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 Eleven: Mama's Boy, Part Two

Mama’s favorite boy goes on an adventure.

The exterminator’s truck had a cheerful cartoon mouse painted on the door--grinning even as a skull-and-crossbones bottle hovered over it--which, in Ethan’s opinion, was deeply unfair to both mice and boys with nerves. Wearing his blonde Emily wig and a brightly colored sundress, he stood on Penelope’s front walk, using the baby stroller before him like a shield. The man in overalls had said “an hour, maybe two, ma’am” to Penelope, nodded and smiled at the cross-dressed Ethan, and then disappeared inside with an armful of traps and a purposeful stomp.

“Now,” Penelope had said, patting the handle of the stroller, “my darling Gingersnap must not get caught in one of those traps. You’ll take her to the park for the afternoon, won’t you, pet? For at least an hour or so. Sit under the willow tree. She especially enjoys its shade.”

“You have mice?” Ethan had tried, helplessly. “I thought cats were supposed to take care of mice.”

Penelope sniffed, the kind of sniff that suggested generations of Whitakers had perfected it. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you. But Gingersnap, bless her heart, is above all that. She’s a lady, not a mouser.”

“But, Auntie, a baby carriage?” he had asked, glancing at the pink and white painted contraption with its ruffles and lace, padded interior, and oversized eyelet pillow. “That’s just weird. Can’t we lock her in a room somewhere?”

“Pfft! Shows what you know about cats. You can’t just lock them up. That’s cruel! And it’s a stroller, not a carriage. Gingersnap just adores it.” She smirked as she stroked the gigantic pink satin bow atop the stroller’s hood. “She feels looked after. Don’t you, my duchess?”

Gingersnap, a marmalade puff of self-regard, blinked benevolently from the nest of linens and let out a delicately performative yawn.

One more time, Ethan tried to change the old lady’s mind. “You know, I could do this in my jeans and a T-shirt.” He looked down at the ridiculousness of his traveling clothes. “It would be a lot easier--”

“Au contraire, mon cheri,” she cooed. “Scruffy adolescent boys in untidy apparel often get into the worst kinds of mischief, and we can’t be having that.” She clutched the scarf around her throat, her face taking on a theatrical, distressed expression. “Gingersnap might get anxious and run away--and that, my darling, would not be ‘easier.’”

“But--”

“Besides, I’m paying you well, Miss Emily.” Penelope tried not to giggle as she surveyed the effeminate boy in his flowery sundress standing next to the equally ornate stroller. “Now scoot along before I start docking your wages for time lost.”

“Yes, Auntie.” Ethan sighed, double checked his supplies and his dress. He then put on a white straw sunhat with an upturned brim--“I know you think the wig protects you, poppet,” his mother had said, “but you really need to watch out for heat stroke.”--and he gripped the stroller’s pink wooden handle. “Ready?” he whispered to Gingersnap. The cat looked regal, which he took as yes.

The cross-dressed boy set off, the antique stroller rattling before him, the long stretch of sidewalk feeling like a parade. He knew exactly what he looked like: a prissy, spoiled little girl in an overly frilly outfit pushing a childish baby carriage. Stroller. Whatever. Nothing at all like a twelve year old boy who once spent hours playing video games and reading comic books.

He felt self-conscious in his brightly colored sunflower-print dress, its corset-style bodice a snug band around his chest, spaghetti straps kissing his shoulders. He felt like he was practically naked from his ribs down, the high waist being attached to a flouncy skirt that lifted with each step, brushing his thighs high above his knees. He was maddeningly aware of his flimsy panties and the fact that a stray gust might show them off to the neighborhood. White sandals announced themselves with soft taps on the pavement. The blonde wig--topped off by the childish sunhat decorated with a yellow grosgrain ribbon--was pinned carefully, though he had learned the hard way that “carefully” still allowed for sudden betrayal in a stiff breeze… or someone giving it a good yank.

This is just awful, he thought. I swear, if anybody recognizes me I’m moving to Australia, I don’t care what Mom says!

He hadn’t gone more than twenty feet when, to his dismay, he saw his mother next door, pruning roses with a pair of shears, her apron tied over a muted orange gingham dress, her hair tied back with a matching kerchief. She looked up, saw her son befrocked son pushing the ornate baby stroller, and her whole face lit with the kind of delighted smile that made Ethan’s ears burn.

“Oh, aren’t you the cutest thing I’ve seen all day! Hold it right there, Emily,” Colleen called, already fishing her phone from the pocket of her apron. “Just a quick one--my sweet little housewife off on an adventure!”

“Mom…” Ethan groaned, trying to tug the short brim of his hat down as he posed stiffly, one hand on the stroller’s handle, the other caught mid-gesture. Gingersnap peeked out just as she took the photo, adding insult to injury.

