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 Twenty-Two: Model Behavior

Colleen’s favorite model takes another step toward fame.
 

Colleen called it a “rehearsal shoot.” A trial run for the upcoming charity fashion show, “just to get the lighting right,” she said.

“We’re not doing the full show yet,” she explained as she threaded her needle. “But Eleanor wants to see how the fall line looks on a live model in natural light. A few shots. No pressure.”

“A live model.” Ethan blinked at her. “You mean me. Again.”

“Well of course you, sweetheart. Emily is the only model I trust to wear the more delicate pieces.”

“I thought Miss Eleanor was hiring girls for the show.” He fidgeted in his seat. “I mean, I’m not going to be in it, right? I don’t want anybody to know—”

“Don’t worry, my love. Eleanor understands—your secret is safe… you know, like Batman.” Colleen winked. “But she would like to see our collection. Those other girls, they’re amateurs. You, my darling, are a professional.”

He groaned, his face in his hands.

She gave him a crisp smile. “Oh, hush. You’ll be home by four, and I’ll make lemon cake.”

“Lemon cake with icing?”

“Three layers.”

He narrowed his eyes. “How about four?”

“Don’t push it.”

 

* * *
 

They arrived at the converted barn just before noon. The upstairs loft was flooded with warm light, the walls strung with gauzy curtains and racks of dresses lined up like debutantes. Ethan—wearing a simple yellow print sundress and Emily’s blonde wig, the one with the 1950s flip—had barely stepped inside when he heard the unmistakable click of heels on hardwood.

“Ohhh, there she is,” Eleanor sang from the staircase, wearing a tailored black sheath dress with rhinestone buttons and a brooch shaped like a parasol. “Our amazing Emily.”

Ethan froze. “Hi, Miss Eleanor.”

She descended like a queen descending into Versailles. “Sweetheart, I’ve been dreaming of this shoot all week. We’ve cleared the whole afternoon just for you.”

The two women exchanged air kisses. “We’re so grateful. Aren’t we, Emily?”

“Yes, Miss Eleanor,” the cross-dressed boy said in his breathy, Emily voice. “Thank you so much for today.”

Before he could curtsy, Eleanor suddenly leaned in and gave him air kisses. Startled, he followed his mother’s example and returned the gesture—the older woman’s warm cheek soft against his, her cologne piercing, thrilling, even. This unexpected encounter gave him a squirmy, dizzying feeling, like he’d just been taught a secret handshake. Tingling all over, he glanced at his mother, who smirked proudly.

“Oh darling, I’m the one who’s grateful. This is so exciting!” The shopkeeper winked at Ethan. “Marcel should be here any—”

“Voilà!” came a booming voice from behind the curtains. Marcel emerged, salt and pepper pony tail, cameras slung dramatically across his chest like weapons of war, wide-legged trousers and a stylish scarf. “I heard angels. Must be Emily!”

Ethan didn’t know what to say. He offered a tight smile.

Eleanor clapped her hands. “Perfect. Everyone’s here. Emily, dear, come with me—we’ll get you into wardrobe.”

The dressing room was sun-dappled and smelled faintly of lavender. Eleanor directed Ethan to a modesty screen and hung the first dress—a soft cream cotton creation of his mother’s design—over the top.

“Don’t be nervous,” Colleen said, adjusting a hair ribbon. “You’re just trying on a few outfits and posing naturally. No crowds, no fuss.”

“Just three grown-ups watching me pose in a bunch of dresses,” Ethan muttered.

“And one of those grown-ups is me,” Colleen said. “Which doesn’t count. And Miss Eleanor and Marcel are practically family.”

“Family with a camera.”

“Better than family with opinions,” she countered.

 

* * *
 

Ethan stepped out of the dressing room to a chorus of delighted gasps. The soft cream cotton tea dress suited his skin perfectly, causing him to glow under the natural lighting of the barn. Puffed sleeves and a low, square collar trimmed in lace enhanced his physical feature, and the matching hairbow pinned atop his wig was the perfect finishing touch. The pleated skirt floated gently around his knees, paired with white ankle socks and glossy Mary Janes.

Colleen had added a bit of makeup—some pink gloss and the slightest touch of mascara—to bring out Emily’s feminine features. But the focus was on the dress.

