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-three: The Stuff Dreams are Made Of

Ethan gets a taste of things to come.
 

The back room of Eleanor’s Boutique smelled like steam, hairspray, and new fabric. Racks of dresses crowded in close, layers of tulle and satin and chiffon pressing on him from every side, like they were all breathing the same nervous air. Somebody had propped a box fan in the corner, humming uselessly against the July heat.

Ethan sat on a vinyl-topped stool in front of the big mirror while his mother fastened the tiny hook at the nape of his neck.

“There,” Colleen said, her voice calm, businesslike. “Turn your head for me, baby.”

He turned. Emily turned with him.

The wig—his “good” wig, the one Penelope had called “romantic”—fell in soft golden ringlets just to his shoulders, catching the light from the row of globe bulbs around the mirror. Colleen had brushed and smoothed and coaxed every strand into ringlets that bounced when he moved. The curls framed his face, making his chin look narrower, his cheekbones a little higher. A girl’s face, he thought, and his belly fluttered.

His legs looked wrong. Or maybe they looked right, and that was what bothered him. Two pale, bare, smooth limbs emerging from the hem of his robe, still faintly pink from the razor and lotion. They’d never had much hair anyway—just a bit of light down—but Colleen had insisted.

“Just in case,” she’d said in the bathroom earlier, her tone brisk as she worked. “You’ll thank me when you’re under those lights. Nobody’s going to be staring at your calves, but you’ll know. And that matters.”

Now, every time he brushed one bare leg against the other, it felt like someone else’s. And it wasn’t terrible.

He flexed his fingers in his lap. The French tips gleamed—soft pink beds with neat white crescents at the ends, ten tiny half-moons. His toenails matched in a pearly pink, waiting to slide into the open-toed high heeled sandals waiting by the chair. A whisper of mascara darkened his lashes. His mouth shone with pink gloss that tasted faintly of strawberry every time his tongue crept out to wet his lips.

And clipped to his ears, cool against his skin, hung the pearl earrings Aunt Vivian had given him during her last visit. He reached up and touched one of the pearls now, rolling it lightly between thumb and forefinger.

“Don’t fuss,” Colleen murmured, catching his hand and lowering it. “You’ll loosen it.”

“I just…” He swallowed. “They feel weird.”

“You look beautiful,” she said. “Like a dream. That’s what matters.”

A door banged somewhere and a cheerful chaos rolled down the hallway—heels clacking, girls laughing, hangers clattering. The murmur of voices from the showroom floated through the wall, a low restless tide. Someone tested the sound system: a squeal of feedback, a burst of swing music, then the volume adjusted.

“Oh, there you are.” Eleanor swept into the cramped back room in a flurry of perfume and authority. A clipboard was tucked under her arm, a pencil behind one ear. She gave Ethan a quick up-and-down, and her smile sharpened with satisfaction. “Well. If that doesn’t sell a dress or three, nothing will.”

Ethan’s cheeks warmed. “Hello, Miss Eleanor,” he said automatically, his voice already slipping higher, the edges softened.

“Hello, Emily.” She said it without the slightest pause, as if there had never been any other name. “Nerves?”

“A little,” he admitted.

“Good,” she said. “That means you’re alive and present. You just remember what I told you: you’re not walking to show yourself off. You’re walking to show off the dress. Let them look at you and see your mother’s work. We’re selling romance, not runway attitude. You can do that, can’t you?”

He nodded before he could think about it. “Yes, ma’am.”

Eleanor checked her watch, then clapped her hands once. “Ten minutes, people. Daywear in the wings, let’s go, let’s go.”

 

* * *
 

The show began as a blur of color seen through a slit in the curtains.

Ethan stood just behind the edge of the makeshift backstage area, peeking out past a hanging display of scarves. Eleanor’s Boutique had been rearranged for the event: the central aisle cleared to make a narrow runway lined with folding chairs, the fitting rooms converted to dressing stalls, the usual background music replaced with something brighter and bouncier that set the tempo for the girls’ steps.

From his vantage point, he saw only fragments. A swing of hair. The flash of a shoe. The bright, practiced smile of a tall blonde girl as she pivoted at the end of the aisle, hands on her hips to show the drape of a skirt. Marcel crouched near the far end of the runway, one knee on the floor, cameras hanging off him like ornaments, his ponytail down his back and a striped scarf trailing over one shoulder. Each time a girl turned, the camera shutter clicked like a nest of crickets.

