by Rowe, Brian
Kimber heard that. She turned her head around and screamed so loud I thought my head might explode. “Get out of my room you pervert!”
I shut my eyelids tight and decided not to open them until I was back in my bedroom again. My eyes were watering, possibly because I was super tired, but more likely because I had just seen a sight no eighteen-year-old brother ever wanted to see of his little sister. It had been difficult adjusting to this new reality of Kimber starting to date guys at her middle school. But the thought of Kimber wearing a bra was something that had never crossed my mind.
You’re going to Hell, Cameron. It’s got a spot with your name on it, at the front of the line.
I made my way under my covers and decided that I wouldn’t come up for air until at least 11 A.M. and that I probably wouldn’t be seeing or talking to Kimber for a while. The girl definitely respected her privacy. And I had just made a fool of both of us.
Why oh why did she have to be playing that instrument so—
I was in the middle of my thought when my door shot open unexpectedly. Kimber made her way inside, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, thankfully. I thought she was going to slice my body in half with a chainsaw. Instead, she took a few steps forward, acting not too awkward, surprisingly, before sitting down at the foot of my bed.
“Sorry,” she said, “that was my fault.”
I poked the top of my head out from underneath the covers. “What?”
“I was playing too loud. I didn’t even realize how loud.”
“Oh… uhh… It’s OK. It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. I’ve never felt like this before, Cam.”
“Like what?”
“Like… jealous.”
I pushed my head against the pillows and tapped my fingers against the bed as Kimber continued to vent. She wouldn’t even look at me. Instead, she just stared out my bedroom window. I figured I could’ve been her big brother, or Mom, or guidance counselor, or pop star icon. She just needed somebody to talk to. I let her.
“Tommy… he breaks up with me, with no good reason, after months together. I barely have time to, you know, digest, and he’s already dating Gertrude, the school slut. I can’t get over it. I want to kill him. I want to take my hands, press them against his skull, and blow up his face.”
“Kimber… calm down.”
“I will not calm down! How am I supposed to go to school today? How am I supposed to face the stupid, snot-faced Gertrude, and that two-faced, two-timing, shit-for-brains sleazeball? It’s humiliating!”
“I know it is. But trust me. You’ll be fine, Kimber. Just don’t hide from him. Show him apathy… show him you don’t care. And you’ll be the better woman because of it.”
She smiled and opened the door. “I like this, Cam. You calling me a woman.”
“Well, you’re a young one, at least.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you later.”
“OK. And Kimber?”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry I barged into your room like that.”
She didn’t seem that upset about it anymore. “No worries. I promise to keep the volume down next time.”
“Have a good day at school.”
“I’ll try. I’ll let you know what happens.”
Kimber closed the door behind her, and I brought my head back under the covers, hoping I could get a few more hours of sleep.
But I didn’t sleep a wink. I just laid there for another hour or more, before I rolled out of bed and headed to the kitchen for some breakfast.
---
I had circled the shopping center parking lot twice now. Disoriented, and more than a little aggravated, I almost slammed my car right into a corpulent mom and her shopping cart, which was filled to the brim with enough food to last a six-month hibernation. A little boy, maybe five or so, was trailing behind her. He looked at me as happy as can be, performing a little dance in the middle of the street while I waited for him to clear out and follow his mom.
Must be nice, I thought. Must be nice to be five years old, waited on hand and foot, completely immersed in your own stupid games, without a care in the world. I’d kill to be young again. Even just for a day…
“No you wouldn’t,” I said out loud. And then: “Where the hell is this goddamn stupid store?”
I passed the Trader Joe’s for the third time, when I discovered in the corner of my eye a side part of the lot I hadn’t traveled to yet. I rolled over five bumps as quickly as I could without ruining my tires and made a left turn to find one lone store in the back of the complex. Simon’s Formalwear was the name of the shop, and it looked empty, which was a good thing. I could get in and out pretty quickly, I assumed. I didn’t want this to take forever.
I parked the car and glanced at my face in the rearview mirror. My skin looked even softer than yesterday, and my eyes particularly looked vibrant. I smiled and stepped out of the car.
“Knock, knock,” I said, entering the smallish space of the store to see no one at the register. I turned to my left to see another tiny space, this one with some tuxedos and dresses along a bunch of racks. I started inspecting the tuxedos, when I heard footsteps approaching from behind.
“Yesssss… How may I help you, young man?”
I turned around to see a short middle-aged man with thinning black hair and a goofy looking pair of black-framed glasses. He was five-foot-three, at most.
“I’m looking for a tuxedo to rent for the day,” I said. “At the end of the month? My dad said to come see you guys.”
“What’s your father’s name, boy?”
“Uhh, Stephen. Stephen Martin.”
“Yesssss… Steve Martin… the local celebrity who’s known for plastic surgery, not the Father of the Bride movies.”
Haven’t heard that one before. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Yesssss… he gave me some work on my chest, thighs, and buttocks three months ago. I’ve never looked or felt better.”
My jaw dropped, and then I swallowed, trying to keep the vomit down. “Umm… right… could I get a tuxedo, please?”
