I opened the door to the apartment. I was so unsettled
that I immediately started pacing back and forth in the living room. I hugged
myself with fear: I had never felt like such a kid before, uncertain and
afraid. Maybe I feel like a kid because I am a kid, I thought to
myself, a little shaken. I wasn't old enough to handle any of this on my own.
But as went back and forth, I started thinking that there had
to be some solution out there. Perhaps something helpful from my previous
life of science, something I could pull out to my advantage. I gripped the back
of a chair and forced myself to stand still. Think rationally. Concentrate.
Slowly, a few ideas trickled into my head. It was odd,
trying to access an older part of myself, a bit like trying to recall a very
old memory. But I had some stuff in my room that could maybe help, some
science-y shit. I ran to my bedroom and opened the drawer where I kept my stash
of equipment, and then pouted in annoyance when I saw it was just a collection of
fucking fashion magazines.
I laughed, I couldn’t help myself. Of course I didn’t keep Geiger counters on my shelves anymore. I mean, duh. The reality changes had seen to that – I don’t think I had a fucking rain gauge, let alone an EMF meter. Instead, my once proud collection of geeky items had been replaced by a lucky pair of beat up pointe shoes and a plushy horsey doll I had delayed donating. I bit my lip. How was it possible to be so frivolous? I felt like gnawing on my fingers in annoyance. Just what exactly was I supposed to do with my fucking collection of Divergent novels?
Exhausted, I poofed down onto my beanbag. I tried to calm myself. I even flipped apologetically through some of the YA novels I still kept on my nightstand. It wasn’t their fault I was in this mess. If anything, I needed plucky heroes to emulate. All I could do was make do of the best I had.
So I brought out a few recorders – an old PS3 eye, my iPhone, my webcam, and I placed them in and around the living room, under magazines and into cabinets, and turned them on. Maybe something would prove useful. Members of the jury, exhibit A.
I massaged my stomach idly and dimly wondered that if reality was about to change, then the records would change too. Jesus, this was the most stupid, laws-of-physics-breaking thing I had ever come across. Well, the only laws of physics breaking thing I’ve come across, but still.
I took a breath. Next, some internet research. I pulled out my laptop and tapped the keys impatiently to make it wake up faster. I hadn’t checked in in like three hours, so there was like ten thousand notifications from my various feeds and alerts. I was way behind. And I felt compelled to respond to them.
At first, I was a little unsure of myself. I had messaged people like twice before... but I realized that wasn't quite right, the more I thought about it, and I could feel a part of me take over, something innate, like entering in your PIN in the keypad, and I started managing things deftly, just like I was a professional fucking social media artist. It felt so natural, managing all these new people and things. Passwords and mid-topic conversations flew out of me.
As I was flipping through platforms, a notification on an older video briefly caught my attention. I clicked on it, and saw it was from from three or four years ago – I was fifteen – performing a shortened version of the Nutcracker. An old ballet friend had given the clip of my solo the thumbs up.
"Remember this?!?" Olivia wrote, "haha and you thought you'd fall"
I watched myself, so graceful. It was definitely me, but a confusing me, a younger-and-different me. I had prepared the shit out of that recital. I watched me nail a leap, and I had this weird sense of nostalgia, watching it. My breasts weren’t quite as big then – but then again, I wasn’t fully grown either, so they were too large for my body, particularly cartoonish looking, I thought.
And I watched my spins and arabesques and I became mesmerized, I looked beautiful, elegant, and very svelte – and in that costume, you could see my perfect calves and the sparkles around my eye and the grace, holy hell, the grace of it, like windswept leaves.
And I had this odd sort of feeling. I mean, that was me in that video, that was reality, and the old reality – the old Annika, the physicist with the somewhat frumpy body and passive boyfriend – that wasn’t reality. And so what did I want now? To go back? Or did I want to go forward, even?
“Focus, Annika,” I thought. I had to put these thoughts aside. What the fuck was I even doing, checking my Insta? I closed out the chats that had been popping up. Apparently, I still had a nagging habit of scientific method and inquiry that was apparently going to stick this evening out, thank god. I’m going to have to work on my discipline if I ever get out of this, I thought. Maybe I could recapture some old qualities.
I resolutely closed all of my tabs and googled Professor Rogers. His face came up, there he was, his face oddly normal, smiling like a grey-haired end-of-career professional. Full name was Steven Rogers (almost like Captain America, I thought, ironically), fifty-six years old, the chair of the physics department.
