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-Four: A Close Encounter of the Worst Kind

Ethan gets another job posing as Emily and encounters his archnemesis.
 

Ethan had begun to recognize the signs: his mother humming happily in the sewing room, the clink of her best pins in the glass dish, the telltale swoosh of delicate fabric pulled across the ironing board. It always meant she had a project. Lately, those projects involved him.

It was no surprise when she called him in with a sing-song voice and that peculiar brightness in her eyes. She was smoothing a freshly laundered maid’s uniform across her worktable—a delicate black satin dress with puffy sleeves and a crisp white cotton apron so starched it could practically stand up by itself.

“Why is that out?” He pursed his lips. “Haven’t I suffered enough, Mother?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” she chirped. “You’ve been requested, darling.”

He barely had time to process what that meant before she continued. “Mrs. Torres—you remember, Juanita, Savannah’s mother? She’s throwing a sweet sixteen for Savannah and wants everything just so. And when she heard about how charming you were at Claire’s little tea party…”

Ethan groaned. “Please don’t say she wants me to come.”

“She doesn’t want Ethan,” Colleen said with a devilish wink. “She wants Emily.”

“Mother…” He looked at the outfit with a sinking heart. “This is getting ridiculous! I know I said I wanted to help out more, but—”

“Oh, hush!” She walked behind him and gently began running her fingers through his hair—he knew the gesture—it always meant she'd be reaching for a wig soon. “She’ll pay quite a bit, but that’s not the point, sweetheart. You were so lovely at Claire’s. Penelope couldn’t stop raving about how polite and well-trained you were. And she said the girls just adored you.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “They giggled and whispered the whole time.”

“Which is what girls do,” she said, amused. “Especially when they like someone.”

With a sly grin, she held up a package containing a newly purchased bra dripping in lace. “Now, let’s get started. We don’t have all day.”

 

* * *
 

The transformation began.

First came the panties, soft white cotton with little bows at the waist. Then the bra, a delicate creation with enough elastic magic and padding to give him the definite appearance of a bust. Then there were the thigh-high stockings, black with small satin bows at the top, over his freshly shaven legs.

“These are so silly, Mother.” He fiddled with one of the bows. “Why do you do this to me?”

“Because it’s fun, darling. And don’t you dare deny it—I catch you smiling more often than not, you know.” Colleen grinned. “Remember what we always say, if you wear something fun…”

“…Then the work is fun.” Ethan sighed. “I remember, Mother.”

Next came the petticoat; the nervous boy stood trembling as his mother held it out for him to step into, its crinkling layers of tulle rustling like tissue paper. The satin maid’s dress slipped over his head, and he felt it settle on his shoulders with a gentle, weightless precision. It was snug at the waist and flared out below, a silhouette deliberately crafted to give him an hourglass illusion. They were nowhere close to being done and already he looked more like a teenaged girl than a twelve-year-old boy.

The little cotton and lace apron was tied at the back in a pristine bow. His mother fussed with it, then made him turn around so she could examine her handiwork.

After pulling a wig cap over her son’s dark brown hair, Collleen retrieved a soft platinum blonde wig from its place on a styrofoam head, combed it out lovingly, and tugged it over his head, adjusting and pinning it carefully. It was new, a gift from Auntie Penelope, real hair with severe eyelash-brushing bangs and a cute pageboy bob.

“Oh, these are all so much better than that cheap thing I got you. What was I thinking?”

“Probably that your son wouldn’t be wearing girl’s clothes the rest of his life?”

Colleen laughed. “It’s not for the rest of your life. I don’t think. Unless you want it to be.”

“I just want this night to be over,” the cross-dressed boy said with a sigh. “What if any of my friends, or someone from school finds out about this?”

“Don’t worry so much, darling. I checked with Mrs. Torres and Savannah’s friends are the only ones who will be there, and they’re all high school girls. They don’t know anything about you.”

Ethan frowned. “But?—”

“But what? There is no ‘but’ about this. I promise.” Colleen scoffed. “As I said, they’ll pay you well—and yes, you can keep all the money, Mister Moneybags—but more important, this is a chance for you to practice your skills.”

