Never Have I Ever

The morning sun streamed through the stained-glass windows of Whit's End, casting kaleidoscopic patterns across the checkered floor. Connie Kendall, her reddish-brown hair tied back in a messy ponytail, was busy wiping down the counter. She hummed a tune, her green eyes scanning the room for any stray crumbs.

"Connie, have you seen my apron?" Jason Whittaker called out, emerging from the workshop in the basement. He looked slightly disheveled, his blue eyes reflecting a mix of frustration and urgency. "I could have sworn I left it on the hook."

Connie glanced over at the rack by the back door. "There are a couple hanging there, Jason. Just grab one. We’ve got a group of kids coming in for the Invention Corner in ten minutes."

Jason sighed, grabbing a dark green apron that looked suspiciously stiff. "This feels different. Did Dad get these starched?"

"I don't know," Connie said, reaching for the other one—a matching green garment that smelled faintly of mothballs and old lavender. "I picked them up at that garage sale down the street yesterday. The lady said they were 'vintage Whit’s End memorabilia.' I thought they’d be a nice surprise for Whit."

She tied the strings around her waist, smoothing out the fabric. It was a bit snug, but it looked professional. Jason did the same, though he grumbled about the lack of pocket space for his gadgets.

Just as they finished, the bells above the door chimed. It wasn't a group of kids, however. It was Wooton Bassett, the town’s most eccentric mailman, sporting his usual wide grin and a bag full of letters.

"Greetings, fellow citizens of Odyssey!" Wooton chirped, his blue eyes sparkling with his usual brand of manic energy. "I have correspondence, packages, and perhaps a few comic book scripts that need a discerning eye!"

"Morning, Wooton," Jason said, leaning against the counter. "You’re early today."

"Early bird catches the worm, Jason! Or in my case, the early mailman avoids the neighborhood dogs that think my ankles are chew toys," Wooton laughed. He leaned in closer, his expression suddenly turning serious. "Hey, Connie, that’s a nice apron. It reminds me of the time I tried to wear a cape to school in the third grade because I thought I could fly off the jungle gym."

Connie laughed, shaking her head. "Oh, Wooton, we all have those stories. Like the time I tried to give myself bangs with kitchen shears right before my class photo."

As the words left her mouth, a strange shimmer rippled through the air. The light in Whit's End seemed to shift, turning a dull, grainy sepia.

"Wait, why is everything turning brown?" Jason asked, his voice sounding oddly distant.

Suddenly, the floor beneath Connie’s feet felt cold and hard—not the polished wood of the soda shop, but the linoleum of her childhood kitchen. She looked down and saw her hands were smaller. She was holding a pair of heavy, rusted poultry shears.

"Connie? What are you doing?" Wooton’s voice echoed, but he wasn't standing in front of the counter anymore. He was sitting at a small kitchen table, wearing a sweater that looked like it belonged in the late eighties.

"I... I just want to look like the girls in the magazine," Connie heard herself say, her voice high-pitched and whiny.

She watched in horror as her own hands moved against her will. She grabbed a thick hunk of her hair—the beautiful, reddish-brown hair she was so proud of—and snip. A jagged, uneven line of hair fell to the floor.

"Oh no," Jason’s voice drifted in from the periphery. He was standing near the refrigerator, looking like a confused teenager in a flannel shirt. "Connie, your hair... it looks like a lawnmower hit it."

Connie screamed, but the sound that came out was a pre-teen squeal of despair. "I ruined it! I ruined everything!"

The scene flickered and snapped back to reality. Connie was standing behind the counter, her hands clutching a dishcloth, her hair perfectly intact. Wooton and Jason were staring at her, their mouths agape.

"Did... did we just see that?" Wooton whispered, his red hair practically standing on end. "It was like a 3D movie, but with more regret."

"I felt the floor," Connie breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I felt the scissors. Jason, what is going on?"

Jason looked down at his apron, his brow furrowed. "The garage sale. Connie, who did you buy these from?"

"An old woman named Mrs. Gable," Connie said, her voice trembling. "She said they were special. I thought she meant 'sentimental' special, not 'psychic trauma' special!"

Before Jason could respond, the door opened again. This time, it was John Avery Whittaker himself. Whit walked in with his usual calm demeanor, his blue eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

"Good morning, everyone," Whit said, noticing the tense atmosphere. "Is everything alright? You all look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"Worse, Dad," Jason said, stepping forward. "We’ve seen Connie’s middle-school bangs."

Whit chuckled, heading toward the coffee urn. "Well, we all have things from our youth we’d rather forget. I remember once, when I was about eight, I tried to convince my Sunday School teacher that I had discovered a hidden book of the Bible written entirely in invisible ink."

The air shimmered again.

Suddenly, the group was standing in a dusty, sunlit classroom. A young John Avery Whittaker, wearing knee-high socks and a serious expression, was holding up a completely blank piece of parchment to a very confused-looking woman in a floral dress.

"It’s the Book of Hezekiah’s Secret, Mrs. Miller!" young Whit insisted. "You just have to believe hard enough to see the words!"

The real Whit, standing amidst the vision, looked horrified. "Oh, dear. I had forgotten how truly convincing I thought I was."

The vision faded as quickly as it had appeared. Whit rubbed his eyes, looking at Jason and Connie. "I assume those aprons are the cause of this?"

