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-Seven: Oopsie!

 
Ethan’s little pink ball and chain proves to be quite the burden. And what’s up with him and Samuel?
 

If the phone had been any pinker, it might have melted like a scoop of cherry ice cream and slid off the table.

It lay there like a jewel on Colleen’s kitchen table—jeweled case, sparkling “E” snug in the center, the glitter catching the morning sun. The “E” stood for Ethan. It also stood for Emily. It also, he suspected, stood for eternity, because Auntie Vivian never did anything halfway, and she certainly hadn’t meant this to be temporary.

At the moment, however, Ethan was in the bathroom “taking care of business.” His mother sat in her robe with a cup of coffee, watching a ribbon of steam climb and curl. The house sat very still around her: the old clock above the stove with its patient tick, the faint hum of the refrigerator, a stray bird chirping from the maple outside. For one pocket of time everything was calm.

Then, from the kitchen table:

A buzz, then bright ting! followed by a girlish giggle and a sing-song, “oopsie!”

Colleen drew her coffee cup closer to her smile. “Oh my.”

The phone vibrated itself a quarter inch across the table. As it settled, it burst into a burst of sugary, girl-group chorus—one of those bouncy tunes that tastes like bubblegum and hair ribbons even if you only hear two seconds of it. The chorus trilled, glittery as confetti.

Ting! Giggle. “Oopsie!”

“Somebody’s going to be in trouble...” Colleen murmured, stretching out the word. She did not touch the phone. That would have been unkind. She simply sipped and waited, because kindness did not preclude enjoying a little theater.

“Ethan, darling?” she called toward the hall.

“Mm-hm?” from the bathroom, half asleep.

“I wouldn’t take too long—Auntie Vivian doesn’t sound like the waiting type.”

A strangled sound, flushing, door slamming open, hurried steps. Ethan, pink-cheeked, his gingham skirt fluttering, slid into the kitchen in socked feet like a boy who’d just realized he was late for his own appointment with Fate.

On the screen:

CALL ME NOW

DID YOU FORGET THE RULES ALREADY???

His stomach sank to somewhere near his socks. He looked at his mother. She widened her eyes with a sweetness that made him want to hide under the tablecloth.

After taking several deep breaths, he tapped to return the call. It connected before the end of the first ring.

“Good morning,” said Vivian. Her voice managed to be quiet and also fill the room. “Are you available to speak, or shall I wait another hour while you perfect your hair or whatever it is you were doing instead of answering the phone as I instructed you?”

Ethan’s mouth went dry. “I’m sorry, Auntie. I was—”

“We can skip the excuses.” She didn’t raise her voice; she didn’t need to. “We’re in the day after, Ethan. Which is when commitments stop being glamorous and start being real.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Change in plans. You’re going to call four people this morning, not three as discussed. The orchestra board chairwoman. The architect. The councilwoman. And the mayor’s wife.”

Ethan looked at his mother. “The mayor… of Capital City—”

“Do not interrupt me, Ethan. Grownups are talking.” Colleen shrugged, hiding her smile behind her mug. “You will thank them for their attention last night, you will ask them what they need, and you will listen.”

“What do they want?” he asked, then immediately regretted it.

“That is why you’re calling,” she said, a paper slice of a sigh, and somehow it was worse than if she’d scolded him properly. “Opportunities are yours to lose. Make use of them.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

“Text me when you’re done. No need to call.” The line clicked. Not a door slammed—Vivian didn’t slam doors. But he felt the same breezy back-draft of someone decisive disappearing.

He let the phone droop in his hand. Colleen leaned her cheek into her palm, smiling the smile that mothers wear when they’re proud of you and also a little entertained by your flailing.

“Sounds like you have your work cut out for you, my love,” she said.

He put his head down on the cool wood of the table and let the cold seep into his forehead. The jeweled “E” winked at him. “What,” he said to the table, “have I gotten myself into?”

“Something you will grow into,” Colleen said. “Now drink your orange juice and start with the orchestra chair. She’s kind.”

“I don’t want to do this.”

Colleen reached over and smoothed his hair as if she were ironing out a hem. “Oh, sweetheart. It’s too late to want and not want. This is happening. The only question is whether you’re going to walk through it with your head up.”

He believed her and he didn’t. He sat up, took a breath, and began.

 

* * *
 

He made the calls at the kitchen table with his notebook open and his handwriting wobblier than usual.

The orchestra board chairwoman picked up on the second ring and spoke as if she’d been expecting him. “Ethan, dear! Thank you for calling. You were so poised last night. I saw your mother’s work on that website your aunt sent me. It is extraordinary. The vintage pieces are exquisite and her modern take on classic gowns so original. Mind you, I don’t bandy about compliments like that very often.”

He said thank you the way Vivian had coached him—humble, specific. He mentioned the way the silk had moved on the councilwoman’s sleeve during their meetup and how that was very much like the gowns Colleen made. The chairwoman sounded genuinely impressed… and interested.

“We need a dress sponsor for our gala,” she said. “We’re courting donors who care more about the arts than… their own photos. Your mother’s designs might make them care about both.”

He wrote gala sponsor and gowns in large shaky letters and underlined them twice.

The architect’s assistant patched him through. The man himself sounded relaxed, amused, as if they were on a veranda somewhere, not on opposite ends of a phone with glitter on it.

“Ah, you’re the boy in that fabulous black dress with the pearls, aren’t you? You looked smashing if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Um, thank you, sir.” Ethan felt his face redden. He tried to think of something to say… then: “The pearls were… are… my Auntie Vivian’s. She always says accessories are a necessity.”

From across the room Colleen stifled a giggle. He put his face in his hand. Why did I say that?

A chuckle came through the speaker. “Your auntie is a smart woman. It sounds like you’ve learned a lot from her. Also, when you asked about the seam that hid the zipper in my assistant's gown—I liked that.” He paused. “We should talk about the charity pavilion. You’re a very unusual young man. Authentically creative. We don’t always see that. I’d like to see about generating some buzz and I think you can help.”

Ethan wrote charity pavilion—fabric? buzz? and tasted the word we like a hard candy. Did he mean we as in his mother and his aunt and him… or just him and... him?

The councilwoman’s voice was brisk, energetic. She wanted to connect Colleen with a community center director who ran girls’ leadership workshops. “Practical sewing,” she said. “Fashion consulting. Etiquette. Presentation. Confidence. It’s old-fashioned, I know, but our girls… well. They need guidance and Judge Winthrop says you would be a great advisor in those areas, someone who can connect to our girls, speak their language.”

He wrote workshops and tried very hard not to picture himself demonstrating how to curtsy in a room full of girls who’d know if he did it wrong.

The mayor’s wife had the soft Southern lilt of a harp run. She thanked him for the note he’d hand-delivered from his aunt to her table; she thanked him for the way he’d smiled when she complimented his mother; she thanked him for calling to thank her. “You were a credit to the whole event last night, dear heart. Plus, you looked fabulous! We need more brave young men like you on our side. We’ll talk very soon about the spring luncheon. Have a blessed day now!” Her tone implied we will, not perhaps.

When he hung up, the kitchen seemed somehow too ordinary for the list he’d made. Gala sponsor. Charity pavilion. Workshops. Luncheon. It looked like anyone’s silly to-do list, and yet it wasn’t. He took a photo of the list—just in case—and figured Auntie Vivian would approve of both the completion and the backup.

He texted: Calls made. Notes taken. Will type up.

Ting! Giggle. “Oopsie!” The reply was almost instantaneous.

Good. You are learning to be useful

Then, after a beat—and another Ting! Giggle. “Oopsie!”:

Eat breakfast Walking into the world hungry is undignified

He looked up to find his mother hovering with a plate of eggs and a lemon-blueberry muffin.

“You are very frightening,” he told her.

“I have the advantage of knowing you since you were a baby,” she said, setting the plate down. “And that you can be bribed with pastry. Eat. Then housework. Then after lunch we’ll go over your list.”

He ate. Then he started on his chores with a phone that glowed like a threat in his apron pocket.

 

* * *
 

DeeDee’s house always felt like a radio station where every dial was turned to “alive.” There was a vintage AM radio on the kitchen windowsill that played old songs; there were magazines stacked in an order that wasn’t quite order; there was the smell of cigarettes and lemon cleaner and, somehow, laughter that had sunk into the cushions and wouldn’t wash out.