“This is so adorable--and these will look great on my sewing blog.” The phone went click-click-click as she tapped away, getting as many pictures as possible. “That dress is positively radiant on you!”

“Mom, don’t say that word!”

“Mmm, and so fussy, too.” Colleen had a wicked grin on her face as she fired away. “So, where are you two headed off to, anyway?”

Ethan sighed. “Auntie wants ‘Emily’ to take Gingersnap to the park.” He fiddled with the handle to the stroller. “Mom, do I really have to do this? Auntie said so, but come on, this is just dumb! I look like a dumb little girl!”

“No, you look like a sweet little girl.” Colleen lowered the phone, a smug smile curling her lips. “And no arguing, all right? Penelope said this is part of your job, correct?”

The cross-dressed boy sighed. “Yes, Mother.”

“And she’s paying you?”

Another sigh, this one more dramatic. “Yes, Mother.”

“Then I don’t see a problem, do you?” Colleen turned her attention back to her phone, smirking. “Now, give your mother a pretty pose and a smile, or we’ll be here all day.”

Red-faced, Ethan did as he was told, reluctantly smiling and striking a variety of positions, just as he’d done when they took pictures for their sewing business. He dreaded seeing them later that evening, when she’d ooh and aah over the countless shots of her sweet little boy in his sweet little dress, pushing a sweet little baby stroller. He had no doubt that “Emily pushing a baby stroller” would be trending in the vintage fashion forums before bedtime.

“Aren’t you done yet, Mother?” He gritted his teeth as he forced a smile. “I really need to get going--Auntie’s already fussed at me once. If I’m not careful she won’t pay me.”

Colleen nodded. “Oh, all right. I think I got enough. That sunflower print looks darling in the light. Maybe next time we’ll try that butterfly pattern I saw at Joanne’s.” She glanced up, considering the frowning boy for a moment. “How are your lips, baby? The sun’s out and it’s awful hot today.”

Ethan started to say something, then caught himself. He shrugged, then nodded. “Yes Mother, I get it,” he said, pulling out the little pink and red tube he constantly carried with him.

Colleen watched with delight as her cross-dressed son expertly applied a coating of cherry-flavored balm to his lips--a passerby might have easily mistaken him for a young girl putting on lipstick. She managed to get a few photos before getting caught.

“I saw that, Mother,” Ethan fussed. “Please, don’t you have enough?”

“Oh, I can never have too many pictures of my sweet little Emily.” She chuckled to herself as Ethan, pouting, pushed onward down the walk. “Have fun, darling.”

And so they continued their journey, Gingersnap napping and Ethan mincing along with his sandaled feet, pushing the stroller and feeling quite the fool. The rickety wheels gave a faint, prim squeak as they traveled, the pink satin bow atop the stroller a reminder of how silly the whole situation was.

He’d been in the public eye before plenty of times as Emily, usually at arts and crafts fairs or dress shops, but that was when his mother was around and his audience consisted mainly of older women shopping for their little girls. Now, on his own in territory where he was known, in the neighborhood where he’d lived all his life, he could feel, with sharp clarity, his anxiety built. The press of the tight bodice as his breaths got shallow, the loose, unsure waistband of his panties, the way the skirt tickled his thighs, the ticklish fear that his hat would tilt, his wig would slip, someone would shout his name--all made for jittery nerves and a dry mouth.

He’d made that gauntlet before in his regular clothes--boys calling to him--as ‘Ethan’--to come toss a ball, to share in some gruesome discovery, to tell dirty jokes, to be what they thought a boy should be--and he had made his choice then, to keep walking home to his mother. Mama’s boy, they’d jeer, as if the words were a stain.

Mama’s boy, mama’s boy, Ethan is a sissssyyyyyy!

Mama’s boy, mama’s boy, Ethan is a sissssyyyyyy!

Today’s errand had the air of a dare he was giving himself: do the thing, in the bright daylight of a summer afternoon, in a flouncy, flowery sundress, with a cat in a baby stroller. He kept his chin up and tried to think of Colleen’s voice reminding him that poise was sometimes just a breath you held long enough to make it across a room.

Don’t worry your pretty little head, she’d say. Nobody sees you--it’s Emily they’re looking at.

The park sat five blocks away--a small town square of green with a bandstand, some benches under old trees, and a playground of squeaky swings and metal slides that burned legs in the noon sun. He wheeled Gingersnap along the sidewalk past tidy hedges and porch fans that churned the heat into palatable breezes. Two ladies on a porch waved. A bunch of little girls in ponytails and pigtails and hairbuns exclaimed, “Pretty baby!” and then, confused by whiskers, stared in astonishment. They then squealed “Pretty kitty!” clapping their hands, jumping up and down delight. Ethan smiled weakly and quickened his steps, the sound of his sandals both an embarrassment and a comfort.

