Miffyhead

I have to thank God I was born a human, after the antibiotic revolution, in a sterile hospital, transported to a warm home, and unabused by my parents. I was blessed to be attractive. I had smooth skin and a symmetrical face and very few physical maladies other than an oral-allergy syndrome that made it difficult to enjoy stone fruit, some nuts, and cold-pressed juice. As a pre-teen I was very confident. Smart-ass, obnoxious, but more generally: I had a bad personality. When I noticed that this was holding me back–making me unlikable, undateable, unfuckable–I spent a lot of time in self reflection. I “smoothed out.” I stopped teasing so much. Arguing so much. Getting the last word. Apologized more. It was successful, more people had ambient, positive opinions about me, but it left me shy and unconfident. I was very bad at talking to people by the time I left college. Nervous, too afraid to sound unpleasant, obtuse, rude. This was difficult for me to cope with. 

I made it a point to find forums to test out my quieter, new personality. I went to a lot of house parties and hugged the walls and drank very little and looked at my phone every few seconds. I smoked cigarettes when they were offered to me. I loved smoking a cigarette when talking to someone new. It allowed me to disguise my shyness as sex appeal. My favorite were Capris. Any thin cigarette. Or a menthol, Marlboro greens, for the taste. 

The crowds varied. Acting students. Low tier sorority girls. Art-school adjacent. I was starting to notice the guys at these sorts of things were becoming less and less attractive to me. They were soft in the face. They had noticeable haircuts. Or maybe I’m just getting older, I wondered. That was the sort of thinking that often ended in insomnia-fueled emotional breakdowns. If I wanted to make it much longer I needed to be more careful not to let intrusive thoughts bother me. Being neurotic was worse than being obnoxious. 

There was a girl sitting out on the porch that I had seen a few times before, throughout the last four or five years, in various locations across the city. She might have been in a gen-ed with me back in college. Maybe I saw her once or twice at Trader Joe’s. Tonight she was wearing her hair in two pigtails, like Heidi–except her makeup was adult so she didn’t look silly or overly girlish. Slip dress. Ballet flats. And her bag was covered in little charms. Some of which I’m certain I remembered from childhood–except not quite. More distant. Like a nearly forgotten dream. 

I leaned against the deck railing, facing away from her, and pretended to drink from my long-empty red solo cup. I stood there for several minutes, acting out the motion of looking back into the house, as if I was anticipating someone joining me (although I was alone as I attended every party alone), and waited for her to say something. It went on for too long. I became a little self conscious–though going back inside without any reason would be worse. 

Then, finally: 

“I hate all the people at these things,” she said. 

At first I thought that maybe someone else had walked outside without my knowledge–a cool friend of hers–but the music from the inside was still muffled from the screen-door, and when I turned to look at her, she had materialized to about a foot away from me. Almost vampiric. “Oh, yeah. Me too.” 

“I only came here because I had to.” She looked at me expectantly, as if I was privy to an inside joke. I just nodded. She gestured to the house. “This is my ex’s new roommate situation.” 

“Huh?” 

“He’s moving into this house next week.” 

“Oh.” I pretended to finish my drink and then tossed my cup into the bushes. “That’s rough.” 

“Yeah, he’s a fucking moid. We might get back together, I’m not sure yet.” She reached into her purse. I got a better look at the charms on her bag: little rabbits, babies, ribbons, pigs, Chinese tassels and beads. They clicked against each other like windchimes. She took out a pack of cigarettes. Offered me one. She lit mine and we “kissed” them together. “We’ve met before, right? I’m Leanah.” 

“I’m Leah.” 

“That’s funny. Twinsies. Mine is just a little more complex.” 

“Haha. Yeah.” 

Leanah was vibrant in a way that I hadn’t encountered since college orientation, when everyone was eager to get potential new friends up to speed on all the drama of their teenage life back in Yardley or Newtown Square. She told me about the circumstances of her last relationship, how they lived together, how he cheated unexpectedly, how she kicked him out in the middle of the night. She threw the conversation back to me, every so often, very effortlessly polite, but she allowed me to be a passive participant which I deeply appreciated. The most I really said was about my apartment. (Some of this I said to her, some of this I didn’t.) 