Dani took one look at the phone and burst into a howl. “This is the best thing ever, Sissy,” she sang, because she was merciless in the way only cousins could be. “You have more bling on this thing than Barbie has careers.”

She produced her own phone for comparison: scuffed, corner cracked, the rubber case fraying like old gum. She placed them side by side on the coffee table and leaned over them like a jeweler. “Hmm,” she mused. “Which of these is the girl’s, and which is the sissy’s?”

Ethan folded his arms. “A sissy would never say ‘sissy.’”

“You just did!” Dani grinned. “Pow! You walked right into that one, cuz!”

DeeDee came through from the kitchen with a glass of iced tea sweating onto a coaster. She laid her phone down—an even more beat up version of Dani’s—and snorted. “One of these things is not like the others,” she said, and put out her palm without looking. Dani slapped it. High five in perfect timing, like a vaudeville routine they never had to rehearse.

“You two are impossible,” Ethan said, which—here—was practically a prayer of belonging.

He plopped onto the couch. “You and Auntie Vivian have blocked most of my friends. Put screen time limits. The only sites I can visit have to do with dresses and sewing and stuff. No games, nothing for boys. Plus, it looks like something a.. a…”

“Something my Sissy might want?” Dani whooped. “Man, I am on fire today!”

Ethan scowled. “It’s not fair! I’m being treated like a baby.”

“Them’s the rules, Princess.” DeeDee smirked. “Viv set them, your mom agreed, and frankly, I think they’re a pretty good idea. You’re not like this knucklehead—” she shoved Dani off the arm of the sofa onto the floor— “she’s predator, you’re prey, honey. You need protection from all the big bad nasties out there. You wanted a phone, you got it—with conditions.”

“But—”

She sighed. “Hey, everybody’s got a big ‘but.’ Sometimes life ain’t fair.”

“C’mon, Mama,” Dani pleaded, eyes bright with mischief. “Can’t you do something for my pwissy wittle cousin?”

“Sure,” DeeDee said. She sank onto the armchair, crossed one leg over the other, and held out her hand for the phone with the mild authority of a nurse about to check your temperature. Ethan surrendered it with a groan.

DeeDee pecked and tapped on the screen for a moment, the little lights waltzing across her cat-eye glasses. She didn’t look like a disciplinarian. She looked like somebody’s favorite aunt cheating at gin rummy. She tossed the phone back to him.

“Hey brat—call the princess, por favor.”

Dani pulled out her battered phone, thumbed, and grinned. Ethan’s sugary sweet girl group pop tune did not happen.

Instead, the glittering pink girly device cried out with the voice of a toddler on the edge of tears: “I want my mommy!” The sound seemed to echo as if the living room had turned into a tile shower.

“Omigod! That’s awesome!” Dani folded over and fell onto the couch laughing. She texted him, wheezing with glee. The phone obliged with the aggressive “waaah!” of a baby who needed a nap and didn’t care who knew it.

“Sounds just like a sissy,” she screamed, rolling on the floor, laughing hysterically.

“Change it back!” Ethan yelped, holding out his phone as if it was about to bite him. “Please, DeeDee—”

DeeDee shrugged. “You said you were being treated like a baby, so—”

Ethan frowned. “You know what I meant.”

“Sweetheart,” his aunt said, calm as dinner plates, “you don’t know how good you got it. So your new play toy sounds goofy. So what? No one handed me a thousand dollar monogrammed phone when I was thirteen.”

Ethan blinked. “This cost that much?”

“Probably. Viv don’t go cheap on anything, trust me on that.” She took a drink, examined him over the rim. “You remember something for me. No matter how bad you got it, all you gotta do is remember things can always be a hell of a lot worse. Ask me how I know.”

He subsided. “Waaah!” the baby wailed again. There was a repeat of “I want my mommy!”

Dani whooped.

“Fine,” he said. “I will do anything. Anything.”

DeeDee cocked an eyebrow. “Now there’s a contract I can work with. Lemme see those selfies from Capital City. I hear you got some good stuff.”

He hesitated. She let the silence stretch a second, then patted the arm of her chair. “Come here, Princess. You’re cute. Let me admire my work by proxy.”

He perched on the chair arm and scrolled. There he was in an uplight glow in his little black dress, French bob and pearls, a shy smile curling his blood-red lips, in the background the great hall of the convention center and a crowd of important looking people. There was the blurred half-shot of his ear and a chandelier he’d taken by accident. And another selfie, this one with his head cocked just so, like a fashion model, lips puckered, eyebrow raised, pearl earrings gleaming from under his freshy coiffed auburn locks.

DeeDee’s eyebrows raised. “Um, went a little bit overboard on the haute couture didn’t you, Princess? You almost look legal.” She side-eyed him. “Actually, you look illegal—that dress defies the laws of physics. Could you even walk in that get up?”

Ethan sighed. “Barely.”

She held the phone up, stared at it and then at the flustered boy. “Is your hair red?”

“Yes—” For the second time in twenty-four hours he told the tale of Mr. Stefan and his auburn locks.

“So, you really are an O’Brien, then.” She held out her fist. “Welcome to the club, little mister!”

Ethan fist bumped his aunt, more than a bit of pride swelling his chest. “Yeah, that’s a long story, too—”

Before he could say another word, Dani shoved him out of the way and whistled. “Look at you! You look… I mean, you look like you, but you don’t. I’d never wear lipstick like that—of course, I never wear lipstick at all—but you own it. And, girl, your hair actually looks SEXY!” She punched him in the arm—hard. “Except for not having any boobies you look almost grown up. Still my Sissy, but not a sissy. Wow.”

“Comforting,” Ethan muttered, rubbing the bruise before it formed.

DeeDee scrolled through a few more, her eyes widening and a wicked smile curling her lips as she went. She tapped one of the photos, enlarging it. “It’s not just the thousand dollar makeover—not counting the phone, of course. You got bones that like a camera.” She turned Ethan's phone around so Dani could see. “What did I say? Audrey Hepburn, for sure.”

“I dunno,” Dani shrugged. “I side with Aunt Collie on this—Natalie Wood.”

Ethan cleared his throat. “Mr. Stefan thinks I, um… look like a teenaged Elizabeth Taylor.”

“Yeah, maybe.” DeeDee nodded, then snorted. “You ain't got the boobs, though.”

“Boobs,” Dani murmured. She shot a wink at Ethan, who did a poor job of not looking annoyed.

“Shut it, you.” DeeDee gave her a kick. “Grown ups are talking.” She took a sip of her tea and raised her eyebrow. “Point is, Princess, looking this good ain’t a curse, you know.”

“It’s not?” Ethan asked, suspicious.

“Nope. It’s a tool. Like a hammer,” she said. “If you only ever hit your thumb with it, you’ll think the hammer hates you. Your, um, countenance—is that the word? Visage? Whatever. What I’m trying to say is your pretty face is the perfect tool for you, especially in your line of work.”

He tried to come up with a reply involving hammers and nails and heads, but DeeDee broke his train of thought. “I get why Viv did this to you. For you. You needed a kick in the pants. Or panties. Whatever. You and Collie have been playing dress up for some time now and that’s okay, but this on again, off again thing with you playing Emily gets confusing. For everybody. Viv wants you to go all in or get out. I happen to agree with her. Just don’t tell her I said so. I couldn’t stand the feedback.”

“Um, okay.” Ethan frowned. “I get it. I think.”

DeeDee snorted. “Don’t think too hard, you might break something. Hey Dani, look at this!”

There it was. A mirror shot he’d snapped in a corridor: Vivian in the background talking with someone, her evening gown a sleek dark line, hair sculpted, the sort of poised stillness that made a person look like they’d been painted.

DeeDee whistled. “Woo-hoo. My big sister came to play! I knew she was hiding something, but this is not what I figured.” She winked at Ethan. “Good job on the pix, Princess. You’ve redeemed yourself.”

Dani shoved Ethan aside. “Holy crap… she’s showing off her boobs! Her booty ain’t bad, either. Man, Aunt Vivian is a real babe!”

There were plenty more, including one close up showing nephew and aunt almost cheek to cheek. Ethan noticed the connection between them, the lipstick, the pearls, the black silk—he didn’t look helpless in those photos—he looked like he belonged.

