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 Forty-Five: By Vivian's Decree

 
Auntie Vivian pushes Ethan to his limit. Will he crash? Or will he soar?
 

The first thing Ethan noticed was the smell.

Vivian’s car—a gleaming black sedan with windows tinted just shy of illegal—smelled like her. Sharp, clean perfume with a faint undertone of leather and something metallic, like coins warmed in the sun. The second thing he noticed was that the temperature inside was just a touch too cool, as if she’d tuned the air conditioning to keep him alert.

She didn’t look at him when he climbed in. Just one precise nod, eyes still on the traffic as she slipped the car into gear.

“You’re late,” she said, though she hadn’t given him a specific time to meet her.

“I—” he started.

“Mmm. Don’t explain. It wastes breath, and we’ve got enough of a drive ahead without filling it with excuses.”

Her voice was smooth as glass, but not warm. It wasn’t unkind, either—not exactly. Just… measured. Controlled. Like everything else about her.

They merged onto the highway, their destination a blur in the summer haze. Ethan adjusted his seatbelt and glanced at her profile—her dark auburn hair pulled back so tight he could almost feel the tug in his own scalp, her lips painted the same blood-red as the polished nails on the hand gripping the wheel. He felt sorely out of place in his worn T-shirt and jeans, his hair a mussy mess.

She caught him looking. “Something on your mind?”

He swallowed. “Mom didn’t tell me what we were doing today.”

“No,” Vivian said, her eyes still on the road. “That was deliberate. You think too much when you have advance notice.”

He frowned. “That’s… bad?”

“For you, yes. You overthink. You get fidgety. And when you’re fidgety, you start negotiating. I don’t negotiate with thirteen-year-olds, Ethan. It’s one of my principles.”

The way she said it made him feel both very small and oddly singled out, as if she’d chosen him for some experiment in discipline.

“You wore some very high heels in that little school play of yours,” she added after a beat, the corners of her mouth twitching. “What was it called?”

“Singin’ on the Brain,” he muttered.

“Yes, that. You took your wig off at the end, didn’t you? Let the whole school see you.”

He shifted in his seat. “It was part of the curtain call.”

“It was part of your education,” she corrected. “You’ve put your little secret out in the open. And how did that work out for you?”

“Um, well, not bad, actually.” Ethan nodded. “I don’t get any grief from my friends like I used to. I actually made a few—”

“That’s what I suspected,” Vivian interrupted. She’d heard enough. “Today—tonight—we’re… continuing the process.”

He blinked. “Process?”

She cut in with, “Of exposure. Opening yourself up. You’ve already tasted that. Tonight we're going a step further. By evening's end you’ll understand ownership.”

“Ownership?”

Her gaze flicked to him, a sharp gleam in her dark eyes. “Of yourself. By your family. And by me.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “By you?”

Vivian sighed. “Tonight you’ll be on my arm, Ethan. You’ll be my responsibility. And my reflection. Everyone will see you, and they will know who you are... and who you belong to.”

“Everyone? Who do you mean?” Ethan frowned. “Where are we—I... I don’t understand.”

“You will soon enough.” Vivian finally glanced at him, just long enough for her dark eyes to make him want to shrink into the leather seat. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” she said softly. “I’ll do the thinking for both of us.”

The rest of the ride fell into a silence broken only by the hum of tires on asphalt and the occasional flick of her blinker. He stared out the window, trying to read the signs and guess their destination, but she seemed to anticipate his thoughts.

“We’re going to Capital City,” she said, as if answering a question he hadn’t spoken. “A boutique I’ve trusted for years. Then Stefan’s salon.”

Ethan’s stomach gave a small, involuntary lurch. “Stefan’s? You mean, for another wig?”

“Not exactly.” She smiled faintly, a closed-lip, knowing smile. “As I said, don’t worry about it. Just know that you’ll leave there looking like you belong to me. And if you’re clever, you’ll realize that’s not a punishment.”

 

* * *
 

The boutique didn’t have a sign.

At least, not the kind Ethan expected—no glossy logo, no name in looping cursive. Just tall windows with mannequins posed as if caught mid-stride, each dressed in something sharp and understated that looked as if it belonged in a magazine he would never pick up. The glass door gave way to a hush so complete that the click of Vivian’s heels on the marble floor sounded like punctuation marks.

Ethan followed her in, uncertain whether to keep close or lag behind. The lighting was soft, almost theatrical, and the air carried the faint scent of lavender and expensive fabrics.

A tall woman in a black sheath dress appeared from behind a display, smiling with polite precision. “Judge Winthrop. Always a pleasure.”

Vivian extended her hand, a small tilt of her head serving as both greeting and acknowledgement. “Claudine. I need something suitable for this young man. My nephew.”

Ethan felt his ears go hot. Young man. Her… nephew. But Claudine’s eyes flicked over him without the faintest sign of surprise, as if she’d been expecting someone just like him to appear in her doorway.

“I see,” Claudine said, the corners of her mouth lifting. “Will we be leaning more toward ingénue or debutante this evening?”

