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 Sixteen: Polishing Toward Perfection

Ethan gets a crash course in the feminine arts.
 

The cicadas were turning the evening into a soft electric hum by the time Ethan wiped the last dish, set it in the rack, and drew the towel over his damp hands with the prim, efficient motions his mother liked. The kitchen window stood open to the backyard—fireflies blinking like somebody’s careless Morse code—and a box fan grumbled from the doorway to push the day’s heat along. Outside, beyond the trees, some boys were laughing and yelling, and a frog began its nightly call.

Ethan thought about the boys and wondered who they were and what they were up to. Mischief, perhaps, or just a bit of last minute fun before heading inside to watch television. Maybe a movie or a ball game. He pictured it in his mind—middle school boys, all horseplay and swagger, guzzling soft drinks and stuffing themselves with snack food, yelling and cheering for their respective teams.

That could have been me, he thought. Maybe. But not now.

He looked down, sighing—he’d little doubt that whoever they were, the boys he heard weren’t wearing anything like what he wore, a pink gingham housewife dress he’d sewn for himself “as practice” with a little help from his mother. The fabric felt light and fresh against his collarbone, cool where the bodice scooped, and warm where the small apron tied snug at his waist. A matching gingham scarf—tied into a rabbit’s ear bow atop his head by his mother before he’d even had the energy to protest—barely tamed his scruffy mop of hair.

His cleaning slippers squished softly as he stepped back from the sink. He always stood a little pigeon-toed in them, even when he remembered to straighten, as if they had been built for the posture his mother favored.

It’s not so bad—I like how things are. Most of the time, I guess…

On the kitchen table—yellow Formica edged with chrome—Colleen had laid out a small arsenal of jewel-like bottles filled with various colors, along with some odd-looking tools: nail clippers, a metal cuticle pusher that looked cruel until she showed him how gentle it could be, a couple of orange sticks, two nail files (one coarse, one whisper-fine), a little glass dish of cotton balls, and six glass bottles of polish that caught the lamplight like candies in a jar. There was also the squat pink-labeled bottle of remover, its chemical promise already hinting in the air.

Colleen wore a green dress that skimmed her figure in a way that always seemed to make women at church whisper compliments. The color brought out the red-brown in her hair and made her skin glow. She had turned down the radio to a hush—the weatherman talking about a hot spell—and wiped off a chair with the heel of her hand.

“There,” she said, satisfied, the word a soft ribbon in the evening. “A salon in our very own kitchen.”

Ethan tried to swallow the odd thrill in his chest. He glanced at the gleaming bottles again and then searched her face for the joke. “Mom…”

She smiled the smile that never failed to make him apprehensive and safe at the same time. “It’s time, sweetheart.”

“For what? For—this?” He lifted a hand vaguely over the spread of implements, nervous and unsure.

“For finishing what we start. For doing it right.” She tapped the table’s edge and he sat, because he had. “You’ve been modeling for me as Emily a few weeks. You’ve been brave. You’ve been careful. And now we’re moving into detail. When we put you in that seafoam green dress at the fair, or you give out fliers, I want your hands to look like they belong to a girl who takes care of herself.”

“But I’m not a girl—”

“No, but you’re my assistant,” she interrupted lightly, tugging his gingham scarf a touch tighter at his nape. “And we’re artists. Artists do what the piece needs. This is a finishing school for fingers.” She lowered her voice and made her eyes comically grand. “And besides, it’s fun. And you know what I always say—”

“If you wear something fun, then the job’s fun,” he mumbled with adolescent frustration.

“That’s my boy.” She adjusted the apron bow at his waist and kissed his forehead. The citrus of dish soap lingered on his skin. “Hands up, elbows on the towel. Let’s start with the left.”

Through the open window Ethan could hear the fading voices of the boys still outside. He felt a twinge of shame, sighed, and tried to put his earlier thoughts out of his mind. He placed his elbows on the towel, hands bent at the wrist. His nails were trimmed—he’d learned to keep them manicured since his mother had warned him that workshops and photographs both captured everything.

Colleen smirked to see her son posing so girlishly. “Perfect. Neat is the best canvas. We’re going to shape them, then push back the cuticles very gently—don’t make that face, Ethan, I promise it doesn’t hurt—and then we’ll try a coat of clear.”

“Clear?” He perked up, hopeful. “As in you can’t see it?”