The audience was a fog of faces and sound. He caught snatches: a woman’s murmur—”That sleeve, did you see?” and the reply of “I could never wear that!”—a dry chuckle, the rustle of programs. Somewhere near the front, Mrs. Julia Campbell sat with her hands neatly folded over her tote, her hair in its usual tidy bun, watching with a small, intent smile. Beside her, Penelope Whitaker looked like a queen at court, swathed in a flowing teal and purple dress, a large brooch glittering at her shoulder. She leaned close to a friend, whispering, eyes bright with mischief.

Ethan ducked back, heart pounding. “My teacher’s here,” he whispered.

Colleen, kneeling by a garment rack, didn’t look up from the hem she was straightening. “Which one?”

“Mrs. Campbell.”

Colleen smiled. “Good. She’ll have a story to tell the faculty lounge about how talented one of her students is.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he muttered.

Before she could answer, one of the college girls swept past them, skirts swaying. “Excuse me,” she said politely, then turned to Ethan with a grin. “Emily, right? You’re up after two more. Ready?”

“I—” His throat felt dry. “I guess so.”

“You’ll be fine,” she said. She was eighteen, with freckles and an easy manner. “Just don’t look at anybody’s face. Look at the clock over the register instead. Pretend you’re walking toward that.” She laughed. “And if you do fall, make a show of it. Marcel will love it.”

“That’s comforting, thank you,” he said faintly.

Colleen rose, dusting her hands on her skirt. “All right, Emily. Time to earn your keep.”

The first dress was a tea-length frock in soft robin’s-egg blue, the bodice fitted, the skirt full and swishy with layers of tulle, a white satin sash at the waist. Colleen’s hands were quick and sure at the zipper, the hooks. The fabric settled over him like a cool sigh.

His mother cupped his face lightly. “You’re doing this for us. For our little business. For rent and groceries and new thread and maybe some additional help one day.” She kissed his lips, just a peck. “But also for you. You remember how you felt when you tried this one on the first time?”

He did. He’d twirled in the living room until the skirt flared around his knees and he’d felt… something. Not just pretty. Correct, somehow. Like all the seams lined up.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Hold onto that,” she said. “Now go show them.”

A hand clapped twice, sharp. Eleanor’s voice: “Emily, darling, you’re on deck.”

He stepped into the heeled sandals—only a modest lift, but enough to make his calves tighten and his walk change. The pearl earrings brushed his neck as he straightened.

The girl ahead of him vanished through the curtain in a flutter of floral print. The music swelled.

Ethan took one breath, then another.

And then he was in the light.

 

* * *
 

It hit him all at once—heat, brightness, sound. The overhead spots made the blue of his dress almost glow. The runway stretched ahead, only a few yards really, but it felt like the distance between home and the moon.

He did what the older girl had told him. He didn’t look at faces. He fixed his gaze on the round electric clock above the register, its red second hand ticking steadily, and he walked toward it.

Heel, toe. Heel, toe. The skirt swished around his legs in time with the music. He remembered to let his arms hang loose, to let the dress move him, not the other way around. Colleen had drilled into him: You’re not marching. You’re letting them see how it hangs when a real girl moves in it.

Halfway down the aisle, he realized something.

The room was quiet.

Not silent—not completely. He could hear the music, the faint whirr of the ceiling fan, a cough from the back. But the low buzz of conversation that had accompanied the earlier girls—the little ripples of commentary and clinking of bracelets and shifting of feet—had faded.

He risked a glance.

All along the narrow rows, people were watching him. Watching the dress. Eyes tracking the way the skirt bounced, the way the sash cinched at his waist, the way the neckline curved just so.

For one dizzy second, he thought, They know.

His chest tightened.

Then someone in the front row nodded, almost to herself, and whispered, “Oh, that color,” a note of approval in her voice. Another woman murmured, “The flow of the material—” And then, “How she moves—so beautiful…”

Marcel’s camera clicked like mad.

Ethan reached the end of the runway, turned carefully—just like they’d practiced at home in the hallway—and gave a small, awkward dip of his head. Not much of a pose. His shyness made his hands stay near his sides, fingers lightly touching the tulle instead of going to his hips the way the other girls did.

Behind the lens, Marcel made a small, delighted sound. “Yes,” he breathed, mostly to himself. “Yes, little swan. So shy, so sweet.”

Ethan walked back, hips swaying, heart hammering. As he slipped through the curtains, a wave of applause washed over him, chased by a few murmurs and scattered “mmm”s that sounded, to his ears, like… satisfaction?

He stumbled a little once he was safely out of sight.

Colleen caught his hands. “Breathe,” she said. “You did it.”