* * *

Things went smoothly for the next few blocks. While Ethan was still painfully self-conscious about his appearance--and his assignment--he allowed himself the rare luxury of drifting into his thoughts. Despite everything, his summer hadn’t been all that bad. He and his mother were getting along better than ever, and helping with her business was actually kind of fun, even if it meant dressing up as a girl more than he wanted.

A breeze lifted the brim of his straw sunhat, and he pressed it down absently, glancing at Gingersnap dozing inside the stroller. The little cat was curled atop a folded lace blanket, the pink bows at the corners fluttering like sleepy eyelids. The wheels whispered along the sidewalk, a rhythm almost soothing. For the first time that day, Ethan relaxed.

Then voices--bright, sharp, unmistakably girls’ voices--spilled around the corner ahead of him.

He looked up.

Claire.

And with her, Whitney and Lindsey.

A jolt shot through him, his stomach flipping. He froze for half a second, eyes darting down to his sunflower-print dress, the fatness of his bodice and the helpless stretch of his bare shoulders. The skimpiness of his panties. The ridiculous stroller gleamed white and pink in the sun like a prop from a baby pageant. In contrast, the girls were all tank tops and shorts, ponytails and sneakers, smartphones and bubble gum.

I’m dead, he thought.

He considered ducking into the corner shop, but it was too late. Claire’s gaze had already locked on him.

“Heyyy, isn’t that Emily?” she called out, drawing out the name with a teasing singsong.

Whitney’s head snapped around. “Oh my God, it is! Emily, you little cutie, come here!”

Lindsey burst into giggles. “Oh, this is too much! He… uh, she’s actually pushing a stroller! How funny!”

Ethan’s throat closed. He kept walking, but the girls had already changed course, the clatter of sandals and sneakers closing in on him. He shivered at the fragrance of their combined colognes.

Claire got there first, looping a bangle-clad arm through his. “You look adorable, Emily,” she said, her voice light, maybe too light. “Why, that dress makes you look, what, eight years old?”

The cross-dressed boy pouted. “My mom made it for her business. I… I’m just, um… testing it out.”

“Ooo, his mommy made it for him!” Lindsey cooed. “Isn’t that sweet? Mommy made her little girly-boy a pretty dress!”

“Sweeter than candy,” Whitney sang, giggling.

“Well, I think she did a great job with it! You’re just adorable!” Claire beamed. “And I love the hat. So… retro.”

“Th-thank you,” Ethan managed in his high, breathy Emily voice.

Whitney leaned down to peek into the stroller. “And who’s this little princess? Oh--a cat!” She squealed. “You’re actually taking your kitty for a walk in a stroller? That’s… wow. You’re, like, a next-level goody two-shoes!”

“It’s not my…” Ethan squeaked. “She… my auntie--”

Lindsey clapped a hand over her mouth. “Seriously, I can’t,” she snorted. “It’s too much. The ribbon, the blanket… the pinkness of it all! Oh. My. Gosh.”

Ethan’s hands tightened on the handlebar. He could feel the heat rising up his neck.

Claire crouched, stroking Gingersnap’s fur. “Hi there, baby. Such a good little lady.” She straightened, smiling at Ethan. “Honestly, though, you look really cute, Emily. This whole set up, the dress, the stroller… those sandals… it all suits you just perfectly.”

Her compliment was real enough to sting. “Thanks… I guess,” he murmured.

Whitney grinned, blowing a pink bubble. “So where’s our little miss off to today? Gonna strut that sundress at the park?”

“Maybe she’ll meet some boys,” Lindsey said with mock innocence. She flipped the hem of his dress. “Think they’ll like her sunflowers?”

“Stop it,” Ethan said, trying to keep his voice even. Before he could stop her, Whitney flipped his skirt up even higher.

“Ooo, what pretty panties you have on, Emily!” The preteen laughed. “Way prettier than mine.”

“Mine, too!” Lindsey squealed. “I always wondered what he wore under all those frills. And now we know.”

“I said stop it!” Ethan struggled to hold down his skirt and keep his grip on the stroller. “You guys, this isn’t funny!”

Claire chuckled. “Oh, come on, we’re just teasing. You’ve got to admit though, you do make it easy, Emily. You’re practically glowing.”

He bit his lip, eyes darting toward the end of the block--desperate for escape. “Please. Just leave me alone.”

Whitney’s grin sharpened. “Aww, what’s wrong, Ethan? Did we hurt your feelings--ETHAN?”