I live in an old art-deco apartment building on Broad Street that used to be a hotel. Most of it is unrented. I have no neighbors on my floor. Likely because it’s overpriced for the location. But I like it. It’s right by the subway (I never got my driver’s license), and the units are newly renovated. I have a little balcony, but the view doesn’t face the skyline. It’s an interior view, towards the other unlucky balconies. It doesn’t get much light, so I didn’t spruce it up with plants or anything like that. Sometimes fat squirrels sit on the railing. There’s a gym that I never use. I don’t need it–I only eat a lot when I get takeout, but most of the time I can’t afford takeout. I consider myself “naturally thin.” There’s also a struggling, high-end restaurant downstairs. I always imagined I would take a book there and read at the bar, but to be completely honest, I rarely feel the motivation to read. But I imagine the practice often. I imagine what I might order. I imagine other patrons glancing at me, thinking that I seem rather smart, and continuing on with their conversations. In many ways that I can’t quite articulate (I’m slightly stupid), just imagining it is enough.

My parents helped pay my rent for my aforementioned one-bedroom, because they believed in me, so most of the time when I wasn’t working as a hostess I just sat around my room. I had lost my ambitions. I had no real hobbies. Didn’t read, didn’t watch movies. Didn’t care for television. Usually I just stared at the wall, ceiling. Sometimes I masturbated. In college I had a high sex drive. It had petered out. I only really sat around. Ate popcorn and instant ramen. 

The original plan was to become a great playwright. But in college I quickly found that I had trouble finishing projects, or finding inspiration–and honestly, my mental capacity wasn’t very high, and I wasn’t able to shape any concepts in any interesting fashions. In class when we’d share projects I’d sink into myself, speak very quietly, sometimes nearly cry. None of my classmates had that problem when they’d share their dialogue–regardless of how trite the work was. The secondary plan was to become some sort of critic or journalist of the arts. But my attention span was short. Again, I was stupid to the point of worthlessness. When I watched something, read something, my mind would wander. I’d finish a page and be left with virtually no insight. I’d watch plays, good ones, by real celebrated playwrights, and leave feeling confused and drowsy. So I wrote off the secondary plan without telling my parents. I was now on the third plan, to submit and be led. That of course was easier said than done. I had no idea if God was on my side in the matter. 

I was so willing. Ready for God to lead me to something. I had a lot of failures I was ashamed of. Most things about myself made me feel ashamed. Suboptimal college, mediocre achievements. I characterized my life, so far, as a tapestry of wasted opportunities. And I was single. And lonely. I thought, maybe, if I self-flagellated enough, if I stayed up late enough, if I suffered enough, God would pick me up and put me on a path to success beyond my wildest dreams. But no failures lead to open doors, and all successes lead to disappointing failures. 

On her own volition, not off my suggestion, Leanah ended up renting the apartment next door to me. I saw her in the hallway on the day she moved in, with everything she owned wrapped up with Chinese newspaper and twine and placed in milk crates. Lots of trinkets. Mid-century furniture–impressive curb finds. Framed prints. Stainless steel cookware. Vintage editions of psychology books, theory. On social media–Pinterest, Instagram–I saw photographs of apartments like this. I had always assumed it was trick photography and lighting. But seeing the raw components–the pans and the trinkets and the furniture and the linens and the glassware–well, it made my stomach drop. There were people my age that simply lived in a way that was superior to me. I was either immature or uncurated or unfeminine or (frankly) slobbish. 

So I spent a lot of time at her apartment, because I liked it more than my own. 

Sometimes her ex-boyfriend would come over. 

He was very tall. And thin. Big knuckles. And tattoos. 

“And he has lots of friends.” Leanah said to me over coffee one day. I never told her that I was lonely, but she caught on. I poured the rest of my coffee down her sink drain and began to wash the dishes from breakfast. Leanah was good at making breakfast, though she never ate it herself. Everything was complex. Homemade English muffins with saffron and poppyseed and orange marmalade that she had jarred earlier in the week, always anticipating and preparing for the next perfect meal. Always steak instead of breakfast sausage or bacon. The tablescapes. Usually it included mismatched dishware, vaguely Slavic, and some of her little figurines nestled in between plates and linen. She’d plate both of our meals, take a photograph of them, then scrape her food into glass tupperware. I myself would take a few bites, but I had trouble eating in the morning, and would wrap my plate in tin foil to have later, for late lunch. Once this ritual was over, she’d toast a slice of sourdough, store bought, and eat it with butter, homemade. 