Is that what Auntie Vivian meant? he wondered. When she kept talking about owning me? Or me owning myself?

The last was one Ethan shot of himself, full-length in one of the great hall’s mirrored walls. Both DeeDee and Dani looked from Ethan to the photo and back again.

“Okay, it’s official. We really need to forget this Emily stuff.” DeeDee smirked as she zoomed in on Ethan’s outfit. “Miss Priss here has found her… uh, his groove. Dammit, now I’m confused!” She studied the photo for a moment. “Are you wearing garters?”

Ethan blushed. “It, uh, was part of the outfit.”

DeeDee shook her head. “You’re growing up a little too fast for me, Princess. Which is why I voted with Viv to put all those restrictions on your new bling.” She flicked and tapped—two seconds later Ethan’s pocket sang the bright ting! giggle, “oopsie!” in its original, mortifying glory.

“Here ya go—” she tossed his phone back to him— “because I’m generous. And because your taste in clothing is improving—I will give you back your dignity.”

Dani wiped her eyes. “Honestly, this is better than the baby one.”

“It really is.” DeeDee looked at him, deadpan. “You’ll thank me someday.”

“I doubt that,” Ethan said.

“Most people do, right up until they do,” she said, and tipped a bit of ash neatly into the tray. “I am curious about one more thing, though.”

Ethan sighed. “Okay, what is it?—”

Shooting a wink at Dani, she said: “You ain’t gettin’ out of here until we hear all about your waxing.”

“Aunt DeeDee!”

 

* * *
 

Monday morning, Lincoln Middle School.

The room was hushed, sunlight slanting through dusty blinds while students scribbled notes. Ethan hunched over his desk, praying for the day to end as quickly as possible.

His phone buzzed. Then, a bright ting! followed by a girlish giggle and a sing-song, “oopsie!”

The sound rang across the room, high and mocking, as if someone had tripped in a cartoon. A couple of girls snorted. One boy repeated it under his breath—”Oooopsie!”—and the whole row around him chuckled.

Ethan’s hand shot to his pocket, but his fingers fumbled, clumsy with panic. His heart pounded so loudly he thought it might drown the phone out.

It went off again—Ting! Giggle. “Oopsie!”—before he could shut it down.

Mr. Clarke turned, chalk still in hand. “Phones away.” His gaze flicked toward Ethan, who was already dying of heat in his cheeks.

“Yes, sir,” Ethan whispered. He jammed the phone deep into his bag.

Behind him, of the guys whispered with a laugh, “Nice phone, faggot,” and the word clung to him like a burr. Those old thoughts about moving to Australia went through his mind—he wondered if his phone would still work if he took it with him.

“Where’d you get the queer phone from, Martin?” The voice continued. “The queer store—OW! What the fuck?—” The offender clutched his ear, his face in pain.

Ethan glanced over to see Marcus Epperson shoot him a wink. “Knock it off, Albert,” he said, sotto voce. “Unless you want everybody to know why you’re always hiding in the boy’s room.”

Travis Mitchell held up his phone, grinning. “We got pictures,” he sang the word happily. “Albert is a jack off! Albert is a jack off!”

“Hey, that’s not what it looks like,” cried the first boy. “I didn’t do anything—OW! Goddammit, Epperson! Stop it! That really hurt! Shit… I was just giving Ethan little grief—OW! All right, all right… I get the message… Jesus…”

Ethan nodded at Marcus and Travis, then forced himself to look down at his notebook. Just a few weeks ago things were different. Having someone on his side was new to him. He almost felt bad for Albert, but then again, he didn’t.

That used to be me, he thought, biting his lip. I wonder how long this will last.

The bell released them. Desks scraped, the hush broke into the usual paper-and-sneaker tide. Ethan kept his head down, gathered his books as if assembling armor.

“Okay, spill,” Claire said, materializing at his elbow. Lately she had a way of stepping into his weather system and creating a storm. “What was all that about?”

He attempted innocence. “What was what?”

She made a face that had gotten him to confess to a dozen small misdemeanors since fourth grade. “Ethan.”

He looked around. No one seemed particularly interested anymore. Two boys were arguing about sneakers. Someone had started a paper airplane. Claire’s eyes were bright with curiosity. He sighed and pulled the phone out as if it might bite him.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, my gosh.”

The case winked like a tiara at a parade. The monogrammed “E” sparkled—the looped pearl charm glistened. She reached for it, not waiting for permission—Claire never asked for permission to admire something pretty—and turned it over in her palm.

“Ethan, even I don’t have a monogrammed case. And it’s the newest model?”

He nodded, miserable and also, unhelpfully, proud.

She kept turning it, as if the glitter might rearrange into answers. “How did—no, wait, let me guess. Your Aunt Vivian?”

He made a small noise that contained yes and help and please stop and maybe also look at me like that a little longer.

She laughed, not unkindly. “You poor thing. I mean, it’s gorgeous, but… not exactly for a guy, huh? And those sounds!” She tapped the side button. The screen lit and her eyes caught on the photo—Emily and Colleen, daughter and mother, both smiling happily.

“Aw, how sweet!”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he said, “There are restrictions. I can’t text most people. Or at certain times. Or at all. No social media. I can’t look at anything but girly websites. My aunt has… rules.”

Claire’s mouth did the little sideways twist it did when she wanted to feel sorry for him and instead chose to enjoy herself. “Poor baby. My little sister has more privileges and she still eats glue.”

“That’s… encouraging.”

He was grateful she didn’t mention his weekend at Capital City or ask to see the photos—Dani apparently hadn’t ratted him out—yet. He was still miffed over how she’d deceived both him and Samuel, and he didn’t feel like explaining himself.

“Give me your number.” She handed the phone back and held up hers. “I’ll give it a try. If I’m blocked I’ll call your mother and have her include me in your secret list.”

“I guess.” He typed his number into her phone and felt each digit like walking across a creek on stepping stones. She texted him a single star. His pocket tinged, giggled, and sang “oopsie!” again, muffled.

He closed his eyes. “Great.”

“Okay, that’s straight-up iconic,” Claire said. “If I ever need to call you in a crowded room, I am absolutely doing it.”

“Please don’t,” he said.

“No promises,” she said, saccharin sweet, and looped her arm through his as they merged into the hallway current.

 

* * *
 

Study hall turned the corridor into a hush of shoe-squeaks and paper sounds. Most doors were shut. A few had their windows darkened with construction paper. At the end of the hall, Julia Campbell’s door stood ajar, a wedge of light cutting across the linoleum. A handwritten note—Admin period, knock & step in—was taped at eye level, looping pen strokes like someone who’d made peace with being tidy and efficient at once.

Ethan tapped twice and leaned in. “Mrs. Campbell?”

She looked up from a small drift of papers and smiled in that steady way of hers—the kind of smile that didn’t require you to be okay to be welcome. “So I hear you’re having a bad day.”

“Already?” he said, and then wished he hadn’t, but she laughed.

“Always,” she said. She held out her hand, palm up, amused and expectant. “Let me see it.”

He set the phone in her hand. The jeweled “E” winked beneath the fluorescent lights. She turned it once, twice, like a little cake on a lazy Susan.

“This is—” she searched for a word, then let the truth be funny— “really girly, isn’t it?”

He huffed. “That would be the theme.”

“And heavy,” she added, weighing it in her palm. “I suspect it comes with gravity.” She gestured to the chair opposite. “Sit, Ethan.”

He plopped onto the chair and words started spilling like someone had knocked over the bowl. “It’s not just the looks, it’s the ringtones, and the tones for texts—just mortifying—and the rules, and the restrictions. I have to carry it all the time or I get in trouble, plus my aunt says I’m ‘on a schedule’ and… it’s pretty awful!”

Mrs. Campbell listened without looking like she was waiting to talk. “You’re having your reins shortened,” she said. “That’s not fun, I wouldn’t think.”

“It’s not fun at all.” He pouted. “All that, and I don’t get anything from it. I’m blocked from most everyone I know, and I can’t play games or go to any websites without their approval. It’s like I’m five years old… and….”

He stared at the glittering “E” as if it might answer for itself. “They’re making my life difficult on purpose.”

