"I think you’re gonna have to hit me."
"Why? I can’t do that."
Doug sighed. "If I’ve ever done this before, it’s because I was just hit in the head by a bear. Plus tasered a bunch of times."
"We don’t have any Tasers," said Jay.
"Thank you for laying that out for me. In lieu of Tasers, you’ll have to hit me. Hard as you can. Then maybe some kind of fight-or-flight response will kick in and I’ll turn into a bat to get away from you."
"Fight or flight."
"Yes."
"Only half of that is flight."
Doug almost said, "Duh," but then he got Jay’s point.
"I promise I won’t attack you," he said.
"But what if you do?" asked Jay.
"I won’t."
"But what if you do?"
"Then…make the sign of the cross or something."
"You’re Jewish."
"I really, really don’t think I would attack you—"
"I can sort of make a Star of David with my fingers," said Jay. "Look."
"I’m starting to consider it, though," said Doug. "You know. Attacking you. I’m going to keep my options open."
"All right," said Jay, with his fists curled in front of his face like an old-timey pugilist. "I’m going to hit you."
Doug closed his eyes. "Do it."
"Are you ready?"
"Don’t wait until I’m ready. Just—"
Jay rushed toward Doug and threw a wild haymaker into his shoulder. Doug staggered and Jay fell into a spinach plant.
"Ow."
"Ow."
"Okay, don’t do the running start," said Doug. "Did you close your eyes? Don’t close your eyes. Stand right in front of me. Yeah. Okay, now—"
Punch.
"Ow! Jeez!"
Punch, punch.
"Okay, no, this isn’t—"
Punch-punch-punch-punch.
Jay’s blows were growing harder. It was entirely possible he was getting into it. Doug backed away, but Jay followed, punch-punch-punch-punch-punch.
"Ahh! Fuck! Stop it! Stop—"
Something happened. He felt something new, and heard Jay’s sharp gasp. He held his breath and tried to slide into it, but it was like trying to stay underwater while his fat body and airless lungs drove him to the surface.
"AHHHHHHHH!" Jay screamed.
"What?" Doug said, or tried to. His shrill voice squealed through sharp teeth like he was whistling for a cab.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Doug looked down at himself. His body was covered in coarse, curly hair. He’d shrunk a bit — his clothes sagged — but his fingers were twig thin and distended, the webbing between them stretched tight as a drum. He’d changed, all right, but only halfway.
"AHHH — guh," said Jay, then he doubled over and vomited into a row of parsley.
"Stop screaming," said Doug, as low as he could, but his voice still cracked into the ultrasonic. Dogs barked in the distance.
Jay sputtered and sat down in the dirt. "Change back. Please."
Doug tried. He hobbled around on stubby legs, cradling his head inside his gigantic fan-hands. But how did he change back? Not get punched? He was already not getting punched.
"I can’t believe this," he squealed. "The night before school starts. It’s like all the puberty I’ve been missing till now just hit me all at once. Like I’ve been saving it up."
"Except you’re shorter now."
"Except that. It’s like I’ve been whacked with the puberty bat."
"It’s like you sort of are the puberty bat."
"Can you maybe help me?" squeaked Doug. "Instead of making fun?"
"What can I do?"
"I don’t know. Don’t punch me. What’s the opposite of punching someone? Shaking his hand? Buying him dinner?"