My name was Paco Riaz.
Yeah, I know. Rhymes with Diaz. Cosmic humor or lazy dimensional pun go ahead and take your pick.
Back in my universe, I was fifteen, short, sarcastic, and capable of putting a grown man in a chokehold in under six seconds. A bit of a prodigy I may say, or maybe just really bored with regular life. I spent more time in my garage turned dojo than in any classroom. My instructors were old VHS tapes of kung fu masters, tactical military manuals, and the immortal wisdom of anime mentors. I had a reputation in the neighborhood, part urban legend, part walking hazard sign. My knuckles stayed bruised, my homework rarely got done, and my social life was the actual urban myth.
My humor? Dry enough to crack pavement. So much so people didn't want to be around me. Emotions? Stored somewhere in a locked basement guarded by my ultimate. One,and two fists.
So of course I died choking on a half-burned frozen burrito during a binge of 'Star vs. the Forces of Evil'. Irony is a universal language.
One second I was mock laughing at Marco Diaz for being the most beta of beta males, the next I woke up inside his body.
Marco. Freakin'. Diaz.
I thought I was in a fever dream at first. But after the third slap to my own face and the fifth awkward trip to the mirror, I had to accept it: Paco Riaz was gone. I was Marco now. Or at least wearing him like a squeaky new skin.
Two days already passed both weekend. That's how long I'd had to fake it. Two days of pretending I didn't already know how this dimension worked, who Star Butterfly was, and that my future involved magical chaos with scissors that cut reality.
But the strangest part wasn't waking up in a parallel Earth or the sudden lack of my abs.
It was the family.
Marco's mom, angry sunshine in yoga pants—burst into my room like an over caffeinated missile.
"Mi osito!" she shouted, sweeping me into a hug so tight I saw stars. "You didn't come down for breakfast! I made whole wheat toast in the shape of your initials!"
I tried not to wheeze as she crushed the last remnants of my air supply. "Morning... mom."
The word tasted foreign. Weirdly warm.
She pulled back and kissed my forehead. "You look pale! Did you sleep okay? You're not getting sick, are you? You know what happens when you get sick, Marco. Fevers and emergency room karaoke!"
I blinked. "I'll risk it."
She paused, tilted her head, and gave me that suspicious mom squint. "You're acting... different."
Mr. Diaz, reading the newspaper at the table, chimed in without looking up. "Puberty hits everyone eventually, Angie."
Puberty. Sure. Let's go with that.
"Don't forget your lunch, sweetie!" she added, handing me a brown paper bag with "Marco ♥" drawn in Sharpie. "And remember, violence is never the answer!"
I took the bag with a nod. "Only if the question's weak."
She laughed. She thought I was joking. I wasn't.
Outside, the world was offensively bright. I had already come to terms everything was literally a cartoon now. I squinted against the morning sun as I walked toward Echo Creek Academy, blending into the flow of backpacks and idle gossip.
Marco's memories began bleeding in harder the closer I got. Math club attempt. Fear of detention. A chronic case of goody-two-shoes syndrome. His inner monologue was full of apologies and avoidance. I found myself groaning internally at half the stuff he'd panicked about. Spilled milk, forgotten homework, a locker mix up that made him cry?
Come on, man.
But here's the thing.
There was something refreshing about it. I'd lived in a world where survival meant being ten seconds ahead of a threat. Where I couldn't let my guard down without risking real pain. Marco's life was soft. Safe. He had a family that doted on him, teachers who didn't flinch when he raised his hand, a house that didn't rattle when the neighbors fought.
It was so boring it hurt. But a peace I felt I needed for a little longer. it was mine now.
And I wasn't about to waste it being afraid of cafeteria seating charts.
I passed a couple of kids laughing about a viral cat video, and a taller dude threw a wad of paper at someone's back. High school energy. Chaotic, hormonal, and just stupid enough to make you believe the world revolved around who sat next to who in biology.
I couldn't really be talking I was a teen after all but I never got the opportunity to indulge in those kinds of behaviors, not even Marco has.
Then there was Jackie Lynn Thomas.
A flash of blonde and a skateboard. Marco's memories surged with embarrassing intensity. Awkward glances, daydreams that bordered on PG-13, and a weird recurring fantasy involving a tandem bicycle and matching helmets.
I felt secondhand shame. But also amusement.
Jackie zoomed by and gave me a friendly nod.
I blinked. "Hey."
She paused for a second turning back with a wave "Hey Marco!"
Cool. Smooth. Totally not weird.
I pulled my hoodie up. It felt strange, like I was trying to shrink into Marco's skin instead of stretch out of it. Not today. I couldn't afford to be scared.
But my heart did flutter more than usual as she continued by.
By the time I reached the gates of Echo Creek Academy, I paused. Took it in.
The building stood there like a fortress of awkward teenage rites. My personal battleground.
I flexed my fingers, feeling the buzz of adrenaline that always hit me before a fight. This wasn't combat like I was used to. No fists. No strategy. But it was still a challenge.
"Alright," I muttered to myself. "Let's rewrite history."
And with that, the new Marco Diaz walked through the doors.