Youthline

Chapter 1
Youthline

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Chapter Description: Caitlin finds herself at the mall after a bad day. Some aggressive shopping is just what she needs to burn off some steam. She’s curious when a quaint new store offers her a product guaranteed to make her feel younger, but something is very wrong. She’s not only feeling younger, but becoming younger. A lot younger.

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Even though I maintained a straight face, internally, I was scowling. The brisk, frustrated click of my heels was loud enough to echo through the halls over the din of the crowds as I flounced through the Fairview River Plaza.

Who did she think she was? My nostrils flared, the muscles of my hands and arms wound stringently as I gripped the leather strap of my purse. They would have been clenched into fists, had I not ingrained myself over the years with the habit of keeping my fingers straight. The French manicured nails were part of the business look. I stopped to tug vigorously on my pantyhose through my skirt not caring who saw. My Coach bounced heavily against my side, and the faux glass of nail polish bottles and plastic tubes of concealer could be heard clattering rhythmically with my heels. My frown briefly twitched into a deeper variant at the weight. Sometimes I hated my heels. Sure, I was a shoe addict who religiously avoided just about all types of flat footwear whenever I could, but sometimes I just hated them...

Speaking of "her", "her" was a bushy-haired, flat-chested newbie to the firm. Just another drop in the secretarial pool; a typing, copying, murmuring machine composed of thirty or so gals (and a few guys) assembled in a row. She took her job way too seriously. She likely just hadn’t gained the experience to whittle down her severe edges. I’ve seen girls come and go, and it’s a common problem. But this one had this aggravating habit of taking it upon herself to ensure all us other secretaries were doing things her way. Excuse me? I am head secretary, I know what the hell I’m doing. And I’ll be the one to make sure my supervisees were doing their job, thank you very much!

That wasn’t it, though. It had just been a bad day in general, and all I wanted to do now was shop my troubles away.

I stopped to check my reflection in a store window. At the very least, the bad day hadn’t taken much if a toll on my face. My hair was just about as immaculate as it had been this morning, and although it wasn’t easy to assess makeup details in a window, I had at least managed to avoid agitatedly rubbing my eyes enough so that I didn’t look like a panda. A slight smile twitched across my lips. I looked my full 28 years, but at least no older.

Once I had subjected every sufficiently clear detail of my reflection to my scrutiny, I noticed there was a mannequin on the other side of the window. I had noticed the River Plaza had an unsettlingly large number of mannequins, just about everywhere, but that’s beside the point. What I noticed was the surprisingly cute lingerie set it wore. It was a pastel green, with the subtlest ruffles. A bow sat on the waistband. My smile returned. Lingerie was the best way to start my therapeutic shopping massacre. And this set so perfectly straddled the line between cute and classy.

I took a few steps back and let my eyes wander left and right, expecting to recognize the Victoria’s Secret Pink logo or something else that would mean dropping $60 for $10 of fabric. But nope. It was an unabashedly feminine sign above the door, simply reading "Jasmine’s" in lavender cursive. There was an ornate bottle that looked like perfume drawn below the name, releasing a puffy white cloud that encompassed the text. It was possibly just meant to signify the spraying of perfume, but what immediately came to my mind was a genie flourishing from her bottle in a cloud of pink smoke. ’I Dream of Jasmine’, I thought to myself with a small grin as I entered.

The sign outside was a testament to the atmosphere within. Everything from the scent of mixed perfumes to the pink and purple decor added flavor to the place. It was a small shop, relatively speaking, but it managed to tastefully contain a lot of stuff. To my left were racks of pretty lingerie and clubbing dresses, to my right tables and shelves of colorful cosmetics and translucent pink bottles of perfume, even featuring a "kids" section of lip gloss, floral press-on nails, etc. No expense was spared in any corner as far as girlyness went.

Directly in front of me, on the other side of a few petticoats hanging from the ceiling, was the front desk.

"Hi!" the woman behind it was one of the cheeriest people I had ever met. Her vibrant joy contributed to the store just as much as the panties and perfume. She looked a bit Indian or something similar, though don’t quote me on that. Her hair was black and braided down to her waist. Her lips shone in a glossy smile and her eyes were made up shimmery. She gracefully drifted out from behind her desk and her long, crimson skirt swirled behind her. Her top was tight, sleeveless, and accented with more beads than I could count. She was a good four inches shorter than me, but her figure was gorgeous. "Can I help you find anything?"