“Oh, look at you,” Eleanor breathed. “So sweet I may get a toothache.”

Colleen nodded. “He’s got the frame for it. The low neckline suits his collarbones.”

“A vision!” Marcel exclaimed, clicking his tongue. “The camera aches for moments like this. Now, chin up, darling. Pretend you’re in the churchyard, waiting to hand out hymnals.”

“Why would I be doing that?” Ethan asked, bewildered.

Eleanor perched herself on a velvet ottoman. “Because you’re helpful, dear. You’re the sort of girl who gets praised for her manners and is always asked to pour the lemonade.”

Colleen grinned. “Oddly, that happens more than you’d think.”

Ethan got into position, arms awkwardly posed.

“No, no,” Eleanor said gently. “Try this instead—” She made a face, eyes wide, mouth in an O shape. “Act as if you’ve just been surprised by a compliment.”

“I haven’t,” he muttered.

“Then pretend.”

Click. Flash.

“Marvelous! Now look up, darling,” Marcel coached. “Not like a deer—like you just saw that special boy walk into church.”

Ethan blinked. “What?”

“Yes! That hesitation—that’s perfect!”

Click. Flash.

“Turn a little. Now pretend you’re hiding a secret.”

“What kind of secret?”

“Um,” Colleen offered, “your secret identity, perhaps?”

Click. Flash.

“Now you’re nervous. He’s your first crush and you just handed him a hymnbook.”

Click-click.

Eleanor stood to the side, nodding. “Shoulders back. Smile, but soft—like you’re thinking about kissing him but haven’t decided yet.”

Ethan nearly fell off the rug—Colleen beamed.

“That’s the expression!” Marcel cried. “Perfection!”

Click-click-click.

Next came a peach sundress with a fitted waist, capped sleeves, and a wide-brimmed hat tied beneath his chin.

Ethan tugged at the ribbon. “Do I have to wear the hat?”

Eleanor appeared at his elbow. “Darling, the hat makes the outfit. Without it, you’re just a girl in a sundress. With it, you’re a guest of honor.”

He stood on a faux grass mat beneath hanging flower garlands Marcel had brought “for ambiance.”

Marcel waved him toward a flower-draped trellis. “Twirl for me, sweetie.”

Ethan twirled. The petticoat whispered around his knees.

“Oh yes,” Eleanor said softly. “Now pause… imagine your mother’s friends are all watching you, and you must not disappoint.”

Click. Click.

“Now you’re in Paris, on the Eiffel Tower. With your boyfriend.”

“Why would I be in Paris?—”

Colleen chuckled. “How about downtown Maplewood instead? On Main Street.”

“What?—”

“Here we go!” Marcel cried, crouching down and working the shutter as fast as he could, which was very fast, indeed. “Good job, Mother!”

Click-click-click. Click-click-click.

Colleen leaned toward Eleanor. “He’s getting better, isn’t he?”

Eleanor sipped from a crystal water glass. “He’s crossing the line from ‘doing a favor’ to ‘owning the role.’ He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Next came a full-skirted gown in teal green satin, with a scalloped neckline and pearl buttons trailing down the back. Ethan had to be helped into it—Colleen buttoned him up slowly, smoothing every seam with practiced reverence.

Marcel exhaled when he saw him.

“Oh, my darling. This is art. The dress, the girl, the everything!”

He posed on the staircase. On a velvet chaise. Against a sheer curtain that caught the afternoon light like spun sugar.

Colleen whispered to him between takes: “Pretend you’re someone else. Pretend you’ve always worn this.”

And for a few minutes… he did.

 

* * *
 

The final dress was pure theater—rose satin, with a sweatheart neckline and a fitted bodice, a pink sash, and a full-circle skirt. Colleen adjusted his shoulder straps of his bra and fluffed up the padded cups a bit, looking at him with glowing eyes. “This one’s a bit more grown-up. Just wear it with grace.”

Ethan nodded. “I… I’ll try.”

“You’re so brave, my love.” She leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me. To us.”

The cross-dressed boy stepped out carefully, the skirt rustling like a secret.

Marcel gasped. “My god. You are a painting.”

Eleanor stood up. “This one, we shoot everywhere. On the staircase, on the chaise, against the window. I want romance. I want restraint. I want… transformation.”