“In between,” Vivian said crisply. “Enough sophistication to keep him from looking like a child, but nothing vulgar. Modern, but not trendy. Something classic, l think. The line is fine, but you’ll understand it. Above all else, we’re building someone to be noticed and remembered, without question as to whose care he’s under. I’ll be wearing black, if that helps.”

“It does.” Claudine nodded and turned to Ethan. “Follow me, please.”

 

* * *
 

A few minutes later Ethan stood on a raised platform wearing a too-tight foundation garment, full-length, encasing his boyish body from his thighs to barely covering his nipples, leaving his upper chest and shoulders scandalously exposed. The beige spandex clung to his body like a second skin, suggesting a feminine shape by pushing up on his breast muscles—such as they were—while at the same time allowing his silhouette to flare out at his hips and bottom.

Boning sewn into the garment encased his abdomen, keeping him slim, and severely limited his movement—he could barely breathe, much less bend over. Of particular note was the thick, shiny satin gusset that imprisoned his budding masculinity—the material covering his private parts smooth and shiny, any sign of the boy beneath all that spandex and satin completely and frighteningly erased.

Another thing he noticed were the garters that dangled like little bells about his thighs. Oh my gosh, he thought excitedly. Auntie Vivian is going to make me wear real ladies’ stockings! This is just like Mom’s lingerie catalogs. Only… for real!

The fitting area was half a stage and half a confessional. A wall of mirrors caught him from every angle. He looked—and felt—practically naked, but he fought the urge to cover himself. He'd worn similar garments before—panty girdles are very useful, he’d learned, in hiding wayward signs of boyish excitement—but this was next-level in terms of sophistication... and effectiveness.

He glanced helplessly at the clothes he’d arrived in, tossed carelessly on a nearby bench. His brown loafers were on the floor beneath, scuffed and lonely looking.

Vivian sank into an armchair in the corner, crossing her legs and folding her hands over one knee, watching him like a sculptor studying her model.

“We’ll begin with some options,” Claudine said, vanishing into the racks. She returned with a sheath dress in pale blue, another in a flared A-line of soft cream, and something black and strapless that made Ethan’s throat tighten.

Vivian’s eyes moved over each dress with the same dispassionate focus she might give to evidence in a courtroom. “Start with the blue.”

“This way please, young miss.” Claudine's smile was not ironic. “Do you need any help?”

“He does not.” Vivian answered for him. “My nephew is no stranger to dresses.”

The shopkeeper’s smile shifted slightly, eyebrow raised. “Ah, I see. Then carry on, please, young sir.”

His face and neck red with embarrassment, Ethan took the dress and stepped into the small dressing alcove. The stiff boning of his foundation garment hampered his progress, but as Vivian predicted, he managed. Cool fabric caressed his skin, the zipper slid up with a whisper that seemed louder in the silence. When he emerged, Vivian gave a slow shake of her head.

“Too boring. That reads ‘Sunday brunch with grandmother.’”

The cream A-line fared no better.

“Sweet,” Vivian said, her tone making it sound like a flaw. “You could almost pass for a bridesmaid. That’s not what we want.”

When Claudine handed him the little black dress, Ethan hesitated. It was a meager thing, cut close through the torso, the top barren of straps or sleeves, the narrow silhouette punctuated by a pleated ruffle hem.

“Go on,” Vivian said. “We haven’t got all day.”

The flustered boy struggled into it, the silk fabric clinging like water to his skin. The strapless straight-across neckline left his upper chest, collarbone and shoulders naked—tugging it up to cover his nipples (just barely). He now understood why women and girls were so self-conscious about exposing their breasts.

The bodice hugged his ribs, working with the spandex shaper to enhance his meager bust. The fit was even more snug from hip to thigh, holding his knees tight together, forcing him to mince rather than walk. The ruffles along the hem were the final sign-off on his feminine form. He could feel the shape this dress gave him, way more than it appeared in the mirror.

When he stepped out, Vivian’s gaze sharpened. “That is it. The strapless low-cut design shows your vulnerability, that tight skirt says you trust my hands to steady you. The pleats, the ruffles both connect to the gown I’ll be wearing. I hate to say this, but it is… perfect.”

Claudine raised an eyebrow as if she’d known all along.

“There is also a bolero jacket to go with the dress, Your Honor. Shall we try it on?”

Vivian nodded. The shopkeeper handed over a short, cropped jacket with long lace sleeves, all in black. Ethan was fascinated by the garment and was actually excited to see what it might look like with his dress. It was a struggle—thanks to the restrictive fit and tight shoulders, but he finally got it on. It was a skimpy thing, barely covering his upper chest, but he was grateful for any concealment he could get.

He smiled at his aunt. “This is very nice. I kind of like—”

“Lose the jacket,” Vivian ordered, cutting him off.

Ethan frowned. “But, Auntie, please. This dress is so skimpy and—”

She glanced at Claudine. “What’s that old saying about dressing like a French woman?”

The shopkeeper sniffed. “Take one thing off, Your Honor.”

“Exactly.” Vivian smirked to see the look of disappointment in Ethan’s face. “Don’t be so sad, little mister. You’ll thank me later.”

Claudien cleared her throat. “Pardon me, Your Honor, but there is the matter of… his… shoes.”

