Friday’s classes passed without drama, and I was beginning to accept that my bizarre comfort level with school wasn’t a fluke. Nothing had shattered the confidence with which I’d begun my second week, and I just about broke my brain figuring out why but the reason was laughably simple; for all I was a teen and a student again, having lived through it once I knew that, for all the potential drama, high school wasn’t going to kill me. It really wasn’t. Finding myself back in school, my memories had been scaring me, the remembered feeling of resignation and queasy dread with which I’d greeted each new school week. But with my first school lunch with its Lizard-drama, I’d decided I wouldn’t allow myself to be bullied again. I’d push back. Worst-case scenario, I could just quit and get my GED. That meant everything and I’d internalized it without even thinking about it.

  The realization smacked into me during lunch while watching Brad poking fun at Pinky over a first-year “incident” they refused to explain and Pinky throwing cheese sticks at him (organic aged-cheddar stinky cheese, because this was Hadley), and with it, another truth I’d let myself forget in the confusion and disorientation of my transformation and circumstances.

  This wasn’t life. It really wasn’t.

  For every student around me, including this fast-forming circle of friends, this was what they’d known since they were six years old, the community of school and classmates. And they were better at it than I was, but I knew what they didn’t; that this, what they knew, was the last of the childhood games before their school community broke up to precipitate them, ready or not, into full adulthood. Some adult games had crept in already with their adult bodies, but while all of this was real it was only a small part of what they’d experience. Eventually, good or bad, it would just be a hazily remembered slice of their lives.

  And since good or bad, this would end again, and my survival was guaranteed, I was pursuing the wrong things. Or at least the wrong way.

  “What’s up? Sitting across the table, Papa must have seen the change in my face. He cocked an eyebrow.

  I shook my head, smiling. “Nothing. But tonight? Don’t worry about the 40’s theme. I’m not.”

  The eyebrow stayed cocked. “Okay. Same time and place?”

  “Yup. Come prepared to be the world’s worst bowler. I will.”

  He grinned, and I didn’t lose the smile. Yes, there was that flutter in my stomach, but at least it wasn’t lower down.

  After class Friday meant Fight Club, where they’d moved on to also teaching us newcomers “breaks”, moves made to force a break and get distance if someone grabbed you; the martial-arts program as I now understood it was falls, breaks, then actual strike-training (recognizing that girls would be at a weight, strength, and impact-endurance disadvantage in most encounters). When they let us out, I changed from my Fight Club sweats and texted Mom I’d be getting home a bit late, that I was making a short stop. The stop was at Fem Fashions in City Center, one of the boutique places Mom had taken me that specialized in “small” sizes for everything, able to outfit me without making me look like a tween.

  “So, what are you looking for?” Shania asked when we got off the train. When I’d texted, Mom had requested I take her with me and the girl had gotten her mom’s approval so we both got off at City Center.

  “There!” I pointed. “Come on! We’ve got to be in and out to catch the next train!”

  She followed me, laughing, as I ducked into the store. Most of their clientele were teens and college coeds, the styles ranged from older teen to adult and even business-adult, and with no time to mess around I grabbed the attention of the salesperson behind the counter, a determinedly cheerful blonde. “We’ve got fifteen minutes and I need boots, pants, belt, and a shirt! I know all my sizes and there’s a big tip if we do this.” I slapped my new debit card down on the counter. “Shoes first!”

  Twelve minutes later we raced back into City Center’s light rail junction station, laughing. Tammy had grabbed her coworker, Trish, to gather up pants and shirts according to my specifications while finding my boots and I’d had time to try on each item and even choose between colors for the shirt. We even had enough time for me to buy hot soft pretzels and sweet tea to thank Shania with before boarding our railcar for Twain Street Station.

  Eating on the train was technically a violation, but since we kept our cups and pretzels in our hands at all times, we only got a few indulgent looks as we nibbled and laughed. Arriving at the Twain Street Station, we dumped our trash and parted ways, Shania home for studying and supper and me home for dressing. Still August, the air beneath the old trees lining the townhome street was warm but hinting at a coming change as I walked up the street. I looked forward to it; fall was my favorite time of year, and the city tended to experience a long gentle fall season. Spring seemed to take forever to latch on, but that was the price we paid for weeks and weeks of glorious fall colors so I could live with it. “I’m home!” I called, pushing the front door closed behind me.

  “And none too soon, missy!” Mom laughed, coming from the back of the house to grab my Fem Fashions bags. “Upstairs! Shower! I’ll give these a quick wash!”

  I let her push me up the stairs, stripping down in my room and getting that shower before throwing on a loose t-shirt and starting on my hair. No Alice band—I’d found the kind of style I wanted on my cell while riding the rail and Shania had agreed my hair was probably long enough to make it work.

  Fifteen minutes later Mom came up, probably clued in by waves of pure frustration emanating from my room. “What’s going on, sweetheart?” When I showed her the short video, she laughed. “That’s way above your skill level, young lady! Here.”

