Featured BigCloset TopShelf author Daphne Childress.
Ethan Martin was twelve years old when he learned that boredom could be fatal--to his boyish dignity.
It started in June, right after school let out. Ethan Martin’s friends had all vanished to various summer camps, or visits to vacation homes on the coast, or extended family trips, leaving him behind with little more than an occasional baseball practice and a weekly piano lesson on his calendar. His mother, Colleen, worked from home as a freelance seamstress who specialized in “vintage-inspired children’s couture,” which sounded exotic, but mostly meant she made a lot of frilly dresses that she sold on Etsy and Instagram as well as some local shops and boutiques.
“You need a project,” she said one morning, pulling a tray of muffins from the oven like some sort of domestic goddess out of a 1950s ad. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”
Ethan, who had just finished level 48 of a zombie survival game, muttered, “I think I’m okay with a little devilry.”
Colleen raised one eyebrow. She had that look--half affectionate, half predatory--like a cat that had spotted a very gullible mouse.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she said, wiping her hands on a floral apron. “Help me around the house, model a few outfits, and I’ll increase your allowance. Substantially.”
Ethan narrowed his eyes. “How substantial are we talking?”
“Ten dollars a day. Plus muffins.”
That was how Ethan became his mother’s summer assistant and reluctant dress model.
At first, it was just helping around the house: folding laundry, vacuuming, dusting, cleaning the bathrooms--a skill he had somehow avoided for twelve years--and scrubbing dishes while Colleen explained the importance of pre-rinsing.
“I’m training you to be the kind of roommate people fight over,” she said cheerfully, snapping yellow rubber gloves onto his hands.
His initial jobs were simple enough: vacuuming the carpet, dusting the tall bookcases, and in the sewing room, sorting piles of fabric by color and texture and helping wherever needed. The work wasn’t that hard; the worst part was having wear one of his mother’s frilly “housewife” aprons--a best-seller in her vintage clothing collection.
“Really, Mom? I look like one of those ladies in an old sitcom.”
“Oh hush, Lucy,” Colleen gave him a wink, “Or else you’ll have some ‘splainin' to do.”
Still, Ethan’s mother kept up a cheerful patter as he worked, joking and teasing, never in a mean way, and that made the situation all that much more comfortable. He couldn’t help but laugh when one day she tossed him a feather duster.
“You really want me to use this thing?”
“Come now, darling. You can’t expect me to work with all this dust floating about. Let’s see what you can do!”
He grumbled under his breath but did as she asked, standing on tiptoe as he used the surprisingly useful tool to reach the chandelier in the dining room and that one high shelf in the kitchen.
But it wasn’t just housework. Slowly, subtly, the real focus of Colleen’s plan revealed itself.
“Sweetheart,” she said one afternoon, her voice lilting and innocent, “would you mind trying this on for me? Just for a minute?”
Ethan looked up from pile of dishes he’d been washing--it was baking day and there were pots and pans everywhere. His mother stood in the doorway of her sewing room holding a light pink blouse. It looked... normal. Plain, even. Just something soft and summery with a ruffled collar.
“It’s for one of the stores that sells our things,” she explained. “And you’re such a perfect size for my youth line. I just need to see how it hangs.”
He hesitated.
“Mother, that’s a girl’s shirt.”
“Well, technically, yes,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “But it’s just a top, Ethan. You’ll be doing me such a favor, and no one’s going to know who you are but me.”
He sighed again. “Yes, Mother.”
She watched as he pulled off his polo shirt, smiling at his bashfulness. She then helped him pull the blouse over his head. It was soft, cottony, and a little tight across the shoulders. The ruffles tickled his neck.
“Oh, lovely!” Colleen beamed. “Hold still.”
She snapped several pictures with her phone before he could protest.
“Mother!”
“For our business, remember?” she said, repressing a smile. “Don't fret, I'm not going to show your face. You make a perfect mannequin.”
The next few outfits weren’t so bad--an apron with a gingham trim, a pinafore with embroidered cherries. Ethan frowned, but he tolerated them.
Then came the skirt. White viscose, light and airy, with tiered ruffles.
Colleen held the frilly garment up like it was a prize. “Now this will go perfectly with that pink blouse. Try this on next, darling.”
“Mother, no,” he said. “It’s... it’s a skirt! And it’s so… so girly.”
“So I noticed,” she said cheerfully. “It’s a modeling job, sweetheart. It’s not like you’re wearing it to school.”
“That’s not helping!”
“Oh, and you need to put these on, too,” she said sweetly. She handed him a pair of puffy white bloomers, edged with lace. “Just slip them on over your whitey tighties.”
“Mother!”
“They’re part of the look,” she said, amused at his horrified expression. “Come on now, I promise a skirt is more comfortable in the summer than those heavy pants. Give it a try.”
He muttered under his breath as he slid out of his jeans and slipped into the bloomers, then the skirt. Standing in front of the mirror, he felt completely ridiculous--bare knees, smooth fabric swishing around his legs. Nothing at all like a twelve year old boy.
Colleen clapped her hands. “Oh, you’re just darling! Let me get a few photos.”
He stood awkwardly, trying not to blush as the camera clicked.
“I don’t like this,” he said quietly.
She ruffled his hair affectionately. “That’s because you’re not used to it. New things take time, my love.”
The next morning, a delivery arrived. Inside were several pairs of shoes--strappy sandals, Mary Janes, little flats in pink and lavender--and a few pairs of socks and tights with hearts and bows. Ethan stared at them.
“Accessories are a necessity,” Colleen chirped. “They help sell the product.”
He didn’t know what disturbed him more: the sheer number of items or the fact that they were all in his size.
Later that day Ethan stood quietly at the doorway to the sewing room, arms folded, watching his mother pin the hem of a dainty yellow dress to a mannequin. The warm light from the window gleamed off her auburn hair, and she seemed completely absorbed in her work. When she finally noticed him, she turned with a beaming smile.
“There you are, sweetie! I was hoping you’d come back in. Did you have fun with your friends?”
