Chapter 2
The next morning, the smell of coffee pulls me out of a deep sleep. French roast if I’m not mistaken. Liv must have brought home a fresh supply of Keurig pods last night after I conked out. As a production assistant on a new Netflix series based on some postapocalyptic graphic novel or other, my roommate works worse hours than I do—for equally crappy pay. But as a perk of her job, she can take whatever she wants—within reason, of course—from the show’s daily on-site catering spread.
Lying in bed, breathing in the aroma of the strong brew, I realize I feel… fine . I’m totally fine. Although the only fever reducer I was able to unearth in our jumbled mess of a medicine cabinet expired about four months ago, it must have done the trick. Thanks to a couple of the outdated Tylenols and a good night’s sleep, I don’t seem to be sick at all. So bullet dodged. Yay!
I reach out and grab my phone from the nightstand. Since I took out my contacts last night, I have to hold it at arm’s length to read the time. It’s a little after eight.
Okay , I think, putting back the phone. Rise and shine.
Still groggy and in need of actual caffeine—not just the scent of it—I throw back the covers, swing my legs out of bed, and haul myself up. But before I stagger my way out to the kitchen to see if Liv was able to snag any hazelnut-flavored pods, I make a pit stop in the bathroom that the two of us share.
I close the door behind me, and out of habit, my sleepy gaze goes immediately to the digital scale. I step on it almost every morning. You know, just to keep things in check. After all, my height and weight are printed on my résumé, kind of like a contract. When I show up for an audition, there are certain expectations. And I don’t want to disappoint.
Really, I can’t disappoint. I mean, body acceptance at any size might be a growing thing on social media, but it hasn’t exactly caught fire in Hollywood. Oh sure, there are the Aidy Bryants and the Gabourey Sidibes who’ve managed to break through. But make no mistake: they’re the exception, not the rule. Despite all the talk about diversity in casting, there’s still a definite size bias. So for someone like me, who’s just starting out? The pressure to be thin—and to stay thin—is real.
So I measure all my food portions. Track calories on a phone app. Go running at least four times a week. Drink lots of water. And keep regular tabs on my weight.
But all that said, there’s really no reason to weigh myself now. Yesterday’s number was right on target. And nothing I’ve eaten or drunk in the last twenty-four hours would have moved the needle significantly one way or the other.
Besides, I admit it, the number on the scale tends to affect my attitude. If I had a different career goal, I wouldn’t care. I really wouldn’t. But as an aspiring actor? It’s sad but true: when my weight goes down, my mood goes up—and vice versa. And today of all days, I really don’t want to risk anything bringing me down. I need to stay positive if I’m going to book this J.Lo movie.
Still, I keep eyeing the scale.
And finally, I can’t stop myself. I give in. I step on it.
I stare at my feet, waiting for the numbers to—
What?!
I squint down in disbelief. Am I still asleep, dreaming? Or more accurately, having a nightmare?
I must not be seeing correctly. Only, I’m farsighted, and the numbers are far enough away to be pretty darn clear, even without my contacts.
It must be a mistake.
So I step off the scale. Wait for the screen to reset to zero. Step back on, and…
Impossible!
Absolutely wide awake now, I step off again. Inhale deeply. Exhale slowly. Tell myself not to lose it.
Okay. One more time.
I pick up the scale and put it down in a different spot on the hexagon-tile floor. Place one foot on it, ever so carefully. Then the other. Hold my breath.
Aaand…
Same result.
Somehow, since yesterday morning, I have gained twenty-four pounds. Twenty. Four. Freaking. Pounds.
“ Nooo! ”
Barely a moment later, there’s a knock on the bathroom door.
“Carrie?” calls Liv’s voice, full of concern. “Are you okay in there?”
“No,” I say, still looking down in horror at the digital screen. The numbers are gone but definitely not forgotten.
Maybe the scale is broken , I think. Or needs new batteries. Or—
Just then, the door flings open, and my roomie comes charging in like some kind of a rescue brigade in Hello Kitty pajamas and fuzzy Uggs. But when she sees me, her petite, wiry figure stops cold. Behind the tortoiseshell frames of her glasses, her brown eyes widen. Her brown skin pales. Her mouth gapes open. Even her high, dark ponytail seems to reel back in surprise.
“Dios mio,” says Liv, her voice barely above a whisper.
Crap , I think. The scale isn’t broken.
“Can you retain twenty-four pounds of water?” I ask. I can hear the desperation in my tone. “And how can I get rid of it before my four o’clock audition?”
Instinctively, my hand goes to my stomach, only it doesn’t feel bloated. It feels… hard?
“Carrie,” says Liv, still gawping at me. “You’re… ripped .”
I crinkle my brow at her in confusion. “What?”
She raises her arm in slow motion, like one of the postapocalyptic zombies on the show she works on, and points at me. “M-muscles,” she stammers.
“ What? ” I repeat.
