"I hope you're not here to ask for money," said Mr. Frensky sternly.
The conversation between Catherine, Mitch, and the Frensky parents was tense and, for the most part, wordless. None of them dared to crack a smile. Mr. and Mrs. Frensky sat stiffly in their chairs and glowered, as if hoping to sweep away the young married couple in a tide of disapproval.
"No, we didn't come to ask for money," Catherine reassured them.
"Although," added Mitch, "if your intent is to offer us money, we won't turn it down."
Mrs. Frensky sighed. "I just turned forty, and I'm already about to become a grandmother," she said, a bit wistfully, a bit regretfully. "This is what comes from rushing into marriage and family life, Catherine. We also married fresh out of high school, and look at us now—your father lugs garbage for a living, and I have to teach to make ends meet. Your life will be a struggle now, a struggle you could have avoided by taking our advice."
Catherine responded with a carefree smile. "If I had it to do over again, I'd do it over again," she stated. "My life with Mitch is better than any college degree or fancy house I can imagine. Every night when Mitch comes home, he tells me stories about all his interesting fares."
"You wouldn't believe what some people confess to their cab drivers," Mitch chimed in. "It's like being a therapist, but without the responsibility."
"Compare that to Uncle Stewart," said Catherine. "He went to university, earned a Ph.D. in nuclear engineering, and took a job at Los Cactos National Laboratory. When he goes home, he can't tell his wife anything."
Francine strode into the living room, her gait appearing wider than before. "Mom," she spoke up. "I think I must've had a growth spurt, because my clothes don't fit anymore."
Mrs. Frensky eyed the girl, whose red blouse tightly hugged her eleven-year-old figure. "You have grown," she remarked, somewhat astonished. "I'll fetch some of your sister's old clothes." She left quickly for the closet, rifled through a stack of cardboard boxes, and retrieved one with the label Catherine, age 12.
Her sister's sudden increase in size piqued Catherine's interest. "You're getting bigger all the time, Frankie," she gushed. "Especially your butt."
Francine giggled riotously.
"Someday you won't think that's funny," said Catherine.
"Here we are," said Mrs. Frensky, proudly holding up the old blouse and denim jeans which Catherine had worn (and worn, and worn) in middle school.
"I'm not wearing that," said Francine with disgust. "The people living under the bridge do have standards, you know."
Her joke had apparently gone over their heads. Instead of laughing, her parents, Mitch, Catherine, and even Nemo were gaping at her in dismay.
"What?" she said, bewildered. Could it have something to do with the fact that I'm suddenly finding it hard to breathe?
Her blouse was shrinking, or so it seemed—tightening around her ribcage in a python-like death grip. The pressure of her jeans against her waist was equally unbelievable. Threads snapped, fabric tore, and certain body parts inflated. This must be some kind of demented fantasy sequence, she thought, clear-minded in spite of the intense discomfort.
"Omigod, Frankie!" exclaimed Catherine. "What's happening to you?"
"You tell me," her strained voice uttered. Looking down, she saw only jagged ribbons of red silk, a pair of fleshy mounds, and a linoleum floor that grew more distant with each passing second.
Mrs. Frensky, screeching in horror, dropped the hand-me-downs and seized a blanket from the couch to throw around Francine's shoulders. Everyone else remained petrified. "This…this isn't happening," said Mitch, his eyes like dinner plates.
"Shouldn't we be calling a doctor?" said Mr. Frensky.
I feel fine, thought Francine, although she had the impression that the blanket was the only thing covering her. She felt wobbly, as if fighting to stay balanced on stilts. I don't know what just happened, but it reminded me of two years ago, when I…no, that's ridiculous!
"Is that…is that you, Francine?" her mother inquired timidly.
"Who else would it be?" the girl replied. Her voice, though unmistakably her own, sounded considerably deeper than before. I must be a ghost, she thought, because Mitch looks like he just saw one.
"Those dimples," said the young man, his hand quivering as he reached out to point at her. "It was you. My God, it was you."
"It was who, Mitch?" Catherine wanted to know.
He had to force the words to leave his mouth. "It wasn't you I picked up that day, Cath," he stated. "It was her."
The chill going down Francine's spine took longer to travel than normal. Does he mean what I think he means?
"Excuse me," she said quietly. As she turned, she nearly stumbled over her unexpectedly large feet.
Reaching the bathroom required only four strides, as opposed to the usual eight. She recognized something was amiss the moment she saw the reflection of her face, very nearly cut off by the top of the mirror. She let go of the blanket. It slid off her back, revealing the naked, curvy form of a woman in her early twenties.
The building's supports shook from her screams.
To be continued
