Delia Suits Up

by Amanda Aksel

  “No way.” I shake my head and jolt up like she’s just dangled a scary spider in my face. I’d rather eat a spider right now than tell Eric how I feel. But I’d never say that aloud. Regina might dare me to.

  “You have to. You said dare.” She pulls me back down to the floor.

  “Even if I was going to do that ridiculous dare, I don’t have my phone, remember?”

  Ha! Gotcha, Gina!

  Her mouth puckers like she’s not ready to accept no for an answer. “Use mine again.” She grabs her phone from Frankie and shoves it in my face.

  Uh-uh. I push it out of the way. “I don’t have his number memorized. It’s saved in my phone.” In truth, I know his number by heart. I know everything about him by heart.

  She gives me an incredulous look. I know she’d love nothing more than to see me call Eric and confess my love like an eighth-grade schoolgirl.

  “Fine.” Regina violently pokes her finger into my shoulder. “You got lucky this time, Reese. But as soon as you get your phone back, you’re doing it.”

  I swallow hard and hope that she forgets about it by the time the sun comes up.

  “Okay, Frankie. Truth or dare?” I ask.

  “Dare,” he says with a goofy smile and drooping eyes.

  I search my brain for something fun, but can’t think of anything good. “I need the app.” I grab Regina’s phone and select “Dare.” A request pops up on the screen. “Ooh, this’ll be fun.”

  “What?” Frankie grins before taking a sip from his glass.

  I raise an eyebrow. “I get to text anyone in your contacts . . . from your phone.”

  “I hate this one.” He groans and hands over his unlocked device. “Just don’t get me fired.”

  Yeah, right. All we need is two roommates who can’t pay their rent next month. “Don’t worry. I’ll go easy.” I scroll through the list of contacts until I find someone that I know can take a joke. Someone who’s joined us for a drunken Truth or Dare or two.

  “Who are you texting?” Frankie bites the edge of his bottom lip.

  “Your sister.”

  “What did you send?”

  I hand his phone back. “ ‘I love you. And I need to borrow fifty bucks.’ ”

  “She’s gonna think it’s real.”

  “Exactly, I could really use fifty bucks.” I send him a playful wink even though it’s no joke.

  His expression softens as he turns to Regina. “Truth or dare?”

  “Truth.” She smirks playfully and I motion a yawn. Regina has very few secrets.

  “Why did you really leave your job at MAD NY?” He glares at her as if he’s prepared to challenge her answer.

  She takes a slow sip, mirroring his stare. “I told you, I wanted to work for DF Bay.”

  Frankie doesn’t blink. “Yeah, but nobody believes that.”

  MAD NY is the premier ad agency in the city, a dream job for any aspiring executive. It’s pretty much the investment banking equivalent to Monty Fuhrmann.

  Regina purses her full lips and shifts her eyes to the corner of the room. “Well, it’s true.”

  Actually, it’s not.

  That’s why no one understands it. Except for me. I know the real story. But it’s top secret.

  Regina shrugs. “All right, Delia. Truth or dare?”

  I gulp down the last of my wine and set the empty bottle aside. My chest warms and my lips begin to tingle. A belly full of wine and a single cupcake leave me in a very honest mood. “Truth.”

  She takes a moment to focus her eyes on the phone and reads from the bright screen. “If you could change anything about yourself what would it be?”

  I’d have a job, duh.

  But what happens when that firm has another stint of layoffs? Then I’m back to square one. Back to being the woman all the firms pass up for a man.

  “I’d have a dick.”

  “Huh?” Regina and Frankie look half-startled and half-confused.

  “Yeah, I’d be a man.”

  Frankie holds his hand over his heart, seeming to hold his breath. “Are you coming out to us right now?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “But think about it. If I were a man, I’d have a job. A goddamn good job. I’d be ascending the corporate ladder and making boatloads of money. More than my female counterparts, by the way. And I wouldn’t have to apologize for it. To anyone. I could have sex, so much sex, just rackin’ up notches on my bedpost, and no one would call me a slut. I could be powerful and intimidating without being labeled a bitch. I could be the best and they would let me. I’d finally have their fucking respect.”