“It seems like it,” I said. I wondered if Leanah was in any way annoyed that I expressed a subtle attraction to her ex, regardless of the fact that she knew I wasn’t going to cross any lines. Cooler heads surely prevailed. Leanah knew that even if I did make a pass at him, I was of no true threat to her, despite his past infidelity. Although we were both attractive, Leanah had a quality about her that was especially striking to men. I was unable to identify what it was specifically–it mystified me–but I could tell, whenever we interacted with men, who they were looking at more intensely, and who between the two of us inspired desire. 

“You should go out with one of them,” she said, “especially since me and Nick are getting back together.” 

“I’m bad at flirting with people,” I said. 

“Just don’t talk, then,” she said. I hadn’t considered that. “Besides, you’re cute. You’ve just been trapped talking to normie guys. So that’s why nothing’s stuck. You’re deeper than like…” She thought for a second, trying not to be offensive: “... like, white Converse, straight leg jeans, Urban Outfitters top, romance novel, 9 to 5, balayage appointment girls.” I nodded, agreeing. “There are men that appreciate girls with, I don’t know, a glimmer of human intelligence?” I finished the dishes. “Although, sometimes it’s nice to date a guy who’s retarded.” 

“Absolutely,” I said. 

“As long as it’s passionate and truly animal. I couldn’t be with someone who couldn’t fuck me.” I disagreed with that, because as I had mentioned before, I didn’t have much of a sex drive. 

“It’s best if he’s not normie and slightly retarded,” I said.

“Like Nick. I love him, though. I love him deeply. He’d make a good husband. Husband material.” 

I imagined Nick, the ex-boyfriend, in the role of Leanah’s husband. I had seen very little of him, but whenever he visited, he was loud and opinionated. Stored a six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in her fridge. But I could see why Leanah might want him as a husband, genetically. Annoying things could be compensated for by masculinity. And he did have ambitions. He was going to be a cop. “So you’d introduce me? To one of his friends?” I asked. 

“Mhm.” 

“I just don’t want to have to talk too much.” 

A few days after Leanah and Nick officially got back together–on the condition of continuing to live separately until both of their respective leases expired–Leanah had hand-picked Adam for me. She smartly arranged a double date for us at a very loud bar, so that I couldn’t be heard even if I did speak. I was able to just nod along, smile. Adam spoke directly with Nick for most of the date, which allowed me and Leanah to look at each other instead, laughing, swapping sarcastic glances, sipping our drinks. Adam had no tattoos that I could see. He was the same height as Nick, perhaps to the inch. While Nick was so loud, Adam had a very smart, assertive quality that manifested in more choice statements, usually cutting, said at a normal volume, waving away the loudness of the bar. That in itself was very masculine, in my assessment, and I realized much to my excitement that perhaps Adam was the true leader of Nick’s friend group. Of course I’d have to see them all in comparison to one another. There were about four close friends I had not yet met, and around fifteen more tangential friends that I would never see all in one place. 

At the end of the date, Adam drove me home. We weren’t intimate. When I closed my bedroom door, I realized to my horror that I had forgotten to even kiss him. My stupid, nervous energy. I felt very childish. But, I was pleased to find out that Adam later reported to Nick that he liked that–that I wasn’t a whore. 

“One thing that’s funny…” Leanah said, again over coffee, but this time we were out at a cafe. We had gone shopping earlier in the day at a few different stores that sold little collectible trinkets and toys. The experience was therapeutic. Only other girls were at these shops–ranging in age from as young as fourteen to as old as thirty–and they were all dressed very well, like Leanah. They were all very cool. And they all were clearly very educated about their collections, asking the shopkeeper which series they had in stock, shaking blind boxes to get a sense of which figurine they might be holding in their manicured nails. I bought two rabbits. Three inches tall, felted plastic. I was excited to have them on my bedside table. “...is that he thought you were Latina.” 

“I get super tan over the summer.” 

“What are you?” 

“I’m just white.” 

Leanah laughed. “You’re probably something vaguely ethnic.” 

“You think so?” I felt self conscious. 

