Copyright © 2018 by Sebastian J. Plata
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are from the author’s imagination, and used fictitiously.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available on file.
Cover illustration by Kirsten Ulve
Cover design by Kate Gartner
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-5107-3210-0
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3214-8
Printed in the United States of America
Dla moich ukochanych Rodziców.
CHAPTER 1
KONRAD
I SWEAR, IT’S LIKE EVERYTHING shrank overnight.
First my feet dangled off the bed. Then the doorknobs seemed too small for my hands. Now I’m in the bathroom, about to pee, and the toilet’s mocking me like a junior version of its former self. What the hell is going—
Hold on. Nope. Not everything.
I blink the rest of the sleep away and bend down for a closer look. Little Konrad not only feels too bulky in my hand, he actually appears bigger than usual, too.
I shut my eyes and suck in a deep breath. Am I still drunk? I don’t feel hung over, but I must be, right? That’s it. Lauren can call me a pussy all she wants. I’m never letting her shitty tequila near my mouth again.
I focus on the bathroom mirror, and my heart rate speeds up another notch. I sidestep to the left so I’m standing directly in front of my reflection.
For a good minute, I just stare at myself. And then I stare some more. Finally, I close my eyes and give each of my cheeks three good smacks.
I open my eyes again. Other than the rapid reddening of my skin, the image staring back at me hasn’t changed at all.
All right. There are three possible explanations for what I’m witnessing. Number one, Lauren sprinkled her disgusting tequila with some serious magic mushrooms and didn’t tell us. Number two, my dreams have come true. Or, number three, I’ve gone batshit insane.
Praying it’s not the last one, I march to the living room to get a second opinion. Arthur’s on the couch, a half-eaten Pop-Tart dangling from his hand, Dragon Ball Z blaring from the TV. But he’s no longer focused on the screen. My brother’s gawking at me.
We hold a silent staring contest. The Pop-Tart slips from his fingers and lands on the carpet. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Whoa,” he says, chewed-up mush spilling over his tongue. “An Inexplicable Development? For real?”
I race back to the bathroom, heart pounding.
Never have I used the word in reference to a guy before—and not in a million years would I ever have thought to use it in relation to myself—but it’s the only way to describe what’s reflecting back at me.
I’m gorgeous.
GORGEOUS.
Ripping off my T-shirt and boxers, I climb onto the edge of the bathtub so I can see my whole body in the mirror above the sink. My head bumps the ceiling. It’s never reached the ceiling when I did this before.
There’s no denying it—I’m gorgeous from the tip of my head down to my toes. I have muscle definition in my arms, my stomach is a brick wall, my thighs look like they belong to a soccer player. Every insecurity I’ve ever mulled over vanished overnight, replaced by this upgrade. Even my nipples look more appealing. How can nipples look more appealing?
Holy shit. It’s true. Inexplicable Developments really can happen to anybody.
Detecting movement on my right, I rip my attention away from the mirror. Mom’s standing just outside the threshold, a rag and plate in her hands. But she’s not wiping. She’s not doing anything. She’s too busy trying to keep her eyeballs in their sockets.
I leap down from the tub in my birthday suit and slam the door shut in her face.
“Konrad …” she says through the wood, her voice sounding too thin.
Burning with humiliation, I slip back into my boxers and open the door again, coming face-to-face with my mother, who’s just seen me checking myself out completely naked. But the embarrassment vanishes as quickly as it came. So what if she saw me naked? If I really look like I think I look now, then everybody should see me naked.
She blinks. “Konrad? Is that … you?”
“Hi, Mom …” She’s so much shorter than me now.
She shakes her head, trying to form words but failing.
I clench my fists in triumph. “I KNOW, RIGHT?”
I wait for her to speak until I realize my bladder is about to explode. While all of this was happening, I never actually got a chance to pee. “Okay,” I say, pushing on the door. “I know this is incredible and all, but I really have to use the bathroom now.”
From the other side, all I hear is: “I’m calling your father.”
My mom, brother, and I sit at the kitchen table waiting for Dad to drive his taxi back from the city to our little suburb. The two of them never stopped staring.
Mom’s features scrunch together. She shakes her head. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “There’s nothing to say. Just be happy for me!”
Watching her, I can literally see the buildup. It starts with the heaving of her chest and climbs to the twitch of her lips. A few seconds later, she’s bawling. “You didn’t like the way you looked?” she asks.
I’m taken aback by the accusation in her question. “No, I did. It’s just that …”
She takes the towel she was using to wipe the plate—the one she’s now holding onto for dear life—and blows her nose. “Just that what?”
“Just … I don’t know … I always wanted to be better looking.”
“But you were already good-looking!”
I consider telling her that I wasn’t. That I wasn’t good-looking enough. But this is probably not the best moment to throw insults at my family’s genetic pool. “Mom, I didn’t think it would actually happen, okay?”
