The Infinity Device

Fuck. I was actually -- totally -- inherently -- nineteen years old. I stopped to weigh that thought in my head. I noticed Professor Rogers staring at me curiously, a finger lightly circling his bulge.

I mean, in my original reality -- whatever the fuck "original reality" meant -- I was twenty-seven. That should've been normal then, right? But it didn't feel that way -- I felt a bizarre feeling of consternation -- it felt foreign. But then also relieved. Twenty-seven is like, pretty fucking old.

Hah, I thought to myself. So this is what it's like to be nineteen -- no respect for my elders. I felt like laughing, but I didn't. I gave him the finger instead.

He flipped off the projector, and it released me. I hadn't realized how confined I was by it, and I sank into a chair, panting, my head lolling back. He pulled out his clipboard again.

"How do you feel," he asked sympathetically.

"Um, really weird, you creepy fucking old bastard. My head hurts." I was exhausted. "I'm not really nineteen again, am I? Holy hell."

He smiled.

"Don't you understand? Of course you're not nineteen again. You were never nineteen before. Reality has changed, completely, irreversibly, one hundred percent. Welcome to the first time you're nineteen."

He pointed at my driver's license, which was still on the coffee table, and my heart froze again. There it was: Annika Draper, 125 lbs, born 1997. It should have said 1990.

"Everyone you know has only known you as you are," Rogers said smoothly. "And some you've never met -- your boyfriend, for instance -- Tom?"

Tom? I thought confused. Slowly it registered. God, I had never met him, had I? Was I really fucking nineteen years old? Of course you are, I thought back angrily. Rogers handed me a hand mirror, which I grudgingly accepted, and I examined myself.

I looked... good. I mean, I looked like I had always looked, like when I had looked before I went out this evening to the library. But... another part of me hadn't realized how much I had aged, from when it was twenty-seven. It had all happened so slowly! My face was smooth as a polished stone, lineless, and my hair was fuller. A baby face with splashes of total youth in it. Despite myself, I had a little flush of excitement. Maybe I could finally get matches on Tinder.

I mean, senior prom was just two years ago. My first and only date, a genuine guy named Karl ("I like movies"). Some awkward attempt at, well -- hugging or something.

Ah, to be young. None of my friends would believe I used to be 27, I thought wryly. Odd to snap a commemorative selfie of your un-birthday. I could hardly even imagining buying alcohol legally, even though I had... sort of... done it today.

And then came the realization of worry. What else was he going to do to me? Shit. My ears pricked as I heard him move to the machine.

"So, uh," I said, "messing up young girls for long?"

He smiled grimly. A little running snake of fear shivered through me. Was he going to turn me into some brainless bimbo? Some personal harem slave girl? Make me love it? Boy, was I willing to get in the back of the line and let someone else go first.

"Let's progress a little faster, Annika. I think we have some personality changes to go through before we finish."

I blanched.

"Oh, nothing like what you think," he said confidently, "perhaps you think I'm some eighteen-year-old philistine fantasist. Water balloons on stick figures. Oh no." He snapped on the projector and I felt myself tense, become malleable, his words like how clay must feel like, pressed by hands.

Jesus, maybe I'd turn out to be a fish after this one. Or maybe he'll make you gorgeous, a petty, jealous voice in the back of my head said treacherously. Jesus, settle down subconscious.

I tried to think. Like, was it weird or not to be nineteen again? I thought about it while Rogers adjusted some knobs. I looked at my hair. It was long again, it went past my shoulders, just like I had kept it since I had been fourteen. Like it normally was. I decided it was much weirder to have been twenty-six than nineteen, for sure. The realization made me almost laugh again. I was feeling a little hysterical.

The gold light got brighter, and the machine started shaking. Uh-oh. High fucking setting.

"You're a ballerina."

"I'm... I'm... a..." What the hell?

"You're a ballerina," he said, pronouncing it oddly sonorously.

"I'm... I'm..." the machine was clanking and I could feel my insides. They felt like they were on fire. Like abwork from hell.

"You're a ballerina," he said, adjusting a knob.

"I'm a -- a -- b-b-b-balll... err...," and I had these weird new memories -- of my lovely, sturdy mother, dressing a four-year-old me in ballet tights, prancing ludicrously in excitement -- or of eight year old me, at my first serious recital --

"Say it. You're a ballerina."

"I'm -- I'm a... a... b-babab-ballerina..." I said stutteringly, and I could feel my muscles slide over my body, my waist becoming increasingly svelte, my shoulder blades like they were wings. I'm a ballerina? I thought uselessly. I remembered practicing my pliés and depliés... the piano gracefully in the corner... hair pulled back and the teacher watching...

"You're a ballerina."

