This should have been my first blog entry. I was so focused on posting my story I overlooked many of the protocols and customs of BCTS, so sorry about that. But now that I've gotten that ball rolling I thought I'd try and start over again:

I've been a reader here on BCTS for quite some time and have admired many of the authors and their works, some of whom have inspired me to contribute. I used to dabble in the cross-dressing writing genre since my twenties. Some may know me by my nom de plume, Daphne, or perhaps know of Daphne's Secret Garden on Deviant Art and other sites from "back in the old days." My big claim to fame was more than twenty years ago with Lipstick Discipline and the Petticoat Detective series, both written in partnership with good friends who have long passed to the best of my knowledge.

As often happens, life got in the way, blah-blah and I lost my passion. My recent resurgence comes from my approaching oblivion; I'm retired finally and getting old--in my 70s now--and after some health scares I've had time to reflect and write.

The novel Ethan's World is a cathartic release for my damaged boyhood and all of the guilt and depression that came from the past. It is also my love letter to all of those who've blurred the lines between the sexes and genders, either in real life or in their dreams and fantasies.

Ethan's World is completed, so no worries about it not being finished. I'm posting it two chapters at a time until it's done. The story consists of fifty chapters, more than 670 pages and by my count, a quarter of a million words. It may be the last cross-dressing story I ever write. It may not. All I can tell you it is a work of passion and obsession--written during recovery from two surgeries--and is meant to be the best that I can do. I do have ideas for other tales, but my focus has getting Ethan's World finished and posted before I pass. Anything else I do will be icing on the cake.

Thanks to all who've supported me over the years. And for your kindnesses and lovely comments. I hope you enjoy Ethan's World and follow it to the end. If it's not for you, that's fine. To be honest, I wrote it for myself--if anyone else enjoys it that's pure happenstance. I'm pretty happy with how things come together at the end of the tale. I think if readers give it a chance they'll find it worthwhile.

Cheers!

Hello all.

I just posted several chapters to my novel, Ethan's World not realizing that it's considered bad form to post more than two per day. Apologies for that. I got kinda carried away--it's fifty chapters, completed, and I was kinda sorta eager. I've enjoyed so many great stories here and wanted to contribute. I didn't mean to abuse y'all's generosity.

Again, my apologies and thank you for maintaining a great place to read and post our particular kinds of stories.

d.

Character Profile:
DeeDee the Wild Child

 

 
DeeDee is a joy to write for. I love her so much, it’s almost painful for me… and I’ll probably wander off and ramble on too long about her, but eh, that’s what this blog is for, right?

Both DeeDee and Dani are based on some cousins of mine... kinda redneck, blue collar, hard-working girls who outshined—and outlived—their husbands. They were among my favorite role models when I was a kid and as I’ve grown old I’ve come to appreciate them more than I ever let them know, which is sad to say. They didn't call me "Sissy" but they knew I was getting crap from my stepmother (and my passive dad was letting her get away with it) so whenever I was allowed to visit that side of the family they coddled and babied me to some degree. They also gave me grief because I was too sensitive for their liking. (Sound familiar?) I now know that when they were giving me grief, it wasn’t cruel—not like I was getting at home—but it was because they wanted me to toughen up, make me a stronger person. They taught me a lot about life and they protected me as best they could. That was life in my part of the world in the 1960s.

Anywho, I love DeeDee because, like my cousins, she earned her way through life. She’s gone through so much and is in many ways the perfect woman. She’s independent and strong and funny and don’t take crap off anybody; she’s gorgeous and sexy; vain in a self-deprecating way—if that makes any sense—and definitely not afraid of axle grease or sweat; she’s rough and tough, but vulnerable enough to cry when the time is right.

And like Donna Summer, she works hard for her money. She works in a traditionally male-dominated build and kicks ass at it, not because of social politics, but because A) that’s her first job and she found out she’s good at it and B) she truly is a grease monkey at heart and is passionate about cars—her vintage G-500 Shelby Mustang in particular.

Like I said, she’s endured a lot. The sisters’ father is absent and when their mother died Vivian had to step in and raise Colleen and DeeDee (aka Deirdre), setting the tone for resentment and strife between the sisters that lasted for years. Then came a high school pregnancy that produced Dani and DeeDee figuring out how she was going to live her life. Hard work, a little mentorship from Uncle Liam (you’ll find out more about him later) and the O’brien stubborn streak tempered with humor did the trick, apparently.

Ah, DeeDee the wild child–who names a girl like that “Deirdre” anyway? Lol No wonder she rebelled. She doesn’t just smoke–she smolders. She looks like a 1950s pinup model and talks like a sailor. She loves feminine things but works in a man’s world. So many little things about her to love: her voice tainted from smoking too much, her addiction to root beer, her Rosie the Riveter hairstyle and workshirts tied in a knot beneath her breasts.

One description of DeeDee sticks in my head… it’s from "Polishing to Perfection" and touches on the conflict 'twixt her love for feminine things and her masculine trade: [Ethan had] never really paid much attention before, but his aunt's hands were not like Colleen's—they were nicked and faintly scarred and strong from pulling fan belts and turning wrenches, but when she held his fingers and cleaned off the red polish, she was as precise and delicate as any ballerina tying a slipper string.

Then she goes on to give Ethan some great life advice: "You'll catch sight of your hands and think, 'Well, hello there, darlings… where have you been all my life?'" She looked up and winked. "Doesn't hurt anything to be pleased by yourself, Ethan. The world will try to take that away. Keep a little for you."

One more example about her being good for Ethan, it’s from the chapter "An Embarrassing Development": DeeDee takes the father’s role in explaining about “the birds and the bees” to Ethan in a way that only she can. I adore that scene, especially when she reveals her own experience and how Dani came into this world. For all of her tough talk and brashness, she opens up about her lowest point in life and how she overcame it. She uses her life experience, not aborting Dani, taking on the responsibility of making her way in the world and raising a baby… tempers it with her unique sense of humor… and gives her confused thirteen year old nephew insights into how to navigate the world that my old man could never conceive.

I also love her references to older pop culture figures like Jane Russel and James Dean and Audrey Hepburn… her affinity for old rock music, risque dancing (love how she teaches Ethan to shoulder and boob shimmy lol!)... all of these little things make her real and they warm my heart…

I could go on and on about DeeDee and the O’brien sisters forever. And I will in future blog entries. I just love those girls, even Vivian… (but more on her later.) It pains me that I’ll never write about them again, not in story form, at least. I think the ending of Ethan’s world sets them up kindly, better than I ever hoped, so their story is done and complete.

If I ever take on another project like this it will be about another boy, with another family dynamic, in a different environment and with a completely different story. But that doesn’t keep me from missing my girls. Or Ethan. Or anyone else in his world.

Stay warm!

d.

Character Profile:
Ivy and Puppy Love and Sherbet

 

 

Okay, so I just posted one of my favorite chapters of Ethan’s World–Puppy Love and Sherbet. And I feel compelled to talk about it. But to whom? I’m lucky to have made a couple of contacts here on BCTS, but I don’t want to wear them out, so I’m just going to throw words into the ether and let them and where they may.

I love this story so much, partly because it encompasses so many of my thoughts and fantasies–and yet, even a few of my experiences as a boy–but mostly because of the characters that came out of it. Ethan, of course, is a reflection of me as a kid, so there’s that… but everyone else from Colleen to DeeDee and Dani and Vivian and Penelope… and with this latest chapter, Ivy… I feel like I’ve known them all of my life.

So, I think I’m gonna tackle these little discussions by focusing on characters,.. because I love them so much.

Puppy Love and Sherbet is special to me because it deals with that whole first love thing. I was the kind of kid who fell in love every time he turned around. And like Ethan, I found myself more attracted to “older women” than girls my age.

Ivy is awesome. Sadly, she’s only in two more toward the end. I regret not writing more chapters with her, but this thing had gotten so large, so burdensome I wanted to go no further than fifty chapters. I suppose I could have combined or eliminated others, but ‘tis what it ‘tis….

There are some who’ll make a big deal about the age difference between Ethan and Ivy, but so what. These things happen, both in fiction and real life. I never claimed to be writing a tale of high or correctness. The fact of the matter is that my wife was seven years older than I was when we married, compared to the four or so for Ethan and Ivy. She was a teacher for most of her life. We met long after I was in school, but we often joked about she could have been my teacher while I was in high school. I took it further and teased her about me being her teacher’s pet. That always made her blush… a fond memory of fine days….

Anyway, Ivy was a happy accident. I wrote the shoe shopping story and she just showed up. All that flirting, I had to do something with her, but she had to mean something. I’d already written other chapters about Ethan dating and even knew kinda sorta how the tale would end. But something was missing. Ivy saved me. And Ethan.

I love the interplay between these two–Ivy’s infatuation with this pretty boy with one foot in the world of girls and girlish things turns into something greater than she expected. First he’s a potential plaything, then he’s a little brother, but then it’s more. Which you’ll discover eventually.

Shoot, I love her so much and what she does for Ethan, I can’t say much more without giving away the whole caboose. Dang it.

A couple of things in this chapter make me emotional. Really emotional. One is when Ivy reveals that she’s going off to college. Like any other teenager, she procrastinates and tells him at the last minute. While they’re parked in front of his house she sees him in the moonlight, and she sees a tear running down his cheek. Then they kiss and Colleen turns on the porch light, blah-blah-blah…

Another is when they're at the nail salon and Ethan is reflecting on the women in the salon, their discussions about men and boys and their solidarity... and how that reminds him of his mother and his aunts (see Secrets Revealed)... and this happens:

... his eyes warmed and his chest swelled. Ivy noticed him sniffing and she shot him an impish wink.

“You big crybaby,” she whispered happily.

Ivy's not being mean in her happiness, no, not at all—she's just amazed to see this remarkable boy connecting to the world in a way that few boys (and probably not a lot of females) never do. This little bit is important, I think, because it's when she begins to really fall for Ethan. Maybe. You'll have to ask her. ;) I could be wrong.

The other is at the end, when they’re on the phone for the last time. She’s trying to make things easy for Ethan, to let him down slowly, but she’s hurting too. At the end she says:

“Hey, Ethan?”

“Yeah?”

“I ‘puppy love’ you.”

His smile was too big to speak. He just nodded into the receiver, knowing she couldn’t see him.

I go back and read that on occasion and I get all teary eyed. Me, a seventy year old man who’s been around the world and seen things, done things, lived a full and crazy life… and that little exchange makes me wanna cry.

It’s because I get him. And her. I’ve been on both sides of that conversation, but in this case I really identify with Ethan and the bittersweetness of her saying that she ‘puppy loves’ him. I can see him... I've been him... on the end of that phone, smiling too big, but wanting to cry because the thing that made me happy was going away and I'd never experience it—or them—again.

Oh, it’s more than that–they both know it–but this is how they handle it. And they both do it better than I did, not just as a teenager, but as a grown man later in life. Way better than I ever did.

Of course, my favorite character is Ethan. He goes through so much in his young life, he learns so much and grows so much in such a short period of time, and he handles it better than most. And better than many readers may think. His greatest tests are yet to come… he’s going to overcome so much, surprise so many people, including his mother and Aunt Vivian and, of course, himself. I told one of my online friends he’s kinda like Frodo or Charlie Bucket (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory),,, or even Napoleon Dynamite (betcha didn't see that one coming, but his one of my subtle little heroes)... Ethan's ultimate success will affect so many in his circle….

This story is hard for me to let go. I began in as a lark–in Vivian-speak–not realizing just how big it would grown, nor what it would mean to me. I now know I’ll never be able to write anything else in this genre that will be so meaningful to me. I may try, but first I gotta get over my little ‘puppy love’ affair with Ethan’s World. Writing on this blog may help. We’ll see.

In the meantime, if you’re reading my story, thanks so much. If you like it, I like you. If you don’t like it, that’s okay. Either keep trying or read on and something that you like better. I’m just glad to have gotten this thing down and found a few who do enjoy and even share in my affection for it.

Just so you know, here is a version of my “mission statement” for what I was trying to accomplish:

“Ethan’s World is the childhood I should have had—one where teasing never wounds, where love always outweighs shame, and where even blushes become a kind of safety.”

Until next time, be safe and be good to yourself.

d.

PS I think I’m gonna talk about DeeDee next. Maybe. We’ll see.
 

Ethan's World: About that ending….

 

 

Okay, so Ethan’s World has been posted in its entirety and, for better or worse, no more will be added to that tale. It’s tempting to go on—I do love those characters so much and I miss interacting with them every day as I did during the months-long writing process, but the fact is that I wouldn’t know where to take up the banner and march on. The ending is the ending, they all live happily ever after (which is a rarity nowadays, or so one would think), so perhaps the thing is best left alone. Anything more and I’d just mess it up and lie in regret, berating myself with “Why did you do that?”

What remains, however, is how much I miss Ethan and Dani and Colleen… and especially DeeDee and Niecy and all of the other characters so much (call it an illness if you like) so I figured why not scratch that itch a bit and talk about them and those parts of the story that make me so happy—writing for me has always been therapy, so there ya go. And rather than just talk to myself, why not put it all out there and share with my readers—and other writers as well!—and perhaps hear what they have to say or think… for better or worse.

Now that I’ve said all that, where to begin? Well, the ending of course…

Ethan’s World began as a collection of little forced femme aka “petticoat punishment” stories I put together for my personal amusement. More on that genre and my affinity for it later. Once I realized that this project was growing into something more than I ever expected, that this was more like a novel than a silly, frilly series of eccentric and en femme “miss-adventures,” I knew I had to start thinking, Where is all of this going? How will it end? What is it really about, other than a reluctant adolescent lad treading in the flustering waters of cross-dressing in uber-girlish attire and assuming subservient behavior.

Well, I knew that above all else I wanted a happy ending. (Not that kind, you perv…lol! Get thy mind out of the gutter. haha!) But seriously, I needed that. This wasn’t Moby Dick or Blood Meridian I was writing (Santo Jesucristo, amiright?) Real life is tough enough—duh—and in my experience the world “closure” is overused and misleading. In real life all things end badly—we all die and rarely in pleasant circumstances or with anything close to dignity. So fuck that. I wanted something… special.

I thought about Nicholas Nickleby and how Mr. Dickens talks about the wants and needs of the Victorians and their habit of rewriting literature to give audiences at the time their happy endings, like when Nicholas takes part in a production of Romeo and Juliet and how Juliet suddenly wakes up from her coma ‘cuz the priest gave her less than a lethal dose of poison and Romeo doesn’t commit suicide and everyone lives happily ever after. (‘Tis but a flesh wound, m’love.) I remember seeing the PBS production of the tale and how that episode made me laugh so hard I got tears in my eyes.

And then I thought about one of my favorite—as Ethan would say—old timey films, Support Your Local Sheriff and how at the end the wonderful actor Jack Elam says:

“Now the way this story ends... is that they get married and he goes on to become governor of the state. Never gets to Australia, but he keeps readin' a lot of books about it. I get to be sheriff of this town... and then I go on to become one of the most beloved characters in Western folklore. ”

And so the die was cast.

Yes, I know for many it comes across corny and cliche and useless and mundane, but I had so much fun writing that last chapter—and putting in all of those little bits and pieces about characters that no one will love more than I—it’s kinda sad how happy that experience was for me. I pictured it in my head like the end of a movie, minutes before the closing credits scroll—or perhaps in the age of post-credit scenes, as a post-credit scene itself. Everyone, even Marcel the photographer and Roxanne the service dog (recently retired, now that Jeffrey’s found new life and purpose) and Tara and Maddy and others get at least a cameo of sorts.

During the celebration I imagined each character on stage getting camera time, perhaps with the actor’s credit superimposed on the screen. From Ricky popping and dancing on stage like a young mutant Donald O’Connor-John Travolta to Ivey and Colleen sitting together gleefully and lovingly watching Ethan and Dani’s dance routine to Penelope blowing kisses to the crowd during Dani’s soliloquy. Everyone got their due, pairs were connected and fates all tied up in a neat little satin bow… not at all like real life, but perhaps as we might wish it could be.

I am especially happy with the epilogue with Dani and Ethan talking to the reader. That, too, was cinematic, in my humble opinion, breaking that fourth wall and all. Some say I copied Shakespeare (again)... I was thinking George Burns—look up his old 1950 sitcom… the man was a genius. I wanted Ethan to have the last words, of course, but Dani had to be the one who laid it all out. She was (is) my Jack Elam, the comic sidekick who stuck by Ethan even when she was giving him grief. In her own words:

“And me? Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, this has been my story all along. No surprise here: I go on to become a legendary Olympic skateboard champion, lead my soccer team to the World Cup, make millions off celebrity endorsements and set up my own custom skateboard line. In my spare time I go into politics and become the first woman president.”

Of course, Ethan gives her grief for once—“Don’t you make me say that word”—and when he announces her destiny we find out she’s more than meets the eye—as are most of us, n’est-ce pas?

More about Dani later in a character profile (when I get around to it).

And finally, lemme talk a bit about Ethan and those final paragraphs. He had to have the last word, of course. ‘Cuz despite Dani’s braggadocio, the tale really is about him, after all. I hope I did him justice. I think I did. I wanted to show how he eventually prevails, beyond his father’s legacy, the scars he bore at the beginning… and later the road that he travels, from his mother’s manipulation and Penelope’s meddling to Dani’s sisterly teasing, Samuel’s bullying and Claire’s betrayal… and let the story reveal to us his subtle strengths, his ingenuity, his generosity and his resilience. In the second half of the novel we see how he grows, and what he’s really made of… but in the grand finale we share in the joy he feels… the satisfaction and sense of accomplishment he reaps as he steps into the adult world as himself… his whole and new self, not just the shell of a boy, or the facade that was Emily, but his true heroic self:

The evening had already done the thing it came to do: prove that families can make a difference and one boy, if he’s strong enough and brave enough—and creative enough—can pull those families together.

He is, as I put it earlier, “Ethan rising.”

So think about that: how Ethan pulls all of those families together. What the hell am I talking about?

Lemme ‘splain.

When I think about story characters and their reason for being, I often think on the discussion about Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark and how if you took Indiana out of the story it would have all ended up the same: the Nazis would have been destroyed by the powers that be… and probably the ark would have ended up in someone’s vast warehouse, or buried in the sands of time, which is kinda the same thing. Whatever. The point is, Indiana, for all of his heroic and admittedly charming efforts, was actually and logically inconsequential to the plot—apologies to Mr. Lucas and Mr. Spielberg for my insolence—though it did make for a grand adventure tale.

Not so with Ethan. He is, unlike the whip-cracking Professor Jones, essential to the outcome of this story. Take Ethan out of his world, or just eliminate his delving into feminine things and helping his mother—take away his purpose, give him back his video games or worse, his father, for heaven’s sake—and the world is a bit darker: Colleen’s Collections would most likely be no more than a blog and a blip on Etsy—Ethan and his mother would still be living paycheck to paycheck—the relationship between O'Brien sisters would have remained fractured… and Niecy and her mom would still be living in “that part of town”... no son for Thelma, no healing moment for her... no big brother for Niecy. Don’t even get me started on how DeeDee and Smitty would never have met, there would be no Liam or Rose… how they wouldn’t have filled that void in Vivian’s heart… how Penelope would have no legacy with the Whitaker Welcome Center much less investing in the old sewing machine factory for Colleen’s Collections… no jobs for Thelma and Marianne… Jeffrey would never have met Marianne… Marianne and Ricky still grieving.

The list goes on.

I mean, who knows where Samuel would have ended up? High school dropout, if he made it that far, no mother, no little sister... or perhaps he'd have gone dark and ended up in jail or dead on the streets. And what about those people he saves that fateful day in Maplewood? Or the ones he saved as a Marine Corps chopper pilot? All. Gone.

So, you might ask: Is Ethan Jimmy Stewart? Is Clarence the angel guiding him through It’s a Wonderful Life? Does it mean every time Ethan washes the dishes an angel gets its wings?

Eh, maaaaaybeeee … lol!

I’ll probably talk about this some more later on, but I had to get that off my chest. In my eyes Ethan’s journey is the hero’s… and it is redemptive… to me, perhaps, more than to him or anyone else in his world. And the end of his story, where he gets the last words… is his reward. He is young and on the verge of adulthood, about to step into a whole new world of adventure… but he is at peace with his past and all of the things that made him who he is.

As he says at the very end:

“And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Who among us can say that about our own past? Not me, for damned sure. I’m now seventy, recovering from a successful (?) chemo treatment and with more free time on my hands than I ever expected (frankly, I’m surprised to have lived this long considering my own past)... and I often think about the things I wish I could have changed. It’s all vanity and idiocy, of course, but that’s often the fate of old men—and as I’m seeing and hearing, old women, as well. Which is another reason I wanted to write this story. To give a character the chance to overcome adversity and eccentricity and ill-fortune and then look back and announce to the world that those are the things that made me who I am… I’m a better person for having gone through that experience… and I wouldn’t change a thing.

So that’s why I wrote this as I did. And… to steal from Ethan.., I wouldn’t change a thing.

Except for a typo or errant word or two. lol!

No, this isn’t the Odyssey and I’m not Homer (not even Simpson) nor Dickens nor Willie the Shake(speare) nor Tarantino nor McCarthy or Melville. I’m just an old man who had this thing bouncing around in my head and wanting to write one more satisfying (to me, at least) and fun (me, too) cross-dressing story before I croak. Life is short, health is fragile, so you do what you have to do. Or you don’t.

For what it’s worth–and for anyone who’s still following me (thank you very much, by the way)—I intend to post a few more thoughts on Ethan’s World involving the characters, favorite scenes and elements, the whys and wherefores and, yes, even the controversial nature of forced femme in the story. As I said, I love this story so much, I spent so much time and energy into putting it together during a time when I wasn’t feeling so well (multiple surgeries in a short span of time during your seventies is a bee-otch! lol!) … setting it aside isn’t so easy.

I appreciate all of you, each and every view, each and every comment—even those that don’t idolize my work ;)—and each and every message. If I do miss a comment or message, if I don’t respond right away or whatev, feel free to give me grief. I’m old and forgetful, but I’ll do what I can to respond.

So, I am curious... are any other writers out there as obsessed as I am with their characters? I'm sure more than a couple... especially those who've invested time enough to produce more than a few chapters. These stories and the people in them are part of our souls, if not our imaginary family. ♥

Oh, and thanks again to Erin and the BCTS team for a place that allows this kind of fellowship, fraternal or sororal or in between. It’s taken me a while to get my bearings, but it’s been worthwhile, fo’ sho’.

Cheers!

d.

Experiments in art

 

Ivy and Ethan as "Emily" on an ice cream date

So, I've been playing a bit with AI art, specificially OpenArt AI, which has everything from Flux to Nano Banana and SeeDream. They're all pretty amazing and I've learned a lot. But as the old saying goes, the more you know, the less you know. Who says that? Well, me for one. The more I play with AI art the dumber I feel 'cuz there's always some new problem that show up and humbles you. In my case, it's consistent and repeatable characters. I know there's a solution, but I keep messing it up. Or something. I dunno. I'll figure it out whence I chillax and put some real effort into it.

DeeDee and her one true love—well, two of them if you count the root beer.
To her credit, she is trying to stop smoking. But there's a lot of drama going on, so who knows how that's gonna turn out.

Also, AI art is kinda like the slot machine at a casino—you never quite know what you're gonna come up with. And sometimes you throw good money after bad to get the tiniest of details fixed. Take this image of DeeDee above: it took me a couple of dozen passes to get her glasses close to what I imagined... and they're still not right. And don't get me started on the rear side window of her Shelby Mustang. And I must admit, she came out a bit sexier than I pictured her, but the other iterations didn't get that subtle smirk, so I stand by my testimony, your honor.

Another caveat emptor: Ethan keeps coming up younger than I liked, but I gotta say, he and Ivy look pretty into it, so I figured I'd just stop there. As I said, slot machine, good money after bad... you can stay up all night if you're not careful. Or just plain unteachable like I am. lol

The thing is, I don't really wanna draw... or illustrate or whatever. I just wanna read... and maybe write something once in a while. In a former life I had to fake it 'til I made it in photography and graphics... and I did all right, got paid for my time, oddly enough. But it became a chore and I lost my enthusiasm for my own personal gratification. Kinda like writing. I had to write so much for other people it wore me out. Now that I'm retired. I'm dabbling in writing again. Maybe I'll do the same for illustrating... and maybe not. Time will tell.

Anywhoooo... I used to draw for my cross-dressing and petticoating stories. Well, kinda. I drew in pen and pencil, traced, scanned, photoshopped, copied and pasted, whatever it took. I consider myself a writer, not an artist, but I was driven to making my own crossdressing art because of—as the kids say today—reasons.

