Chances Are Omnibus (Gender Swap Fiction)

by P. T. Dilloway

  Tess is down in the dining room to talk with Mac. I hope she’s not pressuring him about having the wedding at her church. I hear her say, “With her upbringing, I’m sure she’ll need a lot of help.”

  “Stacey is a very capable young woman.”

  “Yes, of course, but she’s inexperienced in these matters. A wedding isn’t like one of those singing shows she does. It’s much more involved.”

  “I’m sure she’ll welcome any advice you have, Mrs. Madigan.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  I see that as my cue to bound into the room. I put my arms around Tess’s neck and then kiss her cheek. “Morning, Grandma!”

  “Good morning, sweetheart. You’re all set to go already?”

  “Yep. Even before Grandpa for once.”

  “So are you going to work today?” Tess asks.

  “Yes. Not that I’ll do much work,” I say.

  She pats my ring hand. “You just make sure to take good care of Dr. Macintosh’s grandmother’s ring.”

  “I will.”

  “And be careful. There are many nasty people in the city who wouldn’t miss a beat on taking that ring and pawning it for drug money.”

  “I know, Grandma. I’m not going to wave it around to everyone.” I give her another kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call you later, OK?”

  “All right, dear.”

  Then I take Mac’s hand and we go out to his car.

  ***

  I open the store at seven-thirty, which is perhaps the earliest it’s ever opened. It’s early enough that Maddy and Grace aren’t up yet. I sit behind the counter and stare at the ring and my notebook. Instead of working on my song, I’ve flipped to a blank page, where I try to figure out all the things I need to do before my big day.

  It’s the reception that’s an even bigger hassle than the ceremony. You have to have a place to stage it, with seating, centerpieces, and so forth. You need a caterer and a DJ or something for the music. Balloons, flowers, crepe paper—it’s unbelievable once you start thinking about it. And of course there’s the cake. Which especially nowadays you have to worry someone will be allergic to chocolate or peanuts or wheat.

  I stash the notebook when I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. From the heaviness of the steps, I’m sure it’s Maddy. She wears a pink flannel nightgown, the kind of thing I know she only wears when she and Grace sleep in separate bedrooms. She yawns while she runs a hand through her tangled hair. “What’s with the early bird?” Maddy asks.

  “Nothing much. Mac gave me a ride this morning.” I keep my left hand hidden as I say this. “You know, after he stopped by last night to ask me to marry him.”

  Then I put my left hand on the counter so she can see the diamond wink in the fluorescent lights of the store. Maddy stares at me for a moment. Her mouth goes slack. Then she screams so loud that I have to cover my ears.

  She moves much faster than a woman her size should be able to; she runs over to me and then picks me up right off the stool. She continues to scream while she pumps me up and down. “Oh my God!” she shouts over and over.

  I’m out of breath and my midsection aches by the time she puts me back down. “I can’t believe it,” she says. “What happened? Tell me everything.”

  So I tell her about Mac throwing pebbles at my window to wake me up and then doing his bad Romeo & Juliet for me. “That’s so romantic,” Maddy says with a sigh. “Did he climb up the house and all that?”

  “No, I went down there.” I skip over the part where I knocked him onto the ground from my enthusiasm. “Then he got down on one knee and took the ring out.”

  Maddy holds up my hand to study the ring. “It’s a hell of a rock.”

  “It was his grandma’s ring. He got it from his mom for me.”

  “Wow. That’s so awesome,” Maddy says with another sigh. We both start to tear up. She gives me another, gentler hug. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  In all the commotion, neither of us notices Grace until she asks, “What’s going on?” Unlike Maddy, she’s dressed in an oversized T-shirt that barely covers her panties. Her hair’s even wilder; it’s poofed out into a great frizzy ball. I hold up my hand so her bleary eyes can see the ring. “You said yes this time?”

  Maddy answers for me. “He was way more romantic this time. He did Romeo & Juliet for her. And that’s his grandma’s ring, not some cheesy department store one.”