Only Liv seems to be out of words. She just gawks at me in silence.
Suddenly, my throat feels tight, and it’s hard to breathe. My heart is pounding. I look down, but without my contacts, I can’t really get a good view of myself. So I shove past Liv and head back into my bedroom. I pause at my nightstand and root around in the top drawer for my glasses. Then, putting them on, I make a beeline for the full-length mirror that stands in the corner.
I peer at my reflection, and okay, I recognize what I see from the neck up. Shoulder-length blond hair with sideswept bangs. Light blue eyes behind the lenses of my black cat’s-eye frames. Fair complexion. Nearly invisible lashes and brows. Slightly crooked nose and a downturned mouth.
Only from the neck down? All that looks even a little bit familiar are the white tank top and pink-striped boxer shorts that I wore to bed last night.
My chest is huge , straining against my tank, stretching the cotton to its absolute limit, except it’s not my barely A cups that have gotten bigger. It’s the muscles beneath them.
And it doesn’t stop there. My shoulders are at least twice the size they were last night. The arms that extend from them have the kind of chiseled definition that should have taken ages to sculpt in a gym. And the thighs poking out from the leg holes of my boxers? They’re rock hard and screaming with power.
No joke, it’s as if I stuck my head through the hole in one of those carnival cutouts, like my head is sitting on top of a painted caricature of a muscle-bound figure.
Slowly, I look down at the body that’s my body but… not . I stretch out one of my wildly buff arms, then bend it at the elbow, flexing. I watch—in shock or awe or I-don’t-even-know-what—as my newly developed biceps swells, bulging even more.
I feel a gentle touch on my back, startling me.
Liv. I didn’t hear her follow me into the bedroom or walk up beside me. My eyes find hers in the mirror, and I see my own fear and disbelief reflected back at me.
“Do you see what I see?” I ask.
“I see you,” she says, “but, like, supersized.”
I gulp. “What in the actual hell is going on here?” I ask. “How is this even possible?”
“Have you visited any experimental labs lately?” she asks.
“What?”
“Maybe you were exposed to radiation?” she suggests with a small shrug.
“ What? ”
“Well, I don’t know,” she says. “Did you check for spider bites?”
“Liv,” I say. “We’re in Santa Monica, not the Spider-Verse.”
Her dark brows shoot up over the frames of her glasses. “Are you sure?”
Honestly? I’m not. I’m not sure about anything right now, least of all how I could have gone to bed on the skinny side and woken up the next morning looking like a female bodybuilder, with over twenty additional pounds of muscle.
“Can you shoot webs out of your wrists?” asks Liv.
“Stop,” I say. “Of course not.”
“No, seriously,” says Liv. “Did you try?”
“Of course not.”
We’re both silent for a moment.
“Maybe you should try,” Liv says quietly.
I want to tell her that she’s being irrational, that the combination of her aspiring writer-director brain and her PA gig on the zombie show must have distorted her perspective on reality. Except in the reality I used to know, a person’s body couldn’t completely transform overnight. No matter what those online pop-up ads claimed.
So what have I got to lose? Tentatively, I extend the arm I was flexing. Then I give my wrist a flick.
Nothing.
To be perfectly frank, I’m not sure if I feel relief or disappointment. I mean, on the one hand, I guess we can safely cross “Spider-Girl” off the list. But on the other hand, what else is even on the freaking list?
“No,” says Liv. “You have to really try.” She lifts her gaze to the corner of my bedroom ceiling and gestures with her head. “Aim up there. And concentrate.”
I roll my eyes at her.
“Go on,” she urges me. “You’re an actor. Act. Act like you have superpowers.”
I see what she’s doing. I know Liv is just trying to stay grounded by grasping at bits and pieces of pop culture, desperately seeking an explanation for what we both know is inexplicable.
I’m about to protest, only it’s not as if I have any better ideas. Or any other ideas at all for that matter. Plus, I figure if I try to act like a superhero, it’ll at least keep me from acting like someone who’s on the verge of having a panic attack.
And I am. On the verge of having the mother of all panic attacks.
Obviously, I am freaking the freak out about this new comic-book-caliber build of mine that defies all known rules of the natural world. But it’s more than just that. A ton more.
On my frame, twenty-four pounds—even if it’s muscle—is a lot. Probably enough to make some of my slimmer-fitting clothes not fit me anymore. Definitely enough to make my go-to audition outfit of dark skinny jeans and a tailored white blouse not fit me anymore. And maybe even enough to make the role I’m hoping to land this afternoon not fit me any—
Nope. I can’t go there right now. I just can’t.
So instead, I stuff down my rising anxiety, and ridiculous as it is, I do what Liv suggests. I stretch my arm up toward the crown molding.
I close my eyes. Breathe. Focus.
I try to get my inner superhero on.
And strange as it sounds, I really do feel power flooding through my body. It’s the same kind of surge I thought I felt last night when I told Nick to get back to work—only multiplied by about a thousand.