Tony aka "Toni" or "Antoinette" in the Petticoat Detective series from long ago

Oddly, my quaint little scratchings were kinda popular way back then. I still get hits on my old DeviantArt page, after all these years, which is both flattering and weird to me. I leave them up in case someone else wants to enjoy them; but I also hope that others will get inspired to make their own art. And sometimes I get told that happens.

So there ya go.

Tony dabbling in his disguises

Yeah, I know, not everyone is crazy about AI art, or at least the idea of it. I'm not sure what to think about the ethics and all, but it's here and it helps me do amazing things. I'm not capable of drawing anymore... well, I guess I could, but it takes me a ridiculous amount of time to make a single image, it's not worth the effort. So yeah, I've sold my soul to the company store, so to speak, and it's AI art for me.

Tony (in disguise as "Toni") interrogating a suspect

I guess the reason I'm posting this is to let you know that if this is something you're interested in, give it a try. And trust me, if I can do it, so can you. Do I feel guilty about cheating another artist out of a commission? Not really. I wouldn't know who to go to do this kind of art and if I did I couldn't afford them.

Self portrait of the artist as a young'n

I could go into the politics and morality of "stealing another's work" but I've sworn to keep politics out of this side of my life. As I see it, all art is based on other people's art—name me an artist who isn't influenced by either a predecessor or a peer and I'll show you a complete hermit or a rare true genius. Even Michelangelo got ideas and inspiration from the ancients. (Yeah, I ain't no Micky G, that's fo' sho'—I'm not even close to being Mickey Spillane.) But as Willie Shakespeare once said, there's nothing new under the sun, and he got that from Ecclesiastes as I remember—though I've been told that came from an even earlier work.

As the great Billy Preston once sang, the world goes round in circles.

Stay warm, stay safe... and be good to yourself and yours.

d.
 

Ethan’s World: The Musical Soundtrack

 

So, in an alternate universe I would have been a film director… nah, maybe a producer. Or something, anything to do with movie-making. Not necessarily Hollywood, but you know what I mean. Maybe.

When I was a kid movies and TV weren’t just entertainment, they were an escape from my domestic situation, a safe place where anything was possible, far away from the hell that was my homelife.

One of the outstanding facets of movie influence in my life was the music, how it would be part of the story, how it enhanced a scene, filled in the blanks, changed mood or—if you were having trouble figuring out what was going on—served as the narration. Not just Debbie Reynolds belting out “Singing in the Rain,” but John Williams’ leitmotif for Darth Vader (“dum dum de dum, dum de dum, dum de dum”), the sexy saxophone sounds of “Harlem Noturne” introducing us to private investigator Mike Hammer, the brass fanfare accompanying Alec’s triumphant bareback ride along the seashore in The Black Stallion…

The list goes on.

(For the record, if I can't be Ethan, I wanna be Alec on that island with The Black. Carry on.)

I remember a couple of decades ago when Sony introduced the Walkman—this explanation is geared toward anyone under thirty, BTW lol!—an antique-ish device that played cassettes connected to headphones so you could listen to “the soundtrack of your life” throughout the day. Which I thought was a pretty good salespitch as I was always playing the soundtrack to my life in my car or wherever I went. I remember playing The Doors "The End" during a particularly hairy time in the desert. And one of the other guys cuing up Vanilla Ice’s "Ice Ice Baby" afterward during our dash back to our outpost. Good times. Mostly.

Flash forward to last year and I’m writing away on this little tale without knowing what I was doing or where I was going with it. The deeper I got into Ethan’s World, the more invested I became, I started hearing music in my noggin. That’s where I recognized that Ethan’s story was going to be—for me, at least—something special. I knew it was probably going to be the last cross-dressing story I ever wrote, so I wanted to make sure it would the best cross-dressing story I ever wrote. And that meant putting in some extra effort.

As I’ve said before, I write mostly for myself, to create something that I would want to go back and read again and again—narcissist that I am. And since I am not just a closeted cross-dresser, but a closeted film-maker, why not treat this thing I was making as a film. Or a TV show—whatever.

And so I added the music. As best I could. I think.

For fear of rambling along too much, I’ll just awkwardly drag up some examples and a bit of reflection on why I find all this worth writing about.

The first time we get music in Ethan’s World is during “Polka Dots and Secrets,” where DeeDee catches Ethan in his little polka dot top and panty set singing some nameless tune that echoes the girl groups of the 1960s. I was reluctant to use any existing songs ‘cuz I didn’t wanna draw too much attention (like I’m gonna get sued for this?) so I made up some words and they kinda worked:

🎵 My baby says he loves me, and I believe it’s true… 🎶

🎶 He calls me sugar-darlin’ and says there’s no one new… 🎵

I was thinking The Supremes or the Ronettes or even Martha and the Vandellas. The kinds of things DeeDee and Colleen would gravitate to and a kid like Ethan would find appealing.

Later in the story I wanted to echo that classic song, "Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polkadot Bikini" out of respect for the original artist, Brian Hyland (and not the Beach Boys, I have to keep reminding myself) so I fiddle-fudged around to make a semi-respectable clone. It was okay but it looked like I was looking over Brian’s (Hyland, not Wilson!) shoulder during study hall.

🎵 She giggles when they whistle, won’t come when they call… 🎶

🎶 My bikini baby is the belle of the ball! 🎵

Poetry and songwriting are obviously not my strong suit and I had a story to finish, so eventually I gave up trying to come up with something original for the end of the story. I decided to steal some lines from an old piece I love, “You Were On My Mind” by We Five. I fiddled with it a bit, turned the lines into “When I woke up this morning I was thinking of you…” which Ethan sings while he resumes cleaning house, his mother proudly watching on. Ironically, turns out my lyrics are in a hip-hop piece. Still, the melody in my head was from the 1960s, which comprises most all of the songs in Ethan’s World. That was the era that shaped my childhood, after all. For better or worse, I missed out on hip-hop. Think I’ll survive.

So the casual reader may think, meh, somebody put some songs in a cross-dressing story. So what? And to that I say, this isn’t just some simple fetish tale, or a story around trans-whatever. It's a story about a mixed up kid trying to figure his way in the world, discovering who he is and what he’s about, and maybe, just maybe becoming a hero. And us hearing him singing those songs, and listening to and dancing to all that music, gives us insight into who he is—even if he doesn’t know it yet—and how he thinks (ditto).

DeeDee’s dancing influences on him—showing him how to do that boob-shimmy, fer instance—are bonus points that pay off later in "Ethan Takes The Stage."

Speaking of which: For Ethan's scene from The Producers I forwent... forgone (?)... ignored the movie musical version... sorry, Uma, but that song just didn't do it for me. I much prefer the original film so Ethan does his sexy dance to the fictional masterpiece "Bialystock and Blume."

You're welcome.

I also want to add in something else here: there's this thing about the Proustian Effect, like when you add in things like descriptions of smells and sounds and taste and warmth and on and on. I probably overuse this when I mention the smell of lemons and starched cotton... and fear, of course. lol The same—IMHO—goes for sounds and music. In film and video that can be some random but crazy talented kid playing the banjo at a little shack in Deliverance or Howard Shore and his orchestra accompanying King Theoden leading the Rohirrim on the plains of the Pelennor. Again, IMHO.

In our... my?... case it’s not just using music to show how Ethan thinks, but to give texture to the world he lives in. In "Polishing Toward Perfection" he gets to ride in DeeDee’s Mustang (always a treat!) as a reward—and counterpoint—to sitting for his mani-pedi with his mother and aunt. Dani picks out Steppenwolf’s "Magic Carpet Ride," which I can attest to being the ideal piece to play when running over a hundred in a red Mustang on a quiet country road.

One of my favorite images from this whole story is Ethan sitting in the back seat of the Mustang, buckled in and seated-dancing to "Magic Carpet Ride," head bobbing, rabbit-ear bow bouncing, his face smiling so hard it hurts, Dani doing much the same, and the camera pulling back to show the red GT-500 speeding along, the V-8’s roar competing with psychedelic guitar riffs in the starlight.

Another similar scene takes place in The Day Everything Changed when DeeDee slams in a Beach Boys tape and takes the kids on an ice cream run in the Mustang. The image of them all singing “Go granny! Go granny! Go granny go!” as they fly past Smitty’s speed trap (because you know he’s gonna try to catch DeeDee, right?) makes me smile so hard my cheeks hurt as bad as Ethan's.

Steppenwolf makes a comeback in the final episode "All Things Come Together" when Ethan and Dani take the stage, performing the climatic dance sequence to "Born to be Wild." Dancing with the Stars be damned—every time I hear that piece on my car stereo I can see those two storming the stage, shaking their respective boobs and booties, Dani doing her acrobatics, the bright lights, crowd cheering, bringing joy and life and energy to everyone around them.

On a less dramatic note (pun not intended)... pop music isn’t the only way to make a point. When Vivian shows up to investigate this phenomenon called “Emily” in "Auntie Vivian, Part Deux," I wanted to give Ethan a secret weapon. Not something to destroy The Judge, but to throw her off balance and change her perspective—and eventually her opinion of him. Thus came Eric Satie’s "Gymnopedie."

I first heard that piece, ironically, on a Blood Sweat and Tears album, when I was about Ethan’s age. I was at orchestra camp and this quiet, subtle number burned itself into my little brain so much so that I still get the chills whenever I hear it. BS&T did it with flutes and brass, but if you lookitup on Youtube (I've provided some links) it’s usually on piano. Which made it (im)perfect for Ethan’s impromptu recital for his judgmental auntie.

When I go back to that scene it only makes more and more sense: Vivian the All-Powerful, The Judge, the eldest O’Brien sister, the Iron Maiden and steel-bladed stiletto wrapped in crimson silk… gets thrown off by her cross-dressed oddity of a nephew, nervous and vulnerable, quietly playing a modest, almost frail little melody composed by an eccentric French ne’er-do-well-in-his-lifetime artist who was about as messed up as Ethan thinks he is. Vivian has already got her verdict in hand, but upon hearing those first few notes, she’s in awe, her mental computer rebooted… and she’s forced to find a glass of brandy and reassess her vision of the world.

Off camera—so to speak—this piece has a special, secret value to Vivian, one which I suspect Colleen is privy to and uses to her and Ethan’s advantage. I sometimes think it might have something to do with Vivian’s deceased husband… or perhaps a lover in law school. Or even an errant career choice. Who knows?

Anyway, that, to me, is the power of a simple little piece of music. Even if it’s not actually heard, but read about on the written page. It adds more possibilities, fills in the blanks in the story… and maybe even raises more questions.

Go back, if you have the time, or inclination or curiosity, cue up Satie’s "Gymnopedie No. 1" and re-read that chapter. And let me know if I’m mistaken. Or just crazy. Or maybe both.

Whatever you think, I won’t disagree with you.

A few other fun pieces I put at the end of the novel: "Reach Out of the Darkness" by Friend & Lover (I think it’s so groovy now/that people are finally gettin’ together) and Louis Armstrong’s "What a Wonderful World," and Chuck Berry’s "You Never Can Tell" (stolen from the movie Pulp Fiction). The images those pieces evoke in me, the women and girls (and some boys) on stage, celebrating Colleen and Ethan’s new business venture; Niecy and the ballet dancers gliding across the stage like a flock of butterflies in pastel; DeeDee and Smitty living out their rock-a-billy dream; Ricky, of all people hamming it up like John Travolta and Uma Thurman’s spastic, joyful ginger lovechild.

Yeah, I like it. Don’t know if it works for anybody else, but it does for me.

So what about you, dear reader? Or, better yet, fellow writer? Does music (or the suggestion of it) on the written page add anything to these stories? Or to your own? Do your stories have a music soundtrack? Or maybe your life does? I am truly curious. This is my first time mentioning music in a story and it satisfied. Methinks that if I ever tackle another story or novel I’ll do it again. To me it’s no different than describing the sound of thunder, or a waterfall… or the smell of cookies baking… or the odor of something burning… aviation fuel (for DeeDee’s Mustang… lol!)... or your mom’s vintage perfume.

Okay, that’s enough for today. I’m getting tired and I want to start work on another essay tomorrow. I’m feeling better, still sleeping more than I used to. My wife used to tease me about staying up late and taking afternoon naps… now I’m going to bed early and still taking naps. But I’m getting better, for what that’s worth.

Thanks again for all your support. Cheers!

d.

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 One: Mom’s Trusty Helper

 

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

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 Two: The Cousin Exchange Program

There’s a guest in the Martin house and she’s liking what she sees.
 

Ethan Martin was beginning to think he’d made peace with his summer. He had a chore rhythm. His twirling form had become practically second nature. He was learning more and more about dressmaking. He even started giving feedback on his mom’s designs, albeit with snarky commentary.

But peace is a fragile thing—and it shattered the moment his cousin Dani rolled into the driveway with a duffel bag, a skateboard, and a cocky grin.

Danielle—Dani, as she insisted—was thirteen, older by one year, tougher by a hundred. She was the kind of girl who scraped her knees and never noticed, who could climb a tree faster than a squirrel and had never, to Ethan’s knowledge, worn anything made of cotton candy pink.

She was the very definition of the term tomboy.

“Hey, little housewife,” she said, stepping into the kitchen like she owned the place. “Nice apron.”

Ethan froze mid-sponge swipe. He was bent over, wiping spilled orange juice off the kitchen floor while wearing one of his mother’s most popular frocks; pink gingham with little embroidered cupcakes on the pockets.

“I’m helping Mom,” he said, trying not to sound defensive. “MOM! Dani’s here!”

“Oh yeah?” Dani flipped up his skirt, her eyes sparkling. “You always clean the kitchen in polka dot panties?”

“Those were for a photo shoot!” he barked, red-faced as he reached around and tugged down the hem of his dress. “They make the skirt fit right! MOM! Dani’s here and she’s teasing me!”

Colleen swept in and gave Dani a welcoming hug. “We’re so happy to have you, sweetheart! Ethan’s been such a help to me this summer. He even modeled my ‘Lemon Drop Picnic’ line last week.”

“Oh, I saw that post,” Dani said casually. “Didn’t realize that was you. The socks were a nice touch.”

Ethan briefly considered crawling into the dryer and spinning until September.

 

* * *
 

Lunch, mercifully, was simple. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. Ethan did all of the work. He moved robotically through his duties—quietly buttering bread while Dani sat at the kitchen table, kicking her sneakers against the chair legs and snorting every time his dress swished when he turned.

“Don’t burn it, Sissy,” she warned.

“I’m not a sissy.”

“I dunno. The apron says otherwise.”

Colleen hummed softly from across the kitchen, unbothered as ever. “He’s doing fine, Dani. And you’ve made enough noise for three cousins.”

“I’m just saying,” Dani said, slurping her soup dramatically. “If I ever wore a dress to make a sandwich, I’d never hear the end of it. But he gets to play little miss domestic and suddenly it’s adorable.”

Ethan set her iced tea down with a tight-lipped expression and returned to the counter. The skirt of his house dress fluttered slightly as he walked. He knew it. He hated that they knew it.

After lunch, Dani stretched theatrically and announced, “Well! I’m thinkin’ about getting my board and practicing some kickflips. But after seeing all this, I could be tempted to stay and supervise more sissy chores.”

Colleen raised an eyebrow. “Be my guest. Ethan still has laundry to fold.”

“Awesome.”

Ethan groaned softly.

 

* * *
 

Colleen had originally planned to treat Dani to the same kind of crafty, girl-powered bonding she had with Ethan. But the tomboy would have none of it.

“No offense, Aunt Colleen, but sewing’s not my jam. Can I mow the lawn instead?”

Colleen blinked. “Well… if you want to?”

“And take out the trash? Wash the car? Clean the gutters? Sure thing! Us O’Briens like to do the hard stuff!”

“Just like your mother.” Colleen sighed. “That girl was never afraid of anything. Including hard work.”

Ethan stared at his cousin. “You actually want to do that stuff?”

“Yeah. It’s loud. It’s sweaty. It’s fun.” She glanced at him. “You can keep the ironing gig, Sissy!”

“Mom!”

And that was how, in a twist no one saw coming, the cousin roles flipped upside down.

Dani became the household’s honorary handyman. She wore cutoff jeans, high-top sneakers, and a rotating collection of ironic dinosaur T-shirts. She wielded power tools with glee and referred to spiders as “little dudes” instead of screaming.

Meanwhile, Ethan found himself moving further into domesticity. He threaded bobbins, basted hems, and even started sketching little outfits for fun when no one was looking. He liked the quiet of sewing, the attention to detail. He likened it to playing his games; there was something satisfying about taking chaos—ribbon, fabric, tulle—and turning it into order.

One afternoon, Colleen walked in to find both kids in the living room: Dani in a ball cap oiling the wheels of her skateboard, and Ethan seated cross-legged on the floor in one of his housewife dresses, sewing a pocket on an apron… by hand.

“This is… not the summer I expected,” Colleen said.

“Honestly,” Dani muttered, without looking up, “I thought he’d fight back more.”

“I did!” Ethan protested. “Well, at first.”

Dani grinned. “And now look at you. Miss June.”

 

* * *
 

“Hey, Ethan—check this out!”

Dani tore across the yard like a firecracker on legs, her battle-scarred sneakers spitting little puffs of earth. At the patio stones she pitched forward into a dive, hands biting grass, and in the next breath she snapped upside down—one, two handsprings—then kept going on her hands for a dozen jaunty steps before collapsing in a heap, laughing so hard she had to kick her feet to breathe.

Ethan, perched on the back-porch steps, could only blink. The kitten-print sundress Colleen had made for her Petite Fille collection fluttered around his knees whenever the breeze teased it; his bare feet curled against the warm wood. A simple plastic headband fussed his dark hair into tidy obedience, though the heat kept urging a curl loose near his temple like a call for mutiny.

Dani popped up, grinning. Her faded dinosaur T-shirt had grass stains new enough to glow; her cut-offs had threads that looked like they were chewing on the air. The baseball cap wrestled her wild red hair into something almost lawful.

“Your turn, cuz.” She planted her fists on her hips, legs spread in triumph. “C’mon.”

“Nope,” Ethan said, very even. “I’m not doing it. Not. A. Chance.”

“Oh, come on, Sissy,” she sing-songed, wicked delight dancing in her eyes. “Ten bucks if you at least give it a try. Just try. I’m feeling generous.”

“I’m not doing it,” he fussed, hugging his elbows. “Knowing you, you’re just trying to get another look at my panties.”

Dani clutched her chest like a wounded debutante. “Who? Me? Please, little miss… that would be just plain rude.”

“It takes one to know one,” Ethan muttered.

She scrunched her face. “I don’t think that’s what that means.”

He made a face back and, with the tiny sigh of someone doing something practical to calm down, pulled a slim tube from the pocket of his apron. He popped the cap, tucking it between his middle and ring finger the way he’d been taught, and smoothed the waxy balm across his mouth—center out, no scribbling—then pressed his lips together, neat as a cat.

Dani stared, then fell over laughing again. “Was that… lipstick? Oh, Sissy, you’re killing me! Next thing I know you’ll be pulling tampons out of your pocket—”

“It’s not lipstick,” Ethan snapped, heat blooming in his cheeks. “It’s lip balm. It keeps your lips from getting dry and chapped. Ask Mom.”

Dani rolled onto her back and flung an arm over her eyes, wheezing. “Oh, I know what it’s for. I also saw how you put it on. You do it just like my mama does when she paints her face for Friday bowling night. You two should be trading makeup tips.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re a sissy.”

“You smell like a pig.”

“And you,” she shot back, sitting up, “smell like a rose.”

Ethan almost said thank you just to be contrary, but bite-sized pride kept it down. He held up the tube in a tiny, prim display. “Here—see? It’s cherry. You want some, Miss Dinosaur Breath?”

Dani squinted at it, nose wrinkled. “Cherry?”

“Cherry.”

He could feel the air between them stretch thin as taffy with the dare of it. An expert in dares, Dani snatched the tube and studied the tiny pink and red label like it might confess something. “That’s not lipstick,” she declared at last, drily, as if giving him a gift. “It’s sissy chapstick.”

Ethan huffed. “It’s lip balm.”

“Same thing.” She twisted it up a quarter turn, hesitated, then slathered it on like she was greasing a hinge.

“Not like that,” he groaned. “You’ll break it.”

Dani paused, then grinned slow. “Then show me, Princess.”

Ethan took the tube back with the gravity of a surgeon and grasped his cousin’s hand. “Okay. Cap between these two fingers—no, not a death grip—so you don’t lose it. Balm between your thumb and first finger. Start in the middle, one pass, then the other side. Gentle.” He hovered, correcting the tilt of her hand with two careful taps. “Now press your lips together. No smearing all over your face.”

Dani obeyed, exaggerated, and then blinked. “Oh,” she said, surprised despite herself. “That is… not bad.”

“It’s supposed to taste like fruit,” he said, trying not to sound proud of the information. “Cherry.”

“Mm.” She pressed her lips again. “Like a snow-cone that didn’t make it to the mouth.” She wiped the corner of her mouth on the back of her hand, then checked her knuckles like she expected to see something worth mocking. “So if this is your war paint, what’s next, Sissy? Real lipstick? Mascara? Blush?” She mimed dabbing her cheeks. “Tee-hee.”

He aimed a baleful look at her, which only made the headband bounce an earnest fraction of an inch. “Most boys don’t wear lipstick. At least that’s what Mom says.”

“Most boys don’t wear kitten dresses either,” Dani shot back, cheerful as a sparkler. “But here we are.”

Ethan blushed, glancing toward the fence, where the afternoon hummed and no one’s eyes peered in. He felt the lightness of the dress, the tug of the headband on his hair, the cool cherry shine on his mouth. “It’s just… practical,” he said, mostly to his knees. “For chapped lips.”

“Sure,” Dani said, but softer this time. “Practical.” Then, unable to leave it un-poked, she added, “And ve-wy pwetty.”

He glared; she grinned, which meant the world was back on its hinges.

“Tell you what,” Dani said, sudden as a coin toss. “One cartwheel. Just one. I won’t look up your skirt and I’ll stop calling you Sissy—” she held up a solemn hand— “for the rest of the day.”

He wavered. The grass looked like a sea. The porch step felt like a dock. His bare toes curled and uncurled. “I’ll… think about it,” he said, which for Ethan was practically an RSVP.

“Thinking is how you pull a muscle,” the tomboy said, but her voice was gentle. “Here—practice something smaller. Do this.” She planted her feet, swung her arms, and sprang into a tidy hop that made her look briefly taller. “Just a hop. Not even a cartwheel’s cousin.”

Ethan stood, gathered the skirt in two careful pinches like it was a parachute, and hopped. The dress wisped. His headband held. The yard did not swallow him. Dani clapped anyway, loud as if he’d vaulted a car.

“See?” she crowed. “The little kitten can bounce.”

“Stop calling me that,” he said, but couldn’t quite stop himself from smiling.

“Now try it again. This time do a jumping jack. You remember those, don’t you, Miss Priss?”

Ethan bristled. “Yeah, yeah, I remember. I’m not dumb, you know.”

Eager to prove his bravery, he gave it another try, this time kicking his legs wide apart as he hopped, clapping his hands over his head, just as he’d done hundreds of times in gym class. In that instant, however, he knew he’d made a horrible mistake—the childish dress flew high above his waist, exposing his panties and his bare belly for everyone who was anyone to see. He quickly crouched down and pushed the skirt down around his knees, his face red, his eyes wide with horror.

“Whoa-ho! Good show, Sissy!” Dani crowed. “I was hoping for more polka dots, but ‘Hello Kitty’ does not disappoint!”

“No fair!” the cross-dressed boy yelled. “You tricked me!”

Dani laughed. “Hey, you’re the one who said he wasn’t dumb.”

From the kitchen window, Colleen watched them with a glass of water sweating in her hand. She’d been pretending to rinse lettuce for five whole minutes, eyes on the yard, her lips curled in a wicked smile. Dani’s laughter, Ethan’s bare, stubborn shoulders, the teasing and yelling… the shared chapstick passed like a treaty—she drank it all in.

“Children!” she called out the window, sweet as iced tea and twice as dangerous. “House rule: if you’re going to trade insults, they must rhyme, and no getting mad when you’re going to show off your panties.”

Dani whooped. “Yes, ma’am!”

Ethan ducked his head and, without thinking, touched his lips together again.

“And, Dani,” Colleen added, one eyebrow audible in her voice, “no cartwheels for my model until after fittings. Scuffed knees are out of season, and they don’t photograph well.”

