“Jonny gots bitsy feet,” Linda told Turkle. “But not littler than mine!”

Mom brought me a robe in the kitchen, where I set out the makings for hot cakes on the kitchen counter. The item was one of mom’s, of course, pale blue with embroidery at the hem, collar and cuffs. At least it wasn’t pink. It did cover me up better than the loose pajama top after I pulled the belt around and tied it in a big loose bow.

I’m several inches shorter than Mom, so the robe almost reached the tops of my feet.

“Hee hee hee,” Linda giggled, pointing at my feet. I wiggled my toes, provoking another squeal.

“Linda!” Mom barked. “Jonny, don’t encourage her. And let me get you some slippers. Kitchens are dangerous places to go barefoot in.”

I set out the electric griddle and started it heating while I mixed up the dry ingredients for hotcakes. Once you get the mixture wet, it has to go on the griddle pretty quickly.

Mom brought back a pair of fuzzy slippers that almost matched the robe I was wearing, and I slipped them on. “These aren’t mine,” I commented.

“They are now,” Mom said. “I bought them by mistake, and they’re too small for me or your sister.”

“Jonny gots bitsy feet,” Linda told Turkle. “But not littler than mine!”

“Hush!” Mom told her, rubbing her forehead.

“Go wake up Donna,” I told the Turbo Toddler. “Dad, too,” I added.

“Ogay!” she agreed and sped off toward the bedrooms, squealing about ‘hopgakes!’

“That’ll keep her busy for a few,” I told Mom.

“But not quiet,” she mentioned as we could hear the uproar down the hallway.

I grinned and poured her a cup of coffee from Mr. DiMaggio’s Magic Machine. Dad would want one, too, and maybe half a cup for Donna. I’d never acquired the addiction.

We could hear Linda rousing the rest of the household, and I had time to reflect on whether Donna had seen me last night. Dad had brought me home and put me directly to bed. I hadn’t seen Donna. Had she seen me?

I sighed. Well, she had to see me sometime. I glanced down at my chest. Yes, I was definitely bigger down there now than she was. And no real explanation to offer anyone. Could there even be an explanation? My chest had grown in just a few hours from barely more than a pre-teen girl might have to a full bust that would’ve looked large for a woman.

Hearing family members in the hall, I began mixing the wet ingredients in a second bowl. Oil, eggs, and buttermilk whisked together then dumped into the dry stuff to be whisked some more. The best oil for fluffy hotcakes (a family secret) is not one of the new poly-unsaturated oils but extra-light olive oil that had most of the olive taste removed.

I used a whisk to stir with and felt my breasts move inside my robe from the energy of my efforts. I remembered the bra Mom had got for me last night. Did I need to find that and wear it? My face got hot, and I tried to concentrate on what I was doing.

I stopped myself from stirring the batter more than needed; that’s how you end up with the leathery hotcakes in cafes that have been mixed with a machine. Mom passed me the four-ounce ladle, the perfect size. I turned the heat down on the griddle and poured the first hotcake just as Linda, Dad and Donna reached the dining room.

I beamed at them. Despite what may have happened last night, I know I can still do this. “How many ‘cakes do you want?” I asked. “I made enough batter for more than a dozen!” I figured one or two for Linda, two or three for each of the bigger people, and one small one for Fooler.

“Hopgakes!” Linda screamed, and Mom winced. Dad snatched the tiny terror off her feet before she could run across the room like a knee-seeking missile and tackle me.

“Let’s let Jonny finish cooking them before we try to eat them, huh?” he asked while holding her upside down. She giggled furiously and waved her feet in the air. “Three for me, Jonny, and two for cartoon-girl here,” he said over his shoulder. Linda’s cartoons were still on the TV in the living room with the sound off.

“Cartoonities!” shrieked Linda, and Fooler ‘wuffed’ in agreement.

Donna just stared at me. Nope, she hadn’t seen me last night. “Two or three for you, sis?” I asked her.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Which?” I pressed for an answer.