“My… skills?”

“Oh, you know—” Colleen said casually— “being Emily in public without actually being in public, practicing your walking and talking and all that, around people other than your poor old mother and aunties.” She touched his chin, turning him so she could look him in the eye. “Seriously, dear, sometimes you act so nervous when you go out all dressed up, I’m afraid you’ll faint… or worse. This will help you with your nerves and your confidence in the long run.”

“The long run?—” Ethan pursed his lips. “How long exactly is ‘the long run?’”

“Good question.” Colleen shrugged. “I guess for as long as you like.”

The flustered youth stared into the mirror as his mother brushed and primped his wig, watching himself change, frame by frame. His cheekbones appeared softer somehow, his neck thinner, more defined with each bobby pin she fixed.

“I’m not a girl,” he muttered.

“You’re not,” she agreed. “But you are a performer. And a helper. And you’re going to do a lovely job tonight.”

“You sure you don’t want me to stay home and do the laundry. Or the ironing?” Ethan gave her his best pitiful puppy dog look. “I’ll even clean the bathrooms.”

“Oh, you!” Colleen laughed. “This will be fun. I bet you’ll come home with all sorts of interesting stories to tell me.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Once she was satisfied with his wig, Colleen slid the white lace headband onto it, matching the apron perfectly. Then there was a dusting of face powder, a bit of rouge, just the tiniest touch of eyeliner and an eyebrow pencil. And, of course, pink lip gloss.

“Mmm, I love strawberry!” she said after giving him a quick peck on the lips.

“Mother—”

The final touch was a pair of lace gloves. Ethan stood helpless as his mother slipped them over his manicured fingers, watching with frustration as she tied the bows nice and snug.

“These are always such bother,” Ethan complained. He tried picking up a hairbrush and almost fumbled it. “What if I drop something and break it?”

“Then I guess you’ll have to be extra careful, sweetheart.” Collen blew off his concern with a shake of her head. She leaned back, admiring her creation with a hand to her cheek.

“Oh, darling,” she breathed. “You’re going to stun them.”

 

* * *
 

Before they left, Ethan stood in the living room holding a silver tray. His mother had decided he needed a refresher course in being Emily the Maid as opposed to regular Emily.

“Don’t slouch,” she said. “You’re a maid, not a busboy. Back straight, chin slightly down, a graceful smile. Just like you do when you’re modeling our dresses.”

“I know, Mother. I’ve done this before, you know.”

She made him walk from the kitchen to the front door five times in his black Mary Jane shoes, which clicked daintily against the hardwood floors. Then came the curtsies. Over and over.

“Feet together. Hold the sides of your skirt. Left foot behind the other… now bend at the knees… not too low, just a touch, like a flower bowing in the wind. Now again.”

Ethan cursed himself for doing it so well. When she finally allowed him to rest, she handed him the tube of lip gloss and his compact mirror. “For touch ups,” she said with a grin.

“Yes, Mother.” He pouted. “You know this is going to end badly, don’t you?”

“Only if you let it.” She watched smugly as he put the silver tube and mirror in the pocket of his apron. “Oh, and your voice. Remember, sweet and gentle. A little airy. But not too high. Like a Disney princess who’s maybe had one too many cupcakes.”

He grimaced. “I don’t sound like a Disney princess.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” She cocked her head. “Say: ‘Would you care for a glass of lemonade, madam?’”

He gave it a go. “Would you care for a glass of lemonade, madam?”

“Softer, more breathy,” she insisted. “And a bit higher.”

He tried again. “Would you care for a glass of lemonade, madam?”

“Not that high.”

He did it again.

“Perfect. Now, one more time. Back across the room, walk toward me, curtsy and offer me a drink. You’re not smiling, dearest….”

“You’re acting like Auntie Penelope.” Ethan huffed. “A regular Lady Witherspoon.”

Colleen snorted. “I suppose now you’ll be calling me ‘milady.’”

“Yes, milady,” the cross-dressed boy pouted.