“Then we’ll keep it to hops,” Dani promised, winking at Ethan. “Just enough to shake up Hello Kitty.”

Ethan snorted, slipped the balm back into his pocket the proper way, and sat—one step lower this time, closer to the grass, his skirt tucked snug around his thighs—while his cousin launched into another series of impossible flips, and he contemplated the rush of embarrassment that oddly and inexplicably thrilled his soul.

 

* * *
 

Despite the teasing, the cousins got along. True, Dani was bold and loud and called out Ethan’s feminine side when it suited her, but she never actually made him feel bad. Well, not too bad. If anything, she seemed proud of him, in a weird way.

“You’re braver than me,” she told him once, while watching with fascination as Colleen fitted him with a new addition to her vintage line up, a tea length ballerina-style dress. “I’d rather punch a wasp nest than wear a tutu.”

“You think I’m brave for wearing a tutu?” he asked, incredulous. He stared at his reflection, cringing at the layers of satin and tulle that ensconced his slender frame. “Now I know you’re teasing me.”

“No, really, cuz.” She nodded at his dress, her expression serious. “Wearing that get up takes guts. People expect girls to be soft, so I go the other way. But people expect boys to be loud and tough. You’re not. You’re polite and pink and help your mama sew petticoats. That’s rebellion, dude.”

Ethan blinked. “Huh.”

Colleen chuckled, but said nothing. A mischievous glance at Dani reinforced their partnership. The tomboy shot her a wink, then stepped behind Ethan. Together they considered their combined reflection in the dressing mirror.

“Ain’t we a pair,” she said softly into his ear. “I think you just became my favorite cousin.”

Ethan frowned. “But I’m your only cousin.”

“Wow. Pretty and smart,” Dani snorted.

Colleen continued working, happily humming a familiar, almost forgotten melody.

 

* * *
 

Evening had settled soft and gold across the neighborhood when Dani clattered down the back steps with her skateboard. After supper she’d excused herself to practice in the street, assuming Ethan would wander out once the dishes were cleared. They’d joked earlier about him learning the basics. She was curious: would he show up in jeans, or in one of his prissy, girly-girl dresses?

She grinned to herself, pushing off. Please let it be a dress, she thought. I’d pay good money to see him go heels-over-board and flash his panties again. That’d be the bomb.

She worked at her kickflips, then some ollies until she had them crisp, rode down past Old Lady Whitaker's place to the corner and back, but still no Ethan. The house sat quiet in the dusk. She popped the tail of her board, caught it mid-air, and trudged up the walk.

I still haven’t been able to make him cry, she thought as she climbed the steps. Maybe I can give him some crap next time I catch him fiddling with his chapstick. He always looks like he’s putting on lipstick when he does that. Hilarious!

As she eased the screen door open she heard music—not radio music but real music, notes stepping out one by one like shy dancers. Curious, she slipped off her sneakers and padded through the kitchen. The scent of dish soap and lemon still hung in the air. She peered into the living room.

Ethan sat at the upright piano, head bent, fingers moving carefully over the keys. Not a trace of the frumpy house dress he’d worn at dinner; instead he looked like some storybook sprite. The dress was a pastel peach chiffon tea frock with a wide off-the-shoulder neckline and an oversized satin bow tied at the small of his back. His dark brown hair, usually tied up with a scarf for chores, was clipped back with tiny butterfly barrettes. White ankle socks and soft ballet slippers completed the picture.

Colleen sat off to the side in her armchair, a glass of iced tea on the table, a pleasant, wistful smile on her face. She lifted a finger to her lips and tilted her head toward the sofa. Dani obeyed, sinking down with her skateboard cradled across her lap like a toddler.

For reasons she couldn’t name, the sight of Ethan like this made her giddy. She wanted to flick his ear, tug at the bow, call him “sissy” and see if he’d cry—but something in the stillness stopped her. It was surreal, like stumbling into a dream.

It’s hard to believe this is a boy, she thought. Just last month he was lost in left field with his Babe Ruth team—total nerd, total clutz. But here he looks…right. Like this is where he’s meant to be. Weird.

Ethan moved through two more pieces before lifting his hands from the keys. Colleen broke the hush. “He’s supposed to practice fifteen minutes a day,” she said softly, “but he’s been slipping with you around.”

“Don’t change a thing on my account,” Dani said. “I like hearing Miss Priss at the keyboard. Music and the savage beast, all that stuff.”

“You’re a beast all right,” Ethan muttered, cheeks pink. “A baboon, if you ask me.”

Dani snorted, the spell broken but not gone. “And you, my dear Sissy,” she said, “are a delicate flower.”

 

* * *
 

As the end of Dani’s two-week stay approached, the household had fully adapted to the New Normal.

Dani did the heavy lifting and anything involving ladders. Ethan ironed collars, arranged product shots for his mom’s Etsy page, and discovered he was oddly good at choosing the right buttons for delicate fabrics.

On her last morning, Dani gave him a gift: one of her dinosaur T-shirts, with a little patch she’d made herself that read “Power Bottom (of the Laundry Pile).”

“I’m… definitely not wearing that in public,” Ethan said.

“You’ll wear hairbows, but not a dinosaur shirt? Coward.”

He rolled his eyes, but smiled. He kind of loved it.

The sudden blare of a horn and the rumble of a powerful engine announced Aunt DeeDee’s arrival. She rolled her candy apple red muscle car into the driveway, pulled off her cat-eye sunglasses, revealing the face of a woman who was ready for anything.

“Ready to go, sport?” She looked at Ethan a wink. “Hello there, Princess. Where’s your tutu?”

Ethan crossed his arms over his T-shirt and kicked the toe of his sneaker against the asphalt. He loved his aunt, but for some reason she gave him a harder time than her daughter. Probably more.

“It’s um… I dunno… somewhere...” he said, his face redder than the paint job on her car.

DeeDee laughed. “Don’t be so sensitive, little mister. I’m just giving you grief. Did you take good care of our girl here?”

“Um, sure did, Aunt Deedee,” Ethan said, trying to sound tough, but failing miserably. “We uh, had a great time.”

“I’m sure I’ll hear all about it.” His aunt slid her sunglasses back on, ran her fingers through her short auburn hair and then blew him a kiss as she revved the engine. “Keep your panties dry, Princess. Dani, get a move on, girl! We got places to go and people to see!”

“That’s my mama.” Dani laughed. “Calls’em like she sees them.”

“No kidding,” Ethan said ruefully.

After she hugged Colleen goodbye and hoisted her duffel bag into the trunk of her mother’s car, Dani turned to Ethan and smirked. He couldn’t help but notice the similarity between mother and daughter.

“Keep the apron game strong, cousin.”

“You keep mowing lawns like it’s a competitive sport.”

They bumped fists. A strange, affectionate peace treaty.

 

* * *
 

After the excitement of Dani’s visit the house felt a little quieter. Ethan continued on with his chores. He and Colleen started working on a new line for the coming season—plaid jumpers with contrasting collars. He asked more questions this time, about stitch length and interfacing. And he didn’t mind being the model, even when the dresses were extra frilly.

He didn’t think of himself as girly, not exactly. But he wasn’t afraid of it as much anymore.

And that felt powerful, in its own quiet, ironic way.

 

Up next: Supply Run

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 Three: Supply Run

Ethan gets a surprise when his mom needs supplies.
 

Sunlight poured through the window, glinting off scattered pins and spools of thread as Colleen Martin scurried about her sewing room. It smelled like starch and cotton and the faint hint of machine oil. She was muttering under her breath as she flipped through pattern pieces spread across the big oak table.

“Where’s my tracing wheel…? Ethan, have you seen my tracing wheel?”

Twelve-year-old Ethan poked his head up from behind a stack of folded fabric. “You left it in your coffee mug again.”

Colleen gave him a look. “I did not—oh.” She reached into her mug, pulled out the slender metal wheel, and gave him a sheepish grin. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. He wore one of his mom's housewife dresses, recently altered to fit his slim frame. His brown hair curled damply around his forehead. He’d been pressing fabric for the past half hour, the iron hissing with every swipe. Somewhere under a pile of muslin, a comic book peeked out. He pushed it further out of sight.

Colleen turned toward him, measuring tape looped around her neck. “Stand up straight, hon. Shoulders back. You’ll ruin your posture slumping over that iron.”

“I’m not slumping,” Ethan mumbled.

Colleen ignored him. “Besides, I want to see how tall you’re getting. You’re about the right size for this dress I'm making for Mrs. Callahan's daughter.”

“I’m not a dress form.”

She gave him a wicked little grin. “It’s cute that you believe that.”

Ten minutes later, Ethan found himself standing in the middle of the sewing room in a white cotton dress sprinkled with tiny red strawberries. A retro-vintage design, it had a low square neckline that exposed his collarbones, short, puffed sleeves, and a skirt that brushed several inches above his knees. On his feet were red velvet ballet slippers.

“Mom,” Ethan whispered, eyes wide, “this is… this is—”

“Perfect!” Colleen crowed. She stepped back, examining the way the dress fell over his frame. “Look how nicely it drapes in the front. And those sleeves! They’re darling.”

“I’m not darling,” Ethan hissed. “I’m a boy.”

“Darling boy, then,” Colleen said. She gave him a wink. “I’d even say radiant.”

“Mom! Stop using that word!”

“Such a fussy little thing.” She grinned as she tugged the waist seam, making adjustments and stitched everything in place. “Be still, please.”

Ethan stood rigid. The cool cotton felt strange against his bare arms and the breeze from the fan made the skirt flutter around his legs. It felt wrong and right at the same time. Like he was trespassing in a world meant for someone else—but part of him wanted to stay anyway.

Colleen’s face softened. “Ethan, I know you don't always like this. But you really are helping me. I’m behind schedule, and I need to see how this hangs on a real person. You’re the perfect size.”

He scowled at his reflection in the mirror. His cheeks were pink. “Can I take it off now?”

Colleen glanced at her clock. “Not yet. We’ve got to run out for more seam tape. And I want Joanne to see how good my work looks.”

 

* * *
 

“Miss Joanne doesn’t need to see me in this dress.”

“Oh, but she does,” Colleen said cheerfully. She ran her brush through Ethan’s dark brown hair, then clipped an errant lock in place with a sparkly red barrette. “It’ll brighten her whole day.”

“I’ll wait in the car.”

“No, you won’t.”

“It’s hot in there.”

“It’s hotter out here.”

Ethan stood on the cracked sidewalk outside Joanne’s Fabrics, clutching the hem of the strawberry-print dress. The sun beat down, making the white cotton glow. Colleen had a determined look on her face as she pulled him toward the shop door.

“Mom, please, people are gonna see me.” He was desperate. “All I’ve got on underneath are panties!”

“It’s only Joanne,” Colleen said, pushing the door open. “And I promise I won’t show her your panties. Then again, she does love pretty things.”

“I’m not a pretty thing!”

Colleen gave him a dry look. “Could’ve fooled me.”

 

* * *
 

The bell jingled as Colleen marched Ethan through the door.

Sunlight streamed through the big plate-glass windows, falling across bolts of bright fabric stacked like rainbow towers. Fat spools of thread glowed on metal racks. The place reeked of feminine creativity.

Two little girls in ponytails stood near the front window. Their eyes went round as saucers when they saw Ethan in his strawberry-print dress and red ballet slippers. One girl whispered something to the other, and they both dissolved into giggles.

Ethan shrank against his mother. “Mom, they’re staring.”

“Oh, just ignore them.” Colleen winked and tilted her head toward a mannequin nearby, wearing a seafoam green satin prom gown. “Ignore her, too. She’s just jealous of you.”

“Mom, mannequins can’t be jealous.”

“Shows how much you know,” she said.

Joanne was behind the counter, sorting a stack of quarters. She looked up, eyes sparkling. “Well, butter my biscuit. Colleen Martin! And look at this precious blossom!”

“I’m not a blossom,” Ethan muttered. “I’m a boy.”

Joanne bustled over, tape measure swinging like a necklace. “Boy, girl, whatever you want to be, sweet pea. My goodness, you are as pretty as a peach! Or should I say a strawberry?”

“You remember my little helper, Ethan,” Colleen announced proudly. “And this is the dress I’ve been slaving over for Meredith Callahan’s garden party.”

“My goodness, Colleen, it is just gorgeous! And those red shoes are a nice touch.” Joanne put aside the coins and bustled over, tape measure swinging like a necklace. “Let me get a good look at you, honey. Spin around for me.”

Ethan hugged his arms around himself. “I’d rather not.”

“Spin for Joanne, baby.” Collen tapped him on the nose. “Please, and thank you.”

The flustered boy did as he was told. His face grew hot as the skirt swirled about like a red and white whirlwind. Girlish giggles echoed from the front of the shop.

“Happy now?” He blushed as he realized he might have accidentally showed off his panties.

His mother laughed. “Very.”

Joanne winked. “Shy as a church mouse. I love it.”

Colleen beamed. “Isn’t he darling? He’s been helping me cut patterns, press seams, thread machines. He’s my number one assistant.”

Joanne clutched her chest. “A boy who sews and models dresses? Colleen, you’ve struck gold.”

The two women chatted for a few minutes about the dress—Joanne was particularly impressed with Colleen’s attention to detail when it came to pleating—while Ethan kept a careful watch on his stalkers. The two little girls had taken up a position just a few aisles over, whispering and giggling and not caring that they’d been spotted.

He was about to ask if he could go to the car when the shopkeeper suddenly grabbed his hand and tugged the mortified boy over to a display of cotton prints. “Come here, honey. You like strawberries, hmm? So, tell me your opinion. Unicorns, hearts, or teddy bears? Or maybe… ooh! Kittens with bows!”

Ethan’s eyes went huge and he blushed to hear the sound of giggling from the other aisle.

“I don’t… I don’t need any fabric.”

Joanne picked up a bolt patterned in pastel cupcakes. “Now, this would make the cutest summer dress. What do you think? Is this something you’d wear?”

The cross-dressed boy squirmed. “It’s… a lot.”

Joanne cackled. “How old are you, honey bunny? Nine? Ten?”

“I’m twelve, almost thirteen!” He bristled. What is wrong with this lady? Is she blind?

“Almost thirteen? Well then, that makes a huge difference! I bet you’re the more sophisticated type, aren’t you.” She whisked him to another shelf. “How about chiffon? Or tulle? Mmm... you look like a boy who appreciates a nice drape.”

Ethan sputtered. “I don’t—Mom!”

Colleen folded her arms. “Well, he’s been wearing a lot of yellow lately.”

Joanne gasped. “Yellow? I love a confident man in yellow!” She dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “But pink’s a favorite, right, honey? I bet you just love pink.”

Ethan’s voice cracked. “I don’t love pink.”

Joanne leaned closer, her lipstick shimmering. “All right. So what is your favorite color, sweetheart?”

Ethan looked helplessly at his mother. “Um… blue?”

Colleen snorted. “Since when? You picked lemon yellow for the pillowcases. And what about that little housewife dress you always wear when you do your chores? Yellow gingham. And your favorite scarf?”

Ethan mumbled, “Yeah, um… yellow’s… fine.”

Joanne gave a squeal and pressed her palms to her cheeks. “Yellow it is! I’ve got the perfect buttercup satin for you.”

Ethan turned three shades redder as Joanne rummaged behind the counter and produced a bolt of silky yellow fabric. He looked up at his mother. The smirk on her face was not encouraging.

“See? Lovely drape, perfect for flouncy skirts. Or even a nice blouse!”

Colleen elbowed Ethan gently. “Feel it. It’s soft.”

Ethan touched the satin and immediately snatched his fingers away. “It’s slippery.”

Joanne beamed. “The best fabric always is.”

The two little girls were now nearer, just down the aisle. One cupped her hand around her mouth and stage-whispered, “See, he is a boy! And he’s wearing a dress.”

Ethan’s shoulders hunched. “Can we go home now?”

Joanne planted her hands on her hips. “Not yet, mister. You still need notions. What about lace trim? Do you like it frilly, or plain?”

Ethan nearly wailed. “Mommm—!”

Colleen was trying not to laugh. “Just answer the nice lady, Ethan.”

“Plain!” Ethan barked. “If I have to pick.”

“We do use a lot of lace, and eyelet trim.” His mother nudged him. “Don’t we, sweetheart?”

“I guess—”

Joanne leaned close. “I’ll remember that when you come work for me.”

“I’m not working here!” Ethan practically yelped.

Joanne gave him a conspiratorial smile. “We’ll see, honey. We’ll see.”

Colleen chuckled and gave Joanne a look. “He’s secretly enjoying himself. He just doesn’t like to show it. He’s really into the details of what we do. He actually figured out our new sewing machine before I did and he’s teaching me all about it.”

“Is he now? Well now, that is very interesting.” Joanne squinted at Ethan. “Tell me, sweet pea, do you know the difference between invisible zippers and regular ones?”

Once again Ethan looked up at his mother. She nodded, indicating that he should answer. “Um, well, invisible ones have the coils on the back so you don’t see them in the seam.”

Joanne let out a delighted laugh. “Listen to him! Not many boys know that.”

Colleen nodded proudly. “None that I know of, that’s for certain.”

He heard laughter. The two little girls had moved closer, staring and pointing and whispering to each other. Worried that they might want to start a conversation, he moved close to his mother and clung to her skirt. His ballet slippers squeaked softly on the linoleum.

Colleen continued bragging, her voice echoing throughout the shop. “Ethan’s a very helpful little boy. He also does our laundry. And he keeps the kitchen in order. He even does all the vacuuming and the dusting.”

Ethan scowled as the girls burst out laughing. More whispering ensued. “He’s just like Cinderella!” one of them declared, a bit too loudly for polite company.

“He washes the clothes, too?” Joanne gasped, clutching her chest. “Oh, Colleen, you lucky thing! You’ve got yourself a gem.”

“He’s a gem all right,” Colleen agreed, ruffling her son’s hair. “Though sometimes he raises a fuss when I dress him up.”

Joanne’s eyes sparkled. “Aw, you look just precious.” She touched the barrette on Ethan’s hair and cooed: “I hope your boyfriend appreciates how cute you are.”

Ethan’s jaw dropped. “I do not have a boyfriend!” His ears and neck burned as more snickering came from his surreptitious audience.

“Omigosh, he’s got a boyfriend!” one of the little girls stage-whispered. “How funny!”

“Oh, honey. I’m only teasing.” Joanne patted his cheek. “But you let me know if you get the hankering. I will hook you up!”

“Mom—”

Joanne snickered. “You do make a beautiful model, though. Just plain adorable!”

Colleen chimed in, “Joanne, you ought to hire him. He’d be great here. Keep your thread rack tidy and greet customers looking cute as a button.”

“Mom!” Ethan’s voice shot up an octave. “No, thank you!”

Joanne pretended to pout.

“Oh, shucks. Well, sweetheart, if you ever change your mind, I’ll pay you in fabric scraps and peppermint candies.” The shopkeeper leaned in and whispered, “And if you ever decide to run away from home, Auntie Joanne will adopt you in a minute!”

Colleen burst out laughing. Ethan glared at her.

“I’m moving to Australia,” he muttered.

“You keep saying that.”

Colleen made her purchases and the two women gossiped for a while. Ethan tried to ignore them. He watched with relief when the mother of the two little girls finally appeared. There was more whispering and laughter, and the family left the store, the girls chatting excitedly about the sissy boy in the dress.

He hoped they didn’t have any brothers or sisters who went to his school.

After a while Ethan grew impatient. His mother and the shopkeeper were laughing about something he was pretty sure he didn’t want to know about. Frustrated, he pulled out his lip balm—Colleen often included hidden pockets in her creations for “baubles and secrets”—and he applied a quick coat, more so to pass the time than any real need. He smacked his lips and fretted over the odds that someone he knew might come through the front door at that very moment.

He was contemplating the fragrance of cherries when a tap on the shoulder startled him. He looked up to see Colleen and Miss Joanne grinning at him. Realizing he’d been caught doing something “cute,” he quickly put away his chapstick, his cheeks pink as the two women exchanged knowing glances.

Colleen pointed to a shelf. “Sweetheart, isn’t that the Little Miss sewing kit you were drooling over in that catalog?”

“I wasn’t drooling over it!” Ethan blurted.

His mother lifted an eyebrow. “Oh really? As I remember it, you wouldn’t stop talking about the pink-handled scissors. Or how the tailor’s chalk was nicer than the cheap stuff.”

Ethan’s face burned. “I was just…looking, that’s all. I… I didn’t really want it.”

Joanne leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “Do you like sewing, sweetheart?”

Ethan shuffled his feet. “A little. I guess.”

“What’s in that kit that caught your interest?”

He tried to look indifferent, but his mother gave him a hard stare. He just sighed and gave up. “Well, the tailor’s chalk is pretty nice. And it’s got the good bias tape, not the cheap stuff. And it’s got real metal thimbles. Plastic ones crack.”

Joanne clapped her hands. “You see? I love a boy who knows notions.”

Colleen crowed, “That’s my Ethan!”

“A boy who’s as special as you are deserves a special reward.” Joanne lifted the pink and white box containing the kit off the shelf and held it out. “Here, hon. It’s yours. A gift from your Auntie Joanne.”

He stared at the proffered gift. “I can’t take that.”

“Yes, you can,” Joanne insisted. “Smart kids deserve good tools.”

Colleen nudged him. “Say thank you, Ethan.”

He took the kit carefully, as though it might explode. “Th… thank you, Miss Joanne.”

The shopkeeper sighed. “Please, darlin’, call me Auntie Joanne.”

Ethan glanced up to see his mother’s raised eyebrow. He swallowed, then said, “Thank you, Auntie Joanne.”

Joanne gave him a loving hug, pressing his face in between her breasts. “You’re very welcome, sweetheart.”

As he pulled away, Ethan looked down at the box, trying to fight a silly grin. He wished he could vanish, and yet… a tiny spark of pride lit in his chest, warm as sunshine.

 

* * *
 

Back in the car, Ethan sat hugging the Little Miss sewing kit. He tried to hide it in his lap as they pulled away from Joanne’s, but failed miserably.

Colleen glanced over. “See? That wasn’t so terrible.”

“I guess,” Ethan muttered. He thought about the two girls and sighed. “Well, a little.”

Colleen reached over and flicked his skirt. “We should stop for shoes next. Maybe something with a little bow at the toe? I hear your favorite color is yellow.”

“Mom!”

“Just kidding,” she said, laughing. “Mostly.”

“I don’t want shoes.”

“How about ice cream then?”

Ethan hesitated, then nodded.

 

* * *
 

They ended up on a park bench away from the crowd, shaded by a big willow tree. Birds chirped above them as Colleen handed Ethan a cone dripping with vanilla.

“Mom,” Ethan said between bites, “I thought you had a deadline. Aren’t you supposed to be sewing right now?”

Colleen leaned back, eyes half-closed against the breeze. “Sometimes it’s all right to take a break. Besides, Joanne was half my work today. I knew she’d help me feel better. You did, too.”

Ethan licked a drip off his cone. “She embarrassed me.”

Colleen smiled. “A little embarrassment is good for you. Builds character.”

Ethan scowled. “I have enough character.”

Colleen chuckled. “Maybe. But it makes me proud when you’re brave.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, then peeked down at the sewing kit in his lap. The case was childish, pink plastic with molded flowers all over. The contents were interesting enough, though. “I really didn’t want this.”

“I don't believe that for a minute.” Colleen winked at him. “You do know you’re allowed to like pretty things, even if you’re a boy.”

He opened the kit and picked through its contents. “It’s kinda…cool. The scissors are the good metal ones. Like the ones you have. Just pink.”

Colleen nodded. “They’ll last you forever.”

Ethan sighed. “I still don’t want new shoes.”

“I know,” Colleen said, laughing. “But it was worth a try. Next time, though, I won’t take no for an answer.”

The very thought sent a shiver down the cross-dressed boy’s spine. He immediately pictured a store filled with little pony-tailed girls standing over him as he tried on shoe after shoe after shoe…

He tried to shove the image out of his head, but it stuck.

As they finished their cones, a breeze rustled the maple leaves overhead. Colleen brushed a smear of ice cream from Ethan’s chin, then licked her finger.

“You know,” she said, “I think you’re going to be the best dressmaker in the family.”

“I’m not gonna be a dressmaker.”

“Of course not,” she teased. “You’re going to be a world-famous fashion designer.”

Ethan groaned. “Mommm!”

But he couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips. As much as he wished he could hide, a small part of him felt special, sitting there in a strawberry-print dress with melted ice cream on his fingers, a brand-new sewing kit on his lap.

And if he ever decided he did want to be a designer… well… at least he’d have the right scissors.

