Emelie in the 80s: 13 (Patreon)

Trumpets blared, and a man on stilts edged his way through the teeming crowd. Guys on balconies tossed beads to college girls, who lifted their shirts, giving everyone an eyeful of their firm, young breasts. Pete stumbled along clutching a half a cup of rum runner, the red liquid sloshing as he got jostled by the crowd. He saw a girl— gorgeous Carmel skin, full breasts squeezed into a tiny tank top, and he went up to her and said, “You’re so pretty.”

The girl laughed. “You’re not in my league,” she said, turning away.

Pete drank the rest of the rum runner, threw the cup against the wall. Where were his friends? He turned, looking around the masses of people, but he’d gotten separated from them somehow….Still stinging from the rejection, and pushed his way to a bar and waved, trying to get the bartender’s attention. There was a group of hot girls at the other end doing shots, laughing, pulling for their shirts, and the bartender was totally ignoring Pete, flirting with the girls. Pissed, Pete reached over and snagged a beer from the ice, turning and running from the bar. It was the best beer he’d ever tasted, and he wandered off Bourbon Street, sipping, putting the cold bottle against his forehead. A group of guys and girls passed, arms around each other’s waists.

Pete felt totally invisible, ignored, irrelevant. Mardi Gras. It was supposed to be the most fun ever, but he was miserable. He looked up and saw a sign: Emporium le Majik

The wooden sigh hung above an arched doorway, and Pete figured, what the hell? Inside he’d found what looked like the prop house for a horror movie: stuffed crows, rows and rows of occult books, candles and bats and skulls lanced with nails.

“Hello, hello!” A tiny, hunchbacked man had called out to him in a Creole accent as he’d entered. “Many blessing on you.”

Pete, bleary from the booze, woozily made his way to the back of the store. “Many blessed to me, too,” he said.

The man smiled, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I am Mr. Daba,” he said, with a small bow. “Purveyor of fine magic.”

Daba… Pete thought as he drifted through the memory. Of course.

“Magic?” Pete said. “I could use some magic! Could I ever.”

“Choose,” Daba said, opening his arms and gesturing toward his store. “And be fated.”

Pete’s eyes fell on a figurine— a woman with wings, horns, huge breasts. He picked the figure up and ran his thumb over the cool stone breasts. “I bet she never had to pay for a drink,” he said.

Daba did not laugh. He frowned, growing serious. “Inanne. Not to be trifled with. She dates back to the ancient world… the great Summerian empire… older, still… older than time is Inanne, goddess of sex and war.”

Hmmmn Pete said. “And what magic does mother jugs perform?”

Daba shrugged. “Buy her, and she will grant you one wish.”

“A wish? Like a genie.”

“Oh, yes.”

“How much?”

“12 dollars.”

“For a wish? Sure.” Pete dug into his wallet, threw the money on the counter. He figured his buds would get a laugh out of the whole thing. “Don’t mind me saying, but you could probably charge a little more for wishes.”

Pete left. Daba smiled, his forked tongue flickering out from between his sharp, razor teeth. “I charge plenty,” he chuckled. “You’ll see.”

Pete wandered around drinking some more. He didn’t even know how long. The sun set, and the scalding heat of the day lifted. His annoyance grew, his anger and frustration. He had no luck with any of the women, and meanwhile he saw them everywhere, drinking for free, smothered with attention. I wish I could flash my boobs and get free booze, he thought bitterly when he’d reached into his pocket and found himself broke. Somehow, he made his way back to the hotel room. As he threw himself onto his bed, he’d felt something hard jamming against his leg, and digging into his pocket he found the statue. “I forgot about you,” he said, once more rubbing his thumbs over the breasts. “I get a wish, right?” He chuckled. “Well, I wish I was a hot chick with a super bod and gigantic tits.” There was a flash, and Pete felt his body get hot and tingly. Oh, shit, he thought, throwing his hands on his chest, terrified he would find he now had a pair of huge tits…. But, no. Nothing had changed.