“Four-inch heel. Blood red, same as mine,” Vivian answered before Ethan could speak. “He can manage them, no problem. He wore higher in his school play.”

“Oh my,” the shopkeeper cooed. “Did he now?”

“I didn’t—” Ethan started.

“Don’t act so innocent,” she said, her voice soft but cutting. “You danced in them onstage. You ran in them. You won the crowd over in them. You’ll be fine.”

“But… Auntie—”

Vivian stood up and closed the distance, her face determined, foreboding. Ethan’s face burned as she laid a hand on his naked shoulder. “Listen to me carefully, boy.” She stretched the word out, making it seem like an insult. “I have license over you tonight. You’ll wear what I say, just as you’ll do as I say. This dress connects you directly with me. The pearls you’ll wear are my signature. The red—red shoes, red lipstick, red nails—those are my challenge. Wear them, and no one will mistake who you belong to.”

The shoes appeared—sleek, patent leather, their color deep as fresh paint. He slid his feet in, the arch pushing him upright, changing the way he had to hold himself.

Vivian’s eyes swept him from head to toe. “Yes, this is exactly the look I want.”

Ethan glanced at himself in the mirror. He wasn’t Emily. He wasn’t Ethan. He wasn’t sure who he was, and Vivian didn’t seem inclined to tell him.

She rose from her chair. “That’s settled, then. We’ll take everything, the dress and the shoes. The corset, of course. Stockings, two pair—dark, sheer—for the garters. He will not appear unfinished.”

Ethan’s eyes glistened. There was too much going on too fast. “Auntie, I don’t understand—”

“You needn’t understand, not yet.” The corner of Vivian’s mouth pulled upward, giving her a crooked smile. “As I said, don’t worry your pretty little head. I’ll do the thinking for both of us.”

This time the words felt less like a dismissal and more like a binding contract.

 

* * *
 

The brass bell above Stefan’s salon door gave a polite chime as Vivian ushered Ethan inside. Back in his T-shirt and jeans, he once again felt sorely out of place.

The shop smelled faintly of citrus and something floral he couldn’t name—jasmine, he suddenly remembered—overlaid with the warm, clean scent of hair dryers and expensive product. Mirrors lined the walls, each flanked by tall chairs with chrome arms, each like a throne for a very specific kingdom.

And there was Stefan, just as Ethan remembered him—lean, elegant, with silver-streaked hair swept back in a way that made him look like he’d just stepped off a yacht. He turned at the sound of the bell, took one look at the blushing boy, and broke into a toothy smile.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite little revelation.”

Ethan froze. “I—”

“You remember Mr. Stefan,” Vivian said smoothly. “He made Emily look beautiful. Tonight, he’ll make you iconic.”

Ethan blinked. Iconic? He had no clue what that meant. But he decided to keep his questions to himself for the time being.

“I am honored to see you through to your real self, sugarplum.” Stefan’s eyes danced. “This will be life-changing for all of us!”

Vivian snorted, eyes rolling.

Before Ethan could protest, two young women in matching black smocks descended on him, gently but firmly taking his shopping bags from the boutique and setting them on a nearby counter.

“We’ll start with the wax,” one said in a breezy tone, as if announcing the weather.

Vivian’s voice drifted from behind him. “Legs, underarms, bikini. Full tidy.”

Ethan spun toward her. “Bikini?”

“It won’t hurt, we promise,” the other girl said with a conspiratorial giggle. Her eyes flicked downward. “You’re so fair, I dare say there’s very little to worry about.”

Heat shot into his cheeks. “I—I don’t—”

Vivian’s voice was level but direct. “I don’t care what you do or don’t, Ethan. But you will do as they say, be presented as I decide.”

He hesitated, then sighed. “Yes, Auntie.”

The waxing room was small and white, smelling faintly of honey and antiseptic. Ethan’s legs had been waxed once before, back in Maplewood, but this was at a whole new level. Before he could raise a word of protest his clothing was removed and discarded. He was given a small towel to conceal his modesty, and then he lay back on the table, trying not to flinch as the warm wax spread over his skin. He couldn’t help but flinch and yelp softly the first time they pulled it away.

“You’re doing fine, sweetheart,” one of girls said, almost kindly. “Breath and relax.”

“You’re already so pretty,” said the other. “When we’re done you’ll be heavenly.”

Just as was predicted, there wasn’t much hair to remove. Still, the process was shameful and exciting, and Ethan reacted as most any teenaged boy might under such circumstances—it didn’t take long for him to feel a familiar tingling between his legs, and he knew without looking that his boyish tension was on full display, bobbing about at its greatest height, such as it was. He was humiliated. The assistants, on the other hand, reacted with giggling whispers, and their winks and smirks let him know they weren’t the least bit offended. Far from it—one of them cooed, “So cute,” while the other nodded happily.

Ethan stared at the ceiling, trying in vain to ignore the soothing sensation of the warm wax and the unexpected pinching and pulling at his body. He’d never been naked in front of anybody but his mother—now he had two pretty women touching him in places that not even she had touched. As they tugged at the wax for the bikini treatment, errant fingers repeatedly brushed against his bits and pieces. Not surprisingly, this proved too much for his adolescent sensitivities and he lost control, making a horrible mess of everything!

