The speakers crackled to life, the room fell silent. The sprightly notes of Gaîté Parisienne twirled into the air like bubbles in a champagne glass. Michelle stood at the edge of the makeshift dance floor, heart pounding with excitement. The crowd watched her in wide-eyed curiosity. Most had wandered in off the street, drawn by the music and the energy inside the dancewear shop. Others had been there from the beginning, tacit witnesses to a quiet miracle. This wasn't a performance, not really. This was something else. A declaration? A promise? A...letting go?

She stepped forward, crinoline raised to reveal her panties, thighs and sleek, black stockings. Her breath steadied. Her heartbeat synced to the rhythm of the orchestra. The tempo changed, and Michelle swung into action — a swift, bright pirouette that flared with color and shadow. And just like that, she was dancing.

She spun recklessly about the room, hemline flying over her waist. The spangles on her costume glittered with each movement, petticoats blooming like a flower in the spring wind. She didn't know how she looked, but for perhaps the first time in her life, she honestly didn't care.

The wolf whistles and started almost immediately, climbing with gradual intensity as Michelle crossed the floor in a storm of pleated lace. Judy leaned on the counter, grinning as wide as a Cheshire Cat; Donna cracked something akin to a smile (though she covered it by adjusting her glasses). Every eye in the house was locked on the stunning young danseuse with the black floral hose and the radiant smile. This was one show they'd never forget.

Michelle tossed a kick over her right shoulder, drawing gasps of delight. Frilly white knickers flashed in the noonday light; tight black garters whipped into view. With every step, she felt herself shedding old layers — fear, confusion, the shame that had clung to her like smoke. Gone were the questions that haunted Misha: Do I belong here? Am I pretending? Will they ever see me as I see myself?

The answer was simple.

Yes, she belonged. She was Michelle.

Swirling around on her stiletto heels, she doubled over from the waist and tossed her flocked petticoats over her head. A raucous cheer went up from the mob as her pump, pantied bottom was revealed. She danced with her whole body and her whole being, flowing from classical lines into something freer, wilder, her own style taking shape before the crowd's eyes.

From the corner, little Sally Rainford gasped with wonder. "Mommy," she whispered, "she looks like a princess!"

Gwen smiled, brushing her daughter's hair. "She certainly does."

The final swell of music surged, and Michelle lifted her dress in a wide, joyful arc, bringing the dance to its conclusion. The shop lights shimmered off her costume, but it was her face — so sweet, so young, so utterly feminine — that held everybody captive. She landed in a final pose, left leg thrust saucily forward, skirts raised to her chin, wild roses burning on her cheeks.

And then: silence.

For one eternal second, the world held its breath, then the room exploded into ear-spitting applause. Judy whooped, Donna clapped — briefly, stiffly, but sincerely. Cat-calls echoed through the air. Cameras flashed. Sally clapped as loud as she could, beaming up at the dancer like she was watching a fairy tale come to life.

Michelle stood tall and straight at the center of the room, gleaming white knickers on proud display.

For close on a decade, she'd fought to understand herself, to reconcile the conflicting personas fighting for supremacy within her. Today, that struggle had finally come to an end. She'd become the girl she'd always been; now, forever, always. For the rest of her natural life. And all it had taken was showing her underwear to a room full of strangers.

As the crowd slowly dispersed, Mrs Donna Addler made her way around the counter, clucking irritably under her breath.

"Kid," she said, eyebrows beetling in mock disaproval, "you are trouble."

Michelle's eyes widened.

"Trouble in the best way," Mrs A added with an ambivalent shrug. "You brought in more people than we've seen since the grand opening. And you danced like the building was on fire." She nodded to herself, measuring the girl with an appraising glance. "You ever think of doing this for real?"

Michelle blinked. "You mean… like… professional?"

Judy sidled up beside them. "Well, why not? You've already landed a part in Calamity Jane. Some of the local companies do community shows. Variety performances, fundraisers, that kind of thing. You could audition. You've got something people like to see."

"I'm not even sure what I'd wear," Michelle said softly, only half-joking.

Judy leaned in. "Honey, wear what makes you feel happy. You've got that part figured out, at least. Most people never do."

Michelle smiled.

A short while later, Michelle Waverley stepped outside, adjusted her beret as she made her way onto Lyndhurst Road. The afternoon sun washed the sidewalk in gold. The air was crisp, early-autumn cool. She paused outside LACE & GARTERS (Custom fittings available on request) for a long moment, listening to the breeze, the traffic, the rhythm of her own breathing.

Everything had changed in the space of a single morning.

Misha had arrived at the store wearing borrowed courage and frayed excuses. Michelle was leaving with so much more. Not a perfect ending, not by a long shot, but close enough all the same. She gazed at her reflection in the window, realizing that the girl looking back wasn't a stranger this time. I'm here, she thought, touching her fingertips to the glass.

And for once, she actually believed it.