BOOM.
The sleepy silence of the office building was shattered by the booming peals of thunder now issuing from outside the window. Then the rain came. Within minutes it had quickened from a light drizzle to hammering drops that added their din to the periodical thunderous crashes. A sudden intense burst of lightning illuminated the darkening interior of the cubicle of Peter Evans.
Evans was in his late twenties, and had been working at the office building ever since he graduated college. To be blunt, he hated his job. Back in his high school days, his father had constantly stressed the importance of getting a solid educational foundation, but he had repeated this sagely advice so many a time that Peter could easily ignore it. Needless to say, he secured less than admirable marks throughout high school and college, barely eking by most of the time.
Peter now bitterly cursed himself for his ignorant actions. Had he focused more on his schoolwork and not simply done the bare minimum, he would not have landed himself in this dead-end job that he loathed so much. Although still quite young, his salary was not high enough to pay his living expenses and still attend a community college, let alone a high-ranking university.
In the last few minutes of the workday on Friday, Peter massaged his aching forehead with his hands, mulling over these unpleasant thoughts that had been dogging him for the past few years. His frustration was mostly due to the fact that his predicament was entirely his fault. This perpetual weight on his conscience was not eased by his other troubles.
In fact, his state of depression and resentment had multiplied the magnitude of said troubles, especially the fact that he was single. He, of course, had dated two or three girls in the past, but developing relationships had never been a strong point of his. As Peter let out a deep sigh, he thought, I just wish I had a second chance to do it all again.
No sooner had this thought completed than a particularly bright fork of lightning cleave the sky directly outside Peter’s cubicle window. He ran his fingers through his dark blond hair and glanced over at the vibrant green numbers of his digital clock.
5:02 PM
“Excellent, closing time. I’m out of here,” he said, rising quickly and swinging his black overcoat from the back of his chair. He pulled it on as he made his way out of his cubicle and down the hall to the stairs, lamenting the fact that he walked to work and would be forced to make his way home through the wind and gale. Not stopping to talk to anyone, he took the stairs two at a time and hurriedly exited the front door.
The temperature had dropped considerably since that morning. Peter’s breath rose in foggy clouds as he wrapped his overcoat more tightly around himself, squinting through the unrelenting curtains of torrential rain.
“I should consider applying to be a weatherman,” he thought grumpily as he trudged on. “Sunny and 80 today, they said. Zero percent chance of rain. Zero, my foot!”
The rain soon extinguished his flare of anger, leaving a cold, dark sort of empty feeling within him. Lately, in addition to all his bitter reflections on his youthful decisions, he had felt as if something was missing from his life.
He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, no matter how much he dwelled on it. His best guess was that it was the presence of a mother figure; his mother had passed away when he was only eleven, and it was impossible for his father to completely take up her role in his life. Yet, although this explanation was very plausible, he still felt there was another piece to the jigsaw puzzle, the one that would present to him the clear picture of how to reconstruct his life into one he enjoyed living. Lost in thought, his feet carried him on the way home without much conscious thought on his part. The lashing of the rain had not yet subsided.
Perhaps it was the awful weather that had made it seem so, but the walk home felt to take quite a bit longer than usual. Peter meandered up the concrete path that led to his front door. He stopped on the front step and reached deep into his pocket to extract the key. His hand encountered nothing but air.
His anger flared up yet again. “How could I be so stupid as to lose my only house key? In a downpour, no less! Great way to start of the weekend.” He pummeled the doorbell in his anger, knowing full well that he lived alone; no loving wife or grinning child would come to welcome him, to let him in. Finally, he grasped the doorknob, ready to use all the might he possessed to attempt entry, when he discovered that the door was already unlocked. Peter froze. He distinctly recalled securely bolting the door before departing that very morning. This could mean only one thing: thieves had broken in.
He quickly pulled out his phone, only to find that he no longer had service. Had the storm affected the cell tower somehow? Peter realized that he was all alone, and being a man of action, he pushed open the door and entered the hallway, ready to take on the thief himself if need be.