"Umm, actually I just noticed that set in the window?" I strayed a few clicking steps towards the mannequin.

"Oooh, the Youthline!" she gushed, excitedly, whooshing to my side. "You’ve got good taste, girl, that one’s new. I just made it!"

I turned to see her eyeing me eagerly. "You? You designed this?"

"Yep, that’s me!" she tapped a nametag on her ample left breast. It read "Jasmine".

"Well, color me impressed!" I offered her. She beamed at the praise. I meant it, too. This lady looked a good five years younger than me, and it didn’t look like she was doing half bad.

"Here, here, you gotta try it on!" she grabbed a set from the rack behind her and stood coyly with the underwear swinging by its hanger from her pinky finger.

"Um, well..."

"C’mon c’mon, you’ll be the first ever to try it!" Jasmine was as giddy as a schoolgirl, but while I like friendly people, there was something almost unsettling about her mood. I might be crazy, and I know I had no reason to assume this, but there was a faint element to her glee that seemed almost... sadistic.

I brushed off my uneasiness, feeling almost guilty about it. She had been nothing but nice, and judging by the bra and panties in her hands, had instantaneously scoped out my exact size. This girl was definitely good at what she does.

I laughed a little to myself as I took the underwear from her hand, and Jasmine wordlessly pointed me towards the fitting room. She anticipated just about everything for me.

I drew the lace curtain closed inside, and noticed that the fitting rooms hadn’t been spared the pastel pink touch either. Even the mirror featured a design around the edges. It was really cute and quaint, actually, like something out of the idyllic fifties or the Victorian era. Just one of those little things to smile about.

Leaving my office suit folded up on the pink bench (something about the place just inspired neatness), I tried on the panties first. They were definitely pure silk. No stretchiness, but they lay taught against me. Perfectly sized. It was like it was made for me. Of course, the silk felt nice, but there was also some other feeling that bathed my hips and pelvis. It was strangely soothing, almost sexy, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. By now, I was eager to put on the bra, and was not disappointed when a similar, inexplicable sensation was communicated to my breasts.

I breathed deeply, enjoying the sensation of my chest expanding within the bra, put my hands sassily on my hips, and took a look in the mirror. I looked good. Really good. So good I almost took my own breath away. I was afraid the ruffles on the leg holes and bra cups would have been a bit too far on the childish end, but it surprisingly suited me really well. And as a matter of fact, I did look younger. Not the 28 I looked all day today, but closer to Jasmine’s age. It looked like we could hit the college clubs together.

I smiled again. Turning to look over my shoulder, I examined myself from the back. I couldn’t help going a little further and bending over slightly, ass out. It was a little embarrassing, but the subtle swell of my butt underneath the tight green fabric… I couldn’t remember my ass looking this good in a long time.

“Oh, my, it’s very flattering,” Jasmine’s voice came from behind me. I hadn’t even heard her enter the dressing room, and I quickly, reflexively curled my arms and legs over my body to try and hide myself. She didn’t seem to take any notice. “You know what, though? I think it would look really sweet if you tried your clothes on over it. It would give you some serious contours, girl”. She winked at me before retreating, silently, through the curtain. She was like some kind of awkward ninja.

Taking her advice, I slipped back into my blouse and buttoned it up. At this stage, I didn’t look too much different. Maybe the panties would give some shape to my butt. I shimmied into my skirt, tucked in my blouse, and zipped up the back. Still same old curves. I sighed. It was, however, a very cute set. Might as well go all the way and see how it would feel underneath my clothes at the office. I unzipped and shed the skirt again and started rolling the pantyhose up my legs.

After I stepped into my pumps, I placed my hands on my broad hips again and struck a few angles in the mirror: from the side, the front, turn to see the back… I was kind of disappointed not to see any improvement, but it felt surprisingly good to have them on. Very good, in fact. I could feel extra conscious of my breasts, some swelling in my hips… even a peculiar tingling where the lingerie touched my skin. As it grew stronger and more abnormal, I hesitated. There must be something wrong with these. It must be irritating my skin or something. But it felt soooo good I just couldn’t…

My heels slipped out from under me, and I felt the very strange shock of them impacting the floor, like my stilettoes had just vanished, or become flats. I was considering how odd it was that both of them would break simultaneous while just standing there, when I realized I was falling. But… my feet were flat on the ground… yet I was still falling.

