Parker sits in the back of the limo in a daze, watching the clogged LA streets slowly roll by.

He should never have asked to be a rock star.

Should never of used that damn machine. Should never have opened the box or picked it up off the welcome mat.

How can he ever be happy in a life like this?

He'd be better off as a loser still sponging off his folks. Not to mention, his mom would still be alive.

She is alive. Parker forces himself to remember, this is only one possible universe. She's still alive in his universe.

Is he still in that universe too? Or is the Parker from this one now forced to live his old life? Has he doubled himself or replaced himself?

Thinking about this starts to give him a headache, so he stops.

He's already getting lots of help on the headache front from Janet's (his manager) incessant talking. It's like she thinks he's a stupid child and has to go over everything with him twenty times. But in her defense, he's barely listening to her.

"Don't forget we start with Unicorn Thunderstorm. Then, Seacrest does a quick interview with you about the new album and tour. Then, it's Glitter All Day, followed by an acoustic version of Too Pink for the Blues. We finish big with Teddy bear Hugs. Then, you just a quick outro thanking the audience, fans, yadda-yadda, and one last plug for the album and the tour tickets going on sale. Got it?"

Janet had been the person who approached him on the balcony when he first transferred over.

"I'm going to be sick," he had whined in that weird chirping voice of his, still gazing down over the railing.

"Fuck! Not today! What the hell did you eat?" she demanded, taking him by the arm.

He only answered by retching.

"Well, don't puke on people's heads. There's probably half-a-dozen paparazzi out here with telephoto lenses. The tabloids would just love that. 'Spoiled star spews lunch on innocent bystanders!'" She gripped him by the shoulders and marched him into the darkness of a hotel room. Hotel suite, actually. The damn things was palatial. The living room had two seating areas and a bar. There wasn't a bed insight. They must be behind one of the many regal doors. There had to be six crystal chandeliers in the place. And what kind of hotel room had a grand piano?

But what really shocked him were all the people.

At least, five young women were staring at him nervously. Some were dressed for the boardroom. Others were more casual in jeans and T-shirts or what looked like hospital scrubs.

Parker would later learn. They were his personal assistant, her assistant, a makeup artist, a women who did nails, and his personal masseuse.

But at the time, he passed them in a blur, and all he saw was their eyes staring at him as he was rushed to a brightly lit tiled room.

"Out! Out!" the woman shoving him called. And yet another woman (a hairdresser) bolted from the room to go huddle with the others.

He found himself in a bathroom that looked like it was designed to host royal dinners. The damn thing had to be bigger than the entire upstairs of his house in Deerfield and twenty times more elegant. But the important thing was it had a toilet. He slammed his knees down in front of it and heaved up the contents of his stomach, not sure if he was being sick from getting transported to an alternate reality or because he'd found out he was a girl in this universe.

The bossy woman held his hair back out of the sick. (His long bubble-gum pink hair.) The reminder made him heave up more bile into the bowl.

"Jesus! You have the worst timing. We can't cancel. You know we can't cancel?" She came across as scolding, but Parker also picked up fear in her tone. Terror even.

"I'll be okay," he mumbled with slimy drool hanging off his lips.

"Ugh!" She ripped a strand of toilet paper off the roll and handed it him. "You better be. You go on in six hours. And this isn't one of your concerts where you can deva-out and waltz onto the stage whenever you feel like it, this is live fucking television. And do you have any idea how hard it was to get CBS to agree to this. The logistics are insane! This is the big kickoff for the tour, if it's a debacle, we're all screwed."

"I just need a minute. Just give me a minute to..." He wasn't sure what. To be honest, he didn't know why he was trying to appease her, but it seemed like the best way to get a few minutes by himself. "I need some time to get myself together. Time alone."

She relented, "Ten minutes. Then we have to get that pink birds' nest of yours washed and styled." She dropped and flicked the mass of hair behind his right shoulder.

He nodded in agreement still kneeling shakily in front of the porcelain altar.

She left, shutting the door behind her. Instantly, the murmur of many concerned voices could be heard on the other side.

Parker hesitate for a minute, but when no more vomit came, he flushed and headed to the sink. He needed to rinse his mouth.

And see who the hell he was!

