Sweet '50s

— Theresa! What is it with you again? — said Mrs. Henderson with her usual haughty and condescending tone, as if Theresa wasn’t a person but a careless maid caught stealing sugar again.

Theresa froze at once, holding a fork above a slice of toasted ham. She blinked a few times, surfacing from her thoughts, and looked at Mrs. Henderson, who was standing by the fridge with an expression of weary irritation.

— I… uh… — mumbled Theresa, suddenly aware again of how tangible her hair felt, how heavy the earrings were, and how her small breasts now felt even more weighty. Just like always in these moments. A brief pause before she swallowed and quietly said — What... what’s wrong now?

— She’s asking, can you believe it! — Mrs. Henderson threw up her hands and rolled her eyes so hard Theresa could almost hear the pearlescent eyeshadow creak. — Look at how you're sitting. Elbows on the table, slouched back, and legs apart! You’re wearing a skirt, not pants! You’re not Tommy from the gas station, for God’s sake!

Theresa slowly, like in slow motion, removed her elbows, straightened her back, and pressed her knees together. Everything inside her was boiling, but she only nodded and muttered dully:

— Sorry, ma’am.

And there it was again. That voice. High, soft, almost melodic. She still couldn’t believe it was hers now. That she was Theresa. Theresa Maynard. Living with her “aunt,” Mrs. Mary Henderson, a widow who had graciously taken in a poor “relative from Georgia” who’d run away from a hard life. At least, that’s what it looked like in this reality to everyone else.

But in truth, just a few weeks ago she had been Tom Jennings — a tall, confident guy who liked to rant in bars, loudly and with way too much beer-fueled fire:

— Being a guy nowadays is one giant pain in the ass. Fucking trainings, complaints, feminists. You can’t say a damn word — you’re toxic right away. Back in the fifties, a man was a man! It was simple: work, dinner, wife at home, kids — and nobody was fucking with your head.

He even chuckled, picking up an old, patina-covered coin off the ground near the café:

— Wish I could live in the ‘50s, where everyone knew their place...

And the next morning he woke up not in his bachelor apartment with chips on the floor and football on TV, but in a bed with a lace canopy. The sheets smelled like lavender, and everything around reeked of a terrible sense of nightmare looming. In the mirror above the dresser, he saw a frightened girl with tousled morning hair, a sweet face, and big, beautiful eyes. Tom Jennings was gone, and in his place was Theresa Stone — and this goddamn year, 1955.

— …Do you even understand how that looks?! — Mrs. Henderson exploded again, slamming the fridge door with a sound like she’d smacked Theresa on the nose with it. — I’m not going to explain to Mr. Winslow why my niece looks like… like she just ran off from some roadside motel instead of getting ready to meet a respectable gentleman!

Theresa flinched at the mention and winced in hopelessness, glancing down at her dress, then instinctively adjusting the hem of her vest. The floral patterns, the puffed sleeves — all that tacky pastel “femininity” she was forced to wear every single day.

— I didn’t… — she began, but stopped short, unsure how to finish. What? Didn’t mean to? Didn’t do it on purpose? Didn’t have time to pull her knees together?

— Silence is golden, Theresa, — Henderson cut her off. — Go wash your face. And if in fifteen minutes you don’t look like a lady, I’m making an appointment with the doctor. Maybe it’s your nerves. Or God forbid — hysteria.

Theresa stood up despite the hunger. She wanted to say something, to ask if she could at least eat first, but immediately remembered another one of her “aunt’s” favorite lines about how a woman should watch her figure. The hem of her dress clung to her hips as she pushed the chair back. God, even that movement she now tried to do the way she’d been taught — and somehow, it had already become… ceremonial. Feminine. She felt every damn thing: the weight of her tits, the squeeze of the belt, the tingling from the tight clips in her hair. Even in the bathroom, staring into the mirror, the feeling of masquerade never left her.

— Fucking… hell — she whispered, looking at herself. — Is this forever?

Mary Henderson was the widow of a district judge, living in the suburbs of Atlanta, in a proper house with curtains and geraniums. She had a reputation as a “woman of principles” and absolute faith that “a girl’s goal is to get married, not laze around.” That’s why Theresa now had a schedule: Wednesdays — sewing lessons with Miss Edna, Saturdays — baking at the church. And Sundays — family dinners, where old men squinted at her cleavage and said, “Mary, what a lovely niece you have…”

Every day felt like a trial. Her memories of beer, jokes, and the roaring motorcycle now seemed like a dream. And with each passing day, they faded more and more.

— You still standing there like a statue? — came Henderson’s voice from the kitchen. — God almighty, Theresa! What do you think you’re doing?!

— Coming — Theresa replied and immediately flinched again at the sound of her own voice.

Tom inside her wanted to scream, while Theresa obediently lowered her eyes and fixed her hair. Everyone here really did know their place. Especially her.