Mrs. Jones

I spent my entire childhood in that weird, mean little town finding trouble, because the alternative was to drown in its boredom.

There were three of us—Josh, Mark, me—always together, always orbiting the same old satellite of vandalism and minor theft, our imaginations as shriveled as the lawns in August, but our appetites endless.

Naturally, it was Josh who suggested breaking into the Jones’ place. Their house was a legend: white brick, pillared porch, two-car garage, and a backyard pool that shimmered in the dark.

Mr. Jones was the principal, which made it irresistible. We’d heard the family would be out late, at a fundraiser. Mark left a note for his mom that he’d be at my place working on a “project.” I told mine I was at Josh’s. Josh told his mother nothing—she never noticed. At dusk, we coasted our bikes up the back alley and climbed the wooden fence, landing in the flowerbeds.

Getting in wasn’t trivial. We had to climb the big oak tree and leap onto the second floor balcony.

The Jones’ bedroom sported a king bed with a tufted velvet headboard, and a hundred framed photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Jones and their children in various stages of smile.

The closet was open, lined with clothes. I stepped into the bathroom, peered through the medicine cabinet, and found only the things I expected: prescription bottles, a half-squeezed tube of ointment, floss.

Suddenly, we heard footsteps downstairs.

We froze.

Josh and Mark managed to slip back out to the balcony, but the footsteps were too close now.

In a panic, I whirled and dove under the bed. I waited, counting my breaths, praying nobody would check this room.

In the narrow space under the bed, something sharp dug into my ankle. I shifted, and my foot caught around a thin, cold chain. I fumbled at it. In the dark, I could just make out the shape: a locket, heavy and old, with symbols etched along its edge.

I wanted—more than anything, more than I’d ever wanted anything—to disappear, to walk out of this house without anyone suspecting my presence. I squeezed my eyes shut and wished.

That’s when it started. My whole body seized with a sudden, sickening vertigo. My limbs tingled, then prickled, then burned as they shrank somehow, folding into themselves and lengthening again in impossible ways. My hands—my knuckles, the backs of them—dissolved into different hands, small but strong. My chest swelled. My hair ballooned around my face, blonde.

I became aware, with sickening certainty, that I was not myself. Not even close. I crawled forward, dragging the newness of my own body, and caught a glimpse of the mirrored closet door. The sight nearly undid me: crouched on all fours, dirty sneakers caked in mulch, I wore the face of Mrs. Jones. The principal’s wife. Same hair, same slightly startled blue eyes, same furrow in the brow. I was wearing my own ratty jeans and Josh’s hand-me-down T-shirt, but the person inside them was her. Me, but her. A perfect, trembling copy.

I tried to breathe, but the air was thin. I reached for the locket, desperate to undo whatever had been done, but the chain slid away from my fingers and skittered noisily across the hardwood. I panicked, slamming my new hands over my ears as if I could stop the sound, but it was too late.

The real Mrs. Jones was coming up the stairs. I could hear the slap of her heels, the purposeful click, the quickening rhythm as she neared the bedroom door.

The door creaked. I watched a pair of feet—her feet step into the room. I dared not breathe.

She muttered something about leaving the window open, about the draft, and strode to the balcony, flinging the sliding glass shut with a clatter. I watched the calves flex beneath her skirt.

She turned, surveying the room again, and my heart stopped as her gaze lingered on the closet, the bed, the disturbed quilt. I could smell her perfume, sharp and sweet, and my own stomach lurched in response.

The mattress sagged above my face, as the real Mrs. Jones dropped her purse on the nightstand and collapsed onto the king-sized summit, sighing like it was the first breath she’d allowed herself all day. I could hear her phone buzz, feel the vibration in the box springs, sense the heat radiating from her as she rolled onto her stomach and idly kicked off her low beige flats, one after the other, each thud landing inches from my nose. 

I felt the minutes passing by. I squeezed myself tighter against the floor, wishing I could just disappear entirely, but the thought curdled into something worse: what if I was stuck like this? What if, when Mr. Jones came home, there were two identical wives? He’d discover me for sure.

I needed a plan. I had to get to the locket—take it, use it, reverse whatever had happened.

Above me, Mrs. Jones groaned and rolled over, arm flopping off the bed. Her hand hung, loose and drowsy, fingers grazing the hardwood. It was so close I could see the fine blue veins.

I recoiled, then steeled myself. I listened for any sign of Mr. Jones—footsteps, a garage door, the clack of keys in the lock. Nothing.

This was it. I had to replace her before Mr. Jones came home.

I slid out from under the bed, slow as a snake, heart pounding like it was going to blow apart my ribs. Mrs. Jones was sprawled on her stomach, feet still bare, skirt hiked up the back of her thighs, face buried in the pillow. She was texting or reading.

Then I pounced.