He shrugged. “There wasn't anybody around. I got bored. It's too hot out anyway.”
“Well, I can fix that in more ways than one! Come here. We have a few more things to go over.”
Ethan shifted uneasily. “Do I have to try on more aprons, Mother?”
Colleen laughed softly. “Oh no, not aprons today. I’ve moved on to something a little more ambitious.” She gestured toward the dress now hanging perfectly on the mannequin. “This is one of my springtime line designs. I need to see how it fits on a real person, not just this plastic figure. And you're the perfect size.”
His heart thudded. “Mother... that's a dress.”
“Yes,” she said with a glint of mischief, “it certainly is. A sweet, light little dress, perfect for picnics and sunny afternoons.”
Ethan hesitated, glancing at the puffed sleeves, the frilly hem, the delicate embroidery along the neckline. “Can’t you get one of your friends to model it? Maybe one of their daughters or something?”
Colleen gave him a playful look as she removed the dress from the form and held it up. “Darling, I need someone your size, and I need them now. You’re my most available--and most adorable--option. Plus, you're already on the payroll.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but she quickly added, “Besides, you were just complaining about how warm it is today. Dresses are much cooler and breezier than jeans. You might actually like it.”
“Doubt that.” Ethan rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything else.
He was sent upstairs to take a shower and soon afterward he was standing awkwardly on the little dressing platform. He stared into the long mirror as Colleen approached him with a pair of bloomers. He’d shed all of his clothes, leaving him in just his white briefs. The girlish garment dripped with lace and a little white bow was sewn into the waistband.
“This is embarrassing,” he said glumly as he stepped in the humiliating thing. “Why do I have to wear bloomers? Can’t I just wear my own underwear?”
“Of course not!” his mother said. “Bloomers are part of the look.” She picked up the dress, slid it over his head and was buttoning it up the back before he could raise another word of protest.
She stepped away and grinned. “You’ll get used to all this… eventually. Now hold still so I can take some pictures.”
The camera clicked again and again. Colleen moved around him, adjusting bows, smoothing skirts, snapping shots from all angles. Ethan flushed a deeper red with every flash.
“I don’t know why you need so many pictures,” he grumbled.
“Marketing, sweetie,” she said cheerfully. “Buyers want to see the full look. Oh, I almost forgot... speaking of the full look...”
Colleen walked over to the sewing table and returned with a pair of white thigh-high stockings and some lemon-yellow Mary Janes. Ethan’s eyes widened.
“Shoes too? And stockings?” He frowned. “Do I have to?”
“If we’re going to do this right, yes. Accessories are a necessity, remember?” she sang, kneeling to slip the stockings over his legs and past his knees, tugging the material this way and that to get rid of any errant wrinkles. “They help sell the product. Would you buy a dress if the model had dirty sneakers on? I think not.”
“I wouldn’t be buying a dress at all.” Ethan groaned but didn’t resist.
As Colleen slipped the shiny shoes onto his feet and fastened the little straps, she patted his knee gently:
“There now. A perfect picture of girlish charm.”
Ethan stared at his reflection in the mirror. That yellow dress floated lightly around his knees, his legs pristine in the stocking, his feet prim and oddly ladylike in the Mary Janes. He could see what his mother meant--wearing a dress was cooler than jeans. More comfortable, in a strange way.
He wasn’t happy about it, but he understood. Sort of.
And that frightened him a little.
The next day was a repeat of the previous one. Ethan stood on the little stool wearing a soft pink sundress with too much lace around the shoulder straps. He tried thinking about what his friends were doing right then when he felt the soft brush of something light against his shoulder.
“What now?” he asked suspiciously.
Colleen held up a blonde wig styled in soft waves and a big white hairbow. “A little something extra. It came in yesterday. I thought it’d be fun.”
“Mother--”
“Hush. It’s just a wig. It’ll help complete the vision, right? We can’t keep hiding our model’s head. It’s not professional. This way we can show the whole you, but nobody will know who you are.” She gave him a wink. “Think of it as your secret identity.”
“Um, okay. I get it. I guess.”
Ethan reluctantly allowed his mother to slip the wig on and secure it with a few pins. It itched and he wanted to complain but didn’t bother. When he looked at the mirror again, he gasped. He hardly recognized himself.
Colleen clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, Ethan! You look like a storybook child!”
“I look like a... like a... I don’t even know!” He reached up and touched the bow, perched on top of his head like a cherry on a sundae.
“You look like someone who’s going to help his mother sell a lot of dresses,” she said, clearly delighted. She smacked at his hand playfully. “Don’t touch! You’ll mess it up.”
He got it. The wig did make a huge difference. At least nobody would recognize him. Probably. Maybe.
But still, it felt just awful.
“Mother,” he said in a small voice, “this is just for a couple of days, right?”
Colleen paused, then leaned in and gave him a light kiss on the lips.
“Probably not. We have a lot of products to sell. Plus, we have bills to pay and this is how we make our money. So, let’s see how things go. If you ask me this is the start of something wonderful.”
He gave her a crooked look and sighed. “If you say so, Mother.”
“I do say so. Seriously, darling, you look radiant.”
“Please don’t say that.”
“And so modest, too.” Colleen smiled again and lifted her camera. “Say cheese, sweetheart.”
Click.
And that was how Ethan became “Emily,” Colleen’s very quiet and very bashful daughter and clothing model.
A couple of days later Colleen hummed softly as she spread out a collection of fabrics on the sewing table, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She glanced occasionally at Ethan, who stood stiffly by the ironing board folding towels. He wore a blue gingham frock with short puffy sleeves and a wide flared skirt; a white apron with a ruffled hem of the apron covered his dress. As he worked he swayed from left to right, causing his skirt to twirl ever so slightly. The bottom edge of a pair of puffy bloomers peeked out from underneath. Framed by the blonde curls of his new wig, his face was set in a sulky scowl as he folded towels, each one squared just as he’d been taught.
“Mother, do I really have to wear all of these... things?” he asked for the fifth time that morning, tugging at the lace trim around his neck.
