Brianna Austin’s first-edition short-story novella received terrific reader reviews, prompting her to expand it into a full-length novel and add illustrations.

It is now available on Amazon as a Kindle ebook and paperback!

Read more about the book, its inspirations, first-edition reader reviews, and what‘s coming next.

Have you ever fantasized about what would have happened if you were caught as a kid, and how that male-to-female story would go?

That is the premise of An Unexpected Turn 

CHAPTER ONE 

The click of his mother’s key in the lock froze Ricky. Panic surged, and before he could think, he darted behind the club chair. He pressed himself into the shadows, heart hammering, every breath a betrayal he feared might give him away. 

He tried to stay still, but his body shook involuntarily. Sound filled his ears, none of it clear, just random chatter from voices he couldn’t quite discern above the pounding in his chest, so loud it made everything sound distant. He closed his eyes, wishing it was a bad dream, knowing it wasn’t.   

The front foyer opened into two rooms — a den on the left, where Ricky was hiding, and the living room on the right. Both had archways with sliding doors that were always left open. Straight ahead, a narrow hallway led past the stairs to the kitchen, wrapping around to the dining room at the back.

It was the maze Ricky had to navigate unseen, like prey fleeing unsuspecting hunters.

As the women stood in the foyer, removing their coats and talking, Ricky’s refocused, and his mind snapped back to the present. Still hidden in the den, Ricky now heard the voices. OMG!

He instantly realized it was Wednesday—his mother’s weekly Ladies’ Lunch. He fumed to himself: How could I be so stupid to forget that it was TODAY? 

Now, he knew he was in a jam. How could he get out of the room and up the stairs without being seen by his mother and/or, potentially worse, any of her friends?

“Think, Ricky, think!” echoed throughout the empty corridors of his head. Nothing materialized, as though all his reasoning had gone on holiday, vacated the premises, and left him alone. 

His eyes surveyed the room. Still crouched behind a club chair with his back to the wall, he took in the den: cramped, with its sofa and club chair crowding a low table buried beneath popular women’s magazines, Harper’s Bazaar, People, Life, McCall’s, Hollywood Hairdos, and Vogue, among others. And yes, he had read them all. Each month, he waited for the new issues to arrive in the mail.

The entire wall across from the windows—the furthest wall from them—was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, mostly filled with history books his father found fascinating but he had never read. 

Eventually, he pulled himself together. As he refocused, he realized what he would do largely depended on what they—the ladies—would do. Would they settle in the living room for tea and gossip, or in the dining room for lunch?  

He listened for a clue. He heard nothing, so he stayed hidden, listening vigilantly, his ears on high alert—waiting. And waiting, and waiting; it was horrible. 

If they had lunch first, he might have a chance to sneak past the living room door and up the stairway unnoticed while they were otherwise engaged in the dining room. But if they decided to sit, gossip, and sip tea in the living room, and who knows how long that would last, he’d be a rat in a cage: able to hide in the corner behind the chair, but unable to escape unnoticed.   

His mind raced as he wondered whether to make a high-risk dash for it, wait them out, or enlist his mother’s help, and the inevitable wrath that would follow. 

It was hard to know. Stephanie was an equal part nurturer, protector, helper, and disciplinarian. Ricky knew that if her temper got the best of her, and her embarrassment in front of her friends would surely ignite it, she’d occasionally give him a good wallop.

A previous scene returned to him with such clarity—one year earlier, when he’d decided to attend a friend’s birthday party after school before going home to notify his mother first. When he finally returned home as the sun set, his mom waited for him on the front lawn. 

He never finished the opening sentence he’d been practicing as he approached and began to speak. CRACK! Her open hand struck him right across the face. She had never done that before, but he knew she could, and he didn’t relish repeating it. 

It was the fall of 1969. The skies were clear and the November air outside crisp; it breached the window seal and caressed Ricky’s bare legs. Whether it was the chilled air or fear, he didn’t know. But either way, he suddenly felt a strong urge pressing against his bladder. He had to do something quick — before he peed right there on the floor.

Ricky’s heart sank when the women settled into the living room. He now had to finalize a plan. All that was left was to play out his only option: enlist his mother’s help to distract the ladies while he made his getaway. 

Rickey devised a plan. His mother would no doubt be getting refreshments from the kitchen. With that in mind, he would step into the center of the room, still hidden from the ladies in the living room. She’d spot him to her left as she entered the foyer on her way to the kitchen, and be prompted to figure out how to hide him effectively. It wasn’t necessarily the best plan, but it was his only one. 

He positioned himself like a leopard readying to pounce, waiting for the right moment to step out from behind the club chair and reveal himself. He couldn’t begin to imagine—or worry about—the repercussions. Besides, he knew it was the lesser of two bad results of this impossible situation he’d created. 