“As in you can see it and pretend you can’t,” she said. “We’ll call it natural. Hand please.”

He offered his left hand. She took it, cradling his fingers in her palm, the back of his hand warm against her thumb. She used the clipper very little—just a snip or two to clean a corner—and the fine file to shape and smooth the edges. She worked with the small breaths of concentration he knew from her hemming. A few strokes under the tip—”You always finish across, not down. The nail is like a little roof; you want to seal the shingle”—and then the cuticle pusher, which wasn’t cruel at all, only firm and patient, urging that pale crescent back like a tide.

“Now see how simple that was?” Collen cooed sweetly. “See, your nails are still soft from washing the dishes, which made everything so easy. If we make a habit of doing this after supper it’ll always be a quick and painless job.”

She grinned as the cross-dressed boy wriggled in his seat and nodded.

Colleen then started on his right hand. Ethan stared at his new look, fascinated against his will. The cuticle yielded. His nails looked tidier, like the diagrams in the etiquette book Aunt Penelope had once pressed into his hands “for the comedy of it, darling.” He swallowed. His throat felt small. He hated that what he felt most—pressed under the embarrassment and the itch to run—was the pride of good work.

“Now for the fun part,” Colleen said, eyebrow raised, smug smile engaged.

She shook the first bottle vigorously, opened it and slid brush against rim. The smell rose cool and sharp, wrong and right at the same time, like opening a new can of model car paint with the windows shut.

“I want you to notice three things when I apply the polish,” she murmured. “One: the thinness of the coat—don’t go gloppy. Two: three strokes. Down the middle, down the sides, like mowing a lawn with no ridges. And three: the coolness. Some girls love the coolness. It’s like a sigh.”

She drew the first stroke down the center of his thumbnail. The clear polish was indeed cool, so cool that a shiver tickled along the nail bed and up the tendons of his wrist, as if his body could measure the wet with a ruler made of gooseflesh. He breathed through his nose, which was a mistake—the aroma slid into him, not just sharp like the paint for his models but with something sweet underneath, a strange sweetness that made his stomach flip and settle and then flip again.

“That smell,” he said, and his voice sounded unsteady.

“Mm-hm.” Her smile didn’t falter. “It makes you a little squirmy, doesn’t it?”

“It… it’s just weird,” he whispered, evading her question.

Colleen smirked, a single eyebrow raised. “That’s one way of putting it,” she cooed knowingly.

She finished up, gently blowing across his knuckles to set the polish, and every breath of air from her lips lit tiny cold trails that joined the polish and the scent and the gratitude he didn’t want to admit. She held his fingers a moment longer than necessary, admiring her work.

“See? Natural. Tidy. Useful for photographs. You look like a girl who washes her hands and says ‘yes, ma’am.’”

“I do say ‘yes, ma’am,’” he muttered.

“I know you do.” She squeezed. “Now we take it off.”

He blinked. “Already? You’re not going to do my other hand?”

She was already unscrewing the remover. “Mm-nope. You’re going to learn. That means you doing it,” she said with cheerful ruthlessness. “If we were going to leave it on it’d take about five or ten minutes to set properly. But right now we’ll take it off, and you’ll do it in pink.”

“Me?”

“You?”

He flinched. “Pink again?”

Colleen grinned. “Light pink. Barely there.” She dampened a cotton ball, pressed it to his thumbnail, and the polish disappeared in two rubs, leaving a faint squeak behind that made his teeth twinge. She repeated the action until his fingertips were clean and tingling.

“Your turn. Color is your job. Remember what I told you. Thin coats. Three strokes. Slow is smooth.”

His heart thudded closer to his throat. He reached for the sparkling bottle of pale pink that looked almost milky through the glass, like late strawberry milk after ice cream had been spooned away. His hand trembled slightly as he opened it. He dragged the brush against the rim exactly as she had, swallowed the smell that reached for him, and braced his wrist on the towel to steady himself.

Big breath. Confidence. He imagined the hood of his favorite model car kit, the one that always gommed up if he got greedy with the paint. He set the brush down the center of his left thumbnail.

Coolness again. An almost electric tickle at the cuticle. He concentrated so hard his tongue peeked from the corner of his mouth until he noticed and tucked it back. He moved to the side stroke, and then the other, and he didn’t go gloppy. He did get a little close to the edge, where the polish dragged up onto the skin like a hungry tide.