“Don’t--don’t call me that!” His head jerked up and he looked around for passersby. “Somebody might hear you.”

Lindsey tilted her head, her tone suddenly edged. “Why not, Ethan? That’s your name, isn’t it, Ethan? Unless you really are a little girl now… ETHAN.”

Whitney joined in with: “Yeah, Ethan! Are you a little girl, Ethan?”

The cross-dressed boy’s eyes glistened. “I’m not--just go away!”

“Ooo, he’s getting touchy all of a sudden.” Whitney laughed. “You better watch out, mama’s boy. Somebody might snatch that wig off your pretty little head.”

Ethan’s hands flew to his sunhat, pressing it down hard. The gesture made them laugh even harder.

Claire exhaled, stepping between them. “Okay, enough. Don’t be so mean.” Then, glancing over her shoulder at the blushing boy, she added, “And calm down, Ethan. We’re just having fun.”

He stared at her with shiny eyes, bewildered. “Claire--”

She looked him up and down, shaking her head with a crooked smile. “Well, what do you expect, prancing around in a little outfit like that? And pushing a baby stroller? Honestly, Ethan, you’re more of a sissy than even I thought.”

The words landed like pebbles tossed at glass--small, sharp, breaking something unseen.

Whitney slipped an arm around his shoulders and lifted her phone for a selfie. “Smile, pretty boy!”

Before he knew it, Lindsey crowded in on the other side, and Claire leaned close, lips pursed in a teasing pout.

“Come on, everybody say Ethan is a mama’s boy!”

He could hear the rapid click-click-click of the phone’s camera.

“Whitney… please. Claire--”

Whitney checked the photo and burst out laughing. “Oh my gosh, that’s perfect. Look at his face! He looks like he’s about to pee his panties!”

“Send it to me,” Lindsey said, already fishing out her phone. “Better yet, put it in the group chat with Tara and Maddy. They said he was a mama’s boy… they’ll just love this!”

“Hold on, let’s get some of him with his stroller. Smile, mama’s boy!”

Ethan scowled as the girls took their fill of pictures. “Happy now?” he said, pouting.

“Oh, totally.” Whitney grinned as she scrolled through the photos. “These are amazing!”

Claire sighed, grasping her friend’s hand. “Come on, you guys. Let’s go. Leave him alone.”

“Okay, okay,” the pretty girl smirked. “’Bye, Ethan! Good luck finding a boyfriend!”

Lindsey chipped in with, “Yeah, Ethan, see you later, mama’s boy!”

Ethan stood frozen, his cheeks burning. His fingers trembled on the stroller handle.

As the girls sauntered off--their smooth legs and bare shoulders shining in the sunlight--he could still hear their voices, fragments caught on the wind:

“Did you see the hat?”

“Pfft! What about those panties?”

“What a wuss… total mama’s boy.”

“I can’t believe he had a crush on you, Claire!”

“He’s probably crushing on some guy now… why else would he dress like that?”

When they were finally gone, the street seemed too bright, too quiet. Even the birds had gone still.

Gingersnap yawned inside the stroller, flicking her tail lazily.

Ethan took a shaky breath, blinked back the sting behind his eyes, and looked down at his reflection in a nearby shop window. The glass threw back a blur of yellow and white--the upturned brim of his sunhat, the childish sundress, a pair of thin arms clutching at dignity.

He looked like a picture in a storybook, the kind his mother used to read aloud--except the boy inside had been erased.

For a moment he almost turned back, ready to run home and bury himself under his covers. But then Gingersnap mewed softly, reminding him of his mission.

He squared his shoulders, adjusting the elastic band of his bodice. “It’s just a walk,” he whispered. “Just a walk, that’s all.”

The wheels of the stroller started moving again, squeaking faintly as he crossed into the dappled shade of the trees leading toward the park.

He could still feel the girls’ laughter echoing behind him, light and cruel and far too familiar--but he kept going, chin lifted just enough to catch the next warm breeze. Gingersnap stretched, yawned, and blinked up at him with perfect feline indifference.

“Well, at least you had fun,” Ethan muttered softly. His voice sounded small, almost swallowed by the rustling leaves in the trees. “Wish I could say the same.”

He bit his lip, embarrassed all over again just thinking of Claire and the others. Their laughter still buzzed in his head, but now it mixed with something else--a dull ache of disappointment. He’d had a crush on Claire since fourth grade and she’d always been kind--or so he’d thought. Maybe she still was, in her own way. Maybe teasing was how girls showed affection.

Still, the phrase mama’s boy stung worst of all.

He sighed and adjusted his wig and the brim of his hat. The ribbon flopped down, brushing his cheek. He kept his eyes down, ignoring the outside world, focusing on the stroller. A boy pretending to be a girl pretending not to care.