Hit by a moment of copious ecstasy, and then the inevitable wave of post-climactic mortification, Ethan clenched his eyes shut, waiting for the girls to report his indiscretion and call in his aunt. But to his surprise—and everlasting gratitude—their reaction was to simply clean him up and carry on as if nothing happened.

“Poor baby,” one of the girls, the eldest, said kindly, wiping him down and applying a fragrant lotion over his skin. “Feel better?”

He nodded sheepishly and mouthed “I’m sorry.”

The other girl smiled and put her finger to her lips, saying, “Shhh, don’t be, you sweet thing. You are a delight compared to most of our other clients!”

“Just don’t tell Stefan we said so,” the first girl whispered with a wink.

When they finished, Ethan’s legs were smooth as glass, his underarms bare, and the humiliatingly intimate bikini strip—a mere puff of soft down—left him feeling more naked than he could have ever imagined. He slid off the table awkwardly, tugging a skimpy pink towel around himself like armor, and shuffled back out into the main salon, knees wobbly, face flushed.

At least I won’t have to worry about sticking out for while, he thought ruefully.

To his surprise, Ethan saw that Auntie Vivian was in a silk robe, her hair in curlers, nibbling on shrimp cocktail and fruit while sipping a glass of sparkling water garnished with lemon slices. Another of Stefan’s assistants was busy giving her a pedicure, her fingers already done up with the reddest red nail polish Ethan had ever seen—he also noticed that her legs were as shiny as his own.

I wonder if she got waxed up as far up as I did…

He also wondered if he should be intrigued or disgusted by the thought. It was, after all, his mother’s sister he was thinking about.

Yikes… I still can’t believe this is Auntie Vivian…

“Ethan!” Snapping fingers interrupted his thoughts. “Come. Sit. You need to eat.” Vivian indicated the seat opposite beside her where a tray with a similar snack awaited him. “It’s going to be a long evening and you will need your energy.”

 

* * *
 

Ethan woke to Stefan standing over him. “Wakie-wakie, little sugar plum. Naptime is over. Now it’s Uncle Stefan’s turn. Let us see that awful head of hair.”

He had apparently fallen asleep during his mani-pedi. His toenails were the same color red as his aunt’s. He also noticed that his fingernails—also painted bold crimson—had mysteriously grown at least an inch during his nap.

As he started to get up, Ethan was horrified to see that his towel had fallen open while he'd been asleep, his legs splayed out. Who knew how long he had been like that, sleeping with his freshly waxed body exposed to anyone who cared to look. He started to get mad, but no one seemed to notice—except for Vivian, and her single raised eyebrow and smug smirk.

The blushing boy quickly covered himself and followed an assistant to the styling chair. At this point there was no use in complaining, so he forced himself to relax and he allowed Stefan to do as he wished, no argument. The stylist’s hands were quick and sure, tilting Ethan’s chin this way and that as he studied the coarse earlobe-length locks.

“My oh my, such a rat's nest,” Stefan murmured, combing through the damp hair after a thorough wash and treatment and massage. “Just who does your hair at home, darling child? It’s like horsehair… no, make that moldy straw.”

Ethan started to speak, but was cut off. “Not to worry. I’ve been through worse, so don’t worry about poor Stefan—I’ll be fine, I suppose. We’ll just cut, and cut, and cut until you think I’ll leave you bald, but be assured, sugarplum—we’re after something elegant. Chic. Feminine. Sophisticated beyond your wildest dreams.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “But, this is a girl’s hairdo? What about school?—”

Vivian cut him off: “Silence! You can brush it back if you must. Or cut it all off for all I care. But right now you’ll quiet keep and let Stefan work.”

“Yes, Auntie. Sorry, Auntie.”

Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip.

The sound was rhythmic, almost hypnotic. Ethan tried to not think about all that was going on, while Vivian sat quietly with the magazine she wasn’t reading, watching every angle of the transformation.

Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip.

When Stefan finally spun the chair around, Ethan was perplexed. The cut wasn’t as short as he’d thought—it almost looked longer, in fact. Gone was the scruffy mop—as Dani often described it—replaced with a sharp, very feminine French bob. Hard, square-cut bangs brushed his eyebrows, the long sides reached just below his earlobes, shaped to frame his face, the ends feathered to blend with his jaw, all designed to give him a delicate, almost elfin presence.

“Wait… is my hair… red?” He leaned forward, eyes narrowed, the corner of his mouth curled into a question mark. “Did you dye it?”

“Oh, dear God, no child!” Stefan clutched his chest in feigned exasperation. “I merely freed it. It has always been red—well, auburn—but it was so dark and… uncared for… it’s true nature has been hidden.” He coughed. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Ethan didn’t know what to say. Part of him felt betrayed—there were enough changes going on that day, he didn’t feel like taking on another one—but part of him was also relieved. Everyone else in his family had red hair, or some semblance of it—his mother, DeeDee and Dani, even Auntie Vivian, had either red or auburn hair. He always felt the odd man—well, boy—out with his dark brown locks. His mother said he got that from his father’s side, and… well… that wasn’t something to be proud of, not as far as he was concerned. Seeing himself now, with his new French bob with the trademark “O’Brien red” now evident—that was something that hit him hard.