The mirror was in a baroque gold frame. He could barely see over the bottom of it. And come to think of it, the bossy woman had towered over him. Parker had walked with a weird stride too. A stride caused by short stubby legs.

Was he still a kid in this universe? How the hell would that have worked? Could a person be born in a different year and still be the same person? Wouldn't the egg and sperm be completely different?

But then, of course, he was far from the same person.

He peered at his face. It was a bit blotchy from being ill, but otherwise it was round and cute. It wasn't the face of a child but of a young woman. There was even a hint of dark circles under his eyes.

However, he could barely recognize himself in this face. The eye color and the shape of the brow line were about the only similarities. His nose was smaller and definitely something that would be described as cute. Perfectly cute—almost crafted to be so. His lips were drained of color but were plump and rosebud-shaped (he even had a resting pucker). A mass of matted pink hair hung off of his scalp. How on Earth could anyone have so much hair? Had he—she never cut it?

While he was examining his face, he noticed that his robe had come untied and was hanging loose.

Shit! What did he have beneath the robe?

Gently he plucked the lapels and opened it wide.

"Fuck me!" he whispered.

Two melons hung low on his chest, but not low enough to be natural. These had a silicone perk to them. He'd spent enough time watching porn to tell the difference. He wasn't sure of their size but the had to be bigger than a D-cup. E maybe. Oh God, they better not be Fs. The old him would have gotten hard staring down at this view. In fact, how many times had he got aroused imaging a very similar situation? To have big boobs of his own to feel-up whenever he wanted...? It was a standard male fantasy, he believed. But now, far from turning him on, they made him want to be sick again.

This was real. These monsters were attached to his body. 

The rest of his body was pretty trim and fit. Muscular even. His legs although short were toned and his plump thighs were solid. He tightened the muscles and saw them flex beneath the creamy skin. These were athlete's legs. No, dancer's legs.

And just in case he still held onto some hope that his manhood was intact—that this was some strange universe where he could look like a little girl but still somehow be a man—that hope was dashed by the sight of his very shaved pussy. He couldn't help himself and found his hand reaching down to it. The skin was soft and tender. So, perfectly smooth it must have been recently waxed. The pussy itself was shockingly sensitive. The brief touch made him want to explore this magical wonder more and discover all the pleasures it held.

But he yanked his hand away from it worried where such thoughts would lead. As he did so, his hand hit something in the robe's pocket. His phone!

"Okay, perfect," he whispered between barely moving lips. "I need answers fast. Let's see what the internet has to say about me."

It was an iPhone in a glittery pink case (of course!). He had trouble holding it with his ridiculously long nails (also, pink and glittery). He was about to enter his PIN when he realized hers was probably different, but in the moment of hesitation the phone opened through facial recognition.

To Parker's surprise there were hardly any apps. No email. No Twitter or Insta or SnapChat. Just things like the weather, something that gave daily aphorisms, a horoscope app, Disney+, a music player, and a photo album. And, thank goodness, a browser. He went straight to Wikipedia and searched for Parker Paradis.

Nothing.

How was there nothing? Oh, right! He almost smacked his forehead.

He tapped in "Pamala Paradis" and pulled up a lengthy article on "Pamala Paradiso." (Apparently, his stage name.)

The summary told him he was born in 1997 in Deerfield, Connecticut. Just as he had been. But then it went on to say that Pamala had her first double-platinum album at the age of seventeen and essentially defined the Loli-rock genre.

Loli-rock! What the fuck!

Panicked, he began scrolling down, skimming in search of pertinent details and not just hit songs, album sales, and concert attendance numbers.

There was a section on her wealth that estimated Pamala's net worth at upwards of eight-hundred million and that it was known she owned a penthouse in Manhattan, a 12,000 square-foot "cottage" in Aspen, a Villa on the Amalfi Coast in Italy, and a $40 million mansion in Connecticut with its own recording studio.

"Holy shit! At least, the Machine got the riches right!"

But then, he got to the section on early life and the ground fell out from under him. His mother died in a car accident when he was eight. After that his father had what was suspected to be (although never proven) a nervous breakdown, and he was sent to live with his aunt, Rebecca Johnson. 

Tears came to his eyes as he realized his mom was dead and buried seventeen years with the snap of his fingers. It wasn't fair! It was the one thing he didn't want to have happen with his wish. He only kept from falling into a dark hole of despair by forcing himself to remember she was still alive in another reality. Yet...