Pete had woken the next day with a terrible hangover. His buddies still hadn’t reappeared. Not even remembering the wish of anything else, he’d thrown all his stuff into his suitcase, including the statue, and headed back to college. When he’d gotten home, though, it had been the weirdest thing— the statue had vanished!

****

Pete sat up, hooking his hair behind his ear. He looked down at the epic swell of his breasts. The wish had come true. It had just been years later. “Daba?” He said. “Inanne?” He looked around the room. Nothing. “I didn’t mean it? I don’t want to be a a hot girl. It was just a joke?”

Nothing.

Pete bit his lip. What was done could be undone, right? At least he’d figured out how this had happened. Now, he just needed to find some way to get it undone. He went and got his hairbrush and started to brush out his hair. He knew it needed 100 strokes a night. There was no way he could get back to New Orleans. Maybe he could call? It was too late now, but he resolved to call information the next day and get the number.

The next morning Pete got up extra early to shave his legs. He was still determined to put Brad in his place, even if that meant putting on a skirt. He chose a knee length skirt that was a bright, mango color, a lemon colored blouse—- strategically unbuttoned, of course, to taunt all the boys with a real nice look at the soft swell of his breasts. He slipped into a pair of ankle boots with three inch heels, and then slipped a few bangles onto his wrists before sitting down and carefully making up his face, using a picture of Madonna from Vogue as a model. He tied a polka dot kerchief into his hair, slipped on his Swatch and perched his Wayfarers into his hair. Checking himself out in the mirror, he giggled and did a little leg kick, like you always saw girls do in movies when they got kissed by a hot guy.

“You going after Brad?” Fiona asked when she saw Pete that morning.

“Yeah, but…”

“What?”

‘I kinda thought I’d flirt with Casey for awhile. Set a little jealousy trap.”

Fiona punched him. “You are a bad girl.”

“You have no idea, Fiona," Pete said, thinking of Mr. Kelly.

“Why don’t you call me Fe anymore?”

“What?”

“You used to always call me Fe. It was Fe and Em, the unstoppable team.”

“Oh,” Pete said. “I still call you Fe, Fe.”

“Not Fifi!” Fiona said. “Gross.”

‘No, I meant…”

“I know,” Fiona said. “I know.”

Pete’s mind drifted to Mr. Kelly once more, the grunting sounds he’d made, the smell of him, the smell of a man.  He caught Fiona glancing at him, a curious look on her face. “What?” Pete said, hooking a strand of hair behind his ear.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing!”

“Did you and Brad do it?” Fiona said, striking a little too close to Pete’s secret.

“Gross!”

“You want him so bad.”

“As if!” Pete shrieked.

The halls of Novi High School were smothered with painted banners. The cheerleaders and Pep club had gone crazy. The first football game and pep rally were this Friday— the next day. Green and white signs reading Go Wildcats and Rope the Mustangs hung on every wall, every classroom door. “We’re playing Northville this week?” Pete said.

“More like Dorkville,” Fiona said.

Brad, who was at his locker talking to some of his bros, called out, “You gonna come and watch us win?”

“Maybe,” Pete said, feigning disinterest. He made a beeline for Casey, dragging a hand across his shoulders and saying, “Good luck, Casey.”

Casey surprised, smiled. “Thanks.”

Pete smiled, then walked away, he and Fiona crowding together, giggling.

All day, Pete ignored Brad, making a point of constantly catching Casey’s eye, smiling, giving his shoulders a little shake. As usual, the guys were all checking him out, obsessing over him, and Pete strutted through the halls, glowing. Having remembered his wish, he realized that it had all come true. All those girls who got all the attention, who could get what they wanted with a smile and a wink, he was one of them now. He did have to get home to his own time, though, didn’t he? Kind of?

When school ended and Pete was at his locker putting his books away, he glanced out of the corner of his eye and caught Brad checking him out. Pete pretended to drop one of his books, and bent over, giving Brad a nice view of his behind, then glanced over his shoulder and said, “Perv!”

Brad smirked, like he knew Pete had done it all on purpose.

“Hey,” Fiona said, putting her hand on his arm. “Come to my place to study?”

