Thelma leaned against the doorframe of James’s room, arms crossed, that familiar mischievous glint in her eyes.

“I’m telling you,” she said, “if we swapped bodies for even half a day, Mom would know instantly. You’d blow it within the first hour. You can’t sit still, you eat like a vacuum cleaner, and you have the subtlety of a foghorn.”

James looked up from his phone, smirking. “You’re on. What’s the bet?”

“Fifty bucks. And if I win, you do my chores for a week.”

“Deal. But when I win, you do mine.”

They shook on it. The swap happened that night with the old charm they’d found in the attic months ago-one that actually worked, though neither of them fully understood how. By morning, James woke up in Thelma’s body: lighter frame, longer hair pulled into a neat bun, the soft pink collared shirt and blue pinafore dress already laid out. Thelma, now in James’s broader frame and dark T-shirt, grinned at him from across the room.

“Breakfast. Act natural,” she whispered. “And don’t you dare touch my face with those big hands.”

The kitchen smelled of fresh fruit, coffee, and the low hum of the dishwasher. Morning light poured through the wide windows. Their mother moved around the island in her plaid shirt and patterned apron, setting out plates with easy efficiency. A teal stand mixer sat on the counter. Bowls of fruit, a loaf of bread, and a colorful salad waited on the wooden table.

James (in Thelma’s body) sat carefully on the left, hands folded in his lap the way he’d seen Thelma do a thousand times. He smiled when their mother looked over-too wide at first, then softer. Thelma (in James’s body) sat opposite, cradling a mug and taking slow, deliberate sips, trying not to slouch.

Their mother set a plate of sliced tomatoes and greens in the center, then reached over to adjust a wooden charger in front of James.

“You two are quiet this morning,” she said, smiling. “Everything all right?”

“Fine, Mom,” James answered in Thelma’s higher voice, keeping it light. He picked up a fork with careful fingers and took a small bite of salad, chewing slowly instead of the way he normally inhaled food. Across the table, Thelma nodded and made a show of enjoying her coffee.

For a while, it worked. Conversation stayed ordinary-weather, school, weekend plans. James kept his posture straight, crossed his ankles under the table, and resisted the urge to rest his elbows on the wood. He even laughed softly when their mother made a joke about the neighbor’s cat.

Then the phone rang.

Their mother answered, listened, and her face lit up. “Really? Half price? And you can take both of us?” She covered the mouthpiece and looked at the table. “Thelma, honey-Sharon had a wedding party cancel. She can fit me in this afternoon for a full set, and she said she has room for you too. What do you say?”

James froze mid-chew. In Thelma’s body, he felt the weight of every eye.

“I… sure,” he managed. “That sounds nice.”