“They might be,” she said. “They also might be trying to keep you upright while the world gets interested in you.” She flipped the phone back to him with a little underhand toss that made him catch it like a responsibility. “They need a chance to learn your schedule. You need a chance to show them you have one.”

“I have a schedule. School.”

“Which is a fine start.” She laced her fingers, elbows on the desk. “Consider proposing some rules back.”

“I can’t do that.” He bit his lip. “I can do that?”

“We teach people how to treat us. Everyone does it. It’s just that some of us don’t understand how to work it to our advantage.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “So, what kind of rules?”

“Well, first off—” Mrs. Campbell ticked them off on her fingers— “set your phone to vibrate during classes.”

“I can’t.” Ethan sighed. “I’m locked out of that stuff, too.”

“Okay, then, hand it to your teacher if a day is especially explosive—preempt the battlefield, so to speak.” She thought for a moment. “Also, create windows—five minutes at the start of lunch, two minutes after last bell, whatever—tell your aunt and mother when you can’t answer. And when you can’t reply, reply anyway with one sentence, like: In class; will answer at lunch. You’re still obeying, but you’re also training them to your rhythm.”

He made a face, the kind that meant why does this sound so reasonable?

“You think maybe I asked for this.”

“Did you?” she asked gently. “Ethan, you’ve dug yourself into this to some degree. By choosing to carry it, you choose to play. You could have left it at home.” She held up a palm to stop his reflex protest. “Not forever. Not to prove anything. Just to remember you get to decide which bells you wear.”

His phone buzzed softly against his palm. Then, bright and unmistakable, the ting! the girlish giggle, the sing-song: “oopsie!”

“Ah. our cue,” Mrs. Campbell said, eyebrows lifting. “I have to say, that is a bit awkward, especially for most boys.”

Ethan flushed to hear his teacher’s words: “most boys,” meaning, of course, that he wasn’t “most boys.”

He glanced down.

stay hydrated drink plenty of water —Mom

He sighed as he sent a ❤️.

“They mean well,” he admitted.

“They do.” She nodded toward the phone. “Now, may I please see the photos everyone is whispering about?”

He hesitated a second, then opened the gallery and slid the phone across the desk. “They’re from Capital City last weekend,” he said. “Auntie Vivian took me on a date… kind of.”

Mrs. Campbell slowly scrolled through them, and eyebrow raised, pleasantly surprised: Ethan, not Emily, in a selfie, showing off his freshly styled hair, makeup and the scandalous little black dress.

“Oh, my goodness. This is a far cry from the arts and crafts fair and your little housewife dresses, isn’t it?”

Ethan shrugged, blushing.

“I love that French bob,” she said, looking from the phone to Ethan, studying him. “Is your hair red?”

“Um, well—” He explained about Mr. Stefan. He did leave out the part about the waxing, though.

“It’s not quite the same today.” She eyed his current head with fond mischief. “Did you fight with a hedgehog on the way to school?”

“I… might have mussed it on purpose.”

“Mm-hmm. Artistic choices.” She kept scrolling, the jeweled “E” winked between them like a shared joke. “You look very chic. And—this matters—mature enough to hold your own. Your aunt has opinions; she also seems to be investing in your spine.”

He blushed at the compliment and tried to hide it by squinting at the pen cup.

The collection of photographs was nothing short of amazing: Vivian in a stunning black silk evening gown, her auburn hair down, pearls gleaming. Another selfie, Ethan making a kissy face. The two of them in a crowd of movers and shakers, many of whom she recognized. Ethan talking with a shockingly gorgeous woman with silver-white hair, practically bursting out of her purple gown. More selfies, making faces, blowing kisses, grinning, rolling of eyes.

Just like a girl, she thought with a snort.

She lingered on one of the selfies shot in a large mirror, head to knee, catching the clean lines of Ethan’s dress, his long legs in dark stockings. She pinched outward to enlarge the image and admired the pearl bracelet, the choker and large button pearl earrings. She studied his face with its wide, innocent-looking eyes, the blood-red lipstick, the shy courage at his mouth.

She also noted with amusement the slender waistline and snug bosom—and glimpses of garters grabbing the tops of stockings—suggesting that some foundation garment magic was in play. A crooked smile formed on her lips—that little clue explained the sleek absence of any masculinity along the front of the tight, form-fitting dress.

“I was wondering about that,” she murmured aloud.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, um, nothing.” Mrs. Campbell cleared her throat and said, with quiet approval: “This is obviously not Emily, right?” Ethan nodded. She smiled. “Your aunt the judge presented you to her friends and colleagues as you, Ethan the boy. Not Emily the girl. To all of these people?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You look like you handled yourself quite well. I’m impressed.” Her eyes moved from the photo to him and back. “Weren’t you scared at all?”

“I was terrified, Mrs. Campbell,” he said, before he could tidy the truth. “Auntie Vivian made sure everyone there knew I was a boy.”

“And how was that received?”

Ethan shifted in his seat. “That’s the weird part. Like it wasn’t weird,” he scoffed. “Everyone acted like I was normal, that me being there was a good thing. We met a lot of people, the mayor, some senators, a bunch of others I have no idea who they are or what they do. But they’re pretty important, I guess.

The teacher nodded. “They are powerful, for sure.”

“Auntie Vivian likes that kind of stuff. She thought I needed to meet them. Or they needed to meet me. She kept saying be brave, be proud, embrace who I am.” He swallowed and found the words that had been stuck like a pin. “I don’t even know what that means.”

Mrs. Campbell set the phone down and folded her arms on the desk. “She’s saying that you should stand in the room you’re in and tell the truth as best you can.” She smiled at his alarm. “Not the whole truth forever. Just today’s truth. I’m Ethan. This dress is mine right now. These are my shoes, and I am being me. Bravery, for you, is staying polite while you don’t apologize for existing.”

“You sound like Auntie Vivian.” He breathed out. “That’s scary.”

She laughed. “Great minds think alike, I guess.”

Ethan thought for a moment, then: “That’s the other thing. She, um, thinks I need to stop being Emily.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” He shook his head, then shrugged. “That’s part of why she put me through all that. She says I need to stop living in a fairy tale, that I need to be me, not a pretend girl. Even if that means being me in a dress.”

“Wow.” The teacher’s eyes narrowed, her lips pursed. “So, what do you think about that?”

Ethan made a face. “I don’t exactly know. She’s probably right. She’s pretty much always right if you think about it.” He huffed. “She says I need to face who I am now because I’ll probably dress like a girl the rest of my life—that ‘boys like me’ get addicted to it. Psychologically and biologically. She told me to look it up, but I’m kinda afraid to.”

“Well, she’s not wrong about that.” Mrs. Campbell nodded, carefully choosing her words. “It’s kind of complicated, and not everyone agrees, but generally speaking, yes, that’s how it works.”

“I kinda figured.” He threw his head back and stared at the ceiling tiles. “The thing is, I sort of agree with her. Sometimes it gets complicated, going back and forth like that, Emily, not Emily. Not not Emily.” He threw up his hands. “It’s making my life complicated, that’s for sure.”

“You mean… like with Samuel Torres?”

Ethan sat up straight and stared at his teacher. “How do you know that kind of stuff?”

“It’s my job.” She laughed, then winked. “Plus, you’re very popular, and people find you interesting.”

The blushing boy sighed. “I wish they didn’t.”

“Mmm, speaking of interesting—that dress is incredible,” his teacher said, almost conversationally. She flipped through a few more photos, then pinched and zoomed in. “Those shoes, too. That shade of red is magnificent. Were they… uncomfortable?”

“Kind of like a math test on your feet,” he said, and she laughed.

“Now, and I have to ask this—” she said, tilting her head— “Did you have fun? Pictures don’t lie, you know. I saw a lot more kissy faces than I would have expected. Especially since you were you, not Emily with a wig.”

“A little bit, I guess.” Ethan gave her a shy smile. “Okay, yeah, more than a little. I’ve never been to anything like that before. Especially dressed up like that. And letting people know who I was… well, who I am. You know what I mean. So, yeah, scary as it was, it was kinda exciting, too. And empowering—is that the right word?”

“It can be.” A smirk formed on the teacher’s mouth. “Did any of those handsome young men ask you out?”

“Mrs. Campbell!” He rolled his eyes. “Now you sound like my mom.”