“I guess I could for a few hours,” Pete said.

They went down into Fiona’s basement. Her dad had fixed it up as a rec room with the usual ping pong table, dart board, TV and VCR. Pete flopped on the old, leather couch and grabbed a Colleco football game off the coffee table, turning it on, the little lights that were supposed to represent football players blinking on the little green and black screen. “Omigod,” he said. ‘I used to play this all the time.”

“Since when?” Fiona called. She was rummaging through a shelf piled with VHS tapes, then turned around with a wooden box and came back to the couch.

“Oh, I mean— I guess I was just thinking of something else.”

“You are such an airhead.”

Pete giggled and forced himself to put the game down. Fiona opened the box, and Pete saw a little metal pipe, a plastic bag full of weed. “Grass?”

“I know I said I was quitting, but this is a special occasion.” Fiona said, packing the pipe.

“Which is?”

“You having sex with Brad.”

“You are so full of it!” Pete said, giving her a soft punch in the arm.

Fiona lit the pipe, took a deep toke and then blew the smoke out of her nostrils. The air filled with the harsh, acrid scent of marijuana. She handed the pipe to Pete, got up and cracked one of the basement windows, then lit a stick of incense. Pete looked at the pipe, smoke twisting and rising from the bowl. He hadn’t smoked weed since college and his middle-aged dad mind told him he shouldn’t do it, but he was a teenager again, he decided, so why not? He took a drag from the pipe, it caught in his throat and he coughed, hacked.

“Dork,” Fiona said, taking the pipe back.

“It’s so harsh,” Pete said, shaking his head.

Fiona didn’t answer. She took another toke and handed the pipe back to Pete, then went and got a couple cans of Strohs Beer from the fridge. She cracked hers open and took a swig, then curled up on the couch next to Pete, reaching out and touching his hair.

Pete smiled, taking another toke from the pipe, doing better, not coughing. He felt the weed going right to his head, giving him that light, rushed feeling, his body relaxing. Fiona’s expression turned serious.  They stared into each other’s eyes, and Pete felt like they were almost talking without words. “You’re scared,” Pete finally whispered.

A sad smile spread across Fiona’s face. “Surprised?”

“Kinda.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she said. “I just— college seems so — pointless, but my parents are all about college college college since I was 8. “

“It’ll be fine,” Pete said. “You’ll do great.”

“You sound like my MOM,” Fiona said. “It’s not that I’m worried about failing or anything. It’s all bullshit. It’s— “ She stopped, frustrated, grabbing the beer and taking another sip.

Pete waited, playing idly with his hair. This was so different for Fiona— at least as he’d known her so far. He wondered if this was a regular thing between her and Emma.

“I just— it’s that path, that life. Go to college. Get a job. Get married. Have babies, end up just like them.” She looked up, as if her parents were standing above her. “It’s death,” she said. “A pointless life doing pointless things with pointless people in the suburbs.”

Pete found himself thinking about his own life— his life before he became a girl. “It’s not so bad,” he said. He reached out and grabbed the can of beer Fiona had gotten for him, cracked it open.

“Not so bad,” Fiona said, laughing now. “Not SOOO bad. I want more. I want great, or even fucking bad, but not so bad?” She stood up, waving her arms now, getting animated. “I want to climb mountains! Wander deserts! I want to hitchhike to California or New York, live on a commune!”

Pete laughed, and suddenly he was in Dad mode, talking to one of his daughters. “Life isn’t a movie,” he said.

“Why not?” Fiona said. “Why can’t it be— bitchin’?”

“What are you going to do in the desert?” He said, giggling some more.

“Ugh!” Fiona threw herself back down on the couch. ‘I don’t know. Actually, it probably too sunny for me. I burn.”

“And I really can’t see you climbing any mountains. I’ve seen you in PE.”

“Jerk,” Fiona said, kicking him.

They were quiet for a time, just drinking, looking ar the ceiling. Then, Fiona said, “I feel dead inside sometimes. I feel nothing. I want to feel. I need to do something, and I’m just thinking college is going to just make me— okay with feeling dead.”