I stacked my paintings, rather unceremoniously, in the back seat of my Accord. The sculptures were once more Tetris-loaded into the trunk, surrounded with a few ratty blankets I kept around for the purpose.

The necklace was on the passenger seat, where I could keep an eye on it. I drove with only half my attention on the road, the other half on the necklace, like it was a wild animal that might attack at any time.

Breaking down the show had taken several hours, during which time I sobered up enough to gain a truly impressive headache. I had never hallucinated before while drinking, but then again, I had never imbibed quite so much “San Italiano” at a time, either.

There were certain things I was sure about. One of them was that mysterious girls did not deliver magic necklaces that turned people into women. Equally unlikely was that anyone would have deigned to come to my art show in the first place.

But there was proof sitting on the passenger seat. It had to have come from somewhere. So did the envelope, which I had still not opened.

When I got back to my apartment, I wrapped the necklace in a rag—so as not to touch it with bare skin—and carried it inside. I put it on the kitchen table, took a couple of Advil, and tried to get some sleep.

I think I managed it, for a little while at least. I woke up before dawn, and although my headache was better, my swirling thoughts threatened to bring it back in full force. Finally, I switched on the bedroom lamp and swung my feet over the side of the bed. I had to know.

Even so, I put it off as long as possible. I put on the coffeepot, throwing in an extra measure of Sumatra. I turned on all the lights in the place. I carefully unwrapped the necklace to make sure it was still there. It was, and so was the envelope.

Ah, the envelope! A fine distraction. I fixed my coffee — two sugars, no cream — and sipped it as I slid a finger under the flap.

The card inside was on very high quality paper. It was gray with a silky feel, and the lettering was embossed in gold.

The message printed on the card was simple. “You have been selected as a fellow at Belmont House. Please present yourself, bearing this card, no later than August 15th to accept your place. Room and board are provided.” The address appeared below.

And that was it, no phone number or email address or anything. It might as well have been Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. It was the culmination of all of my hopes and dreams.

Fellowships at Belmont House were for life, or as long as the holder wished to have it. How the fellows were chosen was a closely guarded secret.

Who on Earth would have received a place and then given it up? To a random stranger at the world’s saddest art show in a strip mall in Massapequa?

The same kind of person who would give him a magic sex-changing amulet to complete the disguise, clearly. I sighed and drained my coffee. There was no use putting it off anymore. I had to know whether what happened last night was more than wine-induced dementia.

My bathroom had a standard mirror above the sink, and another taller mirror on the back of the door. I closed that door, and glanced between my twin reflections. I was barefoot, wearing the old college T-shirt and pair of cotton athletic shorts that served me as pajamas. I held up the necklace by the cord and slowly lowered it over my head.

Did my shirt ripple there where the necklace touched? No, I was just breathing heavy. I watched carefully. Nothing. Nothing.

And then...

The shirt began to press out, lifting the cord of the necklace so that the medallion once more hung a few inches from my stomach. The shorts rippled and changed color to lavender, and began to extend their way down my legs. By the time they reached my ankles, my feet had shrunk.

Up above, my arms had skinnied, and my nails were once more painted, the same dark red shade they had been the previous night. There was the same face I had seen in the strip mall mirror, the same bush of red hair tumbling down my shoulders. The hair was tousled now, just as my own had been, and there were smudges of makeup around my eyes as if I had not bothered to clean it off the night before.

I leaned close to the mirror, and the necklace made a tinkling sound against the faucet. I could see my pores, see the sprinkle of freckles on my cheeks. I could feel my hair surrounding my face, and I swept it back behind me.

Another thing I felt, my breasts hanging down as I leaned over. I pressed an arm to them, felt their softness against my arm, the pressure as I held them to my chest. I let go, and they once more swung free.

Suddenly I leaned back and ripped the necklace off my head. As before, it felt as if my skin were being pulled away, a scab being torn off, but within seconds I was once more my usual self.

I must have repeated that sequence half a dozen times. My fear was gone, replaced with a sort of giddy elation. This was magic. Real, undeniable magic! Unless I had gone crazy, but surely insanity would not feel quite this real.

And what’s more, this was magic under my control. Just by putting on that necklace, I could change myself into someone else. My mind reeled with the possibilities, half-remembered desires from childhood that had been buried under countless layers of adulthood.

I put the necklace on yet again, watched the change ripple over me. I looked around as if someone might be watching, but of course there was no one. I still blushed as I tugged the T-shirt over my head.

Well then. That sure was a topless woman in my mirror, moving as I moved. The blush had reddened her chest as well, and her nipples stood up in the cool air, hard and pink. I cupped my breasts, one in each hand, and felt their weight. They were just the right size, full and firm without being out of proportion to the rest of me.

My waist was slim, and I could just make out the start of my hipbones where the lavender pants stopped. I pulled those down next, marveling at my neatly trimmed crotch, devoid of the usual genitalia.

I probably spent half an hour just checking myself out. I checked out my ass. I played with my boobs. I made kissy faces at the mirror. I hiked a leg up on the counter and saw the lips of my pussy part slightly. I stopped short of actually putting a finger up there, but I did examine my clitoris in minute detail, shrouded in its hood. When the coffee worked its way through my system, I sat to pee and felt the wet warmth of the urine as it made its way between my labia. I had already pulled off a bit of toilet paper to fix the situation before I realized that I had behaved just as a real woman would have. This must be why they used toilet paper after.

I heard a blast of music from the other room, which startled me. I hurriedly ripped off the necklace before realizing what the sound was — my alarm. Today was a work day. Regretfully, I left the necklace on the bathroom counter and began to get ready.

Before going to work, I put on the necklace one last time. My button-down shirt and slacks shifted. I was still wearing slacks, but in a ladies cut, with a flowered blouse demurely on top. I was wearing makeup too, a bit of eyeliner and lipstick and mascara, by the looks of things.

To my surprise, my briefcase had also changed. It was now a purse and a separate laptop bag. I pulled open my closet door to find that all those clothes had changed too. My bedspread was different, a light floral print.

How much had putting on the necklace changed?

Quickly, I dug through the purse until I came across a wallet. Inside was a driver’s license, with my new face, and a name. “Cayley Marie Callaghan.” I glanced up to the wall, where one of my favorite paintings was hanging. The signature had shifted. It was hard to read, but having just read the license, I could make out loops and whorls spelling out this new name.

It was not just a new body, but a new identity. How deep did it go? Well, there was only one way to find out.

I removed the necklace, slipped it into the pocket of my slacks, and headed off to work.