“Only asking a question, that’s all,” she said, eyes dancing. “No? The ladies then? I imagine Aunt Vivian had to beat away the wolves with her handbag.”

“She didn’t have to use her a handbag,” he muttered. “All she did was give them the stare.”

“That’ll do it sometimes,” Mrs. Campbell said, satisfied.

“Besides, that clutch cost a fortune. And she didn’t want blood on it.” He smiled and got a smile back.

The phone ticked again in his hand, a vibration like a throat-clearing. He thumbed it in time to stall the “oopsie!” but didn’t open the message. She noticed and nodded. “That one can wait? Good. You’re practicing a new rule. See? You’re already catching on.”

He nodded, steadier.

“Two last thoughts,” she said, counting them off. “First: the people who truly care for you will survive a delayed reply if you simply say class now, lunch soon. Educate them. I think they’ll understand. Second: if you need to, hand me the phone at the start of class on your worst days and I’ll keep it on my desk like a little glittering guard dog. I’ll text your aunt a photo of it ‘doing its job’ if that soothes her.”

He blinked at the picture of his hot-pink leash sitting primly by a jar of paperclips and almost laughed. “That… might help.”

The hallway bell rang—long, insistent, the school’s own ancient ringtone. Mrs. Campbell stacked her papers with a practiced thwap and stood. “Off you go. Shoes steady, head up.”

He rose and shouldered his bag. As he headed for the door she added, softer, “Ethan, if you ever need to talk, I’m here. If you need someone to say ‘no’ for you, I’m also here.”

He turned the phone over once in his palm, felt its silly weight, and slipped it into his pocket. “Thank you, Mrs. Campbell.”

“My pleasure,” she said, and gave him a little wink. “And thank you for showing me those amazing pictures. You should be very proud of yourself. I know I’m proud of you.”

She thought for a second, then added: “Hey, and good luck with Samuel. I’m rooting for the both of you. You seem to be good for each other. He’s been… different since you two became friends. In a good way.”

Ethan nodded, and gave a thin smile.

Out in the corridor, the river of students swept him along. His pocket was quiet for a whole thirty seconds. When it did ting, giggle and sing again, he checked, replied, and slid the phone away with a smile. He had his next class. He had, unexpectedly, a plan. And another problem.

But somewhere between the hedgehog hair and the French bob, he had a teacher who could hear the bell and still hear him.

 

* * *
 

The cafeteria smelled like a mixture of pizza, bleach, and a thousand lunches deciding to be something else. Samuel had claimed their table early, his long legs sprawled in a way that said he was comfortable everywhere he went, and perhaps also that the table was his by sovereign right.

Ethan dropped his tray and sat. Samuel leaned over, lifted one of Ethan’s tater tots, and was about to pop it in his mouth.

“You can’t just—” Ethan tried.

Samuel considered the tot as if it were a philosophical problem, holding it up before making it disappear. “You know you’re gonna give them to me anyway.”

Which, infuriatingly, was true. Samuel’s confidence in small things made Ethan feel off balance in a way that wasn’t bad, exactly, but wasn’t restful either.

Ethan’s pocket buzzed. Then, bright as a fallen chandelier:

Ting! Giggle. “Oopsie!”

The sound leaped across the table to the next one, where three girls laughed outright and a boy at the end said “Oh my,” like a grandmother.

Ethan fumbled for the phone, cheeks blazing. It was from his mother:

Eat be brave darling—Mom

He sent her a ❤️ and wished the floor would open.

“Gee, thanks, Mom,” he muttered.

Samuel was grinning around another tot. “Let me see that.”

Ethan surrendered the phone. Samuel turned it over, pearls dangling, jewels gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

“This is definitely my sister Savannah’s vibe,” he said. “All this sparkle and pink, she’d lose her mind.”

Samuel found the photos before Ethan could stop him. He watched his friend’s thumb move with the casual confidence of someone who’d learned his way around boundaries by stepping over them. His stomach dropped in slow motion as the first selfie came up: Ethan as Ethan—no wig, no “Emily” persona—and the snug, strapless little black dress, the French bob sharp and shiny, pearls at his throat, earrings catching the light, lipstick that made his mouth look like a dare.

Samuel’s eyes widened. He gave a low, slow whistle that cut straight through Ethan’s ribs.

“Man, this is wild,” Samuel said. “You’re not Emily in any of these. You’re you. In public. In front of all those people.”

It wasn’t a question. It was the kind of statement that dared Ethan to lie, just to watch what would happen.

Ethan swallowed and nodded. “Yep. That is... me. Like it or not.”

Samuel flicked to the next photo: Ethan in the lobby, chin lifted, bare shoulders pulled back the way Aunt Vivian had drilled into him with one look. Then another: the event itself—crowds, banners, suits, bright dresses, and “New Ethan” in the middle of it like he belonged.

Samuel stopped on a selfie of Ethan's “model face”: eyes soft, lips slightly puckered, one eyebrow lifted just so, like he knew the secret to life and refused to share it.

Samuel glanced up, then back down, and his grin arrived a half-second later. “I gotta say,” he murmured, “Emily or not Emily… that’s pretty hot.”

Ethan’s face went warm so fast it felt like his skin was betraying him. “Don’t say that.”

Samuel leaned back, unbothered. “Why not? It’s true.”

Ethan’s gaze darted around—teacher at the far wall, girls at the corner table, a cluster of boys laughing too loud—then back to Samuel. “Because,” he hissed, “we’re in public.”

Samuel’s grin tilted. “Oh. So I’m supposed to be impressed quietly.”

Ethan pressed his lips together and reached for his milk like it was an anchor.

Samuel’s thumb swiped again. He then looked up, studying Ethan for just an instant, the question rising. “And your hair… it's sorta... red?”

“It was for the event.”

“Uh-huh.” Samuel zoomed in on one picture until Ethan’s lipstick was practically a billboard. “You got, like… a Taylor Swift lip-thing going there.”

Ethan made a small, mortified sound and grabbed a tater tot, partly to eat it and partly to keep his hands busy. “You’re being annoying.”

“I know.” Samuel’s voice dropped a notch. “It’s my superpower.”

He held the phone up again, eyes scanning the photos as if he could read a whole future in them. For a moment, Ethan saw something flicker across Samuel’s face—something not quite joking, not quite smug. A realization that turned into… doubt?

Samuel looked up. “So,” he said, careful now, like he was testing the floor before stepping, “you… you don’t mind that that’s… you, in front of all those people.” He nodded, then shook his head. “You look like you were having fun.”

Ethan thought about the question. The cafeteria noise swelled and dipped like waves.

“I did mind—at first,” he said quietly. “It was scary. Terrifying, actually.” He thought about that night and all that he went through, then smiled. “But stuff happened—and all of a sudden, it wasn’t. Terrifying, I mean.”

“That’s crazy.” Samuel kept looking through the photos, exhaling through his nostrils. “Hard to believe that all happened just this weekend.”

Ethan looked up, his eyes meeting the other boy’s. “So, what about you? Do you mind? Me not being Emily?”

“Let’s just say… I prefer you as a blonde,” the tease returning like a shield. “But still, you do look pretty hot.”

Ethan made himself breathe. One. Two. Three.

Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he nudged his remaining tater tots across the table. An offering. A distraction. A peace treaty.

Samuel looked down at the tots, then up at Ethan. Something softened in his eyes. He didn’t say thank you. He just ate them. They chewed in silence for a few seconds, the kind that felt loaded.

Then he cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly.

“There’s something going on here that you’re not saying.” He looked Ethan in the eye, finger tapping on the phone. “Does this mean you’re not… you know, doing Emily anymore? At all? From now on you’re just doin’… you?”

“I think so.” The younger boy nodded, picking at the chicken on his tray. “Maybe.”

Samuel’s brows lifted.

Ethan rushed on, wanting to get the truth out before he couldn’t. “Auntie Vivian says ‘Emily’ is no more. She doesn’t exist, not to her, at least. And she thinks I should stop pretending to be her.” Ethan swallowed. “She’s really intense about it.”

“That lady’s intense about breathing,” Samuel muttered.