“Do you mean that cute 'housewife' dress? Or your wig?” Colleen gave him a teasing smile. “Or your new panties?”
Ethan sighed. His mother had slipped panties into the mix that morning. They were a pair of simple white briefs, not much different from his regular whitey-tighties, but there was no fly. There was, of course, a pink bow on either hip.
“Well, everything. I mean, I’m not modeling right now. Why can’t I take off this dumb wig and change into my shirt and pants until you need me?”
Colleen smiled. “Maybe later. We’ve still got work to do. I have two more outfits for you to try on.”
“But--”
She looked over the top of her glasses and raised an eyebrow. “Darling, if you’re going to help me properly, you’ll need to look the part. Lots of people wear work uniforms. These dresses I make are your uniform. Please don’t be difficult or I’ll have to fire you.”
“This is child abuse,” the cross-dressed boy muttered. “Who wears stuff like this to work?”
His mother took off her glasses and put her hand on her hip. “Okay, if you want to be dramatic, you’ve worked backstage in the drama department, right? And you’ve tried on costumes before. What you have on isn’t any different than a costume, is it? If these clothes bother you that much, think of them as… wardrobe.”
“It’s not the same,” Ethan muttered, glancing down at the puffed sleeves of his gingham frock. “Those were boy costumes. Knights and pirates and stuff. This is--this is frilly.”
Colleen laughed gently. “Yes, and frilly sells. Especially to the kinds of ladies who buy handmade girls' clothing. If they can see how darling something looks on a model, they're more likely to buy it. And that means money for us. That’s why you’re helping, and you’re getting paid. Look, since you’ve been helping sales are really going up. How about I give you a raise? Five more dollars a day, but no more fussing.”
Ethan thought for moment. He was already making ten dollars a day. Five dollars to him sounded pretty good. More than he had ever made in his life.
“Oh, okay. Deal.”
“And no more fussing.”
He sighed. “And no more fussing.”
His mother laughed. “You caved too soon. I was going to offer you ten.”
“Great.” He finished up the towels and sighed. “I guess I don’t mind so much, but I do kinda worry somebody’s gonna recognize me. What about the guys from school?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t fret over something like that. I don’t think your friends are customers.” Colleen laughed. “But seriously, baby, you’ve got such a sweet little figure, and with your wig and a pretty smile nobody will ever know you’re not a girl. Trust me on this. I’m an expert.”
Ethan blushed deeply, looking away. “You didn’t say anything about panties and bloomers when we started,” he mumbled. “Why can’t I just wear my own underwear?”
“Well,” she said with a wink, “a skirt like that deserves the proper foundation. That’s where your pretty undies come in. They’re what girls wear under their dresses, right? So, we need to imitate that. Besides, they are far more comfortable on hot days. Isn’t that true? Come on, tell the truth.”
He hesitated, then gave a defeated little nod. “I guess so.”
She beamed at him. “See? I knew you'd come around.”
The doorbell rang, and Ethan stiffened like a statue.
“Oh, don’t panic, sweetheart,” Colleen said breezily. “That’s just the fabric delivery. Be a dear and grab the box from the porch?”
Ethan stared at her, horrified. “Looking like this?”
“You’re just going to the door, not down the street,” she said, with maddening calm. “Besides, the delivery man is very nearsighted. If he’s still there just smile and say thank you in your nice Emily voice.”
Ethan reluctantly trudged to the door, sandals clicking against the floor, petticoat swishing with every step. He peeked through the window, then quickly opened the door and accepted the box with a muttered “Thank you,” in a breathy, high-pitched voice. The delivery man gave a distracted nod and returned to his van.
Ethan shut the door, face flushed, and returned to the workroom.
“See? Nothing to it,” Colleen said with a grin. “You’re getting quite good with that girlish little lilt in your voice.”
“I don’t want to be good at it,” Ethan muttered.
Colleen didn’t answer--she only smiled to herself and laid out the next dress, an especially precious little confection in pale lavender with puffed sleeves, white scalloped trim, and a high empire waistline. A smocked panel of embroidered pink roses decorated the chest, and the skirt was full and twirly, ending high above the knees.
“Oh Mother, no,” Ethan said, eyeing the childish garment in alarm. “That looks like something for a toddler.”
“It’s darling,” she said brightly. “And it’s going to look adorable on you.”
She handed him some knee socks and the white Mary Janes. “And don’t forget, accessories are…”
“… a necessity. I know, Mother!”
He reluctantly changed while his mother pretended to focus on her collection; she couldn’t help smiling to see her twelve year old son struggle out of one dress into another. It wasn’t long before he was adorned in the new outfit with a sour expression.
“I look like I’m in kindergarten.”
“You look like a darling little poppet,” Colleen replied. “Here, let me button you up.”
After securing the childish frock she changed out the bow in his wig for an overly large pink satin one. A couple of more adjustments and she picked up her camera. “Turn this way, dear--chin up, arms up, and dangle your wrists a bit… that’s it, just like a cute little girl.”
Click.
Ethan sighed and shifted position. Colleen took photo after photo, urging him to smile, tilt his head, twirl, even do a clumsy little curtsy. It was humiliating, but she was so enthusiastic--so happy--that he found it hard to say no.
After the shoot, she placed the camera down and came to inspect his outfit. She tugged the bow atop his wig straight and patted his cheek.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “this little dress would look darling with the white tights that came in last week. You know, the ones with the pink hearts?”
Ethan groaned. “Tights? But Mom, I just put on these stupid knee socks!”
“No fussing, remember, baby?” she said firmly. “You don’t want me to dock you a day’s pay, do you? And so soon after getting a big raise?”
“No, Mother.”
Colleen gave him a look of mock sternness. She then smiled and leaned in close, her tone softening. “I know this is strange for you, sweetie. I really do. But I hope you’ll trust me. I think it’s good for you, learning how the other half lives. Besides, this is something special we’re doing together. It’s our project. Our time. And it’s how we pay our bills, remember?”
