Mr Big Gets Swapped Read online

  “What’d you do to me?” he wailed.

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Did so! I was a grown up!”

  “You silly boy,” she said, tousling his sweaty hair. “You only dreamed you were grown up. Dreaming is all you can do when you’re just a pathetic little boy who’s bullied by everyone else.”

  “You’re lying! I was too grown up!” Tears came to his eyes. This wasn’t fair! He hadn’t dreamed it. He hadn’t! He was rich and successful and important. If he just checked his phone—

  The phone was gone! In his hand was an ordinary calculator. He threw it to the floor in disgust. “What’d you do to me? Did you drug me or something? That’s probably what you did to the others too.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t drug them—or you. Now, you ought to go home before your parents worry.”

  “No! I’m not going anywhere until you change me back and sign that contract!” He crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet defiantly. If she wanted him to leave, she would have to drag him out.

  “It’s long past your bedtime, young man. You should go home.”

  “I’m not going. You can’t make me!”

  “Is that so?” She reached out to grab him by the ear again. As she pulled him towards the door, he latched onto the door frame with both hands. She tugged harder on his ear, until he thought it would tear off his body, but he kept hold of the frame.

  Suddenly he found himself grabbing at air, his arms and fingers shorter. He flailed, trying to grab something else, but there was nothing in reach. She dragged him back down the hallway, towards the front door. If she got him through that door, he would be stuck as a little kid; how could he explain that to anyone? He had to stop her, but he was too weak to resist her. There had to be something he could do—

  With barely a thought he spun enough that he could bite down on the hand pinching his ear. She cried out in pain, her grip loosening enough that he could get free. He darted away, back towards the bathroom. At the end of the hallway he saw stairs. As poor as Monroe was, she probably had a phone up there. If he could get to it, he could call for help. He wasn’t sure who he could call, but he could think of that when he got up there.

  After only a few steps, he found himself winded. His clothes seemed to press down on him like a blood pressure cuff. He wheezed with surprise to see his tummy had inflated to look like he’d swallowed a bowling ball. The gaps between the buttons on his shirt widened. No! He wasn’t a fatso! He had always been skinny. This wasn’t fair!

  He forced himself up another step; the buttons on his shirt popped one-by-one to let a tidal wave of flab surge free. His sausage link fingers latched onto the guardrail of the stairs to pull himself up one more step. This time he felt the button on his pants give way; they slipped off as he dragged himself up another step, onto the landing. He lay there, gasping for air, his tight clothes plastered to him by sweat.

  He heard steps behind him. She was coming to fetch him, to throw him out onto the street. How could he survive like this? But what could he do? He didn’t have a weapon anymore. Except—

  “Goodness, what a big boy you are,” Monroe teased. He couldn’t see her; he had to hope she was still near the bottom of the stairs.

  He rocked back-and-forth once before he sent himself rolling down the stairs. Even with all that new flab on his body, it still hurt like hell, especially when his head hit a step, stars bursting in his vision.

  He heard her cry out and then felt himself slam into her like a bowling ball. She toppled over, groaning with pain as he dropped to the floor. Joe knew he had to get up to waddle into the kitchen to find a knife or something else heavy enough to finish Monroe off, but he couldn’t get his battered, exhausted body to move. He would just rest a few minutes—

  “You naughty little bastard,” Monroe hissed. “You bite me and then you try to cripple me. I’m going to do what your parents must have never done.”

  He was too tired to ask her what that might be. To his dismay, he heard her coming down the steps; as she neared the bottom step he saw her feet. What was she going to do to him now?

  She grunted as she rolled him onto his stomach. “This is what naughty boys get for misbehaving,” she growled. Then he heard a sharp crack and felt an even sharper pain in his rear. She wasted no time hitting him again and again, the pain growing with each strike.

  The heaviness and exhaustion lifted from him, replaced by searing pain. He sobbed pathetically, tears blinding him and sobs choking him. Something else happened too: his hands touching the floor became buffered by the fabric of his sleeves. As she spanked him, he got smaller, his fingers stopping about three-quarters down his sleeves.