* * *

A shadow crossed the path.

“Oh, how darling,” said a warm, lilting voice. “Is that your kitty?”

Ethan looked up to see an older woman in a blue sleeveless dress, a straw purse hanging from her arm. Her hair was soft white, and she smiled down with genuine delight.

“Yes, ma’am,” Ethan said automatically, his Emily voice fluttering back. “Her name’s Gingersnap.”

“What a precious thing! Such a pretty little girl, taking her baby kitty out for a stroll--now isn’t that the sweetest idea?” The woman leaned closer, peering in at the sleeping cat. “She looks perfectly content. I can tell she’s spoiled.”

Ethan blushed, glancing at the lace blanket. “She’s… used to attention.”

The woman chuckled. “Aren’t we all, dear? And you look lovely yourself. What a cheerful dress! I just love your sunflowers. You’re like a little ray of sunshine.”

Ethan’s chest tightened, half from gratitude, half from guilt. He nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Now don’t be shy.” The woman straightened, eyes kind. “I hope you know you’re making a lot of people smile, doing something kind for a creature smaller… more helpless than you. That’s rare these days.”

“Um, thank you, ma’am,” Ethan repeated. Without thinking, he plucked the hem of his skirt and did a little dip.

“My goodness! Aren’t you the sweetest little lady,” the old woman said with a gentle laugh.

And just like that, she moved on down the path, humming to herself, her perfume lingering like lilacs.

Ethan stood still for a moment, watching her disappear into the glare of afternoon.

Funny, how that old lady’s kind-heartedness changed his attitude. Maybe it didn’t matter what Whitney or Lindsey thought. Maybe even Claire. Maybe all that mattered was doing what he promised--obeying his mother… and his Auntie Penelope… and keeping Gingersnap happy.

He looked down at the marmalade furball again, who blinked lazily and kneaded the blanket with her paws.

“Guess it’s just you and me, huh?” he whispered.

Gingersnap purred, a low, steady sound that felt almost like forgiveness.

Ethan smiled faintly, tucked a strand of fake blonde hair behind his ear, and pushed the stroller along the sidewalk. The sun flickered between the trees, warm on his bare shoulders, the ribbon at his hat fluttering like a small, stubborn flag.

* * *

He was almost to the park when he heard it: the low, rattling roar of wheels on concrete.

Uh-oh, he thought. I recognize that sound… please, don’t let it be… I just got rid of--

An instant later his cousin Dani appeared, crouched stylishly over her skateboard as if she’d been born rolling, two neighborhood boys trailing behind her like ducklings. She was at her tomboy best, backwards baseball cap, worn jeans, her ponytail lifted in the breeze--the grin she shot Ethan--Emily--was wicked and fond all at once.

“Well, hello, girly-girl!” she called, kicking off to glide closer. “My goodness, don’t you wook wike a fwesh wittle daffodee-wuh in your pwetty wittle dwess!”

Ethan flushed and shot back, “They’re sunflowers, not daffodils!”

Dani laughed, circling him once with lazy ease, her friends gawking and giggling at the target of their leader’s mockery. “I know that, Sissy,” she crowed, voice full of teasing pride. “I just wanted to see if I could make you cry.”

“You wish,” Ethan shouted, his voice more a squeak than a response to a challenge.

She circled around him again, standing sideways on the board, hands on her hips, legs boldly spread, casually skimming the pavement like a cosmic comic book superhero preparing to launch off on a galactic adventure.

“So, Miss Priss, have you seen my sissy cousin Ethan? He really should be here--pushing a baby carriage is more his vibe.”

“It’s not a carriage, it’s a stroller,” Ethan muttered, gritting his teeth as she came too close--flipping up his skirts was her favorite pastime. He warily turned as she circled him, facing her wherever she went, holding down the hem of his sundress. “Go away! Don’t you have someplace else to be?”

“I always do!” Dani called over her shoulder. “Smell you later, fussy panties!” And with a swoop of her board she and her entourage were gone, swallowed up by the curve of the sidewalk and the clatter of wheels fading down the block.

Ethan sighed in relief. He smoothed out his skirt, adjusted his hat, and pushed the stroller onward, Gingersnap settling back into her cushions with the air of a duchess unfazed by street urchins.

* * *

 

At the park, under the biggest willow tree opposite the playground, he found a bench with a merciful shade puddle beneath it. He guided the stroller into the coolness and set the brake. Gingersnap stood, did a ceremonial knead of the pillow, then rotated once and plopped down with a satisfied huff.