He looked at her, caught off guard by her sudden sincerity. His frown faded just a bit.
“I guess… if it makes you happy, Mother.”
Her smile grew warm and proud. “It does, sweetheart. It really does.”
She kissed him on the lips and gave him a hug, soft and maternal. “Now, take off your knee socks and put on your tights--we’ve still got work to do. We’ll have lunch and then try on those sailor dress sets one more time. I’d like to get them packed up and shipped out first thing tomorrow.”
Ethan groaned.
As he changed into his tights, he caught sight of himself in the mirror--the way the skirt flared around his legs, the way the Mary Janes looked so natural on his feet. He paused for a moment, then shook his head.
“Just clothes,” he muttered.
But even he didn’t sound convinced.
Each week brought new outfits: sundresses, sailor dresses, party dresses, prairie frocks with puffed sleeves with lace collars. Colleen even made matching bonnets and scarves and hats, which she insisted he wear “for accuracy.”
“Why do all of these dresses make me look like I’m about to attend a tea party in 1894?” he asked one day, staring at himself in front of the sewing room dressing mirror while his mother pinned a bow to the waist of the vintage-style tea dress he wore.
“Because the Victorians knew how to accessorize,” she said.
What surprised Ethan wasn’t how silly he looked--he had accepted that early on--but how oddly… normal it began to feel. After a few weeks, putting on a dress didn’t seem all that different from pulling on a Halloween costume or wearing a ridiculous uniform in gym class. In some ways, it was just fabric, thread, and a very inflated sense of occasion.
The chores were another story.
His mother had a list--a color-coded, day-by-day grid of household duties, complete with gold star stickers for “enthusiasm.” Ethan found himself perfecting the art of folding fitted sheets--a dark sorcery he suspected involved blood pacts--vacuuming with precision, scrubbing the bathroom floor and even ironing pillowcases.
“Why do we iron pillowcases?” he demanded.
“Because presentation matters,” Colleen said with the serene madness of someone who had committed to a bit and would die defending it.
That evening, she showed him the photos she’d posted of “Emily” on her sewing blog. He was aghast to see his face online, but her followers gushed over the pretty blonde “girl” and the amazing outfits she modeled. It was “Emily this” and “Emily that”--no mention of “Ethan.”
“Does anyone know I’m a boy?” he asked.
His mother shrugged. “Some might. Most don’t. Either way, I wouldn’t worry about it. Nobody cares as long as the shape looks good and the hemline is just right.” She leaned over and gave him a peck on the lips. “And see, our traffic has doubled and I’ve got more orders coming in every day. Thanks to you, we’ll be able to get that second sewing machine and then you can be an even bigger help to me.”
Ethan rolled his eyes. “Great.”
Ethan grew so accustomed to his new wardrobe he even found himself practicing his piano lessons in his mother's creations. This was usually after dinner when the work was done, the dishes put away and the house had quieted. Colleen would sit in the living room with a glass of lemonade, eyes closed and listen with pleasure as the cross-dressed boy went through his scales and worked on one of the pieces his teacher had given him.
“That was very nice, darling,” she said one evening when he’d finished. “I think your playing has improved quite a bit this summer.”
“You think so?” He shrugged, then nodded. “It does seem to be coming a little easier for some reason.”
“Absolutely. I’m giving credit to that dress,” she gently teased. “It looks smart on you, so it only makes sense, right?”
Ethan was wearing a prototype tea dress his mother was perfecting for her collection, along with a pair of faux mother of pearl clips to keep his hair out of his eyes as he played. Frilly lace ankle socks and ballet slippers adorned his feet. Despite his flushed cheeks he looked very at ease with himself as he lowered the cover over the keyboard.
“You’re not going to make me start dressing up for Mrs. Gilkey, are you? I don’t think I could deal with that. Her daughter, Judy, has got a big mouth--if she ever finds out I’ll have to move to Australia.”
“I’m not going to make you do anything, sweetheart.” Colleen made a kissy face, her eyes twinkling. “And I promise, you needn’t worry about moving to Australia. Not as long as I can help it.”
It was inevitable. Of all the things that Ethan dreaded, this was the worst. He knew it would happen one day, but he’d put it off as long as he could. Fate, of course, was master of all, and it caught up with him. It was on this particular day that he had to face his fear.
He had to go to the bathroom.
In a dress.
Up to this point in his modeling career he’d just held it and waited until his mother was done with her sewing--or he might scamper off between clothing changes. But he knew it was just a matter of time before he’d have face the music. He was just too shy and embarrassed to even bring it up.
And so... it... did it for him.
“Mom? I gotta go. Really bad.”
Ethan was standing on the stool in his mother’s sewing room, wearing yet another of her bestsellers, a vintage-style party dress in white satin. This one had puffed sleeves, a bodice embroidered with red cherries, a chiffon skirt with a tea-length hemline, a red satin sash with a large bow in the back, the whole nine years. Such a sophisticated, elegant thing, so charming, so sweet and well-made, it made a mockery of his waning twelve-year-old masculinity… and at the same time sparked his prepubescent imagination.
Except for this very moment. Now it was keeping him from his appointment with the bathroom.
“Mom, please! I really gotta go!”
“Hmm?” Colleen looked up from her pinning and saw the distress on his face. “You’ve got to…? Oh, I see. Well, don’t let me stop you.”
Ethan stepped down, headed for the door, then stopped. “Um, Mom… how… how do I… you know… go?”
“How do you…?”
He sighed. “Please, Mom… how… in this?”
Colleen frowned, then laughed. “Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I wasn’t even thinking.” She paused for a moment. “My goodness, have you been holding it all this time? Baby, you can’t do that. That’s not healthy. You could get sick! How long have you?--”
“I know! I know!” The flustered boy stepped from side to side, impatient and near panic. “Please, Mom! Can we talk about this later? I really gotta…”
“Of course, sweetheart. Let’s get you out of that thing. We’ll chat when you get back.”
A few minutes later Ethan returned, red-faced but relieved. He stood before his mother in his panties, knee socks and slippers, wondering why she was smiling at him like that.
