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 Thirty: Ricky and The Panty Boy

Ethan makes a friend.
 

It was just past noon when Ethan stepped barefoot onto the warm flagstone path in the backyard, balancing a wicker basket full of damp laundry against his hip. The sun was high and golden, and a faint breeze stirred the hem of his housewife frock—a blue cotton dress scattered with yellow roses, cinched at the waist with a white ruffled apron. His sleeves were rolled neatly above the elbow, and a matching kerchief held back his brown hair, tied up in a neat little bow atop his head. It was the kind of outfit his mother liked him to wear when helping around the house, and by now, Ethan had grown used to its swish and softness, even if it still made him blush.

He was clipping stockings and pillowcases to the line, humming softly to himself, when he heard a voice.

“Hi.”

Ethan turned, startled. A boy was peeking over the fence. He had a mop of red, almost copper hair, a scattering of freckles across his cheeks, and a curious, sleepy look in his pale blue eyes. His striped t-shirt was too big for him, and his chin rested lazily on the top fence plank.

“Um... hi,” Ethan replied, quickly lowering the clothespin in his hand. His cheeks went pink.

“I like your dress,” the boy said.

Ethan blinked. “Oh. Thanks.”

“That's a girl's dress, right?”

Ethan hesitated. “Kind of. Girls and women do wear dresses like this. But this one is mine.”

The boy scrunched his nose. “Huh.”

Ethan stepped closer, wiping his palms on his apron. “What’s your name?”

“Ricky. We just moved in next door. What’s yours?”

“Ethan.”

Ricky smiled, his sleepy eyes twinkling ever so slightly. “I’m thirteen.”

Ethan perked up. “Me too. In a few months, I mean.”

“Hey! That means we’re almost the same age! That’s good, Ethan!” Ricky frowned, thinking. “Ethan, huh? That’s a boy’s name, right?”

Ethan flushed. “Yes.”

“So you’re a boy, right?”

“Yes.”

The other boy’s lazy gaze shifted to the fluttering clothesline and he pointed. “Are those panties?”

Ethan sighed. Here we go.

“Yes, those are panties, Ricky.”

The red-headed boy grinned. “Are they yours?”

Another sigh. “Most are my mom’s.”

“But are any of them yours? Do you wear panties?”

Ethan nodded slightly, his cheeks pinkening. “Sometimes. When I wear a dress for my mother, I mean.”

“So, you wear panties!” Ricky giggled again. “You’re wearing them now?”

Ethan's face reddened further.

“Boys who wear panties are sissies,” Ricky said, his eyes wide with discovery. “Ethan is a panty boy! Ethan is a sissy! Ethan is a panty boy! Ethan is a sissy!”

The chant continued, and it cut deep. Ethan felt tears sting his eyes. He dropped the clothespins and fled inside, his skirt fluttering behind him.

From the other yard, a woman’s voice called out: “Ricky! What did you do? Did you make that girl cry?”

More shouting followed, and then the sound of Ricky sobbing.

Inside, Ethan collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table, burying his face in his crossed arms. His mother, Colleen, looked up from her sewing basket.

“Sweetheart? What happened?”

Ethan lifted his head just enough to speak, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“That new boy next door,” he sobbed. “He… he said I… that I was… a panty boy and a sissy, Mother. He was so mean. I just met him and he was already being mean to me!”

Colleen crossed the room and hugged him tightly, her voice low and warm.

“Oh, honey. Maybe he’s not mean. Maybe he just doesn’t understand. You hear worse from Dani, remember? And you two go at it all the time.”

“It’s not the same,” Ethan sniffled. “Dani’s my cousin. I know she doesn’t mean it. Not like that. Ricky's different. He’s older. And now he lives next door and he’s going to tell everybody about me, and I won’t be able to help you anymore, and Auntie Penelope and Auntie Vivian will get mad, and we’ll have to move to Australia!”

Colleen chuckled and brushed his hair gently. “We’re not moving to Australia, baby. We’ll figure this out. I’ll talk to his mother.”