I opened up to my university's collection of databases – which, to be honest, is the first time I’ve done it this reality around – and skimmed over the abstract of the papers he had written. But there was nothing in them to indicate that he had unlocked god mode. Nothing out of the ordinary on any regular search engine. No sex offender reports. No vague hints of pure evil on any anonymous “RATE MY PROFESSOR” sites. I wrote my own review. “Total perv – a douche too. AVOID.” That’ll teach him.
I felt agitated and closed the window and chewed on my thumb. And then I noticed the photo I had on my desktop – a silly family photo of all of us at the Grand Canyon. It was taken a few years ago, before all this nonsense. My father was there, unshaven, wearing his thick engineer glasses and his thinning hair, giving mom the bunny ears and grinning wildly. Mom had her arms around Laura, my younger sister, who was smiling shyly, her new braces on. Meanwhile, to either side, Addison and Nick were pretending to be falling off the edge. And there I was in the center.
I mean, I had seen this picture in the previous reality, but back then, I was the oldest, and had been hanging in the back, mostly obscured by sibling bodies. But now it was different, I was unconsciously in cute girly pose, a charming smile, baseball and braids and a charming cyan shirt with boobs mounding through. Did everyone look… happier? I wondered.
In the uncropped version, you could see someone sneaking a look at me, which was still a novel experience back then, and something which Laura had mocked me for with somewhat jealous overtones. Man, I missed her. She was just a year younger than I was (Just a year? I thought aghast), but she was the best. “I got mom’s looks,” she confided glumly to me once, something which I had thought for years with a guilty sense of schadenfreude. I mean, I had a little of mom’s face now, but most people didn’t look there anyway. But of course, I had the same funny sort of life-grief as Laura myself, just a few days ago, before I was changed.
I examined my mother and sister again carefully, and decided they were both the most absolutely wonderful people in the world. I had never felt it so strongly. Maybe it was just my impending possible identity/literal death.
Ack. I got up and paced around again. If only I could Home Alone this shit. But instead, it was seven o’clock, a mere two hours before Rogers would arrive, and I could do nothing. I stalked around the house, and looked at myself in the mirror. The reflection looked so right, so proper. I had this good thing going – and there he was, about to take it all away from me. He was probably going to turn me into a fish this time. Some lesbo big-breasted vagina-mouthed fucktoy. Boy, would I be making big bucks in porn then. I shuddered and felt like vomiting from fear.
I looked at the clock. An hour out. My phone buzzed, and for a brief moment, I thought it might be him. Maybe he was texting me, saying: “just kidding! Enjoy the rest of your life, free of cow udders and what have you,” back to your doctorate degree and fun future in the aerospace industry.
But it wasn’t Rogers. It was a text from Laura. “I can’t make a college decision!” she said, “and mom’s not helping at all. Need your advice!” My brilliant little sister, accepted to all the best schools. Scholarships from Google, that sort of thing. Destined for greatness, not like the old-me, who had thrown in the towel for labs and anonymity.
“not now busy. love you sis” I wrote, uncharacteristically. Who knew if we’d still exist an hour from now?
“Uh… okay. Love you too!”
Half an hour out. I went back to the computer and did some more googling. I brought my researcher self out even further, and it felt like I was channelling a spirit or something. Maybe all this apprehension and fear was making my older self stronger. Regardless, I was pretty fucking grateful she was around.
We powered through the results with laser focus. We were doing some advanced searching shit, and it totally paid off. There was something on a cached capture of his LinkedIn profile, years ago, when he first created it – a brief tenure at something called INFINITY SOLUTIONS, LLC, with two years of work listed in 1975, here in Pittsburgh, at an old warehouse. He hadn’t listed it on his current profile, and when I googled the company, nothing came up. Maybe analogue papers of the company existed.
If I could still read tomorrow, I’d have to check the library or state records. Maybe this was as a good lead as I was going to get.
My phone buzzed again: this time it was my older brother Nick. “Hey dumbass you left your bag of laundry at home. I’ll bring it over tomorrow when I’m at the shop.”
He was mostly being ironic, I knew – friendly insults. But it was still a little galling to be his younger sister now. Just a few days ago, I had been an untouchable six years older than him. He was a good kid, though. I didn’t even bother to respond.
Fifteen minutes out. I watched the second hand move around at seemingly double speed and felt dismayed. I did some pushups because I didn’t know what else to do. They made me feel powerful – up, down – perfect form, ponytail brushing the floor, boobs smooshing. I was just unable to do anything to resist that seemed to matter, despite how much I wanted too – I couldn’t lock the door, get the gun in the cabinet, take a long walk. My mind raced for solutions, but I felt flighty. I wasn’t, um, excited at all, was I?
