Tim and Mary could barely stand upright, doubled over with stifled laughter –the muffled energy of two children who had done something so fantastically forbidden.
Tim had wanted to be Dad; Dad was the fun one. But Mary had wanted it too, and the spell—half-translated, half-improvised from the old book in the attic—hadn’t given them a choice. Now they were lopsided, Tim in Mom’s thin, beautiful, well-endowed body and Mary in the broad-shouldered one of their father, and their real parents’ souls were presumably off somewhere, silent and suspended like moths in a jar.
Tim stuttered, “We have to fix this. We—I mean, they’ll kill us.”
“They can’t do anything if they’re not here,” Mary pointed out.
A spark danced between them. At first it was a silly suggestion—“What if we just pretended to be them for a day? Hee!”—then it grew bolder. They could do the things parents did when no children were around. Try wine for the first time. Eat ice cream from the carton. Watch TV past ten.
It was Mary who said it first, with that wicked glint she got when she and Tim were united in mischief, “We should kiss.”
Tim’s borrowed eyelashes fluttered as heat leapt to Mom’s cheeks. “No way—that’s… that’s too weird.”
Mary grinned, “What, like Mom and Dad don’t do it all the time?”
Mary cut him off by closing the gap, but just before contact, both of them started giggling—helpless, spiraling laughter that made Tim’s borrowed mascara run and Mary’s borrowed belly shake. They tried to suppress it, but it was no use; the more they tried to act grown up, the more ridiculous it became. When the laughter finally faded, they were left breathing each other’s air, a half-inch between their faces.
Tim nodded, barely more than a tremor, and squeezed his eyes shut again. He puckered his lips.
Their noses bumped, and the kiss landed somewhere on the corner of Tim’s mouth, clumsy and not at all like the movies.
It was over in a heartbeat, but the gentle thrill left them gasping, springing apart with hands pressed to their cheeks, laughter and surprise mingling in the quiet aftermath.
“I can’t believe we just—” Tim started.
“Yeah…!”
They jokingly held hands to waltzed into their parents’ bedroom. The bed was made with military precision, the walls lined with wedding photographs and framed vacation landscapes.
Tim reached for the closet door, but Mary beat him to it, yanking it open with a flourish.
“Let’s play dress-up,” she declared, her voice booming in Dad’s basso.
She rifled through the closet with a wild abandon, pulling out suit jackets, high heels, scarves, and a tangle of belts. They draped the clothing over the bed.
Tim slipped into a pair of Mom’s heels, tottering around the room with a wobble that left Mary doubled over with laughter. Mary donned a blazer.
Tim’s thoughts were interrupted by Mary’s sudden intake of breath. She reached deep into the closet, emerging with a scrap of bright blue fabric stretched between her hands. It was one of Mom’s bikinis.
“No way, Mary…”
“Oh, come on, Tim! If you’re gonna be Mom, you gotta go for it.”
“Mary… I–”
“Tim, we should totally go for a swim!”
Mary shoved the swimsuit into Tim’s hands with a triumphant, “You have to!”
He glanced down at his hips—Mom’s hips, his hips—suddenly aware of how they flared beneath the waistband of the pencil skirt he was wearing over the borrowed pantyhose. There was no escape.
He retreated to the bathroom, locking the door with a click. He peeled off the skirt first, hesitating at the unfamiliar zipper, hands shaking a little as he worked it open. Every movement was alien: the softness of the thighs, the slight give of the stomach, the way the chest shifted and jiggled in response to his fumbling. It was the sort of body he’d never expected to experience firsthand, certainly not like this.
Behind the door, Mary was knocking in Dad’s deep, jovial voice, “You need help in there, Timmie?”
He rolled his eyes, “Go away!”
But her contagious laughter thundered through the wood, making him break out in his own giggles.
Tim unbuttoned the blouse, revealing the bra beneath—white, with a tiny pink bow at the center, and already tight against the full breasts it was meant to support. He had no idea how to take it off, but after a few clumsy attempts, he managed the clasp, and the bra slid forward, releasing the breasts with a peculiar, weightless relief. The nipples tightened in the air, and Tim couldn’t help but watch in the mirror, transfixed. For a while, he just stood there, trying to decide whether to look away or to lean in closer.
There was another knock, “Come out, come out!”
He tried the bikini top first, the blue fabric barely covering the areolae, let alone the rest. He had to wriggle out of the pantyhose, catching the toes, and then shimmy into the high-cut bikini briefs, which hugged his new hips so tightly.
He opened the bathroom door and stomped back into the bedroom, trying to act like it was nothing, but the moment Mary saw him, she whooped with laughter and pointed, “Look at you! You’re like, totally Mom!”
Tim folded his arms over his chest, which only made them stick out more, “Shut up. I look stupid.”
“No way. You look killer,” Mary said, and for a second her eyes went soft, almost admiring.
But then she reached out and gave one breast a firm, testing poke, “Squishy!”
Tim yelped, batting her away.
“Don’t touch me there!” he said.
“Hey, if you’re gonna be Mom, you gotta get used to it!”
Tim shrieked again, the sound more delighted than afraid, and tried to wriggle free. The attempt to look tough while wearing a bikini and giggling like a child was not going well.
“I hate you,” Tim said, but they were both giggling now, locked in a ridiculous wrestling match that left the bedspread in disarray.
Mary yanked Tim forward, and caught him in a bear hug from behind, pinning his arms to his sides. The sensation was bizarre: the bulk and heat of Dad’s body pressed so close, the stubble of Mary’s borrowed chin scratchy against the smooth skin of Tim’s shoulder.
“Say uncle!” Mary commanded.