  Grabbing the rubber band from me, she gathered my shoulder-length hair and made the first high tail, clipped it in place, then gathered and tied the “undertail” noose beneath it with a second band, pulling my first tail through it to make for a single high and tight tail at the back of my head, expertly leaving front locks free to fall and frame my face on both sides. “There! Be right back!”

  She had to have given the pants and shirt only a light, warm wash to get all the lines out in the drier cycle; returning, she handed them off to me and I speed-dressed. “What makeup for this?” I asked when I’d finished. Now there I had no idea.

  Looking me up and down, she nodded. “Right. Sit.”

  “Carl’s home,” I said needlessly as I sat in front of my vanity table, feeling him come in range of my alien sense somewhere down the street. Mom picked up an eye pencil and grabbed my chin to turn my head. “We leave in ten, honey. Hold still.”

  Ten minutes later I stood in front of my nemesis the mirror again, unable to look away. I was not a bobbysoxer. I wasn’t anything Mom had dressed me as or I’d chosen before.

  I wore black cargo pants that sat low but snug on my hips, flaring out wide below, and a tight crimson red Henley that stopped at my belly button but with sleeves so long they came down to my knuckles. On my feet were rugged black motorcycle boots with ridiculously thick soles giving me another four inches height. Taken together, the outfit followed the form-flattering logic of the t-shirt and shorts Mom had had me wear to Delia’s party; skin-covering but tight on top to show that despite my modest endowment I wasn’t a child, a sliver of bared skin between top and bottom to draw attention to my small waist, and instead of full-bottomed shorts, belling pants held up by a wide belt accentuating “womanly” hips.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  With that and my hair, Mom had been inspired to go dramatic with what she called Rock & Roll Eyes, so darkly lined and smokey they popped big and dramatic against my pale features. For the rest, she’d minimized my eyebrows and left the rest of my face close to the light no-makeup look I wore to school so as not to compete with my gaze.

  I was Dangerous Bitch.

  And my wide grin completely ruined the effect.

  Also, for whatever reason, Mom was trying very hard not to laugh.

  “You’re beautiful, sweety. Now let’s go, go, go!”

  **********************************************

  “That’s him.” Carl had got the little goblin packed up while Mom finished me up, and my baby sister made her usual happy noises in the seat beside me as we pulled into the drop-off zone at City Center. Papa’s curly black hair was easy to spot where he stood back from the street, waiting outside the doors of Bowling King with hands in pockets. He hadn’t worn the knit sweater he’d texted about, instead sporting an open gray and purple checkered long sleeved button-down with sleeves rolled up over a well-fitted black t-shirt, blue jeans, and fancy looking running shoes.

  Mom turned in her seat and gave me a look, but didn’t say anything about what she had to be feeling from me. “Remember what we talked about.”

  “Talked?” Carl asked.

  “Girl things,” she said. “He’ll bring you back directly?”

  “I told him Dad would hunt him down if he didn’t bring me straight back from Pop’s Diner.”

  “Damn straight,” he confirmed, eyes on Papa.

  “Go on, now,” Mom laughed. “Make good choices, sweetheart.” Somewhere between meeting me at the door and pushing me downstairs where Carl waited with Steph, she seemed to have lost all concern for my date.

  Taking a breath, I opened the van door and got out. Everything I’d brought, from my cellphone, debit card, and ID, to what Mom called an Emergency Date Kit, filled my deep pockets with room to spare, and, heading for Papa, I filled them with my hands, too. Spotting me, Papa gave a nod as I wove through the evening crowd to his side and then we were standing there looking at each other, hands in pockets.

  And God, was I small. My new boots didn’t compensate for even half the height gap between us, and pre-Changeling Fever I might have had an inch or two on him.

  “Hey,” he said with a dimple-flashing smile when I didn’t open my mouth to tell him off for his tallness. He pointed with his chin. “Those your folks?”

  Turning back to the street, I rolled my eyes. The van was still sitting there and Mom waved when we looked their way. Carl didn’t. “Yeah, that’s them.” I waved. Papa waved. Mom waved again and said something to Carl. He lifted a couple of fingers from the steering wheel.

  Papa laughed. “Come on.” Pulling a hand from a pocket, he easily slid it around my wrist to tug my hand out and lightly twine our fingers, gently pulling me towards Bowling King’s doors.

  My mind bluescreened and rebooted at holding his hand barely fast enough to move my feet before I fell off my platforms, and I found myself walking into the alley as he held the door and swung me out ahead of him.

  Which let me break our contact and shove my hands back in my pockets.

  The noise from the lanes smacked us and, getting hold of myself, I scanned the alley until I saw familiar faces about halfway down the buzzing space. It looked like everyone else was already here, our church group sandwiched between team shirt-wearing groups of older bowlers. “Over there!” I got moving before the question of hands could get awkward, then realized we had to check in first.

  Lois spotted us and waved as we headed for the counter. I waved back and then we were there, giving the clerk behind the counter our shoe-sizes. Good Shephard Church had prepaid for us, so we got our shoes and went looking for balls. I grabbed a six-pound ball and Papa, the showoff, hefted and nodded to a fifteen-pounder and we made our way to the group.

