Highway to Elle
Chapter 7: A Class Act
by Paige Turner

Logan's eyes fluttered open on his first official day at Westridge, his newfound resolve from the night before lingering in his mind. If he couldn't fight the system head-on, he'd have to find ways to navigate it strategically—starting with mastering the daily rituals of his new reality.

The morning began with a carefully synchronized bathroom routine. Alexis had insisted they set their alarms thirty minutes apart to ensure each had adequate preparation time without territorial disputes over the mirror or sink.

Alexis was already applying her makeup when Logan's alarm sounded. She poked her head out of the bathroom doorway, her face half-covered in foundation.

"Rise and shine! You'll want to look your best today," Alexis said with a warm smile as she returned to her cosmetics. "First impressions are everything at Westridge, and I want to make sure you start off right." With a gentle push of her foot, she closed the bathroom door.

The minute he heard the bathroom door latch shut, Logan bolted from his bed, seizing the moment of privacy to begin his transformation. First came his specialized undergarments— flesh-toned compression briefs that resembled a professional dancer's support garment, with strategic reinforcement panels that functioned like invisible scaffolding. The military-grade compression fabric gripped his lower body with punishing intensity, flattening and redirecting his male anatomy. Once wearing them, each movement sent shockwaves of discomfort through his body, the garment's unyielding pressure a constant reminder of his forced deception.

Over this torturous base layer, Logan pulled a pair of pale pink satin bikini panties trimmed with delicate lace. The gossamer-light fabric featured scalloped edges and an absurdly tiny satin bow centered precisely at the waistband—details that elevated the garment from mere underwear to a feminine talisman. The cool, slippery texture against his skin made his stomach clench with visceral revulsion. The contrast between these delicate underthings and the utilitarian boxer briefs of his former life couldn't have been more stark or more humiliating.

Next came the matching pale pink demi-cup bra with intricate floral lace overlay. Logan's fingers worked the three-hook closure with disturbing proficiency as he positioned it around his chest. Something wasn't right. The hormones he'd unknowingly taken over summer had developed his chest to a small A-cup, but this morning, the cups gaped empty against his skin. With growing unease, he unclasped the bra and examined the tag.

"B cup?" Logan thought with mounting horror. GIRLI had apparently decided to enhance his bust measurement for his official debut, swapping out all his bras without warning. With a sigh, he reached for the silicone inserts from his dresser. Once augmented, his chest weighed significantly more than what he was accustomed to, the additional heft pulling downward on his bra straps with each movement. He positioned the inserts precisely within the cups, adjusting until they created the illusion of natural cleavage, their subtle weight settling against his chest like unwelcome pendulums.

With his foundation in place, Logan tamed his copper hair with argan oil and blow-dried it into soft waves that framed his face. After just one round of salon instruction, his hands moved with unsettling muscle memory, creating the perfect balance of volume and shine that would mark him as unmistakably feminine.

Logan meticulously removed the crisp white Westridge uniform blouse from its padded hanger. The Italian cotton poplin had a subtle sheen that caught the light, with princess seams that gently curved inward at the waist before flaring slightly over the hips. The vertical darts at the bustline created accommodation for his artificial curves while the slightly puffed cap sleeves softened his shoulder line. The pearlescent buttons closed right over left—a small detail Logan still hadn't gotten used to.

He fastened each button with methodical precision, including the delicate one at his throat, seeking whatever minimal armor the additional coverage might provide.

Alexis emerged from the bathroom and immediately assessed his presentation with a professional eye. "Oh, sweetie, no one wears it like that," she said, her tone mixing sympathy with authority as she approached.

Before Logan could protest, her nimble fingers unfastened the top two buttons of his blouse. "There. Much better. That closed-to-the-neck look is strictly for debate team and orchestra. You want to fit in with the squad, not look like you're auditioning for the Vienna Boys' Choir."

The navy and white plaid pleated skirt came next. The lightweight wool blend featured a satin-lined yoke that sat at the narrowest part of his waist, the box pleats opening below to create the illusion of fuller hips. Logan slid it over his lower body with barely concealed dismay, securing the hidden side hook and expertly manipulating the invisible zipper. The fabric whispered against his thighs as he moved, each pleat opening and folding with deliberate precision, creating a rhythmic swish that marked his every step.

