Brian

by Staci Marie

 

Growing up in a large metropolitan area definitely had its advantages, especially for individuals with over-active minds. Brian was like that, always figuring out things to do that usually caused some kind of commotion for others. And everybody he knew was a potential target, including me, his best friend.

A bucket of water over a doorway was nothing for Brian. Sure he tried that one, but with goats milk. Cellophane on his mother's toilet and green Koolaid® in his brother's shower head were normal pranks for Brian.

I was most amazed at how he was able to distract people to the point that they would not notice in advance that they were doomed. Such was the case with me.

Brian apparently waited for a long time, till I was reasonably comfortable around him. He must have watched for my confidence, that moment when I would least suspect that I might be a target.

While watching a Laker's game, Brian simply asked if I wanted a Coke.

"Sure," I said, never taking my eyes off the television.

A moment later I heard that familiar sound only a soda can makes when it is opened, followed by the sound of ice cubes being dropped into classes, and then the Cokes being poured into their cold receptacles. Just as he had done so many times before, Brian returned to the room, handed me a glass, then sat down.

I was a bit cautious and looked at the glass before drinking. The color was right. Still I knew that things were not always as they appeared when Brian was around, so I waited for the right moment in the game when I would be more likely to take just a sip rather than guzzle half the drink down. The taste was perfect and did not give me a tingly feeling or any feeling of having to run to the bathroom with some unusual urge. Still I decided to wait and see.

About fifteen minutes later, feeling comfortable with the soft drink, I guzzled the thing down. That's when I noticed I'd been had. On Brian's face, for just a fraction of a second, was that whispy little smile he always gets when he achieves a goal. I had just been had. I knew it, but there was no way Brian would ever fess up to it, and there was no way I could ever prove he had done anything. He was too cleaver. So I'd just have to wait . . . and try to keep my mind on the Lakers game.

By the time I headed for home, absolutely nothing had happened, at least as far as I could tell. That bothered me, but still wasn't worth mentioning. I showered, stood naked in front of the mirror, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. There were no fangs or pointed ears. I hadn't grown a second set of eyes or an extra mouth. What had Brian done? Extra toes? Nope. Five on each foot looked good to me. Nothing! So I brushed my teach and went to bed.

Flat on my back I stared into the blackness of my darkened room, anxious about Brian's whispy little smile. He'd done something and I hadn't a clue what. I was tired, however, and soon drifted off to sleep.

Next morning was quite a different story. Still on my back I opened my eyes, yawned, rubbed my eyes, then rolled out of bed, unbuttoning my pajamas as I walked toward the bathroom. Through the dim light I glanced at the mirror and in horror let out a blood curdling screem in a voice that was much higher pitched than my own.

"Oh, my gosh!" I screamed. "Mom, what happened to me?"

Pretty soon both my parents came running, Dad holding a slipper in each hand like he was going to pound my head with them. And as I addressed them both, then sobbed, "What's happened to me?" I realized they could not possibly recognize me in my present condition. But they knew something was wrong and that I was actually their son, regardless how I looked.

"Doris? Oh my . . . my son has breasts?"

"Brian did it, I know he did."

"What do you mean, 'Brian did it'?" Mom demanded, taking me by the wrists and trying to calm me down, all the while staring at my female anatomy.

"I don't know. I think he put something in my Coke yesterday. It was his smile. That stupid whimpy smile he gets when he plays a joke on someone. When I drank the Coke he flashed that stupid smile."

"I'll kill that kid yet," Dad blubbered, turning in his pajamas and still waving his slippers over his head.

"Bob, stop it. We'll kill him later. Go sit down. Let's all go sit down."

"I don't wanna sit down," I kept screaming. "I don't want boobs, I don't wanna look like a girl. Why'd he do this to me?"

"Here, Davey," she insisted, pushing me into the bathroom. "You go potty first, then we'll sit down and talk this through, and then we'll go kill Brian . . . together."