“Feel better?” Colleen nodded. “Good. Now, let’s have a little talk. I need to give you a quick lesson in feminine hygiene. Don’t worry, I’ll keep it short and sweet. We’ll get into the down and dirty when that time comes.”
“Wait… what?--”
True to her word, their talk was frank and only mildly mind-blowing. Ethan wasn’t sure what to expect, but hearing his mother explain such basic and crude tasks was something he’d never expected. When she was done his head spun and he had the urge to take a nap.
“Okay, enough talk,” Colleen said. “Let’s put all this knowledge into practice.”
For the exercise Colleen dressed her son in another of her other classics, a floral print prairie-style frock with a pinafore apron and a ridiculous amount of petticoats. She helped him into an extra-long pair of bloomers and then led him to the powder room.
“There. If you can go while wearing this, you can go in anything. Right?”
Ethan looked down. He groaned and thought, I’ll never make it. I’d have to be a magician to go in this thing!
“Remember what I said. You never stand when you go. Never, ever. This goes for both number one and number two. You always sit, get it? You don’t want to make a mess, especially in things we’re trying to sell. Understood?”
Ethan nodded shyly, but vigorously.
“Good. Now, sit on the toilet. Go on. Just do it.”
The stunned boy’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “In… in front of… you?”
Colleen laughed. “I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean actually go. I want you to sit on the toilet--with the top down. Okay? It’s easy. Just sit.”
Ethan did as he was told. He felt foolish with his mother standing over him and smiling.
“Very good. Now, do it again, but this time, hike your skirts and your petticoats up around your waist like we discussed. No, you don’t have to lower your bloomers and panties--we’ll just pretend you did.”
Ethan nodded, grateful for at least that bit of dignity.
Colleen grinned. “Good girl. Now, let’s pretend you have to go….”
This went on for a few minutes. The red-faced boy stood up, gathered up his skirts, sat down, and stood up again so many times he got dizzy. And then Colleen said the magic words: “And don’t forget to wipe. That goes for both number one and number two.”
Ethan stared at her. “Number one and number two?”
“Of course! We ladies aren’t animals like you men are. We wear pretty clothes and we never want to ruin them. Stains are a big no-no. So always wipe, I don’t care if you go number one or number two. Always wipe. Is that understood?”
Ethan’s face burned. “Yes, Mother. I understand.”
Colleen smiled. “That’s my girl!”
She made the cross-dressed boy go through his new routine at least five more times, maybe six. He couldn’t remember, he was so tired. He had to admit his knowledge about the mysterious things ladies did in the bathroom had grown immensely. At the same time his humility and ego had taken an immense blow. He was mortified, traumatized and exhausted.
“Good job, honey,” Colleen said when they were finally done. She pulled him close and gave him a peck on the lips. “I know this was a lot for you to take in, but I think you’ve got it. How do you feel about everything?”
“Um, okay… I guess.” Ethan frowned. “No wonder ladies take so long in the bathroom.”
“Oh, honey, that’s just part of it. Just you wait until you start wearing makeup and fixing your hair. Now that’s a set of problems that will make going to tinkle look easy. At least we won’t have to deal with your menstrual cycle.”
“My what?”
“Oh, never mind.” Colleen grinned.
She was about to suggest they stop for lunch when she noticed that Ethan looked slightly stressed.
“What’s the matter baby? Are you all right? You look like you have something on your mind.”
“Well, um…”
“Come on, you can ask me anything. What is it?”
The red-faced boy squirmed a bit, his expression awkward and slightly embarrassed. “Well, you spent so much time teaching me how to go to the bathroom, I got to go again.”
Colleen blinked. Then she laughed. “Of course, darling. Of course. But first, let’s get you out of this outfit. It’s being shipped out later this week and I don’t want to take any chances.”
Ethan sighed. “Thanks, Mom.”
It seemed that the list of Ethan’s chores was never ending. One afternoon there was a knock at his bedroom door--three polite taps followed by his mother’s familiar voice, sweet and purposeful.
“Ethan, honey? Could I borrow you for a bit?”
He sat at his desk--jeans, T-shirt, sneakers--halfway through a comic book and entirely uninterested in whatever new “favor” she had in mind. Still, he muttered, “Yeah,” as the door creaked open.
Colleen peeked in with a warm smile and her sleeves rolled up. “Perfect. I’ve got a stack of laundry the size of Aunt DeeDee’s attitude, and a deadline breathing down my neck. Think you can be my little assistant?”
Ethan blinked. “Laundry, too? Mom… I mean, I don’t even know how.”
“Well, sweetheart,” she said with exaggerated cheer, “today’s the perfect time to learn.”
He sighed but stood slowly. “Okay, fine. What do I do?”
Colleen stepped into the room fully now, smirking, one eyebrow raised. “First, you change. Laundry’s housework, and housework is always better when you’re dressed the part.”
Ethan frowned. “You mean… another apron, right?”
“Even better!” She beamed as she pulled a hanger from behind her back. “A sweet little housewife outfit, just your size! I finished it a few minutes ago. What do you think?”
“A housewife dress? But I’m not a--”
“Oh, stop being so dramatic, darling. See, it’s simple and practical and fun! You always do better when you’re dressed the part. Remember--if you wear something fun, the job’s more fun, too.”
Ethan’s new dress was a bright yellow gingham in lightweight cotton, dotted with white daisies. It had a rounded collar, short sleeves with a hint of puff, and a slightly flared skirt that ended just above the knees. There was also a clean apron--ivory with ruffles around the bib and a heart-shaped pocket that matched the material in the dress.
He groaned softly. “You said I’d only had to wear a dress when I helped with your sewing.”
“Not true. What is true is how you promised there’d be no fussing.” She tapped him on the nose with her finger. “And so today you’re my sweet little laundress.”
“Your laundress.” Ethan rolled his eyes. “That's just great.”