 
Next up: Maid to Order

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 Four: Maid to Order

 

Ethan gets another job opportunity.
 

Ethan was polishing the silverware on the back porch—something he’d learned to do without questioning his life choices—when he heard a sudden squawk from across the backyard fence.

“Good heavens, is that you, Ethan?”

He froze. Not from the name, but from the voice.

Mrs. Penelope Whitaker. Retired high school English teacher. Local garden club tyrant. Owner of five identical sun hats and a deeply judgmental cat named Gingersnap. Freshly returned from her annual Florida vacation.

Ethan turned slowly, clutching the towel and salad tongs like improvised weapons. His mom had been photographing him on the back patio—today’s outfit was a light blue sundress with white piping, complete with ankle socks and a wide-brimmed straw hat. She’d suggested he leave on the pretty frock while he did his chores—“You’ll find dresses more comfortable in this heat, plus you’ll do a better job,” she’d said, somehow maintaining a straight face.

“I—I was helping my mom with her sewing,” he blurted, suddenly aware of every ruffle and ribbon clinging to his person. “And I guess I forgot to change…”

Penelope Whitaker’s eyes twinkled behind her glasses.

“Oh, I see. Very helpful indeed,” she said, lips twitching. “My, don’t you look darling.”

Ethan turned beet red.

“I should go,” he mumbled, making a break for the kitchen door, but the elderly lady’s voice called out like a fishing line snagging a trout.

“Ethan, dear, wait—actually, you might be just the person I need!”

He paused, defeated.

Penelope leaned over the fence. “My cleaning girl just got married and quit, and my bursitis has been acting up. I could use a bit of help. Dusting, tidying, that sort of thing. And since you’re already so domestically inclined…” she added, letting the words hang like lace in the breeze.

Ethan opened his mouth to say no thank you or I’d rather be trampled by geese, but fate had other plans.

Colleen popped out of the screen door with a tray of iced tea. “Did I hear you need help, Penny?”

“Oh, just a bit of light cleaning, dear. Your son is so detail-oriented, I thought—”

“He’d love to! He could use the extra responsibility. Just so you know, he looks adorable in an apron.”

Ethan gasped. “Mom!”

Penelope smiled like a cat who’d just bought stock in a canary farm.

“Excellent. Every Wednesday, beginning at nine. I’ll pay you, of course. You’ll be my little domestic helper.”

Ethan didn’t remember agreeing. He only remembered the tray wobbling in his mother’s hands as she tried not to laugh.

 

* * *
 

Wednesdays with Whitaker became a permanent fixture. Ethan had hoped to wear normal clothes at first—T-shirt, jeans, sneakers—but Penelope Whitaker, ever the drama queen, insisted that wasn’t quite theatrical enough. And Colleen agreed.

“Be my good little helper, sweetheart,” she’d said, tying a floral print apron around the pink gingham dress she insisted he wear. “Auntie Penelope is so looking forward to having a pretty housemaid.”

“I’m not sure this is part of the job description,” Ethan muttered.

“Oh please. You know very well that you dust better when you look the part.” She gave him a quick peck on the lips and a wink. “And right now you look radiant.”

“Mom, please!” The cross-dressed boy sighed as he headed for the door. His mother was always saying stuff like that.

And so, Ethan stepped onto the tiled porch of the Whitaker house, his polished white flats making the faintest tap against the porcelain. He stood there for a moment, swallowing his nerves, one hand smoothing the front of his apron and the dress underneath—chosen, of course, by his mother. It was childish, sweet, and undeniably girlish, with puffed sleeves, a Peter Pan collar, and a little white bow at the neckline. A matching hair ribbon--tied too snugly by Colleen—kept his mop of brushed-out brown hair in a neat little halo that bounced with every nervous nod.

The cross-dressed boy rang the bell and the door opened before the second chime could finish.

“Ethan, my darling, welcome!” sang Penelope, dressed in a flowing lavender housecoat embroidered with tiny peacocks. “My goodness, don’t you look precious today! Like a sunbeam in a dress! Come in, my little house fairy.”

“Good morning, Auntie Penelope,” Ethan mumbled. Addressing the old woman as “auntie” had only begun as a few days before, but now his mother required that he do it as a sign of respect. “Thank you, Auntie Penelope.”

The old woman’s gray hair was swept up in a loose French twist, a long string of faux pearls bouncing against her collarbones. She wore perfume that smelled like talcum and violets and something just a little too sophisticated for a Wednesday morning.

“Well then,” she said, placing both hands on his shoulders and steering him toward the broom closet. “Let’s get my little Cinderella started. Floors first today, I think. That naughty hallway carpet hasn’t been beaten in weeks.”

“Yes, Auntie Penelope,” he murmured, already retrieving the vacuum. He caught a glimpse of himself in the parlor mirror as he passed: a prim little figure in a too-girly dress, knee socks neat, hemline just brushing the tops of his knees. His reflection frowned at him.

“You’re absolutely darling, and already you’re doing a wonderful job keeping me young. You know, I do believe you’re the prettiest maid this old house has ever had.”

Ethan flushed scarlet. “I’m not a maid,” he said under his breath.

“Of course you are,” she replied cheerily, flouncing back into the parlor. “But only once a week, and only the very best kind. The sort with manners and ribbons and polished shoes.”

The Whitaker home was a treasure trove of antiques and disorder—delicate porcelain figurines balanced on stacks of yellowed magazines, crystal dishes full of safety pins and spare change, crocheted doilies draped over armrests like lace spiderwebs. And dust. Plenty of dust accumulated during the old woman’s absence.

Ethan spent the bulk of the morning vacuuming, dusting, and scrubbing under his employer’s doting gaze. She followed him from room to room with a glass of iced tea in one hand and a running commentary in the other. “Now don’t miss that corner—goodness, look at you on your hands and knees like a proper little housewife. Such dedication!”

Whenever Ethan paused, even to wipe sweat from his brow, she clucked and tapped her painted nails against a tabletop. “Posture, darling. Back straight. Elbows in. You’ve such a graceful little figure when you remember to move like a lady.”

“I'm not a lady,” he muttered.

“No, but you do a very good impression,” she said with a wink.

By midday, the parlor was dust-free and the kitchen shone. The lace curtains had been shaken out, the old stove polished, and the floor scrubbed to a dull glow. Penelope beamed at him as she prepared a sandwich plate—neatly cut triangles with crusts removed, a porcelain cup of milk beside it. Lemon vanilla macarons for dessert.

“There we are. Sit down properly now, legs together. That’s it. I do adore watching you grow into such a tidy little domestic thing.”

Ethan chewed quietly, unsure whether he felt more, pride or embarrassment. His dress was damp with perspiration, his ribbon slipping slightly, but Penelope’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“Now for the ironing,” she said. “Your mother says you’re practically an expert.”

“Well, I do some ironing, but I’m not really—"

“Perfect! I can’t wait to see you in action.” Penelope smirked. “There’s nothing like a boy at the board to warm an old lady’s heart.”

He took it with a sigh.

And as he pressed blouses and tea cloths beneath the hiss of steam, she began to hum to herself in her rocking chair, the gentle notes of some long-forgotten waltz drifting through the house.

He blushed again when she called out, “Be sure to press the pleats just so, Ethan.”

 

* * *
 

It was nearly three o’clock when Penelope rose from her chair, her house slippers whispering over the freshly waxed floor. Ethan had just finished folding the last of the linens, carefully stacking them in the wooden armoire by the hallway. He tugged gently at the collar of his dress—itchy now from dust and heat—and stole a quick glance at the clock, hopeful.

“Oh no, my sweet one,” Penelope said cheerfully, reading his thoughts like tea leaves. “We’re not quite finished. There’s a very important task left.”

Ethan blinked. I’m never getting out of here, he thought.

“More dusting, Auntie?”

She smiled slyly. “No, no, my darling boy. Something much more delightful.” She held up a purple folder. “We’re going to rehearse!”

“Rehearse what?” he asked warily.

Penelope’s eyes twinkled behind her lavender glasses. “The little tea play, of course! I’ve been working on it all week. A single scene. I’ll be Lady Witherspoon, and you—you’ll be Louise, my devoted parlor maid. We’ll practice it together, just like the old vaudeville ladies used to do. It’ll be splendid fun!”

“Louise?” Ethan stepped back. “Auntie Penelope, I—I didn’t know anything about a play.”

“Oh, pshaw!” she said sweetly. “But you do love pretending, don’t you? After all, you’re quite good at it.”

He didn’t respond, so she spun him around and gave him a little shove. “Go on now, Louise. Up to the guest room with you. I’ve laid everything out. You’ll find it fits like a dream.”

 

* * *
 

The guest room smelled faintly of sachets and rose powder. Spread across the floral coverlet was his costume—a vintage-style maid’s uniform in pale gray and white cotton, freshly laundered and stiff with starch. The skirt was pleated and full, ending just below the knee with a petticoat hanging beside it. There was a pair of white cotton gloves, a delicate lace-edged apron with long ties, a ruffled mob cap, and—he blinked—a pair of white bloomers folded next to some black tights and a pair of low patent leather heels.

A handwritten note in blue ink was pinned to the collar:

Please present yourself properly. I’ll be in the parlor with the script and a tea tray. No dawdling, dear heart.

Ethan stood for a long minute, just staring. Then he sighed. Deeply. And began to change.

 

* * *
 

Downstairs, Penelope was already seated in her best armchair, a silver tray arranged with petit fours and two mismatched teacups. A feathered hat perched atop her curls, and she held a script printed on pastel stationery.

When Ethan appeared in the doorway, every inch the bashful parlor maid, her hands flew to her chest.

“Oh my. You take the breath right out of my bones, child. Come, Louise! Come into the light.”

He stepped forward, cheeks glowing, skirt swishing delicately. The uniform fit too well—the bodice crisp and tight, the waist snug, the sleeves slightly puffed. He had done up the apron himself, double-knotting the bow behind him just like his mother had taught. The cap perched on his head made his freshly brushed hair poof out in the most ridiculous way.

“Let’s see,” Penelope murmured, circling him. “Hem straight. Stockings snug and neat. Apron tidy. Oh yes, the ankles! Together, please, and a slight bend of the knees when you serve.” She cupped his chin, adjusting his expression like a painter fine-tuning a portrait. “Soft smile. But with dignity, Louise! You’re not a dolly—you’re a young lady in service.”

“I’m not—”

“Hush now, Louise. We begin.”

 

* * *
 

The scene was simple. Lady Witherspoon sat reading letters by the fireplace. Louise the maid entered, curtsied, and offered tea. Then came a flurry of dialogue, mostly scolding about the tea being “slightly over-steeped” and the sugar “not cubed precisely.”

“You’re to reply, ‘Yes, milady, at once, milady,’” Penelope coached. “And tilt the tray when you offer it—like this.”

Ethan obeyed, repeating the lines in a falsetto that surprised even him.

“Very good. Again—but this time with grace. One does not plop into a scene.”

They rehearsed for nearly thirty minutes. Penelope corrected everything: the angle of his bow, the way he held the tea towel, even how he turned his wrist when setting a saucer down.

And then there was the matter of Ethan’s—well, Louise’s—curtsy. The first couple of times Penelope let him get by, but she was very particular on this matter and insisted that he pay more attention and get it right.

“Pluck the hem… no, sweetheart, with both hands… left foot back, bend slightly at the knees, then dip, and then hold. You don’t have to touch your hem if your hands are full. Yes. Very good. Let’s do it again… Louise,” she said with a giggle.

This went on for quite a while, repetition after repetition until Ethan lost count. Finally, after what seem forever, Penelope burst into gleeful applause as he executed a perfect curtsy.

“Lovely, just lovely. Now, recite your line… ‘Forgive me, milady—I shall brew it anew with all the care I possess’. Come on, darling, you can do it! I have faith.”

The weary boy performed another curtsy, and followed up with his line.

“Bravo, Louise! You’re a natural. Honestly, you’ve missed your calling. The little theater troupe in town would faint to have you.”

“I’m not joining a theater troupe,” he said quickly.

“No, no,” she sighed, patting his gloved hand. “But still, you do bring such poetry to a petticoat.”

 

* * *
 

When Colleen arrived just after five, she found her son still in costume, kneeling in front of the fireplace with a feather duster and the perfect parlor pout.

“Well, look at you,” Colleen chuckled. “Have we graduated from housemaid to stage maid?”

Ethan stood up quickly, brushing off his skirt. “She made me rehearse a play.”

“I coached you, darling,” Penelope corrected, rising with a theatrical bow. “Louise is coming along marvelously. Just wait till you hear his ‘Yes, milady.’ Why, it sent shivers down my spine.”

“Who’s Louise?”

Ethan sighed. “I am Louise, milady.” He curtsied before he realized what he’d done.

Colleen laughed. “My goodness, he does take direction well, doesn’t he?”

Ethan blushed, muttered something inaudible, and headed to change his clothes.

But Penelope held up one finger. “Not so fast, Louise. A proper little maid changes only after her duties are complete. You may disrobe once you’ve said goodbye properly—but before that please bring your mother a cup of tea.”

Colleen smiled at her son and winked. “That would be very nice. Thank you, Louise. I’ll have two lumps, please, and milk if you don’t mind.”

And so, with a sigh and a swish, Louise shuffled off to the kitchen—teacup in hand, apron still tied, and a blush that never left.

 

Next up: The “Salesgirl”

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 Five: The “Salesgirl”

 

Colleen needs a salesgirl and finds one close to home.
 

Colleen had been busy preparing for the Washington County Makers’ Market, a craft fair the next town over where artists and small business owners rented booths to show off their work.

“I signed us up!” she said brightly one Sunday morning. “Next weekend we’re going to sell the ‘Pastel Picnic’ line at the fair!”

“Us? We?”

“You, me, and the mannequins.”

Ethan froze. “Wait. You want me to go? In public?”

“Not just go. Model. In costume.”

“Mom.”

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s in Washington County, so no one you know will be there.” She grinned. “Plus, you’ll be in disguise.”

Ethan swallowed. “Oh—”

 

* * *
 

The heat of July lay over Washington County like a thick quilt, but the breeze off the river kept the day pleasant enough for a summer fair. From the parking lot came the high, bright twang of a fiddle blending with the steady thump of a stand-up bass. The music drifted over the hum of voices, the creak of folding chairs, and the sweet-salty smell of kettle corn.

Down the main path, shade tents sprouted like colorful mushrooms. Quilts flapped on clotheslines, wind chimes tinkled from wire racks, and jars of honey gleamed like bottled sunlight. Locals and out-of-towners crowded the aisles. Children darted between stalls, tugging parents toward the petting zoo or the ice cream truck.

At the center of it all, under a white canopy decorated with pastel bunting and paper rosettes, stood Colleen’s Creations. Locally made vintage and retro-style dresses in soft cottons and airy voiles hung from racks, their colors like scoops of sherbet. Two dress mannequins flanked the entrance, each wearing one of Colleen’s designs in a perfect confection of fabric: a lemon-yellow sundress with daisy trim and a sunhat, and a pale blue frock with puffed sleeves and matching bonnet.

But the real draw was not those mannequins—the main attraction was Colleen’s “living mannequin” at the front of the booth: Emily.

Ethan’s dress had been chosen days ago: an old-fashioned white party frock scattered with pink rosettes, lace edging each layer of the skirt, puffed sleeves grazing the tops of his arms. One of Colleen’s handmade petticoats flared the skirt out just so, exposing the blushing boy’s knees. Shiny pink Mary Janes matched the rosettes, frilly white ankle socks peeking above them. And crowning the look—his new blonde wig, softly curled, bangs feathered just enough to frame his face. A pink silk rose was pinned just above his ear, like a decoration on a frilly birthday cake.

Underneath, of course, he wore a pair of handmade bloomers, which in turn concealed a pair of pink panties, both trimmed in pink rosettes similar to the ones sewn into his dress. And neither of which, he prayed, would be on display that day.

The wig itched under the pins, and every time a breeze lifted the skirt, his legs and upper thighs prickled with awareness. But what really made him self-conscious was the way people’s eyes lingered. Colleen had purposefully placed him where he could greet customers and hand out fliers and order forms. She said it would help “bring the dresses to life.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said weakly as he took his position. “Everybody in town will see me.”

Colleen smiled warmly. “Oh, it’s not just a good idea, it’s a great idea. And don’t worry so much. Nobody will see you—it’s Emily they’ll be looking at. I guarantee it.”

“I guess.”

“Just remember our little arrangement—as an employee of Colleen’s Creations, you get a five dollar bonus for every dress you help me sell, plus your regular rate. I think that’s a pretty good deal, don’t you?”

Ethan pursed his lips. “I guess so.”

“It’s a great deal. I think we’re both going to make a lot of money. And be sure to smile, dear. Remember, you want everyone to want to come in, not scare them off. And try to have fun, okay?”

“Yes, Mother.” Ethan sighed. That’s easy for you to say, he thought ruefully.

“That’s my girl.” Colleen gave him a quick peck on the lips. “Mmm, your lips are dry, so you might want to…”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” He got out his little pink and red tube of lip balm and expertly applied it. There was no sense in arguing, especially when he was already dolled up in a wig, dress and panties.

He smacked his lips and gave his mother an exaggerated, cherry-flavored smile. “Happy now?”

Colleen beamed. “Very.”

 

* * *
 

A small crowd had already formed before they were ready to begin, so mother and “daughter” worked as fast as they could to get everything ready.

“Emily, sweetheart, would you bring me some of those order forms?” Colleen called over from the display of gingham pinafores.

“Yes, ma’am,” Ethan replied in his practiced, lighter voice. He managed the small, wiggly steps his mother preferred—to make the skirt sway rather than bounce—and he set several pastel forms on the counter. He felt his face get hot as a murmur of approval came from the crowd.

“This is my daughter Emily,” Colleen told two women on the other side. “She’s modeling one of our most popular styles.”

“You made that, too?” One woman leaned forward, her eyes alight with interest. “That’s such a darling dress. Is it comfortable, dear?”

He glanced at Colleen, who gave the faintest nod. “Yes, ma’am.” He dipped at the knees as he’d been coached, remembering his “Emily voice.” He blushed to see both ladies watching him, delighted. “It’s very light for summer. The lining’s soft cotton.”

The other smiled. “It’s lovely. Do you like wearing it, Emily?”

Ethan managed a small nod. “Yes, ma’am. I do like it very much,” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. He clenched his jaw as Colleen mouthed some words. “I always feel pretty when, um… I wear something my mother made.”

“Oh, she’s so sweet!” The lady’s face lit up. “Does it twirl, honey?”

Colleen’s eyes twinkled. “Show them, sweetheart.”

The request sent a pulse of heat to his face, but he obeyed, lifting the skirt just enough with his free hand to give it a spin, the layers fanning out around him in a cloud of pink and white. Both women cooed appreciatively, and Colleen took their orders. By the time they left, cashbox heavier, Ethan’s pulse had begun to settle.

“Good job, sweetie.” His mother gave him an affectionate boop on the nose. “See, you made ten dollars, just like that! Not bad for a few minutes work.”

Ethan grunted. Ten dollars was a lot of money—he just wasn’t so sure it was worth the risk. Judging from the look on his mother’s face, though, he couldn’t do anything else but carry on.

As the morning progressed on business got busier. Older women asked about lengths and colors and fabric and care. Mothers brought shy daughters forward to admire “Emily’s” dress. And more than a few girls reached out to touch the lace at his sleeves. The littler ones stared wide-eyed at “Emily” as if she’d stepped out of a storybook.

And the more questions he answered, the easier the Emily voice came: “Yes, ma’am, my mother made this herself” … “No ma’am, the patterns aren’t store bought… Mother designs everything we sell” … “Just fill out this form, ma’am, and see my mother, please.”

And so on.

“Your daughter is so precious,” one woman said. “Very polite, very professional.”

“She’s so well-behaved,” another added. “And very responsible for her age.”

“My granddaughter could never do that,” said yet another. “She’s too wild.”

Colleen glowed. “Emily is very dedicated. She’s my right hand girl.” She gave Ethan a wink as she took orders for more dresses.

“Keep up the good work, sweetheart,” she during a gap between customers. She put her hand on his shoulder and kissed him on the forehead. “We’ve already sold more today than we did all last month. At this pace I’ll have enough orders to get us through Christmas. And you’ve made enough money you’ll have to open up your own bank account.”

Ethan bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t sure if he was mortified or oddly proud. Maybe both.

Then came the horror.

Auntie Penelope appeared.

In a sun hat.

With her cat, Gingersnap, in a pink and white stroller.

“Well, well, well,” she drawled. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Ethan panicked.

Penelope leaned in conspiratorially. “Don’t worry. My lips are sealed. I just needed to confirm that my maid moonlights as a model. Very versatile.”

Then she added, in a whimsical whisper: “Also, you forgot to dust the mantle in the parlor last visit. I’m deducting a dollar from your imaginary tip.”

 

* * *
 

After a while traffic slowed down enough that Colleen decided to send Ethan on an errand.

“Here’s some money, sweetie,” she said, handing him a ten dollar bill. “Go get us a couple of bottles of orange soda and a snack. Pick whatever you like.” She also gave him a bundle of fliers. “And while you’re out and about, pass these along to anyone you think might be interested.”

The cross-dressed boy was horrified. Going out … alone … dressed like a runaway from a fairy tale? He wanted to hide in the back of the booth, but his mother didn’t give him the chance.

“Please, Mother, can’t I just—”

“Shoo now, and don’t dawdle. The sooner you get going, the sooner you’ll be back.” Colleen gave him a not so gentle push and a nod. “And don’t be stingy with the fliers. We’ve got plenty. I’d like to give them all away by the end of the day.”

At first Ethan was terrified. He thought for sure he would get caught, beat up, put in jail or kidnapped. His biggest fear was someone coming up and yanking his wig off—or worse, flipping up his skirt!—exposing him for the fraud that he was. But none of that happened. Just the opposite, in fact.

Everywhere he looked people smiled at him: old ladies, especially, but younger ones, too, moms mostly. Even the men, the older ones in particular, smiled and nodded. Some would say hello while others would comment: “Look at that pretty girl!” and “Are you part of a show?” being the most common.

Not everyone smiled, of course. Most boys ignored him. Those that didn’t either sneered or rolled their eyes. A couple laughed or gave him weird little grins. That bothered him at first—he fought the urge to check his wig in case it had come loose, or some other sign that had given him away, but he eventually came to a realization: what everyone else was seeing wasn’t him as a boy, but Emily the girl. His mother was right. Like it or not, Ethan was nowhere to be seen.

As if to confirm that revelation, Ethan just happened to catch his reflection in a dressing mirror at an antique booth—seeing the pretty blonde child in pink and white was somewhat reassuring if not unnerving. He looked younger than his twelve years, and nothing at all like the boy he was beneath his mother’s petticoat and dress. Emily’s petticoat and dress. That was good news, he guessed, but it also unnerved him a bit.

Is it that easy? he wondered. How can they not see me?

Still, that single moment helped him push aside his fears and he began handing out fliers with more confidence. He’d hold one up, mumble something about “Collen’s Creations” and surprisingly, it would disappear. He held up another, cleared his throat and said, “Collen’s Creations, custom dresses! Would you like a flier?”

It took a while—a several rejections—but he soon had a routine: find an older lady looking in his direction, approach her, smile sweetly and do a little twirl while saying—in a lilting, almost musical voice—“Do you like my dress? My mother made it for me. She can make one just like it for your little girl.”

He was nearly out of fliers before he got to the concession stand.

Waiting his turn in line, the cross-dressed boy was feeling more confident and a little bit proud of himself. He couldn’t wait to tell his mother what had happened. Just as she predicted, he was almost having fun.

Then the spell broke.

A chill went up his spine when a voice he recognized floated from beside him.

“Oh my gosh, look at that,” a girl drawled.

“Ew! You have to be kidding me!” sneered another.

It was Tara Winston and Maddy Franks—both schoolmates from seventh grade—each with a plastic cup beaded in condensation, both wearing the typical preteen girl summer uniform—crop top T-shirt, short shorts and sandals, long hair tied back in ponytails.

“That’s… a lot of lace,” Maddy said, not even trying to hide her scorn. “You’d never see me in something like that.”

“Who even wears that stuff?” Tara laughed. “Like, hello, Little Miss Cupcake.”

Maddy giggled. “She looks like she’s about to have tea with the Queen.”

Ethan faced straight ahead, pretending to not hear them, sorting through his remaining fliers. The curly wig and rosettes suddenly feeling gaudy and childish. He could feel a bead of sweat trickle down his back into his panties.

