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Chapter 9

The car engine quietly ticked as it cooled. I sat in the driver's seat—well, Jenna's seat, adjusted way forward because her legs were shorter than mine—and stared at the massive school building in front of us.

It wasn't just a school anymore.
It was a battlefield.

My hands rested on Jenna's lap, fidgeting with the hem of her black skirt. I still wasn't used to the air brushing against my legs or how exposed they felt. Everything felt... fragile. Lighter. Way too noticeable.

Jenna was sitting in the passenger seat in my body, leaning back casually like I always did, arms crossed and eyes half-lidded in that "I'm so over this" expression she'd practiced in my mirror earlier.

She looked more like me than I did.

"Okay," she said, turning toward me with a serious expression. "Before we get out, we need to go over a few rules."

I sighed. "Jenna, we already talked about—"

"No," she cut in firmly. "These are skirt rules."

I blinked. "Skirt rules?"

"Yes, skirt rules. And you're listening because if you don't, you will regret it. Immediately."
Her tone was that mix of teacher + tired mom + someone who's done this her entire life.

"...Fine," I muttered.

"Rule number one," she said, raising a finger. "You cross your legs when you sit. Every time."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not doing that. It's uncomfortable."

"Too bad. You're wearing a skirt."

"I'll sit normally like a dude. It's fine."

Her expression darkened.
Then she leaned in slightly.

"Jaden," she said calmly, "if you sit 'like a dude,' everyone who walks past you in the cafeteria is going to see straight up your skirt."

My entire body locked up.

A weird cold shiver shot down my spine.

I swallowed hard. "...Oh."

"Yeah. 'Oh.'"
She tapped the skirt. "This thing moves. It rides up. You cross your legs. At all times."

A wave of embarrassment flooded through me. I felt the heat in my cheeks—Jenna's cheeks—and looked down at myself.

"...Okay. Fine. I'll cross them."

"Good." She continued.

"Rule number two: When you bend down, you bend your knees, not your waist.
You NEVER bend over in a skirt."

I stared at her.
She stared back.
I swallowed again.

"Got it," I whispered.

"And rule number three: You walk carefully. Short strides. Graceful steps. You don't stomp, you don't rush, and you definitely don't try to run up staircases two steps at a time."

"That's... literally how I walk."

"Well, today it's not. You're walking like me."
She pointed to my—her—legs. "You take smaller steps. And keep your knees together. Just... trust me."

"I feel like a malfunctioning Barbie doll."

"You look like one too," she said without hesitation. "Now, final rule."

"There's more!?"

"Yes. Fourth rule: Don't touch your hair every five seconds.
If you fix it too much, people notice. And if people notice, they ask questions. And if they ask questions, we're screwed."