


    My stomach issued the most vocal complaints as I did my best to breathe and figure it out. Ultimately, I started sifting through a girl next door kind of page. It wasn¡¯t ideal, but it at least seemed to be the closest thing to the next step in showing myself off.


    Initially, I considered telling a version of my story which was like ¡°working from home and feeling bored¡± but that sounded way too much like a blanket invitation to be flooded with messages and horny comments. Although, wasn¡¯t I fishing for the interest of users?


    After a long time browsing around for the kind of image I had and the sort of impression I wanted to give, I finally landed on a ¡°cuteness¡± focused page which wasn¡¯t as active as some, but still looked like it could work.


    Creating a new account, I soon smirked and snickered that it had taken me this long to realize that my recast initials were MJ.


    Unfortunately, every possible username that popped into my head sounded like a vague allusion to something else. Which made me nervous if anyone ever connected it to my regular accounts. So far as my regular accounts, a few of my alts were unchanged but my primary email had Margaret as my first name now. If it had changed earlier in the day, then I just didn¡¯t notice it.


    After way too many minutes trying to come up with something that felt eloquent and yet evocative of my new identity while not giving the game away, I eventually went with a random name generator and christened myself¡­.¡°strutting_iguana¡± without any real rationale behind it.


    From there, I did my best with free photo editing options to make my pictures look as good as possible. Tapping the sides of the keyboard with my nails, I was immediately at a loss for what to title it.


    ¡°Hey there, boys¡±, was the first thing to pop into my head and the subject of immediate, mortified cringe. First of all, that was way too provocative and would give a mixed message with my strait-laced image and intentions. Whatever my intentions were at this point. Mostly, I  just wanted to have a little fun. In the back of my head, I knew that showing myself off was either going to be met with absolute silence as my postings dropped into the purge pits of the Internet or I was going to be overwhelmed with attention I had no idea what to do with.


    God, keep it simple. ¡°First post, hi there everyone. Hope you¡¯re having a nice afternoon.¡± I filled everything out and made sure the image was hosted at a decent quality and then I went through practically every pixel of it to make sure it presented me in the light I was hoping for. I also double checked the rules. It was specifically a safe for work slice of the site which encouraged being safe. Not that I felt I needed to be protected, but I also didn¡¯t want a free-for-all.


    Would¡¯ve been nice to be able to show off a little bit more, but I already had so much. Taking the plunge, I clicked to release the post. Naturally, nothing happened in the moments right after. I did receive a message from the auto-mod welcoming me to the channel and saying that my post was provisionally approved and would be public as soon as it was checked by a person. I leaned back and sighed.


    Soon after that, I found a similar place to post focused on faces. Using one of my other shots that didn¡¯t skew too provocative, I thought about making some sort of meme joke before just iterating on the first one. Following that, I still had a few that looked like I recently came out of the shower. I had some general options but nothing I felt comfortable with which wasn¡¯t completely bereft of activity.


    While I did all this, I had a phantom smell infesting the inside of my nose. Automatically, I figured it was just mom¡®s perfume lingering in the house. But that had a sharper aroma. This seemed like fresh linen with a floral edge. I hadn¡¯t left a bar of deodorant nearby, I checked. Blowing my nose didn¡¯t change it and, when I moved around, it seem to follow me. I just hoped it wasn¡¯t something bad.


    Once I pushed through a layer of stories about bad celebrity encounters, I eventually paired my tussled hair photo with a meme about Mondays. Low hanging fruit, but it was my best effort. The remaining shots didn¡¯t seem like enough to bother with finding a home for.


    I had three posts though, all showcasing photographs of myself that I just took without any special work done to them, makeup, lighting, or anything. My heart raced and my legs felt tingly and cold despite the sweaty presence of the room.


    I had plenty to do so far as prep for the afternoon session, so I tried to put things out of mind and just let myself be pleasantly surprised when people responded. Once again, I questioned myself about why on earth I was bothering with putting so much emotion and effort into something that felt like tossing a piece of paper into the wind. The old version of my parents would absolutely have something to say about this and I fully expected the same would be case now.


    It didn¡¯t take long before I was crying again and didn¡¯t understand why. No matter what happened with the three images I sent out, like bottled letters to the turbulent tides of the Internet, I could tell I would both overthink it and feel a waterfall of fear with every random comment that judged me physically. Literally, I was inviting scrutiny from a bunch of random strangers. Maybe that was the point.


    My tutoring students were nice to me, but I controlled the fate of their summers and whether they got credit. My parents were my parents, no matter how changed. And I could hardly be considered an objective party to myself. The opinions of Internet strangers were meaningless. And yet it felt like it could be a blast of cold water to be told that I either looked better or worse than the immediate sphere of opinions around myself.


    It meant absolutely nothing and yet I wanted to hear what they had to say, for another sample of this reality. If nothing else, maybe those who looked at it might be turned into a redhead like me. Funny notion.


    I peaked at the stew leftovers a bit as they started to collect some condensation. I wished that I had more soda to drink, even though there was a time when I drank far too much and I did a number on my stomach, just like a hard laxative.


    Some crackers that weren¡¯t expired made for a nice little snack with my usual water bottle. It would¡¯ve been nice to put my bottle in the fridge top or the freezer below but, despite how much I craved icy water, it didn¡¯t seem worth the effort compared to one of the liter bottles I barely managed to fit along the top row of the fridge door.


    As I enjoyed the clear, freshened air around the computer, I tabbed over to the assignment queue. Of the afternoon students, a good three-fourths already had their assignments turned in, although a couple of them were double posted with accidental zero-byte files. I wasn¡¯t a stickler about this sort of stuff. As long as it seemed like they were working on the assignments, I could still mark them for participation.


    The agency officially said that all assignments needed to be in at the exact time marked by the instructor. Fortunately, that was just a box to tick. At the same time, I made it clear to everyone, morning or afternoon, that if they tested my good graces then they couldn¡¯t be assured I would help them out.


    Probably the most fascinating thing I had gleaned through teaching was the way that students responded to questions and ideas. Even freshmen have a hardcore bullshit detector. None of them were interested in the current president, even though he made speeches that pumped up his sympathetic tones towards them. As an afterthought, I checked Google to make sure that the current president was still the current president. Yup.


    They didn¡¯t have evidence, nuance, or reasoning to their statements, but they had enthusiasm and a blanket sense of determination. They were intimately aware of the kind of discourse shared on the Internet and between their friends, however, none of that touched upon their domes of thought. All that was reserved for influencers, musicians, and ¡°gotcha¡± moments, at least as far as I could piece together with my adult brain. And they always managed to surprise me. Except when it came to passages in their essays precisely matching a search for Wikipedia.


    Because of that, and especially with this group, I did my best to pass along the idea of re-contextualizing or rephrasing material so that it didn¡¯t sound like you just changed a few words in a quote, but that you¡¯re taking that information and trying to do something more with it. God, I was so used to lecturing that lectures played out in practice in my head.


    Afternoon session would be about the same as the morning one except for some included notes that we¡¯d gotten further into a review. A few of the early students popped in with messages and asking about grading. As I sifted through, my eyes rested on a name that stuck out as oddly unfamiliar.


    Susanna Coronil. Now, I had a Felipe Coronil who had been with this tutoring/class session for most of the summer. But I had no idea which last names were basically like my own for commonness. Could also be his sister or some other relative. The odd thing was that several assignments were marked for this class as done. Of course, the powers that be so far as regulating class load and kids in the tutoring system moved people in and out a lot. I made a little note on my lecture page to let Susanna introduce herself if she wanted and get her familiar with how I did things as an opening.


    Things started to move fast once students showed up and I had to organize their questions and concerns according to who I wanted to provide answers for privately and who should be on the public video stream. I learned pretty fast with the system that there was basically no privacy and if you wanted to cut loose and drop a quiet or frustrated word then it was best to just cover up your camera before you did so. I got a note about a screamed obscenity pretty early on even though all the students had signed off and weren¡¯t there to hear it. The problem was the system kept recording if there was something in the feed to listen to, so someone saw the microphone peaking at the very end and I got written up about it.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    I liked the afternoon group a little bit better than the morning one but there was no way I would tell one or the other that they were my favorite, even though there was a bit of a competitive game between the two of them for a while. Some of them just rolled out of bed after a noonday nap and others had been psychologically beaten by their other classes so far. What it amounted to was a group that slumped down in front of their cameras and accepted what was coming. Most of the time.


    Today was already pretty active with wholly inappropriate questions about defining a ¡°skank¡±. My response was to wring all the coolness out of the word through my adult analysis of alternative definitions and pulling up the Oxford English Dictionary. I expected that I had metaphorically dropped the terminology to the level of any person my age doing a dab pose. It wasn¡¯t quite as methodical as my word-by-word etymological assassination of every phrase in their lexicon.


    However, I did manage to segue it into the opening practice of grammar and rephrasing. As I pivoted from that initial note to making sure everyone was present and logged in, except for Felipe, I glanced towards Susanna¡®s webcam.


    She had on a bulky black shirt as she hunched over a spiral ring notebook with a pink pen in her left hand. Her perfect circle glasses with a fringe of light silver not only completely enveloped her eyes but stretched down to her rounded cheeks and her full eyebrows. A sweep of sharply crinkly hair flowed over her shoulders with a fair golden reddish tone that didn¡¯t feel too different than my newly bequeathed locks. Felipe also had naturally curly, dark hair.


    They both had a certain awkwardness. Felipe had stark lines to his face like someone had shaped him with a chisel but didn¡¯t have the time to finish the edges. Susanna looked kinda like a balloon, both in the soft swoop of her face and as though she was holding onto a nervous breath and trembling to not let it go.


    As things settled, I sent a quiet private message welcoming Susanna to my class and asking her if she wanted to introduce herself. She sent me back question marks and fervent bewilderment that immediately surmised that she¡¯d done something wrong. Hastily, I reassured her that everything was fine and I appropriated the blame myself. Without prompting, she said that this was week five and wanted to make sure I had her assignments. Not even hearing that she had a 93.8% grade assuaged her nerves.


    I had a hunch. It wasn¡¯t one I wanted to immediately indulge nor was it one I wanted to toss out without consideration. So much changed with this morning that it didn¡¯t seem like a stretch that odd ripple effects were out there. Had I done it?


    That felt way too presumptuous. Granted, the notion that this girl Susanna woke up as a girl, or something like that, in the same way I did was fascinating, even though I had no confident clue how to ask her if anything was amiss in her life.


    ¡°Is there anything you¡¯d like to tell me privately?¡± It was the best I could do but at the same time, I absolutely knew she would take it the wrong way and be stressed out that something she had done might¡¯ve been conflated or misconstrued as cheating.


    Ultimately, she had other stuff on her mind about grammar rules and confusing vowel sounds and was too embarrassed to say it before the group. Those were areas that I didn¡¯t even feel that confident myself about the sounds matching up with the symbols used. I promised to give her a special PDF with as much information as I could offer.


    She left me with her own question, ¡°Is something wrong? Did I do something wrong, I didn¡¯t do anything wrong, I hope I don¡¯t know I I hope I didn¡¯t¡­¡± Her words petered out with a squeaking shyness that I envied. Unless this was a large-scale prank with elements that included hacking the grading system, she was sincere about everything. He used to be Felipe but now she was Susanna. And the universe just accepted it.


    Or I was going nuts, and my memory of a male student was false and this was reality, along with a whole lot of other memories. I sifted through the details that I knew about Felipe. Susanna¡¯s skin tone was closer to a fair cocoa butter tan while Felipe¡¯s was a dark, almost Indian almond tone. So far as size, it was hard to judge because the camera was positioned differently for her with the bulk of her computer chair back cut off. She had to be at least a foot shorter though. And her limbs were even more drastically altered than mine had been.


    I had to feel a flair of envy from the absolute mountain range that distorted her black shirt, even though I didn¡¯t want to linger there in my thoughts. Was she and her family happy though? Such a drastic change and maybe she had memories about it but perhaps she just dismissed it as a strange dream compared to the certainty of the rest of the world and everyone who knew her. Was it better to remember or forget? I swallowed hard.


    She deserved an answer, so I assured her that it was nothing she had done. Rather, I explained that my morning had been full of unexpected surprises and quite expected warmth with the desire to just sleep through it. As well, my answer alluded to a visit from my parents preoccupying my thoughts. They were all deflections.


    To set her questions at rest, I came up with the answer that things my mother said left me thinking about certain students and whether I was overlooking problems that they might not have the confidence to share with me. It was a response that benefited from the fact I didn¡¯t have to find words to phrase it but rather sent it over to her in text. Despite all the practice of stating things out loud, just typing was preferable.


    She thanked me for my concern, also in text, but nervously reassured me that, as far as she knew, everything was fine on her end. And this would be enough. We both had other concerns to pivot towards.


    I sifted through the guided initial practice while going over essay writing and similar lessons of rhetorical style. How to make an argument, how to recognize an argument, how to respond to an argument, and once again and always, how to restate information without making token changes while still retaining the core insight. For some reason, everyone wanted to talk about alligators, so I worked off of that.


    We went through examples of objective information regarding alligators and passed through the gray area where it became subjective claims. How their teeth compared to crocodiles. Then claims about disposition and assertions about being menaces.


    Styles of learning, especially to me, had been disproven and also fallen out of favor with my tutoring employer. Some new buzzwords about ¡°holistic education¡± filled their space. That meant making sure photographs of the subject I was talking about supplemented the discussion while everyone was listening to me and the system required a certain amount of notes to be taken. Basically, that meant I could see whether anyone was typing while I was lecturing.


    If I wanted to be a hard ass, like some of the summer teachers they had, then I could ding them for not registering any activity on their keyboards. It also meant that the agency basically allowed keyloggers and other invasive software to watch exactly what they were doing. Some students removed it, because it was bullshit. I even helped them do it.


    In my first year tutoring and instructing from afar, I didn¡¯t have the confidence to supersede the program like this but by the end of it, I got in contact with another instructor with a bit more experience and learned I could just say that the key stuff was corrupted and they wouldn¡¯t bother to check it.


    That didn¡¯t mean that the students who obviously weren¡¯t bothering would get a free pass, it just meant I would have to pay more attention to them in my closing write-ups about why they got certain grades. Just normal teaching attentiveness. As a closing section and a middle finger to one of my teachers in my post-grad program, I worked in the rhetoric of poetry as a method of applying the lessons of regular writing to flashier varieties.


    I argued in one of the books that I created for a class that breaking apart complicated writing was important for students because poetics are often used to strengthen an argument. Maybe it was a bit petty, based on the fact I got marked off for having chapters dealing with poetry in a rhetoric book proposal, but I often found that the students really enjoyed those ''digressions'', especially when I broadened poetry to include musical stylings.


    We got through the vast majority of the material and then some as I started to sweat in the main room from the advancing afternoon. Re-positioning as many fans as possible helped a little bit but far less than I would¡¯ve preferred. As well, I felt a vague sense of humidity which did little to muffle the heat. It wasn¡¯t till we were almost at the end of class that a distant rumble of thunder rippled against the windows and started rattling the air around me. None of it was in sync with the students as they all experienced a sense of thunder several minutes later or not at all. The problem was the next couple of rounds led to a faint brownout that dimmed the lights and rattled many fans around me. Fortunately, the Wi-Fi stuck around.


    Of course, the last few minutes of the session devolved into excitement about the noises nature was making. I did my honest best to hold things together with a last thought connecting the power and influence of nature in a poetic rhetorical sense but my energy for the day was fading. Only a few students lingered after time to privately pose me a few questions on some points where they were unclear. This included Susanna, who thanked me for my time but didn¡¯t allude to any differences in her life or perceptions.


    Soon after this, I shut my laptop down out of caution and returned to my phone and the cool darkness of my bedroom with the dense, palpable clouds rolling over the afternoon. I had zero messages with strutting_iguana. None of my posts and images had been deleted or blocked. In fact, one of them had 10 points while another had 27 and then the last one had 12. Those were fair numbers for first postings, but no one had chimed in with words one way or the other. God, it hurt.


    The soul-crushing horror of presenting something creative online, just to receive a void of silence from everyone or some token statement, had long-ago been etched into me like a hardening of my skin, soul, and heart. It still hurt, but I¡¯d come to expect it.


    To put forth a face that still barely felt like mine but which I had some hope to share with others, was a fresh, raw space like something painful wrapped around delicate skin. It didn¡¯t matter to me, it shouldn¡¯t have mattered to me. That¡¯s what I told myself, yet I still felt like crying over the implication of apathy.


    If I had an even prettier face. If I had nicer nails. Absolutely, if I had a full, noticeable chest to express some cleavage. If I took the photo a little bit better with a nicer setting, better lighting, or a superior locale. It was the same trap I sprung every time I put myself out there, one way or another.


    It didn¡¯t matter. Yet, I was still hoping I might get something. The dense, nearly-dripping air around me provided a nice distraction. It wasn¡¯t like an old family trip to Missouri where the air just about smothered me when I was outside. Nowhere out here could get anywhere close to that level of humidity. It was refreshing though. A storm to wash the worst of the summer away and make sure that dad¡®s cleaning job outside had a proper rinse to go with the scrub.


    Finding a spot on the small porch, I could feel the closeness of the clouds. The heat still smoldered despite the change in the weather. Sizzling droplets flicked over the pavement and danced through the leaves above. Not enough to even dampen the ground. Eventually, the wetness remained even though it didn¡¯t seem long for this world.


    As the storm settled into a menace that blasted the grounds with inconsistent waves of droplets while flashing lightning in the distance, I decided to get ready to head out. It was an utterly terrifying prospect. How would the average person see me? Again, it didn¡¯t matter in the least and, at the same time, it preoccupied the nervous twisting and turning of my excited nerves.

 Chapter 4 – Shop Around

    Chapter 4 - Shop Around


    First off, I reflected on all the things around the house that could be re-purposed into a purse. Not that I exactly wanted a purse. But I could easily see the utility with all the crap I usually had to stuff into my pockets, along with the recent addition of my phone.


    Despite considering a few options, nothing fit the bill for my needs. At least, I could grab one of the umbrellas and use the phone''s original box to keep it dry.


    I unleashed my hair out of its little ponytail and judged my walk in the larger mirror in the bedroom. The shake of my broad hips and supple behind kindled exactly the sort of reaction I was hoping to avoid in public. Even the thought of being out in public fed back into the flow...in a difficult to restrain fashion. It was way too hot for one of my navy blue hoodies, yet I still grabbed my cleanest one for something to at least wrap around my waist.


    It was an awkward and painfully obvious cover and also emphasized my big ass. Experimentally, I slipped on the hoodie and relished the way it made me feel. It fell across me in the way I imagined a dress might. The sleeves overwhelmed my hands and gave me material to twist and curl and play with. At my chest, it was easy to shift the front to give more of an impression that something was there than my meager but still sensitive chest.


    How far it fell while still retaining the softened outline of my shape was a mental boost. I just could not bear to wear it out in this weather. If things got worrisome though, then at least I knew it was a tent I could retreat into. Begrudgingly, I pulled it back around my waist and got ready with some deodorant and a quick wash to make sure I felt fresh.


    Groceries weren¡¯t a problem, thanks to my parents. Still, there was plenty I could get. Mostly, I felt curious about roaming the areas where I usually didn¡¯t go. I considered Walmart but the nearest was a shade off being a hellish, nightmare pit with dirty floors and forgotten merchandise under the newest management. Target wasn¡¯t much better, but it sat next to several shops and boutiques I was eager to try out.


    Plus, the blighted well of mediocrity that was Target would at least give me an impression I could work with. And it wasn¡¯t a long drive.


    I couldn¡¯t seize the ease to put on Spotify or some other musical app to kill time while I rounded the corner and merged onto the main road. I popped open the window to let the old sense of dust inside the car and the oppressive steam clean of the outside mingle. Spittle rain continued, interspersed with flicks of heavier drops that cascaded through the dirt and dropped away from the windshield like congealing sweat.


    Past the mobile home parks and the small market, I noticed there seemed to be new construction on the main road not too far from some of the elementary schools. Instantly, my first hope and thought were that they had somehow put down a bookstore less than a mile from my home. That used to be the case, over in what used to be a bowling alley and then used to be a Kmart, and now had become an indoor swap meet, past a series of restaurants, nail shops, and what used to be a major supermarket before their culling began.


    The purge of bookstores was even more painful though. First, losing this independent one nearby. Then, all the little ones owned by other companies inside the mall. Then, the stray ones I had to travel near and far to find. A regression and retreat from fun possibilities. I vaguely entertained the thought before glaring at my ineffectual wiper blades.


    Naturally, people were blasting sheets of water at full speed from the intersection as I carefully made my left into the Target parking lot. It wasn¡¯t raining much but areas like this side of town seemed to pool the water into sudden flash floods. Fortunately, the parking lot was easy to navigate on the left. When I pulled into an empty spot, I took a long moment to release a slow breath as the wind whipped sprinkle obscured the view. I wouldn¡¯t need my phone here, so I took the blanket from the backseat and gently covered the box. It also didn¡¯t appear that the rain was heavy enough to bother dragging an umbrella around. So, I turned and unfurled the hoodie as a shield to get inside.


    I barely felt a chill. Past the giant red balls out front, I grabbed the nearest cart and held a breath. The cart felt subtly taller than I was expecting. It was enough of a difference that I took a minute to adjust my arm position. I hadn¡¯t needed to fix the seat or mirrors in my car when I got in.


    I mentally floated past these thoughts before focusing on how exposed I was, even with a hoodie as an odd security blanket. I puffed a few locks of my damp, red hair out of my face before blindly fixing it to look as good as I hoped it would.


    My lower legs already ached, as though I¡¯d walked the entire way here. They were bare and exposed but silky smooth as they brushed against each other with each shy step. Orbiting on the edge of the aisle, I glanced over at women¡¯s accessories. Some cute bracelets, hair ties, necklaces, and other items shared a display case and a little turning thing.


    Weaving between everything in the section, I lingered by the neutral-toned purses after skipping around the hot pink and glittery silver ones. The prices were not exciting, but there was one purse constructed with a slot for a cell phone in mind. The edge had the zipper on the outside along with a silken lining.


    Again, the price was not in the range where I would leap at it but nothing else quite caught my eye. So, I casually and quietly dropped it underneath the basket in my cart as a possibility. The dangerous jungle of possibilities and fear lay ahead.


    Bras. Skirts. Full flapping dresses. Garments I really didn¡¯t have a ready name for. But if everyone was going to treat me like a lady and this was my look then I needed and wanted something that made sense, even though I felt so in over my head standing before the kaleidoscope of colorful clothes.


    The first, daring move I made was to gently lift a bra off the rack and check its information. The world didn¡¯t end. Which is always a good start.


    I earnestly lingered on an understated, silky skort with the material flowing freely but joining in the middle. It felt like the kind of hybrid garment I could transition to first before I got more adventurous. My nerves felt so raw and attenuated that a lingering clerk who suddenly and sweetly asked me, ¡°Can I help you with anything, miss?¡± was nearly enough to launch me into the air.


    She noticed my jolt and asked if I was all right. My first reaction was to dress in the fastest smile possible. From there, I had zero trust in how I made sounds to her face. My brain ran so hot, like a computer screaming over every possibility, that sweat threatened to stream past the rain moistened tips of my bright hair.


    Cautiously, I cupped my mouth with a tiny cough and faintly answered, ¡°Sorry. My¡­ my throat. Looking around.¡±


    The clerk immediately went into what was surely a practiced sympathy mode as she laid her hand near her neck and responded, ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry! Was there anything in particular or any section you were trying to find? If you can¡¯t speak, I have a print-out catalog with the different departments and you can just point to what you¡¯re trying to find.¡±


    That was very nice of her, even though the attention of her gaze threatened to drown me in a pool of my fluids. I waved her off with a smile and a shake of my head without trying to speak again.


    After that, I was basically left to my own devices. I knew that people were around, other customers and clerks. But none of them focused on me. Eventually, just standing around this department didn¡¯t feel as crazy as it had minutes ago. Maybe I was just making too much of it, but it was still incredibly stressful.


    But again, the world didn¡¯t end and I had to deal with how things were.


    Bottom to top. Shoes. My feet were absolutely smaller but it wasn¡¯t such a drastic change that my feet felt uncomfortable in my original sneakers. Of course, I had no way to tell if these were my original sneakers. Maybe they were a little bit smaller. My feet shifted some, even with the laces is done tight. and there was definitely a space at the front of the shoe. They weren¡¯t uncomfortable to wear, but I could absolutely see myself in something smaller.


    This was not the place I wanted to look for shoes, especially since open-toed options were the norm. Now socks, I could get behind even though it¡¯s still felt like I would be in the range for my usual pairs. Because of the summer heat, I often went without. But some sort of cute, light sock did appeal to me. After that, there was no way I was going to look at ladies'' underwear. Granted, I had a notion of how I could make it work but that didn¡¯t feel like a priority. I could just grab some generic stuff in cotton with a nice color.


    Pulling in a breath and tightening my boldness, I dropped one of the skorts into my cart along with a succession of denim long skirts and other sorts with natural materials. My nerves started to fade when I found some nice fitted-tees and tops that I thought would be loose. But I had to try stuff on.


    Just holding things against myself and hoping, with how much my shape had been altered, was not enough. For the lady behind the changing room desk, I made my voice small and issued the same excuse about not being able to talk. She counted up how much I had and gave me a numbered plastic tag. The walk back through the changing rooms made me swoon, as though I wasn¡¯t fully in control of my body and rather just some remote control toy moving on a tank-like delay.


    Not even getting inside the stall felt comfortable, as my brain flashed with a dozen fears that someone, despite all the privacy promises that everyone made, would be watching me in a secret room. So, the changes between each outfit were a quick and nervous flick-flip which left me stumbling and staggering on my feet.


    If not for feeling so distended and exposed by the skirts, they would¡¯ve been quite perfect. I liked the way they billowed while remaining close. I¡¯d never worn a kilt, but I enjoyed the feel of this. Of course, everything underneath wanted to make itself well known.


    With a deep breath and a quick sit on the bench, I regained some of the restraint and stability that I needed. The clothes had that store stiffness you would expect, but I delighted in the material. At the very least, I could easily see myself wearing skirts around the house and out of view of the teaching camera and then pop on the tops later for the heat of the summer afternoon.


    In my head, however, I was already close to $100 with just a few outfits picked out. And these were actually rather large on me, the new me. I didn¡¯t want to spend all afternoon here though, especially when there were options further down the strip which might be cheaper and more interesting. So, as a compromise, I grabbed onto a handful of things that looked really nice and felt like I would find reasons to wear them, and then carefully checked their sizes.


    This nervous trek back-and-forth had me fighting with parts of my own body for whether I was going to pee myself or do something else. Fortunately, I wrestled enough willpower to keep my body from spazzing out. The ankle-length dress, however, which felt oddly comfortable, challenged my will. Looking in the mirror had me flush and turned on in ways I could scarcely imagine. It was like being the human embodiment of a reflecting pool as stones kept crashing waves inside me over and over. And I was on the precipice of all that spilling forth.


    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Squirming in place, I managed to instill just enough terror, of the right sort, into me that I put a cap on it. Power shuffling my way out in my normal clothes, I zoomed for the nearest restroom. I felt relief that it was a family style one which didn¡¯t force me to choose. In the large stall at the back, I ripped off my shorts and plopped down on the seat. My traitorous thoughts recalled the feel of that dress just as I was starting to relieve myself.


    It was coming. Shuffling back and not trusting the open notch at the front of the seat or how elevated it was, I exploded with all the sensations I¡¯d restrained. Several things hit me at once.


    First of all, I pulsed with the sensation of every wave. It was like a spurting fire hose thrown over a series of hurdles. At the same time, it felt thin, strange, and oddly viscous. Like I was still stuck in peeing mode, but with something new. This just shoved another firecracker in as it all started to hurt without me touching anything.


    I could easily imagine this was where everything would change even further. And that just threw another accelerant into the mix. Ultimately, I felt like I had been screwed by a ghost.


    Cleaning up in the restroom of a Target was trembly and shameful. At least I didn¡¯t leave any stains on my clothes but their industrial, one ply tissue paper crap was not up to the task. The stray notion that I¡¯d had a sexy rendezvous threatened to reignite the powder keg. My imagination played with fire, briefly envisioning all the possible details. It wasn¡¯t helped by the lingering aroma.


    Outside, I veered away from clothing to see if there were any treats I could add to my basket. Chocolate might be a fun experiment, considering one of the myths was that a woman¡¯s sense of smell and taste (as I had a woman¡¯s face) made chocolate a completely different experience from what a man felt. It might¡¯ve been a myth and this wasn¡¯t a very scientific test, but I¡¯d still have chocolate.


    I limped a little amongst crowds, in part because I felt nervous worry that what had happened to me was obvious, however people saw it, and because I felt drained. After picking out a few things, I decided it was time to head off somewhere else.


    For the check-out, I used the self-service section and managed to escape without dealing with anyone else. The clouds still weighed heavily but blue sky, with the cast of the evening, parted them.


    The overpriced body stuff store might be worth a stop, even though I only really tried the pillow mist and aromatherapy bottles. I¡¯d been out of all of them for quite a while and it hadn¡¯t really made much difference.


    The first thing I noticed was that everyone who worked there had a long, perfect hair. They finally got rid of face coverings, so I could see an army of smiling faces with also perfect teeth. I felt slightly better that the lady towards the front who was placing several squeeze tubes on a shelf had a similar body type to me. We were about the same height if I stretched out on my toes.


    The sweep of her hair ranged from an almost-blonde that sat near her shoulders to a much darker tone towards her roots. On the whole, it appeared like streaked mahogany brown. Some part of me calculated that I was at least fifty percent as pretty as her. But the confidence-breaker was my voice.


    Once again, I feigned laryngitis or something similar, smiling while tapping my throat and resting a hand against my lips. A turn and a faint, covered cough was all I needed to add. She passed me off to a coworker with black hair who folded her arms in front of her and offered me some possibilities for what I¡¯d like to buy. I gestured around and looked.


    And my nose took in even more. A few test spritzes and being immersed in that small shop helped. My sneeze, even though I caught it, sounded bigger than my size. I earned quite the ¡°bless you¡±.


    After browsing a bit, I left without buying anything. None of their prices or deals were worth it. The discount clothing stores just past was no-frills, even though they did have some changing rooms. No one in there was at all worried about how I looked and I could tell, by how some ladies were digging around for deals on their hands and knees.


    One huge benefit to the place was that they surrounded it with nothing but mirrors on the walls to make it look bigger. Target had something similar but far more subdued and I was too distracted to even bother noticing.


    Here, I wandered a section and then frowned in surprise as I noticed a girlish redhead passing by wore the kind of random stuff I usually did. She frowned to look over at me and it took a silly amount of time to realize I was judging my reflection.


    The mirror before me was bigger than the one at home, while still being discount quality slapped up on a wall. At a glance, I could find no doubt that I looked just like a girl. From the side, I had a faint trace of bumps at my chest, something that would vanish if I added so much as another, scant layer.


    I hadn¡¯t been hunting for them, but I could go looking for push-up bras with some sort of insert. If only I had my phone with me, so I could have some sort of guidance. At least, it didn¡¯t take me long to find some options in an area off to the side. They looked like the kind of stuff I¡¯d seen before. Some had a squishy, underside section while others were paired with a very soft, flesh-toned insert.


    I felt like I was wandering into a pool in which the tips of my toes were straining to touch bottom as the water nudged me forward. Oh, swimsuit. If I wanted to head to the waterpark then I had to remember to get one of those. Granted, I could just go in some shorts paired with a light top.


    Poking around, I found what felt like a holy grail of sorts. Not only was it primarily cotton in a deep blue that I adored, but it was a pair of swim shorts with a slim shape. Unfortunately, this meant looking for some sort of bikini top or at least a sport-bra-looking one. After digging without needing to crawl around on the floor, I had a few candidates. Along the way, a few of the ¡°maximizer¡± bras and inserts got added to my narrow cart.


    Once again, it was back to the changing room. The lady at the bench barely paid attention to me. Not as though Target was the Ritz Carlton of changing rooms, but the floors felt like they hadn¡¯t been washed in this section since the store first opened. Hanging things up and juggling what I could, I worked through.


    The swim short felt rather like scuba gear but made of materials that I liked. I chanced upon a top that fit well with my new size. It couldn¡¯t pull off a miracle, nor did I expect it to, but I still felt faintly disappointed there wasn¡¯t more to show off at my chest. Past that, I felt comfortable.


    The real test came with the bras. I chose some with the enclosure in the front and tested out each style. My back popped a few times before it hit me it would be easier just to rotate the bra around and adjust it afterwards. I got adventurous with some picks before finally settling on a combination which reduced doubt that something was there.


    It was such a minuscule difference but one which drastically altered my perceptions. With that little boost of boob, it was easier to feel my sleek, soft, cute face. Slipping on my hoodie made me feel especially nice like that, even though the swamp cooler didn¡¯t seem like it was doing anything to cut the storm¡¯s mingling heat.


    Playing around with the combinations left me in a slim top with the nicest padded bra underneath and a fun, fluttery skirt. None of the clothes had been washed yet, so they had that awkward itchiness, but at least they didn¡¯t feel like they¡¯d been scoured across the floor. At the changing room lady, I stood there in my choice of clothes and meekly spoke, ¡°Can I wear them out?¡±


    My emphasized bumps were my meager bulkhead against the nervous tones of my voice. The lady looked frustrated and annoyed with my request, even though she didn¡¯t turn her sharpest scrutiny on me. Going back-and-forth I had to show her everything and she had to write down all the information. I wore my hoodie and turned over my debit card to be used at the front.


    Everything together stretched well past $300, but I had several outfits for swimming and lounging around the house. And that was with several manufacturer¡¯s discounts. But I was wearing a loose and airy skirt with all sorts of other stuff. If not for the nervous swelling between my legs contained by a pair of bicycle shorts and completely obscured by the skirt, then everything would appear perfect. I even stopped to linger at my pleasant reflection in these new clothes.


    Miss Maggie Jones. Now, I felt settled enough to go purse shopping. Although anything to replace my ancient wallet from when I was not even yet a teenager seemed overdue. The discount place next door had a denim purse with several slots to safely stash your phone. And it was cheap enough I could just roll with it while keeping my eyes out for something fancier.


    I didn¡¯t stay long, as it felt like the ravenous beasts of a dozen sandstorms had been trapped within those walls and deprived of a proper meal. Plus, their air conditioning was even worse than the other discount place. The purse looked like a deal, although it definitely deserved a run through the wash after it had to endure somewhere like that.


    The storm left behind a heavy, prickly mist. While large sections of pavement had been flooded mere minutes ago, now large swaths of it were completely dry. Turning left at the light near the bank, I merged onto the main roundabout that would take me back into downtown.


    For all the development, this area still remained largely empty. A major hospital chain had a clinic building to the left which they had promised, for decades, to turn into a proper hospital replacement. To the right, a large market and gas station stood alone like a sentinel against the void.


    Further up to the right was the first of many smog check businesses, along with a small strip mall, a storage place, and an aeronautics magnet school past the intersection. Before the intersection though, something was different¡­


    A patch of land not only had been graded, stripped of its sparse desert vegetation, paved, built on, and assigned businesses, but those businesses were open and in full display. A nail spa on the edge was the constant blood sacrifice to appease every business center in town. Although, as things now stood, I was more interested to see what kind of services they offered.


    Next door to that was the first business that made me widen my gaze. It was called simply, ¡°Critical Hits Gaming¡±. The window advertisements teased a swarm of physical and digital entertainment. And it was less than a mile from my house. A sandwich shop I didn¡¯t recognize sat next to it. But the thing that got cars beeping behind me, because I stopped in the left turn lane a moment to stare, was the surprisingly large bookstore anchoring the plaza.


    This had to be a waking dream. This just couldn¡¯t be possible. The town that I lived in was far from perfect, light-years even, but it had quirks, cracks, and flaws I¡¯d gotten used to in my life and actually appreciated. One of the things that I knew intimately was that whenever I found something fun in the area, it would tantalize me with it for a short while, then ultimately take it away.

 Chapter 5 – Changes & Stasis

    Chapter 5 - Changes & Stasis


    Maybe that was more a sign that certain businesses just didn¡¯t have a good plan for selling relatively-niche products to this community. An anime store at a blind section of a strip mall where everything else was auto parts, liquor, Chinese food, and used furniture. It just didn¡¯t fit. The video game shop next to a wannabe-hipster coffee shop with old chairs and bric-a-brac strewn about.


    And then there was the tiny game place hidden behind a Denny¡¯s. The only bookstores that endured were the survivors of major corporations and used sellers who occupied a tiny corner of a pseudo-intellectual loft next to what used to be an independent theater. And then the Christian bookstores that clung to mega churches.


    This was like finding a winged unicorn that shat gold and could grant you unlimited wishes while wearing a wreath made of seven leaf clovers and hauling a sack full of every lost book in history and every wiped golden age television episode.


    On the other side of the plaza, a fish grill place, a fresh food market, and an insurance business filled out the rest. The cement slab for a standalone drive-thru restaurant had been laid and flanked by temporary fencing as a sign marked the owner of the property but not the business anticipated to occupy it.


    I had to head past the property and circle around on the other side to enter without having to deal with traffic. Pulling into the lot, I drifted off to the side to just admire what was laid out before me. It was like my own personal Brigadoon. I didn¡¯t want to shut my eyes for too long, lest the illusion fade away.


    The bookstore was named ¡°Starlight Pages¡±. An open novel with galaxies, rainbows, and castles spilled across the sign. The entire front row of parking was filled with the sections in the back about half occupied. This half annoyed me because it meant I would have to park a little ways back, but it also pleased me because it implied that at least this place had customers and a decent opportunity to survive a little while.


    For all the enthusiasm that spilled from me, I warned myself to temper it with realistic expectations. The most pessimistic version of my thoughts equated the appearance of the bookstore to the emphasized bumps presenting on my chest. I told myself half its bulk was likely storage with a lot of musty used titles and ornamentation to distract from their meager shelves. Likely, as well, several of their products would have to be non-books they were selling on the side, like wooden sculptures, shirts, or trinkets.


    The actual floor space devoted to pure and beautiful books would only be a small, precious patch. Even with all those qualifications, it had to be at least as large as the once closer bookstore that only persisted in my memories.


    I stuffed my wallet and phone into the little denim purse, after slapping it a few times to exorcise the dust spirits. Cinching the strap tight around my shoulder, I realized that I didn¡¯t have the pepper spray or taser I usually carried in my pocket after a pair of angry teen girls randomly trashed the outside of the house one day.


    Maybe that had changed, along with so many other things. So much changed, so much strangely left the same. I shrugged it off, added my keys in a secure spot, and slowly walked towards the bookstore.


    The steamy, post-storm breeze batted at my hair as I squinted. The skirt around me clung to my knees like a second skin while the trailing edge warped and buffeted like a loose sail.


    It both emphasized my chest and also tangled it beneath a confusing, static-like flutter of the top. Fortunately, the buildings provided a break from the breeze and the recycled spittle of fallen rain flicking at my face. Beneath the overhang, the front windows of the bookstore revealed a summer-themed display with several hardbacks stretched out on beach chairs with shades. The posted prices actually seemed competitive with the big guys and ebooks.


    The entryway howled with close, hot moisture that shot through the wiggling front doors like an angry, invisible blow torch. The front area was laid out in the same ubiquitous, familiar fashion to pretty much every bookstore from the tiniest to the mega. An island of the featured titles and a sweep of new releases met you at the door with a cash wrap off to one side and magazines poking out here and there.


    My eyes widened as I glimpsed how far back the wall stretched with quotes by famous authors and roughly recreated covers of classic titles. Again, it was smaller than the bookstore across town owned by a big company but instead shared a density of shelves spiraling against one another like a rich, brown forest with the order of a maze. No caf¨¦ with overpriced sandwiches and steaming cappuccinos. Rather there was a stage to one side with several tapestries laid across a dangling brass bar. Clearly, the area seemed to be used for events.


    Bean bag chairs, benches, and all sorts of assorted seats filled the area before the small, tapestry-backed stage. Over by the registers, a young man dressed in a light, buttoned plaid shirt with puffy hair and black-rimmed glasses looked up from his work, gave a friendly smile, and recited, ¡°Hello and welcome to Starlight Pages. Is there anything I can help you with or help you find? Do you have any orders or requests?¡±


    Immediately, I shook my head and brushed back a few locks of hair, to keep them from finding their way to my mouth as I said, fighting to keep my voice as high-pitched as possible, ¡°Hi! Thanks¡­ No. I¡¯ve never been here. How long has this been open?¡±


    He explained that the grand opening was a little over a week ago, but they had been softly open for about three weeks prior to that. I didn¡¯t avoid this road when traveling but there were plenty of times when I would blithely ignore something that was being constructed or that had been changed just because I was set in my travel patterns. It would¡¯ve been pretty difficult to miss this for an entire month and then however many months it took them to start construction previous to that. That said, I couldn¡¯t exactly remember the last time I¡¯d driven by this stretch of road and gazed in the direction of this plaza complex.


    It had to at least have been since January and there was no way anyone would build something like this so quickly. But here it was and here I was. He explained that there was a free coffee and water bar next to the main stage I¡¯d already glimpsed. Of course, I wasn¡¯t allowed to take drinks outside of the area and I was further warned not to bring any books over while drinking. Just made sense.


    He also laid out that ¡°many¡± titles had an inserted barcode connected with a partner app which allowed me to redeem a digital version of the book in a non-proprietary format at no extra cost. Furthermore, he mentioned their digital bookstore, where I could browse and order directly. We weren¡¯t the only two people in the store, as a small group brought their purchases up to him. I thanked him and said I would just look around.


    In the bestsellers row, the second volume of The Winds of Winter had fallen to second place. And that was the only title I recognized.


    Meandering past the magazines, I glanced to see if there were any crossword books or other puzzlers. After that, it was all about science fiction and fantasy, which had a sprawling home across six long, connected rows. Some of it mixed in graphic novels along with mangas and expanded universe books from major franchises but the mass market paperbacks filled seven rows with a special area on the occasional shelf devoted to a featured title in hardback or trade paper form.


    This felt like book heaven and my next thought was that my parents had to know. It then hit me that they both had smartphones, same as me. I could just text them the details along with interesting photos.


    The bookstore wasn¡¯t the most groundbreaking thing I¡¯d ever seen in my life. Not all of the prices were discounted in the range I was hoping for, but they weren¡¯t priced unreasonably, especially for new titles. Still, it made me happy, especially to know that it was within walking distance of home.


    One big surprise though was a section devoted to ¡°gender bending¡± titles. It was relatively small, compared to the rest of the store, filling less than a single shelf in a section devoted to related topics. Many of them were either non-mystical true stories or manga titles moved over for the theme. A light handful of titles even got close to broadly tickling my fancy.


    One in particular, with roughly drawn cover art, did detail about a young boy finding a transformative lagoon of mermaids. Another alluded to an adventurer becoming the corrupted, shapeshifting thrall of an ancient vampiress. I was curious, but not ready to buy yet. Nothing else even got close to pulling me in.


    After roaming the store for well over an hour, to the point that narrow rays of light stretched the spindly shadows of freshly planted trees in the lot, I ultimately decided to buy an annual collection of short speculative fiction as a way of helping this business along. It also had one of those barcodes for a digital copy.


    The guy at the front was pretty busy, with a line five deep. I decided to browse the magazines until I found the sort of games and puzzles title I was looking for. I used to relax and flounder through their crosswords and logic puzzles, as I wrote, in barely-legible fashion, with a pencil. My wrist even gave a little pop as I flipped it open and browsed through the selection. It had about half as many pages as the editions from my childhood and twice as many ads but it was better than the digital copy which didn¡¯t have any interactive elements, instead urging you to print it out. It wasn¡¯t worth the posted price, except in the weight of nostalgia.


    At the cash wrap, I passed the book and magazine to the clerk. His eyes flicked over to me. And they lingered. Because of the slight platform the register area was on and my diminished height, he had to look down at me. But I noticed his eyes weren¡¯t meeting mine in that instant. He was looking down even more. To my chest.


    A quizzical shiver passed through me. If things had been different, maybe I would¡¯ve thought about it a different way. But my first reaction was an animated butterfly of delight bouncing around inside me. He noticed that I actually had boobs! ¡­Granted with some artificial emphasis to them, but still.


    The moment soon passed and he surrounded that one, lingering look with ones that darted all around me. I let myself have what I hoped showed up as a playful grin.


    ¡°You like science fiction?¡±


    ¡°Totally.¡± Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.¡­


    Never mind how mindless and clich¨¦ that single-word response sounded as soon as it slipped past the internal censors of my brain. But the rising tone was also way too loud and carried an ambiguous enthusiasm which made me want to rewind several seconds and take a second try.


    All I could do, however, was reframe it by adding, ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m a big reader of science fiction.¡±


    ¡°So, this is like Star Wars stuff?¡±


    ¡°Some of it. I saw there¡¯s an entire section of Star Wars. That¡¯s cool. I don¡¯t read that as much.¡± Surviving those words felt like it took half the energy I had left. Just talking to a person and trying to confidently explain things was an ordeal before all this, but with the added feeling, it took me to the point that I worried my teeth might start chattering.


    ¡°What¡¯s science fiction outside of Star Wars? Is it like Marvel?¡±


    After a pair of beeps, he told me the price and I laid out my debit card from my wallet in my purse.


    ¡°It¡¯s anything, so long as it has some idea starting with science. Like a world just like ours where someone wakes up and everything they remember is different because they¡¯re like in a world that¡¯s like theirs but different. Some guy they know is a girl now, their dead parents are alive, and like everyone thinks they¡¯re someone different. It could happen. Although really like stuff people invent and do in the future is also like a huge part of it.¡±


    Stop saying ¡°like¡±, me! It was almost as bad as me weaseling my way through words like ¡°a little¡°, ¡°somewhat¡±, and ¡°a bit¡±.


    His response was, ¡°It¡¯s weird a guy would turn into a chick. We have books about that though. You into that?¡±


    Maybe, somewhat, a little bit¡­ I responded with a shrug, and answered, ¡°I just like good stories.¡± I paid the extra twenty cents for a bag for the books and thanked him before heading off.


    It was another stray thought, but my mind wandered to imagining him waking up like I did today but with the whole package and more than just a little hint of some ripple that had to be played up. A busty, cute librarian type, only placed in a bookstore. The kind of thing my brain mused over for a minute and then released.


    Back at the car, I considered between dropping my stuff off in the backseat and holding onto the puzzle games magazine, despite the fact I didn¡¯t have a pen or pencil on me to start filling it out.


    Working from right to left, I surveyed everything along the strip flanking each end of the bookstore. I liked the look of the fish place. The prices were even better than the one on the other side of town, though it had an emphasis on fried versus grilled. Mainly, I was puzzled how on Earth they could get fresh fish this far inland without exorbitant prices. There was a recently finished bypass tunnel which cut the truck travel time in half. That was all I could think of.


    Slipping past the front of the bookstore, I noticed that I caught the eye of the clerk again, even though I was outside. A grin lingered on my face as I checked out the sandwich shop. It seemed like Subway, but with a broader variety of deli sandwiches. My eyes and mind were on the game store.


    Most of these felt like they¡¯d been copied from another age. The 90s especially persisted in them, even though they often had many signs of the modern day. The carpets often felt like threadbare, wiry old man pubes dyed a dull color, like the worst pharmacies. Even covered up, it was easy to feel itchy in them.


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    Fortunately, this one had a wooden floor which looked pristine and freshly lacquered. My first impression placed it somewhere between the aroma shop I just left and a classroom. The ghostly scent of pizza caught the edges of my nose. Beyond that, it seemed rather nice. Like the Warhammer gaming shop that magically seemed to thrive between an Asian donut store and a Rite Aid on the other side of town. This had the same essence but without such a hyper-specific focus. A full sweep of gaming from the 1970s to the present was on display further back and a locked case of board games and miniature figurines lined the front wall, leading into a series of PCs decked out with colorful lights.


    I always felt awkward in this sort of place. Everyone inside had specific, encyclopedic awareness of something in particular, either a card game, a fantasy realm, or the lore behind an imaginary species. And they clung to it in isolation as fervently as Gollum.


    A mustachioed guy at the back, who vaguely reminded me of a young Richard Garriott, was the first to speak, ¡°Hey there, looking for something in particular? We¡¯re getting ready for the evening Magic night. That¡¯s a card game.¡±


    ¡°Oh, cool. It¡¯s my first time here and I didn¡¯t realize there were shops here that were open.¡± I didn¡¯t pay as close attention to my inflection and pitch, which oddly gave me a sound closer to like a valley girl than anything else. Like, fer sure...


