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Lego trap

The Rebellion of the Ruffled Dresses

The fog was thick, but it wasn't impenetrable.

I sat in the corner of the playpen, my thumb hovering near my mouth, a reflex I hadn't possessed forty-eight hours ago. My brain felt like it was wrapped in layers of soft, pink wool, but beneath that wool, a spark of anger remained. It was a cold, sharp spark that refused to be extinguished by lavender-scented powder or sweet, drugged milk.

I looked at my hands. They were small, dimpled, and clumsy. But I knew they shouldn't be. I remembered holding a pencil. I remembered the weight of a soccer ball against my cleats. I remembered that I was ten years old.

"Emerson," I whispered, leaning over to where my friend was half-heartedly chewing on a plastic ring. "Emerson, look at me."

Emerson’s big, watery eyes drifted toward mine. She looked so much like a three-year-old that it made my stomach turn. Her yellow ducky pajamas were tight over her thick diaper, and her hair was tied in messy sprout-like pigtails.

"Hungry," she mumbled, her voice high and thin.

"No, you aren't hungry for mushy oatmeal," I said, my voice shaking with effort. I had to fight the urge to babble. I had to keep my words crisp, like a fifth-grader. "Think about pizza. Think about the spicy pepperoni from the place near your house. Think about the crust."

Emerson blinked. The vacant look in her eyes flickered. "Pizza? With... with the red sauce?"

"Yes! And remember the mall? We went to the arcade. You beat me at the racing game. You’re nine, Emerson. You’re a big kid. You aren't Miss Mary’s doll."

Emerson sat up a little straighter, the crinkle of her diaper loud in the quiet nursery. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "I... I remember the car. Dad was mad. He thought we broke the Legos."

"She broke them!" I hissed, feeling the fire of the memory burn through the mental fog. "She kicked them to trick him. She’s a liar, Emerson. We have to get out of here before we forget how to walk."

Just then, the door creaked open. We both froze, falling back into our "baby" personas by instinct. I slumped against the mesh, and Emerson went back to her chewing ring.

Miss Mary walked in, carrying a tray of snacks. She looked triumphant, her eyes scanning us like a collector checking her shelf. "Time for juice and crackers, my little angels! And then, I think it’s time for another round of 'nursery school' colors."

She set the tray down on a low table and walked over to the playpen. She reached in and scooped Emerson up first. "Oh, look at you, Emerson. You’re finally settling in. No more big-girl talk today, right?"

Emerson didn't answer. She kept her face neutral, though I saw her small hands clench into fists against Miss Mary’s shoulder.

When it was my turn, Miss Mary lifted me with a grunt. "You’re getting heavy, Emmaleena. Perhaps we’ll skip the extra crackers today. We want you to stay a dainty little four-year-old, don't we?"

She set us down in two low-to-the-ground plastic chairs. The table was filled with sippy cups of that sweet, cloudy juice. I knew what was in it. It was the stuff that made our memories go blurry.

"Drink up," Miss Mary commanded, her smile not reaching her eyes.

I picked up the cup. I looked at Emerson. She was holding hers, her lips pressed together. I gave her a tiny, microscopic shake of my head.

"I want... I want the red cup," I squeaked, pointing to a cup sitting on the far counter. It was a distraction, a classic move I’d seen Stella use a thousand times.

"Oh, don't be picky, darling," Miss Mary sighed. "The blue one is perfectly fine."

"Red cup!" I insisted, throwing a small, calculated tantrum. I kicked my legs, making the ruffles of my dress flutter. "Red cup now!"

Miss Mary rolled her eyes. "Fine, fine. If it will keep you quiet."

The moment she turned her back to reach for the other cup on the counter, I leaned over and grabbed Emerson’s sippy cup. I dumped the contents of both our cups into a large potted fern sitting on the floor next to our table. The liquid disappeared into the soil instantly.

By the time Miss Mary turned back around with a red cup, we were both sitting perfectly still, our empty blue cups held upside down to show we were finished.

"My goodness! You were thirsty," she said, looking surprised. She poured a bit of juice into the red cup and handed it to me. I pretended to drink, letting the liquid just sit in my mouth until she turned away again to tidy up the changing table. I spat it back into the cup.

