LEMONS

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2021

Warning: If you don’t like reading transgender stories, then stop reading now.

Author’s Note: None.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

RT

-----000-----

I knew my sister somewhat hated me in a loving kind of way. I didn’t think my parents did.

She was the jealous type, always scheming, always plotting, always doing something Machiavellian although she knew not what that meant (which tells you how advanced her Machiavellian skills were). She was only 16, two years younger than I. Precocious, rambunctious, furious, impetuous, and charming: that described Mindy in a flash. She was a wild one. I loved her but recognized her soul.

My parents were nice people, mostly. We kids were well-fed, well-clothed, and well-educated. Both of them worked. Mom worked in management at the big box store and dad worked as a shift manager at the iron mill. Like many middle-class parents, they wanted better lives for their kids. Like many middle-class parents, they were also completely oblivious to the inner workings of their kids’ lives.

At high school, I got into sports. Volleyball, badminton, golf: no, not the manliest of sports but each is alive with the rigors of back-and-forth, gain-a-lead, lose-a-lead, hard or lose competition. Mindy wasn’t into sports so much. I know that she watched the football games each Friday night however: probably a social with her many friends.

I felt the odd pang of sympathy for her, especially when our parents would introduce a line of discussion with, “Mindy, you know your brother has been getting better marks in chemistry...” or “Mindy, why didn’t you help Mrs. Cheevers with her gardening? Your brother did...” or “Mindy! This is unacceptable! B-! Study harder like your brother does!” And so on. I did feel sorry for her in those moments.

But not too much. I practiced hard to be a good athlete (yes, volleyball players are called athletes; so are golfers; the verdict’s still out on badminton players though...). I studied really hard to get not just an A- but an A or even an A+! I struggled toward my goals. I struggled for my accomplishments. I didn’t cheat, backstab, or deceive anyone into giving me anything for free. I worked and I appreciated the value of good, solid, honest, hard work.

And I helped Mindy whenever I could. Your study-mate let you down? I can help you! Difficult algebra question? I can show you how to address it! Brain fart in your creative writing class? I have several ideas for short stories! I didn’t want or need credit or glory. I genuinely loved Mindy (mostly).

I never suspected that she, despite some resentment toward me, might ever do anything nasty to me...

-----000-----

One Saturday, I woke up and was somewhat surprised to see that I had: 1) long blonde hair falling across my face; 2) breasts --- not the fake glue-on kind, no, real fleshy breasts, size B if the Wikipedia article was right; 3) a hairless body with smooth skin to match; and 4) a twat --- a fully functioning, double-lipped, salmon-smelling, honest to goodness warm and moist pussy.

I looked in the mirror, recognized the face, sighed, caught myself just in time before yelling, "Mindy!", and then called her: “James!!!”

My innocent, helpful, friendly, affectionate face peered around the corner of my door. “Yes?” my face asked with all the mustered guilty innocence possible.

“Why?”

“‘Why’ doesn’t matter to you now. You are ‘Mindy’ now, not ‘James’. I’m James. And you? You play like a girl!” she squealed from my body, using my deeper voice.

“How about we change back, sis?”

“Nope. No way. I like being a boy! I’ve already jerked off twice and might a third time if I keep looking at you!” Her jeers were accompanied by the slamming of the door. Fuck: she’s got some agenda and I’m it’s victim.

Rather than act rashly, I got back into bed, explored my new body, orgasmed twice (deeply, passionately, enthusiastically), and then got up and got showered and got dressed. It was 11 o’clock; the day awaited me.

I went downstairs. Mom and dad were still out shopping. I made some breakfast. Actually, it was more of a lunch / snackie thing, 11 being a tad late for breakfast and a bit too early for lunch. Regardless, I prepared and ate food. I drank my OJ and sooner rather than later had to urinate.

Door. Turn. Lift. Check. Dry. Turn. Drop. Pulldown. Sit. Squat. Release. Wait. Release. Wait. Oh, come on! Release. Wait. Seriously now! Release. Wait. Done. Two sheets. Three plies. Front to back. Daub. Inspect. Drop. Stand. Pullup. Hitch. Smooth. Spread. Inspect. Flush. Put down. Wash. Dry. Mirror. Door.

Fuck my life. Well, at least I wasn’t yet having my period...