“What was that?” he whispered. “Why were they so quiet?”

“Because they were looking,” she said. “Because they were seeing.” Her eyes shone. “Because you showed them, that’s why.”

 

* * *
 

After his first rotation, the show turned into something like a dream even before it actually was one.

Ethan changed into another outfit and walked, changed and walked, clothes appearing and disappearing around him with a magician’s logic. Time shrank and stretched, the edges blurred. He was never sure exactly how much passed between one trip down the runway and the next.

Backstage, girls moved around him in a practiced dance, talking over one another—complaining about straps, laughing about shoes that pinched, comparing notes on who was in the audience. Someone shared a tin of mints. Someone else spritzed perfume that smelled like gardenias and baby powder.

“Turn around,” said a tall girl with dark hair, zipping up the back of his next dress when Colleen’s hands were busy. “There you go. First show, huh?”

He nodded, swallowing.

She eyed him in the mirror. “You’d never know. You’re like…what’s the word?” She snapped her fingers. “Unbothered. That’s it. You’re all soft and floaty out there, like you’re just—” She wiggled her fingers in the air. “Dreaming.”

“If I pass out, it won’t look so floaty,” he muttered.

The next dress was a ballet-inspired confection, blush-pink with a fitted bodice and a skirt of layered tulle that brushed mid-calf. When he stepped out this time, the hush was familiar. He’d braced for it.

Eleanor drifted along the sidelines, her dress whispering, leaning down to speak low in people’s ears. Ethan heard snatches, little pieces that floated to him on the music as he moved.

“Yes, that’s the girl I told you about. Colleen’s daughter, Emily…”

“…the inspiration for the whole line, really, can you tell? She wears it like it belongs to her…”

“…helped design that one herself. Oh yes, she’s very talented…”

“…every stitch done by hand, Colleen and Emily together, you won’t find this kind of quality this side of the pond…”

“…no, not New York, locally made. Can you believe it?”

Each compliment made his stomach swoop, like he’d missed a step on a flight of stairs. She shouldn’t be saying that, he thought, panic flickering. They’ll ask me, they’ll ask me questions…

But nobody did. They just watched. When he turned at the end of the aisle and the tulle whispered around his legs, the camera flash strobed across the room, and someone whispered, “Just look at her… like a dream—”

Between walks, Colleen kept adjusting, smoothing, fussing in that way she had when she was happy and trying not to gush. “Your straps,” she’d say, nudging them a fraction of an inch. “Your sash. Here, let me see your hem. Marcel is getting your good side, I can feel it.”

Marcel, for his part, hovered at the edge of things when the girls came off the runway, eyes bright behind his glasses.

“Emily,” he said at one point, catching Ethan’s hands in his for a brief, impulsive squeeze. Up close, Ethan could see the fine lines fanning from the corners of the photographer’s eyes, the silver in his beard. “You feel the fabric, yes? You are not…how do you say…posing in the dress. You are breathing with it. This is very rare. Very rare.” He patted Ethan’s fingers before releasing them. “You are my little muse.”

Ethan’s face went hot. “I’m just trying not to fall,” he said.

Marcel laughed, delighted. He tapped his temple. “Remember this feeling. One day, when you are very famous and insufferable, we will look back and say, ‘Ah, remember when Emily was humble.’”

“I’ll never be famous,” Ethan blurted.

Marcel tilted his head. “We shall see,” he said softly, as if making a note to himself. “Challenge accepted…”

The other girls noticed, of course. Back near the curtain, between numbers, they clustered around Ethan with a mixture of curiosity and good-natured envy.

“This is really your first show?” asked the freckled girl, adjusting the bodice of her green dress. “You’re kidding.”

“I—yes,” he said.

“I wish I moved like you do.” Another girl, taller, with a short dark bob, snapped her fingers in frustration. “I keep forgetting about my shoulders. Eleanor’s going to kill me.”

“It’s not fair,” the freckled one said, though her tone was more admiring than bitter. “First show and Marcel acts like you’re some kind of movie star.”

“Maybe she is,” someone else put in. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“He’s just…being nice,” Ethan said. His fingers itched to fiddle with his earrings again, but he kept them still.

“I heard you actually made some of these,” the tall girl said. “Like, with your mom. Is that true?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Some of them.”

“According to Eleanor she designs them, too…”

“That is so cool.” The freckled girl sighed dramatically. “I can barely sew on a button. Color me jealous.”

“Me too,” pouted another. “So cute, so petite, and so talented. Life just isn’t fair!”