Frustrated I slammed the door, flipped up the toilet seat, dropped my pajamas to the floor and reached for my penis. Nothing. "Holy shit, that's gone too."

The door burst open and Mom spun me around. She saw what she came to see, then shoved me down on the toilet. I jumped back up, flipped the seat down, sat back down and urinated like a girl.

Mom stood staring at my naked girl body while I was trembling and sobbing and Dad was stomping around shouting something about digging a twelve foot grave and pushing Brian in . . . alive.

All I wanted to do was run and hide. Jump in bed, pull the covers up and over me and die. But then I looked up at Mom, saw a single tear starting down her cheek, and realized that she needed me to calm down. She needed to be able to help me in some way, and since she couldn't change me back to being a boy I'd better go to the next best thing.

"Mom," I said, sniffling. "This felt different from ever before. Do I have to wipe when I pee?"

For a moment my question didn't register with her. When she realized I'd asked for help a sort of a scowl formed on her face and she turned and tilted her head just slightly. "Um, yes, Davey," she whimpered. "You have to wipe . . . from front to back . . . or you'll get an infection."

I took a wad of toilet paper and did as directed. Then I stood, pulled up my pajama bottoms, buttoned my top, then threw my arms around Mom and sobbed, "Now what do I do?"

She held me tightly to her bosum for the longest time, Dad still ranting and raving in the other room.

"Bob?"

She said his name quite softly at first, but repeated it several times, a little louder each time. Finally she got his attention.

"Bob, we have a son we need to take care of. Let's see if we can pull it all together and be responsible."

Dad sorta melted, then with his arms at his sides he dropped his slippers, said, "You're right," and sat down on the sofa. We joined him, but all sat in whimpering, fuming silence for several minutes, afraid we'd say something wrong. Finally it was Mom who broke the ice.

"Well, Bob. What do you think?"

Still fuming and wishing he was still waving his slippers, Dad stared at me and said, "I think he needs a bra with a C cup."

Mom just stared at him, transferring her anger immediately to him. But though her eyes were shooting daggers, she never said a thing. She just stared at Dad till he returned to reality. And pretty soon he did, realizing the stupidity of what he'd just said.

"I mean," he continued, "I think we need to get Brian down here. Maybe there's something to counteract what he did."

"Brian ?" She smiled a little, but only a little. "You think Brian might have an antidote?"

"Not really! But maybe just once in his life he did something responsible."

"RESPONSIBLE?" I expected her to pull her hair out at this point. "Look at David and then let's talk responsible."

But before Dad could say a thing, the doorbell rang. Thank goodness. Mom jumped to her feet and raced to the door. I pulled on a sweatshirt to hide my . . . um . . . and hurried after my parents. I exited the hallway just in time to see Mom open the door.

"YOU!" she screamed, serging through the doorway and grabbing Brian before he could escape. Mom continued her tirade with language I'd never heard espew from her mouth, then held him in front of me and demanded, "Tell me you're not responsible for that."

"For what? The long hair?"

We hadn't even noticed the hair. Oh my gosh, I had long hair. Probably six inches long. But Mom shook that off and demanded, "David, take that sweatshirt off."

For a moment I thought of arguing, but daggers were forming behind Mom's eyes, so I cooperated.

"Holy shit, it worked," Brian mumbled.

"What worked?"

Brian realized that thinking out loud in our house might not be the healthiest of pass times.

"The potion. The guy at the store said it would work, but who'd believe something like that? I mean, a potion? Potions don't change people like that."

"Well obviously this one did." Mom was irate, holding Brian with her left hand and flailing her right like she might clobber him or go for the eyes or something. I was even starting to fear for Brian's life. Then she shoved him toward me and demanded, "Where'd you get this potion? Do you have any left?" And then the threatening, "You'd better tell me or wish you were a cat with nine lives cause I'm about to take seven of them away."

"Unca Willie's Magic Shoppe."