  “Oh, I see.” Grace gives me a much gentler hug than Maddy. “Congratulations, Stace.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So when are you getting married?”

  “We’re not sure yet,” I say. “We haven’t figured much out yet.”

  Maddy startles me with a girlish squeal. “Wait right there,” she says. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Maddy thunders up the stairs, to leave Grace and I alone. Grace gives me a shy smile. “I guess I’ll have to find another street urchin to coerce into managing the place.”

  “No, of course not. Maybe if I get a record contract and have to tour and stuff—”

  “I just mean you probably aren’t going to want to hang around a dump like this anymore. You’ll probably want to have lunch at the country club with all the other doctor’s wives.”

  I reach out with my right hand to take Grace’s hand. “Do I look like that kind of girl to you?”

  “Well no, but when I met you, you weren’t the kind of girl to wear red glasses either.”

  I remember something Grace said about five years ago, how this city changes people over time. It’s certainly changed me in a lot of ways. I squeeze Grace’s hand. “No matter what happens, I’m not going to forget you and Maddy. If you hadn’t found me at that thrift store and offered me the job here, I don’t think any of this would have happened. I’d probably still be eating out of dumpsters.”

  “Thanks, Stace.”

  We’re hugging when Maddy rumbles back down the stairs. I look up to see she carries a bundle of magazines. Grace and I part so Maddy can dump the magazines on the counter. They’re bridal magazines, some as old as six years ago. Clearly Maddy has thought about marriage for a long time.

  “Where have you been keeping those?” Grace asks.

  “My hiding place,” Maddy says. She sits down on a stool next to me and then grabs one of the magazines. She flips it open to a picture of a five-tiered cake. “Doesn’t that look so good? It’s gluten-free and everything so it’s like the healthiest wedding cake you can have.”

  Maddy tells me more about the cake. When I look up, Grace is gone.

  ***

  By the end of the day, my head swims. Over the last ten hours we’ve talked about everything from the cake to the dress to my hair to what the flower girl should wear. Even over takeout Chinese, Maddy talks almost nonstop, with a few breaks for me to mutter something positive.

  I take a cab over to Mac’s place. Darren is at the piano when I come through the door. “What do you think?” I ask and hold out the ring for him.

  “It’s nice.”

  “Just nice?”

  “It’s pretty.”

  “Thanks.” I sit down on the bench next to him. “Are you happy about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” I clear my throat. “My friend and I were talking and if you want, you could be our ring bearer.”

  “Isn’t that for little kids?”

  “Sometimes. I don’t know many little kids, though.” As his possible-future-adopted-mother, I rub his back. “Or maybe your uncle will ask you to be a groomsman. Or an usher. It was just a thought, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want to put any pressure on you.”

  “You’re not.”

  I know I’ve embarrassed him too much, so I stand up. “I’m going upstairs for a little while. Can you let your uncle know I’m here when he gets in?”

  “OK.”

  “Thanks.”

  I take my load of magazines up to
the bathroom, to flip through them while I let the water in the bathtub run. There are so many things to do, choices to make. But for now all I do is slip into the tub with a weary sigh and fall asleep in the warm water.

  I wake to someone kissing my cheek. When I open my eyes, I see Mac smiling down at me. “Hello, sleepyhead,” he says. He motions to the magazines over on the counter. “Doing a little research?”

  “Actually Madison did the research for me. She’s been squirreling those away for years, for when she and Grace get married.”

  He goes into psychologist mode. “What do you think it means that she gave them to you?”

  “That she’s given up on marrying Grace.”

  “That seems like a good guess.”

  I let out a groan and say, “She talked my ears off all day about it.”

  “Sounds like we already have a wedding planner.”

  “Yeah, I guess. One who works for free. That’ll save some money.” I wave helplessly at the magazines. “This is supposed to be my wedding. Not hers. But if I don’t do what she wants, it’s going to break her heart—”

  Mac bends down to kiss my forehead. “It is your wedding,” he says. “So it’s up to you to set clear boundaries. Make it clear to Madison that you appreciate her suggestions, but you’re still in charge.”

