Ethan’s World

by Daphne Childress

Ethan Martin and his mother live a simple life in a small Southern town... with a twist: She makes dresses to pay the bills and he helps out as best he can.
 

Chapter Thirty-Six: Mrs. Campbell Pays a Visit

More awkward and embarrassing fun, this time with Ethan’s favorite teacher.
 

Ethan’s hands were sunk in warm, soapy water, fingers fumbling against the slippery curve of a breakfast plate. He didn’t look much like the typical middle school boy—a soft yellow apron, neatly tied at the back, clung damply to his front where a few droplets had splashed, protecting the green gingham dress underneath. His headscarf—also yellow, checkered like a little farm wife’s kerchief—was tied around his hair with a snug bow like a pair of rabbit ears atop his head, keeping his stray locks from falling into his eyes. White lace-trimmed ankle socks and soft cleaning slippers completed the picture, so that if his mother had walked in just then she would have sighed in satisfaction and declared him “her little housewife.”

But Colleen was out at the moment, taking care of the Saturday morning shopping. The house was quiet, save for the small sounds of domesticity—the hum of the refrigerator, the occasional clink of a spoon, the faint tap of a clock.

Ethan worked quickly, efficiently, fretting that his mother might come home sooner than expected and find him lagging. He could imagine her raised eyebrows, teasing him with her sing-song, “Darling, what on earth is taking you so long with those dishes? You haven’t been playing video games, have you?” Better to have the kitchen sparkling by the time she returned.

The truth was, he hadn’t played video games in weeks. In months, actually. He’d been too busy, doing his chores, helping with the sewing business, cleaning Penelope’s house, babysitting Niecy, spending time with Dani. And since the beginning of school and all of its activities and responsibilities, he hardly had any free time left. Video games and most of the other things he used to do with his friends didn’t fit in anymore. He just hadn’t had the opportunity—or even the desire.

His thoughts kept wandering.

School was a major pain. The first week of eighth grade had already stretched him thin—new classes, new expectations, the dread of his classmates finding how he’d spent his summer. He knew he’d be ruined if it got out that he’d turned into his mother’s housekeeper and dress up doll, spending more time in vintage-style dresses than jeans, more time running a vacuum than running around the baseball field or riding his bike.

“That would be bad,” he muttered to himself as he finished up the last of the breakfast dishes. “Really, really bad.”

He looked over to see what else was left. There were several bowls and pans left out from his mother’s baking that morning. If he hurried he’d get them done before she got back…

As he started on his mother’s big mixing bowl, Ethan thought about everyone who knew about his secret life and wondered how long it would be before it got out. Too many kids at school knew, Dani, Claire and her friends—even Samuel Torres knew. He was sure that Samuel, the biggest bully at Lincoln Middle School, would have outed him, made him a target of ridicule and had everyone laughing at him. But that hadn’t happened.

Weird.

And then there was Mrs. Julia Campbell. His homeroom teacher. Another keeper of his secret.

He’d had a crush on Mrs. Campbell since the year before, during seventh grade. Just about every boy in his school did, and with good reason. She had a smile that warmed you even when it made you squirm, a way of leaning against the chalk tray, arms folded, tilting her head when she asked a question. It didn’t hurt that she had a body that sparked the adolescent male imagination, breasts that strained against her blouse, a posterior that filled out her skirts, and legs that were a pleasure to look at even when she was scolding you for being late to class.

Ethan’s interest in his teacher backfired on him during summer vacation when she’d caught him dressed as Emily at the Washington County Makers’ Market. He’d been helping his mother with her booth, blonde wig and all, but she’d seen through his disguise. The tables had suddenly turned—where he once enjoyed looking at her, thinking boyish thoughts, some of them quite naughty—he was now the object of her gaze. Ironically, she seemed quite intrigued knowing that one of her students led such an interesting and secret life, and she made no secret of her fascination. She was always very discrete, thank goodness, but every once in a while she’d make mention of it during quiet, private moments between classes, giving him a wink and a warm smile.

