In the morning I didn’t look in the bathroom mirror. Not before I showered, following all of May’s steps and trying to not think about last night at all as I went through them. Not that I was scared, just that I was pretty sure I’d melt down if my head went there at all. I skipped washing my hair—I’d learned that much about it as I’d grown it long, that it wasn’t good to wash it every day. I brushed my teeth with my towel on high and tight. Then boyleg panties, bra, and I stood in my bedroom, stumped.

  As we’d put everything away last night, May had walked me through the different matches; shirts to pants, shirts to shorts, tops to skirts, etc. She hadn’t gone nuts, just picked up a couple of items of each style in what she was pretty sure would be my sizes. There’s a million ways to be a woman, she’d said, And to dress like one. Pants, shorts, skirts, you choose for you.

  I wasn’t ready to try the gropy jeans again, but had no idea else. Shorts would be safe, but after last night did I want safe? Did I want to go slow, inching my way into this? What would May wear? She liked her light summer dresses in these warm days, and there was one of those in the wardrobe, but it didn’t feel right. Seeing the top of one set she’d bought hanging there, I finally pulled it down and found the matching skirt.

  Standing in front of the bedroom mirror Carl had found and brought in, I held the items up against me.

  This is crazy.

  Sure, but is it as scary as last night?

  Hell no. You can do this.

  The skirt was easy. Flower patterned, what May had called a “skater’s skirt”, it unzipped so I could pull it up over my hips and zipped closed to lightly hug my small waist without any pinching, flaring out around my legs to fall halfway to my knees. The top stumped me for a moment until I figured it out and then taking off my bra, I unzipped the back of the thing and put it on front to my front. It had its own built in bra layer, which was needed because it was shoulderless, held up by narrow ribbon straps. The zipper was tricky but May was right, I was flexible enough to work around my back and eventually I got it zipped up.

  And then almost changed my mind.

  There was a lot of stomach showing.

  The skirt’s waist had seemed modest enough—it crossed right beneath my bellybutton if I was wearing it right—but the top came up short, hugging my ribcage below my breasts with a good one or two inches of skin between its bottom edge and the skirt. The top of the top was alright, where it rose to my breasts it poofed out, with creases, to cover me snuggly without compressing anywhere. There was no gapping in the top; the neckline ran straight and flat across the top of my chest, high enough to come to just under my pits on the sides. It showed I had breasts, but it was modest.

  So separately each piece was modest but together in the mirror they struck me as more than a little flirty. Then I realized I was looking at myself in the mirror and stopped worrying about my clothing choices. Oh my God. Holy shit.

  That girl was me. I had a narrow waist, trim hips, and small but very there breasts. My bare shoulders were slight, about as wide as my hips. My bare arms looked like twigs compared to what they had been, and my perspective was off but the height of the bed behind me in the mirror was enough to remind me how many inches of height I had lost. I was tiny. And waifish, my big eyes, button nose, and pointy chin looking almost fairylike. Barefoot and in the top and floral skirt I really did look like all I needed was some fairy wings.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Blinking finally broke the spell, and I came back to myself tingling all over. Bibbity bobbity boo. Okay, yeah, that’s, yeah. Shaking myself I found my sneakers from yesterday and fresh ankle socks, tugging them on. I’d set my cellphone alarm early because the Seever family routine started early and running down the stairs, feeling very strange with the skirt fabric shifting around my legs, I turned to the back of the house and the kitchen. There was no one there.

  “Good morning.”

  I screamed and spun around, glaring up at Carl heart pumping. He'd been in the pantry and I’d walked right by its open door. “Don’t do that!” God, he loomed now.

  “Don’t say good morning?” He winked at me, already dressed in a button-down and tie. “Do you want some toast? Also, you look nice. Also, what’s with the screaming? It doesn’t really come with the XX chromosomes, does it?”

  “I—” I had no idea. I’d screamed. I’d screamed several times in the past couple of days. I could write off screaming in the tub—anyone would have screamed when every nerve in their body was on fire—but I wasn’t suddenly a screamer, was I?

  “It really does,” May said, stepping into the kitchen with Steph on her shoulder. “Heightened emotional response to stimuli, heightened reflexive responses. Fright is an emotion and women scream more than men, scientific fact.”

  Carl side-eyed his wife like he didn’t believe her, but let it go. “Toast? Bagel? Protein?”

  “Banana.”

  “Banana.” He stepped back into the pantry and came out with a fresh yellow one.

  “I’ll take one,” I spoke up.

  “And an egg and toast,” May said. “You’re a growing girl.”

  “How do you like it?” Carl asked.

  “Um, sunny side up on top of the toast? Wheat?”

  “You got it. Get the milk and orange juice out.”

  I did, bringing them to the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the dining room. It had four barstools tucked under it on the dining room side, and May slid onto one with Stephanie on her hip. “The monster here has eaten,” she said as I put down a plate for her banana and got glasses. “Come here.”

  When I did, wondering if she wanted me to hold Steph, she reached up and ran fingers through my hair. “You forgot to brush it, sweetie, that’s all. You look nice this morning.”

  “Thanks,” I said automatically, feeling weird. I perched on the barstool beside her, not trusting the safety of the kitchen with how fast Carl was moving through it from stove to counter to cupboard and back as he threw everything together, protecting his business shirt with a chef’s apron. I poured myself an orange juice and was sipping it when May tapped my leg. When I looked down she put her own pants-covered legs together. Oh.

  Blushing, I closed my knees and pulled the skirt from between them, smoothing it out. She gave me a wink and whispered, “Legs together, Dress and Skirt Wearing 101.”

  I should have worn shorts.

  *********************************

  Carl made both of us toast and did two sunny side up eggs in the same pan, deciding to try my breakfast preference for himself. He buttered the slices with military precision, slid the eggs onto them, dropped silverware on the plates, and joined us at the bar.

  “I like it,” he pronounced, a forkful later. “Yours alright?”

  I scrambled to take a bite and nodded. Plenty of butter, light on the salt and pepper. “Perfect. Thank you.”

  “So polite.” He wolfed down the rest of his egg on toast, guzzled a glass of orange juice, laid a smacking kiss on May, looked at me awkwardly and was gone, leaving me blinking.

  “That’s Carl on a Monday,” May said, popping a banana slice in her mouth and feeding a piece of another one to Steph who wanted in on the action. “Could you grab me a hand towel?”

  So my first Monday with the Seevers got underway.