I thought about it. Um, pretty sure that’s just nausea. Maybe I would vomit.
Ten minutes. Maybe he wouldn’t show. Maybe he found some other victim. I got another text, this time from Henry, one of my admirers. “Listen – I think we should get noodles sometime. You seemed out of it today. You know I’m always be happy to listen.” I thought about replying, but didn’t.
Five minutes. The doorknob turned slowly and my heart almost burst from pounding. What if it was him? But as the door swung open, I saw it was just Anastasia, my roommate, coming home.
“You forgot to lock the door-la, silly,” she said, giving me a half-smile. “That’s how creeps and weirdos get in!” And then she gave a weird sort of laugh and flipped her hair, as if it was the funniest thing in the world. I noticed she didn’t lock the door either.
“Anna!” I squeaked. “You should leave right now!”
“Uh-huh,” she said, still smiling. “I don’t know about you, Annie, but some of us have work to do for school,” and she headed back to her room and I felt speechless with fear.
There was a final ping from my phone and I dived for it – maybe it was Rogers, “sry hit by semitruck looks serious lotz of blud” but it was just an email from Professor Stilgoe. “I’ve read your research proposal. It’s approved! Phenomenal work as always. I’m looking forward to the results.”
Two minutes till nine. I started remembering everything about my life, in case it was about to be changed completely. I was Annika Draper, nineteen – I loved Rick and Morty and wanted to move to New York after graduation and find some tall fun guy to fall in love with and have a life. I liked hanging out with my friends and all sorts of dancing and being a sensual ballerina. This was me.
One minute till nine. I wouldn’t let Rogers win. Not in the end. I chanted it to myself like a mantra: “He won’t win he won’t win he won’t win.” That’s the goal. Whatever he was doing, his end goal, I wouldn’t let him reach it. It wasn’t about me. It didn’t matter if I ended up thinking I was J’onn J’onzz, just as long as I got some sort of payback in the end.
Although, it would be kind of cool to end up as J’onn J’onzz.
But then I saw a car pull up, the lights arcing through the blinds. It must be time. My heart plunged to the bottom of the earth.
There was a knock on the door, sinisterly on schedule. I didn’t open it, so Professor Rogers let himself in, smiling gently, carrying the device with him in something like a large leather trunk with handles. My future’s in there, I thought to myself with a sinking feeling.
“Good evening, Annika. I trust you’ve been having a pleasant day.”
His seemingly unaffected good manners made me angry.
“Oh sure, my day’s been cakes and roses. And you’ve proved your point, you’re a bastard. We all get it. But can’t you just at least tell me what the fuck’s going on?”
He ignored me and looked around carefully.
“What, are you looking for arrow traps or something?” I said, crossing my arms. “I mean, you can break the laws of physics – constructively! – and you’re using it to mess around with nineteen (twenty-six?) year-old girls? I mean, what the hell.”
He started unpacking his case. Snapped open the latches and started pulling out little pieces in foam slots, like it was a large brass instrument or something.
“Fucking piss-filled kiddy pool…” I said under my breath.
“Because I’m shallow, you mean?” Rogers said in good humor. “That’s pretty clever!” Then he called through the door, which was still open. “Elmo!” he said, “you can come in now.”
“Elmo?” I said confused. A slightly overweight, kindly-faced young man entered. He looked a few years older than I was, and also looked like he was a bit simple. And he looked incredibly shy.
“Hi!” he said, looking down.
“Annika, this is my nephew, Elmo Jr. Elmo, this is Annika. She’s the new girl.”
Elmo reached out with a nervous smile, and, totally caught off guard, I allowed him to shake my hand.
“Nice to meet you,” he mumbled. He had trouble looking at me and was blushing.
“Um. Nice to meet you too.”
“You have a nice name,” he said, earnestly.
“Elmo, why don’t you sit over there by the sofa. I brought your Switch.”
Elmo’s face lit up as Rogers’ held up a Nintendo Switch and he took it reverently, and then sat down on a chair and loaded it up. I watched him throw me a quick look.
“I hope you don’t mind that he’s here, Annika. His mother’s running errands; I promised her I’d look after him tonight.”
“When’s she getting back?” Elmo asked.
“Soon enough,” he said patiently, and started assembling the machine. “And if you’re good today, maybe you’ll even get a turn at the machine!”
“Hurray!” he said, “more experiments!” and he looked at me and beamed. This was really surreal.
“I don’t want to be experimented on!” I told him.
“That’s okay,” Elmo said reassuringly, “Most people say that at the beginning, but they usually change their mind by the end. It’s like getting a shot – bad at first, but then you’re begging for more by the end.”