Oh gosh! I just knew this would happen! What do I do when they recognize me? What do I say? Do I run away? Cry? Call for my mom…

“Do you think she actually likes dressing like that?” Tara asked. “I wonder who she is? She looks almost our age, but… wow.”

“Maybe her mom makes her. I mean, she’s kinda cute, but…” Maddy wrinkled her nose. “No thanks.”

“Whatever,” Tara scoffed.

Maddy snorted. “Yeah, whatever.”

They drifted off, smug with themselves, already gossiping about someone else.

Ethan exhaled slowly. They hadn’t recognized him. They hadn’t seen him at all—just a prissy stranger in a dress. Somehow that stung almost as much.

Wow, girls are mean! he thought wryly.

He arrived back at the booth carrying two orange soda pops, two small bags of caramel popcorn, flier-free.

Colleen beamed with happiness to see him. “I got a lot of traffic while you were away. You’re apparently very popular. Everyone kept saying how they saw you in that dress and they just had to come over to see what all the fuss was about. I’ve got so many orders I don’t know what to do with them all.”

“That’s good, Mother.” Ethan smiled weakly. “I ran out of fliers.”

Colleen looked at him carefully. “Everything alright… Emily?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, but his hands were trembling as he took a sip of his soda and prepared to hand out more fliers.

 

* * *
 

By mid-afternoon, the booths buzzed like hives, Colleen’s Creations among the busiest. Ethan’s attention was split between answering questions and scanning the crowd for more familiar faces. Which is why he almost missed the tall shadow that fell across the booth.

When he turned, his breath caught.

Mrs. Julia Campbell. The most popular teacher at Abraham Lincoln Middle School. And the crush of every teenaged boy—and every adult man—who saw her.

Even out of the classroom, she was unmistakable—tall, confident, the sun turning her blonde hair into a halo. Her heavy breasts strained against a crisp white sleeveless blouse tucked into a snug navy skirt that showed off her shapely posterior; tan leather sandals and a tote bag slung over one shoulder completed her look. She moved like she belonged everywhere.

Julia browsed the rack nearest the entrance, fingers brushing over daisy trim and smocked bodices, until Colleen’s cheerful voice drew her in.

“Looking for something special?” she asked. “Oh, Julia, it’s you. I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you… it’s been a crazy day.”

“Colleen! It’s good to see you. This is your booth?” She looked around. “I don’t suppose Ethan is here—”

“Oh, he’s close by,” Colleen grinned. “Yes, this is our little money-maker. Ever since the divorce I’ve struggled to make ends meet. Though after today I don’t think I’ll have much to worry about. We’re swamped, which is a good thing.”

“I can see that. I had to wait for the crowd to thin out before coming over. These dresses are all so amazing. The craftsmanship, the designs, so classic, but also original.”

“So, you were looking for something—”

“For my niece’s birthday,” Julia smiled. “She’s just turned six, so I thought something sweet and old-fashioned might suit her. She loves playing dress up.”

Colleen gestured toward Ethan, who was trying in vain to hide at the back of the booth. “This style has been our most popular today. My, um… daughter Emily is modeling it.”

Julia frowned for a moment, thinking. “Your… daughter? I thought Ethan was an only…” She paused, looked at Ethan, then saw the smirk on Colleen’s face. “Oh, I see.”

Ethan bit his lip as his mother snapped her fingers for him to come closer. His skin prickled under the wig and he felt the sudden urge to run for the bathroom.

“Hello, Mrs. Campbell,” he managed, his voice light and trembling.

“Smile, sweetheart,” Colleen cooed. She put her hand against the small of Ethan’s back and gave him a gentle shove. “You want to impress your teacher, not depress her.”

Julia gave a little laugh. Her smile warmed, but her eyes—in full schoolteacher mode—studied the anxious boy a shade too long.

“Well, isn’t that a lovely dress,” she cooed. “Do you like wearing it—Emily, is it?”

Ethan felt his stomach flutter as Colleen gave him a little nudge. “Yes, ma’am,” he squeaked. “I like… it, um, very much.”

“You look quite comfortable in it.” Julia smirked. “And the fit? Shoulders, waist—all fine?”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Very fine.”

“I just adore the fullness of the skirt. Is the petticoat sewn into it?” She stepped closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. “Does it twirl?”

Colleen laughed softly. “Emily, give Mrs. Campbell one of your little twirls.”

Ethan lifted the hem with one hand and slowly spun around, just as he’d done all day—the skirt and petticoat swirled in a cloud of lace.

Julia fought the urge to laugh. “Oh my! He… er, she does that so beautifully! Well, done, Emily.”

Colleen beamed. “We practiced quite a bit before coming here today. Didn’t we, Emily?”

The cross-dressed boy lowered his eyes. “Yes, Mother.”

“Perfect,” Julia murmured. Then, with a glance that made his stomach drop, she said, very softly, “Do you plan to wear it to school this year?”

His mouth went dry. “No, ma’am. Just… helping my mother.”

“That’s too bad. I think seeing you in school wearing such a pretty dress would be fun. I’ll have to talk to your mother about that.”

Ethan got so nervous he hiccupped. Colleen gave a little laugh. The teacher grinned and nodded.

“Well, he… she’s sold me on it. I’ll take one exactly like this in a six.” She raised an eyebrow and gave Ethan a smug, knowing look: “You make a beautiful little girl, Emily. The prettiest I’ve seen all day.”

Colleen wrote the order with a satisfied nod. “She’s so helpful, too. My best salesgirl.”

“I can see why.” Julia shot him a wink. “Say hello to your brother for me, would you, Miss Emily?”

“Y-yes, m-ma’am,” the cross-dressed boy croaked. Before he realized what he’d done, he’d dipped into a Penelope Whitaker-approved curtsy. “I… I’ll do that.”

“My goodness,” the teacher said, more to herself than to either the mother or the son. “Absolutely amazing… and so charming.”

Colleen beamed. Ethan stood still, feeling the weight of Julia Campbell’s parting smile long after she disappeared into the crowd.

 

* * *
 

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. A grandmother bought two dresses “because I couldn’t decide.” Two more women bought outfits—dresses, petticoats and bonnets—for their daughters. More than a few asked if Emily did birthday parties. Little girls shyly asked her to help them try on bonnets. But every so often, Ethan’s gaze flicked to the crowd, occasionally catching sight of a tall blonde figure lingering in the distance.

Mrs. Campbell never returned to the booth. She didn’t have to. She’d made her presence known and it haunted the cross-dressed boy the remainder of the day.

By closing time, the racks were bare, Colleen’s order book full. She packed the few leftover dresses while Ethan carefully boxed up the accessories. Together they took down the banner, the final act of the day.

“Well,” she said, tucking the cashbox under her arm, “we’ve had a wonderful day. We won’t have to worry about our bills for a while. And you, little mister, are definitely getting your own bank account. You can thank Emily for that.” She gave him a wink and laughed.

“I feel like I’ve lived seven lives today,” he croaked as they walked to the car.

“Now you know how I feel after PTA meetings.”

He blinked at her. “Is this my life now?”

She laughed. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just for the summer. Who knows?”

That wasn’t exactly the answer he wanted to hear. Frustrated, he fought the urge to run ahead, but he knew the car was locked and he’d have to wait anyway. Besides, running in a dress like this was never a good idea.

And so the cross-dressed boy walked alongside his mother, impatient and exhausted, pulling the little cart carrying their remaining dresses and supplies. He looked forward to getting home and out of his—Emily’s—clothes. His wig itched. His Mary Janes pinched. His dress was damp with sweat. His bloomers drooped and his panties had ridden up his crack.

And somewhere in his head, Mrs. Campbell’s voice—I’ll have to talk to your mother about that—played on a loop. Over and over again.
 

Next up: The Hostess with the Mostest

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

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 Seven: Rainy Day Games

 

Ethan’s aunt and cousin have some fun at his expense.
 

The rain hammered the windshield like thrown pebbles as Colleen’s station wagon pulled to the curb in front of Aunt DeeDee’s modest brick bungalow. Ethan sat huddled on the passenger seat, arms folded over his chest, scowling as if the weather were his personal enemy.

“Smile, honey,” Colleen said, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s just a few hours. I’ll pick you up before dinner.”

“But why do I have to stay here? Dani’s probably busy.”

“She’s your cousin, and DeeDee has been wanting to see you. Besides—” Colleen flashed a sly grin— “it’ll do you good to spend time with other people, instead of moping around the house.”

Ethan sighed. “I’m not moping.”

“You absolutely are. Now go. Love you!”

Before he could protest further, Colleen leaned across him, opened the door, and gave him a gentle shove into the torrential rain. Ethan scampered past his aunt’s vintage muscle car and up the walkway, his canvas sneakers squelching in the puddles, while Colleen waved and drove off into the storm.

Inside, Aunt DeeDee was waiting, one hand on her hip, the other holding a lit cigarette whose smoke curled above her short fiery red hair. A pair of cat-eye glasses perched halfway down her nose. Most important, she wore black slacks and a snug red sweater that enhanced her hour-glass form and tended to attract the attention of males of all ages.

“Well, if it isn’t the storm-tossed sailor himself,” she said, flicking ash into a dish. She caught saw her nephew staring in an all-too-familiar way and scoffed. “Hey, eyes up here, little mister! What do you think you’re looking at?”

Ethan blushed. “Sorry, Aunt DeeDee,” he mumbled. “I, um, was just thinking.”

“Is that what you call it?” DeeDee sighed. “Men. Ya’ll the same. Well, come on in. Dani’s in the den. I’ll get you a towel. You look like a drowned rat.”

“I’m not drowning,” Ethan mumbled, stomping water off his shoes.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

 

* * *
 

The den smelled of coffee, cigarette smoke, and hairspray. Dani sprawled on the couch, long legs crossed, munching Doritos while the television played an old episode of American Bandstand. She wore faded jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with a snarling wolf.

“Hey, Ethan.” She gave him a lazy wave, orange powder dusting her fingertips. “Nice drowned rat look.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, charming,” Aunt DeeDee said. She went into the attached powder room and came out, tossing a terry cloth towel to Ethan. “Don’t you or your mom own an umbrella or something?”

“We didn’t know it was going to be this bad.”

“We ought to get you into some dry clothes.” Her lips formed a wicked smile. “Hey, since we’re trapped in here by the monsoon, how about we go through some old things I found in Dani’s closet. There ought to be something in there that will fit you. Lord knows she’ll never wear’em again.”

“You got that right!” Dani grinned. “Sissy here can have them.”

Ethan blinked. “Me? But… I’m a boy.”

“That’s debatable.”

“You shut up!”

“Make me, Sissy!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, will you two knock it off?” DeeDee laughed, waving the smoke away. “They’re just clothes, Princess. And you always look so sweet in something a little… different.” She cocked an eyebrow at him, smirking. “Besides, your mother would love it.”

“I knew it,” Ethan said, slumping into an armchair. “This is a conspiracy.”

Dani laughed. “Don’t look at me. I’m not the one saving my old skirts and dresses. But hey—it might be fun.”

Ethan gaped at her. “Fun?”

Dani shrugged. “Yeah. I mean, it’s not like we’re going anywhere.”

Aunt DeeDee disappeared down the hallway and returned moments later carrying a cardboard box overflowing with fabric in every color of the rainbow. Pink tulle, white cotton dresses, skirts with sunflowers, blouses with tiny embroidered cherries.

“Okay,” she declared, dumping the box on the coffee table, “fashion show time.”

Ethan recoiled as though she’d dumped a box of live snakes. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Oh, hush.” DeeDee leaned down, hands on her knees, peering at him. “You think I’m gonna let these cute little things go to waste? Dani, help me out here.”

“Come on, Ethan,” Dani said, flipping her long, auburn ponytail over her shoulder. “It’s raining. It’s not like anybody’ll see. Except me and Mama. And we’ve both already seen you in dresses before.”

“That was different.”

“How?” Dani demanded, grinning.

“It… it just was!”

DeeDee tapped her cigarette into the ashtray and picked up a soft pink sundress. “Look at this one. Remember this, Dani? Wore it to that ice cream social when you were nine. Ethan, hold it up to yourself.”

“No!”

Dani snatched it and pressed it against his chest. “Admit it, you’d look adorable.”

Ethan tried to twist away, but DeeDee gently grabbed his shoulders. “We’re not asking you to wear it in public. Humor us, kid.”

He clenched his teeth, cheeks flaming. “Fine. One thing. That’s it.”

DeeDee and Dani exchanged triumphant smirks.

Moments later, Ethan found himself standing in the little powder room, stripping off his wet T-shirt and jeans. He was using his towel to finish drying off when the door opened and DeeDee stuck her head in.

“Oooo, nice whitey-tighties, Princess.” She looked him up and down and winked. “Hey, here’s a pack of undies that I found in the box. Never been worn. Leave your stuff on the floor and I’ll put them in the dryer when you’re done changin’.”

Ethan took the plastic package and sighed. “Of course,” he muttered. It held three pairs of girl’s panties, one yellow, one pink and the other bright red.

A moment later he stood in the cramped room wearing the yellow briefs. Little bows were sewn into the waistband. He tried not to think about them as he stared at the sundress dangling from the towel hook. It was baby pink with tiny cap sleeves and a gently flared skirt. He took a deep breath, as though plunging into ice water, and slipped it over his head.

The fabric slid down his torso, cool and whisper-light. The skirt floated out high above his knees, swishing as he moved. He turned to look in the mirror. A boy with damp hair stared back—a boy in a pink sundress.

“Oh God,” he muttered.

From outside the door, Dani’s voice rang out: “Come on, Emily. Let’s see!”

“Shut up!”

He emerged into the den, scowling, arms wrapped tightly around himself. DeeDee and Dani both let out squeals.

“Oh my God!” DeeDee said. “Look at you! Like a little Shirley Temple.”

“I hate you both,” Ethan grumbled. “I’m moving to Australia.”

Dani hooted. “You always say that, but you never do.”

“Oh, hush. Turn around, Princess,” DeeDee commanded.

He turned slowly, face burning.

His cousin grinned. “I wonder if…” She flipped up his skirt and burst out laughing. “Ha! I got it right, he put on the yellow ones! You owe me a dollar, Mama.”

DeeDee frowned. “I was sure he’d go for the red ones.”

“Cute,” Dani said. “Next dress, Sissy!”

Ethan crossed his arms in defiance. “I said one thing!”

But Dani was already digging in the box. “Nope. You’ve unleashed the beast.”

Over the next half-hour, the flustered boy was shuffled in and out of the bathroom like a mannequin on wheels. A white cotton dress with little red roses. A sleeveless yellow dress with a pleated skirt. A pale green blouse paired with a navy skirt.

Every time he stepped out, DeeDee let out a delighted “Awww!” while Dani whistled or clapped.

“See?” DeeDee said, fussing with the collar of a frilly party dress with a tutu for a skirt. “You’ve got the figure for it.”

“I don’t have a figure,” Ethan hissed.

“Sure you do,” Dani said. “A little one.”

“Traitor.”

Finally, DeeDee declared, “One last thing.” She rummaged in the box and emerged with a pink headband with a comically large satin bow. She clamped it onto Ethan’s head.

“There,” she said, turning him to face the mirror. “Perfect.”

Ethan glared. “I look like a birthday cake.”

“You look precious,” DeeDee said. “Dani, put on some music.”

Dani grabbed the remote and scrolled through the channels until she landed on a music video. The opening beat of a pop song thudded through the speakers—a girl group, bright and glittery, singing about independence and fun.

“Oooh!” DeeDee crowed. “Come on, kids. Dance par-tay!”

“Absolutely not,” Ethan protested.

But DeeDee was already pulling him into the middle of the room. “Don’t be a wet blanket!”

“Yeah, Ethan,” Dani chimed in. “Live a little!”

Between the two of them, Ethan found himself bouncing awkwardly to the music, the fluffy tutu of his party dress swirling around his hips, showing flashes of his panties, headband threatening to fall off. DeeDee did a shoulder shimmy beside him, her breasts wobbling, cigarette balanced precariously between her lips, while Dani spun in circles, hair flying.

By the second song, Ethan felt himself loosen. The music was catchy, the rain drumming against the windows created a safe, hidden world. He tried a little twirl. DeeDee whooped and grabbed his hand, spinning him in a circle. Dani cackled and joined in, three of them moving in a clumsy triangle.

After a while they collapsed onto the couch in a heap of giggles. Ethan sprawled out, arms and legs akimbo, breathless. His lace-trimmed undies showed but he was too tired to give a care.

“You,” DeeDee said, pointing at him, “are fabulous!”

Ethan shook his head, cheeks flushed. “I’m never speaking to either of you again.”

“Sure, sure,” Dani said, nudging him. “Admit it. You’re having fun, aren’t you, Sissy?”

He rolled his eyes. “Maybe a little.”

Dani grinned. “Good enough for me.”

The day went quick and fast. DeeDee fixed a frozen pizza while Ethan and Dani danced some more. After lunch the fashion show continued, the two females clapping and whistling as the blushing boy modeled several more of Dani’s hand-me-downs, including a purple polka dot mini-dress that looked quite becoming.

DeeDee crowed: “You could pass for a young Audrey Hepburn in that get up.”

“Who the heck is that?”

“Big movie star, frail little thing, though, short hair, cuter than snot.” She made a kissy face and winked. “Almost as cute as you.”

Ethan frowned. “I’m not that cute.”

“That’s what you think.”

DeeDee insisted on brushing his hair and tying it up with a pink scarf. He drew the line when she broke out the red lipstick and mascara.

“Nope, not no way, not no how!” he insisted.

DeeDee pouted. “Spoil sport.”

The trio was finally danced out and Ethan sat at the kitchen table watching mother and daughter play cards when the front door opened and his mother appeared.

“Well, what do we have here?” Colleen smirked to see her son clad in the polka dot dress and scarf. “Looks like I missed all the fun.”

Ethan felt his face burn. He shouldn’t have been embarrassed, but the circumstances made him feel extra vulnerable.

“I, um, better go change.”

DeeDee and Dani were filling Colleen in on the events of the day when Ethan emerged from the bathroom, still wearing the polka dot dress. In his hands were the clothes he arrived in—soaking wet.

“Uh-oh.” DeeDee looked genuinely apologetic. “Sorry, Princess. Guess we forgot to put them in the dryer.”

“Yeah, right.” The frustrated boy pursed his lips. “You did that on purpose.”

“Ethan! That’s no way to talk to your Aunt DeeDee!” Colleen gave him a hard stare. “Apologize right this instant!”

“But…” He started to raise a fuss but thought better of it. “Sorry, Aunt DeeDee. I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s all right, little mister.” DeeDee pulled him in for a hug, pressing his face in between her breasts—triggering a boyish squirm and a smile. “I didn’t either,” she added, kissing him on top of his head. “My bad.”

Before leaving Ethan was given a pair of white sandals. “I ain’t wearing those things again,” Dani said with a grin. “You can’t run in them and they’re terrible for skateboarding.”

DeeDee laughed. “But they sure go good with those polka dots, Audrey Hepburn.”

 

* * *
 

In the car Ethan sulked while his mother hummed along with the radio. “So, you had a pretty profitable day at Aunt DeeDee’s, hmm? There’s quite a collection of outfits in that box.”

“Yeah, they made me try on everything. Not. Fun. At. All.”

Colleen shot a glance at her son and grinned. “That’s odd. From what I heard you had all sorts of fun. Dancing and pizza and a fashion show. Sounds to me like you were the center of attention all day long.”

“I guess.” Ethan looked over at his mother. “Do they like me, Mom?”

“Do they?— What kind of question is that?”

He fiddled with the hem of his dress. “Well, Dani’s always calling me a sissy and Aunt DeeDee calls me princess. It’s like they kind of like me but they like making fun of me even more.”

“And you don’t make fun of them?”

Ethan frowned. “I do make fun of Dani. Sometimes. But I’m too scared of DeeDee to make fun of her.”

Colleen laughed. “That shows good judgment. DeeDee isn’t one to tangle with. But I wouldn’t worry, sweetheart. She got a lot of grief from me and your Auntie Vivian when she was growing up. Vivian was hard on her and I wasn’t much better. I guess she’s just passing it down.”

The tires made a humming noise on the wet pavement.

“You know, that’s what DeeDee called me when she was little. Sissy, I mean.” Colleen smiled at the memory. “I was her big sister—the one that she spent the most time with. So up until high school I was her ‘Sissy.’”

“Huh. I never knew that.” The cross-dressed boy nodded. “Sooo… Aunt DeeDee does like me, then?”

“Oh, honey, she adores you! More than you’ll ever know. If it seems like she’s giving you a hard time, that’s just how she shows it. Trust me, if she didn’t care about you she’d either give you a really hard time—and I do mean hard… I once saw her give a grown man a black eye—or she’d just ignore you.”

Ethan thought for a moment and nodded again. “I guess she must love me a lot to make me go through all this. Now I got more panties and dresses than I know what to do with.”

Colleen raised an eyebrow, a smug, mischievous smile curling her lips. “Oh, don’t worry about that, baby. I have plenty of ideas… tons, in fact.”

Ethan nodded. That’s what I’m afraid of, he thought to himself.

 
Next up: The Piano Lesson

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 Eight: The Piano Lesson

Ethan’s piano teacher gets a pleasant surprise.
 

The grandfather clock in the hallway struck two with a solemn chime just as the screen door creaked open and closed. Mrs. Karen Gilkey, dignified and upright in her modest navy day dress, paused in the front hallway and smoothed her gloves. She always dressed as if she might be called upon to judge a recital at any moment, her gray-streaked hair pinned into a flawless chignon, a small gold brooch on her collar the only concession to ornament.

Penelope appeared from the sitting room like a hostess gliding on air. “Karen, my dear,” she called out, her voice musical with delight, “you’re right on time, as ever.”

Karen smiled and extended her gloved hand. “You know me, Penelope. Tardiness is a sin next to slouching and flat-fingered playing.”

From the parlor, Colleen called, “Welcome, Mrs. Gilkey! Your student will be right with you—we’re running just a teensy bit behind today.”

“Oh?” Karen raised a single eyebrow, her impatience already evident. Another day, another boy who doesn’t want to practice. Oh well…

“I can be patient,” she said, her smile insincere at best.

Penelope leaned in with the kind of smirk only retired teachers are allowed to wear. “Forgive us, but—well, you’ll understand in a moment,” she whispered.

And then, as if summoned by magic, a small figure appeared at the far end of the hallway. The soft patter of ballet slippers preceded the shy silhouette of a young girl, framed in the doorway with hesitant grace.

Ethan had been transformed. Though his teacher hadn’t quite grasped that… yet.

The delicate white tea dress—one of Colleen’s creations, of course—with its yellow rosebud pattern looked vintage, with puffed chiffon sleeves and scalloped lace along a low cut neckline that left much of the boy’s chest bare. A narrow sash tied in a wide bow at the back gave the skirt an elegant flare. Beneath the hem, layers of stiff petticoats supported the silhouette, and the sheen of the frilly white knee-length socks caught the light with every nervous step.

But it was the hair that completed the vision. The blonde wig had been painstakingly curled into soft, springy ringlets, tied on either side with overly large pastel yellow satin bows. The youth’s cheeks were subtly flushed, either from rouge or embarrassment—or both.

Karen gasped at the sight. It took her a moment to regain her composure. She looked at the two women beside her, then back at the feminine child before her.

“Why, hello there. I was expecting Ethan, so who are—”

Colleen gave a little laugh. “Oh, that’s right, you haven’t met my daughter, have you? Karen, this is Emily.”

“Your… daughter?” The music teacher blinked. Shen then smiled, her lip curling up with delight as she realized what she was seeing. “Oh my… Emily, is it?”

Ethan gave a small curtsy, his hands trembling just slightly at his sides. “Yes, Mrs. Gilkey,” he said softly. “I… I’m ready for my lesson.”

Karen turned to Colleen and Penelope and mouthed, adorable. Both nodded, pleased.

Colleen and Penelope took their seats in the parlor, forming a quiet but attentive audience as Ethan approached the upright piano—he gracefully and quickly slid his hands under his skirts as he took his seat, his posture unusually perfect. Clearly, someone had been coached.

“Let’s begin with the C major scale, shall we?” Karen prompted, taking position on the bench beside the cross-dressed boy with a practiced air.

Ethan’s slim fingers fluttered hesitantly over the keys. It was a simple exercise, and yet his pale pink fingernails—which his mother had painted especially for this occasion—made the performance oddly mesmerizing. The soft clack of the keys under his smooth, curved fingers gave the illusion that he had always been a girl taught to play with decorum and care.

“Better,” Karen noted, adjusting his right elbow with a firm but gentle touch. “Much better than last time. Lift your wrist slightly. There. Again.”