    He gave an assent of his head before inquiring, ¡°What do you know about hobby gaming?¡± His face briefly tightened as though bracing himself to hear me mention something like Fortnite or whatever was popular now.


    I briefly wondered if his question would¡¯ve been different before today, but I figured social subtlety was not the strong point for those who ran these sorts of shops. It showed up in reviews online.


    Not that random, largely anonymous online reviews mattered that much. No one got passionate to write a review where they had a decent but unremarkable experience. It was always those who felt transcendent, those who wanted something out of it, or those who felt something unjust had occurred and needed to rectify it with vehement sass and screaming.


    I still felt the shadow of no one even giving me a simple, offhand comment about my pictures online. To some extent, it felt like I woke up and my three out of ten had gone to the nines and I wanted to show off. I felt good about myself and that should¡¯ve been enough. I needed to chisel into my brain that it was enough, but I wasn¡¯t there yet. The guy at the bookstore giving me a glance and a once-over was the kind of stuff I wanted. To feel, quietly and subtly, that I was cute and people thought well of how I presented myself. Again, it didn¡¯t matter, I knew that. But I wanted this.


    I didn¡¯t want to be a model or a sex doll or a sex idol or a sex anything really. I just wanted to feel like me outwardly as I felt inwardly and see that appreciated in subtle, even nonverbal, ways. Just be a normal lady. Whatever that meant.


    Maybe it wasn¡¯t all that different from being the me of yesterdays. At the same time, it felt like the inscriptions of me had been written across my body as overtly as a complete tattoo. I just wanted someone to notice them. I didn¡¯t even need to be praised for them. Why should anyone be praised for just being themselves? But I created photos with emotion, reflection, and feeling with the new tableau of what I could express physically. And I got these new clothes with a cute skirt and a metaphorical magnifying glass on my chest. Maybe it didn¡¯t mean anything. I was just one person. And it was good that people didn¡¯t overtly treat me differently. But I really really wanted to be found cute. I felt cute, I tried to project cuteness, and I felt good about it. Just a meager mote of validation, please.


    An absence of reaction hurts almost as much as a negative reaction. It can make you feel like a ghost crying into the unfeeling void. At the same time, every crawl towards self felt like too bold a step. The will of my parents, the ones who lived before, was like a blanket of rough smoke trying to build to flame.


    They weren¡¯t violent, they offered so much, they were often fair, and they really didn¡¯t demand that much from me. And that¡¯s not lingering Stockholm syndrome. Out of all the parents in the world, I didn¡¯t get the worst. The only problem was they had a clear idea of who I was supposed to be and they used every tool in their emotional, rhetorical, and psychological repertoire to express that, either bluntly or cunningly.


    Mom was going to have a boy, no matter what. Like a spell cast over the world. An incantation of masculinity. Not anything weird, like the mother side of an Oedipus complex. But it dominated her thoughts. I spent a lot of my early years just being normal. Just being her little boy.


    When and how did it change? It¡¯s impossible to look back through anything but a distorted lens discolored by time. And it¡¯s easy to linger in the experiences of others claiming that puberty sucked the most.


    But I was smothered for a long time. Even a passing mention of what it might be like to be different, to be this little ember of a girl who lived in me, met with the relentless downfall of counters. Mother said that if you weren¡¯t a woman then you could never understand the struggles, the secrets, or the unspoken details that amounted to an Illuminati-scale domain. It was vain hypocrisy to even try without intimate awareness of all the pain and suffering she cited.


    I thought I knew enough of pain just being human. How could anyone tabulate one load versus another? And why did it matter? I can never know, with perfect clarity, what another person feels. I can only do my best to guess and take them at their word.


    Why compete with them about how shit some things are? I may never know, or even get close to understanding. But I actually wanted to, as much as possible.


    I could take the good with the bad, the problems with the possibilities. Maybe it would turn out to be more than I ever anticipated, but I liked to believe I was persistent. Getting through the elderly child and babyhood of both my parents, with the only reward being a darker sense of loneliness, felt like the worst iteration of parenthood. No advancement or encouragement, just a dogged clinging to little moments that were better than the last. Nothing really to look forward to but climbing and crying and clawing through one more day.


    When does the shit I got over fill the right side of the measurement? When is it enough? I don¡¯t care about the competition. I just want things to be better.


    All that was way too heavy for the sort of group meandering around me. Whatever they had going on, this helped. It was hard to judge further than that. What did I know about hobby games? I knew how little my original family thought of them despite indulging quite a bit. They didn¡¯t see the point.


    My experience started out reading about games in magazines and other texts, like the puzzles in my car. Instead of buying an NES, I received Nintendo Power and pieced together how the gameplay would proceed based on the author''s description and explanation about secrets and movements. Every game played out as a fabrication of my imagination, an ideal version exclusive to my brain. It wasn¡¯t as though it was too expensive to purchase the games, but rather once again, they didn¡¯t see the point, especially when it took up a television for no reason.


    A Game Boy, my Christmas gift for getting a perfect score on my multiplication tables, never really matched up with the hype from my own brain. We had a mostly scientifically-accurate version of Monopoly where you could own the moons of planets, along with a variety of other board games that my parents often tired of. No experience with D&D. Just a passing, mystified experience with card games ranging from fighting monsters to the other one with virtual monsters to yet another with cards that came to life.


    ¡°That it exists¡±, was what I arrived at for an answer, after what almost felt like too much private contemplation of the question.


    One of the guys sitting on a bench off to the side burst out with a giggle somewhere between the cry of a hyena and a spastic cough. Aside from the owner, there were only seven others present. One of them reminded me of a stick bug shaped into human form with a curly, broccoli plume of dark hair at the top. Another wore sunglasses inside and hunched over a cluster of cards as the tight tangles of his scruffy beard almost touched the table. A pair looked almost like brothers with broad glasses, and blond, closely-shaved hair.


    The guy who giggled didn¡¯t really stand out from the group except for the fact that his shirt appeared really heavy for this weather and his black hair was shaped into a short, immaculate dome. With the remaining two, my first thought was that they were girls since one of them had brown hair longer than mine and way silkier. And the other had a soft, slight look to them. Several answers, ranging from someone like me to a tomboy to a simple pretty boy, floated through my head without the expectation of resolution.


    The owner folded his hands together in what felt like a subtle reference to something I didn¡¯t catch. Gesturing, he gave me a methodical outline of the card games they sold and what needed to be bought, if I didn¡¯t have any. He emphasized prizes for certain matches. A small, devious part of me considered comparing it to bingo, but I resisted that.


    He encouraged that I could buy a certain pack they sold in a recently released line and have everything I needed to create my own competitive deck. From the side, sunglasses guy chimed in with an alternative from one of the older releases which had the benefit of such and such card and being more balanced. The owner held up a sheet and explained that certain cards had to be banned for the sake of balance. All through this, I brushed my hair back, cleared my throat, and tried to absorb as much as possible. It made sense but still mystified me far from any sort of clear understanding.


    After that, I gathered that the computers were available but there were a lot of rules regarding that as well. My eyebrows raised when he mentioned a deal with the ¡°neighboring¡° bookstore where I could get 10% off on one of the gamebooks along the wall if I showed a recent receipt. I could definitely head back to the car for that. However, the books were all at the original publisher¡¯s price and some looked like they were already gathering dust despite the newness of the location.


    I did like the look of the ones with apocalypse scenarios but, considering my stray fear that my mind might be controlling recent events, those were not ideas I wanted to feed my potentially multiverse-twisting brain. It didn¡¯t take long for everyone in the room to forget I was there as I browsed. The owner checked in a few times and offered his opinion about cyberpunk games with easy comparisons to popular movies.


    Their selection of video games, which I considered looking through for dad, was sparse and lacked anything I recognized. Older titles ranged close to $100, regardless of quality. I sighed.


    This was how it always went with these places. I¡¯d be intrigued by the look and the allure of something different. But everything seemed like it could be found other places cheaper. Even other little hobby shops like this. It was disappointing, all that excitement, hope, and anticipation flattening out.


    Even considering the core and starter card sets, it was well over the price of buying a full, retail video game. Maybe I could try the app on my phone to at least figure out the mechanics and if I might be interested in any of this. I quietly and politely thanked the owner before slipping out the door.


    I had thoughts about how that would go and it was all dashed to pieces. Not that I expected to walk through the door and be treated like divinity. I just¡­ I just figured it would at least feel a little bit different because of how much I changed. I could¡¯ve had that conversation any day of my life. Maybe I wouldn¡¯t have gotten the laugh quite as easily, but maybe I still would¡¯ve gotten it.


    Outside, the wind dragged my skirt along roughly like a stray bag caught in the breeze. My hair fluttered like dense, burning cobwebs. At least I got back to the car faster. The only sign it had rained earlier were the fresh watermarks on the edges of the windshield.


    The status quo eagerly reasserted itself. I slumped back in the seat as harsh, feral gusts hissed through the seams of the car. A random piece of geeky music flashed and cycled through my brain to save me from thinking too hard. I needed to eat, even if it was the leftovers and spare groceries from lunch. It had been a long day, with so many remarkable moments on top of one another.


    My progress from struggling to comprehend my reflection in the mirror to where I was now felt like a lifetime apart, even though I desperately wished I could¡¯ve traveled more. Part of me wanted to cry but the rest told me to shut up because I didn¡¯t have any good tissue in the car to deal with that. Instead, I just pushed my little nose around with my small fingers until I could smell the faint traces of moisture and humidity. My eyes held their ground as I carefully backed out of the parking space.


    Where could I go now, aside from back home? The mall? Fuck that. It had returned to the regular crush of humanity despite listless, disappointing shops. Even though my priorities had shifted, nothing I remembered it offering really appealed to me. I could strut into Victoria¡¯s Secret for the hell of it. It was a stupid store though.


    Pulling out first onto the main road, I worked my way back to the roundabout. Retracing my steps from before, I continued down that street, passing a few restaurants on my blacklist because of late-night food poisoning. It wasn¡¯t too far from the elementary school that mom talked about earlier with that teacher who used to be one of her students. Miss Lawrence...

 Chapter 6 – Lawrence Transformation

    Chapter 6 - Lawrence Transformation


    On a whim, I made an eventual left to cut through the housing track and get over to the school. No plan occurred to me about what I would do when I got there. It was the summer, which used to mean something. Now there was probably all sorts of intercession, training, and development stuff. No one would be left, except for custodians tending to the campus and it felt unlikely they would stay this late. Still, I turned down one of the familiar roads and followed it all the way to the last school that my mom ever taught at, at least so far as I remembered.


    Sprinklers cloaked the immaculately-green grass in gossamer sheets of water despite the thunderstorm not so long ago. A handful of cars and trucks actually rested beneath the towers of solar panels shrouding the parking lot. It looked locked up with the entranceway barred and the side gate similarly sealed.


    Aside from the addition of pre-fabricated buildings in a sandier shade than the rest, it didn¡¯t appear all that different. Idling by the gate, my eyes caught a striding figure pushing a heavy cart. Because of mom¡®s picture earlier, I immediately recognized it was Miss Lawrence. Somehow.


    Pulling into a nearby parking spot, I quickly hopped out and was stopped short with the realization that I had no clue what I was going to say to her. Sure, my mom ran into her, but the circumstances felt so utterly ridiculous that I would stop by here right as she was doing something to say hello when we hadn¡¯t talked for decades. And, I had no clue if she would even recognize me.


    Before I could retreat though, she caught sight of me, raised an arm above her head, and vigorously waved at me while asking, ¡°Oh my gosh! Maggie? Is that you?¡±


    I didn¡¯t have many words that I could lasso together into a proper sentence, so I just spread out my arms at my side and responded, ¡°Hi there!¡±


    She slowed her weighty cart to a crawl as it awkwardly shifted towards a dip in the blacktop. I hustled over and braced it in the other direction. She puffed a long breath and gave me a tired thanks. Sweat glossed the back of her neck and shadowed the collar of her blue shirt.


    Obviously, she looked nothing like she did in the second grade. However, I still recognized a little of her facial features. Maybe. Mostly I was going off what mom showed me earlier. She directed me to lead the cart while she did most of the pushing. Her car was the sky blue pickup truck in the corner. The buzzsaw rattling of the cart burned along my finger that had the hangnail I nervously ripped open earlier. I wasn¡¯t sure what happened to the bandage.


    With the tailgate down, it didn¡¯t take too long to empty the cart of old boxes, paper, supplies, and assorted posters. Camille Lawrence breathlessly thanked me as she rolled the empty cart back towards the gate. A few minutes later, she was done in her classroom and locking up the fence. She had a few inches on me now, not that I minded. She slung a purse over her shoulder which looked like the mother of all bagpipes, only with a series of belts poking out.


    Before I could figure out what to say, she reached her arms out and gave me a quick hug. ¡°Hi! My gosh! I just saw your mom and now you! Small world, huh?¡± Despite our combining gloss of sweat, she smelled earthy but pleasant. Her full and bouncy blonde hair looked a little wilted by the lingering humidity but her expression made up for it.


    I managed, ¡°Yeah, crazy huh? Well, mom came to visit and she told me how you were doing and I happened to drive by the area while I was thinking about it and saw you were working late. Glad I could help a little bit, hopefully.¡±


    She nodded vigorously. ¡°You were a lifesaver! I couldn¡¯t find anyone and I¡¯m so tired and I didn¡¯t want to make another trek. Thank you so much!¡± She lingered close, looking down kindly with a warm expression. I couldn¡¯t believe that someone I knew as a little kid was standing before me as a full adult, an honest-to-goodness adult.


    The closest analogy for me was when I spent way too much time on my degree and my community classes included meeting the toddler daughter of a professor with a clever literary name. Cut to when I was working on my post-graduate degree and I had my final test. While I was waiting to consult with him, a strikingly-mature young woman with an oddly familiar face waited beside his door. When I asked if she was waiting in line to present her thesis, I felt floored when she revealed the professor was her dad. Of course, by now she not only probably presented her thesis to him, but was likely teaching at some prestigious institution.


    Life sometimes hits you like that. You look away from one corner of the world for what feels like an instant, and suddenly everything is different. You wake up to a new face. Your parents show up. Stores spring up overnight. And untold numbers of young people you once knew are transformed in ways you never imagined. How did Camille become a teacher who looked like she could easily be a mom too? It boggles my mind.


    I managed to set my shock aside with just a quick quip about being surprised that we met up, to which she agreed with a chuckle. With just a few seconds and a breath, I collected my bearings and asked about her day. Mom had glossed over some of the finer points.


    Camille relayed she¡¯d been hired on at the end of last semester provisionally and was working towards her permanent credential at the college with online courses. She just received her room assignment for the new year in August. Even though the start of classes was under a month away, because of ¡°hybrid learning¡°, they already had her corresponding with some of her students and setting up her room in a way that met with the developing guidelines that the district found themselves shambling towards in lieu of an actual strategy. She framed it more charitably, but I understood.


    ¡°You have dinner yet? There¡¯s a new taco place towards Sunrock at the edge of the Valley. Cheap beer, great food. Like half of it¡¯s a deli with amazing stuff and the other half is the restaurant.¡±


    Holy crap, she was old enough to drink. Also, was she asking me out?


    No¡­ No way. Although¡­ No. That would be silly. I mean, she was the grown-up version of a random kid who kissed me on the cheek when I was a teenager because¡­ Well, how I saw it, she probably felt sorry for my pathetic face. But apparently she also had some sort of precocious crush on me. No¡­maybe? Not that it meant anything.


    Weird how six years apart then meant so much more than it did now. My mom was¡­ is¡­ probably still is, five years my father¡®s senior. So it wasn¡¯t insane, in fact maybe that was what inspired her to even mention Camille. No¡­ Hold back. Don¡¯t go from zero to light-speed with a single question.


    ¡°No dinner yet. Sounds like a cool place. Lead the way.¡± Before I could really get into asking her how I would follow, she unlocked her car and fished a phone, not too different than mine, out of the center compartment. With a quick tap of her fingers, she brought up the location. I didn¡¯t recognize the address.


    I brought my phone over and she quickly sent it over according to whatever phone magic made that work. Not only was it set as a route and destination on the map but it also paired with hers in case either of us got lost. As an extra measure, she asked, ¡°You mind if I add your number and email for contact stuff?¡­¡± Her gaze actually fluttered about before dipping down to her phone.


    Heaven knows how my expression looked at that moment, but I did my best to keep on as much of a poker face as possible. Mainly because I didn¡¯t want things to feel weird for her with my silly expressions. I probably turned into a grinning idiot because I didn¡¯t know the nuances of my new face yet. At least my blood-flowing bits had retreated to barely a tree stump beneath the ice wall of my skirt.


    After adding numbers and emails, we hopped into our respective vehicles and I followed her out to the left through a quiet neighborhood and onto the avenue that wrapped around the side of Walmart. This area still had the sense of the wild west, with large, empty spaces and little businesses that looked like pockets of greenery clinging to life in the hostile desert. I remembered the story that an entire ecosystem existed in the middle of nowhere because a water tower was placed and it had a leak in the side the dribbled out a tiny bit of water. It was one of those tales my mother told where I couldn¡¯t be certain of the veracity, but I liked to believe in it.


    We passed the regional swap meet on the right side before coming to a cramped gas station that I refused to return to because its uneven driveways had blown more than one tire on my car. Rows of farming, horse feed, and related stores lined the intersection as we continued forward past a mining operation that looped into Sunrock.


    Over the wide swath of micro, desert communities, lived something like 10,000 people. Downtown Sunrock was closer to a tenth of that. It wasn¡¯t too bad, the two-story grange was impressive. Mom always took me to the farmers'' markets out here, there was a nice wind toys store, and then there was a trinket shop with plenty of random food to satiate travelers on their way to Las Vegas.


    The county library, just past another business that sold horse and farm equipment, always felt special, even though it was the smallest in the entire region. One of the librarians was a deaf lady. At least, I wouldn¡¯t be self-conscious about my voice around her. Hopefully.


    After a few more blocks, we made a left before a bank and then a quick right that led into a cozy and well-fenced neighborhood. At the corner, was our destination. It looked like a proper restaurant with a pleasant, adobe style that matched the ground. A concrete slab traced around the front with just a half dozen spots. Extra parking was in a dusty lot to the side.


    Camille led the way. Pungent boxes rose into lumpy towers along the wall. The reddish-brown tiles for the floor reminded me of something from my youth I couldn¡¯t quite place. It wasn¡¯t too long before someone wandered out and said, ¡°Welcome, ladies. Where you like to sit?¡±


    Camille quickly picked out a two-seater with a comfortable amount of room for each of us. I had anticipated I might be called lady, but at a place like this I expected them to drop ¡°senoras¡± or ¡°se?oritas¡±. He was an older guy with lightly-curly dark hair that hadn¡¯t been touched by gray yet. When I was a kid, my parents and I went to one of the classic Mexican restaurants in the middle of town, they had the sort of greeting that this guy reminded me of. A first-generation patriarch who prided himself on adding a special touch to the business.


    As Camille ordered a watermelon margarita along with a glass of water, my brain went back to college. The most drinks I ever had was nine. And it was almost as expensive as an entire physical, new video game, which immediately put me off the prospect of heavy drinking for life. Granted, there were plenty of ways to get drunk for cheap, but they all tasted bad to me.


    It wasn¡¯t too hot in the restaurant, but I still felt a little sweaty around my neck. I asked for a lime margarita and a water too.


    After a long sip through the red straw sticking out of her margarita, Camille flashed a quick smile and asked me, ¡°So, what are you up to lately?¡±


    Usually, in these rare situations, I died a little inside trying to get my social enthusiasm up to snuff. When a question landed against me, I first braced myself and felt the rush of being a small animal before an immense car about to blind and crush me.


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    Part of it was the absurdity that another person would lay their attention before me because they were interested in talking to me. Call it the trauma of decades of small social cuts. Where and when it started seemed impossible to precisely place. But the worst of it came in junior high when I evolved into the camera person of life. I would watch others do things. I would partake in the cinema of the Monday and mundane. A lewd joke shared in the locker room, others dicking around. Almost like I was a spy, or a character in a disguise or a costume, that no one recognized.


    When people acknowledged me, it was like the fourth wall was broken and all the internal fears bubbled forth. I wasn¡¯t a part of this story. I was simply the Watcher. And no one noticed me. Small classes were more stressful because I had to actively participate and, oftentimes, when it was just me or another person involved in the class, it felt playfully subversive, like I was playing a role that wasn¡¯t mine.


    I never quite felt myself. But here I was. Dressed in a way that felt comforting. My face smoothed away from the rough template. A presence that reflected the way I truly felt within my shell. The only missing marks couldn¡¯t be seen and, of what could be heard, it seemed clear that Camille didn¡¯t mind.


    Here I was, truly and completely on stage before another person who wanted to see my performance. Line? Where was I up to?


    I stalled first with a sip. The cold and citrus alcohol numbness took the edge off little sources of pain I¡¯d collected throughout my afternoon. ¡°Clothes shopping and I went to a bookstore that I didn¡¯t know was open on the east side of Brookville Valley. Otherwise, tutoring and summer classes through my computer. And otherwise to that, writing here and there.¡±


    Camille arched her relatively-dark eyebrows as she took another sip of her margarita. ¡°Should I really be that surprised you¡¯re a teacher?¡±


    I smiled slightly too much to her response, but quickly responded, ¡°I figured my mother would¡¯ve told you all about that.¡±


    She smiled back just as much as she said, ¡°Mrs. Jones¡­ who I have so much trouble thinking of anything but Mrs. Jones...¡±


    I hopped in, ¡°Same here.¡±


    A giggle kept her from following up her thought until she¡¯d taken a breath, ¡°Oh my gosh. Really?¡±


    She had me there. It was more of a sentiment but I framed it as, ¡°Being the¡­ the kid of a teacher is kind of weird.¡±


    The guy who welcomed us came back with a pair of little black saucers full of thick red and green salsas and a steaming basket of tortilla chips. Camille invited me to partake first. I opted to pick from the green salsa for dipping because the red had a scattering of onions, of which I was mildly allergic to before today and which I didn¡¯t want to test out if that was still a thing. My fridge and the meal that mom prepared both lacked onions, so no clues there.


    Before she started on her chip, Camille responded, ¡°I can imagine. I have an aunt who is a psychology professor up in Bakersfield. But Mrs. Jones really only told me that you lived nearby and you¡¯d be happy to see me again.¡±


    And mom told me, or suggested, that Camille would be someone who ¡°complemented¡° me and ¡°understood¡°. It was entirely presumptuous of her to suggest that I¡¯d be happy to see Camille again. Not that she was wrong, but the little girl who existed as a hazy figure in my memories and the grown woman slowly sipping her margarita across from me might as well have been two different people.


    With a deep breath, I held onto a friendly smile as I responded, ¡°It¡¯s nice to see you. It¡¯s surprising to see you, but sometimes it¡¯s a small world.¡±


    Was that the wrong thing to say? It was a small distinction between nice and happy. Was that even all that different? I mean it was a little bit weird all around. Everything about this day was weird but full of possibilities.


    We received menus after that and I just casually glanced up to see how she was doing. It was hard to read her face but she wore calm like a comfortable blanket. Turning her menu to face me, she suggested a few things. Some were unfamiliar to me, like ¡°Molcajete¡±.


    I went with the quick advice she gave me to get the taco sampler of six tacos, one of each variety including the ¡°tongue¡± meat. I asked them to make it without their creamy sauce or onions, focusing instead on guacamole, celery, tomato, and cilantro. It was apparently a large platter with extra tortillas, rice, and beans on the side.


    I dipped another chip and drank plenty of cold water. Camille stirred a slushy part of her margarita and remarked, ¡°It was cool to see your mom because I don¡¯t really know a lot of people around here anymore. My dad and stepmom moved to Florida. My mom moved up to Oregon a few years ago but I was never really super close to her. I have two younger sisters, but they¡¯re still in college out of state. You¡¯re an only child, right?¡±


    I wasn¡¯t quite sure where to put my arms but I kind of stretched them half on the table and half against the wall so that I didn¡¯t unbalance anything. I confirmed with a nod. Granted, I didn¡¯t know before the day was out if I might suddenly have a sibling. But, so far as I knew, this was still the case.


    ¡°I only went as far as Northridge for teaching. Then, I came back here because it was cheaper and it was easy to find a place to stay for a while. But it¡¯s lonely. The other teachers have been so awesome and welcoming, but it¡¯s just really cool to run into familiar people. You know?¡±


    I smiled and gave her a quick, ¡°Oh, yeah. Really cool.¡± My answer only went that far even though I considered who I might run into that I already knew. I had roommates and they always treated me fairly. Maybe there were some folks from college who I would¡¯ve liked to see me like this, but really I didn¡¯t care one way or another what they thought. On the one hand, it would¡¯ve been good to just show up like this and have them realize the difference from all the subtle assumptions they made before. But I doubted it would be satisfying. They would just be making all new assumptions. Or there would be apathy.


    Our silence was filled by mariachi music piped in from above, along with distant sounds of steam and metal clanging. We remained the only patrons. I did my best not to drink my margarita too fast while calculating in my head how long I¡¯d have to wait, especially with my reduced body mass. The meal would help but it would likely be around an hour, if not two. Hopefully Camille was mindful of that.


    She created something like a slushy, red riverbank parted by her straw. ¡°Soo¡­yeah. It¡¯s cool. What¡¯s your idea of a fun weekend?¡°


    I drew in a slow breath. ¡°It depends. Sometimes, it¡¯s just spending some time alone or going out for a treat. Certain people I knew would join in stuff and invite me along. I liked it, but I have a certain threshold for large groups.¡±


    She nodded and inquired, ¡°So, kind of like this?¡± Well, it wasn¡¯t the weekend yet. But I agreed. My problem was I often didn¡¯t drive conversations. I didn¡¯t have the oomph for it. Listener and watcher. But with the way this day had reshuffled my life, that didn¡¯t mean that I had to be that way forever.


    I elaborated, ¡°I¡¯m not super social, but I want others to feel welcomed, even though it¡¯s not the kind of thing I¡¯m good at. I¡¯m trying my best, especially when I have to lead tutoring classes. Full, physical contact teaching is exhausting.¡±


    She giggled at that analogy, I hoped. ¡°Same here hee hee. My mentor classes totally destroyed my throat and like I was wearing light heels for two weeks and even when I switched to flats, it was like being sent through a tumble dryer. Actual blisters. Eventually, I found these shoes that looked spiky but the inside, it¡¯s so soft. That helped but it¡¯s going to be rough again.¡±


    Camille did a lot of gesturing, setting a hand on her throat and then dipping her hands low to evoke her shoes and then spinning her hand for the dryer analogy before resting them on the table to finish. I often took after whoever I chatted with, especially when I was nervous. But I did my best not to exactly follow her patterns, because I worried she might take it as mocking. Still, that meant using my hands a little bit more than normal and that meant I had to be very conscious of where I was putting them, lest I smack the table or my drink and either cause a bruise or a spill.


    Not that thinking about it would prevent me from doing it, rather my brain often had an intuition about this sort of thing and was basically prognosticating the next few minutes. It happened more often than I wanted.


    I complimented her on her clothes and she returned the favor, asking specifics that fled from my thoughts. She soon added the discount stores I visited to a note on her phone. Despite the topics, it didn¡¯t really come up that any of this was odd. Not that I wanted her to bring up the issue, but it rested at the back of my mind whether she considered me a boy, a girl, or something else.


    When I briefly mentioned that I bought some swimwear, she gently pressed her hands on the table and announced, ¡°I was thinking about heading to that recently remodeled water park on 40th this weekend. Wanna go together? That could be fun and a good way to just relax before next week can get up to steam.¡±


    This was easily the best way to talk to me, to be in pursuit. I took a deep breath and grabbed ahold of the answer, ¡°Okay. Yeah, that sounds fun. I haven¡¯t been for a while. Although, I still have a huge beach towel that I like from there.¡±


    I added about its ocean-blue tone and the fact it was almost six feet long, spread wide, and made for a comfortable cushion. A pair of huge plates with billowing smoke and so many tacos arrived and consumed much of the real estate on our table with the drinks pushed to the side. Camille wiggled her eyebrows and invited me to dig in.


    The plates had a normal-looking shrimp taco but with fat, swollen shrimp that spilled out of the soft shell. The guacamole was chunky, and the sauce reminded me of sour cream with lime. There were well over a dozen cut limes spreading their sharp aromas. Aside from shrimp, Camille pointed out the beef tongue, the tripe, the pork, the chicken, and the regular steak. It was a little bit more than I was expecting.


    I tried the tongue first and it tasted like what you would expect. It seemed rather fatty, but I didn¡¯t mind. I would have to take care of this new body, but still I could splurge every so often. To compensate, I immediately went for the shrimp. Which, I reminded myself, was also a fatty food. Oh well¡­


    The tortillas, with a bit of rice and beans, also tasted fantastic. It wasn¡¯t long before Camille made as much progress and asked me what I thought. Noting the generous portions and flavor was easy. What I didn¡¯t expect was feeling full after a small dent in my Margarita, the chips on the side, and my massive plate. Leftovers from mom plus leftovers from here would surely keep me sated for several days.


    At least I managed to finish off a third taco, the tripe, to leave behind the most common ones. I¡¯d had menudo before, and the restaurant boldly advertised their all-you-can-eat version on Saturday and Sunday, so the texture wasn¡¯t a surprise even though it did feel cooked differently. Not bad though.


    The margarita, and everything else, was starting to put some pressure on the stump behind the ice wall. At least, it hadn¡¯t tried to push through. But I felt vividly reminded of its presence behind the veneer.

 Chapter 7 – Half A Girl

    Chapter 7 ¨C Half A Girl


    Carefully, I stood up from the chair and excused myself to use the restroom. It was down a long corridor next to some loud machines. The men¡¯s room was closest with a lot of mops and buckets stashed nearby. After briefly checking it out, I continued on to a dark part of the corridor, almost at the end, with an emergency exit that looked like it had never been used.


    Practically, it was basically the same as the other restroom since neither had a urinal or any kind of division or stall. Just a toilet and a sink with a lot of boxes in the corners. I made sure to turn the lock and check that it was secure. The seat had a wave shape to it that rose on the edges but at least it wasn¡¯t scratched up with gang signs or stained.


    Slipping my skirt down while bunching it up around my ankles and doing the same to my underwear, I tried to relax as much as possible but the pee came out as a nervous quivering dribble while a few farts squeaked their way into the bowl. Shivers, shakes, and quivers fought their way through me as I tried to drain my stress away.


    Once I was finished, I crept over to the sink and blasted my arms and face with the intense flow. The wind tunnel of the hand dryer blasted me again as I made my way out. I tightened up all my emotions so I wouldn¡¯t cry in front of Camille but I felt beaten down by a single trip to the restroom. How could I possibly survive the waterpark with an untested swimsuit, in the middle of summer, and with untold amounts of people looking at me? I couldn¡¯t cancel but it terrified me to go ahead with it, like a mental execution.


    Okay, maybe I was being melodramatic, but that didn¡¯t mean I was wrong. Everything thus far seemed to be going my way, aside from a little uncertainty at that game store. So my expectation was for some kind of correction, where everyone would just see me for what I was. but what was I?


    If they truly truly saw the genuine me, then what would they see? I liked to reference platitudes where the body I woke up with today was a slight approximation of what I felt internally. This felt good but, in many ways, it was still a costume. Maybe there was no truth beneath my skin. Maybe it was all protective layers, all the way down.


    But what did I really want? I got a pretty face with lovely hair in an exuberant shade. I was smaller with a girlish curve to my body. I was far more hairless than I deserved. Sure, I kept my regular voice but no one minded so far. And my chest wasn¡¯t anything special. But, for all the aspects of a girl, I still had a dick and the bits beneath.


    I didn¡¯t especially desire all the hidden complexities of being physically female, but it felt like a deep reassurance, at least conceptually, that I wouldn¡¯t have to hide anything. Go on and look at my folds. Oh Christ, don¡¯t look at them. But it felt like the sincerest reassurance.


    I didn¡¯t want to be different, but at the same time that felt like too much. I had too much to process and I couldn¡¯t do it while my body was being an active processing machine and my emotions were processing my companion and my liver was processing some alcohol and everything else. I didn¡¯t expect any of it to slow down for me, but I just prayed that I might be seen sincerely. Even when I had the appearance of myself, I still struggled with being myself.


    Returning to the table, I picked up my pace and did my best not to let my worries and trepidation show, even though they were an ocean I could barely hold inside me. Camille was practically done with her margarita and I had a long way yet to go.


    I screwed up my social courage, like trying to twist a steel rope around my arms. The process should¡¯ve been invisible but Camille glanced over too soon to check on me and caught me before I slipped on my resolve. Her expression immediately recoiled in concern and I felt a jagged pit drop in my stomach, raking everything on the way down.


    ¡°Everything all right? Restroom troubles?¡± She curled her hands together on her lap and joined arched eyebrows of concern with an expression that wasn¡¯t sure if it wanted to be a grimace. I smoothed out my new clothes and flashed a friendly look before declaring, ¡°I¡¯m fine. It¡¯s all right. Just tried to not get lost in there. Heh.¡±


    She kept her eyes on me, for a few long seconds, before nodding. ¡°All right. Glad you made it out. I think they can pack up your drink, if you don¡¯t want to finish it. You know, how everyone did it for a while. I¡¯ll be staying, until I feel comfortable to drive.¡±


    At first, I tried to glide down smoothly into my seat but it wound up looking more like my skirt had me bound up and I was flopping down into it. ¡°Oof. How long is your drive back? And yeah, it might be better to save it¡­to save mine. For later.¡±


    The restaurant offered to keep Camille¡®s entr¨¦e warmed until she was ready to go. She also ordered a second drink, more like mine with lime, to take home with her in the fashion she described.


    Why do I expect that things would be any different just because some of my physical aspects changed? I could have all the remaining pieces that this morning left out, along with the highest pitch voice that could break glass with a yell, and I would still be living this sort of life. Why was it excruciating meeting someone, even worse than trying to find someone? The closest thing to a normal conversation I¡¯d had the whole day was with the guy at the bookstore who was basically, I guess, trying to hit on me in a way that even I could tell.


    I had gotten better¡­I have gotten better than I used to be with this kind of thing. Communicating like a human being to someone else required practice, same as anything else from cooking something to being a writer. The only problem was, either in text or in words, it hurt to fail. Talk to a neighbor and feel like your cadence and mood are entirely wrong to the situation and you laugh when you should¡¯ve done something else. Then, those few minutes of talk rest heavily on your shoulders for the rest of the day and pile weight that you just can¡¯t dislodge.


    With mom and dad, despite the craziness of the situation, it had been so long since we last really talked that I already had so much lined up to say and even more not to say. Mom knew how to push and dominate a conversation, at least the old version of my mother did. I fed off the energy of someone who actually wanted to talk to me.


    Why do I recede from a conversation? Why does it feel like an ordeal that needs to be tackled? If you asked me before today, I would simply say it was because I was a girl and I just didn¡¯t have the right look for it. And so I had to play a role and so I had to feel a feeling and so I had to live a way that didn¡¯t feel genuine to myself. That was my excuse.


    What was it now? My voice isn¡¯t high enough. My little dickie isn¡¯t small enough and everything should be stuffed inside. And I should have a bountiful, thick-nippled bust. Would the excuses stop there? If it was all finally perfect, would I be ready to be myself? Somehow, I doubted it.


    Camille took a sip from her water glass and rested her hands on the table, once they took her plate away to warm it. ¡°I used to live near Kyle King Park. Now, I¡¯m even further into the fiery desolation of the desert. All the sand storms.¡±


    I¡¯d been out that way a few times. Out where the buttes marked the hard landscape. A freeze-dried, pained world waiting for something it might never get.


    ¡°Do you think of me as a girl?¡° I curtailed my efforts at making my voice sound like someone else¡¯s and just settled into my regular feeling. Relaxing it like that actually made it sound closer to a soprano in my ears. Of course, my ears were also on fire along with every screaming, freaking out neuron.


    She cocked her head sideways and scrunched up her fair eyebrows. ¡°Well, you are a girl. What¡¯s there to think over?¡±


    I had a little image of my brain. represented as a cartoon, which was screaming at me to end this stressful conversation before it freaked out. ¡°You should know that I don¡¯t especially feel like a girl. I want to, but it¡¯s tough.¡±


    She moved her head around a bit as though trying to discern an extra sense or layer to my words before she declared, ¡°It happens. Soul and self searching sucks¡­no matter how you look and no matter how you want to feel. For what it¡¯s worth, I think you¡¯re really cute. And I wish you didn¡¯t give yourself so much stress. But then, I need to follow that advice myself. For now, feel like talking about it? Maybe blast some garbage with smiles?¡±


    No and yes, but yes won out due to momentum. ¡°Yeah. And thanks. I kinda need that. To feel cuter and stuff like that. To not be as stressed, when I should be relaxing. It¡¯s just complicated.¡±


    She leaned forward on her elbows with a faint smile and focused interest. ¡°Start from the easiest part and work up.¡± Now that sounded like a teacher strategy, to which I smirked knowingly before sifting and settling through the pool of thoughts that felt like the best starting point.


    ¡°Today has been one of the strangest days of my life. I woke up like this when yesterday, I looked pretty much like a normal guy with short, dark hair, a boyish body, and standing several inches taller. My mom and dad had been dead for several years but they came to visit me today. And other little things in the world seem different too, but those are the big ones. I want to be a girl, but I woke up only partway there. Mostly there. And stuff. Although, I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s how I¡¯m supposed to be or honestly really want to be forever. Also I dunno if the universe is just playing a joke on me with a monkey¡¯s paw wish granted.¡±


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    While I rattled that off, some fellow patrons came through the door and made their way over to the bar. I dipped my volume down when they got close but leaned towards Camille to compensate. My brain was now a deceased little cartoon representation which had basically checked out and whatever else I had left was now running the show.


    Was this crazy to say? I could¡¯ve left out the fact that, for me, my parents have been dead for years and they didn¡¯t exactly look or act like they did today the last time I saw them. If I was going to lay it all out then maybe it was best to just lay it ALL out. The worst thing that could happen would be either that she¡¯s mad at me or she leaves. I could deal with that.


    Neither of those things followed my words. Rather, she scrunched up her brow a little bit more and delicately sifted through what I had claimed. Normal guy? I gave her a general description. Taller, far less cute by my personal estimation, and no red hair. My parents were dead? So far as I remembered. But their ashes were gone and the only physical evidence I had were memories I didn¡¯t especially enjoy dwelling on. Little things? I hesitated. I felt like my credibility was balanced on a razor¡¯s edge. All out. One of my boy students was now a girl and a bookstore suddenly existed on the edge of town where I was sure none existed before, but I qualified that may just be me missing new construction. Even though I doubted that theory.


    It was a lot to absorb and I brace myself for Camille¡®s inevitable, wide-eyed gaze and careful scrutiny of me. I have lied about many things in my life. Small things usually. Stupid things. Mostly stuff that keeps relatives from freaking out about how lonely I am. I know so and so on the Internet but actually claim I met them in college so they can¡¯t possibly be a secret serial killer. My grandfather did this sort of thing all the time, only it was in service to several mistresses who seemed to fall out of trees everywhere he walked. He practically reshaped reality with his subtle fibs and overwhelming charisma.


    Camille released a slow puff of a breath as she brushed her hair back. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ quite a lot. Not sure what to say to it, but I can offer what I know and have seen. Not to overrule what you said but let¡¯s maybe figure this out based on what we each have. Okay..¡±


    I appreciated that and I also got the sense her demeanor was right for being a teacher. She scratched at her wrists and adjusted her posture before laying out her perspective. ¡°I met your mom and no one at the school was surprised to see her, me neither. We didn¡¯t talk for that long, but I interacted with her in a way that leaves me no doubt that she was there.¡±


    Yeah and I had to agree that I had even more experience with my mom and my dad physically interacting with me. I told her as much. Her next step was to postulate whether I may have just had a very deep and involving dream where I imagined they died. I considered this possibility.


    ¡°There¡¯s kind of this thing, mostly online, about something called the Mandela Effect. It has a few offshoots I¡¯ve heard of, but mostly I¡¯ve used it for stories and stuff. It supposes there are a multitude of separate realities and universes which coexist alongside our own. The closest thing I have to an explanation, is that during the night I jumped from that reality to this one. Maybe¡­ I suddenly died in my sleep and instead of some sort of afterlife, I wound up somewhere nearby. There is a related theory about quantum immortality but maybe it just happens sometimes without that kind of morbid explanation. Still with me?¡±


    She took another long breath and placed a hand near her forehead. ¡°I think so. I don¡¯t really get those concept, but I guess I see what you¡¯re suggesting¡­ there are some movies and shows where they use that, but it¡¯s still kind of trippy. And those are works of fiction, clearly fiction. I remember science classes in college where they kind of had popular mistakes in science and one of them was all the physics stuff and like light particles and explaining quantum theory. Other universes were like in the math of it, rather than light going two ways at once as like two entire worlds. It¡¯s just a way of theoretically explaining stuff that we don¡¯t understand. Right?¡±


    That made sense to me. It was pseudoscientific to think we can hop around different universe is like multiple choice answers. At the same time, it was the closest thing to a rational, working explanation for all the weird shit I was experiencing. ¡°Right. But I didn¡¯t have long red hair yesterday. I didn¡¯t look like this and I had long ago accepted that my parents passed away. Parallel universes may not be what¡¯s going on, but it¡¯s the closest thing I have for trying to figure it out. And that¡¯s why I¡¯m not sure what to say, because I don¡¯t have certainty that in 10 minutes or 10 hours or tomorrow or next week or whatever that the world will still be like this. I don¡¯t know with 100% certainty what my name will be or if who I care about will be there for me. It¡¯s like a bridge before a chasm that today turned out to be an illusion. Now, I can¡¯t possibly put my foot down without feeling at least a little fear that I might fall.¡±


    I sweated out half of those words, along with speaking them. Honestly, I already felt like I was in the depths of the chasm.


    And I was just digging myself deeper with every word. I had too much pride to dip my head between my arms on the table, like I used to do as a child when the world felt too much on my shoulders. That would put too much pressure on Camille to validate what I was saying for purely emotional reasons and, at the same time, it would feel like throwing in the towel. The temptation, compounded with the weight of everything else, felt like invisible anchors making my head dip. Fortunately, I managed to lift it back into position.


    A starker resolution occurred to me. My parents, before the end, each experienced forms of dementia related to other conditions both diagnosed and undiagnosed. Mom envisioned an entire other person coming to visit with a whole litany of things they did and told her and stuff that she saw us do. She didn¡¯t believe us or the nurses when we told her differently. My dad had similar partings of clarity in his fugue state.


    When she was closer to my age, mom had a daylong, perfectly normal chat with her deceased father at a stressful crossroads between staying in her hometown and marrying a friend or moving to another state with all sorts of possibilities. My existence depended upon the flip of a coin and the presence of that philanderer from beyond the grave. Either something supernatural or momentary madness in my mother.


    Perhaps everything before today has been a mistake of certainty in my mind or everything so far today was the mistake. But I wasn¡¯t placed before some monumental choice or worrisome conundrum. Or was I?


    I reached out to touch Camille¡®s hands on the table, despite the awkward positioning. ¡°I don¡¯t know what to think or exactly what¡¯s going on, but I¡¯m grateful to share this time and supper with you.¡±


    The subtext to those words was the unspoken pleading that she wouldn¡¯t think I was crazy. Assuming, of course, I wasn¡¯t crazy. She twisted the edges of a smile around her lips before letting it go. ¡°Thank you. I¡¯m glad we came here. And I¡¯m glad to talk to you. Even if we both vanish, like fading dreams, the next time the world hiccups.¡±


    I had to give at least a little laugh, even though it sounded like a split between a sigh and a cough. I hoped it didn¡¯t sound forced. I needed it.


    She took another long breath before laying out, ¡°Well, there¡¯s all that. Would you like to hear everything I have to share? Just my perspective and what I remember.¡±


    To that, I nodded eagerly. She assured me that this wasn¡¯t to negate my memories or all that I was grappling with, but again to share her perspective. ¡°For me, Mrs. Jones always kind of had reddish hair, but I was young. However, I remember you specifically having it the brightest. Whenever I finished one of the lessons, I would go get a book from the rolling rack in the corner and prop it up on my table with Desiree, who I was grouped with for much of the year. But I always watched you for that hair and for your soft smiles.¡± She gazed down at my hands like they were a human reflecting pool.


    I let her continue uninterrupted, ¡°I knew it was weird but I also knew you were different although it wasn¡¯t weird yet I felt weird even though I was told once not to feel weird. Sorry, it¡¯s kind of haha¡­weird.¡± I gave her a quick smile and urged her onward.


    ¡°I just had the biggest crush on you. And I made up so much stuff like what was gonna happen someday and how perfect everything would be. I had super extensive plans for a little kid about how we were going to fall in love. But every time I set myself to take a step towards it, I freaked out and lost my nerve. All I really had was that kiss to show for it and like, in my head and with everything, I buried it under so many explanations. And I was so grateful it didn¡¯t change anything.¡±


    Calmly as possible, I asked her, ¡°So, to you and everyone, I was just a girl?¡±

 Chapter 8 – Between Boy and Girl

    Chapter 8 ¨C Between Boy and Girl


    ¡°Yep. Although, I was a kid so like the difference between boys and girls was like....there was this one girl in that grade named Tracy and she had this idea that boys were just girls who like got hit with the ¡®dumb stick¡¯. And if you acted a certain way or did such and such too much then a girl got turned into a boy and everyone forgot you were once a girl. And like vice a versa if boys hung out around us too long. It was kind of like putting on the wrong clothes back then. Till like when I started junior high, or like way too long, I thought boys just had like all the same stuff, it was just kind of twisted around. Like¡­a folded, corkscrew lump! Oh my gosh, I believed some of the silliest things. I blame having access to...detailed photos of animals. But I knew you were a girl who had some things like a boy.¡±


    If I had any drink in my throat right then, then I would¡¯ve spat it towards my shoulder. ¡°You¡­ You-you know about my aspects¡­ my you and¡­ I¡¯m I¡¯m¡­ I don¡¯t have the words. But that I¡­I have a penis.¡± That last bit got so small that it shrunk more than my little stump and I barely felt like I spoke aloud.


    She heard me though and immediately nodded. ¡°Mmhmm. I mean, it wasn¡¯t really a thing you talked about in second grade, but I understood you were a certain sort of girl and it didn¡¯t really matter. To anyone. You were just really cute and I had such a huge crush on you.¡±


    Now this was weird. Had I stumbled into a universe where this sort of thing just happened? Where being halfway but more looking a particular way just meant you were that way? If Camille knew and understood, that suggested both my parents likely felt the same way.


    I reeled from it all but put together a question, ¡°How¡­ How do you feel now?¡±


    She returned to gazing at the safety of my hands while a hint of red passed along her cheeks. She cleared her throat. ¡°Like I may need a quick trip to the restroom to collect my own thoughts. Maybe. But there are things where words are difficult for me too, in kind of quiet, little ways. Of course, I¡¯m also processing the huge questions you¡¯ve given me and all the stuff we¡¯ve talked about, but I¡¯d love to talk even more, maybe text, and share some more time together when we aren¡¯t too busy. I¡¯d like that a lot and maybe we can help each other figure out all the weird stuff¡­ Together?¡±


    That was blunt and certain enough that even my dum-dum brain could figure it out. I felt honored, a little bit turned on, and vaguely happy that her feelings were so potent, especially after I had basically laid waste to plausible normalcy. My answer had to be YES with full vehemence. Screw figuring out the rules of how the world worked now. I had someone to hopefully share it all with.


    ¡°Sounds good.¡± And I slapped a lid on my voice and my thoughts right there. No burying her in the supernatural/science-fictional possibilities of parallel universes. No weighing her down with my issues. Just accept her kindness and follow through on her thesis that we can figure this out later.


    We both seemed relieved with that. And, by this point, any sense of intoxication had either been drowned in water or sweated out. Soon, she did head off to the restroom and we had our leftovers and my margarita packed up. It was an odd goop by now but the tacos still looked really good. I had plans to tuck them into the fridge as soon as I got home.


    Lingering thoughts stayed with me like spider webs as tough as gum. I liked the thought of being considered a girl, especially with how I¡¯d been changed today. However, it plagued me that it wasn¡¯t a biological reality. It was an aesthetic one. I had the appearance of a girl, the size, even the butt, and I felt softer. But it was an appearance, one that I had no agency in any more than the one I bore yesterday. And I¡¯d gotten off to it.