“Um, is that how shots work for you?”
“Water under the bridge,” he said kindly, “that’s what they usually say by the end.”
Water under the…? I thought.
“We’ll be in and out, Elmo,” Rogers’ said, “ You’ll be amazed at how pliable this one is.” He grunted as he tightened something with a wrench.
“Oh, good! That last girl didn’t want to change at all. It took us hours to finally change her into that black lady. And it looked like it hurt!” he looked a little distressed. “All that screaming.”
“Um. Are some girls not as pliable as others?”
They both ignored me, and Rogers was nearly finished.
“I gotta say, Rogers,” I said, “I’m fairly shocked you have a relative who’s not some batwing-pulling lunatic.”
“Oh,” Rogers said, checking things off a clipboard. “Just wait until you meet Elmo’s brother, Barkleton. He’s a Greek tyrant. An Ovidian monster. I’m sure you’ll meet him soon enough; sometimes his dear mother needs some time to herself. And who could blame her, the poor thing.”
“One time, Barkleton tried to change a girl into a water fountain,” Elmo said, aghast. “The device started shaking and exploding and shooting hot water…”
“It’s all a work in progress,” Rogers’ clarified. “A little field-testing. Elmo, Annika’s phone’s on the shelf. Would you kindly bring it to me?”
I watched Elmo oblige. Shit. I had meant to hide it, but after the last alert I had left it on the bookshelf. At least my other devices were hidden. I watched Rogers scroll through my phone. Lousy bastard.
“Look at all these people,” he said, “me, oh my.”
I didn’t like the way this was going, and I contemplated playing it cool. “They mean nothing to me!” I’d say, with convincing insouciance. But in the end I decided it would be best to not say anything. He pulled out his own phone and took a screenshot of my contacts. Goddamn it.
"Variables will need to be studied for inconsistencies," he said.
“Maybe we’ll get a breakthrough today, uncle!”
“I think we may. And if we do: Ice cream!”
Elmo clapped happily and grinned at me.
“Well, save some for me,” I said crossly.
“Barkleton told me to suggest we delih – delikuh – deliquesce this one. What’s that mean?”
“It’s how you fit someone into a jar,” Rogers said easily. “Maybe next time. Shall we start our next session, Annika?”
“Wait – did you say his name is Elmo Junior? That’s kind of an odd…”
I froze as the golden light snapped on me. I felt that vicious feeling of reality again. Fuck, here we go again.
“Let’s start somewhat more restrained,” Rogers said. “You admire the name Elmo Jr.”
I laughed out loud. “I admire the name Elmo… Jr.? … The fuck I do! No reality-bending machine is powerful enough to make that name…”
“You admire the name Elmo Jr.”
“I admire… many names except Elmo Jr.” I said through gritted teeth. This was ludicrous.
“No, you admire the name Elmo Jr.”
“I… No… I … I d-…. I don’t admire the name Elmo Jr.”
“Really? Because everyone admires the name Elmo.”
“Everyone…?” I said confused.
“It’s a powerful name,” he said, and behind him I saw Elmo lift his head up and look at us with curiosity. The Switch was lighting up his face.
“Elmo…” I said, struggling, “is… is a…” he was getting impatient.
“Is a powerful name.”
“Elmo Jr. is a…” my mind felt like it was shearing from the effort. But something was wrong, there wasn’t the clean, slotting feeling that the changes had before. And then the machine fizzled and sputtered, and the light fell off me, and I slumped to the floor, gasping. Rogers looked at the machine, frowning. I quickly tried to feel through my mind. Had it worked? Had I resisted?
Quickly, I tried to figure out my feelings about the name, Elmo. Was it a cool name or not? Well, it wasn’t a repulsive name, was it? In fact, it did have this sort of Sumerian warrior-god sound to it – fuck. It must have worked, at least somewhat. I frowned and massaged my temples. That wasn’t how I was supposed to feel about it.
I had all these images in my head, these new memories.
They were recent, because Elmo had became a thing, senior year of high school, everyone wearing these Edgy Elmo shirts, repurposed like Jack
Skellington, the red puppet mutherfucker with a demigod’s name, everyone always
laughing at it.
I had always thought it was a little bit silly though, I had realized with relief. Maybe I can resist a little.
Rogers was opening up a panel and peering into it. I continued groping through my mind. Wasn't, however, there always something kind of inherently sexy about the suffix "Jr." as well?
There was something also kind of inherently sexy about the suffix “Jr.” as well, wasn’t there? Some sort of conservative, old-money type connotation, of shaven, confident young men? It was just inherent to the word.
