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 Six: The Hostess with the Mostest

Word gets around, and so does Ethan.

Ethan’s summer had become a blur of hems, ribbons, and delicately worded lies.

He was used to working two lives now: one as his mother’s little “housewife” doing chores around the house and giving his friends vague excuses, and the other as “Emily,” who modeled dresses at county fairs and smiled in photo shoots, and dusted endless shelves filled with tchotchkes for an aging English teacher with a mischievous streak.

But nothing--not Penelope Whitaker’s endless teasing, not even the time he slipped on freshly mopped floor and fell with his petticoats flying--prepared him for what came next.

It began, of course, with Penelope’s garden party.

* * *

“I need a hostess,” she declared one Friday while Ethan vacuumed under her piano. “Someone delightful and discreet. Elegant. Polished.”

Ethan’s mouth opened in protest.

“I’ve already ordered the outfit,” she added cheerfully.

And she had. It arrived two days later in a box tied with a pink satin ribbon. Colleen gasped when Ethan brought it inside.

“Is that...?”

“It’s another maid’s uniform,” he groaned, opening the lid like it might contain snakes.

Inside lay a perfectly tailored black satin dress--short puff sleeves, prim neckline, white lace trim--paired with a crisp white apron, white lace gloves and a matching headband. There were also black stocking and shiny black patent Mary Janes. It was cartoonishly cute, not at all like the one he’d worn before, but more like something out of a vintage musical comedy.

“She said it’s for a hostessing opportunity,” Ethan mumbled, already regretting everything.

Colleen smiled like she was trying not to smile. “Well, at least she believes in themed presentation.”

“And bribery,” Ethan added. “She’s paying me. Well.”

Colleen nodded. “Then why the frown, baby? Do you not want to do this?”

“Not really, but…” he sighed. “I mean, it’s not hurting anybody and as long as the guys don’t find out…”

“I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about the guys, my love.” She pulled him close, her arms warm and maternal, and kissed him on the forehead. “I’m pretty sure this is just between us girls.”

Ethan snorted. “I sure hope so.”

Sensing the need to change the subject, Colleen picked up the lacy headband and smiled. “So, will ‘Emily’ or ‘Louise’ be making the appearance?”

“I’ll have to ask Auntie Penelope.”

* * *

The day of the party arrived like a thundercloud wrapped in hydrangeas.

Penelope’s garden was impeccable--every rosebush preened and prepped, every umbrella table adorned with floral arrangements and teacups that looked too delicate to exist outside a museum.

And then there was Ethan.

Or rather, Emily.

Flaxen wig pinned. Apron starched. Shoes buffed to a gleam. Black satin dress buttoned up snug and tight. Lace gloves over pink fingernails, secured with ribbons tied into neat little knotted bows. Thigh-high stockings perfectly aligned, their decorative much larger bows peeking out just below the fluffy petticoat. A touch of rouge colored his already red face. He looked like a doll who had come to life for the sole purpose of passing out cucumber sandwiches and blushing under scrutiny.

“Here, put this on,” Colleen handed him a small, pink metal tube. She shot a wink toward a grinning Penelope, who was watching from her perch on the sofa. “He already knows how.”

“Is this what I think--” Ethan popped off the top and sighed. “I figured as much.”

He twisted the tube and stared at the tip of the shiny pink gloss. His mother handed him a small compact mirror, which he grudgingly accepted. Just as she’d said, he’d already gotten lots of practice putting on lip balm. He smacked his lips and studied the result.

“Such a pretty thing.” Penelope sighed. “He reminds me of me when I was that age.”

Colleen smiled. “I think he’s radiant.”

Ethan pouted. “You know I hate that word.”

“One more thing.” His mother produced a small crystalline bottle with an atomizer--Ethan blushed to see the label: Parfum Pour Demoiselle. “Wrists please.”

She squirted a small portion to spot at the base of each glove and then--motioning for him to close his eyes--sprayed a faint cloud just over his wig. An alarming shiver swept over his body as the piecing scent of fruit and vanilla wafted in through his nostrils, causing him to blush even more than before.

“I guess this makes it official. I’m turning into a girl.”