What started out as training became an exercise in humiliation for Ethan and a game for his mother. Finally, unexpectedly, it all turned into something close to routine. He caught himself looking in the mirror just before they left, smoothing the bodice of his uniform, checking the lay of his apron bow, and even adjusting a lock of wig hair near his cheek.

The reflection didn’t look exactly like a boy pretending to be a girl. It looked… accomplished.

 

* * *
 

Ethan didn’t know much about formal party protocol—what little he did know came from his afternoons with his Aunt Penelope—but he was pretty sure it shouldn’t involve strange women discussing your posture.

“Such grace!” Juanita Torres exclaimed, examining Ethan—Emily, rather—as he curtsied while holding a silver tray of cucumber sandwiches. “Mrs. Whitaker told me all about your etiquette skills. She said you practically floated through her garden party. She gushed.”

“Th-thank you, Mrs. Torres,” Ethan stammered, doing his best to remember to keep his knees together and the tray level.

“And you’re just adorable, too!” she said sweetly. She looked him up and down, her eyes alight with admiration. “Your uniform is just perfect! And that hairstyle is to die for! Oh, Emily, I cannot believe we were able to get you on such short notice. You are exactly the touch of class our little soirée needed.”

The blushing boy nodded, and dipped again in response. ”Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

Mrs. Torres giggled again. “Just perfect! Absolutely perfect!”

Savannah Torres’ sweet sixteen party was no small affair. Her mother had rented a space at the local botanical conservatory, a greenhouse of orchids and fountains and too many watchful eyes. Everything smelled like perfume, sugar and spring.

And of course, both Claire and Penelope were in attendance.

“Emily!” Claire squealed as soon as she spotted him, dragging him aside like a prize. “You’re even cuter than last time. My god, I just love those stockings! Girlfriend, I cannot believe you’re not charging more.”

“Claire,” he hissed, “please.”

“Oh hush,” she said, wiping at his cheek. “Hold still, your lipstick’s smudged.” She dug in her purse and expertly dabbed his lips. “There. Like a real hostess. Smile!”

He managed a queasy grin just in time for Penelope to swoop in.

“My dear girl,” she said with the same tone she might use with one of her lady friends, “I adore what you’ve done with your hair.”

“You ought to know,” the cross-dressed boy sighed. “You paid for it.”

“Oh, I know it.” The old lady tittered. “And this one is real hair, too, not like that cheap thing your mother gave you. It was fine for photos, but this one is so realistic. And I think the new style really suits you. Doesn’t Emily look elegant, Claire?”

“She looks like a doll,” Claire said. “Like a very obedient doll.”

Ethan blinked. “You’re a lot of help.”

“Oh, I intend to be,” she said with a wink.

“I must say, you’ve blossomed in recent days.” Penelope leaned close and gave his padded bust a bit of a fluff. “You look, what, sixteen, seventeen?”

“At least,” Claire agreed happily.

The old woman sniffed. “Now keep your back straight and your chest out when you serve the lemonade. No one wants a slouchy maid.”

“Yes, Auntie Penelope.” Ethan sighed. It was going to be a long night.

 

* * *
 

Ethan—no, Emily—drifted through the early chaos of Savannah Torres’s sweet sixteen with a practiced smile, the silver tray lightly balanced in both hands. His posture was near perfect, just as his mother had drilled into him, and his knees bent ever so slightly with each step to prevent the swish of his maid’s skirt from rising too high.

Some adults were in attendance, but the event consisted mostly of girls, Savannah’s friends, all in pastel party dresses and glistening lip gloss, giggling and shrieking over everything from music to boys. They glanced at Ethan—well, at Emily— often, then leaned in to whisper, giggling harder. Or so it seemed. The cross-dressed boy’s pulse thumped beneath the ruffled collar of his black dress.

It wasn’t just nerves anymore. His shoes pinched, the bows at the top of those silly stockings bothered him, and his hair under his flaxen wig itched like crazy. But he carried on obediently, just as his mother had shown him.

“Care for a lemonade?” he said in his best girl voice, holding out the tray.