  Monroe yanked him to his feet. Even through his tears he saw his jacket and shirt went all the way to the floor while his eyes were level with her waist. She tilted his chin up to look her in the eye. “Now, what do you have to say for yourself, young man?”

  He could only make a keening sound through his sobs. He shrieked with pain as she slapped his left cheek. “Quit that blubbering! What kind of man you supposed to be? One thrashing and you’re bawling like a little girl.”

  “Not—” he managed to get out before he squealed with surprise to see his jacket and shirt had become a pink flannel nightgown. A light brown braid tied at the end with a pink bow hung over each shoulder. He held up a slim hand with pink fingernails. “No! I’m not a girl!”

  “You were never much of a boy,” Monroe said with a smug grin. “You ought to be better off like this.”

  He stamped a foot clad in a fuzzy pink bunny slipper that barely made a sound. “No! I’m not a girl! I wanna be gwown up. Now! Now, now, now!” As he stamped his feet and shouted, he got even littler, until his eyes barely met the top of her kneecaps. His nightgown turned into a pink onesie while his braids shortened into golden pigtails. His voice had a toddler’s lisp as he wailed, “No faiw! I not baby!”

  She picked him up by the armpits to cradle his tiny body against her. As one hand rubbed his back, the other stroked his hair. “There, there. You’re Mama’s big girl. You’re three whole years old.”

  “Nuh-uh. Not twee,” he muttered into her shoulder.

  “Well, that’s true. You won’t be three for another six weeks yet.”

  “No! Not faiw!”

  “It’s all right, sweetie. Mama will throw you a big party with balloons and cake and lots and lots of presents. How would you like that?”

  “Pwesens?” he mumbled. Though he knew he should stay awake, the warmth of her body and the gentle massaging of his back was lulling him to sleep. “Wan pwesens.”

  “You’ll get them, sweetie. You just have to wait.”

  “K...Mama.”

  Then Joe fell asleep.

  ***

  She woke up to someone stroking her hair. “Come on, sweetheart. It’s time for breakfast.”

  “Mama?”

  “That’s right. I made hotcakes and grits. Your favorite.”

  “They are?”

  “What’s the matter, sweetie?”

  “I...I had a bad dream.”

  “What was it about?”

  “I don’t remember,” she said. It wasn’t a lie; she couldn’t remember the whole thing, just some parts of it. There had been a nasty man trying to get her and Mama. And then she had been a baby, but she wasn’t, was she? She was a big girl. “Mama?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “How old am I?”

  “What kind of silly question is that?”

  “Please, Mama?”

  Mama sighed. “You’ll be eight next month. You just trying to drop a hint that I need to do some birthday shopping?”

  “No, Mama.”

  Mama leaned back to smile down at her. “Go on and get breakfast before it gets cold. We can talk about your birthday later.”

  “OK, Mama.”

  Mama went to the window to open the curtains. Sunlight streamed into the room. While part of her knew this w
as her bedroom and had been for years, another part of her still lost in those dreams last night didn’t recognize it. She picked up the fabric dolly that had been with her since she had been born. She clutched it to her chest as she looked around the room. There wasn’t a lot to see: a chest of drawers for her clothes, a wooden box for her toys, and the bed for sleeping on. She threw back the quilt Grandma had made when Mama was a little girl.

  She wore a pink flannel nightgown like she usually did—except in summer when it was too warm and humid. The nightgown went all the way down to her feet that were covered by white socks. She wiggled her toes just to make sure they really were hers.

  “Joey, hurry up! You got chores to do!”

  “Coming, Mama!” she called back. Joey. Was that her name? It sounded right and yet it seemed as strange as everything else this morning. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and then stood up. For a moment she wobbled as if she weren’t used to her own body. She took a cautious step and then another, the cobwebs starting to clear.

  She crept down the stairs, pausing on the landing to look down at her flat tummy. She put a hand to her middle just to make sure it hadn’t gotten any bigger. Then she shook her head and hurried down the rest of the steps.