When the vertigo left me, I was still flat on my now-flat, or at least very low-heeled, footwear, and yet everything around me was taller, like I was on my knees or something. I took a few steps to gain my balance, my shoes making odd tapping sounds in place of the familiar click-clacking. There was definitely something different. My legs felt much warmer and snugger, and the tingling in my underwear was rapidly fading. My first coherent thought was what had happened to my shoes, and looking down to check, I was greeted with one of the strangest, least expected sights of my life.

I was looking at a shiny, black pair of patent leather Mary Janes, at an angle from which I haven’t seen them in probably more than fifteen years. Past the iconic buckle, I saw my feet were clad in purest white. To get a better look, I had to push my skirt down. Now, since college, I’ve rarely worn skirts below my knees, or very loose ones, so this was definitely a surprise. A rather wide tea-length skirt fell from my waist and obscured my legs. It was sky-blue, and a pattern of green vines and daisies sprawled from the calf-length hem. The material looked kind of cheap.

Pushing it down to get a better look at my transfigured shoes, I felt the pressure of crinolines against tights. I noted my pantyhose had become a bright, opaque white, and had lost their silky sheen. They weren’t pantyhose anymore, in fact. They were plain tights. I was dressed like some kind of little girl… and… and I was awfully short.

It was funny, in a strange sort of way, that to verify this astronomically bizarre idea, I didn’t go to the mirror, but to my tits. My skirt went up high on my waist to a broad, white sash tied in a huge bow, the satin tails cascaded over my skirt, and above that, the sleeveless bodice. I stared in stupefied shock for a few seconds. My chest was entirely flat. My beautifully-round C cup breasts had shrunk into nothing. It was only then that I turned to the mirror, and released the most deafeningly high-pitched shriek I’ve ever heard at the sight of the chucky-toothed oval-faced flower girl I had become.

When Jasmine came in, I was running my hands desperately over my diminutive body. My figure, gone. My boobs? I wasn’t even wearing a bra. I cupped my ass through the polyester skirt and cheap crinoline. No more butt. Just a skinny little thing. I gazed, transfixed at my pudgy cheeks and full lips as they contorted into a grimace. The face of a child seconds away from crying and whining like a little brat. A pair of pigtail braids in my now bright blonde hair, wound painfully tight, and a big flower hairband completed the look. I really did look like a spoiled little brat. Just how would I explain this to Jasmine?

“Aww, now what’s wrong?” The teasing condescension in her tone solved more than one mystery to me.

“Y- Wha- WHAT DID YOU DO TO MEEEEEEEEEE!?” I whined, bursting into tears. Gone were the classy tears of my adulthood. I couldn’t help sobbing and bawling like a child.

“I didn’t do anything.” Jasmine kneeled from her towering height and began stroking my hair as I sniffled. “It was the lingerie you picked. I told you it was called Youthline, didn’t I? You did this to yourself!” she pinched my cheek teasingly. “Although I admit I had fun watching. You make the most adorable little girl!”

“But- but I don’t WANNA be a little girl!” as I said this, I stamped my foot, eliciting a little clack from my Mary Jane. I couldn’t help myself. I hated the sound of my voice, I hated the way I was acting. It was like I really was a little kid.

Jasmine laughed. The laugh had a sadistic flavor that chilled me. “I know you don’t want to be a little girl, but you are anyway. That’s the fun of it!” It actually took until now that I realized Jasmine wasn’t going to help me. Panic welled in my flat chest, but as it bubbled to the surface, all it did was make me seem more of a fussy child. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“C- Caitlin. Caitlin Graham.” I probably shouldn’t have told her, but I just felt so… I don’t know, so obedient. Was the mentality of a sweet little girl getting to me? Obey grown-ups? Don’t be a rebellious child?

“Pretty,” she said, making a gesture of contemplation with her finger to her chin, “but not cute. A cute little girl should have a cute little name, so your name is Kaylee now, ‘kay?”

Kaylee? Did she know? My parents used to call me that up until I was ten or so! I almost started sobbing again. I had hated that name.