The girls didn’t respond right away, too busy sizing him up. One girl reached out slowly, deliberately brushing her fingers against his lace glove as she took a glass. “Thank you… Emily, right?”

“Yes, miss,” he answered with a sweet smile and a curtsy. “I’m Mrs. Torres’ maid for the evening.”

“Cute outfit,” the girl murmured, biting her lip and grinning at her friend. “Where do you get a uniform like that?”

“Oh—um,” Ethan stammered, momentarily caught. “It came… uh, with the job.”

“Love your stockings,” another girl chimed in. “Those sweet little bows are to die for.”

He flushed. “Y-yes… I mean—thank you, miss.”

He blushed to hear someone giggle.

The girls cracked up as they wandered off, leaving Ethan burning with embarrassment. He turned on his heel, back straight, shoes tapping softly against the hardwood as he retreated toward the kitchen.

“I swear, I’m moving to Australia,” he muttered.

 

* * *
 

It wasn’t until midway through the party that Ethan saw him—Samuel Torres.

Samuel the school bully. Samuel the overgrown man-child who called Ethan “fairy boy” in gym class and once knocked his lunch tray over “on-purpose-by-accident.” The thug who sat behind him in history class and flicked his ear and muttered “know-it-all” whenever he raised his hand. The stalker who always seemed to follow him, mocking him, challenging him… threatening him at every turn.

Ethan’s stomach dropped into his polished shoes.

Too tall for a fourteen-year-old, Samuel was athletic, coal-black complexion, short, cropped hair, and an arrogant smirk. Instead of his usual black denim jacket, he wore a crisp white dress shirt—the sleeves rolled up, emphasizing his muscles—and leaned against a stone pillar. He sipped punch, his eyes narrowed like a hawk, watching everything with smug, knowing eyes.

And there Ethan stood, wearing panties and petticoats and lip gloss, his knees together, feet pigeon-toed, looking like teenaged fashion doll. In plain view of the one person he feared the most. He hadn’t seen Samuel since summer vacation began—and now he faced him in the most humiliating circumstance he could imagine.

Please don’t let him see me, please don’t let him see me… please oh please—

The terrified boy ducked behind a balloon arrangement and hoped for invisibility.

Too late.

Samuel’s gaze had locked onto him. His head tilted. His smirk deepened.

Ethan fled—a tray of macarons clutched close like a shield.

 

* * *
 

“Emily!” Juanita Torres chirped. “Come here! There’s someone I want you to meet!”

Before he could protest, the old lady had him by the wrist and was dragging him across the room. Samuel stood waiting, arms crossed, clearly amused.

“Emily, this is Samuel, my son,” the grinning woman said proudly. “Samuel, this is Emily. She’s our little helper tonight. Hmm, it seems to me that you two are close in age, aren’t you?”

Samuel raised an eyebrow. “Are we?”

Ethan swallowed and dipped into a curtsy without thinking. “N-nice to meet you.”

Mrs. Torres pushed Ethan closer to her son. “Isn’t she delightful? And so precious?”

“Absolutely,” the bully said. His eyes locked onto Ethan’s, and he smiled like a cat watching a mouse skitter across the floor. “Just… precious.”

Mrs. Torres, blissfully unaware—or pretending to be—of her son’s smugness, drifted away to fuss over decorations.

The two stood alone.

Samuel leaned in. “So. Emily, huh?”

Ethan tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. “I—I’m just helping out.”

Mrs. Torres called for Emily, but before Ethan could escape. Samuel stepped closer, giving him a once-over that was way too long.

“Seriously?” he said. “You think I don’t recognize you, Martin?”

Ethan froze.

Samuel leaned in. “I know it’s you, fairy boy. Why am I not surprised, seeing you dolled up like some sort of queer. I ought to yank that stupid wig off your head, you pitiful little faggot. See what your little tea party fans think then.”

Ethan’s heart pounded. “Please don’t…”

There was a pause.

Then Samuel shrugged. “Relax… Emily. I’m not a monster.”

Ethan blinked.

Samuel’s smirk turned thoughtful. He looked the cross-dressed boy up and down carefully, thoughtfully. “You really went all in, huh? Stockings and everything. Where do you even buy stockings like that?”