  I swallowed my sudden new nerves and nodded to everyone. I had my own agenda tonight and just had to get through this. “Hey, everybody! Chet, this is Lois, Amy, Angela, Carl, Don, Vince, and Steve. Everyone, I’m April and this is Chet.” I said everyone because it looked like only Don and Angela and Steve and Lois had come together. They held the left-most lane, while Amy and Carl sat with two unfamiliar faces behind the right-most lane. Vince had an unfamiliar girl with him in the middle lane where according to the team screen Chet and I were meant to set ourselves up.

  “April!” Angela chirped. Angela, Lois, and Amy had gone full bobbysoxer, with Don and Steve matching their parters with button-downs and sweaters and sharply pleated pants. Everyone else was modern teen-casual. “Glad you guys could make it! These others are Carl Two and Mali—” she waved at the two new faces in Carl and Amy’s lane “—and Abigail, right?” she said to the girl with Vince, who nodded. “You don’t mind that we already made teams? Only there’s four of us to a lane so bowling two games will take long enough for us to want to eat our own arms before we finish.”

  “Uh, sure!” I agreed and just like that, the games began. Papa and I put our balls in the ball return and changed our shoes as Vince and Abigail, numbers one and two on our team, started.

  Which stole away my extra inches, of course, and I had to roll up my cargo cuffs to keep from tripping over them. The order was Abigail-Vince-me-Papa, and Papa bumped fists with Vince after the boy took his turn, ceding the lane to me after scoring a spare.

  I scowled at the ball in my hand. I’d bowled before, years and years ago at a company party, and last night I’d gone online and reviewed what I knew, even air-bowling “dry runs” to remember the swinging step-step-step and release technique.

  Aim for the dots, not the pins. Ball arm extended and swinging back, I took three steps to slide my opposite foot forward just shy of the foul line, releasing smoothly at just the point in the swing to send my little ball rolling with no drop, right over the middle dot and down the alley to strike the center pin just offside. . . to take down just the five center pins.

  My second bowl took down just two on the right.

  “Good start,” Papa nodded and picked up his big fifteen-pounder. When the pins reset, he stepped up and with what looked like zero effort fired it down the lane to smash into the pins so hard several of them went flying out of sight and the crash of the strike stopped the rumble of conversation around us.

  A strike, of course it was a strike.

  “Dude,” Vince said.

  “Word,” Papa replied, sitting down.

  I started laughing so hard I had to put my head between my knees for a minute. I’d brought a ringer.

  Comparing bowling histories with Vince, Abagail, and the rest of the group between their sets, it turned out that only Carl Two, the other male invitee, had anything close to Papa’s experience of hundreds of hours over the years bowling with his amateur team-bowler father. The fact that his skill was just from family nights and his real effort went to being Hadley’s fastest running back . . . Lois commented that with his forearms she was shocked he wasn’t a quarterback and he copped to being a replacement quarter for the team, after Brad.

  All that greased the conversational wheels through the first game; it turned out that Don and Steve also footed the ball for their school, and Lois played on their girls’ volleyball team. Meanwhile focusing on bringing up my pitiful game chased away all the flutters from sitting next to Papa and being on the receiving end of his encouragement and big dimpled smile after each of my sets. Mostly. Half the time. Fuck. It didn’t help that he scored points with me by not trying to tell me how to improve my game, not even once, just cheered or commiserated as appropriate.

  We ended the first game the winning team due to Papa’s two-twelve score balancing out my pitiful eighty-seven, both Vince and Abby scoring middle of the pack, and the second game on top again with his two-eighteen lifting my even worse seventy-eight.

  In the closing ceremonies, they awarded Papa the MVP medal, Team Blue (us) won the Friday Games trophy, and the quiet Mali won Best Raised Game for her huge improvement between games one and two. Yes, they’d brought medals, and yes everyone posed for pictures with or without medals in front of the Bowling King champion’s wall.

  And then it was time to troop across the City Center square to Pop’s Diner. On the march the group seemed to naturally coalesce into two, girls and boys, and I got to compliment Angela, Lois, and Amy on their outfits—which looked just as period and cute as Mom’s picks for me had—and for Abby and Mali to compliment my “hot-with-attitude” look, which reassured me that someone had picked up on the Dangerous Bitch vibe and I didn’t just look like a clown. (Papa had given me a few looks but hadn’t said anything except “You look different than school. It’s good.”)

  And the burgers and fries were great; we’d all worked up an appetite and, grabbing three booths, one for each team, ate and talked for an hour. Papa even dared me into a monster shake, promising to eat what I didn’t (which turned out to be most of it), before we broke up at nine. And Papa scored some more points with every girl there by asking me to wait with them outside Pops while he ran and got his car, which prompted a similar move by the rest of the guys.

  Which put me alone in a car with Papa on our way back to Twain Street and me prepping, inside-voice, for what I was going to tell him, the whole goal of my night. We finally pulled up in front of the house, and Papa turned off the car, set the parking brake, and turned to me.

  “So, this was fun. And they’re a good group.”

  This was it. I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Papa, you’re a changeling. Please don’t freak out, so am I.”