Jasmine kneeled down close to me. “Okay, tell you what. If you want to turn back into your big, growed-up self,” she told me in teasing baby-talk, “all you have to do is take off the lingerie”.

I sniffed as a bit of hope quelled my crying fit. I struggled a bit with the dress before finding a hidden zipper, squirming out of it, and throwing it brattily on the floor. I shimmied my white tights about halfway down my thighs, and wrinkled my little nose at what I saw.

The green silk was nowhere to be seen. Instead, my skinny little body was clad in a full cut pair of white panties. The legs were trimmed in pink, and similarly colored patterns wove around either hip. Ariel the mermaid posed daintily in the middle, covering most of it. The skin-tight camisole I wore up top, revealing my flat, underdeveloped torso, was dominated by a matching picture. I quick check underneath revealed nothing, not even a training bra. Not that I needed one. I was flat as a board. I guess this was my lingerie now.

I hooked my little thumbs in my panties and pulled. Nothing. Were they stuck on something? I tried again. It was a very strange feeling. It wasn’t caught on anything, it just wouldn’t move. I tried the cami. Same thing. I could stretch it, pull it, but I couldn’t get it off!

I stopped when I heard Jasmine giggling. “Whoops! Guess you’re stuck then! It’s okay, elementary school should be easy the second time around.”

I was too dumbstruck to react as she pulled my tights back up and put me back in my dress. She took my hand, the elegantly painted nails nowhere to be seen, and lead me out of the dressing room. My crinoline rustled as a followed.

“Maybe you could find something interesting here?” Jasmine motioned to the children’s section again. “But maybe that’s for a little bit bigger girls,” she grinned. It was true, though. The section that had seemed so juvenile to me before was aimed more towards tweens. I looked more like I was seven than eleven. I would look more at home buying dolls.

Jasmine dragged me behind the register and stood me in front of her as she sat in her pink plush chair. She was still a good foot or so taller than me sitting down.

“Okay, since you stopped throwing your little tantrum, I’ll give you one chance to go back to your curvy old self, or else you’ll just have to wait for your boobs to grow just like every other girl.” I nodded. “Okay, take a look at this,” she said.

She picked up a ring-bound book of products from a nearby shelf and started flipping through it. The front cover displayed a number of ornate bottles. A word was written in curvy script, starting with an F. F… fr… fragger… fragran? Fragrances. I almost started whining again when I realized how long it took me to read that word.

“Okay, here.” She showed me a page. On it was a pink vial of perfume. “This is called Tokyo Girl,” she informed me while I was still struggling to read it. “A customer of mine recently bought this, but never paid for it. As you know, many of my items are… unique. So I would really like this back. Here’s the address.” She pulled out a piece of paper, glanced at me for a moment, and casually snapped her fingers twice, and I was suddenly lost in a whirlwind of disorientation.

A while later, I had no idea how long, I found myself at a dizzying height. After taking a few moments to adjust, I realized I was back at my usual height. A quick check revealed my figure and adult clothes had all returned. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Don’t relax too soon,” Jasmine warned, tapping the Tokyo Girl perfume. “That lingerie is still stuck on you. I’m about to close up, but if you bring this perfume back and put it on my desk here, you’ll be able to take it off, but…” she gestured to an ornate clock on the wall behind her. “If you’re still wearing it by the time that clock strikes midnight,” she grinned, “let’s just say that while all your friends are living it up, getting jobs, getting married… you’ll be stuck at home with a babysitter, learning second grade arithmetic, and throwing flowers at their weddings.”

She grinned her sadistic grin, and I shuddered. I can be rather sharp of tongue, and I thought of a million different insults and threats to scream at her. But I couldn’t. I assumed she could just snap her fingers, and I’d just be a little girl throwing a tantrum. Without a word, I grabbed the address and scurried out of there. I could feel her sneer on me as I left. I could tell she was crossing her fingers, just hoping I would end up back in pigtails and petticoats.