“Picked up any new favorites since the fair?” she’d ask. “Let me know, pretty boy. I’d be happy to see them. And you modeling them, of course.”

Ethan bit his lip and squirmed in his panties, trying to settle the tension under his skirts. Mrs. Campbell teasing him was both mortifying and exhilarating—this had become a common problem for him, almost like he enjoyed the attention, the embarrassment. He thought about that often, more often than he probably should, as it always caused him the most awkward—and oddly pleasant—discomfort.

He blushed as he struggled to adjust himself and ease his distraction. Thank goodness for panty girdles. If Mom could tell what was going on down there right now I’d just die!

He set the bowl in the rack, reached for a pan, and sighed. Puppy love, that’s what his Auntie Penelope called it. And it was terribly foolish—what would his favorite teacher say if she saw him right then and there? Oh my, look at the little sissy boy in his little sissy dress, doing his little sissy chores. She’d probably laugh. Or worse, pity him.

A floorboard creaked. Ethan froze. He had locked the back door, hadn’t he?

A voice, warm and amused, drifted into the kitchen: “Goodness, I hope I’m not intruding.”

The pan slipped from his hands and plopped back into the suds. His heart jumped. He turned, suds dripping from his wrists.

Right on cue, Julia Campbell, his homeroom teacher—the fantasy love of his fantasy life—stood in the doorway.

Noooo... how can… this can't be…... not this, not now...

She wore a crisp pale blue blouse tucked into a denim skirt that clung smartly to her waist and hips. Her hair was coiled up at the back, not a strand out of place. Her tote bag slung over one shoulder. On her feet were modest heels, enough to click softly on the tile. She looked exactly as she did at school—professional, tidy, but with a playful air that seemed to ripple beneath the surface.

Ethan could hardly breathe.

“Mrs. Campbell!” His voice squeaked.

She smiled at him—no, through him—taking in his gingham dress, his kerchief with its rabbit-ear bow, the apron tied snug. And though her eyes widened ever so slightly, she said nothing of it. Only: “Hello, Ethan. I was visiting Mrs. Whitaker next door. We were talking about my niece and she mentioned your mother might have another dress for her. She told me to let myself in. I hope I’m not disturbing anything important.”

Ethan wanted the ground to open and swallow him whole. Of course Auntie Penelope would do this. Of course. He clutched the dishcloth to his chest, cheeks flaming.

“You’re… y-you’re not disturbing,” he stammered. “Please—would you like to sit?”

Mrs. Campbell moved gracefully to the table and settled herself. She crossed her legs, skirt falling neatly, dropped her tote on the floor and folded her hands in her lap. “Don’t mind me” she said, her eyes gleaming with delight. “You just finish what you were doing.”

He turned back to the sink, ears burning. His worst nightmare—well, one of his worst… At least it wasn’t Samuel Torres, he thought—had come through the back door and was sitting at the kitchen, watching, studying, grading him as if he was in her classroom taking an exam. Now, each movement felt magnified: the splash of water, the squeak of a dishcloth, the nervous flutter of his breath.

“So, Ethan,” Mrs. Campbell said lightly, “how are you getting along at school? The first week is always the hardest.”

Ethan swallowed. “I’m… managing.”

“I hope the other children are treating you kindly?”

He bit his lip. “Mostly.”

“I heard,” she went on, raising a single eyebrow, “that you had a little disagreement with Samuel Torres. And that your cousin Dani came to your rescue.”

Ethan’s shoulders hunched. Of course she knew. Teachers knew everything. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered. “Dani was there and… ended it.”

There was a pause, then her voice, gentle but teasing: “You’re lucky to have so many strong women around you. Not all boys can say that.”

His blush deepened. He wanted to explain, to insist that he wasn’t helpless, but the words tangled in his throat. Instead he scrubbed harder, trying to will away the mortification.

Mrs. Campbell chuckled softly. “You wash that pan as though the Queen herself might eat out of it. That’s thoroughness.”