Ethan felt lightheaded, dizzy, as if he was in a waking dream. These girls were all taller than he was, their faces older somehow, sharper at the edges. Standing among them, he should have felt that old, familiar too-smallness, the sense of being the wrong puzzle piece in the wrong box. Instead, wrapped in Colleen’s dresses, smelling of powder and hairspray, the taste of strawberry on his lips, he felt…not bigger. But not invisible either. Like a different kind of small—precious, carefully shaped.

“Emily!” Eleanor’s voice cut through the murmur. “Back into the white satin, please. You’re closing this segment.”

Colleen’s hands were already reaching for the next hanger.

 

* * *
 

Stepping into the satin dress, Ethan felt the weight of it. The fabric was heavier than the others, the skirt fuller. A whisper of lace traced the neckline and cap sleeves. Tiny faux pearls were sewn along the waist in a pattern he’d helped sketch, little constellations that had taken him three evenings to finish.

“You okay?” Colleen asked as she zipped him up.

“I feel…older,” he said, looking at himself in the mirror.

He did. The wig, the makeup, the earrings, the line of the dress—they sanded off some of the roundness of his twelve-year-old face. He could almost believe what everyone else said, that the girl in the mirror was sixteen, seventeen. Petite, yes, but with a quiet self-possession he did not feel in the least.

“That’s kind of the point,” Colleen said gently. “This one’s meant for older girls. You’re just…borrowing it for tonight.” She finished up by painting his lips a deep rose color, just a few shades from muted red. “Smack them, please.”

He pressed his lips together, then nodded. “Okay?”

“Better than okay.” She leaned in so that their noses touched, and smiled against his mouth. “You are beautiful. Like a dream.”

When he stepped out this time, the hush was not surprising. It felt like walking into the center of a held breath.

Marcel’s camera made a different sound, slower, as if he were careful not to miss any frame. The white satin caught the light, the skirt gleaming like the inside of a seashell. Ethan walked more slowly, hips swaying ever so slightly, the way Eleanor had asked—a formal pace, not daywear—and let his hands glide lightly over the fabric as he moved, as if he were reassuring the dress itself.

Near the front, Penelope actually put a hand to her mouth, eyes shining. Beside her, Mrs. Campbell’s jaw dropped a little before she caught herself and clapped politely, quietly, her teacher’s composure slipping just a fraction.

“He never ceases to amaze me—” her whisper sotto voce.

Ethan reached the end of the aisle and turned. For the first time, he allowed himself to look—not at the clock, not at the ceiling, but directly at the people.

He saw admiration. Appraisal. Curiosity. He did not see mockery or surprise. Only heartfelt appreciation, as though he was a living work of art.

That scared him more than anything.

They really think I’m her, he thought. They really think I’m this girl.

Emily.

The thought was both a thrill and a weight.

 

* * *
 

Backstage, he barely had time to catch his breath before Eleanor descended on them, cheeks flushed, clipboard clutched tight.

“There you are.” She waved a sheaf of papers at Colleen. “Do you see this? We’re getting more orders than I ever dreamed! Three parties are practically fighting over that satin number—I know that was a show exclusive, but you’ve got to make more!—and the tea dresses? Don’t get me started. We’re going to have to find you some help, Colleen, or you’ll sew your fingers right off.”

Colleen laughed, a sound halfway between delight and disbelief. “Well, that’s a problem I don’t mind having,” she said. “Thank you. Truly.”

“Don’t thank me,” Eleanor said promptly. “Thank her.” She jerked her chin toward Ethan. “Your secret weapon. She’s a dream come true.”

Ethan flushed, hands twisting in the folds of his skirt. “I didn’t—”

Eleanor gave him a once-over again, slower this time, as if to memorize. “You know, my dear, there’s going to be interest in you. Separate from just the dresses, I mean.”

He blinked. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” She ticked items off on her fingers. “Pretty. Petite. Innocent but mysterious. You move like you were born for this. Marcel’s already talking about doing a spread with you for his portfolio. The Capital City fashion photographer is enchanted. And I can think of at least three other boutiques in the city who would chew off their manicures to have a girl like you in their display windows.” She paused. “We’d have to work around school, of course.”

Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it. Colleen chuckled. “We’ll think on it. Our little miss seems to be awestruck by all of his attention.”

Eleanor leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, until then, don’t be surprised when you see more of your face in my stores, young lady. Advertising your mother’s clothing, of course. I intend to make a great deal of money—for all of us—with your help.”

