Never Have I Ever

The morning air in Odyssey was crisp, smelling faintly of damp earth and the sugary glaze of the donuts Wooton Bassett had delivered to Whit’s End only moments before. Inside the shop, the atmosphere was slightly more chaotic. John Avery Whittaker was away on a research trip, leaving the helm to his son, Jason, and the ever-reliable, if perpetually flustered, Connie Kendall.

"I’m telling you, Jason, these came from the estate sale down on Gower Road," Connie said, shaking out a piece of stiff, forest-green fabric. "The old ones were getting holes in the pockets. Whit told me to pick up some replacements weeks ago."

Jason Whittaker leaned against the counter, eyeing the two aprons Connie had tossed onto the workstation. They looked like standard Whit’s End attire—dark green with the iconic logo embroidered on the chest—but there was something slightly off about the texture. They felt heavy, almost like they were woven with metallic thread.

"They look a little... vintage," Jason remarked, reaching for one. "And by vintage, I mean they look like they were stolen from a 1950s butcher shop. But if they keep the chocolate syrup off my shirt, I’m not complaining."

He slid the loop over his head and tied the strings behind his back. Connie did the same, smoothing the front of her apron.

"There," she said, checking her reflection in the glass of the ice cream freezer. "Professional. Now, can we please get through the morning rush without you trying to 'optimize' the milkshake machine? The last time you touched the internal wiring, I was picking strawberry seeds out of the ceiling for three days."

Jason grinned, that familiar, impetuous spark in his eyes. "It wasn't a failure, Connie. It was a high-velocity delivery system. People just weren't ready for it."

The bell above the door chimed, and Wooton Bassett practically bounced into the room. He was wearing a hat shaped like a giant taco and carrying a stack of comic books.

"Greetings, fellow purveyors of frozen delights!" Wooton chirped, sliding onto a stool. "I just had the most marvelous idea for a new comic strip. It’s about a man who can communicate with squirrels, but only if he’s eating a cashew. I call him 'The Nut-Cracker.'"

Connie smiled, leaning over the counter. "That sounds... very you, Wooton. Can I get you the usual?"

"Double-scoop peppermint crunch with extra hot fudge, please!" Wooton said, his eyes widening as he looked at Connie’s new apron. "Oh, wow! Those are fancy. They almost look like they’re glowing. Is that a new fashion statement? Is it 'Odyssey Chic'?"

Connie laughed, reaching for the ice cream scoop. "It’s just a garage sale find, Wooton. Nothing special. You know, I was actually thinking about the time I tried to start my own fashion line when I was seven. I thought I was so sophisticated, but I ended up—"

Suddenly, the air in Whit’s End seemed to shimmer. A strange, low hum vibrated through the floorboards.

Connie stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes went wide. "Wait, why do I feel like my hair is getting heavier?"

Jason frowned, stepping around the counter. "Connie, your hair... it’s changing."

Before their eyes, Connie’s modern hairstyle began to shift and grow. It twisted into two massive, frizzy pigtails secured by neon-pink pom-poms. Her sensible jeans and Whit’s End shirt didn't change, but suddenly, a pair of oversized, glittery plastic sunglasses appeared on her face, and her shoes transformed into squeaky, light-up sneakers.

"What is happening?" Connie shrieked, her voice pitching up an octave.

"You look like a walking disco ball," Jason said, his voice laced with confusion.

Wooton clapped his hands. "It’s a miracle! You’ve regressed! Or progressed! I’m not sure which, but I love the pom-poms!"

"I was just telling you about the time I tried to wear every accessory I owned to the first grade!" Connie cried, clutching her head. "I looked like a disaster! I fell down the stairs because the sunglasses were too dark, and I landed right in the middle of the school assembly!"

As the words left her mouth, the floor beneath her feet turned into a set of polished wooden stairs that shouldn't have existed in the middle of the shop. Connie’s feet moved of their own accord. She stumbled, her light-up sneakers flashing frantically, and tumbled down the three phantom steps, landing flat on her face in front of a group of stunned tourists who had just walked in.

"Oof!" Connie groaned, the glittery sunglasses skittering across the floor.

Jason stared, horrified. "Connie, are you okay? How did—where did the stairs come from?"

He rushed over to help her up, but as he reached out his hand, his own apron began to pulse with a faint, blue light.

"I don't know!" Connie wailed, scrambling to her feet. The pigtails were still bouncing. "It was like the story just... happened! It was my most embarrassing moment! I haven't thought about that in years!"

