Super Wishes and Leotard Dreams, Chapter 10

It was Friday, March 6^th and the Piper High School auditorium lights shown a spotlight on the kid who was playing Danny Zuko just as I caught Asher fidgeting three seats over—his fingers drumming against the armrests with enough force to crack the veneer if he weren’t careful. On the side of the stage, Crystal-as-Sandra Dee lingered for her entrance in the show Grease’s main finale.

The moment before Crystal’s transformation scene, the entire theater seemed to inhale simultaneously. Even Marianne—who’d never seen Grease—leaned forward unconsciously, her scarred knuckles whitening around the playbill. Then the stage lights shifted crimson, and Crystal sauntered onto the stage in those skin-tight black leggings, the leather jacket slung over one shoulder like she’d been born wearing it. The collective gasp from the audience was almost comical—half the football team in the front row audibly gulped.

Ben’s fingers tightened around mine as our daughter struck a pose, one stilettoed foot propped on a prop car. “She gets the strut from you,” he murmured, and I could hear the grin in his whisper even as my cheeks burned. Onstage, Crystal delivered her lines with a smoky confidence that made Larry cough into his program—somewhere between pride and paternal panic.

From the corner of my eye, I caught Alice discreetly nudged the drowsy Jun, the younger woman’s stoic expression twitching as Crystal flipped her hair over one shoulder. The transformation was uncanny—our sweet, wholesome Supergirl channeling some primal version of fifties rebellion that would’ve made Olivia Newton-John proud. I was proud.

Backstage smelled of sweat, hairspray, and the metallic tang of stage lights still cooling. Crystal stood with a dozen roses, her stage makeup making her eyes look impossibly brighter under the flickering fluorescents.

“Did you *see* the way Mr. Thompson dropped his clipboard when you hit that high C?” Asher crowed, slinging an arm around Crystal’s shoulders as she emerged from the dressing room. His laughter echoed off the cinderblock walls, mingling with the scent of hairspray and the distant hum of stage lights powering down.

Crystal’s cheeks flushed pink beneath her stage makeup as she adjusted the strap of her Sandy Dee costume. “I thought Principal Michaels was going to faint when you did the hip roll during ‘Hopelessly Devoted,’” Marianne added, carefully blotting Crystal’s forehead with a tissue to preserve the carefully applied blush.

Ben squeezed my hand as we watched a giddy Crystal twirl in a cloud of nylon and leather. “We’re so proud of you, little girl,” I said, catching her wrist mid-spin.

“Where do you want to celebrate?” Ben asked as Crystal emerged still buzzing with adrenaline. She didn’t hesitate—“Old Mill Ice Cream in Chesapeake”—before biting her lip in that way she did when trying not to look too eager.

Asher leaned against Crystal’s dressing room door, grinning as he tapped his fingers against the frame. “Bet you won’t wear what you have on now,” he goaded, as he pointed to the spandex and leather. Crystal’s head whipped around, honey-blonde curls bouncing—her stage makeup still exaggerated under the harsh bulbs.” I wear more revealing stuff in my “other job”. You’re on!”

Twenty minutes later we were outside the ice cream shop in the atrium. The sugar cone cracked between Crystal’s fingers as she leaned across the reclaimed oak table, her stage makeup still smudged at the edges. “No, listen—when Danny Zuko grabbed my waist during ‘You’re the One That I Want,’ I knew I was in my element.” She mimed the motion with her free hand, sending a ripple of smiles around the circle of mismatched chairs currently occupied by Marianne, Ben, Asher, Juliet, June, Larry, Alice, and I. The ice cream shop hummed with the chatter of late-night customers. It sat inside a building with exposed brick walls still bearing faint traces of the mill’s industrial past. We’d claimed the largest table near the Foosball table— chairs that scraped against the reclaimed wood floors.

The last drips of my milkshake slurped through my straw as conversation lulled. Alice—ever the diplomat—leaned forward, her elbows pressing into the sticky tabletop. “So,” she said, with that deliberate casualness only practiced liars and good friends perfect, “how’s it going with Zachary?”

Crystal’s eyes darting between Larry, Jun and Marianne with practiced nonchalance. “Zachary’s… unexpectedly sweet, a big teddy bear,” she said, dragging out the last word while twisting a lock of honey-blonde hair around her finger. “Like when he insisted on carrying the large picnic basket even though I totally could’ve—” She caught herself, biting her lip before amending, “Even though it wasn’t heavy or anything. I flew him to Yosemite. I mean he took me to Yosemite the other day.”

“Mini-golf. Yosemite mini-golf on the beachfront, right?” I corrected her with a secret look.

“Yes, mom,” she smiled like a cat that ate the canary. “The sunset from the top of the Half Dome cave, par 5, was so beautiful. Good thing he’s not afraid of heights.”

Crystal’s cone froze mid-air, her cheeks flushing pink as she blurted, “Honestly? Zachary’s such a gentleman—holds doors, treats me with respect, the whole deal.” She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, suddenly fascinated by the melting remnants of her mint chocolate chip. ”Make no mistake. I’m totally the one wearing the skirt in this relationship.” Of course, that didn’t surprise me-or the ones in on the joke at the table. All but three at the table snickered.

Larry’s fork hovered mid-bite as he glanced at Asher with grandfatherly mischief. “So,” he said, drawing out the syllable, “how’s my other favorite lovebirds handling all this… teenage love?” The table fell into expectant silence, sundae spoons pausing mid-scoop.

“Well,” he began, his voice carrying effortless poise of someone who’d practiced this speech in bathroom mirrors, “Monica and I are figuring it out. Day by day.” Asher cleared his throat, his free hand tracing nervous circles on the condensation-slicked milkshake. The lie detector in my superhearing caught the tremor in his pulse, but the dopey grin he had for Monica was 100% genuine.

The bell above Old Mill’s door jangled a final protest as we spilled onto the sidewalk, our laughter echoing through the empty parking lot. Ice cream had never tasted so much like conspiracy. Marianne’s taillights were already dissolving into the distance—she’d flashed me that knowing smile before slipping away, like she understood we needed a private moment as a family. Everyone got in their cars; Everyone, except my parents, didn’t need transportation.