The notes came clearer this time, more confident.

From her seat on the sofa Penelope said softly, “Emily, what do we say when someone helps us?”

Ethan hesitated, his fingers still resting on the keys.

“Emily,” Penelope repeated, gently but firmly.

The cross-dressed boy looked over his shoulder. “Th–Thank you, Mrs. Gilkey. Sorry, Mrs. Gilkey. Sorry, Auntie.”

Karen chuckled, amused and utterly charmed. She glanced over at the two women and bit her lips with delight. “That’s all right, dear. And you’re welcome. Now, let’s try that Satie piece again. Your mother said you’ve been practicing and I want to see how far you’ve come.”

As the lesson continued, something shifted. Ethan, in his disguise, seemed to settle into the role. His playing improved, his posture remained impeccable, and when Karen asked him questions, he answered promptly—and remembered his manners.

Karen smiled in quiet wonder. “This is... quite the transformation.”

Colleen murmured, “He’s always more focused… on everything, it seems, when he’s dressed properly.”

Penelope added, “It’s as if Emily’s fingers know how to play, even if Ethan’s don’t.”

And at the piano, the blushing boy simply nodded as the piece ended.

 

* * *
 

The final arpeggio fell into silence.

For a moment, only the ticking of the hallway clock could be heard as Karen Gilkey regarded her student. Her hand still rested lightly on the edge of the piano, one gloved finger tapping a silent tempo on the lacquered wood.

“Well then,” she said at last. “That was the cleanest run-through of Mr. Satie’s Gymnopédie I’ve heard in some time. This is not normally something I’d recommend for my younger students, but your mother suggested it—”

“I have my reasons,” Colleen said. “It’s a favorite of my sister. I… we want to surprise her.”

“So I understand.” Karen nodded. “It’s not perfect, but still… amazing. I think your sister will be pleased. Well done, Emily!”

The cross-dressed boy—still seated neatly, knees together and hands folded in his lap—blushed so deeply that the pink in his cheeks rivaled the bows atop his ringlets. “Thank you, Mrs. Gilkey,” he whispered.

Karen smiled kindly, but with a touch of the knowing severity all good teachers possess. “Tell me something, dear—do you practice more now than you used to?”

Ethan nodded shyly.

“And are you more focused now that you’ve—how shall I put it—adopted a more disciplined presentation?”

A pause. Then another nod, more reluctant. “Yes, ma’am.”

Penelope, sipping her tea like a duchess enjoying a private play, leaned toward Colleen. “Isn’t she precious when she’s honest?”

Colleen laughed softly. “She is. And so polite these days. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Ethan—Emily, he reminded himself—turned on the bench to face them, keeping his knees demurely pressed together. “Yes, Mother. I try.”

Karen removed one glove and smiled. “Well, I for one am thrilled. In all the years I’ve taught piano, I can count on one hand the number of boys who ever took instruction seriously. And I must admit, Emily shows more promise than Ethan ever did.”

The room went still.

Ethan blinked. The words had landed like a snowflake with the weight of a brick.

Karen, realizing the line she’d just crossed, looked down at him with a half-smile and softened her tone. “What I mean, dear, is that you seem happier when you’re playing this way. More refined. It’s as though the music suits you.”

Ethan looked down at his petticoats. At his pearlescent pink painted fingernails.

And then he said, softly, “Maybe it does.”

Penelope beamed. “Now there’s a good girl.”

Karen nodded with finality. “Then it’s settled. I’d like Emily to be my student going forward. If that’s agreeable to you, Colleen?”

Colleen nodded without hesitation. “Absolutely. I think we can all agree she’s thriving. Don’t you agree, darling?”

Ethan's hands fidgeted in his lap. Part of him wanted to object—to remind everyone that it was Ethan, and not Emily, who had done the playing, that this was all just a strange game. But another part—the part who liked the feel of satin against his skin, who felt oddly proud when he curtsied without stumbling … who liked what he saw in the mirror—that part knew quite well there was no use fighting.

Especially when they were all smiling at him like that.

“I... I understand,” he said. “I mean, yes, Mother.”

Using her ungloved hand, Karen patted Ethan’s bare shoulder affectionately. “This has been a delightful surprise. But don’t get lazy, all right, young lady? I expect to hear progress next week.”

“Yes, Mrs. Gilkey.”

Colleen cleared her throat and gave her son the stare.

Ethan sighed and took his cue. “Sorry, Mother,” he whispered as he stood up. He addressed his teacher once more, primly and precisely plucking the hem of his dress and performing a perfect curtsy. “Thank you, Mrs. Gilkey. I’ll do my best.”

The music teacher gasped, then bit her lip. How does a twelve year old boy know how to do that, she wondered.

“You are most welcome, Emily. And I’m sure you will.”

Colleen touched the music teacher’s arm. “Do you have time for tea? There’s fresh lemon cookies. And you’ll get to see Emily’s other talents if you stay.”

Karen Gilkey looked at her watch and nodded. “Yes, my next lesson isn’t until later. I think I’d like that. Very much.” Her eyes twinkled at the prospect of seeing what else her student could do.

Penelope clucked her tongue. “Excellent! This will be fun.” She waved her hand as if she were the queen making a decree. “Off you go, Emily, and get everything ready. Let’s have those yummy cookies you baked this morning. But first, put on an apron, you silly thing. You don’t want to ruin your new frock.”

Ethan’s face reddened. “Yes, Auntie Penelope.”

As he turned to leave, his petticoats gave a little swish that made the three ladies chuckle. Karen looked over at Colleen and Penelope and raised a brow. “You ladies are miracle workers.”

Colleen smiled modestly. Penelope was more proud. “Oh no, my dear. We simply gave him the right setting, the right music… and a little push in the proper direction.”

The music teacher grinned. She couldn’t wait to tell her girlfriend about this.

 
Next up: Mama’s Boy

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 Nine: Mama's Boy

 

Who's the mama's boy?
 

The spring afternoon was all blue sky and shouts of boys.

Ethan kept his head down, his steps clipped and steady. The brown paper bag thumped lightly against his leg as he passed two boys in a front yard tossing a baseball. One of them—twelve year old Marcus Epperson—grinned and lifted his glove.

“Hey, Ethan! Wanna play catch?”

Ethan didn’t break stride. “Can’t. I have to go home. My mother’s expecting me.”

He could feel them watching his retreat. One of them muttered something. The other snorted.

“See? Told you. Mama’s boy.”

Ethan’s ears burned, but he didn’t turn around. He simply walked faster.

A block later, he passed two more boys crouched over a muddy puddle. “Hey Ethan! Wanna see a dead frog?”

He glanced over. A pale little shape floated between reeds and mud.

“Maybe later,” he said softly, and walked on. “My mom—”

He caught himself, but it was too late. Laughter, then the inevitable:

“—Mama’s boy.”

Past the firehouse, where the doors were open and a couple of firemen washed the truck. Past the ice cream shop, where the bell jingled behind laughing girls with cones. Past the video arcade, all buzzing lights and digital explosions. He didn’t even look.

When he finally reached the house, it was still and quiet. His mother’s car wasn’t in the driveway. He let himself in, locked the door, and went into the kitchen. There he put away his purchases, butter, a can of condensed milk, a box of baking soda and a bag of lemons.

He then climbed the stairs quickly—almost guiltily. He stood before the mirror over his dresser and stared at himself for a moment. The words still echoed in his head—

“Mama’s boy…”

He sighed and continued on with his task. Undress down to his birthday suit. Fold his clothes neatly. And then dash into the bathroom.

Wash face and underarms. Brush teeth. Comb hair. He even trimmed the stray hair sticking out over his left ear.

At the top of the stairs he pause, then called out cautiously:

“Mom? Aunt DeeDee?” Pause. “Dani?”

Satisfied he was alone—it wouldn’t do if anyone, especially his cousin, saw what he was up to—he padded barefoot and bare bottom naked downstairs to the sewing room.

It smelled like perfume and starch and something warm—something hers.

Ethan dug into a specific drawer and pulled out a small piece of delicate yellow cloth. He pursed his lips and stepped into the lace trimmed panties one foot at time. He pulled them up his legs and over his thighs, snapping the elastic around his waist with a familiar and—foreboding—sense of satisfaction.

He stood in the middle of the room for a long time, arms folded, staring at the rack of garments. Most were too big, or too frilly. But one… the blue floral one… that one they’d finished together just last night.

He bit his lip. Remembered how she’d smiled at him in it. Remembered her saying, “You could wear this one to the theater or on a picnic or a birthday party. It’s so fresh and sweet on you, baby.”

He reached for it.

 

* * *
 

Twenty minutes later, Colleen stepped through the front door, her arms full of groceries and a crick in her neck from traffic.

She heard the hum before she even set the bags down. Not the television. Not music.

Vacuuming?

What in the world?

She followed the sound into the parlor—and stopped.

There, maneuvering the vacuum with a serene, almost dreamy look on his face, was her son.

In the blue floral dress. With white knee socks. And Mary Janes. And—dear Lord—a blue and white bow clipped into his brushed, dark brown hair.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

“Ethan?”

He didn’t hear. The vacuum roared on.

She raised her voice. “Ethan!”

He jumped, then quickly turned it off. “Oh! Hello, Mother.” He looked almost startled to see her. “How are you?”

“I’m… fine,” she said cautiously. “You didn’t have to dress up today, sweetie. We finished that one last night, remember?”

“Oh, I know,” he said quickly. “I just thought it might be a good idea to, you know… test it out. Make sure it fits. And the seams are okay. And stuff.”

“…So you decided to vacuum in it?”

He blinked. “Was that wrong?”

“No, darling. No. I was just surprised.” She smiled slowly. “You ... it ... looks so… pretty.”

He shrugged, adjusting the shoulder strap slightly. “I think so, too.”

Ethan then pulled a little pink and red tube from a pocket in his dress; he popped the cap, put it between his fingers and expertly put a coat of balm over his lips. He smacked them together as he put the tube away and—seeing his mother watching—gave her a shy smile. Then he turned the vacuum back on and went right back to work—sweeping calmly between the chairs as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Colleen just stood there for a moment, hand still on her shopping bag, heart full of something soft and strange.

Something was happening. Something small, and quiet, and important.

And she would not be the one to interrupt it.

 

* * *
 

The brass bell over the pharmacy door jingled as Colleen waited her turn in line, Ethan standing behind her. Prescott’s was cool and quiet, the air smelling faintly of floor wax, cough drops, and the lilac perfume Mrs. Callahan always wore. Ethan hovered near the counter while his mother stopped to speak with Mr. Callahan in a low, quiet murmur.

He held her purse as she had handed it to him—a bright, colorful thing in a red and yellow rose print with a gold clasp—the strap hooked neatly in the crook of his elbow, his hand dangling at the wrist. He hadn’t even thought about it until he glanced down and realized he was carrying it the way Colleen had trained him: not gripped in his fist like a grocery bag, but hanging properly by his hip, the way ladies carried them.

His other hand held the pharmacy basket. He frowned at its contents: tampons, pads, a douche kit, a box of Midol, a little jar of cold cream… a bottle of Girl Crazy: Strawberry Jam Red nail polish. All very ordinary things for a woman or even a girl his age to buy. For a boy in jeans and a video game logo printed on his T-shirt, however…

He clenched his jaw. Compared to the indignities of the past few weeks—scrubbing away in gingham dresses and frilly aprons, secretly working as a model and maid named “Emily”—this was supposed to be easy. Almost a relief.

Almost.

The bell rang again. Ethan glanced up—and his stomach dropped.

Tara Winston and Maddy Franks. Of all people.

They breezed in with typical preteen girl arrogance, like they owned the place, Maddy swishing her ponytail, Tara already picking up the latest fashion magazine from the rack. Ethan tried to look busy, shifting the basket in his hand, adjusting the purse strap… doing his best to appear small, hidden. Maybe they wouldn’t notice—

“Oh, well, well, look who it is.” Tara’s sing-song voice was unmistakable. She looked at him over the top of the latest issue of Teen Vogue.

“See, Maddy? It’s Ethan!”

His throat tightened. Don’t look nervous. Just say hi. Act normal for once. You are normal, aren’t you? No? Okay, just pretend….

“Hi, Ethan,” Maddy crooned. “Shopping with your mother? How sweet.”

“I, um… er… yeah, I guess… so….”

They drifted closer, all bangles and bracelets, crop tops and smooth bare legs. The combined fragrance of their colognes tickled Ethan's nostrils. Tara’s eyes, sharp as a predator’s, landed on the purse hooked over his elbow.

“Love the handbag,” she said, head cocked. “Not really your style, though. Unless—” she gave a sly glance at Maddy “—you mean her style.”

Maddy grinned. “Emily’s.”

Heat crawled up Ethan’s neck. They noticed. Of course they noticed. I could hold a stick of gum and they’d find a way to laugh at it.

He shifted the purse hanging off his arm, trying to make it look casual, masculine even, but the harder he tried, the sillier he felt.

Then Tara leaned over his basket. “Ohhh, what have we here?” She plucked the box of tampons as if she’d struck gold. “Tampons? Really, Ethan? Since when do you need these?”

Maddy burst out laughing. “I’m more curious how he uses them.”

Tara picked up a pink and purple box. “Are you douching now, too, Ethan? Really?”

Both girls giggled so loud the other customers took notice. Including Colleen. Ethan shot his mother a desperate stare, his expression crying out: Please help! She smirked and resumed talking with the pharmacist.

Sighing, he turned to the two preteens and blurted, “They’re not mine, they’re for—”

“For Emily?” Tara cut in, eyes glittering.

Maddy snorted. “That sounds about right!”

“No, not me—my mother!” His voice cracked. Why can’t I ever sound calm? Why do I always sound guilty when I’m not?

“Ooooh,” Maddy dragged out the syllable. “So mama’s boy is out buying tampons and douche kits for Mommy.”

“How sweet!” Tara smirked. “Just like a mama’s boy.”

Ethan cringed. There it was again: Mama’s boy. He’d been hearing that a lot lately.

Mama’s boy.

Just the sound of it was enough to send a cold chill down his spine… and make his blood boil. And now two more of his classmates—the worst pair of gossips at Lincoln Middle School—were bandying it about… directly at him.

Mama’s boy.

“Is that what you are, Ethan?” Maddy cooed as she tickled his arm with a well-manicured pink fingernail. “Are you a… mama’s boy?” She stretched the words out like she was singing them.

“Ooo, look at him blush!” Tara crowed. “I think he actually likes being a mama’s boy. Almost as much as he likes being Emily.”

This time their laughter echoed throughout the store, attracting even more attention.

“Hey Ethan,” Maddy added slyly, “speaking of Emily, we had such a great time at Claire’s little party. You really put on a show.”

“Yeah,” Tara giggled. “Best maid service ever. Ten out of ten.”

Ethan’s arm squeezed against the purse strap. He couldn’t meet their eyes. Why did I ever agree to that? Why did I curtsy? Why did I play along?

“Um… thanks, I guess.”

“You’re really cute in that maid’s costume.” Tara leaned in close, her breath the scent of cinnamon chewing gum. “You could go into business—Maid For Hire!”

“Emily For Hire!” Maddy added excitedly. “Parties hosted, curtsying lessons, shopping assistant…”

“Ooo, shopping assistant! I really like that,” Tara said, not so kindly. “You could make a fortune on tampons alone.”

Laughter bubbled between them. More eyes stared in his direction. Ethan felt his stomach knot. If only his mother would finish talking, come to his rescue—

“So, who are your friends, sweetheart?”

His heart leapt—and then plummeted. Colleen’s voice, warm and amused, floated over from the counter. She was smiling, eyes twinkling. She wasn’t swooping in to save him; she was curious, eager to participate. Which meant trouble. For him.

Ethan swallowed. “Uh—these are—they’re um—”

“Mrs. Martin, hi!” Tara stepped forward, suddenly bright and respectful. “I’m Tara, and this is Maddy. We were in Ethan's seventh grade class, hope to be with him in eighth grade. We're just talking about Claire’s party. Your son was… hilarious.”

Maddy covered her mouth, giggling. “He’s such a natural. You should’ve seen him, Mrs. Martin. You’d have been proud, I’m sure. His ‘Emily’ costume was amazing! He was just adorable in it.”

Ethan shut his eyes. Please, no. Not this. Don’t—

“Oh, I wished I’d been there,” Colleen said, eyes twinkling, voice brimming with delight. “And yes, he does look cute when he dresses up as ‘Emily.’ Did he entertain you? Did you and the other girls have fun?”

“Absolutely,” Tara said, thrilled to have an adult ally. “We actually have pictures. Want to see?”

“Ooo, you do?” Colleen leaned closer, almost conspiratorial. “Yes, please.”

Maddy had her phone out in a flash, swiping through photos. “Here—look at this one, Mrs. Martin. Isn’t he the cutest little maid?”

“Here’s one of him curtsying,” Tara offered. "And another... and another... and another—"

Ethan groaned. “Tara… Mother—”

“Oh, don’t be like that, darling.” Colleen laughed, genuine and musical. “We’re just having a little fun.” She went from one phone to the other, slowly scrolling through the collection, pausing to consider each, a perpetual smirk plastered on her face.

“Mercy sakes, this is adorable!” She held up Maddy’s phone for Ethan to see: it was a selfie of him—in that silly maid costume—with Tara and Maddy, arms wrapped around his waist, each doing bunny ears behind his head.

How did I ever let this happen? he thought. Next thing she’ll do is—

“Would you mind sending me some of these?” She handed the phone back, shooting a mischievous side-long glance toward her son. “I can’t wait to show them to the rest of the family.”

“Of course!” Tara said eagerly. She took Colleen’s number and—whoosh!—the deed was done. Maddy quickly did the same. “Happy to be of service!” the two sang in chorus.

Traitors, Ethan thought, cheeks burning. Even Mother. Especially Mother.

Colleen slipped an arm around his shoulders, giving him a little squeeze. “Now, I couldn’t help overhearing—you girls called Ethan a mama’s boy.”

Tara hesitated. “We... we were just teasing…”

“Oh, I know that,” Colleen said sweetly. “The thing is, you’re not wrong. He is a mama’s boy. But he’s my mama’s boy.” She kissed the crown of Ethan's head, ignoring his squirm. “I don’t know what I’d do without him. He doesn’t just help me with my shopping… he does the housework and laundry, plus he’s learned to sew.” She gave him another kiss, this time on the cheek. “He’s such a good mama’s boy!”

The two girls looked at one another, sneering and giggling. This was gold as far as they were concerned.

“He sews, too?” Tara cooed, her face beaming. “Wow, he is so talented. Who knew?”

Colleen grinned. “He's the best seamstress ever. You should see the apron he just made. It’s as good as anything I've ever done.”

Maddy gloated over this news. “You made an apron, Ethan? All by yourself? Wow, you should be really proud of yourself.”

Ethan squirmed. “Yeah, well… it’s not much to look at... really.”

“Are you kidding me?” Colleen pulled out her phone and scrolled through her gallery. “Here girls, see for yourself. Didn’t he do a good job? Tell me that’s not the work of a professional seamstress.”

The photo showed Ethan wearing a floral print pinafore-style apron with ruffled sleeves and trim; heart-shaped pockets on either side gave it a cute, domestic flair. Underneath he wore a pink gingham frock with a Peter Pan collar and puffed sleeves, a pink satin holding back his hair. Tara and Maddy stared at the image, then at each other. Their glee was obvious, even to Colleen, though she pretended not to notice.

“It is very nice, Mrs. Martin.” Tara bit her lip, pretending to be serious. “Ethan, are you wearing a dress under that apron? It’s so cute!”

Maddy put her hand over her mouth in a weak attempt to hide her delight. “It is cute. Did you make that, too?”

The blushing boy shook his head. “No, that’s, um… one my mom… made… for me.”

“Oh, that old thing?” Colleen chuckled. “That’s one of Ethan’s housewife dresses. I made a few for him to do his chores in. You know, like a little housewife? He looks so sweet in it, doesn't he?”

“His housewife dress? I love that!” Tara nodded, nearly bursting with laughter. “And you're right, he does look sweet in it.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me one bit.” Maddy’s voice oozed with sarcasm. “I could tell just by looking at him—he’s definitely a mama’s boy. You're one lucky mama, Mrs. Martin.” She stared right at Ethan, her smug face triumphant.

Ethan was so embarrassed he felt dizzy. “Please, Mother—”

Colleen gave the girls a wink. “Oh yes, he's a mama's boy, all right—” She reached over and tapped his nose playfully. “You could even say that we’re best friends. Isn’t that right, my love?”

“Oh, that’s just great, Mrs. Martin.” Tara grinned. “I always heard a boy’s best friend should be his mother.”

“And you make such a cute couple!” Maddy declared, biting her lip so hard she might have drawn blood. “See ya, mama’s boy!”

“Yeah, bye-bye, mama’s boy!” Tara sneered.

The girls wandered toward cosmetics, already whispering, plotting how they’d tell Claire and the others. Ethan stood stiff, mortified, his mother’s arm still around him.

“Nice girls,” she cooed. “Pretty, too. They seem like a lot of fun.”

Ethan nodded, then shrugged. “I guess so—”

How can she smile like that? She knows what she just did. But she made it sound… almost nice?

“Here, darling,” Colleen said gently, adjusting the purse strap in the crook of his arm, “hold it properly. We’re going to check out now.”

The brass bell jingled as Tara and Maddy left, their laughter trailing out onto Main Street.

Ethan exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath. His mother gave his shoulder one last squeeze before steering him toward the cashier, humming softly to herself, entirely at ease.

Maybe that’s the worst part, Ethan thought miserably. She doesn’t mind at all. She actually likes it. And I… I can’t even tell if I hate it anymore.

 

* * *
 

The kitchen was hushed except for the faint clink of dishes and the rush of warm water over porcelain. Afternoon light slanted through the window above the sink, gilding the row of glasses on the drying rack. Ethan stood there in his little yellow gingham housewife dress, sleeves rolled neatly, the hem brushing against his knees each time he shifted from one slippered foot to the other. A scarf tied snugly around his hair, knotted into a rabbit-ear bow on top, kept stray wisps from his face. The whole get-up made him feel both silly and—though he would never say it aloud—comfortably tucked into his role.

The dishwater smelled faintly of lemon. He liked that smell—almost as much as he liked the taste of the cherry chapstick on his lips. It felt clean, bright, as though even he were being scrubbed fresh along with the plates. His hands moved in practiced rhythm: rinse, soap, scrub, rinse again, stack. The apron tied snugly at his waist was already damp with little splashes, but he didn’t mind. They were his splashes, his apron, his sink. The thought carried a tiny glow of ownership he hadn’t expected.

He hummed under his breath, half a tune he couldn’t quite place, and let the rhythm carry him. It wasn’t glamorous, wasn’t exciting, but the order of it soothed him: dirty to clean, chaos to tidiness, one thing made better with every turn of his wrist.

This is almost as fun as a video game, he thought wryly. Almost.

Beyond the windowpane, the real world played on. Children dashed across the yards, their shouts carrying through the open screen like bursts of freedom. A neighborhood baseball game, by the sound of it—someone calling for the ball, another swearing he was safe at second, laughter spilling into the late summer air. Ethan paused with a plate half-submerged in the suds. He could picture it perfectly: dust kicked up by sneakers, the sharp crack of the bat, the thrill of racing for home.

Once upon a time, he might have been out there with them. He missed it, in a way—the carefree laughter, the sun on his face, the clumsy joy of belonging to the game even if he wasn’t much good at it. But when he looked down at his yellow dress, at the foamy water swirling between his fingers, the strange comfort of the scarf tied tight on his head, he felt… different. Not relief exactly, not pride, but a steady sense of being where he was meant to be, even if it wasn’t where the other boys were.

Then a thought struck him, sour and sharp. What if Marcus Epperson, or Benji Thompson—or worse, Benji's younger sister, Lucy—barged through the back door right now? What if they needed a third baseman and decided to fetch him, only to find him like this—gingham dress, hairbow, apron damp, sleeves rolled while he scrubbed away like some little housewife? He imagined the stunned silence, the sudden laughter, the cruel nicknames that would follow him forever.

Mama’s boy, mama’s boy, Ethan is a sissssyyyyyy!

Mama’s boy, mama’s boy, Ethan is a sissssyyyyyy!

His cheeks burned hot at the thought, his chest tightening with dread. His life would be ruined. He’d never be able to step outside of the house again. They would know, everyone would know… the entire school, the whole world would know what he was. And he’d never be able to go back and fix it.

Mama’s boy, mama’s boy, Ethan is a sissssyyyyyy!