I paled. It must have worked deeper than I had thought. But had I shut off the machine? Had I broken it…?
Elmo himself went back to the Switch, disappointed his name wasn’t being said anymore. Jesus, his name struck me more like Theseus or Steelsword. El-mo. Like a Sumerian ziggurat. Something I’d be too chickenshit to name my kid. More like a bro's user handle than a name for a kid.
Rogers closed the panel satisfied.
“I think we’re back and up and running.” The light came on again and fell on me, and I stiffened slightly.
“You find yourself very attractive.” He told me calmly.
“I….”
“You find yourself attractive.”
“I find myself… Att… attract…” I could feel something in my head. Like furniture rearranging.
“You find yourself attractive.”
“I… find myself … attr... attractive…” I stuttered, and I was a little confused. I was attractive after all. I had always thought that. Just look at my tits. The way I stood, walked. My cute fashion. Of course I knew that. I shook my head and tried to clear it.
“You find yourself attractive.”
“I find myself… attractive…?” I shook my head, confused, and I felt my ponytail swish around my head, long and clean. I could feel my shoulder blades, and everything was kind of attractive. I was kind of...
“You find yourself very attractive.”
“I… find myself… very… attractive...” I said experimentally, like I was tasting a new food. I remembered when I was younger, staring at myself in the mirror quizzically, examining myself… a prod here and there… daydreaming in school… the satisfaction of looking down at myself while taking a test, the arcs of my bust and the tightness of my jeans...
“Yes. Very attractive.”
“Very attractive…”
“You’ve always thought so…”
“Yes,” I said, suddenly more sure, “I’ve always thought so.” And I remembered one Christmas demanding all these extra mirrors, which my mother bought for me, totally exasperated. I had carefully set them up around my room to get a full, 360 degree view of myself. I had pretended to myself that mom didn’t know what I was up too, but know thinking back, of course she did, how vain she must have thought of me… each morning, twisting to look at every nook and cranny, how the clothes fit... standing close to look at myself in the eye, my lips...
“You’re obsessed with your body.”
“I’m… I’m…”
“Obsessed with your body.”
“Obsessed...” I said, somewhat aghast. And that one was true too, I mean, I had a little collection of videos of myself on a buried file on my computer, from my webcam or from my iPhone, sometimes mounted at an angle on a little squishy tripod thing, nothing serious really, just me stretching, arms over my head, or experimentally making faces, or twisting to show more of my body… and I'd look at it later, examine it, every curve, and then the occasional desire to post a photo of myself online on various subreddits, me navigating to the page and biting my finger with desire, even once cropping out my face out once in preparation, but holding back.
“Obsessed with your body,” he said.
“Ob-ob-obsessed… with my body,” I whispered. And I clutched my head. I mean, didn’t I have running documentation of this? Things started slowly, but then I acclimated and things got more explicit. It started with videos of me just stretching, arms over my head, and I would load up the video and set it on repeat and exam myself. But then hardly a month later, I was doing more: cupping myself, flashing the camera, testing different motions. And then onto what really seemed to fascinate me: my flexibility, my beautiful muscling, my toes, pointed. It really was like an obsession. Why hadn’t I thought of it in those terms before? (Wait, part of me said confused.)
“You find yourself sexually attractive,” Rogers said.
“Sexually?... attractive?” I was unsure.
“Yes. You find yourself sexually attractive.”
“I find myself sexually… at-tt-t-ractive,” I stuttered, and suddenly I thought about myself, my body, and I stiffened. I had never thought about myself that way before, and all of a sudden it was like woosh – my cute bum, my smile. Omygod. I was really attractive.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my reflection in the window, and I blushed. I had the weirdest tiny urge to kiss the reflection – to fondle myself right there. Rogers noticed my pink cheeks and golf-clapped with cheerful ironicness and Elmo joined in.
“Secretly, you’ve always been sexually attracted to yourself.”
“O-oh… secr-secretly I’ve al-always been… s-sexually attracted to myself…” and as I said it, it was suddenly clear that this was so. I mean, how had I never realized this before? Was that... was that why I had taken videos of myself? My face turned a darker beet red as I realized it. How had I never thought that before? How had I kept it secret, even from myself all this time? It was like I had been closeted for myself.
All the videos I had taken of myself, they had started innocently enough, pulling my shirt up, and then bopping it over my boobs – who doesn’t do that – but was it really normal to masturbate to them? Jesus, why had I ever thought so? God. I had never realized or told anyone. It was like a deep, hyper-personal, repressed secret.
