The clock on the wall blinked quietly in the background — 10:40 PM. Outside, the streetlights flickered like tired eyelids, the town finally folding into its soft, dark sleep. The little living room still smelled faintly of popcorn, baby wipes, and the worn fabric of secondhand furniture.
Inside it, Jo Tanner — or rather, Sam inside Jo Tanner body twirled slowly in the middle of the room feeling aqued and well fall of giddiness with what a foll he is making Jo look..
The cotton nighty swished awkwardly around his bare legs. It was baby pink, dotted with faded little daisies, and far too small. The lacy collar sat awkwardly on his broad shoulders, and the hem barely covered Jo’s surprisingly long thighs. There was even a tiny bow just below the neck.
He did a slow spin, looking half like a confused ballerina and half like a cursed princess from a forgotten fairytale.
Click.
His mom grinned at him from behind the old phone camera. “Perfect. That one’s going on are secret revenge vault.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “you liking this more than me now?.”
“i cant help it, you look adorable,” she said through a giggle, wiping mascara from under her eyes.
Sam stuck out his tongue, smudged in gloss, and dropped into a sloppy curtsy. The cheap nighty clung to Jo’s frame in all the wrong ways. It was too tight across the chest, too loose at the waist, and looked absolutely ridiculous on a body that wasn’t meant for this kind of softness.
And it was glorious.
“I cannot believe you talked me into this,” he muttered, flopping onto the couch like a lanky doll.
His mom plopped down beside him, slinging an arm around his sparkly, daisy-clad shoulders. “I didn’t talk you into it. You asked me if I still had that pink one with the lace trim.”
Sam shrugged. “well it does make Jo look like a luny right?”
She ruffled his still-braided hair.
They sat there, side by side, glowing in the soft blue wash of the TV as some rerun comedy show from the early 2000s played — full of canned laughter and outdated jokes. It was dumb. It was comforting. It felt like nothing in the world was wrong.
Sam nestled into her side, his legs folded underneath him, makeup still heavy on his face and glitter dusting the pillow.
He could almost forget, in moments like these, that he was still trapped inside the body of his bully. That tomorrow morning, he’d wake up and see Jo Tanner in the mirror again. That his own hands — short-fingered, nervous, eager — were somewhere behind this smooth-tanned, confident, infuriating frame.
But right now?
Right now, he was just Sam, sitting with his mom, laughing at a stupid show and night he is having, feeling safe.
That was enough.
He yawned around 11:30, mouth wide and sleepy, and she kissed his temple.
“Alright,” she said softly. “Bedtime, daisy-boy.”
“Five more minutes.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“Time is fake when you’re dressed like a Jo princess.”
She laughed, pulling him gently to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed, Jo-sephina.”
Sam stuck out his glittery tongue again and trudged to his room — small, slightly crooked, full of books and loose socks and secondhand dreams. He didn’t bother taking the nighty off. It was soft, weirdly comfy, and it smelled faintly of detergent and safety.
He flopped into bed, makeup still smeared across his face like battle paint. His hair tickled his neck, and the elastic from one pigtail snapped loose as he hit the pillow.
His mom stood at the doorway, just watching for a second.
“You okay, baby?”
He looked up at her, Jo’s sleepy eyes blinking slow.
“I think so,” he said. “For now.”
She nodded, switching off the light. “You’ll be yourself again soon.”
“Hope so.”
“And if not…” She gave him a wink. “We’ll keep the nighties ready.”
Sam laughed, one last soft burst before the weight of sleep pulled him under.
The last thing he saw before his eyes closed was his own hand — Jo’s hand — resting on his chest, lightly dusted in glitter and clutching the fabric of a flowered pink nighty.
And for the first time since this all started…
He didn’t feel like crying.