When properly positioned at his waist, the hem fell to a precisely calculated point on his thighs—several inches above his knees, exposing an expanse of leg that made him feel naked despite being technically clothed.

He pushed desperately at the waistband, trying to reposition the skirt lower on his hips to gain even a fraction of an inch more coverage.

Alexis noticed immediately. "It's designed to sit at your natural waist," she said, stepping forward to adjust the garment back to its proper position. "The pleats won't hang correctly if you wear it on your hips."

"It feels obscenely short," Logan protested, his hands hovering protectively near the hem.

"That's the whole point," Alexis said with a laugh, stepping back to inspect her adjustment. "Trust me, everyone wears them this length. And with legs like yours, you should be showing them off."

Logan stared at his reflection, mortified by the expansive display of his bare legs. His face burned as he imagined walking across campus with his legs on display like this. Not to mention, sitting at a desk trying not to flash everyone in the class.

The navy knee socks came next. Logan rolled each one carefully up his calf, despising the feeling of the fabric sliding against his smooth legs—his hairlessness yet another lasting effect of the GIRLI treatments this summer. The dark fabric created stark contrast against his pale skin, drawing the eye directly to the exposed section of thigh between sock top and skirt hem.

For the final indignity, Logan slipped his feet into the Westridge regulation footwear—glossy black patent leather Mary Jane shoes with delicate ankle straps secured by tiny antiqued brass buckles. The two-inch block heels were practical, but their primary effect was unmistakable—to force his weight forward onto the balls of his feet, automatically adjusting his posture into an even more feminine stance. Worse, they enhanced the deliberately feminine gait that had been programmed into his muscle memory—shorter strides, knees closer together, slight hip sway.

Then, accessories. A delicate silver filigree watch with mother-of-pearl face encircled his left wrist, its dainty proportions emphasizing the new slenderness of his arm. Pearl stud earrings pushed through his recently pierced earlobes. A fine silver chain with a minimalist pendant rested at the base of his throat, drawing attention to his exposed collar area.

The final cosmetic touches were applied with professional skill—a nutrient-rich primer to create a flawless canvas, followed by a whisper of illuminating powder across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose to enhance his freckles. A touch of cream blush blended seamlessly into his skin, giving him a natural flush. His brows, already shaped into perfect arches, needed only a clear gel to keep them in place. With careful precision, he applied a coat of lengthening mascara to emphasize his ethereal eyes. A tinted lip balm made his lips appear naturally fuller, completing the "no-makeup makeup" look that Logan had learned took incredibly long to apply, just to create the illusion of effortless beauty.

The royal blue velvet headband—mandated by Alexis as a show of squad solidarity among the Elite seniors—was the crowning element, perfectly positioned to hold back his vibrant copper tresses. The rich, saturated color created dramatic contrast against his hair, which cascaded past his shoulders in the luminous waves that were guaranteed to make him immediately recognizable from across campus.

"Your hair is seriously going to be the conversation starter of the semester," Alexis commented with professional appreciation. "I bet you'll turn heads all day."

Logan's stomach tightened at the thought of being instantly identifiable—the exact opposite of his desperate wish to blend into the background. "Is it too dramatic? Maybe I should wear it up or something," he suggested, hoping to minimize its impact.

"Absolutely not," Alexis insisted, reaching out to arrange a perfect tendril to frame his face. "It's your calling card. The football boys won't know what hit them."

"Football boys." The words hollowed him out from within. Just months ago, he had been one of them. Now he was positioned as an object for their admiration. The thought made bile rise in his throat.

The navy blue blazer completed the ensemble—a structured garment with subtle waist darting that emphasized his transformed silhouette. The embroidered "W" crest on the breast pocket felt like a brand marking his captivity, the smooth satin lining whispering against his blouse as he moved.

"You look absolutely perfect," Alexis declared with genuine admiration as she gathered her books. "Like you stepped out of the Westridge recruitment brochure."

Logan stood frozen before the mirror, unable to reconcile the image reflected back with his internal sense of self. The uniform, with its meticulous design and precise fit, had completed his erasure. The person staring back at him was unquestionably Elle Catherine Turner—Westridge Academy senior, elite squad cheerleader, and perfect embodiment of privileged female adolescence. No trace of Logan remained visible.