The fascination with myself ran deep, and I had other memories that I didn’t really want to get into – rubbing against a door, staring innocently at myself, my eyes, in the bathroom mirror, stuff with toys, the mental justification…
I was a little flabbergasted. This change had felt so quick – but it also felt so deep. I couldn’t help but look at myself, it was like looking at a new person. I could hardly take my eyes off my reflection. My ears turned pink, and it was so adorable. My bra was slightly indented under my shirt, and it teased me. I was desperate to have some time to myself to, um, examine myself.
“Annika, you’ll feel this tomorrow morning,” Rogers said.
“… Tomorrow?”
“Yes, you’ll feel this tomorrow.”
“I’ll… feel… yes, I’ll feel it tomorrow,” I said with relief, and I looked at myself in the mirror again. I was back to me again, not a sex doll, not gay for myself. But then again… at the same time, wasn’t there a little frustration? Like when a cute lab partner had been taken away from you at the last moment, replaced by the frumpy emo girl?
“Forget this happened,” Rogers said easily, and for a moment I was confused.
“Forget what happened?” I said suspiciously, tearing my face away from the mirror. “That I don’t think Elmo Jr. is a fucking weird name to pass down to your son?”
“That was a quick one!” Elmo said excitedly, with a look of genuine delight on his face.
“Yes, interesting! Why don’t you write it down, Elmo,” Rogers told him, and Elmo pulled his own clipboard out of his backpack and started writing on it, checking a data point on the machine. Rogers had a proud expression on his face, like he was teaching science or something. Was he… humoring Elmo, or actually recording something? I had trouble telling.
But what had made them so excited? That I had shut down the machine on the opinion change? Or… was something else amiss? I looked around me carefully – gotta keep that situational awareness, just like Archer kept warning us. I glanced at myself in the window and did a double take. I seemed different somehow, but not in a way I’d put my finger on. Uh oh.
Rogers looked at me for a while, and then began applying pressure to his pants again. He looked supremely happy. I mean, like a man who had everything. God, in front of the Elmo and everything.
“What’s next, Elmo?” he asked, his voice slightly slurred.
Elmo took a breath, like he had been preparing this all day.
“Heels!” he said grandly, and Rogers smiled and shook his head. Boys will be boys he seemed to say.
“Very good. Annika, you like wearing heels.”
“I… like….” I said, and suddenly my mind feeling like a wheel of fortune that had been spent spinning.
“You like wearing heels,” he said
“I… oh, I… I like…” But I didn’t. No ballerina liked heels. It was like a fucking nightmare to your movement… and depending on the shoe, sometimes you couldn’t even fit your toes in, they were so mangled by dancing pointe...
“You like wearing heels.”
“I… I like… li… like… he-heels…” and I couldn’t help but amend my statement a little. I mean, I never liked wearing them, but they were cute, and sometimes I put them on and had a little stupid flush of girly pleasure despite myself. Wait… was that...
“You like wearing heels,” Rogers said insistently.
I squirmed a little and didn’t say anything.
“You like. Wearing heels.”
“I… I like it! I like wearing heels,” I said quietly, ashamed at giving in. I mean, I did fucking like heels. I liked the things they did to your ass when you wore them. The way boys stared at you as you walked passed them, clicking authoritarianly, femininely, feeling confident and sexy and taller than all the other girls. And in a skirt or tight pants, they did tremendous things to your calves.
Rogers smiled and pointed at my feet and I looked down. I was dimly horrified to see that I was wearing boots right now, they had appeared out of nowhere (no, you put them on this morning… a part of me tried to remind myself) and they were classy things, black and laced up tightly to mid-calf, with a thick inch lift in the back…
“You love wearing heels.”
“I… (shudder) I love wearing heels…”
“You love them.”
“I… god, I lo… loove them.” God, was I moaning? How embarrassing. I closed my eyes, and I could see in my mind that I had a bunch in my room right now, that I had bought another pair just last week, blue ones, spontaneously to go with an outfit I was planning. I felt myself grow taller – it was like suddenly standing on my tiptoes – and I looked around wildly. And then I saw why, looking down. The black boots had gone – I was wearing full-on heels, with a business-like three inch lift, and toe-killing funnels at the bottom. I felt warm, looking at them.
Heels. I love them.
“You want to wear them all the time.”
“Yes!...” I said, giving completely in. “… all the time.”
“You’ve always wanted to wear them all the time.”