“Shoot,” he breathed, dismayed.

Colleen didn’t scold. She took the orange stick, dabbed the tip with remover, and slid it along the edge, erasing the mistake like a new eraser on fresh paper. “Precision,” she murmured. “Like stenciling. You don’t have to be perfect in the first pass. You learn the angles.”

“I can do it.” He couldn’t help the stubbornness, which was his mother’s legacy. “I want to do it right.”

Colleen smiled. “I know.”

He moved on to the index finger. Stroke, stroke, stroke. The scent climbed—he fought the urge to squirm… and failed. The coolness shivered. He breathed shallowly and fell into the click-and-hum of the summer kitchen: the box fan, the television weatherman’ voice, his mother’s quiet praise—this time he didn’t notice any boys outside.

Doing his right hand was more of a challenge, as it meant painting with his left. Colleen did clean up duty twice, but that was all. Like with the sewing machine and a hundred other skills he’d learned that summer, he soon got the hang of it. When he finished, he sat very straight, fingers spread, watching the shine.

Colleen tilted his hand to the lamp. The pink was soft and shy, almost a secret. “Well,” she said, proud as if he’d piped frosting roses. “We might make a lady out of you yet.”

He gave her a look that wanted to be a glare but was more like a smile.

“Off again,” she said, merciless in the way of women who want excellence and also know the shortest path. “Then pick a nude. We’ll practice tones, see what works best for you.”

They did. She had him remove the pink—he was careful not to scrub too hard and smudge the remover across the towel—and he chose a safe shade of nude that made his skin look like a peach in shadow. While he worked they discussed undertones and nail shapes and files—subjects he knew other boys would never talk about with their mothers. Or anyone.

Then they started all over again, this time with him applying a mauve that seemed too grown-up and made his hands look elegant in a way that rattled him.

Then a yellow for a joke, cheerful as lemonade—he nearly blotted it thick, and she taught him to thin the brush with a twist.

Finally a small bottle of a timid red that, even watered to one light coat, made his hands pop like picture-book apples.

He was admiring the red—and hating himself for doing so—when the screen door creaked.

“Knock-knock,” said DeeDee’s voice, which always sounded like she’d smoked too many cigarettes and then laughed anyhow. “Don’t shoot, we brought no men.” The spring whined; the screen door bounced. “Though I did see a pretty little housewife through the window.”

Ethan’s head snapped up so fast the pink bow at his crown tipped. His hands shot under the table on reflex, which only made Dani, behind her mother, lift up the tablecloth with the grin of a fox who has finally treed the rooster.

“Well, looky, Sissy,” Dani sang, her ponytail swishing with righteous delight as she surveyed the scene. “Got your nails did, did ya?”

“Mom!—”

“Dani,” Colleen said, tone pleasant and warning in the same breath. “Inside voice.”

DeeDee had already come around to sweep Colleen into a one-armed hug that smelled like gas-station coffee and an expensive French perfume stolen from somewhere. DeeDee always wore something borrowed; she made it look claimed. She wore her hair short, cat-eye glasses gleaming, and a blouse tied at the waist that made her look like a pin-up mechanic in a poster that had somehow come to life.

“Well well well,” she said, looking Ethan over with the slow grin she reserved for trouble she approved of. “Little mister’s girly training just went up a whole new level.”

Ethan heard his own swallow. “We were practicing for the next crafts fair,” he muttered, as if there were any other reason for a boy to be wearing red nail polish and a pink gingham dress. His bare toes curled in his slippers.

Dani came around his chair and bumped him with her hip, friendly and merciless. “Mama tried that on me once, but I ain’t no miss priss,” she said, eyes dancing. “She’s got her eyes on you, Sissy, so you’re in for it.”

“Mom, she’s teasing me again!—”

“Oh, hush, Ethan! She’s just having a bit of fun.” Colleen gave Dani a little wink. “Don’t be so mean, darling.”

The tomboy gave a sharp salute before taking a seat. “Roger than, Aunt Collie.”

“Here, let an expert take over here,” DeeDee said, her eyes fixed on Ethan’s hands, which—obedient to the part of him that craved approval like bread—came out from under the table. The red made his fingers look long and deft. His stomach turned a small, astonished cartwheel.