    At the end of the day, could I just be an odd guy with a jumbled¡­mistaken sexuality? Didn¡¯t someone once say sex was between the legs and everything else is between the ears? So, what did all this make me?


    Was I prepared for the kind of sentiment Camille professed, for the rest of my life? Maybe it was a blessing that some parts still anchored me to yesterday. I could slip on a cute hoodie with oversized sleeves as my long red hair twisted away in the wind and just feel simply pleasant. No new biology under the hood with disconcerting muscles and intimidating requirements. At least, as I imagined it.


    When Camille returned, she had a quick smirk for me as she gathered up the lion''s share of the dishes to go. ¡°A buck-fifty for your thoughts?¡±


    I held my sloshy Margarita steady and raised my eyebrows. She commented, ¡°Inflation and demand are pushing the price.¡± I gave a light chuckle.


    Some thoughts fluttered around my head, but this wasn¡¯t really the venue for them yet and they didn¡¯t feel ready. I told her as much, noting, ¡°Still figuring stuff out, especially the right words.¡±


    Camille expressed anticipation, but I did my best to defuse hype that I¡¯d have anything exciting to say.


    I wanted to say something cool but interesting things only seemed to reside as half-forgotten fragments in my mind which only organized coherently hours and days later. Nothing settled to the surface of my thoughts as we walked out to our cars. Once she put away her leftovers, Camille faced me and asked, ¡°You mind if I stop by your place for a sec?¡±


    Before the horror of how poorly prepared the house was for company could settle in, Camille qualified that by adding, ¡°Just to see where it is and like chill on the porch for a minute.¡±


    Even then, I wasn¡¯t keen on the idea because plenty outside still needed to be broomed and power washed. However, that seemed like a reasonable request that I couldn¡¯t find any rejection for. I texted her the address and she opted to follow me as close behind as the early evening traffic would permit.


    I retraced my way around the Target once we got back into town and I shot a look in the direction of that mysterious new shopping center, beyond the plains of the nearer housing tracts. When we arrived, I pulled in along the side driveway as far as I could go but not so far it would be stressful for me to pull out. It was only then that I realized dad¡®s old car was missing.


    When his condition worsened several years ago, I got it listed as non-operational. Its tires deflated over time and its battery drained away. That was on my list of things to resolve someday. The cushions and the backseat festered with such concentrated dustiness, like it had drawn in the desert itself, that even a few minutes of working on it left me gagging.


    But now it was gone. Likely because dad had either taken care of it himself, it had been sold by one of us in the intervening years, or perhaps he never even owned it in this version of reality. None of the possibilities really mattered but it did bother me that I hadn¡¯t noticed the difference until this point. If such things could slip past me undetected, then what else might occur without my knowledge or could¡¯ve already occurred and I¡¯d never realize it? Was it worth even worrying about it?


    I met up with Camille by the fence. The fence was also different. When my mom first got sick, she tried to play it off by acting like everything was normal and she wasn¡¯t impaired. She scraped the side of one of our old cars pulling out. That dented the fence and kept it from being used ever since. Now, it looked fine, though a little dirty with spider webs and old pollen.


    Camille¡®s attention was on the immense fruitless mulberry that dwarfed the house.


    It laughed in the face of every drought season. Oddly enough, I didn¡¯t see any differences with it. It did have a rough last time when I had to prune it away from the house. Since then, that almost seemed like a challenge, since it was more vibrant and fuller without any dead branches.


    ¡°Wow! I¡¯ve always wanted a tree like that. Growing up, it was nothing but new ones with flimsy limbs. Amazing!¡± She tried to hop onto the center section where there was a little bit of a spot to climb up, but I tried that lots of times without success. Granted, she quickly made more progress than me but this tree didn¡¯t really line itself up for climbing. The guy who came to prune it back did have a ladder that got him up to a section, but you had to get around the central nook. Camille was persistent but ultimately just balanced herself awkwardly on a limb for a few seconds before I helped her hop down. I told her the one in the back was the one I always used for climbing, but it wasn¡¯t quite as impressive.


    She swiftly asked me to show it to her. The backyard hadn¡¯t gotten as much attention lately and the gate on the side had several loose stones, but I resolved I¡¯d just have to deal with that. Where dad tidied up earlier, it actually looked pretty nice.


    To my surprise, he¡¯d actually managed to work on quite a bit of the backyard. Not everything, but the picnic bench had some spots cleared away that looked nice enough to sit down on. I always used to like the two-seater bench right next to the knob that turned on the sprinklers. With so many unrelenting droughts, I couldn¡¯t remember the last time I turned them on. Some in the front had broken off and led to gushing water spouts, but that wasn¡¯t true of the back.


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    The old doghouse sat off to the side near a few, skeletal wood remains of the peach tree. A few years ago I first realized there was practically an entire forest along the side of the house further up that no one had pruned back in a long time. Almost felt like a side entrance to Narnia.


    Camille just went for the little slot in the central part of the tree. She soon had to brush away a minefield of spider webs but I got to watch her as she found a comfortable spot to sit, the same spot that I discovered so long ago. With my smaller size, I suspected I would be able to fit too, but I didn¡¯t try it.


    Twisting sideways, she had enough space to spread out across one of the central limbs while setting her legs on top of it. Her back was supported by a narrow, hand shape of branches. I didn¡¯t trust it enough to sleep in but it was low to the ground.


    ¡°This is really cool¡±, she delighted with a chuckle. ¡°This is exactly the kind of tree I wish I had growing up. If you throw a blanket on it, it would be perfect. It would be really cool if you could find a way to build a treehouse in the big one though. It has so much space. And then like you could put a rope bridge or¡­ what¡¯s it called? You know, where people cross a river in some wilderness area and it sends them dangling to the other side? Only it would be to transfer between tree houses in the front and back. That could get really complicated fast though, especially when you can fall on the roof. But that would be really fun!¡±


    I agreed, it was the kind of thing I often played with in my head as a thought experiment, along with putting more rooms in the house or changing the rooms or adding a basement or a second story. All sorts of fun stuff I resolved that either would not be worth it to do realistically or impossible. But they provided plenty of material for my imagination.


    At the very least, a treehouse in the front yard sounded like fun, even though I suspected everyone in the neighborhood would probably complain about it. Camille used a side branch to support her as she shuffled along one of the side sections pointing towards the garage. She straddled that branch easily, without needing to hold onto anything nearby to anchor herself.


    Gradually, she managed to stand up on the limb without it shaking. Even though she was only about six feet up, my heart rate quickened with concern. She stood there like a gymnast on a very unbalanced beam. I had to clap for her, while making sure if she could get down. There were a couple of ladders inside I could bring out if she needed them, but she gripped the wood and carefully plopped herself down.


    I had a few thoughts, that I really couldn¡¯t give voice to. However, one in particular popped to the surface and vaulted out of my mouth. ¡°I was thinking. You refer to me as a girl, but really a dickgirl is more accurate.¡±


    Oh god oh god oh god oh god. My brain was screaming. It felt like the stray remains of something I gave a 1% chance of thinking about before, but it just dropped down in front of the two of us. Fortunately, Camille¡®s first reaction was to start giggling, before asking, ¡°Is that so? Guess it¡¯s true. Although, calling me a pussygirl is accurate too.¡±


    I appreciated her teasing smile, while my brain wanted to melt. I lightly raced by the fact that the words were probably too blunt and may be offensive. She cut my thought and countered, ¡°Doesn¡¯t bother me. Are you more comfortable with me calling you a dickgirl?¡±


    As I thought about it, my feeling settled into a confident shake of the head. ¡° I prefer just ¡®girl¡¯, although I don¡¯t know¡­ Everything I said. I don¡¯t have a lot of experience with how I am today and feeling comfortable with stuff. In my imagination, someone just calling me a girl puts the feeling of a smile inside me. I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s healthy or emotionally correct or rather self-indulgent. I don¡¯t want to force my screwed-up, confused life and feelings on people. They got their own shit. But it would be nice to feel a little touch of happiness, just relaxing in myself. In what feels like myself.¡± I turned up my hands and gave about half of a shrug.


    After a quick chuckle, she commented, ¡°I think you totally stress yourself out about this too much. Like words are words. Whatever four letter words you want me to use¡­ that make you smile, that¡¯s cool. That¡¯s how I see it.¡±


    I appreciated that and it was the sort of thing I wanted to smack my brain with. Getting too serious or feeling melodramatic about the smallest thing.


    Despite my concerns, there really was no way I could avoid inviting her into the house for a minute. I did my best not to dwell on her reactions and just bring my leftovers to the fridge. I kinda wanted to down the alcoholic remains of my margarita right then.


    She didn¡¯t really say anything but helped me with some small things such as bagging up the recyclables. Fortunately, mom had taken care of most of the dishes and the clutter along the drainboard. I threw a blizzard of gratitude on her for every little thing.


    Camille didn¡¯t stay long and she made sure to clarify that it wasn¡¯t because of the house being dusty but rather, ¡°To give you thinking time.¡±


    She wrapped me up in a hug that emphasized the fact that she felt a little bit like a big sister, despite our ages. And despite our meager differences, she also felt like my superior. We promised each other to text, with her specifying that she would not start texting until she arrived home. The ruinous silence of the house that followed her departure wormed its way into the cracks and crevices of my thoughts.


    I was alone with myself, my greatest enemy. If I had the creative wherewithal, turbulent doubts would be fuel for a bitter back-and-forth. Just pop out a personal, vindictive doppelg?nger who was either a consummate man or the perfect lady. Someone for self-scrutiny.


    But I didn¡¯t feel the energy or the disappointment to bother. Instead of yelling at myself, I just sat in a soup of sticky, acidic uncertainty. It was an insidious blob that couldn¡¯t be reasoned with and which I didn¡¯t want to shake off. When the stress, support, and words of others walked away, this is what I had left in the shadows.


    Instead of wallowing in all that, for the moment at least, I grabbed the clothes out of my car and put them in the laundry room for their first wash. From there, I wiped things down and cleaned where it still needed it.


    Which provided me enough of a quiet space for my mind to actually wander.


    ¡°I thought I was just supposed to be an insidious, nefarious pile of goo¡­¡±


    Woman me stood in the doorway with her arms folded under her bust. She had the same top on but a pendulous mountain range pressed against the material. It practically risked splitting a hole. She didn¡¯t have a bra on underneath or apparently didn¡¯t need one. I could see not only the vivid outline of her breasts, in their immense teardrop shape, but also the fabric silhouettes of her erect nipples. Vivid, normal words fled from me as I grappled for terms like ¡°pin art¡±, a word like "impression" while more subtle than ¡°bulge¡±, and ¡°pointy¡±.


    She didn¡¯t flinch from my own scrutiny as she raised an eyebrow. Her hair was trimmed slightly shorter than mine, but her other features more than made up for it. I cleared my throat.


    Her voice was several times higher than my normal speaking one without sounding childishly squeaky or unnatural. She was me but finished. I leaned on the table. Naturally, I ogled her in my mind¡¯s eye.


    She retrieved a document page from her person and used a small pen to make a note. While she was me and a part of my imagination, I played along and asked her, ¡°What is that?¡±


    ¡°Proof of my womanhood. It¡¯s notarized.¡± She turned the paper to show me. ¡°A detailed account of every man glancing down at my tits, leaning over my shoulder, or lingering too close. It includes creeper males when I was a little girl and mistakenly thought nothing in the world could harm me. But it goes into special detail once puberty kicks in.¡± Before I could comment that it wasn¡¯t that long, she shook it out and it unspooled like a dropped roll of toilet paper. The script was a compact but still-legible mass.


    She continued, ¡°All the looks that they thought went unnoticed. And all the ass pinches in high school lines. All the catcalls called out from burly, unapologetic men. As Hollywood taught me, men who are highly attracted to women are secretly gay and covering up that fact most vocally. This document is the ovulations and tribulations of my sex. Where is yours?¡±


    I let out a long sigh through my nose. It occurred to me that this was a dicklessness measuring contest. Despite this amusement, my doppelg?nger didn¡¯t waiver. She was solidly there, despite all my efforts to defuse her.

 Chapter 9 – With Myself

    Chapter 9 - With Myself


    I had plenty of things I could complain about and log away. But they had no currency. They were just ¡°male¡° complaints. Mom, the other one, made a big deal of reducing the complaints of men to molehills before the mountain of female trials and motherhood. The automatic ¡°I win¡° button to mash.


    What about the fact I had to wipe mom¡®s bedridden, diarrhea spewing asshole for years on end without respite? No currency, because I didn¡¯t bleed guts for any part of my life. If you want to start a war about it though, mom, don''t women with excruciating endometriosis count higher on the suffering scale than other women? Once you start counting, escalation never stops.


    Let¡¯s go quantify this person through a highly distorted lens of our own making. They¡¯re a piece of shit compared to this other one. Throw them out with the junk! I drooped down on the table.


    I would never win. For all the years I could count as suffering, they only counted if someone cared. And counting wasn¡¯t caring, it was just a biased effort at quantifying shit that didn¡¯t matter.


    That all sounded good and felt like a tiny revolution in my soul. But it wasn¡¯t as though I would go easier on myself. My doppelg?nger still stood there, with a smug expression on her face. What does it matter?


    I could be the prettiest girl on earth and still feel like trash. I could have unlimited powers and still feel helpless. It was all between the ears.


    So, what do I do? What can I do? I just want to be able to smile a little bit more. I can¡¯t wage war against other human experiences. There will always be things I can never understand about other people because the only tools I have are my imagination and my own pool of experiences.


    Even if I was born Maggie, I might never know what it¡¯s like to give birth. Maybe my random, flippant analogy of a bowling ball trying to shit itself through a tiny sock had some truth to it. No clue.


    It didn¡¯t even matter that I had points of reference on a pain scale. Nor did it matter that I peaked the pain meter in waves of agony references for days to weeks on end. I grabbed a clean towel from one of the closets in place of a blanket, since I didn¡¯t have any I wanted to hug right then.


    Hugging Camille or my family as tightly as I hugged that towel would only make them worry. Tears came easy but they didn¡¯t feel cathartic.


    The other me didn¡¯t matter, but she lingered as an apparition in my thoughts. My towel friend was boneless and couldn¡¯t hug back but I still appreciated having it in my arms. At some point, I decided that another shower was the remedy I needed. Something to dispel the hot dust of the desert afternoon.


    It felt like a waste to give up my new clothes so soon though. Washing them would take at least an hour in one machine and almost two in the other, if I hadn¡¯t put something in already. Ultimately, the best compromise was to slip on some of my old drawstring shorts along with a worn top.


    The style of both had changed. I didn¡¯t recognize them. The drawstring shorts were clearly a smooth, all-cotton variety with plush comfort in mind. And the sleeves of the top were cut a little bit tighter while not feeling uncomfortably snug.


    Earlier I was sure that my clothes had been some sort of multiverse residue of my previous self. Now, they seemed as changed as I had been. At least that meant I wouldn¡¯t have to buy an entirely new wardrobe to follow up my casual purchases this afternoon. The rules to all this still eluded me, but at least it didn¡¯t feel like they were written in opposition to me.


    Stepping naked into the shower again made me feel alive. Shifting, posing, and focusing on the certain parts brought me to new heights and my imagination carried me the rest of the way.


    Against the bathroom window, an evening breeze picked up as the sun found its rusty way to the mountains in the west. Though not a brutal blowtorch nor anywhere near cooling, the wind was appreciated despite the dust it stirred.


    The wind reminded me of the rare storms that flashed through. Like the one that broke earlier and left everything muggy, with nary trace now that it ever occurred. Though it might be too much to hope for an overnight shower to rinse the night clean, I still imagined the sounds of water flowing against the west end of the roof.


    It filled my thoughts, even though simply washing my body was still enough to occupy my mind. Using one of my old devices, one I didn¡¯t worry about setting near the steamy spray of the shower, to play some epic instrumental music or slow song by Billy Joel I would never otherwise listen to crossed my mind, though I was nearly done. Hopping out to get it seemed pointless. At the same time, I could look at my water-traced shape with the lights turned down and appreciate it before something popped up again.


    As tempting as that was, I¡¯d still do it anyway when I got out. But this way I¡¯d be doing it at least twice. Slipping out naked and dripping, I lingered before the mirror next to the bathroom with just enough shadows to compliment me. I¡¯d seen it all before, but it still felt tantalizing and fresh. Darkly-soaked red hair matted against my shoulders. The suggestive bump and prominence of my nipples. The sloping curve to my smaller body. My genuine smiles.


    Returning with the old device under one arm while showing off my backside, I lingered by the mirror as I slowly set some random music to play. Giggles came easily over the fact I was putting on a show for myself. And an encore came with the echoes of epic tunes reverberating through my skull.


    I even added another pass with my remixed wardrobe. From there, I brushed my teeth, used a cleanser pad, and attended to a dozen small things. I had to take care of myself like this. No magic assured another do-over.


    With a towel crowning my head, I stretched out on my bed. Pointing my toes down, no amount of stretching even got close to the edge.


    Not that I could do it before, but it used to be closer. My feet felt like they were exfoliating and my eyes lost a little grit from a quick rub that made them feel like a dammed stream. Sifting through my apps, while hunting around for other flakes of evening grit, I opened up the one for Reddit. Checking my earlier posts confirmed no one had left any comments on them. They had been voted up, which was something, but that was all.


    If I took a naked photo with the right positioning, then it could probably turn out as tantalizing as my reflections. Who was I trying to impress though? Just random people on the Internet. Sure, naked shots or heavy cleavage snaps vastly outnumbered the lighter stuff I was doing, but there were several factors to consider.


    First of all, I knew my students used the same websites I did. The chances of them running across one of my images seemed remote. But that bumped up against parts of the code of conduct I verified for employment. Now, that didn¡¯t specifically mention naked photos, but it did allude to presenting a professional, responsible figure for students.


    Getting discovered seemed so massively unlikely, especially when my posts barely moved the needle. But the mental stress on me of having to fret didn¡¯t feel worth it.


    I did make one more shot though. Positioning my phone on a little clamp that I needed to wash off first because I rarely got any use out of it, I looked towards the camera with a faint smile and a gently stuffed top. The result looked really good. I didn¡¯t even need to tuck anything down.


    After several careful minutes of scrutinizing the shot, I did use an app to remove some of the clutter and distraction in the background. Otherwise, it looked great. Fortunately, my earlier shots hadn¡¯t really drawn much attention to my chest, so I had a certain degree of plausibility as to what my bust would look like, especially reclining.


    Like all the rest, I chucked it like a tiny bottle into the endless ocean. My title ideas didn¡¯t feel especially inspired, but I went with a friendly wish that everyone was having a pleasant evening and that I was a little sleepy and just chilling in bed. No matter how I phrased it, I figured that a sexual connotation would slip through. That was fine.


    Once I double-checked that the rules of the Reddit were followed to a T with tags, headlines, and hosting, I finished posting it.


    And then came the waiting again. But I didn¡¯t have to wait too long before the letter in the top corner turned red. Reasonable expectations though. A deep breath. Shivers down my leg.


    When I opened the new message, I thought for a second it was an auto mod telling me I screwed up one of the precise imaginary rules. But no, it was actually a message from a moderator, a human one.


    [Your posting is NOT original content. It has been deleted. For the rules about posting on this Reddit please refer to¡­]


    ¡­ Wait. What? The first thought that popped into my head was how lots of little changes occurred in my life. Maybe I was semi-famous online now? If so, why wasn¡¯t my regular login saved on my phone? The more likely possibility was that I simply looked like someone and the moderator made a snap judgment. Certainly seemed in-character for Reddit.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Keeping my response genial and polite, I explained that I just took the photo mere minutes ago and they could do a cross-search if they wanted to. There were all sorts of things online that recognized reused photographs.


    Honestly, I figured I could just go to another place on the site and not have to deal with quite so many time-wasting questions. I only had to browse for a few minutes before the moderator got back to me. They accused me of editing the image. Whatever.


    Halfway through taking an identity verification shot, it suddenly occurred to me that maybe the moderator had an unscrupulous pretense behind what they were doing. My next reaction was to summon up whatever power changed me and sick it on them for some sudden boobs. Till then, I positioned myself so that my stuffed top looked even, I slipped on the helper bra from earlier, and I repositioned the neckline for just the barest suggestion of cleavage.


    Nothing too egregious. Nothing that couldn¡¯t be written off as incidental posing. Nothing I didn¡¯t mind losing to someone¡¯s random tribute archive. It was telling that he reinstated me after that, although I didn¡¯t get an apology. My image did linger at the ¡°hot¡° peak of postings for a bit though.


    Only after several minutes spent quietly sifting through my phone, did an actual alert pop up. Three of them.


    ¡°cyute¡±


    ¡°do the carpet match the drapes?¡±


    ¡°Im in bed too¡±


    One had 1998 appended to their name and the other had a bunch of Xs. Seemed like standard throwaway accounts. Not especially fulfilling, but about what I expected.


    In order, but not immediately, I responded, ¡°Thnx!¡±, ¡°what do you think ;-)?¡± and ¡°sleep tight!¡± Ignoring proper spelling, capitalization, and the way I usually wrote felt like a slow-burning acid in my brain. But this was just from messing around. I didn¡¯t have to take it seriously.


    Still, it hurt to see shit online degrade as the decades went. The elite idiots for whom ¡°gotcha¡± puns and one-line zingers got loudly clapped and then the orgy of incoherent, screamed monosyllables. Harf arf garf daaaahhy!!! The only thing worse was thinking you were hot shit in comparison while diving in the screaming pool.


    Why was it so hard to even try to stand out? There was no one to impress and yet I put so much work into receiving the leavings of three throwaways. Everything about the Internet was made up and whatever points didn¡¯t matter. Wasn¡¯t that the sort of clever comment that made for a zinger?


    I left it at that. Fortunately, a few minutes later Camille texted me with an apology for not getting back sooner.


    ¡°I stopped at my place for like just a minute and then I remembered I desperately need to get groceries before all the good places closed. I¡¯m so sorry!¡±


    After assuring her it was fine, I let her text. She shared a little supermarket struggle with hunting everything down. It had a really nice, dramatic presentation. Better than I could manage in so few words.


    I shared some of the boring details of my evening by framing them with taking a nice shower to relax, arguing with myself for a minute, and messing around with my camera. She hoped that I beat myself in the argument with a smirk. Then she shared her daydream for a scented bath before asking if I was interested in sharing my ¡°photographic experiments¡±.


    She received the lump sum of all the photos I took for the day. Her words didn¡¯t go into exacting detail but each felt cordial and sincere with the value of a thousand randomly barfed out by the Internet. She really enjoyed my wet hair and did a cute eyebrow wiggle when my cleavage was shown off. For that, I made a few exclusives for her eyes only.


    We spent most of the evening talking about random thoughts, foods, and movies that looked interesting from the recent past. I shared a website that allowed people to simultaneously watch the same video while far apart. She suggested that we could just chill together beside the same screen.


    Eventually, she headed off to take that bath but encouraged me to leave her offline messages and whatever else I was inspired to create, be it photos or text.


    Naturally, my creative wellspring immediately became a parched, cracked pan of desolate, salted Earth. It happened a lot. Someone might ask me to say something creative or mention what¡¯s on my mind. It always dried up in those moments. Some of it could¡¯ve been nerves. The pride of my creativity wanted to knock it out of the park every single time. To offer up something trite or uninspired would be failure.


    I rested my still-wet hair against the pillow and gazed up at the static patterns of sound-muffling cottage cheese above me.


    What if this was it? I fall asleep tonight and wake up tomorrow, to a day set right on the path beforehand. No parents. No Camille. No perfectly cute shape. No fancy little bookstore plaza. Just a return to sanity and normalcy.


    My eyes slipped closed with quivering tiredness before popping back open. I could fall asleep right here. A stretch and a shake did little to fix how much I felt awake. With the hours I had tomorrow, it would be good to rest soon. Assuming that my work time hadn¡¯t shifted either. I could listen to spooky, unsettling podcasts like a morbid lullaby. The only unpleasant part was they often left me with full, detailed dream worlds which drifted away like smoke upon waking.


    Popping out of bed with as much of an energetic hop as I could summon, I slipped one of the cleaner pairs of socks on. They were tiny but surprisingly bulky. I hadn¡¯t seen them before, but they didn¡¯t specifically seem like socks for Maggie. Rolling them up helped with getting the most of their length. The ends clung to my knees without feeling weird or uncomfortable.


    They didn¡¯t build up a static charge despite their thickness against the dense house carpet. Still, it felt fun to scuff them. Despite the relative warmth of the evening, I eagerly slipped on the next thing¡­ A silver, cottony-soft hoodie.


    My daydream. The hoodie hinted at a curved shape to my altered shoulders and dangled low like a weird sort of dress over my legs. Turning in place and flapping my sleeves, I felt youthful with purified vigor. My muscles had to bring me back to Earth with a random ache.


    The new purse managed my keys, wallet, and phone along with the concession of a bulky taser and a fist full of pepper spray. It had been a good day but, even decades ago, this place had bad nights. No matter if the world considered me a man or a girl, I was smaller and needed to compensate.


    Outside, after locking the front door, the wind felt surprisingly chill, like a watery soak in the heights of summer heat. What moisture was left in my hair was well on its way to drying into memory. I practically danced my way down the steps. Strolling along the grass and past my car felt like a private jaunt. The veil of evening made all the world recede. Bulky trees sheltered houses, windows, and even reached up far enough to twinkle the useless, dull-toned LED lamps.


    The breeze came in swells that once again bunched up my clothes, dragging me onward like snatched paper. I spun in place like a toy as the little island where everyone sold their used cars had been cleared out of all but the original rock art and dwarf trees. Turning, the wind continued to drag me the way it wished as I pushed forward.


    It was only about a fifth of a mile to the market at the corner. Waiting for the light took most of the time. Plenty of walkers crossed the paths, some strolling by themselves, some families with little kids orbiting around the center of parental mass. I secured my purse and decided not to cross over to the market but continue along the edge of a walled-off housing tract.


    Every step I took forward weighed on me as one I would have to trace back to return. That said, I did have the taxi app, if I accidentally twisted my ankle or something else serious happened. Every flash of anxiety and flare of nervous thought had to be vigorously tempered by stoking optimism and ease.


    It was going to be fine. Granted, taking a walk at night by myself, under any circumstances, wasn¡¯t the best idea in this area. But the only mall to enjoy walking around was on the other side of town and started closing early with events. The nearest colleges were also on the other end of Brookville Valley.


    Not that it was the worst area, but I remembered when seeing one homeless guy at a park was cause for scandal and concern. Now, seeing just one was a surprise. When I was young, there was a guy who marched around in an ornate uniform with a tall hat, like he was that guy in San Francisco in the 19th century who declared himself the Emperor of America. I steered clear of him.


    Past older tract houses and a few mobile home parks, I made a left onto the road beside a small school and followed the glow the rest of the way to the new bookstore plaza.

 Chapter 10 – Clinging to the Shadows

    Chapter 10 - Clinging to the Shadows


    My legs felt sore, but nowhere near as bad as when I last attempted this distance. That had been quite a few years ago. I was without my car because of a compressor replacement for the AC. All I had to do was walk through the main area, slip past the elementary school I went to a long time ago, trudge along a stretch of dirt road, make a right to follow a fire station, and then continue through several plazas till I finally got to my destination.


    That trek was during turbulent fall weather when I needed to take an umbrella to block the worst of the wind, along with a jacket. It made my meal when I arrived doubly satisfying, however I had to wait until my body recovered for the trip back.


    Arriving at the bookstore wasn¡¯t quite as satisfying this time. It was closed already. The same went for the other shops. But this existed as a proof of concept that I could walk from home to here by myself.


    Still, it was pointless, and I wore myself out getting here for nothing. Sounded like me. Across the street, in blazing bright opposition to the darkness that enveloped it, was a 24-hour market attached to a gas station. I took the crossing carefully since the most active part of the city, even late at night, was this main road that injected cars directly into the Vegas vein.


    My sinuses were getting stuffy. Even spitting into the dirt didn¡¯t clear them up. Hopefully, the market had at least a travel pack of tissue. If only I thought to take some before I left. My purse needed to be more lived in like that, like my mother¡¯s immense, floppy kidney bean of a purse. Full of things from decades ago and so much stuff you never knew you needed. I would survive.


    ¡°You got¡­ you got a dollar or two¡­ for coffee? Just a dollar for coffee.¡±


    Beside the double doors that led into the market sat a disheveled homeless guy with stark, blond hair in a tangled mess down to his shoulders. He wore a plaid button-up shirt with several holes in it and a pair of almost-black dirty jeans with a rope instead of a belt. He sat on a pallet of soda cans for sale with a black trash bag inside a metal basket on wheels.


    My first instinct was to give him a wide berth as I looped around to the door. But I unzipped my purse with my taser and pepper spray resting atop the shadowy pile inside. This emboldened me to not make any obvious detours. Maybe I should¡¯ve edged away a little bit as it smelled like, without even getting close to him, he had taken a shit on the merchandise.


    Usually, my standard response was to say ¡°sorry, no¡± or ¡°don¡¯t have cash¡±. Since I acquired my phone for payments and even before with my bank cards, I didn¡¯t really carry around cash or coin unless I knew I was going to a place that required it, like a barbershop. This made it easier to flatly deny any panhandlers.


    My parents had fickle feelings about giving away money to homeless people. Mom was often realistic and noticed when some made rotations around the city, still trying to collect a few dollars more. She instilled the utmost caution in me about it. Dad became more wide-eyed in his later years and it felt like he was trying to pad his good deeds by giving a ride to a homeless lady wandering around a buffet restaurant once. Or, rather, he guilted me into giving the ride because he professed that it could be either of us someday. She left a musty odor that lingered for several weeks.


    What would the new version of my parents say now? Would dad be more protective of his darling daughter? How about mom? Surely, at least for my size, she would¡¯ve given me the talk about how to be careful at night. Clearly, she would¡¯ve vetoed this entire endeavor of walking alone. At least back in college, some nights had the virtue of a sea-sent blanket of fog. And you could walk easy loops around the campus and be guaranteed that security was still milling about. So, what the hell was I doing tonight?


    I slipped through the doors and wandered the wild, ivory aisles for stuff I could easily carry back. Most of it was junk food I long ago disregarded. The dusty stack of clinical and homemade face masks earned a snort from me. The microwavable meals in the fridge unit had icy beards suggesting they had been here since this station opened and they showcased ingredients that would only upset my stomach. More durable, salty snacks caught my eye for a bit. Eventually, I decided on some meat, cheese, peanut butter treats, and pickles along with caffeine-free soda. I turned over a bag of hard-boiled eggs until it started dripping on the tile, and I swiftly returned them to where I found them before getting in line.


    The only others in the store or in line were ladies. None seemed spooked by the homeless guy when entering. I added a can of chili to my purchase just to give it a little bit of weight, in case it needed to become a weapon. The clerk, a portly middle-aged woman with broad black glasses, her black hair tightly tied into a bun at the top of her head, and a perpetual frown carved into her thin lips, went through the motions of ringing me up. The price was more than I would¡¯ve liked to pay but wasn¡¯t enough to deter me.


    The twenty-cent bag had the thickness of a raincoat but a tiny crevice within that barely kept my purchases in place. The handles, by comparison, felt like they were made of tissue paper which would rip apart unless I bunched up the ends into something more like a rope. I briefly visualized how I might have to beat someone with my bag and run. My arms gave me a little, anticipatory pulse of warmth.


    More than anything else, I expected the homeless guy would just be gone. He was still there, with his dark hair matted to his face and sprawled over his shoulders. Wasn¡¯t he a blond? It didn¡¯t matter, this was the same guy.


    ¡°A fucking dollar? Anyone have a dollar? Fifty cents?! I just need to borrow a quarter for the phone and a coffee. Don¡¯t you have anything, Jacob?!¡±


    Okay, FUCK that! I backed away into the brightest part of the gas station, where there were some cars and folks still pumping. No one looked in the direction of the homeless guy but me. Sweeping my purse behind me with a tight pull of the strap, I had my bag gripped in front of me. The guy started to creep to my right, towards the edge of the lights. That would just take him to the desert and the golf course.


    At some point, I had to turn sideways to check my path ahead. When I looked back, he was completely gone. No shifting in the shadows. No rattles from his basket. Just gone. Granted, he was right where the light faded to nothing but not being able to track him kept me deeply unnerved.


    Hustling over an embankment, I darted past unfinished sidewalk, managed to catch the crosswalk on a good cycle, and slipped through two lanes without having to wait. Those crappy LED lamps were at least well clustered on this side. I gripped both the pepper spray and my bagged purchases for comfort.


    Checking over my shoulder revealed no one walking behind me. Whatever pain and fatigue I might¡¯ve had approaching the two-mile mark for this walk was muffled by a renewed, energetic burst pulsing through my veins. I was committed to this.


    The wind didn¡¯t seem like my friend anymore. But then, in a desert, the wind was always a razor¡¯s edge away from flinging havoc. It clapped and slapped and spun all the loose debris, occasionally sending sounds like footsteps to echo at my back.


    Another reminder that I would¡¯ve liked to own a gun. Handgun at least, but a rifle or a shotgun loaded with buckshot would¡¯ve been nice too. Fingerprint trigger. Just stand with it aimed away and hope the presence of the weapon would be enough. It hurt to be trapped in my car one night while drunk, laughing bastards loomed in my windows like I was a zoo exhibit they could easily attack. And my only weapon was a glare of determination since I couldn¡¯t use my surrounded car.


    Looking like a girl now barely changed anything there. It just added new questions. I just wanted to enjoy a stroll in my hoodie, while feeling cute. Turning onto the next avenue, I realized a weird haze around the lamps wasn¡¯t from me crying tears to myself that I didn¡¯t realize but rather a rare fog actually settling in. Now? Really?


    I checked behind me again but the fog was already turning that end of the road into a washed-out, bright blur. After picking at the little grit dams in my eyes and finding no improvement to my vision, I hooked around the corner and just bolted by the entrance to the mobile home park. The wind settled down swiftly with the appearance of fog and the dusty-moist blanket dulled many sounds. Usually, moisture was pleasant, especially against my nose. This time, however, it felt like invisible gnats brushing by me.


    Past the entrance to the mobile home park, I took a moment to catch my breath and even held it to listen past my faint, internal ringing. The edges of noises that sounded like steady footsteps or my pounding heart pushed me to swing around and watch. Nothing, same as before. Not even a faint shadow passing through the lights. The light, stray hairs on my neck almost made me jump.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    I indulged and welcomed spookiness, but it tended to be a smooth voice recounting distant stories. My usual fears looked me in the face. They didn¡¯t hide and taunt me with unknowns. I doubted this was related to looking like a girl. It was a stupid call to go out alone in the middle of the night, but still the same kind of stupid call I would make all the time. Only at this point, did I realize I had a camera on my phone I could use to record someone and upload the evidence. If I saw anyone. Furthermore, it had a light and all sorts of applications I probably wasn¡¯t even thinking of.


    Some flashing alarm. Police siren sounds. As well, my taser had a blinding bulb on it. I didn¡¯t need to be equipped like an army. I already had enough tools, if I was smart enough. That alone cooled my racing heart back to a normal level. Turning my tools into actions that pushed away the foggy darkness with clarity, returned me to the simple slow stepping enjoyment of walking through a foggy night in a draping jacket. I didn¡¯t have to be afraid.


    That didn¡¯t mean my guard was completely lowered. I still checked a reasonable amount. Before long, I was back by the apartments and between clusters of parents and children as the little ones tried to grab the fringes of fog with their fingers. The harsh, dusty aspect of the fog faded to moist clarity. The rest of the way back followed with simple serenity.


    I still latched and locked my front door when I got home and breathed easiest when I was able to sit down with my bag. The night and the oldest nooks and crannies of the roof still provided random settling sounds to bring my alertness back, if only for a few seconds. The pickles and everything else tasted thoroughly passable and nowhere near the cost. They were my tempered award for a useless trek that seemed to do more bad than good. I washed up a little to shake the drying sweat from curling up in bed with me.


    Writing inspiration tickled my fancy but couldn¡¯t build enough flame to ignite into words. I wrote a few notes about Camille and reflected on her with a smile. No new messages awaited me anywhere, so I pulled up a relatively generic podcast about murder mysteries and listened to as much as my mind cared about before drowsiness wrapped around me.


    What kept me awake a few times was the needling fear and rooted expectation that morning would find this delicate gift lost like snow in the rain. At least I had a bevy of lovely, vivid experiences to revisit and shape into the perfect words for some random story I might share in the calm corners of the Internet or keep as a private diary.


    And that was all I felt before the strange realm of sleep swallowed me up and took me somewhere else.


    My first experience upon waking was an awkward cough in my familiar voice with long, dangling hair plunged into my lips like a deeply woven thread. Vague dreams about swarms of zombies followed my hazy thoughts. I often dreamed about zombies of all sorts. Acrobatic circus zombies. Spectral zombies. Massive, animal zombies. Biblical angel zombies. So weird, especially since I wasn¡¯t a big watcher of the sub-genre.


    Someone into psychoanalysis would probably make much of the topic or go far afield into esoteric explanations. I knew what it typically meant. Being overwhelmed by a stressful situation not under my control. Decay, loss, and fear. Or feeling like a disconnected zombie from life.


    Those were interpretations. I had plenty of stress in my life and loads of uncertainty. It would¡¯ve been nice to have a fully immersive, perfect dream as Maggie.


    I expected the drowsy hints of my body to shuffle into the familiar shape of the rest of my life. But it felt strange, in the same way as I last remembered. A good strange. Maggie¡­ Long, bright hair swallowed my ears and itched at my neck. Well, that didn¡¯t make any sense. This also didn¡¯t feel like a dream, but I¡¯ve been wrong before about actually being awake in interesting, stressful, and beautiful dreams. If this was a dream, it nailed the mundane.


    Of course, it was absolutely not a dream. Tangibly, I understood this. But, again, I had been tricked before. The most telling sign was the awkward discomfort of my blankets, the warm itch of my locks, and the nefarious seed of sinus pressure against my temple. Dreams contained practice suffering and discomfort, life was the real deal.


    I open my eyes and glimpsed the crimson stage curtains which had been drawn closed at the end of the previous day. My eyes blearily watered at this morning-accented shimmer. My yawns almost choked on the forbidden, red licorice around my face.


    The bedsheets, as always, drifted to the left as that was the way I often arose. On the right side, the layer cake of colorful blankets had been dissected with the ribbon clump of the fitted sheet spilling tangled, frozen blood. On the other side, it was also off but at least that was easier to fix.


    Waking up was still exciting, with the quiet anticipation of another shower.


    I met myself in the nearest restroom mirror and fumbled with the little imperfections brought on by a dry mouth and twisting against the pillow. Familiarity concerned me, but I tried to put it out of mind as I stripped to wash up.


    It didn¡¯t take much to get me going in there, as I joined in the flowing stream without even trying. Thoughts alone were all that it needed. No matter how much nervousness came from the erotic arousal of just standing there, things happened.


    Wrapping my biggest towel from under my arms to around my feet threatened to continue it. I was able to force it down to a shiver. This length of hair, while complimenting me, was not my favorite for convenience. It took another towel and a decent amount of time to dry. Would I trade it back, with my hair in something evocative of a pixie cut? No need to trade, I could just get it trimmed and changed at a salon.


    Would mom be willing to go with me to a salon? Would that be something weird? Mom didn¡¯t care about taking me along before, and I did my best at them. I felt nervous and guilty at them. An outsider, unprepared, not dressed up. Sorry, apologies I can¡¯t really express, but you¡¯re not supposed to see me like this.


    That was the sentiment. Please don¡¯t judge the little pop of a tree stump at the caustic odors and the pleasant presence. This is all new to me. I should¡¯ve brought along my long hair, my soft face, and my undistinguished nails, to be made up in whatever way is the fashion. They would never ask if I wanted to be waxed. They would never see the way I felt inside. I could feel it vividly whenever I walked through the doors to a salon. The anonymous avatar is piloted forth, as I focus on making sure mom is all right. They expect nothing of me and ask nothing of me. I am just here to wait. Inside, I feel like a feral child clinging to the shadows.


    A little girl who crawls underneath basins and hopes not to be found. She hides her tears in shadows. If anyone were to come around, she would immediately bolt for the nearest sanctuary. That¡¯s as far as I developed. Just a little girl, unsure of what all these things do. No fashion sense, no confidence, and no place for them.


    Just sit in the corner with my legs tucked up almost to my chin, face hidden away, and wait until it¡¯s all over. I¡¯m not supposed to be here, not like this. That was how I felt. And the reminder did a great job of redirecting my blood flow from the anonymous parts of my body.


    Going to the salon might be different now. Maybe I¡­ Might even go together with mom, not just as a helper. Maybe.


    I did a little less posing before the mirror this time, but that didn¡¯t mean my appreciation was lessened. Instead, I put time towards grooming. The counter didn¡¯t have the kind of products this face and body really deserved but the worst of the maintenance hadn¡¯t set in yet. Skincare pads did their regular duty. And I made a mental note of what to buy later.


    Most of the early morning was devoted to clearing my little laptop table to the point I had so much free and clean space that I didn¡¯t know what to do with it. My arms barely stretched the span. The undercurrent of dust, acquired from the land caked in it outside, wrestled its way to the surface but I sprayed, scrubbed, and lightly vacuumed it back into oblivion.


    I still had plenty of morning left by the time everything felt just right with my laptop camera politely covered, even though the video app was ready to go. I dashed away a waterfall of pointless articles online before I decided that I didn¡¯t need the news.


    I needed something else...

 Chapter 11 – The Changes We Make

    Chapter 11 - The Changes We Make


    What that was, I wasn¡¯t quite sure of. Chewing lightly on some toast and egg along with some random fruit gave me time to simply think before I realized I had deleted one of the experimental deep learning editing apps I messed around with a long time ago.


    Out of mild curiosity, I added it back to my phone. It was one of those which required an overpriced, monthly subscription to get anything out of. Fortunately, starting it back up again reset the free trial period. Might be worth a look.


    It was a small download at least. Not a lot of useful photographs lived on my phone, before or now. Another curiosity, surely I saved all sorts of cute photos with my parents. Nothing. Not that I preferred to see reality altered again. Traces of the world that comforted me to the fact that I still had tangible threads of sanity. Whatever photos I might find would not be mine anyway but the product of someone else and their reality.


    Maggie¡¯s reality. I just got to play in it. For how long? Who knew? But I treasured these moments. I respected them. Yet, I still needed more.


    Putting my photos through the digital blender translated into some interesting results. Years ago, at the start of the 2020s, they could show me a lot of things, but the AI was nascent. The options now bedazzled me. It had options for live video hair rendering and all angle feature extrapolation and replacement. Instead of trying to guess eye and face orientation, the system did a quick preview and allowed you to make adjustments.


    Non-human and fantasy options had been added for fun. Face track yourself onto a cat and render what kind of feline you might be. The results I''d seen trended towards uncanny horrors. I was interested in how the app could augment what I already had.


    It had a lot of work to do before, straining away my flaws. The remarkable thing was how naturally my features sat upon all a variety of templates. It was robot visual magic, but still it impressed me.


    The free-flowing world of selfies provided the system with all the information it needed. Naturally, before, I went right for the E+ to G-cup pendulous options. Compensation. Some looked absolutely ridiculous, others were practically perfect. It was through all that, I managed to glean a new sense of self.


    Perhaps it bordered on a weird sort of classical narcissism. My face was beautiful though, and only with a few minor tweaks and shifts. The bone structure remained. That gave me a strange allure but never the confidence to act upon it. And so I had a plethora of people like Camille, who only confessed to a heart-palpating crush when it no longer mattered and they had found someone else.


    If I had a distilled, manly beauty, knew it and wielded it skillfully, would I ever want to be like this? It was the fundamental question. How crazy am I? Am I just a little bit psychosexually-confused? Do I just want to take the easy route instead of the increasingly difficult path of being a man in society, alone, neglected, and forced into shapes that just felt like the prelude of waste receptacles?


    I knew, or rather I was told relentlessly by mother and society, that girls had it worse with labels and shapes of their own. And certain varieties of girls fought each other for the prize at the bottom of the pit. It was an insult to even wield these AI-constructed photos. I knew that, but I was tired of fighting myself along with the invisible, mental police of the world. I just wanted to enjoy this.


    What used to take practically hours to tweak into something that could jump across the lifeless valley of strangeness, could be accommodated by the artificial intelligence with a few button presses. Skimming through the options, I plumbed through beautification settings. Didn¡¯t take long before I found what I wanted.


    Bust enhancement. Figure shaping. And so on. Fortunately, the photos already taken would be sufficient. However, if I was going to share them without minimally-astute people calling them out, it might be better just to take new ones.


    Wandering around the house, I tried to look for a good place where the early morning light spill complimented my features and didn¡¯t do anything weird to the shadowing. One weird photo could wind up with all sorts of unintended errors.


    Ultimately, just standing outside in natural light softly edging through the trees seemed like enough. The problem was creating a selfie to my standards. I had to be conscious of where my eyes were looking, I had to be aware of the angle of the camera on the forward facing lens. I had to pull off a sincere smile but one that wasn¡¯t so intense that it made editing my face and other features a pain. As for those other features, I had to think about the options on my top and whether an adventurous neckline might serve the artificial intelligence better than something more conservative.


    The AI could also turn my shorts into a snug fit and smooth the way all the anxieties that rested with the tree stump. A hot flash of trying to do everything perfectly and anticipating the results almost made my hands so sweaty that the phone slipped to the pavement. Fortunately, after the first one, it was easy to take so many others in positions, angles, and lighting situations.


    When I had to stop because of time, I paired my phone with my laptop and used the combined processing power to speed up and improve the results. It was miraculous.


    What would¡¯ve taken a photo-editing artist some unknown amount of time¡­ filled the screen with ease. Redheaded me sitting on the porch bench with light delicately tracing my features and spilling over my cleavage, which had been brought from struggling to reach beyond the smallest bra to deep into the letters.


    Other images were similarly complimented without the rounded distortion that used to give this kind of editing away. Rather, my imaginary bust conformed to some sort of digital model inside the system. It was especially nice to see my tight shorts cleave spaces I knew not. And it activated way too much excitement and flush feeling for right before teaching a class.


    I managed to work through about a half dozen before I had to stop. The nicest one was still on the bench with me looking so glamorous. I could try to add a little bit of artificial makeup or other tweaks, but that felt like too much. In fact, I emphasized imperfections and freckles.


    To put it to rest and also leave my mind spinning in a thousand directions, I created a new account from a throwaway email and posted my image to one of the more adventurous Reddits. There wasn¡¯t more than a moment to title it something silly like ¡°chilling in the hot morning sun¡± before I had to just walk away and prepare for work.


    No one in my class looked any different than yesterday and all the other elements settled into a kind of routine. A lot of the time was spent on writing reflection with some scattered squeaks and screams I needed to clamp down on. At a certain point, we needed to take a break for technical troubles as one of the most attentive students vented about how they hated their webcam.


    The last few years were a travesty, a dark mark in human history rolling along like a broken train across a field of lives. Of all the things to change, that would¡¯ve been the first. And, especially, I would¡¯ve changed¡­ Well, I discouraged my students from sinking to the level of fomenting and fermenting debates. Communication, curiosity, and compromise. It didn¡¯t exactly fall into what my employers wanted me to say, but it worked for my classes.


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Fortunately, I got away with directing a Carl Jung discussion about the Age of Aquarius and the potential rise of an ¡°Antichrist¡±, maybe in the AI form sitting on my table. God in and of the machine. Humanity reduced to a mechanism instead of a spirituality. Really fucked up shit. In retrospect, it was playing with fire to even bring it up but how can a class exist unless it makes you feel like you¡¯re about to lose your shit and every anchor of assumption?


    Even for me. I learned more about my students in trying to slow down their passion to a manageable level than in a dozen other topics. Even to describe their contradictions would make a judgmental observer bitter and inconsolably angry. It just made me laugh.


    And it made me feel bold. I finished the lecture by asking them to remove or add words from the dictionary. The add feature came from a discussion and an argument that more words with greater power were always better than less. Jokingly, for the next week, that word would be banned and/or encouraged for regular discussion. Because of how last week went, we had to pass on banishing or inviting a word in. So I decided we might as well try one of each to make up for it.


    "Brabble", discovered by Michael online, was an easy invitee as a word for arguments or squabbles. The widely-derided ¡°problematic¡°, even with all the changes to my personal reality, was still the biggest target. I gave it a stay of execution since it hadn¡¯t even come up in discussion for a long while. Ultimately, ¡°productive¡° got the axe, mainly as a weasel word.