Ethan pulled a small pink and white basket from under the stroller: Gingersnap’s tin of salmon nibs, a bottle of tea wrapped in a dish towel, a plastic teacup and saucer, and a waxed paper packet of lemon crinkle cookies dusted in sugar. His sketchbook came last; he set it on his lap like a secret he might or might not share with himself.

“You know the plan,” he told the cat as he pulled out his chapstick and refreshed his lips. “Quiet hour. Then we go home to Auntie Penelope’s good graces, and I never have to do this again.”

Gingersnap blinked in that way cats do. Then she dozed off again.

He smacked his lips together, savoring the sweet cherry flavor, and put away the little tube. He then poured himself a measured sip of tea, the chilled bottle sweating against his palm, and drew the first few lines of a neckline he’d been imagining--boat-shaped, with a narrow piping in a cheerful contrast. He had half a sleeve down when the shouting reached him.

“You’re such a sissy!” A boy’s voice, high with triumph. “You’re nothing but a little mama’s boy, you little sissy!”

Another voice took up the chant. “Mama’s boy! Mama’s boy!”

Ethan’s pencil stopped in mid-curve. The words fell like rocks into his stomach. He went very still. For a heartbeat he was sure: they had found him--whoever they were. They’d turned some corner and seen a girl with a baby stroller and a fluffy hat and a wig, and realized that girl was a him, not at her, that it was Ethan in that dress with the sunflowers. Ethan the sissy. Ethan the girly-girl--the panty boy. Soon to be the boy with no friends, no future, nowhere to hide.

Heat ran up his neck, sticky and choking. The elastic bodice seemed suddenly too tight, smothering him; he couldn’t get a full breath and he was hit by a sudden urge to pee. His mind raced with options--he couldn’t run, not in that dress, not in those sandals, not pushing Gingersnap; the wig would slip, the hat would fly; the skirt would flash up and--oh gosh, please no!--if someone flipped it, his panties might be--

The voices suddenly sounded… different. Their tone, their direction, not what he’d expected.

“Sissy boy, mama’s boy!” they cried. “Bobby is a mama’s boy!”

He leaned forward, forced himself to peek around the edge of the tree… and see what he could see.

The boys were not after him. They didn’t even know he was there. They were a little knot at the playground, two dozen paces off--maybe nine to ten years old, all elbows and scraped knees, circling someone in the middle. The littlest boy stood like a post in a storm, fists clenched, cheeks blotchy with tears, while the bigger ones poked and pinched him and crowed. “Sissy boy, mama’s boy! Bobby is a mama’s boy!” one of them sang, and the others joined with the awful ease of a chorus that’s been practicing cruelty all summer.

Something in Ethan unknotted--fear loosening into anger so quickly it surprised him. He looked down at himself again, at the absurd dress that somehow made him both invisible and too visible, at the sunflower print, the silly sandals--all of it--and what he felt most of all was a slow burn of protectiveness. He set the tea down. He checked that the stroller’s brake was firmly in place. Gingersnap opened one eye in faint interest.

“Sissy boy, mama’s boy! Bobby is a mama’s boy!
Sissy boy, mama’s boy! Bobby is a mama’s boy!”

Ethan stepped forward. Every instinct he owned said don’t do it, don’t draw attention, but he had also learned some things about being “Emily.” Chief among them: people would believe what you told them--what you showed them--if you stood the right way and said it like you meant it.

I can do this, he thought. I’m pretty sure I can…

He squared his shoulders so the straps sat neat, lifted his chin until the brim of the hat made a clean line, and called across the grass in the voice Colleen used to talk to deliverymen who were late:

“Hey! That is enough!”

The boys startled, heads snapping toward him. From where they stood, what they saw was a teenager in a sunhat and a bright dress, a baby stroller to boot. The package read: someone’s big sister, someone’s babysitter, someone who had the authority of being entrusted with a stroller and a hat. Maybe even someone’s mom?

Ethan took a step closer, pointed a motherly, scolding finger at the bullies, and added, low and unambiguous, “Leave him alone! Stop it or I’ll tell your parents on you!”

They hesitated just long enough to pass the responsibility around the circle--who’s going to be brave?--and then, with the unerring survival sense of young cowards recognizing adult-shaped authority, they scattered. Their sneakers beat out a patter on the packed dirt. Two looked back as they ran and made faces to save face. “We weren’t doing anything!” one protested to the air, committed to his own revisionist history.

Ethan sighed in relief. It worked. I did it! I really did it! His anxiety lessened, as did the urge to pee. He looked down at his hand, which had stopped shaking. Good thing, too. I don’t know what I would have done if they’d come after me.

He then turned his attention to the little boy was left behind, sniffling, fists still set as if the wind itself might shove him. Ethan’s anger cooled into something gentler. He approached carefully, then bent over so they were eye level, careful of the skirt, his hands holding down the back in case his panties showed.