Ethan flushed. “You mean like a princess?”

Eleanor’s eyes gleamed. “I mean like a caterpillar. Right before he realizes he’s a butterfly.”

Click-click-click. Click-click-click. Click-click-click.

 

* * *
 

When it was over, Ethan sat in his robe, wig hair mussed, cheeks flushed.

Colleen handed him a bottle of lemonade with a straw. “You were spectacular.”

“I felt ridiculous.”

“And yet you looked glorious.”

“Mom, please—”

Marcel wandered over, cameras still around his neck. sat down beside him, exhausted and thrilled. “Those are going in the portfolio. She’s not a model, she’s a mood.”

Ethan stared at him. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Sweetheart,” the photographer said gently, “I’ve shot professional girls who couldn’t do half what you just did. Most are fakers. Not you. You’re not pretending. You’re becoming.”

Eleanor crouched before him, elegant and perfectly composed.

“You were magnificent,” she said gently. “You may think you didn’t enjoy it. But the camera never lies, my child.”

He stared down.

“I simply must show these to the charity board,” she said.

Ethan hesitated.

Colleen gave him a look.

He nodded.

“I guess so,” he said. “Only if I don’t have to smile.”

Eleanor rose. “Too late, darling. You already did.”

Ethan stared at his shoes. “I didn’t want to.”

“And yet you did it with grace,” Marcel said. “That’s power. That’s bravery.”

Colleen kissed the top of his head. “And when we get home, you get lemon cake. Four layers,” she said, winking.

He didn’t answer. But later, as he passed the mirror, he paused again.

And this time… he smiled.

 

* * *
 

It was quiet in the house. The kind of quiet that made clocks tick louder and floorboards seem guilty.

Colleen was upstairs, in the bath. Penelope had left after dinner with a smirk and a kiss on Ethan’s forehead. The air in the kitchen still smelled faintly of lemon cake and soap. And Ethan—still wearing one of his little housewife dresses and matching apron—was supposed to be drying the dishes.

Instead, he stood just outside the threshold of Colleen’s sewing room, fingers pressed to the frame of the open door, heart pattering like a skittish rabbit.

The table was covered in fabrics, pattern books, a half-cut dress pinned to a mannequin. But the real treasure—or danger—was spread across the worktable: glossy photo prints, laid out neatly where Colleen and Penelope had left them.

Marcel’s work.

Ethan stepped closer, bare feet silent on the linoleum. The first photo made him stop short.

It was him—in the rose satin gown. Full-skirted, back arched ever so slightly as he turned on the staircase. Eyes soft, mouth half-open. A mood, Marcel had said. A painting.

He stared. That wasn’t how he remembered it.

He remembered feeling itchy. Nervous. Self-conscious. The annoying click-click-click… click-click-click of the camera. But in the photo, he looked... calm. Elegant. Almost confident. Almost...

Pretty?

He reached out, one trembling hand inched forward—but stopped just before touching the glossy surface.

The next photo showed him in the lemon sundress, hat tilted back slightly as if caught mid-laugh. He hadn’t even smiled, had he? And yet… here he was, all ribbons and motion, frozen in a moment of airy grace.

Click-click-click. Click-click-click.

He frowned.

The next photo—him in the floral dress, ankles crossed, hands with pink-tipped fingers folded over his lap, eyes downcast—felt almost too intimate to look at. It was how he imagined Adeline might sit for a portrait. Or how Emily might sit if she really were someone else entirely.

He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he let it out in a shaky sigh.

Behind him, the stairs creaked.

He spun around.

Colleen stood halfway down, hair up in a towel, robe wrapped tight, one eyebrow gently arched.

“I thought I heard a mouse.”

Ethan looked away quickly. “I was just—”

“Looking.”

He nodded.

She stepped into the room, water still glistening on her collarbones. “Did you see the one on the staircase?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

“You liked it.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Then you stared at it for quite a while for someone who didn’t like it.”

He looked down.

Colleen brushed past him, flipping one of the prints toward the light. “You look just like my grandmother in this one. The way she held herself when she thought no one was watching.”

“Why do they look so different—” he asked softly— “than how it felt?”

“Because sometimes,” she said, turning to face him, “you don’t recognize yourself… until someone else shows you the picture.”