“Isn't it? And speaking of great, we can’t forget some great undies,” she said brightly, pulling a pair of bright yellow panties from the apron pocket. “Like I said, wear something fun--”
Ethan pouted--like the dress, the waistband of his new undies was decorated with daisies. “Wearing panties isn’t fun. It’s humiliating.”
Colleen shrugged. “Not according to half of the human race.”
She handed everything over with a kiss on the lips. “You’ll find a pair of your little slippers in the laundry room. And I set out ankle socks, too--bare feet on tile, heaven forbid.”
“Do I have to wear the wig, too?”
“Your wig? Oh, for goodness sake, don’t be silly, darling,” his mother said, repressing a giggle. “We’re just doing laundry, not a photoshoot. Wearing that wig while doing your chores would be just plain ridiculous!”
He waited for her to leave before starting to change. I’m being silly? He so wanted to raise a fuss, but he didn’t bother. It was quicker this way. And as he’d been reminded, it was in his contract.
Ten minutes later, Colleen looked up from the laundry room sink to find Ethan shuffling in, barefoot with pink cheeks and fidgeting hands. The yellow dress swished as he walked. His disheveled schoolboy hair looked even more tousled under the collar’s curve. He’d tied the apron himself--but awkwardly, the bow lopsided, the waistband a bit crooked.
Colleen clasped her hands. “Oh, darling. Look at you. Absolutely precious.”
Ethan scowled as he put on his socks and slippers. “It’s tight in the shoulders.”
“You’ll be fine,” she said breezily. She fluffed up his hair a bit and tied it up with a short piece of yellow cotton from the sewing room next door. “There, much better,” she said, adjusting the rabbit’s ear bow atop his head. “Ready to learn?”
He sighed. “I guess.”
“Good. Lesson one: laundry gets dirty because people wear clothes. And if you’re going to wear them--especially nice ones--you should know how to make them clean again. Get it?”
“I got it.”
“Now sort these into three piles: whites, darks, and delicates. Don’t wrinkle your nose--it’s not all frilly things.”
Ethan crouched down, smoothing the back of his skirt as he did so, and began to sort. There were shirts and towels, jeans and cotton nightgowns, socks and tights and yes, more than one soft underthing trimmed with lace.
Colleen leaned on the doorframe, arms folded, watching her boy-in-a-dress fumble with the various pieces of clothing with dread and suspicion. She giggled whenever he picked up a pair of undies--some were her panties, some were his--and he treated each as if it were a poisonous snake.
“You’re so funny, Ethan. They’re just panties, they’re not going to bite you.”
The cross-dressed boy sighed. “I can’t help it. I mean, I don’t even know what this is,” he said, grimacing as he held up a pale peach camisole.
She chuckled. “That’s mine. It goes in delicates.”
He dropped it in the appropriate pile and moved on.
“Very good. Now here’s the detergent,” she said, guiding him over. “This knob controls temperature. For delicates, we want cold water. Hot will shrink them. Which you do not want.”
Ethan bit his lip, thinking of the daisy-themed panties he had on at that very moment. “I guess not.”
Colleen grinned. “Exactly.”
Before letting him completely take over, she gave Ethan directions on pre-treating their undies with stain remover and a scrub brush, causing him to cringe more than a little. Her mouth curled into a smug smirk as he fumbled through the process.
“Oh please, darling, put some effort into it,” she gently scolded. “They’re not going to clean themselves.”
The cross-dressed boy frowned--but he did as he was told. He’d never paid attention to just how dirty his underwear got and he silently promised to do a better job of keeping himself clean down there.
“I don’t think any of my friends have to do this kind of stuff,” he lamented as he dropped the last pair of panties into the washer.
“Mmm, you’re probably right.” Colleen shrugged. “Then again, how many of them are getting paid like you are?”
Ethan sighed and nodded. He finished loading the machine, set the controls, and added detergent without making bubbles overflow.
“See? You’re getting the hang of it,” she said. “Very ladylike posture, by the way.”
“Mother--”
“What? I’m complimenting your poise.”
He bit back a reply and pushed the start button. Once the machine whirred to life, she clapped her hands. “And now you’ve got your first load started! Your laundry career has officially begun.”
Ethan leaned against the wall, the skirt of his dress drifting slightly as the machine spun behind him.
“This is dumb,” he muttered.
Colleen smiled. “It’s called responsibility. And don’t think it’s over--there’s folding, hanging, and a clothesline in your future too.”
“A clothesline? You mean, go outside?” He fiddled with the hem of his apron. “But what if somebody sees me?”
“Like who? Mrs. Whitaker is in Florida for the summer and the Bloomfields moved away. There’s nobody around to spy on you, baby.” She leaned over and kissed him on the lips before flouncing off toward the kitchen, her skirt swaying behind her. “You’ll be fine.”
Ethan stood there in his new dress, arms crossed over his apron, and pouted.
The sun had warmed the clothesline all morning, so when Ethan stepped into the backyard with the damp bundle of sheets and pillowcases in his arms, they gave off a cozy, soap-sweet steam. He paused at the porch rail, listening. Children’s voices drifted from somewhere across the street and down the block--hollow shouts, the slap of a jump rope on concrete, a bike bell. His stomach tightened. Their neighbor, Mrs. Whitaker, was in Florida and the house on their other side sat empty, shades drawn. Still, the idea of anyone seeing him like this made his stomach queasy and his knees go wobbly.
He glanced down at himself: the shirred elastic bodice of his sundress clung a bit too snug around his ribs, spaghetti straps thin as licorice across his naked shoulders. The short floral-print skirt tickled his knees when he moved, and the frilly waist-apron he wore over it--trimmed in looped lace--kept flirting with the summer breeze. Plastic clips shaped like tiny blossoms pinned back his dark hair; his ballet slippers whispered over the porch boards, his toes bare inside. He told himself he was only dressed like this because Mom needed help “modeling” for her sewing blog and because aprons were practical. He told himself a lot of things.
