Chapter 3 - Three Cups More

Once the hug was finished and I felt questionably better, Lacy mulled over the details and decided, "Grandma and grandpa would be fine but we need to do something about you. Did they have any other purple bananas?"

Shedding the mind-crippling notion I might be stuck, I focused on the possibility. I'd just found one, but one was all I'd looked for. It was a rigorous search, but the same had been true of the blond. Reflecting, I wondered if she had been changed like me, into a copy of someone else. Silently, I apologized to the memory of her, even though it didn't matter.

Traveling ahead of me after I admitted I had no idea if there were more of those bananas or not, Lacy gestured to the sidewalk leading back and urged, "Let's drive over and get some. We can't leave you like this."

She wasted no time walking swifter than I could comfortably manage along the sidewalk with that cockeyed bra, overflowing skirt, and abundance of flesh. Just fighting against little spot fires of hair jumping at my face was too much.

Less than a block into our return trip, she reined in her pace and walked backwards while facing me. I knew it wasn't showing off, but I could feel the divide of well over twenty years she had in this body versus not even an hour for me. She asked, "So, what do you think?"

"About what? Being a....being changed like this?"

She bobbed her head. "About the whole shebang. I mean...oh! I just remembered, there is this forum I found called Frostwell Paranormalcy. I bookmarked it. Mostly old buildings with cold spots, strange sounds, and weird mists, but they also had some lake monsters, skinwalker camping tales, and out-of-body dreams of worlds where spirits place bets on people and there's nothing but pubs instead of Micky Ds. Weird bananas might be on there or I can log in and start a new topic." Somehow, she managed to remain coordinated enough to dig out her nipple-toned-attachment phone, and begin a search.

Before the next intersection, she scuffed to a stop in her tracks and announced, "Woah...there's more than one!" Bringing the phone over to me, we read how every entry on the first page included the phrase "purple mystery", including "purple mystery produce".

At first, digging into the threads was disappointing, as the most presented was a clearly-shopped orange with a purple light bloom around it. Despite that, some posters claimed they experienced symptoms like "stomach flu and tiredness" but that it went away after a "full day". The locked threads were even more interesting as a poster included a shot of breasts and cleavage showing through men's clothing. Another unusual thing was ten users aside from Lacy on the board but over fifty lurkers. She noted that she'd never before seen more than a dozen overall online at the same time.

If not for the situation I was in, I'd think the board was playing an obscure joke, especially for Halloween. With the weird foods, some threads mentioned creepy guys selling candy from the back of their vans and a lavender film appearing in a hot tub. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it all, but Lacy was wide-eyed, with a bold grin on her face, as she proclaimed, "We have to find more of these bananas, just to be safe."

More? I reminded her that the forum suggested that it would just run out after a day. In turn, she pointed out the forum said a lot of things, often quite contradictory.

"If we get more of them, then at least we can be safe. You may need one or more to go back to being John."

She raised a decent point but, more than anything, I concluded doing something was a lot better than just waiting things out and hoping someone with the username CryptofZooBawlogy34 was right.

I did my best to step up the pace with Lacy but walking was a delicate balance between where the weight of Lacy's body wanted to go and what my brain expected walking to feel like. Even breathing had a learning curve. My thighs had never felt so fleshy and hairless nor had the way they crossed one another with each step felt like I'd been turned inside-out and compressed.

Batting away that thought under hot cheeks resulted in an upset to the balance as I didn't bring Lacy's left leg far enough forward and only flailing for the nearest oak trunk saved me from sprawling out on the ground. Lacy did her best to steady me as I attempted to speak with an inferno of red hair sweeping across my face.

Compared with everything else, the hair didn't feel too bad. I had long hair one winter after high school. But the problem came when I tried to swallow, and I felt like the roller on a vacuum, grunting and squeaking. Extracting the longest, twisting ones reminded me of an old horror film, which even Lacy couldn't make it through, where VHS tapes cursed people over a week and one of the curses was choking on hair.

At least my earlier, failed attempts to dry Lacy's locks meant a good portion was still stiffly rooted behind me. When the coughing settled down, Lacy couldn't keep from returning to apologies. She advised, "You should definitely use an elastic or at least one of the rubber bands on the pantry knob."

With a throat clearing and a squeak still despite it, I mentioned I had no idea early if I'd replaced her with a reality swap or if she might be in trouble, so I wanted to get to her as soon as possible and that meant the bare minimum of prep.