I dropped my purse in my Porche. Then, I walked over to Larry’s vintage Cadillac feeling the vibrations of their conversation still lingering in the glass. I watched Jun adjust Larry’s scarf with that tender precision only decades of partnership could perfect—just before my telepathic suggestion curled through their synapses like smoke. Their heads lolled in unison against the leather seats, Jun’s hat tipping gently into Larry’s lap. I threw four gym bags into the backseat of their car.

Up ahead, Asher’s laughter crackled through my superhearing as he raced Crystal through cumulus clouds, their civilian clothes flapping wildly. Ben flew in perfect formation with Alice, his arms crossed like some amused drill sergeant as she struggled to keep her skirt from billowing up. They continued on to our rendezvous point. I exhaled through my nose—tonight’s theatrics would require more finesse than my children possessed.

The Cadillac’s suspension groaned as my fingers dug into the chassis, the metal yielding like warm butter beneath my Kryptonian strength. Larry’s head lolled against the window with a soft *thunk*, his snores syncing perfectly with Jun’s rhythmic breathing from the passenger seat—both oblivious to the fact we were now hovering 2,000 feet above the James River. I caught Ben’s smirk as he flew inverted above us in a way that would’ve given Larry heart palpitations if he’d been conscious to see it.

The Cadillac settled onto the damp earth with the delicacy of a falling leaf, its tires sinking slightly into the loam where the cemetery’s manicured grass gave way to wild undergrowth. The tombstone rows stretched like crooked teeth in the moonlight—no streetlights, no ambient glow from the city, just the infinite black of rural Virginia at midnight. Perfect.

Ben landed beside me with that silent *whoosh* of displaced air only Kryptonians could master, his loafers barely disturbing a single blade of grass. “The grave?” he murmured, though we both knew exactly where to go. Our enhanced memories mapped every inch of this place since childhood visits—the oak with the lightning scar a row east, the weathered angel statue with chipped wings near the old Jenkins Richmond plot. Just 15 feet away.

The fire bloomed between Crystal’s cupped hands like a captive sunrise, her heat vision igniting the kindling with surgical precision—not a single ember escaped the neat pyramid of sticks Asher had stacked. The flames cast dancing shadows across the weathered headstones, illuminating the carved “Kelly Jenkins” surname on the nearest marker in flickering gold. Somewhere beyond the firelight, an owl hooted as if questioning our midnight gathering. I took the four gym bags out of the back seat of the Cadillac and set them by the campfire and my Mom’s grave.

The leather seats creaked as Larry stirred first, his salt-and-pepper eyebrows knitting together in the moonlight. I brushed my fingertips along his temple—just enough telepathic pressure to smooth the transition from unconsciousness. “Easy now,” I murmured, threading calm through his synapses like warm honey. His eyelids fluttered open, pupils dilating to take in the cemetery, the campfire. A slow blink. Then another.

Jun stirred next, his sharp inhale cutting through the night air as his fingers dug into the Cadillac’s leather seats. I pressed a mental image of safety into his thoughts—warm honey dripping over panicked synapses—until his breathing steadied. “You’re home,” I murmured, though the cemetery mausoleums loomed behind us like sentinels. Their bleary confusion tasted metallic in my mouth, the psychic equivalent of catching falling china before it shatters.

Larry’s boots hit the damp earth with a soft *thud*, his fingers still gripping the Cadillac’s doorframe as if the ground might give way beneath him. Jun followed, his trousers rustling absurdly against the cemetery’s hush. Even through the telepathic calm I’d woven into their synapses, their confusion radiated in the flickering firelight. Larry’s boots scuffed against a patch of gravel as he staggered forward, his silhouette wavering in the firelight and grave. Jun moved like a shadow beside him, his military posture intact despite the disorientation tightening his jaw. The flames cast elongated versions of them against the mausoleum walls—stretching their confusion into something theatrical.

Larry’s fingers twitched toward the flask in his back pocket—his reflexive gesture when reality stopped making sense. “How did we—?” Jun’s military-sharp gaze darted from the Cadillac sitting nowhere near asphalt to a campfire in a pitch black Cemetery. All In all, I think they’re taking this quite well.

Ben’s fingers brushed mine as he, Crystal, Asher, and I reached for the gym bags simultaneously; Alice grab for a right index finger. The firelight caught the silver zipper teeth as we unsealed them with dramatic slowness. “We’ve got something to show you,” I said, watching Larry’s eyebrow hitch upward in that skeptical arch I’d inherited. Jun’s military-sharp gaze flicked between us like he was assessing a battlefield. “Work with us here. Try not to freak out,” Ben added, his baritone laced with the same barely-contained amusement I felt vibrating through our clasped hands.

The air shimmered like heat distortion over asphalt as our civilian clothes seemed to the naked eye to dissolve at superspeed —Asher’s letterman jacket blurring into the black leather of his Superboy ensemble, Crystal’s tank top seemed to melt into sapphire spandex mid-twirl. Ben’s pink shirt appeared to evaporate atom by atom, revealing the cerulean weave of his Kryptonian armor beneath, the S-curl catching firelight like a predator’s grin. My own transformation sent pins-and-needles cascading down my spine as the silk cape fit along my shoulders with the weight of a lover’s embrace. Alice’s metamorphosis into Alura unfolded differently—her freckled hand twisting the golden band clockwise with deliberate precision. The ring’s alien metal flared sun-bright, its radiance consuming her in a chrysalis of golden plasma that reshaped her silhouette: hips flaring, shoulders squaring, that riotous red hair unfurling down her back like living flame.

Jun’s military knife clattered to the grass as his fingers went slack, his gaze locked on my cape fluttering in the cemetery breeze. Larry’s ever-present money clip slipped from his fingers near Kelly Jenkins’ headstone—the grave we’d deliberately gathered around. Their synchronized gasp was almost comical, two men who’d raised us in foster care now staring like teenagers seeing a UFO. When the Voice’s magic faded they realized their children, grandchildren, and their housekeeper were the Kryptonians they saw on TV.

Larry recovered first, snorting as he nudged Jun’s ribs with his elbow—his usual tell when avoiding sentimentality. “Figures you’d turn out to be superpowered,” he rasped, bending to retrieve his money clip from the dew-damp grass. But his fingers trembled around the worn leather, betraying him. “Christ, Jennifer. Those boots alone could fund my retirement.”