The sun had set by the time I got to my car. I closed the door, reflexively kicking off my right shoe so I could work the pedals, and took a moment to catch my breath. Out of reach of that dangerously infuriating woman Jasmine, I put my palm against by chest, feeling the overtaxed fluttering beneath my hand, and tried to regulate my breathing. A little girl! She had turned me into a little brat again! I didn’t even know how, but there would be time to dwell on that later. I glanced at Jasmine’s note. The address was scrawled in fancy curls with crimson ink. Everything about that bitch was flowery, even, ugh, the dress she put me in. Taking out my phone to find the address, I did a double take. It was already 10:30. It seemed just about impossible, but part of me had an inkling this, too, was her doing. Upping the challenge, injecting a little more excitement. I huffed through my nose as I screeched out of the parking lot.

After a wasted handful minutes spent attempting to sway into a very small spot in front of the address I had gotten off my phone, I changed my mind swung into a large parking lot, seemingly dominated by a Target, about a block away. It would probably be better not to leave my car so visibly parked in front of the place I intend to break into for only a few minutes. I was no burglar, well, not yet, but I assumed it wouldn’t take much sleuthing to turn up my license plate number. I guess no car would lead back to me though if I ended up back in white tights and braids. I shivered again.

Of course, my appearance, my outfit especially, didn’t lend myself to profiling as a suspicious person. As I echoed down the dimly lit street still dressed like a head secretary, it also occurred to me that breaking and entering in pumps and a pencil skirt wasn’t the most practical method, either. I sighed briskly, frustrated. Going home to change might be the difference between having to pull a theft in heels, and having to wait a very long time until I was old enough to wear them again.

When I was a little girl, on occasion, I would slip my miniscule feet into my mother’s shoes. The majority of the shoes’ heels hung out behind mine. My mom and her friends would coo and giggle over my attempts to be a "lady". Oversized dress-up clothes sweeping my ankles. I was fond of the attention when I was a stupid little kid, but now... I couldn’t, I wouldn’t let that be my future. I wouldn’t be demeaned as an underdeveloped woman, fawned over by real women as I tried and failed to emulate what they were, and I no longer was. I felt my face burn, and picked up the pace as much as my shoes and skirt allowed.

I wasted some time standing cluelessly a few feet away from the door, reminding myself how I didn’t know the first thing about breaking in. I walked the length of the building, passed the half dozen or so apartments, and at the risk of looking suspicious, traversed it again, back to where I started. Hands on my hips, I organized my thoughts. It might be beneficial to find exactly where I was supposed to break in before I drew up a plan. That was easy, since the apartments were labeled. The particular room took a bit more effort. I drew a mental map of the floor plan from the spacing of the doors and windows. It only took a moment, though, and I zeroed in on a window.

Much to my relief, all windows and doors I presumed to be connected had their lights off. I optimistically considered the idea that everyone was out. It was approaching 11, true, but this was a college apartment, as far as I could tell, and college kids weren’t early to bed kind of people.

I crawled up towards the window. To the extent of my knowledge, I didn’t attract a single curious glance. With some recently reacquired adult muscle, I pushed the window up. The locks meant to keep it down were absolutely feeble. Ditching the pumps and hiking my skirt up as much as I thought would be decent, I just about stumbled over myself diving in.

I was instantly assaulted by the overpowering scent of nail polish. There was a soft, fuzzy carpet that swallowed the sounds of my footsteps. I felt it between my nyloned toes as I tread delicately towards the door at the opposite end of the room. I could make it out only by the dimly illuminated outline from the other side. The light wasn’t on outside, as far as I could tell, but this room was just about dead black.

I came to a silent halt about a foot away, just enough room to lean my ear against the door. I had what felt like a minor heart attack when my earring clattered against it, but I managed to stand dead still, doing nothing but listening.

It must have been fifteen minutes that I stood there before I figured it was safe to assume I was alone here. Holding my breath, I slid the sprawled fingers of my left hand across the wall until I found the switch. A few seconds after I flipped it on, I realized I’d been holding my breath for who knows how long.

When I turned around, I almost gagged. The first thing I noticed was pink. The color touched just about everything with girly. The second thing, Hello Kitty. Her face was present on the curtains, the pillows, the fluffy carpet I had just walked across... Even the bedspread, beneath the mountain of stuffed animals, had a pattern based around her iconic bow. The third thing, was that the room was a mess. It would be no small task finding the bottle I needed in here.

A secondary carpet of clothing was building up on the floor. A polka dot dress lay in a bunch at the foot of the bed, a few t-shirts and baby-doll tops, a frilly miniskirt, a pink pair of jeans... really? Pink denim? A laundry basket stylized with a few plastic bows tipped on its side spilled a multitude of panties, tank tops, and socks onto the floor like a torrent of pink cupcake barf. And everywhere, that kitty. Obsessed much?