Ethan swallowed. “Um, yes, ma’am?” was all he could think to say. In his thoughts, however, there was panic: My face? Where everyone will see? My friends… the whole school… will find out… I can’t—they can’t—can they?

He looked over to see his mother talking excitedly to Eleanor and Marcel. He didn’t want to disappoint her, but at what cost?

This is has to be a bad dream!

“All right girls, listen up!” Eleanor checked her watch again. “Finale in less than five. Line up.”

 

* * *
 

The finale felt like the end of a movie—the part where the whole cast comes out to bow and the audience decides, once and for all, whether they’ll clap politely and go home or stand up and stomp their feet.

Ethan stood in the center of the line of girls, the white satin dress gleaming under the edge of the curtain. On either side of him, taller figures towered—green chiffon, red silk, navy taffeta. Someone’s perfume tickled his nose. Someone’s hand found his and squeezed; he didn’t know whose.

Eleanor stepped out first, her heels clicking a steady rhythm. The music faded. She took a microphone from a stand near the register, its cord snaking back behind the counter.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, and her voice filled the boutique, smooth as cream. “Thank you all for coming out tonight to see what we’ve been cooking up here at Eleanor’s.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

“It has been my absolute pleasure to introduce you to a new name in bespoke fashion,” she went on. “Some of you already know her from the market, from online, from the crafts fairs, from your own daughters’ closets. But tonight, we’ve seen what happens when her work is given the stage it deserves.”

She turned, beckoning.

“Please join me in thanking Colleen Martin of Colleen’s Collections—and her lovely daughter and partner in crime, Emily.”

The line of girls stepped out as one, like a wave. The lights hit them, and the audience rose.

For a moment, Ethan couldn’t hear anything. His own pulse roared in his ears. Then the sound resolved into applause—loud, enthusiastic, filling every inch of the little boutique. Hands clapping, feet stomping, a few whistles shrill and appreciative.

The other models smiled their practiced smiles, bowed, waved. Ethan’s own smile felt wobbly, his cheeks aching. He could see Colleen at the side of the runway now, not quite onstage but not hidden either, her eyes shining, her hands pressed together under her chin.

The applause was for all of them, he told himself. For Colleen. For Eleanor. For the dresses.

But when Eleanor took his hand and pulled him a step forward, something changed.

“And this young lady,” Eleanor said into the microphone, her arm around his shoulders, “is Emily Martin. A designer and maker as well as a model. I have no doubt you’ll be hearing more from her in the future. She’s as talented as she is beautiful, don’t you agree?”

The applause swelled.

It was subtle, but Ethan felt it—like the volume knob had been turned a notch higher just for him. People leaned forward, craning to see. Heads nodded. Lips whispered. He caught glimpses of faces he knew: Penelope beaming, her brooch sparkling; Mrs. Campbell clapping with an expression that was half awe, half I will never look at your book reports the same way again.

Heat flooded his face. His eyes burned, his chest swelled—he wanted to disappear and to stand there forever, all at once.

Then the room…changed.

He couldn’t have said how at first. Later, he’d remember it as a shift in color, the edges of things sharpening and smearing at the same time. The lights seemed brighter, whiter. The boutique felt bigger, and yet somehow the walls pressed closer.

New faces seemed to materialize in the crowd.

In the third row, past a woman in a hat Ethan had seen earlier, he suddenly spotted a boy from school—Tommy Rawls, from science class, his cowlick defying gravity as usual. Beside him, Allison Phillips from chorus, chewing on her lower lip. Behind them, a knot of kids in Lincoln Middle School T-shirts—Marcus Epperson and Benji Thompson, among others—all squeezed in among the society ladies and boutique buyers like they’d been there the whole time and he just hadn’t noticed.

That’s not right, he thought, stomach dropping. They wouldn’t be here. They can’t be here.

Tommy’s eyes widened.

“Hey, I know her—him!” Tommy said, loud enough to cut through the applause. “That’s Ethan. Ethan Martin!”

A gust of cool air caused him to shiver. He reached up and felt his hair—his real, dark brown hair—damp from sweat. Unkempt, tangled, as it usually was.

My wig! Where did it?—

A ripple went through the crowd. The clapping faltered.

“That’s no girl,” someone else said—another boy’s voice, Dylan Mitchell, maybe—cracking mid-sentence. “That’s Ethan Martin from school!”

Questions and insults flew at him like thrown stones, each one sharper than the last.

“He’s dressed like a girl?”

“He’s really Emily?”