And I added, "Besides, your closet makes no logical sense, so I could only guess where ties might be."

Wiggling a finger, Lacy told me, "In the top drawer, with all my other hair things. I assume you picked out what you're wearing because it was right in front?"

I confirmed her theory with a ginger nod, so as not to upset the settled flames, adding, "Not my first choice but I needed to wear something."

Even touching upon the subject of Lacy's clothes felt like weird. Standing and backwards walking before me, she had on a comfy-looking, blue athletic top that, probably paired with some unseen sports bra, did a great job of keeping her chest from sifting despite her bounding movement. She also wore sweatpants with a lightning stripe down the side that I knew our grandparents bought her last Christmas because she wanted to get her spirits up more with exercise.

I wasn't wearing the girliest thing of hers, but I still silently wished I'd come across a common pair of relaxing jeans and an athletic top like hers. I knew that wouldn't change what was underneath, but maybe it might've helped how I felt right then with underwear just a flap of fabric away and the issues of a misaligned bra.

"You do realize I have a system, right? Sure, the regulars wind up in the front and I sort mostly by color but it's a simple arrangement that saves time and space." I appreciated that she had everything where she wanted it to be and had no desire to upset that balance. I also had no desire to delve into the intricacies of her clothing and asserted this by answering, "I know and I don't want to know..."

Sticking her tongue out, she burst out with a laugh and teased, "Alright. But what if it becomes your closet too and we become twins who need to share clothes? You don't even know my bra size or how to size bras."

Some knowledge I never needed to know and some possibilities I didn't need to dwell on. But through random knowledge striking me from the Internet and those close to me, I had acquired a base level understanding of bras. The number represented the circumference of the chest below the bust and the letter was the difference including the bust...counted with an inch per letter? My brain screamed that this was not an appropriate correction and question, but I managed to get it out.

Lacy accepted my statement with a rock of her head and a swivel of her hands. "Essentially. Well, there is nuance. Sizes depend on style, comfort, and use. Some things you want snug, sizes on the band pair and shift with the cup size, and as with everything in clothing, size is sometimes a fib. Around the house though, I wear a special-order F-cup bra." That was about three letters further than I ever anticipated. 

A voice inside my head pleaded with her not to share all this information and, when she flat out stated her size, not only did some part of my brain feel like it had been exposed to a cursed, supernatural mythic artifact, melting its metaphorical face away, but the weight tangled up in that dragged-on underwear felt even more ever-present on Lacy's borrowed collarbone, underarm muscles, and neck, with a pinch building over my back.

Catching my visible discomfort, Lacy approached me and asked me to raise my arms. Standing behind me, she led me through the twists and lumps, like being guided through a red-skinned minefield of my own creation. Despite us being alone and the houses set back from the pavement with not a car nearby, I could still imagine some front window weirdo peering at Lacy's doubled body with binoculars.

This was overtaken by the immense relief when everything slipped and settled into the right places and, like an unleashed charley horse, that chest began to tingle with a throbbing burn. I'd done my best to forget about it but now it was shouting from every curve and contour.

With those beacons of Lacy proclamation feeling so obvious, along with everything else caught in my brain like a ragged hook of strangeness, I sympathized and let slip the question, "How do you manage?"

It took her a moment to realize what I meant. She laughed and noted, "Well, we come to an agreement over time. Also, I didn't get them from a boob fairy or a cursed banana in one afternoon. They went through the same journey I did. Ideally, I would've put them on pause where they were a decade ago but remember great-grandma was a gifted dancer and singer, so no escaping all this. And now you've got me wondering what it would be like if I had Jo, Jane, or Joan for a cousin."

The notion didn't actually unsettle me as much as I expected. Borrowing and inhabiting Lacy's shape left me feeling on edge. If I'd become some potential, female iteration of myself, with all that genetic lineage, then at least that would unquestioningly be mine. Not that I wanted to try that out either, but a day in that form might be an actual adventure.

Lacy added, "And, I wouldn't mind what it might be like if I grew up with your boyish puberty. Not that I expect perfect grass on that side, but it would be worth checking out for a day." Considering the sorts of costumes Lacy had attempted, it shouldn't have surprised me. And it made sense that Lacy wanted to get extra bananas, in case they were safe to try. I couldn't imagine her differently, but I could absolutely understand the desire for a different form, especially when I was wearing it.

I started another thought aloud about better tops to wear when she stopped me and asserted, "You talk the same way as you always have. That's kinda weird to hear, especially in a voice that should sound like mine."