Shutting the door quietly behind him, Peter silently padded down the main hall. He registered in the back of his mind that the hall seemed fractionally larger than it had done hours ago when he left, but that was the least of his current concerns. He searched the floor for anything he could use as a weapon, or to defend himself, completely ignoring the picture frames on the wall, glinting in the semidarkness. He spotted a tennis racquet, which he grasped and held as if it were an iron shield. He was too full of adrenaline to even register that he had never in his life owned a tennis racquet.
Gingerly pushing open the hall doors, he spotted no damage, nor any sign of anything being out of place. However, as he turned left into another, shorter hall, a door stood ajar at the far end, a chink of light spilling onto the hall carpet. Inside he heard the distinct sound of human footsteps. As silently and quickly as he could, Peter headed towards the door, raising his tennis racquet as he did so, poised to strike at a moment’s notice. He suddenly felt a small tickle on his neck. Whipping around and expecting the worst, he found that the hall behind him was deserted. Breathing rather hard, Peter steeled himself. Hesitating for a half-second, he swung open the door.
He found himself in a handsome bedroom, complete with fine oak furniture and its own separate bathroom. Peter was shocked by this; the racquet and the perceived size increase of the hall had been easy to overlook, but he was beyond certain that no room such as this had been present in his house before the events of the day. Still gripping the handle of the racquet tightly, he scanned the room. A woman who had been bent over a box in the corner had just straightened up and turned to face him. She definitely did not look like a burglar. In fact (and this unnerved him even more), though he had only ever seen pictures of her before, he was dead certain that this was his mother. She had the same dark brown eyes, same flowing chestnut hair, and same rather long nose.
He froze, transfixed, racquet still raised and ready to strike. The woman smiled a warm, friendly smile, which made Peter even warier despite the joyful flutter it had caused in his chest. This was absurd. He remembered her funeral. She couldn’t be alive. And yet, here she stood before him, holding a small picture frame in her hand.
“I see you’re still keeping up with your practicing, despite the storm,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to see you lose your next tournament because of a little rain!”
Peter merely nodded, unable to find his voice.
His mother’s look became one of concern. “Is everything all right, Amanda?”
Finally, Peter croaked, “A-Amanda?” He had always loved that name; should he ever have a daughter, the name Amanda would be his top choice. He was shocked to hear that his voice sounded most unlike the one he was accustomed to. It was an octave higher, and sounded younger, like the voice of a prepubescent boy….or, dare he think it….?
Trembling slightly, he inquired in his newfound voice. “Who’s Amanda?”
Looking truly worried now, she replied, “Sweetie, you are Amanda. Who else would you be?"
Lowering the tennis racquet, he asked tentatively, “Mom? How….how old am I?”
“Are you sure you’re all right? You know how old you are. You’re 14, remember?”
Suddenly, Peter tore past his mother and into the bathroom. He slammed the door and came face to face with the full length mirror on its back. He nearly fainted upon seeing the reflection that greeted him.
The reason the hall had seemed bigger was now apparent. He was now considerably shorter than he had been. He now stood a petite five-foot-one. The tickle on his neck, he discovered, had not been the hands of a felon, but the caress of his dark blonde hair, which now reached the small of his back. His lips were fuller, his nose smaller, and his dark brown eyes seemed larger, softer. His face had become rather….attractive. Shocked at himself for describing his own face in this way, it was a few moments before he continued to digest all the features of the foreign body he now found himself in. He now had breasts! They were not overly large, but filled out his tank top nicely. Trembling, he registered his wider hips, curvy figure, hairless arms and legs, and drastically smaller feet. He wiggled his toes experimentally, unable to believe he was really in control of these dainty members. Lastly, he noted that he felt…empty between his legs. This was the ultimate confirmation for him. He was no longer a male.
In a dreamlike state, he exited the bathroom to find his mother hovering anxiously by the door.
“Amanda, honey, you’d better take a rest, and I’m not taking no for an answer,” she said gently, ushering her to her room. “You’ve got a big tennis match tomorrow, not to mention the fact you are starting high school next week!”
“High school?” Amanda squeaked, her voice rising even higher.
Her mother nodded and stroked her hair. “Yes, Amanda! You don’t want to miss your first day out sick, now, do you?”