  She skipped into the kitchen, where Mama had laid out a plate of hotcakes and bowl of grits. “You feeling all right, sweetheart? You look a bit piqued.”

  “I’m OK,” Joey said. She sat down to start buttering her hotcakes. She put a little butter in her grits too. “Can I have the syrup, Mama?”

  “Can you?” Mama teased.

  “May I please have the syrup?”

  “Here you go, sweetheart,” Mama said, setting the pot of syrup on the table. It had only been recently when Mama trusted Joey enough to pour the syrup herself. As Joey poured the syrup, Mama ran her hands through Joey’s hair, weaving it into braids, one to fall over each shoulder.

  “Thanks, Mama.”

  “Eat up, sweetie. Then get changed to do your chores.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Mama kissed the top of her head and then left her alone to eat breakfast. Joey liked it better when Mama ate with her, but sometimes Mama was busy. Today must be one of those days.

  The hotcakes and grits were both rich and buttery. Try as she might, Joey couldn’t remember tasting them before. But she remembered that she loved Mama’s hotcakes and grits. She shook her head, the braids bouncing on her chest; just about everything this morning felt like deja vu. She hoped it wouldn’t last all day.

  Once she finished, she rinsed her dishes in the sink so Mama wouldn’t yell at her later. Then she went back up the stairs to her room. She opened the top drawer of the dresser to find panties and socks inside. She took one pair of each and then opened the next drawer. She knew she had used the dresser for years and yet it still came as a surprise to see shirts in the second drawer. She picked a pink T-shirt at random, shaking it out to see a faded unicorn and rainbow on it. She must have worn the shirt before, but she couldn’t remember exactly when. In the last drawer were pants, skirts, overalls, and jumpers. She decided on denim overalls for doing chores in; that way she wouldn’t get anything on her T-shirt.

  Changing out of the nightgown, she couldn’t look at herself. It felt like her own body was a stranger that she would get in trouble if she saw it naked. She dressed as quickly as she could to silence the weird thoughts in her head.

  Her shoes were downstairs by the front door. She slipped into the boots that were like a miniature version of Mama’s. She had a pair of pink sneakers too, but they were for school or shopping in town, not working outside.

  Joey stood on the porch, looking around at the farm as if she hadn’t seen it before. The trees had canopies of green leaves now to signal winter was over. The grass in the front yard was about ankle high; Mama would have to get the mower out to cut it pretty soon.

  Joey knew she had chores to do, but she couldn’t remember what exactly they were. Eggs. She had to check the chicken coop for eggs. Mama had said she could do that because her hands were little and soft enough not to bother the hens much. Joey didn’t know if that was true or just an excuse Mama made up to give Joey a big girl job to do.

  Before she could get the eggs, she had to get the basket from a bench on the front porch. She skipped out to the chicken coop next to the barn. The hens were clucking and fluttering their wings inside; she hoped nothing had gotten them too riled up or they might peck at her when she tried to get the eggs.

  “Hi, guys!” she called out as she opened the door to the coop. She had another of those weird deja vu moments studying the chickens. Mama hadn’t bothered to name any of the animals on the farm, but Joey had named all of the hens. Looking around the coop, though, she couldn’t remember which hen was which. “You guys got some eggs for me?”

  A few of the hens clucked as if to answer her. She carefully reached under one until she found the egg. She eased it out to hold up in the light. It was smooth and brown like it was supposed to be. She set the egg in the basket and then got on her toes to check under the next hen: Matilda? Marissa? Marlene? She thought the name started with an M at least.

  Whatever it was named, the hen wasn’t in a good mood; it lashed out with its beak. Joey pulled her hand back just in time to avoid getting cut. “Hey! That wasn’t nice,” she whined.

  There was an easier way to do this. She went back outside to get a handful of feed. Then she tossed it on the floor of the coop. The hens hopped out of their nests to peck at the feed. While they competed against each other for the feed, Joey could scoop up any eggs from their nests. Mama had shown her that technique after a hen had pecked Joey’s hand and she’d run crying into the house. Joey still didn’t always remember to do that first; some mornings it didn’t matter if the hens were in a good mood.