DeeDee leaned on the table, peering as if through the loupe of a jeweler. “Neat cuticles. Good shapes. Oh, honey, the angles on those brush strokes—did you do that?”

“I—yes ma’am,” Ethan admitted. “Well, some of them.”

“All of them,” Colleen proudly corrected.

“Ah, Colleen, look at this. He’s got the wrist for it.” DeeDee flicked her gaze at her sister with uncomplicated excitement. “I could get used to this.”

“You’re not taking him home as a trophy,” Colleen said dryly, but she was smiling.

“Maybe just to Dairy Queen,” DeeDee said, sing-song, and Ethan’s head came up like a pointer dog’s. Dairy Queen meant a ride. A ride meant her muscle car. “In exchange for borrowing these cute little nubbins.”

“No,” he said, a little too fast. “I—no, thank you.”

DeeDee made a sympathetic mouth and then ruined it with a wicked smile. “You sure about that, little mister? We just got the carburetor tuned, and last week I installed a new set of headers. She purrs like a bobcat that swallowed a clock.” She leaned closer, voice dropping seductively. “Soft-serve in a waffle cone as big as your face. I’ll even let you pick the song before we burn rubber out of the driveway.”

He knew he’d lose. That was the worst part, knowing the exact moment his resistance was going to fail and watching himself go through the motions anyway. He pretended to think about it for a heartbeat longer than necessary, so he could tell himself later that he’d at least tried to resist.

“What would you do?” he asked, miserably curious.

“What would I do?” DeeDee echoed in mock scandal. “Why, darling boy, I would do what only God and Revlon know how to do.” She slid into the chair at his side like a gambler coming to a hot table and looked to Colleen with exaggerated politeness. “Permission?”

Colleen made a grand little gesture with her hand. “Far be it from me to come between a woman and her art.”

“Princess?” DeeDee asked. It wasn’t fair that she did that—asked him directly, eyes bright but steady, offering a real choice after making the temptation impossible. “Yes?”

He looked at his mother. Her face was calm and proud and soft. He could say no. He also could not.

“…I guess,” he heard himself say.

“Attaboy,” Dani crowed reflexively, then caught herself and snorted. “Attagirl. I mean, attaprincess—whatever.”

“Shush,” DeeDee said without heat, already lining up the tools like a surgeon. “We’re going to do French tips.” She winked at Ethan’s panicked glance. “Not fries, sugar. Classic white tip with a color base. Keeps it sweet. Makes the nail look longer.”

“They aren’t long,” he protested, dismayed.

“That’s the trick.” She reached for the bottle labeled: Girl Crazy: Bubblegum Delight. The pink inside popped way brighter than the first pink he’d tried and somehow fresher, like the first bite from a stick of gum after the wrapper skitters down your wrist. “We extend the line of the nail bed with color, then a crisp little smile of white for the tip. Optical illusion. You’ll look like you’re going to a tea party to steal somebody’s heart.”

“I don’t want to steal anybody’s heart,” he said, but it came out half a whisper because he was watching DeeDee’s hands. He’d never really paid much attention before, but his aunt’s hands were not like Colleen’s—they were nicked and faintly scarred and strong from pulling fan belts and turning wrenches, but when she held his fingers and cleaned off the red polish, she was as precise and delicate as any ballerina tying a slipper string.

“All right, I’m going in, base coat first,” she said, and laid the bubblegum pink in one whisper-thin layer over the nail plate. It cooled his fingers and sent that shiver up his wrists again. “Look how we leave the little crescent bare near the cuticle? That’s the little moon. See? It makes the living part of the nail glow. It’s like a bed. Don’t cover it, just kiss it.”

“Kiss it,” Dani repeated behind them, teasing—she suddenly quieted when her mother turned her head a fraction. “Oops! Um, sorry, Mama.”

DeeDee did all ten fingers quickly and expertly, then went back to the first, tilting it to the light. “Now the white.” She didn’t reach for any helpful sticker guides; she freehanded with a brush that seemed to obey her thoughts. The white band appeared across the tips—thin, debonair little smiles, curved exactly so.

“This is witchcraft,” Ethan muttered, unable to stop himself.

“This is geometry,” DeeDee said. “And some flirting.” She glanced up and grinned when he flushed. “You’ll catch sight of your hands and think, ‘Well, hello there, darlings… where have you been all my life?’” She looked up and winked. “Doesn’t hurt anything to be pleased by yourself, Ethan. The world will try to take that away. Keep a little for you.”