"Are you nervous?" Alexis asked, noticing his expression. "Don't worry. You're with me, which means you're automatically accepted. I've got your back."

"Thanks," Logan managed, genuinely appreciating her support despite the bizarre circumstances.

"Ready?" Alexis asked, slinging her monogrammed leather backpack over one shoulder with practiced casualness.

Logan nodded silently, lifting his own backpack—pale pink Italian leather with "ECT" embroidered in flowing silver script. The weight of his new identity settled around him as he followed Alexis into the hallway, stepping with artificial grace into a world where he existed only as someone else's creation.

As they left the dormitory and joined the stream of students heading toward the main academic building, Logan became acutely aware of the attention his distinctive appearance was drawing. Heads turned as he passed, conversations paused mid-sentence, and curious glances followed his progress across the campus.

"Told you," Alexis whispered triumphantly as they entered the main hall. "Everyone's staring at you. You're going to be Instagram famous by lunch."

The school day itself was a surreal experience. Logan observed with detached horror as "Elle" seamlessly integrated into classes—taking notes with an unconsciously feminine tilt to his handwriting, responding to teachers in the teen girl cadence that now emerged without effort, and navigating social interactions with the subtle mannerisms that had become part of his muscle memory.

In English Literature, Logan took his assigned seat near the window. Ms. Brenner was discussing The Great Gatsby, a book he'd read during his first trip through high school. As she began asking students about symbolism in the novel, Logan found his attention drifting to the football field visible through the window. The groundskeeper was painting fresh yard lines in preparation for Friday's game.

"Ms. Turner, since you're new to our class, perhaps you have a different perspective on Daisy's character?" Ms. Brenner's voice pulled him back to the present.

Logan turned from the window, the familiar sight of the football field causing an ache in his chest. The sensation vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by the physical awareness of his skirt against his thighs and twenty pairs of eyes watching him expectantly. He opened his mouth to respond, finding himself distracted by the uncomfortable awareness of how visible he was to the entire class.

"I think she's, um... she represents how women were valued mostly for their appearance back then, right?" he heard himself say, pulling together a reasonable answer despite his mental fog. "Like, she knows she's basically decorative to the men in her life?"

Ms. Brenner nodded, seeming satisfied with the answer, though Logan couldn't help feeling embarrassed by the way he'd phrased it—not the content, but the delivery, with verbal hesitations and questioning inflections that hadn't been part of his speech patterns before. As Logan, he never would've taken someone who talked that way seriously—but now his voice betrayed him with every word, casting him unwillingly in the role of enthusiastic teenage girl.

Between classes, Logan moved through the crowded hallways in Alexis's protective social bubble. The cheer captain's status granted automatic acceptance to her new roommate, with other students parting to let their small group pass. The other cheerleaders quickly surrounded Logan, creating a buffer of feminine chatter and activity that both protected and imprisoned him in his new identity.

With each step through the hallway, Logan felt the whisper of the pleated skirt against his thighs, the slight pinch of the Mary Janes at his heels, and the unfamiliar weight of the silicone inserts pulling at his shoulders. The scent of the other cheerleaders' perfumes—vanilla, jasmine, and something citrusy—formed an invisible cloud around him.

Two football players leaned against lockers as Logan passed, their eyes following his movement with unconcealed interest.

"Dude, who is that?" the taller one asked, not bothering to lower his voice.

"New girl. Elle something. She's on elite cheer," his friend replied. "Pretty hot, right?"

Logan felt his face flush with humiliation. He'd had similar conversations countless times, standing in similar hallways, assessing female students with a similar casual entitlement. He'd never considered how it felt to be on the receiving end of those evaluations—to be reduced to nothing more than physical attributes, your academic achievements and athletic abilities rendered completely invisible beneath the weight of someone else's desire.

"Just ignore them," Tiffany said, appearing at Logan's side and linking her arm through his. "Those guys are, like, totally beneath your notice anyway. Come on, it's lunch time and we need to grab our table before the freshman try to steal it."

At lunch, Logan found himself seated at what was clearly the premium table in the cafeteria, surrounded by cheerleaders and athletes at the apex of Westridge's social hierarchy.

"Everyone's talking about you," Madison confirmed, sliding her tray next to his. "I've already had three people ask if you're a model or something."