I open my eyes, take aim, and—
“Fire!” screams Liv.
Because all of a sudden—and against all conceivable logic—that’s what’s launching out of me. Instead of casting spiderwebs, I am casting flames. In an arc. In the shape of a sword. Somehow, I am actually standing here brandishing a blade made entirely of… fire .
My roomie runs from the room, but I just stay where I am, unable to move, too stunned by the spectacle I’m seeing.
I can feel the nuclear heat. I mean, I’m holding it in my hand, for crying out loud! But somehow, I also seem to be immune to the blaze. I don’t get burned.
Holy crap! I think. I’m a human blowtorch.
Just then, the fire that’s emanating from me— me! —laps at the edge of one of the blue linen curtains, and I learn in a flash that, unlike me, the fabric is not immune. The drapes start to smolder.
The smoke alarm above the door goes off.
The earsplitting noise startles me, and that does it. Just as suddenly as the mysterious flaming sword appeared, it disappears.
Meanwhile, Liv returns with the fire extinguisher from our kitchen in tow. She points it at me. Before I can find my voice, she releases the pin and squirts, covering my right arm in a powdery white substance.
“No!” I shout at her above the blare of the smoke alarm. “Not me! The curtains! Get the curtains!”
Liv blinks at me. It takes a moment or two before it registers that I’m not on fire anymore, but the window treatment sure is. Then she nods, redirects her aim, and sprays again.
While she tackles that, I run over to the opposite corner of the room, where there’s a wooden chair. Quickly, I shove the laundry basket of dirty clothes off its woven seat and drag the chair over to the doorway. Then I climb up on top of it, stand on my tiptoes, and reach for the alarm. After fumbling with the device for a few seconds, I finally manage to turn the damn thing off.
Quiet settles over the bedroom.
My ears are still ringing, but at least I can hear myself think again. Too bad I don’t know what to think.
I look back over at my roommate. I’m a little surprised she hasn’t run for the Hollywood hills by now, but then, I guess I really shouldn’t be. Since I found Olivia Sanchez on an apartment share website when I first moved to Los Angeles a couple of years ago, she’s been there for me through one awkward breakup, too many tanked auditions, and the inevitable weekly BS with my family on Zoom. She may have started out as someone to split the rent with, but she’s become so much more. She’s become one of my best friends.
Still, what’s going on here is a lot, even for a bestie.
But despite her small stature, Liv can be a lot too.
Slowly, she lowers the fire extinguisher. She’s effectively put out the blaze, but the curtains are scorched, burned half away, and the wall by the window is singed. Irrefutable evidence that this really happened.
“So…uh…that really just happened?” I ask anyway, to make sure. My voice, like the rest of me, is shaking as I climb down off the chair and collapse into it.
My friend turns to me, wide-eyed, and nods. “Yeah,” she says. Her voice is wavering too. “That really just happened.”
“How did my life turn into some kind of a third-rate action-fantasy?” I ask.
“Nothing third-rate about it,” says Liv. “Your special effects are seriously top notch.”
“Except we’re not in a movie,” I say. “And there’s no green screen. How can this all be real?”
She scrunches her face up and thinks for a beat. “You’re a really good actor?” she suggests with a weak smile, trying, I think, to lighten the mood.
“Thanks, but nobody’s that good,” I say. “Meryl Streep’s not that good.”
“Demonic possession?” she tries.
“I really hope that’s a joke,” I say.
“Me too,” she says in a squeaky-high voice that betrays her own anxiety.
Then we both fall mute.
The power I felt surging through my body has ebbed. Now, I just feel tired. Drained. Burned out—literally, I guess you could say.
I slump down farther in the chair. I know I should probably be having a no-holds-barred emotional meltdown at this point, but I simply haven’t got the energy. I’m too wiped out to even bother brushing the white residue off my arm.
Maybe I’m in shock?
I played someone in shock once, when I got work as a background player on an episode of The Rookie . I spent a whole day of filming sitting in the back of an ambulance looking catatonic, wrapped in a blanket.
Maybe I should go and get a blanket?
“Why do you need a blanket?” asks Liv. “Are you cold?”
I realize I said that out loud. I shake my head. “Never mind,” I tell her.
I’m at a total loss. I don’t know what to do, and I can tell Liv doesn’t either. But we have to do something . Don’t we?
“Carrie,” says Liv. “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out.”
But will we? After all, this isn’t exactly the type of problem you can google, like how do I get rid of red wine stains? Or how do I know if it’s poison ivy?
How do I stop my suddenly buff bod from spontaneously combusting?
Do we phone a doctor? The fire department? Some real-life Ghostbusters?
Clearly, we need some kind of help.
“Okay,” I say decisively after a bit. “Okay.” I get up from the chair to go get my phone. “I think it’s time for us to make a 911 call.”