He swallowed and hurried to the line. The grass, warm and a little prickly, pressed soft against the sides of his feet. He snapped the line with his fingers to check its tightness the way his mother had shown him, then snapped it again because the sound was satisfying. One by one he shook out the pillowcases until they sighed, pegged them with clothespins from the apron pocket, and progressed to the sheet--big, damp, heavy, clean. He lifted it like a sail; it caught the light, turned translucent, and briefly he was inside a glowing tent of sunlight and cotton.
“Pretty as a picture,” Colleen said.
Ethan flinched. She was coming down the back steps with a sweating glass of lemonade, ice cubes clinking like tiny bells. Her house dress--blue with white polka dots--hugged her waist and swished around her calves. She looked pleased, like a woman whose hens had finally laid.
“Look at you,” she cooed. “My sweet little housewife hanging linens.”
“Mother,” he muttered, cheeks warming. He focused very hard on the hem of the sheet and the way the pin slid on, the click it made. Somewhere two streets over, a boy whooped, and a dog barked back.
Colleen reached him and offered the lemonade. He took it, grateful for something cold to hold. She stood close enough that he could smell the warm, talc-and-thread scent of her.
“You are taking on so much responsibility,” she said lightly, not too solemn because she knew solemn made him skittish. “Laundry, dusting, keeping the kitchen nice, helping with my fittings. You’re allowing me to put more hours into the business so the money keeps flowing and bills get paid, and that is no small thing, baby.”
He stared into the glass. “I guess.”
“I’m proud of you,” she said, sing-song, and then as if she couldn’t help herself: “And you look pretty as a daisy in that dress. Turn just so--yes, the apron bows are straight. Mercy.”
He scowled at that and hiked the sheet a touch too hard. The clothespin bit his finger; he hissed.
“Oh--here.” She set the lemonade on the porch step and cupped his hand, peering at the tiny crescent mark. Then, because she believed in real cures over imaginary ones, she kissed his knuckle anyway. “Better?”
He tried to pull his hand back. “I’m fine.”
Colleen drew him into a quick hug, arms warm and unarguable. He let his chin bump her shoulder, let his eyes close half a second. Then she tipped his face up and gave him a kiss on the lips, maternal warm--then paused. She frowned, kissed him again--and frowned harder. “Your lips are getting chapped, darling.”
“They’re fine,” he said, already suspicious.
“Mmm.” She slid a slim pinkish-red tube from her apron pocket as if she’d been waiting for the right moment. “Here, this will take care of that. Pucker for me.”
His eyes narrowed. “This isn’t lipstick, is it?”
She laughed, delighted. “Of course not! Most boys don’t wear lipstick.” The wicked twinkle in her eye said nothing about someday. “Pucker.”
He obeyed because he always did in the end. She rolled the balm up and traced his bottom lip gently, then the top, feathering to the edges. It was cool for an instant, then melted sweetly, smoothing the prickly places he hadn’t realized were there.
“Now smack,” she said.
He pressed his lips together. The taste bloomed at once--bright, candied, a summer fair. His eyebrows popped up. “It tastes like fruit.”
“Well, it’s supposed to. That tube is cherry-flavored. Isn’t it yummy?”
“I guess so,” he muttered, betrayed by the way his mouth wanted another pass.
“You keep it,” she said, tucking the tube into his apron pocket with a pat. “A little now and then. Sun and wind can be unkind.”
He pretended not to be pleased. But as he moved along the line, clipping the great white square into calm sails, he could not help rubbing his lips together again, quietly, privately, like checking a secret password.
Colleen sat quietly, a smug smirk playing on her lips.
By mid-afternoon everything had dried to a crackling crispness. Ethan gathered the linens with careful arms and ferried them inside, the sheets grazing his face like a friendly ghost. Colleen met him in the hall and together they folded--long sides first, corners kissed, a little shake to chase out the stubborn breeze. She slid a pillowcase into the linen cupboard. Then she kissed him again, a quick peck.
“Mmm,” she said, evaluating. “I think your lip balm needs refreshing.”
He rolled his eyes but fished out the tube. He took off the cap, fumbled, dotted his lip like he was trying to write his name on it.
Colleen snorted, hand over her mouth. “Here, let me show you a secret.” She took the tube and cap back, demonstrating slowly so he could see. “Take off the lid. Slip it between your middle and ring finger, like this, so you keep it safe.” The little white cap perched there like a pearl. She held the balm with her thumb and forefinger and smoothed it over her lips in one elegant pass. “That way you have your other hand free.”
“Free for what?” he asked, though he already half-knew.
“Sometimes you might want to hold a mirror in your other hand,” she said innocently.
His frown deepened. “You mean like when ladies put on lipstick?”
“Well,” she said, entirely too reasonable, “yes, I suppose so.”
He groaned, and she bit the inside of her cheek not to grin. “Now you,” she said. “Cap between those fingers--gentle. Not like you’re strangling a mouse.” She guided his hand until the cap nestled in place. “Good boy. Now smooth from the center out. No scribbling.”
He did it, awkward but obedient, concentrating so hard his tongue poked the corner of his mouth. The cherry came again, brighter for being expected.
“Press your lips together,” she said. “Now again. And if you get too much on, you can blot.” She plucked a tissue from the box on the hall table and folded it. “Like so.” She pressed it to her mouth and showed him the faint kiss of sheen. “No need to slather.”
She made him practice twice more. By the third try his hands had learned something his head would not admit. She tucked a small packet of tissues into his apron pocket beside the balm. “Keep these with you at all times, darling. Balm and tissue. A tidy boy with tidy lips.”
He made a face but patted the pocket, feeling the small readiness of them both.
Colleen stepped back to see him entire--the floral dress, the neat apron, the hairclips with their molded blossoms, his ballet-slippered feet turned slightly in, pigeon-toed. Her eyes softened. “As a reward for doing the laundry--and for being such an excellent student--I think we’ll go out for ice cream.”
He stiffened. “Like… out out?”
“Mm-hm. You won’t have to leave the car,” she said quickly, soothing a skittish colt. “Unless you want to. We can drive to the park and sit under the old willow where it’s cool. No one will bother us.”
He folded a towel with excessive care. “No.”