“I told you… Mama’s boy…”

“What a sissy… faggot…”

Ethan’s breath hitched. The pearl earrings suddenly felt heavy, dragging his ears down. The white satin swelled around him, suffocating. High heels throwing him off balance.

“I—” he said, but the microphone wasn’t near his mouth, and even if it had been, he had no idea what would have come out.

He turned, seeking his mother.

She wasn’t there.

Colleen’s place at the side of the runway was empty. The space where Julia Campbell and Penelope sat was empty too. The aisle seemed longer now, stretching and stretching, the people on either side leaning in, faces blurring into a tunnel of eyes and mouths.

Mom? he thought, panic rising. Mom, where did you go?

A hand closed around his wrist.

“Looks like we got here just in time,” said a familiar voice in his ear.

 

* * *
 

Dani stood beside him on the runway, solid and scowling, her soccer jersey half-tucked into a pair of grass-stained shorts, cleats somehow clicking on the boutique’s polished floor. Her ponytail was frayed, backwards baseball cap, a smear of dirt on one cheek. She looked gloriously, defiantly out of place.

“What are you—?” Ethan started.

“Don’t argue,” she said briskly. She stepped in front of him, planting herself between him and the nearest row of staring faces. “Hey!” she snapped at the crowd. “Back off, you bunch of freaks. Nobody messes with my sissy but me.”

Laughter rippled, but it sounded wrong—echoey, distorted.

“Dani—” Ethan whispered, clutching at the back of her jersey. “Where’s Mom?”

“Come here, sugar.” Another hand, this one a little rougher, grabbed his other arm.

Aunt DeeDee stood on his other side, in oil-smudged jeans and a white T-shirt with Double D’s Auto Repair across her chest, her short red hair tucked under a bandana, cat-eye glasses glinting. She smelled faintly of gasoline and hand soap, an oddly comforting combination in the cloud of perfume.

“You look like a million bucks,” she said, giving him a quick once-over. “A very confused, very sparkly million bucks. C’mon, we gotta move. Now.”

The crowd had started to surge, the aisle shrinking as people stepped forward, phones in their hands—though he hadn’t noticed anyone holding a phone before. Faces pressed in, mouths open with questions.

“Is it true?”

“Why would she—he—do that?”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“Hey Ethan, what are you, queer or something?”

“… Told you, mama’s boy…”

DeeDee yanked him toward the back of the store. “Eyes on me, kiddo,” she said. “Don’t look at them, they don’t pay your bills. C’mon, I’m taking you to Australia.”

“Australia?—” His voice cracked. “But Mom—we can’t just leave her, DeeDee, we can’t—”

“Nobody’s leaving your mama,” she said. “She sent us. Remember? Quick, this way.”

He didn’t remember. But he followed.

The boutique had stretched impossibly, aisles longer than they’d been when he’d peeked out from backstage. Racks of dresses leaned in like trees along a road, the garments rustling as they passed. Dani ran interference, shoulders squared, glaring at anyone who tried to step into their path, holding her skateboard—which had miraculously appeared out of nowhere—en garde.

“Back off!” she barked. She swung the skateboard like a scimitar against the horde. “Show’s over. Go home and gossip about somebody else.”

Ethan stumbled, the white satin threatening to trip him, his high heels not at all helping. The pearl earrings swung wildly. Somewhere behind him, Eleanor was saying something into the microphone, but the words blurred together.

They burst through a door that should have gone to the back room, but instead opened straight onto the parking lot.

The evening sky outside was bruised purple, clouds stacked high and heavy. The boutique’s sign buzzed overhead, its neon flickering. Rain spotted the pavement, dark polka dots that spread and merged.

DeeDee’s Mustang idled by the curb, sleek and impatient, its red paint gleaming even in the strange light. The engine’s low rumble filled the air like distant thunder. The click-click-click of raindrops on the sheet metal hood a ghost of the shutter of Marcel’s camera.

DeeDee shoved him into the passenger seat. Dani held off the crowd, wielding her skateboard like a samurai and yelling threats about what she’d do to anybody who dared to touch her cousin.

“Go on without me!” she shouted over her shoulder. “I got you, cuz!”

“Seatbelt,” DeeDee snapped, leaning across him to yank it into place. “Those pretty legs won’t do you any good if you fly through the windshield.”

Ethan fumbled with the buckle, fingers slippery. “We have to go back,” he said. “We have to get Mom. And Dani… we can’t just leave them—”

Outside, the crowd had spilled into the parking lot, faces upturned toward the Mustang, mouths moving, tongues wagging. The sound of their voices was swallowed by the roar of the engine as DeeDee revved it.

