In the restroom, you head into one of the back stalls. The brusque attitude of the supply assistant rattled you, so you hurry and get the damn thing on. It seems a little tight as you struggle into the pants and button up the shirt, but you manage.
"I knew he was supposed to measure this thing," you say, ignoring the tingling sensation you're feeling. You step in front of the mirror to fix your hair back up and stuff, so you can look as presentable as possible in a uniform clearly not in your size.
You're running your fingers through your hair already when you actually look at yourself. The first thing you realize is that it isn't a an ROTC uniform at all.
"This is a damn Boy Scout uniform!" you exclaim, your voice reverberating against the bathroom tiles. Someone's playing a damn joke on you!
You storm out of the bathroom, in such a huff that you forget your clothes are laying in a pile in the bathroom stall. The fact that the uniform now fits is the furthest thing from your mind.
You march up to the supply assistant, busily handing out uniforms to other cadets, and jab him in the shoulder.
"Hey, what's the big idea??"
He turns to look at you, the big man staring down at you.
"What the hell do you want, kid?"
"What do you mean, what do I want? You gave me the wrong uniform!"
"Kid, you're confused," he says. "This is the ROTC uniform line, not your scout troop. You shouldn't even be here."
"I'm not a damn Scout. You just saw me five minutes ago!"
"Watch your mouth," he says. "I've never seen you in my life." The man turns away from you, clearly not willing to give you another moment's consideration. Grumbling, you head back to the bathroom, planning to retrieve your clothes then do something about all this.
You push the door open angrily, intending to turn the corner to get your clothes, but you stop when you catch your reflection in the mirror.
You don't see the 6 foot, well conditioned 17 year old high school Junior whose dark hair and stunning looks have drawn so many eyes over the year. Instead, you see a lanky, but short teenaged kid with mousey-blond hair and an unfamiliar face in a rather loose fitting uniform.
"What the hell??" you shout, your voice squeaking in a higher pitch. "No, no no no..." you mutter, as you rush the mirror and examine your face, rubbing across it with your hands, feeling only peach fuzz and a slight case of acne..
"I've gotta change back," you mutter in your pubescent voice, and you rush back to the bathroom stall.
You push open the door, and you do find a pile of clothes there, right where you left them. But it's not the same clothes you took off. They've somehow been replaced with a pair of jean shorts and a brightly colored two-tone tee shirt that you wouldn't be caught dead in.
You pull the wallet out of the pocket- the same pocket you usually put it in -and feel some relief when you see it's your wallet. But when you open it up, you realize it's nearly empty. A few bucks cash, a phone card, and no driver's license. Just your student ID.
Your student ID that now reads "Jared Michaels" and "8th grade", and sporting a photo of your new face.