I pushed open the door to find the house just as it always was at this time of the afternoon, silent and empty. Shafts of the waning sunlight illuminated tiny dust particles dancing lazily through the air. Even though I knew no one was home, I tried to suppress the rustling of the bag I was carrying as much as possible. Why did the bags at the bag sale always have to be paper? It felt like it would be taboo to mar the silent spell of isolation that laid upon the house. As I slowly shut the door, I noticed that even my breathing was hushed, so much so that I began to feel slightly out of breath. However, I could do nothing about the thumping of my heart, which had reached the point where it was, if I stood stock-still, audible.

As I quickly padded up the stairs to my room I passed by the old family pictures on the wall. I didn't glance over, but I had lived here long enough that they were imprinted on my memory. Me at four years old, grinning a toothy, juvenile grin. Me at ten, glasses and braces and all the hallmarks of the awkward preteen years. Me more recently, two years ago at my eighth grade graduation, parents standing on either side of me, hands on my shoulders, beaming at the camera. The more I looked at these photos, the more foreign the person they featured became. Soon they became pictures of a total stranger. I stopped looking.

I slipped into my room and dropped the bag on the bed. I was facing away from the mirror on the back of my door, but I could feel the reflection's presence like a specter. My heart continued pounding at a rapid clip, my blood coursed through my veins like an electric current. Everything was warm. I began sifting through the contents of the bag, some of which had spilled out on my bed. A giant quilt, a cover-up for the contents beneath. I set the quilt aside and there they were, the reasons for my visit to the resale shop, the culmination of a lifetime of what-ifs. A pastel blouse. A bikini bottom. A bra. A grey floppy skirt. A pair of white tights. A pair of women's flats in my size. I laid the outfit out on the bed slowly and deliberately, as if the items might spontaneously vanish if handled wrongly. The outfit wasn't stylish; it didn't even match that well. But I couldn't have cared less, because it was real, and it was here. I stood like a statue, gazing down at the clothes on the bed. No one was home. I knew that. I knew that. But this was a fragile moment, and I couldn't let anything spoil it. The house was silent. I began to dress.

I had imagined over and over what it might be like to wear these kinds of things, and had even convinced myself that imagination was enough. I realized it wasn't even close. The bikini bottom clung to me, even a little tightly, but I did not mind. The tights were cool on my legs, and the skirt felt loose and free. The bra went on fine, balled-up socks slipped in the cups. The blouse was thin, soft, and airy, and the shoes comfortable. My hair was just above shoulder length. I had put off a haircut as long as I could, and I usually kept it messy. But just as I'd hoped it would, the day had come where I could brush it out nice and fix it into a presentable style. I knew from past attempts that I could wrangle my hair into a small side ponytail that didn't look completely awful. My heart leaped into my throat as I thought about how it would look with my complete ensemble. However, as I fixed my hair, I forced myself not to look at my reflection. Not yet. When the time came to look, I did not want to see the stranger standing there.

I was no expert with makeup, which was made even worse by the fact that I did not use a mirror. I did know a little, however, and I took great care in applying it. My hands shook as I put on foundation and some modest lipstick. I was deathly afraid of what I would see when I finally confronted the mirror. I was afraid that nothing would be different. Before I knew it, I had exhausted my knowledge of makeup application. I didn't want to pronounce myself done. There had to be something more I could do, but I could think of nothing. As the minutes slipped past, I remembered that mom would be home soon. Her arrival would definitely shatter a moment like this one, so I had to do it soon. I had to do it. I had to. I would be just like playing hide and seek. I had been facing away from the person I needed to find this whole time. All I needed to do was count down and then...and then look for her. Five...four...three...two...one...

"Ready or not, here I come," I whispered. And I turned around.

My mouth opened in surprise, and the girl's did too. Her hair was short, arranged in a cute side ponytail. Her blouse curved gently with the swell of her breasts. Her grey skirt fell to about mid thigh, drawing attention to her white-clad legs, which looked like they belonged to a ballet dancer. Her shoes were shiny and black, and when she shifted her weight from side to side they made soft clacking sounds on the hardwood. And her face...her skin was smooth, and her eyes and lips seemed to pop. She smiled nervously, and the whole room seemed to light up. The stranger was nowhere in sight.

I heard distantly the jangle of keys, the turn of a lock and the creak of a door. Mom must be home, I thought. Somewhere I felt a twinge of urgency, but it was distant and numb. All I could care about was the girl in the mirror. Now that she was here, I just couldn't let her leave. Now that she was here, the world felt right. Footsteps on the stairs. Mom was probably just down the hall. I didn't move. As long as I didn't move, the girl in the mirror wouldn't either. And that was all that mattered to me.

She was here. She was me. The stranger was never coming back.

"Hey, are you here?" My mom's voice from the hallway.

"I'm in my room," I called back. I smiled nervously. The girl smiled back.

Ready or not, here I come.