Ashley Price, Would-Be Witch

Up until this point, you'd have to say that your experience with Magical Books has been pretty fucking great. Some real Five Star, Would Recommend This App type stuff. But that doesn't mean you don't have a few quibbles. And not even necessarily the fact that you've, you know, been transformed into a girl. At this point you are super down with that noise. The main issue, really, is that the user interface is total bullshit.

First off, having to get concussed was an inelegant method of signing you up for RealWitchShit dot com. And while diddling yourself was much more pleasant method of furthering your access, it isn't without its collateral damage. For example, the girlcum-soiled duvet cover you're currently shoving into the washing machine. The Female Orgasm is real, folks, and you are fucking amazing at it.

Second, the access you actually get is muddled at best and outright incomprehensible at worst. You get the impression that whatever the link between you and the book is that lets you actually read it works by literally translating the otherwise garbled text inside your brain. Which is super goddamn cool, but as anyone who's punched something into Google Translate knows doesn't always come out that much clearer. The first few revealed pages you excitedly flipped through were a lot of thee and thou type shit mixed in with some awkwardly worded earth-goddess hippie stuff. Based on your experiences so far, you're pretty confident that you don't have to worry about accidentally saying the wrong word and casting a spell that turns your teeth into snakes or whatever? The book seems to have some sort of auto-detect function, like how it took over when you tried your hand at The Chest of Overflowing Bounty. But case in point, that's a double-edged sword. Because while the book will make sure you successfully complete any spell you try to cast, the funky translation means you can't be entirely confident you know what the result is going to be.

Like, you're pretty sure now that you know why you got turned into a girl. From what you can tell, these are all meant to be prayers and devotions to a gaggle of nature spirits and pagan gods (which exist apparently, which is fucking lit). Sort of like 'Make our Babies Strong and the Wheat Grow Good and Our Enemies Sluts' type stuff. But from what you've gleaned, said prayers are meant to be the purview of some sort of druidic priestess type deal. Priestess. You were lacking in the 'ess' department, so the book flipped that switch for you. Again, you're absolutely not upset about that anymore, but it just goes to prove that even if the book's powers seem to be activity magnanimous you can't fully trust that there won't be repercussions.

And finally, there's the simple fact that it seems like more or less all of the spells involve someone blasting magical milk out of their nipples, and based on your one experience you're not a fan. Sure, it felt great during, but your breasts ached like hell for hours afterwards. And who knows if that's going to have some sort of negative effect long term on your perfect boobs?

You take a look at yourself in the mirror at that, still dewy from the bath you took to wash away all the sex funk. You've opted for your usual black cut-offs and a muscle shirt reading 'GYM+GOTH', the arm holes dropped down far enough to reveal pretty much all of your sleek torso and your chest packed into a sports bra that must have been designed by NASA or a wizard or something. Maybe a Space Wizard. You reach up to give one big tit a reassuring pat, your nipples already getting a phantom ache as you remember the work they had to put in. Don't worry Girls, we're going to figure out another way.

For now, though, you've got to do some studying. Which makes it fortunate that you've already got a study session scheduled, doesn't it?

You weren't entirely certain at first what the keys you instinctively snagged as you popped out of the house actually went to. Past-You had a driver's license, but you'd certainly never had a car or even a real opportunity to use one. So what would a rich punky eighteen year old girl have? Some sort of decked-out old Ford Transit Van? A zeppelin? Maybe like a horse-drawn carriage? If it's a fucking hearse you're just going to flip.

It turns out to be a sporty black Vespa, and you can't keep the grin off your face as you scoot down the driveway and out into the neighborhood to head for Jennifer Park's place.

You're actually a bit disappointed when you start turning into another driveway only a few properties down. Going for a bit more of a joyride had become a very appealing idea, but apparently in this new reality you and the Parks live in the same neighborhood. It makes sense, really. Jenny was the richest girl in school by a nose, but it's entirely possible you're competing for that title now. Which actually makes you a bit uncomfortable on further consideration; having this much money is sort of intrinsically shitty, so you can only trust that your mother hasn't allowed the two of you to become the really shitty type of rich people. You're confident you haven't, but still. It vaguely offends your more Punk sensibilities. Still gonna keep all that stuff though. No Take Backs, Magic.