She’s rocking back and forth a little. “An Inexplicable Development,” she laments, more to herself than to me. “In our family …”
A moment passes in silence. Arthur decides to cut it short. “So … are we going to school today or what?”
“No,” Mom answers. “You’re not.”
Arthur’s fist pumps through the air. “WOO-HOO!”
I’m both relieved and disappointed. I want to spend the whole day checking myself out in the mirror, but also get to school and show myself off as soon as possible. Although, now that Mom’s put a damper on things, I’m not sure either is appropriate.
“Can I text Alan and Lauren?” I ask, already plotting in my head how I’ll attach a selfie with the caption I WOKE UP LIKE THIS. They’re going to shit themselves.
Before Mom can answer, the back door swings open into the kitchen and Dad walks in. I’m facing away, so at first, he doesn’t notice anything different. “What’s the emergency?” he asks in his thick accen
t. “I was already on the highway, Julia. I had to turn around.”
I peek over my shoulder. Once his shoes come off, he takes one good look at Mom and his annoyance fizzles. He walks around the table and sits in the last empty chair. When his eyes finally land on me, they turn into two large globes.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, my lips pulled back in an awkward smile.
I let him take me in. His mouth opens and closes. I keep looking at his big Polish nose, the one he passed on to me. The one I don’t have to deal with anymore.
“How?” is the only thing that comes out of his mouth.
Arthur butts in to explain. “It’s an Inexplicable Development, Dad. Konrad thought he was ugly and wished to be better looking and it came true.”
Dad’s eyes never leave me. “You wished for this?”
“Duh,” Arthur goes on. “Of course he did. That’s what the main ID theory says. Don’t they teach you that stuff back in the motherland?”
Dad doesn’t seem to hear him. But he doesn’t need to. He knows the theory well enough, just like everybody else. The theory that claims IDs happen because the people they happen to want them to happen. What Dad is waiting to hear is for me to confirm it.
“I guess,” I answer with a shrug. I don’t mention that I’ve fantasized about this happening pretty much every day since I hit puberty.
“It’s so strange,” he says, as if I haven’t spoken. “It’s you, it’s definitely you. But it’s like you’re airbrushed or something.”
“Exactly! Isn’t it great?” At least his reaction isn’t as bad as Mom’s. Except, about a second later, his head starts shaking, too. “You wanted this?”
Gah! Hell yeah, I wanted this! Who wouldn’t? Maybe if I shout it out at the top of my lungs then they’ll finally believe me.
“I don’t understand,” Dad continues. “You’ve always been such a confident kid. You have friends, and girls like you. There was Sara. And you still have Lauren.”
My heart twists at the mention of Sara.
“Lauren’s a lesbian,” Arthur says flatly.
“I’m still me,” I say, because they’re kind of making me feel like I’m not.
Dad presses his lips into a line. His eyes twinkle in the morning light coming through the window. And then, like he couldn’t be any more melodramatic, like he couldn’t just be happy for me, he chokes up this little gem: “But you don’t even look like us anymore.”
My frustration spills over. “Oh, come on! This is awesome and you know it. It’s a dream come true. You’re going to tell me you never wished you looked different?”
“I did,” Mom admits. “Sure. I’m sure most people your age do. But you must’ve wanted it a lot more than most people. I never woke up beautiful.”
“Julia,” Dad scolds, “you are beautiful.”
Mom’s lips turn up at the edges and she starts sobbing again. Arthur and I exchange grimaces. Forehead wrinkled, Dad snaps his gaze back to me and starts shaking his head like I’ve committed an unforgivable crime.
Seriously, what the hell? IDs have been happening since forever. In Poland, where my parents grew up. In the States. All over the world. Both Mom and Dad know this, so why are they acting this way? And it’s not like mine’s even that weird. At least I’m not like that Estonian girl who grew wings from her back. Or that Thai dude who developed the ability to turn invisible.
I feel a pinch of dread in my chest. True, the Thai dude turned invisible once and could never turn back again. But maybe that’s exactly what he wanted. Inexplicable Developments are inherently good. Isn’t that what they say? For Christ’s sake, they’re supposed to be people’s wishes coming true. What’s more positive than that?
CHAPTER 2
CAMILLA
NUMB.
Not hysterical. Not suicidal. Numb.
You want to know the first thing I did when I flung off the covers this morning and saw what I looked like underneath? I laughed. That’s right—laughed. Like, out loud, no-holds-barred guffawed. I thought: there’s no way this is not a joke. The world can’t possibly be this cruel. Not even to me. Right?
Well, I’m not laughing anymore. Not that I’m freaking out either. I’m done with that part, too. I guess that “calm after the storm” saying is true. Or is it “calm before the storm”? Maybe the main storm, the bigger one, just hasn’t arrived yet.
I could just stay in my room forever. Why not? Get Mom to buy me a little electric stove for cooking. Construct a dumbwaiter at the window so I can pull up groceries after ordering them online. That way, I’ll never have to leave. That way, no one will ever have to see me.