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Colleen gave her son a reassuring pat. “Stay here. I’ll get it.”

Ethan listened. A woman’s voice. Then a boy’s. It was Ricky.

Colleen called out, her tone calm but firm. “Ethan, would you come here please? There’s someone to see you.”

Ethan considered running upstairs. He could change. Hide. But then his mother added, “Ethan, dear. Right now, please. This is important.”

Reluctantly, he stood. His steps were slow, each one heavier than the last, as he made his way toward the living room, eyes cast downward. His dress swished faintly with each stride, the apron still tied in a prim and proper bow at the back, his kerchief still tied in his hair—he wanted to rip that silly bow from atop his head, but he didn’t have the heart to do it. He felt like a prisoner walking toward his sentencing.

And then he looked up.

Ricky sat on the sofa beside his mother, his red head buried against her shoulder. His eyes were swollen and red, his sneakers swinging back and forth, scuffing the floor. His striped T-shirt was rumpled, and he looked more like a chastised toddler than a bully.

Marianne Johansson, her blonde hair tucked into a loose twist, wore a weary, apologetic smile that didn’t quite hide the stress in her eyes. She looked up at Ethan, then over at Colleen, and gave a tight, embarrassed nod.

“Come on in, Ethan,” Colleen said gently. “You should hear what Mrs. Johansson has to say.”

Ethan stepped into the room slowly, every part of him taut with nerves. He didn’t look at Ricky at first. He kept his eyes on his mother’s face, searching for signs—anger, disappointment, pity. But Colleen just smiled softly and gestured toward the armchair.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.”

Marianne spoke first, her voice thick with emotion. “Ethan, I want to apologize for my son’s behavior. He didn’t mean to be cruel. Ricky isn’t… like most boys.”

Ricky hiccupped into her sleeve.

“We were in a car crash a little over a year ago,” Marianne continued. “A truck hit us. Ricky’s side. He survived—we both did, thank God—but he suffered a traumatic brain injury. His memory’s affected. So is his impulse control. Sometimes he sounds older than he is, and sometimes he talks and acts… much, much younger.”

Ethan finally looked at the boy beside her. Ricky peeked out from his mother’s arm with a look that was halfway between sheepish and hopeful.

“He doesn’t understand some things,” Marianne said softly. “We didn’t know your situation, Ethan. That’s my fault. I had no idea. I guess I should have asked or… something… We just moved here and it’s been so crazy.”

She looked at Colleen, who offered a calm, reassuring smile.

“I make dresses and costumes for a living and Ethan helps me with my work,” Colleen said. “He models the things I make for my clients. He sews and does the laundry. He helps me with the house. He does so much for me, I wouldn’t know what to do without him.”

Marianne’s eyes went wide. “Wow. You’re quite the helper, Ethan.”

The boy in the floral frock gave a shy nod. “I help a little. I like sewing.”

Ricky shifted upright and looked at Ethan. His eyes were red but no longer sleepy. They were earnest.

“I didn’t want to make you cry, Ethan. Honest.”

Ethan hesitated.

“I’m sorry,” Ricky added. “Really. I don’t have any friends. And I thought you looked nice. I didn’t know boys could look pretty like that. I just thought you were being funny and I was trying to be funny, too. I really didn’t mean to make you cry. I want to be your friend. If you want to.”

The cross-dressed boy bit his lip, then nodded. “Okay.”

A smile cracked across Ricky’s face like sunlight through clouds.

Colleen clapped her hands once, brightly. “Why don’t we show them the sewing room?”

Ethan hesitated, but he glanced at his mother, who gave him a gentle nod. He sighed, turned back to Ricky and extended his hand.

“Come on.” He took another deep breath. “There’s something I need to show you if you’re going to be my friend.”

Ricky grinned and followed, the two boys slipping down the hallway together, side by side, hand in hand.

The sewing room was awash in soft light, filtered through pale curtains. The scent of lavender and pressed cotton lingered in the air, and the room felt more like a dressmaker’s parlor from an old-fashioned film than a modern workspace. Bolts of fabric lined the walls in tidy rows, and sewing machines—three of them now—sat ready and gleaming on their polished tables.