When the last bowl and pan were rinsed and set aside, Ethan turned and smoothed his dress nervously. “Would you like some tea? We have iced, or I can make hot.”

“Hot, please,” she said. “It’s a bit chilly outside.”

So he set about preparing it, just as his mother had taught him: water boiled, tray polished, cups matched, sugar bowl centered, spoon aligned. Mrs. Campbell watched the entire ritual, chin propped on her hand, eyes twinkling. When he carried it over, she smiled approvingly.

“Perfectly done, Ethan. Or should I say—Emily?”

His knees nearly buckled. He kept his eyes down as he stood, hands clasped in front of his apron, knees together, his feet pigeon-toed, partly because that’s how he’d been trained, but also to hide his excitement. Thank goodness for his panty girdle.

“Um, it’s just Ethan. Emily is for… um, when I model dresses for my mom at fairs and stuff.”

“Oh, so like a secret identity. Like Batman?”

Ethan nodded, biting his lip. His mother had said the same thing a few times.

“Kind of, I guess.”

“Well, your secret is safe with me, Bruce Wayne.” The teacher shot him a playful wink.

The cross-dressed boy almost smiled. “Would you like a cupcake? We made them this morning.”

Mrs. Campbell raised her eyebrows. “That would be wonderful.”

She watched with amused glee as Ethan got a plate from the sink, walked over to the other side of the kitchen and popped the lid off of a large plastic container. A moment later she had a beautifully decorated cupcake before her.

“Ooo, this looks delicious!” She smiled at Ethan as he placed a small fork on the table next to the plate. “Did you bake these?”

“No… well, I helped. Mom does most of the baking. I did the icing.”

She looked down, amazed. The cupcake had pink frosting and was decorated with little white and yellow flowers. She’d noticed that the other pastries were similarly decorated in a variety of colors, yellow, green, red. All with little icing flowers.

“You did this?” he nodded. “Ethan, this is a lot of work. You’re very handy in the kitchen. You should be proud. I bet it’s fun making these with your mother. Kind of like art class.”

The cross-dressed boy responded with a shy smile. He swayed from side to side as he spoke, hands behind his back—again, knock-kneed and pigeon-toed. “I like being helpful. Mom says I do the icing better than she does, but I just think she’s being nice.”

Mrs. Campbell took a bite, carefully, elegantly so as not to smear her lipstick. “Mmm! Carrot cake and butter cream frosting? Good job, Ethan!”

Before he could reply, another voice chimed in from the back door: “Ah, splendid! Just as I hoped.”

Auntie Penelope bustled in, cheeks aglow. She was delighted beyond measure to find the blushing boy in gingham, serving tea and pastries to his teacher.

“Julia, my dear, you see what I mean? Isn’t he the most attentive little housekeeper?”

Ethan wished the earth would crack open.

Mrs. Campbell hid a smile behind her teacup. “I see exactly what you mean, Penny. I was just telling him how much I love his cupcakes. He’s very thorough with the dishes, too. His mother is one fortunate woman to have such an amazing helper.”

“He’s great in the kitchen, he minds his manners, he’s learning to be a seamstress,” Penelope went on, “and he’s my very favorite maid. He even does laundry. Honestly, I could hire him out.”

“Auntie…” Ethan protested faintly.

But Penelope only patted his cheek. “I called your mother and she said she won’t be home for a little while. When Mrs. Campbell finishes her snack why don’t you take her upstairs and show her Emily’s room? She simply must see it.”

“Emily’s room?” Mrs. Campbell raised an eyebrow. “Really? That sounds intriguing.”

“Oh, it is. I dare say our little housewife here spends more time there than in that awful room he used to sleep in.”

“Auntie!”

“Little housewife? Is that what you are, Ethan?” The pretty teacher laughed. “I love it! It’s a perfect description of everything I’ve seen you do so far.”