“My… my mother,” the cross-dressed boy muttered.

“My mother.” Samuel imitated Ethan’s girlish reply and laughed. “You’re weirder than I thought, you queer.”

He paused again.

“You know… it’s kind of funny. Everyone here thinks you’re some mysterious maid girl. You’ve actually fooled them.”

Ethan glanced around nervously.

“Proved me right about you being a fairy,” Samuel said, his voice low. “You know, I might just pull off that wig after all.”

The bully reached out, causing Ethan to flinch—but he pulled his arm away at the last minute, and pretended to yawn.

“Don’t worry. I won’t ruin you. Yet.” Samuel grinned. “You look like you’re about to pee yourself. Yeah, this is way too much fun.”

With that, he turned and walked away—leaving Ethan trembling and utterly scared to death.

 

* * *
 

The rest of the party passed in a blur. Ethan resumed his duties, handing out miniature cupcakes and napkins, clearing dishes, and smiling politely as possible. He avoided Samuel’s gaze, but throughout the evening he caught the older boy standing close by, smirking in a way that made Ethan blush—and not just with embarrassment.

Near the end, Savannah—elegant in a sky-blue dress—approached him by the dessert table.

“Emily,” she said coyly. “I think my brother might have a crush on you.”

Ethan almost dropped the chocolate mousse.

“Your... brother?” Of course! Mrs. Torres… her son… Savannah’s brother...

He was beginning to think the blonde in his wig was contagious.

Savannah laughed. ”Well, he’s my adopted brother. But I love him just the same.”

The cross-dressed boy nodded. ”What do you, um, mean, he’s got a… um, crush… on me?”

“I guess you’ve been too busy to notice.” The teenager giggled. “He’s been watching you all night long. Which I think is great! It’s about time he showed interest in a girl. My mom was starting to worry. But I guess you’re just his type.”

“My… type?” Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it.

“You know, being a cute blonde and all.” She leaned in close, whispering in his ear in that way girls do. “Thank goodness! There were times I thought he preferred boys.”

“You thought—boys?”

She laughed. “Oh, not really. That's just a private joke. He likes girls all right. I guess he just hasn't found one worth his time.” She shot him a wink. “If you know what I mean.”

Ethan nodded. Then he felt sick. Didn’t Savannah know he was a boy? He’d thought Claire or at least Penelope had disclosed Emily’s secret, but maybe not.

He wasn’t sure if he should faint or scream.

 

* * *
 

On the car ride home, wedged between Claire and Mrs. Penelope, Ethan barely spoke.

“So,” Claire said, winking, “I hear you’re quite the flirt now.”

The old lady chuckled. “I’m afraid our little maid is becoming popular. I suspect there may be suitors in her future.”

“This is just awful!” Ethan groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“Oh, hush,” Claire teased. “You loved it. Admit it.”

“I did not.”

“I saw that little wiggle you put in your walk,” she said. “That’s practically a confession.”

The two females laughed.

Ethan moaned: “Does Mrs. Torres and Savannah… do they know about me? Being Emily, I mean?”

Penelope smiled. “Does it matter?”

“That’s a good question, Mrs. Whitaker.” Claire looped her arm through Ethan’s. “Does it matter, Emily?”

“I’m being serious. This is… really confusing. And complicated.”

“Well, truth be told, I’m not sure.” The old woman furrowed her brow, thinking as she drove. “I don’t recall saying anything to Juanita. Mmm, I’m certain I did not. Your secret is safe in our little coterie. At least I think so.”

“And I didn’t say anything to Savannah,” Claire said. “We’re friendly, but we’re not really friends. And my circle is sworn to secrecy, too.”

“Which doesn’t mean a thing, if I know teenaged girls,” Penelope said with a chuckle. “You’re as bad as us old ladies.”

The blushing boy stared out the window—his heart thumping with equal parts dread and… something else.

He wasn’t sure what it was yet.

But he had a dreadful feeling that Emily and Samuel were not yet done.

 

Next up, Errands for Auntie Penelope