“Not just because you tan so well. Which I’m jealous of, by the way.” She finished her latte and drummed her fingertips on the mug. “It’s in your eyes.” 

“I don’t know.” I always thought my eyes looked normal. “But it would be cool to be Latina or something. I’m just white.” 

“My grandmother is North African. Isn’t that cool?” 

“It is.” Then I laughed, “Maybe I should tell Adam I am Latina.” 

Leanah laughed, her voice bursting with lightness, pure feminine energy. I dreamed of a laugh like that. She grabbed my hands in hers: 

“I’m going to pray for you Leah. I want to pray and manifest this relationship for you. Because you’re so special, Leah. You deserve a good guy. You deserve romantic love. I want you to get married and have kids one day, and I want us both to have children right at the same time, so they can be friends.” 

“I want that too!” I exclaimed. The electricity from her fingertips pulsed through my veins directly down my spinal cord and forced me to sit at attention, making direct eye contact which had become a rarer and rarer occurrence for me over years of my self-confidence eroding. I had no idea Leanah was religious, and felt incredibly stupid that I had not picked it up. I believed in God myself. However, I had never prayed for someone before. “Are we going to pray right now?” I said. 

“No.” Leanah smiled. “I’m going to do that privately, tonight. And you should, too–how about at the same time? We’ll both set an alarm for 9 p.m. to light a candle and pray. That’ll make it more special.” I nodded. That did sound very special. It occurred to me that no one outside of my parents have ever felt so passionately about my future and success. I highly doubted anyone, in fact, had ever made it a point to pray for me. So I took the matter very seriously. We set our phone alarms together. And when I got back to my apartment, after a long day of doing very little, I tidied up my bedroom to make it a little more holy and lit a little candle. 

I wasn’t entirely sure of the procedure of praying for myself. If you say it out loud. If you keep it in your heart. If you mention it directly. It felt vain to say what you wanted directly–to say, God, please let me get married and have kids with the first man that notices me. Or maybe that was exactly what I was supposed to do. I sat against the edge of my bed and folded my hands. Closed my eyes. The phone alarm rang and I spoke out loud: 

“God, please make me meek and small and agreeable. Please make me feminine and smart. Because I want to get married around the same time as Leanah, but I can tell she already has a head start.” I thought for a moment. Surely, Leanah was saying the same thing: God, please make Leah meek and small and agreeable. Please make her feminine and smart. Because I want to get married around the same time as her, but I know I already have a head start. I watched the candle burn for a few hours, then blew it out. 

Adam took me to dinner on our second date. Which scared me, as I got ready–although I liked the idea of going on a real date, I was terrified of the amount of prospective talking I’d have to do. I borrowed one of Leanah’s dresses–which fit me a little too snug on the waist, but was so far more becoming than the things I owned. Most of my clothing betrayed my stupidity, was reminiscent of my old bad-personality, and showcased my aesthetic inferiority. The dress Leanah lent me was stiff cotton and hit above the knees. The neckline was square and trimmed with pink lace. It felt very expensive–particularly in the details. Hidden zipper, carefully made so as to not pucker or ride up. I paired it with white knee-highs and mary janes. I put one of my new rabbit figurines in my purse, for good luck. 

Adam picked me up and he explained the hidden-gem restaurant he was taking me to in Bucks County. He was wearing trousers and a button down, but it was tailored in a way that felt old-fashioned, which added a slight edge to his outfit that I found appealing. And he drove with one hand, which felt very boyfriend-ish to me, sort of like a 50s greaser, and he didn’t talk with his hands, which I felt was very mature. I crossed and uncrossed my legs several times as he spoke, unsure which was better. 

I wanted to hang on each of his words, to show dedication to the moment, but I found myself drifting away, like when I tried to read. It was particularly difficult during dinner, as whenever the conversation wasn’t thrown to me (which of course I appreciated, because I also didn’t really want to speak), my eyes would glaze over and I’d start staring at the kitschy decorations, the older couples a few booths away, or the stains on the carpet. 

“So where are you from?” Adam said. This was an easy question: 

“Oh, Delco. Havertown.” 

“No, I mean, where are your people from?” 

I was reminded of my conversation with Leanah. “I’m Latina.” 