I should look again. I don’t want to, but I should.
Based on what I know, those things don’t happen unless you really want them to, so maybe whatever happened to me is something else. Maybe it’s only temporary.
I have to check. I need to pee, anyway, and my stomach’s been grumbling for a while.
Before I push myself up from the floor where I’ve spent the past hour hugging my knees, I check my phone to see if Jodie replied yet. She hasn’t. But she will. And she’ll listen to my endless pleas to come over as soon as school lets out.
I couldn’t bear to see Mom this morning. How could I face her reaction when I was still reeling from my own? When she knocked on my door to make sure my alarm went off, I was already up. A shame so potent I thought I’d combust silenced all the evil voices in my head. Before she could come in, I gathered all the energy I had left and yelled, “I’m up, Mom! Love you! Have a great day!” At least one of us still could, right?
Now I’m ready for someone I trust to see me as soon as possible. Jodie’s frank. Oftentimes, a little too frank, but if there was ever a time I needed her honesty, it’s now.
As I heave myself up, I do my best not to look down. It hurts to even remember the warped impostor that’s swapped places with my runner’s body.
Shaking, I sneak over to the door. My plan is to go to the downstairs bathroom, use the mirror there, and then steal something from the fridge. The house is quiet. Mom won’t be home from the hospital until eight and, obviously, Dad is never coming back.
On the first floor, I flip on the bathroom light and creep inside. Resting my hands on the sink, I take a deep breath, and look up.
My stomach drops. Nothing’s changed. Everything’s still wrong. Not just wrong—obscene. It’s as if some sadistic deity rearranged the layout of my entire face while I slept, smashed some features down, exaggerated and distorted others, all with the ultimate goal of making me look as disgusting as humanly possible.
Lips quivering, I reach up to run my fingers over the bulbous, asymmetrical nose. Around the beadier eyes, farther apart than they used to be. Then the new bumps surrounding them on my olive complexion—the formerly spotless complexion I inherited from my Turkish dad and one of the few things I had actually liked about my appearance.
Not a single redeemable trait remains. None. But what hurts even more, what I can’t stomach, is that, even among all these hideous new features, I still recognize myself.
With shaking hands, I yank open the mirror and snag a razor off a shelf. I smear shaving cream above my nose and start slashing at the patch of hair connecting my eyebrows. I don’t worry about cutting myself. In fact, I secretly hope I do.
I splash some water on my face, but there’s no relief. If anything, I feel even worse. There’s nothing else I can try. No other improvements to be made. And even if there were, they would be meaningless in the grand scheme of things.
I refuse to cry. I didn’t cry when I broke my arm in sixth grade. I didn’t cry when one of my best friends made out with the guy I’d been secretly in love with for years. And I didn’t cry after Dad’s accident. I’m not going to start now. In the end, I don’t stop at the fridge. I go back up to my room, close the door behind me, and lie down.
Maybe, if I go back to sleep, this will all just end up being a nightmare.
The incessant chime of the doo
rbell rips me awake. I grab for my phone. 3:40 P.M. Six missed calls from Jodie. Eleven unread messages.
I race downstairs, refusing to so much as glance at any reflective surface, forcing myself not to think about how it takes my muscles so much more effort to cover the same distance. Peering through the peephole, I unlock the door, but instead of opening it, I back into the living room, gripped by the same shame I’d been experiencing since I first woke up this morning.
After a moment, there’s a tug on the knob and the door flies open. “Camilla?” Jodie yells. “Are you okay? What hap—”
The moment she lays eyes on me, she freezes. Both of her perfectly manicured hands fly up to her face. That’s how I know the nightmare is real. Nothing ever shocks Jodie.
Tears climb my throat, but I hold them back. My knees buckle. Jodie lowers her hands, her forehead in a knot, her naturally large eyes even wider. Still, she doesn’t say a thing. For the first time in seven years of friendship, Jodie is speechless.
My lower lip trembling, I wring my hands and wait. Jodie takes a wary step toward me, as if she’s trying to corner a frightened but potentially dangerous animal.
“My life is over,” I say, because I can’t stand her silence.
I see her searching for words, turning them over in her head. For a second, I think she might even agree with me. Yup, it is, Camilla. Your life is completely over. See you around? Or probably not. But then she wouldn’t be Jodie.
In one burst, she closes the distance between us. As she swoops me into a hug, all I can think is how she’s slightly taller than me now. She cradles me in her arms, but I just hang there in her grasp like a limp rag doll, my cheek against the strap of her backpack. I like the smell of her perfume. It’s familiar. Comforting. It helps.
Eventually, she pries me away.
I look up at her face, at the bold mascara smudged on her brown cheeks. She’s crying. An urge to do the same stings my eyes, but I blink it away.
Jodie’s lips twist to one side. She scans me from head to toe and back up again. “It’s not that bad,” she says.
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