Watching from the sidelines, Colleen nodded and smiled.

He didn’t know what to do with the warmth that rose in his chest at that instant, so he watched the line. The brilliant white at each tip made the pink sing. His nails—it was ridiculous to say this—actually did look longer, like he might tap them on a counter while thinking of something smart to say.

“There,” DeeDee said finally, blowing gently across his fingers as his mother had done. He didn’t shiver only from the coolness; it was the intimacy of the caring. “Look.”

He looked. He stared. The bright bubble-gum pink sat on his hands like something inevitable. The tips were crisp as a clean shirt collar.

“I…” He tried to find a word that wouldn’t make him blush. The blush came anyway. “I don’t hate it.”

“A high compliment, indeed!” DeeDee declared, satisfied. She then clapped her hands. “Now give me your feetsies so’s I can do your wittle toesies.”

“Absolutely not,” he said, so fast the rabbit-ear bow on his scarf flopped.

“Absolutely yes,” DeeDee said, with the mildness of someone already planning their victory parade. “Dani, a little help please.”

The cross-dressed boy cringed as his cousin leaned over and bumped him with her shoulder. She smelled like grass stains and bicycle grease. He anticipated the mocking quip, the sarcastic joke… the belittling comment. Instead, what he got was:

“Just imagine it, Sissy—you and me, in Mama’s Mustang, doing over a hundred down Old Mill Road, headed for a double scoop of chocolate caramel crunch. The roar of the engine, the smell of aviation fuel. You gotta let her do this, if only for the chance of seeing her get a speeding ticket.”

Ethan grinned. “Well, since you put it that way—”

“My son is not doing a hundred miles an hour in anything—” Colleen said firmly— “much less that monster truck of yours.”

“She’s not a monster truck,” DeeDee muttered, her feelings hurt. “She’s a vintage Shelby, a GT-500 for chrissake, Collie. I rebuilt her myself… she’s a thing of beauty.”

“Please, Aunt Colleen, I’m in negotiations.” Dani put her arm around Ethan’s neck and playfully pinched his cheek. “I get Sissy here to agree, then we can discuss speed limits.”

“Of which there will be no breaking,” Colleen insisted. “Not with my little housewife, there better not be.”

“Please, can I go Mom?” Ethan pleaded. “I never get to ride in Aunt DeeDee’s Mustang. She can paint my toes—she can paint my fingers any color she wants, I don’t care! And she’ll go slow, too, won’t you, Aunt DeeDee?”

DeeDee held up her hand in a solemn Boy Scout salute. “On my honor.”

“Your other fingers are crossed.” Colleen scoffed. “All right, you can go. But only one scoop. I don’t want my little model getting chubby.”

Ethan and Dani exchanged grins. “I’ll share,” Dani whispered a bit too loudly.

“Now that we got that out of the way—” DeeDee lifted Ethan’s foot onto her lap and cracked her knuckles— “let me see what I can do with these little piggies.”

Ethan bit his lip as his aunt worked. Being the center of so much attention—and in such a girlish dilemma—was as unnerving as it was exciting. DeeDee slipped little twists of paper towel in between his toes and held his foot in her hand as she worked; it suddenly looked young and soft and very public in his mind. The coolness of the polish sent chills up his legs and the back of his thighs. He wanted to curl his toes and couldn’t.

“It tickles,” he said, trying to explain his squirming. A stern look from his aunt shut him down.

Still, he fought the urge to fidget. It didn’t help that Dani kept tugging at his head scarf and flicking his ear. That, and he kept tugging down on the hem of his dress, wary of his cousin’s fondness of flipping it up and exposing his panties.

“Someone’s going to find herself wearing one of Colleen’s girly-girl creations if SHE doesn’t leave HIM alone,” DeeDee growled at one point.

Dani suddenly sat up straight in her chair. “Um, you got any root beer, Aunt Collie?”

Colleen smiled and nodded. “In the pantry. For emergencies. You’ll have to get some ice.”

“Okie dokie artichokie,” the tomboy said, taking off.

After about ten minutes and half a glass of iced root beer later, DeeDee was done. She blew on Ethan’s toes—which he secretly found thrilling—and then presented him with ten shiny bubblegum pink jewels, signaling a new chapter in his life.