Jun remained statue-still, his tactical mind visibly reassessing every sparring session we’d ever had. His gaze flickered across our capes, our belts, the way Superman’s ’s shadow stretched unnaturally long in the firelight. Then he did something extraordinary—he smiled. Not his usual tight-lipped acknowledgment, but a full, unguarded grin that crinkled his eyes. “I like your S symbol,” he murmured, reaching out to trace the S on my chest. His calloused fingertips hesitated millimeters from the fabric. “I think it brings hope.” His husband nodded in agreement.

The firelight caught the moisture in Jun’s eyes as his fingers hovered near my crest, the yellow ‘S’ shimmering like liquid gold. I reached out and clasped his wrist—gently, so gently—feeling the rabbit-quick pulse beneath his weathered skin. “She would’ve loved this,” I murmured, nodding toward Kelly’s headstone. “Her foster kids turned out to be literal superheroes. Though God knows she’d have scolded us for the leather boots.” The firelight danced shadows across Kelly’s weathered headstone as I stepped forward, my stiletto boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. “We brought you here for two reasons,” I said, my voice carrying just enough superhuman resonance to make the cemetery’s crickets fall silent. “First, to pay our respects to mom. Second, she would have wanted to have seen what we’re about to propose to you.”

The silence stretched between us, thick as the Virginia humidity, until Ben finally broke it with his gruff, newly-deepened voice. “We’re at odds with an administration that thinks truth is negotiable,” he said, his cape shifting like liquid in the firelight as he stepped forward. The S on his chest seemed to glow brighter when he spoke like this—less Ben Jenkins, more Superman. “And we could use two moral, be it somewhat old, characters who know how to fight dirty without losing their souls.”

The cemetery’s shadows deepened as Supergirl floated forward, her cape whispering against the damp grass. She added, “That would require you to have powers and perhaps young again.” Jun’s fingers twitched against my grip, his old martial arts reflexes making him glance sideways at Larry before answering. “Powers?” His voice cracked—not from age, but from something deeper.

Jun’s fingers tightened around mine and it look like our parents were in silent agreement as they make eye contact. Larry said, “Ye-“. Just then, Superboy cleared his throat—that nervous, pre-lecture sound he’d made since childhood. “Before you say yes,” he blurted, his jacket fluttering with restless energy, “there’s a… biological quirk.” His cheeks flushed red under the firelight. “The rings might—probably will—turn you into women.”

Larry’s wheezy laugh cut through the cemetery silence like a chainsaw through silk. “Dear,” he said, slapping Jun’S shoulder hard enough to make his knees buckle, “after fourteen years of marriage, I think we’ve earned the right to try out some new, young, equipment.” The firelight caught the wicked glint in his eyes as he turned to me, grinning. “Besides, your mother always said I’d make a hell of a lesbian.”

Jun rolled his eyes so hard I heard his retinas click. But then—impossibly—the stoic old soldier smirked. “We’ve shared foxholes in Vietnam,” he murmured, rubbing his wedding band with his thumb. “Watched over your two “disasters.”” His gaze flicked to Larry, softening. “What’s sharing a gender between soul partners?”

Superman’s cape fluttered as he knelt by the gym bag, the firelight catching the molten gold stitching along its hem. The zipper hissed open under his fingers, revealing a velvet-lined box that seemed too small to contain such impossible choices. When glittered under the firelight as Superman lifted the lid—four rings nestled in midnight fabric, each inscribed with initials that pulsed faintly in the dark: KL, KL, KS, CE.

Supergirl said, “We think the KS is for Karen Starr or Powergirl; CE is for Cir-el. The KLs are probably multi-universe variants of Kara Zor-El or . . . Me!”

Larry’s calloused fingers hovered above the velvet-lined box, the firelight catching the faint Kryptonian script etched into each ring. “You are speaking greek to me… KL, huh?” He snorted, nudging Jun with his elbow telling him to look at the rings. “Guess we’re trading in our AARP cards for capes, old man. You up for KLs, Jun?”

Jun’s fingers—still rough from decades of plain, hard work—traced the engraved “KL” on the first ring with unexpected reverence and nodded. “Well crap,” Larry breathed, nudging Jun’s shoulder with his own. “Let’s do this!”

As my parents grabbed the KL rings, I instructed them, “Put them on your right index finger and then turn them clockwise.”

Jun hesitated first—his hands shaking in a way I’d never seen before, not even when he’d pulled me from that James river thirty-six years ago. The ring slipped halfway onto his finger before catching on his arthritis-swollen knuckle before settling in. Larry didn’t wait. He jammed his ring on with a bark of laughter that echoed off the tombstones, then immediately twisted it clockwise with the same casual confidence he’d used to open beer bottles during my childhood.

Jun’s ring clicked first. The transformation hit him like a lightning strike to the sternum as he morphed. His spine snapped straight with an audible *crack*, his clothes splitting at the seams as shoulders broadened beneath the fabric. Larry’s shocked gasp turned into a wet choke as Jun’s ink-brown short cut erupted into larger brown strands that whipped against suddenly sculpted cheekbones.

Larry barely had time to blink before his own body rebelled—his beer belly retreating inward as though vacuum-sealed, his shirt shredding to reveal pectorals that could’ve been carved from granite. His graying stubble dissolved into smooth skin as his jawline sharpened, a cascade of brown hair spilling past shoulders that now carried the bearing of a warrior queen.

Jun’s transformation accelerated—his once-sloped shoulders now forming perfect right angles . His ribcage expanded outward with a series of sickening pops, the bones reshaping themselves beneath skin that rippled like liquid mercury before solidifying into flawless alabaster. His trousers dissolved into blue nanofibers that swirled up his lengthening legs, forming form-fitting spandex that clung to thunderous thighs now corded with muscle. The KL ring pulsed once, a sculpted breastplate that lifted and separated his suddenly enormous breasts with architectural precision.