Mary, still in full Dad-mode, seized both of Tim’s arms and pinned them tight to his sides with a savage humor. Tim squirmed, but Mary only cinched the bear hug tighter, and then, with a gleeful wickedness, reached around and began to knead Tim’s breasts through the blue bikini top.
Tim went rigid in Mary’s grip, breath wedged halfway between a gasp and a yelp. Her hands —Dad’s—clamped down on the bikini-clad breasts like a pair of meat tenderizers, squeezing, poking, then giving them a grotesque little jiggle.
The sensation was so alien, so electric, that Tim forgot to be mortified by the fact that his little sister was manhandling him. Instead, he was hyper-aware of every input: the press of the thick, warm palm through cheap poly-blend, the prickle of Dad’s arm hair against Mom’s bare stomach, the way his own breath now came in little staccato bursts, as if the lungs themselves had to relearn their purpose.
Instinct kicked in—Tim’s legs jerked, knees buckling, thighs thrashing as Mary’s grip only grew more devilish.
“Stop! Leggo!” he half-moaned, but the voice came out a higher, more desperate register than he’d anticipated.
Mary, of course, found this hilarious. She cackled, then gave the bikini top an extra little tug, sending both the fabric and Tim’s last shred of dignity slipping to the left.
“Quit it!” Tim shrieked, but his shoves were only so effective.
“Shut up, you love it!” Mary barked, giving him a fresh, two-handed honk on the bikini top.
“You have boobies! You have boobies!” Mary chanted, dancing him around in a grotesque parody of their childhood games.
With each syllable, she bounced him up and down, setting the bikini into a wild, uncontrolled jiggle that would have been mortifying if it weren’t so numbly fascinating. Tim felt like a carnival prize—a novelty, a rubber chicken, something meant to be shaken and displayed.
He tried to wriggle free, but that only seemed to encourage her. Mary clamped him tighter, wrapping one arm just beneath his chest and turning her voice all singsong. “Who’s a squishy girl now? Who’s a wiggly little lady?” She spun him around for a full-body hug, then lifted him clean off the carpet. Tim’s toes barely scraped the ground, his arms flailing for balance as his borrowed breasts pressed into Dad’s, which were basically solid muscle, separated only by two thin layers of fabric and a history of mutual antagonism.
Mary mercifully let go, and Tim tumbled forward onto the bed, landing belly-down amid the riot of borrowed clothing. For a moment he lay there, stunned, the aftershocks of the touch humming through his new nervous system. Then came a giggle—very much Mom’s giggle, bright and surprised—and Tim realized with a flush of shame that he’d enjoyed something about the experience.
He rolled onto his back, arms crossed protectively over his chest, and shot Mary his best glare.
“If you do that again I’ll—” But the threat died in his throat, because Mary was already losing interest, digging through the closet with renewed fervor.
She emerged a moment later with a pair of oversized sunglasses, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and an honest-to-god silk scarf that trailed behind her like a magician’s ribbon. With the confidence of someone who’d seen this done a thousand times, she plopped the hat onto Tim’s head, then slid the sunglasses over his nose.
“Perfect!” Mary declared, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “You look like the coolest mom on the block.”
Tim tried to look affronted, but something in the mirror caught his eye and derailed the performance. The effect was uncanny: even with the bikini askew and hair sticking every which way, Tim caught a vision of Mom that was both familiar and fundamentally altered. The hips, the bust, hell, even the shape of the jawline—all of it belonged to the woman who’d once tucked him in at night and read him Shel Silverstein. But the posture was new, the way the body filled the space was new, and the particular tilt of the head behind those sunglasses was undeniably Tim’s.
He drew himself up, feeling the stretch of the torso, the lilt of the hips, the twitch of the lips around a smile that wasn’t quite Mom’s and wasn’t quite his own. Then he looked down—really looked down—at the body, at the curve of the waist and the way the bikini top pressed the breasts together, at the long, smooth legs ending in painted toes. The dizziness returned, but this time it wasn’t fear or embarrassment. It was pride. A giddy, unearned pride, the kind that comes from trying on a costume and finding it fits better than you expected.
Mary caught the look and grinned, “See? I told you. You totally pull it off.”
He shot her a sidelong glance, “You’re just saying that so I’ll go along with your dumb plan.”
Mary threw an arm around his shoulders—thick, heavy, and reassuring, “No, I’m saying that because you look awesome. Now let’s go.”
She offered him her hand in a parody of chivalry, and Tim took it, allowing himself to be led out of the bedroom and down the hall. The sunglasses made the world go blurry at the edges, but Tim didn’t care. He strutted, hips swinging, trying to recall how he’d seen Mom walk when she wanted to impress the neighbors, or when she was in a hurry at the grocery store.
They reached the sliding glass door that led to the back patio, the one overlooking the pool. Tim hesitated only a moment. He could see the whole yard, empty and golden with late afternoon sunlight. The pool shimmered, a blue mouth waiting to devour them. For a second, Tim imagined what this must look like from the outside: two adults, one in swim trunks, the other in a bikini and sunglasses, emerging into the summer day like an idealized portrait of family leisure. If any of the neighbors glanced over the fence, they’d see nothing strange. The world would keep turning, the masquerade would hold. Tim felt a pang of loneliness for his old self—a quick, sharp memory of being smaller, of sitting on the concrete with feet dangling in the water while Mom and Dad bantered above him. But the pang faded, replaced by a reckless delight.
Mary, realizing Tim’s hesitation, gave his hand a squeeze, “You ready?”
Tim squared his shoulders—a move that set the bikini strap right again—and lifted his chin, channeling pure maternal authority.
“Born ready,” he said, and the sound of Mom’s voice, confident and bright, thrilled him to the core.
Without waiting for further ceremony, they swung open the glass door and stepped into the sunlight.
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