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I turned over the last words I'd said a few times before I gathered her meaning. Although I borrowed her vocal cords, the way I wielded them differed. Lacy had a distinct, rising rhythm to her voice which accentuated her highs and lows and, in my opinion, made it difficult for her to fib in games we'd played decades ago that required deception. Her emotions bled through like slipping fingers along a guitar neck to change the pitch of a note.

How I used that voice, however, made it tap with vocal footsteps, lessons on how to enunciate which I'd internalized ages ago. It made her voice sing less. Trapping the voice with a fretfully-girlish inflection, like I was convinced I'd done when terrified of what grandma would think of me wearing Lacy's form, not only brought a boisterous giggle from my cousin but also her own playful repetition of my imitation. Hers felt more natural but fell hard into horror movie bimbo parody.

Thinking about her natural lilt, I attempted to get the crests and valleys, but that didn't sound right either, more like someone trying to play at a regional accent while being tone-deaf to its nuances. It amused me to see Lacy chuckle again and it made me feel better that something of my identity had endured, even with all the changes. Still, it was hard to label the sounds I automatically made as tomboyish, let alone manly, ironically with my mealy-mouthed attempts at avoiding all things Lacy-like.

Lacy remarked that I did sound a little like some tomboys she knew in school, as well as some girls everyone was totally certain were gay, only for them to wind up happily married to a rugged man with seven kids and a side business selling knit outfits for toddlers. I had to ask her if she thought our grandparents would notice.

She waved away my concerns, stating she had a plan for that, then bluntly recalled that grandpa wanted her to buy him some scratchers while she was out. But she waved this away too, resolving that we could get them at the Walmart.

Finally, easing my jagged nerves, we soon arrived back at the house. I didn't spy anyone in the neighboring windows but the walk up the side drive to my truck felt like practically stumbling around naked with Lacy's "everything" exposed for the world to gawk at. At the same time, I shifted around to provide a low, orange wall with the flutters of her skirt. I couldn't do much of anything to help her out like this, but at least it was something.

Before the door, she inquired if she should grab her purse or anything else. Purse? If she wanted. As for me, I needed a hair tie to tame the wildfire set loose across my head. I considered asking for a coat of hers which might hide everything up top but I figured the ones I had tossed behind the seat would be fine.

Before she left, Lacy paused and watched me awkwardly clamber my way to the high step on the truck before nervously swinging the door around, so I could plop on the seat. She caught the door and then shut it for me. I gave her a look and she admitted, "It's not...oh what's that big German word? It sounds like "show in fraud", but it's not that. It's being understood and more. Alright, be right back."

It seemed like she wanted to elaborate on "more", but I was too preoccupied with finding a comfortable, permanent refuge on the driver's side. Trying on one of my regular, leather jackets, I found it pooled its way to Lacy's knees as I scrunched my nose at the lingering aromas trapped inside it. Primarily, it hadn't been washed for a while and that bothered me more than usual. But beyond that, I could smell John's presence brushed across it. That should have been an innate smell that just met my own like two televisions of static. Instead, now it was static on top of the overwhelming melody of Lacy. Sliding the collar down helped tune it to a distant crackle.

Left alone with just myself and everything that was Lacy, it reminded me of how I'd been inverted. Setting her thighs and knees together felt comforting but also made my stomach swim in twisting circles, faintly evocative of when I'd consumed the banana. Sprawling those legs apart, however, not only felt embarrassing but also like yanking on the scab of a wound more mental than physical.

The phantom absence of something I just took for granted left me with a cold, shuddering sweat. Sitting also gave me the most vivid reminder that the underwear I'd fought with like it was going to attack me didn't cover near as much as I wanted in the ways I preferred.

As I ran through this mental laundry list though, I felt a lump of guilt about drenching every aspect of my cousin in negative thoughts. Granted, she had her own self-criticisms, but it wasn't all scorched earth ruin. The skirt was a nice material, which didn't feel too heavy in this weather. Sitting was comfortable, so long as I didn't linger on certain details. Being smaller meant I got more coverage out of the jacket and I could probably vanish, like she often did, underneath grandma's soft, knit blanket instead of having my calves and feet poking out the end if I tried to stretch. The stuff up top did sweat in places I'd never had before but, with the corrected support, it felt almost like a massage.