    That should¡¯ve concluded my adventurous spirit, but I took the initiative of directing the girls away from tossed rumors that someone was ¡°stuffing their top¡± behind the camera by inviting them to consider how I might look with ¡°some bowling balls¡°.


    It was just meant to get a quick laugh, but they took it as a devoted challenge. Before long, I knew far too much about a topic I was interested in but which I really didn¡¯t want out like this. Turning it towards the analytical didn¡¯t help, as everyone soon decided it was time to give me fashion advice. One mortifying aspect of teaching which never changed, no matter how you looked.


    Since Friday was fast approaching, at least I had the weekend memory resets to save me from this discussion spilling over into the rest of the class. I brought it upon myself, as I always did, by being open and revealing in the ways I really shouldn¡¯t. Maybe another way was better, likely almost any other way would be better, but this was me and the momentary thoughts that spilled out.


    Once I was able to wrestle everyone off the screen and all the ideas into one corner, I had time for a long breath and a glance over at my phone. The Reddit app had notifications. People had responded to my image. Naturally, my brain flashed with expectations everyone immediately recognized the trickery in my bust.


    Perhaps I was already banned. Not that it mattered with a throwaway. But the random stranger insults and declarations still burned even though I should¡¯ve learned not to give a shit so many years and even decades ago. I didn¡¯t have to look at it and whatever comments I received. But it would just eat me up inside not to know what was said. Fuck.


    Did I have an excuse to go out to eat again? I really shouldn¡¯t. The sandwich shop near the Starlight bookstore wasn¡¯t too bad. I could get a foot-long and have it for some other meal as well. Plus, it gave me a reason to return to the store and make especially sure that it wasn¡¯t just the fragment of a dream.


    The leftovers from mom and Camille in the fridge did look pretty good though. That could be a kind of supper. I just wanted to make sure my neighborhood books were safe. And, in that setting, I could be as brave as I envisioned myself to be about all the stupid little things.


    On the way out, I nearly picked up one of the medical facemasks in a box after getting my purse and keys. They used to be for allergies and were so once again. I flicked one like a slingshot against the box and headed out.


    No sign of random thunderstorms or mollified weather greeted me outside, just oppressive heat. The car labored to push out cold air as I rolled down the driveway but made a stop before I got to the road. As expected, someone blasted down the street at absurd speed. I could be leaving in the dead of night or the quiet of morning but someone would attempt to cross my path right at the moment I pulled out. At least that was a constant.


    From there, I actually chose to make a left at the market to pass the old park and former bowling alley along with an army reserve station. On the right was the old Mexican restaurant I used to frequent for fish dishes. Slipping by some car repair businesses, I also passed a Drivers Ed class and met up with the recent school that revealed the plaza from yesterday lasting at least as long as Maggie.


    Starlight Pages glimmered as the centerpiece with all the magical allure and ornamentation of the day before starkly showing in the summer sun. The parking lot still had a lot of choice spots but the area right along the front had been fully claimed.


    One of the quiet joys I felt was to see a treasured bookstore so close to where I lived. It was easy to keep one of these places open in areas like my old college or fancy pants lands by the sea. That meant I would probably have to buy some things at a cost above where I could get them elsewhere, especially online.


    The interior had the AC already puffing at a full tilt with a cavernous rumble echoing from the back of the building and carrying through the wall shelves with a slight rattle and ruffle of posters on the right side. Through the forest of books, I noticed there was a different worker than yesterday: A lady with brunette hair similar to what I had before and a slight presence. She turned and picked up a large box.


    I idly watched her and soon noticed something abundantly evident. She put my photos from earlier to shame. She had on a cute, dark-silver top with a modest dip and close sleeves. And it looked like she had literally snuck a set of full-sized volleyballs inside. They were eyebrow-raising compared to her otherwise diminutive scale. She was shorter than me and a little bit skinnier, but she had an admirable heft to her arms and legs.


    Large, black-rimmed glasses with a tint of pink on the edges enveloped her eyes. Her jeans looked about one size too big on her with a belt done snuggly to keep them up. Funny thing, the clerk from yesterday, the guy who snuck a look at my ¡°boobs¡±, this girl looked kind of like what I imagined turning him into for fun. Huh¡­oh¡­ wait, NO WAY!


    Couldn¡¯t be. Could it? Did he remember? How can I possibly ask her? If she remembered me from yesterday¡­ Maybe, but then it didn¡¯t matter if she didn¡¯t remember me either. If only I asked for his name. If he had a name tag when I last visited, then I didn¡¯t remember it.


    I wanted to pound my head and say that this was a ridiculous line of questioning, but recent events gave me plenty of cause to at least consider it. How crazy did I want to go though?

 Chapter 12 – Calliope

    Chapter 12 - Calliope


    The best approach, I resolved, was to just casually browse, then talk to her like normal. At least she was so busy with others that she didn¡¯t seem to recognize me. Or, more likely, she wasn¡¯t that guy.


    None of the magazines on this side interested me, even though they did provide a momentary distraction as I slipped past the stage and over to more interesting things. I weathered the tides and shifts of customers until my travels brought me over to the cash wrap with the most worthwhile-looking random book I could find.


    It was a trade paper I¡¯d never seen before which collected about four-hundred pages of ¡°twist on a type¡± short fiction ranging from space to artificial intelligence to genetic engineering and so on. Ideally, I would¡¯ve found the perfect book with gender bending or introductory science fiction, as we talked about yesterday, preferably both. However, the little section devoted to the sub-genre still didn¡¯t have anything that quite fit the bill. Anything would¡¯ve worked as a big hint or a prop about the situation, but I wasn¡¯t willing to spend twenty dollars on a prop.


    My opportune moment came during a prolonged lull when no one was checking out and she was over on her a little platform with the register. Ultimately, just walking up was all I could do. She immediately recognized me with a flash of her slim eyebrows behind her glasses, a quick wave, and an energetically squeaky comment of, ¡°Welcome back!¡±


    ¡°Hey there! I¡¯m back. How are you?¡±


    She giggled to herself and answered, ¡°A little loopy. Different, but eager. Today¡¯s gonna be a good one, I can tell. You ready to cash out?¡±


    None of those words told me anything convincing about her, so I had to help things along by asking, ¡°You remember me from yesterday?¡±


    ¡°Of course. I¡¯m intrigued to learn more about science fiction. Ohhh, is this more of that? Did you finish that other one already?!¡± Her elfin eyes widened.


    Oh, fuck¡­ a warm rigidness struck the tree trunk. Fortunately, I still had enough space for nothing embarrassing to show. I took a little step forward and passed her the book to ring up.


    With a careful whisper she glanced through her glasses and added, ¡°You look really nice again today.¡± And, for a moment, I was absolutely certain she was checking on my artificially-emphasized boobs.


    For less than an instant, my mind deviously envisioned the gaming store just a few walls away replaced with an assortment of dirty young women who had a variety of manga plans for me. But I instinctively took that thought and smothered it with a metaphorical mental fist like a flame that hurt for just a moment before it was gone.


    I didn¡¯t need a harem. I didn¡¯t need all of this complication. Just being out in the open with a percentage of what was comfortable for me took a great amount of care, which I could only imagine getting greater. At the same time, fuck yeah I look nice. I suppose.


    What now? Politeness, obviously. ¡°Thank you so much. It¡¯s great to see you again and I''m glad to hear you¡¯re having such a good day, so far as it sounds. Unfortunately, I¡¯m not done with the other one yet. It¡¯s been so busy. But I like having a nice stack of stories I can go to whenever I feel in the mood.¡± God, that was a fucking marathon to get through emotionally. And I didn¡¯t stammer a bit, despite the tension of my emotions being pulled in so many different directions by all this.


    She slipped a devious little smirk on her face as she worked the register. Of course, my mind immediately latched onto the possibility that the guy from yesterday told his coworker all about me and they were just messing around. I didn¡¯t fully smother this idea when it arrived, rather I batted it away to still linger beside me. It wouldn¡¯t upset me to learn this was the case. That outcome would be rather confusing, but I would be fine with it.


    Back in high school, my classmates would play those sorts of games on me. Once, a female student pretended to be the body-swapped version of a male one. Another time, a similar classmate put my hand right against her crotch to prove that she wasn¡¯t¡­how I was now. In retrospect, both of these happenings were not only examples of interest but also strange, casual acceptance of my stated oddities. Other times, people pretended to be the relatives of bookstore founders, claimed they were moving, and presented a variety of other provocative notions.


    I casually believed each and every one. And I rarely even got upset at the deception. It was just a lingering sense of disappointment. I wanted something good, fun, and exciting to happen. My worry fell when something bad might accompany it. Embarrassment sprouted when teachers pulled a fast one on me, and I earnestly accepted their words. Again, relief was better than feeling upset.


    This situation had all the hallmarks of another trick. I likely had been branded the weird lady with the gender flippy notions who was really into sci-fi ideas. So, being ¡°punked¡± was in order. I lingered in anticipation of the other shoe slapping down.


    She finished things up and bagged my book. She responded, ¡°I hope you like all of them. Thank you for stopping by again! I might have to close up for just a few minutes in a bit to grab lunch, since it¡¯s just me here today.¡±


    This was the best place for me to put forward the hypothetical guy from yesterday. I focused on his puffy hair and plaid button-up top. Her expression contorted a bit before answering, ¡°I dig plaid and I think I had that on yesterday. Otherwise, it was Rebecca in the back with inventory and dealing with stuff with the owner of the store. He¡¯s put a lot of money into this. Local real estate guy, Victor Eliopulos, who comes from a humongous family. He gifted the fancy Greek orthodox cathedral in North Langers. His second wife and niece sometimes put some work in, especially with organizing.¡±


    That certainly seemed like a credible answer. I amended my statement to say that I must¡¯ve mixed up someone else I saw. She lingered playfully on the notion of ¡°mysterious missing men¡±, which only further confused me. Slowly walking away with my purchases, no one popped up or came over to reveal the truth. I could hear the coughs of people quietly checking books but nothing more. The lady soon went back to the regular tasks of her job.


    I couldn¡¯t leave it at that, I couldn¡¯t just leave with this mental tangle of unresolved possibilities digging into my brain. So, I asked, ¡°How are you for lunch?¡±


    She kept her amusement close and responded, ¡°Ravenous, with a brutal desire to destroy any really good sandwich or salad. I¡¯m trying out a diet strategy which limits the number of days I eat in a week. It¡¯s brutal, but I get to treat myself today before the fasting sets in.¡±


    From there, it was easy to propose, ¡°Let me help. I can get you something nearby.¡±


    Her tone of voice wiggled through a lilting track of appreciation that sounded so girlish. ¡°Ohhhawwww you don¡¯t have to do that. That would be really cool though! Are you sure?¡±


    I didn¡¯t have the longest break from tutoring classes to work with. Neither did she. It was soon resolved that I was welcome to go pick her up a ¡°fully loaded¡° salad at the sandwich place nearby. All I had to do was use the card she handed me, just a little IOU you on a business card, and say it was for, ¡°Calliope¡­ which is my name. You know, like the circus organ hehe. Too tootlie toot toolie too toot tutu.¡±


    Calliope. It was a cute name and it suited her. But how did she trust me so quickly? She shrugged with her hands out and explained, ¡°It¡¯s actually a total risk. You could take that, snarf my salad, and leave me empty-handed. But you would have no reason to do that. Since you really seem to like books, we¡¯d definitely see each other again. So, you might get a free meal, but with consequences. I thought about the risk and I¡¯m willing to take it.¡±


    Even though I wasn¡¯t going to do anything wrong, my cheeks still felt flush from the weight of that responsibility and not somehow screwing it up. I had nothing to worry about though. It was just a quick trip.


    Still, I felt nervous dropping my books off at the car before heading over. The sandwich place had the same sort of layout you would expect at any of these. The main difference was scope. This looked more like one of those make-your-own pizza places. A long swath of ingredients rested behind a glass wall with a variety of fresh breads and bowls at the first kink in the line. This place was definitely busier than the bookstore.


    Using my phone for some random browsing reminded me of the unchecked messages on the Reddit app. I don¡¯t know why I still went to places like that for news and information. Hating myself to a persistent degree felt like a solid theory. Too much time in random forums with random people who repeated identical, incoherent words like a broken command line. This one just had a better simulation of trying to pass the Turing test with stock, stolen witticisms.


    I was old enough to remember how the unfettered, uncensored, unregulated possibilities of the free flow of information were going to change human society. Anything could be found, anything could be known, and anything could be challenged. But it all returns to the original state, because a service must be paid for either by ads, by information, or by security. Any group is willing to say yes to the craziest and most horrifying things so long as they aren¡¯t perceived as alone in saying it.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Soon, it was my turn. I told the first person behind the partition that I was ordering a "fully-loaded" salad for Calliope. Fortunately, the little card and those words were enough to be understood. They crafted a towering bowl with a bloom of lettuce at its core. Atop that came several hefty scoops of tuna fish, followed by a variety of greenery along with cheeses and supplementary meats. For myself, I went with a light flatbread toasted with that same tuna, made up to barely fit by the end.


    Calliope¡®s order was covered but I made sure to pay for mine with my card. Each meal dangled from an arm as I made my way back. I hustled through the door and prepared to drop off her food as she attended to a shopper. She was ready for me though, and urged, ¡°Can you hang on for just a minute?¡±


    I lingered until a handful of people had paid for their purchases. Soon after that, Calliope went around and advised those left in the bookstore that she needed to lock up for about 15 to 20 minutes for lunch. They shuffled out and dragged a cloud of melancholy with them, looking back over their shoulders at the books left behind.


    Soon, it was just us in a large bookstore with the front door locked. I could only imagine that this is the same way some pornos started, although it seemed unlikely they would have the money to film in a bookstore. The number of pornos I watched in my life could be counted on a single hand. One of them, I don¡¯t think it was actually a porno, but it was French. It was a peculiar introduction to naked people. I was way too young when I saw it, but it involved some guy who drew cartoons being occasionally turned into one, like an X-rated Who Framed Roger Rabbit? sexual werewolf.


    That probably wasn¡¯t the girliest thought I could muster up, but it was my thought. Another, which I saw with a college classmate who spent a few months thinking he might take hormones, had some sort of sci-fi plot. Otherwise, I sought out a few scenes online, with terrible acting, which technically fulfilled my interests in gender swapping.


    How might ¡°Calliope¡± respond, if I confronted her with what I remembered? She invited me to join her for lunch in the back, ¡°If you have some time. I had some thoughts about what we talked about yesterday. Like trippy thoughts.¡±


    I did have some time, not a lot of it, but enough to eat a sandwich and maybe chat for a bit. After verifying with my phone and leaving a reminder, I slowly nodded my head and told her simply, ¡°Sure!¡±


    In the back, past the men¡¯s and women¡¯s restrooms, was a small cafeteria area similar to the one where Camille now worked, and mom formerly did. It had a fridge, some cabinets along the side, and a pure white microwave on the counter near a sink. A large, bright-red bean bag chair and a throne chair that looked to be made of plush books occupied one side in front of a wooden cabinet stuffed with disorganized titles. A long, largely plastic table filled the center of the room.


    Calliope set her salad down next to a chair at the table but didn¡¯t sit. Instead, she continued roaming until she found the confines of the bean bag. With a full body heave, she dropped down into it. Her chest suffered a brief but noticeable aftershock. I found a spot with my sandwich on the end of the table closest to her.


    She made a few noises that squeaked out of her mouth in frustration. Naturally, I asked her, ¡°You alright?¡±


    After sweeping her hair out of her eyes, she responded, ¡°Surprisingly. I feel so freaking normal. And I¡¯m kind of scared to say why I feel like I shouldn¡¯t feel normal. But¡­ I don¡¯t know, it¡¯s weird you just kind of feel like a kindred spirit or some¡­I don¡¯t know.¡± Her arms wandered but soon laced around her bust as both a bit of support and a gentle censorship of their enormity.


    I still couldn¡¯t discount the possibility that this was all an intricate, extensive prank. But it felt needlessly egotistic to imagine that anyone would go through all this just because of me. I would be so relieved the world wasn¡¯t like a shard of glass balanced at the top of a crumbling tree. Not that this one event would tip things one way or the other, but it might restore some degree of rationality to the madness.


    At the same time, I would be lying if all this didn¡¯t excite me a little bit. I deliberately thought about him this way. It was an idle fantasy I didn¡¯t dwell on very long. If I somehow held the physical fates of others in my hands on a whim, then that was terrifying. What if it wasn¡¯t confined to my conscious decisions? Every dreamscape could be a potential minefield for physical manifestation. Did just saying no to the possibility preclude it? Perhaps, I created all of this¡­


    I wanted to be a lady. I felt like one. ZAP! There it is, only with the caveats and doubts I carry with me. My inability to reach the scope of an innie instead of an outie for my tree stump. And the torment of my imperfect voice. As well as the self-punishment of denying myself the most prominent secondary female trait. It made perfect madness all together.


    And then, I wanted to spend more time with my parents, who I missed in the most conflicted way. And these parents, this version of my parents, who let nothing really worry them. My mom and dad. Back in the flesh.


    Followed by one of my students becoming a cute lady. Then, I go on a date with a wonderful young woman. And everyone has been so nice. Even the scary moments slide off my shoulders like droplets of rain. Why? Should I even bother to question it? Or should I just enjoy this fate? If I could do anything, why not do it? Slight throbbing sensations pressed at my forehead and I returned my attention to Calliope.


    There were so many interconnected and tangled threads to pull apart and so many assumptions about what she¡¯d just told me. I had to keep it simple. ¡°I¡¯m happy to listen to whatever you need to get off your chest.¡± I swear, I arrived at that naturally and not intentionally.


    She fought back a quick giggle and a lingering sigh before admitting, ¡°Yeah, you could definitely say it¡¯s weighing heavy on my chest.¡±


    The possibility occurred to me that we were each totally on a separate page of things, but I decided to let her lead the conversation without jumping to any particular conclusions yet.


    ¡°I had a dream last night¡­that I was a girl and I woke up like¡­that...like this. Which¡­ was weird¡­ because yesterday¡­and every day of my life I was just a regular guy named Brian. And that sounds totally nuts, but that¡¯s where I am. I wasn¡¯t wearing a custom-ordered G-cup bra yesterday. But the freakiest thing is that I¡¯m rolling with it like¡­ If I don¡¯t wake up from this, which is crazy because I¡¯m here, I¡¯m not asleep. I think. I hope. I don¡¯t know. Sorry for laying on¡­for laying all this on you. I am probably totally nuts and losing it every minute, but I totally needed to say it. Like it would be so cathartic if I could just cry right now probably, but I¡¯m more shocked. And super shocked that I¡¯m totally okay with all of this, which makes me think I just had like¡­what do they call it? Like I had a psychotic break or something and I just think something¡­that no one else in the entire world thinks about me.


    If she was pretending, then she needed to be in movies. The frantic quaver to her voice caught me up like the onrushing, tugging persistence of a tide.


    ¡°I believe you. Some weird stuff has happened to me too.¡± I resisted cursing inside my head. It was almost as desperately embarrassing to put that into words as to speak about any of my issues of the past aloud. But I already spilled them out to Camille and fuck it¡­ Maybe they could help someone else. I could die of embarrassment, but so long as it made someone else feel better then maybe it wasn¡¯t for nothing.


    She lifted her head up and widened her focused eyes on me. ¡°Weird stuff? What happened to you? You don¡¯t¡­ Did you change too?¡±


    It would¡¯ve been easier to squint or close my eyes to get the words out, but I wanted to see her and focus my words on her with sincerity. ¡°I¡¯m not totally sure either. But I remember being a guy¡­ Jacob, two days ago. And there¡¯s a lot of other things to go with that. My parents died several years ago, but they had lunch with me yesterday. I¡¯m pretty sure this entire business area wasn¡¯t developed or even begun when I recently drove by last. And I can confirm you were a guy with puffy hair, a plaid shirt, and black-rimmed glasses who checked me out...when checking me out. And asked me about sci-fi books and books where people change gender and stuff.¡± Those were way more words than I ever expected to say out loud in one sitting.


    Calliope¡®s arms dipped down against the crunchy bean bag. It felt like she was reeling but still holding it together. She glanced over and muttered, ¡°Well¡­Well, shoot. I should eat but wow. Geez. You remember me, at least. It¡¯s kind of freaky that it¡¯s hard to hold my face, my regular face, in my head very well. That¡¯s freaky.¡±

 Chapter 13 – Epiphany

    Chapter 13 - Epiphany


    She eased her way into the seat, half ducked under the table, and looked at her salad. She continued, ¡°All this hair is kind of crazy. I like just having a little plume. But it kind of looks good on this. But I try to think of my face and I still have a big honker. Trying to compare it though like you saw it¡­do you remember everything?¡±


    I gave ¡°Brian¡° a few looks, but I didn¡¯t pay an enormous amount of attention to all his features. Motioning over my own nose, I managed to translate the things she didn¡¯t have words for. She focused on me intently, before slumping again.


    ¡°That¡¯s it. That was me. And that feels like the dream. So weird. I keep expecting to wake up again and everything is shuffled back. Did it happen the same way for you?¡±


    I drew a breath in and it flowed like liquid nitrogen through my joints as I nibbled my way through the sandwich. ¡°I wanted something like this in my life¡­ But there was no warning of anything.¡±


    She shifted the core of her salad with a plastic fork and nibbled at the meats. ¡±That¡¯s good. I don¡¯t think I wanted this. But like it¡¯s like a horse that¡¯ll go its own way. Like I¡¯m so chill talking about my diet and thinking about my bras and other stuff, even though it¡¯s Calliope¡®s thing. It¡¯s like Calliope is just me now and she¡¯s simply replacing all the stuff that used to be me. I¡¯m not scared though, maybe that¡¯s because of her. I just acknowledge that I am a girl and it¡¯s just living. Not much I can do about it.¡±


    I could¡¯ve told her about my little thought yesterday and how maybe I was responsible. But that was just guessing and felt like the craziest thing of all as I chewed on it in my brain. I wasn¡¯t God. I didn¡¯t have control over reality. Right?


    The very notion felt like an unreachable itch I needed to smother. Something was going on though. Maybe it was infectious? Now I really didn¡¯t want to see the game store.


    ¡°So, you¡¯re alright? Emotionally?¡±


    She shrugged. ¡°Surprisingly alright. Like I wasn¡¯t the manliest dude or anything. I was just fine with myself. Not dating anyone, not really feeling anything that might suggest this. Although, it¡¯s a little complicated now.¡± She looked me in the eye for a lingering moment before returning to work on her salad.


    There really was no way to ask yet except to just plop it down in words for her, ¡°Are you completely female or is it a mix¡­that kind of complicated?¡± I had a hunch what she meant, but this was probably the only way I was going to even approach the question without dying a thousand screaming deaths inside my brain. That was still going to happen, but I could feel enough recklessness in that moment to at least put it out there.


    As I could¡¯ve expected, she treated my question with immediate surprise flashing over her features. ¡°I guess. I mean I¡¯ve known some women in my life well enough¡­ and everything seems right. It would¡¯ve been nice to hold onto at least a little something, when it comes to the restroom. But it¡¯s more because I have a shit-tier tiny-ass little bladder now¡­ and excuse me a moment.¡±


    She popped out the door, scampering over to the women¡¯s restroom. I immediately seized this opportunity to make progress on my sandwich. The tree trunk had the ambitions of sequoias, and I was grateful for the table between us. A slight notion of a restroom trip occurred to me, but it had also dammed the river. I wondered how far these little mental wood analogies might last me as I got to the halfway point of gobbling up the footlong.


    Calliope returned a few minutes later with a long, slow puff of a breath. ¡°I didn¡¯t even hesitate for that ladies¡¯ door. It¡¯s good that I can manage, but it¡¯s still freaky.¡± She slipped back into her seat.


    I didn¡¯t even hear my own brain screaming at me as I responded, ¡°I¡¯d like to help you however I can, even if it¡¯s just talking or listening or buying enough books so you have a job. I don¡¯t understand everything because I was only changed¡­ in some ways. My restroom situation is also complicated. A lot of things are. But I¡¯d really like to help.¡±


    Maybe it didn¡¯t need to be said, same as with Camille. Maybe it was way too much information in a sensitive situation. Maybe I should¡¯ve been more reticent about my anatomy. Maybe I shouldn¡¯t have even come to the bookstore at all. But here I was, there it was, and here I am. If it all went south from here, then at least I got out my most earnest words.


    Calliope listened intently even as she ate. At a certain moment, it dawned on her. Her eyes widened even more and her thin lips dipped open with the oval of her mouth. A trickle of drool spilled from it and she furiously wiped her mouth with her hand and then a napkin from her salad bag. She was relatively pale, so the bright red accent of her cheeks was easy to see.


    Frantic little sounds swarmed behind her hands flailing over her face. She soon said, ¡°I wish I had a longer break. Not like..oh my geez. Oh boy goodbess¡­ goodness. I¡¯m so sorry. This is such a freaky day. But yeah I ...yeah I mean I¡­ I think¡­ I would appreciate any help and it¡¯s really amazing to talk to you and not feel as crazy as I have since I woke up. Anyway, before I lose my mind, can we trade information?¡±


    She explained that she hadn¡¯t really used her phone yet. It was slightly bigger than mine with the fancy camera stuff I didn¡¯t bother with and adorned in a lovely case. Calliope explained that she had a clear one before but she actually liked her female self¡¯s pick. Brilliant spiral galaxies traded globular plumes against the dazzling void of space. I would¡¯ve liked it for myself.


    It surprised her that Calliope had an active Instagram account along with several other apps that Brian never bothered with. Fortunately, all the passwords were tied to her fingerprint, which the phone had no problem with. I added her to as many things as I could and started a silly little message thread where we just said ¡°Hi¡± to one another a few times.


    After that, it was back to the business of trying to finish our food within the allotted time. When I got up, it was impossible to miss her eyes checking me out at waist level for a lingering moment. I had enough looseness in my shorts to preserve some degree of mystery.


    Seemingly in return, she bent over and lingered that way by the trashcan when cleaning up. Of course, I glanced too. She locked eyes with me and gave a quick smirk. I smirked back and didn¡¯t look away.


    If this was a porno, then the action would¡¯ve started there. But I just helped her tidy up and followed her casually to the front as she unlocked the front door and removed the little sign explaining it was lunch break.


    Before we parted and I had to rush home to teach, we had a little chat where I explained my work and she mentioned that the bookstore was still hiring. The caveat was lower pay than I was receiving for tutoring, very few benefits aside from food at one of the nearby places, inconsistent hours, and the smell and tedious weight of books that needed to be toiled over. She ticked a few more points, mostly nitpicks, before countering, ¡°But there can be so many interesting people you run into, who change your perspective and life. And I haven¡¯t even gotten into the music events haha.¡±


    I had to go though if I wanted to have any chance of starting my class on time. As a last thing, she threw ten bucks at me as an apology that I had to pay for my sandwich and go get her salad. I wanted to tell her it was fine, but I was out of time to protest and just told her I would hold onto the money and other incoherent word fragments before I waved and dashed out the doors.


    Traffic fought me trying to make a left and the slowdown of ever-present summer construction spread to the route back. Fortunately, I was so close to home that time, no matter how tight, wasn¡¯t going to be a problem. The problem was getting my head in one place once I was seated in the couch with my laptop and materials before me. Susanna had the first questions and I had plenty for her that I couldn¡¯t possibly ask. Why didn¡¯t she remember? Who was responsible for her change? Was she as accepting as Brian/Calliope?


    And this session had to be iterative from the previous one with all those same trappings of feeling less spontaneous and organic. If only I had some measure of an actor or actress, able to re-position themselves in the right headspace for each performance and tackle it as something new. At least, that was how I envisioned the acting process. The fortunate variables were those precious students who broke through the leagues of sullen resignation to actually ask questions. Because each existed as their own island joined by the stream, it was in many ways easier, at least it seemed, for them to treat this as a one on one tutoring session. Simultaneously, those who were never going to speak up and treated the camera like some thing to listlessly stare at until they were released, then it was exactly the same as clinging to the back of the class and waiting out the suffering. The whole situation had been shit since it started and it kept erupting into new layers and floods.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    The most shameful era. And entire generations of my students would suffer its worst effects. Shame. We did our best together. but I oftentimes felt an empathetic pool of their distaste and apathy towards the nugget of what I had to transmit to them. Making it palatable was like cooking a meal that needed a dozen flavors, all of them good. Mustering up energetic enthusiasm took practically everything and hitting upon spontaneous, creative inspirations for how to teach were beyond me. All I could do was dance the familiar steps.


    The word we invited was ¡°mucklings¡±. It was an inspired concept from a little group that lived together on the same block. Basically, it was their term for when you put all sorts of little words in between the words you really want to say and they muck up the meaning from being direct and understandable. I dug it, as something I needed to watch just as well. The word they tossed was ¡°mood¡± after a furious debate that included some of the candidates from the earlier class. Only once I¡¯d dealt with lingering questions and private follow ups, did I let myself rest.


    It would be so easy to sprawl across the couch, especially because I now had several additional inches of space. A glance through the fair-peach-toned drapes revealed that the baked and furious morning and noon had fallen to a bitter breeze. Clouds blunted the mottled traces of branches. And illusory, subtle odor, less like dust and more like moist earth, found my nostrils. I knew another bout of rain so soon was impossible, but the valley inversion layer haze, and all sorts of other vague meteorological buzzwords that flowed out of the local news, at least blunted the heat.


    Opting for a stretch on the bed with the dogged reminder not to fall asleep before I heated up some leftovers, it wasn¡¯t long before I realized I left the Reddit notifications unseen. What kind of responses did Calliope get online? It was a pointless thought.


    And there was no point in torturing myself. I opened up the app and tapped over to my messages. Four.


    One was a bot message. The responses I got were ¡°ha ha¡±, ¡°cyute¡±, and ¡°okay¡±. I knew it was fruitless to search for any sort of validation of myself through strangers online. It didn¡¯t matter the media. It didn¡¯t matter how well I made myself up in one way or another. Validation was on me.


    That was an easy thing to just spout as some holistic truth. Still sour grapes out of reach. At the same time, I could keep chasing the right venue, the right title, or the right moment. So much effort just to catch a few, feeble beads of recognition.


    A parting of vague clarity slipped through my thoughts. Who exactly was I making these for? I felt like I never really understood men that well. And random girls considered me a curiosity, at best, between being oddly drawn in ways I never noticed. It was slightly easier for me to talk to Calliope than Camille though. We shared a lot in our current situation. But what about when all that was depleted?


    Would Calliope still be a friend, or more, when the initial waves of all this wore off? What of Camille when the fond reminders of her youthful crush met adult reality? The truest me was exposed for all to see and was that person inside enough to be loved? Could I possibly approach love in a real way?


    There were times I felt like and people told me I was an old soul, but other times I felt like a child with a radiant heart but also a deep, tender wound. I¡¯d been stifled by family, by circumstances, and by myself. How could I possibly find a way to love someone else when I didn¡¯t share such love with myself? Fervently, and in opposition to the miserly attitudes of once family when it came to love, I would spill forth every well of adulation for someone else, but that was also the problem. Someone who tries to love like that can never get back what they give. And that breeds contempt and contempt sours that sentiment.


    I understood all of this in the most methodical fashion, and I desperately wanted to be better. Maybe these days came because I was finally willing to internally accept something for myself. The changes of others were so easy because of my willingness to turn whatever this was on others long before me. I knew there were things out there in the world I didn¡¯t understand.


    Everyone had theories and so did I. I deeply believed that the enabled will of a single human being could move reality. A small group of people with just a little bit of engagement had the potential to change the entire world, if they could convince others. It was probably New Age crap, but at the same time I suspected there was actually something to it. Stuff happened before and so many things existed that didn¡¯t quite fit. In some terms, I cast a spell on the world, myself, and people around me.


    Why didn¡¯t I get the validation that I wanted through the Internet? Maybe, because I didn¡¯t actually want it. Such developments led to uncomfortable questions, people responding negatively, and things I couldn¡¯t even imagine.


    I was such a whiny little bitch. Yeah, I heard me. A whiny fucked up little bitch. I professed such grandiose notions and revelations and determinations, yet I still crawled into an emo little ball and gave myself a private pity party. You want to transform people? Just fucking do it. Brian/Calliope is surprised by it all, but she¡¯s actually fucking enjoying it. Meanwhile, all you can do is run endless fucking emotional, psychological, existential diatribes about how you¡¯re a lowly piece of shit and then in the next turn you think you¡¯re some kind of God?! The only blessing upon the world is the hope you are not in control of it.


    Even this fight with yourself is so pointless! Get off your ass and enjoy the world! So some random shitheads online don¡¯t like a photo you put there. Fuck ¡®em! Did you have fun making it? Do you have any creative ideas that you would like to try out next? Make yourself happy with what you can do because you can¡¯t control what other people think about what you do and who you are. Just do your best for yourself first, as sincerely as possible.


    Write fun things to Calliope, joke about her titties, maybe make a silly quip about erections. Make her smile as you make yourself smile. And go have fun with Camille too, tell her about this friend you met at the bookstore, go naval gaze to her about existence and what this all means with Calliope, and ask her what kind of swimsuit she¡¯d like to see you in. But, more than anything, don¡¯t waste time adding to your own suffering. Face whatever you want to face without regret or fear that you¡¯ll fuck it up. Because you¡¯ll feel like you fucked it up one way or the other eventually. Do it first and apologize later if something you did went too far. Come on, girl! Get your ass in gear already!


    That pep talk washed over me like a bracing, cold tidal wave. I don¡¯t know how much of it got in me, but I was definitely coughing up metaphorical seawater.


    Despite the call to action inherent in it, I just wanted to find a comfortable spot on the bed and sleep the evening away. However, my imagination had other ideas.


    Imagination is so fickle. An unending wellspring of ideas, thoughts, and words could be flooding forth, day after day after day, hour upon hour, seemingly without end until physical exhaustion punched me out for the night. And then suddenly it could be as much of a desolate desert as the landscape that surrounded me on all sides with the bent bowl of mountains towering above. No thoughtful rain to quench my thirst, no flutter of puffy clouds to quell the intense sun, and not even any wind to stir the remnants.


    I could sit there and just let every flicker of thought fade away and pass in night and then into another day, when the frantic, tardy student of my creativity barreled down imaginary halls and called for just a minute to fill in an idea that suddenly emerged. But I wouldn¡¯t have a minute or all the other minutes that were required for this flash of inspiration, rather it would pass like the glimmers after dreaming when you find yourself in the restroom not entirely sure where you are but with vivid, visceral mental images playing inside your head like a dozen, different channels flicking through all at once.


    I could let this go for days or weeks or months without answering the call, without feeling a hunger to do something creative. But ultimately, it would be like holding in a natural need. As surely as I consumed life, as swiftly as experiences and moments pass through my senses, my mind would be ready to expel what it crafted from that.


    But determination of self to break away from darkness and then stand in the light as though about to perform was just the act of preparation. Now I was on a stage of my own making¡­ What do I do?

 Chapter 14 – Shimmer

    Chapter 14 ¨C Shimmer


    The answer was as obvious as the question was silly: whatever I want. I made the first series of photos of myself with the nervous intent to get validation for things I was terrified to face anyway. And then the second set was just hiding my worst qualities so they would fit into something that I hoped the random Internet might find pleasing.


    This time, what sprung to mind wasn¡¯t so much how to boost, diminish, or validate qualities of myself but rather the possibilities of what not treating the camera as an obstacle might unleash. Using a simple rubber band and a variety of boxes, I managed to create a stand for my phone at different angles. My only nervousness was in positioning the phone outside on the porch bench and wondering if I might pick up an insect visitor in my bed later.


    That photo idea included using my little sprig of bamboo to suggest more than six inches of greenery as a companion to me stretching out languidly. The results were nowhere near perfect. They had a flash to one side and a little flare and the focus could¡¯ve been better but a few minutes of correction brought it right where I wanted it.


    That one immediately went online in the first Reddit that felt appropriate to it with a handful of more adventurous crossposts. For a split second, I considered posting it to a cross-dressing Reddit. I was cross-dressing after all, in a lovely blue blouse and a dangling skirt. Sort of. Physical sex between the legs with gender as a quagmire between the ears. But I was also making cute photos. So please don¡¯t give myself another problem, myself.


    The second photo I tried was evocative of something I made back in high school. My family acquired a camcorder which recorded to a massive VHS tape popped into the center. One of those old things that appeared a lot in 90s comedy films. We had a trip across the country and I was to be in charge of documenting it as absentmindedly as possible. I missed most of the Midwest and captured a surprising amount of West Texas.


    I was achingly on my best behavior though when it came to my aunt. I still remembered it vividly when mom battered my soul at age six because I stupidly asked my aunt and uncle if they had a going-away present for me. Mom shrieked at me for several states that I might never see them again and my last words to them were such cruelty and selfishness. Never mind the fact that we routinely talked on the phone with weekend minutes, I had destroyed a family relationship. No amount of tears could change anything, she said, I had laid the grave. Whether they were alive the next time we came to visit, was a matter for God and His mercy.


    That stuck with me, even though my mom had totally fucking forgotten it just days later and was bewildered when I told her I made sure to do better this time around. I was humble with every encounter, nervous to accept the stuffed-crust pizza my aunt ordered for me as a treat since I rarely experimented with pizza. But more than anything, I held that camcorder steady and focused on every word from my aunt and uncle, even when my uncle nodded off. I preserved everything and I did everything in my soul to be the best guest I could possibly be.


    God, my next photos were going to be streaked with tears. Forgive myself forgive myself forgive myself¡­


    It¡¯s okay. But that camcorder, which crossed the country, and became a brick when its battery stopped working, was also the tool of some stupid home movies. One of the most infamous, to me, was a no-budget idea about a scientist trapped in an ice cave because of a weather project gone horribly wrong. The ice cave was represented by a stiff, pale blue blanket. It actually looked really good. My own version of that Ryan Reynolds movie a decade later.


    I made the mistake of sharing it in the middle of lunch with my Mormon math teacher, via projector, when it had multiple profanities and prolific bad acting from myself. And I was going to re-create that scene for the Internet.


    It was an even harder shoot, because I needed to find a place where I could prop up the interior of my ¡°ice cave¡° with unseen sticks and have the phone positioned so the walls were blurry enough to convincingly look like some sort of ice. I even went into the freezer for a few, perishable props to use. And soon discovered why it¡¯s not a good idea to use real ice for a shot. Styrofoam was better.


    Somehow, despite all that, I managed to get a shot that I didn¡¯t hate, with me holding an orange ice pick from the car, wearing a knit cap, and trying to breathe inside those layers.


    For the last, the phone found me with a thinker pose, through a positioned forest of books, with a silken flash of leg traveling up my modest figure to a playful, toothy grin.


    After I lobed these creative endeavors into the abyss, I siphoned off the residual courage to text Camille and Calliope. For Camille, I encouraged her in whatever she was up to and teased that I had some wild news to share. And¡­ asked her what kind of look might be nice for the waterpark. Only I typed while fighting with myself. And I sent it off before I could regret it enough.


    For Calliope, what could I say to her? How dem titties doing? Need a back rub? Have you ¡®perked¡¯ up this afternoon? Oh God no.


    At the same time, I imagined that flippant goofiness might help defuse some anxiety she could be feeling. As well though, I only talked with her for less than half an hour total. Maybe she might worry something changed my personality. Or the message could arrive at exactly the wrong moment.


    Kindness, first and foremost.


    Hi there, lunch buddy! I just got done with my classes and I hope this message finds you well. Feel free to chat about whatever is bothering you, if anything.


    Took me ten damn minutes to write that. I wanted to include a quip but I couldn¡¯t find any place for it. Why was I even trying to quip? Calliope didn''t need that. Why am I overthinking such a simple thing? People text and talk normally and even playfully at random all the time and I¡¯m acting like it¡¯s life or death that I need to bless her with the most perfect words I could imagine. Why? She¡¯s not an infant, even though she just came into this kind of life today.


    I felt responsible for her. I made her this way, right? At least, I imagined her like this and the world abided by my stray thought as gospel. Like a sun shower of immersive neutrinos bombarding reality with casual thoughts of transformation. How many pass through without doing any harm and how many break things? I took a long, slow breath for as many seconds as I could hold it. And then let go with the intention that all my tension and crazy, unnecessary anxiety would be released with it. At least, that was the plan.


    Then, jump cut to the ominous title card of a mystery show with too many mysteries and a mess of characters. Would I ever get answers either?


    Calm down. Actually take a breath, instead of just going through the motions of taking one. Breathe, bitch, breathe! Life has mysteries. Sometimes they never get answered, despite the best efforts of a lot of people. And those are just the rational ones. A Bengal tiger appears and then disappears from the middle of a Mexican jungle. Five hundred-ton boulders take a vacation to a mountain top over a course of a single season in Africa. And Bozo the Clown and JFK might very well be the same person.


    Yeah, mysteries.


    That tangible response of action eluded me as I gazed at the electric cottage cheese surface of the ceiling, as though it were an old painting with a hidden three-dimensional image containing secrets. Sleep might help, but I didn''t feel tired. Eating would occupy my mind. Texting something else would just compound my uncertainty with ramped-up rambling.


    Fortunately, Calliope soon texted me back.


    "Hiiiii Lunchie Lady! Glad 2 hear! Im okay! My nips are super weird tho. If thats not 2 weird to say. Im fine but I had an question. Could you give me a super quik lift? I feel bad to ask but someone who was gonna give me a ride cant. No worres if not. TTYL."


    The first thing I did was mentally correct her spelling and grammar. I''d seen worse, especially in classes. Did Brian text this way or was it something she received as Calliope? Did I text differently?


    Without delay, I assured her that I would be happy to pick her up from the bookstore and take her pretty much anywhere else in Brookville Valley. Maybe even to San Fernando. She soon wrote back that it was only on the west end of North Langers and included the address. It was just on the other side of the freeway, past the Costco. Ninety minutes after store closing. That left me plenty of time. Too much time.


    I could write. This week provided me with an insane depth of material to draw from. It would be easy to dramatize my experiences at Target. Just remove the messy details. But those were the parts that made for the most interesting writing. Messy, dirty, painful details. Untempered by social expectations, good sense, and preservation from shame. Attentively, I stared at the basic, free writing app and curled my mouth in anticipation of the words I needed to form for the AI. A keyboard was better and more accurate, but I didn''t feel like returning to my laptop.


    The problem was still between my ears. If driven, if pressed by the weight of the words within me, I could scrawl the remains of beautiful scraps. But does that a story make? A pitiful boy wakes up with a form and dream half-realized. She/he/they join with the waters of their first shower and are moved, merged, and released. They then get back to doing exactly the same thing they did any other day of their life...That part should be left out. But then their parents are resurrected! Yeah, that works...I guess. How realistic should it be? What if someone takes offense to the way I fictionalize them? What if it''s embarrassing? Okay, the parent part should be themed around something like redemption and second chances. That would be some good shit for any future literary criticism to fellate itself over.


    As though such a half-imagined, concern-fraught twinkle of a fictionalized autobiography would ever meet that level. What might dignified professors say, with a contemplative tone, as students feverishly take notes on what dear Maggie "means" by busting a nut in a Target bathroom over some simple clothes? What does her use and choice of certain colors reveal about her personality, psychology, and legacy?


    What was I talking about? It''s a dramatization. It''s a story. It''s not actually me. I can do whatever the Hell I want with the idea of the character. Then why was I so rough on them? It would be easy to just shuffle off the responsibility of trying to distill a few more words by popping back in the shower again. Instead, I grit my teeth, set my gaze to a single-minded focus (was that too masculine to be focused on a single task?), and wrote one word.


    Awoke.


    The word sounded like idle trash on my tongue. Dear Maggie awakens to find a semi-female body with her remaining male parts delicately danced around for details. Okay. What does her hair look like? Red...red...red. Like the sunrise gliding...no. It''s summer. Sunrise is launching a blood strike on the day with the very first ember of morning. Most blood analogies would suck. Brilliant, bright fields of spun crimson are for farmers who have a mysterious hard-on for getting up early. A red light only implies it''s a stop sign rather than something new and fun starting up. Crimson, ruby, scarlet, or blush. Like all the suppressed emotions of a beating bright feeling that have been torn out and stretched over her head like the most embarrassing injury. Sounds more like I was tortured by becoming like this.


    Maybe. Why else would the Forces of Screwing With Me dangle a lady, like who I might''ve been, in my path? One who responds to me in ways I was scarcely prepared for after decades of physically being a man. What am I emotionally? Do I want to plant my stump in the ditch dug deep in her? Would it matter? That''s just sensations. What are my feelings?


    I''m happy. I am. Happy for the first time in the longest stretch. Happy to walk through a bookstore in a skirt despite the fear someone might catch me looking or sounding unusual.


    Happy to just talk to people without being muffled in so many tangible and intangible ways. Happy to smile and share with someone who wants to spend time with me even though I am deathly nervous about being so exposed. I had a routine. I hated it, and I was just burning time. But, it''s easy.


    Easier still was hopping in the shower for a splash of indulgence while I set my clothes somewhere cool. Did I have the aroma of a man? If Calliope or Camille held one of my shirts would they sense something I was otherwise blind to? What sort of pheromones did I leave behind? I didn''t react to Brian except to push him off his manly platform with a thought. Dad was dad. The filthy hobo was nasty. Maybe I just haven''t met a man who this halfway form might find appealing? Did I want that?


    Before, I just assumed if I somehow found my way to being a girl or it found me, then obviously I would feel something new. But what if I didn''t? Could I even really be considered a dozen different, awkward labels I scarcely understood with exacting ? This state could be the rest of my life. Camille wanted to find out together, but what did that mean?


    I didn''t understand it and we could just ask each other questions for an eternity without making any progress. Okay, I''m a lesbian. I want to be with women. But I don''t have breasts or any of the integral female parts. Sure, a lesbian could have a radical hysterectomy and double mastectomy. Or be born blasted with a mess of hormones. But I didn''t start there. I started out as a mess of a guy. Everyone sees me about the same as a girl, but do I count? Does it matter? No, not a lesbian.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    I looked just like a girl. I maybe sounded slightly like one. But I did not have the internal biology. No breasts either. I''m one of those anime guys who dress up and have countless confused fans. That''s where I''m at. I could''ve gotten here with a little genetic luck and fuck. Looking in the mirror after my shower was done, I lavished attention on my reflection. Pretty boy with some bonuses.


    That wasn''t a bad hand to be dealt, as I''d told myself several times. But I felt a tidal wave of "what if" standing there. To simply be like Calliope or Camille? It would be a trip, but I could parse myself according to well-established lines. I wouldn''t even need to cry that much. I could face it bravely and securely...like a man. Being around my mom could help that as well as being around other girls as a peer. But I was something different, apart, broken by comparison. No baseline.


    Was estrogen even flowing through my body as I nakedly fretted? Surely the remnants still made the old hormones, even though the effects felt muted. But if something could transfigure Brian in a day then what rational rules could it possibly follow? I slumped against the doorframe and felt the presence of tears weighing on me even though I couldn''t summon them to appear and slake my vision.


    I was tired without feeling sleepy. Food would be good, before I went to go pick up Calliope after work. I gently warmed up the tacos in full and prepared a small helping of the other leftovers on a plate. No more writing for now. No philosophical churning. Not even skimming social media for a trace of humanity. Just...silly videos. For a few minutes.


    It was enough time for a few stray thoughts, otherwise invisible to my consciousness. Before long, I wandered towards videos about girlish tones of speaking. The instructor on a notable series, left no doubt to her presentation. She was absurdly high while sounding natural. I attentively listened as I flexed my mouth one way and the other, hunting for the inscrutable physical and mental location of the muscles and passages she was playing like a honed musical instrument. Frequencies, tones, depth, and other qualities flew past my head like a new science. And I had no clue how it worked in the same way my students just couldn''t see how a verb conjugated from one instance to the next and what represented citation or paraphrasing. I only seriously tried a few minutes before it felt like everything hurt.


    But it ate up enough time before I had the distraction and duty of making sure Calliope got home from work. Evening had settled in even though the sun still loomed and threatened at the edge of disappearing. I dressed in a skirt that clung and yet fluttered with enough air to dispel the evening heat. The blouse was ill-advised, but I still wore it. The gear shift stuck as I pressed my foot on the brake. Mashing it down did nothing to free it. I cursed nervously to myself. It was one thing to be stuck at home without a car but, to have troubles when I promised to help, it twisted bitter fires in my belly.