“Hey there,” he said softly in his practiced “Emily” voice. “Are you hurt?”

The boy shook his head hard, a deer flick, and then another tear slipped anyway. He was small, even for nine--freckles across his nose like someone had sprinkled cinnamon, a cowlick that stood stubbornly despite the day’s heat. His shirt had an iron-on rocket, cracked from too many washes.

“They’re just dumb,” he muttered, fierce with the need to sound like he didn’t care. “I’m not a sissy. And I’m not a mama’s boy.”

“Okay,” Ethan said. He glanced back at the bench and then to the boy again. “Can I tell you a secret? I have tea. And cookies. All very handy in situations like this.”

A tremor of a smile. The two wandered to the stroller where Ethan pulled a clean handkerchief from his little basket and held it up like a peace treaty. The boy took it, blew his nose with all the solemnity of a trumpet warming up, and handed it back. Ethan took it deftly, and folded it away for laundering later. Some lessons from Colleen were as automatic as breathing now.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Bobby.” It was almost a challenge.

“Hi, Bobby. I’m Eth--” He hesitated, then remembering himself--and his wig and his dress and that ridiculous stroller--he replied, “I’m Emily.”

Bobby scrubbed at his cheeks. “Those boys are dumb,” he repeated, making it truer by repetition. Then, in a smaller voice: “They always say ‘mama’s boy’ when I don’t wanna climb the high slide. Or when I go home ‘cause my mom says be home at four. Or if I… if I like stuff.”

“Well, that’s just mean,” Ethan said gravely. He nodded toward the bench. “Come on. Let’s sit. Gingersnap will want to weigh in.”

“Who’s--” Bobby began, and then saw the stroller. “You have a baby?”

“A very lazy baby,” Ethan said, and then lifted the hood halfway to reveal Gingersnap’s imperial face. The cat yawned, an elegant oval lined with tiny knives, and then blinked at Bobby as if to say she had heard of children and had no particular objection to them in theory.

Bobby stared. “That’s a cat.”

“You’re right, it is.” Ethan guided him to the bench. “And this is tea. And these are lemon crinkle cookies, which are crumbly and delicious and scientifically proven to fix just about everything.”

They sat, the elm’s shade shifting on their knees. Ethan unscrewed the tea and poured a little into the plastic cup, then thought better of it and just handed Bobby the bottle. Bobby drank some, then sucked sugar dust off a cookie with the concentration of the newly comforted.

For a minute there was only the sound of park things--birds complaining at everyone equally, a group of giggling little girls and their mothers arriving at the playground and the distant squeal of the swings starting up again, Gingersnap crunching a salmon nib with dainty menace.

“Here’s the thing about being a ‘mama’s boy,’” Ethan said, when the silence felt sturdy enough. He kept his voice low, conversational, like they were trading baseball cards. “I think every boy is a mama’s boy.”

Bobby chewed, suspicious of philosophy but amenable to cookies.

“Most boys don’t like to admit it. That’s okay. It’s scary to say out loud sometimes, especially around mean people. But your mom is the one who brought you into the world and stitches you back up when you fall apart, even if it’s with words instead--”

Bobby watched him, cookie paused halfway to his mouth. “You’re weird,” he said finally, which Ethan took for cautious interest.

“I get that a lot.” Ethan nudged the plate closer. “I’m my mama’s boy,” he added, as lightly as he could make something heavy. “And I don’t care who knows.”

Bobby giggled, quick and bright. “You mean you’re a mama’s girl?”

Ethan felt the laugh catch him off guard--he hadn’t planned to laugh, but there it was, relief turning inside out. He grinned. “Yeah. That’s what I meant. I’m my mama’s girl.”

Bobby fell into a fit of small, relieved giggles, the sort that shake loose the last of the hurt. He took another cookie with a ceremony that suggested they were now allies in some minor, important war.

They ate like conspirators--Ethan dusting sugar off his skirt with the edge of the napkin, Bobby swinging his feet in the way of boys who have, for the moment, survived being nine. The shadows moved another inch.

“So, what were they teasing you about?” Ethan asked, not because it mattered, but because sometimes it helped to name the thing.

Bobby shrugged. “My mom said I don’t have to climb the high slide ‘til I want to. And I wanted to go get my book, the space one, and read under the trees. And Jimmy said reading’s for babies. And I said my books have astronauts.” He scowled, suddenly righteous. “Babies can’t even spell astronaut.”