And so it was settled. Ethan would take Mrs. Campbell on a tour while Penelope helped herself to the tea and some freshly baked cupcakes. As he led the way he felt a horrible thrill go through his nether regions—the same one that moved him whenever he was about to be forced into doing something really shameful.

 

* * *
 

The cross-dressed boy headed upstairs, each step a trial, his teacher following with amused curiosity. She studied him carefully as he made his way, hips swaying just so, skirt swishing, hands limp-wristed—just like any girl’s—his pink-tipped fingers brushing along the banister.

“I’m curious, Ethan. Just how long have you been wearing skirts? You really handle them so well. It’s almost like you’ve worn them all your life.”

Ethan felt the heat rise in his face and chest. “I, um… just since last summer. To help my mother.”

“Mm, I see. Good for mom.”

Emily’s room was bright with lace curtains and soft bedding. It smelled of furniture polish and baby powder. Framed prints of vintage fashion illustrations hung above the vanity, ballerinas and fairies decorated the other walls. Dolls lined the shelves, from tiny porcelain figures to the vintage fashion dolls to the tall Suzie Homemaker with her toy appliances.

“My goodness, Ethan!” Mrs. Campbell gasped, then laughed. “This room is amazing! I think you have more dolls than my niece. Oh my—Suzie Homemaker? I had one when I was a girl. Lucky you.” She gave him a sly smile. “You don’t actually play with her, do you? You’re a little old for that, I suppose.”

“No—I… I don’t play with my dolls,” Ethan mumbled. “They’re just… display.”

“Your dolls,” she said with mock solemnity. She thought for a moment, then said: “Of course, if you did play with them, it would be nobody’s business but yours.”

The teacher paused, picking up one of the Barbies. “Those were my mom’s, from when she was a girl.”

She laughed as she held up a different one. “You’ve got an ‘I Love Lucy’ doll, too? In her little housewife dress, yet.” She shook her head. “Why am I surprised?”

Smiling, she played with the little dress and examining the material. “Wait, this is new. Ethan, did you make this?”

The blushing boy nodded. “And a few more. I was practicing.

“Practicing, hmm?” Mrs. Campbell smiled. “They’re very well done. Better than the clothes on my old Barbies. Good job, Ethan!”

Ethan pursed his lips. He didn’t know if he should feel mortified or proud.

“What’s this? A GI Joe?” She considered the action figure, her lips pressed together, her eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “Isn’t this out of character for Emily?”

“Um, that was a gift… from my friend Ricky. His father was a pilot in the war.” Ethan cleared his throat. “He thought my Barbies might want a boyfriend, I guess.”

“Mmm… that makes sense. Cute.” Mrs. Campbell smiled. “Is Ricky… Emily’s boyfriend?”

Ethan blushed. “No, ma’am. He lives next door. He has a brain injury from an accident—that was after his dad died—so now he goes to a special school. His mom sews for my mom when she’s not taking care of him. He’s really sweet, but no—he’s not Emily’s boyfriend.”

He thought for moment, then bit his lip. “Or mine,” he murmured.

“I see.” Her eyes drifted to the open closet, where several dresses hung in plain view. She stepped closer, fingers brushing the fabric. “These aren’t for modeling at all, are they? These are… yours… right?”

He nodded, barely.

“And you wear them?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Every day?”

“Not every day, but—” Ethan sighed— “yeah, pretty much.”

Mrs. Campbell nodded. “Do you have a favorite?”

He shrugged, tugging at the yellow gingham he wore.

“You look quite sweet in yellow, you know,” she said softly. She reached over and lightly touched the frivolous bow atop his head. “I just love seeing you like this. I really do wish you could come to school dressed this way.”

His breath caught. Was she teasing? Sincere? He’d heard her say things like that before, but could never tell for sure if she was serious. The warmth in her tone, the mischief in her smile, reminded him of his mother.

And why am I tingling down there? he wondered, both delighted and frustrated.