You slow to a halt at the end of the long driveway, pulling off your skull-inked helmet as you pop out your scooter's kickstand. So this is Jenny Park's house, huh? It's certainly beautiful, at least three stories with an exterior sheathed in what had to have been a king's ransom of marble. You even zoomed by some of those bushes cut into a lions or something on the way in. You'd have to double back to confirm the exact big cat but definitely an 'I'm Rich and I Like Dope Shit' type of landscaping power move. Your growing exposure to the lives of the truly wealthy just further exposes how tacky your aunt and uncle's place was; you're starting to piece together the full story of why your cousin is such a fucking piece of shit. On some level he has to feel like only normally wealthy Jesse doesn't belong among his mega-wealthy peers, which probably feeds into his ape-like shows of primitive masculine domination. Add that in with the fact that he's a real piece of shit, and you've got a recipe for one world class piece of shit.

Lost in your ruminations, you almost miss the woman sprawled out on the lounge chair out front. You figure it must be Jenny's mother; it's not impossible that some random middle-aged Korean woman has broken into the Park's property to sunbathe but somehow you doubt it. And even with giant sunglasses and a big floppy sun hat on, you couldn't miss the similarities between her and Jenny. Mrs Park is obviously the direct source of Jenny's famously good looks; you dimly recall that'd she'd been Miss Some State or Another maybe twenty years ago. So apparently you're neighbors now? So she must know you, right? Magical Reality Shifts are hard. Either way, better say hello. "Ah, hello Mrs Park!"

The woman doesn't respond.

"It's me! Ash! Ashley Price?"

She's dead still and completely quiet.

"I'm here to tutor Jenny?"

She might actually be for real dead based on how this is going.

"You know? Your...daughter?"

Who knows how long this would have gone on if your buzzing phone hadn't interrupted. You glance down to check the message, and in the process take in the four or five massive and very empty margarita glasses strewn around Mrs Park's lounge chair. Well that explains that. Yikes.

It turns out to be from Jenny. Just come inside already :p

Okay, that's certainly clear enough. You briefly consider offering Mrs Park some sort of farewell, but the loud snore that suddenly bursts from her chest is more than enough to send you on your way. Maybe things aren't quite as idyllic in the Park Household as they are in yours.

A few minutes after, you're sitting in goddamn Jennifer Park's room doing your level best to not give away the fact that, despite what Reality might claim, you've never been here before. Holy Fuck, is that a picture with you in it? You stare in what you dearly hope is an inconspicuous manner at the picture above Jenny's desk and sure enough, that's a somewhat younger her laughing at the beach with one arm thrown around the shoulder of an ever-so-slightly tanned you. Jesus. So you're actually her friend now. You've been her friend for years probably. You guess it makes sense, and you'd readily admit that you've always admired her, but still. Fucking Wild. Two days ago you were just happy that Jenny graciously allowed you to scurry about your life unremarked upon, like a coldly benevolent Queen or something. And now there you are on her wall, arm in arm wearing a black bikini that must have taken an ungodly amount of Lycra to produce.

The point being, if you're actually friends now and this visit isn't just her scamming her parents out of tutoring fees, something is definitely off. She's just sprawled out on her big canopy bed, frowning up at the ceiling while you awkwardly fiddle with your book bag. Before, you'd have figured that the idea was that you were just going to ignore each other for a few hours and then go your merry way. Now, as apparently one of her closest friends, it's pretty obvious that something is up.

You set your bag down by the foot of the bed, sitting down as Jenny scoots her back up against the headboard and hugs her knees into her chest. Fuck, her eyes are sort of swollen aren't they? "Hey. What's wrong?"

She just looks at you for a moment, eyes red and irritated. Then she reaches over to her bedside table, snatches up a torn envelope and flips it over to you. You furrow your brow a little, glancing towards Jenny as she holds back a sniffle before pulling out what is clearly a card of some sort. You crack it open, finding a check for an eye-popping amount stuck to the inside. Good Lord. This is from her parents, right? Not exactly the most inventive gift-giving, but whatever. What's the inscription? You scan the other side of the card, pause, and then read it again to make sure you didn't miss anything. Okay, so there is a lot that's wrong with this situation? But you're pretty sure you know what the core issue is. You clear your throat and read the card aloud.

"Ahem. 'Happy Birthday Jenny'. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but it's definitely not your birthday today."

The cheerleader lets out something halfway between a humorless laugh and a sob, burying her face into her pillow for a moment. When she re-emerges, her rueful smirk can't fully take the sting out of her damp cheeks. "Give or take three months, sure."

You slip the card back into the envelope. "That's uh...not within the margin of error."