"I'm..." I hesitated, but the wave of this change couldn't be stopped. "I'm a ballerina." And I was. My ass was stacked. I taught at the local CoreBarre studio.

"Yes," he said. "And you're a sexy ballerina." The voice waved over me, and I felt disoriented.

"I'm a... a sexy ballerina?" I said. I was totally confused. It felt like my legs were getting a little longer -- or was I getting taller? -- but I couldn't be sure, everything was kind of blurry. What the fuck was a sexy ballerina?

"You're a sensuous ballerina," he said, and I had these weird flashes from ballet class. You weren't just dancing, I believed firmly: you were also showing. Showing yourself. And then practicing my arabesques in the hallway at school, the most graceful senior there, my skirt slowly pulling up as my leg extended, and everyone sneaking looks, the teachers, the parents... and then standing up gracefully and smiling with a ballet curtsy. God...

"I'm a sensuous... the fuck... sensuous ballerina..." I had images of me stretching on the street, bending over and touching my toes -- was my waist pulling in more? -- the boys looking uncomfortably on -- me at gym glass, so absolutely graceful that everyone else kind of stopped doing anything when the soccer ball was kicked my way because they had an excuse to watch me move, watch me....

"You're a sensuous ballerina..."

"I'm... a... sensuous ballerina..." I said, frustrated, biting my lip. These memories were burning across my mind. Was this me? I thought wildly. Yes, another part of me whispered -- this is you -- at the ballet recitals -- some dancers stressed grace or classicism, but you, dancing so sensuously, the primary word that comes to mind...

"You love the sensuous aspect of being a ballerina." This was getting a little weird. Was I sure I couldn't fight this? The machine shook. I had to try something.

"I love... I love being a ballerina," I said weakly. And I meant it. It was great.

"No," Rogers said, "you love the sensuous aspect of being a ballerina."

"Uug—" I said, trying to swallow my words, but I couldn't. "I love..." and these memories, dimly started flashing. Practicing my pliés and deplés, dancing pas de deux with the cute boys, most of them gay, their hands on my waist...

"You love the sensuous aspect of being a ballerina..."

"I love..." and all of a sudden the rest blurted out of me. "I love the sensuous aspect of being a ballerina!" God, I did. I did I did I really did. The costumes, the seductive poses, the confidence in tights, the grace and poise, the cleanliness. And then the associated world too -- of going to AP English, perfectly shaped and groomed, maneuvering into my desk with ballerina poise -- of going to the beach, back muscles rippling, a blue bikini and a loose skirt -- sticking my leg straight into the air and pointing my toes.

An odd memory came -- senior prom, a goofy, style-friendly nerd with nice hair. "I've never dated a ballerina before," he said nervously, "or, um, anyone at all, really..." and I smiled and shifted in front of him gracefully, back and forth, and his eyes slid down me, down my dress, and his hands reaching for my waist...

"Of course, you were always a little large chested for a ballerina."

"I was always...!"

"You were always a little large chested for a ballerina."

I could feel it. Something was happening in my chest. It was like a seed, or something rising in the oven, and with every breath, something terribly sensual was happening, like my breasts were tumescent, hot, emboldened.

"I was always a little large... chested..." I could feel my breasts begin to expand. They had come out early, much earlier than the other girls. "First in the state," I overheard my mother say to my father once with a look, and worst, they were always a little large for ballet. When I went through puberty, I remember staring at them in disappointment as they got bigger and bigger. They weren't massive or anything. But there went my ballet career, I had thought to myself glumly, cupping them in the mirror.

I shook my head to tried to clear my head.

"You were always a little large chested for a ballerina."

"I was always... always a little large chested for a ballerina." And wasn't that the truth, holy fucking hell. I could feel them, right now, sitting heavy on my chest, unsupported, unfamiliarly expansive. I had never felt anything like it. I frowned, because, of course I had felt it before. I had felt it for years.

I was even now thinking of how tough it made it to spin. It got worse and worse as I was older. Smushed against the guys on the carries. Having to use special costumes. Looking at my bust bittersweetly in the mirror.

I looked down. My shirt was draped funnily over my chest. I was a little confused by the image...

You have perfectly shaped tits."

"I have... " I said, and for a moment I blanked. I mean, that simply wasn't true. They were normal breasts, almost invisibly so, I mean, maybe a little weird looking, mostly the same size, but nothing off the bell curve, nothing, nothing that...

"You have perfectly shaped tits."

"I have.. I have... perfectly shaped... tits." And they were. I remember staring at them in the mirror in delight for hours, fondling them, hefting them, running my hands over them, posing with them. Everyone stared at them, something both delightful and awful -- teachers, boys, girls, leery men at every coffee shop, fathers as I got out of ballet practice and into my car. There was simply no way to hide them, their perfection. They looked fabulous from any angle in anything. My younger sister was jealous, you could tell -- in fact, pretty much everyone was jealous. I'm not sure I ever saw a nude that had tits that were categorically better than mine. Mine.