Penelope hooted--Colleen laughed. “If only it was that easy. I prefer to think of you as my very stylish little pretend daughter.”

Ethan pouted. “Okay, if I’m not a real girl, then why am I wearing such fancy panties?” He squirmed as the lacy underwear tickled his thighs. “They’re not very comfortable.”

“Sometimes we have to suffer for style,” his mother replied, grinning. “Besides, what if someone catches a glimpse? You don’t want them to not match.”

“That’s a terrible reason.” The cross-dressed boy pouted as he stared in the mirror--the hem of his dress barely reached the tops of his stockings. “I feel ridiculous.”

“You look darling,” Penelope said, beaming. “Try not to curtsy so nervously. Think lady in waiting, not traumatized schoolboy.”

Ethan sighed. To him it felt more like he was wearing a costume than a uniform.

“I’m pretty sure I’m breaking the law just by being here.”

“Nonsense. Just smile, pour the tea and lemonade, and pretend you have no idea how to play that zombie video game. That’s what good hostesses do.”

“Yes, Auntie Penelope.”

Penelope sniffed, then winked. “That’s a good maid.”

The guests arrived--elegant older ladies in broad hats and pastel shawls, many of whom eyed Ethan with curious smiles and murmured greetings.

He curtsied. Offered pastries. Served tea. Fetched napkins. All of the things a maid might be expected to do. It wasn’t hard work, but it was exhausting. Old ladies seem polite and kind at first glance, but they can--and in this case, were--needy and petty, like spoiled children. He lost track of the times he had to pick up a dropped spoon or napkin, or replace a cold cup of tea with a warm one. Or vice versa. He kept looking at his aunt for relief, but she only added to his grief.

“Emily, get Mrs. Morgan some more petit fours!”

“The teapot is empty, Emily. Please see to it!”

“Oh, Emily, darling girl… we’re out of sugar cubes again.”

“Emily, please tend to Mrs. Carmody… she needs to use the powder room.”

“I’m next,” Mrs. Witherspoon crowed.

“You heard her, Emily.” Penelope raised her eyebrow with the expertise of a retired schoolteacher, which she was. “Hop to it, girl! Chop-chop!”

He kept looking at the old grandfather clock in the hallway, but felt foolish when he realized it had stopped running who knew how long ago.

* * *

Alone in the kitchen Ethan stood at the sink, up to his elbows in bubbles, his panties riding up between his cheeks, his satin maid’s dress fluttering softly around his slim thighs. Outside, the clang of childhood chaos rang out like windchimes battered by a storm. A group of boys on bikes hollered and howled with laughter as they rode by, crashing and chasing and bumping one another, and arguing and boasting as boys so often do.

He turned slightly, drawn to the sound by some thread still attached to his former life. He watched them for a long moment--jaw tight, brow furrowed--then, with a sigh soft enough to be lost in the bubbles, he turned away. His attention returned to the plates, the cutlery, the soapy world that had, oddly enough, begun to feel safe.

From the parlor came a swell of female laughter--Auntie Penelope and her friends gossiping like hens, voices rising and falling like the tide.

Then came the gentle clack of heels.

His employer swept in with her usual flair, laughing at something scandalous, one hand on her pearls. She paused, spotting the cross-dressed boy busily washing her good china.

“Emily, dear,” she cooed, “would you mind terribly bringing in more tea and some of those lemon tarts? We’ve worked ourselves into a proper appetite.”

He nodded obediently. “Yes, Auntie.”

“And do fix your headband, sweetheart. We cannot tolerate a maid who is all out of order.”

“I will, Auntie. Thank you, Auntie.”

With a snort and a satisfied smile, Penelope floated back toward the parlor.

Ethan sighed, rinsing the last of the dishes with practiced precision. He’d become swift and thorough lately. His mother had noticed this, but his pride in that would remain his secret.

He peeled off the yellow rubber gloves and reached for his headband. He struggled with the clip, muttering softly, “It keeps falling off…”

The screen door creaked and Colleen entered, arms crossed but expression gentle. “Just thought I’d drop in to see how things were going.”

“It’s fine, Mother,” he said, voice as soft as the light around them.

