The gravel crunched under my feet as I walked up the driveway. I paused at the door, feeling like an actor about to stumble through opening night without rehearsals.
The door swung open before I could knock. A man stood there, mustached and tall, with a flannel shirt tucked too neatly into his jeans.
“Grace! Where have you been?” he asked, pulling me into the house with a relieved embrace.
For a moment, I was overwhelmed by the warmth of it, the unfamiliarity of this body being wrapped in fatherly concern.
“Uh… just out with some friends,” I managed to mumble.
“Your mom’s been worried sick,” he said, leading me inside.
The house smelled of fresh paint. It looked exactly like one of those homes in magazines where everything matched perfectly.
“Jim! Is that Grace?” A woman appeared from the kitchen.
She had warm eyes and the same brown hair that now framed my own face pulled me into a tight hug.
“Oh, honey, we were so worried. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
“It... died,” I said, surprised by how easily the lie came.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” she said before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Jim gave me an affectionate pat on the shoulder and gestured toward a staircase.
“Go wash up before we eat.”
I climbed the stairs, passing framed photos that lined the wall: family vacations, school portraits…
I had no idea where her room was, but I soon found the door with a wooden plaque that read “G.”
I felt weird barging into some kid’s room like this. It was strange to even think of it that way. This was some teenage girl's room. It was Grace's room. I had to remind myself that, for now, I was Grace. Did that make this room mine now? I guessed it did.
A row of ribbons tacked up above a desk declared GRACE THOMPSON: FIRST PLACE. I scoffed in disbelief.
Oh God. What did her dad mean by “wash up”?
I coyly sniffed her armpit.
Oh.
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