Larry’s metamorphosis was less graceful—his body convulsed as his hips dislocated sideways with a wet crunch, his pelvis restructuring itself into an impossible hourglass curve. His waist cinched inward as though gripped by invisible corset strings while his ass inflated like twin mylar balloons, straining against the remains of his pants. His facial features melted and reformed—cheekbones rising like continental shelves, lips plumping to obscene proportions as his nose refined into a delicate button. When the pantyhose finally finished weaving itself up his tree-trunk legs, the material strained dangerously across a pelvis that could’ve served as a shelf for champagne glasses.

“Christ on a cracker,” Larry wheezed, his newly feminine voice three octaves higher than before. He clutched his chest—now adorned with the House of El crest—as his testicles retracted upward with a sensation he later described as “getting kicked in the nuts by a ghost.” His blond mane unfurled down his back like brown tinsel, each strand impossibly glossy under the moonlight.

Jun touched her own face with trembling fingers, tracing the unfamiliar contours of cheekbones sharp enough to slice paper. Her once-cropped military haircut now a chestnut bob, swaying with unnatural buoyancy. When she experimentally flexed her biceps, the resulting muscle bulge nearly tore the sleeve seams of her Kryptonian battle suit.

Jun’s transformation settled with an almost liquid grace, the nanofibers of her battle suit weaving themselves into an ensemble that would’ve made Sasha Calle’s Supergirl blush. The deep navy fabric clung to every new curve like a second skin, the material shimmering with an otherworldly sheen under the cemetery’s firelight. A high neckline traced the sharp angles of her red spandex-clad collarbones. The Lycra covered legs exposed mile-long thighs corded with unfamiliar muscle, while the Superman emblem over her breast still managed to look devastatingly feminine. Her cape—blood-red and weighted at the corners—snapped in the wind like a living thing.

Larry, meanwhile, looked like he’d stepped off the cover of Supergirl #52. The blue, long-sleeve leotard and its Superman crest warped under the impossible swell of his new breasts. Gold piping and red spandex traced the contours of his hourglass waist before flaring out over hips that could’ve balanced a dinner service. The suntan pantyhose rode high on his thighs and into her highcut leotard—while high-cut, latex, stiletto, three-inch red boots with an unusual open-knee design forced him into an unsteady, hip-swaying stance.

The cemetery air crackled with residual energy as Jun and Larry stood swaying in their unfamiliar bodies. Jun’s first step sent her crashing into a headstone, her new muscular thighs betraying her with unexpected power. Larry caught her elbow with reflexes she shouldn’t possess, then immediately winced at the high-pitched giggle that escaped her own lips.

“Christ on a cracker,” Larry wheezed, clutching her suddenly massive chest with both hands. “These things weigh more than our old Honda.” The moonlight caught the sweat on her clavicle as she experimentally bounced—once—then groaned when the motion sent ecstasy radiating through her reinforced spine.

Supergirl floated forward, biting her lip to contain laughter. “Welcome to the sisterhood.” Her cape whispered against weathered granite as she demonstrated proper superhero posture.

Jun flexed her fingers, watching tendons shift beneath alabaster skin. “My arthritis…” She inhaled sharply when the sentence emerged in a voice like melted caramel. Flexing her knees, she sprang twenty feet straight up, landing with catlike precision beside Superman. “Gone.”

“What do we call you guys?” Supergirl looked at the honestly still stunned at her grandparents ‘appearances and continued, “my name is already taken and you can’t have two Kara Zor-Els.”

“Wha . . . What? Larry said distracted still admiring her new luscious form. Then understood her granddaughter’s question.

Larry twirled on one stiletto heel, the motion sending her cape flaring dramatically across the nearest headstone. “Darling, let’s be honest—you were *born* to be this chick Kara Zor-El,” she said, reaching out to adjust Jun’s cape with exaggerated precision. Her fingers lingered on the yellow and red crest, tracing the emblem with a performer’s flair. “Those cheekbones? That moral compass? You’re basically resemble the name.”

“Okay, babe. If you insist. I’ll take it. “ The new Kara Zor-El said to her now wife.

Larry stretched, arching her back in a way that made the blue spandex of her costume pull taut across her newly sculpted chest. “Sweet baby Jesus,” she groaned, running manicured hands down her own hourglass waist before giving her hips an experimental shake. The movement sent her red cape fluttering dramatically behind her. “I feel like one of those damn anime girls Asher drools over—all bounce and no brakes. A bunch of babes.” She smirked, catching Jun’s exasperated eye-roll. “Superbabe. Yeah, that’s me now. Superbabe.” The name dripped off her tongue with theatrical relish, accompanied by a wink so exaggerated it bordered on parody.

We all laughed and conceded that “Superbabe” did sound pretty cool—especially when Larry struck a pose, one hand on his hip, the other thrusting dramatically toward the moonlit sky. The crest on his chest caught the glow of the campfire, casting shimmering reflections across the weathered headstones.

The campfire’s glow painted shifting patterns across Larry’s—no, *Superbabe’s*—newly sculpted face as he examined his nails with exaggerated fascination. “These are gonna take some getting used to,” he muttered, flexing fingers that now tapered into delicate points. Jun—Kara now—reached over and smacked his wrist lightly, her own movements still carrying traces of Jun’s careful precision despite the Kryptonian grace settling into her bones.

Superboy’s communicator buzzed sharply against his belt. He fumbled the device—still adjusting to Superboy’s enhanced reflexes—before catching it mid-air. Lara’s voice crackled through, warm but irritated. “You’re late, hotshot for your shift. I have homework to do.” Even through the static, I could hear the smile in her words. Superboy’s cheeks flushed scarlet, his eyes darting to the moon’s position like it might excuse his tardiness.

Superboy’s cape flickered like a crimson comet trail as he shot skyward, leaving a sonic boom that rattled the cemetery’s rusty gate. Jun—no, *Kara*—flinched at the sound, still unaccustomed to super-hearing. “Shifts?” The cemetery dust settled in Superboy’s wake as I tapped my chin, mentally rearranging our patrol rotations. “Eight superheroes,” I mused aloud, watching Superbabe attempt a pirouette that nearly launched her into the weeping angel statue. “Which means three-hour shifts.”

Superman hovered slightly off the ground, his cape billowing in the cemetery’s chilly night air like liquid ruby. “You two should come see the house,” he said, grinning at Superbabe and Kara. “We’ve got something special in the basement—a Fortress of Solitude.”