"I told you your hair would make an impact," Tiffany added, adjusting her uniform skirt. "It's like, your signature thing now."

Picking at his salad, Logan nodded silently. Alexis had insisted he follow the squad's pre-season nutrition plan—lean protein, vegetables, and limited carbs, while many of the other girls had trays loaded with french fries and desserts.

"It's weird having people stare at me," he said, poking at a cherry tomato with his fork.

"Better get used to it," Alexis said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of authority. "This is just day one. Wait until the pep rally on Friday—the whole school will be watching you."

As lunch continued, Logan watched the clock, an idea forming. Halfway through the period, he leaned toward Alexis. "I just remembered I need to stop by the main office to sign some transfer paperwork."

"Want me to come with you?" Alexis looked uncertain about releasing her new protégé into the wild without supervision. "There's still a lot of campus you haven't seen."

"I can handle it," Logan replied. "I'll meet you in Bio."

"Well... okay," Alexis relented, though she looked unconvinced. "Text me if you need anything."

"Once safely out of sight, Logan changed course. Instead of heading to the administration building, he made his way to the library, feeling a small thrill at this minor deception. The massive stone building at the center of campus was nearly empty during lunch period.

The reference section on the third floor promised the quietest, most secluded corner. The space was deserted, tucked between tall shelves of dusty encyclopedias. Logan sank into a chair and, for the first time all day, allowed his posture to slump, his knees to splay slightly, his carefully arranged expression to fall. His shoulders, which had held a perfect feminine posture all day, ached as they relaxed. For these few brief moments, he didn't have to perform for anyone.

From his backpack, he pulled out one of the monogrammed "ECT" notebooks. Opening to a blank page, he took out a pen and tried writing: "My name is Logan Turner."

Immediately, his hand jerked involuntarily, the pen skittering across the page to write, "My name is Elle Turner."

Logan frowned, adjusting his approach. He wrote: "Things I miss from Oregon." His hand moved smoothly this time.

Under this innocent-seeming heading, he tried: "Playing football." No resistance.

Then he tried: "GIRLI is forcing me to—" and his hand spasmed before he could complete the sentence.

Logan tapped his pen against the page, thinking. There were clearly boundaries to what the neural blocks would permit. He turned to a fresh page and wrote: "Fashion inspiration ideas," a heading that seemed harmless enough.

Beneath it, he carefully wrote: "Copper sunset reminds me of who I was before." To his surprise, the words flowed onto the page without resistance. He continued: "Jade mask covers true sight. Missing genuine reflection."

The metaphorical language seemed to bypass the blocks. It wasn't a direct accusation or explanation—just musings that would appear as fashion notes or poetry to anyone else, but held deeper meaning for him.

For several minutes, Logan experimented with different phrasings, discovering where the boundaries lay. Direct statements about his situation triggered the blocks, but metaphors, allusions, and indirectly coded language didn't. It was a small discovery, but it felt momentous.

When footsteps approached, Logan smoothly transitioned to appearing to take actual class notes, his posture and mannerisms sliding seamlessly back into "Elle's" patterns. The librarian passed by without a second glance.

Logan permitted himself a small smile as he stared at the words he'd written. A loophole. A small crack in Dr. Gupta's perfect system. He wasn't quite sure what he could do with it, but the realization gave him a small sliver of hope. Maybe with careful coding, he could maintain a record of his true self that would pass any inspection. It wasn't freedom, but it was something they couldn't take from him.

When the warning bell rang for the next period, Logan gathered his things and headed to class. Glancing once more at his innocent-looking notebook, he was convinced that the game had changed.

By the end of the day, Logan felt exhausted. Though he no longer had to concentrate to maintain his feminine behaviors, the disconnect between his intentions and their expression was incredibly draining. When he wanted to speak firmly, his voice emerged with a questioning lilt. When he meant to walk with purpose, his stride transformed into a graceful glide. His thoughts remained his own, but every attempt to translate them into action emerged altered.

As the final bell echoed through the hallways, Logan felt a momentary relief. He'd survived his first day of classes—the constant performance, the unwanted attention, the surreal experience of answering to "Elle" without hesitation. But as Alexis fell into step beside him, her chatter turning to cheerleading practice, that relief evaporated.

"We need to hurry," Alexis said, checking her watch. "Coach Winters hates when anyone's late, especially on the first day."