“Go! Go! Go!” yelled Dani. “I can’t hold them off for—”

The shriek of 400 horses drowned out her last words. The car shuddered as tires grabbed pavement, friction burned rubber and a putrid cloud of smoke billowed out behind them.

“I’m not leaving Mom!” Ethan shouted over the noise, his voice raw. “DeeDee, we can’t leave Mom! We have to go back and get her!”

“No can do, Princess,” DeeDee growled. “Nothing bad is gonna happen to you on our watch!” She punched the clutch, shifted gears and shot him a wicked grin all in an instant. “You’re flesh and blood… family… never forget that.”

He twisted in his seat, heart pounding, wet eyes scanning the doorway of the boutique for a glimpse of a teal dress, of familiar hair, of anything.

“Mom! Mom!” he yelled, throat burning. “Where are you? I can’t leave without you!”

The engine roared louder, louder, filling his ears, his head, the whole world, until it wasn’t engine noise anymore but something else—

Thunder.

 

* * *
 

Ethan sat up with a jerk, his heart slamming against his ribs.

The Mustang, the boutique, the crowd—all of it vanished. In their place: the worn floral pattern of the living room sofa under his palms, the familiar sag of its cushions, the dim yellow light of the floor lamp in the corner.

For a second he didn’t recognize the room. The shadows jumped with the flash of lightning outside, turning the bookcase into a looming shape, the TV screen into a mirror. Then another roll of thunder boomed over the house, the sound so much like DeeDee’s engine that he flinched.

Rain rattled against the windows in earnest now, drumming steady on the porch roof. The air smelled of wet asphalt and whatever casserole they’d eaten for supper.

On the armchair opposite the sofa, Colleen sat with an embroidery hoop resting in her lap, a length of pale blue floss trailing from her needle. Her head was bent over the work, brow furrowed in concentration. The jingle from a commercial played low on the television, almost drowned by the storm.

She looked up when he moved, and her face softened.

“Well, hello, Sleeping Beauty,” she said. “You about gave me a heart attack with that hollering.”

His throat felt scratchy. “I was hollering?”

“You were,” she said. “Something about not leaving without your mama. Which, I have to say, earns you points.” She set the hoop aside and leaned forward. “You all right?”

He blinked, trying to pull the pieces of the dream into order. The lights, the dresses, the applause, the crowd turning on him. Dani’s fierce glare, DeeDee’s hand on his arm, the Mustang roaring, the smell of rain and aviation fuel combined.

And always, under it all, the sensation of looking for his mother and not finding her.

His eyes stung.

“I…” He scrubbed at his face, surprised to find it damp. “I guess I fell asleep.”

“You did,” Colleen said. “Right in the middle of Perry Mason, too. He’s going to be very offended when he finds out.”

He looked down at himself. No white satin. Just his soft pink gingham dress. His feet were bare and his legs were their usual lightly fuzzy selves. His fingers and ears were bare, too; no French tips, no pearl earrings. His hair was just his hair, flattened on one side from the sofa cushion—an errant barrette hung lose, failing its sole purpose in life.

For a heartbeat, he wondered if this was the dream instead, thinner and less vivid than the one he’d just left.

Colleen saw the confusion on his face. She rose from the chair and came to kneel beside the sofa, the floor creaking softly under her knees.

“Hey,” she said gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You’re home, honey. You’re safe. I promise.”

He swallowed. “I…had a dream,” he said, the words small.

“So I gathered.” Her thumb traced a little circle at his temple. “Was it a good one or a bad one?”

He frowned, trying to decide. “Both,” he said finally. “It was…so real. We… we were at a big fashion show. At Miss Eleanor’s. Only bigger, somehow. And I was…” He hesitated, but it seemed silly to be shy about it with her. “I was Emily. In the wig and the earrings and everything.”

Colleen’s mouth quirked. “Well, that sounds about right.”

“It was wonderful at first,” he said. “All the dresses, and the people clapping. Marcel was there, and Miss Eleanor, and Mrs. Campbell came, and Penelope and all her friends. And a bunch of older girls modeling too. And everybody was…” He searched for the word. “They liked me. Or they liked Emily. It was hard to tell.”

“That does sound wonderful,” she said softly.

“But then…” He shivered. “Then it got scary. All of a sudden there were kids from school there, and they started yelling that I was Ethan… calling me names. And everybody started staring, and I couldn’t find you. You were just…gone.” His voice wobbled. He laughed at himself, a shaky little sound. “Dani was there, though. And DeeDee. Dani was going to fight the whole crowd, and DeeDee dragged me out to her car.” He rolled his eyes faintly. “Of course it was the Mustang.”