"You're going with us, mister. David, put that sweatshirt on." I obliged. Without another word Mom marched us out the door and down the street to Brian's house where we raided Brian's room and found, under the bed, the empty vial that he said was the container. As we were about to leave for the car Brian's Mom came in and asked what was going on.

"Look what Brian did to David," she shouted, yanking my sweatshirt up to reveal my new identity. Mrs. Somers dropped her jaw wide open, then said nothing. But she turned toward Brian with her eyes aflame and waving for us to stop.

"Like hell we'll stop," Mom insisted, never slowing down. "We're going to the magic shop for a cure."

Finally composed to some degree, Brian's Mom hurried off with us, slapping Brian in the back of the head with her open hand while condemning her son, "I told you to quit playing around with all that magic stuff. It's a wonder you didn't kill somebody."

I felt like he had done just that. As far as I could tell my male self was gone and might just as well be assumed dead. I felt it would be best to keep my mouth shut, however, rather than risk exposure of my swollen chest one more time. Everybody else got the same idea for silence about that time and Mom's car was like a motorized tomb all the way to Unca Willie's.

But when Mom turned the corner and pulled to a stop in front of a now empty magic shop a new tension filled the air: Mom just gasped, held her breath and started trembling; Brian gasped a singular "No Way!" in an almost whispered tone; Mrs. Somers opened her mouth a little wider than before; and I just started to cry. A note in the window read, "Closed due to death of Unca Willie."

At that moment I knew my fate was sealed. I was going to be a girl for the rest of my life and there wasn't a thing anybody could do. Of course Mom tried. We went home and she started calling magic shops all over the country, but everybody just laughed and told her she was nuts, that magic is simply creating an illusion and there were no potions. Then she took the vial to a chemist so that he could determine what was inside and he said it was nothing more than blue salt water and insisted that she face reality about her daughter and quit trying to pretend that I ever was a boy in the first place.

Grandma used to say, "It's easier said than done," and that's exactly how I felt about this girl thing. By the time Mom had finished her calling, I was sitting there with measurements that a teenager should only dream of, with hair to my waist, and a nearly hairless body. My hair had grown two feet in twenty-four hours, my waist had shrunk to a showy 23 inches while my bust line and hips had filled out to 36 inches.

I reached up to feel my young whiskers, a habit I'd adopted shortly after I began shaving, and realized that not only were they gone, but my adam's apple was also gone.

Mom finally let out a sigh as she slammed the phone down for the last time and turned to stare into my face. "David, I'm sorry, but I don't know where to go from here. Nobody knows anything. 'There's no such thing as potions,' they keep telling me. 'That kind of magic never did exist,' they say. One person suggested killing Brian, but that wouldn't change you back. I just don't know what to do. What do you think."

And then the final straw. I opened my mouth to speak and instantly heard the softest, sweetest tones I could imagine eminating from my throat. Before it was my voice, just a little higher, but now it was clearly a woman's soft, feminine voice.

"I think the transition is complete, Mom. There's not one single part of me that's still male."

"Oh, Davey," she sobbed. "If that's true we need to find a new name for you."

"And maybe some girl clothes would be a good idea too, Mom."

At that she threw her head on my shoulder, wrapped her long skinny arms around me and started a steady flow of tears and whimpers that did not stop for nearly fifteen minutes. About the end of the ordeal I started patting Mom on the back and said, "Mom, I want to be Staci from now on. Staci Marie."

She whimpered once or twice, then slowly pulled her head back and away till she could look straight into my eyes.

"I like Staci," she finally said. "My grandmothers were Staci and Marie, and you put the two of them together."

Then she stared at me for a few moments. About the time I was beginning to feel uncomfortable Mom started stroking my hair, gently pulling the tangles out. "You know your face changed a little, Staci. David's brows were thicker. And your lips are fuller and prettier. You really are quite pretty, Staci."