Mama’s boy! Mama’s boy! Ethan is a—

The back door banged open.

The dish slipped from his hands back into the sink, clattering. His breath caught. This was it—his nightmare come true.

He squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself for the worst.

This is it—they’re gonna see me and everybody’s gonna know the truth and I’m gonna have to move to Australia…

But instead of jeering voices, there came the rustle of paper sacks and the bright chatter of familiar tones. His mother stepped in first, arms full of bulging grocery bags from the farmer’s market. Auntie Penelope followed close behind, her wide basket brimming with corn still in husk, tomatoes shining red, peaches glowing in the afternoon light.

“Well, well,” Colleen said, eyes sparkling as she took in the sight before her. “What a sight to come home to. Our little homemaker, busy at his sink.”

Penelope set down her basket with a sigh of satisfaction and peered over Ethan’s shoulder. “And not a spot to be seen! Look at that shine, Colleen. I declare, he does better work than either of us ever managed at his age. A regular Cinderella, our boy.”

Ethan’s face flamed scarlet. He ducked his head and reached for another plate, trying to focus on the familiar rhythm: rinse, soap, scrub. “I was just… finishing up.”

Colleen brushed past, the scent of peaches following her, and bent to kiss the top of his scarfed head. “Mmm, lemon soap and dishwater. A proper domestic perfume,” she teased.

Penelope chuckled, eyes alight with mischief. “You look almost happy, my dear. Don’t tell me you’ve discovered you enjoy this?”

His mouth opened, closed, opened again. “I—I don’t mind it,” he admitted softly. The admission only deepened his blush.

“Oh, Colleen,” Penelope said warmly, “did you hear that? He doesn’t mind it. And judging by that blush, I’d say he even likes it.”

Colleen laughed gently, setting her groceries down on the counter. “Yes, look at him—doesn’t he look radiant?”

Penelope giggled. “He does, indeed!”

“Mother…” Ethan bristled. “That word—”

“Oh, I’m just teasing, darling. Seriously, you look happier than I’ve seen you in weeks.” Colleen laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Who would have thought such a thing?”

“I have to say, you are the luckiest woman I know.” Penelope wrapped her arms around Ethan’s shoulders, kissing him on the neck and the side of his face. “You’ve got yourself the best little mama’s boy!”

"Auntie, please... you're tickling me!"

"I know." The old woman giggled. "Isn't it fun?"

Ethan swallowed hard, ears burning, but as he slid the gleaming plate into the drying rack, a secret smile tugged at his lips.

Yes, he was a mama’s boy, he conceded. Even if he would never admit it out loud.

 

Next up: A Day in Daisies

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 Ten: A Day in Daisies

Put Ethan and Dani together and let the fun begin!

Ethan stared out the car window, arms folded tight against the shirred bodice of his sundress. Light blue cotton clung to his torso like it had nowhere better to be, the yellow daisy trim winking in the reflection. His bare shoulders felt too visible. His knees stuck awkwardly together. And with every bump in the road, the plastic flower on his right sandal wiggled like it was mocking him.

“This is happening more and more,” he muttered.

Colleen, focused on the road, gave him a half-listening hum. “Hmm?”

“Every time I’m in the middle of cleaning, or you’ve got me up on that dumb stool hemming something, something comes up and I end up going out dressed like this.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said breezily, not sounding sorry at all. “But when opportunity knocks, I have to answer. This could be a major account. And our big break. I can’t exactly take you to a buyer meeting right now.” She glanced at him. “And besides, you look darling.”

“I look like a boy in a dress.”

“Well… yes,” she said cheerfully. She reached over and adjusted the yellow hairband atop his dark brown hair. “But you look like a very tidy boy in a well-pressed dress, so at least I’m not ashamed to drop you off.”

He groaned and slumped lower in the seat.

* * *

Dani’s house had a wide backyard with patchy grass, an old rope swing that nobody trusted anymore, and two rusted soccer goals shoved into opposite corners. Ethan stood in the middle of it now, blinking against the sun, trying to kick the ball with his sandal without skinning the top of his toes.

Dani darted past him, hair tied up in a messy ponytail, jean shorts hanging off one hip like a pirate’s sash. She snatched the ball mid-roll and gave it a crisp pass back with the side of her foot.

“You’re kicking like a duck,” she called.

“I’m trying,” Ethan hissed. “These stupid sandals—”

“Hey,” she grinned. “You picked ‘em.”

“I did not pick them.”

She danced around him, juggling the ball once, twice, before bouncing it off her thigh and letting it drop. “Well, you’re wearing ‘em. And I gotta say, the little flower on your toe is doing the most work.”

“Shut up, Dani.”

From the kitchen window, a figure leaned out: short-cropped auburn hair, cat-eye glasses, a bright pink top so skimpy it might’ve been stolen from a Vegas lounge act.

“You two keep it civil out there,” Aunt DeeDee called. “And no crying, Little Mister. That dress doesn’t need salt stains.”

“I am not crying,” Ethan yelled back.

“I didn’t say you were,” she replied sweetly, then ducked back inside with a little laugh.

* * *

The crunching of sneakers on gravel made them both turn. Two boys—older than Ethan, younger than Dani—wandered in through the side gate. Both wore soccer jerseys and that cocky, shoulder-swinging walk that boys seem to develop the moment they win something, even if it’s just an argument with their kid brother.

“Hey Dani!” one of them called. “You coming to the field later?”

“Maybe,” she said, catching the ball and tucking it under one arm. “Depends.”

The other boy—slightly taller, freckles, chewing gum like it owed him money—spotted Ethan.

“Who’s the girl?”

Dani smirked. “That’s my cousin Ethan.”

The gum-chewer squinted. “Ethan? Wait… that’s a boy?”

The other one laughed. “You serious? Dude, he’s wearing a dress.”

Ethan’s mouth opened but no words came out. He looked down. The sundress, the sandals, his bare shoulders and arms. The shame came boiling up in an instant.

“Is he like… in trouble or something?” the gum-chewer asked. “Is this a dare?”

“Nope,” Dani said casually. “That’s just how he dresses now.”

“I do not!” Ethan shouted, fists clenched.

“Aww, don’t get mad, princess,” the first boy jeered. “We were just admiring your style. Love the little daisies. Very brave.”

The gum snapped. “Bet he’s got panties on too.”

“Oh he does,” Dani added with a grin. “Trust me. And they’re pretty cute, too.”

Ethan turned scarlet. “Dani!”

“This I gotta see.” Gum-chewer moved close to the cross-dressed boy, skirt-flipping mode engaged.

Dani wasn’t laughing anymore. She dropped the ball and stepped forward, square to the two boys, arms crossed.

“You know what?” she said coolly. “Fun’s over. Y’all can leave.”

“Aw, relax,” the boy said. “We’re just messing around.”

Dani’s eyes narrowed. “You mess with him, you mess with me.”

There was a pause. The gum stopped snapping.

“Wait,” the taller boy said slowly. “You’re serious? About… him?”

“I’m serious about not letting two little wannabe midfielders come into my yard and bully my cousin. Get. Out. Now.”

“You defending him?” he sneered. “In a dress?”

“And panties?” the other boy said, laughing.

“Say it again.” Dani stepped closer, toe to toe. “Say it. I could break both your ankles before you finish the sentence. Try me.”

They looked at her. Looked at each other. Decided maybe the field wasn’t that fun today after all.

“We’ll catch you later, Dani,” one muttered, turning.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “Don’t forget to tie your shoelaces, or my sissy cousin might trip you on the way out.”

The gate clicked shut behind them.

* * *

Ethan sat on the porch steps, head in hands, sandals kicked off beside him. Dani joined him with a pair of popsicles she’d stolen from the freezer.

“Here,” she said, handing one over.

He took it, muttered thanks, and slid off the wrapper. It was yellow, of course. Like the daisies on his dress.

“I’m never wearing this again,” he said. “Ever.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Dani said, stretching out her legs. “But c’mon, Sissy, you have to admit you do look kind of cute. Like a daisy-themed lemonade ad.”

“I hate you.”

“You say that a lot.”

There was a long pause, the breeze ruffling the hem of Ethan’s dress like a teasing fingertip.

“Thanks,” he said at last.

Dani shrugged. “They were jerks.”

“They were your teammates.”

“Exactly. My teammates. Not flesh and blood family. Which means I get to make fun of you. And flip up your skirt. Not them.”

Ethan almost smiled.

Aunt DeeDee stepped outside with a cigarette tucked behind her ear, cat-eye sunglasses on, and a bottle of root beer held like a trophy.

“Boys gone?”

“Yep,” Dani said.

“Good. I didn’t want to deal with a turf war over panties.”

“I’m not wearing—,” Ethan mumbled.

“Say it.” Dani shot him a look that gave him a shiver. “Say it, Sissy, and you’ll be upside down in two seconds and we’ll all get a good look at what’s really covering your fat little butt.”

The cross-dressed boy sighed. “I just wish you guys would stop saying that word.”

His cousin nudged him. “And what word is that, Sissy?”

He sighed again. “Never mind.”

“Oh don’t be so touchy, Princess,” DeeDee said, settling onto a lounge chair. She ran the cold base of the root beer bottle over her chest. “You’re just too adorable for your own good. Kind of like a junior bridesmaid who got lost on the way to church camp.”

“Mom said you’d be nice.”

“I am being nice,” DeeDee said with a grin. “You’re not in tears, are you?”

“No…”

“Then I’m nicer than my sisters were to me. Your mom wasn’t too bad, but Vivian could be a real bee-otch.” She paused, took a swig and wiped her mouth with the back of her arm. Dani giggled.

“Anyway, you’ve got your cousin here. She’ll keep the wolves at bay.”

“Dang right,” Dani muttered, kicking her foot up onto the railing.

Ethan took lick of his lemon popsicle. The sun was still too bright, and the hem of his dress tickled his knees every time he moved. But the boys were gone, Dani was beside him, and Aunt DeeDee had only mildly roasted him instead of serving him on a spit.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was home.

* * *

The rain started after lunch. At first it was soft, just a hush against the roof of Aunt DeeDee’s kitchen, but by two o’clock it had turned steady—windows streaked, the swing set puddled, and the soccer ball outside sitting in a lonely bath of muddy water.

Ethan stood at the window, arms folded, one bare foot tapping against the linoleum. He still hadn’t changed out of the blue sundress with the daisy trim. He kept telling himself he should ask to borrow something less… prissy?... to wear, but then the rain had started… and somehow it just didn’t seem worth the fight.

Dani sat at the kitchen table, shuffling a deck of cards one-handed while balancing a spoonful of peanut butter in the other.

“I say we play for stakes,” she said, flipping a card into the air and catching it with a slap.

“I don’t gamble,” Ethan muttered, still watching the rain.

“Gambling? Please,” Dani said. “This is justice through card-based redistribution of labor.”

“English, please?”

Aunt DeeDee appeared in the doorway with a dish towel over one shoulder and a glint in her eye. “She means you do the chores if you lose.”

“What chores?”

“Oh, just a little list I’ve been meaning to get around to,” DeeDee said casually, walking past with her root beer. “But I suppose if Dani loses, she gets to do them instead.”

Ethan turned, alarmed. “Wait, I don't even live here! I’m just waiting until my mom comes to take me home.”

DeeDee grinned. “Then you’ve got nothing to lose. Unless you lose.”

Minutes later, the dining room had been transformed into a battlefield.

Dani had cleared off the placemats, lit a single candle—for ambience, she said—and shuffled the cards like she’d been born in a riverboat casino. Ethan sat across from her on a kitchen chair that felt too slippery under his thighs. The skirt of his sundress fanned neatly around him, and his bare arms felt oddly exposed on the table.

Aunt DeeDee reclined nearby in a plush armchair with a knitting project she had no intention of completing.

“All right,” Dani said, tapping the stack. “We’ll play three rounds. War. Highest card wins the hand. Best two out of three gets bragging rights and—" she paused for dramatic effect— “freedom from Aunt DeeDee’s Chore Gauntlet.”

“What’s in the gauntlet?” Ethan asked nervously.

Dani grinned. “Oh, she hasn’t said.”

“I feel like that’s important information.”

“That’s what makes it fun,” DeeDee said sweetly, taking another swig of her root beer.

The first round began. Dani flipped her card: queen of spades.

Ethan flipped his: seven of diamonds.

“Awwww,” Dani drawled. “That’s rough, sweetheart.”

Aunt DeeDee clapped softly. “One for Dani. Let’s hope the little mister pulls through in the next hand.”

Ethan grumbled and picked at the hem of his skirt.

Round two.

Dani: nine of hearts.

Ethan: king of clubs.

“YES!” he cried, springing up slightly in his chair before remembering the bounce made his dress fly up.

“Well done,” DeeDee said. “The king protects his kingdom—albeit in sandals with daisies.”

Dani rolled her eyes and gave him a slow clap. “Don’t get cocky, flower boy. Last round. Winner takes… freedom from all the chores.”

They drew.

Dani: jack of diamonds.

Ethan: six of clubs.

Silence.

Dani leaned back and whistled. “Looks like I get the afternoon off.”

Ethan slumped forward, groaning into his arms.

Aunt DeeDee stood, stretching. “And now the curtain rises on today’s performance: Little Mister Does the Housework.”

Ethan was issued an apron—DeeDee’s old one from years ago, frilly pink with faded cartoon lemons and the phrase “Squeeze Me!” embroidered across the chest. She tied it with a proud little tug at the back.

“You’re not really making me do all this,” Ethan said as she handed him a handwritten list on a pink index card.

“I’m not,” she said innocently. “The cards are. I’m just the instrument.”

Dani, now lounging on the couch with a comic book, added, “Don’t forget to curtsy when you bring her another root beer later. I’ll take one, too.”

Ethan looked down the list:

• Dust bookshelves (“Use feather duster, not your sleeve!”)

• Sweep and mop hallway

• Wipe the baseboards in the living room, hallway and bedrooms.

• Wash and put away dishes from lunch

• Fold and stack kitchen linens

• Clean bathrooms

“Clean both bathrooms, too? No fair!” he protested. “This is a whole day’s work!”

“Better get started then,” DeeDee said, tossing him a pair of ruffled rubber gloves.

Ethan moved through the tasks like a reluctant ballerina—light on his feet, heavy on the sighs. His daisy-trimmed sundress swished every time he bent down to clean baseboards, and Dani seemed to find new things to say with every passing minute.

“You missed a spot,” she said, flicking a crumb toward the floor.

“I hate you.”

“You already told me that.”

Aunt DeeDee wandered in from time to time to inspect, hands clasped like a judge on a cooking show. “Very nice work on the dishes,” she’d say. “Though you did leave a water spot on the mixing bowl. That’ll cost you.”

Ethan was red-faced as he cleaned the bathrooms. “Yikes. I thought girls were neater—and cleaner—than boys. I guess not.”

“Hey, don’t judge!” DeeDee said. “We just don’t have as high a standard as somebody who wears rose-print panties.”

“Aunt DeeDee!” he tugged the hem of his dress down over his bottom. “You’re not supposed to look!”

“And I thought you were supposed to be more ladylike,” she quipped. “I guess not.”

Both DeeDee and Dani were impressed as he finished up the last item—folding the freshly laundered linens. He took his time, lining up the corners just so, smoothing the edges like he was performing femininity itself.

“You know,” Dani mused, watching from the couch, “you fold those way better than I ever do.”

DeeDee nodded. “Better than me, even.”

“I hate that that’s true,” Ethan muttered.

With the last item placed on the shelf, Ethan sank onto the kitchen bench, exhausted and flustered.

Aunt DeeDee brought him a bottle of root beer and a glass filled with ice. She kissed the top of his head, and said, “Well done, Princess. You’re a regular domestic delight.”

“I want a rematch tomorrow,” Ethan said, sipping grumpily.

“Oh you’ll get it,” Dani said. “And this time we play Go Fish.”

A beat passed.

“Loser has to iron.”

Ethan groaned.

Outside, the rain had started to slow, the soft patter against the windows easing into silence. But inside, the storm of teasing, chores, and kinship remained—tied together with apron strings, lemon embroidery, and one boy in a sundress who couldn’t quite decide if he hated it as much as he claimed.

Next, Mama’s Boy, Part Two

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 Eleven: Mama's Boy, Part Two

Mama’s favorite boy goes on an adventure.

The exterminator’s truck had a cheerful cartoon mouse painted on the door—grinning even as a skull-and-crossbones bottle hovered over it—which, in Ethan’s opinion, was deeply unfair to both mice and boys with nerves. Wearing his blonde Emily wig and a brightly colored sundress, he stood on Penelope’s front walk, using the baby stroller before him like a shield. The man in overalls had said “an hour, maybe two, ma’am” to Penelope, nodded and smiled at the cross-dressed Ethan, and then disappeared inside with an armful of traps and a purposeful stomp.

“Now,” Penelope had said, patting the handle of the stroller, “my darling Gingersnap must not get caught in one of those traps. You’ll take her to the park for the afternoon, won’t you, pet? For at least an hour or so. Sit under the willow tree. She especially enjoys its shade.”

“You have mice?” Ethan had tried, helplessly. “I thought cats were supposed to take care of mice.”

Penelope sniffed, the kind of sniff that suggested generations of Whitakers had perfected it. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you. But Gingersnap, bless her heart, is above all that. She’s a lady, not a mouser.”

“But, Auntie, a baby carriage?” he had asked, glancing at the pink and white painted contraption with its ruffles and lace, padded interior, and oversized eyelet pillow. “That’s just weird. Can’t we lock her in a room somewhere?”

“Pfft! Shows what you know about cats. You can’t just lock them up. That’s cruel! And it’s a stroller, not a carriage. Gingersnap just adores it.” She smirked as she stroked the gigantic pink satin bow atop the stroller’s hood. “She feels looked after. Don’t you, my duchess?”

Gingersnap, a marmalade puff of self-regard, blinked benevolently from the nest of linens and let out a delicately performative yawn.

One more time, Ethan tried to change the old lady’s mind. “You know, I could do this in my jeans and a T-shirt.” He looked down at the ridiculousness of his traveling clothes. “It would be a lot easier—”

“Au contraire, mon cheri,” she cooed. “Scruffy adolescent boys in untidy apparel often get into the worst kinds of mischief, and we can’t be having that.” She clutched the scarf around her throat, her face taking on a theatrical, distressed expression. “Gingersnap might get anxious and run away—and that, my darling, would not be ‘easier.’”

“But—”

“Besides, I’m paying you well, Miss Emily.” Penelope tried not to giggle as she surveyed the effeminate boy in his flowery sundress standing next to the equally ornate stroller. “Now scoot along before I start docking your wages for time lost.”

“Yes, Auntie.” Ethan sighed, double checked his supplies and his dress. He then put on a white straw sunhat with an upturned brim—“I know you think the wig protects you, poppet,” his mother had said, “but you really need to watch out for heat stroke.”—and he gripped the stroller’s pink wooden handle. “Ready?” he whispered to Gingersnap. The cat looked regal, which he took as yes.

The cross-dressed boy set off, the antique stroller rattling before him, the long stretch of sidewalk feeling like a parade. He knew exactly what he looked like: a prissy, spoiled little girl in an overly frilly outfit pushing a childish baby carriage. Stroller. Whatever. Nothing at all like a twelve year old boy who once spent hours playing video games and reading comic books.

He felt self-conscious in his brightly colored sunflower-print dress, its corset-style bodice a snug band around his chest, spaghetti straps kissing his shoulders. He felt like he was practically naked from his ribs down, the high waist being attached to a flouncy skirt that lifted with each step, brushing his thighs high above his knees. He was maddeningly aware of his flimsy panties and the fact that a stray gust might show them off to the neighborhood. White sandals announced themselves with soft taps on the pavement. The blonde wig—topped off by the childish sunhat decorated with a yellow grosgrain ribbon—was pinned carefully, though he had learned the hard way that “carefully” still allowed for sudden betrayal in a stiff breeze… or someone giving it a good yank.

This is just awful, he thought. I swear, if anybody recognizes me I’m moving to Australia, I don’t care what Mom says!

He hadn’t gone more than twenty feet when, to his dismay, he saw his mother next door, pruning roses with a pair of shears, her apron tied over a muted orange gingham dress, her hair tied back with a matching kerchief. She looked up, saw her son befrocked son pushing the ornate baby stroller, and her whole face lit with the kind of delighted smile that made Ethan’s ears burn.

“Oh, aren’t you the cutest thing I’ve seen all day! Hold it right there, Emily,” Colleen called, already fishing her phone from the pocket of her apron. “Just a quick one—my sweet little housewife off on an adventure!”

“Mom…” Ethan groaned, trying to tug the short brim of his hat down as he posed stiffly, one hand on the stroller’s handle, the other caught mid-gesture. Gingersnap peeked out just as she took the photo, adding insult to injury.

“This is so adorable—and these will look great on my sewing blog.” The phone went click-click-click as she tapped away, getting as many pictures as possible. “That dress is positively radiant on you!”

“Mom, don’t say that word!”

“Mmm, and so fussy, too.” Colleen had a wicked grin on her face as she fired away. “So, where are you two headed off to, anyway?”

Ethan sighed. “Auntie wants ‘Emily’ to take Gingersnap to the park.” He fiddled with the handle to the stroller. “Mom, do I really have to do this? Auntie said so, but come on, this is just dumb! I look like a dumb little girl!”

“No, you look like a sweet little girl.” Colleen lowered the phone, a smug smile curling her lips. “And no arguing, all right? Penelope said this is part of your job, correct?”

The cross-dressed boy sighed. “Yes, Mother.”

“And she’s paying you?”

Another sigh, this one more dramatic. “Yes, Mother.”

“Then I don’t see a problem, do you?” Colleen turned her attention back to her phone, smirking. “Now, give your mother a pretty pose and a smile, or we’ll be here all day.”

Red-faced, Ethan did as he was told, reluctantly smiling and striking a variety of positions, just as he’d done when they took pictures for their sewing business. He dreaded seeing them later that evening, when she’d ooh and aah over the countless shots of her sweet little boy in his sweet little dress, pushing a sweet little baby stroller. He had no doubt that “Emily pushing a baby stroller” would be trending in the vintage fashion forums before bedtime.

“Aren’t you done yet, Mother?” He gritted his teeth as he forced a smile. “I really need to get going—Auntie’s already fussed at me once. If I’m not careful she won’t pay me.”

Colleen nodded. “Oh, all right. I think I got enough. That sunflower print looks darling in the light. Maybe next time we’ll try that butterfly pattern I saw at Joanne’s.” She glanced up, considering the frowning boy for a moment. “How are your lips, baby? The sun’s out and it’s awful hot today.”

Ethan started to say something, then caught himself. He shrugged, then nodded. “Yes Mother, I get it,” he said, pulling out the little pink and red tube he constantly carried with him.

Colleen watched with delight as her cross-dressed son expertly applied a coating of cherry-flavored balm to his lips—a passerby might have easily mistaken him for a young girl putting on lipstick. She managed to get a few photos before getting caught.

“I saw that, Mother,” Ethan fussed. “Please, don’t you have enough?”

“Oh, I can never have too many pictures of my sweet little Emily.” She chuckled to herself as Ethan, pouting, pushed onward down the walk. “Have fun, darling.”

And so they continued their journey, Gingersnap napping and Ethan mincing along with his sandaled feet, pushing the stroller and feeling quite the fool. The rickety wheels gave a faint, prim squeak as they traveled, the pink satin bow atop the stroller a reminder of how silly the whole situation was.

He’d been in the public eye before plenty of times as Emily, usually at arts and crafts fairs or dress shops, but that was when his mother was around and his audience consisted mainly of older women shopping for their little girls. Now, on his own in territory where he was known, in the neighborhood where he’d lived all his life, he could feel, with sharp clarity, his anxiety built. The press of the tight bodice as his breaths got shallow, the loose, unsure waistband of his panties, the way the skirt tickled his thighs, the ticklish fear that his hat would tilt, his wig would slip, someone would shout his name—all made for jittery nerves and a dry mouth.

He’d made that gauntlet before in his regular clothes—boys calling to him—as ‘Ethan’—to come toss a ball, to share in some gruesome discovery, to tell dirty jokes, to be what they thought a boy should be—and he had made his choice then, to keep walking home to his mother. Mama’s boy, they’d jeer, as if the words were a stain.

Mama’s boy, mama’s boy, Ethan is a sissssyyyyyy!

Mama’s boy, mama’s boy, Ethan is a sissssyyyyyy!

Today’s errand had the air of a dare he was giving himself: do the thing, in the bright daylight of a summer afternoon, in a flouncy, flowery sundress, with a cat in a baby stroller. He kept his chin up and tried to think of Colleen’s voice reminding him that poise was sometimes just a breath you held long enough to make it across a room.