  There were eighteen hens but only ten eggs. Not even a dozen. Mama wouldn’t be happy about that. Ideally there should be one egg per hen, but sometimes the hens couldn’t lay an egg, especially if they got spooked by something during the night.

  “OK, ladies, finish your breakfast and then get back to your nests,” Joey said. She closed the door behind her. Mama might let the chickens out later for some exercise.

  After getting the eggs, what was she supposed to do? She turned and then nearly dropped the basket. A man stood a few feet away from her. He wore a suit a lot nicer than what people at church wore. Maybe he was a banker or government man trying to buy the farm from Mama.

  But there was something familiar about his face and those light blue eyes glaring down at her. She had seen those eyes before—in the mirror. “D-D-Daddy?”

  She took one hand off the basket to reach towards him. His opposite hand reached towards her. The moment they touched, he disappeared. “Daddy? Daddy, where’d you go?”

  He couldn’t have run away so quickly, could he? She set the basket down to run over to the barn, where Mama would be milking the cows and feeding the horse and pigs. Those were jobs Joey was still too little to do.

  “Mama! Mama!” she shouted as she threw open one door enough that she could squeeze through.

  She hurried along the row of stalls, past the cows and horse to the pigsty. Mama was dumping some food leftover from last night into a trough. “Mama! Mama!”

  Mama turned, her glare freezing Joey in her tracks. “What are you carrying on about, young lady? You could spook the animals shouting like that.”

  “Sorry, Mama. I...I saw a man. Outside the chicken coop.”

  “What man?”

  “He was wearing a suit and he was tall and he had brown hair and he had blue eyes and...do you think it was Daddy?”

  Mama shook her head. She finished dumping the bucket into the trough and then backed away to let the pigs have at it. She hung the bucket up on a nail before she squatted down to look Joey in the eye. “Sweetie, you know it couldn’t be your daddy. He went away just after you was born. He’s up in Heaven now.”

  “Maybe he came back.”r />
  “Now, you know there’s no coming back from Heaven.”

  “Jesus came back. The preacher said so.”

  “Your daddy wasn’t Jesus. He was just a man. He ain’t coming back.”

  “Maybe he was an angel.”

  “Oh, honey, I wish that were true.” She put a hand to Joey’s forehead. “I think maybe you’re getting a fever. You ought to go lie down.”

  “I’m not—” Joey started to say, but then her body suddenly felt warm and clammy. “I don’t feel good, Mama.”

  “It’s all right, honey. Mama will take care of you.”

  She picked Joey up to carry her outside. She shifted Joey in her arms so she could bend and pick up the basket. “Only ten eggs?”

  “Sorry, Mama.”

  “It’s not your fault, sweetie. You can’t make the hens lay more eggs.”

  Mama had to set the basket of eggs down on the porch so she could open the front door. Joey could barely keep her eyes open as Mama carried her upstairs, to her bedroom. She sat Joey down on the bed to take off her boots. Then she peeled back the covers so Joey could crawl under them.

  Mama leaned down to kiss Joey’s warm forehead. “You’ll feel better real soon. I promise.”

  “OK, Mama.”

  Mama picked up Joey’s dolly to tuck it into her arms. “You and Annie get some rest now.”

  “I love you, Mama.”

  “I love you too, sweetie.”

  Mama kissed Joey’s forehead again and then backed out of the room. The curtains were still open, but Joey was so tired and weak that she didn’t care. Hovering by the window was the man she had seen by the chicken coop, the one who looked like Daddy. “Daddy?” she whispered. He didn’t say anything; he just hovered there, watching her like a guardian angel until she fell asleep.

  ***

  She felt something cold and damp on her head. With a groan she reached up to feel a washcloth on her forehead. Joey tossed it away, hearing it land with a plop somewhere on the floor. She yawned luxuriously and then sat up in bed.