The dressing room smelled like aerosol and instant coffee. The idol was running late. Her costume sat on the chair where she'd left it, and the call came through the door — five minutes, grab the spare. You picked up the top.
It went on too easy. The hem of the skirt found your hipbones before your hand did. Hair you didn't recognize fell against your wrists, the color of a pool drain, heavy. You looked in the mirror and saw a stranger blinking back. The boots weren't on the floor anymore. They were on you. Behind the corridor wall, the bass started, and a producer's voice on the headset said the name stitched inside the collar — yours now, apparently — and your knees gave out.
The floor felt far away. The headset kept talking — five-second cue, pre-roll, hit your mark. You stood, wobbling, taller than you should have been. You found the mirror again. The body that stared back wasn't yours, but it was what you had to work with. The bra was already snug. The skirt was already short. Your tongue rested heavy against teeth that felt smaller.
How's the fit, the producer asked. Can you sing. You opened your mouth and a stranger answered. The voice that came out belonged to the costume. A song you had never learned was already inside it, queued up, waiting on the click track. Your jaw moved before your mind did.
Are you ready, he said into your ear. The bass pounded. You didn't know who you were. The dressing-room light flickered once. On the chair, the idol's discarded jacket still kept the shape of her shoulders. The shape on the chair didn't fit you anymore.
***
The lights came down and the screaming kept going. You walked off-stage on legs that knew the way. Someone had a towel. Someone else had water. The producer was already in the dressing room when you got there, and he closed the door behind you.
He said the stage name. He was still buzzing from the show. The vanity bulbs were too bright. His hand was on your shoulder. You were smiling. "You were perfect," he said.
"I was," you said, and your hands were already at the tie on the front of your top. It came loose. The fabric fell away. He stared. He said something you didn't catch. The body knew what came next and started without you. You let it. Your knees opened against him. The skirt rode up on its own. Your back found the cold edge of the vanity. The mirror behind you was warm from the bulbs. He kissed you and your mouth opened to him in a shape your old mouth had never made.
The thought arrived in your head fully formed, and it wasn't yours, and then it was. It was so obvious, and you were sure you'd had it before, but now it felt new, and you were saying it out loud. "I like being this way." He broke the kiss. "Don't stop," you said. "Please." He didn't. The old you was watching from somewhere small. Then from nowhere.
After, he was holding you. He said the stage name into your hair. You said it back, and it sounded like yours. On the vanity, your lipstick had left a print on the rim of the water glass. The print was hers. You smiled at it. The smile was the costume's.