Jason shook his head, trying to make sense of the situation. "It has to be the aprons. That estate sale... Connie, who did you buy these from?"

"I don't know! Some lady who said she used to work for a traveling circus!"

Jason turned to Wooton, who was now sketching the scene in his notebook. "Wooton, don't just sit there! Help us figure this out. It’s like some kind of localized reality distortion triggered by memory."

Wooton looked up, his expression surprisingly thoughtful. "Well, in 'Captain Flash and the Chrono-Key,' something similar happened. The hero could only defeat the villain by admitting his deepest secrets. Maybe the aprons are like truth serum, but for your body!"

Jason scoffed. "That’s ridiculous. I’m a man of science and logic. I’m not going to start sprouting props just because I’m talking. For instance, I remember one time when I was ten, I tried to build a rocket out of—"

Jason’s voice caught. His eyes bugged out. "Oh no."

"Jason?" Connie asked, her pigtails twitching.

"I tried to build a rocket out of old soda bottles and vinegar," Jason whispered, his face turning a deep shade of crimson. "I wanted to impress this girl, Sarah, so I told her I was going to launch it in the park. But I got the proportions wrong. I used way too much baking soda and vinegar, and I didn't secure the cap properly."

A loud hissing sound filled the room. Suddenly, Jason was holding a two-liter plastic bottle that was vibrating violently. He was no longer wearing his tactical vest; instead, he was wearing a t-shirt that said I'm a Blast! in neon letters.

"Jason, put it down!" Connie screamed.

"I can't! It’s stuck to my hand!" Jason yelled.

POP!

The bottle exploded, but instead of fire, it released a massive geyser of frothy, white foam that coated Jason from head to toe. He stood there, dripping, looking like a very disgruntled marshmallow. To add insult to injury, a small, spectral version of a ten-year-old girl appeared in the corner of the room, pointed at him, and let out a high-pitched, mocking laugh before vanishing.

Wooton cheered. "Bravo! The foam is a nice touch. Very textural."

"This is a nightmare," Jason sputtered, wiping foam from his eyes. "We have to take these off."

He reached for the ties of his apron, but his fingers slipped through the fabric as if it were smoke. He tried again, pulling harder, but the apron remained firmly attached to his waist.

"I can't get it off!" Connie cried, tugging at her own strings. "It’s like it’s part of me!"

The bell rang again. This time, a group of kids from the local elementary school filed in, led by their teacher. They were all staring at the scene: a woman with giant pink pigtails and light-up shoes standing next to a man covered in white foam.

"Is this part of the show?" one of the kids asked, poking Jason’s foam-covered leg.

"No, it’s not a show!" Jason snapped, then immediately softened his tone. "I mean, yes, it’s... performance art. Very avant-garde."

"Jason, stop talking!" Connie hissed. "Every time we talk about the past, it happens!"

"I’m trying!" Jason retorted. "But it’s hard to explain why I look like a latte without mentioning the incident!"

Wooton stood up, his taco hat wobbling. "Don't worry, guys! I’ll handle the customers. You two go into the kitchen and try to... I don't know, wash the magic off?"

"Good idea," Connie said, grabbing Jason by the arm and dragging him toward the back. "And Wooton? Don't tell anyone about this. Especially not Bernard. I’ll never hear the end of it."

"My lips are sealed!" Wooton promised, then immediately turned to the teacher. "Would you like to hear about the time I accidentally joined a synchronized swimming team?"

As Connie and Jason ducked into the kitchen, the sounds of splashing water and Wooton’s enthusiastic storytelling drifted through the door.

"Okay," Jason said, standing over the industrial sink. "We need to be clinical about this. The aprons react to verbalized memories of embarrassment. If we stay focused on the present, we should be fine."

Connie sighed, leaning against the prep table. Her light-up shoes gave a faint squeak. "Easier said than done, Jason. You know me. I talk before I think. It’s my 'spontaneous and outspoken' nature, as Whit calls it."

"Just focus," Jason urged. "We’ll find a pair of scissors and—"

"Oh! Scissors!" Connie interrupted. "That reminds me of the time I tried to give myself bangs before the school dance. I used the kitchen shears and—"

"Connie, no!"

Too late. The kitchen was suddenly filled with the sound of snipping. Connie’s pigtails vanished, replaced by a fringe of hair so short and jagged it looked like it had been chewed by a lawnmower. She looked in the stainless steel reflection of a pot and let out a low moan.

"I look like a hedgehog," she whispered.

Jason groaned. "We have to get out of these. Maybe there’s a counter-spell? Or a chemical solvent?"