I took a few minutes to organize my thoughts. Unlike most immature and reckless teenagers, I was disciplined in my thoughts, modest in my desires, and sincere in my wishes. I didn’t go off half-crazed looking for some flimsy mythical store in a mall. Nor did I search high and low for some cheap-looking necklace that could reverse this situation. No, I carefully considered my position and started planning my new life.

I remembered well how Mindy, the former Mindy by the way, was prone to lose stuff, big or small, valuable and invaluable (!!!), important and insignificant. I concluded that, whatever sort of magical or alien device or property she had used to have us switch bodies, she would have likely by now lost it. So I assumed that I was and am stuck.

Not what I had expected from life but...

I trudged up to her room and opened her hitherto unopened schoolbag. Christ! She’s behind in her homework and has got several assignments due Monday! I tore through her desk: Cs and Ds and a couple of Bs! Fuck! Grade 11 and my grades --- her grades --- are shit! No uni unless I improve fast! I showered, put on some sweats and hunkered down at her --- my --- desk.

I heard mom and dad come home. How? First, I had ears that worked. Second, my parents yelled when they came in: “Hi kids! It’s mom and dad! We’re home!” I got up, went downstairs, and helped mom put away the groceries. She looked at me oddly. I cast her a quick innocuous look: “I’m doing homework. Don’t ask.” I finished and left.

I had nearly completed the calculus assignment. The last question puzzled me: “The three figures below are made of regular hexagons, regular heptagons and regular octagons respectively. In general, if this pattern continues, we get a heart-shaped figure by drawing n-1N−1 regular nN-gons among which the smallest one can be inscribed in a circle with radius of root pi over N. What is the area of the total figure as nN approaches infinity?”

No wonder her marks sucked; she wasn’t that smart. It took me a few minutes but I came up with a practical, defensible solution. I headed back to the kitchen and helped mom with dinner. She looked at me as though I was slightly mad. She looked around wondering whether James would come help as he usually did. He didn't.

My beloved brother James arrived at the dinner table as dinner was being served. So did dad. My mom looked at the former askance and at the latter resignedly. The table conversation was mundane but for a few surprises.

-----000-----

My mom asked me what I would be doing tonight, and I answered that I would be studying. My “brother’s” ears perked up as did my parents’. I explained that I had belatedly realized that my marks sucked and that if I ever wanted to get into any meaningful university program then I would have to get better marks.

I glared at James. I the young man had been accepted into uni into an advanced astrophysics program; NASA beckoned its graduates. Mindy --- the old Mindy, not the new one --- had tentatively discussed a three-year general arts program with her parents who had reminded her that her marks might only be good enough for a cook's program at a secondary college.

James stared at me. He looked terrified. He had forgotten the party the family had shared when the acceptance offer and scholarship offer to MIT had arrived. Yes! "James" was now going to MIT!

And I leaned back in my chair thinking that I now had two more years to perfect my grades, to finesse the enrolment interviews better than I had before, to better balance school and social, to hone my social skills including those with what’s his name that boy on the soccer team who liked Mindy, I mean, who liked me?

I had two more years to plan and prepare. Did I really want astrophysical sciences? That is what MIT had offered me, I mean, James. I had always a preference for a deep exploration of prime numbers with the possibility of diving into cryptography, perhaps with the NSA or CIA or a private-security firm. There was money in all three. There were no gender barriers in any of them. Two years to align my interests with my --- Mindy’s! --- new future.

Two more years of helping mom from time to time, knowing that she would be forever perplexed that Mindy her daughter was willingly helping her but would be grateful that she had --- and forever baffled that her previously helpful son had turned into a lazy slacker.

Two more years of now and then pitching into help dad with some yard work, raking leaves, or once or thrice mowing a lawn. He would remember such contributions. Men keep scorecards like that, you know…

I allowed the table a few minutes of silence. My parents undoubtedly were furiously trying to understand what had happened to their nice but average and not overly ambitious daughter. Their furrowed brows and hesitant smiles hardly hid their repressed hopes and optimism.

And the look on my brother’s face was priceless. He now had my scholarship. He now had my uni program. He now had my kinda-girlfriend, my looks, and even my second-hand car.

But he lacked my brains.

And thus I grinned at him confidently to ask him but a single question:

“I can make you some lemonade. Would you like some?”

END