She kissed his lips and walked out, leaving him alone with the prints and the soft whisper of tulle in his ears.

 

* * *
 

It was past nine. The boutique was closed. The lights dimmed. Only a lamp glowed in the back office, its amber shade casting long shadows across Eleanor’s desk.

She moved slowly tonight—not with her usual sharp click of heels, but a softer tread. The air smelled faintly of old perfume and dusted velvet. Her clipboard lay untouched. The register was locked. The tea had long gone cold.

In front of her: a single 8x10 print. Unframed. Still resting in its delivery sleeve from Marcel.

She’d seen it before, of course—on set, on his camera screen, even in the small proofs he’d emailed. But this… this was different. A proper print. Real. Glossy. Heavy in the hand.

Eleanor lifted it gently and studied the image again.

Emily.

Sitting on the chaise in that rose satin dress. One leg tucked politely to the side. Chin tilted slightly downward. Eyes lifted toward the light like someone about to answer a question she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to be asked. Her lips not quite smiling, not quite in a pout. Enigmatic.

It was poise, yes. But not rehearsed. And not quite aware either. That’s what made it perfect.

Eleanor exhaled. “Beautiful,” she whispered, not for anyone else. Just for herself.

She reached behind the filing cabinet and pulled out a large but simple black wood frame, dark gray matboard and without embellishment. One she kept on hand for something… special.

She slipped the photo into place, securing it with linen tape. Smoothed the edge.

Then she opened the glass display case on the far wall—the one she reserved for private pieces. Personal treasures. Items not for sale. A sketch from her first Paris trunk show. A hand-written note from a seamstress she once loved. A portrait of her long-deceased daughter. And now, this.

She placed the frame on the top shelf, centered. No label. No plaque.

Just a photograph of a girl—quiet, elegant, haunted slightly by the knowledge of her own transformation.

She shut the glass door with a soft click.

Then Eleanor poured herself a drink—something amber, something old—and raised the glass slightly toward the frame.

“To Emily,” she murmured. “And the future.”

Then, under her breath, almost reverent:

“And to the things we don’t get to keep, but must remember.”

 

* * *
 

The bell above the boutique door gave its usual elegant chime as Colleen pushed it open, one hand on Ethan’s back.

“Won’t take a minute,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Just need to pick up that check from Eleanor. You can wait by the counter.”

Ethan, worn out after a day of hanging out with his cousin Dani, sneakers, cut-off jeans and a T-shirt with a Mustang logo—a hand-me-down from his Aunt DeeDee—nodded. He looked like any tired twelve-year-old boy on a summer afternoon.

Except… he wasn’t.

And in precisely seventeen seconds, he’d remember why.

The boutique smelled of feminine fabrics and faint traces of perfume testers. As Colleen disappeared through the curtain to the office, Ethan wandered to the nearest mannequin, mostly out of habit. This one wore a long chiffon number with a ruffled neckline and a brooch the size of a sand dollar.

Then he saw it.

In the display case along the far wall—set apart from the jewelry and accessories—was a single framed photo. Centered. Elevated. Lit from above, like a museum piece.

He froze.

It was him.

Not him-him, but Emily-him. Sitting gracefully on the chaise. One foot tucked. One hand resting on her knee. That rose satin dress draped like a ribbon across her frame, catching the light in delicate folds.

He blinked. His throat went dry.

She—he?—looked beautiful.

Elegant.

And... real.

His backed into a chair, nearly knocking it over. He didn’t notice.

Behind him, the curtain swished. Eleanor emerged like she always did—graceful, immaculate, and entirely too pleased with herself.

“Oh,” she said airily. “I see you’ve found our centerpiece.”

Ethan flinched. “You… framed it?”

“I most certainly did. It’s one of my favorite images from the entire season. Marcel agreed—it was more than a photo. It was a moment.”

He stared harder, willing himself not to blush. “You didn’t say you were going to frame it.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t.” Her voice was silk over steel. “Besides, no names, no fanfare. Just a beautiful young lady, captured in her natural state.”

“That’s not my natural state,” he mumbled.

“Mmm,” Eleanor hummed. “Could’ve fooled me. And Marcel. And everyone who’s seen it.”

