Being Britni

— And remember, the final exam isn’t just a knowledge check, — said Miss Ellis, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose. — It’s your calling card to college. Your… opportunity.

— Hey, psst, Britni — came a voice from behind me, and I slowly turned my head, clenching my fist.

"Britni" still sounded foreign to me, especially when one of my classmates said it — and especially in that tone, because I knew there was always some kind of “joke” coming next. And yeah, I understood teenage behavior all too well, because I’d spent over ten years teaching high schoolers myself. Back then, they called me Professor Huntley. Not yet gray, but already respected, with a tie and an unshakeable calm against loudmouths like Jamal, who now couldn’t stop bothering me.

— What do you want — I hissed through my teeth, turning toward Jamal’s voice, already bracing myself to swat away his next jab. But as always, he smirked — not looking into my eyes, but lower.

— Nothin’... just sayin’, your ass… it’s like Cardi B’s, but real. — Jamal drawled with a grin, staring somewhere around my hip.

I sighed. Deeply. Slowly. Felt my breasts — damn heavy breasts — lift slightly from the tension. I hate this body. I hate that it’s mine now. I hate how these fucking hips stick to every plastic chair in every damn classroom.

— Shut up, Jamal, — I hissed again. My voice — that voice — was still high, sing-songy, laced with some fake flirt I couldn’t control. Like nature itself was screwing me over. — This isn’t a date.

He laughed. Of course he laughed. And so did everyone sitting nearby.

A month ago, I was Professor Jonathan Huntley, teaching history at a prestigious academy, wearing a tweed blazer and lecturing about Reconstruction with the kind of pomp I thought was deserved. I used to say, “It’s time to stop whining about the past,” and that “modern minorities just need to work harder.” I was literally saying that at the board when Alt Shift hit the whole city like a flash of light. I blinked — and suddenly I was in the body of an 18-year-old high school girl from the suburbs of Atlanta. Young, flashy, Black.

Now my name is Britni Washington. And under the new law, I’m required to play the part — live her life, go to school, take tests, act “naturally” just like Britni used to, or else… reeducation camp. And I’ve seen what happens to the ones who refuse to pretend. That shit’s not just a rumor.

I tried to resist the first week, of course I did — went back to my real home instead of Britni’s, tried to play it smart, not blurt out the swap to everyone. But yeah, I already knew this was a mass swap. The whole world talked about it at first. But every government moved fast. The law… that horrible law. Still, I tried to fight it, to at least stay myself — not “Britni.” But when those people with “Social Harmonization” patches showed up at my “new” home, I got truly scared for the first time. Since then, I’ve been playing along.

And here I am, sitting in English class, and this ass — MY ass — is crushing the plastic chair like it wants to break it. And this top… tight as hell, like it was picked out on purpose. I don’t even know why Britni used to wear it — though judging by the way my classmates stare, I’ve got a pretty good idea.

— Miss Washington, — came Miss Ellis’s voice, our teacher. — Maybe you could try listening instead of flirting with Jamal?

I felt my cheeks burn. Flirting. Me? With that dumbass? But the whole class was already giggling, and I…

I nodded silently, because… because what else? The real Britni liked attention, liked boys, liked those kinds of compliments — and me, former Professor Jonathan Huntley, I just wanted the ground to swallow me whole from the shame.

"Shit, now the whole class is looking at me."

What, do I have to be “Britni” again?

Well, thank you, Jamal, damn you. It’s like you know I already got one warning from those assholes at “Social Harmonization,” and I still have no clue who snitched — but I’m pretty sure it was someone from this class. One of them was their “agent,” no doubt.

So after a few seconds, I finally turned to Jamal and, forcing a smile, pushed out:

– You’re such a goof, Jamal… But thanks. – I said, putting just enough emphasis on the “thanks” to make it sound like Britni — like I — was actually flattered. The voice was high, drawn-out, with that disgusting sing-song sweetness I’d been trying to avoid this whole damn time.

But now… now this wasn’t a performance. It was survival.

He grinned like he won something, and I saw his eyes glide over my hips again, then crawl upward… to my tits.

His gaze stuck there like fucking glue.

"God, this is disgusting," I thought, sitting on that plastic chair, feeling my new, ridiculously round ass slowly melt off it like butter in the sun. Every damn movement pulled my uncooperative tits along, bouncing and shifting, and I kept having to tug that cursed top back up, because they just kept spilling out of it.

But I couldn’t afford to break. One wrong look, one wrong word — and the “harmonizers” would be back at my door.

And the last time they came, I nearly pissed myself…

Not that it’s easy to hide something like that in this body. Everything’s different now.

Even pissing is humiliating.

– Hey, Britni, – Jamal kept going, sliding a bit closer, his voice now lower, more intimate. – I was thinkin’… maybe after school, you know… we could talk?

I froze. Deep inside, former Professor Jonathan Huntley let out a silent scream of horror.

"No. No-no-no. Don’t you dare flirt back. He’s a teenager. He’s… he’s…"

– Mmm, maybe, – I heard my own voice say, and I almost groaned out loud.

I had said it. Easily. With that gross, half-flirty smirk, like it wasn’t even an act anymore, like I wanted it.

But no, no, no. That’s not true. I know it’s not. I’m just a damn good actor, that’s all. I’ve rehearsed how to act in moments like this. I snapped my head back toward the board, hoping Jamal would drop it.

But instead, I felt his voice slither right behind me, a whisper:

– Mmm… Britni, you’re just fire. So damn hot… You used to be cute, but now — you straight-up BAD.

I swallowed. I should’ve said something else. Now he’s expecting something — and there’s no easy way out.

– Miss Washington? – came Miss Ellis’s voice again, with her usual bite. – Would you care to share with the class what exactly Jamal is whispering in your ear?

Holding back a tremor, I stood up. Slowly.

My breasts trembled with me, hips brushing against the desk edge, and everyone in that fucking classroom stared. Especially the boys. And I… smiled. Hold it together. You’re not a professor — you’re a regular high school girl who likes attention.

– He just… said I look cute, Miss Ellis.

Laughter rippled through the rows.

Jamal snorted with satisfaction, and I sat back down. Softly, quietly, carefully — catching the chair with my new proportions and keeping that fake smile on my face like I was enjoying all of this.

This dumb body. These stupid jokes. This humiliating attention.