“A wha-?” Superbabe looked confused in a ditzy sort of way.

“You’ll see, Grandma,” Supergirl smirked.

We decided to part ways. I asked my parents, “Do you need help getting the Cadillac back home?”

Superbabe answered, “No, hun. This will be a good opportunity to learn our powers and get some weight lifting in.”

Kara stretched her arms experimentally, the moonlight catching on the raised S-shield of her Kryptonian battle suit. “We’ll fly it back,” she said, rolling her shoulders with a confidence that hadn’t been there fifteen minutes ago. The Cadillac’s keys dangled from her finger—an ordinary object looking absurdly fragile in her grip now.

The Cadillac lurched violently upward like a startled deer, wheels spinning uselessly as Kara fumbled her grip—clutching the undercarriage with white-knuckled intensity while Superbabe wobbled next to her stiletto boots kicking up in the air. “Left hand under the axle!” Superbabe quipped, her new contralto voice cracking with panic as the car listed sideways, nearly decapitating a marble cherub. She stabilized at the last second, the Cadillac now hovering at a precarious 45-degree angle, its suspension groaning under Kryptonian strength Kara did not remember to moderate.

They careened through the night sky like drunken bumblebees, the Cadillac wobbling at unnatural angles between them—Superbabe’s stiletto boots kicking wildly as Kara overcorrected with panicked bursts of speed. The car’s suspension groaned under their unmoderated grip, its headlights painting erratic arcs across the treetops. “Turn your rings *left* to revert after landing!” I called after them, knowing their superhearing would catch it even as they disappeared into the horizon. Superbabe’s thumbs-up was comically exaggerated before she promptly smacked Kara’s backside mid-flight, earning an indignant yelp that dissolved into laughter as they clipped a cloud.

The next fourteen days passed in a blur of superpowered synchronicity—patrol rotations timed down to the millisecond, impromptu meetings in the Fortress of Solitude, and the occasional bouts of too much information when Superbabe talks about her sexual escapades with her wife. (That dirty old man.. woman!). The kids adapted fastest—Asher and Crystal slipping between high school and superhero duties like they’d been doing it for years, while Lara now—developed an endearing habit of floating six inches off the ground whenever she got distracted. Which was often. And Superman and I started planning for the eventual clash with the current administration or authoritarian government, whichever way you look at it. There will eventually be words with this current president.

The RecSec’s ambient lighting pulsed softly to the rhythm of an old jazz record Superman had dug out—something about Virginia Beach roots that made his fingers twitch against his thigh like he was mentally playing along. Alura balanced three crème brule in one hand while using her heat vision to caramelize the sugar on a fourth, her cape swirling dramatically with every pivot. Supergirl sprawled across the sectional no doubt thinking about her boyfriend Zachary. It was last day of spring break and Friday, March 20^th, felt like spring had arrived at least for the people in the room including the aforementioned superheroes, Superboy, Laura, and myself. The RecSec’s ambient lighting flickered slightly as Supergirl gave me a look. “Mom?” Her voice carried an unfamiliar tremor. “Can we talk? About…Zachary?”

“Little girl, what’s on your mind?” I asked, setting aside the patrol log I’d been reviewing. My cape whispered against the sectional as I shifted toward Supergirl, catching the way her fingers worried at the hem of her skirt—uncharacteristic nervousness for our usually effervescent Supergirl. Superman also came over to help with his daughter’s concerns.

Supergirl’s fingers dug into the fabric of her cape as she blurted, “after all these dates with Zachary, I think I love him.” The words hung between us like a held breath. Supergirl’s cape pooled around her thighs as she twisted sideways, her normally confident posture curling inward. “I want to go further. I mean, physically—” She gestured vaguely at her own sculpted arms, then mimed crushing something between her hands. “You had him in class, Mom. His shoulders are *huge*, but…he’s still just human.”

Supergirl’s cape pooled around her boots as she sank onto the sectional, her fingers tracing the S-shield on her chest in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. “He thinks I’m the Girl of Steel,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. The scent of ozone clung to her uniform—evidence of an interrupted patrol—but her usual effortless confidence had evaporated. “How would I explain that his girlfriend turns into a student council president in her down time at the high school he graduated at 6 years ago? Would I even want to do this?”

The RecSec’s ambient lighting flickered as Supergirl’s words landed with the weight of a collapsing star. Alura paused mid-stir, her heat vision dimming on the dessert she’d been caramelizing. Even Superboy—normally so quick with a joke—just blinked at his sister like she’d switched languages mid-sentence.

I let my cape drape across the sectional as I settled beside Supergirl, the red silk whispering against my thighs. The scent of her ozone-charged uniform mingled with traces of Zachary’s cologne—something woodsy and warm, clinging to her cape. My fingers hovered over hers. “Little girl” I began, measuring each word like violin strings under Ben’s fingertips, “does Zachary make you feel like you don’t have to be bulletproof? Is this a long-term thing?”

Her startled inhale told me everything. The way her shoulders relaxed—just a fraction—confirmed it. Superman exhaled behind us, a shadow in blue and red, his palm pressing gently against the small of my back in silent solidarity.

The rings glinted in my mind’s eye—golden bands resting on purple velvet in the vault, each one whispering possibilities. My fingers traced absent circles on Supergirl’s cape as I considered how to phrase it. “What if-,” I asked slowly, “if Zachary became… like us? And if the ring made him female?”

Supergirl’s fingers twisted in her cape, the fabric whispering like secrets between them. “No, it wouldn’t matter,” she said, her voice steadier than I expected. “I mean, look at me—I crush on both men and women.” A nervous laugh bubbled up. “But Zachary… he’s never even kissed a guy as a guy. What if the ring changes him and he can’t love me as a woman.”

I hesitated but answered honestly, “If it comes to that, I have an idea. I think we should give him a ring.” The words hung in the air.

Supergirl’s face lit up like a sunrise over Virginia Beach, her blue eyes shimmering with something dangerously close to hope. She bit her plush lower lip—a nervous habit that hadn’t changed since she was ten years old squeezing my hand during thunderstorms—before blurting out, “You’d really do that? For Zachary?” The way her fingers tightened around mine felt like she was five again, asking if monsters were real under her bed.