Ethan laughed despite himself, then got quiet. “I didn’t get it or even like it… at first. But then I understood. She wants people to see me. Not… some fantasy version of me, but the real me.” His cleared his throat, trying to give his voice more confidence. “She said I can’t hide under a wig forever, that I need to plan for the future. Aunt DeeDee agrees with her, and they never agree on anything.”

He paused, then gave up on the mystery chicken. “The thing is, I think they’re right.”

He almost smiled. It felt freeing to say the words out loud. And frightening.

“Mom and Miss Eleanor still need me—Emily, I mean—as the face of the business. She is the poster girl and all. So I guess I’ll still do that. As Emily. Probably. For pictures. For fashion shows and stuff like that... whatever’s required.”

“But not… like, all the time.”

The younger boy nodded, then shook his head. “Emily was useful. Emily was… safe. Emily was a way to do things without saying I was the one doing them. But Auntie’s right. Emily’s not real. Like she said, that's a fairy tale version of me. Or who I was, anyway.”

Samuel grunted. “She was... is… real to me.” He looked up, his green eyes soft, wistful.

Ethan bit his lip. He felt his heart ache as he tried to figure out what to say next.

“So, how does this work?” Samuel’s gaze held Ethan’s, steady and uncomfortable in the way honest things are. “You gonna give up dressing up, or go full time… or what?”

“I can’t give it up. Pretty sure I can’t. It’s who I am now, I guess.” Ethan shrugged. “So just around the house and stuff, I guess. And when I’m working in our shop.”

Samuel nodded. “Okay,” he said, leaving the door open.

Ethan’s fingers curled around his fork. “Everybody at school knows the truth about me,” he said, so quietly it was almost swallowed by the cafeteria noise. “Pretty much, I guess, after the play. After I let them see who I really am.”

Samuel’s jaw tightened. “Yeah,” he said. “They know, all right.” His eyes flicked around the room, scanning like an old habit he couldn’t stop. “Anyone messing with you?”

“Not yet.”

“If they do... I can—”

“I know,” Ethan cut in, then softened because he didn’t want a cafeteria fight to become the moral of his story. “And I appreciate it, but so far most everybody is cool. I actually made some friends. The rest—it’s not anything I can’t handle.”

“Okay. That's good. Real good.”

They ate another minute in a strange truce, the kind where both people are pretending chewing is the main event.

Then Samuel said, low and blunt: “So, I need to know—what’s next? What about... us?”

Ethan’s fork paused again. “Us?”

Samuel’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me spell it out. You know, us. If you ain’t gonna be Emily no more, then…”

Ethan felt his cheeks heat up. “Oh. You. And me.”

“Yes, you and me,” Samuel said. “You know, what if we want to go places together. Like that fashion show at Eleanor’s. The movies. Or just hanging out. Taking walks. Dates. Whatever you wanna call it. Will Emily be there… or this new you?”

He frowned. For once his voice was unsteady. “Or will you wanna keep doing that… you know, go out with me? Or even see me anymore?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” the younger boy whispered.

Samuel’s mouth twitched. “That’s a lie.”

Ethan’s pulse thumped in his ears. He’d known this conversation was coming, ever since the limo ride back from Capital City. And he’d worked it all out—he’d role-played it a hundred times in his head, taking it to its logical and neat conclusion, neatly wrapped in a bow and ready to go. He had, he told himself in his clever, teenaged wisdom, all the answers.

And now… facing Samuel… he couldn’t remember any of them. Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch, as DeeDee would say. All he knew was he’d been asked a question and he had no answer for it.

He looked down at Samuel’s tray, at the ketchup smear, at the bitten burger, at all the ordinary boy-lunch things, and tried to imagine this conversation happening if Emily had never existed, or if he hadn’t hidden behind the fairy tale... or a lot of things—

He took a deep breath, then swallowed. “Fine,” he said. “I did think about it. A lot. I just… don’t know how to say it.”

“Then try.” Samuel’s gaze softened again, and it made Ethan’s chest hurt in a way that was almost worse than teasing.

He forced himself to look at Samuel and not away. It was harder than he'd expected.

“I do want to keep seeing you. And I want to go out with you, date you, all that stuff. Just… be with you.”

He looked up, shy, hopeful. “The thing is… do you prefer Emily—or me?”

Samuel didn’t reply right away. He stared at Ethan like he was trying to see through the layers: boy, girl, wig, no wig, stage lights, Capital City cameras flashing, the quiet kid who drew dresses in the margins of math homework; who was complex, smart and funny—and made him think; who he could take in his arms and find comfort, joy and purpose.

But he was even more than that. Samuel thought about his own past, his anger and bitterness and how—despite being adopted by the Torres family, being given a good life with a good family—he’d remained obsessed with his lack of identity, the mystery of the who and the what and the why of his existence.

And then this little punk suddenly showed up, a nobody who he’d hounded and bullied… who turned out to be this weird, amazing kid who wore wigs and skirts and lipstick, and sewed dresses for a little girl’s dolls… whose honest humility caused all of his fury and chaos to eventually dissipate into nothingness—and gave him so many beautiful things in return: his real mother, a sister he never knew existed…

… and a reason for being.

The question arose: How can I ever repay that?

He’d asked himself that, over and over again.

The answer was, of course: he could not.

When Samuel finally spoke, his voice was careful, measured, honest.

“I like being with you,” he said. “Emily or no Emily.”

The younger boy bit his lip, hard. He wanted to jump up and shout out loud with joy—he also wanted to cry. But he could tell—they weren't quite done.

Samuel tried to be nonchalant, but he looked down, his eyes on Ethan’s fingers—the very ones he’d held just few nights ago, and kissed, in the dark. He shook his head, his expression pensive, almost sad—those same fingertips had been painted pink when he’d last pressed them to his lips, the memory of their touch still fresh in his mind.

“You know I love you, right?”

Ethan’s breath caught. He nodded, afraid to say anything… fearful of what might come next.

“And you know I don’t play no fucking games. So believe me when I say that. I can’t help it—I love you… and I owe you so much—for what you done for me… and all you done for Mama—and for Niecy.”

As big as he was, as terrifying as he could be, the infamous Samuel Torres almost gave into his emotions in the middle of the cafeteria. Almost. He did, however, let out a choked laugh.

“I gotta tell you, dude… that girl loves you so much—Emily, Ethan… it don’t matter. She worships the ground you walk on.” He coughed. “She’s one smart little lady.”

Now it was Ethan’s turn to sniff.

The crowd around them stirred. Only ten minutes before the bell rang and everyone would be off to their next class.

“You mean so much to me, little dude.” Samuel snorted, a wry grin curling his lips. “Fuck it—I even got that job with DeeDee because of you. How can I not love you?”

Then the grin went away.

“But this thing with Emily going away—that raises a question.” He glanced down at the table, then back up, and the confidence that usually came so easily to him had faded, nowhere to be seen. “What am I to you, if you’re going to be you—Ethan, not Emily—and we want to go out together. What… better yet, who am I to you, then?”

Ethan’s throat tightened. “Then, I guess... you’re… still you. Samuel Torres. The toughest guy in school.”

“Am I?” Samuel’s eyes flicked sharply, like Ethan had stepped too close to the bruise. “Look, when you’re Emily and we’re together,” he said, “people can look at us and go, ‘Oh, nice. Boyfriend and girlfriend.’ Even if it’s… not that simple.”

“Okaaay…”

“But if it’s Ethan in a dress… and lipstick… and…”

He pulled up one of the photos, one with Ethan camping it up at the Capital City gala, making a kissy face, French bob gleaming, red lips shining, one eye winking. Not the Ethan he knew, but still… Ethan.

“If this is you—” he pointed at the image, his nose flaring— “then people look at us and go, ‘Oh.’ Two guys And one’s dressed like a girl.” He made the words sound ugly. “And then they talk. Then word gets out. And things get complicated. Yeah, it’s about you, but it’s not just about you. Not anymore.”

Ethan stared at him, and for a split second he wanted to hate Samuel for saying all that, but at the same time thank him.

“I’m not saying that’s right,” Samuel said quickly, like he needed Ethan to understand that part. “I’m just saying it’s real. And I don’t—” He rubbed the back of his neck, frustrated. “I don’t know what to do with it yet.”

“What if I don’t dress up?” Ethan whispered. “What if we just hang out, do the movies, stuff like that? Like buddies. That could work, couldn’t it?”