  My friends gawk, slack-jawed.

  “Wow, Delia. I had no idea you had such penis envy.” Regina shakes her head slowly.

  Frankie wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me in. “She doesn’t have penis envy. She’s just depressed because she hasn’t had a real job in months.”

  Regina rolls her eyes at him. “Yeah, because she doesn’t wear a tie to the office.”

  “It makes no sense. If I were shit at my job then I’d understand, but I’m not. I’m really good at what I do. I can do it the same or better than anyone else, but they cast me aside because I’m a woman. It’s not fair!” I squeeze my fists into tight balls of rage. My eyes begin puddling with tears. Unfortunately, the heat of my anger isn’t hot enough to burn them away.

  “Damn it! Why do I always cry when I’m pissed off?” I sob.

  They sit on either side of me, patting my back and pouting their lips.

  “Because you’re a girl,” Frankie says.

  “Frankie!” Regina smacks the back of his head with one of her pillows. “Don’t listen to him.”

  “You know what I mean. Being emotional isn’t a bad thing.” Frankie hands me a tissue and I snag it, wiping my wet cheeks. “But you’re going to fuck up your contact lenses if you keep crying.”

  “You know what I think, Delia?” Regina says. “You’re the Pink Power Ranger.”

  “What?” Pink Power Ranger?

  She’s drunk.

  “Yeah, you’re the Pink Power Ranger. You see, the Pink Ranger is just as powerful as the other Rangers, but no one takes her seriously because her uniform’s pink. When really, she can kick everyone’s ass.”

  “I’m sorry, but what does this have to do with a nineties kid show?” Frankie cuts in.

  My tears come to a screeching halt. “She’s right. I’m the Pink Power Ranger.”

  “Exactly, girl!” Regina snaps her fingers, letting her Brooklyn accent out the way she does when she’s feeling righteous. “All you need is the right opportunity to slay the enemy and show that pink deserves respect.”

  I take a deep breath, wipe mascara from under my eyes, and ball my fists under my chin. “And what if I can’t?”

  Regina’s brown eyes lock with mine. “What are you talking about? Not for nothin’, haven’t you gotten this far?” She’s right. I’m still here. I shouldn’t throw in the towel yet. Anything could happen.

  I muster a smile and nod.

  “That’s my girl! You know what you need?” She clicks away on her phone. “A shake-it-off!” A second later, the rapid taps of a drumbeat boom through the speakers. Ah shit, that’s my jam. I lean into the rhythm, soaking up the kind of feminist anthem that would be the perfect companion to the Pink Power Ranger showing her enemies who’s boss.

  “Oh, yeah!” Frankie raises his glass and hops up. Regina joins him, bouncing her shoulders and pulling me to my feet. I roll my shoulders back, letting my problems roll away with them. My roommates sing along with lyrics that light a girl’s soul on fire and a beat that makes me wanna march over to Monty Fuhrmann and take no prisoners. My tension releases with every shoulder shimmy and booty shake. I let the frustration fuel my intensity, and the more my pulse elevates, the more
I can see myself in that moment. I feel the wine buzz tingle my skin as I shake my hips like there’s no tomorrow.

  “Get it, Queen D!” Frankie roots me on. We each dance with our own flavor at arm’s reach in our tiny living space, the same way we do at a packed nightclub. We belt out the chorus—Regina and I take the high parts and Frankie takes it low. Literally, he’s twerking on all fours. I throw my head back in a laugh, feeling so much freer than when I walked in the door. By the looks of it, I wasn’t the only one who needed a shake-it-off. We all pop into our final poses on the last note of the song like we’re a dance crew—the Wednesday Night Winos!

  “Feel better?” Regina asks, catching her breath.

  I wipe a little sweat from my forehead. “Hell yeah, I’m ready for anything now.”

  After another bottle and another hour laced with truths and dares and dance breaks, I stumble off to the bathroom and scrub the purple off my teeth. Struggling to steady my finger, I remove my last pair of contacts, which I’ve been wearing for two months to save a little cash. My vision is so bad that I can hardly make out the definition of my face. Better that I don’t get a good look at myself in this state anyway. I shut off the light and make my way down the dark hallway to my room. Regina’s and Frankie’s doors are closed for the night. I crawl into bed and rustle my achy legs under the cool covers.