“When and where do you see him next?” I asked with a serious and resolute expression.

It was the next day, March 21^st. The campfire glow pulsed like a distant heartbeat against the Chesapeake Bay’s dark waters near Smith Beach when Superman and I descended from the stratosphere. From fifty thousand feet, Zachary’s nervous fidgeting had been as clear to my telescopic vision as Supergirl’s poorly concealed excitement—she kept floating three inches off the sandbar whenever he laughed. I watched Zachary nearly drop his marshmallow stick into the fire as Supergirl animatedly recounted her “first day of school” cover story. The charred sugar smell mixed with riverbank dampness as Superman’s fingers interlaced with mine—his calloused violinist’s grip telegraphing amusement at Zachary’s endearingly human clumsiness.

Zachary Bevins’ massive frame—six-foot-five and built like a brick wall—seemed almost comically oversized for the narrow sandbar, his offensive lineman shoulders barely contained by the faded Denver Broncos hoodie stretched taut across his torso. The dying firelight caught the sandy brown beard and mustache stubble dusting his and upper lip the same warm-worn shade as the dirt stretching beyond Smith Beach. His hands—broad enough to palm a football one-handed—fumbled with marshmallow skewers like they were made of glass. When he laughed, the sound rumbled up from his chest like distant thunder.

Zachary’s F-150 sat tilted at an improbable angle on the narrow sandbar, a sight that would’ve been impossible without Supergirl’s intervention. The truck bed held a dented cooler leaking condensation onto a pile of hastily folded blankets, while the open tailgate served as an improvised buffet table for their picnic. The truck radio blared the news. Nearby, their tent listed slightly to one side, its neon orange guidelines vibrating in the evening breeze like over-tuned guitar strings.

Zachary’s marshmallow dropped into the fire with a hiss when our shadows crossed the flames. He looked up—just in time to see Superman’s cape catch the wind like a crimson sail as we touched down in perfect unison. I floated inches above the sandbar, my grin widening as Zachary’s jaw unhinged. Of course, Supergirl had heard us coming from miles away.

Zachary’s brainwave patterns flatlined into static for three full seconds—the neurological equivalent of a crashed computer rebooting. I could tell his thoughts weren’t even forming complete words, just primal bursts of *huge* and *ohgod* and *how*. His pituitary gland flooded his system with enough adrenaline to make his palms slick against the roasting stick still clutched in his sausage-thick fingers. Zachary’s synapses fired in erratic bursts—pure animal panic scrambled with awe—before I gently pressed my influence against his consciousness like a warm compress on tense muscles. His racing thoughts slowed into coherence and he, with as much as he could master, said “Uh. Hi.”

Zachary’s hand disappeared entirely into Superman’s grip—his own massive NFL lineman fingers looking almost delicate in comparison—but the squeeze was calibrated to reassure rather than intimidate. “Ben Jenkins, Supergirl’s dad,” Superman said with the same Midwestern warmth as when he’d been Benna serving lemonade at PTA meetings. “Though I suppose you know me better as—”

“—the guy who lifted three ships last Tuesday,” Zachary blurted, then flushed crimson when Supergirl giggled behind him. His pulse spiked again at the sound, his carotid artery thumping against my senses like a bass drum.

I stepped forward before his nerves could short-circuit again, my red cape whispering against the riverbank gravel. “And I’m Jennifer—Superwoman when the boots are on.” Zachary’s pupils dilated slightly at my seven-foot frame, his endocrine system firing off another cocktail of adrenaline and something warmer, fuzzier that made me bite back a smirk. Young men. Some things transcended superpowers. We warmly shook hands.

Zachary blinked rapidly, his massive hands flexing around the roasting stick like he was trying to ground himself in reality. “Uh, not that I’m not honored—seriously, biggest fan—but what are you guys doing here?” He glanced back at Supergirl, who was suddenly very interested in adjusting the hem of her cape. “I swear I’ve been a perfect gentleman. Brought organic marshmallows and everything.”

Superman chuckled, the deep sound vibrating across the riverbank like a cello string. “Oh, we know,” he said, exchanging a look with me that sent Supergirl’s cheeks flushing red. “Not that she can’t handle herself around you anyway.” His eyebrows shot up as she suddenly found the trim of her boots fascinating.

“Zachary, what are your intentions with our daughter?” I realize that came out wrong and I softened my tongue. “Sorry. We don’t mean to pry but how do you think you two are getting along?”

Zachary swallowed hard, the roasting stick bending slightly in his grip. “Ma’am—Superwoman—Jennifer-I…well, I…” His throat worked soundlessly for a second before he exhaled sharply through his nose. “Supergirl’s incredible. Like, *actually* incredible. I don’t know where the relationship will take us but I hope it’s long-term and that I can live up to her ideals. I don’t know how I’m doing it now. I just want to be with her in any way I can in the future.” Zachary’s voice cracked on the last word, the roasting stick snapping between his fingers as his grip tightened unconsciously. The broken halves clattered against the dented cooler, the sound absurdly loud in the sudden silence. Supergirl—no, *Crystal* in this moment—reached out instinctively, her fingers brushing his forearm in a gesture that was equal parts reassurance and something far more tender.

Superman’s gaze locked onto Zachary—the kind of look that could split atoms or expose a soul. His pupils dilated slightly, catching the embers of the campfire in their hazel depths. A muscle twitched along his jawline. That was all I needed.

“Zachary, we have a proposition for you. How would you like to be a superhero?” I asked with a serious look and continued, “But … before you can answer there’s a catch.”

The campfire crackled between us, its glow painting Zachary’s stunned face in flickering gold. He swallowed again, eyes darting between me and Superman like he’d misheard. “A…superhero?” The word came out half-strangled.

The firelight flickered across Zachary’s face as I reached into the hidden pocket of my cape, my fingers brushing against the velvet-lined box. “We have two rings,” I said, watching his pupils dilate. The box opened with a quiet click, revealing twin bands—one etched with the letters ‘CE’ and the other ‘KS’, the other pulsing with an inner light like captured starlight. “Both grant powers way beyond human limits. But there’s something you should know.” I paused, feeling Supergirl’s nervous energy crackle through the air beside me. “We’re almost certain they’ll transform the wearer… into a woman when they are a superhero.”