There were at least fifteen bras (I don’t even own fifteen bras) hung up to dry in the closet, almost all pink, most with some kind of pattern, and a good half or so featuring, of course, Hello Kitty, her stylized name, her bow, or something related. I noticed a formidable amount of padding in each one. There was more padding in most of them than room for the actual breast. I tiptoed a few steps closer, and eyed the tags out of curiosity. 30A. Between their uplift and a pair of tiny, yet dangerously tall pumps on the floor, I could assume this girl had some serious petite esteem issues.

There was a desk of white wood, with a large, matching mirror on it, leaning against the wall, making something of an improvised vanity. The desk itself held a sparkly jumble of nail polish vials, virtually all pink, purple, or blue, from bright to hot to baby to pastel. There were at least twenty of them. Cluttered by their side were a myriad of eyeliner pens, mascara, lip gloss, brushes, and compacts of blush and foundation. An industrial size bottle of glitter sat on one side. It was almost empty. Somebody made liberal use of it.

On the vanity, amidst the curled woodwork, the mirror had a thick layer of garish, pink and white stickers that thinned out to reveal the mirror’s surface as they approached the center. Amidst the cuddly animals, bubbly Japanese writing, and cutesy anime girl faces, I saw a photograph, held to the glass with a sticker that appeared to represent a sushi roll with a little face, of what I assumed was the owner of the room.

She was a tiny little specimen, probably barely five feet if even, absolutely dripping with saccharine sweetness. Her hair was in straight bangs, with two big pigtails high up on her head held in white ribbons tied in bows. She grinned a cheery Asian stereotype smile, squinty-eyed and snaggle-toothed, flashing a peace sign. She was wearing an oversized cardigan with her favorite pink-bowed kitty, long enough for the sleeve to cover one of her hands, a plaid skirt, and a pair of knee socks. She was carrying a purse with a big pink bow design and holding just about the cutesiest pose I’d ever seen. I could almost see ditzy little bubbles floating above her head. Just looking at her made my teeth hurt. The name "Yukiko" was written across the photo in glittery pink. The "I" was dotted with a heart. I almost laughed to myself. Did I really expect anything less?

Taking my eyes off of the pint-sized teenybopper, it only took a moment to locate a considerably large collection of perfume bottles on the desk. When a quick glance did not reveal the one I wanted, I took a closer look, one by one. No bottle of that particular shape. Well, it is pink, and pink would be perfect camouflage in this environment. I started reading each label: Bubble Pop, Hara Juku Candy, Sakura Springtime, Nadeshiko... Jesus, could this girl get any more Asian?

Still nothing. I looked through again. It didn’t seem to be here. I took a few steps around the room, seeing nothing but a whole lot of pink. Moving to push my hair behind my ear, I checked my watch. 11:14. I had time. I was just starting to feel calm when something made my heart stop.

There was something wrong with my hair. Something terribly, familiarly wrong.

It was braided! And... and the other side too! I held my pair of unwanted pigtails in front of my panic-wide eyes. They were lighter, too. Not as light as the sunshine blonde they had been when that bitch turned me into a little brat, but light enough to be called blonde. A cursory check over the rest of my body revealed, to only a slight relief, that the rest of me was unchanged. Still five seven, still looking sharp in a skirt suit, a few second of frantic blouse-buttoning and pantyhose-adjusting revealed my bra and panties were still as green as ever. My watch showed 11:17, and I assumed a still had until midnight to do the deed before I ended up trapped as a little squirt forever. I realized I shouldn’t be wasting time passing judgment on this Japanese girl for her tiny frame and stuffed-up bras when I could very well be looking up to her and years away from even wearing a bra before the night is done.

I did a cursory look throughout the room, now knowing what I was looking for. A once over, a twice over, and on the third time, I saw a glimmer, almost perfectly camouflaged amongst the tangled pink bedspread if it hadn’t been reflecting the light from above. I grabbed for it, and sure enough, it was the bottle I had seen on the ad. Tokyo Girl. That sure was a sure as hell way to describe Yukiko here. The bottle was almost empty. Considering it was on her bed, too, and not with the others, it’s probably her favorite fragrance. I almost felt a little bad for taking it from her. But, of course, there was more at stake than some ditzy Asian teenybopper favorite perfume.