    No amount of slamming or yelling helped. I rested my foot in annoyed resignation and it just slipped loose. Testing it a few more times earned a resigned sigh from me. As I resisted pulling out before I turned, I checked that my phone had a full battery as backup, and waited. A pair of cars screamed through the neighborhood right behind me, appearing from a blind spot on each side. I didn''t flinch. Only when I checked and waited several more seconds did I finally, slowly pull out. A police siren echoed from far away. This time, I took a direct right then a left. The distance I covered on foot felt so insignificant in the shelter of a vehicle.


    I arrived at the plaza and pulled in a little to the left, almost to the game store. The sign glimmered in my tired vision. After texting Calliope to let her know I was here, I successfully tested the gears again and carefully slipped out of the door. Casually, I opened the entrance to the game store and looked inside.


    It looked suspiciously normal, at first. The only oddity was a vague ripple in the air like someone was using a heater or a flame, but that didn''t make any sense. My next thought was "gas", from a dozen scenes in films and shows right before a single spark turns everything into a fireball the heroes need to outrun and dive to escape from. But no one inside looked scared or about to pass out. It had to be me.


    A doctor once prescribed me an inhaler and I could not take it regularly because it would feel like everything around me was flickering and twitching, like the program of reality was reaching its limit. In actuality, I had eye spasms. Now, I could only guess and hope it was the same thing. Perhaps I was just really tired?


    The young Richard Garriott-looking guy, who I earlier judged to be the owner, tipped his head up from the counter and smiled at me. His mustache appeared oddly blurry or I needed glasses.


    A blink later, I couldn''t see it anymore. His thick mullet of dark hair unfurled across his shoulders like a swarm of undead Tribbles. This should''ve alarmed him. It alarmed me, but I kept watching as his face softened while retaining its fundamental presence. His lips broadened into a serene pout. His widow''s peak softened into a broad oval as his locks gained intentional, twisting layers. Firm, thick arms stretched through narrow sleeves, like bare, clenched sausages. I couldn''t remember if he had forest or scrub when it came to arm hair but now they seemed cleared away, though not perfectly smooth. They looked tough but clearly feminine, ending on stubby but cute weather-beaten hands. His nails were plain.


    Lingering on any one detail meant others slipped by me. I had no clue when his clothes changed from a jacket and jeans to the top evocative of a fashionable, minimalist trench coat with double-buttoned pockets. Nor could I tell you when he passed a male threshold and eased into a female one. It could be the subtle presence of her breasts or the sweep of her hips. But, as inexorably as breathing air from one moment to the next, he became a woman who had many of his qualities but passed through the filter of a different life.


    "Shit!" Was all I was able to say, as though flailing for words, fighting for something I had lost. She wasn''t the only man in the store to be affected by whatever this was.


    The broccoli-hair, stringy guy I remembered from last time didn''t say anything to me as the field or force or aura that made the air wiggle and wave passed to him next. He had some cards out and quickly stretched from hunched over to reclining as much as the cheap, fold-out chair would allow. His faded, unkempt shag curls spilled like brass fire in twisty shapes of pasta with a name I''d long forgotten. It didn''t stop until it encompassed his chest.


    Instead of stalwart flannel, his shoulders were shrouded in snug black, knit polyester that swept across his lean neck while clinging to his softening, stretched arms. Curvy, khaki denim rose towards his exposed mid rift and fell to his soft sandals. A white, lean smile crossed her face as she noticed my sudden swear to the ether.


    When will this stop? Will it stop? Will it include me? I should get in its way before it took another life away. Broccoli-hair, now brass-pasta head appeared strikingly happy though. So did trench coat Miss Garriott. They appeared more concerned about me than what had passed through them. To my right, I couldn''t tell if it was the same dome hair guy from last time. This one had a look like a long-forgotten 90s heartthrob, especially when it came to his preppy top with so many ivory-toned ruffles. Like he just got off his own personal yacht. It didn''t bother me as much to see him start to transform as well, although I immediately felt guilty.


    The first thing that happened was invisible hands twisting, stretching, and contorting his dark hair into a fair bulb. His stony features tightened back along with it, pulling a grin from his lips. The wide, almost-excessive coverage of his top narrowed to a simple, gray tank top more suited to the season. And then, they started growing.


    It was like watching a shiver-inducing, hypnotic presence that you couldn''t look away from, no matter how you felt. Amazement twisted with horror and curiosity swam through the rivers of my soul as her developing breasts solidified her cleavage and deepened their presence past the point of all deniability.


    Why her? The others so far definitely had breasts, but this one pushed past reason and maybe even past where Calliope had been set. They were bigger than her head, with a delicate necklace sitting atop their divide. By comparison, her arms were slender sticks and the rest of her tank creased to follow the lean curve of her waist. Dark denim enclosed her full hips and slim legs. From simply preppy to jug her...stop. This wasn''t funny, this wasn''t cute. This was horrifying.


    As I helplessly watched, three young men had been transfigured by whatever was going on. And that wasn''t all. Still more remained around the table, innocent customers caught in the storm that was me.


    I easily recognized the twins. They had to be regulars. Both had hair between bright flaxen and dishwater blond in a swirling, frozen helmet shape. One appeared more tussled than the other while the other draped a thin hoodie over their shoulders like a pretend cloak. When one dipped the other shifted in expectation. Brothers. Siblings. I never knew the bond or animosity. Please don''t hurt them...


    Radiance flowed across their heads like lights in a synchronized dance. The muddied toned washed away as straight currents decorated their shoulders. More honeyed than Gwen Stacy but they had a silvery hairband. Matching earrings adorned one lobe on each girl. As their noses twisted into a mature length, they shared a simultaneous smile. While neither was as physically adorned as the last, new girl, you could tell their development beneath their slight, cream-toned, matching jackets and spidery silver tops banded with fashionable spokes and stony flecks. Their tabletop adventure continued without a moment of interruption despite my sudden exclamation.


    The soon-to-be-former man across from them already had massive, bright pouty lips despite a close crew cut and rugged clothes that looked like they were meant to cross a military training ground.


    When the shimmer reached him, it smoothed away the freckles and ruddy-toned accents of his skin, leaving a fair, royal ivory. What should''ve taken months or more from a new set of hormones reshaped his softened features and drew his weighty lips into a natural, mysterious smirk. His polished nose joined cat-like, black-accented, icy eyes. She sat upon a rounded bottom bound in navy-blue flannel pants more suited for bed and barely contained by the tiny chair.


    Her camo top become a grayish-brown outfit with narrow, girlish sleeves just past her shoulders and a foreboding, deep window of cleavage waiting to be expressed. A black, understated choker decorated her neck like a ribbon on a naughty gift. It didn''t take long for her pointy, flush ears to be buried beneath a curtain of dark, nearly-black hair with full bangs tickling her broad eyebrows. That such a definite man could be made, in little more than a breath, into a soft doll of a girl, quickened my already racing heart.


    Would no one be spared? Three men remained amidst this new flanking of femininity and they weren''t even the most masculine examples. Sunglasses dude, with his hair up like someone rubbed a balloon over his head, actually scowled at me. Maybe he knew. His dirty scruff was the first to go, followed by the ruffled, open collar of his preppy, white polo. No matter the changes that piled on, his sunglasses remained rooted to his face. That constant persisted despite the weighty wig-like addition that settled to the open cleavage of her new, green top. A thin, fashionable blue sweater swaddled her threadbare, faded jeans. Oddly, he had more delicate hands whereas his female digits reminded me of silky, delicate caveman claws or a shaven sloth. She retained all of his slacker presence despite changing so much.


    All that was left were the pair of pretty boys. Any stiff desert breeze probably could''ve knocked out their masculinity. The blond filling out her character sheet honestly seemed like she was already finished and I missed it. She had more presence up top than I could manifest with a load of artificial assistance. If anything, it seemed like she lost some softness in the process. Her top went from a slim, black outfit to a showy, white number bearing an adventurous neckline.


    The finale with the brunette next to her felt like a delicate artist''s editing brush tinting her fair skin to a pinkish hue while stretching his long locks just a few more inches. His immense lips slimmed while plumping and his rainbow-decked, black tracksuit turned into soft denim straddling a flowery blouse. And it was finished.


    Once the last bosom had been drawn out and the final manly line erased, the strange shimmer vanished as though the flow to a Bunsen burner had been switched off. The air cleared and everyone glanced my way, if only for a second. The owner''s frown of concern lingered as she unfurled a Southern drawl I didn''t remember her having as a man.


    "You alr''ght, hon?"


    No. Not at all. Maybe not ever again. At the very least I was tripping balls. Or tripping other things. No...


    This was me. This was all me. From a stupid fucking daydream about changing all of them that became reality. This was all on me. On my caving shoulders. Down down to the ground.


    Just fall and stay there. Just drop. Just stop. Please, just stop. Take away what I have now and give me whatever is deemed right. I''m done. I''m tired. I''m lost. Please...if it''s me, just let it stop. I don''t want to hurt anyone...

 Chapter 15 – Trip the Light

    Chapter 15 - Trip the Light


    "Are you hurt, hon?"


    Hurt? Me? I was the only one left alone in all this. Taking a breath I very much needed, I used the most stable-looking section of the nearest table to find my feet again.


    "I''m okay", I told her, with just a quick glance up, and then a scan across the group.


    The twin closest to me returned my look and gently cocked her head before asking, "You wanna...wanna join in? We just started Dark Legends of Camelot. It''s super quick. We''re playing without the Cutthroat. It''s really easy!" Her voice was light and airy with the stumbles of youth and the presence of adolescence, as though, while the rest of her body may have been transformed, it was still figuring out its place. She could easily be half my age or more, like one of my students. I told her that I needed to give someone a ride after work and I was just, "looking". She rocked her head and folded her arms as her sibling gave her a firm nudge.


    I brushed at my skirt and used a sturdy stride to assure the lingering owner that I wasn''t going to take another tumble.


    But he wasn''t even looking my way. She. He was gone. It was she now. Same with all the rest. Well, I couldn''t tap a hand over their crotches to be absolutely certain, but I could easily assume. And I didn''t want to dwell on it. They changed. All nine of them. Nine girls who used to be guys. Nine times a feeling I dreamed over with a mixture of shivery shame and intense, mind-melting heat. Way too much for me to deal with right then. Each of them had distinct aromas ranging from a subtle touch of plain vanilla to a nose-diving into potpourri. Not that a note of summer seasoned warm swamp ass hadn''t lingered. But the impression was more of a funky salon.


    And that was too much for the stump. Too much history. Too many sensations to process. Too much happening. Not a Target bathroom situation but an intimate, dangerous metronome counting out the time till I embarrassed myself again. My skirt felt woefully weak, like trying to hold back the noonday sun with just a thin curtain. Even turning to make it look like I was curious about the computers and games to my left made me feel achingly self-conscious. I had to get out of here.


    "What... are you doing?" It was the one with the sunglasses. Not them again. He had a trucker rasp and she hadn''t improved much, acquiring a ditzy, cigarette-burned crackle that sucked all the welcome out of the room. I hesitated with the ambiguity that they may not be addressing me, but the trace of their eyes beneath those orange monstrosities left no doubt.


    "What do you mean? Just looking." That was all I ventured to speak. My collar, despite the loose fit of my blouse, gathered all the moisture from the air and my body to drench my sensitive places with clammy uncertainty.


    "A little more than looking. You got a swimming chub in those seas." Her word choice shot through me like being blasted by an electrical current. I knew what she meant.


    And I was horrified. Like the worst moments of junior high when I was just a little island before a storm of hormones, trying to keep from being washed away by the wills of others. Quarantined from the walls of men and the knots of women. Judged by a mother I would never please as a surrogate she wanted to fashion. I had no words, only terror and a prayer to erase this moment from my life and the eyes of others. Why are the roots of a man sunk so deep into me when I don''t fucking want them? No matter how I change, I can''t escape.


    I had no illusions that the shimmer or the universe or the operating system of reality or God or whatever, was listening to my plea to dig out the stump. I had to wield what there was. And that was the pressure-formed stone beneath the surface, blackened and burnt by mom. Not a shield she made for me, but the scars I kept for myself. I could fight, if I had to. At least, I could imagine raising up my words like fists.


    "Why are you looking at me? I''m not here looking at you." It was a whiff at the air which even a novice could dodge.


    I couldn''t even attempt to read every face around me, nor would I want to, but I could feel them scrutinizing me. Worse case? They throw me out for being hard. What does it matter? I was ready to throw in the towel on this place the other day because the prices sucked, the customers were aloof, and I was uncertain. Despite everyone in the room changing sex, that didn''t mean I suddenly liked it.


    "Typical! Typical dude. You probably spout all sorts of shit about being an ally, a total feminist, all that crap, but the minute we let you into the garden, it''s like a dog doing what a dog does. Thinking about one thing. Girls are more than one thing, buddy. Just because you wear our clothes does not make you like us."


    I could shoulder the brunt of that, but those last words hurt.


    Before I could process them further, my phone sprung to life with trills and beeps. I wanted to answer it, but I also wanted to defend some sense of myself even though I was caught like this. Like attempting to save my place in an online game in the middle of an event. ¡°Excuse me, please. Sorry¡­¡±


    My cell did nothing to hide the heat of my embarrassment despite the cool screen nor stem the trembles of my eyes. The adventure continued without me though.


    ¡°Amber! You dumb bitch. You stare at meat whistles all the time. You better watch your rolls or I¡¯m gonna crush your ass¡±, the voice next to her said. She used to be the guy with a crewcut, but now she sounded like someone I might¡¯ve known in high school. And she had the presence of a no-nonsense nurse. I could feel her eyes flick to me as I fumbled for the right spot on my phone. Not a look of anger or sharpened judgment, not even one of pity. But the kind of look that I could tell wouldn¡¯t recede or dive behind her features, if I looked back.


    Calliope sent me a text message saying, ¡°Where are you?¡± Only with an extra R in the middle and a frowning emoji. I quickly and carefully wrote her back, ¡°I¡¯m at the game store next door.¡±


    My legs felt like they wanted to melt and explode into tingles. Simply facing the computers and gaming materials on the wall did not provide enough protection from the chaos behind me. I didn¡¯t want to be the center of attention like this.


    I used to be in a select program for medical careers in high school and I embarrassed myself, more than once, in so many ways that stayed with me. It was basically ninety percent girls, aside from a gay guy and whatever the hell I was. I nearly passed out attempting to correctly demonstrate the Heimlich on a cute classmate, because the view made it feel like I became her.


    And I took a painful tumble across a series of chairs because my mind was distracted by the way someone wore their scrubs. And I willingly subjected my veins to dozens of painful blood draw probes as recompense. At the time, it could easily be waved away as juvenile hormones. But even the most prudish man wouldn¡¯t feel such crippling shame over the sympathy and attempted comfort of others. I was special, I was different, I was apart from them. I just wanted to be normal in the private, horrifying way I felt beneath, not in the way my body presented on the surface.


    It wouldn¡¯t fucking matter to cry in this shop, even though I felt like I earned at least a moment of it.


    ¡°Omigawsh. Sorry about that. You okay there?¡± A new voice. Despite the Valley accent, she didn¡¯t sound stuck in the brambles of her voice. It was high-pitched as heck while still retaining a nasal, geeky aspect.


    The cause of this struggle, the tyrant and the victim, the spawning fish, had slipped back behind the meager shield of my water-toned skirt. Still, I made a frail, hesitant turn towards the group and the table. Sunglasses, or Amber, had taken her chair, folded her arms, and been put in or imposed her own time-out from the rest of the group.


    "Don''t worry about it", was my swift response. The new voice, with a frown of concern, belonged to the broccoli-hair-puff guy turned weird pasta brass-hair girl. Her tilted expression of concern urged me to recant even harder. I wore intangible masks beneath my raw sensations for reasons: To protect me and protect others. Every time I let loose the kind of person I was underneath, it did damage. My idle thoughts rent the world like a tempest. I was alone at the start of all this and not even the excuses of a world full of them could explain that away. If I was careful, then I wasn''t me and, if I wasn''t careful, then no one wanted me.


    The owner wore the kind of scolding expression I needed to learn better if I ever wanted control over a real classroom as she shook her head at Amber and responded, "I''m sorry too. Everyone is welcome here. Sometimes our bodies get away from our minds. And our mouths get ahead of our good sense. We can work through it and help each other out."


    The blond girl furthest from me dug into a duffle bag and pulled out a large, very fuzzy pink towel from around a set of gym clothes. "Feel free to use this. There''s a bathroom in the back too, if you need a moment." It surprised me that her voice had more weight and her demeanor more boyishness than when she was a pretty boy before. Still, she had a firm sense of a girl.


    I shivered, despite hesitantly accepting the towel to wrap around myself, with the assurance she would get it back soon. Internally, I swore not to mess it up. I didn''t need the bathroom, but I could''ve used it as a moment to catch my breath. They couldn''t understand what I was feeling, fleshed out with shock and uncertainty. It was too confusing. I hated and loved this moment, because I watched nine guys unmade and remade so swiftly, and I wanted it. That''s what turned on my every sensation. The hints and fallout so far broadcast live, with me as the only audience


    ¡°Like, don¡¯t even mind Amber about nothing. We don¡¯t let her out much. Come sit for a sec, when you get a chance, there¡¯s like this really cool game I just started. Like two minutes, you can play a full game of it. It¡¯s the best!¡± That was said by the girl in the gray tank top, who seemed really expressive with her arms and didn¡¯t appear to mind how much of her cleavage was showing. She had what I could only describe as an androgynous, beach accent, languid like a surfer but hopped up on natural excitement.


    As if there wasn¡¯t enough chaos going on around, the door to the shop opened behind me and Calliope gingerly looked through and asked, ¡°Maggie? Everything okay?¡± She clung to a purse more like a reconfigured set of bagpipes swaddled under her arm protectively. Her after-work clothes had a touch of gold and black but otherwise looked like a dressy version of something I might wear. A cacophony of exclamations from the girls inside made her suddenly freeze in place. They beckoned her in with cards, dice, and promises. Eyes wide, Calliope crept inside and looked to me for support.


    The last girl I hadn¡¯t heard, the one well-adorned in denim, moved in and blocked her escape route. Her voice made me raise an eyebrow, as it didn¡¯t sound like it had changed at all in the process. Some of the inflection shifted, but the weight and pitch of her voice didn¡¯t seem different. If she was in the same range as me, for the most obvious reasons, then why did Amber¡­? Oh, whatever¡­ It probably wasn¡¯t worth pursuing.


    Before Calliope could evade the ¡­ possibly-former pretty boy brunette, I explained, ¡°I just wanted to look in here. Excuse me. I¡¯ll be ready in a sec. Restroom.¡±


    Poor Calliope¡®s expression widened as her eyes darted between the ''girl'' and me. The busty surfer-sounding lady amended that we both were welcome to try the quick game and the same, blonde twin jumped in with her proposal again. With the owner¡¯s help, it was easy to find the restroom.


    The wobbly door just brushed past the sink and didn¡¯t clear the toilet tank. That left enough space to barely sidle through. The fixtures looked brand new and still had the smell of a home improvement store. Drywall covered about half of the room with the other half exposed. I sat to pee, with the towel draped across my red hair. The stump settled down, even though I still had enough blood racing through me to fuel the warmth of my face. I slumped down, with my eyes shut, for several minutes after I was done.


    I didn¡¯t want to think anything. But especially not anything bad, life-altering, or self-indulgent. Can I even write? Could I even teach? One minute, I may be scolding a student and wishing they didn¡¯t talk as much and perhaps the next they¡¯ve been rewritten to be mute. It terrified me to even think that. If I imagined any of the girls in the game store had a different connection to me, what the Hell would that do to their lives? I could wind up with several H-word possibilities if I let loose the wrong thought. Help¡­


    Although, what sort of ¡®help¡¯ might I receive? I envisioned them like this, in a vague sense. I stamped on the thought, like it was caught on fire. Still, it happened. That responsibility¡­ if I could do anything¡­ was fucked up. Don¡¯t think of the worst possible thing. Don¡¯t do something terrible with your stray thoughts. I didn¡¯t want it. So, what do I do?


    I certainly couldn¡¯t stay on this toilet all night. All the fear and anxiety would just nestle up inside me, like trying to eat and pass a tumbleweed whole. Keeping my hands under the bracing wave from the cold tap felt numb but better. Paper just came off an industrial-sized roll to one side. I had to be careful when extracting myself from this tiny space.


    Outside, I could discern Calliope laughing amidst the group. She sat with several others and laid down a series of colorful cards.


    The cards reminded me of the game two others were playing, the one that dated back to high school with Planeswalkers. The old version of me used to sit and watch my friends play it without a single clue of how it worked. I still had no idea.


    The details and ornamentation on the cards in front of Calliope reminded me of a calligraphy book but with all the intimate trails of a fantasy epic. She shuffled through a neat pile and set down a burning village, declaring, ¡°Raid! Is that right?¡±


    It took her a moment to notice that I was back. Gleefully, she explained, ¡°Hey, Maggie! I¡¯m a dragon.¡± Amber had grabbed one of the gaming PCs and wore a pink pair of headphones blocking everything out. I slipped off the towel and held it out. The girl who loaned it to me was busy, so I just left it dangling while making sure my skirt did its job.


    No one bothered me but, other than Calliope, no one really noticed me either. That was fine. Better than drawing anger. I wasn¡¯t sure where to stand or sit while I waited though.


    ¡°Maggie, you want to join next to Callie?¡± The girl with the loaded tank top waved me over. I wasn¡¯t sure what to say. I wiggled my mouth a few times before telling her, ¡°I was going to drive¡­ Callie to North Langers.¡±


    ¡°Callie¡° swung around with one arm holding the opposite shoulder and said, ¡°Oh! I¡¯m sorry! Are you pressed for time? Elizabeth here said she could drive me home, if I wanna stay another hour till they close here. I didn¡¯t want to keep you that long, since I¡¯m already imposing. Just a few games to unwind and not think about stuff, you know?¡± She let her expression dip, just a little.


    I could stay an hour. I could also head back and text Camille. Or I could do neither. Just get in my car and catch the possibility of a cool breeze slipping through my window as the day faded away. If I stayed, what might happen? Randomly, it occurred to me I could get one of them pregnant without even touching them.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    What did anything mean then? Some random guy in a gaming store turns into a girl and then into a pregnant one. How does their child even exist? What is all this?


    Fuck it¡­


    ¡°I could go for a game, if no one minds.¡± I set the towel aside.


    I learned a lot in that hour. I learned there was a prime time to exchange raids for hordes when building up your dragon horde. I also learned that these dragons borrowed parthenogenesis from real-world Komodo dragons, to which I flicked my eyes around the group. Gray swollen tank top was Elizabeth. Elaine and Cynthia were the twins. Ariadne was the owner''s name, which she noted was not a nickname but a ¡°long story¡±. Brass curls called herself Natalie while the brunette and blonde ¡°former¡± pretty boys had been christened Eloise and Marsha respectively. I met Siana, the first to stand up to Amber regarding the whole ¡°meat whistle¡± thing, last.


    The eight out of nine did so much to make me feel welcome. I received so many random, unearned compliments about my clothes and looks, but I still liked getting them. Natalie lavished her attention on my rusty, frumpy locks with a brush while multitasking slaying her enemies in that Camelot game, and sparing advice for me.


    I appreciated the help, I just wasn¡¯t sure about the attention. The little sparks that leapt from my hair also made me nervous that I might give Natalie some sort of accidental, magically-powered baby bump. The things I think about...


    I also appreciated the distraction of the game and it was light enough in mechanics that a quick description of moves was all I needed. Casually, Natalie explained that she did a lot of cosplaying and started out changing her hair color every few weeks for roles. But that distressed her hair, so it was wigs all the way after that. Leaning close, she confessed that she considered most girls (and guys) who constantly changed their hair color to be a little ¡°loopy¡±. This note was accompanied by a glance Amber¡¯s way. But Amber was still deep in some online game.


    Marsha, who I was still a little iffy on gender-wise, had clearly met up with Calliope at some point earlier in the day and the topic of a game, now fulfilled, had been brought up. Other details about the girls whizzed past me when I was unprepared to process them. Maybe if I was more astute, or on surer footing, then I would¡¯ve learned something more about them, but I already felt like I was at my social and psychological limit. Just smiling and being polite felt like the best option.


    At some point, Siana offered me some warm tea from a thermos, and I gladly accepted. A simple note of mango, not too sweet and not the least bit bitter, flowed over my tongue. Despite the warmth, the tea satiated me better than something ice cold. My words stopped slipping together and a smile returned easier to my face. It was almost enough to make me feel comfortable.


    Despite appearing identical, the twins were easy to tell apart. Elaine deferred to Cynthia and had more of a tomboyish presence.


    At the same time, despite elaborate card flicks and flourishes of narration for their Camelot game, Cynthia wasn¡¯t above poking her sister and showing off a golden, Groucho Marx eyebrow wiggle.


    Elizabeth had some sort of portfolio phone case of the type I¡¯d been pursuing for ages. Magnets held it in place. Unfortunately, it had been randomly acquired at one of the discount stores, like where I got my purse, and never made a reappearance. She dramatized some of the leaps in logic about how dragons were transporting back gold for their horde from raids. And I soon couldn¡¯t look at the fancy fantasy renderings of classical dragons with wide eyes without envisioning them ¡°sharting gold¡±.


    We actually had enough time for three iterations of the game and for Eloise to share the story of how she kicked a television across a room and earned the nickname ¡°Iron Elsa¡± from her coworkers at the local college admissions office. The explanation of what really happened, which she quietly told later, was rather mundane. I much preferred the mystery.


    Amber managed to negotiate a few different conversations, mostly with Ariadne, and was the first to leave the store. Whatever sentiment I might¡¯ve felt against her, it had cooled enough from slowly crawling lava with an obsidian shell, that it was the same as any hardened earth to walk or drive upon. Eloise and Marsha were next, leaving as a pair, but not before Siana casually mentioned that it would be nice to visit the water park down the street. From there, with Calliope¡®s help, I basically invited the group.


    Most immediately agreed to come, with the twins, Natalie, and Elizabeth joining Siana. The former pretty boys added my contact info, but weren¡¯t sure if they could make it. Everyone added my info and I added them in turn, practically doubling what was in my phone. I let my guard down with a casual smile, before Ariadne mentioned her upcoming obstetrics appointment at the end of the week.


    Elizabeth did a quick count and asked for confirmation that Ariadne was at ten weeks, to which she nodded. The quiet haze of tears clogging my eyes wasn¡¯t taken as a bad thing by any of the girls. They barely even noticed. Ariadne already had a four-year-old ¡°adventurous rapscallion¡± of a daughter, who had a packed summer with her grandparents visiting, but would be beside herself if she missed out on the water park.


    I agreed to Ariadne''s plan to combine a business and bulk cheaper rate for the group. That was about all my brain could manage. Calliope congratulated me on my last, overall victory as Lord Dragon Supreme. I did my best not to appear dour.


    Standing from the wobbly chair felt about the same as usual, despite a sense of disconnect. Like the natural adjustments my brain usually made were just a hair off where they should¡¯ve been. Instead of possessing and being my body, I was a mass containing a little pink tongue twisting around noises, caught by ornate holes stuck to my sides, feeling nervous sweat envelop me, and trying to make sense of the flashes of light cascading over delicate orbs. Pieces but not a whole. It was quietly terrifying.


    That sensation lingered, as I manipulated one hand into its best waving motion to bid each of the others good night. Eventually, just I and Calliope remained. It took me a moment to remember I could unlock my car and a few more to slowly reverse out of the parking spot. Meanwhile, Calliope lightly pranced across her favorite memories from the evening, mixing in a blush of concern with a dash of ease.


    It wasn¡¯t till we had made some progress on the main road that I really felt like I had returned to myself. Not because of any great epiphany or reconciliation, but just because I was too worn out.


    ¡°You okay?¡± She asked at some point.


    I answered, ¡°Tired. I¡¯m okay. How was work? How are you doing with everything?¡±


    The passenger seat was still set to where my old dad needed it, as I ferried him to countless doctor appointments. At a light, Calliope gingerly nudged it up till it was comfortable for her. She absorbed my questions while settling. A few moments passed quietly.


    ¡°Everything?¡­¡± She brushed some hair from her eyes and glanced at me.


    ¡°Yesterday, you were a man¡­¡±


    Her knees flumped together beneath her shimmery gray skirt and her mouth undulated, as though bobbing underwater.


    ¡°Oh. Right. Shit¡­ what¡¯s happening to me? I never. I mean I would never, I mean never thought¡­¡± She took a long breath. ¡°I¡¯m pretty sure I was just a normal guy before. Nothing¡­ Out of sorts. I just feel totally normal like this now. But that can¡¯t be normal, right?¡±


    I didn¡¯t feel like the kind of person to adequately judge normalcy right then. ¡°How do you feel?¡±


    She turned towards the window. ¡°Honestly? A little fluttery. Good fluttery. Weird but good. I guess.¡±


    I asked for more and she stumbled over her own tongue. I could guess what was up, but opted not to dwell on it. Instead, I pushed out random topics to keep things light. The choices still felt like a minefield though.


    We could talk about the weather, but it was mostly too damn hot. That just led into wistfulness about the water park. Besides, the evening had finally cooled off, so it now felt tolerable.


    ¡°When I get home, I¡¯m going to be looking at so many things. This morning was freaky, but I have some nice clothes. This one, kind of seawater-toned velvet, two-piece looked cute. Despite everything, I was already thinking of trying it on. I have a lot of¡­ Physical considerations and I don¡¯t wanna flash anyone.¡±


    Same here, but for different reasons. I knew she didn¡¯t mean anything against me by it, so I just nodded.


    Her legs crossed naturally in the seat.


    What were the Force or Forces behind this getting at? First, it shows me a few hints of transformation, while just providing me a single drop. Then, it makes this unabashed girl, with only some distant reminders she was ever any other way. And, on top of that, I get dunked on by nine life-altering changes dangled right in front of me.


    What does it want from me? Maybe this really was limbo, or somewhere worse. Hell is other people? Maybe Hell is also being so painfully close to what you want but still have it out of reach. The living reminder of my parents, while their actual selves stay forever with me.


    The more I reflected, the more little torments rose to the surface. But they were self-inflicted. Hell can also be of your own making. I could just be happy for Calliope, she certainly was. No internal regret that I have a stump instead of a trench. No envy that her underwear went so deep in the alphabet. No torture that I had to be responsible for everything.


    How? How do I get there? It felt like a place I may have even visited recently, when I wasn¡¯t so lost in myself.


    Remember. Enjoy this. It wasn¡¯t perfect, but it made me smile. I wasn¡¯t exactly the sort of girl I wanted to be¡­ Yet¡­ But I could work on it.


    I smiled at Calliope and teased her with the analogy of ripe melons and exaggerated sound effects. She giggled so hard, I didn¡¯t know if she might keel over.


    From that, we just launched into a series of silly stories and boundless goofiness. I felt the sweat I put on my neck fade away.


    I even got so far as to casually question why the hell did I decide to invite almost a dozen people to go with me to a water park. Now that was a conundrum exceeding all the other shit from the last week. Calliope had no answer except to remind me that we were getting a group rate and business discount. As well, she noted, ¡°That¡¯s just the box office or entrance gate or whatever they call it. For me, it¡¯s like inviting the neighbors over to see me in my waterproof underwear heh heh. I don¡¯t know them that well, but it might be a fun opportunity to make friends. That¡¯s why you decided to suggest it, right?¡±


    Sure, whatever. I shrugged. She smiled, adding, ¡°Yeah. It was fun to meet some of the regulars and the owner of Light Fantastic.¡±


    Huh? I asked her to clarify. She told me that was the name of the store. ¡°Eridani Ari¡­oops umm... Airy ad knee¡­ I mean she told me when they first opened that she was worried the metaphor thingy might be a little weird. Because if you get it then you think ¡®oh, dancing¡¯. At first, it was going to be ¡®Our Turn¡¯ with pink dungeon dice. But she didn¡¯t want to exclude anyone and it¡¯s really cool that a bunch of people who like games can get together and get along¡­well¡­ try to get along. But it¡¯s a really neat place!¡±


    I hadn¡¯t even bothered to check the name of the store. It didn¡¯t appear any different from the outside and I must¡¯ve missed the change when it happened. I kept missing stuff. I had to do better, to figure this out.


    I kept cordial with Calliope once we got on the freeway but also locked my eyes on the road, as though my full attention was there. She fished out her phone and checked a few things by the glow of the blue light.


    The west side continued much the same as the east. Businesses sprung up like weeds after winter and early spring rains, only to dry to blanched stalks in the cracks like sickly wheat.


    The city tried to boost things and had plenty of land to use. They tried an auto mall, enterprise zone, new hospital, terrible grass amphitheater, and making signs on poles illegal. At least it amounted to more than North Langers. I didn¡¯t want to degrade where Calliope lived, but she also frankly christened it a dump. A cramped corridor of old, decaying businesses. It had an occasional farmers market when people weren¡¯t being crazy and an expansive fairgrounds out in the middle of nowhere.


    We both noted there used to be a great gaming place on the avenue, a long time ago. Probably the most famous thing in town was the hospital, five stories with a full, resident psych ward that I hoped I¡¯d never have to avail myself of. We turned before the hospital and passed some average shops on our way to the location Calliope gave me. She had a full-sized house, although she explained it was just a rental. It wasn¡¯t on the bad side of town near the train tracks where several of the classic old houses had been bulldozed. It was older than most, but still obviously newer than mine. It had those orange terra-cotta roof tiles which used to be all the rage. Otherwise, it was bathed in the late 60s to early 70s ranch aesthetic with red double doors and a stone finish. It looked cozy.


    Before Calliope got out, she bent over and wrapped her arms around me in a quick hug and I made sure not to do something stupid, like give her a big hard pat on the back just because she used to be a guy.


    Once she was gone, I roamed. A quick trip to the college reminded me how many unfamiliar buildings it had now. All the libraries were shut for the night and I had no reason to go to them anyway, since my library app could do far more and I had several brand-new books.


    Even the closest bookstore was either closed or closing, and I hadn¡¯t bothered to pop into Starlight. I had plenty to eat and plenty left at home to pick at. I could¡¯ve and should¡¯ve texted Camille to tell her that I was putting together a group, for some reason. I should¡¯ve told her all the crazy shit that was happening to me lately, same went for Calliope, but I just turned on a scary story podcast and drove in coordinate lines along the edge of the desert.


    Big Bismuth Hill, a tiny desert community, bordered North Langers to the west and had slowly been consumed by the city, one incorporation at a time. The Basque held domain out further. Tracing the edge of a housing tract, it wasn¡¯t hard to find Santa Maria Crescent, the hybrid retirement community where my parents lived.


    The parking lot was empty, except for the cars of nurses. I wasn¡¯t going to go in, not tonight, not right now. I rang mom¡¯s phone but only got her voicemail. It rushed through her name but warmly greeted me and invited me to leave a message. I took a few full breaths before I was ready.


    ¡°Mom, this is Maggie, your¡­this is Maggie. I just wanted to spend some time with you and dad. Is Friday evening good? Everything is fine, no worries. I just wanted to¡­I¡¯ll tell you later. Nothing big. Just¡­wanna talk and spend time. See you soon. I love you, mom. Love for dad. All my best. I can text you too, if that¡¯s better. Good night¡­¡±


    I dipped my phone to my skirt and shut my eyes as the tears spilled out.

 Chapter 16 – My Mother, Myself

    Chapter 16 - My Mother, Myself


    The tears didn¡¯t last that long. They never do. It¡¯s not worth it to cry. What is there to cry about anyway? Tonight was a good night. This week, drawing ever closer to its end, had been a good one.


    I was the recipient of a personal reality that I could never have imagined before. I woke up halfway to where I wanted to be. A sampler, a teaser of realized daydreams. I get to look cute, I get to feel a thousand little tickles of delight. In practically a hundred percent of situations, I felt welcomed and spiritually fulfilled.


    So, why was I crying? It wasn¡¯t Amber. If anything, Amber made me laugh. Against her grain of displeasure, I had been given a mountain of friendship and appreciation. But that tiny piece reminded me of something deeper beneath a fa?ade of strength.


    Mom. My mother. A woman both gone and still present. The woman who made me a man. And I still loved her. Not the shadow who warmly greeted me as a girl, made lunch with me, and invited me into her life. No, my real mom.


    The mom who felt perfect, an effortless dictator on a three-foot-tall throne. The one who lured me in with perfectly-recounted stories, brutally-efficient rhetoric, and the possibility of kindness. Dad was the designated opposition, the puppet of the Party, the weak knee following the iron wall.


    Even this tiny, internal rebellion felt like the affront of the ages to a divine, merciful being. Wrath, in the form of plagues of anger and dust-filled devastation, was sure to follow. Somehow, I had to do something.


    Get over my mommy issues? Sure, just take a day trip and talk ¡®em out with the best of all possible worlds version of her. Simple. And that felt like a final boss and a single sideways step at the same time.


    I had to do something. Otherwise, a thousand beautiful possibilities would just bounce off the walls of my heart. Opened up, I could meet the universe at the halfway point and finish the job with hormones, medicine, and self-love.


    It made the halfway point feel like a sheer, rocky storm-blasted cliff with the frail promise that if I just missed the ground, then I can fly.


    So, do it. What are you afraid of? Myself and the hardened claws of the past.


    Why are you doing shit against yourself when you want things to be better? Because I have the wrong sort of ditch worn while retaining a stump. I''m stuck in a routine. Hang around the house, stay inside. Nothing risked, nothing gleaned. The edict of this decade. The continuation of mom keeping me around for her purposes. Do nothing and get somehow rewarded for it.


    I''ve always been a quiet, nervous rebel. Put it into words, not to actions. The walls are gone. They were never really there. The "mind-forg''d manacles" according to Blake. London was a thousand different horrors wrapped in passive acceptance. What was my excuse?


    I settled against the material of the driver''s seat. It had uncomfortable holes worn through the stuffing that oftentimes poked me when I tried to relax. Sweat, brushed at by the breeze through the slit in the window, clung to my cheek. I felt so close to actual epiphany. I''d teased at it earlier, but it slipped away like the rarest fog drifting over the desert floor.


    I could move. I could buy a new wardrobe. I could take a trip. I could literally do whatever. I could change so much for the better. But no matter where I might go or what I might try, I would still be there with myself. The problem was still and always between the ears.


    Okay then, clean that shit out and be a better you. Get on it. Be the cutest fucking girl who makes guys who are cool with it into cute girls and cute girls into happy cute girls and just make things better all around. Do it! You don''t need an instruction manual because you are literally the only weirdo taking this route for the strangest reasons.


    But what about all the crazy stuff that''s happened? Oh, what about it? Consider it a bonus. No one is suffering about what happened, except for you. What if everyone...NO! Don''t invoke or tempt it again. Might it already be too late to reconsider? My sweat unleashed a new wave as I merged onto the road.


    The wheel creaked and fought as I turned. A memory flashed of when the power steering went out and I had to take dad home while brute-forcing the wheel to move. Nothing like that happened this time but my fingers twitched in their grip. A warning. Toe the line. Don''t step out of order or we''ll break something you need. Crazy superstitions from my head. All of it.


    I needed a drink, probably from the fast food place named like the big blue hedgehog. A huge slushy full enough cold to numb everything that was bothering me. I could just follow the road down the coordinate line by the Hawaiian poke place, through the curve by the mall, and around. I would be back here though, no matter what excuses I might imagine or delays I might orchestrate.


    On my way, Camille texted me. "So, what''s this ''wild news''?"


    Oh, right. It felt like a lifetime ago that I texted her before I hit the mental logjam of texting Calliope and everything that followed.


    I cracked my neck and waited till I was parked and willing to type back. "It''s okay. It''s complicated and even more so now. I''m fine. Just a lot."


    Naturally, she wouldn''t let me leave it at that, but she did answer that she''d been digging through old swimsuits for something that felt "appropriate". I made all sorts of unnecessary expressions to her provided photos. Blue, with sections like the sea, immediately leapt out to me. She confirmed I had something that would be "comfortable" on me. However, I hadn''t tested it for any length of time against the stubbornness of the stump. Some of her options dipped to the thigh and covered the shoulder, but I had a hard time imagining them on me. Her final candidate had a sarong section and just one band at the shoulder with a compromise in coverage. I liked it because it was a pretty combination of blue, black, and silver.


    She teased me about that, and I lamented I couldn''t share my outfit beyond frazzled recollections from the store. It didn''t take long before she returned to nudging about my news.


    No way I could think of presenting it didn''t feel crazy. So, I just said it, when I was by the ordering microphone. "I daydreamed this guy who works at the suddenly-appearing bookstore was a girl. And when I went before lunch, this girl Calliope was there. She remembered being this guy. I don''t think she''s screwing with me. And that''s not all. I saw people transform live."


    Heaven knows how I didn''t dissolve into a shivering puddle when I stopped talking. My limeade slushy would be arriving soon. That felt like too many things for my brain to manage a focus on at once. Maybe it helped that I wasn''t totally focused on what I was saying. A lot of stuff I would''ve otherwise overthought slipped through.


    Sifting through the audiobooks on my phone from the library provided me a limited distraction short of actually listening to them. Maybe more scary stories for the way back. The drink arrived soon and the slot by the radio was too small for it. I held it instead and sucked down the liquid until it was just lumpy ice sticking in the straw. Shaking helped.


    Camille received my message but didn''t start composing her reply until I was on the avenue. I visualized a dozen different possible reactions, none of them complimentary to me.


    Are you fucking nuts? They totally screwed with you, or you were on drugs. Geez why would I want to hang out with such a fruit loop, I''m removing your contact info. Don''t contact me again, weirdo! Was my general expectation. Okay, maybe not expectation, but I thought through the possibility.


    "What did it all look like?" Was her initial response.


    I had to amend that I was away from home and would follow up soon. But I noted that the entire group and Calliope were headed to the water park too so they could save on a group rate. She shared what felt like a flash of disappointment that it would be more than just us. I clarified that it wasn''t going together so much as going to the same place at the same time for cheaper and we could figure out our own things at the park. She liked that, cautiously.


    After bringing everything inside and stretching out on the couch, I typed the complicated parts into my phone. My focus was on the sorta...scientific analysis of what may be going on. I mentioned the shimmers and the way the air felt like it was distorted by invisible flames. Recollecting the transformations brought the stump to full presence, despite any efforts of mine to keep the language professional. The experience was seared into my memories. The way it happened felt like it could''ve been a veil from one possible universe parting to guide me into another. At the same time, that didn''t discount other causes.


    I loved this shit and I hated that. If you were to give me a camera and a charged finger, like a comic character with too much imagination, then I would just point and zap and change everything in my path. Why? No reason but to see what happens. But living with it was something else.


    I omitted details about figures from the account, instead focusing on the librarian nature of Calliope, the mom-like nature of the owner, the connection of the twins, how one of them was a jerk, and lots of them were super friendly. It was easy to tell that she was curious for more, but I told her I was still processing it. I gave her the contact info for Calliope and Ariadne.


    Digging deep, I joked about my creative efforts earlier with the camera and I promptly receive more elucidated and thoughtful feedback on how they looked than I''d received online in total in ages. She got what I meant with the ice cave and appreciated the little touches of each. She invited me to be a little more playful with my shots while I metaphorically scuffed my feet in place and felt non-committal. We had a good time texting each other and even joined VOIP for a while before she had to get ready for bed.


    A good cap to a mixed day and hopefully a fair sign for my big plans.


    =======


    The evening cooldown and languid trek across the mirrors by the shower made me feel good in ways that lingered into sleep.


    In dreams, I relaxed with Camille and Calliope. Instead of feeling chained to my house, I talked about what hours I wanted to work at the bookstore while I shared anecdotal details with guests and picked out certain ones with a particular feel to transform. Standing there, unaware, they would pick up a book on gender bending, only to immediately get a first-hand experience in the subject. The close-packed cotton of anxiety didn''t follow me here. I just imagined without limit. Camille brought her class on a field trip to the bookstore. And then I was back home.


    Before I could wonder about where the bookstore went, my mind clotted with concerns. Mom needed her medications, and the caregiver was late in checking back. How long had I left her since she last peed? She was probably a mess by now. Never relax. Never really relax. I picked up a clothes hanger with a tiny bag on the end. What I needed to use when they went to the restroom. Too small and I was in the path of it.


    I awoke with sweat tightly clinging to my heavy hair and shivers fighting me despite the early warmth of the day. Still Maggie though. I flopped my locks over my face, a dense curtain from the sun and morning. Behind it, I picked at little flakes of eye grit that I couldn''t quite reach.


    It was Friday. The end of the week lay before me. Get up and finish it. I made it through so many other things. All I had left were the easiest classes of the week. But, for my reward, I would be dealing with so much I didn''t have the first clue how to face.


    In the shower, the water flow felt a little weak, at first. So, I visualized the pipe in the wall patching itself up and drawing a straight line from the water heater to my face. Despite it being an intentional act, the results were tepid. Maybe the flow was a little stronger and warmer, but not enough to discount casual happenstance rather than mystical will. I laughed and let any lingering bad bed thoughts flow down the drain.


    The routine of breakfast ached with a long gulp of orange juice and a bit of egg that lingered too long in my throat. Class slipped on like a well-worn coat even though the day was not one for coats. No one had been added or subtracted from the girls'' or boys'' side. Susanna seemed slightly more confident than normal, more open to present questions and stray from the swift answers of others. I appreciated her insights.


    I awarded the last points and most of the end of the class was spent on the little decorative fun things they were allowed to do. Independent study filled most of the time and the rest involved writing styles and how to change them according to an audience and need. The handful of students adept enough to turn a tweet into a sonnet and then into a technical document made me smile the rarest of smiles.


    After class, I nearly nodded off as I started putting together my lunch. Shaking my head and pushing back the heat with another fan running did little to help. I texted Camille with my happy little thoughts from class. Calliope received the most vague, random notes of encouragement. Mom also got back to me, making sure I was actually okay.


    "Yeah, I just want to talk. Can I?"


    With fervently reiterated words in her text, she stressed that yes, absolutely, unequivocally, I could talk to her about anything. The text soon escalated to the level of an actual call.


    "You''re sure it''s nothing serious?"


    I did my best to defuse her concern, noting that I met up with Camille and she was super nice and everything was fine. She was a good friend and we had dinner together and encouraged one another. Mom casually led me on for more details, but I left it at that. I received confirmation that mom and dad would both be at the retirement community for the evening. It was game night and dad was especially eager for that, she told me. She offered to make us all something again. I had no complaints or expectations. I left dinner in her hands.


    The other class of the day presented all the expected challenges of students who could feel that the end of their weekly obligation was in the air. I reminded them that they wanted the treats and benefits of the class portion of the day. That should''ve been enough, but I had to be tough on them, or at least as tough as video on their screen could be.


    It pained me to press them, but I had to be consistent. Penalties added up, carefully spread out. The worst thing a teacher can do is punish too freely. If you leave a student nothing and nothing they can do, then you give up all power. The end of class avatar decoration and free time session brought them back for as much as I could manage. It was exhausting to wrangle their energy, but I made it. Nothing was left, the week was done, and I could immediately head to bed and sleep off the tiredness. But I couldn''t do that. Not yet.


    My weekly status reports and feedback had to go out first. I also made sure there was nothing that needed my attention. The app had trouble loading the reading sample for next week, but that glitch was easily fixed with a reupload.


    I made sure to double-check it a few times, because if I didn¡¯t have this up then I didn¡¯t have a lesson for Monday and that had screwed me over once. It was the same with checking orders or anything I got through a drive-thru. Check twice, scream less.


    Sure enough, when I checked to see if it had uploaded, the website timed out in the process of uploading. Only once it had been confirmed and I had waited and gone back to see if it was live did I feel confident it had done it what I wanted. At the same time, I documented that everything was up, and I made sure to do all the remaining paperwork and document that as well. Tedium but necessary.


    It was hard for me, but important. The kind of stuff that others still lumped under the umbrella of ¡°adulting¡±. The only thing that defined adulthood is that every single choice you make falls on your shoulders alone. Consequences, benefits, and responsibilities. Not to dip too deep into my teacher self. It was an ocean and a notion I grappled with. It didn¡¯t mean I was responsible for everything, despite my biggest worries. But I was solely responsible for myself. All the challenging tasks, all the fun ones, all the ones I put off, and all the ones I didn¡¯t want to deal with.


    Mom and dad were waiting for me. I had long been an adult, despite what they might have thought of me. I could¡¯ve just shown them my finger and walked out the door, while they literally rotted to death. but I decided to be more of an adult than they were and a total fucking idiot who got used.


    I closed my laptop and put it away. A long, quiet moment passed, with nothing but the fans and air conditioner fighting against the never-ending heat of the day. Mom was a never-ending fight too. The mom who lived inside my head, because I let her.