"In Odyssey?" Connie asked dryly. "The most 'magical' thing that usually happens here is someone finding a rare coin in the park. This is way out of our league."

"Let’s try to think," Jason said, pacing the small space. "The woman at the garage sale. Did she say anything else?"

Connie squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember. "She said... she said these aprons were 'the fabric of life' and that they 'reveal the inner child.' I thought she was just being poetic! I didn't think she meant literally!"

"The inner child," Jason repeated. "Okay, so they force us to confront our past. Maybe the way to get them off isn't by hiding the stories, but by... I don't know, owning them?"

"Owning them?" Connie looked at him like he had grown a second head. "Jason, I just fell down phantom stairs and got a haircut from a ghost. I don't want to 'own' that!"

"Just listen," Jason said, his voice dropping. "Every time we try to hide what’s happening or act like it’s not a big deal, the apron reacts. But what if we just tell the story truthfully, without the shame?"

Connie looked skeptical. "You want us to play 'Never Have I Ever' with the entire town of Odyssey? Because that’s what’s happening out there. Wooton is probably telling them everything right now."

As if on cue, a loud cheer erupted from the main room. Wooton’s voice boomed, "And that’s why I can never enter a public pool in Ohio again!"

Jason took a deep breath. "We don't have a choice. If we stay back here, we’re just going to keep accidentally triggering it. We have to go out there, face the music, and maybe—just maybe—the aprons will let us go."

Connie looked at her jagged bangs in the reflection one more time. She squared her shoulders. "Fine. But if I end up wearing a tutu, I’m blaming you."

They stepped back out into the shop. The crowd had grown. It seemed word had spread fast that something strange was happening at Whit’s End. Even Officer David Harley was there, leaning against the counter with a confused expression.

"Alright, everyone!" Jason announced, his voice ringing out. "We have a bit of a... situation. These aprons are cursed. Or enchanted. Honestly, we’re still debating the terminology."

"They make your embarrassing stories come true!" Wooton added helpfully.

"Exactly," Connie said, stepping forward. "And instead of trying to hide it, I’m just going to say it. I am Connie Kendall, and when I was six, I once got my head stuck in the banister of the town library because I wanted to see if I could fit my ears through the gaps. The fire department had to use dish soap to get me out."

For a moment, the room was silent. Then, a faint pop echoed through the air. The jagged bangs on Connie’s forehead smoothed out, returning to her normal, wavy style. The light-up shoes vanished, replaced by her regular loafers.

"It worked!" she whispered.

Jason stepped up next to her. "My turn. I’m Jason Whittaker, and when I was twelve, I tried to train my dog to do my homework by rubbing bacon grease on my math worksheets. He didn't do the math; he just ate the paper, and I had to tell my teacher the dog literally ate my homework. She didn't believe me until he threw up a fraction in the middle of class."

Another pop. The foam covering Jason vanished instantly. His neon t-shirt reverted to his standard work clothes.

The two of them looked at each other, then at their aprons. The green fabric, which had been glowing, suddenly went dull. The ties loosened, and the aprons slid off their shoulders, falling in a heap on the floor.

The crowd erupted into applause. Officer Harley shook his head, a grin tugging at his lips. "Only in Odyssey," he muttered.

Wooton hopped down from his stool. "That was amazing! It was like a giant, public confession! Can we do it again next Tuesday?"

"No!" Connie and Jason shouted in unison.

Connie picked up the aprons with two fingers, holding them as far away from her body as possible. "These are going straight into the trash. Or better yet, the incinerator."

"Wait!" Wooton cried, snatching them from her. "Don't throw them away! They’d be perfect for the community theater’s next production. We’re doing a play about a group of people who can’t keep secrets."

Jason laughed, leaning back against the counter. "Just make sure the actors know what they’re getting into, Wooton. I don't think Odyssey is ready for a repeat performance."

As the customers began to settle back into their seats and the normal hum of Whit’s End returned, Connie leaned over to Jason.

"You know," she whispered, "the bacon grease thing? That’s actually kind of clever."

Jason winked. "I told you, Connie. I’ve always been an innovator. Even if it results in a little... indigestion."

Connie rolled her eyes, but she couldn't hide her smile. "Just get back to work, 'Rocket Man.' We’ve got milkshakes to make. And this time, let’s keep the stories to a minimum."

"Deal," Jason said, reaching for a normal apron from the back room. "But for the record? The pigtails really suited you."

Connie swiped at him with a dish towel, and for the first time all day, everything in Odyssey felt exactly as it should be.