NARRATOR (V.O.): Previously, on Tits for Tates! The Tate brothers declared war. Declared peace. Accidentally started a couple border skirmishes involving boobs and sports bras. Tonight: Alex's boss comes to dinner. What could possibly go wrong?
Emily Post had never written a chapter on "What to Cook Your Dinner Guests to Distract Them From Your New Sultry Voice" or "Appropriate Attire for the Recently Feminized." Martha Stewart, for all her expertise, had never filmed a segment on "Hiding Your Brother's Breasts from Your Boss." It was a self-help genre that Alex could've really used right about now.
He stood in his parents' kitchen at 2:47 PM, four hours before Richard McMann-his father's old business partner and Alex's current boss-and his wife Carol were scheduled to arrive, and contemplated a pot roast with the kind of desperate focus usually reserved for bomb disposal experts.
The pot roast contemplated him back. It was too large for the pan. This seemed like information his mother's 1970s-era cookbook might have mentioned, but the cookbook operated under the optimistic assumption that the reader possessed both common sense and basic spatial reasoning.
"Does this look right to you?" he called toward the living room.
Brad, who was dusting the living room with manic intensity, didn't look up. His long hair, which now reached past his shoulders in a cascade of shampoo-commercial perfection, kept falling into his face as he worked. Every thirty seconds, he'd push it back with one small, delicate hand, his electric blue nails catching the light.
He was wearing black leggings and a purple athletic tank top, the only kind of clothes he seemed to own anymore. Ever since Alex had complained about his baggy clothes, Brad's entire wardrobe had transformed into fitted athletic wear in various bright colors. The tight fabric clung to curves that definitely hadn't been there a week ago-the narrow waist, the flared hips, the undeniable swell of breasts under the sports bra he now wore constantly.
"What?" Brad called back, attacking a bookshelf that hadn't been touched since the Nixon administration. He was pretty sure the dust had accumulated its own layer of dust.
"The roast is too big for the pan," Alex said, lifting the massive slab of meat with both hands. His long pink nails made the task awkward. He'd tried to cut them shorter this morning and discovered they were somehow harder than steel. He'd broken two pairs of nail clippers. Even trying to file them down had been useless.
Brad finally stopped dusting long enough to push his hair back-for the fifty-seventh time in the last hour, not that anyone was counting-and walked to the kitchen.
He looked at the roast. Looked at the pan. Looked at Alex.
"Did you try a bigger pan?"
"This is the biggest pan."
"Did you try a smaller roast?"
Alex glared at him.
They stared at each other across the kitchen-Alex in his bathrobe, hair wrapped in a towel because he'd spent an hour in the bath that morning, Brad in his athletic wear with his hair falling into his face again, both of them aware of the absurdity of discussing pot roast sizing when the real problem was that they were trapped in a house by a magical contract.
Though to be fair, they'd had stupider arguments. There had been the Great Thermostat War of 1988. The Battle of Whose Turn It Was To Take Out The Trash, which had lasted three months. And the infamous Incident of the Last Beer, which neither of them liked to discuss.
"Just cut it in half," Brad said finally.
"I can't cut it in half. That's not how pot roast works."
"You literally just put meat in a pan and cook it. That's how pot roast works."
"There's a recipe involved. Time per pound. It's not just-" Alex stopped himself, recognizing the rising frustration in his voice, the complaint forming on his tongue. They'd called a truce. They had to maintain the truce. Richard and Carol were coming in four hours and they needed to get through this dinner without any more changes.
Brad seemed to recognize the same danger. He took a breath, pushed his hair back again, and spoke carefully. "Okay. Let's just... figure it out together."
They managed to wedge the roast into the pan at an angle that defied both geometry and good sense. They surrounded it with vegetables cut to vaguely uniform sizes. They shoved it in the oven, set the temperature according to the cookbook's cryptic instructions, and agreed that this was good enough.
Brad returned to dusting. Alex decided he'd tackle vacuuming. They had a plan: Get the house cleaned up. Then Brad would stay in his room during dinner. He'd stay quiet, stay hidden, and Alex would host alone. Richard and Carol would never know this weird half-feminized version of Brad existed. They'd eat dinner, discuss the Mitchelson account, and leave. Simple.
An hour later, Brad was scrubbing the dining room table, sticky with decades of accumulated grime, when his hair fell into his face for approximately the nine thousandth time. He pushed it back with growing irritation, held it there for a moment, let it go. It immediately fell forward again. His pop music blared from his phone, some teen singing an upbeat song about summer and love that he couldn't stop himself from listening to.
Alex was nearby, trying to vacuum the curtains. But Brad kept pushing his hair back. Over and over. And that music-bright, peppy, relentless. Alex stared at him. Watched Brad push his hair back. Watched it fall. Watched him push it back again. The repetition was maddening.