    I had to solve it.


    Dressing up was a little stressful because I wanted to make a nice impression on the good versions of my mom and dad, but I was more concerned with what felt nice. My feet also felt a little raw since the walk. Some lotion helped.


    A long trip to the toilet on my phone with a distracting game helped even more but also furthered my guilt that I was just procrastinating, again. Only when it seemed absolutely certain that nothing else could be done, I grabbed and stuffed my purse and headed out the door. A few minutes after that, I plunged back into the house to make sure that I hadn¡¯t forgotten anything, that the house still existed, and that nothing had spontaneously decided to catch fire. I hated even imagining the possibility, especially when my brain and words seemed like a magnet for mayhem.


    After grabbing a water bottle, I nodded to the house and finally left. Despite the fact I thoroughly checked the lock on the door before leaving, my brain still rushed over the possibility I was on autopilot and remembering a previous time locking the house and I had somehow left the door wide open. Swinging around the neighborhood in a loop finally put that fear to rest.


    There was nothing else after that, no sudden discovery halfway there that I would have to turn around and resolve. I was going and this was it. Whatever it was.


    I decided to take the route through the mountains because it was the most direct but also the silliest considering I would just go straight along the main road until it jagged through an unfinished housing tract, which was still unfinished in this version of reality. From there, I looped around a ranch for cancer kids and bobbed up and around a two-lane highway until it climbed into the hills.


    The car had more hesitancy than me as I pushed it around the tight curves. At the end, the westside sprawled out before me. To the right, I could head to that nice poke place or the best pizza parlors in the valley. We could definitely order from them and maybe I could pick it up. But not yet.


    Many of the parking spaces closest to the front of the retirement community had already been filled with the obvious handicap spots taken first but a long stretch beyond was covered in vans with wheelchair modifications. I had to slowly creep through and into a second section before I could finally find an opening against a brick wall with nothing but the desert beyond.


    It was quite a trek back to the main building, but I wasn¡¯t in any rush. I turned the corner and stared into the lights of a van barreling towards me. I blasted into the air, somersaulting through oblivion, and shot right into another reality of ancient China and flying dragons¡ª¡ª


    The van slowed, and I carefully crept around it while restraining my inner digits. A bracing, unseasonably chill breeze blasted through my red hair as I made my way to the main door. Inside, the facility looked exactly the same as all these places did. On the wall, the evaluation of three stars from some organization I didn¡¯t know was proudly displayed. I figured it didn¡¯t go by the Michelin or movie rating standard. At least the facility looked tolerable. No hollow husks of humanity wandering around, trying to escape.


    I did have to be buzzed in, but that was a given. Nursing islands flanked every few corners. I signed in at the front and soon asked about my parents. After the usual amount of time and another half measure, the wide-eyed worker on the side said it was room 164. They had a paper map for me.


    No matter what way I inspected it, the map didn¡¯t seem to make sense with the rooms and corridors before me. The rooms themselves made my eyes linger. They seemed like little lofts. Spacious sections on the lower floor spread out with wood and carpet. Rather than hospital rooms with light adornments, they felt like a chunk of a house transplanted. Instead of regular stairs up to the higher sections, most had chairlifts or ramps.


    A spa area was darkened and shuttered but looked similarly luxurious. Beyond, a massive television covered one wall of a dining area. Sections off to the side were smaller and seemed more like what I was expecting.


    Room 164 was not quite at the back but branched between the nicer areas and the medical section. It looked decent. I saw a living area with some furniture, a window view at the back, a bed area to the right, and the same little loft further up. It clearly belonged to my parents because of the ocean iconography and breaching whales that mom was so fond of. I heard mom coming down the steps to greet me.


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°I have the ingredients to make toltott kaposzta, as well as stuffed bell peppers. There are also some frozen sausages. Your choice.¡± We exchanged a quick hug as I drew in a slow breath and tried to keep my heart steady.


    It didn¡¯t take her long to notice my nervousness. ¡°Something bothering you?¡± I shook off the question by telling her it was just a busy day and a crazy week with meeting a lot of new folks and challenging lesson plans and whatever else I could sift off the giant electrical ball of confusion that had become my life without touching the actual problem. She squeezed my shoulders and rubbed my back but didn¡¯t say anything.


    The senior apartment that was room 164 vaguely reminded me of something out of a television show. Potted plants flanked the large windows and a big screen flat panel TV with speakers filled the far edge to the left, in generally the same position they had left the old television at home. A pair of lounger chairs with more of a curve than the one they each died in pointed towards the television while a large couch sat on the side. In the narrow kitchen underneath the stairs, mom opened a modest, inconspicuous refrigerator to get out ingredients. Behind the kitchen, I could see dad puttering around their bedroom. He smiled at me when he was done and asked similar questions to mom.


    I could just continue to pretend that everything was all right. That I didn¡¯t have a massive black spot in my soul and my memory that represented the actual lives of my parents. It would be easy. Just put it off like I did everything. Just ignore and forget it. Just say it¡¯s okay. An intangible illness orbited me.


    ¡°¡­I¡¯m afraid to be myself.¡±


    My words took a moment to be reflected in their responses. Dad had seized upon a crutch that didn¡¯t look like he really needed it for more than a little self-assurance. Mom had everything spread out on the drainboard and turned to look at me with wide eyes.


    ¡°What do you mean, sweetie?¡± Though mom said it, dad could¡¯ve easily said the same.


    ¡°I am afraid to be a girl in any substantive way. It¡¯s crazy. Around here, it seems like it¡¯s practically illegal to question gender stuff that people have decided, but then I haven¡¯t decided. I don¡¯t know how I feel and yet I¡¯ve known who I am for decades. I¡¯m a little gay or maybe a lot. I want to be someone else and yet I want to be myself truly. I don¡¯t wanna be crazy and I also want to scream. I hate platitudes and snuggly wuggly widdle hug boxes, yet I need to know that this is alright. I don¡¯t know what to do and yet I hate that indecisiveness will be used against myself by myself and whoever else to show that how I feel is just a passing whim. And that¡¯s probably all too much to lay on either of you right now. I just had¡­I just had to say something.¡±


    That was a lot of words, too many words with each bearing too much weight and buried together into a pile that minimized their impact. But they were all words I needed to say. And there were more.


    Mom and dad appeared puzzled but didn¡¯t interrupt my gusher of words. I thought of all sorts of loquacious ways to refer to it, but the labels sounded like I was sabotaging my thoughts before I even got them out. I needed to stop doing that. My thoughts and words were valid, no matter my own feelings about them. I also knew that this version of my parents would never hunt and hound my feelings like the real ones did.


    Time to take the gloves off. ¡°Mom¡­dad¡­I need to talk to my parents.¡±


    Of course, they didn¡¯t understand. Innocently, with nervous fear and concern, they asked if I was alright. I would¡¯ve been asking the same in their position and probably calling nurses to make sure. Slowly, I shook my head. With eyes shut, I resolved, ¡°I know who I need to speak to. I¡¯m sorry. I love you both, but I need to do this. I have left so many things unsaid. Please, I need to talk. I have to. Just for a few minutes.¡±


    My words lingered in the air, like a miasma that threatened to drift back and choke my lungs. I waited in the brooding silence with drifting afterimages against my closed eyes.


    The metronome of my heart, ever-present, especially in the stifling darkness, picked up a frantic, accelerating pace, thundering from my ears to my toes. When the moment finally came, other noises around me fell away. There was just me and that which I needed to do.


    ¡°¡­Yes?¡± The word was spoken with mom¡¯s voice. It had a starkly bitter tint. The sound snapped like a mousetrap of anticipated guilt. Hearing her was admission enough. This was mom, before, at the peak of her abilities. And I was terrified.


    Opening my eyes was just a confirmation of what I knew from the sound of her voice. Mom sat opposite me at the table as though she were a mafia boss gently perched on a throne. It was old mom. The one I knew so well from my childhood fears. Dad lingered off to the side, as ineffectual as a stuffed creature turning from me to her with a fierce face, not sure which of us he should be mad at.


    ¡°Why are you dressed like a girl? Why are you so fat? What did you do to your hair? What¡¯s all this crap?¡± Though her words were tightened and angry, she didn¡¯t yell. Her eyebrows arched like the expression of some bird of prey, highlighted with charcoal. Her nose plunged into a firm, brutal beak.


    ¡°I am a girl.¡±


    ¡°No, you aren¡¯t. You¡¯re my boy, Jacob.¡±


    ¡°I was always a girl.¡±


    ¡°Bullshit. I wanted a boy, I gave birth to a boy, you are a boy. None of this gay fruity faggot nonsense.¡±


    ¡°I know my body.¡±


    ¡°You are a boy, the end. Put on some proper clothes for a boy.¡±


    I firmly shook my head, while gesturing to my body. ¡°These are my clothes. I made the choice to wear them. I am an adult, and this is what I want to wear.¡± I said that despite the fact I didn¡¯t have a firm love of the clothes. But it was a principle. Same as I didn¡¯t really know my body or the certainty of what gender. But if I wasn¡¯t going to get a choice, then I was going to firmly wrap myself around what choice I felt most.


    She glowered at me, as if struck. ¡°You want to hurt me. You want me to die¡­¡±


    ¡°You wanted the same thing, mom. I know how much you¡¯ve always wanted to die, yet you clung to life for years. I have to believe that, in the end, you didn¡¯t hate me, and I had no reason to hide from you. I had all the power. I could¡¯ve left at any moment. But I didn¡¯t. I¡¯ve more than paid any debt to you several times over.¡±


    The nebulous epiphany of my words was pile driven to earth by mom¡¯s sneering response. ¡°You think you know so much. But you¡¯ll learn. God will know. God will choose and decide.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know how I feel about God. But if it¡¯s any God I want to put my faith in, then they understand me from the moment I was made and every decision I will ever make. If they hate me as much as you, then I have no reason to give them any mind. I would rather believe any true deity would greet me with a smile instead of a glare, no matter my struggles. With kindness and encouragement in my confusion and search for truth rather than hate and denial.¡±


    I never knew such words existed inside me. I felt terrified that the momentum I had established would go careening off a cliff and I¡¯d need to do it over and over and over like the most painful version of Groundhog Day.


    Of course, my dad had to chime in like a shrieking harpy with shock that I didn¡¯t have utter and complete and unyielding faith in the Almighty like a perfect Christian freshly minted from heaven without doubt or questions.


    There was no way to adequately answer him in a way that would satisfy his fury. Mom turned up the fire in a subtler way to warn me about my immortal soul and the sins I was perpetuating.


    ¡°Either I¡¯m made by God and God decided to make a fucked up sort of girl or a man who strangely believes they are a girl or it was never in His hands. Whatever will be, will be, either way. I choose to love people and to be myself, no matter where the journey of understanding takes me. I can¡¯t be what you¡¯ve decided I am going to be, and I have to face that. I was never going to be your avatar for the things you wanted, mom. All you should¡¯ve done is ask me what I wanted without judgment and supported me in whatever way things went¡­¡±


    I took a deep breath to hold back the feeling of tears before continuing. ¡°It¡¯s on me too though. I never had the bravery to do more than think countless things I might¡¯ve said to you. Things like this. I was afraid of souring what thoughts you had of me. What did it matter what I thought, when I could just let you assume what you thought was true? Just assume I¡¯m some late bloomer not interested in anyone, and I like to come up with weird ideas I keep to myself...¡±


    Every time I stopped, she reiterated the same disappointment that I was imagining myself a girl when I wasn¡¯t one. But it was the same words I heard from imaginary versions of my girl self. You don¡¯t understand. You haven¡¯t suffered like a girl would. You don¡¯t bleed like a girl. You don¡¯t feel like a girl. You could never know what it¡¯s like to give birth and that¡¯s all that matters.


    ¡°Same as a woman who has undergone a radical hysterectomy or had their development screwed up. Just because your biology doesn¡¯t let you reproduce, doesn¡¯t annihilate your identity. I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s chemicals in my brain or something from the womb or whatever it could be. But this is how I am. And I¡¯m terrified of it and whether I¡¯ll be any good at how I look and how I feel. But I got a little sampler thanks to some force out there I don¡¯t even understand. I look cute, just a little bit. And I want more.¡±


    She kept raving, and dad assisted like someone on the beach puffing their mouth for a storm. There were so many arguments I could¡¯ve presented in so many ways against her crafty cleverness as I remembered it in my childhood. But the mother who may have treated my response like that was gone. I liked to believe she was at peace, and she wasn¡¯t mad at me for just being who I am.


    I held up my hands and, eventually, she stopped. ¡°Mom. It doesn¡¯t matter. It¡¯s on me. The responsibility is on me. I could go on hating myself with a shadow of your anger out of habit or I could just stop. I want to stop. It¡¯s pointless. Truly, it doesn¡¯t matter. I¡¯m an adult. I¡¯ve been one for a long time. The buck stops with me. The choices are mine. And the only winning move is to end this game.¡±


    The darkness at the edges of my vision started to recede. I had no way of knowing if this realization had any depth or lasting strength to it, but I had been fighting myself for so long and it was time to stop.


    ¡°I love you mom, even though I also hate you for being a fucked up, whatever-personality-crap-you-have... whether it¡¯s being bipolar or borderline or whatever words a psychologist can throw out. You hurt me and I think you know you did. I forgive you though. Even though I don¡¯t want to. I forgive you because it¡¯s also forgiving myself. I am your daughter in my heart and soul and that¡¯s the truth of me. I don¡¯t know what that translates to for the rest of my life, but I¡¯m gonna work on it. I love you too, dad, even though you sat by and enabled mom. I am your daughter and I love you both. Rest in peace. I promise to do the best for myself¡­¡±


    I shut my eyes and let an immense psychic weight ease off my shoulders. It was impossible to know if I had gotten rid of it, but it felt like the first step to not carrying it around with me all the time. They were the words I had been practicing for years to get right and ultimately they only mattered to me, because I had never tested them when my parents were really around. They would have to do.


    ¡°Are you alright, sweetie? You seem really upset.¡± The mother I''d been granted, by whatever force, had returned and swiftly stood from the table to wrap me up in her arms. This wonderful father joined her a moment later and stroked my hair.


    They didn¡¯t understand why I was so upset. I came up with a reason involving an idea for a play and suddenly rehearsing it. It was pretty clear they didn¡¯t believe it, but they humored me while making sure I was actually alright.


    At least they didn¡¯t call for a nurse, but I noticed a few were making their rounds down the hall. My smile and change of mood eventually seemed to convince them. I joined mom with food prep as we decided on cabbage over green peppers. We talked about pizza places as well, but only for the possibility of ordering a side dish. They both missed the little takeout place down the block from home. I spoke at length about the places I knew on this side of the valley. Soon, I freely spoke about the week I¡¯d been having. And, feeling free in my heart, I decided to just let them know about everything on my mind.


    How I felt prettier this week, changed. I didn¡¯t go into specific, known details but I alluded to it as feeling like I¡¯d been transformed. They both applauded this as though I¡¯d come to a realization of my own beauty more than being changed literally. Mom gave me clothing tips that I quickly jotted down in my phone with the little wiggly finger motion that had taken me ages to get right. Dad was actually better at it than me.


    It didn¡¯t take long before mom and I chatted about my students in the way I remembered she¡¯d chat with other teachers. She had a lot to say about reading theories and where I could do better but without judgement. Ideas for incremental rewards passed back and forth between us. Dad didn¡¯t seem to mind us talking shop even though it was clear he didn¡¯t understand most of it. He also helped with preparing some of the ingredients from the fridge and taking away what we were done with.


    My words soon stretched into playful notes about Camille and our chance meeting and supper. Mom wanted all the details I''d left out and I did my best to resurrect the notes of her life as best I could remember them. Eventually, I broadened to mentioning Calliope and gently alluded to the fact she had been through a lot in the last couple of days. But when I finally mentioned the gaming group, I just bluntly said, ¡°And they all turned into girls as I watched.¡±


    Mom gave a quick chuckle and asked if I did it. I had to shrug there and mention that I did toss the idea out to the universe, and it seemed to have listened. She soon made the connection to ¡°things I had written¡± while praising my ¡°indomitable imagination¡±. It was far better than I could¡¯ve expected. Coyly, she warned me against playing any tricks around here. Smiling, I assured her there was nothing I would ever want to change in this place.


    Putting together the meal took plenty of time with my brain submerged in the consuming calm. I refused to backslide into my usual ways. However, I also understood that what certainty I had worked out might be as ephemeral as a magic feather clenched within a blasting wind. The image of a cliffside also returned to wobble my feet. But I refused to let it take me.


    Instead, I doted on the plants along the windows while watering them. Dad mused on a puppy but resigned the fact that only service dogs were allowed. Once dinner was in the stove and an antipasto salad with mixed fried veggies was ordered from the nearest pizza parlor, we gathered around the large television to enjoy a bit of Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. My parents lamented the newest hosts, but we eagerly shared questions with one another.


    Dinner was perhaps a little bit much, but I enjoyed the company around the table. Clearly, mom was already scheming to make sure I was laden with as many leftovers as possible. I relaxed as some mystery movie wandered across my vision as I spread out on the couch.


    Turned out I wasn¡¯t to rest for very long as my parents soon spied fireflies wandering through the cooling evening. I had never seen them around here, but then I had never seen a massive bookstore on my side of town, or a group of gamers all change sex. Snapping a few shots with my phone as my parents did the same, I was soon to learn this wouldn¡¯t be the only excitement for the evening.


    They soon took to me on a walk outside under some eucalyptus trees with the fireflies gathering close. Before it was dark, we¡¯d also joined Game Night with Bingo along with board games. I lingered on the board game. It was like when I was younger. We all played together. It was like our last night as a family when I tried to play a board game with dad and mom didn¡¯t have much time left.


    Only, this time we smiled to one another, and dad was keen to play clever. It was a guessing game to see who might be the traitor to the team. A couple from the other side of the retirement community joined us at one point and had really good poker faces.


    I didn¡¯t want the night to end. But I was getting tired. Before I left though, dad had a few things to show me. Up in the little loft, mom and dad had split the section between her sewing area and reading nook and his gaming pad with an orthopedic chair and a CRT beside a flat panel.


    He had games going back to Atari, which he regarded most affectionately. Those were the ones I remembered, and he had taken care of them. But subsequent generations of Nintendo along with Sony and Microsoft also had their spaces. Whereas before he would only talk about programs where the coding obviously dovetailed with his own work, he heaped appreciation on even the most advanced polygonal works along with independent pieces made recently. He did roll his eyes about retro redos, encouraging the advance of technology. But he had the most gorgeous recent games to show off and ask what I thought about them. Mom smiled and left us to it.


    I had plenty to talk about and even more to gape at. Dad spoke about YouTube and certain videos of things he¡¯d seen as though he were me on a bored night before. It was fun to talk and share my own thoughts while he actually listened to me and cared what I said. I didn¡¯t have to couch it, I didn¡¯t have to explain it, and I didn¡¯t have to pair it up with any kind of real-world situation. I could just enjoy the idea of games and sharing it with those I loved.


    It was beautiful. I didn¡¯t want to go back home. But it didn¡¯t take long for dad to start nodding off. He had far more energy than I could ever imagine him having, but it still had its limits. My eyes were starting to twitch as well, and a certain blurriness passed over. They soon cozied up together as I gathered up far more leftovers than I could easily eat over the next couple days.


    We shared love in small but flowing words. I turned to leave. In the quiet space between the doorway and the hall joining the rest of the facility, I felt ever so slightly cold. Empty. If only for a moment. The space behind me felt wider, like a storeroom without anything stored. That chill brushed me without dust or fear. My muscles relaxed.


    Turning slightly, I could still feel my parents sitting there together. And so I left, through the twisting junctures of corridors, stepping between the cozy little apartments, and emerging to the dark evening facing Big Bismuth Hill. And ease lingered with me, unlike what I felt when I usually left my parents in lesser places.


    What remained of the heat of the summer was long gone, sublimated away. The breeze, as I felt it briefly amidst the fireflies, firmly twisted past me with air that bordered on chilly. This kind of weather usually only gathered by the ocean. Leaning against the railing, I tipped my head back and glanced at the black expanse of night with only the faintest hint of stars against the broad lights of the edge of the city. Even in the darkness of the twisty road I had taken here, the city was too much, awash upon the night. Still, it felt soothing to pluck those few specks that pushed through.


    ¡°Wow.¡±


    I didn¡¯t say the word because I was impressed by the night. Nor did I say it because I could imagine the stars that were secretly there in shocking magnitude behind the glare. I said it because I felt it in the lull and expectation of all things. The week had been wow and wow lay ahead. In this moment, I could feel my senses actually processing that. I took a moment to stop and appreciate, the good and the bad.


    That silence wouldn''t linger with me for long. My phone soon began chirping out all sorts of sounds both familiar and uncommon. I heard from Camille and from Calliope and from numbers that I hadn¡¯t really come to associate with people yet. It was all about the waterpark. Calliope was freaking out in ways I barely comprehended and which seemed a little too much. Apparently, she was finally starting to be aware of certain aspects of her body. And she wasn¡¯t sure about a one-piece or two-piece and what sort of cover-up she might want as well as other matters, like sunscreen. Camille was similarly indecisive in quieter ways.


    I scrunched up my face and considered my reply. Looking up, I held onto the serene calm of the sky above as I leaned against my car before opening it. A peaceful grin crossed my face.


    It was fine. Everything will work out. I had no way of knowing that was true, but I trusted it before slipping into my car and calmly riding off into the night.


    Whatever will be, will be¡­


    Next Chapter - The Beach Episode

 Chapter 17 – Beach Episode

    Chapter 17 - Beach Episode


    It wasn¡¯t long before Calliope sent some text messages with large photo attachments. I had to wait till I was closer to the city to have enough data for them to download.  My eyes widened.


    In the photos, she was wearing the two-piece swimsuit she''d alluded to before. It had a velvety texture and a sea-blue look. However, it didn¡¯t seem to be the right fit for her. Her breasts bunched up, as though an invisible hand was pushing out more cleavage than she intended. The window, with stringy bands stretching from one side to the other, appeared quite revealing. The top was doing its best, like a set of baseball gloves trying to smother unruly balls. The kind she was wearing wasn¡¯t too different than mine, more like some sort of sports top than a typical bikini.


    Three photos followed up with her trying to adjust it, unsuccessfully. The bottom looked fine though. I used my finger wiggle to communicate as many of these details in reply. She sent along a string of distressed emojis and pleaded with me to help her. I puffed out a breath.


    I considered the options. I wasn¡¯t too far away, and we could pop off to the nearest Walmart. But the really good options were already closed and what was left would be closed soon. So, it would likely have to happen tomorrow, to be ready for the waterpark on Sunday. Not that I had anything planned for Saturday. Except maybe rest.


    The problem was it would be kind of like the blind leading the blind. Or rather, a blind person led by someone wearing a blindfold and they can just make out the shapes in the shadows of a thing and are desperately trying to communicate it to their partner. There had to be a better option.


    At an especially-long turning light, I struck upon a possibility: The one lady at Light Fantastic with the gray tank top put under more pressure than any of Calliope¡¯s. She had to have more experience with this kind of thing than Callie. Granted, she hadn¡¯t been a girl for even as long but, hopefully, she had enough memories to help out.


    What was her name though? I sifted through the eight slots added. I didn¡¯t have Amber¡®s contact info. Eloise. No. Cynthia. No. Marsha. No. It had to be Elizabeth.


    To console Calliope, I wrote a text message, ¡°How about trying our one friend at the game store who has a similar look to you? Elizabeth, right?¡±


    The lull between messages allowed me to reflect on the names that had been dropped into my memory hole. I know enough faces but assigning them to a name felt like some challenge on a game show lost to the 1980s. For certain, I remembered Ariadne, the owner, and the fact she had a kid with another on the way. After that, it wasn¡¯t too difficult to recall Natalie. In high school, I knew someone with a similar look and bright red hair, like she was her younger sister¡­ although, technically, she would be an older sister by now. That Natalie, last I remembered with the assistance of Facebook, had five kids and was a missionary.


    What about beyond that? Five more. The twins¡­ No way I was going to distinguish one from the other. Although, one was more passive, and the other was more assertive. Cynthia seemed like the Tomboy. And Elaine was more demure. Siana stood up for me when Amber was being a bitch and she had a cool look with almost goth colors without making it over-the-top. And that left the two former pretty boys. Eloise¡­ Wasn¡¯t there a TV show character with that name? It seemed like an old lady name and was way too similar to Elaine and Elizabeth. Gosh, if I was writing this reality¡­ no no no no no. Don¡¯t go there, no rewriting people¡¯s names.


    But there were ways it could¡¯ve been easier. And then Marsha¡­ Marsha Marsha Marsha. I think the TV one actually had blonde hair too. That was probably the most I was going to get for ways to remember their names, aside from spending more time around them.


    Eventually, my phone chirped with Calliope¡¯s response. She agreed it was a good idea (in a message with multiple grammar mistakes and misspellings) and double-checked with me the contact information she had. Even when she sent out the request, she still kept talking to me.


    She wondered if the colors looked nice even though the fit was wrong, as well as adding that the material felt really nice. Because of my long-standing appreciation of velvet, I had to agree. It didn¡¯t take long before she asked me about my Friday, how my classes went, and whatever else was happening. I questioned her in kind but generally outlined that my day had been mercifully quiet with just a little wrangling of the kids and the usual. So far as my internal accomplishments, I alluded to the fact that things that had been bothering me for a long time had been addressed and resolved peacefully, for the moment.


    Beyond that, I didn¡¯t think that I had all the words I needed to articulate the contours of my feelings. Especially not when I had to drive and jiggle my finger across the screen until those words came out. I just put down a little when I could comfortably come to a stop, either by the bookstore on the mall end of town or before the train tracks with a long-haul freight blocking the way. It would¡¯ve been better if I had something to drink or a book I really felt like listening to in the dark. I still needed to give love to the books I¡¯d purchased this week.


    Not until I was practically back home did I have a safe stretch to really check Calliope¡¯s messages again. She ¡°appriciated¡± my thoughts about her outfit and went hyper cheerleader on my accomplishments before noting that Elizabeth had gotten back to her and had some ¡°cool ideis¡±.


    It was at that point I realized that I hadn¡¯t responded to Camille yet. Pulling into the area beside what used to be a theater, I wrote back that her choice looked lovely and, no, I didn¡¯t think it looked like too much. Casually, I alluded to what Calliope had just fretted to me about. From there, it didn¡¯t take long before she jumped in with advice. The noises from my phone continued, unabated, until I actually got a message from Elizabeth.


    Her typing was calmly composed but lengthier than Camille¡¯s. So, that was how I got invited to Saturday shopping. Elizabeth knew a few specialty stores to help Calliope¡®s situation as well as a seamstress who could assist with her ill-fitting garments. But it was a thirty-mile trip south, to the edge of the Los Angeles basin.


    I pondered it. She definitely tantalized me with ¡°possibilities that should fit you comfortably¡±. Siana and Natalie were ¡°maybes¡±, according to her, because of a bookstore down there that apparently rivaled anything around Brook Valley for gaming content. She also assured me that she had a large enough vehicle for the group.


    It felt like a lot for people I had just met for an hour a couple days ago. At the same time, I felt a weird responsibility for them, not so much like daughters or sisters, but at least like some sort of obligation without a bad connotation. Camille soon got back to me but sounded cold to the idea of going with a group. Christ¡­ too damn popular.


    I doubted any particular choice would¡¯ve been a good one but soon arrived at a compromise. Not the best one though. Camille wanted to check out a massive clothing shop combined with a swap meet and a library way out in the desert east of Sunrock. That could take just a few hours, early in the morning.


    Then Elizabeth said that around noon time would be good to head down on the trip. And, by evening, I would have just enough of shopping and everything to come home and drop dead on my feet in bed. The only way it could work would be to wash up and fly under my sheets as soon as I got home.


    Sure¡­ Why not?


    Warily, I got to work preparing my clothes and paying half of my attention to the messages still shooting back-and-forth between the people I knew. Unfortunately, I felt ready to go after the success of the evening and not at all in the right state to fall asleep. Lingering by the mirrors with my eyes half-closed, I could imagine my luxurious shape with all the subtractions and additions I wanted. My hands balled up towards my chest at least provided the illusion in one sense and a careful turn of my hip hid enough to complete the look. It momentarily tricked the stump into the arboreal stratosphere.


    Snuggling up on the bed after drying, I listened to a happy little narration of cryptids hunting humans in the darkness. With the annoying alarm set to blast me in the morning continuously unless I solved a variety of math problems, I soon fell asleep.


    It was far too brief a session of dreamless sleep before I woke to cracked lips, an aching neck, and a brain not yet ready to add 83 to 58.


    Wandering through the motions, I made it in perfect time for Camille to ring my phone and emerge at my door. She was dressed in a flowing skirt with gentle pleats that bobbed around, boots that betrayed a side beyond her teacherly appearance, and a top that dipped adventurously. After a quick hug, she made sure I was thoroughly hydrated with a couple icy water bottles inside her car, along with tea and other options.


    ¡°You seem like the most popular lady in town lately. I¡¯m glad I could squeeze in time from your busy schedule.¡± She chuckled with her words. I switched between a concerned look and a grin before settling on a polite smile. Her phone playlist pumped into the speakers definitely had a tilt towards 1980s pop and smooth country crooning. I¡¯d heard most of it in doctors'' offices, so I casually sang along.


    On the trip, I felt like I had lost all ability to tell a story to someone else. It was like I was belching the rambling dregs of a half-remembered anecdote where I was stumbling over the punchline again and again in the worst way. Camille didn¡¯t really give me an impression as to whether I was dying with my words or I had her in rapt attention. I tried to make the time with my parents sound as significant as it felt, but instead, it was like reciting ¡°water is like¡­wet¡± to an oceanographer.


    Everything felt hollow and I felt stupid, but I refused to back down in fear of myself. Somehow, I managed to say, ¡°There¡¯s a lot of raw history between me and my parents and I finally feel like I¡¯ve put that history behind me, and we can move forward positively.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s good!¡±


    We sat together in the car as one song ended and another, with a long guitar solo, started. Segueing into talking teacher shop like with mom didn¡¯t quite go as well as I was hoping. I mentioned incremental rewards and giving benefits in the right ratio, and she just found that part ¡°interesting¡± and ¡°oh, yeah¡± worthy.


    Was this a good idea? I had shit-level experience dealing with other people recreationally. I could barely deal with myself on a regular basis. Dealing with others amounted to putting on the role of Jacob until there was nothing left to say.


    So? Tell her that, I posed to myself. Not like she was going to guess it with some kind of psychic powers. And please don¡¯t give her psychic powers, just to make this easier.


    So, I told her I was crap at being social and interesting to people who weren¡¯t parents I was trying to survive with, in another reality.


    ¡°I thought we talked about this ha ha. I¡¯m so the worst. I either have too much on my mind or not enough, but just tell me whatever is on yours, and I promise not to spare any of mine from you in turn, deal?"


    That was an easy deal to take. Unfortunately, just seizing upon that didn¡¯t necessarily resolve as many things as I was hoping for. Silence followed immediately after as we came to a four-way stop. I could hear some portion of my personality face-palming itself at how much progress I¡¯d recently made and how much I was still stuck in the same place.


    I was getting to it! I was getting to being sociable with her. I just didn¡¯t wanna start with one-word responses that dangled in the air like a wet fart. Instead, I decided I was gonna fling my entire consciousness down a metaphorical ski slope and not look back.


    I told her about this area of the valley and how, as you got further into the desert, there was a national park and it was also a place that relatives of my parents used to go in the 70s and it once took me a while using maps and stuff to help those extended family members remember exactly where all these trips were taking place. That was a weird tangent to go on, so I pivoted to asking her if she liked hiking trails.


    Her answer was she liked hiking, in theory, but there were way too few trees around here to really make it fun. I agreed with her, there should be more trees around here. Oh God, don¡¯t take that literally!


    Unfortunately, California was in dire need of places that actually felt woodsy. Big Bear, somewhere in the mountains, felt like the closest option. We had a cordial back-and-forth discussing the idea of going up there for a weekend. Camille noted that it should definitely be a two-person deal.


    After that, for some reason, I started talking about things that helped with relaxation and dropped the leaded boot that I loved creepy horror stories read to me at night in the darkness. She took it in stride and offered up her skills for a terrifying little bedtime story whenever I wanted. Without prompting, she recited one of her favorite passages from a children¡¯s book. It didn¡¯t take long to recognize it as a passage from Charlotte¡®s Web. My mom liked that one.


    It wasn¡¯t the quote with some aphorism to never give up being a child. Instead, it was the one about ¡°a true friend and a good writer¡±. Despite all good sense, I started to cry right there and needed a big wad of tissues from her purse as I had forgotten to bring my own. But, because of it, she started presenting topics on her own like different nail polishes I might like, brands of makeup, and just other things of a fashion focus.


    There were actually a few I knew by name, from the random nature of Googling curiosity. And that was about all I could claim so far as knowledge. I hadn¡¯t even bothered to try out nail colors. It was such a small thing, yet the presence of mom plagued me so much. Merely treating myself well felt like gross overindulgence. But that time was past. Time to catch up!


    The little desert town was more spread out than I was expecting, with fewer people than Sunrock. I remembered the library, but it had moved into a different strip mall than last time. Fashion Vista, as it was labeled by the worn, red sign, looked like a hollowed-out warehouse like those on the other side of the valley near the county fair. It wasn¡¯t fancy, but it was full of possibilities.


    Inside, it didn¡¯t take me long to notice the prices similar to a factory outlet. Many were reduced several times. The trade-off was that the interior looked like a Kmart that had been pressed with a rolling pin and then hastily straightened out. Some lights in the back flickered ominously. They had a few makeshift areas for trying on clothes.


    My only complaint was an oppressive fragrance like someone had spilled a massive vat of perfume in our path. Once we were through that old factory zone, it was fun. A wallet case for my phone looked like a much better option than holding it inside of its original box. A massive table with bikinis spread out seemed more like an art piece by Jackson Pollock. I found a few possibilities in my favorite shades of blue.


    Getting a sarong and a bottom with a little bit of leg helped, but I still quivered in fear at wearing it publicly. Camille¡®s gentle urging finally managed to get me into a one-piece, but I soon decided that the section along the groin didn¡¯t give me enough comfort. Not that the stump out-performed its name, but I didn¡¯t trust myself.


    I wanted to just get another swim piece similar to what I got before, but the material bothered me. It was fortunate that I was with Camille even though it was clear no one was paying any undue attention to me. I would¡¯ve been so terrified to stand amongst such clothing, despite how I looked. Target and the other place only worked because surely some part of my brain had fried and was riding high on the notion that the changes were enough.


    Finally, I discovered a swim bottom with a folded fringe that allowed me enough privacy that I didn¡¯t explode into a bloom of red. It looked like something from generations ago so far as modesty, but it was what I needed. Plus, it was also marked 50% off.


    Camille was adorable in everything she showed off to me. I just still struggled with the idea she wanted to hang out with me, that she was a teacher, and she was the grown-up version of a little girl I knew a long time ago. The best I could do was just ignore it while we sifted through the piles of different nail colors. Naturally, I immediately went for the different shades of blue along with dark tones that approached an evening sky. Camille chose lighter colors with a sandy brown and a sparkly green.


    So far as lipstick and makeup, I let her lead all the way. In general, I felt absolutely woozy and like it would¡¯ve been preferable to just pass out and drag myself to another part of the store. Her energy helped so much though. When confronted with hesitancy, she just nudged me forward to try one thing followed by another and keep going to the point that it was done. The lipstick I went with was a subtle shade somewhere between an orangish-red and pink. It matched my hair. Makeup was a little bit easier to acquire, but I wasn¡¯t sure what to do with it once I had it. Sunscreen was a must.


    All told, we spent over three hours on our feet, and almost more than my brain wanted to spend in cash. The addition of a few more skirts and fun-looking shorts along with some cool blouses made me feel peaceful. I had only a light lunch at the salad and sandwich caf¨¦ on the edge of the shopping complex and didn¡¯t spend as much time focused on the library as I expected I would. Who had replaced the overflowing nerd inside my heart with a clothes horse?!


    Camille kept things friendly and casual while not making any overt moves towards physical interest. It was fun to be with her and relax, and I hoped that she got something similar out of the experience. As we returned to what civilization amounted to in this desert wasteland, I noticed her features more drawn in and impassive, like a statue.


    When I asked her about it, she took a deep breath and released it slowly. She reiterated that she had an awesome time, and she was looking forward to the waterpark. But she also wanted to know how I felt about it.


    ¡°Did you have a good time, with everything?¡±


    I assured her, yeah. Well, I tried to assure her, by saying, ¡°I loved spending the morning with you. Thank you.¡± She adjusted her seat and gave herself a few nods. I expected something else to follow, but we soon shifted back to talking about music and listening to a few final tunes as we worked our way around the roads and back over to my house. After some time in the shade along the porch, I put all my purchases away and we shared a hug. Camille set her head close to my neck but that was all.


    From that point, I made sure to get my phone charging back up into the 90 percents while realizing I had very little time before text messages and phone numbers would begin flooding me from the other group. In fact, all I had time for was a quick restroom breather before the deluge started. Elizabeth would be picking me up first and then swinging over to the far side of North Langers for Calliope before cutting through the valley, where she could pick up Siana and Natalie. Because of this, my bowels decided that all things must go right now.


    Mercifully, I was able to attend to that before Elizabeth arrived, even though it was a tight matter of minutes. I offered up several water bottles and a few drinks I had on hand for the group, but she already had all that taken care of as well as some candy and snacks in a cooler bag.


    ¡°How are you doing? It¡¯s so good to see you! I¡¯m so glad that it¡¯s totally cooling off this weekend and that¡¯s really gonna help tomorrow. Oh, and I was just in contact with Ariadne, and I have the final price. You can pay now or tomorrow at the waterpark, but it was a really good rate. And for our friend Camille too, who I spoke to.¡±


    With Elizabeth, there wasn¡¯t a whole lot of silence between things, as it constantly seemed like something was happening that she needed to take care of which was on her mind. So far as music, she had a video game and Japanese pop radio station through a satellite device in her car¡®s dashboard. And it was a big honking car where just the positioning of my feet and torso felt like I was a shrinking Alice. But then my legs and feet were already retreating from what they had been put through.


    She drove swiftly, but with a clear sense of attention, despite asking me stuff. When I touched upon playing certain board games with my parents, she immediately geeked out about mechanics and themes. I just found myself impressed that, despite having a bust that almost literally bordered on bowling balls, she seemed so comfortably situated in her own skin. I felt a little rotten at the occasional peeks I snuck at her¡­ peaks. As we glided along a smooth stretch of the main road with her shocks responding much better than my car¡¯s, I had to ask her, ¡°Have you been through trouble due to your proportions?¡±


    That was not at all the way I wanted to phrase that question, but once it was out I couldn¡¯t really take it back. She glanced at me, and I added, ¡°Like I don¡¯t know, how things are¡­ with that?¡± And that was an even worse way to put it.


    ¡°¡­Do I have problems because of my huge titties?¡± I felt sheepish but nodded to her clarification of my question. She laughed.


    ¡°They¡¯re just there. I was an early girl, and a lot of the other kids were little shits. Some thought they were gross, and plenty tried to accidentally get a hand in. I have heard every version of calling me a big cow in my life. Nothing anyone says can mooooo-ve my emotions anymore haha."


    Whatever words I had in my mouth got tossed around like in a dryer as I coughed and covered my face with a turn towards the window. I still kept a smile and used a squeak to answer, ¡°I¡¯m sorry people suck.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s there to be sorry of? Not like you made things suck. That¡¯s just life and all I can do is keep my head up.¡± I met her rhetorical statement with thoughtful silence. I was responsible for some of it, at least. If I¡¯d left things alone, she would¡¯ve just been some surfer-looking guy with brushed-back dark hair and none of this to worry about. But I hesitated, no, recoiled from the possibility of turning her back to what she was. If it happened, then it happened. She seemed fine like this, and it provided Calliope with a friend and someone to help her out in this situation. A situation I had drawn each of them into with my imagination or whatever¡­


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    Far more of the tunes that played were recognizable to me than in Camille¡®s car and invited me to sing along. It wasn¡¯t long before Elizabeth quizzed me about my favorite comics. Among them was that one series where almost all the men died out due to a super virus or changing the laws of nature or something else left unexplained. It got turned into a lackluster, too serious show that was swiftly canceled. I always daydreamed about a version that was less violent and more transformational.


    Gingerly, I unfurled this notion to Elizabeth. It didn¡¯t take her very long to inquire why I liked that. The ultimate question I often asked myself. Maybe, if it was a little more selfish, then all this crazy supernatural stuff would cling to me rather than shooting out like electric bolts. I still wanted plenty of transformational possibilities, but in the same sense that no one would forgo a luxurious buffet of potential.


    My usual answer was just a circuitous spin around the idea that it was fun. Change the world, change the way that people interacted with other people. The possibilities that Elizabeth was facing in her daily life¡­ I didn¡¯t even want to give voice to the reason why all this felt a little empty to me. Calliope understanding the difference in herself, while still willing to engage with it, made for a better situation than the nine from the store just being rewritten as having always been girls. God, don¡¯t change anything else¡­


    ¡°I like exploring human nature in ways that no one has really experienced before, but I¡¯m not really interested in combining human and not human though.¡±


    ¡°Ahhh¡­ so like furry stuff?¡±


    My heart quickened, and I swiftly shook my head. Then I took a second and realized I should¡¯ve been nodding, so I did that instead. She giggled and explained that she¡¯d run into a few people here and there on the Internet who were one way or another on furry. She also postulated that some kind of cybernetic transformation might also be interesting to read or write about. And she did all this while affecting a tone that was very light and breathy, with a clear, classical ¡°valley¡± tilt. It was disarming but also intimidating because she sounded like she had much more authority but also a clear, casual nature.


    Imbibing some of that feeling residually, I felt myself starting to work out my emotions on the subject. Being turned into androids existed in a different field with curiosity but also otherness and the same came with the territory of animal transformations. Being made into something that wasn¡¯t human definitely sunk into tendrils of horror. And that was also true with becoming human in ways you didn¡¯t want. Rewriting the core of what a given person represented. Being born immensely different would have a cascading ripple effect on every aspect of their lives to the point they would essentially be an entirely different person.


    Elizabeth and the man she was before were certainly strangers to one another but, at the same time, I had these weird notions of the soul and that no matter how much of an environmental and biological change to someone, there was some fundamental atavistic essence that made them who they were. A soul beneath the biology. It was probably dumb, but I let a little whisper of it out as we made our way onto the freeway.


    She immediately responded, ¡°Well, I can say that so many in my quote¡­family...are total scumbags. Dad was a schemer and mom was the biggest bitch. My younger sister was their princess. She needs to be moved by forklift if she wants to go anywhere now. I came first as an accident when they were super young and really they wanted a boy. I was originally supposed to be the chosen child, but I would always think things and ask the kind of questions that they would slap you in the face for even asking. They thought my boobs grew early because I was a little whore and I had to hide their actual size for a long, long time because they were more embarrassed by them than I was. That and working very early to escape from them really defined my life growing up. It sucked, but I decided I was never going to be some lame-ass victim. No bitching. Sure, things suck, but I feel like I¡¯ve got more ''testicular fortitude'' than most out there and I don¡¯t even have any nuts.¡° She giggled again.


    Okay¡­ huh. That wasn¡¯t really what I was expecting to come out of her. The car was so quiet and insulated from the expanse of the desert. I took a long drink from a cold water bottle. All I could really tell her was that I found her amazing. She was bewildered and heavily doubted that anything she had done measured up to that sentiment, noting, ¡°It¡¯s just life. I try not to be an asshole to anyone. Especially, I¡¯m so sorry that Amber was such a little bitch at the store. Her ass gets so tight about some things it can damn near snap her chair in two. We want everyone to feel welcomed under that roof.¡±


    It sounded like the kind of things I¡¯d heard from a dozen places online, so many employers, and countless businesses. But I found a certain sincerity in the way she put it. I had to wonder though, ¡°Why is Amber around then?¡°


    To this, Elizabeth took a long breath and stretched her head around while keeping the car on an even keel. ¡°I¡¯ve asked her a few times. I don¡¯t wanna get too deep into it, but Amber feels a lot better there than she could be like somewhere at home. She¡¯s getting better though, and she knows when she screws up. Filters and all that.¡±


    I sighed and nodded. Of course, Elizabeth wasn¡¯t gonna leave me quiet, as she soon asked, ¡°So, what did you think of the game?¡±


    Some of the details about the dragon hoarding card game had slipped my mind but Elizabeth soon refreshed me on the mechanics. I told her that I liked how it could be spontaneous because of certain rules, and I really enjoyed the group that I played with.


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s the best part of all! That¡¯s why I¡¯m there. Despite how it started, almost everyone there is pretty much no-drama and we¡¯re just there to play games and have fun. There was a group that used to exist at a North Langers location though I couldn¡¯t get to it very much, but I was so happy to learn about this new shop. Ariadne is so chill and she¡¯s such a sweetie. How did you meet Calliope?¡±


    I gave a little raspy cough with my drink of icy water but soon cleared it away. We weren¡¯t far from Calliope¡®s home. Elizabeth was the kind of individual for whom my efforts to keep much of the craziness concealed was a challenge. I could talk to Camille about this sort of thing, but she wasn¡¯t directly connected in the same way.


    ¡°Well. Umm. It hasn¡¯t been too long. I just found the store and the shopping plaza at the beginning of this week, and we just got to talking because of our¡­umm well we just talked about stuff over lunch the other day. I feel responsible for her, and I just wanna make sure she¡¯s all right.¡±


    That was not the sort of answer I should¡¯ve given, because I immediately intuited it would just lead to more questions from Elizabeth. But the questions I was worried about didn¡¯t immediately come, rather she asked me, ¡°You seem awfully preoccupied with owning up to responsibilities that no one could possibly shoulder or need to. That¡¯s how people break.¡±


    Yeah, she totally had me there. At the same time, I had incontrovertible evidence to fuel my fears. With a swallow, I explained, ¡°I was a caregiver in a family situation for a long time and the fallout of it just trails after me. I don¡¯t really have personal needs outside of being useful for others.¡±


    Her eyes locked on me. ¡°That sucks and that¡¯s dangerous. If you run into someone with a strong sense of what you should be then they¡¯ll just barrel you over. Also, if you relinquish your sense of self then it¡¯s easy to twist and turn with lots of hate and self-loathing. So, you don¡¯t have a sense of who you are?¡±


    No, I do. I laid it all out last night but with the barest measure of what it looked like. I am a girl, I am an adult, and I want to be better. But that was like the smallest first step possible. Barely more than a motion. To Elizabeth, I wondered if this was the most opportune moment to spill out the complexities of my entire life.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t given love and appreciation and development to myself for a long time, either out of habit or because of ruthless family. And there¡¯s so much beyond that, but I don¡¯t know how to find the words for it.¡±


    I also alluded to the fact that this would be pretty heavy stuff to lay on Calliope as a discussion when she just wanted ¡°something to wear¡±.


    Elizabeth snorted lightly and noted, ¡°Yeah, pretty heavy compared with XL over-the-shoulder boulder holder hunting. Remember though, have fun and have it because you want to have fun and not because of any obligation or anyone else. If you can do that, we¡¯re cool. Alright?¡±


    My natural inkling was to lightly tell her that it was okay or find some gentle way to weasel out of a firm declaration. But I resisted and told her, ¡°I¡¯ll do my best. And I¡¯m glad to be here and shopping. And I want Calliope¡­ I want her to smile and feel comfortable and I also want to feel more comfortable around bras¡­for me.¡±


    Elizabeth gave an easy nod. ¡°That sounds fine to me and I hope today and especially tomorrow are fun for all of us.¡±


    I nodded back eagerly as we pulled into the housing tract where Calliope lived. Elizabeth texted her first and waited. When she didn¡¯t emerge soon after, she gave a quick double honk of her horn. Swiftly after this, Calliope texted back that she was still getting ready and would be a minute. Meanwhile, I asked Elizabeth if I should move to the back seat. After fixing a stray hair, Elizabeth remarked, ¡°Up to you. You can call shotgun. Siana and Natasha don¡¯t get carsick so no one needs to be up front. What about you? I already asked Calliope and she said she tends to just fall asleep in cars.¡±


    Mom didn¡¯t like me playing Game Boy games at home so the only time I really got to play them was curled up in the backseat with my head kind of arching backwards so I could catch the glow of the street lamps enough to see anything when it was dark and angle the dim LCD screen in daylight. Sometimes, I would sprawl out on the edge bouncing up and down. No dizziness. I shook my head and told her I was perfectly fine wherever.