“Yes… always…” and I remember sneaking a pair to middle school once, changing my shoes in the bathroom, so desperate I was to wear them, to be elegant… and how nowadays I rarely left the house without them, it was like leaving the house without, I dunno, pants or something, and you felt undressed and stupid. I had a random memory come – (a hot memory part of me said) – of prom – sneaking into my date’s dorm – me laughing and flushed, a little drunk – him placing a sock on the handle – climbing into the bottom bunk – I wasn’t even sure if it was his or not – pulling my dress down and up, heels still strapped onto my feet...
“Tall ones.”
“I, well… I… um…”
“Tall ones…”
“Tall ones. Tall ones!” I almost shouted as my will broke. I felt myself grow a little taller, and I looked down at my feet. They were no longer respectable heels, but right below ornamental society fake-woman heels, sharp and slender heels, four (five?) inches long. And – god – that wasn’t even the longest on I had in my shoe closet. I didn't wear them all the times, but sometimes for fun. It was always a conflict, for both men and women, what to stare at while I was in a coffeeshop, my boobs or my heels. They both were always kind of out of place and exceptional.
Jesus, some self-respecting ballerina I was, these were
going to destroy my tendons. I groaned with a headache. Why did reality changes
give you headaches? I took a step backward, and there was an unfamiliar (familiar?)
clopping sound.
Elmo gave me the thumbs up and smiled. Rogers was massaging himself through his jeans. “And, hm, let’s see…” he thought for a second. I looked down at my feet and lifted a foot experimentally. It felt… good?
“You’re religious,” he said finally.
The fuck? I thought, afraid. No way. No fucking way. I had been an atheist for as long as I could remember. It was like, a primary pillar of my personality. I mean, I had flat out refused to go to church when I was ten. Dawkins was my first crush, practically the whole reason I became a scientist in the first place. (I frowned: but I wasn’t a scientist, was I?)
“You’re religious.”
“God, no, I…”
“You’re Catholic.”
“I… Catholic?... No. Nononono.”
Elmo was watching from the corner. “Uncle, I met someone today who was Jewish. You should make her Jewish!””
“Make her…” I said confused. His words ricochet around my head, but not in a way that made sense. All I knew was that I had to resist this religion thing as strongly as I could. This wasn’t heels or anything like that. I mean, talk about essential characteristics, commitment to logic. Stand or die. Dimly, I could see Rogers considering.
“You’re Jewish,” he said finally.
“I’m… NOT… anything!” I said with vigor.
“No, you’re Jewish.”
“I’m… I’m I’m I’m… … NOT.”
“You’re Jewish.”
“I’m …” and I stopped confused. I wasn’t, was I? I mean, my parents were Jewish, but me? – Wait – was that right?
“You’re a Jewish girl.”
"No..."
"You're a Jewish girl."
“I’m … god… I’m a … Jewish… girl.” I gulped as some memories started surfacing. Wasn’t it Yom Kippur last week?
“You’ve been Jewish your entire life.”
“I’ve… what? No…” I was so confused. Memories were sliding around. I hadn’t been Jewish my whole life, had I? I don’t think so – I mean, my whole life?
“You’ve been Jewish your entire life.”
I was so bewildered I couldn’t even resist. “I’ve been Jewish my entire life,” I said. I mean, it was true, wasn’t it? I had a Bat Mitzvah. I had a picture of me from that year in my room. And some of my earliest memories are from going to synagogue. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I spoke some Hebrew, didn’t I? Our family was made up of secular Jews; it made up a large chunk of our social circle.
He shut off the machine to examine something in the back of it.
“You… made me Jewish?” I said, confused.
“No,” he said, “you’ve always been Jewish. Reality has changed, remember?” He reached into his pocket and pulled something out, and put it inside the machine.
“Oh,” I said.
“That’s not a problem, is it? Being Jewish?” he asked amused.
“Of course not!” I said angrily. People were always making weird comments about my heritage.
And then I gulped. I can’t believe how powerful that machine was. Rogers snapped the machine back on, and I felt that vividness again.
“Of course, you’re very devout…”
“I’m…” God, my head hurt… “I’m very devout…” I whispered, but I think that had already been true before. God was an omnipresent force in the world, after all – even in my physics classes, He was hidden around the corners of the world. When I was younger, I remember staring at the orthodox Jews, admiring them, or of me, praying to God before bed every night...
I felt something cold drop between my breasts. I looked down. It was a tiny star of David on a gold chain, a small necklace. It was resting on the incline of my bosom. I grabbed it for comfort. God would give me strength.
“You’re a prude,” Rogers said.
“I’m a…” I was shocked that he would say that, but I could feel the strength falling out of me to resist. Prude? Like a Quaker or something? Some Victorian repressed lady-in-waiting? Fuck that shit. My spirit flared again. I clutched my necklace tighter. My mother had given it to me. No, Rogers had given it to you.