"We think so," Jason said, his competitive streak suddenly flaring up. "It seems like whenever we talk about an embarrassing story, it manifests. It’s like a game of 'Never Have I Ever,' but with physical evidence."

"Jason, this isn't a game!" Connie snapped, though her green eyes were darting around the room nervously. "We have to take these off!"

She reached for the ties at her back, but the knots wouldn't budge. She pulled harder, but the fabric felt like iron.

"They won't come off," Jason muttered, struggling with his own strings. "It’s like they’re fused to us."

Wooton, ever the optimist, clapped his hands. "Well, if we can't take them off, we might as well make the most of it! It’s like a living history lesson! Jason, surely you have something embarrassing from your CIA days? Or your NSA days? Or your 'I’m-a-cool-spy' days?"

Jason stiffened. "I don't have embarrassing stories, Wooton. I have 'operational setbacks.'"

"Oh, come on," Connie prodded, a mischievous glint returning to her eyes despite the situation. "Everyone has one. What about that time you tried to impress that girl in high school by jumping your bike over the creek?"

Jason winced. "I never told you about that."

"You didn't have to," Connie smirked. "Your mom told me."

The shimmer returned with a vengeance.

The scene shifted to a muddy bank near a rushing stream. A teenage Jason, sporting a leather jacket that was two sizes too big, was revving a bicycle like it was a Harley-Davidson. A group of girls stood nearby, giggling.

"Watch this!" teenage Jason yelled.

He pedaled furiously toward a makeshift ramp. He hit it with plenty of speed, but the front wheel buckled the moment he left the ground. Instead of a majestic leap, Jason performed a spectacular face-plant directly into the thickest, smelliest patch of mud on the bank.

The vision lingered long enough for everyone to hear the girls’ hysterical laughter and see Jason emerge from the muck, looking like a swamp monster in a leather jacket.

When the vision cleared, Jason was bright red, his blue eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

"Operational setback," Connie whispered, unable to suppress a giggle.

"It was a mechanical failure!" Jason snapped, though he couldn't hide his own sheepish grin.

Whit sighed, leaning against the counter. "It seems these aprons react to the narrative of our lives. The more we try to hide our vulnerabilities, the more they want to show them. Perhaps the way to break the spell isn't to pull at the strings, but to embrace the truth behind the stories."

"You mean we have to keep telling them?" Connie asked, horrified. "Odyssey is going to be a giant highlight reel of my worst moments!"

"Not just yours, Connie," Whit said gently. "We all have them. And perhaps seeing them out in the open reminds us that we’re all human. Even 'perfect' Jason Whittaker."

Jason rolled his eyes. "Fine. But if I have to share, Wooton has to share too. He’s the one who started this."

Wooton beamed. "Oh, I have plenty! Like the time I thought I could make my own marshmallows using only soap and sugar!"

The room transformed into a chaotic kitchen filled with bubbles. A younger Wooton was frantically trying to catch a mountain of suds that was overflowing from a pot, while a very unhappy-looking cat watched from the top of the refrigerator.

As the morning progressed, the "game" began to spread. Customers walked in, caught the "aura" of the aprons, and suddenly the shop was a whirlwind of flickering memories.

Bernard Walton walked in to complain about the plumbing and ended up reliving the time he got his head stuck in a banister at the state capitol. Tom Riley stopped by for a tea and found himself back in second grade, trying to explain why he had accidentally dyed his neighbor's sheep blue.

The atmosphere in Whit's End shifted from embarrassment to a strange, communal warmth. People weren't laughing at each other; they were laughing with each other. The barriers of pride and reputation were melting away in the face of shared absurdity.

"You know," Connie said, watching a vision of Mrs. Miller accidentally sitting on a birthday cake, "this isn't as bad as I thought. It’s actually kind of... liberating."

"It’s definitely efficient," Jason admitted, watching his father recount a story about getting lost in his own basement. "No more secrets."

Whit smiled, looking at his son and Connie. "The truth often is liberating, Jason. Even the silly truths."

Suddenly, the knots on the aprons loosened. Connie felt the tension in the fabric vanish. She reached back and easily untied the strings. Jason did the same.

As the aprons were laid out on the counter, the sepia tint faded from the room, and the air returned to its normal, clear state. The visions ceased, leaving the patrons of Whit's End blinking in the sudden stillness.

"Well," Wooton said, breaking the silence. "That was the best Tuesday I’ve had in years. Does anyone want to hear about the time I tried to mail myself to Hawaii?"

"Maybe later, Wooton," Connie laughed, tucking a strand of her (perfectly normal) hair behind her ear.

She looked at the aprons, then at Whit. "What should we do with these? Give them back to Mrs. Gable?"

Whit picked up one of the garments, feeling the weight of it. "I think I’ll keep them in the Room of Consequence for a while. They might serve as a good reminder that our pasts, no matter how embarrassing, are part of who we are."

Jason nodded, his blue eyes reflecting a newfound humility. "Just... maybe keep them in a locked case, Dad. I don't think Odyssey is ready for the 'Jason Whittaker: Toddler Years' marathon."

"Agreed," Whit chuckled.

As the lunch rush began, Connie went back to her duties, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. She realized that while she loved the color green and her independent life, she loved the community of Odyssey even more—flaws, bangs, mud-faces, and all.

And as for the aprons? They sat on the counter for a moment longer, the fabric shimmering just once more in the sunlight, as if acknowledging a job well done.