She didn’t scream at first. I wrapped my arms around her neck from behind and squeezed, squeezing harder than I meant to. She bucked and twisted, elbows slamming backwards. I got her in a headlock, and she clawed at my forearms, nails digging deep, drawing blood—her own, technically.

She managed to roll me off, and for one wild second, we were on our knees, facing each other. Two Mrs. Joneses, one in a power skirt and blouse, the other in a T-shirt and jeans, but with her face, her hair, her smell.

She gasped, “What are you?” in a voice that was my voice now, too.

She tried to scream, but I jammed my fist into her mouth, muffling the sound.

I clambered on top of her, knees pinning her arms, and started to peel off her jacket, her blouse, her bra, working in a fury, because that’s what you do when you need to steal someone’s life.

She thrashed and bit and spat in my face, “Stop! Please, stop!”

We rolled across the expensive rug, bodies locked in a grotesque ballet. With my left knee, I pinned her shoulder blades; with my right hand, I clawed at the hem of her blouse, finally yanking it over her head. She shrieked, “Help!” but the house was too big and the fundraiser was supposed to last all night. I pressed my palm over her mouth, feeling her teeth graze my flesh, each gasp hot and wet against my skin. My other hand found the zipper on her pencil skirt, and ripped it downward. The skirt peeled away, exposing a slip, then pantyhose, then the pattern of her underwear: white, high-waisted, almost innocent. I was trembling, but I couldn’t stop. I didn’t know how to stop.

She bucked, nearly tossing me, but in the chaos I managed to grip her ankles and pull. Her legs—athletic, tanned from a summer by the pool—were still kicking as I tore away the pantyhose, the static crackling between us. Her bra was next, a lacy beige number, which I twisted until the clasp snapped in my hands. She howled, but the sound was more animal than human. For the first time, I wondered whether I’d gone too far, whether I was damning myself in some way that would last forever. But the thought only flashed before I found myself yanking off my own shirt, then unbuttoning my jeans with shaking hands.

We were both half-naked now, both panting, both desperate—me for escape, her for mercy or sense-making. I could feel the sweat collecting under my arms, a sharp tang mixing with the powdery scent of her perfume and the iron tang of fear. My limbs worked with a mechanical urgency, as if they’d been programmed by something outside myself. I got her on her back and straddled her, pinning her wrists together above her head. Her face was blotched with red, blue eyes wild. “Please,” she whimpered, “you can have anything. Take anything.” I loosened my grip just long enough to tear away her pantyhose entirely, then wrapped it around her wrists, knotting it tight.

Her underwear was still warm from her body. I slid the high-waisted briefs over my hips, and they pinched in a strange, unfamiliar way. Each layer went on in reverse order: first her slip, then the pantyhose, then the skirt, then the t-shirt, still sticky with her sweat at the armpits and collar. My own hair fell in a ragged halo around my face, and I realized I’d have to do it up, neat and tight, the way Mrs. Jones wore it. I searched the nightstand for bobby pins, found a few, and twisted my hair into a bun, pinning it with trembling fingers.

Now I had to figure out what to do with her. But I'd already decided. I dragged her into the bathroom, and stuffed a towel in her mouth, just in case. Then I shoved her into the tub and drew the curtain. She kicked and bucked at first, but when she realized I wasn’t killing her, she fell silent except for these wet, hiccupping breaths. I stared at her for a second, seeing my own new face reflected in her panic.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, not sure who I meant it for.

She just glared, the towel bobbing with each breath.

I wiped up the sweat from my neck, went to the mirror and braved a look. I tried to smile and got a practiced half-grimace, exactly the way Mrs. Jones always did.

I ran my hands over my face, feeling the unfamiliar contour of cheekbone, the tautness of skin newly foreign. My jaw was smaller, chin more pointed; my nose, impossibly delicate. My head felt light, almost hollow, as if my own skull had been scooped out and refilled with Mrs. Jones’s memories, her instinctive microexpressions, her secret tics and tells. I blinked and watched the lashes—longer now—brush against the air. I parted my lips and caught a glimpse of teeth, brighter, straighter.

That’s when I noticed the weight pulling at my chest. I looked down, and my world tilted again. I had boobs now. It was like having two heavy, warm bags of sand stitched under your collarbone, and every movement made them shift, bounce, or press against the fabric of the bra I had just conquered. I drew one arm across to cup them, half in disbelief, half in awe, and felt the prickly scrape of lace against skin. Was this how it felt every day? I tried to stand up straight, but the new center of gravity sent me staggering, and I bumped my hip against the sink. Something about the curve of my waist, the slope of my shoulders, the way my thighs now brushed together above the knees—every detail demanded new instructions, new strategies for balance and poise. 

That’s when the garage door rumbled, and I heard the car pull in. Mr. Jones was home.