I had a funny memory from back at senior prom, my dress, and even I felt it was a bit much, black, with teasingly youthful sequins and a long cut that mostly hid my legs but popped my top out. I remembered looking at them in satisfaction that afternoon, not angry at their size but happy, and then my cute date, a misplaced jock with wide shoulders (a quickly set up date, my boyfriend having just broken up with me), and he stuttered as he picked me up, bamboozled by my chest. The satisfaction.

Rogers was rolling his hands slightly faster in his pants. He wasn't stroking. He was just applying pressure. Maybe he was about to get to the good part, I thought distantly. God only knew what that was. But it was hard to think straight. Everything was changing.

There was a brief pause.

"You're a communications major," he said finally. What the shit. No way was I going to let him to that to me.

"No, ... I'm not," I said as forcefully as I could. It sounded kind of weak to me, but the machine started stuttering. My heart lifted a little. Maybe I could resist.

Rogers just smiled wider and his hand went faster.

"You're a communications major."

"I'm... definitely not a communications major," I gasped out. This fucking machine.

"Oh, but you are. You're a sophomore communications major. You love it."

"I'm... I'm... I-I-I-I'm a s-s-sophomore....

"Communications major. And you love it."

"...cc-c-communications major... and I... I..." I remember talking it over with my advisor. I had some natural aptitude for science, but he had talked me out of it. He handed me a pamphlet for communications major, smiling patronizingly, mansplaining, saying I was probably more of a people person, his eyes straying towards my chest, and I was absolutely crushed. And the classes were so boring...

"You love being a communications major."

"G-g-god, no, I love..."

"You love being a communications major."

"I love being a communications major," I breathed. I remember talking it over with my parents. I had some natural aptitude for science, which they had pushed lightly, but I talked myself out of it. I had found a pamphlet in the career advising office, and the brochure said the major had appeal to lots of employers, especially people-oriented people, like me. People always seemed to like me, smile, treat me well. (Plus, it wasn't too much work, which was a good thing...)

Stop it Annika, I told myself. You're a physicist. You almost have your Ph.D. for god's sake.

Rogers was smiling broadly, and now his thing was out and he was stroking it calmly. Gross.

"You're a sophomore communications major, and you love it."

"I'm a... sophomore communications major... and I love it..." I said weakly. I was trying to fight it but I didn't really have the reactionary anger anymore. I mean, I had class tomorrow. A History of Organizational Structure, one of my favorites. Omyfuckingod. But it was... great? Like, all the people in it were my friends, and the professor so cool?

"We're almost done," he said, and I didn't respond. I couldn't respond. The machine was shaking loudly, clacking like drawer-y furniture in the back seat of a car, and it had just about drained me out. Plus, I was thinking about the group project that was due tomorrow. All these new memories. No, not new... He started stroking faster, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a weird gleam, and a small, moist drop of spit on his lips.

He must be at peak fantasy. This was insane.

"You're... pert," he said, drooling, stroking faster and faster.

"I'm... pert?" I said confused. I didn't even know what that meant.

"You're a perky girl."

"I'm a perk.... A perky girl." I tried to look through my memories. Nothing stood out. Perky? Like, chipper? Yeah, I guess... cheerful, always one to dance when the music was out... pouted intentionally sometimes in good humor. But doesn't everyone? (No! And you sure don't! a part of me said alarmed.) God. I clutched my head.

"You're a perky girl."

"I'm a p-p-erky girl." I had a memory float from prom, my date, an athlete in college, several years older than me, handsome and a little overwhelming, and I was bouncing up to him as he picked me up, and I flashed him a smile and gave him a quick hug, both arms over his shoulders, genuine and close, pressed against him. And then as we drove to the club, my hand was comfortably on his thigh, chatting the whole way. I drew him out to the dance floor, my dress showing off my legs and cleavage, a yellow dress, and I cocked my head at him, smiling.

"You're a perky, cute girl."

"I'm a perky... cute girl." I was. I had the picture from prom to prove it -- me mostly naked, posing in front of his camera with a brilliant, wet smile, cute as buttons and a zillion times sexier. Part of me wanted Rogers to continue. Part of me liked it. In any case, the rest of me was beyond caring.

"You're a perky, cute young girl."

"I'm a perky, cute... young girl." I moaned. And I was. It was as simple as that. All my life.

He shut off the machine, and I deflated like I had just had my brains pulled out. I fell over onto the couch, lithely spread out over it. I had a splitting headache. I think I passed out.