  The ceiling looks as fuzzy as I feel, and I exhale slowly, my body still buzzing from the wine. I glance at the clock on my nightstand. Only thirty-seven minutes before it’s officially my birthday.

  My eyelids grow heavier than my thoughts. And the light goes dark.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I lift one eyelid just long enough to see that it’s 6:32 a.m. My bladder begs me to get up but I ignore it, letting my lashes fall for one last moment of sleep. I snake my arm out of the covers and reach for my cell but only find my glasses. The frames pinch my temples as I slide them on. They’re not usually this tight, but I’m not usually this hungover. Looking through the lenses is like peering through a glass bottle. I pull them off my face and stare up at the ceiling. I can make out every indentation in its swirly texture. In fact, everything is strangely clear in the soft shades of morning light.

  Shit. I thought I took my contacts out last night.

  And my phone is curiously missing from its usual spot on the nightstand.

  Wait. Oh, yes, it spent the night at Todd Fairbanks’s apartment. Lucky-ass phone. I, on the other hand, am clearly an unlucky hot mess. My sleepy consciousness begins to flood with flashes of last night’s Truth or Dare dance party and wishing on a single candle.

  Today’s my birthday.

  The thought of it blares in my head like an early-morning alarm—the kind of alarm you set to catch a five a.m. flight at JFK. Hurry up! You don’t want to be late!

  If it weren’t for being without a salaried job with benefits for the past four months, I’d be right on time.

  “Happy birthday, Delia,” I mutter, an unrecognizable baritone vibrating my ears. I sound like shit. How much wine did I drink last night?

  I take a deep morning inhale. The odor of oxidized grapes seems to be seeping through my pores. Gross.

  I shut my sleepy eyes again, wishing the day away.

  Come on, Delia. Remember positive? Remember confidence?

  My eyes creep open. Okay, I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna drop this deflated bullshit and embrace my inner kick-ass Pink Power Ranger. Mainly because I really need to pee. I let out a yawn, flexing and tightening my muscles. Regina’s right, this mind-over-matter thing might just work. I’m sensing an unusual strength this morning.

  A sort of tingly sensation buzzes in my crotch. I reach under the sheets, grabbing at what now aches with a light pressure, and touch something . . . hard?

  What the fuck? Did I take the wine bottle to bed with me?

  My eyes fly open and I throw off the covers, staring down at my body. My tiny night tee clings to my torso like a second skin. And a rod inside my pink panties stands at attention.

  Is that a . . . ?

  No.

  I gasp and hold my breath. This isn’t my body.

  I shoot out of bed like a blast from a Roman candle and hurry to the full-length mirror hanging on my closet door. A shriek rivaling that of a horror movie scream queen escapes my lungs. Except it sounds like a scream king. I cover my mouth with thick-knuckled fingers. My heartbeat ticks like a time bomb about to explode as I catch more glimpses of the figure in the mirror through rapid blinks.

  Man, oh, man.

  I lean toward the reflection and rub my hand over large pores and a George Michael–style five-o’clock shadow. Is this my face?

  “Holy fuck!”

  I shake my head and jerk back. No. This can’t be. I crouch down, trying to conceal this male body in my tiny cotton tee and even tinier panties, but there’s nowhere to hide. “No, no, no, no, no, no . . .” My breath turns quick and shallow.

  I dash under the covers, gripping the edge of the sheet and shutting my eyes tight. “It’s a dream. It’s only a dream. I’ll wake up any second. Wake up, Delia. WAKE THE FUCK UP!” I push the blankets off, but there’s still a cock-sized bulge in my panties practically crowing cock-a-doodle-doo!

  That is not the wake-up call I was hoping for.

  “Ohmigod, ohmigod.”

  There must be some mistake.

  Rushing to the bedroom door, I peek my head into the hall. The apartment is still and silent. I scurry to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. My giant hands tremble as I examine all the bottles on the sink. Does Frankie have some medical-grade magic potion that I used by accident?

