Wardrobe Malfunctions of a Higher Power

Wyatt walked home in her metallic pink dress and heels, and for once in her life, she didn't care who was staring.

For years she'd walked the halls of Shermer High, the target of ignorant assholes who thought a skinny 18-year-old boy was put on the Earth for the exclusive purpose of trying out new ways to **** a human being. So what if Wyatt was a bit of a nerd? So what if he liked D and D, sci-fi, and anime? Shouldn't she have been able to go to school without the threat of long-term psychological damage?

Well no more. To the world around her she may still seem like the same Wyatt Donnelly, but she didn't feel it. She felt alive in a way she'd never felt before. Energy seemed to course through her, from the top of her beautiful head down to her painted toenails. From that day on, bullies could say whatever they wanted. Nothing they could do would be able to touch her.

The night air was crisp, full of that early spring scent of thawed asphalt and wet cedar. Her heels clicked against the pavement in perfect rhythm, like punctuation marks in a sentence that her newfound confidence was writing.

Not once on her walk did she feel unsafe, even though technically she was walking home alone in the dark, in a short dress, in the suburbs. Everyone she passed still treated her like she was Wyatt—male Wyatt. The guy from robotics club honked at her and waved, not in a creepy catcalling way, but in a friendly, "See you on Thursday" kind of way.

She'd even caught one of the neighbours looking at her, and the man just nodded politely and said, "Evenin', Wyatt."

She waved back, her fingers wiggling as she held them up.

So maybe nothing had really changed.

Except, of course, everything had.

Gary hadn't taken his own situation very well. Poor guy. When she'd been standing there in his room, watching him open drawers full of lace and perfume, she'd actually felt bad for him. If she still had her old body and suddenly had to wear a dress like this, she'd probably have a breakdown too.

But it was obvious staying there wasn't going to help. Gary needed space, and she couldn't stop giggling! He needed to process whatever cosmic joke the universe had played on him without an audience. They had school in the morning, anyway. She'd see him then.

When she got home, the house was mostly dark. Her older brother, Chet, was sitting on the couch watching something dumb and loud.

He glanced up as she came in.

"S'up, dork."

That was it. No double take. No teasing about her outfit. Not even a pause.

She grinned. "S'up."

Her parents were still away, thankfully. The house was quiet except for the TV and the hum of the fridge. She knew she should go down to the basement and clean up the mess—the fried circuitry, the shattered glass, the cables twisted into something that looked like a nervous breakdown in physical form. The failed experiment that had given her this body.

But not tonight.

Tomorrow evening would be fine. Or maybe the night after that.

Tonight, she needed to take stock. If Gary's gear was gone—replaced by whatever surreal joke his new closet had become—then rebuilding the system was going to take time. Components, code, calibration. All the unglamorous stuff. Maybe she could start making a list, priorities, and she could start pricing it out, see what they could afford.

She stretched her arms overhead and caught sight of herself in the hallway mirror.

Damn.

She looked good.

She remembered being horrified at first—waking up in this new body, trying to make sense of the weight distribution, the softness, the total lack of stubble. But now? She could move. She could breathe. Her reflexes felt sharper, her energy brighter. Every gesture felt effortless, precise, alive.

So what if the packaging had changed? The ingredients were the same, weren't they?

Upstairs, her room looked exactly like before. Messy, wires everywhere, a few empty soda cans. And her closet—still full of her old clothes. Cargo shorts, hoodies, t-shirts from hackathons and gaming cons.

She felt a weird blend of relief and disappointment.

It was comforting that her stuff hadn't changed. But also… boring. Gary's room, Gary's closet, had seemed so exciting to discover! New outfits, new possibilities. The idea of wrapping her new self in her old sweatpants and hoodies felt perverse, like bolting 'truck nuts' to a Corvette.

She brushed her teeth, did a skincare routine she didn't even know she knew—serum, toner, moisturizer, the whole nine yards—and then went to the washroom. Sitting down felt strangely normal now. She didn't even question it.

When she got to her room, she reached for her old blue flannel pyjamas. They hung loose in her hands, absurdly large now. She smiled a little, nostalgic.

The moment she slipped the shirt over her head, she felt it—like a static charge. She looked down.

The pyjamas were gone.

In their place: a delicate pink lace nightie, soft as air, clinging to every new curve she had. Matching panties too.

"What the hell," she muttered.

She tore them off and threw them on the bed.

Blue pyjamas again.

She stared at them.

Then, experimentally, she pulled them back on.

Pink lace nightie.

Off—blue pyjamas.

On—pink lace.

Her pulse quickened.

She crossed the room and grabbed a pair of old gym shorts. Pulled them up. They shimmered. Tightened. Turned into tiny bootie shorts that sparkled faintly under the light.

She laughed. Loudly, freely.

She took them off. Gym shorts again.

Put them on—bootie shorts.

She stood there in front of the mirror, watching herself change back and forth, back and forth, like reality itself was playing dress-up with her.

"Well," she said to her reflection, grinning, "isn't this interesting?"

A pause.

Her grin deepened.

"Isn't this… fun?"