“Grandma!”

“Mary, what are you doing home?”

Leaning against the Black Box Theater’s freshly painted wall, I quickly reviewed the scene’s opening lines in my head. Then, I glanced down at myself, at that loose, loathed skirt I had forced myself to wear for this performance.
This is the way that I, Mary Tilford, dress.
The waistband of the skirt closed in snugly around my hips.
I dared a brief look at my classmates. They were clustered at the back of the room, rocking back and forth in the foldable chairs. In the sharp light, every detail of their faces popped out at me, painfully real.
There is no one watching. The only person here is my grandmother, Amelia Tilford.
The audience’s faces grew flat, distant, and alien: mere pictures projected on a screen. The images flickered and vanished.
Now, all I had around me were the primitive props, arranged to give the impression of a living room.

My grandmother’s house is cheery, simple, and cozy—it’s my haven.

Flowery wallpaper unfurled from a corner and swept over every wall. The lonely wooden bench in the center of the room morphed into a worn yet inviting couch. Bright yellow pillows bloomed out of it.

This skirt does not fit at all.

This is the way I dress.

Everyone’s staring at me, waiting for me to begin.

I am alone with my grandmother.

I’m in the Black Box Theater, a drafty, sparsely furnished room.

I am in a humble, warm, and comfy home.

I am Muse L.

I am Mary Tilford.

Swallowing, I smoothed out my clothing, preparing to charge onto the stage. Panic raced through me as I willed myself to move. My feet wouldn’t budge.

I am Mary Tilford.

I am Mary Tilford.

I am—

Stop thinking. Just go. Go.

Taking a deep breath, I barreled onto the stage and bawled my opening line.