It was a perfect summer day, one of those endless, golden afternoons when the air was clear and still, with just the barest hint of a cool change in the early afternoon. The shadows beneath the trees were cool and green, the sky overhead a deep, faultless blue. The low droning of a million cicadas echoed from yard to yard.

Kellie Carlyle sped along the sidewalk, generating small tornados in her wake. Her face was flushed and her long brown hair whipped out in a streaming ponytail. Standing on the pedals, she hurtled down Ascot Street, dodging sprinklers and ducking branches. A slender girl in a bright yellow top and a short blue skirt, her eyes were dancing with innocent, child-like joy. School was out, the sun was hot, and the season was spread out before her like an endless white beach.

Easing down on the brakes, she turned left down Greenway and flew through a cold haze of garden spray. She screamed in pleasure as the water touched her skin: a million tiny rainbows shimmered into existence around her. Shaking the moisture out of her hair, she rode high on the saddle, her long legs pumping the stirrups at roughly the speed of light.

Crossing the road, Kellie took the short-cut through Greenway Park, where a bunch of high-school boys were horsing around with a football, trying to impress their girlfriends. Two of them yelled at her to get off the field, rushing at her with their bare chests glittering in the sunshine. Kellie lost them easily, gliding through the commotion with an insulting lack of haste. Baiting the big boys was a well-loved game, one she'd relished almost as far back as she could remember.

Emerging into Lincoln Avenue, she sailed along the bubbling asphalt, ringing her bell as she glided home. The Carlyle house was a highset centennial edifice, the kind of place featured in Better Homes and Gardens in the heritage section. Jess pulled up in front of the low brick fence, straddling her bike and glancing up at the attic window. No shadows, no movement, no motion. Yes: the place was empty, her folks wouldn't be home for hours.

Good!

Ditching the bike without a second thought, she glanced up and down the street to make sure the neighbors weren't watching (a habit she'd formed some years ago - always better to be safe than sorry), then literally dashed up the garden path, eager to get started.

Cheeks flushed with excitement, Kellie locked the front door behind her, sloughing off her backpack and scampering down the hall to the rumpus room. Her heart was racing and her colour was high. She'd been planning this Matinee for days on end, counting down the hours and minutes and seconds until the curtain rose on her Command Performance.

Bursting through the batwing doors, Kellie ran over to the old storage closet where she kept her costumes hidden. Her pulse was racing in her throat, her tummy was quivering with butterflies. It had been weeks since she'd last been left on her own, weeks since she's been able to shed her cumbersome male identity and stand revealed as her true self. Well, the doors were locked, the curtains were drawn and the stage was set. It was time to party!!

Pulling open the chest of drawers at the back of the closet, Kellie started sorting through her wardrobe. So many different characters, so many different identities. She had plenty of time, and literally dozens to choose from, but which one first? The Spoilt Girlfriend? The Sweet Young Thing? The Fashion Model? It didn't really matter, she had the whole afternoon before her. She stood up, making her decision, and peeled her Nike t-shirt over her head in a single fluid movement.

Burlesque!

Yes, she'd begin with a striptease; it had always been one of her favorites. She had at least a hundred different routines to choose from; Vegas showgirls from the Tropicana; Parisian danseuses from the Bal Tabarin, London starlets from The Windmill. Dozens of personas catalogued and stored away in the vault of memory.

Putting a slim hand to her ponytail, she removed a sequined elastic binder, allowing her tangled blond hair to cascade down past her shoulders. With her thick, curly tresses sweeping to her waist in a shimmering gold arabesque, she looked sweet and fragile; a pretty teenaged girl with crystal blue eyes and flawless, alabaster features. Kellie had been rather fortunate in this respect. She'd possessed a sexually ambiguous appearance since her early childhood, and the recent onset of puberty had little effect on her largely androgynous form.

Thowing off her jeans with a casual gesture, she slipped rapidly into her costume, starting with a pair of shimmering lace panties. Her entire nervous system flared with pleasure as each gossamer layer touched her flesh. Putting on her outfit was like assuming a new body. She always felt this way before the curtain rose on her Grand Performance: a swirling rush of backstage anxiety and moist, rippling expectation.

Glancing towards the nearby cheval, Kellie reached for her delicate red corset, its adjustable suspenders and hook-and-eye closure promising a perfect fit. The mere sight of it filled her with a mix of excitement and nervousness. Securing the basque around her waist, she carefully stepped into a pair of seamed midnight stockings, mindful not to tear the sheer fabric. Adjusting the garters to mid-thigh, she turned to face the mirror, savoring the sensation of the nylon against her skin. Her legs seemed lean and coltish, encased in their ebony sheaths.

Her stomach fluttered with anticipation as she gazed at the reflection before her. The girl in the mirror stood tall and slender, exuding a quiet elegance. Her lustrous blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing her face and highlighting her large blue eyes. She appeared youthful, perhaps in her late teens, with an innocent, almost dream-like quality.

The ensemble was nearly complete, but the skin-tight black dress remained. Arching her back, Kellie drew the shimmering lycra hemline over her head, the material stretching gracefully down to her knees. The dress was a masterpiece, adorned with intricate red stripes running both sides. Exquisite lace traceries embellished the shoulder straps, infusing the outfit with a hint of allure. She complemented her regalia by donning long, crimson opera gloves and slipping into gleaming stiletto heels, their sharp points clicking softly against the floor.

As she stood before the mirror, the transformation was striking. The dress clung to her form, accentuating her silhouette, while the accessories added a flair of sophistication. Her reflection exuded confidence and grace, embodying the essence of the character she was about to portray. With a final adjustment of her gloves and a deep breath, she was ready. The stage awaited, and it was time for the show to begin.

Closing her eyes, she began transforming the room around her, willing The Playhouse into existence. An auditorium began to materialize — a grand, cavernous space bathed in the warm glow of the main spotlight. The air was thick with the scent of aged velvet and polished wood, a symphony of sounds filled the space: the soft murmur of an eager crowd, the distant rustle of costumes backstage. The moment was at hand, the curtains poised to rise, and the magic of the performance awaited.

The weight of the evening settled upon her. The anticipation was palpable, the silence before the storm. The night was shattered by a staccato clash of drums; lights dimmed in preparation for the spectacle. The Theater leapt into sharp, technicolor resolution, its looming walls darkened by drifts of purple smoke. She could actually hear the quavering notes of the orchestra tuning up, the low, droning rumble of a moody audience —

And suddenly, Kellie Carlyle was on stage.

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