She stepped in close, her fingers deftly adjusting the lace hat atop his wig and smoothing the blonde locks with a mother’s touch. Her hands lingered on his shoulders.

“Everything alright?” she asked. “Did Auntie say something to upset you?”

“No, Mother. Not at all.” He smiled up at her. “I was just finishing the dishes.”

Colleen’s eyes drifted to the sparkling clean counters, the neatly stacked plates, the scent of order and care. Her heart swelled as he picked up his lace gloves and slipped them on.

“May I?” She tied the little bows at the wrist, carefully, lovingly.

“Thank you, Mother.” Ethan looked up, his eyes shining with something unspoken.

“Don’t let her get to you,” she said at last. “She loves you in her own way. We’re lucky to have her. So please, just… try a little harder. For me?”

Ethan nodded, Then, tilting up onto the balls of his feet in his Mary Janes, he kissed her on the lips--gently, sweetly, like a blessing.

“I will, Mother. I promise.”

* * *

For most of the afternoon he thought the disguise was working.

Until someone said, in a knowing, smug tone, “Your nephew is adorable, Penelope.”

Ethan nearly dropped the lemon tarts.

Penelope only sipped her tea, unfazed. “Isn’t he? So polite. So helpful.”

Mrs. Carmody nodded. “Indeed. Much more than my granddaughters or my nieces.”

“And he smells better, too,” Mrs. Witherspoon said with a smirk. “Too bad he’s just a boy. Those legs are to die for.”

They knew? All of them?

Ethan flushed scarlet, but no one mocked him. No one cackled or exposed him mid-macaron. They simply accepted him with mild amusement and asked him to fluff the cushions.

It was… oddly worse.

The entire event had been a conspiracy, and they were all in collusion. Penelope, of course, was the ringleader, setting him up for a day of blushing and fretting, not to mention some much-appreciated entertainment for her clique of widows and old maids.

Even Gingersnap, who had spent weeks glaring at Ethan, now rubbed purring against the cross-dressed boy’s stockinged ankles like he was her long-lost maidservant soulmate.

“She likes you best like this,” Penelope observed. “I think she appreciates consistency in fashion.”

* * *

By the end of the day, Ethan was exhausted, humiliated, and holding a generous envelope of cash.

He trudged home, apron askew, mentally composing a list of reasons why he would never do anything like that again.

After changing into his boy clothes--at long last--he hung the maid's dress up in his mother’s sewing room.

And then, after a moment’s hesitation, he took it down and re-hung it, this time neatly, smoothing the lace with his fingers.

Because Auntie Penelope had already scheduled her Autumn Soirée.

And Ethan knew--deep down--he’d be back.

Gingersnap had already claimed him.

* * *

And then fate, cruel as ever, kicked the story into high gear.

It happened on Tuesday.

They had just taken pictures of a new dress for their collection when Colleen remembered she needed to drop off some fliers for her sewing class at the community center.

“There’s an event this afternoon and if we get there in time they’ll get in the right hands.” She waggled her eyebrows. “These classes don’t cost me anything to put together and we make an awful lot of money for the time spent.”

Ethan shrugged. “Okay then. I’ll just change clothes and find something else to do--”

“Oh no, you don’t, Emily. You’re still on the clock. Parking downtown is terrible at this time of day and I need you to run them inside, all right? Pretty please?”

He looked down at himself. “Not like this, I hope.”

Colleen smiled. “I don’t see why not.” She put her finger to her chin. “Now, where did I put my purse?--”

Despite Ethan’s protests, he soon found himself in his mother’s car, still wearing the dress he’d been modeling, a lavender sundress with a snug, shirred bodice, thin spaghetti straps and a low neckline that showed off his collarbones, and a flouncy skirt, “perfect for summer picnics and picking flowers” as his mother said in her blog. His resistance had been short-lived--Zombie Apocalypse IX: The Wreckoning was just outside the reach of his budget and Colleen offered to pay the balance if he did as he was asked without a fuss.

And so he minced into the community center in his new dress and a pair of white sandals. And his blonde wig, thank goodness, insurance in case anyone he knew saw him.

I can do this, he kept telling himself. It’s just like the county fair, even better. There’s hardly anybody here. Just drop these off at the main office and--

“Emily?”