He looked at his aunt. He wanted to say something, but his words failed him. All he wanted to ask was: “Is this okay, Auntie? Am I one of you now?” He wanted with all his heart to tell her how much he wished to be like his mother and his aunts and his cousin—even to be like her. That, after all, was part of how all this started in the first place.

But at that moment, seeing himself in the mirror, one step closer, he couldn’t get the words out. He was afraid if he spoke it would all evaporate in a waking dream.

And so, Vivian spoke for him. After all, she was “The Judge,” the grand dame in the room, the one who presided over everything that happened to him that day and who knew how many others in her courtroom and beyond. And her approval came with a single raised brow and a small nod.

“That will do,” she simply said.

Which was enough.

 

* * *
 

Next was makeup. Stefan’s hands were light but purposeful. “It’s about the finer details, dear heart,” he told Ethan, brushing a warm blush over his cheeks. “We preserve that natural innocence, not slather on paint to hide the real you.”

A thin sweep of eyeliner, a whisper of smoky shadow, the gentlest shaping of his brows, followed by a trace of an eyebrow pencil. The final touch was a thick coating of lipstick—the same crimson Vivian wore, the color rich against his pale skin.

“Mmm,” the artiste mused. “Very Elizabeth Taylor, if I do say so myself. Like when she was a teenager.”

Ethan stared at the mirror, nodding. “Mother thought Natalie Wood… Aunt DeeDee says Audrey Hepburn… but…”

Stefan smirked. “We’ll do one of them next time.”

Bewildered and bedazzled and still speechless, Ethan let himself be led into a dressing room where the assistants removed his towel and helped him dress. He blushed to be once again naked in front of the two women, but aside from their impish smiles, they were very businesslike.

“Do you need to go?” the taller, oldest assistant asked him.

Ethan frowned. “Do I need to go—”

“To the bathroom, sweetie.” She giggled. “Once we get you dressed it’ll be a major pain later. Better to do it now than go through all that.”

“Oh, wow.” The blushing boy bit his lip, then nodded. “Um, yeah, I better, I guess.”

Upon his return the younger assistant presented him with the beige body shaper. She also handed him a feminine hygiene pad. “Before putting on your undies, let’s make sure we are… discrete.” She gave him a wink and whispered: “In case you have another accident.”

Ethan’s face burned. The taller assistant put her hand to her mouth, giggled, and nodded in agreement.

It took a few minutes—and the remainder of his dignity—but eventually the spandex foundation garment pulled up over his hips and torso and hooked into place, rendering Ethan’s boyhood tucked away nice and tight, safe from both peril and temptation. The padded bra cups were adjusted to suggest just a hint of cleavage, no more. Sheer dark stockings were then rolled up his slender, freshly waxed legs and clipped to garters. Even before donning his dress Ethan felt enclosed, contained, and completely emasculated.

The grand finale took only a moment in comparison. The little black dress slid up his body, zipped up and buttoned up, locking the teenager in a sleek, womanly prison.

Stepping into the blood-red high heels proved difficult due to the boned foundation garment preventing him from bending over—a little help from his support staff and they were on, shifting his center of gravity and emphasizing his helplessness.

His uniform was nearly complete.

Ethan stood before the wall of mirrors, looking long and hard at what he saw, which appeared to be a nervous, petite ingénue in a scanty little black dress, bare shouldered, poised, painted and polished, looking far older than his thirteen years. His new French bob—barely covering his earlobes and just brushing his eyelashes—was the ideal addition to his ensemble, the most perfect maraschino cherry atop the most perfect dish of the most perfect ice cream.

“Is that… me?” he whispered. He reached up to caress his auburn hair—the beautiful creature opposite him did the same. She followed his every move—running her long, red-tipped fingers through her neatly trimmed bangs, tugging at the locks alongside her ears, shaking her head to make everything flare out playfully… and then fall precisely and flawlessly back into place. The mirror showed it all and he was amazed.

It’s not a wig, he thought happily. It’s my hair. It’s real. Really real. And it’s… me.

“Oooo, tres chic,” the taller assistant cooed. “Our mussy little boy is absolutely gorgeous!”

“You’ll break many hearts this night, sweetie,” the younger one said. “You’d best beware!”

Ethan bit his lip and smiled shyly, triggering a chorus of: “Awww!”

The two women suddenly scattered as the sound of high heels clicked on the tile. Ethan felt a chill up his spine as he heard Vivian’s judgmental voice: “Much better. Exactly what I wanted. And what you needed.”

Ethan turned to face his aunt and his jaw dropped. Vivian looked so unlike herself, he barely recognized her. Business suit gone, replaced with a full-length Bardot-style evening gown in deep black folded silk, the “aunt-but-not-an-auntie” to his skimpy little black number. Her long hair flowed over her exposed shoulders and décolletage, styled by Stefan into soft waves of alternating shades of auburn—a shocking departure from her usual sleek, featureless, bureaucratic bun. Her makeup was fierce, bordering on majestic, with dark, smokey eyes, high, judgmental eyebrows—and those blood-red painted lips.

“Auntie… Vivian?—”

There was no reply—except for a single raised eyebrow.

