"Why do I even have this thing?"
"Maybe if we give things some time?"
"I wish this stone was invisible and that nobody could ever find it!"
Another flash.
The teenagers were silent.
There wasn't anything in Jon's hand.
"Karyn?" Bethany's voice calling up the stairs drew Jon and Karyn out of their shocked state. "I'm heading home, sweetie, you want to come along?"
Karyn gave Jon a look. "Maybe if we give things some time," she whispered. "I'll see you tomorrow." Then she left.
Jon sat heavily on his bed and remained there in silence, staring at his wall as though it was a hundred yards away. How could those words have left his mouth? How could he have been so careless? There was a small voice in his head telling him he should apologize to Karyn for the ribbing he'd given her over her own mistake, but that voice was entirely overshadowed by the the wall of dread for his wish's effects on his mom.
Biff Meadows. Biff Meadows! How could his mom, loving, middle-aged, responsible person that she was, possibly become like that hulking slab of self-entitlement? How was that going to happen?
"Jon!" Now it was Linda's turn to call up the stairs. "Hey, come out to the back yard with me, I just got this urge to toss a football around."
It was starting.
Whatever happened, Jon decided he'd rather see it than hide. So he trundled down the stairs and out the sliding glass door to the back yard, where his mom was waiting, looking the same as always, barefoot in the grass, in tan slacks with a white button-down over a tank top. A total mom outfit, if you factored in the brown leather sandals that lay discarded on the concrete of the patio. At least those things hadn't changed yet.
And if Jon was being honest, after a few throws, this didn't feel so strange. It's not like moms aren't allowed to throw footballs. If this was all that happened, if his mom was just becoming a bit of a tomboy, Jon decided he could handle it.
But then, as his mom pulled an arm back for a throw, Jon saw a ripple. It was small, and it went quickly, but it was followed by a much bigger one. As Linda extended her arm forward, almost flowing with the motion itself, her arm itself grew. Defined biceps predicated a robust forearm, and by the time Linda let the ball loose, she had the arm of an athlete.
She didn't notice the change. But Jon did. So he was entirely caught off-guard when a perfect spiral, traveling a lot faster than it had been doing up to this point, nailed him right in the sternum.
Jon couldn't breathe.
His mom ran over, her asymmetric figure correcting itself as her left arm inflated to match the right as she moved. "Oh kiddo, I'm sorry. I thought you were ready."
Finally Jon inhaled. "I'm okay." It was a lie, but he didn't want to explain that his unease was more from the masculine arms around his shoulders than from the impact. "Just got the wind knocked out of me a little."
"Hey, look," Linda put a hand on each of Jon's shoulders, "let's run some catching drills, train you up a bit so that doesn't happen again."
Jon looked at his mom. It was still her face. It was still her emotions. She was just using words he'd never heard her use before.
They spent the next fifteen minutes running drills in the back yard, then Linda suggested they jog over to the park where there was more space. They spent another hour there, before coming back home.
