The Important (and Wet) Exam

Ugh. God, it’s such a relief that Jerome finally started taking all this more calmly. I leaned on my elbows and allowed myself to finally relax a bit. I’d finished the test about twenty minutes ago, but I wasn’t in a hurry to turn it in. The room was still noisy: some were scribbling their last answers, others were frantically flipping through their reference books, and I just sat there, staring somewhere at the board, though in reality I was only seeing vague images and thoughts.

Jerome.

My brother.

When it all started, I couldn’t have imagined he’d be one of those who… changed. Back then, two months ago, the campus just exploded. People were waking up and realizing their bodies weren’t their own anymore. There was panic. We were locked in the dorms, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Later they even launched some kind of federal program to issue new IDs and provide counseling. Turned out, it affected 20% of both guys and girls. Everyone who changed — changed sex. But everyone reacted to it differently.

And how was it for me — or rather, for us? Probably the same as most. Just a normal morning, nothing unusual. I was heading to the dorm kitchen to make coffee, and when I opened the door — she was already standing there.

God, at first I thought it was some homeless girl or… I don’t know, someone who escaped from a maniac and was hiding in our house. I started calling for Jerome, screaming for him, not knowing he was standing right in front of me. But then. Then she… he convinced me with just a gesture — that same nervous little thing Jerome always did when he was really anxious. It was my brother.

Jerome, in a woman’s body, looked completely lost. Wearing his T-shirt that was hanging off her shoulders but barely covering those pretty damn big tits, holding up her underwear. God, it was actually hilarious, though it was anything but funny at the time. Her eyes were filled with terror and disbelief. We both stayed silent. I just walked up and hugged her. He started crying.

Two months passed, and Jerome became… Jessica. Took on a new name through that new ID program, changed up her wardrobe. Not right away, of course — there were meltdowns, crying fits, refusing to leave the room. But now he — or rather she — wore tight jeans, did light makeup, and even learned how to tuck her tits into a lace bra so they’d look neater. And, strangely enough, she actually looked… cute.

Sometimes I caught myself thinking she could totally be a bridesmaid at my wedding. The kind who organizes the bachelorette party, suggests dumb games, and ends up crying in the bathroom from too much wine and nostalgia. Funny. I even sighed dreamily and smiled a bit, picturing Jess in a pink silk dress with curled hair.

A rustle to the left pulled me out of my thoughts. I turned my head — and saw THAT.

— Oh...

Jessica was sitting with her back to me, her face turned toward the board — but her shoulders... Her shoulders were tense, like she wasn’t just listening, but doing something… weird. I frowned, lifting myself slightly to see better. And then I saw it.

Her left hand was holding the edge of her neckline. Yeah, that one — the lacy one, tracing the curve of her new breasts. And she was… pulling the fabric down. Just a little, a couple of centimeters, but enough for the neckline to reveal way more than the dress code allowed. Jessica had pulled her boobs out just enough to show off some cleavage, a peek of her lace bra, and the soft skin. And it was definitely not by accident.

My throat went dry. I instantly remembered her earlier request before the test started: “Maybe let me copy? Pleaaaase…” And my firm reply: “We’ve got different versions. It won’t work.” She had grunted in annoyance back then, and now this? What the hell is this? Some kind of act?

— So? How’s that look? — Jessica whispered, tension in her voice as her eyes darted between the teacher at the board and Michael, who was openly gawking at her cleavage — Had enough?

I froze. My breath caught, and my hand clenched around the pen. I couldn’t believe I was hearing this. Seeing this. That he — my brother — she now, was sitting there, half-exposing her tits and almost provocatively flirting with a guy who, not that long ago, had been one of her buddies, just to get… answers?

Michael scribbled something quickly on his paper, then leaned slightly to the side and glanced toward her, clearly checking if she could see his signals. She gave a small nod, like “got it”, and, as if in thanks, pulled the edge of her neckline down just a little more. More. I nearly wanted to sink through the floor in shame at that moment.

This was insane.

— What the hell are you doing? — I whispered through clenched teeth as my sister came back and started writing down answers to the test.

— Shut up, Monique, — hissed Jessica without turning her head. Her voice was shaking, like something inside was breaking down, but her hand kept scribbling out the answer to the last problem. — I just... I need to pass this fucking test...

Jessica kept frantically writing formulas like her life depended on it. Every digit scratched out by a trembling hand, and I saw a bead of sweat roll down her temple, dissolving into her foundation. Her curls stuck lightly to her cheek, her breasts visibly rising with every quick breath — her whole body was tense, but she kept writing, biting her lower lip.

— Fuck, Monica... why’d you have to see that! — she suddenly turned to me, her eyes filled with anger, shame, and… terror. Not at me. At herself.

— I didn’t think you’d notice, — her voice broke into almost a whisper. — God... you totally think I’m a slut now, don’t you?

I didn’t answer. I just looked at her, unable to figure out what I felt more — disgust? Pity? Shock?

And she had already turned away, like she couldn’t bear my gaze. Her breasts were rising high — Jessica was trying to breathe evenly, but she was clearly breaking. I saw her fingers tremble, clinging to the pen. Her makeup had started to melt, mixing with the sweat, making her face look at once pitiful and disturbingly feminine.

— I’m not a slut... — she muttered under her breath, so quiet I could barely hear. — This isn’t me... It’s all… fuck, it’s all this body...

She pulled her knees up, tugging the skirt lower, like she wanted to hide inside it. I noticed how her tits gave a soft bounce from the movement, and for some reason, that made me feel awkward.

— I just...

She looked up at me — her eyes wet, scared, furious.

— I didn’t want you to see that. I thought, well... Michael’s an idiot, he doesn’t give a shit, he’d stare either way. I just... I wasn’t thinking. Honestly. Everything’s so weird, fuck... I don’t even... I don’t even know why I did that! It’s not... not me.

I saw her eyes drop down — to her breasts, still half-covered by the lace edge of her bra, which she hadn’t even bothered to fix.

— What’s all the chatter about, girls?! — came the professor’s voice, muffled and irritated, as always when the class was nearing the end.

We both flinched.

— Everything’s fine, professor, — I answered, trying to sound steady.

Jessica quickly lowered her head, hiding behind her curls, and automatically fixed her neckline — with an uncertain motion, like she was touching something foreign but familiar. The fabric settled back along the curves, highlighting the softness and fullness, and for a second I saw her face twist — with shame, or realization, or something even deeper.