"Can you PLEASE stop pushing your hair out of your face? It's driving me crazy!" The words came out sharper than Alex intended, frustration overriding caution.
Brad froze mid-push, his hand halfway to his forehead.
Then his hair moved.
Not by his hand. Not by any force he was applying. His hair gathered itself, pulled upward like invisible hands were styling it, twisted and wrapped and secured itself into a high ponytail at the crown of his head. Tight. Perfect.
Brad felt it immediately. The weight of the ponytail hanging behind him, swinging with the slightest movement of his head. The tightness pulling at his scalp, stretching the skin of his face backward. His eyebrows sat higher now, pulled into a permanently surprised expression. His eyes felt wider. The tension was constant, unrelenting, like someone had given him a facelift and forgotten to stop pulling.
Brad's hands flew to his head, feeling the ponytail, trying to pull it down. It wouldn't budge. The hair was locked in place like it had been sculpted from steel cable. He pulled harder. Nothing. The ponytail sat there, perfect and immobile and permanent.
"What did you DO?" Brad's perky voice cracked with panic.
Alex stared from the kitchen doorway, his pink nails gripping the doorframe. "I just-I didn't mean-"
"You changed my hair!" Brad was still pulling at the ponytail, desperate now. "You permanently changed my hair!"
"I was frustrated! You kept-" Alex stopped himself, but the damage was done.
Brad's hands slowly lowered from his head. He stared at Alex. This was the part where he'd normally fire back, inflict pain for pain, escalate the situation into mutually assured destruction. For approximately three seconds, discretion prevailed. It was a new personal record.
"Damn," Alex said, the brotherly taunt coming naturally, their shared history overcoming any possible restraint, "that ponytail adds like four inches to your height!"
That was it. Discretion be damned. Brad's retort was inevitable: "Well you're four inches too tall!"
Alex felt the change immediately. The floor rose to meet him-no, he was sinking, shrinking, his perspective shifting downward as his spine compressed, his legs shortened, his entire frame reducing in height. Four inches disappeared in two seconds. His bathrobe, which had been knee length, suddenly fell to mid-calf.
He grabbed at a doorframe for balance, his pink nails clicking against the wood. When the change stopped, he was eye-level with Brad's chin.
"You-" Alex started, his voice shaking.
"You started it!" Brad shot back. "You changed my hair!"
"This is so much worse!"
They stared at each other. Alex looked up at Brad now, his neck craning slightly. The towel slipped off his head entirely, landing on the floor with a damp thump, revealing his platinum blonde hair.
"Okay," Brad said quietly. "Okay. We need to stop."
"Agreed."
"No more. No matter what."
"No matter what," Alex echoed.
They both knew it was a lie.
The roast was developing a smell. Not a good smell. Not the savory, mouth-watering aroma that pot roast should have. This was more of a burning smell. A something-is-very-wrong smell. A smell that suggested the meat had achieved consciousness and was using its newfound awareness to scream.
Alex opened the oven and studied the situation. The roast sat at an odd angle, browning in patches while remaining distressingly raw in others.
"How's it looking?" Brad called from the living room.
"Fine!" Alex lied. "Perfectly fine!"
It was not fine. It was the opposite of fine. But saying so would require admitting failure, and admitting failure might lead to complaints, and complaints led to changes, and he was already four inches shorter than he'd been this morning.
Alex closed the oven door and returned to his room to dress. Time to face the wardrobe situation.
His clothes were laid out on the bed: dress shirt, slacks, shoes. Exactly what someone should wear when hosting their boss for dinner. He'd picked them out this morning.
Now he put on the pants and they pooled around his ankles. The cuffs dragged on the floor. He looked like a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes.
The shirt was even worse. The shoulders hung off his frame. The sleeves extended past his hands, covering his pink nails completely, which would have been convenient if it hadn't made him look like he was drowning in fabric.
He didn't need a mirror to know he looked ridiculous. There was no other word for it. Richard and Carol would take one look at him and either laugh or call an ambulance, and Alex wasn't sure which would be worse.
Brad appeared in the doorway, ponytail perfect and permanent, athleisure clinging to curves that declared their presence loudly and proudly. He took in Alex's appearance, his face cycling through several expressions before landing on something between sympathy and resignation.
"You can't wear that."
"I know I can't wear it," Alex snapped, his voice making the irritation sound more sultry than angry. "But I don't have anything else. Everything's too big now."
They stood there for a long moment, both aware that time was running out-Richard and Carol had texted they were on their way-and both aware that there was no good solution to this problem.
"You need to just say it," Alex said quietly.
"Say what?"
"The thing you're thinking. The complaint. About how my clothes don't fit."
"Are you sure-"
"There's no other way. So just say it and get it over with."
"Your clothes don't fit at all," Brad said, wincing. "You look ridiculous."