Samuel sat quietly for a moment, thinking what they both thought. “You do know why we go to the movies, right? Not to see the movie.”

Ethan’s face flushed. He knew, all right. Oh, how he knew. He loved being intimate with Samuel, under the flickering movie screen, on the dance floor, in the backseat of his mother’s car, by the ice cream shop… and a dozen other places, secret, away from his family and friends. He lived for the fragrance of perfume mixed with aftershave and sweat, soft whispers, young bodies pressed together… moist kisses that made him dizzy and happy… the security he felt in Samuel’s powerful but affectionate embrace…

So yeah, he knew.

A circle of silence shielded them from the cacophony of the cafeteria for a few seconds.

Finally, Ethan spoke, a soft, sad murmur: “You somethin’ else, baby girl.”

Samuel blinked. “What was that?”

“That thing you always call me. Or used to.” The younger boy gave a rueful grin. “Baby girl. It doesn’t work if I’m not Emily anymore, does it?” His voice went thin, defeated.

“So, you’d rather be with Emily than with me. I get it.”

Samuel gritted his teeth. “I never said that.”

“Maybe.” Ethan looked away, chewing his bottom lip, his voice trembling. “This is so messed up. I want to be with you, too—but if I give up being Emily…” He closed his eyes. “Maybe I shouldn’t give her up. But then if I don’t…”

“That’s a lot to deal with, dude. Too much if you ask me.” Samuel pushed away his tray and leaned forward, thinking. “Look, I’m not gonna tell you what to do. I hate to admit it—and you’re probably gonna hate me for saying this—but I see what your aunt is saying. She’s tough on you, but she loves you and wants you to be your best you. And so do I.”

He sighed. “So yeah, I figure she’s probably right.”

Ethan frowned. “I figured you’d want me to keep being Emily.”

“It’s tempting. But—” Samuel rapped his knuckles on the table, making a point he didn’t want. “Dude, you can’t live your life in disguise. And finding the real you ain’t easy if you’re not honest with yourself. Just look at me, how fucked up I was.” He snorted. “And maybe still am.”

“But—”

“Ethan—I get it, dude. Listen, your Aunt Vivian is smart as fuck. I don't like it, but she's giving you good advice.” He scoffed, frustrated. “Hiding behind a false face… Emily’s face… that don’t help you none.”

Ethan wiped his eyes. “I just don’t want you to feel ashamed when you’re with me.”

“What?” Samuel’s eyes flashed. “No. Never. Don’t ever say that! Don’t even think it!”

Ethan flinched. So did the kids at the next table—they looked at one another, then picked up their trays and quietly left.

Samuel softened immediately—he hadn’t meant to be unkind, but his emotions were… raw.

“Ethan… come on… I am not ashamed of you,” he said, at this point not caring who heard his voice. “I am so proud of you. I really am. After all you been through, your dumbass dad… what all you do for your mom… how you pushed back against me, and now, this weekend, how you stood there in front all of those important people, and you held your own… looking so badass with your aunt, ‘The Judge,’ over your shoulder—”

His eyes glowed jade green, glistening with emotion.

“Little dude—” he said, his voice now softer— “you're the toughest guy I know.”

Ethan snorted. “Yeah, tough guy in heels.”

Samuel nodded, but didn’t smile. He seemed, for the moment, at a loss for words.

Ethan watched him, studying him, thinking. “Okay,” he whispered. “So, you love me, right?”

A nod, with no hesitation: “Damn right.”

“But... you fell in love with Emily.”

Samuel hesitated. His lips went thin as he heard the truth spoken aloud.

“No.” He grunted. “Maybe. What the fuck.”

His large frame heaved as he exhaled, struggling with the words, not exactly sure how to phrase what he wanted to say, but pretty sure.

“Dunno, man. You might be right. You being Emily makes everything easier. But life ain’t easy, is it?” Samuel exhaled, his breath heavy, forced. “If you’re not Emily… we’re back to the beginning: what are we? What am I to you?”

Ethan’s eyes burned. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

The cafeteria erupted in laughter at some distant table, a sharp burst that made his shoulders jump. Samuel’s gaze flicked toward the sound, then back. His hand slid forward on the table—an unconscious move, like he was going to reach for the small, fair-skinned hand before him.

Ethan’s heart raced. But Samuel stopped short, fingers resting less than an inch away, not touching.

They both stared at the gap.

“Okay, so you asked if I preferred Emily or you?”

Ethan nodded, throat tight.

Samuel’s jaw twitched. “I prefer… not losing you,” he said finally.

The noise of the surrounding tables was lost in their quietness.

Samuel sniffed, then wiped his eyes. “That’s not much of an answer, I know. But it’s the only honest one I got right now.”

Ethan stared at the space between their hands. His fingers inched forward without permission from his brain.

The huge, coal black fingers twitched. They almost touched.

“I feel the same way—” Ethan tried to say, but the bell rang—too loud, too sudden—like the school itself had gotten impatient with their conversation.

Chairs scraped back. Trays clattered. The room shifted into movement.

Samuel set Ethan’s phone gently in front of him, screen-down again, like he was returning something fragile.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he muttered.

Ethan frowned. “Like what?”

“Like deciding that you gotta be one thing or the other just to make it easier for me.”

Ethan’s throat tightened. “What if I want to decide?”

“Then do it for you—not for me, not for your aunt. Or your mom. Not for those idiots.” His gaze flicked toward the noisier tables. “And not for ‘Emily,’ either.”

Ethan’s fingers curled around the edge of the table. “So, what about you?”

Samuel hesitated.

Then he did something small and maddening: he nudged one of the ketchup packets into Ethan’s tray, like a ridiculous little gift, a placeholder for the promise he was about to make.

“I’m here. Always, for you. I just… I gotta think about what ‘here’ looks like.”

Ethan stared at the ketchup packet. He didn’t know whether the words he heard were sweet or cowardly. He didn’t know whether he should be angry or relieved.

As they threw out their trays, Samuel bumped his shoulder lightly, affectionately—as if he were pushing a door open—and that was when Ethan realized that at the very least, he hadn’t been abandoned. Not just yet.

He put his phone back into his pocket like a part of his heart that might explode.

 

* * *
 

It was after dinner, the house in that softened state where dishes are done and the smell of soap has replaced the smell of garlic. The doorbell rang and Penelope’s “Yoohoo!” could be heard throughout the house. Colleen called up the stairs, “Darling! Auntie Penelope is here to see you!”

Ethan sighed—he loved his Aunt Penelope, but she never missed a chance to be inconvenient. And after the day he just had, he wasn’t in the mood.

He padded barefoot down the stairs, a full basket of dirty laundry in hands, his skirt bouncing—he wore a simple lavender shirtwaist dress and a ruffled apron, one of his housekeeping-and-sometimes-homework uniforms. He went straight to the kitchen, which was where she normally wandered.

“Emily!” sang Penelope’s voice. She elongated the name until it had three soft syllables. “Oh, forgive me, Ethan. You’re not wearing your wig, are you, darling?” She giggled. “How are you, poppet?”

“I’m fine, Auntie Penelope,” he said, setting down the basket and bracing himself for turbulence.

“I have been told,” she said in the voice of someone revealing that the queen had a dog, “that you have a telephone which laughs at you.”

“It, um, laughs with me,” he tried.

“Do tell,” she said. “Let me hear it.”

“I can’t make it—”

Colleen emerged from the sewing room. “You can do it yourself, Penelope. Get out your phone and call him. Trust me, it’s worth the trouble.”

Ethan bristled. “Mother—”

Penelope sniffed. “Oh, all right. If you want something done right—” She pulled out her antiquated flip phone, thought for a moment, then punched in a number.

“I already programmed it for you—” Colleen started to say.

The room quickly filled with a blaring girl group pop tune so sugary sweet it threatened diabetes. Ethan shut it off as quickly as he could reach the right button.

Penelope made a delighted sound that could only be described as something between a snort and a coo. “Oh, I’ve got to do that again.”

The embarrassed boy shook his head. “Auntie Penelope, please don’t.”

She did it again, and again it went: the ear-splitting sound of girls singing their hearts out about fun and independence.

Colleen laughed. “Text him, Penelope.”

“How do I do that?” The old woman fumbled with her phone. “Ah, never mind. Here we go—”

Ting! Giggle. “Oopsie!”