Colleen—who had been leaning at the counter with her arms crossed and a look on her face that mixed amusement with a kind of humming pride—left the room while everyone admired DeeDee’s handiwork. She came back holding a pair of white sandals.

“I wondered if we’d get here,” she said. “We did, so now let’s see the finished look.”

She knelt—a queen serving her princess in a fairy tale—and buckled the white strap over each pink-dotted foot. She then stood and set her hands on her hips, tilting her head the way she did when she was deciding whether a display window needed a taller vase.

“Well,” she said softly. “What do you think?”

DeeDee tapped an unlit cigarette on the table and hooted. “I’m lovin’ it! I gotta say, Princess, you’re makin’ me jealous. My nails are a mess all the time from workin’ in the garage, and this rugrat here—” she slapped Dani’s denim-covered butt— “won’t let me near her with anything resembling a nail file much less polish. You have made my day, darlin’!”

Ethan couldn’t help but smile under such praise, though he wished it hadn’t been because of bubble-gum pink nails. But he was glad to get what he could from his hardcore aunt. She wasn’t easy to please and any day he could make her happy was a good one.

Dani, on the other hand, was another story—her joy often meant his embarrassment. He watched as his cousin bent over to get the best angle. She was trying hard not to show admiration, which made Ethan like her all the more.

“His toes look… nice. Pretty, actually,” she said finally, and then rolled her eyes for cover. “Holy crap, I’m talking about Ethan’s feet! Don’t tell anybody I said that—I sound like a weirdo!” She sighed and nodded. “But hey, cuz, your toesies is very pretty. If that’s what you were going for, I mean.”

Colleen shook her head. “What about you, baby? What do you think?”

Ethan looked down at himself the way one looks at themselves in a new outfit in a mirror. White sandals. Bubblegum pink toes. Gingham dress. Apron. Hairbow. Pink and white tips on his fingers, little smiles that couldn’t help but seem pleased to be attached to him. His stomach did a strange, glad swoop that he would have sworn wasn’t allowed.

“Okay,” he said, to someone and no one. “I mean, yeah, I kinda like it. They are pretty, I suppose.”

“All right!” DeeDee agreed briskly, and clapped her hands. “The paints dry and time’s a-wasting. Let’s all go get ice cream!”

Colleen made a face of exaggerated suffering. “I’m not getting in that thing,” she said, which made Dani hoot. “It’s too loud and fast for my taste. I prefer cars that sound like they were made by people who believe in windows that roll up without prayer.”

“You wound me,” DeeDee said, grinning. “She’s a lady.”

“She’s a temptress,” Colleen returned. “Ethan can go. Just keep it under the speed limit.”

“Come on, Sissy, it’ s me.” DeeDee shot the two teens a little wink. Ethan smirked—Dani snorted.

“Yes, it is you. And that’s what worries me.” Colleen leaned over to kiss her son’s lips. She studied his mouth. “Lip balm, please.”

“Oh,” Ethan said, startled at the ordinary intimacy of the instruction. DeeDee and Dani giggled even before he pulled the little pink and red tube from his pocket, along with his compact mirror. He popped the cap, put it between his middle and ring fingers, and rolled the balm onto his lips, careful, the way Colleen had taught him. He checked the mirror, pressed his lips together—the taste of cherries triggering a little smile—and tried to not notice how Dani watched, amused and primed for teasing.

“Watch out, Sissy,” Dani said, delighted. “They’ll have you wearing lipstick next.”

“And I got the color already picked out for him,” DeeDee crowed. “Red is the color of my one true love…”

Dani moaned. “She’s talking about her car.”

“Only when he’s ready,” Colleen said mildly. She kissed him again, then leaned close to whisper in Ethan’s ear a mother’s tiny ferocity: “You look darling. And you taste yummy.”

He couldn’t help the small, foolish smile that spread over his face. He turned to DeeDee, trying to sound blasé. “Can I, um, ride in front, Aunt DeeDee? Please?”

“I call shotgun!” Dani hollered, making a dash for the door.

DeeDee spread her hands, palms-up apology. “Sorry, Princess. Maybe one of these days. Girl code.”

He huffed, exaggerated, and they all laughed, including him. The screen door creaked and the evening hit them like a warm hand.