Perplexed by what he was seeing, the cross-dressed boy watched as his aunt casually fastened a strand of pearls around her neck, checked herself—all with something that vaguely resembled a smile on her lips. Without speaking she beckoned for him to turn around, and she clasped a pearl choker around his throat—it was snug, not too tight, but with enough tautness to remind him who he belonged to. She then put on a pearl bracelet and snapped its twin around his wrist. Two pairs of pearl earrings were produced—elongated baroque drops for her, classic button studs for his recently pierced lobes, each pearl the size of his thumb.

“Try to not lose those.” Vivian tapped each earring with her fingernail, punctuating her command. “You do not wear costume jewelry when you go out with me.”

The beleaguered boy nodded. He noted that his aunt’s shoes—five inch heels compared to his four—were the same blood-red his own, in the identical style.

A thrill went over his body as he turned to the mirror and admired their combined look—he finally understood. Auburn hair, pearls, off the shoulder dresses of black silk, blood-red high heels. They were so different, yet so much the same—a matching teacup to her teapot.

She met his eyes in the mirror. “You see?” Ethan nodded. “Now there is no question. Tonight… my dear nephew… my beautiful boy—” she stretched out the word— “you are mine.”

 

* * *
 

Stefan, ever the drama queen, made a scene as they prepared to leave, his eyes shining as he gave both aunt and nephew light hugs and air kisses on each cheek.

“This has been a highlight of my career,” his voice trembling with emotion. “I’ve transformed the judge into a goddess, and this sweet, amazing young man into a dazzling beauty.” He pulled out a paisley handkerchief and blew his nose. “I’m so happy—”

Vivian rolled her eyes.

The assistants each gave Ethan hugs and air kisses as well, along with knowing winks. “You’re always welcome, sweetness,” one cooed.

“Please... come again,” the other whispered, giggling.

Ethan bit his lip. Their gentle teasing caused him to blush and he felt that horrible, wonderful tingling down below again. This time, however, there was no worry about things going out of control—it was unseen untouchable... and immovable, locked away under his aunt’s dominion.

 

* * *
 

Vivian’s car was replaced by a chauffeured limousine. Ethan’s dress was so short, not to mention tight and constricting, that it caused him a bit of a struggle to get in without being vulgar. His aunt touched him on the shoulder, indicating that he should watch and then take her lead—she turned her back to the car, sat down, and turned again, drawing her legs inside with an elegance gotten from a lifetime of training and experience.

“Remember what I said,” she gently scolded. “Watch what I do, do what I do.”

Ethan nodded sheepishly and mimicked her actions with moderate success, only exposing the tops of his stockings and a garter or two. The door shut with a soft, deliberate click, sealing them into a world of leather seats and low golden light. The hum of the city was gone, replaced by the muffled purr of the engine and the faint hiss of the air conditioning.

Vivian sat opposite him, one ankle crossed over the other, her gown falling in perfect folds. For the first time all afternoon, she seemed relaxed—if relaxed could still look like someone prepared to rule from a throne.

Ethan tried to mimic her, but the dress was too tight for him to cross his legs. Instead, he sat with his knees together, his feet pigeon-toed, his body upright and rigid, the boning of his foundation garment preventing him from doing otherwise. He tried to not look at his aunt’s cleavage, but it was difficult—not so much because of her beauty, which was undeniable, but just the fact that this was so unlike anything and everything he knew about her. Seeing her so casual about her body, so comfortable in pearls and black silk, with her hair down over her exposed shoulders, her breasts nearly overflowing the top of her gown—he was in awe.

Vivian was, of course, fully aware of the effect she was having on her nephew. She pulled out her compact, checked her makeup, primped her hair and her pearls, then loudly snapped it shut, ending her performance.

“So, you haven’t said anything about—” she waved at Ethan’s own dress and hair— “all this. It's not exactly one of your mother’s creations that you’re wearing, is it?”

Ethan shrugged. He hugged himself, partly because his bare shoulders and upper chest were chilled by the air conditioning, but mostly because of his nerves.

“I feel strange, Auntie,” he whispered. “Almost naked. Like I’m about to be put on display or something.”

“Good.” Vivian nodded. “Because that is exactly what's going to happen. In about twenty minutes you will be lifted onto a pedestal for the world to see.” Her eyes narrowed as she gauged his reaction. “Let’s call it your debut.”

He nodded, thinking. “So, where are we—”

She continued, ignoring his interruption. “You need to pay attention when we get out of the car. We—you and I, together—are going to a place where you’ve never been, not just an event, but a state of being. Things will move fast, so don’t dawdle or you’ll be lost in the crowd. Keep your mind open, stay aware, and as I keep reminding you, watch what I do and do as I do. And more important, do whatever I tell you to do. Do you understand me?”

“Not exactly.” The cross-dressed boy shook, then nodded his head. “But I’ll try my best.”

“Well, at least you’re being honest.” Vivian sighed. “And, generally speaking, you are obedient, I’ll give you that much. This might work after all.”

From a bag on the seat beside her, she drew a small, rectangular box and held it out. “Your mother’s been wanting to get you one of these for some time,” she said. “DeeDee and I convinced her to hold off until the time was right.”