Feeling quite dazed, Amanda was led into her room by her mother, who then quietly closed the door. Peace and quiet was just what Amanda–once Peter–now desired. Before she could even begin to organize her thoughts, she spotted a small card, not unlike a business card, lying on her pillow. Intrigued, she walked over and picked it up. On it were these words:
A blank page is now yours. Go forth and write your story anew.
Suddenly and vividly, Amanda remembered the desperate wish that had flitted through her mind back when she was just Peter, sitting at a desk in his cubicle, and just before the brightest lightning strike of all. All at once, the reason for her transformation into a teenaged girl became apparent. Peter had so desired a second chance for a better life.
Amanda was that second chance.
Friday night found Amanda Evans perched on the edge of her bed, facing the large mirror on the opposite wall. Her dark blonde hair had been wrangled into a
passable braid; she had tried to teach herself simply by watching her mother do her own hair, but had not quite gotten the hang of it yet. Amanda had draped
herself in an overlarge college tee of her father’s, a makeshift nightgown. Her new, smaller frame was pronounced by the fact that the shirt hung down to her
knees. Mere days ago the shirt would have comfortably fit Peter. Not Peter, Amanda chastised herself, me. I am still Peter inside, aren’t I? However, she could
no longer be so sure of this. She could not lie to herself; she had made no attempts to undo the life-changing transformation and become Peter again. Referring
to Peter in the third person seemed completely natural.
This scared her. She should have wanted her old life as Peter back. But she didn’t. Why not? The more she dwelled on it, the more she realized that a more
accurate question would be: Why would I even want my old life as Peter back? To be perfectly honest, life as Peter had sucked. Single; monotonous, low-salary
job; lonely, depressed feelings and regrets constantly dogging him; not even a best friend. It was quite easy for Amanda to convince herself that she was not
insane for not wanting that aspect of her former life back. No, the thing that caused her disquiet was that she had been thrust into an entirely unfamiliar role
that she would have to navigate as a fourteen-year-old girl. Amanda knew nothing about being a girl, or what it entailed. Peter had not been married, was an only
child, and had lost his mother at a young age. Needless to say, the constant presence of female role models in his life had been quite limited. This was not so
with life as Amanda.
The week had been full of revelations for Amanda; every scrap of information she learned about her new life seemed to her to be pieces of a jigsaw puzzle
that she was gathering, slowly putting together to form a picture of who she now was. She had at first been terrified to converse with even her own mother, due
to the fact that all she had found out up to that point was that her own name was Amanda. That was before she was aware of the existence of Connie.
Connie was a tiny, conscience-like presence that spoke only to Amanda in a voice that sounded very much like her own. It was almost as if Connie was part
of her, just as her arms and legs were parts of her. Whenever she would encounter an unfamiliar person or situation, Connie would immediately be there to fill
her in. She had noticed Connie for the first time while lying in bed on the night following the transformation. The quilt pulled up to her chin and her mind
racing like a runaway train, she desperately wondered how she would ever be able to adjust to her new life if she hadn’t even an inkling about this Amanda girl.
She didn’t even know if her father was still around in this life; she hadn’t caught a glimpse of him all that night.
Where could he have gotten to? Is he still here? Or is this an exchange….I get mom back, but not dad?
No sooner had these thoughts arisen than she heard a tiny voice speak to her. Don’t get all worked up, now. He’s on a business trip for his company, don’t
you remember? He’ll be back in a few days.
Amanda’s racing thoughts were stopped dead in their tracks. Where had that come from? How could I have known that? She couldn’t have, was the obvious
answer. Yet, she did. It was almost as if a stranger’s memories were being injected into her brain. However, it did not feel abnormal to suddenly have this
memory. In fact, it felt as if she had had it all along, but it had just now been extracted from the very backmost corners of her mind and brought to light.
Shaking her head slightly to clear it, she felt her long hair tickle her face. It was a very foreign feeling.
“Okay,” she whispered, “okay, I’ve got to test this again, to be sure.”
She closed her eyes tightly, wrinkled her nose, and gripped her quilt rather hard as she concentrated with all her might on another thought.
I wonder if I have any brothers or sisters. I’ve never had any before.