Ethan looked down at his phone. It said: i ❤️ u—auntie penny

“One more.” She fumble-thumbed a message and giggled like a child.

Ting! Giggle. “Oopsie!”

This time her message was: oopsie ❤️

“May I see it?” Penelope snatched the pink jewel-encrusted device without missing a beat. “Oh my, I must get myself one of these! Look at that pink! And those rhinestones! And… are those real pearls? I swear to goodness, it’s even got your monogram on it. What an absolutely gorgeous little device. Are they expensive?”

Colleen shrugged. “I should think so. Vivian got him the newest one available. The case alone cost as much as my old phone did, I think. I, um, don’t think those are rhinestones.”

“Really? Well, that’s Vivian for you.” Penelope went over it like a judge at a county fair grading homemade pickles. “Well, it is certainly cute as a bug in a run.” She looked from the phone to Ethan, an impish gleam in her eye. “It just occurred to me—won’t this be a problem for you? I mean, a boy carrying around such a pretty piece of jewelry… and it making such a fuss whenever it goes off?”

Ethan bit his lip. “Um, well, it already—”

“Oh, no matter. You’ll deal with it just fine, I’m sure.” The old woman winked. “After all you’ve been through, I’m sure any problems this little gem brings will just be a hiccup in the grand scheme of things.”

Colleen grinned at her son. “Did you hear that, my love. Just a hiccup, that’s all.”

Ethan frowned. “I heard, Mother.”

“And those sounds it makes are utterly adorable,” Penelope said. “It will make all the old ladies in my social club feel maternal and all the young ones feel competitive. Listen to me, Ethan. You will bring that phone on Saturday. I’ll hold an afternoon tea—nothing dreadful, just the usual old hens and their plottery—and I should like to—mmm—show you off.”

“Auntie Penelope—”

“Not as a spectacle, darling. As a promise.” She reached over and brushed something off the puffed sleeve of his dress. “Wear something nice, something more mature, not your usual housewife outfit,” she said. “And no wig. I want them to get to know the real you. Ethan, not Emily.”

“But—”

“And bring that giggling alarm of yours. I should like everyone to hear that you belong to yourself. And also to us.”

“Belong to—” Ethan sighed. “Okay, but I might be busy—”

She kissed him on the cheek. “Well, I must go. Gingersnap is angry with me. She turned up her nose at the salmon and now I have to go looking for tuna. Would you like to come with? No? Ah, well… ‘Bye now!” She kissed him again and winked. “Saturday, remember? And bring your shiny pink toy.”

The screen door slammed and she was gone. Ethan looked at his mother, who had her arms crossed and a look that said We are absolutely doing this, of course we are.

“Do not make me go,” he pleaded.

“Too late,” Colleen said, leaning in and kissing his lips.

 

* * *
 

In Emily’s room, the lamp on the bedside table cast the kind of circle of light that secrets like. Ethan sat in the middle of the bed, wearing his most recent favorite sleepwear, the pink Barbie crop top Dani had gifted him and a pair of silk pajama shorts—both uber-girlish, dripping in ruffles and lace. The bedspread had been chosen by Auntie Penelope’s enthusiastic eye—soft flowered cotton with a scalloped edge—and he still didn’t know how to get into it without feeling like he had to sit up straighter.

The phone glowed in his hand. He was smiling—his face holding an authentic, actual smile for the first time that day. Twin plastic hairclips held his freshly shampooed and brushed auburn locks out of his face as he scrolled through the Capital City photos.

The day had been long and wearing. He'd already had a good cry, mostly over Samuel. Colleen had caught him lying face down on his bed, his lace pillow pulled over his head, weeping quietly. In her soft, maternal wisdom, she had let him be—time was on her side, just as she was on his. She did, however, suggest strongly that he go for a long soak in the tub afterward, and even treated him to her one of her best lavender bubble bath bombs and a handful of lemon bath pearls.

And so, refreshed and smelling—in his mother’s words, “delectable”—he’d put aside his worries and acted as any teenaged girl might—or at least how any other teenaged creature in his situation might—and got out his phone.

He had honestly forgotten just how many photos he’d taken at the event—it was almost embarrassing. There was the angle where his bobbed hair made his jaw look more delicate than usual. There was the one where his head tilted back and his pearl choker sat just so, making his neck look longer, more slender. There was the one where he’d experimented with a power pose, his clutch in hand, hand pressed against his hip, hip cocked, looking as sassy as the sassiest girl at the event.

“Aunt DeeDee is right,” he murmured. “Without a wig I do look a little like Audrey Hepburn.” He swiped right, pursing his lips. “But here… I can see some Natalie Wood…”

“Elizabeth Taylor?” He snorted. “Mmm, sorry Mr. Stefan, that's a no-go.”

A few more flips of the thumb later, he laughed again. “Speaking of Taylors…” Zooming in on his made-up face, he smiled. “Mmm, Taylor Swift lips,” he murmured.

He reflected on his conversation with Samuel for an instant, then swiped that memory right out of his head—for the time being, at least. He’d already done enough crying that night.

He giggled as he perused the gallery of photos, not quite believing that he was looking at so many outlandish images of himself. “It actually was kind of fun,” he whispered into the quiet. The words frightened him a little. They didn’t feel like betrayal—they felt like unlocking a door he hadn’t noticed before.

He thumbed through a few more, reliving the event before falling asleep. The ones of Bella Redmon gave him the shivers—conversely, the selfie Ivy shot with his face squeezed up against hers gave him all sorts of warm feels. As did the one of her making the heart hands sign.

He ended with one of his favorites, another selfie—a wider shot of himself in his little black dress, with Vivian behind him, over his shoulder, looking right at the camera—they both had a raised eyebrow and a crooked smile, their vibe, their lines and colors working together like a note and its harmony.

“Wow. I still can’t believe all that really happened.”

He swept the photos away and opened one of the fashion sites he’d been permitted: models leaping, fabric caught in motion like a long breath; still-life portraits of handbags beside pearls and lipstick; shots of teen girls modeling the latest styles; a video where a seamstress turned a garment inside out to show its skeleton. He felt the ache that good drawings gave him—a mixture of desire and instruction. There was a rightness to it that was hard to admit even in the privacy of his own head.

Eyes finally fluttering with fatigue, he plugged in the charging cable and turned the phone face down to stop the glow. He couldn’t turn it to silent. He wasn’t allowed. Not yet, at least. That was the strangest part of all this: knowing people were watching him in ways that didn’t feel like being watched, exactly, but like being expected.

Weirdly, he found that comforting, kind of like how he felt when he was washing dishes in one of his housewife dresses and hearing the other kids outside playing ball. Being restricted, under the feminine thumb, should feel bad, he knew, but for some reason… it excited him.

Auntie Vivan warned me, he thought. It’s all psychological. I’m gonna have to look that stuff up sometime. But not tonight.

Ting! Giggle. “Oopsie!”

Groaning with dread, he flipped the phone over. Vivian.

Heard from mayor’s wife. She is impressed. Good job.

He typed Thank you and deleted it.

He typed I tried and deleted it.

He typed I’m sorry I missed your call yesterday morning and deleted it so fast he laughed at himself for a moment, breathless.

He thought for a moment about his Aunt Vivian, then his mother… then Ivy… and Samuel… and he smiled.

The one thing they all had in common, he realized, was that within the last couple of days each had declared their love for him. His mother was a given—Vivian a rare surprise. Ivy actually used the words “I love you,” not “puppy love.”

And just that afternoon Samuel even said it, point blank, in the most profound and heartfelt way: “How can I not love you?”

“Wow,” he said in a soft, breathy voice. He wiped his eyes, took in a deep breath, then let it out. “Just… wow.”

He lay there for another few seconds, his eyes closed, enjoying the silence, savoring the memories. He then opened them, and tapped on his phone.

A single ❤️ whooshed off to his aunt.

For a moment the room seemed to be only the ring of lamplight and the soft sound of the old house breathing. He held the phone up, waiting, and felt a little foolish.

The phone tinged, giggled, and sang “oopsie!” again.

A ❤️ back from Vivian.

“Wow,” he whispered once again. He rolled over and smiled into his pillow as if that might keep the warmth from floating away.

 

Next, Niecy’s Closet