When his dizziness subsided, Trevor looked down at himself in shock. Everything that identified him as a Goth was gone. In fact, from the look of things, he looked like an average guy. It disgusted him that he could be so indistinguishable, so normal, so average.
"Whoa," Biff uttered. "You look like one of my friends."
"One of your friends?" Trevor said, disgusted by the idea.
"Yeah, you look ... muscular."
Trevor looked back down at himself and saw that Biff was right. His arms were definitely bigger around than they were before, and when he felt his body through his T-shirt, he could feel the firmness of his muscles. He lifted up his shirt and saw for himself his pronounced pecs and six-pack. Ugh. He looked like a jock.
Then he remembered the note. The wish written on it must have actually come true, just like it had for Biff. And the last person Trevor made fun of was Biff. It only seemed fitting, since Biff made fun of him first. He must have become the type of person Biff was. Trevor felt revolted. Apparently, he was supposed to be a jock now. And not only that, but also part of the popular crowd. There must have been a way to reverse this. No way was he going to spend the rest of his life as a conformist meathead.