“I hear you’re a pretty good babysitter, too. Mrs. Whitaker says you’re especially good with six-year-olds.” She looked back at the collection of fashion dolls, picked up one of the Barbies and grinned. “She told me how you make dolls and doll clothes for the children you care for, and put on fashion shows and hold tea parties and all sorts of things. Sounds like you have fun.”

Ethan shrugged, then nodded. “I, uh, take care of a little girl sometime. Niecy. She’s six. I try to make it fun... for her.”

“Fun for her, hmm?” She put the doll back, turned and smiled. “That’s very kind of you. She’s a lucky little girl.” She then raised an eyebrow, as if she had a sudden thought. “You know, my niece is six. Maybe I’ll have my sister give you a call. Good babysitters are hard to find these days. Do you have any openings?”

Again, Ethan couldn't tell if she was teasing or serious. Or perhaps a little of both. “Um, maybe?”

She approached the pink and white painted table where Ethan’s sewing machine sat—actually, it was Colleen’s old one, but he enjoyed tinkering with it—and she ran her fingers along the plastic box holding the Little Miss sewing kit.

“You’re quite special, Ethan,” she said, her tone slightly roguish. “Most boys have model rockets and football or baseball paraphernalia, or video games. Or ugly things, like girly magazines and knives and cigarettes and such. You, you like sewing and playing dress up. And collecting pretty dolls, apparently.”

“My old room has some of that stuff.” Ethan swallowed. “Not the girly magazines and cigarettes and knives, I mean.” He blushed. “Mother would never allow that.”

“Your old room?”

He shrugged. “I don’t go in there much anymore. I’m too busy doing other things, I guess.”

Mrs. Campbell nodded. She was charmed to see a teenaged boy being so shy, so humble in a sweet dress and hairbow. It was a refreshing change from the usual hellions she had to deal with. She didn’t have a child of her own, which made this so special—Ethan’s manner, his appearance, the shy, unsure way he acted in her presence, it all made her want to sweep him up in her arms and hug him as hard as she could.

But she couldn’t, of course. And she wouldn't, not as long as she was his teacher. But that was all right. Anticipation, she’d learned, was the sweetest sauce—and she could live with that.

“Well, Ethan, this is just fine as far as I’m concerned,” she said gently. “I’m so happy you shared your little slice of heaven with me. You’re a very special boy, and I’m glad to know you. You’ll have to invite me over again sometime soon.”

Ethan lowered his eyes, his face burning.

A voice called from downstairs—Colleen, home at last.

 

* * *
 

Downstairs, Ethan watched helplessly while his mother and his schoolteacher exchanged air kisses and hugs liked old friends. Julia explained her errand: another dress for her niece, and Colleen was eager to help, of course. All of them, Ethan included, migrated to the sewing room. Penelope lingered behind, nibbling away at her third cupcake and cup of tea.

After some deliberation, Colleen laid out several dresses on the long table in the sewing room, smoothing each fabric with her palm, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. Julia leaned in, curious, fingertips grazing the hems. Ethan hovered by the door, already dreading what was coming.

“I love all of these, but I can’t quite picture them on her,” Julia confessed with a little shrug. She gave her student a sidelong glance. “She’s quite tall for her age, not quite Ethan’s size, but close.”

Colleen’s smile was quick and sly. “Well then, aren’t you in luck? Darling, why don’t you come over here and give us a little assist? Slip into these so we can see how they fall.”

Ethan’s stomach twisted. “Mother—”

“No arguments,” she said sweetly. “You’ll be helping Mrs. Campbell, and that’s what a good hostess does. Go on now.”

Turning to the teacher, she said: “Size doesn’t matter. We’ll tailor any of these to fit your niece. What’s important is you finding the right style and seeing how it will look on her, how it fits, how it flows. And as she grows into it we can make it grow with her if she likes.”

Mrs. Campbell pursed her lips. “I see,” she said, watching Ethan as he trudged toward the corner where he usually changed clothes. “And that’s where your handy little assistant comes in.”

Colleen grinned. “It is indeed. He’s actually more than my assistant—he’s now a full partner in our business, as well as being my head designer.”