Jenny peevishly dumps her pillow onto the floor. "You think? And that's not even the best part. Dad's secretary gave me that." She snatches the envelope up and heaves it towards a nearby waste bin, her annoyance multiplying when it flutters to the ground instead of into the trash. "So not only did they forget when my birthday is, they didn't even care enough to make sure the people they pay to care so they can avoid having to care, cared. Isn't that fucking perfect? It's the perfect synecdoche for their shitty parenting."

"Well, not really."

She shoots you a glare that's equal parts annoyance and surprise. "What?"

"Don't get me wrong, that's definitely a Russian nesting doll of parental bullshit. But it's not really the right use of 'synecdoche'. That's sort of embarrassing, Jenny. You're really making me look bad as your tutor right now."

The cheerleader blinks at you for a moment, then reaches down and clobbers you with her discarded pillow. You both burst into laughter as you try to ward off Jenny's blows, you grinning as the tension visibly slips out of her. A moment later, though, she's put her arms around your shoulders and hugged herself against you, cheek just beside one of your huge boobs. She frowns, a serious look in her eyes as she sniffles again. You just put your hand to her arm, touching the girl reassuringly until at length she speaks again. "I'm so jealous of you, sometimes."

You make a sort of noncommittal noise, prompting her to go on.

"Your mom is so great, and my parents don't even like me."

"Jenny..."

"It's fucking true! I mean sure, I don't think they like anything really but they should at least care about me, right? At least a little?" She gives a deep sigh, letting go of you to stare at the floor with a forlorn little smile. "I just wish they cared a little."

This is not how you imagined this was going to go. Seeing the Jennifer Park this ****, to have her expose herself this fully to you...it's pretty overwhelming. You don't confide in someone like this unless you really trust them, and Jenny is being completely unguarded. God, her situation sucks. You wish you had something to offer besides a comforting hug and whatever platitude you manage to pull out of your ass.

Your eyes come to rest upon your bag at the foot of the bed, the book peeking slightly out of the opening. Huh. Something more to offer.

Okay wait, let's think about this for a second. Are you really considering using the book to help out Jenny? From the bit you'd managed to suss out so far, you've only got one or maybe two more spells in you before you have to go find a way to get more juice. More energy. More of whatever the fuck it is that these things run on. And even then, bringing another girl into the fold is how things go wrong in like every story about teen witches ever. Do you want things to go all The Craft on your ass? Because this is how things go all The Craft on your ass.

One last look at Jennifer Park, the legendary Alpha Bitch of your school, the most confident and unstoppable girl you've ever met, now looking very much like the deeply hurt young girl that she actually is, and you make up your mind.

"Wellll...what if I could help out? Maybe?"

Jenny glances up at you, rubbing one swollen eye as she waits for you to continue.

"I've got, er...well, I've got a book. And it's got...spells. Spells I can cast. We could cast one on your parents."

The cheerleader stares at you for a very long moment, then gives you a sardonically bemused look that is One Hundred Percent OG Jenny Park. "So you're going to what? Burn a bunch of crappy incense? Cut yourself with a big jeweled dagger? Draw down the fucking Moon? Are you offering to Wicca the shittiness out of my parents, Ash?"

"Um. Yes?"

She reaches out and lightly flicks your nose. "You are such a fucking dork."

"You love it."

Jenny laughs, then straightens up with a sigh. "Well....okay, I guess. Maybe that will make me feel better."

You nod, reaching down to pull out the book. A sudden thought has you straightening instead to place a hand on Jenny's shoulder and give her a serious look. "If we do this, though, I need you to promise me something."

Jenny balks a little, taken aback by your sudden change in tone. "Um, what?"

You take Jenny's shoulders in either hand, then look her squarely in the eyes. "You've got to promise you won't go all The Craft on my ass."

The cheerleader blinks at you blankly. "...I don't know what that means."

"The Craft? The movie The Craft."

"I still don't know what that means."

"It's a movie about witches who betray each other."

Jenny cocks her head to one side. "Is this one of your mom's movies or something?"

No. Er, well maybe? Fuck, probably. "Look." You rifle around in your bag, shifting the book to one side to pull out your tablet instead. "We're going to watch The Craft right now. And afterwards, you have to promise you won't do the stuff in the movie. Deal?"

Jenny shakes her head in disbelief, though you don't miss the bewildered smile on her face. Even if this all for nothing, you've definitely succeeded at taking her mind off of her lackluster parents. "You are the weirdest person I have ever known. Okay, fine. But don't think for one second I'll promise to anything before seriously considering doing whatever magically treasonous shit it ends up being. That is very on brand for me."

She's probably kidding.