“That sounds about right,” Ethan said. He angled his sketchbook so the boy could see a safe corner of a hemline. “I draw dresses,” he offered, as if confessing a similar crime. “For my mom, mostly. She makes them. Sometimes I help. It looks easier than it is. But it’s fun for me and we make money doing it, so I want to get really good at it.”

“Are you any good at drawing rockets?” Bobby asked, immediately.

“I could try,” Ethan said. “But they might end up with pockets and elegant lines and a bow.”

Bobby made a face that was the universal expression for “that would be awesome, but I’m not gonna say so.” He sipped his tea again, very grown-up.

Ethan felt his breath even out for the first time since the playground had erupted. The bodice that had seemed to trap his ribs a few minutes ago sat like what it was--a snug, silly band--and the hat brim was no longer a guillotine. And with his skirt tucked under his legs he wasn’t worried so much about showing his panties.

“Why are you pushing a cat around in a baby carriage?” Bobby got up and peered in at Gingersnap. She had melted into sleep, paws tucked, tail precisely arranged, her snack demolished except for a solitary crumb she might or might not honor later. “That’s kind of silly, don’t you think?”

Ethan grinned. “Yeah, well, I’m babysitting her for my auntie. She pays me pretty good and I need the money, so, there you go.”

The boy nodded, then shook his head. “Well, it’s still silly, but as long as you’re getting paid, I guess it’s all right.”

If anyone glanced their way, they would see exactly what Ethan had hoped to be when he wheeled into the park: a girl with a stroller, two cookies short, on a bench under a tree. The fact that one of them was a boy who dressed as a girl and the other a boy who had decided to not climb a slide did not cancel each other out. It felt, if anything, like a proof.

“When they call me that again,” Bobby said, picking lemon sugar off his thumb, “can I tell ‘em Miss Emily said astronauts probably listened to their moms?”

“You can tell them Miss Emily said astronauts listened to Mission Control,” Ethan said. “And sometimes Mission Control sounds a lot like your mother.”

Bobby grinned. “Okay.”

They sat awhile longer. Ethan sketched the curve of a sleeve that would not bind at the elbow. He added a tiny, private sunflower at the hem, a little joke for himself, then turned the page and tried a rocket, which, yes, came out with suspiciously elegant lines. Bobby directed him to add some cool fins and a window in case Gingersnap went along and wanted to look out. Ethan obliged and then, on a dare from himself, added a pocket on the side “for snacks.” Bobby approved the pocket. It was, he agreed, visionary.

There were no satin bows, though.

Time blurred into the kind of hour that lets the day recover from itself. The swings squeaked and then quieted. Somewhere across the grass a mother pushed a toddler who shriek-laughed with each bounce; farther still, a couple of teenagers sat by a fountain and pretended to be bored by each other and failed. Sunlight dappled Ethan’s knees. He found he could breathe, not just in short, careful sips, but all the way to the bottom of his lungs. The dress was still the dress; the wig was still a question on his head; the sandals still determined the speed of his escape if escape were called for. But there was no siren, no summons, no trial. Just the moment.

Eventually Bobby slid off the bench and stood as if the ground, freshly negotiated, might be his friend again. “I gotta go,” he said, showing the time on his authentic official astronaut watch. “My mom said be home at four.”

“That’s an excellent rule,” Ethan said. “Tell her… tell her you learned that astronauts always carry pockets for snacks.”

Bobby snorted.

“Here, take this with you.” Ethan carefully followed the perforated line in his sketchbook as he tore out the page with the rocket with the pocket. “A souvenir.”

Bobby grinned as he looked at the drawing. “Thanks! I’ll hang it on my wall.” He lifted his hand in the awkward, grateful wave of boys who have not yet learned a dozen varieties of cool. “Bye, Miss Emily.”

“Bye, Bobby.”

Ethan watched him lope across the grass, a little looser, a little less alone. He put the cap back on the tea, brushed the cookie dust from his skirt, and checked Gingersnap, who had slipped into the kind of nap that suggested she had important dreams. He tucked the sketchbook away.

When he finally stood, he did so with a small, steadying smile he wouldn’t have known how to explain. Mama’s boy. The words that had choked him had softened in his mouth, not because they had changed, but because he had. He touched the brim of his hat to the willow tree as if acknowledging a witness, released the stroller brake, and set off home at a measured, stroller-safe pace.

Under the dappled shade, Gingersnap’s ear twitched, and she resettled into her pillow with the contentment of a creature certain her humans, whoever they were, had handled things appropriately. Ethan, his sandals tapping a light beat against the path, pushed the stroller past the playground and into the slow, forgiving brightness of afternoon.

He hadn’t lied to Bobby. Being a mama’s boy sometimes came with certain risks, but it was, as far as he was concerned, a very nice thing, indeed.

Next up: Polka Dots and Secrets