She waited. The clock ticked. Far off, a whistle blew for supper.
“Maybe,” he said at last, very low.
“Maybe is a perfectly respectable answer,” she said, and kissed his hair.
They gathered their things and headed for the front door. The late sun made the hallway golden, dust motes doing a lazy waltz. On the threshold, Colleen lifted his chin with one fingertip and kissed him once more, testing her work. She smiled against his mouth, their noses touching just so.
“Mm,” she murmured, satisfied. “Now isn’t that much better?”
One particularly humid afternoon, Ethan passed by the mirror wearing a sleeveless floral print dress--one of Colleen’s that she’d altered to fit his adolescent figure--a matching scarf in his hair, white ankle socks and ballet-style flats. He held a feather duster in one hand and a basket of folded towels in the other.
He caught his own reflection, saw the rabbit-ear bow atop his head, and burst into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” his mother asked from the sewing machine.
“I just realized--I’ve become a 1950s housewife. Without the cigarettes.”
Colleen grinned. “And yet, your whites have never been whiter.”
By the end of June, Ethan had become his mother’s ever-helpful “little housewife.” He made the beds and cleaned the bathrooms each morning, he took on most of the food preparation and kitchen cleanup duties, did at least one load of laundry daily--plus he dusted and ran the vacuum three times a week. His mother promised to teach him the mystic arts of the frying pan and the oven, but he was in no hurry.
“I’m just twelve,” he said in his defense. “You don’t want me to burn down the house, do you?”
“We have insurance,” Colleen quipped. “I’ll take the chance.”
On the business side of the house, Ethan proved himself even more helpful. He could run simple seams on the old sewing machine--Colleen was busy learning to use their new one--he could match thread colors by eye, identify more than a dozen types of fabrics, and model a tiered petticoat without flinching. He even started making sarcastic suggestions about new outfit names.
“This one should be called ‘Trapped in a Taffeta Nightmare,’” he said, spinning theatrically in a bright lavender party dress meant for a girl his age.
“No, no,” Colleen said, adjusting a sleeve. “This is ‘Violets in Bloom.’ Be respectful.”
Despite himself, Ethan had to admit the summer wasn’t all bad. He had learned things--useful things. How to keep a house clean. How to sew on a button. How to stand still for thirty minutes without complaining.
And maybe, just maybe, how to take himself a little less seriously.
He also learned he had some special skills. One evening after supper he was fiddling with the new sewing machine. It had all sorts of new features the old one didn’t. He’d been practicing on scraps of material and seemed quite happy, excited even, with each discovery he made.
Colleen stood at the door, lazily swirling a glass of iced tea in her hand, watching him, proud but curious. “Having fun?”
Ethan smiled shyly. “I guess.” He shifted his seat, tugging at the blue gingham material of his dress. “Is me doing this okay? I won't break it, I promise.”
“You're fine, darling.” Colleen took a sip and smiled. “This is your free time, you know. You don’t have to keep working.”
“I know, but I don’t mind. This actually is kinda fun. It's like a video game.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Colleen rubbed her glass across cheek, savoring its coolness. “When was the last time you played a video game?”
“I dunno.” The cross-dressed boy shrugged. “A while, I guess. Hey, did you know this thing does all sorts of stitches, like zigzagging and embroidery? And it does different kinds of buttonholes, too. That’s pretty neat!”
“It is pretty neat.”
Ethan looked up. “I saw you smiling. You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”
“Who, me?” Colleen looked around, then shrugged. “Honey, nobody is making fun of you. I’m just happy to see you happy.”
“Yeah, right.” He glanced down at his dress and sighed. “I know, look at the little mama’s boy, playing with his mommy’s sewing machine.”
Colleen frowned. “Ethan, honey, nobody said you were a mama’s boy. And even if they did, so what?”
“You know what I mean.”
She pursed her lips. “Yes, but again, so what? Baby, what matters is what we think. And I think it’s wonderful that you’ve picked up on how to run that machine so quickly. Seriously, I’m impressed.”
He made a pouty face, half serious, half cutesy. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“You are being very helpful, my love.” She crouched down and gave him a little hug and a smooch on the lips--the fragrance of cherries warming her heart. “Seriously, I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed, his expression a suspicious one. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel good, are you?”
“Maybe a little.” Colleen smiled. “But it’s true. You’ve learned more playing with that thing in one evening than I did all week. I am really proud of how smart you are.”
“It’s not that hard.” The cross-dressed boy gave her a shy smile. “I looked at the manual, but you don’t really need it. Everything is marked right here on the controls. I can show you if you need any help.”
“Well, I need all the help I can get, that’s for sure.” Colleen laughed, then thought for a moment. “I’ll tell you what, you learn that machine, then teach your dear old mother how it works, and I’ll give you another raise.”
“Another five dollars a day?”
“Nuh-uh, not so fast. I’m not made out of money, you know.” She winked and blew him a kiss. “You do as I ask and then we’ll talk.”
Ethan grinned. “Deal.”
And so it went. An agreement was struck, a mother and son bonded, and over the following weeks their business took on a second life. Most of Ethan’s time was spent indoors, taking care of the house and becoming even more essential to his mother’s dressmaking. His bicycle collected cobwebs, his video games went unplayed, and baseball practice went to the wayside. What little free time he had was spent in his room with his comic books, though Colleen insisted he keep up with his piano lessons with Mrs. Gilkey.
“You need to expand your horizons, darling,” she said. “All work and no play… all that.”
It seemed as though he was constantly working, but he didn’t mind. Not too much. He actually enjoyed helping his mother and--even though he hesitated to admit it--he didn’t exactly hate dressing up and pretending to be her “little housewife.”
On the rare occasion that he saw his friends he didn’t say anything about their new sewing machine. Or modeling. Or the three dozen gold stars he earned for “enthusiastic dusting” and “laundress of the day.”
But every now and then, when he passed a vintage dress hanging on the rack at the thrift store, he smiled.
Because he knew--for better or worse--he could pull it off.
Next up: The Cousin Exchange Program