    It didn¡¯t take too long before a side door popped open, and Calliope hustled out. She swiveled around several times to check an oversized bag on her arm while locking the door. If you asked me previously about her fashion sense, then I would¡¯ve said it was fine going by her outfits around the bookstore. This time, however, it looked like she had been forced to frantically grab whatever clothes were in front of her. It was the only way to explain the blindingly-yellow pants she had on, which were clearly not a good fit. They resembled a banana boa constrictor both bloated with multiple meals and horribly slack. Further up, she mixed a tank top with a loose blouse and the results were like crashing ocean waves. She bounded down some steps with the wobbles branching out. I looked away to catch Elizabeth expressing concern with her thin eyebrows raised. I shrugged back.


    As she walked over with everything annunciating those jiggle waves, I noticed that she didn¡¯t go for the passenger main door but instead the one in the back. And, considering the tint of the glass, I doubted she was able to see us. As she got closer, her hesitancy towards the front only increased, as she shuffled to both wave and reach for the handle as far back as possible.


    Elizabeth unlocked the doors and welcomed her inside. Calliope shot us each a quick smile before urgently scooching her way to the far left corner of the middle seat. Her hair appeared flecked with either shower dampness or sweat. When she spoke, it felt like she recently gulped a full dose of helium. Not only were her words so breathy it was hard to grasp them all even a seat away, but she squeaked with a frantic energy that sought to smash even more words into the upholstery.


    ¡°Isitsokasithere¡­?"


    I arched a quick eyebrow which I hoped she didn¡¯t take as scolding. Elizabeth cleared her throat and soon assured her that she was welcome to sit anywhere she really wanted, but she would have to ask me if she wanted to swap in the front and she also urged her to take a bottle of water and take a sip because, ¡°You sound like a leaky balloon.¡±


    A mangled mash of nervous mutterings escaped her lips before she plugged the hole with a gulp of water from one of the bottles. She also appeared to be quivering as much as a hare facing the jaws of a wolf. Did I ever appear that absurdly frantic? And what could¡¯ve happened recently to leave her like this?


    I added a dollop of concern with my next words, making sure she was all right. She took time to shift her bottle around before finally fumbling through, ¡°Well, you know that my last couple days have been kind of a kind of a kind of kind of gosh I mean it¡¯s been a crazy week.¡± Elizabeth¡¯s immediate response was to ask if that was a Porky Pig reference. Calliope¡¯s blank silence said enough about intent but she soon puzzled over what she had said and adopted giggling amusement.


    ¡°I totally didn¡¯t intend that but ha ha I guess. Just a little frazzled. I never thought like you ladies are doing all this for me and driving and everything and like there are others too. And I felt so weird this morning like I don¡¯t I don¡¯t know¡­ I felt kind of like a cow, if that¡¯s not too weird to say¡­¡±


    It didn¡¯t take Elizabeth long to seize upon this admission and make plenty of bovine jibes tactfully intended to envelop rather than strike Calliope. The playful mood disarmed some of her awkward energy even though it still look like she was crunching up into a ball at the corner of the car. I shared some details of my morning with the both of them, along with the best finds of my shopping endeavor. With the phone case, Calliope wrestled her own phone out of her bag and delighted in announcing the discovery of ear pods that she didn¡¯t even realize she owned.


    Music returned and filled the background. Thanks to Elizabeth, the conversations in the car kept moving like a slippery rock nowhere near the bottom of the hill. She managed to thrust aside my nervousness but also seemed to make a game of not only engaging each of us in chat but trading us off one another as I asked Calliope about books on her phone. She didn''t have any, but she wanted to know more about the possibilities.


    Siana lived in a new-looking apartment complex within sight of Big Bismuth and Natalie on the other end of it approaching the mall. Siana was ready to go when we arrived, wearing a set of sharply-tinted shades and wrapped around the shaft of a cream-toned umbrella with the canopy cutting the sunlight. She had her ridges of cleavage presenting at the edge of the shadow and swept through the door with several bags on her arms and a vaguely peach mango aroma trailing after. The tame tangerine tone of her top twisted to her elbow. Her tan shorts seemed inadequate for her full thighs. She giggled privately followed by a relaxed puff.


    After determining that she was perfectly fine with everyone in their spots, Siana offered up a variety of icy teas. Along with that, she soon unleashed a variety of dirty puns and playful innuendos. My personal favorite was about the ¡°beef stroganoff¡± so far as bull masturbation. How exactly she got to that point naturally, I can¡¯t really recall. A couple I had heard before, but she told them with such fresh exuberance. Calliope tensed at first, glancing at me a few times as if I were the mediator of whether she should laugh or not. Fortunately, it didn¡¯t take long before she relaxed and giggled at her leisure.


    Elizabeth had a few playful verbal volleys of her own on the way to Natalie. If Siana could be considered to have packed a lot of bags then Natalie had a truly monstrous purse with straps dangling out like a wrangled octopus. She settled practically sidesaddle in the back and managed to keep close in conversation despite the distance. At least everyone seemed comfortable in their spots even though the frantic fluidity of the conversation was starting to get a bit much for me. Two others was often my limit but I did my best to be cordial between turning back to the group and surveying the scenery as we returned to the freeway.


    I caught bits of conversation and soon gathered that Natalie had a full business of seamstress work and had learned it through her grandmother along with apprenticing. Siana edited musical textbooks along with working as a receptionist for an audiologist and assisted. Both apparently had a board game they were slowly working on together with original art and sound clips. I felt emptied of words and paled when they asked about me.


    ¡°I well... I¡¯ve always wanted to write. Right now, I teach English through video chat with an agency. I¡¯m still figuring things out after¡­well I¡¯m still figuring things out.¡±


    This immediately led into Siana joking about how she would never be able to do that because the desire to snag a troublemaking kid by the collar would be too great. She envisioned sending the bad ones into a blackened void between web pages. Natalie was more interested in the kind of stories I liked to tell. Elizabeth glanced over too.


    Not wanting to stifle the discussion, I murmured out a few thoughts involving virtual reality, artificial intelligences, and parallel universes. It was the transformation stuff that caught their attention though. I shared a few choice web addresses with Natalie to save on her phone. Of course, they asked why.


    Why write this particular subject? Why try to transform characters in all sorts of ways, especially from male to female and vice versa and so forth? I alluded to a trembling thought that there was a lot of stuff in my life from my parents and from within myself that I wanted to work through with writing. However, I settled on a notion that felt new and yet sturdy, ¡°Changing someone really digs into the notion of who they are and who they could be. I mean¡­ Imagine umm if any of you suddenly woke up¡­ Changed.¡±


    I was really leaning on it with that, and I had a faint concern that the universe might decide to suddenly scrunch its eyes at me, metaphorically. As I could¡¯ve expected, Calliope held her breath while twisting the edges of a grimace around her lips and offering timidly, ¡°Yeah, that could be weird.¡±


    ¡°It would be interesting to find myself suddenly dickdoggled, sprouting strokables, meat measured, and sporting shooters.¡± Siana kept a restrained expression while speaking all this and setting a finger on her slight chin. Her pale blue, almost gray eyes didn¡¯t widen though.


    Natalie chortled and mouthed her way around those words. ¡°Interesting, yeah maybe. My boyfriend would definitely have a few choice comments. I can¡¯t really imagine it, but like I can imagine it sorta. I have a bunch of boy cousins but that would be me and yet not me, something like that. It is weird.¡±


    Above the regular staccato of the freeway bumps, Siana expressed, ¡°I¡¯d probably jerk it till it hurt, put to rest all sorts of myths and such. Definitely go bare chested, as a lark, on the beach. Some shit would be simpler, but I don¡¯t think anyone¡¯s got it totally easy. I wouldn¡¯t want to stay that way. It wouldn¡¯t be me. But how do you get like a whole story out of that?¡±


    I pondered that for a moment and settled on the response of the same way you get a story out of anything. You just keep adding words until you get somewhere and onward until there aren¡¯t any more words left to give. My problem was never feeling like my words were enough to express everything. The backseat girls assured me that my stuff was probably beautiful and they wanted to check it out. Elizabeth inquired, ¡°What¡¯s the difference between a male character and a female one for you?¡±


    I actually stumbled around that notion. I didn¡¯t really have traditional male characters. They were things I could imagine but felt rather cartoony. Macho guy, debonair and confident with virile stuff. Maybe a hero type as well. Alone and focused with pride and protective energy. Socially different from a female character, but as I thought about it, a lot of the personalities and traits could easily overlap. So much was drawn from a physical identity but the psychological and emotional aspects felt so interchangeable.


    Ultimately, I had to admit to the question, ¡°Not a whole lot, I suppose. Just characterization.¡± Elizabeth didn¡¯t follow up, she just left that for me to consider. Meanwhile, Siana had some ¡°floppy waggle¡° to consider as things orbited towards the forthcoming shopping.


    I talked about this kind of thing when it was just me and Elizabeth and now with the group. It was daunting each time but the practice of giving it voice helped me fumble towards understanding. People weren¡¯t bothered I was weird. I still felt nervous to conform to a tamer notion of myself while wanting to just burst forth with all the strangeness that enveloped me. So it was a good place to listen rather than speak.


    Siana paired up some of the new music tracks she created as background music with the display on Elizabeth¡¯s car. I leaned back in my seat and listened. It felt suitably epic, especially for a drive through the pass with all the rocky hills bleached dull colors by the summer. The road was a bouncy one even though the shocks on Elizabeth¡®s car did their job. I noticed but did my best not to linger on the effect of those bounces on everyone else.


    My top was loose enough that I could tent the front with the empty impression of a bust rather cockeyed and uneven with the rough pointies of an old action figure. I made sure to smooth it down before anyone noticed. I slipped casually but carefully into conversations with Natalie and Siana.


    Outside, little puffs of clouds settled between the roughly tugged tan blanket of hills that split the faults of the land. Horse ranches, isolated mansions, and natural trails wove through everything. When I was comfortable, I could find myself talking someone¡¯s head off about all the little things that existed in this landscape and which I remembered from a dozen family trips. But I was too nervous to presume that I knew anything more than the others, so I just made sure to drink as much water as my bladder could tolerate.


    Eventually, I got sucked into a phone shared trivia game, followed by a card match from free software. It was like they had a plan to keep me from falling quiet and I didn¡¯t mind. Before I could contemplate on the natural desert, we were already back into a cityscape with the exit in sight.

 Chapter 18 – Beach Episode 2

    Chapter 18 - Beach Episode 2


    The first stop was a custom boutique named G. Feisty Blossom. Despite turning over the offer of waiting somewhere else, the girls had me inside before I could come up with a good excuse. It was rather stark white-and-black with little lights shining off the sides of a drop ceiling concealed with black tiles. I got the impression it was meant to be like a runway. Signs marking discounts were scribbled in fancy script with a white marker on black.


    Words and slogans like "beauty bountiful abundant sassy confident curvy" danced on little signs and LCD screens showed off entire catalogs. While Elizabeth and Siana intercepted a tentative Calliope and urged her to the center aisle, Natalie soon made herself my partner and guided me towards some prospects. She had nice taste. And she pointed out the sort of outfits that would minimize and maximize the kind of features I wanted. Granted, I already had several choices to fulfill this task, but I could still look.


    It wasn¡¯t long before we chanced upon outfits specifically labeled as for ¡°trans and non-binary¡±. My psychological response was equal parts interest and horror. This was for me. Well, sort of. It would help. but I felt abject terror looking or touching the material. I felt a deep, phantom sweat clinging to my clothes that had nothing to do with the heat of the day. It was as though I had been flash dunked into a pool of my own nerves.


    Natalie pointed out all sorts of cute things as I stretched out with nervous jazz hands not grabbing anything but just sifting through. I was gonna say that I already had something I picked up earlier with Camille, but this very specifically conformed and shaped the stump into¡­a gliding, subtle ridge. I had glossed over the idea of trying out most of the possibilities when with Camille. The stuff I got was cheap enough that if it didn¡¯t fit me comfortably, then it was easy to mark as a tolerable loss. Just hanging out with her was worth the price and there were things that didn¡¯t raise my stress level as much.


    But Natalie was persistent, she recognized good fabric and urged me towards one with blue, silver, and purple threaded through. It looked like it would fit my altered body, but the price put it in the zone of uncertainty if it wasn¡¯t comfortable.


    Not letting up, Camille picked out a few things for herself and urged me, ¡°Let¡¯s try things on!¡± Somewhere deep inside, my body decided that now was the time to unleash all the gas it had been collecting for an eternity. My gut roiled, and felt vaguely bloated, while my bladder decided it was time for it to get in on the action as well. They had a gender-neutral restroom though.


    To this point, I hadn¡¯t met any of the clerks that worked in the boutique, but I did glimpse a sliver of mirror with Calliope being measured in it. She appeared as stock rigid as a mannequin. Elizabeth lingered nearby with her purse and Siana was in the area.


    What reprieve I could cling to for trying on things soon evaporated, and I went into the room adjacent to Natalie. My feet pulsed with blood as I jittered and fumbled with my outfit. The stump understood that I was doing something weird and wanted to rise to the occasion. Inside was a weird sort of mesh with rigidly drawn weaves. Despite the emotion of the moment, it fit well, and I didn¡¯t feel irritated by the semi-spandex material. Still, I was sweating bullets. It didn¡¯t help that when fully secured, the design gave the subtle impression of cleaving. It was better than the gaff looked because it didn¡¯t feel like I was tucking something inside. With one of the tops, I looked downright genuine. And I felt euphorically better than I could ever imagine feeling like this.


    Natalie was already outside when I peeked to show off my look. ¡°Oh my gosh, that is so cute! You gotta show everyone!¡± She complimented the color and look and made sure I felt comfortable. I felt wobbly on my feet and like I had tripped into a parallel universe where somehow I had a sister with brilliant, red locks who treated me in the ways I idly daydreamed. And I fit beside her. The stump chaos dwindled, and I relaxed into calm. At the same time, I felt this ball, like a fused boulder as a cat hairball, solidified deep in my gut that tickled and twisted my insides and plotted to come up. I quietly released the gas valve with a measured burp to keep it at bay.


    ¡°You really think so?¡± For all the visual impressions, the sound of my fucking voice killed it when I glanced in the mirror. I still hadn¡¯t figured that out. Natalie adamantly supported me and pushed me towards the other room so that everyone could see. Elizabeth smiled and flashed a thumbs up while Siana wiggled her hands in celebration and complemented the colors too. Calliope cheered me as well but kept her arms and legs close and compressed. She had on a special variety of G-cup bra, which she quietly adjusted with chagrin.


    Siana was also a G but had Hs. Elizabeth was actually an F-cup despite the fact she appeared the biggest. Granted what I could see of their bras seemed practically the same. A clerk, in the same territory physically, hurried around and offered up options for Calliope. Natalie was nowhere near the others, but she still outclassed my little bumps. However, I had the general impression complete (notwithstanding my voice, which I endeavored to use as little as possible around the clerk).


    The possibilities were more specialty than the discount shop, but they definitely provided what I needed. None of the material felt cheap and the prices also followed through on that. I experimented with a one-piece outfit and felt the same rush as the two-piece in an enclosed package, but I already had several options and this was a relatively expensive item. At this point, I would need to change into several suits to get my money''s worth at the park or go several times over the rest of the summer.


    Calliope was barraged by options and looked pretty good in a blue polka dot number. She soon looked as uncertain to her stomach as I felt. At least she seemed comfortable with a well-fitted bra. Next stop was a clothing discount store in a segmented warehouse that dwarfed the one out in the desert. The swamp cooler did little for my lingering sweat. I continue to hang around Natalie.


    Cautiously, I had mentioned my voice quality on the drive over and she brought up a few tips she learned in passing from a speech pathologist along with generalized winging it and reflection on how she spoke.


    My efforts sounded hilariously exaggerated, like a campy wannabe girl version of a Vincent Price impersonator. Natalie was persistent though and the others, especially Siana, chimed in with possibilities. Still, I felt stymied that it seemed as though my voice box just didn¡¯t have the ability to create the sounds necessary. I knew that was false, but it felt like trying to push myself over an edge that just seemed insurmountable. If I jump it up, it becomes falsetto, if I try to pull the vibration then it doesn¡¯t feel right or natural.


    Individual words managed to sound close but speaking still eluded me. The girls assured me I would get it, saying it was just practice and leveling up my experience points till it became natural. You don¡¯t find a whole different method of speaking in an instant. Still, I sulked, at least until the book and game stores.


    It was exciting to go with others. Seeing the possibilities of them picking through modules for games and role-plays that I could be a part of and contribute creatively wound me up like a top and left me with dizzy energy. The fantasy world spy scenario and adventuring business modules sounded like a blast. It all had a lot of moving parts, but a short version allowed all of us to do different activities simultaneously. I especially liked one concept of hiring goblin muscle to protect a strange beauty pageant full of dragons.


    After a burger place, we started for home. The skyline was a deep red with the sun behind the hills. Natalie propped herself up in the backseat with her phone loading the supplementary materials for her favorite D&D purchases and occasionally read me some tidbits and encouraged me to try to read them with the kind of voice I wanted. Calliope basically slept on my shoulder as soon as she entered the car. Up front, Siana was the copilot and Elizabeth looked as focused and unflappable as I found her when we first set out. Using the voice of a dragon princess, I tried to find the sweet spot.


    ¡°Mere immortals may try to find my treasure¡­¡± Suddenly, Natalie gestured with her hand and said, ¡°That¡¯s it! That¡¯s it. you got it!¡± My effort wasn¡¯t terribly serious, I had taken to randomly smiling with my words and toying with them idly. Warmth and relief passed through me as I sought out reassurance. Everyone else who was awake agreed, I sounded perfect, cutely perfect. Unfortunately, every effort I tried to replicate this flippant random sound, even while smiling, evaded me. Like I had suddenly stumbled upon unconscious perfection. It further amused me that smiling gave me a full soprano-like resonance.


    And it was fun to read, even though little of what Natalie was showing me really made sense. I put my creative focus into an emotional performance, which hopefully wasn¡¯t so loud that it would wake Calliope. For the last stretch, Natalie had me work on the skeleton of a character I created for the games that we had played earlier. She didn¡¯t have a name I''d settled on yet, but I was starting to work my way through her merchant backstory and create a voice that sounded close to what I wanted. All too soon, we were back in Brook Valley, and I would have to be out first since my house was the nearest drop-off.


    I wanted to talk to all of them so much more even though precise subjects eluded me. I wanted to come up with creative swears and dirty words for Siana. I wanted to have a thoughtful chat with Elizabeth. And I wanted to get better at everything with Natalie. So much of this had been missing from my life. Hanging out with Camille was terrifying because I had no practice with this kind of communication. It was all by obligation or from a distance, especially with the bitter fucking insanity that started this decade.


    We had tomorrow at the waterpark, but it would be out and about and so crazy and who knew if we would have another opportunity like this? So, before we were even halfway down the boulevard, I started pitching ideas for the next get-together. Schedules were tight but the game night that I stumbled upon was already pretty solid. It was something, at least. I didn¡¯t even mind that it meant I would have to deal with Amber. I needed more of the sisterly shit. More human interaction and less being stuck with memories and ghosts.


    Elizabeth wound up as a maybe for an extra game night on an upcoming weekend. Making doubly sure I had everyone¡¯s contact information before I left the car would have to be enough. Gingerly, I let Natalie trade her red head for mine in supporting resting Calliope. We intended not to wake her, but her eyes still fluttered open, reminding me of a story my parents told me that when I was a baby I would grab their shirts with a hand when they tried to rock me to sleep so that I would know when they tried to get up. Calliope looked adorable with her half-open eyes and squeaky little grumbles. She gave me more of a hug than she probably intended, providing me with so many details about how she wore her new bra.


    If I were ever actually or still a boy, then that might¡¯ve made my week. As it was, it left me with lingering trails of melancholy I couldn¡¯t quite name. Natalie hugged me from the side and Siana spun me around like a top while hugging me when I got out. Elizabeth turned a warm handshake into a friendly pat on the shoulder. I lingered on the porch until they were all packed in again and drove away. Siana dropped off my bags on the bench outside my door when I wasn¡¯t looking. It didn¡¯t feel like a lot, but it still took two trips. With what I had bought earlier and my initial adventures, a bountiful rotation constituted my girl clothes. I should¡¯ve worn something nicer out, but not much I could do about that.


    I traded my simple outfit for the featured specialty swimsuit I would be wearing tomorrow. To get some practice in it and familiarity. The stump decided to explore the extent of the frontier. Vigorously and unabated. I didn¡¯t worry about that too much, considering I still needed to put it through the wash at least once.


    My eyes were getting bleary despite the relatively early hour. Before my leftovers went bad, I decided to polish them off in a weird hybrid meal of Mexican and Hungarian. It left me feeling especially bloated but at least my outfit didn¡¯t seem uncomfortable. Not that sitting on a couch with my laptop was any comparison for sprawling out on a beach chair or walking around so revealed. Clammy sweat soon clung to my ears despite it not being that hot in the house. I leaned back and tried to feel modestly at ease like this. Still, it felt like half of my blood had gone to fuel the stump. My limbs almost had a quality of frail detachment and coldness which I found admirable in petite girls in my classes. And the stump went to town with that without any help for me.


    After putting those clothes in to wash, I still felt attenuated down there with a casual blouse and skirt. It wasn¡¯t quite as unique, but it was good to get things cleared out before showtime. On the downside, traveling to a variety of nearby but different climates had wrecked my sinuses. The left nostril felt like a ticklish brush was rubbing against the interior. It was easy to lose count of the number of sneezes. A shower definitely helped.


    Before going to bed, I stared at my writing screen and tried to put a handful of words together that might feebly express this day. But so much was lost even a few hours later, not that I wanted an absolutely perfect recollection of every last detail, but I wanted to remember the good things and the positive qualities to take with me. It was so easy to forget from one moment to the next.


    I needed to journal more, to put down the important things from a given day so that I could remember them later. Not a crystal of preservation but a tangible memento. It hurt to forget as much to remember, but I needed the seasoning of each. Forget little worries but remember cautions. Remember laughs but don¡¯t stretch the punchlines. Be mindful but not overwhelmed by your mind.


    Sighing softly, I set several alarms and rolled to my left with just enough blankets nearby for the mild night.


    Morning didn¡¯t even bring the need to check and evaluate myself for changes or the reassertion of another reality. I took care of myself in the bathroom and packed bags of everything I might need. The park didn¡¯t open until 11 AM and for this, I decided to drive myself since it was only 3 miles away. It would¡¯ve been fun to meet up for breakfast somewhere, but the notion only struck me right then.


    I gathered up plenty of sunscreen along with several fresh towels, and a few changes of clothes just to be safe. Of course, a Google search soon gave me ideas for things that I really didn¡¯t need to get but would¡¯ve been helpful to remember earlier, like clips to hold towels and other things in place. A waterproof cell phone case also would¡¯ve been awesome. but it would¡¯ve been awesome to get several years ago. I cleaned out an old backpack to keep everything together.


    Walking out with all that stuff while wearing my swimsuit underneath a regular pair of boring clothes felt kind of naughty or like I was sneaking something weird out. None of the neighbors cared, but I still felt that way. At least I didn¡¯t see any of them around. Although I kinda also wanted them to see me, because I looked pretty good. Yet, I still didn¡¯t wanna roll the dice on people who thought like Amber.


    After pulling out, I rolled down a few of the windows to dispel the dusty presence. Not that it would help much, because dust was everywhere, but I had the phantom sense of freshwater and I wanted to nurture it from whatever corner of the atmosphere it had escaped from. If that thought process made sense and, even if it didn¡¯t, it couldn¡¯t hurt.


    Well, I mean it could hurt with a sudden breeze blasting me in the forehead and giving me a sinus headache for several days. But I adjusted the gap in the window so that the air streamed over more than hitting me. It wasn¡¯t yet hot enough that I would need the air conditioning but probably after the park. I took the route slow because it was honestly just hang a right, halfway to the Target, and then turn right again to the park. The intersections reminded me of when mom drove home from the elementary school where Camille now worked. Little flecks of memory and feelings of the past. I wanted to drive around more without a destination, but I had gotten out of habit with everything and the cost of it. Sundays especially were quiet around town and it was good to take advantage of them compared to the insane Wednesdays crawling with traffic.


    I passed a school and another empty lot that promised shopping and theoretical bookstores on the left, not to mention the corner with the empty chicken coops which the city said it would bulldoze to put another library in. I could soon see the glittering, colorful tones of the water slides above the old west themed water park. Parking wasn¡¯t too bad, but I needed to roam towards the activity center to find a good one with a scrap of shadow beneath the tiny transplanted trees.


    With a full backpack slung over my shoulder, I stretched all the way up, cracked my neck, and resisted all but a whimper of a yawn.


    The ticket area at the front had a small crowd with little kids brandishing towels and screaming back-and-forth across the hot pavement. I found a quiet spot on the side.


    It didn¡¯t take long before I heard a name that I should¡¯ve more intimately recognized.


    ¡°Maggie!¡±


    Ariadne held a free arm above her head. Her other arm was proffered for the grip of a little girl who tangled her little limbs around it. A pair of dark shades cloaked her eyes with a billed cap advertising some old gaming convention bundling a nest of her dark hair. The kid, who wore a single puff of a ponytail behind her head and clothes in tones that looked like barely-contained sunbeams, appeared terrifyingly big for her supposed age of four. Of course, when it came to young people I felt like I had no intuition as to what age fit what. She did seem younger than the sort that my mother taught. Reluctantly freeing one of her little hands, she gave a wave like a little clap.


    Ariadne introduced her as, ¡°This is Aero. Sweetie, this is a friend of mine, Maggie. Can you say hello to her?¡± Hiding half her face, Aero confirmed with a vigorous nod that she could say hello but didn¡¯t provide any certainty on whether she would. It took a little bit of questioning before I realized that her name was meant to be spelled like planes and not like the bow and arrow. This reveal urgently concerned Aero, as though I was some name-stealing fairy and her mom had just given up all her secrets. I shared an expression of warmth but wasn¡¯t sure how it translated across my face.


    After that, the rest of the girls swiftly filtered over. Natalie was easily recognizable with her bright hair contrasted by a blue windbreaker dangling from her shoulders. Elizabeth wore a breezy top with brown and white stripes that fluttered lightly in a torch-hot wisp of air. It felt like a magic trick that her size up top didn¡¯t seem out of sorts. I resisted the urge to check myself for whether I¡¯d had a sudden, improbable growth spurt.


    Elaine and Cynthia already gave a hint to what they would be wearing in the park. Each flashed a glittering, silver outfit like something precious recovered from a tide pool. Ornamental beads and a little strip that reminded me of reflectors on a bike had been stitched onto Elaine¡®s outfit. She seemed so demure and reserved beside her twin, but also felt like a shadow wrestling up the courage to step away from the ground.


    Siana embraced me with tan shades tipped down and accentuating her cheeks. In tow, she dragged a stringy, younger boy with limbs like a praying mantis who had forgotten to work out and hair sprawled out like the ink leavings of a squid which had set a moment atop his head and then jetted off. Despite hair practically covering most of his eyes, he didn¡¯t blink, scrunch up his face, or try to adjust it. His clothes, with a drawstring cinched pair of trunks floating above his waist, seemed more like a pleasant set of bags draped across some random object to both conceal and unveil it. And he hadn¡¯t had a choice in this.


    Presenting the new guy, Siana explained that this was her younger cousin Micah. My first instinct was to immediately wonder what he might look like if transformed the same as his cousin. God, what¡¯s wrong with me? The little rush that accompanied this thought felt unsettling. I should be thinking that he¡¯s cute, at the most. Granted, I couldn¡¯t tell how old he was any more than Aero. Amber made a swift trek through the background of the old west with Marsha and Eloise lingering nearby. While Amber wore a strappy, mild green ensemble, Marsha and Eloise coordinated with varieties of red. Practically everyone had on jeans or jean shorts, except for me. Sticking together and actually chatting to one another, Camille and Calliope were the last to arrive.


    Immediately, I darted over to their side, favoring Camille. She reached out and wrapped a quick arm around my shoulder in a sideways hug. I tried not to think too much about the gesture. Calliope, who had on an oversized T-shirt with a pair of shorts not too different from mine over the outfit from yesterday, gave a quick wave and a quicker smirk. Ariadne soon took charge of making sure the box office at the front was aware we had a group and a promotional rate. Thank goodness that responsibility didn¡¯t fall on my shaky shoulders. It didn¡¯t take more than a minute or two before she passed out tickets for cash or IOUs. I didn¡¯t have exact cash, but she did.


    The stub went in a side pocket of my backpack once I passed through the slow shuffle of the open gate. To the left was a small food area with an already busy queue and pretty standard fare for a cafeteria. The prices hovered somewhere between a cinema and Disneyland. Far over on the left were a set of changing areas and paid lockers for men and women with a duplicate section on the right towards an immense swimming pool. I followed the group to the right. My legs trembled despite the warmth of the day.


    A few areas included sections separated for family changing. We split between two of them with Calliope, Camille, Siana, Micah, Elizabeth, Natalie, and me in one group and everyone else in the other. I felt immensely grateful that Amber was in the other group and didn¡¯t seem to be giving me any kind of attention, whether positive or negative. Still, my legs felt shaky. I didn¡¯t even feel that nervous about all this, even though those shakes and a gloss of sweat seemed to say differently. Micah finished fast and made his way out before anyone else. I grabbed a few things from my bag and manage to drop each and every one of them on the tile floor. Fortunately, the only thing that really mattered for that was my fresh towel.


    Casually, Natalie asked me about my purse. Camille looked up an instant later. I had a purse, right? I¡¯d dumped things into the backpack because I could get the towel in there. Unfortunately, a purse hadn¡¯t settled into the groove of my routine yet, so I didn¡¯t really think about it when on autopilot. Just the effort to not automatically stuff a bunch of lumps into my pockets required a lot of concentration. Mace, keys, wallet, and slip a face mask around my neck for a long time.


    Stolen story; please report.


    After turning my backpack around, Natalie assured me it wasn¡¯t a big deal, she just thought it was cute from what she saw and wanted the others to see it. She pivoted to complementing my outfit that we had picked out. Siana offered to spritz me with a bottle from her purse. It smelled like peaches. I took a little bit but mainly focused on protecting my fair skin from the hostile sun. Calliope talked a little bit to Camille. Elizabeth listed off activities around the park and places to meet up. And then we were kind of on our own.


    Natalie had ideas for fun stuff, but she lingered with Siana on the way out with a silvery towel adorning her shoulders. Elizabeth asked me about flip-flops. I was just gonna walk around with my battered sneakers without the socks. The extra pair she had fit me well enough.


    By the time I stepped out of the locker area, my group had been reduced to Camille and Calliope. The nearest attraction was a shooting gallery of water guns placed in front of a bunch of platforms with flags. The area was heavily padded, but I still felt nervous about the look of it.


    Nervous for other reasons was Calliope. She had indeed worn the polka dot outfit. It covered a lot of her shoulder and wrapped around to the front like the glove top she shared with me previously, but it also presented a complementary dip and curve while sitting comfortably against her. I felt nervous about keeping my eyes on her, especially with Camille right there. Not that Camille was lacking in presentation. I would¡¯ve been blown away to pull off even half of her look.


    ¡°Where do you wanna sit?¡± She soon asked.


    A lot of the lawn chairs were concentrated back towards an auditorium area where they had a band tuning up for a song that sounded like a riff on the Beach Boys. Fences and concrete partitions helped to isolate the park from the busy intersection but the open seats on the far right looked cramped. Fortunately, Ariadne had secured a set of chairs adjacent to the general store. It didn¡¯t have a lot of shade at this hour, but the overhang of the building looked perfectly positioned to provide later on. Calliope scooted onto the chair at the edge while Camille and I paired up together.


    ¡°This is wild, huh? I never knew there was anything this exciting around here.¡± She crinkled her nose with a little smile. I brought my towel with me so I wouldn¡¯t have to show off my outfit immediately. The noonday sun still managed to stir the presence of little fires on my belly, even through the towel. My first feeling once I was settled and at ease was that I really needed to go pee. The moisture in the air did it, along with the presence of so much splashing water.


    After announcing my intentions towards ¡°the little girl¡¯s room¡±, I had the opposite experience from the other night and practically every instance I could remember: Everyone else mentioned they had to go as well.


    Was this a girl thing? It had to be a girl thing. It was fascinating, but what struck me was this cloying sensation of others. I could deal with Camille and the Mexican restaurant or the discount shop. Talking to Calliope in the back of the bookstore was actually really nice. Having a plethora of other players to round out games at the shop was also fine. Chatting with Elizabeth about the nature of life was cool. Siana also had scintillating thoughts. Looking for stuff at the store with Natalie made me feel things I never did as an only child. The problem was when the group swelled to this size.


    Was I supposed to be chatting with this person or that person or all of them or none of them or just a few or what? It certainly didn¡¯t help that the park was especially laden with activity and so many other people who each had their own thing going on. The Internet once spewed forth the idea that the world had only so many possible people for it and anything past that were repeats who didn¡¯t actually have a soul. I could certainly imagine and had met people for whom the apparent signs of thoughtful contemplation were absent. But it was also narrowminded of me to say that just because I couldn¡¯t see it, didn¡¯t mean it wasn¡¯t there.


    Just because I thought someone like Amber, who I accidentally thought of as ¡°hamburger¡± in my head, chewed me out because of a little bit of meat, didn¡¯t mean she had zero thought processes going on. At the same time, it was practically impossible to transplant my own perception of reality onto hers. Yet, I had imagined a possibility of her life and so many others and it had been rewritten like a cheat code to change the look of an NPC in an open-world game. That was all I could get through before pressing biological needs shut up the rest.


    On some level, it registered that I was walking into the ladies'' room. On all the other levels, I didn¡¯t give a flying fuck what anyone else in there thought about me, because things were getting dire. Somewhere in my head, I did feel stressed that the sound I made would be fundamentally different than what was supposed to happen in there. The amount of screaming and yelling, along with blasting jets and rushing water made me feel a little bit better about that concern though.


    When mom got bad, and it was hard for her to walk around, I had times when I had to swallow my doubts, fears, and whatever else and just go inside. They were the sorts of memories I pushed not to revisit. No one cared that I was in there trying to help my mom, occasionally someone would take the weight from my shoulders and help my mother the whole way. I heard more than a few stories from those both young and old about tending to parents in the same way. All we shared was a glance.


    I thought things were supposed to get better. I met people. I said the shit I always wanted to say to my mom and my dad. I was actually starting to get a handle on my life, I guess. Yet I still felt like a fuckup with a nice face and some different clothes. The stall at the end opened up and I plopped myself down in there.


    My sounds felt too present, yet I told myself they were buried beneath a cacophony of others. Gangs or bitches had marked and also slightly burned jagged, incoherent block letters into the seat. At least the frail tissue toilet paper in a huge, thumping wheel had been left alone.


    Silently, I let myself have a scream. Like crawling up a mountain peak just to pull my clothes back on and make sure I felt ready for the crowds. So many little things. And on top of all that, my guts felt like they were nagging me with the prospects of an extended return to that seat. But I continued out and someone else swiftly snagged the stall.


    Calliope camped out in the corner with her arms poised not too far from her stomach. I wanted to hug her, but I suspected that wouldn¡¯t be much help at the moment. Camille massaged a soap dispenser to get as much out as possible. Natalie adjusted her hair in one of the wide mirrors and dried her hands. And I didn¡¯t dwell beyond that.


    The important thing was I made it back first so that Elizabeth and Ariadne, leading Aero, could take a turn in the restroom and I watched everyone¡¯s stuff. Natalie took over for me after that and I started to explore this section of the water park.


    Not that there was a whole lot to the place hidden in the shadows and the sides. The central feature, and the only one I had experienced before, was the lazy river that looped in a few branches around the park. Stacks of heavy-duty inner tubes lined the stepped entrances and a steady flow of parkgoers was already filling the arteries like strange blood cells. I could just slip between. Before approaching, I checked to make sure I wasn¡¯t suddenly, somehow naked.


    A lot of my pale flesh was exposed. It should¡¯ve been a bigger deal how my body was shaped by all this. I had the traces of curves and light presence that not everyone was guaranteed. Without that, I would¡¯ve just been a straight branch with conspicuous bumps. I know it was a feature rather than an issue, but the scant expanse of each section of my outfit felt like it should¡¯ve unfurled for more coverage with just a few tugs. Before I could ponder this, Siana joined me and we wrestled a pair of inner tubes into the water.


    Not that I was focusing my attention on her, but Siana sure had a lot of jiggle with her top. It had the appearance of the seascape at night and surrounded the edges of her bust like backstops with a wedge. Metal ringlets joined each side. I felt like such a pretender beside her. Pretend that incidental little lumps were something worthy. Pretend that I didn¡¯t have a raging stump beneath the illusory folds of shaped fabric. But I could at least pretend.


    Sinking into the pull of the stream, I felt vaguely tugged along while still dragging my legs. Siana eased over next to me.


    ¡°You imagine what Micah might look like with big titties?"


    I didn¡¯t have a drink to spit out, but a dip of water basically got me in the face. After the river leveled out, I brushed my damp hair as my nose snotted up from the pungent water. I still felt more like an anchor trying to push off than being carried along. ¡°What? Micah?¡±


    Siana continued her thought. ¡°I have shots from when he dressed up as Juliet for a high school thing. It was good enough that he got some half-hearted offers to attend the winter ball like that with a date.¡± She managed to find a comfortable position on the tube. I was still searching.


    My nose felt itchier than it ever had in my life. ¡°I just met him and I¡­I don¡¯t know. That would be weird. That¡¯s interesting though.¡±


    Craning her head down, Siana responded, ¡°That wasn¡¯t a real answer, yes or no. But I¡¯ll let it slide. If you had my permission or encouragement to think something weird about him¡­ Well, what do you think?¡±


    I felt entirely bereft of the ability to think in general, let alone to actually wield my imagination in some meaningful way. I resurrected the last strand of thoughts I had about him and pointed out the weird praying mantis, skinny look. She giggled without any effort to hide her face.


    ¡°Oh my god, yes! Boy needs to eat. And stop scavenging for saltines others left behind like he discovered a banquet!¡± Then she dropped a quote on me that took a moment to register in my memory like a strike of rock into a fire pit slowly building to a flame.


    ¡°¡­That¡¯s Zoidberg?¡±


    ¡°Yup! We used to watch the show together when he was really young, and he would always do a crabwalk. I wanna see the most recent revival with him but he¡¯s been so busy lately with local theater. I¡¯ve been busy too but yeah.¡± We pushed off a bend in the river and started to drift underneath the edge of the red water slide that looped around behind the green one.


    The shadows dropped the day from scalding hot with a warm splash of water to a feeling shivering with night. The stream slowed so I could appreciate the coolness. Above, meanwhile, the slide tubes rattled with screaming people flowing to the pool at the center of the park.


    ¡°You gonna try all that later?¡± She gestured with an arm towards the tangle of colored tubes interlacing one another like a child¡¯s pipe works. When I last visited here, there were three of yellow, red, and green. They had since added a fourth dark-blue one sneaking its way amidst the others and a standalone tower with intimidating curves and a shotgun jet of water at the bottom.


    I had never tried even one of them. Some degree of claustrophobia mixed with being tumbled around in water always surged through my imagination as sounding like a thoroughly terrible time. However, I still felt curious. Different form, different life, maybe I could just give it a try to see how it felt now? Puffing out some stray water from my nostrils, I ended a long breath by responding, ¡°Not sure yet.¡±


    Siana brushed her fingers through the water, as gentle oars, shifting herself to the left and then the right like a rocky pendulum. ¡°Same here. Although soonish might be the best time before there are long lines. Wanna try it out together?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    Going into this day, I didn¡¯t expect I would be chilling with Siana. Natalie, seemed like a possibility. Calliope, more likely there. And Camille, absolutely. This was supposed to be just a two-person deal with me and her. Not that I was having a bad time floating in the same river with Siana and her casual, slight goth look.


    Hopefully, I wasn¡¯t committing a faux pas. As we finished drifting through the shadowy area, I heard echoing laughter not far from a section that separated the park from the roadway. Tilting up as best as I could while dangling from my tube, I noticed a small wooden castle with a pirate flag up top.


    Siana spoke essentially the same thought that was in my head, ¡°Oh cool! Is that like a capture-the-flag thing?¡± She gestured a hand to make sure I knew what she was referring to even though I was already looking. The castle had a slapped-together look, like something designed by kids making their first construction project. The jetting beams and awkward slats had rounded corners for safety along with handholds and ropes for mounting along the sides. At the top stood a bearded guy with luminous shades on his forehead and his arms wrapped around what looked like a colorful mounted machine gun. On all sides, kids scrambled up netting and ropes to reach the top.


    Before they could get there though, the guy at the top aimed a jet of water and sprayed them off like they were bugs. His echoing cackle soon got on my nerves. I watched as one heavier kid with lime green shorts rolled into the moat around the castle and slowly staggered to his feet. His hair was matted to his face with tears.


    A memory returned to me despite my say-so one way or the other. Second grade, around the same time as Camille, hot day in the summer and cooling off the kids. I got shot with water all around and I just laid down a super soaker spray. Unfortunately, one of the kids in the class who took a real shine to me like a sibling got blasted right in the face when I wasn¡¯t looking. He whimpered in confusion and despite smiling later, he never really was as close to me after that. I gripped tight to the inner tube as it scuffed beneath my fingers. Getting out of the lazy river was like hauling a package with my shoulders. I explained to Siana that I had to do something but only churned it out in a few half-hearted words.


    She paddled against the current and watched me as I set my tube on a patch of grass. Feeling just a hair¡¯s breadth away from embarrassed and nude, I carefully mounted one of the quieter side nettings and worked my way up. The dude at the top howled with laughter as even more kids screamed and ran away. It had to be pure luck that he wasn¡¯t paying attention to my side. Somehow though, panting and dripping all over the place, I stood at the side pinnacle of the castle with his back turned to me.


    The first hot flare of thought inside my head was to blast him with all the imagined power inside my body and mind. Make him utterly transformed, like I¡¯d already done several times. But, as I stood there, it felt as though the flame wavered against a tracing of breeze. Just changing him wouldn¡¯t necessarily put right this dick-ish behavior. Amber, after all. Heck, maybe Amber didn¡¯t even use to be such a bitch as a boy. And maybe it was just innate and all that changed was the cover.


    Howling again, he exclaimed, ¡°Awww, yeaaah! That was a MASTERCLASS! Yooo!¡± Yeah, fuckwad, a real masterclass in bowling over kids a half to a third your size. I had to do something.


    On this end of the castle, I could duck down and remain inconspicuous, but I didn¡¯t trust myself to push him off the edge. Plus, he really could hurt himself that way and that wasn¡¯t what I was going for. On the edge was another water gun emplacement but it only seemed to tilt about 70 degrees to that side. Stifling a water-driven cough, I crept to where it was mounted and twisted it. Come on, come on!


    Somehow, I was able to loosen it enough that it pulled away from its mounting with a long plastic tail in the middle feeding a pump. It reminded me of an arcade shooter rifle. Still, the angle wasn¡¯t enough to hit him unless he moved to the left. Behind me, I noticed the kid in the green shorts dangling on some netting near where I came up. Trying to gesture to him like this was some magical water fight with military tactics was futile and pretty much the only gesture I could think of was two fingers aiming all over the place. Instead, I motioned for him to get closer.


    It didn¡¯t take long for him to grasp what I meant, and he had hold of the water rifle. I waved him off from spraying and moved to the right end. The dude on the mounted gun would have to shift to the left to aim at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Siana had gotten out of the river with both her and my inner tubes resting on her shoulders.


    ¡°WHAT DO YA THINK!!!¡± I mindlessly shouted at the top of my lungs above the cacophony of everything else while waving my arms and dashing to the right. This had the intended effect of startling the dude into swinging around to face me. He hopped and snorted and was about to fire, when his eyes gave me a lingering once-over. It really took a lot of effort not to just unleash the kind of ideas I was used to upon him. The kid had perfect aim as he blasted the dude right in the face. He looked like he was going to tumble off the side but instead retreated to one of the nettings. From there I was able to take over his lost gun and send him right into the moat. All the kids around cheered, and I made sure to blast water right in his crack as he retreated.


    Not that I was the conquering hero for that long before the kid on the other side decided it was time for a coup. I soon quietly retreated, and the castle returned to a group of kids who then ceded it to another set. But instead of cries of frustration and pain, there were whooping cackles of enjoyment. Clearing my face and brushing away my matted, dark red hair, I made my way back to Siana.


    Her outfit was pasted by the water against the curves of her body. The stump managed to not embarrass me at that moment by challenging the threshold. Still, I could feel my heart pick up a step more than the recent tactical adventure. She grinned at me and pronounced, ¡°That was cool.¡±


    I shrugged and tried to keep my attention on fixing my hair. Sniffling out a bit of water, I told her, ¡°It didn¡¯t seem right and there are a lot of things I could¡¯ve done, but like beating him at a zone stupid game seems like the best. I mean you saw that, right?¡±


    She had. ¡°Yeah, kind of reminded me of an online game I played a few years back. Some dick thinks he¡¯s the big floppy rope swinger just because he can smack some noobs. Karma always comes around. Thanks for being karmic.¡±


    I nodded, even though I felt wary of the notion of standing for karma, because it seemed more like it was a mallet poised above and waiting to fall on me.


    Being around Siana comforted me in some strange way though. She sought me out and advanced the conversation. I appreciated that, it was how I managed to make friends in college, even though the consequence was running into overbearing people who dominated all discussions. Elizabeth and Siana were both so easy to talk to, along with Natalie.


    Calliope, I could understand in a one-to-one chat and feel sympathetic. Same with Camille. Ariadne had a professional decorum and a presence that felt honed by being a business owner dealing with all sorts of things. She felt like the kind of person I wished I could be as a teacher. And, in some respects, I could also understand Amber by the hint of personality I felt from her. She wanted things to be a certain way. She didn¡¯t have to go after me, but I could understand responding to that anxiety internally. Assuming I was even reading her right.


    At the edge of the river, I noticed Eloise lingering by herself with her reddish outfit. Former pretty boy brunette. In face, I thought the boy version looked prettier than she did now. A certain harshness resided at the edges of her features, a vague presence evocative of junior high teachers who only people like me found themselves intimidated by. Fortunately, Siana wasn¡¯t turned away and eagerly fanned a wave above her head to get her attention.


    ¡°Elle! Wanna go take the plunge?¡± She gestured with both hands towards the nearest slide. Eloise shifted both hands behind herself and moved towards us. While sifting through clarification of what Siana meant, Eloise actually spoke, ¡°Isn¡¯t it too busy right now? Marshy also had to go grab something.¡±


    I don¡¯t know what I was expecting to emerge from her, but my voice for speaking actually felt closer to the intended mark than wherever hers resided. Buff swimmers in high school had more girlish tones. Hers had a certain nasal lilt while vibrating roughly. It wasn¡¯t a smoker edge, nor did it feel like she was pushing it a certain way. If I closed my eyes and just listen to her though, I didn¡¯t get the sense of a boy. At the most, maybe someone butch. Not enough to gender warp but plenty to feel uncertain.


    Maybe she wanted to be turned back into a boy and just had no real way to express it? It bothered me, but just a little bit. What was done was done and sinking into hypotheticals would only hurt me. Still, I could probably probe to see.


    It wasn¡¯t long before her friend, Marsha, showed up in a matching but not identical red outfit and a corn dog clutched between her teeth. ¡°What¡¯s up?¡± Her words felt casual and unhurried.


    Uncertainty followed about Siana¡®s enthusiasm to just grab the nearest slide. While Eloise¡¯s flavor of it was terse but meandering with questions, Marsha nibbled and brushed back her blonde locks between pondering like a wistful stoner. It was as though someone pitched up and slowed down a monologue by Jeff Goldblum. Her voice also threaded a certain slot below the pitch I would¡¯ve expected. It wasn¡¯t androgynously mannish, but it played to the casual feeling.


    I got a close-up taste of what they were like and the two were thick as thieves together, but I didn¡¯t feel invited. With Siana leading the charge, we did make our way to the green slide with a path cloaked in large trees. In line, I turned roughly sideways so I could chat with Siena and the two of them. But I made a critical error.


    Discussing food seemed like it would be an easy topic to get to know them. Start with the general feeling of the corn dog half-finished and then just broaden it from there. But the conversation diverted from the exorbitant price of the water park food to me somehow needing to defend corn dogs and then being battered between the scalding front of ¡°things are too expensive¡± and the celebration of $8 Boba drinks with chirps from Marsha demanding to ¡°gib dat¡± along with other random luxuries.