The reply was instantaneous. Duh, of course you do. How could you forget your own sister? You know, little seven-year-old Paige? I don’t see how you
could; you usually get along very well, although she does know how to push your buttons and can really get on your nerves at times.
Amanda was thunderstruck. She was not an only child! Recalling how painfully lonely Peter had been at times without any brothers or sisters, Amanda was
willing to embrace any sibling she got. The voice she had discovered would be invaluable in her effort to acclimate to her newfound life. Exhausted from the
bizarre events of the day, Amanda didn’t even bother to change into her pajamas. As she lay on her back in bed, registering the weight on her chest and the
startling emptiness between her legs, she sighed deeply. The sound that issued from her mouth was utterly feminine.
Amanda was torn about her newfound womanhood. Part of her screamed that this was not the way things should be. I was born male, and I want to remain that
way! Remaining female is not an option. There’s got to be an escape route, some way out of this….What man in their right mind would want to remain a woman?
However, no matter how much she attempted to force herself to conform to this pattern of thought, to convince herself that being male was what she desired and
that she would go to any lengths to regain her masculinity….she found the struggle futile. The part of her that spoke with a voice of truth and reason, the same
voice that had recently supplied her with the memories of her father and sister, overpowered Amanda’s immediate thoughts in a heartbeat.
Be completely honest with yourself, Amanda….though you may have masqueraded under the guise of unwavering masculinity, the person under this illusion was
a different story completely. You’ve never been a rough, tough he-man at heart. Remember how, when you were just in elementary school, you used to sit alone on
the bench at recess? You watched the boys roughhousing while playing their game of football, and the girls engaged in a neat game of four-square? Which did you
want to join? Remember going to prom alone and dateless, watching the couples slow dance as you sat on the sidelines? Your envy was not directed towards the male
half of the couples. No, though you would not admit it even to yourself, you truly envied the young women in their brand-new prom dresses; the way they moved so
elegantly, had something special about them, the fact that they meant so much to someone. The fact that they were loved. Yes, Peter, you have always been enticed
by the lure of being female, but you have never allowed these feelings to see daylight. However, the dawn of a new day is here. You now have become what you
truly desire to be. And if you play your cards right, your former trek as Peter will pale in comparison to your new journey as Amanda.
Eyelids heavy, Amanda couldn’t keep her exhaustion at bay much longer, though her mind was still teeming with a virtual hurricane of curious thoughts. She
dwelled on the business card she had found on her pillow mere hours before, and which was now resting on her bedside table.
A blank page is now yours. Go forth and write your story anew.
“A blank page, huh?” she yawned as she closed her eyes. “Well, Amanda Peter Evans’s pen is at the ready.” And with that she sank into a deep sleep.
After the first night, which she could recall so vividly, the rest of the week was a blur. Only snippets of it stuck with her. For example, her first
morning as Amanda, when she had christened the voice in her head Connie, a short, cute name taken from the word conscience. Connie was an ever-present, extremely
useful asset; if truth be told, if not for Connie, Amanda might have been stuck in a hospital room with a diagnosis of amnesia. The tennis tournament went very
well, considering that Peter had never so much as laid a finger on a tennis racquet before. Amanda found that it all came naturally to her; much like one is
still able to ride a bike even after months and months of being out of practice. She managed to take second place, a feat that she was immensely proud of. In the
hours following her second place finish, her father had returned from his trip. His appearance was the same as it had been when Peter had been his only child,
albeit obviously younger: same messy brown hair, same twinkling blue eyes, and same crooked smile. Ecstatic to see him back at home, she could not prevent
herself from wrapping him in a tight hug as he entered the front door.
“Hey, Mandy, my beautiful daughter! It’s great to be back at home. How’ve things been going?”
Amanda could not suppress the jarring sensation in her chest when he called her “my beautiful daughter.” She still had much adjusting to do in order to
fully come to terms with her new female identity. Speaking into his argyle sweater, Amanda’s voice was quite muffled. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Fair enough,” he laughed. “Now, where’s that mother of yours gotten to?”
A few days after dad’s arrival, a red van pulled up into the driveway. Amanda knew that this must be Paige returning from her week-long equestrian camp.