“You’re a prude,” he said, stroking himself, his thing out.
“NO. I’m not…” My sexuality was part of my life – for practically as long as I could remember! Some of my best experiences were at the beach with friends – dressed up for ballet recitals – dressing up for boys – being around them...
“You’re a prude.”
“NO.” I said simply. But I faulted a little. My memories already seemed a little off – I mean, just last week, I had gone out in tight jeans and a low-cut shirt, my ass (ugh) pushing out. I remember spinning in front of my mirrors, being pleased, but now – it was a little shallow, wasn’t it? Purposeless?
No. I remember enjoying it. I do enjoy it. My entire room, my online habits, my social structures – interwoven with it.
“You’re a prude.”
“I’m not… a… prude… am I?” I said weakly. I thought about my Instagram post last week, me pulling down my blouse, tongue out. Why had I done that? And then I thought back to prom, dancing for James, going back to his dorm… his thing out… me taking it in my hands and then… man, how revolting.
“You’re a prude.”
“Yes…” I said, horrified.
“From here on out, you’re a prude.”
“I’m a… prude. From here on out.” I thought about some of the videos I had on my desktop. Of me. I blushed and felt white-hot shame. What had I been thinking? Why had I taken them anyway?
“This is a change that you think is right,” he said.
“I do think this is right,” I said, and I felt a wave of relief. I had been saved from my own immorality.
“You’re relieved.”
“I’m relieved,” I said.
“You don’t swear,” he said.
“I don’t swear,” I said, and I felt absolutely floored by relief. How weak I had been.
“You don’t drink or use drugs”
“I don’t drink or use drugs.”
“You’re a good girl from now on.”
“I’m…” I thought about the wording, but I was having trouble thinking. My mind was like molasses. Something about the wording was bad. Demeaning. Insulting. I can’t let him win. But something about it tingled correctly – good girl – and I said it whole-heartedly. “I’m a… I’m a good girl.”
And then I shuddered.
The light snapped off.
Rogers was pushing his thing side to side, circling it around like a joystick, and I almost passed out from dizziness. They were disgusting, dongs, so filthy. I fell on the sofa.
“Oof.” I said. “My mind… it really hurts. Can we… can we take a break? Please?”
“Hey, do I get a turn?” Elmo asked curiously. I shook my head feebly.
“Please, professor, I think I’ve had enough for one night…”
Rogers seemed to consider this, and I had a brief flash of hope. He was thinking about it! Maybe he’d leave and let me be.
“You have such nice tits, girl,” he said to me crudely, and my heart dropped. I felt shame, and I shrunk against the sofa and covered myself with my arms. Why on earth was I wearing such a flimsy t-shirt? I could feel my exposed skin on my chest, it throbbed nervously and would not be ignored.
“Oh, gosh…” I said as my mind tried to reorient itself. It was like waking up on the wrong side of the bed. Like my mind was upside down. I need time to come back together, everything was broken, like a completed jigsaw that had been redrawn and then messed up. I felt like passing out.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding she’s pliable!” I heard Elmo say appreciatively, “She really can handle a lot more than other people, can’t she?”
“Oh yes. Our Annika here is a scientific miracle. A paradise for research. We'll have things finished in no time. Here Elmo, you’ve been a good sport so far, why don’t you take a turn.”
“Yay!” he said standing up. “I think I’ll turn her into an old lady,” he said offhandedly. “With blue hair.” My head throbbed dangerously. I didn’t really want to be an old lady, but I was kind of past any sort of resistance. None of it had helped so far, anyway.
Elmo was reaching for the knob to switched on the device when, right at that moment, there was a knock on the door.
Surprised, we all looked at the direction of the door. My mind totally blanked. Who could it be? The Interdimensional Reality Cops? a part of me hoped stupidly. I giggled. Everything was so stupid. But then I remembered: Rita! My lab partner, (shi-) shoot, I had totally forgotten. We had set up a time to meet tonight.
“Rita!” I said, my head cracking from the effort. “Don’t come in! Run! Run away!”
“What?” I heard Rita say outside, not understanding. She was Chinese, and her English was just hovering at or below conversant. So she turned the handle and came in – invited herself in, really, gosh, kinda rude of her – but by this time Rogers had shouldered Elmo out of the way and spun the machine around. He flicked on the switch, and the light fell on Rita, and her face had a look of such shocked Asianess, I almost laughed again. Her face was like one of those bizarre, Asian emoticons.
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