Parker forced his thoughts to another troubling although less upsetting detail: he'd been raised by Aunt Becky. That seemed really strange. In his old life, he only ever saw her at the occasional Thanksgiving. She was a total flake. She lived out in California with a bunch of arty roommates. She was a waitress or something like it, barely earning enough to keep herself fed. Mom had told him Becky always dreamed of being a singer and a dancer and hated his grandparents for never letting her take lessens.

"Oh shit! This makes sense, I think. I go live with her, and she lives out her dream vicariously through me. And I end up... what? Like this? Fuck!"

More scrolling.

Apparently, many people have speculated that he suffered from an illness that stunted his growth, but he'd never been diagnosed with anything, and it seemed that he was just on the very bottom end of what was considered to be the normal adult height range at 4'7".

"What the hell!" This time he nearly screamed out in his surprise.

The article went on: Although, the uncommon shortness has only helped the young icon, playing into the eternally young persona that skyrocketed her to fame. In recent years, she has leaned into this image and is rarely seen out of costumes that accentuating her diminutive stature as well as her now adult sexuality. This child/adult dichotomy has caused protests from religious groups and has even had her music banned in some counties in the Southern U.S. states. However, this has only continued to fuel her success.

He struggled to process what all this meant. But in a moment of sudden anger, he said to himself, "Fuck this! I'm going to what if myself into something better than this shit-show of a life." He charged out of the bathroom and back to the balcony, ignoring his entourage. But the black box was no where to be found. He'd been at the railing when he came over, had he dropped it? What about another one? It had come from Amazon, he could order a new one and get out of there. But nowhere on the internet could he find anything even remotely like the Miraculous What If Machine. He almost started to cry as he realized he was trapped as this strange, short woman for the rest of his life.

Since then, he has had plenty of idle time to do more research. Hours spent with the hairdresser and the makeup artist, and now in the limo. He scrolls through his phone trying to find more details. He's visited dozens of fan sites, which was a huge mistake. Apparently, he is extremely popular with girls between the ages of six and thirteen, their moms, and (incredibly disturbingly) middle-aged men. And those bastards post some truly disgusting things about him!

More helpful were the interviews and the videos of him performing. Helpful, but horrific!

How is he going to strut around on a stage in frilly dresses made up like some obscene living doll. Even if he can figure out the moves and memorize the lyrics, he'll die of utter embarrassment.

Even now, in the limo, he sits with bows in his hair, and a dress that looked like a wedding cake designed by a four-year-old girly-girl. Pink and white with petticoats, lace, fake flowers, and more bows. And despite the yards and yards of fabric that went into it, it still barely contains his breasts.

Janet starts snapping her fingers at him. "You're not falling into some kind of trance are you? God! Usually you're like a kid with a sugar high before one of these. You better not blow this. Blowing this would be a career ending event! Capisce?"

"I just don't think I can do it. I don't know the songs. Or the dance moves. It's going to be a disaster."

She takes his hand and pats it. "Now. Now. Don't let the nerves get to you. You've rehearsed this everyday for a month. You've got this. You could do it in your sleep. Hell, I think some days you did do it in your sleep. Your a star, girl. Remember that."

"Right."

"No. Not Right. Not fucking right! Say it with me: I'm a superstar!"

"I'm a superstar," Parker mumbled.

"Again!"

"I'm a superstar!"

"Good! Now: I've got this!"

"I've got this!"

"There's no cuter girl in the world and everyone loves me!"

Huh?

Janet watches him with coxing expression. He slowly and hesitantly repeats her words.

She screams at him, "Like you mean it!"

There's something weird about her yelling at him. It gives him an odd tingling in his tummy. And for some reason it helps him believe the words he's saying.

He repeats the line, and she screams at him again to mean it. Over and over, until he's shouting at the top of his mouse-like voice: "I'M THE CUTEST GIRL IN THE WORLD AND EVERYONE LOVES ME!" 

"Perfect," Janet says. "We're here."

The limousine pulls up in front of a red carpet. On the street and sidewalk dozens of people mob the vehicle. Lining the carpet countless photographers wait, flashbulbs sending lightning strikes into his eyes.

Janet leans over and pushes his door open. "Go get 'em!"