I'm Not Cindrella

Chancing a closer look, I placed one foot on a packed-dirt floor of the kitchen. My other foot followed. I looked back at Cinderella - I mean Gabriella - who watched from the other side of the miraculous door. Behind her, I could still see the sacks of boxes in my grandmother's attic. Gazing into reality while standing in a fantasy was a pretty weird sensation.

Then, without warning, the door began to close. I scrambled to grab it, but something seemed to force it shut. Perhaps Gabriella, th...