“Oh, really? He designs, too? Now that is impressive.” (As if everything else she’d seen that day hadn’t been.)

“It’s well earned. I just don’t know what I’d do without him.”

Facing away from the women, Ethan slipped out of his gingham and hung it neatly, muttering under his breath. He had modeled dresses dozens of times for his mother’s customers. But never for one of his teachers. And Mrs. Campbell, yet? He wanted to vanish.

He was about to slip into the first dress when he heard: “I like your bra, Ethan.” Mrs. Campbell’s voice was warm, but sly. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s the same style Claire Madison and Vanessa and some of the other girls wear. It suits you, too. Nice choice.”

Colleen laughed. “We wear them with our outfits so we can make sure everything fits right when we make our adjustments. What are we, sweetheart?”

Ethan sighed. “We’re… professionals, Mother.” He tugged at a bra strap, red-faced and humiliated. Great. His favorite teacher talking about his bra. The day could not get any worse. Or so he hoped.

He was wrong.

“That sounds smart,” Mrs. Campbell said. Her eyes suddenly widened. “I just noticed… he’s got on a panty girdle, too? How cute!”

Ethan’s ears burned to hear Penelope butt in: “Oh yes, that’s a recent development. We want to keep everything nice and neat down there. You know, boy stuff,” she added as if she were saying something risqué.

“Oooh, I see. Good idea, that.” The teacher's eyes twinkled as she noted the lack of masculinity in the blushing teenager's profile. “I could tell you ladies the nastiest stories about things boys sometimes do at school. It would make your skin crawl—”

There was some more murmuring—and a few snickers—which Ethan ignored.

When he turned around in the first outfit—a cute play dress with red polka dots and a bow at the collar—Colleen’s voice rang sharp: “Posture, dear heart. Shoulders back. Don’t slouch.”

He straightened, cheeks hot.

“Now smile. You look like a little scarecrow with that frown.”

He forced a smile, weak and stiff.

Mrs. Campbell chuckled softly. “He’s very obedient. Just like at school. Would you mind coming closer, Ethan?”

He shuffled forward. She reached, touching the fabric at his sleeve, testing the weight between her fingers. “Mmm. I love this material. Good seams, too. And the buttons—may I?”

Ethan froze as she fingered the buttons at his bodice. The scent of her perfume sent a thrill down his spine. “Nicely stitched. Does it feel comfortable, Ethan?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered.

“Would you like to wear this to school?” she teased.

His face turned scarlet—Colleen snorted and Penelope hooted.

“All right, let’s try the next one,” his mother said. “Scoot along, little helper.”

“And stop being such a fuddy-duddy!” fussed Penelope. “I don’t know why you’re not smiling. You should be happy to be helping your favorite teacher.”

Mrs. Campbell laughed. “Oh, I’m his favorite, am I? I’m flattered, Ethan. Thank you for the compliment.”

Back in his corner, he changed again, muttering, Mother is showing off. She knows she’s embarrassing me. She always does that, and now she's doing it in front of my teacher!

The second dress was a frilled pinafore with a wide sash and a twirly skirt. When he turned around, Colleen clapped her hands. “Lovely. Now, twirl. Slowly. Yes, like that. Show the back to Mrs. Campbell. No, more graceful—pretend you’re on a stage, Ethan.”

“I’ve done this before,” he mumbled.

“Then do it better,” she replied briskly.

“You’re still not smiling, party pooper,” observed Penelope.

Mrs. Campbell’s eyes were alight with mischief. “Ethan, would please you come over here again? I want to feel the fabric of that sash.”

He obeyed, and she tugged gently at the bow. “Oh, how sweet. And it looks fun to wear. Is it? Fun to wear?”

“I suppose so,” he said, as happily as he could make himself sound considering the circumstance.

“You suppose?” she teased. “I can almost see a smile peeking through. I think you rather like it.”