His heart stopped.

He looked up.

And there, in the doorway, was Claire Madison. Seventh grade classmate. Science lab partner. Crush since fourth grade.

“Oh my gosh! I’m sorry, but I thought… wait, are you… Ethan!?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. His wig slipped slightly.

“I--I can explain,” he finally stammered.

She looked him up and down as though he was a piece of art. He fidgeted with the fliers in his arms and he wanted to die.

Miraculously, she didn’t laugh.

“I mean… you look… really convincing?”

“Thanks?” he croaked.

“I saw your mother at the Washington County crafts fair… and you, apparently. I thought you were a cousin or something. My mom bought one of those floral bonnets.”

“That was me,” he admitted, voice dropping to a whisper.

She had questions. He had answers. In the course of a few minutes he reluctantly confessed all--or most of it--how his mother had hired him to help with her business, doing housekeeping for Penelope, all of it. He may as well have been standing there naked, as vulnerable as he felt.

Clair squinted, then smiled. “Okay, full disclosure… this is hilarious. But also kinda cool?”

Ethan bristled. "Yeah, I'm sure."

She reached out and caressed his shoulder, adjusting an errant strap in that way girls do for one another. The cross-dressed boy almost swooned.

“So, um--” she smirked--“are you wearing panties under all that?” Ethan bit his lip, which answered Claire’s question. She laughed, her eyes alight with glee. “Seriously, that’s super brave of you. My brother won’t even wear matching socks, and you’re like a secret agent, only working for your mom and Old Lady Whitaker instead of some mysterious government agency.”

Ethan bit his lip, blushing. “Sooo… you’re not going to tell anyone?”

Claire shook her head. “No way! This is a fun secret. But I might tease you privately. You should’ve seen your face when I realized who you were.”

He groaned. “That’s part of the problem. If you could figure it out--”

“Pfft! Don’t worry about that!” Claire scoffed. “I could only because I’ve known you forever. Seriously, if you don’t really look, it’s almost impossible.”

Ethan frowned. “Almost.”

“You worry too much.” She held his hand, reassuring him. “As long as you act like a girl, nobody else will see you as a boy. Especially not as that scruffy ol' Ethan.”

“Well, I guess.” He let out deep breath. “Please don’t say anything to Dani about seeing me running around like this. She gives me enough grief as it is.”

“No promises. You’re doomed if she gives me that dinosaur shirt I want.”

They both laughed. Ethan felt dizzy. Like maybe this summer wasn’t trying to destroy him. Just… humiliate him into evolving.

* * *

Ethan didn’t know why Claire wanted to invite Emily to her tea party, and by the time he asked, it was too late.

“You’ll be adorable,” Claire had said breezily. “Just light hostess duties. A little pouring. A little smiling. Maybe a few pointers in etiquette and things. Mrs. Whitaker said you know all about how to do that kind of stuff.” She giggled. “She also said you--well, Emily--has the perfect uniform for it, too.”

“Thank goodness for Auntie Penelope,” Ethan muttered.

The frustrated boy said something about stage fright, but Claire wasn’t listening. She was already chatting with his mother about his outfit.

And that was how Ethan found himself--again--in front of the full-length mirror, donning the world’s most humiliating uniform.

Colleen helped tie the apron.

“I thought we burned this,” Ethan said miserably.

“Don’t be dramatic,” she replied. “We dry-cleaned it.”

The French maid’s dress was back in all its frilly, satiny glory--short puff sleeves, a fitted black bodice, and a flared skirt that ended well above the knee. The crisp white apron featured scalloped lace trim and a perfectly tied bow in back, which, as Claire would later point out, was suspiciously professional.

On his head, the delicate white lace hairband perched upon his bleach blonde wig like an accusation. His white lace gloves looked like dandelions with their frilly cuffs. The glossy Mary Janes were polished to a doll-like gleam, and his black thigh-high stockings were smooth and flawless, the silly, cartoonish bows tickling his thighs.

And under it all, the world’s most embarrassing panties, dripping with lace.

“You look like the lead character in a very specific stage play,” Colleen said, trying not to laugh. “Just curtsy sweetly and keep your ankles crossed.”