Ricky stopped in the doorway and gasped.

“Whoa! Is this where you work?”

Ethan nodded, a small smile forming.

“This is amazing! It’s like a... a magic clothes place!”

Colleen chuckled behind them. “It’s where the magic happens, all right.”

Ricky wandered around, looking at the spools of thread, the scissors, the padded mannequin in the corner wearing one of Ethan’s recent dresses.

“Don’t touch anything, Ricky,” Marianne warned. “This is not your stuff, remember?”

“It’s all right,” Colleen said. “He’s doing great.”

Ethan watched with curiosity as the red-headed boy carefully studied the sewing machines, the cameras and modeling stool and backdrop cloth. He noticed a faint, white line on the side of the boy’s head, barely visible through the mop of red hair.

Is that a… scar?—

Ricky suddenly turned around, his once-sleepy eyes wide open and alight with curiosity, his hands on his hips like a superhero on the cover of a comic book.

“So this is... your job,” the teenager said, more of a proclamation than a question. “You help your mom make clothes from all that cloth.” He pointed to the bolts of fabric. “That’s why you got all these neat machines, to make clothes and… it’s how you make money!”

Colleen raised an eyebrow toward Marianne. “You said he was slow?”

Marianne laughed, teary-eyed. “He sounds pretty sharp right now.”

Ethan beamed a little, his cheeks pink. “I even helped design a few of those outfits.”

“You design clothes, too?” Now Ricky was really excited. He examined the dress on the mannequin, his mind racing with discovery. “Wow! I never knew clothes were made like this! That must take a lot of talent! You have to be really smart for that! And you were outside hanging up clothes too. That’s hard work! You’re really good at this, Ethan.”

The compliment made Ethan's heart flutter. He glanced toward his mother.

“Can I… should I… show him... Emily’s room?”

Colleen gave a nod of encouragement.

“Emily?” Marianne asked. “Is that your daughter?”

Colleen smiled. “Dear heart, this will take a bit of explaining.”

The boys went ahead, their footsteps soft on the stairs, while the mothers followed at a slower pace, whispering back and forth.

At the door to the guest room—now Emily’s room—Ethan stopped.

“Okay, Ricky. Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a surprise. Promise you’ll keep them shut until I say so, okay?”

Ricky giggled. “Okay, I promise.”

Ethan guided him into the room, tugging gently at his hand. The soft creaking of the floorboards echoed around them. Their mothers approached the door but did not enter.

“Okay, I’m letting go now. Keep your eyes closed, okay?”

The red-headed boy bit his lip. “Okay.”

The pink and white room smelled faintly of rosewater and talcum powder. Ethan hurried to the little vanity, doffed his kerchief and grabbed the blonde wig he’d worn most recently and slipped it on. He grabbed a tube of lip gloss—a soft pink, of course—and applied it quickly and expertly. A brief glance in the mirror, a tug at his wig and a quick brushing, a fluff of the skirt, and then—

“Okay, Ricky. You can look now.”

Ricky opened his eyes. His mouth dropped open.

“Hello, Ricky,” the cross-dressed boy said softly. “My name is Emily. I’m Ethan’s twin sister. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Ethan dipped slightly, lifting the hem of his skirt with his fingertips, sliding his left foot behind his right, bending his knees in a perfect curtsy. He then stood up and took a coy, girlish pose, hands clasped in front, his feet pigeon-toed.

Ricky didn’t say anything. He stared. And stared. Thinking, thinking, thinking....

“Um, hi, Emily?” He looked around the room for a moment. He considered the girlish décor, the furnishing, even the dolls on the shelves. Then he frowned. “Uh, where did my friend Ethan go? Ethan, where are you?”

Ethan suppressed the urge to laugh. Ricky was so cute, the way he looked for “Ethan.” But he thought maybe he’d gone too far. He was about to say something but—

The red-headed boy suddenly went quiet. He stepped forward and stared Ethan in the eye. He moved in even more. Ricky suddenly blinked. Then he blinked again.