The change rippled through the closet first-Alex could hear it, hangers rattling, fabric rustling, his entire wardrobe adjusting itself. Then it hit what he was wearing. The dress shirt reshaped itself against his body, fabric pulling taut, collar shrinking, shoulders narrowing. Darts appeared at the waist. The sleeves shortened to the perfect length. The buttons shifted, moving from right-over-left to left-over-right. The fabric faded to a blush pink.
His slacks joined in. The legs widened, fabric flowing into a wide-legged silhouette as they shortened to barely graze the floor, hiding his feet entirely. The waist rose higher, the cut changing to follow the curve of his hips. The front zipper disappeared, reappearing at the back. The pockets vanished.
Shoes reshaped on his feet. The leather flowed like water, forming heels-modest heels, two or three inches, but undeniably present. The toes narrowed, became more pointed. His feet were compressed, lifted, pushed forward onto his toes.
When it finished, Alex looked down at himself in shock. He was wearing women's clothing. A pale pink women's blouse, women's slacks tailored to fit his body perfectly, women's shoes with heels that gave him back some of his original height.
He turned toward his closet, already knowing what he'd find.
Every piece of men's clothing had transformed. Shirts had become blouses. Pants had become women's slacks and jeans. His suits had become skirt suits and dresses. Every shoe had heels, ranging from modest two-inch pumps to stilettos that looked like they'd been designed by someone who deeply hated feet.
"Oh my god, it changed everything," Alex whispered, his voice now matching the clothing, matching the nails, matching everything else about him that had been transformed.
Brad stood in the doorway, staring. "I didn't mean-I didn't think it would-"
"We never think it will," Alex said. "That's the problem. We never think about how it will twist things."
He turned back to the mirror. The blouse fit perfectly. The slacks were elegant, professional, appropriate for a business dinner. The heels added height and made his legs look longer. If he'd been a woman, he'd have looked put-together, sophisticated, ready to impress.
"I can't cancel," he said quietly. "Richard is expecting me. The Mitchelson account is already behind schedule. If I cancel now, if I seem unreliable-"
He stopped. The people-pleasing compulsion wouldn't let him finish the thought. Wouldn't let him imagine disappointing Richard. The idea of calling to cancel, of saying he couldn't make it, of admitting some kind of problem-it made his chest tight with anxiety.
"I know," Brad said. "You have to do this."
"I have to do this."
"And you'll have to wear..." Brad gestured at the outfit.
"Women's clothing. Yes."
They looked at each other. The house settled around them with a judgmental creak. Somewhere in the kitchen, the pot roast continued its descent into carbon.
"Okay," Alex said, decision made. "I'll get through the dinner. You're staying in your room. We stick to the plan."
"It's a terrible plan."
"It's the only plan we have."
Brad couldn't argue with that. He retreated to his room. Alex stood in front of his closet, breathing hard. He checked his watch. Richard and Carol would be here in ten minutes. His pink nails caught the light as he adjusted the blouse one more time, tucking it in, smoothing the fabric. If he didn't think about it too hard, didn't look too closely-
No. He looked exactly like what he was: a man wearing women's clothing.
The doorbell was going to ring. Richard and Carol were going to see him. And there was absolutely no way to hide the nails, no way to explain away these clothes.
Passing back through the kitchen, he had an idea.
His mother's apron. The vintage floral one she'd worn for forty years, faded and comfortable and completely innocuous. And next to the stove, the oven mitts.
Alex moved quickly, driven by desperation and the countdown clock in his head. He grabbed the apron, tied it around his waist. The floral pattern clashed wonderfully with his blouse, but it covered the darts and the feminine cut of his slacks. Then the oven mitts-both hands covered, pink nails completely hidden inside quilted fabric.
He looked absurd. He knew he looked absurd. But absurd was better than undeniable. Absurd could be explained. "I was cooking!" "I just took something out of the oven!" Absurd was embarrassing but not career-ending.
The doorbell rang.
Alex took a breath and walked to the door. The heels clicked on the hardwood floor. His hips swayed with each step, the graceful movement automatic now. The oven mitts made his hands feel enormous and clumsy.
He opened the door.
Richard and Carol stood on the porch, both dressed nicely for dinner, both smiling in that polite way people smile when they're your guests but not quite your friends.
Their smiles froze when they saw Alex.
Specifically, when they saw Alex wearing a floral apron over a blush pink blouse, with bright orange oven mitts on both hands, his platinum blonde hair catching the porch light. If there was a handbook for Making A Good Impression On Your Boss, this was not in it. This was several chapters past where the handbook gave up and suggested moving to another country.
There was a beat of absolute silence.
"Alex," Carol said finally, her voice doing something complicated between syllables. "You look... different."
NARRATOR (V.O.): Will Richard and Carol accept Alex's explanations? Will Brad stay hidden upstairs? Will the pot roast achieve sentience before it achieves edibility? And most importantly: can two brothers make it through one dinner party without reality itself deciding to get involved? Find out next time, on Tits for Tates!