The thought of trading one performance for another made Logan's shoulders tense. In the classroom, he could at least hide behind a desk. On the practice mat, his transformed body would be completely exposed, his every movement scrutinized.

As he walked back to the dormitory with Alexis, several male students called out greetings, their interest in the new girl with the distinctive jade eyes obvious in their lingering gazes.

"Chase Montgomery totally couldn't stop staring at you in English," Alexis informed him with a smile. "He's the star wide receiver and basically the hottest senior boy. This is huge."

Logan felt a wave of nausea at the thought of attracting romantic interest from male students—especially a football player in the position he himself had once played at the collegiate level. The layers of irony in his situation were becoming increasingly disturbing.

Back at their dorm, Alexis gestured toward his royal blue practice uniform. "Fifteen minutes to change and get to the field," she said, already pulling off her blazer.

Official practice began with a rigorous thirty-minute warmup sequence followed by precisely timed skill sections. Coach Winters ran the team with military precision, her whistle punctuating transitions between drills and her critical eye missing nothing. The atmosphere was intensely focused—these weren't just cheerleaders but elite athletes whose performances were judged at the national level. Despite his discomfort with his role, Logan couldn't help but respect the discipline and dedication evident in every aspect of their training.

"Elle, show me your tumbling sequence," Coach Winters called out. "I want to see that round-off back handspring combination."

Logan moved to the center of the blue mat, taking a deep breath as he positioned himself. The sequence was one he'd practiced countless times over the summer, yet executing it in front of the entire squad felt different.

He took three quick steps forward, gaining momentum before planting his hands and kicking his legs overhead in a powerful round-off. As his feet reconnected with the mat, he immediately rebounded into the first back handspring, his body snapping backward through the air. The weightless sensation as he flew momentarily suspended between earth and sky felt oddly familiar—a physical memory his body remembered effortlessly despite all the changes it had undergone.

Without pausing, Logan flowed into a second back handspring, the motion more powerful than the first, before launching into a layout—his body straightening completely as he rotated backward through the air, landing with his feet firmly planted and arms raised in the automatic finishing position.

The entire sequence took less than five seconds, executed with a precision that drew applause from his teammates.

"Beautiful extension on that layout," Coach Winters noted with approval. "Your body control in the air is exceptional, Elle."

Logan nodded his thanks, surprised by how natural the tumbling felt. His transformed body—lighter and more flexible than his former athletic build—moved through the air with an ease that even he had to admit was impressive. His athleticism and motor coordination that he'd relied on to become a star wide receiver was still there, but recalibrated to this new form.

As the cheerleading practice continued, Logan couldn't help but notice the football team running drills on the adjacent field. The familiar sounds of whistles, shouted plays, and cleats digging into turf created an ache in his chest. He had once been one of them. Now he was on the sidelines in a completely different capacity.

During a water break, Logan found himself drawn to the fence separating the two practice areas. He watched as the quarterback called an audible and the offense shifted formation. The movements were so familiar that Logan could feel phantom muscle memories trying to activate in his transformed body—the explosive burst off the line, the precise footwork of route-running, the timing needed to create separation from defenders.

The wide receiver lined up on the far side suddenly broke into a route that Logan immediately recognized. It was a complex pattern he had perfected during his college career, with a subtle hesitation that consistently fooled defensive backs.

"That's a..." Logan began to mutter to himself, but the route's technical name refused to come to his mind. He blinked in confusion, trying to recall the terminology that should have been second nature after years of playing the position.

"Post-corner double move," he finally managed, but the words felt like they were buried under layers of new information—cheerleading terminology, makeup tips, fashion advice, and all the other feminine knowledge that now occupied his consciousness. It wasn't that the football knowledge had been erased, but rather that it had been pushed aside, relegated to a less accessible corner of his mind.

But what truly unsettled him was his reaction to watching the players. As the quarterback removed his helmet, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, Logan found himself noticing details he never would have before—the player's defined jawline, the way his pants stretched across his muscular thighs. Not attraction, exactly, but an unwanted awareness that registered these features in a way his former self never would have.

"No," he thought, horrified. "Nooope."

Before he could retreat from the fence, several cheerleaders joined him, lining up to watch the football practice.

"Ohmygod, Tyler's arms are seriously insane this season," Madison whispered, nudging Tiffany with her elbow. "Did he get bigger over the summer?"