“Of course,” Colleen agreed. “Dani and DeeDee to the rescue. That tracks.”

“But I didn’t want to go,” he said, the memory sharp. “I kept telling them we couldn’t leave without you. I was yelling for you and you weren’t anywhere. DeeDee said you’d sent her to save me.” His mouth curved into a crooked smile. “She was taking me to Australia.”

Colleen chuckled. “That would be quite a drive, even for DeeDee in that car of hers.”

Ethan frowned. “Yeah. But I didn’t understand any of it, so I kept yelling for you. And then the car got loud and everything kind of…fell apart. And then I woke up.”

Colleen’s eyes were shiny in the lamplight. She reached up and kissed his forehead.

“I’m here, baby,” she said, her voice very soft. “I’ll always be here for you.”

He closed his eyes, letting that sink in. The storm outside thundered again, but it sounded a little less like an engine now, a little more like ordinary weather.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked at her, really looked. At the faint smudge of blue floss on her fingertips. At the tiredness around her eyes she tried to hide. At the way she sat back on her heels without complaining, even though he knew her knees hurt sometimes after long days at the sewing machine.

“Mom?” he said.

“Yes, baby?”

“This thing with Eleanor…” He hesitated, picking at a loose thread on the sofa cushion. “It’s important, right? I mean…really important?”

She sat back a little, studying him.

“It is,” she said at last. “We’re doing better. Better than I ever hoped, honestly. You and me, we make a pretty good team.” A sad smile tugged at her mouth. “Better than your father and I ever did together.”

Ethan blinked, nodding. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Don’t be. That had nothing to do with you.” Colleen cleared her throat. “But yes. This thing with Eleanor, it could make our lives even better. More orders means more steady income, maybe a little cushion in the bank for once.” She sighed. “It’ll be hard work, but worth it. We still have bills to pay. The mortgage company doesn’t take dresses or good intentions in trade.”

He nodded slowly. The dream-voices of Eleanor and the buyers echoed faintly in his mind. Colleen and Emily made all of these—by hand… She helped design that one… The inspiration for the whole line…

He thought of the fear—the kids from school pointing, the crowd closing in. But there had been other things, too. The way the room had hushed when he stepped out. The way Marcel’s eyes had lit up. The way his mother had looked at him from the side of the runway, her pride so bright it almost hurt. Dani coming to his rescue, disappearing into the crowd, swinging her skateboard to the very end. DeeDee at the wheel of her Mustang, grinning and reminding him: “You’re flesh and blood… family… never forget that.”

“I’ll do better,” he said quietly. “I promise. I’ll help more. I’ll...I’ll model, and sew, and whatever you need. I can do it—I want to do it. And I’ll work hard to make you proud.”

Colleen’s expression softened in that way that always made his chest squeeze. She reached up and cupped his cheek.

“You always make me proud, my love,” she said. “Just by being you. That’s all I need.”

He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Even when ‘being me’ means…being Emily?”

“Just being you is all I need,” she said, without hesitation. “Being Emily is bonus, though.” She looked at him, appraising him in that way all mothers do when they realize their child is changing before their very eyes. “Because that’s brave. And kind. And generous. And a little bit stubborn, just like your mama.”

He huffed a little laugh. “I get it honest, I guess.”

“Oh, you do.” She kissed his lips, then went back for one more before hugging him. “Now—” she looked him in the eye, maternal warm— “A nice warm bath, and then bed. You look wiped out.”

“I feel wiped out,” he admitted. The last shreds of the dream were dissolving, leaving behind only their impressions, like the marks left on his skin by tight socks.

He swung his legs off the sofa and stood, the room steady under his feet. As he shuffled toward the hallway, he paused and looked back.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“If I…if I have another dream like that, and I start yelling again…” He shrugged, suddenly shy. “You’ll wake me up, right?”

She smiled. “I’ll be right here with my embroidery,” she said. “Guard duty. Go on. I’ll tuck you in when you’re done.”

He nodded, reassured in a way he couldn’t put into words, and padded toward the stairs. Behind him, the storm grumbled and fussed around the little house, but inside, the only sounds were the sounds of his feet scuffing the hardwood floor and the low murmur of the television.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, under the shampoo and the steam and fragrance of his mother’s favorite soap, the image of Emily in white satin lingered—not as something that might ruin him, but as something that might, just might, help save them.

For now, that was enough.

 

Next up, A Close Encounter of the Worst Kind