With the bottle in hand, I adjusted my skirt to comfortable window-jumping length, and sat on the edge until I managed to slip my feet into the pumps outside. I didn’t bother turning off the light, since I didn’t want to navigate the minefield of clothes on the floor in the dark. This girl was such a scatterbrained mess she probably wouldn’t even remember if she left in on herself or not.

Just before I got back to my car, I felt a sudden chill permeate my shirt, and as I went to grip my elbows to keep them warm, I noticed something I should have expected. It just about made my heart stop, anyway. My shirt was now sleeveless. I gazed down at it, relieved to still have the contours of my relatively large chest, but still horrified as my blouse slowly assumed the shape of that ridiculous little dress I had been wearing as a little girl.

I even risked slowing my walk to marvel as the fabric changed before my eyes. It was subtle, like watching the minute hand on the clock, but I also noticed my black skirt steadily growing lighter. I was sure both it and my top were becoming a matching sky blue.

I fumbled with my keys, my hands shaking, when I finally got back to my car. I wasted no time in catching my breath. I was on the verge of hyperventilating, but I needed to get this done as soon as I could if I didn’t want to go back to second grade.

I parked crookedly. I was never very adept at parking, and I didn’t have time to waste trying to fix it. It was a handicapped space, anyway, as close as I could possibly get to the building. Crawling out, I felt my once-tight skirt swishing around my legs. Looking down, I saw it approximately reached my knees, but not before almost sobbing at seeing my flat chest, sporting the girly little bodice. A sash was beginning to flourish around my upper waist, as both top and skirt approached a sky-blue from their different directions.

Without the tight skirt restricting my motions, my pace was a little bit faster, but heels weren’t really made for wide steps. I scurried as fast as I could to the door, and pulled it open. Or rather, I tried, but without success. Of course it’s locked! It’s almost midnight! I pouted and scoffed in frustration, except it was more of a squeak than a scoff. My voice was starting to sound younger. Something about this drove home just how condescending and dismissive the world would be to me if I really did end up trapped as a seven year old girl. I let out a desperate moan in my new, prepubescent voice as I set off to find a window or something.

I checked my phone on the way. 11:51. Looking down, I also noticed a shiny, patent-leather sheen appearing on my shoes. My heart started beating faster as desperate, doomed thoughts infested my head. No drinking, no going out, no guys would take me seriously… God dammit, if the other women knew, if they knew their former coworker and contemporary had been reduced to a second-grader? Would they tease me with their adulthood? Would they show off their developed bodies and sexy lingerie while I meekly shuffled my Mary Janes and fiddled with my taffeta skirt? Would they show off their indulging boyfriends while I sat and did my homework?

Ugh, speaking of guys, I’d have to get back on that horse via high school again. I’d have to run the popularity rat race against a bunch of immature girls just to catch the eye of some immature guy. It would be frustrating and humiliating to say the least, but it would be so long until I would be seen as a woman by respectable people again. And I would have to wait at least another seven years until I was old enough for high school at all! It was unbelievable how much time I was losing!

The window to Jasmine’s was easy to find. After all of her cruelty, at least she had thrown a little girl a bone by leaving a faint red light on and her window open. The window was about at eye-height, and, assuming there was nobody around, but in too much of a hurry to check, I pull my very-loose business skirt all the way up to my waist, and crawled through the window until I was straddling it, looking inside. The shop was just as familiar as it had been. Below me, was a table about four feet off the ground, seemingly meant for products, but with an empty spot for me to land.

Just before I began my descent, I was greeted with a sense of vertigo. I flailed, and managed to maintain my balance. Judging from the scraping of my shoes on the walls, I assumed it wasn’t just from looking down. I was shrinking. I was shrinking into my new role, my new life, and as I fell below four feet and kept waning, I felt every inch the helpless little girl I would be trapped as if I didn’t hurry. I clung, bewildered, to the windowsill, as the world became a much bigger place.

To add insult to injury, I felt the pressure of my bra strap give way, and the faintest slipping of fabric in my panties. I knew now I was wearing a camisole, much more suited to my childish frame than my former bra, and with my little legs spread, I could see the faint outline of Ariel on my panties through my pantyhose, before a slowly-spreading cloud of opaque white obscured her as the hose started to become tights.