Adam nodded, looking down at his food, cutting his steak slowly and dipping it in ramekin of A1 sauce. There was tension in his shoulders. 

“Ah, gotcha. So…from Mexico? Or Spain?” 

“Spain.” That sounded cooler to me. Adam smiled. 

“Oh, good. There’s a real distinction there, you know. I wish I was more directly European, because the culture is a little more–I don’t know, I don’t want to put down America in any way, because I love America, but it’s a lot more refined.” 

“I agree.” I zoned out a little bit near the end, but I was glad to hear that the choice I made was good. I hoped that he wouldn’t ask me to speak Spanish. 

“And Spain is a good Catholic country. Although Lord knows I have my own disagreements with the, quote on quote, ‘Pope.’” 

My mind began to wander, like I was sitting in a dark theater. I’m making some progress in upgrading the look of my apartment, I thought. Leanah and I went to a lot of estate sales, charity shops, and speciality lifestyle stores. I hung up copper pans over my oven. I bought a lace-trimmed gingham tablecloth. I had a whole manner of Oriental, French, Slavic, and Americana trinkets arranged on my bookshelf. (More tasteful than the decorations at this restaurant, but I suppose the fact that Adam took me to a restaurant with some eccentricities was a good sign that he had taste like Leanah). Being able to lay down and do nothing surrounded by things that were pretty was raising my self-esteem. Or maybe I’m misspeaking here. It just made me feel a little more accomplished. 

Finally having a boyfriend also helped. Adam so far asked very little of me. He spoke about a lot of things I didn’t understand, and he didn’t even require that I pretend to comprehend. It was very freeing. I admired intelligence so deeply, and I was excited to post photos of him–selectively, of course–the edge of his hands at dinner or the back of his head or the bottom of his shirt. Similar to how Leanah posted Nick. She was able to transform his brutish knobbing nothingness into something very appealing. It helped that his tattoos weren’t too trendy. I took a photograph of my dessert and thanked Adam for an incredible night. 

When Adam pulled up to my apartment to drop me off, Leanah happened to be smoking a cigarette by the curb. The sun was setting and it reflected on the gloss of her hair. She waved to the car, ran up the passenger side window and leaned in. Adam asked for a cigarette from her and wrapped an arm around me, protectively. He spoke to her very directly, looking into her eyes, and I realized that this directness was a sign that he liked me more, or thought I was more feminine, and for once, I was the prized one, and that my beauty and personality-change had finally been rewarded. I glanced at myself through the rear-view mirror, and noticed a hair-line wrinkle stretching across my forehead. I looked back at Leanah, who was very close to me, and smelled so strongly of cigarettes–and noticed her smile lines. Her premature aging was worse than my own. In fact, her face was slightly hallowed, and her eyes seemed naturally tired. Here, now, I came to the understanding that my beauty could eclipse hers completely if I acted decisively over the next few months. If I refined myself to become myself. As soon as I was alone that night, I ordered Frownies, and I repeated my prayer to God: “God, please make me meek and small and agreeable. Please make me feminine and smart. Because I want to get married around the same time as Leanah, but I can tell she already has a head start.” 

When I woke up the next morning I felt a lightness. In the literal sense: I could immediately tell I weighed less, and I could feel my hip bones slightly protruding. My feet usually hit my cheap particle-wood footboard–sometimes even sticking up from under the comforter that I had mistakenly bought in the size “full” instead of “queen”–but this morning they were warm and tucked neatly underneath, maybe six inches from my footboard. I pulled off my covers and to my delight, I had shrunk. I was practically swimming in my pajamas. I examined my hands: fine lines I had never noticed until seeing their absence had disappeared. Pulling up my shirt, my waist was now about as thick as my hips–and I was right, my hip bones were protruding. 

I hurried over to my full length mirror. The transformation was a little jarring–I touched my cheeks and hair and stomach to confirm my reflection–I was all of twelve years old. Physically. I got dressed, my clothing obviously didn’t fit, and walked down the hall to Leanah’s apartment. It took a few minutes for her to answer the door, and when she did, her hair was tied up and her face was pale. It must have been close to six in the morning. 

She looked down at me–she must have been about half a foot taller than me now–and squinted her eyes. 

“You look good,” she said. 

I did a twirl. “I think I’m twelve now?” 

