Me: Mom’s set to land at 1:30, I’ll email her from the catfish account about meeting at 4. See you soon

Siri: Keep a low profile, don’t get seen by Dad.

Jamie: Don’t worry, I’m sporting one of your many emo black sweatshirts feat. giant hood.

Zarar has texted me five separate times since I got home last night.

Zarar: Jamie, after all this, are you really going to leave without giving me your actual number?

Zarar: Good night! Good luck tomorrow. Let me know how it goes

Zarar: Good morning. Have a safe flight

Zarar: Did you get to Vegas?

Zarar: Jamie, I know you haven’t switched back yet, you walked me through your timetable yesterday. Good luck.

I tap out of the texts.

I am stealth incarnate as I wind my way through the jungle of whirring noises and coin chatter that is MGM’s casino floor. I keep my head down, my hand in my pocket, and my hood way up over my face as I drag Siri’s roller bag behind me.

It’s an enormous relief when the floor shifts from shitty color-speckled carpet to decadent white tile. I’ve reached the elevator bay. I stand straighter and throw back my hood. Peripheral vision reengaged.

Unfortunately, the nearest open elevator is already closing. It takes a second as I’m walking toward the call button for my eyes to register the old woman standing inside it. Her white hair is tied back in a neat bun and she’s wearing a blue-and-white ascot.

“Grams?!” I blurt. She meets my eyes for a millisecond as the last sliver of the elevator seals shut.

Shit. Shit. Shit. I still look like Siri.

I stab repeatedly at the call button, and before my brain can register the transition, I’m banging on the door to room 507. Siri throws it open. Her eyes bulge.

Oh, this is so weird. We gape at each other … at ourselves, for fifteen seconds, both of us waiting for something to happen—for some sort of glitter mess to strike.

Siri breaks first.

“Why are you still me?” She puts a hand to her heart. “I miss my long hair.”

She’s painted an orange star over her right eye using my colorful eye shadow palette and some glitter. And her hair …

I take a step back, giving her a once-over. “Are you me? Or are you Geralt from The Witcher after a makeover from Claire’s?”

Her brows furrow. “Who’s that?”

I sigh. “Never mind. Your gray-blond hair is intense. Are you gonna invite me in, or should I set up camp in the hall?”

I don’t like that we haven’t switched back. What the hell does this mean? Are we doomed? Because that would be the cherry on top of a specular long weekend.