    It bewildered me that neither of them connected the condemnation of one thing with their approval of the other. It felt as though they were presenting an ironic skit but neither of them realized the disconnect. Sadly, I recognized the feeling of frustration from so many conversations stretching from high school when I had a nagging awareness that I recognize something that other people ignored, to the same sickly feeling in college, to an overriding pain in online conversations.


    I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I recognized that if I kept being social with the two of them then I was sure to run into more and more masochistic frustration and niggling feeling of their empty questions like I had felt so many times before. So, I politely nipped my involvement in the chat, turned curiously towards Siana, and made it seem like I was very interested in looking forward. What else could I do? If so many decades of pounding my social head against metaphorical granite walls with every effort can''t resolve anything, then this day wasn¡¯t going to either.

 Chapter 19 – Beach Episode Finale

    Chapter 19 - Beach Episode Finale


    The self-enforced melancholy lingered in my neck, even as I pushed to dislodge it. I wanted to believe that every time Siana looked back, she could tell that something was off about me. She did give me a few, studying glances between curiously inquiring about my previous water park experiences. All of them existed so far in the past that I had no idea what memories were accurate or filled in with boredom and time.


    I just told her that I mostly remembered getting lucky and others got splashed worse than me. But I focused on claiming that this was already the best among all of those. If Marsha and Eloise were judging me, I willfully wasn''t aware of them doing it.


    It would¡¯ve been nice to have a small, distracting book to read because the presence of everything felt like both too much and not enough. Eventually, we were next to go.


    Worries about the actual sliding didn¡¯t have enough time to settle into my thoughts as I practiced folding my arms and legs. Siana vanished through the darkened tube first and the shirtless lifeguard with rainbow shiny shades pushed me back until it was clear Siana was at the bottom.


    He barked at me, and I just wanted to be in the tube. God, once I latch onto one negative feeling it¡¯s as though that¡¯s all I can see. I kicked away the fear of being nobody and the indictment that everyone was angry at me. No time for such bullshit.


    The slide had a few, hatch openings further down but looked dark and enclosed from my angle. My right eye felt like I just jammed a tumbleweed in it and the other fogged up in sympathy. Being able to see next to nothing, I did everything instructed as best I could and started to slip forward.


    It was horrifying. Somewhere between a dryer cycle and being sucked down a drain. My mood at the moment definitely didn¡¯t help. The water and the frantic pace left me not feeling the scuffing, but I still worried that something might be ripped loose or stuck. Only nearly at the end did I feel certain, euphoric thrill of watery weightlessness for a few seconds that was both exhilarating and relaxing. And then I got dumped into the pool that all tubes fed into.


    Blind drowning terror seized me for a few moments until I managed to paddle into the shallows. Siana lingered on the side with her hair damply slicked back. I had no qualms about telling her I was scared. She rubbed my shoulder quickly and encouraged, ¡°But you made it. Take a breather.¡±


    Eloise and Marsha had plenty of whoops and hollers and zero fretful tears hidden by the water. They were ready for the next round and so was Siana. With a deep breath, I managed to get out I was going back to check on the main group even though it felt like I was stumbling over every single word. None of them noticed, as Siana left me with a quick wave.


    When is it going to get better? When am I finally going to develop into the complete, socially-confident, self-assured person I want to be? Why do I always feel halfway and broken? Is it the stump? Is it my voice or lack of tits? I¡¯ve been gifted with so much, even some fucked up stuff I barely understand. Yet it hasn¡¯t gotten better. What do I do?


    Rebuke my parents again? Call out people? How do I stop caring and feeling like I¡¯m water on the ocean that the influence of other people can just push around. I dealt with it in my usual way of wandering alone for a bit until I could finally turn the dial of my brain down enough to return to the group.


    Camille was happy to see me and inquired about what I was up to. I swallowed all the emotional junk I couldn¡¯t show and presented the most cleaned-up version for her. Fun times on the river and enjoying how nice the place was from what I remember before. And then and then there¡¯s a pirate castle and I was able to overthrow someone with the help of some kids and then the scary drop down the tube and¡­ I held it together.


    Aero scrutinized me the most, as if she could tell things beyond the veneer I was putting up. I smiled politely for her and waved. Her expression of concern didn¡¯t waver. God, my eye still felt like there was a rod with brambles digging through. In that way, the tears finally flowed, and I had the perfect excuse for them. It wasn¡¯t long before my stomach got involved and felt like a roiling, bloated wreck.


    Blinking with strobe-like intensity and settling into the chair was all that really helped. Camille swiftly offered me something that looked like a handkerchief to rub my eye. I thanked her and dabbed carefully. If I pressed too hard or went after it, it was liable to feel like something stuck in there for hours turning into days, and then I¡¯d have dry eyes with flakes. Just resting and blinking.


    Little by little, it started to work. I could look without squinting. The sun was still oppressive but no more than usual. Once I settled into that, the rest of the tension and pain started to slough off. Camille checked that I was all right and looked relieved that I had good news for her. Looking over, I finally was able to judge how the others were doing.


    Ariadne had a nice umbrella set on the side to cut the sun, with the shadow beginning to trail over half of the benches. Aero still watched me, but with a watermelon-tinted ice cream bar in her hand. Calliope had most of her body covered in a pink blanket with her hands tucked under and trying to pull it to her chin. The twins had some sort of dice-and-cards game going with one or the other declaring ¡°flounder!¡± at random moments. I hadn¡¯t really gotten to know either of them, but now I felt fresh concern that it would turn out as bad as Eloise and Marsha. Did I have to make friends with everyone though?


    If this were some light-hearted slice of life anime or manga, then absolutely. Everyone must join together in friendship and overlook their flaws and become the bestest of friends. Well, this clearly wasn¡¯t one of those. It wasn¡¯t long before more umbrellas were delivered, and the shade cut the worst of the sun. I sat up with my hands clenched to my tummy as though they had to be prepared to deliver a Heimlich Maneuver. My guts settled.


    Leaning towards me, Camille offered up the frame of a story. With private quietness but vibrating clarity, she told me about a goose. It reminded me of the kind of stories mom was an expert at telling. Camille wasn¡¯t quite as skilled as mom, but that was fine. This was her story.


    ¡°At college, when they were laying the cement for one of the new dorm rooms right next to a swampy area, there was this white goose that hung around. It would always leave tracks, no matter who tried to scare it away. It would hiss, spread its wings, and storm toward whoever tried to intimidate it. It had a little reign of terror across campus. Until Marvin. Marvin was one of the night janitors who also kept the pipes serviced. He heard about the unruly bird and had an idea. It frequented the parking lot by the new construction and seemed to be admiring itself in the fenders of fancy cars. Marvin surmised it was vain and just wanted to see itself. He gave it a metallic mirror to make up for it, set aside. That worked for a while. He fed it all sorts of grains, cracked corn, and steamed veggies and some stuff that probably wasn¡¯t healthy for it, but the goose demanded¡­ to get it to stay away from people. Slowly but surely, they actually became friends. Marvin named him Winsome and all throughout college you would see the two of them walking across campus with Winsome as Marvin¡¯s bodyguard and unruly pet. Once, Marvin tripped on some stairs, fell down to the basement, and sliced his forehead. Next thing everyone knew, Winsome was crying and screaming louder than anything anyone had ever heard. They were able to get help for Marvin but not before the goose made sure he was okay. In my senior year, Marvin retired and Winsome stopped showing up. In my heart, I like to think the two of them retired together where Winsome could live by a lake and be as irascible as he wanted and Marvin could smile and watch as they both lived happily ever after.¡±


    My tear-crusted eyes finally worked their way back to normalcy. I don¡¯t know what I was expecting with Camille¡®s story. Little anecdotes from college sometimes lodged themselves in my memory and I endeavored to extract them without gaps or stumbles. Nothing as cohesive or cute returned to my thoughts. I could make something up, and pattern it after mom¡¯s masterpieces. Instead, I twisted my lips around a few times as the moisture left them slightly puffy and told her that was ¡°cool¡±.


    She brushed away the sentiment as though getting splashed with cold water, denouncing the story as silly but ¡°just something I remembered¡±. I watched her politely as she spun her way to other anecdotes of college. Improv Thursday performances. An owl trapped in the rafters of the library. The day the swimmers challenged each other to cross a flooded road by the field. Disappointment when the people she knew delighted in a yellow critter plushy from a web show but brushed off her ideas for an original creation. Wanting to help a stoner dude who claimed a different solution to his problems each week. She demurely curled up on herself when talking about this, asserting vehemently that she wasn¡¯t correlating this to ¡°anything else¡±. I understood, but I was still thought harshly of myself.


    Similar stories laced the depths of my memories. People with uncertainties spinning them into entire manufactured psychologies. Claiming their psychologist they went to was full of shit, as they have this figured out as they are an insert word and phrase and trendy twisting of that into something unique. Back then, it was a blunt, smirking statement. Then, it evolved into a long-winded notion inundated with empty words. Eventually, all meaning was wrung with stacked together sounds and shuffled letters. I was too old and yet felt too young to give a shit. I appreciated honest, painful, and blunt words even if they were inexact and inappropriate. Words are truth. You hide from words in vague symbols as far from real meaning as possible, you hide from truth.


    I¡¯m a coward, so I gingerly edged around this notion to Camille. I mentioned it was better to be sincere, sticks and stones and broken bones and all that. All the while, I dodged notions of what it meant for myself. Some hapless soul who wasted so much thought inside, forged pointless adventures of imagined dreamscapes. Who tried to wring drenched meanings from stones.


    I wanted to stand beside the people who burbled with pop culture plushies and their recorded phrases like good little automatons. I knew my assertions, reveals, and ideas were desperately shallow for so long, all while I thought I had it figured out. Did I know any better now to scold others? If I sat here today, in this outfit, looking like my worst self, would I be here with any of these people?


    One thought clung to the side of my head though: Camille thought you were cute before any of this. Yeah, an impossible crush ages ago. But she greeted you warmly and without reservation. My bowels briefly protested, but I silently told them to shut up. I leaned towards Camille with a settled smile and told her, ¡°Thanks¡­ And I¡¯m sorry."


    She raised her fair eyebrows in curiosity and pressed me for clarification. I wriggled, ¡°Thanks¡­ For your friendship. For everything I can¡¯t find a way to say. For text replies when I feel overwhelmed. For treks out to the middle of the desert to find nice clothes. For just talking when I don¡¯t know what to say or I feel like I¡¯ve said the wrong thing. And just being cool. And I¡¯m sorry that today isn¡¯t simply just right now for as long as you want and need.¡±


    She wore an expression of concern for several seconds before a faint grunt in the shape of a chuckle escaped. ¡°I¡¯m having fun even though I haven¡¯t decided if I want to float on the lazy river yet, or go down one of those scary tubes, or just splash in the synchronized fountain over there. And that very much includes sharing the silliest goose stories with you and sitting here out of the sun.¡±


    I had so many busy thoughts inside my head with metaphors like grasping at a vision of a hologram, with the feeling of harmony with her despite her being many years younger than me. And all the words I was wrestling with from one group of people to the next. And where I found myself at the end was the relaxation that it didn¡¯t matter. She was right, this right here right now was fun. And I wasn¡¯t going to send my thoughts a million miles away.


    From there, we encouraged Calliope to ditch the towel. She made it into an impromptu sarong. But, with it, she made a rigorous and mechanical lap around the park, returned to her seat, and confessed, ¡°That was terrifying.¡±


    Camille rubbed her on the shoulder and encouraged, ¡°You rock that outfit. Don¡¯t worry about what anyone out there thinks of how you look. We all know you look great!¡± I backed her up with a nod. Unfortunately, Calliope soon managed to catch my eye irritation, likely due to nerves and some splash.


    Before long, she had scurried off to the bathroom to wash her face, Ariadne had taken Aero to get something else, and the twins had also snuck off, leaving just the two of us alone. Whether that was orchestrated or not I didn¡¯t know, but I appreciated the privacy.


    Between making sure the chairs were guarded and no one tried to snag one of them, Camille inquired, ¡°So, that¡¯s the one you changed from a bookstore guy? And all the others too?"


    With our desert trek where she didn¡¯t even bring it up and my vague recollection by now of what I had texted her, I felt momentarily surprised and a little stunned by her question, before responding, ¡°Oh¡­ yeah. Calliope just woke up like that and is adapting. And then the others, I actually watched them change. Well, Aero wasn¡¯t there, but it was kinda crazy. All of them are so different now.¡±


    I didn¡¯t have a quick and easy parlance to tell Camille exactly what they were like before, and I didn¡¯t even really know. Comparing Ariadne to Richard Garriott probably wouldn¡¯t work, so I just verbally traced in the mustache and hair she used to have. Broccoli top, who became Natalie. The heartthrob who had become the abundantly-gifted and emotionally-tenacious Elizabeth. The camo-clad buzz-cut boy who had morphed into the goth-shaded but spirited and upbeat Siana. The remaining ones had to suffice with me deciding the guy and Amber seemed a similar flavor. The twins hadn¡¯t changed much either. And the two I wanted to avoid now both felt more like girls before I showed up.


    As for Calliope, I struggled to characterize the man I met at the weird bookstore which suddenly appeared on the main road. The fact that he checked me out shouldn¡¯t define him. He was casually interested in genre books, especially the sort that I dig. He had puffy hair and glasses. The worst I might indict him with was being a bit too hipster. And now he needed special order bras.


    I pulled my lips back into my mouth so much that I was on the verge of creating a sucking sound. Camille rested her hands on her stomach and took a gradual sigh.


    ¡°You put way too much on your shoulders. And you expect to be crushed.¡±


    I nodded. She brushed her hair back. ¡°You seem terrified of so many things and your remedy is to inflict more upon yourself.¡± I gazed at her and swallowed before looking down.


    She rubbed her arms. ¡°You feel as though you¡¯re trapped or just stuck. I noticed it in school too, way back, that there was this sorrow about you. Like, every time you met someone, it was a battle. Even friends. I don¡¯t really understand it and please correct me if I¡¯m wrong, but that¡¯s the way that I see things."


    I didn¡¯t wanna cry, but my vision felt hazy. ¡°Uhmm. I don¡¯t know either. I¡¯m very private and really, until this week, I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ve shared myself with anyone. And now there¡¯s like almost a dozen people all around who I at least know about and it¡¯s not an obligation thing but but it still is but¡­ It¡¯s not my students and it¡¯s not family and it¡¯s not like coworkers or classmates. It¡¯s just people I know who want to know me. And for the longest time I¡¯ve felt dismissive of anyone knowing me because part of who I am felt like trash. And then all that changed¡­ I changed in a way that made me start to feel better. But there are other changes that freaked me out because they¡¯re piling on and there¡¯s too much and I feel as though I¡¯ve done something wrong and I¡¯ll continue to do something wrong and it¡¯ll just get worse¡­¡±


    I had to sit up. But in sitting up I felt a cough which I deflected with my hand. She sat up too, her eyes watchful even though it was hard to look back. ¡°Who were you before, especially to yourself, who do you see yourself as now, and who do you want to be?¡±


    Such a simple question and yet an excruciating one to face. ¡°I was Jacob Aaron Jones. And I just wanted to be cute. I felt alone when the class separated into girls and boys, and I was on the boys'' side. At the same time, I didn¡¯t feel at home with the girls but then maybe that was because I couldn¡¯t understand¡­I don¡¯t know. I just had the sense of a resting state which didn¡¯t match how I looked in the mirror. And, well, how I see myself now ticks a lot of the boxes. It feels better to just stand around by myself and feel as though I¡¯m not constantly inflamed. But it doesn¡¯t feel finished. Feels like a half measure. And it also feels like I have this overwhelming sun of blasting energy inside me which seems like it should be expressed as a young woman, but I can¡¯t express it¡­I can¡¯t translate it correctly. So, my only outlet is to just spray it like a fire hose in whatever direction and see it emerge in other people.¡± Through a bounding, dangerous diatribe, I felt myself edging up as though I might just float away. And when I was finished, it was like a slow leak in a balloon settling me back against the slick surface of the chair. Sweat suffused my legs and clung to my arms. The others were returning, one at a time. I saw Ariadne and Aero first and it didn¡¯t take long until things were busy and active again.


    Natalie checked in with me, made sure I was alright, and complemented something else about my outfit. Elizabeth stretched and remarked with a smirk that she saw me taking the castle playground for the kids. Siana let me know that the red tube was the best one, because it was the gentlest. I felt a little uncertain about whether I wanted to give it a try, but I definitely felt like returning to the lazy river to complete a lap. I remarked that the castle thing was fun, and I was happy to help. I thanked Natalie for her compliment, and I relayed that I wasn¡¯t sure how I felt in this outfit yet, but I was doing better. Calliope was at least walking around more but with more self-consciousness than even I could muster. I felt nice taking in the crowd and it didn¡¯t feel overwhelming.


    Each of the girls did make me a little nervous, but I could keep it in check. It wasn¡¯t until a bit later, when I went over to the synchronized fountain, that I had the opportunity to follow up with Camille. She didn¡¯t neglect the third part of her question, which I had skipped over.


    ¡°I just want things to feel complete¡­done. Not so questionable and confused.¡±


    She laid an arm on my shoulder. ¡°Who doesn¡¯t? Just settle down and stay the same, but I don¡¯t know. People change. They have to change. I¡¯m not the kid I was back when. You¡¯re not the teenager you used to be. We¡¯re both massively different. That sort of thing happens all the time. Just going from a few months with my student teaching, my kids changed so much, and I¡¯m sure you see it in those you teach too. Each new experience and new realization creates a new person. I like the analogy of the river, always flowing. Powerful, creative, and destructive. Never the same river, never the same person. Every new day is a metamorphosis that destroys and creates.¡° She aimed a little squirt of water at my face and giggled. I soon got her back.


    The biggest part of me wanted to write down what she was saying and also come up with my own clever annunciation, complement, or remix of her words. But I let all that relax and just think about it. It made sense. And it also assuaged some of my fears.


    I was changing people somehow. Brian was never going to have the same experience of being the bookseller he was several days ago. And that group of geeks in that store had fundamentally different lives from a few days ago. Honestly, so did I.


    But the wedge point that I had to keep coming back to was the fear of whether I was leaving them worse off. They didn¡¯t seem hurt, but I could be blind to that or not have asked the right questions to know. Likely, I would never know because I only knew each of them on a surface level before things changed.


    Camille seemed to notice that my playful back-and-forth with the water soon faded to pensive introspection and reiterated, ¡°Your shoulders can¡¯t carry the world, nor should it. You¡¯re not responsible for others. They make their choices, and they have their own lives. You, with everything I¡¯ve seen, are caring and immensely thoughtful. The change you feel you¡¯re introducing into the world has your touch. Don¡¯t be afraid of your own heart shared with others. And the rest will work out. I believe that.¡±


    I smiled at her and gave my thanks. Out of everyone, I never expected that the girl I felt like I could barely talk to without embarrassment yesterday would be the one to unwrap the picture of myself and turn it to face me with optimism. But then, this had been my first actual effort to offer up who I was. Perhaps so many greater things awaited if I just stopped being¡­a ninny who kept everything to herself!


    One of the hardest things, as we walked around, was just accepting there were times when I didn¡¯t need to fill the silence with any further words. We could just walk and be there.


    We tried the lazy river for a while, but Camille floated on the current without an inner tube. I attempted that position, but I didn¡¯t yet have the confidence of pushing against the water. Floating on my tube, I marveled at her while watching the world drift by. I especially enjoyed her sincere smile each time the water rose up. She¡¯d given me so much to think about, but my mind soon returned to familiar places. I watched the strolling crowds through the foliage and wondered: change is natural, change is right. I can bring about change. Why be afraid of it? Let it free¡­


    I first lingered on a man in slim swim trousers which made me think of half a proper one-piece swimsuit. In my mind, I desperately visualized completing it. My imagination has never been supernaturally vivid. It¡¯s more like catching sands in the shape of something special before they fly away. Being in a half-conscious state often seem to work best because I could touch the edge of dreaming and summon more vivid imagery, even though my brain couldn¡¯t retain it for long and trying to record it tipped me into consciousness. Not that I wanted to be half asleep while floating.


    Blink. As I watched, the trousers flowed up his body, clinging to his sides, like a strange fabric liquid. Like some midnight blue alien parasite from a comic book. It didn¡¯t slow his stride even though his legs changed from muscular and lightly-haired to slim and smooth with a marbled texture of light tans. As he swung his arms, it was like wisps of mass brushed away in the breeze. Oaken auburn hair settled in a neat but dense bramble across his right shoulder. Slowing finally, he shifted his balance as his leotard swimsuit clung to his wide hips and trim behind. The slim straps behind his neck guarded his newly-developed bust and did what they could to flatten curves that didn¡¯t quite challenge Calliope or Elizabeth but definitely still announced themselves. The brand-new woman paused for a moment, as though losing her place in a thought before naturally picking it back up.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    I could do that. I could do that to the entire park. Just command everyone here was a girl. Every last person. Maybe reality would accept it as some ladies'' free swim day for the sake of logic. All girls¡­ Except for me.


    An ache like sinus congestion settled in my head and shoulders as I let that possibility drift away. If I did that, what then? Would it finally feel like I expressed everything that I need? I don¡¯t know, but I did have one more in mind.


    Micah. Wherever he was around here. Siana had planted the idea and while I had censored myself from it earlier, my current feeling was to at least give it a try. My discomfort started to fade, and I considered my options.


    Just creating a younger copy of Siana sounded boring. But I didn¡¯t want to push things. I gathered that they seemed to be good at acting. And used to like Futurama. Not much to write a new life with. Of course, everyone up to this point I changed without a plan for the end result. Maybe it didn¡¯t matter. But I at least wanted to see it happen.


    No one in the lazy river next to me, even Camille lingering back, noticed the guy who just changed into a girl to our left. So, obviously, it was just me.


    At the next opening, I excused myself with my tube and told Camille I would catch up. Fortunately, she didn¡¯t ask where I was going, so I didn¡¯t have to come up with an excuse. Back at the chairs, Natalie pointed me towards the ice cream booth when I asked about Siana and Micah.


    Drop the doubts and the fear and just let it happen, I told myself. By the time I discovered where they were in line, it was clear that something was already happening. A stray breeze brushed his inky hair out of his eyes and fluffed it with a lighter, more chocolatey color. His eyes especially widened and took on an almost supernaturally, animated quality. As he bobbed, while considering a question from Siana, his cheeks softened up and bright pinkness flushed his lips. The praying mantis quality to his limbs remained along with a geeky beauty. Massive glasses appeared on his face and emphasized his wide eyes even more. More than anything, I noticed the swishing as he danced in place compared to the reserved calm when I last saw him.


    A frilly, peach swimsuit with pleats and gossamer dangles wrapped around his shifting lower half while a pronounced dimple of cleavage emerged at his top. Her top was covered in a black-and-white version of some Japanese wood print I didn¡¯t recognize. Siana giggled but seemed to have no idea what was happening.


    Despite the prompt, she didn¡¯t turn out near as busty as her cousin. When the changes seemed to finally complete, I felt a spark of surprise when her tongue went out and her expressive, brown eyes crossed in a way that felt more like it was painted than it was happening in real life.


    ¡°Oh, you!¡± Siana declared, before realizing, ¡°Oh hey, Maggie. Mona is being a goof again. My gosh. This is not an anime OVA, you geekball. Haha!¡±


    ¡°Mona¡° wiggled some more and said with a naturally-tiny voice, ¡°But it¡¯s the beach episode! Everyone in their outfits and splashing and probably slipping. And making crazy faces. Hehe.¡±


    It didn¡¯t take long for me to piece together that ¡°Mona¡° was a casual cosplayer who did all sorts of stuff online. A quick reference to the ¡°dance of peace¡± while holding still confirmed for me that her Futurama fandom remained. I had plenty of questions though.


    When Siana hung behind to grab a spoon and some napkins from a side kiosk, I took the opportunity to quickly inquire if she remembered what she asked me before about her cousin.


    ¡°Yeah, kind of a random offshoot of what we talked about yesterday about making guys into girls. She¡¯d have fun as like a super anime girl. She¡¯s always looking for a good artist to draw her characters.¡± Siana had some hesitancy with her words, as though trying to work around something that bothered her. Interesting.


    I could press it. I could say what we actually talked about, but I didn¡¯t have proof and I worried about losing her trust if I acted weird. Furthermore, I felt discomfort returning as I rolled over the notion inside my head, as though the possibility was a sharp and potent bad taste pressing against my senses. I let it go and agreed.


    She soon admonished herself for not getting me something ¡°long, cool, and sticky to swirl my mouth around¡±. At least Siana¡¯s suggestive nature hadn¡¯t diminished. I assured her it was fine and that I was just checking in and, actually, I had to use the restroom.


    This time, the ladies'' room was empty and silent except for the sweeping air currents of chill gusts vortexing away through the door and out the dusty slat windows at the sides. I didn¡¯t feel as horrified standing there, but the fact I was alone helped. Despite pairing into groups in the beginning, once again I had settled into isolation, no matter who tried to talk to me.


    A vague impression collected in my head that the resistance and pain I was feeling was some sort of message from the universe or God or myself not to proceed. Don¡¯t transform every single person at the waterpark because that won¡¯t work out. You can change him and you can change Micah. That¡¯s fine. But don¡¯t turn Micah into a busty anime girl.


    If that was true then, that meant that everything I might¡¯ve done, from changing one of my students, to manifesting a new bookstore, to Calliope and the others, was that all meant to happen?...


    Splashing some water on my cheeks and forehead didn¡¯t do much to clear the lingering aches, but it helped with whatever cooling the restroom had. The door creaked open, and my momentary isolation ended. Turning, I puzzled at an older woman with what looked to be a massive purple backpack/purse. Her hair had some of the same qualities as mom¡¯s but without her regular perms. Little bits of gray accented the locks without overwhelming them. It also had a certain reddish luster like a subtle backlight. Her nose had a fair, hawkish dip which didn¡¯t make her look severe. She had on a fluttery, gray skirt which clung close to her knees. Up top, I could tell that she took after Elizabeth and wore a gorgeous, pale pink blouse. In some respects, I could see vague reflections of myself in her. I looked away, so as not to worry her with my stare, and finished up.


    ¡°Hot one today.¡± She emphasized her words with a glance towards me. I steadied my thoughts with a quick breath and responded, ¡°Sure is. I could go for more rain, like the other day.¡±


    She laughed quietly. ¡°I love a storm. The way everything smells and how relaxed it feels. Although going out is a problem. Better to find a friendly and comfortable spot on the porch and enjoy the light show.¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡±, was the best I could offer.


    ¡±Been a while since I¡¯ve been to this park. Shame the second city library isn¡¯t done by now. Oh well, someday.¡±


    For Calliope and Starlight Pages, I told her about the bookstore just a few miles to the northwest. She knew about it and noted, ¡°Love to work there.¡±


    I frowned slightly and cleared my throat before remarking that I knew someone who worked there and, if she needed a good word¡­ The woman waved her hand and smirked. ¡°No worries. You having a good day here?¡±


    That was a rather abrupt and odd segue. I shrugged. ¡°Some disappointments. Some good times though. And we¡¯ll see how the rest of the day goes, I guess."


    No one had opened the door in a while, despite how busy it was outside. In fact, the rumble and scattered noises, squeals from kids, and laughter from adults didn¡¯t even reach through the brick wall despite the windows above being cracked. It was like everyone else had secretly gone. I was sure I¡¯d been able to hear the crowds just a moment ago.


    ¡°That¡¯s a fair perspective to take. The good and the bad will come and go and you gotta take them as best you can. And so long as there¡¯s a chance, who knows what might happen?¡± She splashed her fingers in the basin and dried them with a towel on the side.


    This felt weird. I braced myself and looked her over again. Several thoughts pounded my brain, but I held them at bay to ask, ¡°Do I know you?¡±


    ¡°Who can say¡­? I feel like I have a very nice rapport with you. I hope the feeling is mutual, even if it¡¯s just a silly, nonsensical chat in the restroom.¡±


    A certain wooziness remained and started to build inside my head like I was trapped in an ephemeral drain twisting and pulling me downward. I took a few steps in place, swallowed, and asked her not the first question in my mind but one burrowing its way to my mouth the fastest, ¡°Can I ask you some questions?¡±


    In any normal situation, that would freak anyone out and get them cutting things short. But nothing about this felt normal. And to simply inquire if I could ask her a singular question led me towards the trick that I would¡¯ve already asked my question. At least, that¡¯s the way I would¡¯ve responded.


    She raised her eyebrows a few times and smiled pleasantly. ¡°Of course. What¡¯s on your mind?¡±


    ¡°Will I ever be happy, without conditions? The people that I¡¯m with intuited and have been very clear that I put so much responsibility on myself for things that may not even be my fault. But I have such inborn, festering guilt and I don¡¯t know how to shake it.¡±


    I nearly resisted explaining my question just to see whether she already understood the context, but I felt the rest of the words tumbling out. She leaned against the counter and rocked her head slightly. ¡°That¡¯s up to you. We all have things we need to let go of. The only way to move forward is to accept things have happened, things will continue to happen, and things we can¡¯t even imagine will befall us. And this all changes us from who we thought we were once into the people we will one day be. Change is just part of living. If you want to be happy, it takes work from you. Making things better. Making the life you want. Doing everything in your power for your life. And then working around the things you can¡¯t control. But you aren¡¯t guaranteed happiness. Will you be happy? You can do your best to make it so."


    That didn¡¯t feel like a very satisfying answer, even though I understood it. I decided to push to the heart of my concerns. ¡°Am I really responsible? Am I hurting others or not? Have I broken things? Am I being punished? What should I do that can make things better?¡±


    She unzipped the side of her purse and offered me a little, purple candy that glimmered in the light. I accepted it and let it sit in my mouth. It was a flavor that wasn¡¯t too tart or too sweet and which didn¡¯t melt away immediately. The candy lingered pleasantly, and I felt the last of my discomfort wane.


    The woman stretched her arms one way and then the other before bringing out her own questions. ¡°Would it matter if the answer to any of those questions was ¡®yes¡¯? Yes...you are responsible, yes...you are hurting others, yes...you have broken things, yes...you are being punished, yes...there are things you can do to make things better. How would that change things?¡±


    My throat constricted, and I had to cough lightly to clear it with another little splash of water. ¡°Umm, it has to matter. If I''m responsible, then I need to know my responsibilities. I need to know how I¡¯m hurting people. I need to know what I¡¯ve broken. I need to know what I did to bring punishment and I need to know what I can do. It changes whether I¡¯m just sitting here endlessly questioning myself and whether I can actually do something to make things better.¡±


    ¡°And what if it¡¯s ¡®no¡¯? You¡¯re not responsible, you¡¯re not hurting anyone, you haven¡¯t broken anything, you haven¡¯t been punished, and there¡¯s nothing to know. You can¡¯t possibly do things better, especially in the ways you might be worried about. If someone absolutely and definitively tells you that you did nothing wrong¡­ would it matter?"


    The problem was between my ears. I slumped. I even said all this to myself before. And I had to admit, ¡°I don¡¯t know. I just don¡¯t know. It¡¯s either one or the other or it¡¯s both¡­or I don¡¯t know.¡±


    She leaned closer. ¡°If you don¡¯t know, then stop presuming the worst case. When you know, do your best to make things better. Each of us can never know and we will make mistakes. It¡¯s life. It¡¯s change. Let it be growth. Don¡¯t fall into your roots and let them consume you. Live and do it the best you can. And please don¡¯t sweat the small stuff. My goodness. That¡¯s just silly. Hehe.¡±


    Unprompted, she came over and gave me a big hug with a gentle rub on the shoulder. She was slightly taller than me. I had such a plethora of doubts, remaining questions, and fears, but I let her hug me and let the moment linger.


    Before she turned to leave, she dipped her head slightly and told me, ¡°You¡­ have a good day, alright?¡± With a conceding nod, I agreed. Once she was gone, it was as though the air outside started to move again and all the noises that had taken a pause returned to full strength. The door pushed open, and the crowds returned to the stalls. I left soon after that.


    No sign of the woman was left when I got outside, but Siana soon spotted me and called out my name. I made my way back over to the group and received a bright-red ice cream bar with a vaguely suggestive shape. I consumed it slowly. In my head, I felt the lingering flames of frustration again.


    Whatever that was, and several possibilities, many mundane, fluttered through my head without clear resolution, it hadn¡¯t really given me the answer I was seeking. Nor had telling off my parents. Nor had my supposed epiphany. Nor had pouring my mess out to Camille. Nor had anything else since all this really started. No complete proofs that literally said, ¡°This is what you need to do, in order of operations.¡± Nothing. Just the clear emphasis that the choices were in my hands.


    However, settling privately inside my thoughts wasn¡¯t gonna cut it with this group. Natalie engaged me in conversation and talked about ideas she had with Mona about cosplay creations. Mona¡®s eyes told me as much about her ideas as her words did. Like Micah, she had been Juliet¡­ and Romeo. It was a school play that sounded incredibly complicated to pull off. She had played each character, mainly in scenes where they didn¡¯t appear together. The girls and the guys in her class each expressed crushes.


    Elizabeth soon got close and asked how I was doing. No one asked about the long time I spent in the bathroom. She soon had me chatting about music, video games, and the county fair in a few weeks. Elaine and Cynthia even stretched over to talk about an inventive board game where each person had a little piece of the game they carried with them and manipulated according to their turn. I offered feedback that they found insightful. Siana remained right next to me as we both worked on our lengthy ice cream bars. Amber was still a no-show, but that was fine. I didn¡¯t pursue Marsha and Eloise, and I didn¡¯t get uncomfortable.


    Ariadne had plenty of fun store anecdotes from other places she owned mixed in with convention tidbits. Aero occasionally charged towards the lazy river before retreating. Camille often looked in my direction and we cheered on Calliope as she ¡°survived¡± the big, blue tube without embarrassment. As people returned and went, I even saw Amber for a moment. Camille snuck back over to my side. I smiled with ease and got an idle idea. When she was turned slightly and smiling at a big wave cresting, I leaned over and placed a small, faint kiss on her cheek.


    Her wide eyes almost made me regret it, before a smirk unraveled a grin on her reddish face. She looked at me and looked away in turn before managing quietly, ¡°What was that for?¡±


    I shrugged to one side but soon resolved, ¡°Returning the favor from all those years ago.¡± She giggled and didn¡¯t seem sure what to do with her hands.


    That started an immediate chain reaction with everyone else wanting to learn about the kiss. Siana wanted one from me too but, ¡°Just as the Greeks do it.¡± It didn¡¯t take long for it to get kind of weird as I rapidly kissed more girls on the cheek than I could ever imagine. It wasn¡¯t bad, but I had the suspicion Camille was getting playfully jealous from the way she folded her arms and wiggled her eyebrows.


    Calliope wound up with a big hug and a kiss on the forehead for variation, while Ariadne kissed me with purpose, not quite on the lips. She apparently took the Greek thing with pride. Aero stuck out her tongue but accepted a kind pat on the head.


    I wasn¡¯t sure what happened for several minutes, but I felt irrationally relaxed. At some point in the afternoon, after quite a lunch, I accompanied Calliope to the red tube, which was supposedly gentler than the others. Calliope seemed bloated with anxieties and the meal. She fussed a lot and took the steps up slowly.


    While we waited, she tapped her fingers on one of the wood beams and asked me, ¡°Do I look okay? I wasn¡¯t sure to ask but you know me from before. Sometimes this feels weird and sometimes it feels like the most natural thing. I¡¯m still not used to being so¡­noticed, especially today.¡±


    She wrapped her arms in the periphery of her bust which managed to hide some parts but also emphasize others.


    I swallowed and asked her, ¡°Do you feel uncomfortable in your body? I know we sort of talked about it but¡­ How do you feel now?¡±


    She took a few careful steps forward and then clung to the rail with her arms behind her. ¡°I feel awkward, but I wouldn¡¯t say uncomfortable. Definitely self-conscious. I jiggle quite a bit¡­¡± She whispered the last part next to me.


    I felt warm, twisting jealousy of her, but I also understood that, if I suddenly had a body exactly like hers, then amidst the excitement, would be plenty of other emotions.


    She added, ¡°Oh and my contacts aren¡¯t as sharp as my glasses, so that¡¯s a thing too. I haven¡¯t used contacts for years. So far as I know.¡±


    I waited until we had a bit of a gap in the crowd to ask, in a reserved voice, ¡°Theoretically, if you could turn back into Brian again, would you want that?¡± Toying with ¡°theoretically¡° felt troublesome because I was just presuming I or someone else could do that.


    Calliope gave a quick look around, even though no one was close or looked at us. ¡°I¡¯ve actually thought about it. Like at night when everything is quiet¡­except for the cats next to the wall. If it had to happen, I would be okay, but I actually I¡¯m not too bothered by the awkward things. I¡¯m getting used to them. I feel fine and especially being here with so many cool people today and having a really fun day, I¡¯m alright that this is my life. And I kinda want more. Becca calls me and her the ¡®bookstore babes¡¯ and she¡¯s just very warm. We got along before, but I like how it is now. I just like how it is now with everything. Awkward, but I¡¯m working on it.¡±


    I nodded and gladly accepted that explanation. As promised by Siana, the ride down the tube wasn¡¯t that rough, but it was rather bouncy. Calliope groaned about her ¡°rump¡± and looked a little pink around her nose. I was just glad that she didn¡¯t have any wardrobe embarrassments and neither did I.


    After drying off, she suddenly looked like she had more to say, but her lips curled back. I encouraged her and she soon asked, ¡°Can we¡­do like a little book club? When I first met you¡­ I was really interested in the books you had. The owner wants to start up a program where we read and recommend titles for customers with little handwritten placards. They¡¯ve started it on their own for a few things, but I need to add more next month. They can be anything. Would that be cool?¡±


    I confirmed it would absolutely be cool. Not only that, but I also made sure she knew about what I used to get books from the library, so she could get them on her phone. It wasn¡¯t long before we both agreed on a sci-fi classic to do first.


    Sheltering her phone more protectively than her bare flesh, Calliope watched and listened with a single earbud. Camille joined me back in the lazy river soon after. The other end of the river, which I¡¯d missed twice, didn¡¯t really have anything special, but it felt good to complete the lap.


    We chatted about everything and the most random things, starting at the little peck on the cheek and this whole book club with Calliope (which Camille totally wanted in on) to what countries we each wanted to see someday. I kinda wanted to see Japan, but I also understood that pop culture and idealizations of it differed from reality. She wanted to see Sweden, because of her ancestors.


    As we started our second lap, I asked her, ¡°Where do you want to go¡­ Just the two of us? Maybe, next week?¡±


    Camille had a snappy answer of a board game caf¨¦ over in Pasadena along with an underground arcade that included bowling. She learned about each of them from chatting with Ariadne at some point. I grinned and told her that sounded awesome.


    She elaborated that one of them apparently required reservations and the upcoming week was going to be ¡°nuts¡± for her, but she assured me that she would take care of it and keep me updated.


    By this time, the intensity of the sun started to fade, even though the heat was lingering. Our group shrunk, little by little. Amber vanished at some point even though I was starting to think of something to say to her. Eloise and Marsha, along with the twins, left next. Aero zonked out at one point and Ariadne rested her against her shoulder. They too left soon after.


    Though we didn¡¯t stay till sundown closing, we got pretty close. I got sun-blasted in a few spots on my arm, despite the sunscreen. Natalie endeavored, with Mona, over much of the afternoon to pin down a cosplay look that would complement my red hair. I felt more like a fashion doll than yesterday.


    Before leaving too, Camille returned a quick peck on my cheek when I wasn''t looking. I was finally left with Calliope, who would be riding home with Elizabeth again. I watched her as she glanced out at the sky with her arms folded calmly under her chest. Without thinking about it, I put my arms around her in a gradual hug. I¡¯d hugged her before and I¡¯d been caught in a rainstorm of hugs from so many as we parted company, but this hug felt like something else. Not anywhere close to romantic or a sense of pity or need to comfort her. No. More a sense of letting go, even while embracing her. This was no longer in my hands. It was in hers.


    Maybe it was never really in my hands at all, but at least I could finally accept it. Calliope met the hug without confusion or concern, as though she understood. Before I let her go, I asked her to mention me to the owner, if he was looking for new hires. She promised she would.


    And then it was just me again. But I didn¡¯t feel alone. I may not have made friends with everyone or resolved everything, but I worked at it. I changed people, or I imagined how they could be different, and the change happened. I didn¡¯t feel afraid of it. I didn¡¯t feel like one stray thought could annihilate the entire universe. I wasn¡¯t a bad person, and I didn¡¯t have bad intentions. I wasn¡¯t trying to hurt anyone, and I had to accept that just being myself and not being perfect or all-knowing would be enough.


    It was rough, especially with the little angry voice of my mother, like a persistent gremlin. I wasn¡¯t sure how to completely be rid of her, but I had the resolve to understand that she didn¡¯t matter to living my life. My fears, my pains, my doubts, my insecurities, my perceived shortcomings, my mistakes, and all the rest of that mess were still there, but I could imagine them as a mountain of garbage I could climb over to rise above.


    One step at a time.

 Epilogue

    Epilogue


    I woke up with drool. Despite the fact it was Sunday night, I had trouble getting to sleep with a myriad of texts from everyone and a million Internet distractions popping up.


    Something like my blanket sprawled across my chest and, with the morning heat, left me sweaty. Groggily brushing the drool away, familiarity and alarm soon crossed my thoughts. My cheek was scruffy.


    My hair was shorter too.


    ¡­oh¡­


    So, that was it. A trial run. Back to my face, back to my body, back to base camp after making progress halfway up. Damn¡­ Dammit¡­ if I had a sinus headache right then, the whole shit show would be complete. God¡­


    So many little, nagging uncertainties about what all this meant plagued me, but the overriding sense was to just slide back into sleep. Maybe I could get a dream where things felt like yesterday again, where I could build on the last week. Didn¡¯t I at least earn dreams?


    Shifting against my pillow, that blanket weight felt far more intimate and connected than it reasonably should¡¯ve. It took propping a leg up and glancing down to realize what was going on. There was no blanket.


    It was like when I pulled the front of my shirt up as an illusion, a vague tent struggling to stay up. Only this laid across a set of rounded pinnacles that dipped slightly in the middle and fully blocked my view of the dresser. I could feel them as a part of myself, but also strange. Shifting my other leg, a sensation of flesh between them made me jerk and jiggle in place.


    The stump¡­


    This had to be a dream. This had to be. But, whether it was or it wasn¡¯t, no way I was missing out on at least experiencing this.


    Shifting delicately, as though the whole structure of the illusion might slide off like tucked fruit under my shirt, I sat up along the edge of the bed. It all remained.


    Drawing in the slowest breath, I raised myself to my feet. Nothing shifted between my thighs or settled like a satchel. There was flesh and it felt strange yet comprehensible.


    It was like the stump had been dug up and planted deeper, its bulbous roots hidden far below and only the barest, sensitive sprout remaining beside the new furrow. Every new configuration of sensations felt like a match strike inside my brain as I tried to process it in ways I knew. It wasn¡¯t beyond my ken, but it was so different. And it was fucking hot.


    The morning weather and the fresh sensations wracked my body. The breasts yielded to gravity and forced me to grip the nearby shelf for psychological stability. They tugged on my pits, back, shoulders, and neck with three-dimensional contortions of my flesh. I could see the nipples the whole time.


    Working my legs gingerly from one footfall to the next as the space between my legs served up a bonfire for my senses, it took quite a trek to get to the bathroom.


    My first sight launched a harsh pinprick of disappointment. My face, my old face, was there. Stubble across my chin, slight dirty stash, and the gifted, blazing fires atop my head burnt to brown ash. The length of my hair barely challenged mom when she had it permed. But my bust¡­


    It pressed and distorted my purple top. Tugging the collar down presented shadow-streaked cleavage. It felt unreal yet intimate. While pretty-faced Maggie gave me allusions of Narcissus, this single feature nearly drowned me. And it was interactive!


    Lift them up, shift them over, settle across them, and peek underneath. Removing my shirt lanced several sensations through me. First, it was slightly chill compared to being covered but at least the morning made up for it. Second, I felt so naughty. And finally, holy shit, do I challenge Calliope¡­?


    No no way maybe no possibly no no no¡­ Fiddling with the¡­girls?¡­ gave me some sense of dimensions and I gingerly turned a few ways while cupping them. Actually touching that flesh, that part of my body, that sudden protrusion, sent my hands dashing away as a reflex. So many times dealing with female classmates and coworkers at random. Too close.


    It was unusual but not bad. And it was easy to bump an arm or an elbow into them when you¡¯re just going about. The nipples seemed like an immense, pink bruise with an obvious exclamation. Manipulating the pliable flesh around it reminded me this wasn¡¯t the only change.


    I probably had to pee. At least, it would be safest to grab the toilet before it became an imminent problem. The rust-tinted pubic hair that once matched my head, once again matched my original color. It didn¡¯t look quite as dense as before, but I couldn¡¯t tell.


    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    No freeing anything from getting stuck against itself, although the skin and junior high sex-ed technical name bits had oddly familiar interactions. Peeing triggered a vague sense of horror. It was so far down and immediately dribbling out as well as stopping so fast when I was done. It felt like a mess but, thank you again to that junior school crap and a bit of independent research, I dealt with it.


    It would take getting used to even more patches of sensitive skin with special instructions. The whole thing felt like it needed a manual. Like waking up on Christmas morning, with once again half of the presents you really wanted, but the ones you were most excited for. Then, once all the wrapping came off and, conclusively, you were the owner of this brand new thing¡­ the dawning sense of ¡°what now?¡±


    I was technically, and with special emphasis, a girl. A woman. Female in the ways that often seemed to count. But a look at the mirror showed me what I had traded for it. The red hair was gone. My shoulders didn¡¯t have a slim, soft shape. My waist and hips were essentially flat. Beyond the immense addition, my chest had a long way to go. My legs and arms with their restored brush of body hair and masculinity. And no more girlish height.


    My gaze settled on the good places and slipped past the rest. Clearing my throat, I paused and found the texture of the sound was different. The few words I tried seemed strikingly bland but higher in their natural pitch without any effort put into them. Testing a few things soon brought out a girlish timber that sunk deep into my loins and brain with delight.


    So, half last week and the other half this week? I hadn¡¯t been taken back to the start, but I¡¯d been shifted around to the other end of the mountain with utterly unfamiliar territory. Was this punishment? Did that mysterious lady decide to curl the monkey¡¯s paw for me? No...


    What was I even doing thinking this was a punishment? I had been gifted the entire scope of my fondest dream. Sure, it didn¡¯t happen all together¡­ but was that any reason to get angry, upset, and mope? Maybe this was just a new challenge?


    I did have nagging concerns though, like clinging mental cobwebs that got closer the more I tried to brush them away. What about the others? What about Camille? What about Calliope? What about my parents? What about Ariadne and her little girl? What about the smiles on the faces of Siana and her cousin, Mona? What about those inscrutable twins? What about the hopes and dreams and possibilities of a beautiful new bookstore? What about Elizabeth and the life and trials she overcame? What about all the dresses that Natalie intended to make? What about those two who I didn¡¯t like and especially that bitch Amber? No matter what, no matter what I¡¯d done, they didn¡¯t deserve to be tossed about by me getting my stump pushed down and a pair of boobs.


    Fumbling quickly, I searched my contacts in my phone. I used my chest like a natural prop and checked everything I could. Slowly and with the air finally settling through me, I saw the world of today.


    Text messages from Calliope in a panic for her swimsuit and messages of gratitude left last night. Playful Camille in another thread. Mom checking in on me. Ariadne following up on my change. Relief was soon replaced by quizzical curiosity about how the hell I was going to explain things. God, my students would be having a time of this. Or maybe now this was normal for everyone else. Just Maggie, a lady with kind of a different look.


    Returning to the mirror though, I refused to wallow in just that. My face could and would be shaved. There were lasers out there for everything else. My hair could be dyed and grown out. And the submerged stump was now spewing forth an entirely different form of liquid encouragement. God, I hoped that didn¡¯t mean it would attempt to push the Tetons even higher. Now that felt like revenge.


    I was still halfway there, but now I felt like the summit was clear. It was still a journey to go the rest of the way, but I could take myself with hard work, determination, and devotion to my dreams.


    Looking in the mirror, despite seeing a face that brought me sadness, I could feel the shape of who I wanted to be tomorrow¡­ and it and I¡­were beautiful.