I lowered myself, slowly but rapidly increasing in speed as my arms and muscles regressed. I couldn’t believe how much distance had built between the window and the table since I had last judged the distance from the windowsill. What seemed like scarcely more than a step for my familiar self was now a prominent stretch I couldn’t bridge with my entire diminutive body.

Now dangling precariously from the window, I risked a glance downward, feeling a light thud as one of my French braided pigtails fell against my shoulder. Past the large bow on my waist, right beneath where my now nonexistent breasts would have been, past the lengthening hem of my dress, which had paled to a light, sky blue as the pinstripes became green and curled into a design of floral vines, I could see my pantyhose turning a bright white and losing their transparent sheen, gradually approaching my as of yet unchanged pumps. And beneath that, was the table. Barely an inch underneath my heels, but the distance was growing, bit by bit, my size dwindling in ominous anticipation.

Thinking quickly, desperately, I looked up to see the vase right at the edge of my fingernails, which were losing their manicured sheen and becoming the plain style of an elementary school aged girl. Always keep your nails clean, a condescendingly maternal voice taunted inside her head. A tone someone would take with a child. Of course, the concept of ’child’ sent a visible chill through my juvenile little body. I wouldn’t be able to reach it if I let go now. In a fit of frenzy, I let go of the windowsill with one hand, snagged the vase, and brought it down to clutch it against the puffy-sleeved bodice of my dress, just before my strength failed me, and my other hand slipped.

I was only in the air for an instant. Even with the three inch pumps, I never lost my balance, not even for a moment. I stood, a little shaken, my big, girlish blue eyes wide, clutching the bottle in my arms like an infant. It took a few minutes for the realization that I had made it unscathed to calm the panicked cacophony in my head. A sigh of relief, disturbingly high pitched, allowed me pull myself back together. Until something, something, gave under my feet.

Taken off guard, it took a moment to even realize what had happened, and by then, I was tumbling backwards, my hands still instinctively gripping the bottle, amidst a deafening squeak of a scream, before the impact.

When I drifted out of the daze, I noticed the store lights flickering on, drowning out the atmospheric red glow of the lamp. I was greeted with the sight of two shiny patent-leather Mary Janes, accentuated by the pure whiteness of my legs, now so short and skinny, in their opaque tights, amidst a frothy jumble of stiff, translucent petticoats peeking out from my blue dress. The shin-length skirt had been bunched up to my knees in the fall. I clicked my shoes together, taking in the shiny patent leather, the silver buckles on the straps. So girlish and innocent... It had been them. My shoes had dropped from their three inch stilettos to the short, blunt heels of the childish shoes I wore now!

"Did somebody have a little tumble?" I gazed upwards to see Jasmine, absolutely towering over my little body, a feeling I did not miss. She must have been drawn by the commotion.

She leaned down next to me, haphazardly fixing my skirt and beginning to retie my sash. As if our relative statures weren’t enough, she spoke to me with such a demeaning tone. "I appreciate you doing your very very best to bring me my perfume back. I know you tried your hardest," her voice took on an element of taunting sadism. "It’s a shame what happened to it."

Dread crept over me as I realized my hands, both propping up my torso, were empty. I frantically scoured the room for the perfume bottle. I didn’t have far to look. It was sitting only a few inches away from my left foot.

And about a foot from my right foot.

And scattered about the floor in a few other places.

I wanted to speak, to plead, to threaten, threaten to demand, to challenge, to ask her where her sense of compassion was, but my soft, full lips only quivered silently. She was laughing now. It was only a giggle, really, but it was saturated with cruelty. She watched and laughed while I took in my 7-year-old body, the weight of permanence in every detail. The stubby arms and legs, the hopelessly flat chest, the pigtail braid hanging over my shoulder, all wrapped up in that ridiculously frilly tea party dress. I looked helplessly until my childish instincts overtook me and a sheen of tears clouded my eyes.

Stupid. Stupid everything. Stupid lady. Stupid perfume bottle. Stupid shoes. Stupid dress. And stupid me. Stupid little bratty girl me. The world I knew was suddenly a much larger, more menacing place.

 

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