Last summer she was barely a girl. Her gender seemed a gimmick, meagerly sustained by the glamour of dimestore lipstick and bubblegum pop pink skirts. Sometimes it was an old bathrobe gone frayed at the seams, a few sizes too big, too.

Maquillage and glitter and the memory of exchanged glances trickled down the bathtub drain, easily, after nights of dancing in humid, smoky clubs.

Sometimes she couldn't find her in the morning, despite an attentive exploration of the scrubbed countenance that stared back at her, wide-eyed and naked, in the bathroom mirror.

Staring at her bare feet and measuring her hips with her hands, she wondered, Where's the girl?

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