Her eyes moved from one of my new breasts to the other. “Two, please,” she said. “Three would be too many.”

Mom had already set the table and put cartons of milk and orange juice in the middle with a stack of cups next to the coffee maker. Now she took the plate with the first four hotcakes and quickly forked them onto individual plates.

Donna just stood there, staring at my chest. “Are those real?” she suddenly asked.

“Donna!” Mom snapped. “Let Jonny make breakfast. We can talk later.” She inclined her head towards Linda, now sitting in Dad’s lap.

My sister nodded vaguely and sat down at her usual place. “They look real,” she muttered over her shoulder in my direction. She pulled out a chair and took a seat.

I rolled my eyes at her.

“Can you make me just one bigger one next batch, Jonny?” she asked. This was a typical special order by Mom. “‘Course,” I agreed, ignoring Donna’s snort.

I usually aimed for 6 or 7-inch cakes, but poured one 8-incher for Mom in the second batch and one 5-incher for Fooler.

“Bigger is better,” commented Donna.

I ignored her, announcing instead, “Chocolate morsels in the next four cakes!”

“Choconaut!” squealed Linda.

The fourth round of cakes included frozen blueberries added to the batter at the last moment, and the traditional, smaller, last cake went to the cook, me. I took my cakes and sat down next to Donna, feeling a bit of a bounce and jiggle as I did.

Donna stared with a forkful of syrupy hotcake near her mouth.

“Yes, they’re real,” I said.

* * *

Since I cooked, Donna would have to do clean-up duties. Tomorrow would be her turn to cook and mine to repair the damages. While she rinsed and stacked plates in the dishwasher, Mom pulled me into the living room, and we settled into the area we called the library since there were bookcases on two walls there. The chairs in the library had their backs turned to the television and so shut out the rest of the living room/dining room by design.

“Baby,” Mom said to me, “we need to get you some clothes.”

It wasn’t that unusual for Mom to call one of us kids ‘baby’, but I frowned at her.

She motioned at her own chest, “You need a good bra that will fit, and maybe some other stuff….”

“I duwanna wear a bra,” I whined.

“Honey,” Mom began, “you just really can’t leave the house looking like an advertisement!”

I blinked. “An advertisement for what?” I asked.

She snorted. “Never mind what. No child of mine is going out and about with all that bouncing and swaying.”

“But, Mom,” I whined again. “I’m a boy!”

She snorted again. “I doubt anyone is going to believe that.”

I bit my lip.

“Have you looked in a mirror?” She accused.

I nodded reluctantly.

“So, do you think you have anything to wear that is going to make you look like a boy?”

“Ouch!” I said aloud. I shook my head, which caused sympathetic jiggles, causing me to glare down at myself. I looked back up at Mom, catching her with a bemused expression. “It’s not funny,” I pouted.

“I wasn’t laughing,” she excused herself and demonstrated by frowning.

“What’s not funny?” Donna asked, having finished with the clean-up and joined us in the library.

“Jonny’s problems,” Mom supplied.

“You’re telling me?” Donna snarked and got a warning glare from Mom. “Well, how did this happen?” she asked, frowning around at both of us. “At lunch, the other girls thought Jonny was my little sister, and now this?” She waved at me.

Linda escaped from Dad about then, running up to declare, “I’m your little sister!”

Mom winced at the volume. “We’re not on the playground, Linda. We’re indoors.”

“Uh, huh,” the little one agreed. “We had hopgakes and Daddy is going to take me and Fooler for a walk!” The dog was already at the front door and made a whuffle noise at the sound of the word ‘walk.’

“C’mon, Linda,” Dad called to her. “You don’t want Fooler to have an accident, do you?”

Linda laughed and ran to join them. “Fooler can’t cause an accident. He doesn’t have a light sense,” she told Dad, and I hid my grin.