The Mustang waited before him—a red so glossy it seemed wet, the chrome throwing the kitchen’s yellow light back in flashes. He anticipated the sound of DeeDee turning the key, the engine rumbling awake, a lion’s roar turned into machinery—loud, yes, but with a heartbeat steadiness under it that Ethan felt in the bones of his feet through his sandals.

He followed his aunt and cousin off the walk, the grass warm against his ankles, and couldn’t help but look at his hands. The French tips caught the porch light in thin crescents, a secret message only he could read. He lifted one, watched it glimmer, and felt, in the space between horror and thrill, something like recognition. The smell of polish still hung at the edge of his imagination. He wanted to shove his hands in his pockets; he wanted to hold them up to the streetlight and admire the work.

At the porch, Colleen leaned on the post, one arm around her middle, the other loose, the gesture she wore when she felt something big and said nothing. The green dress glowed in the dusk.

She watched her boy with the patient pride of a gardener who has seen a seed sprout and knows exactly what it might become. She was happy, she realized dimly, not because he looked like a girl, not because he was a good model, or because he was obedient and helpful: but because he was not hardening into the man his father had been—defensive and mean, petty and dull. She wanted her son complicated and careful and capable of tenderness and love.

She wanted him his own. And her own, too, if she was being honest with herself.

“Have a good time, my love,” she called over the rumbling engine.

“I will,” he said, meaning it more than he’d expected.

Dani bounded into the front seat with a triumphant whoop. DeeDee slanted a look over at Ethan, and the nickname that usually made him squirm sounded different in her mouth—fond, a little proud: “Hop in and buckle up, Princess.”

He climbed into the back, his skirt askew, the black leather hot against his panty-covered bottom and the backs of his thighs, and he buckled obediently—a boy princess about to ride a wild stallion.

“Hey, Sissy, what about this one?” Dani wagged her eyebrows and slammed a cassette into the stereo. “It’s one of Mama’s favorites.”

The psychedelic sound of screeching guitars filled the cabin, competing with the rumbling engine. Then the bass and rat-a-tat of drums kicked in, along with:

🎵 I like to dream, yes, yes

Right between the sound machine

On a cloud of sound I drift in the night

Any place it goes is right

Goes far, flies near

To the stars away from here 🎶

Ethan gave her a thumbs up, shouting as the engine made a spine-tingling howl: “That’s perfect!”

The two cousins began dancing in their seats, Dani’s hair flying wildly, Ethan flipping his gingham hairbow from side to side. DeeDee grinned wickedly, slapped the gearshift and popped the clutch.

“Hang on, chillun—it’s gonna be a bumpy ride!”

As they squealed off, Colleen lifted her hand. Ethan paused long enough to lift his in return, pink-and-white tips bright as a promise. The car sped down the block with a throaty purr. He let the night wind move across his face, the scent of summer cut grass and warm metal, and chocolate-caramel to come.

🎵 Well, you don’t know what we can see

Why don’t you tell your dreams to me

Fantasy will set you free 🎶

There was a time when he’d focused on his aunt’s car and her driving skills. But not this time, not this night—as he swayed in time to the music, he pressed his palms together and then turned them apart, like opening a book only he could read, and told himself he was only checking for smudges. He wasn’t—he was admiring. Confused and excited, twice shy and twice pleased, he kept looking, kept reading the small, crisp smiles at the ends of his fingers, and tried out the idea that something could be scary and right at once.

The car hit a bump, causing the cross-dressed boy to bounce in his seat, skirts flying. DeeDee looked back, smirking, and sang joyfully along with the tape at the top of her voice:

🎵 Close your eyes, girl

Look inside, girl

Let the sound take you awaaay 🎶

Back on the porch, Colleen watched the red car shrink and gave a soft sigh. She touched the post the way she sometimes touched Ethan’s shoulder when he passed, a small affectionate stroke, reassuring, maternal and warm: her boy was going to be fine, better than fine—another step, she thought, away from hard, cruel men and toward something that felt like grace.

She went inside to arrange the little jeweled bottles of color neatly in a row, ready for tomorrow. The kitchen smelled faintly of polish remover and the kind of sweetness you don’t know you’re hungry for until it’s on your tongue.

🎵 Well, you don't know what we can find

Why don't you come with me, little girl

On a magic carpet ride 🎶

 
Next up: Auntie Vivian