“Yeah. Huh. That’s so weird.” She rubbed some sleep from her eyes. Nick popped in the threshold of the door from over her shoulder, looking down as well. 

“You’re twelve?” he said. “You kinda look the same.” 

“No. She looks good, right?” Leanah reprimanded. “You lost weight, Leah. I’ll make some coffee, we just woke up.” 

I followed in and sat in my usual spot as she prepared a French press. Nick stood in the center of the room, for a few moments, at first unsure of how to proceed in conversation, until announcing that he was still tired and scurrying off to the bedroom. 

Now with the two of us alone, I could feel a radiating jealousy. She was so unawake, so drained, so sloppy this morning. To see me–fresh and made anew–must have been infuriating. She set a timer for the French press and leaned on the kitchen counter. 

“These things can happen. I’m really happy for you, Leah. Like, actually. I feel like this is something you always wanted for yourself,” she said. “And honestly, if I could manage to become twelve–maybe more like fourteen–I would. I’m glad you put yourself out there and set this intention.”

“Leanah. We went from Gemini twins to sisters, haven’t we?” 

“Leanah and Leah. Twins to sisters. So true.” She clicked her tongue. “Well, I guess now you’ll have to figure out how to break the news to Adam. Men are so unperceptive, though. Actually, he might not even notice.” 

That, of course, annoyed me, but I didn’t want to get in any argument, so I poured myself my cup of coffee without saying anything else about it. I was immediately hit with a pounding migraine and had to sit on the couch with a crochet throw-blanket over my head. I supposed I wasn’t drinking too much coffee at age twelve. 

We decided, then, that to tell Adam we’d have a nice double date, so the condition wasn’t over-dramatized. Secretly I decided that this would also mark the last time I talked to Leanah. This friendship obviously didn’t serve me any longer. And honestly, she gave off an old, pathetic, perpetually unmarried vibe that I was worried might rub off on me–which would be absolute suicide in locking down Adam. Her and Nick–no, they wouldn’t get married. They’d lead each other on until their 30s, and then what? I peaked my head out from under the covers–what a fake little world she’s created that was nothing like my own! How refined can you be when your provider can’t be bothered to be awake before 7 a.m.? I was sure he wasn’t even sleeping. Probably on his phone or masturbating. A terrible hatred welled up in my stomach. Seeing Adam tonight would be good, then, so we could embark on a more private journey together. 

Before our double date I went back to my apartment and threw out some more things from the past. Things I no longer needed anymore–safety razors, menstrual products, bags of coffee, acne products, melatonin, and collagen supplements. I opened up my laptop for the first time in a year and deleted every last one of my terrible, failed writing projects. I was overwhelmed by the freedom of youth. I sat on my balcony and thought about buying some plants. When I stood up I noticed that I now bruised very easily: my cast iron chair had left purple imprints all over my thighs. I put on a pair of now very loose pantyhose to try to cover up the damage. 

“If this is more of a redo situation, maybe I’ll try to be an actress when I grow up. When I grow up again, I mean,” I said to Leanah on the subway. Leanah gave me a look like she wanted to kill me. Push me in between the train cars. 

“Well,” she said, confidently, “I think you’ll stay just the same. I doubt it’s immortality, but you’ll probably stay like this forever.” 

“I feel like it’s a reward.” 

“For what?” 

“Well, I mean, you didn’t really know me when I was younger. I was so annoying. You’ve only known me since I’ve become normal.” The train pulled up to our stop and we made our way up and outside. It was only a few blocks from the restaurant, and we were running early, so we walked around in the park for about ten minutes–and I was very conscious of the change of seasons, from fall to winter, and pulled my now-oversized jacket tight around myself. 

The boys were both waiting at the restaurant’s bar. I was reminded of my stupid little fantasy–sitting at the bar of my apartment’s restaurant, reading a book. How far away that felt now. I got up on my tiptoes and tapped Adam on the shoulder. Repeated my twirl. “Look!” 

“Oh! Wow!” Adam had a funny expression plastered on his face. Sizing me up. He turned to Nick and laughed: “So that’s the surprise.” 

“It sort of just happened all at once this morning. I don’t know, I’m pretty happy about it.”