“A *woman*?” His voice cracked somewhere between panic and fascination, eyes darting to Supergirl—who was suddenly very interested in smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her cape. The bay’s current seemed to still around our sandbar as his NFL lineman frame tensed. “Would my shoulders narrow? Hips widen?? Deep voice…gone?” Then he thought, “Could I change back?”

“Of course you can change back,” Supergirl blurted out, “It’s just…a turn of the ring.” Her voice wavered on the last word, betraying the nerves beneath her bravado.

Zachary’s fingers twitched toward the rings, then froze midair. “Wait—why me?” The river lapped at the sandbar, the only sound for three heartbeats.

“First, you’re worthy,” I said, “Second, I’ll let Supergirl explain.”

Supergirl’s fingers traced the edge of her cape, the fabric catching firelight as she hesitated. The words came out in a rush: “I’m bisexual”—followed by an audible gulp. Zachary’s marshmallow fell from his hand into the flames with a quiet *plop*.

Supergirl continued, “I don’t want to hurt you, Zachary. Physically that is. But I love you so much, my big teddy bear.“

Zachary’s brow furrowed. “You’re concerned about my durability aren’t you. So—you’re saying if I take this, I could…” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Keep up with you? If we take it to a sexual level?” The question came out half-choked, his NFL lineman shoulders hunching slightly as Supergirl’s cape fluttered in the sudden updraft of her nervous fidgeting.

Zachary’s fingers hovered over the rings, trembling slightly in the firelight. The silence between them stretched like the river’s current—endless and patient. Supergirl’s cape rustled as she shifted closer, her voice softer than he’d ever heard it. “Zachary,” she said, and the way she said his name made his chest tighten. “I don’t love you because of what you *are*. I love you because of *who* you are. Your stubbornness when you think you’re right. How you laugh like you’re surprised by your own jokes. The way you carry groceries for old ladies at the Food Lion even when you’re in a hurry.” She reached for his hand, her grip warm and sure. “Your soul, Zachary. That’s what I love. The rest is just… wrapping paper.”

It was funny seeing Zachary, the size he is, all choked up. The water murmured behind us, its rhythm syncopated by the crackling fire. His Adam’s apple bobbed twice before he managed, “What if—what if I take this, and then it turns out…” His voice cracked. “I only like men?”

I stepped in and said, “I have an idea for that if it comes to it.” The Bay seemed to hold its breath as Zachary’s wide eyes flickered between me and the rings. Supergirl’s fingers tightened around his hand —not possessively, but with a tenderness that made my chest ache.

Zachary exhaled sharply through his nose, staring at the rings as if they might bite. He looked at Supergirl then said, “I agree, angel. I want to be with you in any form.” Then, with a suddenness that startled even Supergirl, he grabbed the one engraved with “KS” and jammed it onto his right index finger before anyone could react. The metal contracted like liquid, molding to his knuckle with an audible *snick*.

“Zachary, “ Superman’s said, “Turn the ring clockwise on your finger.”

Zachary turned the ring clockwise with a sharp twist—then gasped as golden light erupted from the band, encasing him in a swirling chrysalis of energy. His shoulders narrowed first, the dense NFL musculature softening into sleek feminine curves while his waist cinched inward dramatically. His hips flared outward with audible pops of realigning bone, followed by the unmistakable sound of ribs restructuring themselves higher—creating that impossible Kryptonian hourglass silhouette. His neck elongated gracefully as his jawline softened, the stubble melting away into flawless skin. Bobbed brown hair grew to his shoulders. His ass cheeks become both rounder and more athletic.

The golden energy surged upward in a final crescendo, Zachary’s chest heaving as twin mounds of flesh ballooned outward beneath the light—each breast swelling with impossible weight yet perfect symmetry, their curves ascending like rising dough until they settled at pornstar proportions, nipples darkening and tightening under the transformation’s current. The glow condensed around her new form like liquid metal, hardening into a white, spandex bodysuit that vacuum-sealed itself against every new valley and peak, the large oval window daringly display in between her cleavage before the material solidified into its final, unyielding shape. A final pulse of energy traveled downward as Zachary’s groin reconfigured itself—muscles parting, flesh reshaping with an audible *pop* as a vagina formed where his penis had been seconds before, leaving her gasp echoing across the Bay.

The golden energy dissipated like morning mist, revealing Zachary—no, *her*—standing there on the sandbar, fingers flexing as she stared at her own transformed body with wide, disbelieving eyes. The new curves of her physique strained against the white spandex, the plunging neckline revealing cleavage that would make a Victoria’s Secret model weep.

“Powergirl,” I murmured, the name slipping out before I could stop it, “At least what your name was in the comics. How do you feel?”

“Awesome. Energized. And… *really* friggin sexy,” The new Powergirl breathed, running her hands down the impossible hourglass of her new waist, fingers catching on the smooth spandex stretched taut over her hips. The words came out in Supergirl’s same melodic Kryptonian harmonics—a voice that should’ve clashed with her lineman shoulders but somehow suited the goddess standing where a 335-pound offensive center had been seconds before.

Supergirl’s breath hitched audibly when the golden energy finally dissipated, her blue eyes widening as she took in the sight of *her* standing there in the fading twilight. The bay water lapped at the sandbar, but all she could focus on was the way Zachary’s—no, *Powergirl’s*—new form caught the campfire glow. Yep. Supergirl was definitely bisexual.

I was curious and asked, “Powergirl, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s the first image that comes to mind when I mention sexy bodies?”

Powergirl’s cheeks flushed a shade of crimson that even the campfire couldn’t explain when she answered, “Uh. Superboy.” Her newly delicate fingers flew to her lips as soon as the words escaped—a gesture so distinctly feminine it startled her almost as much as the admission itself. “I’m into guys!!” The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in, broken only by the distant splash of a fish jumping near shore.

Powergirl’s confession hung in the air like a firework that had just detonated—impossible to ignore, impossible to take back. Supergirl’s cape fluttered in the sudden breeze, though none of us had felt wind moments before. Her fingers twitched at her sides, the only outward sign of the internal storm that admission had unleashed.