Ethan blinked as he took the box. The idea of his two aunts agreeing on anything was cause for concern.

What is going on?... Is this another one of those crazy dreams?

Inside was a phone—pink, the pale kind of pink you saw on ballet slippers, with a jewel-encrusted case that winked in the dim light and a looped charm decorated with pearl beads. A distinctive capital “E” in sparkling feminine script on the back declared its owner. Ethan bit his lip.

“Is this… for me?”

“Of course.” Her tone made the question sound foolish. “The phone is top of the line, the case is custom. Try to not lose it.”

He nodded. The photo on the home screen was him—as Emily—and his mother, taken at Eleanor’s fashion gala.

“Remember that smile,” Vivian said. “It will serve you well.”

He turned it in his hands, the jewels catching and throwing back the light. “It’s… really girly. And heavy.”

Vivian smirked. “Yes, it is.”

She produced her own phone and made a call. A cheerful burst of music filled the limo with high energy, sugary-sweet girl group pop music that made his ears burn.

“Wow.” The cross-dressed boy cringed. “That’s… a lot.” He looked up at his aunt. “Can we change that?”

“No.” Her voice was terse, to the point, non-negotiable. “I’ve programmed in my number, your mother’s, DeeDee’s, and Penelope’s. You’ll ask either me or your mother if you want to add anyone else. You’re free to speak to whomever you like, for the most part, I suppose. As long as one of us knows.”

“But—”

Vivian cut him off. “Also, that phone will let me—and your mother—know exactly where you are at all times and, presumably, who you’re with. Until I deem otherwise, it will not allow you to access social media, games, and a wide variety of undesirable websites that… corrupt… young boys.”

She then sent him a text. His phone vibrated, followed by a bright, bell-like “ting!” and a giggling girl’s voice going “oopsie!”

Ethan flinched. The sound seemed to bloom in the confined space of the car, girlish and merciless, as though the whole world had overheard. His ears burned. He pictured the school cafeteria, boys turning their heads at once, smirking at him across trays of milk and mashed potatoes. His stomach turned.

“Auntie, please—”

“You can blame DeeDee for those little perks,” Vivian said smoothly, one corner of her mouth quirking. “Don't bother trying to change the settings. You're locked out of those, too.”

He read the message and felt his heart drop. It was a simple raised eyebrow emoji.

“You’re treating me like a child.”

There was a pause, then Vivian said: “Ethan, in the eyes of the law you are a child. And it is our job—and for tonight, my job—to keep you safe. When that phone rings, you answer. If your mother calls, pick it up. I call, pick up. Do you understand me?”

The cross-dressed boy nodded, twisting a lock of his hair nervously, like the young woman he appeared to be. “Yes, Auntie,” he squeaked.

Vivian’s eyes locked in on him. “The same with texting. If one of us texts you—especially your mother or I—you reply. I don’t care where you are, what you’re doing, or who you’re with. You reply instantly. That’s the rule. Not because I’m cruel—because I’m responsible for the reflection you make in the world.”

Ethan cleared his throat. He couldn’t get that irritating “oopsie!” out of his head.

“But, Auntie—what about school? I can’t carry this around there. Those ringtones are so… embarrassing. Enough people already think I’m a sissy. What if… how am I—”

“That’s your problem, not mine.” Vivian shrugged, sliding her own phone into her clutch. “My dear child, you’re going to find there are all sorts of challenges ahead of you. My role isn’t to match the hallways you walk—it’s to raise the ceiling above your head.”

She drew out a black designer clutch, soft as breath, and set it on his knees. Identical to her own, except for a second sparkling letter “E” on the front.

“Left hand, keep your right free. Close to the body. A clutch is a promise you don’t put down.”

He opened it and glimpsed inside. The faint scent of powder rose up: a pack of tissues, a tube of lipstick, a glittery perfume atomizer and compact mirror—all in pink—and, peeking from the lining, a slim, pink-edged plastic wrapper to a feminine hygiene pad. His breath caught.

“I heard all about your little… accident… at the salon,” Vivian said, noting his blush without mercy. “That's in case you have another.”

Ethan froze. He felt his neck and upper chest heat up, his skin blotching with embarrassment. She knows? Of course she does. She knows everything. Even the sanitary napkins in my purse know everything about me.

He avoided his aunt's gaze as he tucked his phone into the little black clutch with trembling, red-tipped fingers. The clasp clicked shut with a decisive little bite. The weight in his hand felt like a burden—yet also like a tether, gleaming and inescapable.

The clutch sat on his knees like a velvet secret, its little glittering “E” catching the passing streetlights. Ethan fingered it nervously, trying to sort through all he'd just been told and how it was going to change his life.

Vivian watched him, her eyes calm, unreadable. “You fidget as if it’s a snake,” she observed. “But it’s not. It’s a mirror. The sooner you carry yourself as though you belong with it, the sooner others will agree you do.”

He tightened his grip. “But… this isn’t me, Auntie. I’m just—”

“You are my sensitive artist nephew,” she finished for him, her voice cool, her posture impeccable. “And my protégé. You’re going to hear those phrases a lot tonight. This evening is not about Emily—it’s about my artistic nephew Ethan. Ethan, who sketches the world; Ethan, who must learn that the world sketches back. This—” she tapped the sparkling “E” on his purse “—isn’t a disguise. It’s discipline.”