He smiled and ran his right hand through his miniscule amount of hair. “Sure thing, honey. Whatever tux you pick out, it’s on the house. Make sure you let your dad know. I may need some more work done.”
Ewwwww.
“OK, sure thing,” I said. I wanted to get out of there.
“Let’s get you fitted,” he said. “When’s the prom?”
“Pardon me?”
“Are you a junior or a senior?”
“I’m getting married,” I said.
The man started laughing. “Yeah. And I’m going home tonight with Bradley Cooper.”
“No, really, I’m serious. I’m getting married at the end of the month.”
He crossed his arms and looked at me bewildered. “You’re serious.”
“Yes, I’m serious.”
“What are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?”
“I’m eighteen.”
“Wow,” he said. “You look younger.” He flipped through some tuxes and started analyzing me. “How tall are you, son?”
“Six-one.”
“Really?”
He turned me toward him and pulled me closer. If he tried to make a move on me I was going to pop him in the nose. The guy looked fifty years old, at least. And, well, he was a guy. As much fun as it was kissing my basketball buddy Aaron a couple of times last year, I preferred to stick with the ladies.
“Yes, really,” I said. “What?”
“Would you mind if I measure you real quick?”
“Uhh, sure, yeah, whatever.”
He scurried out of the room for a minute or two, and then returned with a tape measurer.
“Put your back against the wall,” he said.
“OK.”
He set the end of the measuring tape on the carpet and placed the other end all the way at the top of my head. I yawned, bored, hoping that I’d sooner rather than later get through this nightmarish scen
ario. The tux was free; that was nice. But I wasn’t in the mood to become friends with this weirdo.
The man placed his thumb against the top of the measuring tape. “As I thought.”
“What?”
“You’re about five-ten.”
“What!”
I took a step forward and turned around to see his thumb pointed near the seventy-inches mark of the measuring tape.
“It can’t be…” I said.
“Excuse me. I’m gonna go to the back and see if I have a tux in your size. Your dad said you were six-one, too. Been trying to account for something, have we, Mr. Martin?”
He disappeared around the corner, and I took this moment alone to fall down to the carpet and place my legs out in front of me. I hadn’t been able to touch my toes for the last two years, since I was sixteen. I stretched out my legs as far out as they could go, and reached my hands for the tips of my toes.
I touched them without the least bit of difficulty.
“What the hell?”
Am I shrinking?
I had been proud about the fact that I had finally grown to be an inch taller than my father. Now I was shorter than him again? I had shrunk three inches? This didn’t seem right.
It’s probably just his measuring tape. Let’s see him actually try to fit me with the tux.
When the tuxedo arrived a few minutes later, I tried it on with trepidation.
It fit perfectly.
---
“How’s work going?”
“Oh my God, Cam, it’s been so crazy. Ever since we lowered the prices on the pizzas last month, it’s just been insanity here.”
“I know it sucks, but soon…”
“Yes. Just two more weeks, and then I’m taking so much time off I won’t know what to do with myself!”
“Yes you will. You’ll be spending day and night with me, attending rehearsal dinners, getting married, things like that.”
I stepped down my hallway with my cell phone pressed up to my ear and entered my bedroom, which had become a little messy in the last few days.
Note to self: get neater when you’re living with Liesel.
I hung my tuxedo in the closet and plopped down on the bed, yawning with extreme fatigue even though it was just a few minutes past 10 P.M.
“I’m so excited, Cam,” Liesel said.
“I am, too.”
“Is everything still OK? Remember, if you have any concerns, you know, about anything, you can talk to me. I’m always here for you.”
“I know. I’m OK. I’m fine.”
She didn’t believe me. “Come on… what is it?”
“What?”
“I can sense something in your voice. Something’s going on. Spill.”
“It’s nothing, Leese. It’s just me being paranoid.”
“Tell me.”
I told her about the mysterious disappearance of my facial hair last night, as well as the incident today involving my subtle but noticeable shrinking.
“Are you sure you didn’t do anything on Saturday? When you blew up at me in the restaurant?”
“No, Cam. I swear.”
“Cuz the last time you lashed out at me, I started aging. Maybe you threw a shrinking curse at me or something and just don’t know it?”
“Cam, I have been so good with my powers lately. I have complete control over them. Don’t worry.”
“Leese, it’s all right if you did. Just don’t lie to me. Don’t think if you did something I’ll leave you, or never talk to you again. You know I love you. I just need you to make me better if you did anything—”
“Cam, I got angry on Saturday. But I swear, I didn’t do anything.”
“The light bulb burst above us,” I said.
“What?”
“And the flame on the candle… it re-ignited. When you stood up from the table.”
Again, silence on the other end. I could tell Liesel wasn’t so longer one hundred percent sure about her innocence.
“But it’s OK,” I said. “If you did anything, you can correct it. That’s the worst case scenario.”
“Cam, listen to me.” Her voice sounded more concerned.
“What?”