I didn't have a clue what to say about all that, so I just smiled and felt like that would take care of everything. Mom was closer to me than she had been since I was a baby. I don't mean physically closer. It's like our psyches were blending together somehow. Then, out of the blue as though I'd been thinking about it for a while, I tilted my head slightly and said, "Mommy, will you brush my hair?" With that she stood, took me by both hands and pulled me toward the big mirror in the living room. She sat me down on the stool and began brushing my hair. She worked at the ends first, till the brush ran smoothly through every strand, then worked up the full length till she had achieved the silky look for all twenty-four inches. Interestingly I loved the attention, but even more I loved the feel of the long hair on my bare skin.

"Mom, is this what it's like being a girl?"

"What do you mean, Staci?"

"I'm used to just combing my hair on the run . . . you know . . . as I go out the door. But you've spent an hour brushing it. Does it always take that long?"

"Not always. But it does take a lot longer than being a boy. Girls have to spend time every day making themselves pretty. Putting on makeup takes a lot of time too. And shaving is much more complicated for a woman than a man."

"You know I'm never gonna be a boy again, don't you?"

She nodded somewhat reluctantly.

"And Brian's never going to find a cure for what he did. I'm just stuck like this. But I think I can accept it . . . if you'll help me with everything."

She just stared into my eyes, not sure what to say, I suppose.

"Well, I was wondering. Would you show me how to put on makeup, since it looks like I will have to be wearing it really soon?"

She reached up to my face and rubbed the backs of her nuckles across my cheeks. "It must have been a good potion. It even did away with your beard."

"Yeah, but I still have hair on other places I'll have to shave."

"Go take a shower, Dav. . . Staci. Then we'll do your makeup. Shave your legs and arm pits while you're in there. And wear a shower cap so we don't have to spend another hour on your hair."

I did as instructed, worried that I'd cut myself and bleed to death before she noticed that I'd been in the shower too long. It was an interesting experience to say the least, and I did everything I could to avoid cutting myself. But as I dried myself off I noticed several drops of blood on the floor and was rather irritated. I checked my underarms and found nothing. Then I checked my legs and found nothing. Must be my imagination I thought as I wiped up the blood. But suddenly there was more.

"Mom!" I screamed. "Come quick. I cut myself and I can't find where."

The door swung open, Mom looked down, and then this sly little grin grew across her face. "You didn't cut yourself, Staci. You're having your period."

"My what?"

And with that, before I'd been a girl long enough to brush my own hair, I found myself in the midst of a mother to daughter discussion that I didn't really want to have. Why couldn't I be a girl without a period, without sanitary napkins, without . . . without everything?

"Gross," I kept repeating. "Gross, gross, gross." Brian had turned me into such a complete woman that I was even able to get pregnant and have babies . . . "At some time in the future," Mom concluded.

Finally, with Tampax firmly in place and the totally new sensation of cramping, I sat down with Mom and she began to teach me everything she knew about putting on makeup. She would show me what to do on her face, then hand me the makeup so that I could duplicate her moves on my face.

When finished I felt my stiff, black eyelashes brushing against my eyelids just below the brow line. I rubbed my creamy lips together and delighted in the way they sort of stuck together. And in the mirror I looked into the eyes of a rather pretty young lady, not yet to the point of realizing that the very feminine reflection was me.

Then I noticed Mom, that smug, sly grin of accomplishment all the while she was staring at my very same reflection. "Ya know," she giggled, "that Brian turned you into a mighty fine looking young woman."

"Mom!" I practically yelled. "I don't care what I look like, I'm still a boy. I still wanna play football, and climb trees, and look at cheerleaders...."

"You looked at cheerleaders?" Uh oh! "You were interested in girls?"

"Of course I looked at girls. Who doesn't? But I didn't wanna be one. Oh hell, now what do I do?"

"Staci, don't swear."

"Yeah, let's change you into a boy and see if you don't swear."

  

  

  

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