"Now," Miss Mary said, clapping her hands. "Let's talk about the letter 'B'. 'B' is for...?"

"Baby," Emerson said, her voice flat.

"Yes! Good girl! And 'B' is for...?"

"Big," I said, staring her right in the eyes.

Miss Mary’s smile twitched. "No, dear. 'B' is for 'Ball.' Or 'Bottle.' Let's try again."

"B is for Breakout," I whispered under my breath.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of forced play. Miss Mary watched us like a hawk, but because we hadn't actually swallowed the juice, the fog started to lift. My thoughts became sharper. I noticed things I hadn't seen before—like the fact that the nursery door didn't just lock from the outside; it had a simple deadbolt that Miss Mary turned with a key she kept in her apron pocket.

I also noticed the window. It was high up, but there was a sturdy toy chest right beneath it. If I could get on top of the chest, I might be able to see the driveway.

When dinner time came, it was more mushy food and more attempts to make us babble. We played along, acting more tired and "babyish" than we actually felt. We let her change our diapers—an experience that still made me want to scream with humiliation—and we let her tuck us into our cribs.

"Sleep well, my precious little things," Miss Mary whispered, turning off the main light. She left the bear-shaped nightlight on, casting long, dancing shadows across the room.

The door clicked shut. The key turned in the lock.

I waited. I counted to a hundred, then two hundred. Beside me, I could hear Emerson’s breathing. It was steady, but I knew she wasn't asleep.

"Emerson," I hissed.

"I'm awake," she whispered back. "The juice... I feel better. I remember my locker combination. It’s 12-24-06."

"Good. Keep remembering. We’re getting out of here tonight."

"How? We're stuck in cages," Emerson said, rattling the bars of her crib.

"I'm four," I said, sitting up. "I'm taller than you. If I can get my leg over the top, I can slide down."

It was harder than it sounded. My new body was short and round, and the footie pajamas made my feet slippery. I struggled, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The diaper was bulky and kept getting caught on the wooden slats.

"Come on, Emmaleena," Emerson cheered softly. "You can do it."

With a final, desperate heave, I hooked my leg over the railing. I tumbled over the side, landing with a soft *thump* on the thick carpet. I stayed still for a moment, heart pounding, waiting to see if Miss Mary had heard.

Silence.

I scrambled to my feet. I felt wobbly, but the "baby" clumsiness was fading as my brain took full control of my muscles. I ran over to Emerson’s crib and fumbled with the latch. It was designed to be child-proof, but I was a ten-year-old in a four-year-old’s body. I knew how levers worked.

*Click.*

The side of the crib slid down. Emerson scrambled out, her ducky pajamas crinkling.

"The door is locked," she pointed out, gesturing to the heavy wood.

"I know. But the window isn't."

We pushed the heavy toy chest toward the wall. It took both of us, our small feet digging into the carpet, our faces turning red with the effort. Finally, it was in place. I climbed up first, then pulled Emerson up after me.

I pushed on the window. It resisted at first, stuck with years of paint, but then it gave way with a loud *creak*.

Cool night air rushed into the room, smelling of grass and freedom. I looked down. It was a long drop—at least ten feet. To a ten-year-old, it was a jump. To a four-year-old, it was a cliff.

"We can't jump," Emerson whispered, her eyes wide with fear. "We'll break our legs."

"The ivy," I said, pointing to the thick vines crawling up the side of the Victorian house. "It’s strong. We can climb down."

We climbed out onto the ledge. The night was dark, and the wind whipped my pigtails around my face. I grabbed a handful of the thick, woody ivy. It held.

"Follow me," I said.

Going down was terrifying. Every time the ivy shifted, I felt my heart drop into my throat. My small hands ached, and the ruffles of my dress kept getting tangled in the leaves. But we kept going. We had to.

When my feet finally hit the grass, I wanted to burst into tears of joy. Emerson landed beside me a second later, her yellow pajamas stained with green streaks.

"We did it!" she squeaked.

"Not yet. We need to find the machine. It’s in the Lego room."