“You’re… Emily... right?”

Ethan held his breath as the other boy stared into his eyes, studying… thinking….

Once again, Ricky inched forward—the two boys almost touched noses they were so close.

Ethan held his breath. Oh gosh—he’s not gonna kiss me, is he?

“Ricky, son, you’re too close, sweetie,” Marianne called out. “Don’t be rude.”

“It’s all right,” Colleen assured her. “Let’s see what happens.”

All of a sudden Ricky burst out laughing. “Oh-ho-ho, no no no! You almost tricked me, Emily!” he yelled happily. “You’re not a real girl. You’re Ethan in disguise! Look, Mom! Emily tried to trick me, but I figured it out. She’s really Ethan in disguise!”

Ricky’s smile faded, replaced by something gentler.

“That’s right, Ricky. I’m in disguise. I’m really Ethan, but sometimes I’m Emily. So if you ever see a girl in our house who looks like me, it’s just me pretending to be Emily.”

“Got it.” Ricky nodded, his expression thoughtful, serious. “I get it. You’re not really a girl but… you really are pretty, Emily. I mean, Ethan. Almost as pretty as my mom. And she’s the prettiest girl in the world.”

Marianne gasped softly. Colleen took her hand.

“He says that all the time,” Marianne whispered. “His father used to say it. I just never paid much attention to it… until only now. I thought he was just mimicking Roy.”

Colleen squeezed her hand. “It’s never too late to listen.”

For the next little while Ethan showed off Emily’s room to Ricky. They looked at Emily’s doll collection, and Susie Homemaker’s arsenal of appliances, the closet filled with girlish outfits and the cabinet holding Emily’s other wigs. The red-headed boy seemed fascinated with how Ethan became Emily and went back again, and he surprised everyone with his questions.

“So how do you know when you’re you and when you’re not you?”

Ethan laughed. ”Well, it depends. Sometimes my mom wants me to dress up like Emily for a photo shoot for our buyers. Or for our website. If we go to an arts and crafts fair, Emily models the outfits we make for our customers. Like you said, that’s how we earn money and pay our bills.”

Ricky nodded. “That makes sense. But what about around the house? You said you sometimes pretend to be Ethan… I mean, Emily… here, too?”

Ethan sighed. “Well, sometimes I do it for fun, or to make my mom happy. And sometimes my aunties, Auntie Penelope and Auntie Vivian ask me to dress up as Emily, too.”

“You have two aunties?”

“Well, three if you count Aunt DeeDee—” Ethan sighed. “And then there’s my cousin Dani.”

Ricky yelled, as if that was more impressive than seeing Ethan in a wig and a dress. “You hear that, Mom? Ethan has three aunties! Plus he’s got a cousin!”

Marianne laughed. ”So I hear,” she said. ”You don’t have to yell, honey. I’m right here.”

Ricky nodded. ”Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Mrs. Ethan’s mom.” He squeezed his eyes closed, just for second, then gave Ethan a curious look. ”So why do your aunties want Emily? Don’t they want Ethan around? Don't they like him? I like him—a lot!”

Again, Marianne and Colleen looked at one another. ”This so unlike him,” the tearful woman said. ”I’ve never heard him talk like this.”

“He is a pretty amazing young man,” Colleen replied sweetly.

Ethan gave his new friend a bemused smile. ”Well, of course they like Ethan... er, me. They love me. And I love them back. It’s just that, well, sometimes they like to see this other side of me. They like for Emily to help them with things. And, um,” he cast a shy smile toward his mother, “I kinda like pretending. You know, to be Emily.”

He watched with some regret as Colleen crossed her arms and smirked. Oh great, he thought. She’s gonna want to have a little talk with me about this later.

“What kinds of things?” Ricky asked. “What does Emily do that you can’t?”

Ethan sighed. “Oh, I dunno. Sometimes helping around the house, cleaning and stuff. Like I do with Mother. But my aunties are kind of… particular. So they ask for Emily.”