“He what?” Dad asked, bending to clip the leash to Fooler’s collar.

Donna spoke up. “You sure you’re putting that lead on the right one, Dad?”

“Pretty sure,” Dad answered, smiling.

“Hoo, hoo, hee, hee,” Linda giggled, bouncing up and down on her toes.

“Helen,” Dad called out to Mom before opening the door, “I’m going to take these two out to work off some energy, then I’m going into the office to see if I can talk to someone about….medical stuff.”

“Okay,” Mom replied, glancing at me. Mom was Helen, and Dad was Lawrence, but it always seems weird when your parents call each other by name. I waved at Dad, and Linda used both arms to wave back.

Dad managed to get out the front door without getting tangled or tripped up. As the door closed behind them, I could hear Linda explaining to Dad that Fooler would have to write a letter to Santa to get his light sense.

“Well,” Dad said, “I don’t think he can wait till Christmas to go for his walk.”

I grinned at Mom, and Donna rolled her eyes. Mom just shook her head, smiling. “I don’t know where she gets it. Neither of you two were like that as babies.”

I saw where Donna’s gaze had landed and frowned at her.

She shrugged. “You said they’re real. How could that happen? They were just little bumps when I saw them before.”

I shook my head. “They just grew, last night. They got warm, and they grew.” I wanted to check to see if they felt hot again, but I didn’t.

“What are you now, a D-cup, like Mom?” asked Donna. “It took me most of a year to get to an A-cup, and another year...” She glanced down. “Chiggers, you’re more than twice as big as me!”

I knew I was blushing, but .there’s nowhere to turn that off. “I didn’t do anything,” was the best response I could come up with.

“Yeah, well,” Donna admitted, “if you did do something, there are a lot of flat-chested girls out there who would like to know what it was.” She smiled to take a little of the sting off that, but I felt my lips begin to tremble.

“Hey,” she offered, holding out a hand. I took it in mine, and we traded soft squeezes. “I give you a hard time because we’re related, you know?”

“I know,” I said. “You’re annoying, but you’re my sister.”

“I could say the same thing, and it looks like I might be right,” she grinned and nudged me with an elbow.

“Don’t!” I protested, but I gave her hand another squeeze.

“Donna,” Mom began, looking severe. “Do you have anything in your wardrobe that might help Jonny look like a boy?”

“Chiggers,” said Donna. “You’re kidding, right? Uh, I’ve got a cowboy hat?”

“I don’t think that will help,” Mom commented.

I remembered the hat. It was blue straw with a purple ribbon. It wouldn’t help at all. I frowned at Donna.

Mom sighed. Donna sighed. I sighed.

“What have the doctors said?” asked Donna.

“Nothing that helpful,” Mom replied. “That shot on Thursday was supposed to help Jonny’s problem, and it seems to have made it worse.”

“What kind of shot was it?” Donna looked at me.

“It was supposed to be, you know, boy-stuff, like hormones,” I said. “I guess?”

“Huh.”

We all looked at each other, unsure of what to do.

“I guess we have to go shopping,” Mom suggested.

“It’s 9 a.m. on a Saturday. Nothing is open except K-mart,” Donna pointed out.

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” I said. “Not, not like this.”

“Honey, neither your sister’s stuff nor mine is going to fit you right. We have to get you something to wear.” She made vague motions.

I tried to fold my arms, but there was nowhere to put them.

Mom stood. “Let me find my sewing basket so we can get your sizes sorted out.” She headed down the hall.

Donna got up and pulled me to my feet. “Come on to my room,” she said. “We might be able to find something that makes you look a bit less like Loni Anderson.”

I groaned, glancing down at myself. For the last two years, the guys at school talked about her and her character of the busty secretary on WKRP almost every lunch period the day after the show was on. She was a blonde too. “Maybe I could dye my hair,” I offered.

“Seriously? I don’t think that would help.”

“You’re probably right,” I agreed, following her to the bedroom.

*