Connie had informed her earlier that Paige, as most young girls do, had a strong liking for horses, and apparently was an up-and-coming talent in the area of
horseback riding. She raced up the walk to the front door, her suitcase bumping along behind her and her dark hair dancing. She swung open the front door and
burst into the threshold, trilling, “I’m ba-a-a-a-a-ck!”
Mom and dad converged on her, pelting her with questions about camp. Amanda observed from her bedroom doorway. Greeting dad was one thing, as Peter had
known him for years. The same could not be said for Paige. Amanda would have to play this completely by ear. She did not know why she felt so apprehensive about
approaching Paige. She was seven years old, for crying out loud. Perhaps she felt that she wanted her first impression on Paige to be a good one, as it would
mark the first time either Peter or Amanda had ever interacted with anyone like a sister before. Whatever the case, the only time she spoke to Paige that day was
when she popped her head into Amanda’s room, dark hair falling across her face.
“Hi Amanda!” she said cheerfully. “I’m finally back! I missed you! Did you miss me?”
Amanda couldn’t help but grin at the genuine joy that lit up her face. She really did miss me and is glad to see me! Amanda thought. It was a feeling that
she had not experienced many times beforehand, and she immensely enjoyed the sensation.
“Of horse I missed you,” Amanda replied with a rather goofy grin. Paige giggled at the horrific pun. Before she knew what she was doing, Amanda squeezed her sister into a close hug.
“Well, gotta go unpack!” she said after the hug had broken. And with that she dashed off towards her room, utilizing the seemingly infinite supply of
energy that only young children seemed to be blessed with. Well, Amanda thought to herself, as first impressions go, I would say I wasn’t too shabby!
Amanda was glad for all these events for two reasons. First of all, they made her feel loved and important in a way he had never really felt as Peter.
Secondly, if only for a short while, they prevented him from dwelling on the fact that now he was a she, and he was going to have to start playing the part.
Convincingly. As the week drew to a close, the prospect of Amanda’s first day of high school loomed ominously above her like a dark raincloud. Amanda was
terrified. It was not simply start-of-school jitters, for she had been through high school once already as Peter. No, the reasons for her terror this time around
were drastically different. For one, entering the doors of her old high school as a girl was deeply unappealing to him. She had to admit to herself, she was not
opposed to being female. She could accept this fact about herself. However, one week of adjustment time just did not cut it for her. Secondly, a causal statement
her mother had made on Friday afternoon hit Amanda with the force of a rampaging rhinoceros.
“W-what did you say?” she gasped
.
Her mother stared at her with an odd mix of suspicion and surprise.
“Honestly, Amanda, your ears work fine. I said, tomorrow you and I are headed out to do some last-minute back-to-school shopping. We’ve really left it
late this year, and I don’t fancy my daughter being the only one unprepared on her first day at Templeton High.”
“We’re just getting, like, pencils and stuff, right?” Amanda said, trying to keep the plea in her voice to a minimum.
“And your uniform.”
Amanda started to break out in a sweat. She understood “uniform” to mean “skirts.” She might be happier as Amanda than as Peter so far, and she might have
in her former life fantasized about being a girl and getting to wear a beautiful prom dress, but this was different. This was reality.
True, Amanda had been wearing some feminine attire for the past week, only the necessary ones, namely a bra and panties. She had taken to covering these
symbols of femininity with the most androgynous attire she could scrounge up in her closet. So far she had been able to prevent suspicion and still refrain from
wearing overly girly items. She had found several solid colored tops without any sort of designs on them, as well as five pairs of jeans. Although clearly made
for a female build, the jeans were at least more familiar to Amanda than a skirt. There was no doubt, however, that she would not be allowed to wear these to
school. The stupid uniform policy made it so.
“Oh, um, right,” Amanda stammered. “Well, I’ve got to be going–something important–“ She dashed out of the room without a backward glance. She had to get
to a place where she could be alone, sort out her feelings, and above all, find an excuse to skip out on the infernal shopping trip.
Her mother’s eyes followed Amanda until she disappeared into the confines of her room and locked the door. She couldn’t help but notice an odd change in
Amanda’s behavior over the past week….was it simply nerves about the upcoming school year, Amanda’s debut as a freshman? Or was it perhaps something more?