While her fingers were very different and much smaller, I didn't have too much trouble gripping things and, as I'd expressed to her in person, she was not weak, despite how others might assume from her appearance. Beyond our encounter, where she was totally in control, I knew she had toughed it out in high school against the worst kind of B-word-earning girls. Even with her fists.

Lacy was not and would never be a negative, but living in her skin, if only for a day, had clearly shown me how much of a challenge it was for me.

After sifting through all those thoughts, I lofted a cautious concern that she wasn't back yet.

Instead of dwelling on what that might mean as the minutes ticked away to the possible last weird banana in stock, I adjusted all the mirrors to Lacy's height while experimentally gripping the wheel. I'd kept it straight, so I just needed to creep out gradually without making any turns. At least I knew that the truck could handle dropping onto the grass, having made that mistake a few times. It would just bound over the curb. Everything afterwards was the part to be concerned about for driving while Lacy.

Fiddling with the radio passed a few more minutes until I finally heard the screen door creak open, wiggle, swing almost shut, then dash out again as someone shut the door. It was Lacy, in some jeans and a loose, navy blue flannel top. While I offered to help her climb into the passenger side, she hopped in without a stumble. Setting her purse at her feet, still in comfy-looking sneakers, she asked me to turn away from her as she worked a hair tie in her fingers.

I braced myself and did my best not to move as she gripped all that hair like a bundle of twisting, incandescent branches. Once it was rigid, she added something else to wrap the end into a dense bun, that hung like a small stone secured to a sling. Though the bound weight was almost enough to upset the delicate balance I'd been working on, I felt grateful for the organization and control.

Puffing a long breath, Lacy apologized and explained, "They were persistent about keeping me around till you came back and calling and all sorts of stuff. Sooo, I told them you had a little emergency of an unspecified type and I had to help. And I would be fine driving your car over. Never mind how you left. Don't worry. Don't call. Hey, you both love looking at the clothes and cards and mementos set aside in the attic. Why don't I bring them down? And the lights will be done when all this is settled. Kay love you bye please let me go...Oh and grandma just finished some of those peanut butter cookies you like and wrapped it up safe for me to give to you.....yeah."

I smiled automatically, the slightest whiff of cookie escaping Lacy's purse. I almost asked for one when it hit me and I sadly responded, "Oh..."

She shrugged and noted, "I mean you can try maybe one. My allergy isn't as bad as it was when I was younger. But I do not recommend coughing till you feel like you have to barf."

Considering I had Lacy's body and likely all the same immune responses, I wasn't going to roll the dice with all the other challenges before us. The smell was brutal too. Fortunately, she got us each an icy bottle of water, so I could fight back my cookie drool and she could rehydrate.

Eventually, she inquired, "Ready to go?"

After one more sip, I nodded and set the water down in the drink slot. The belt catching the soft, left edge of that chest was one more thing I didn't need but setting it right in the middle didn't help either. Craning slowly to check the back and then just the mirror, I let gravity plus the faintest pressure pull the truck back. Small corrections kept it from slipping over the uneven patches but then built to larger and larger corrections till I just cleared the curb at the end with the back tire creaking and bumping.

Unfortunately, a driver decided right then was when he needed to rumble through at full speed. Some measure of muscle memory brought my foot down on the brake but their crazed beeping left my heart racing as Lacy flashed me a concerned look and brought her hand into a fist to shake out the window.

Naturally, I also pulled out facing the wrong direction, requiring a loop around the neighborhood to get to the main road. The truck felt more like an eighteen-wheeler, though I'd only driven one in a test loop at the county fair once. Having the hair out of my eyes helped but Lacy's fingers wanted to stumble over each other. And then legs. I had to look down to check that I'd moved far enough for the right foot pedal. Mostly, I kept near the brake.

Though I just needed two lefts, they were so challenging to judge. The first time I nearly met the opposite sidewalk and the second I cut too tight. Sure, everyone beeped at me, but Lacy shouted her best complaints.

"You can be patient!...Give my cousin time!...Back up, buddy!...Cram it, bitch!"

Pulling into the Walmart parking lot meant a lot of waiting but I pulled in as far away from other cars as possible, out past one of the cart shelters.

With a long breath, Lacy asked, "Should I try driving back?"

I noted that it would be a majority of easier right turns. She countered that while she wasn't a regular driver, she had more time at the wheel with her body than I did. With a sigh, I compromised and told her I would see how I felt when we were done.

She had a spare cozy, gray "cardigan" (she called it) style jacket for me but, despite the smelly confusion, I kept my droopy leather one on as we walked to the store.