“Show Mrs. Campbell how it twirls,” Colleen instructed. “I design these little frocks so they always twirl sweetly,” she said. “Watch him and you’ll see.”

Ethan didn’t have any choice. He bent elbows, forearms up, his wrists dangling just so, and he spun about, paused, and then spun back in the opposite direction, just as he’d done dozens of times in the past. He blushed to hear his teacher clapping her hands.

“Goodness, I don’t know what I liked best—how nicely that skirt looks twirling, or what a great job the model does showing it off!”

Penelope and Colleen grinned at each other.

The third outfit was softer, pastel pink with puffed sleeves. Ethan turned around, head down.

“Chin up,” Colleen instructed. “And walk to the end of the room. Slow steps. No stomping.”

“I’m not stomping!”

“Yes, you are,” chided Penelope. “Honestly, Julia, I’m so embarrassed for the boy. He’s rarely like this. Smile, Ethan. Please, for auntie?”

He pasted one on.

Mrs. Campbell tilted her head, studying him. “That shade really brings out his complexion. Don’t you think?”

Colleen beamed. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

“Pink has always been my favorite color on him,” said Penelope, licking her fingers. “Though he does wear a lot of yellow.”

“I noticed that.” Mrs. Campbell beckoned him close again. Her fingers brushed the puffed sleeve. “So dainty. Do you like this one, Ethan?”

He shifted. “It’s… all right.”

“Not your favorite, then?”

“No, ma’am.”

She smiled. “Honest boy.”

By the fourth outfit Ethan was trembling with a mix of irritation and exhaustion. It was a pale blue sleeveless frock with a shirred elastic bodice and a scalloped hem.

Colleen fussed. “Hold your skirt out just a little. Yes, like that. Do a little curtsy.”

Ethan did a slight dip, then stood upright.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ethan! What was that?” Penelope scoffed. “Just do a proper curtsy, please. It’s not like you haven’t done a hundred before now.”

“Auntie… Mother—”

“Don’t grumble, dear heart. Presentation is everything.”

Mrs. Campbell watched, amazed as Ethan obeyed. She was usually in control of her emotions, but the sight of this thirteen year old boy—one of her own students!—performing such an elegant act in such a delicate dress made her giddy.

“My goodness, he’s a natural, Colleen.” She hid her laughter behind her hand. “Even when he pouts, he is adorable.”

“I am not pouting!” Ethan protested.

“Yes, you are,” all three women replied at the same time.

Colleen smirked. “Oh, Ethan, you’re just being stubborn. This should be fun for you, as many times as you’ve done it.”

Penelope giggled. “I think he’s being shy because he’s got a crush on his teacher and he’s embarrassed to be seen in his girly clothes.”

“Well, I think he’s doing a very nice job of it.” Mrs. Campbell’s gaze softened. “Ethan, honey, you don’t have to be embarrassed. Remember what I said? I’m on your side, Bruce Wayne.”

“Bruce Wayne?” Colleen raised an eyebrow.

The pretty teacher winked. “It's just a little joke between us. You know, secret identities and all that.”

“Oh, I see.” Colleen smiled. “Well, now, that makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it?”

The cross-dressed boy bit his lip. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Campbell. I’ll do better.”

“You’re fine, dear, I promise.” She nodded. “Now, would you walk toward me, please?”

He obeyed. She reached out, running her hand down the scalloped hem. “Beautiful stitching. Does it feel nice?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She smiled. “Do you think a six-year-old girl might think it's fun to wear?”

Ethan thought for a moment, then nodded. “I think Niecy would like it, so... yeah.”

Colleen and Penelope traded winks.

“Well, like I said, it’s beautiful and you look beautiful in it.”

Ethan gave her a shy smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Campbell.”

Colleen brought out the final outfit, a pale yellow chiffon tea dress sprinkled with little white hearts. Ethan took his time putting it on, his movements at long last graceful and relaxed. The fabric was light, airy, and floated when he moved, almost as if he was wearing nothing.

He turned around carefully, with an inner rhythm that he lacked earlier. As he twirled about, all three women gasped softly.