Ricky grinned. ”Okay, well, you are pretty … and I bet you work as hard as Ethan. Or Emily. Sorry, I get confused.”

“Me too, sometimes,” Ethan said wryly. “You see, sometimes Auntie Vivian likes me to play the piano for her—”

“You play the piano, too?” Ricky’s eyes were wide with wonder. “What about Ethan, can he play piano?”

“Well, yeah… sure. But Auntie Vivian thinks Emily is better at it. I guess.”

Ethan looked at his mother as if to say Now I’m confused!

Colleen laughed. “Tell Ricky about your Auntie Penelope. He needs to know about her, too, since she lives next door.”

The cross-dressed boy rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah… so, Auntie Penelope isn’t really my aunt, but we pretend she is. Anyway, she really likes me dressing up as Emily. She holds these little socials and other parties she’s always hosting. It’s mostly a bunch of old ladies—” he shot a quick glance at his mother, shrugged and mouthed, Sorry, Mother— “so she is always asking Emily to help out. The ladies all think it’s fun to see me as Emily … I guess. And I guess I think it’s fun, too.”

Ricky thought again. ”I can see that. I bet it is fun. Hey, Ethan, can I come to one of those parties and see you working… you know, as Emily?”

Marianne interrupted, ”Ricky, don’t be so…”

Ethan smiled. ”It’s all right, Mrs. Johansson. Of course. But we’ll have to ask Auntie Penelope. She’s picky about who attends her little parties and whatnot.”

Colleen whispered to Marianne. ”Not really. Penelope acts like she’s the queen of parties, but all are welcome. I’ll make sure you get an invitation as soon as you and Ricky settle in.”

Ethan suddenly had an idea. “Hey Ricky, you said this all sounds like fun … you want to try it? I have plenty of dresses you can try on if you want. And more than one wig…” He suddenly remembered himself and looked over at the other boy’s mother. ”As long as your mom says it’s all right, I mean.”

Marianne appeared shocked to hear such a suggestion, and for an instant there was an awkward silence. Suddenly, before anyone could say another word Ricky began laughing. Loud and hard! He laughed and he laughed and he laughed until he got choked. Then he hicupped and he laughed some more.

Marianne stepped in to correct her son—”Ricky Johansson … please, honey… don’t be rude!”—but Colleen whispered something and she restrained herself.

“What’s so funny, Ricky?” asked Ethan. Instead of getting mad, this time the cross-dressed boy gave his new friend a sly grin. ”Are you laughing at me again?”

The red-headed boy calmed down and shook his head. He coughed and sniffed, still recovering from his laughing fit.

“Oh no, Emily! I would never ever laugh at you! Never at you. I was laughing at me! I’m not like you … you’re so pretty, almost as pretty as my mom and she’s the prettiest girl in the world! Oh-ho-ho, no no no… I’m just an ugly boy! I’m an ugly boy and I would make the ugliest girl in the world!”

The red-headed youth laughed again and everyone else laughed along with him.

 

* * *
 

Back in the sewing room, Ethan was explaining to Ricky how the sewing machines worked while the mothers lingered, exchanging soft words and occasional laughter. Colleen offered an invitation for lunch, and Marianne, caught between gratitude and weariness, accepted.

By then, Ethan had changed his outfit—this time into one of his mother’s more polished tea dresses, a soft pastel pink with a flounced hem, ankle socks, and his pink ballet slippers. A frillier apron was tied over the dress, and his blonde wig had been brushed and topped off with a soft pink satin hairbow. The transformation was complete, and even Marianne had to admire the care and poise with which Emily served iced tea and arranged the traditional Martin triangle cut sandwiches on a tray.

Ricky was fascinated. With droopy eyes he watched every move Emily made, his chin perched in one hand, the other idly twisting his shoelace.