“I can’t believe this is my life,” Ethan mumbled, adjusting his cheap wig and hoping the breeze wouldn’t snatch it off his head mid-scone.

* * *

Claire’s backyard had been transformed into a storybook fantasy: flower garlands, linen tablecloths, tiered trays of sweets, and tiny name cards handwritten in swirly ink.

The guests--four other girls from school--arrived on time, smiling too broadly, their eyes scanning the scene until they fell, inevitably, on Ethan.

He caught his breath--two of them, Tara Winston and Maddy Franks--had already seen him posing as Emily. He'd gotten away with it then. But a second time? He probably wouldn't be so lucky.

This isn’t good, he thought wryly. They're gonna figure this out right away and then--

“Look here, everybody!” Claire said brightly, beckoning him forward. “Girls, this is Emily. She’s Mrs. Whitaker’s maid, of all things. Isn’t that funny? Anyway, Emily has agreed to help out today as our server and etiquette coach.”

Ethan performed a practiced curtsy, just as his Auntie Penelope taught him. Perfectly. “H-happy to serve, ladies.”

The girls all blinked, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Oh my gosh,” Lindsey whispered. “She actually curtsied!”

“How often do you see that?” Whitney declared. “Never!”

“Never seen anything like her,” Maddy said, nonchalantly.

“I don’t know. She… looks familiar.” Tara leaned close and stage-whispered: “Wait, weren’t you at that arts and crafts fair?”

“That’s it!” Maddy grinned. “The prissy girl in that frilly little dress! I knew I’d see hi- … er, her before!”

Claire smirked. “Well, how about that? Small world, isn’t it… Emily?”

Ethan blushed. He did his best to pretend they didn’t recognize him. But he had his doubts.

“Would you like tea?” he asked in his highest sweet-girl voice, pouring with trembling hands.

The girls nodded, eyes wide with mischief. They played along--too well.

* * *

As the afternoon unfolded, Ethan found himself performing a great many duties.

He handed out cookies and napkins with a dainty “Here you are, miss.”

He gave a short class on setting the table for a party.

He demonstrated the correct way to hold a teacup--”No pinky sticking out, that’s a myth,” he recited, parroting Penelope parroting Lady Witherspoon.

He demonstrated how to walk with proper posture with a book on his head.

He explained about his uniform and how all the seams were stitched and how lace was made.

At one point he bent over the table to refill lemonade from a porcelain pitcher, only to hear a muffled giggle behind him. He reached back to push down on his skirt and petticoat, but it was too late. Someone had gotten a glimpse of his panties, no doubt.

“Emily,” Claire asked sweetly, “your uniform is so authentic. Where did you get it?”

“Oh, uh… Mrs. Whitaker ordered it.”

Whitney giggled. “Did she? And the bow in back--who tied that?”

“My mother,” Ethan muttered.

“I knew it,” Lindsey whispered.

“I thought maybe she went to maid school,” jeered Maddy, not-so-quietly.

“Maybe her mother made her go to maid school,” Tara teased.

“I did not go to maid school!” Ethan snapped, before realizing he was blushing. The girls just smiled, innocent as kittens.

“Emily,” Whitney cooed, “what about your shoes? They’re so shiny!”

“What are they called?” Lindsey asked politely but knowingly.

“They’re… Mary Janes. Patent leather,” he said through gritted teeth. “With ankle straps.”

“Cute,” said Tara. “Very traditional.”

Lindsey swooned, “And I just love your stockings. I’m going to get some just like them.”

“Very chic,” added Maddy. “I’m getting a pair, too.”

Tara laughed. “Liar.”

“Hey, I might!” Maddy pursed her lips. “Didn't you see those bows at the top? They’re actually kinda sexy.”

“Ooo,” the other girls said in chorus.

Claire winked at Ethan. “Did you hear that, Emily? You’re sexy!”

He wasn’t sure if he’d been insulted or knighted.

The girls pressed him into performing for them all afternoon. They had him demonstrate how to walk in his Mary Janes--he received way too many compliments on his wiggle for comfort--how to fold a linen napkin into a lotus, then pass out petit fours, then re-adjust the table settings because they were “slightly askew.”