“There now, that’s more like it,” Colleen said with triumph. “Look at him.”

Mrs. Campbell’s eyes glowed. “Yes. Elegant, almost fairy-like. He moves like a ballerina.”

Penelope cooed, “He can when he wants to, that’s for sure.”

Colleen ordered: “Now, walk toward us, Ethan. Lift your chin. Smile. Mind your hands. That’s it, darling, imagine you’re a young lady at her first dance.”

The teacher laughed, causing Ethan to blush even redder than before.

“Mom, please stop saying stuff like that.”

Despite his fuming he obeyed, slowly moving forward, his hips wiggling slightly, the chiffon swaying around his legs, a shy smile on his lips.

Mrs. Campbell leaned forward. “Ethan, come here, please.”

He walked, carefully, elegantly.

She touched the chiffon, fluffing the hem, light as air between her fingers. “Lovely. And you wear it well.”

He swallowed. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Would you wear this one again? Do you think Niecy would like it?”

“I—maybe. I know Niecy would, for sure.”

She glanced at Colleen for a second, then smirked. “So, which one do you like best so far?”

He hesitated, then whispered: “This one, I guess. The chiffon… is very nice. It’s so light and fluffy.”

“I thought so too. I’ll take it!” Mrs. Campbell’s laugh was warm and throaty. “And the polka dot one, too.” She gave Ethan a side-long glance. “You were right, Colleen. He really is your best salesgirl.”

Colleen nodded, pleased. “And he knows how to show it, too. My best little mannequin… once he warms up.”

Ethan wanted to protest, but his voice caught. He stood in the chiffon, cheeks aflame, the three women looking at him with approval and delight.

Arrangements were made, a check was written—at a very nice friend-of-the-family discount—and hugs exchanged. Ethan stood in the dress—no longer quite the mannequin, not yet the model by his own choosing—heart drumming, cheeks warm. Mrs. Campbell gathered her purse, then paused, that thoughtful teacher’s pause that always meant one more thing.

“It just occurred to me,” she said, all casual courtesy, “Mrs. Sterling—Ethan’s English teacher—has a daughter in seventh grade who would look adorable in any of these. Would you mind if I give her your number, Colleen?”

The sentence fell like chalk dust in a sunbeam—visible, floating, everywhere.

Seventh grade? That would mean—

Ethan felt the room tilt: classrooms and daughters and the braided rumor-traffic of a small school. He gripped the sewing table at his side and felt the cool wood surface, a real thing in a tipping world.

Colleen, untroubled, said, “Of course,” and Penelope added an unhelpful “Marvelous!” around a mouthful of cupcake.

“Is that all right with you, Ethan?” The schoolteacher looked at him with the same expression she’d have when asking him to repeat the instructions of an assignment. “I won’t do it if you have any objections.”

Three sets of eyes zeroed in on him. There was an expectation and only one way to handle it. Ethan nodded ever so slightly.

“Y-y—yes, ma’am. Th-tha—that’s fine. We… I’m happy to help out… in any way… I can.”

His reply was met with an ever so subtle, mischievous grin.

He felt ill, realizing that he had just signed off on his own doom. His teacher had set the trap for him, and he blindly fell into it. The light in her eyes sent another thrill down his spine and set off a new level of tension in his panty girdle.

Mrs. Campbell turned to go, then—one last teacherly adjustment—backed up a step. She looked at Ethan as if taking attendance and finding him present. The smile she gave him wasn’t big; it was certain.

“Thank you for your help today, Ethan,” she said. “Today has been… educational.”

A perfectly ordinary sentence, the kind you could put on a report card and fold into a file. And then—because she was who she was, and because he was who he was, and because the morning had become a little story they would both carry—she added a wink, sly and feather-light.

It landed like a signature.

His head spun. Yet when his teacher turned at the door and gave him that wicked wink, his heart gave the same wild leap it always did in homeroom when her eyes found his.

 

Next, The Dare