“You’re really good at this, Emily,” he said earnestly. “Your mom is super lucky to have you. But what about Ethan? Doesn’t he get lunch too?” Ricky’s eyes suddenly opened wide with alarm. “Hey, where’s Ethan? Emily! Ethan helps you and your mom, right? He should be here eating lunch, too! Ethan’s my friend! We have to find Ethan so he can have lunch with us, too!”

Colleen smiled at Marianne, who was torn between embarrassment and laughter.

Almost immediately Ethan put his hand on the panicked boy’s shoulder. “Hey Ricky, look! I’m right here!” he said, and he tugged off the blonde wig with a flourish. “Peek-a-boo! See? I’m still here.”

Ricky’s eyes widened. He stared, then laughed. “Oh, yeah. I forgot—sometimes I forget stuff.” He gave the cross-dressed boy a shy smile. “Sorry for being dumb, Ethan. That was funny!”

Marianne reached out and took her son’s hand. “It’s okay, honey. Just take a breath.”

Ethan took the boy’s other hand. “You’re not dumb, Ricky. I’ve fooled lots of people dressed as Emily. You’re the only one who figured me out!”

“I am?” Ricky nodded his head and smiled proudly. “Wow. This is neat. I’m glad you’re my friend, Ethan!” He then leaned in close and whispered, “And Emily, too.”

 

* * *
 

Later that afternoon, the two boys sat on the back steps, each nibbling on a lemon crinkle cookie. The yard smelled of warm earth and trimmed grass. Colleen and Marianne sat in rocking chairs on the porch, talking quietly.

Ethan had left off his wig—his head was starting to itch anyway—and let the afternoon breeze cool his damp brown hair.

Ricky pointed to the sky. “See that one? That’s a stratus cloud. Flat and low. Somebody over there, maybe ten miles from here, is getting some rain, but the way it’s moving I don’t think we’ll get any. And way up there is a cirrocumulus cloud. It’s really high up, more than three miles, I think. It’s got ice crystals even when it’s hot down here. Hard to believe, but it’s true.”

Ethan blinked. “You know cloud names? How’d that happen?”

“My dad taught me all about clouds and flying and stuff like that. He’s a pilot. He flies jets for the Air Force.” Ricky’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “One time, he flew up so far and so fast, he flew right up to heaven to see God.”

Ethan tilted his head. “He... flew to heaven?”

“Yeah. He didn’t come back. Not yet. He’s still up there, I think.”

Ricky looked down suddenly. He sniffled, wiped his nose on his sleeve. Ethan felt something in his chest twist.

“Oh, Ricky. I’m so sorry.” He reached over to hug him, but paused, uncertain.

But Ricky brightened again almost instantly. “It’s okay! One day I’m gonna be a pilot too. Just like my dad! Then I’ll fly my own jet and pick him up and bring him back to be with my mom. She really misses him.”

He suddenly pointed to a tall, distant cloud. “See that big tall one? It’s a cumulonimbus. You have to watch out for them. You don’t want to fly into one of those unless you have to. That could be bad.”

Ethan couldn’t help but smile. “You’re really smart. I didn’t even know cumulo-… whatever… was a word.”

Ricky gave him a happy look. “Hey Emily! Want to see my jet? It’s a real model. An A-10 Thunderbolt just like my dad’s! It’s got real metal wings and everything.”

He jumped to his feet and tugged Ethan’s hand. “Come on, you showed me your room. Now I want to show you mine!

“Mom! Can Emily come up to my room to see my jet? Please?”

Marianne blinked, then laughed. Her eyes were still misty. “Of course she can. Go ahead, sweetheart.”

As the two boys—one in tea dress and apron, the other in scuffed sneakers—ran hand in hand across the backyard, Marianne pressed her hand to her heart.

“Thank you,” she whispered, just loud enough for Colleen to hear. “And thanks to Ethan, too. And Emily.”

Colleen watched them go with a gentle smile. “They’ll be good for each other,” she said.

And off the boys ran, through the soft grass, toward jets, toward clouds, and toward something neither quite understood yet—something that looked, perhaps, a little like healing.
 

Next: Fairy Wings and Secrets