If her friends saw him … his mind couldn’t consider that option. His mother was fiercely protective of her reputation and her family’s. The humiliation of his actions would stain them for a long time. Or at least that would be her assessment. 

Reconfirming that this was the best course of action, he waited.  

Eventually—as he expected she would —his mother excused herself to get refreshments from the kitchen. Just as his mother entered the foyer—and he was ready to show himself—Joan called to her from the other room. “Do you need any help, Stephanie?” 

As his mother turned her head to respond, she never saw him standing in the center of the den to her left. So he returned to his hiding spot behind the club chair.  

After what seemed like an eternity, but was only five minutes, he heard her footsteps as she returned from the kitchen down the hallway. She held a tray of cold drinks when he nervously stepped into the middle of the room. She caught him out of the corner of her right eye and stumbled briefly.  

Ricky thought she would drop the tray [with pitcher and glasses] in shock, but she quickly regained her composure and continued into the living room.

“Stephanie, dear, are you all right?  Do you need help?” 

She entered the living room and placed the tray on the coffee table. “Oh,” she said, flushed, “Yes, I’m fine.”

Dorothy, Joan, and Betty sat on the sofa against the wall, while JoAnne sat in one of the two club chairs on the other side of the coffee table. The living room looked like a typical middle-class home in a middle-class neighborhood. The color theme was soft green, with muted blue highlights and neutrals like ivory and beige.

Stephanie seemed confused and disoriented. She fidgeted with her dress. Her mind was spinning, but instinctively, her first thought was, “How do I get him out of there before anyone sees him?”

“I was just momentarily distracted by … the cutest little animals playing outside that I spotted through the den window,” she lied—chipmunks, I think, or something like that. Pointing to the window, she said, “There, do you see them? They are adorable.” 

The four women jumped from their seats and rushed to the window, peering out with anticipation. At the same time, Stephanie stepped back toward the foyer and, with a hand behind her back, frantically motioned for her son to run. His sister’s old dress swayed slightly as he ran, the hem catching the light from the landing window.

“Do you see them? They’re so cute!”

“I don’t see anything, Stephanie. Are you sure of what you saw?” Dorothy inquired. Sure … well … no, not really; I don’t know what I saw,” she said as she glared at her son. But I saw something that was both cute and odd.”

Ricky caught the sarcasm but didn’t hesitate. He exited the room and bounded up the staircase like a jackrabbit.  

Fearing that the potential embarrassment had been averted, Stephanie re-entered the living room. “Well. They seem to be out of sight now. No matter. Let’s have our tea, shall we?“ and began pouring. 

She initiated small talk to divert everyone’s attention, but mid-sentence, “Did you hear that poor Michelle…” Dorothy cut in: “Who was that?” 

Stephanie was a deer in headlights: “What? Who was who?”

“I could swear I saw a little girl run up the stairs; she was too short to be your daughter, Robin.  So who was it?” 

Stephanie shuddered as her brain scrambled for a quick explanation. “Oh, the girl … My niece,” Stephanie said, the words tumbling out faster than she intended.”

“Your sister’s youngest, from Chicago?”  

“Yes,” Stephanie said, getting into the stride of her lie. “She is here visiting through the Christmas holiday; their school holiday begins in late November, and they don’t return until January 2nd. She … was supposed to be with my daughter today, but … ah, the airline lost her luggage, and … Robin’s clothes were too large. She was uncomfortable wearing them outside, so she stayed home.”

“Oh, the poor little darling,” Dorothy sighed. Stephanie breathed a sigh of relief as Joan was all but bursting to tell of the recent gossip about Michelle’s marriage scandal.

Stephanie relaxed. The crisis was seemingly averted until Dorothy pressed on: “Well, don’t leave her upstairs on her own.”

Stumbling, Stephanie could only manage a weak “Pardon?”

“Invite her down; she can visit with us, proper, ladies?“ The others were so focused on the scent of the marital scandal — like hyenas locked in on a freshly wounded animal — that they were somewhat unaware of the parallel conversation taking place: 

Stephanie continued, “What? Oh, no, she is fine. She is sequestering herself upstairs to read.”

“Nonsense, Stephanie, have the little darling come down so we can at least meet her!”  

The others, now redirected and more focused on the verbal joust taking shape before them, fueled the conversation—and Stephanie’s worst nightmare: “Yes, Stephanie, please ask her to come down. We’d all love to meet her,” JoAnne chimed in. 

Stephanie felt sick as she wandered up the stairs in a fog. What to do? She couldn’t quite process what was happening. She found Ricky in his room, playing with his action figures as though nothing had happened.

“What did you do with your sister’s clothes?” 

With reddened cheeks, Ricky exclaimed, “I put them back. I’m sorry, I was just fooling around.”

“Yes, that’s all great, but Dorothy saw you. Now they all want to meet my niece!”

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