  No, that’s crazy.

  But so is waking up with a dick in place of my vagina. And my boobs! I press on my flat, hard chest. Where are my squishy boobs?

  My bladder pleads with me, as if it’s detected the toilet two feet away. Seat’s up, suggestively saying, “Pee in me. You know you want to,” while my bladder screams back, “I do, I do, I really do!”

  But I can’t!

  Squeezing my groin, I pony around the plastic bottles that I tossed to the floor.

  No. I don’t want to. If I pee with a penis, then it’s not some drunken dream. It’s real.

  “Ohmigod, what’s happening to me?” I suck in a deep breath and hold it long enough to feel faint, then my stinging bladder jolts me to exhale.

  Fuck it. But I’m not gonna look.

  I keep my eyes fixed to the cabinet above the toilet. My petite panties cling to my hairy thighs and I tug at the penis, my penis, and aim at the bowl the best that I can. It shoots out like a water gun in the hands of a malicious kid, and I’ve missed the mark by, I dunno, a fucking mile.

  “Shit!”

  How is any of this actually happening right now?

  Before I flood the bathroom, I halt the flow and flip the seat down. Squatting over, I aim my thing into the toilet. Oh my god! If I ever get my vagina back, I’ll never complain about cleaning piss from a toilet again. I chew my lip, pissing from a penis like, like . . . like a fucking man! Why did I drink so much last night?

  The pee squirts out, pausing in between like a pump. One. Two. Three.

  Empty.

  What the hell!

  I yank the toilet paper off the roll and squeeze my eyes shut as I pat the tip dry. Do guys do this? The yellow water swirls around the basin as I lift my panties back up, but the fabric can’t contain my package. I do my best to stuff the soft, sausage-like skin back in like I’m rearranging an overpacked suitcase. How did this fit before? Eww! I just touched a testicle hair. Bleh.

  Suppressing my gag reflex, which has been known to trigger around dicks, I grab Regina’s bathrobe from the door hook and put it on before pumping soap onto my hands. That’s right. There’s no reason to be a barbarian even if I am a man. I let my eyes wander to the mirror as I run
my hands beneath the hot water. It’s the strangest thing. Clearly this face isn’t mine, but somehow, I still recognize myself in it.

  My mind traces its steps back to last night sitting on the floor with Regina and Frankie—the merlot, the ice cream, Truth or Dare.

  If I were a man, I’d get the fucking respect I deserve.

  The words from my impassioned speech ring in my hungover brain. I stare at myself in the mirror, wide-eyed and spooked.

  Did I do this to myself?

  I take it back.

  I take it all back.

  How am I going to explain this to Regina and Frankie?

  Oh, that’s right. I can’t because I’m stuck in this body with no fucking clue how I got here. Better snatch a pair of Frankie’s scrubs from his bedroom floor and escape before they see me. But where will I go?

  No cash. No ID. No phone.

  No chance in hell.

  Okay, Delia, think.

  Maybe it’s all in my head. It has to be. What if I see myself as a man, but everyone else sees me as, well . . . me? Only one way to find out. The door squeaks as I pull it open and peek my head out. Still silent, except for my pounding heart. Creeping down the hall to Regina’s room, the extra sixty pounds weigh on me. I lift my toes, stepping lightly, like a ballerina. But my foot hits the creaky wood floor like the hoof of an elephant.

  I push Regina’s cracked door open with the tips of my beefy fingers. She’s lying on her back, snoring like a stuffed-up pug, her long hair covering her eyes like a sleep mask. I reach her bedside and tug my lip with my teeth. It’s like I’ve entered the lion’s den. My heart is pounding in my ears like a stampede of terrified prey. This is it. Moment of truth.

  I nudge her. “Psst! Regina. Wake up.”

  She grumbles and rolls over.

  “Gina, wake up!” My rich voice escalates.

  Regina flinches and looks up at me as if I’m a mangled-faced zombie. That answers that. Reaching for her baseball bat, she somersaults out of bed and positions herself like a wannabe Yankee, her white-knuckled grip around the base.