  “That won’t work, not with Maddy. She’s always had this wild enthusiasm. Once she gets worked up about something, she goes at it full tilt.”

  “I don’t know where she got that from.”

  I smile at my fiancé. “Sure, blame me.”

  “If Madison is really your friend, then she’ll respect your space.”

  “I hope so.”

  He kisses my forehead again. “Don’t worry about it. Everything will be fine.” He leans closer and whispers in my ear, “But if you’re feeling too stressed, I know a few good techniques to release tension.”

  To give me a preview, he massages my shoulders for a minute, until I sink under the water with a grateful sigh. When I pop back up, Mac brushes wet hair from my face. “Dinner’s ready downstairs whenever you get hungry.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I say. Then I remember my werewolf legs. “I just want to tidy up a little first.”

  Chapter 8

  I keep my eyes closed to pretend I’m still asleep until Mac kisses my forehead and then leaves the bedroom. Only then do I sit up. That’s harder to do these days, as my gut expands. It’s big enough now that it rests on my thighs when I sit. It must be some kind of record that I’ve put on thirty pounds in three weeks. Soon I’ll be as big as Maddy, though I already look bigger than her because I’m so much shorter.

  With a groan I run a hand through hair that’s become a dry, cracked desert. My hand comes back with dozens of long hairs still attached. I see more hair on my pillow. That’s why I didn’t want to get up until Mac left; I don’t want him to see I’m balding.

  I waddle into the bathroom as fast as I can. When I turn on the light it’s hard to suppress a gasp. I look awful. I lean close to the mirror and run my hand through my hair again. The thick curtain of bangs over my forehead has eroded to a few wispy stragglers. Behind that, the hair on the crown of my head has thinned to where I can see my scalp. As for the back, it’s barely shoulder-length now.

  While the top of my head loses hair, everywhere else has gained it. I really am turning into a werewolf: my legs, arms, and even my chest have grown a coat of wiry black hairs that remain no matter how often I shave. Before long I’ll have to have someone laser it off—if that will even keep it at bay. I lean closer to the mirror to see I’ve got a mustache. It’s just thin black down right now, but noticeable in the right light. There’s more down along my jaw, along the flabby jowls that have begun to show. I’m becoming the bearded lady!

  I take the comb off the counter and then start to comb my hair. In the past I would part it in the center, but now I’ve shifted the part over to the left, so I can scrape it over across my scalp—a female combover. Then I gather up what I can to form a short ponytail.

  With the hair out of my way, I can start on the lengthy process of shaving. I decide today to start with my face. For this I use Mac’s razor. I rub his shaving cream over my plump cheeks and droopy jowls. I haven’t shaved my face in five years, not since I was a man. It’s like riding a bike; I just need a few strokes to get the hang of it again. I don’t even cut myself, not that it’s easy to do that anymore with these safety razors.

  For the rest I have to practically bathe in shaving cream. I start with my gut; I coat the rolls of fat in shaving cream so I can shave off the down with my pink Lady Bic. The skin looks bright pink after I’ve swiped the razor over it. There’s still some stubble that promises to sprout into a new field of hair I’ll have to shave tomorrow morning, if not this afternoon.

  The hardest part is to shave my right arm, if only because it forces me to use my left hand. The lines I plow across the layer of shaving cream are uneven, which leaves gaps as if I’m wearing pinstripes. I swipe the razor as best I can to clean these up too.

  I go through two disposable razors every morning. When I’m done, I turn to the mirror. I try to smile, which only makes things worse. My teeth have inexplicably turned yellow. They’ve started to get crooked too, to the point I’ll need braces before much longer. For the moment, at least, I look like a woman. I might be fat, with thin hair and bad teeth, but I’m a woman, not a freak.

