You don’t want to have to try to explain your transformation into a satyr to your mother, at least not right now, so you quickly look around your room.
You end up in a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and ski hat. They don’t quite fit right over your altered body -- the hat, in particular, is oddly lumpy due to the horns underneath it -- but your plan is to distract your mother, and eat fast.
You carefully make your way down the stairs, still getting used to walking on goat hooves. You wince at the loud “tap” the hooves make with each step. They just barely emerge from the bottom of your sweatpants, and you’re hoping your mother won’t notice them while you’re sitting at the table.
Fortunately, your mother is facing away from the kitchen table as you slide into your accustomed spot. Your younger brother Nick is already seated; he looks sideways at you, but shrugs.
Your mother turns around with the entree in her hands, a bowl of spaghetti. “No hats at the dinner table,” she says, glaring at you as she puts the entree on the table. Nick excitedly starts dishing himself up a heaping helping of the pasta.
”But my head is cold,” you claim.
Not looking like she’s buying it, your mother leans over the table and puts her palm against your forehead, then your cheek. “Hmm, you don’t feel like you have a fever.” She withdraws her hand and says, “And did you forget to shave this morning?”
You put your hand to your chin and remember the goatee that grew in. Your mother, meanwhile, is lightly sniffing the hand she used to touch you, an odd expression on her face.
”Um...” says Nick, noticing her action.
She quickly drops the hand to her lap and says, “Okay, so hat off, mister.”
You say, “Just please let me keep the hat on.” Your plea comes out more forceful than you’d intended -- your voice suddenly has a deeper timbre.
Your mother’s expression softens, and she says, “Okay, fine, you can keep the hat on. Nick, would you say grace?”
You bow your head, very aware of the sensation of the horns protruding from your skull, and Nick says, “God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food. Amen.”
Nick is quite the chatterbox during dinner talking about his school day, which takes some pressure off you. While you eat, you notice your mother frequently glancing at you, although whenever she sees you looking at her, she quickly averts her gaze toward Nick or at her lap.
Once everyone’s plates and salad bowls are pretty much empty, you’re worrying about how to make a graceful exit without your mother paying any attention to you. However, she looks right at you as she stretches her arms. “I’m tired. I’m going upstairs to take a nap for a while.” You realize she doesn’t look tired, she looks a bit flushed, maybe slightly sweaty, as if she’d just been exercising. She continues, though: “You’re on dish duty.”
”Oh, Mom, it’s not my turn!” you protest.
She gets up from the table and says, “Do the dishes if you want your allowance.” She walks quickly toward and up the stairs.
”Ha ha,” says Nick, scraping the last of the tomato sauce off his plate with the edge of a fork.
You try to put that timbre in your voice again. “Nick, you do the dishes.”