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Denise shifted uncomfortably, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. She eyed Nicolle, who had already pulled out a small notepad and was jotting something down with a neat, practiced hand. The swirling chaos that was Nicolle Taylor—who once spammed their group chat with unhinged TikTok trends and unprompted selfies—was gone. This version of her was put together, poised in a way that felt wrong.
“Uh, Bertha?” Denise leaned in, lowering her voice. “She’s acting, like… super weird.”
Bertha smirked, adjusting her lab coat. “Yeah, no kidding.” She crossed her arms. “She’s a mom now, babe. Super responsible. Probably thinking about meal prepping and whether your hair could use a deep conditioning treatment.”
Denise snorted, but the laugh died in her throat when she saw Nicolle had already pulled out a neatly folded tissue and was offering it to her. “Sweetheart, don’t sniffle so much,” Nicolle said warmly. “You’ll irritate your sinuses.”
Denise recoiled. “What the hell?”
Bertha propped herself against the console. “Welcome to The Changegrounds, where reality bends to our whims.” She gestured toward the chamber. “Nicolle thinks she’s always been like this, but you? You remember the old version. To her, nothing changed. But her past, her habits, the way people see her? All rewritten.”
Denise gawked. “So, like, everyone at school is just gonna accept that Nicolle’s… like this now?”
Bertha shrugged. “Mhm. Teachers probably love her. Probably the type to remind the class when homework is due.” She shot Nicolle a glance. “And her mom’s definitely confused as hell, but in, like, a wow, my daughter is so responsible now kind of way.”
Denise rubbed her temples. “Jesus. It’s like reality got a software update.”
Bertha’s smirk widened. “Oh, babe, this isn’t even the best part.” Her fingers danced over the control panel. “Want to really see something freaky?”
Denise hesitated. “Uh… what are you—”
Execute.
The chamber hummed.
Nicolle tensed, her fingers briefly tightening around her notepad, then relaxed as another ripple of change washed over her. Denise’s ears popped, like she was in an airplane suddenly descending too fast. The air warped—reality itself buckling as it tried to explain why a 16-year-old girl was about to become even more of a devoted homemaker than she already was.
When the ripple faded, Nicolle let out a soft sigh and adjusted her cardigan like she’d been expecting this.
Bertha and Denise stared.
The floral dress remained, but it had softened—its hemline brushing just below her knees now, modest and proper. The ballet flats had changed, morphing into low-heeled Mary Janes, polished to a mirror shine. She now wore a delicate pearl necklace, the kind a mother might receive as an anniversary gift and treasure for a lifetime. Her curls were pristine, tucked into a flawless half-updo secured with a tasteful ribbon.
But the worst part? The basket.
Where her handbag had been, she now clutched a neatly woven wicker basket lined with a soft gingham cloth. Inside? A thermos of chamomile tea, an emergency sewing kit, a small tin of homemade cookies, and—God help them all—a cross-stitch project in progress.
Denise took a step back.
Nicolle beamed at them, soft and serene. “Goodness, I just feel so productive today! I can’t wait to get home and finish my needlepoint. I’m making a lovely ‘Home is Where the Heart Is’ piece—so classic, don’t you think?” She giggled, a gentle, almost matronly sound. “I do wish I’d brought a fresh loaf of banana bread with me—places like this always feel so much more welcoming with a warm, homey scent.”
Denise grabbed Bertha’s arm. “Dude, what the hell did you do?”
Bertha looked delighted. “Turned her Stepford setting way up.”
Reality groaned.
Somewhere, somehow, the fabric of existence tried to accommodate a 16-year-old girl who, by all logic, should have been watching makeup tutorials or thirsting over lacrosse players, but instead?
She was concerned about her homemaking duties.
“Uh, Bertha?” Denise leaned in, lowering her voice. “She’s acting, like… super weird.”
Bertha smirked, adjusting her lab coat. “Yeah, no kidding.” She crossed her arms. “She’s a mom now, babe. Super responsible. Probably thinking about meal prepping and whether your hair could use a deep conditioning treatment.”
Denise snorted, but the laugh died in her throat when she saw Nicolle had already pulled out a neatly folded tissue and was offering it to her. “Sweetheart, don’t sniffle so much,” Nicolle said warmly. “You’ll irritate your sinuses.”
Denise recoiled. “What the hell?”
Bertha propped herself against the console. “Welcome to The Changegrounds, where reality bends to our whims.” She gestured toward the chamber. “Nicolle thinks she’s always been like this, but you? You remember the old version. To her, nothing changed. But her past, her habits, the way people see her? All rewritten.”
Denise gawked. “So, like, everyone at school is just gonna accept that Nicolle’s… like this now?”
Bertha shrugged. “Mhm. Teachers probably love her. Probably the type to remind the class when homework is due.” She shot Nicolle a glance. “And her mom’s definitely confused as hell, but in, like, a wow, my daughter is so responsible now kind of way.”
Denise rubbed her temples. “Jesus. It’s like reality got a software update.”
Bertha’s smirk widened. “Oh, babe, this isn’t even the best part.” Her fingers danced over the control panel. “Want to really see something freaky?”
Denise hesitated. “Uh… what are you—”
Execute.
The chamber hummed.
Nicolle tensed, her fingers briefly tightening around her notepad, then relaxed as another ripple of change washed over her. Denise’s ears popped, like she was in an airplane suddenly descending too fast. The air warped—reality itself buckling as it tried to explain why a 16-year-old girl was about to become even more of a devoted homemaker than she already was.
When the ripple faded, Nicolle let out a soft sigh and adjusted her cardigan like she’d been expecting this.
Bertha and Denise stared.
The floral dress remained, but it had softened—its hemline brushing just below her knees now, modest and proper. The ballet flats had changed, morphing into low-heeled Mary Janes, polished to a mirror shine. She now wore a delicate pearl necklace, the kind a mother might receive as an anniversary gift and treasure for a lifetime. Her curls were pristine, tucked into a flawless half-updo secured with a tasteful ribbon.
But the worst part? The basket.
Where her handbag had been, she now clutched a neatly woven wicker basket lined with a soft gingham cloth. Inside? A thermos of chamomile tea, an emergency sewing kit, a small tin of homemade cookies, and—God help them all—a cross-stitch project in progress.
Denise took a step back.
Nicolle beamed at them, soft and serene. “Goodness, I just feel so productive today! I can’t wait to get home and finish my needlepoint. I’m making a lovely ‘Home is Where the Heart Is’ piece—so classic, don’t you think?” She giggled, a gentle, almost matronly sound. “I do wish I’d brought a fresh loaf of banana bread with me—places like this always feel so much more welcoming with a warm, homey scent.”
Denise grabbed Bertha’s arm. “Dude, what the hell did you do?”
Bertha looked delighted. “Turned her Stepford setting way up.”
Reality groaned.
Somewhere, somehow, the fabric of existence tried to accommodate a 16-year-old girl who, by all logic, should have been watching makeup tutorials or thirsting over lacrosse players, but instead?
She was concerned about her homemaking duties.
What do you do?
Create your own Path!