Colleen reappeared, envelope in hand. “What’s this?” she asked, spotting the standoff. Then she followed Ethan’s gaze and smiled. “Oh! You found it.”

Ethan looked between them, blinking. “You both knew?”

“Darling, I posed you,” Colleen said, amused. “You didn’t think Miss Eleanor would just leave that photo in a drawer, did you?”

“It’s just... weird. Seeing me. Like that.”

“Beautiful,” Eleanor corrected.

“Elegant,” Colleen added.

“Embarrassing,” Ethan muttered.

The women exchanged a glance.

Eleanor stepped closer. “Do you know why the image works?”

He shrugged.

“Because you understand fabric,” she said. “You don’t just wear a dress. You move with it. You listen to it. Very few girls—real girls—can do that instinctively.”

Colleen nodded. “You never fight the garment. You give it space to shine.”

“I wasn’t trying to do that.”

“Exactly,” Eleanor said softly. “Which means it’s natural.”

Ethan looked again. That girl in the photo… she did look natural. Not like someone playing dress-up. Like someone who belonged.

“But I’m not a girl,” he said, almost to himself.

“No,” Eleanor said. “You’re something rarer.”

Ethan looked up sharply.

“A boy who knows how to be graceful,” she continued. “Who understands elegance. Who can wear beauty without mocking it. You respect it and the one who made it. That’s art, sweetheart. And very few people, boy or girl, ever learn it.”

He felt his ears burning.

Colleen stepped in with a warm hand on his shoulder. “You have a gift, honey. You may not want it. But it’s there.”

He glanced at the photo one more time. “Do other people see it?”

Eleanor’s smile curled. “Everyone who matters.”

He didn’t respond. But as they left, he looked back over his shoulder… and didn’t flinch.

 

* * *
 

The house had settled.

Downstairs, the air conditioner hummed along. The back porch light buzzed faintly. From the hallway came the comforting creak of floorboards and the occasional sleepy sigh of a settling wall.

Ethan lay in bed, arms clasped behind his head, eyes wide open. The ceiling stared back, blank and impenetrable.

He was in his real pajamas—flannel pants and a cotton tee. No lace, no ribbons. His hair was damp from his shower, combed flat, and he still smelled faintly of lemon soap and shampoo. His cheeks were clean. No makeup. No clips. No Emily.

But sleep wouldn’t come.

Not yet.

The image of the framed photo kept slipping back into his mind. He’d only seen it for a few minutes, but it was burned into him now—her sitting like that, looking calm and composed and… not pretending. That was the part that haunted him. She hadn’t looked like she was acting. She looked like someone who belonged in the frame.

And he had never felt like that in his own skin. Not quite.

I’m not a girl.

He’d said it out loud. They hadn’t disagreed.

But they’d looked at him like… like that didn’t matter. Or worse—like it was beside the point.

You understand elegance, Eleanor had said.

You give the garment space to shine, his mother had added. You're something rarer.

Marcel declared him “a muse.”

Ethan rolled onto his side, clutching his pillow.

What did that even mean?

Did they think he liked it? That he wanted to be seen like that again? That he was asking for it when he twirled, when he smiled, when he let the dress settle around him just right?

He hadn’t meant to.

But he hadn’t stopped it either.

His eyes drifted to the dresser in the corner—Emily’s dresser. Pale yellow, soft-edged, with the little silver handles shaped like bows. On top sat Adeline, perfectly posed, wearing her green bonnet. Her eyes—dark and glassy—seemed to shimmer in the half-light.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered.

The doll didn’t move. Of course she didn’t. But she didn’t look away either.

He sighed, turning back over.

The sheets were cool and clean. The bed was comfortable. But he felt like he was lying on something fragile. Like the fabric of who he was had thinned a little, and the seams didn’t quite line up anymore.

Tomorrow, he’d wear jeans. He’d kick a ball with Dani. And maybe she would tease him. Maybe Claire would stop by and talk to him. Maybe he and his mom would go out for ice cream.

And maybe he’d forget about the photo.

But tonight?

Tonight he could still feel the hem of the rose satin dress brushing the back of his knees.

And just before he drifted off—finally, reluctantly—he imagined what it might be like to see another photo. Just one. A different dress. A different pose.

A different kind of boy.

Next: The Stuff Dreams are Made Of