We crept around the side of the house, staying in the shadows. The house loomed over us like a monster. We found the back door, and to our luck, Miss Mary had left it unlocked—probably because she thought her "babies" were safely tucked away upstairs.

The house was silent as we slipped inside. It smelled like cinnamon and old plastic. We made our way to the Lego room, our footsteps silent on the hardwood floors.

There it was. The "Youthful Horizon." It stood in the center of the room, its metallic arch shimmering in the moonlight. The lights were dim, but I could see the control panel on the side.

"How do we fix it?" Emerson asked, looking at the complex buttons.

"I don't know. I'm not an inventor." I looked at the broken Lego tower Miss Mary had kicked. A few bricks were still scattered near the base of the machine.

Suddenly, a light flickered on in the hallway.

"Who’s in there?" Miss Mary’s voice sharp and cold, echoed through the house.

"Hide!" I whispered.

We dove behind a giant bin of blue Legos just as Miss Mary stepped into the room. She was wearing a thick robe, her hair down in a long, gray braid. She held a flashlight, the beam sweeping across the room.

"I know you're in here," she hissed. "I heard the window. You’ve been very naughty girls. Very naughty indeed."

She walked toward the machine, the flashlight beam bouncing off the metal. "I suppose the juice wasn't strong enough. No matter. I’ll just have to turn the dial back even further. How does being six months old sound? No walking, no talking, just total dependence on me."

I looked at Emerson. She was trembling, her eyes filled with tears. But then, she looked at a large, heavy Lego Technic set sitting on the shelf next to us. It was a crane, half-built and solid.

She grabbed it.

"Hey, Miss Mary!" Emerson shouted, stepping out from behind the bin.

Miss Mary spun around, her flashlight catching Emerson in the face. "There you are! You little—"

Emerson threw the Lego crane with all the strength her three-year-old arms could muster. It didn't hit Miss Mary, but it smashed right into the control panel of the machine.

*Sparks flew.*

The machine began to groan and whirr. The lights on the archway turned from blue to a violent, pulsing red. A high-pitched whine filled the room, making my ears ache.

"No!" Miss Mary screamed, rushing toward the device. "My invention!"

"Emmaleena, now!" Emerson yelled.

We didn't know if it would work. We didn't know if the machine was broken or just resetting. But we ran. We ran right through the center of the archway as the red light reached a blinding crescendo.

The sensation was like being pulled through a straw. My skin tingled, my bones ached, and the world spun in a dizzying kaleidoscope of color. I felt my legs stretching, my clothes tearing as they became too small. The heavy weight of the diaper vanished, replaced by the familiar feel of my own skin.

I hit the floor hard.

I looked at my hands. They were long. My fingers were thin. I looked at my feet—I was wearing my sneakers again.

"Emerson?" I gasped, my voice deep and normal.

Beside me, a nine-year-old girl was pushing herself up from the floor. Her yellow pajamas had shredded into rags, revealing her jeans and t-shirt underneath.

"I'm big!" she shouted, jumping to her feet. "I'm me again!"

We looked at Miss Mary. She was backing away from the machine, which was now smoking and sparking. The red light had faded, leaving the room in shadows.

"You... you ruined it!" she shrieked, her face contorted with rage.

"We're leaving," I said, my voice steady. "And we're taking Stella."

"You can't leave! Your father won't be here for a month!"

"Watch us," Emerson said.

We ran out of the Lego room and up the stairs. We found the room where Stella was sleeping. She was still three, still small, and she looked up at us with wide eyes as we burst in.

"Emmy? 'Leena?" she whispered.

"Come on, Stella. We're going home," Emerson said, scooping her sister up.

We didn't look back. We ran out the front door and down the long gravel driveway. The night air felt amazing. We didn't stop until we reached the main road, where the streetlights provided a sense of safety.

"What do we do now?" Emerson asked, breathless.

"We find a phone. We call your dad. And we tell him everything."

As we walked down the road, Stella falling asleep on Emerson’s shoulder, I looked back at the Victorian house on the hill. The lights were still flickering in the Lego room.

I was ten years old. I had survived a month’s worth of diapers and nursery rhymes in a single day. And as I looked at my sneakers, I knew one thing for sure.

I was never, ever playing with Legos again.