“You look so cute. Can I say that? Haha.” He closed out at the bar and we got situated at our table. I let Adam order for me: the liquor laws in Pennsylvania are conservative, so ordering a bottle of wine for the table without a (my) legal guardian present was out of the question, but we did all get Coca-Colas, and Adam ordered me a duck confit and Nicoise salad. I didn’t pay attention to what Nick ordered for Leanah (if he even took the initiative to do so). I was far more focused on gazing at Adam from across the table, imagining our new life together. Ordered for and ordered about. I wouldn’t mind not being able to drink at restaurants. Honestly, I’d be happy not to go out at all anymore. I felt inspired to say something but wasn’t quite sure what–and desperately didn’t want to go back to my old personality when I had just, finally, been rewarded for my new one. Instead I imagined what I’d say as the appetizers came out: 

At the risk of being too forward, or moving too fast, I guess, I think that you and I, Adam, should now start thinking about moving in together, or maybe even getting engaged. Because now that I’m twelve, I’m going to need a guardian, and God, I’d rather it be you than my mom or dad. You could live in my apartment. It’s very nice now. I mean, it was nice from the start–it had good bones, because the building was old and the renovations weren’t cosmetic. But it was without purpose or beauty before. Now it’s beautified, aesthetic, and there’s a distinctly feminine touch. Not overly feminine, though. Not stupid. It has a childlike grace that I guess I now embody as well. So I think whatever masculinity you bring to the table will match. We’ll curate it together. Anyway, wow, this salad is delicious. I’ve known you so briefly but you always know the right thing to do. 

I picked at my Nicoise. 

“There’s probably ways to dress you up so people won’t notice,” Adam said, chewing his food as he spoke. “Obviously we’re huge fans of the transformation, but you know how mainstream culture likes to shit all over everything people enjoy.” 

I nodded. Leanah let out a loud, drawn out sigh. “Yes, everything is so upside down.”

I took in the scenery at the restaurant. I could sense that other couples were stealing glances at our table, and our waitress was whispering behind the hostess stand to one of her coworkers, maybe her manager. Let them talk. I finished my Coke and pushed it towards Adam, “May I have another one?” 

“You can have anything you’d like.” He made eye contact with the waitress, then snapped his fingers in the air like they do in old movies. I had a positive reaction to it. I could have anything I liked, I thought. 

The entrees came out. My duck confit was served over a mysterious purplish puree. I tried the duck alone first. 

“Do you…like living alone?” Adam said. My eyes lit up and I popped a bite of duck plus puree in my mouth. No. I don’t like living alone. The puree was distinctly sweet. Starchy, some potatoes probably, but then a flavor I hadn’t had in several years. Cloyingly sweet. Plum. A stone fruit. My throat went all hot and itchy, but I wasn’t too worried. I took a sip of my Coke, rubbed my tongue against the roof of my mouth–I could feel hard M&M sized bumps there, and when I ran my tongue along the inside of my lips, hives there as well. 

“You good?” Adam said. My face went all red and my mouth began to throb. 

“I have…” I took another sip of my Coke. “A slight oral allergy syndrome.” 

“Like peanuts or fish or what?” 

“Um. Usually like nuts or some fruit. But it’s fine.” The itchiness extended to my nasal cavity and my throat began to tighten. I was ruining the double date. Leanah calmly cut apart her food–she had ordered steak frites–and ignored the entire situation. I had embarrassed her. She cut me a nasty look.

Adam seemed mildly concerned, but more so I could tell by the intensity of his eyes that he was annoyed that I did not like my dinner. At least I had a moment of success. How long had I been transformed? Twelve hours? Did it happen the moment I woke up, or did I develop overnight, as I slept? Then of course there was the possibility that the power of prayer was drawing me closer to my de-aging gradually, over the course of the last few weeks, and I had only just noticed this morning. The choking feeling only heightened. The edges of my vision blurred and darkened. I wondered if 911 accepted texts. I fainted onto my plate and it was all done with.

Ava Sophia Brown is a writer and filmmaker based in New York City. She holds a BFA in Screenwriting from Temple University and is a recipient of the Benjamin and Minnie Lazaroff award for screenwriting. Two of her short stories, "Ugly 40,000 BCE" and "Space Fish," were published in the 2022 and 2021 editions of Sortes Magazine, respectively. Her Substack is Fat Rabbit.