The car slowed at a red light. She leaned ever so slightly toward him, voice low, intimate. “Tonight, you will not be a girl. You will be something rarer. You will be a boy trusted with striking beauty and stunning grace.” Her expression softened. “You will be… yourself.”

The light turned green. Ethan shifted in his seat, clutching the little black purse as though it might both betray and save him.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

Vivian stared out the window. “No, I haven’t. And for good reason. I want to see how you react when we get there.” She then turned toward him and spoke plainly, as though she was handing out instructions: “When we get out of the car, stay by my side. You are my responsibility, my presentation, my proof. Anyone who sees you will understand that I shape what I love—and that I protect what I shape.”

Ethan gritted his teeth. “Why are you doing all this?” His eyes glistened and, instinctively, he pulled out a tissue and dabbed at them so as not to ruin his makeup. “You keep talking, but I don’t understand anything that is happening! Why go to all this trouble? Are you trying to embarrass me? Do you hate me that much?”

For a moment, Vivian didn’t answer. She watched carefully as the tearful boy regained his composure and looked out the window, silent but resilient. And, no doubt, filled with even more questions.

“I know you find this hard to believe, Ethan—just as I find it difficult to admit. You want to know why I’m doing all this? I don’t hate you, dear boy. Just the opposite. I love you. I love you more than you can imagine.”

Ethan blinked. He felt a chill sweep over him as he tried to process what he’d just heard. He started to speak, but didn't know what to say.

Vivian sighed. “Don’t get all emotional on me. The truth is, while I do love you, I don’t actually like you, not yet, at least. Emily I like. Emily I get. But you, as Ethan… that’s difficult for me. You're still an unknown to me. You are amazing in so many ways, but being your father’s son is the problem. As his legacy you are still an unknown, unproven in my eyes. But you are also my sister’s only child. You are everything to her, and you make her happy.”

Her eyes softened. Just barely. “And because of that… I do love you.”

Ethan swallowed. He looked down at himself, at the little black dress he wore, the ridiculous ruffled hem around his knees, the sheer, dark stockings, the blood-red high heels. The gleaming red polish on his fingernail extensions. The pearl bracelet on his wrist.

He gritted his teeth—his crimson lips parting just enough to highlight their whiteness in a wolf-cub grimace.

“I am not my father. And I am not his son. As far as I’m concerned, I am nothing like him.”

Vivian’s mouth curled slightly. “I want to believe that. You’ve been loyal to your mother, to be sure. But I need to test that loyalty for myself. Tonight is part of that test. We—you and I—are going to assess your limits. You’re going to meet people tonight—a lot of people—movers and shakers who shape this world as I intend to do. I want them to remember you. But I want them to remember you correctly.”

“Correctly?”

“As being my nephew. Your mother’s son. And your authentic self, not some made up, fantasy girl like Emily. But as who you—Ethan—really and truly are. And what you can be.”

“But… looking like this?” Ethan looked down at the tight dress, the ruffled hem around his knees, the garter holding up his stocking. He ran his fingers through his bobbed hair, then stared at his red-tipped fingers. “Auntie Vivian, I’m not a girl—”

“I never said you were,” she said. “Yet here we are.”

Vivian smiled faintly, tapping a single manicured nail against the clutch’s clasp. Click, click. Then: “Ethan, this might blow up in our faces. That certainly is a possibility. But I have a feeling…”

He stared at her. The pearls at her throat caught the overhead light; he caught his reflection in the window behind her and his choker answered like a smaller moon.

He closed his eyes and listened to the tires humming on the asphalt, his heart thudding in a way that had nothing to do with the speed of the car.

 

* * *
 

Outside, towers slid past. The driver turned, the car eased, and Vivian, satisfied, let the silence settle like a mantle. She didn’t fill it; she owned it. And in that quiet, Ethan felt the oddest thing—not fear, exactly, but a steadiness he hadn’t expected, as if someone had finally put a hand between his shoulder blades and said, Stand here. I’ve got the rest.

Ethan pulled out his compact and checked himself, his lipstick, his mascara, his French bobbed hair. He remembered what his aunt had said when he’d gotten into her car that morning: “Don’t worry your pretty little head,” she'd said.

I suppose it does look like a pretty little head, he thought wryly, fluffing his auburn bangs.

He would try his best to do just that… for once put his faith in her hands.

The car glided to a stop beneath glass and lilies.

“Purse.” Vivian held out her hand. She opened Ethan’s clutch, pulled out the tiny bottle of perfume and beckoned him to lean forward. Two squirts, one behind each ear, one at each of his wrists, two more at his knees. The coolness of the perfume chilled his skin, sending a shiver over his entire body. She pointed and he raised his arms: two more squirts at his elbows and underarms. She did the same for herself, replaced the bottle and handed back his purse.

“Ready?” she asked.

“No,” he said truthfully.

“Good answer,” she said, and smiled. “That tells me you’ll listen better.”

 

Next up: Ethan goes… Into the Crucible