The worst came when he was asked to give a class on the art of the curtsy. He was more than qualified, having been tutored by his Auntie Penelope and performed the act so many times he’d dreamed about it. Just knowing that actually added to his humiliation.

“So, it really helps if you do it along with me,” he explained to the five smug, grinning faces. “You know, like in practicing it?”

“Oh no, we’re good,” Claire insisted, feigning innocence. “You’re doing great, Emily. You just keep showing us and we’ll learn by watching you. Please continue.”

He gave a sigh and went through the demonstration once again. The wave of giggles and titters caused him to doubt his purpose in life.

Throughout the afternoon Claire snapped photos of him mincing about in his costume, pouring tea and performing the umpteenth curtsy of the day. The other girls insisted on getting pictures with him in a variety of poses--some cheek to cheek, some with silly faces, or trading air kisses, and more than a few group shots. Whitney and Lindsey finally curtsied with him.

Tara and Maddy insisted on standing on either side of him when they made silly faces. He suspected they did that bunny ears thing behind his head, but he surprised himself by not getting upset--he figured nothing was worse than what he’d already been doing… and was wearing.

“Don’t worry,” Claire whispered sweetly. “I made them promise not to post them. I just… want to remember today.”

He wasn’t sure if that was mercy or blackmail.

* * *

And yet, as the sun dipped behind the fences and the party drew to a close, something strange happened.

They applauded him.

Seriously.

“We just loved having you, Emily,” Whitney said. “You’re like a throwback to another century.”

“Your posture is amazing,” said Lindsey. “We should have you teach a class.”

“I think I already did,” he muttered.

Ethan had half-believed they had bought it--that they’d gone the whole party without realizing who he really was. Of course, that meant that he’d also half-believed they knew the truth, that he was a boy all along pretending to be a maid. The weird thing was… he didn’t exactly hate it. He even kind of … enjoyed? … Tara and Maddy making fun of him. Which was really confusing.

“I’m going to have to get you to come over and play dress up with my little sister,” Tara quipped. “She’ll just love you.”

Maddy was a bit more evil: “I really need to introduce you to my big brother. He’s got a thing for that whole Disney princess vibe you’ve got going, which is kind of freaky.”

Ethan gulped. Her big brother?

The comments were so odd, so unnerving, the cross-dressed boy felt himself giddy, almost drunk with adrenaline and anxiety. He had to struggle to get through the last few minutes without making an even bigger fool of himself.

As Clair’s guests left, more than one whispered: “That was hilarious--Ethan!” … “Oh Ethan, you make the best girlfriend!” … “See you next time, girly boy!”

Claire was a bit more gracious. “Thanks for doing this, Ethan. You were so wonderful, I hope you come over and do it again.” She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Seriously, this was the best thing ever!”

Ethan pouted. “So, they all … knew, right?”

“Of course they knew.” Claire snorted, rolling her eyes. “Hey, just because some of us are blonde doesn’t mean we’re dumb.” She gave his flaxen wig a hard tug. “Like I said, some of us.”

“So, I guess they all think I’m stupid or something?”

Claire’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you think? Come on, Ethan, this was all just in good fun. You saw them, they loved it! And you were a really good sport about it. It was hilarious, but it was also kind of… adorable, honestly.”

He stared at her. “Wait--adorable?”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Emily,” she teased as she shoved him out the door.

* * *

That evening, as he peeled off the stockings and once again hung up his black satin dress, Ethan wasn’t sure how to feel.

Used? Embarrassed? Appreciated?

All of the above.

Then the doorbell rang.

Ethan’s mother called out “You have a visitor, honey!” He quickly put on his boy clothes and ran down the stairs. There Penelope Whitaker stood in her usual pearls and floral scarf, holding a lemon pound cake in one hand and her clipboard in the other.

“I hear you were positively divine at the Madison girl’s party,” she said with a smirk. “You’re becoming very popular in our little circle of society.”

Ethan groaned.

“I have another client for you, darling.” she said. “Well-to-do, nice carpets, thinks you look smashing in your little satin dress. Interested?”

Ethan stared.

“I’ll triple your pay,” she added.

“…When do I start?”

Next up: Rainy Day Games