“I want you to sleep on this. One more night. If anything else unusual happens to you tomorrow, I want to see you first thing. I’m working crazy hours tomorrow, but I can get away on my lunch break. I thought the chest hair thing was weird, but I didn’t think anything of it. The height thing… well… that concerns me a bit. Did you test your height on another tape measurer?”
“Of course I did. I went and bought another one and tested it myself. It says I’m five-ten. I’m six-one, Leese. I have been for the last two years.”
“OK. Call me tomorrow, all right? Let me know how you’re feeling. I don’t want to worry about you all day.”
“I will. Let’s hope it’s nothing.”
“It will be.”
I tossed the phone on my nightstand and turned to my right side. I closed my eyes and tried to relax.
This can’t be happening again… it can’t be… not again…
I was becoming sure each and every minute that something bad was happening to me again. But another thought started to occur to me, one that was even worse.
If Liesel really did put a curse on me… again… what’s to stop her from cursing me another five hundred times in the course of our lives?
And, finally, this one: Will I ever be able to trust her?
5. Fifteen
The nightmare returned, the one with the figure of death chasing after me, down one long hallway after another, with no end in sight.
I would run and run and run, and then wake up in spurts. But as soon as I fell asleep, the nightmare would return, with me running more and more, faster and faster, until my legs finally caved in and I fell to the hard cement ground with a loud, painful thud.
But this time, instead of the figure caressing the bottom of my feet with his sharp-edged knife, he started scraping the knife against the bottom of my palms.
I woke up in a mountain of sweat, not knowing if I was safe, or even alive. I rubbed my palms against the bed for a few seconds before sitting up. I managed to get a hold of my breathing, when I swallowed and realized that a big glass of water would probably make me feel better.
I stretched and got up to my feet, still in a daze, feeling like I was half asleep. I moseyed into the hallway and up the stairs to find the house quiet and empty. I couldn’t even hear the dog walking around. It was a few minutes past 9 A.M., and the only sounds I could hear was the wind from outside blowing against the front doors.
I grabbed a paper cup from the kitchen island and poured myself some tap water. I downed all of it and then poured myself some more. I took a step forward, enjoying the touch of the cold water against my dry throat, and looked into the family room area, where the TV was turned on, with the sound on mute. A blanket was resting on the couch, sprawled over three of the cushions, as if somebody has been sleeping underneath it last night.
Before I investigated the blanket drama further, however, I noticed, for the first time, as I finally started snapping out of my daze, the annoying manner in which my sweatpants were bunching up against my feet. I leaned down to pull the bottom of my sweatpants up, when I stopped myself.
Oh my God.
My sweatpants weren’t just falling down a little bit more than usual. They were crashing against the hardwood floor as if I had put on a pair this morning five sizes too big. I swallowed again, this time not because my throat was still dry, but because I was terrified.
No. No, no, no.
I slowly brought my hand up my body, caressing my awkward, bony legs, rubbing the tips of my fingers against my small, flattened butt. Then I took both of my hands and placed them underneath my t-shirt, where I felt my protruding ribcage, and my hardened, boyish nipples.
I thought I was going to be sick. When I turned my head to the left, it took my brain a few seconds to recognize I ha
d even moved. I was getting woozy by the second, and I wondered if I was going to be able to make it downstairs to my bathroom to see for myself the awful, honest truth.
“It’s happening again,” I said out loud.
After pulling the bottom of my sweatpants up to the tips of my knees, I roamed downstairs, into the hallway and toward my bathroom.
It was finally starting to click.
She called me a baby, I thought. She called me a baby!
I stepped into the bathroom, slapping myself in the face a few times just to confirm that I wasn’t having another nightmare. I most definitely wasn’t.
I turned on the light and immediately threw off my t-shirt, not to impress any teenage girls across the way, but to see the damage that had been done. I needed to see the striking differences.
I kept my eyes closed for a moment. I didn’t want to open them. But I finally did.
My six-pack from the last two days was gone. And the subtle build-up of fat from the days prior to those was gone, too. There wasn’t an inch of fat on me. My stomach was as thin as an iron board, not in a way that suggested I had been starving myself in the last twenty-four hours, but in a way that suggested I had been sent back in time a decade, when I was able to consume anything my heart desired and still maintain a svelte figure.
Last year when my stomach ballooned into the size of a basketball, I asked Dad to give me liposuction. Now I’d be prepared to ask him for fat injections!
The lack of hair wasn’t the issue, anymore; the issue was the lack of growth, the lack of substance in my body.
I grabbed my measuring tape from the drawer furthest to the left. I had measured myself again last night. I had still been five-ten.
Here goes nothing.
I measured myself again, my whole body tensing. I hadn’t puked since Mrs. Gordon licked my nipples last May, but I thought I might finally upchuck again if my worst fears came true.
I backed away from the wall and looked at the top of the measuring tape.
Five-seven.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Did you really think it wasn’t going to happen again, Cameron? Did you? How naïve are you?
I stepped toward the middle of the bathroom. I wasn’t sure whether to vomit or just start bawling my eyes out. I figured I’d do whatever came first.