"Definitely," Tiffany agreed, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "And Chase filled out too. The whole defensive line is totally stacked this year."

Logan felt trapped in the chorus of feminine commentary. Worse, he could feel the social pull to join in—not from any genuine interest, but from the powerful urge to conform, to be accepted, to play his part in this strange new social dynamic. The desire to fit in with his supposed peers was almost overwhelming.

"What do you think, Elle?" Madison asked, turning to him. "You've been so quiet. Anyone catch your eye yet?"

Before Logan could formulate a response, the football coach blew his whistle and announced a five-minute break. Several of the players immediately headed toward the fence where the cheerleaders were gathered.

"Ladies," Tyler, the quarterback, greeted them with a confident grin as he approached. "Looking good out there today."

The cheerleaders responded with practiced enthusiasm, their interactions clearly following established patterns of flirtatious banter. Logan found himself suddenly visible, his copper hair and jade eyes drawing immediate attention from the approaching players. There was nowhere to hide, no way to blend into the background as he'd hoped.

Tyler's eyes immediately found Logan, taking in his distinctive appearance. "Hey, you must be the new girl everyone's talking about. I'm Tyler Marshall, quarterback." He extended his hand, and Logan reluctantly shook it, painfully aware of the contrast between their hands—his now small and delicate, with manicured nails, against Tyler's larger, calloused grip.

"Elle transferred from Oregon," Madison supplied helpfully. "She's literally amazing at tumbling."

"That so?" Tyler smiled, his gaze lingering on Logan. "Looking forward to seeing you cheering at the games then."

Logan mumbled something noncommittal, acutely conscious of how the football players were looking at him—not as a peer or fellow athlete, but as a pretty girl to be pursued. The fundamental wrongness of the situation made his skin crawl.

Suddenly, a commotion from the practice building interrupted their conversation. A crash, followed by several screams, drew everyone's attention. The cheerleaders immediately ran toward the sound, leaving the football players behind at the fence.

Inside, they found their teammate Jessica on the floor of the gym, clutching her ankle and grimacing in pain. Coach Winters was already kneeling beside her, with several teammates surrounding them, their faces etched with concern.

"What happened?" Alexis gasped, pushing through to join the group.

"She was practicing her helicopter basket dismount," Jenny explained, her voice tight with worry. "The bases lost their grip during the twist, and she fell wrong."

Jessica's face was pale with pain, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I heard something snap," she managed between gritted teeth.

Coach Winters carefully examined the ankle, her expression grim. "We need to get you to the hospital right away." She looked up at the team gathered anxiously around them. "Practice is over for today. I'll update everyone once we know the extent of Jessica's injury."

As the team trainer arrived with a first aid kit, the cheerleaders gathered their belongings in silence, the excitement of the first day completely evaporated. The atmosphere was somber as Jessica was carefully loaded onto a stretcher and taken to a waiting vehicle.

"This is seriously bad," Tiffany whispered to Logan as they collected their water bottles. "No one else can handle the complex basket tosses Coach designed specifically for Jessica."

Coach Winters returned, her expression confirming everyone's fears. "Jessica's being taken for X-rays, but the initial assessment suggests a severe break," she announced to the team. "We're looking at a minimum of ten weeks recovery, followed by rehab."

A collective groan went through the squad. "But that means she'll miss the entire football season," Alexis said, voicing what everyone was thinking.

Coach Winters looked at the team, addressing the team's other two flyers standing nearby. "Brittany, Megan, you're both talented, but we'll need to rethink our routines completely. Without Jessica's small frame and lightweight build, our most complex tosses won't be possible." She sighed, consulting her clipboard. "Our competition strategy relied on those aerial elements."

From the corner of his eye, Logan noticed a figure standing at the edge of the practice area—Dr. Gupta, tablet in hand, observing the proceedings with clinical detachment. She had been watching the entire practice, he realized, her presence so unobtrusive that he hadn't even noticed her until now.

In that instant, their eyes locked across the gym, and Logan felt a cold certainty settle into his bones. He didn't need to hear her thoughts to know them. The calculating measurement in her gaze as it flicked between him and the despondent cheer coach told him everything. "Small." "Lightweight." He was about to become Jessica's replacement, whether he wanted to or not.