  I go back into the bedroom. One day when I knew Tess would be out, I slipped into her house to find my clothes from about five years ago. They were too big before, but my gut stretches them enough so they fit well enough. I wear sweatshirts and sweatpants a lot of the time, but for today I put on a white blouse that has gaps between some of the lower buttons, through which my stomach is visible. With a groan I start to unbutton the blouse. I find another without buttons that will probably show a roll of fat if I lift my arms too high. I make sure to find the longest skirt I can, one that won’t show how hairy my legs are for whenever it grows back.

  Mac is already gone by the time I go downstairs. He’s taken Darren to school. A note on the fridge reads, “Good luck on your demos.” They both signed it and put an “XXOO” beneath it. I smile a little; it feels like we’re already a family.

  I open the fridge to take out a cup of yogurt. The strange thing is, I haven’t eaten more the last three weeks, not unless I’ve been sleepwalking. I’ve heard of water retention causing someone to gain weight, but thirty pounds?

  It’s stress, I tell myself. Stress from the recording session today coupled with all the hubbub about the wedding. Once everything calms down a little—when I get that record deal and become Mrs. Robert Macintosh—then I’ll be myself again, not this chubby werewolf.

  I wash down the yogurt with a cup of water and then it’s time to go. Lately when I ride the train, it feels like everyone watches me. If someone laughs, I instantly think it must be about me. In three weeks I’ve gone from a cute little bride-to-be into a fat, hairy freak.

  To ignore the imagined stares of the other passengers, I check messages on my phone. There’s one from Dr. Palmer to say I’m late for my monthly appointment. I should have gone in last week. There’s just too much to do. I have to plan and shop for the wedding, plus I still have to work out the kinks in my original song. There’s no time to sit around a lab and get blood drawn.

  I type in a reply, to tell her I’ll be in soon. Then I open the next message to see Maddy’s got a new idea for the centerpieces. As I sigh, I imagine more hair falling off my head.

  ***

  It’s no surprise Mr. Swift doesn’t recognize me at first. The last time he saw me was over three weeks ago, when I was skinny and cute. His eyes narrow as he tries to figure out who this bloated, balding creature is. He finally forces a smile to his face. “Hello, Stacey,” he says. “You’re early.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Well, let me show you around.” He gives me the grand tour of the place, wh
ich doesn’t take long. The studio isn’t much bigger than Jake and Tess’s house. The crown jewel is the control room with its mixing board, separated from the studio by a pane of glass. There are already a couple of guys about Mac’s age in the control room, to get things ready. They pretend not to be shocked when Swift introduces me. “Stacey is a very talented young singer,” Swift says.

  They shake my hand and we exchange pleasantries. They’ve both done some work for artists I’ve never heard of, not anyone really famous. I nod to act like I’m impressed.

  Then we go through a door into the studio. There’s a quartet of musicians in there: a gangly guy on the piano, a fat guy on the drums, a skinny guy on the trumpet, and a middle-aged woman on the bass. I’m too nervous to remember their names or anything else about them. We exchange pleasantries too; I try not to say anything stupid.

  The first embarrassing moment comes when a technician has to adjust the microphone so I can sing into it. I could sit on a stool, but I’d rather stand, like I do on stage. Swift assures everyone it’s for the best. While the microphone gets adjusted, the other musicians tune their instruments. Everyone seems to know what they’re doing except for me.

  Once the microphone is fixed, Swift pats me on the shoulder. “They’re just going to want you to warm up a little. Don’t be nervous. We have plenty of tape and the studio is yours for as long as you need it.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Swift.”

  I practice my scales. One of the control room guys gets on the intercom to tell me the levels are fine. “Let’s give it a run through,” he says.

  Our first track is “Anything Goes,” the one Maddy says is my best. I turn to my rented band. “You guys ready?” They nod back to me. “OK, let’s do it.”

  I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. This is it, my big break. I count off to myself as the band gets through the intro. Then I open my mouth and sing.