Supergirl’s face crumpled like tissue paper—her lips parted, blue eyes suddenly glassy with something too raw to name. The campfire popped between us, sending embers spiraling upward as Powergirl’s hands flew to her mouth, her newly delicate fingers trembling against plush lips. “Oh god,” she whispered through splayed fingers, her voice already softer, higher—more *her* than Zachary’s gruff baritone had ever been. “I didn’t mean—”

Supergirl’s cape snapped taut in the sudden silence, the fabric straining against some invisible current as her lower lip started doing that wobble only teenage girls—superpowered or not—could perfect. Powergirl had already taken two instinctive steps back, her new stiletto boots crunching rocks underfoot with every retreat.

The silence stretched between us like taffy pulled too thin—elastic, sticky, threatening to snap. Powergirl’s fingers still hovered near her mouth, her new manicured nails catching the firelight. I stepped forward, my cape whispering against the weeds as I placed a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to apologize for desire,” I said gently, tilting my head toward Supergirl’s frozen form. “But if you want… we could adjust things. Not erase, just… expand.”

Powergirl’s throat worked visibly beneath her choker collar. “You mean like—” Her new soprano cracked, eyes darting to Superman for confirmation.

“Mind control?” Superman finished, rubbing his jaw. The campfire hissed as he nudged a piece of wood with his boot. “More like mental suggestion. Opening neural pathways that already exist.” His gaze flicked to Supergirl, who was now worrying her lower lip between her teeth. “We’d try not to override free will.”

Powergirl’s hand shot out like a striking snake, gripping my wrist with Kryptonian strength that would’ve pulverized human bones. “Yes,” she blurted, her voice cracking on the syllable. The campfire light caught the wild dilation of her pupils. “Do it. Make me—” She swallowed hard. “Bisexual. Fully, completely. I want…” Her gaze flicked to Supergirl, who had gone statue-still except for the trembling edge of her cape. “I need to feel what she feels.”

The moment Powergirl’s fingers dug into my wrist, I felt her synapses firing—hot, frantic, like live wires sparking against dry tinder. Her mind was already primed, pulsing with latent curiosity beneath layers of conditioned denial. Five seconds. That’s all it took to brush aside the neural cobwebs, to trace the existing pathways with telepathic precision until her breath hitched and her knees buckled. The campfire light caught the exact moment her expression shifted from tense anticipation to dazed revelation. Her lips parted on a soft, “Oh,” that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken realizations. The campfire crackled between them like a countdown timer. Then, with sudden certainty, she surged forward—five seconds after the neural adjustment—and crushed her lips against Supergirl’s in a kiss that sent embers swirling upward from displaced air.

Powergirl broke the kiss with a gasp, her hands trembling against Supergirl’s shoulders. The campfire light painted her flushed cheeks in flickering gold, her lips slightly swollen. “Holy crap,” she breathed, her voice richer now, laced with a newfound warmth. She turned to me, eyes wide with something like reverence. “Thank you. Both of you.” Her gaze flicked to Superman, who stood with his arms crossed, watching with quiet approval. “I didn’t know—I couldn’t even *imagine* feeling like this.” She laughed, shaky and bright, as Supergirl tentatively laced their fingers together.

“It was my pleasure,” I murmured, squeezing Powergirl’s shoulder. The warmth of her skin seeped through her skintight suit—alien fabric reacting to my touch with the faintest shimmer. “Though I should clarify—Ben and I go by Jennifer and Ben Jenkins when we’re not saving the world.”

Supergirl’s cape rustled softly as she stepped forward, her fingers still entwined with Powergirl’s. “I should probably start over,” she said, her voice lighter now, edged with playful warmth. “I’m Crystal Jenkins when I’m not in the cape.” She grinned, tilting her head. “But honestly? You can call me Chrissy. Everyone does. I’m actually a senior at Salem High School.”

Powergirl blinked, her newly sculpted brows knitting together. “Wait—Salem High?” Her voice hitched, fingers tightening around Crissy’s hand. “I *graduated* from there. Six years ago.” The realization crashed over her, eyes darting between us as she did the math. “Jesus, that makes you—”

“Don’t worry though,” Crissy smirked, her fingers tightening around Powergirl’s with a playful squeeze. The campfire crackled between them, casting flickering shadows across her sharp cheekbones. “I’m still legal at eighteen years old.” She punctuated the statement with an exaggerated wink that made Powergirl’s newly sculpted lips twitch upward.

The campfire crackled between Powergirl and Supergirl, its orange glow painting their faces in flickering gold—but neither noticed. Powergirl’s fingers traced idle patterns along Supergirl’s wrist, her newly manicured nails catching the firelight as she leaned closer, whispering something that made Supergirl giggle into her cape. I exchanged a glance with Ben, whose exaggerated eye-roll told me everything.

Superman nudged me with his elbow—the kind of gesture that would’ve shattered a normal person’s ribs, but between us, it barely registered. Across the fire, Powergirl had just tucked a strand of Supergirl’s hair behind her ear with exaggerated care, her thumb lingering against the shell of Supergirl’s ear in a way that made our daughter’s cape flutter like a startled bird.

Superman’s cape swirled around his boots as he kicked a pebble into the seagulls—the tiny rock breaking the sound barrier with a sonic boom that sent startled ducks scrambling skyward. “Well,” he muttered, brushing imaginary dust off his biceps, “that’s our cue to leave them to their ‘camping’.” The air quotes around the word were practically audible.

Supergirl and Powergirl had already melted into each other laying on the ground by the time Superman nudged me—their fingers tangled in hair, capes draping over each other like shared blankets, lips moving with the kind of urgency that suggested they’d forgotten anyone else existed. Supergirl made a soft, surprised noise against Powergirl’s mouth when Superman cleared his throat loud enough to rattle the nearby trees.

We waved goodbye awkwardly—Superman offering a salute, me flashing a thumbs-up that probably looked more like a nervous tic. The girls barely noticed, too absorbed in tracing the new contours of each other’s costumes with wandering fingertips. As we lifted off, the crackle of the truck radio cut through the night air: *”…Republican-dominated Congress has issued subpoenas for all individuals identifying as ‘Kryptonians’ following the President’s suggestion…”*

I immediately saw red. I am Superwoman. Hear me roar!