Don’t worry your pretty little head, she’d say. Nobody sees you—it’s Emily they’re looking at.

The park sat five blocks away—a small town square of green with a bandstand, some benches under old trees, and a playground of squeaky swings and metal slides that burned legs in the noon sun. He wheeled Gingersnap along the sidewalk past tidy hedges and porch fans that churned the heat into palatable breezes. Two ladies on a porch waved. A bunch of little girls in ponytails and pigtails and hairbuns exclaimed, “Pretty baby!” and then, confused by whiskers, stared in astonishment. They then squealed “Pretty kitty!” clapping their hands, jumping up and down delight. Ethan smiled weakly and quickened his steps, the sound of his sandals both an embarrassment and a comfort.

* * *

Things went smoothly for the next few blocks. While Ethan was still painfully self-conscious about his appearance—and his assignment—he allowed himself the rare luxury of drifting into his thoughts. Despite everything, his summer hadn’t been all that bad. He and his mother were getting along better than ever, and helping with her business was actually kind of fun, even if it meant dressing up as a girl more than he wanted.

A breeze lifted the brim of his straw sunhat, and he pressed it down absently, glancing at Gingersnap dozing inside the stroller. The little cat was curled atop a folded lace blanket, the pink bows at the corners fluttering like sleepy eyelids. The wheels whispered along the sidewalk, a rhythm almost soothing. For the first time that day, Ethan relaxed.

Then voices—bright, sharp, unmistakably girls’ voices—spilled around the corner ahead of him.

He looked up.

Claire.

And with her, Whitney and Lindsey.

A jolt shot through him, his stomach flipping. He froze for half a second, eyes darting down to his sunflower-print dress, the fatness of his bodice and the helpless stretch of his bare shoulders. The skimpiness of his panties. The ridiculous stroller gleamed white and pink in the sun like a prop from a baby pageant. In contrast, the girls were all tank tops and shorts, ponytails and sneakers, smartphones and bubble gum.

I’m dead, he thought.

He considered ducking into the corner shop, but it was too late. Claire’s gaze had already locked on him.

“Heyyy, isn’t that Emily?” she called out, drawing out the name with a teasing singsong.

Whitney’s head snapped around. “Oh my God, it is! Emily, you little cutie, come here!”

Lindsey burst into giggles. “Oh, this is too much! He… uh, she’s actually pushing a stroller! How funny!”

Ethan’s throat closed. He kept walking, but the girls had already changed course, the clatter of sandals and sneakers closing in on him. He shivered at the fragrance of their combined colognes.

Claire got there first, looping a bangle-clad arm through his. “You look adorable, Emily,” she said, her voice light, maybe too light. “Why, that dress makes you look, what, eight years old?”

The cross-dressed boy pouted. “My mom made it for her business. I… I’m just, um… testing it out.”

“Ooo, his mommy made it for him!” Lindsey cooed. “Isn’t that sweet? Mommy made her little girly-boy a pretty dress!”

“Sweeter than candy,” Whitney sang, giggling.

“Well, I think she did a great job with it! You’re just adorable!” Claire beamed. “And I love the hat. So… retro.”

“Th-thank you,” Ethan managed in his high, breathy Emily voice.

Whitney leaned down to peek into the stroller. “And who’s this little princess? Oh—a cat!” She squealed. “You’re actually taking your kitty for a walk in a stroller? That’s… wow. You’re, like, a next-level goody two-shoes!”

“It’s not my…” Ethan squeaked. “She… my auntie—”

Lindsey clapped a hand over her mouth. “Seriously, I can’t,” she snorted. “It’s too much. The ribbon, the blanket… the pinkness of it all! Oh. My. Gosh.”

Ethan’s hands tightened on the handlebar. He could feel the heat rising up his neck.

Claire crouched, stroking Gingersnap’s fur. “Hi there, baby. Such a good little lady.” She straightened, smiling at Ethan. “Honestly, though, you look really cute, Emily. This whole set up, the dress, the stroller… those sandals… it all suits you just perfectly.”

Her compliment was real enough to sting. “Thanks… I guess,” he murmured.

Whitney grinned, blowing a pink bubble. “So where’s our little miss off to today? Gonna strut that sundress at the park?”

“Maybe she’ll meet some boys,” Lindsey said with mock innocence. She flipped the hem of his dress. “Think they’ll like her sunflowers?”

“Stop it,” Ethan said, trying to keep his voice even. Before he could stop her, Whitney flipped his skirt up even higher.

“Ooo, what pretty panties you have on, Emily!” The preteen laughed. “Way prettier than mine.”

“Mine, too!” Lindsey squealed. “I always wondered what he wore under all those frills. And now we know.”

“I said stop it!” Ethan struggled to hold down his skirt and keep his grip on the stroller. “You guys, this isn’t funny!”

Claire chuckled. “Oh, come on, we’re just teasing. You’ve got to admit though, you do make it easy, Emily. You’re practically glowing.”

He bit his lip, eyes darting toward the end of the block—desperate for escape. “Please. Just leave me alone.”

Whitney’s grin sharpened. “Aww, what’s wrong, Ethan? Did we hurt your feelings—ETHAN?”

“Don’t—don’t call me that!” His head jerked up and he looked around for passersby. “Somebody might hear you.”

Lindsey tilted her head, her tone suddenly edged. “Why not, Ethan? That’s your name, isn’t it, Ethan? Unless you really are a little girl now… ETHAN.”

Whitney joined in with: “Yeah, Ethan! Are you a little girl, Ethan?”

The cross-dressed boy’s eyes glistened. “I’m not—just go away!”

“Ooo, he’s getting touchy all of a sudden.” Whitney laughed. “You better watch out, mama’s boy. Somebody might snatch that wig off your pretty little head.”

Ethan’s hands flew to his sunhat, pressing it down hard. The gesture made them laugh even harder.

Claire exhaled, stepping between them. “Okay, enough. Don’t be so mean.” Then, glancing over her shoulder at the blushing boy, she added, “And calm down, Ethan. We’re just having fun.”

He stared at her with shiny eyes, bewildered. “Claire—”

She looked him up and down, shaking her head with a crooked smile. “Well, what do you expect, prancing around in a little outfit like that? And pushing a baby stroller? Honestly, Ethan, you’re more of a sissy than even I thought.”

The words landed like pebbles tossed at glass—small, sharp, breaking something unseen.

Whitney slipped an arm around his shoulders and lifted her phone for a selfie. “Smile, pretty boy!”

Before he knew it, Lindsey crowded in on the other side, and Claire leaned close, lips pursed in a teasing pout.

“Come on, everybody say Ethan is a mama’s boy!”

He could hear the rapid click-click-click of the phone’s camera.

“Whitney… please. Claire—”

Whitney checked the photo and burst out laughing. “Oh my gosh, that’s perfect. Look at his face! He looks like he’s about to pee his panties!”

“Send it to me,” Lindsey said, already fishing out her phone. “Better yet, put it in the group chat with Tara and Maddy. They said he was a mama’s boy… they’ll just love this!”

“Hold on, let’s get some of him with his stroller. Smile, mama’s boy!”

Ethan scowled as the girls took their fill of pictures. “Happy now?” he said, pouting.

“Oh, totally.” Whitney grinned as she scrolled through the photos. “These are amazing!”

Claire sighed, grasping her friend’s hand. “Come on, you guys. Let’s go. Leave him alone.”

“Okay, okay,” the pretty girl smirked. “’Bye, Ethan! Good luck finding a boyfriend!”

Lindsey chipped in with, “Yeah, Ethan, see you later, mama’s boy!”

Ethan stood frozen, his cheeks burning. His fingers trembled on the stroller handle.

As the girls sauntered off—their smooth legs and bare shoulders shining in the sunlight—he could still hear their voices, fragments caught on the wind:

“Did you see the hat?”

“Pfft! What about those panties?”

“What a wuss… total mama’s boy.”

“I can’t believe he had a crush on you, Claire!”

“He’s probably crushing on some guy now… why else would he dress like that?”

When they were finally gone, the street seemed too bright, too quiet. Even the birds had gone still.

Gingersnap yawned inside the stroller, flicking her tail lazily.

Ethan took a shaky breath, blinked back the sting behind his eyes, and looked down at his reflection in a nearby shop window. The glass threw back a blur of yellow and white—the upturned brim of his sunhat, the childish sundress, a pair of thin arms clutching at dignity.

He looked like a picture in a storybook, the kind his mother used to read aloud—except the boy inside had been erased.

For a moment he almost turned back, ready to run home and bury himself under his covers. But then Gingersnap mewed softly, reminding him of his mission.

He squared his shoulders, adjusting the elastic band of his bodice. “It’s just a walk,” he whispered. “Just a walk, that’s all.”

The wheels of the stroller started moving again, squeaking faintly as he crossed into the dappled shade of the trees leading toward the park.

He could still feel the girls’ laughter echoing behind him, light and cruel and far too familiar—but he kept going, chin lifted just enough to catch the next warm breeze. Gingersnap stretched, yawned, and blinked up at him with perfect feline indifference.

“Well, at least you had fun,” Ethan muttered softly. His voice sounded small, almost swallowed by the rustling leaves in the trees. “Wish I could say the same.”

He bit his lip, embarrassed all over again just thinking of Claire and the others. Their laughter still buzzed in his head, but now it mixed with something else—a dull ache of disappointment. He’d had a crush on Claire since fourth grade and she’d always been kind—or so he’d thought. Maybe she still was, in her own way. Maybe teasing was how girls showed affection.

Still, the phrase mama’s boy stung worst of all.

He sighed and adjusted his wig and the brim of his hat. The ribbon flopped down, brushing his cheek. He kept his eyes down, ignoring the outside world, focusing on the stroller. A boy pretending to be a girl pretending not to care.

* * *

A shadow crossed the path.

“Oh, how darling,” said a warm, lilting voice. “Is that your kitty?”

Ethan looked up to see an older woman in a blue sleeveless dress, a straw purse hanging from her arm. Her hair was soft white, and she smiled down with genuine delight.

“Yes, ma’am,” Ethan said automatically, his Emily voice fluttering back. “Her name’s Gingersnap.”

“What a precious thing! Such a pretty little girl, taking her baby kitty out for a stroll—now isn’t that the sweetest idea?” The woman leaned closer, peering in at the sleeping cat. “She looks perfectly content. I can tell she’s spoiled.”

Ethan blushed, glancing at the lace blanket. “She’s… used to attention.”

The woman chuckled. “Aren’t we all, dear? And you look lovely yourself. What a cheerful dress! I just love your sunflowers. You’re like a little ray of sunshine.”

Ethan’s chest tightened, half from gratitude, half from guilt. He nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Now don’t be shy.” The woman straightened, eyes kind. “I hope you know you’re making a lot of people smile, doing something kind for a creature smaller… more helpless than you. That’s rare these days.”

“Um, thank you, ma’am,” Ethan repeated. Without thinking, he plucked the hem of his skirt and did a little dip.

“My goodness! Aren’t you the sweetest little lady,” the old woman said with a gentle laugh.

And just like that, she moved on down the path, humming to herself, her perfume lingering like lilacs.

Ethan stood still for a moment, watching her disappear into the glare of afternoon.

Funny, how that old lady’s kind-heartedness changed his attitude. Maybe it didn’t matter what Whitney or Lindsey thought. Maybe even Claire. Maybe all that mattered was doing what he promised—obeying his mother… and his Auntie Penelope… and keeping Gingersnap happy.

He looked down at the marmalade furball again, who blinked lazily and kneaded the blanket with her paws.

“Guess it’s just you and me, huh?” he whispered.

Gingersnap purred, a low, steady sound that felt almost like forgiveness.

Ethan smiled faintly, tucked a strand of fake blonde hair behind his ear, and pushed the stroller along the sidewalk. The sun flickered between the trees, warm on his bare shoulders, the ribbon at his hat fluttering like a small, stubborn flag.

* * *

He was almost to the park when he heard it: the low, rattling roar of wheels on concrete.

Uh-oh, he thought. I recognize that sound… please, don’t let it be… I just got rid of—

An instant later his cousin Dani appeared, crouched stylishly over her skateboard as if she’d been born rolling, two neighborhood boys trailing behind her like ducklings. She was at her tomboy best, backwards baseball cap, worn jeans, her ponytail lifted in the breeze—the grin she shot Ethan—Emily—was wicked and fond all at once.

“Well, hello, girly-girl!” she called, kicking off to glide closer. “My goodness, don’t you wook wike a fwesh wittle daffodee-wuh in your pwetty wittle dwess!”

Ethan flushed and shot back, “They’re sunflowers, not daffodils!”

Dani laughed, circling him once with lazy ease, her friends gawking and giggling at the target of their leader’s mockery. “I know that, Sissy,” she crowed, voice full of teasing pride. “I just wanted to see if I could make you cry.”

“You wish,” Ethan shouted, his voice more a squeak than a response to a challenge.

She circled around him again, standing sideways on the board, hands on her hips, legs boldly spread, casually skimming the pavement like a cosmic comic book superhero preparing to launch off on a galactic adventure.

“So, Miss Priss, have you seen my sissy cousin Ethan? He really should be here—pushing a baby carriage is more his vibe.”

“It’s not a carriage, it’s a stroller,” Ethan muttered, gritting his teeth as she came too close—flipping up his skirts was her favorite pastime. He warily turned as she circled him, facing her wherever she went, holding down the hem of his sundress. “Go away! Don’t you have someplace else to be?”

“I always do!” Dani called over her shoulder. “Smell you later, fussy panties!” And with a swoop of her board she and her entourage were gone, swallowed up by the curve of the sidewalk and the clatter of wheels fading down the block.

Ethan sighed in relief. He smoothed out his skirt, adjusted his hat, and pushed the stroller onward, Gingersnap settling back into her cushions with the air of a duchess unfazed by street urchins.

* * *

 

At the park, under the biggest willow tree opposite the playground, he found a bench with a merciful shade puddle beneath it. He guided the stroller into the coolness and set the brake. Gingersnap stood, did a ceremonial knead of the pillow, then rotated once and plopped down with a satisfied huff.

Ethan pulled a small pink and white basket from under the stroller: Gingersnap’s tin of salmon nibs, a bottle of tea wrapped in a dish towel, a plastic teacup and saucer, and a waxed paper packet of lemon crinkle cookies dusted in sugar. His sketchbook came last; he set it on his lap like a secret he might or might not share with himself.

“You know the plan,” he told the cat as he pulled out his chapstick and refreshed his lips. “Quiet hour. Then we go home to Auntie Penelope’s good graces, and I never have to do this again.”

Gingersnap blinked in that way cats do. Then she dozed off again.

He smacked his lips together, savoring the sweet cherry flavor, and put away the little tube. He then poured himself a measured sip of tea, the chilled bottle sweating against his palm, and drew the first few lines of a neckline he’d been imagining—boat-shaped, with a narrow piping in a cheerful contrast. He had half a sleeve down when the shouting reached him.

“You’re such a sissy!” A boy’s voice, high with triumph. “You’re nothing but a little mama’s boy, you little sissy!”

Another voice took up the chant. “Mama’s boy! Mama’s boy!”

Ethan’s pencil stopped in mid-curve. The words fell like rocks into his stomach. He went very still. For a heartbeat he was sure: they had found him—whoever they were. They’d turned some corner and seen a girl with a baby stroller and a fluffy hat and a wig, and realized that girl was a him, not at her, that it was Ethan in that dress with the sunflowers. Ethan the sissy. Ethan the girly-girl—the panty boy. Soon to be the boy with no friends, no future, nowhere to hide.

Heat ran up his neck, sticky and choking. The elastic bodice seemed suddenly too tight, smothering him; he couldn’t get a full breath and he was hit by a sudden urge to pee. His mind raced with options—he couldn’t run, not in that dress, not in those sandals, not pushing Gingersnap; the wig would slip, the hat would fly; the skirt would flash up and—oh gosh, please no!—if someone flipped it, his panties might be—

The voices suddenly sounded… different. Their tone, their direction, not what he’d expected.

“Sissy boy, mama’s boy!” they cried. “Bobby is a mama’s boy!”

He leaned forward, forced himself to peek around the edge of the tree… and see what he could see.

The boys were not after him. They didn’t even know he was there. They were a little knot at the playground, two dozen paces off—maybe nine to ten years old, all elbows and scraped knees, circling someone in the middle. The littlest boy stood like a post in a storm, fists clenched, cheeks blotchy with tears, while the bigger ones poked and pinched him and crowed. “Sissy boy, mama’s boy! Bobby is a mama’s boy!” one of them sang, and the others joined with the awful ease of a chorus that’s been practicing cruelty all summer.

Something in Ethan unknotted—fear loosening into anger so quickly it surprised him. He looked down at himself again, at the absurd dress that somehow made him both invisible and too visible, at the sunflower print, the silly sandals—all of it—and what he felt most of all was a slow burn of protectiveness. He set the tea down. He checked that the stroller’s brake was firmly in place. Gingersnap opened one eye in faint interest.

“Sissy boy, mama’s boy! Bobby is a mama’s boy!
Sissy boy, mama’s boy! Bobby is a mama’s boy!”

Ethan stepped forward. Every instinct he owned said don’t do it, don’t draw attention, but he had also learned some things about being “Emily.” Chief among them: people would believe what you told them—what you showed them—if you stood the right way and said it like you meant it.

I can do this, he thought. I’m pretty sure I can…

He squared his shoulders so the straps sat neat, lifted his chin until the brim of the hat made a clean line, and called across the grass in the voice Colleen used to talk to deliverymen who were late:

“Hey! That is enough!”

The boys startled, heads snapping toward him. From where they stood, what they saw was a teenager in a sunhat and a bright dress, a baby stroller to boot. The package read: someone’s big sister, someone’s babysitter, someone who had the authority of being entrusted with a stroller and a hat. Maybe even someone’s mom?

Ethan took a step closer, pointed a motherly, scolding finger at the bullies, and added, low and unambiguous, “Leave him alone! Stop it or I’ll tell your parents on you!”

They hesitated just long enough to pass the responsibility around the circle—who’s going to be brave?—and then, with the unerring survival sense of young cowards recognizing adult-shaped authority, they scattered. Their sneakers beat out a patter on the packed dirt. Two looked back as they ran and made faces to save face. “We weren’t doing anything!” one protested to the air, committed to his own revisionist history.

Ethan sighed in relief. It worked. I did it! I really did it! His anxiety lessened, as did the urge to pee. He looked down at his hand, which had stopped shaking. Good thing, too. I don’t know what I would have done if they’d come after me.

He then turned his attention to the little boy was left behind, sniffling, fists still set as if the wind itself might shove him. Ethan’s anger cooled into something gentler. He approached carefully, then bent over so they were eye level, careful of the skirt, his hands holding down the back in case his panties showed.

“Hey there,” he said softly in his practiced “Emily” voice. “Are you hurt?”

The boy shook his head hard, a deer flick, and then another tear slipped anyway. He was small, even for nine—freckles across his nose like someone had sprinkled cinnamon, a cowlick that stood stubbornly despite the day’s heat. His shirt had an iron-on rocket, cracked from too many washes.

“They’re just dumb,” he muttered, fierce with the need to sound like he didn’t care. “I’m not a sissy. And I’m not a mama’s boy.”

“Okay,” Ethan said. He glanced back at the bench and then to the boy again. “Can I tell you a secret? I have tea. And cookies. All very handy in situations like this.”

A tremor of a smile. The two wandered to the stroller where Ethan pulled a clean handkerchief from his little basket and held it up like a peace treaty. The boy took it, blew his nose with all the solemnity of a trumpet warming up, and handed it back. Ethan took it deftly, and folded it away for laundering later. Some lessons from Colleen were as automatic as breathing now.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Bobby.” It was almost a challenge.

“Hi, Bobby. I’m Eth—” He hesitated, then remembering himself—and his wig and his dress and that ridiculous stroller—he replied, “I’m Emily.”

Bobby scrubbed at his cheeks. “Those boys are dumb,” he repeated, making it truer by repetition. Then, in a smaller voice: “They always say ‘mama’s boy’ when I don’t wanna climb the high slide. Or when I go home ‘cause my mom says be home at four. Or if I… if I like stuff.”

“Well, that’s just mean,” Ethan said gravely. He nodded toward the bench. “Come on. Let’s sit. Gingersnap will want to weigh in.”

“Who’s—” Bobby began, and then saw the stroller. “You have a baby?”

“A very lazy baby,” Ethan said, and then lifted the hood halfway to reveal Gingersnap’s imperial face. The cat yawned, an elegant oval lined with tiny knives, and then blinked at Bobby as if to say she had heard of children and had no particular objection to them in theory.

Bobby stared. “That’s a cat.”

“You’re right, it is.” Ethan guided him to the bench. “And this is tea. And these are lemon crinkle cookies, which are crumbly and delicious and scientifically proven to fix just about everything.”

They sat, the elm’s shade shifting on their knees. Ethan unscrewed the tea and poured a little into the plastic cup, then thought better of it and just handed Bobby the bottle. Bobby drank some, then sucked sugar dust off a cookie with the concentration of the newly comforted.

For a minute there was only the sound of park things—birds complaining at everyone equally, a group of giggling little girls and their mothers arriving at the playground and the distant squeal of the swings starting up again, Gingersnap crunching a salmon nib with dainty menace.

“Here’s the thing about being a ‘mama’s boy,’” Ethan said, when the silence felt sturdy enough. He kept his voice low, conversational, like they were trading baseball cards. “I think every boy is a mama’s boy.”

Bobby chewed, suspicious of philosophy but amenable to cookies.

“Most boys don’t like to admit it. That’s okay. It’s scary to say out loud sometimes, especially around mean people. But your mom is the one who brought you into the world and stitches you back up when you fall apart, even if it’s with words instead—”

Bobby watched him, cookie paused halfway to his mouth. “You’re weird,” he said finally, which Ethan took for cautious interest.

“I get that a lot.” Ethan nudged the plate closer. “I’m my mama’s boy,” he added, as lightly as he could make something heavy. “And I don’t care who knows.”

Bobby giggled, quick and bright. “You mean you’re a mama’s girl?”

Ethan felt the laugh catch him off guard—he hadn’t planned to laugh, but there it was, relief turning inside out. He grinned. “Yeah. That’s what I meant. I’m my mama’s girl.”

Bobby fell into a fit of small, relieved giggles, the sort that shake loose the last of the hurt. He took another cookie with a ceremony that suggested they were now allies in some minor, important war.

They ate like conspirators—Ethan dusting sugar off his skirt with the edge of the napkin, Bobby swinging his feet in the way of boys who have, for the moment, survived being nine. The shadows moved another inch.

“So, what were they teasing you about?” Ethan asked, not because it mattered, but because sometimes it helped to name the thing.

Bobby shrugged. “My mom said I don’t have to climb the high slide ‘til I want to. And I wanted to go get my book, the space one, and read under the trees. And Jimmy said reading’s for babies. And I said my books have astronauts.” He scowled, suddenly righteous. “Babies can’t even spell astronaut.”

“That sounds about right,” Ethan said. He angled his sketchbook so the boy could see a safe corner of a hemline. “I draw dresses,” he offered, as if confessing a similar crime. “For my mom, mostly. She makes them. Sometimes I help. It looks easier than it is. But it’s fun for me and we make money doing it, so I want to get really good at it.”

“Are you any good at drawing rockets?” Bobby asked, immediately.

“I could try,” Ethan said. “But they might end up with pockets and elegant lines and a bow.”

Bobby made a face that was the universal expression for “that would be awesome, but I’m not gonna say so.” He sipped his tea again, very grown-up.

Ethan felt his breath even out for the first time since the playground had erupted. The bodice that had seemed to trap his ribs a few minutes ago sat like what it was—a snug, silly band—and the hat brim was no longer a guillotine. And with his skirt tucked under his legs he wasn’t worried so much about showing his panties.

“Why are you pushing a cat around in a baby carriage?” Bobby got up and peered in at Gingersnap. She had melted into sleep, paws tucked, tail precisely arranged, her snack demolished except for a solitary crumb she might or might not honor later. “That’s kind of silly, don’t you think?”

Ethan grinned. “Yeah, well, I’m babysitting her for my auntie. She pays me pretty good and I need the money, so, there you go.”

The boy nodded, then shook his head. “Well, it’s still silly, but as long as you’re getting paid, I guess it’s all right.”

If anyone glanced their way, they would see exactly what Ethan had hoped to be when he wheeled into the park: a girl with a stroller, two cookies short, on a bench under a tree. The fact that one of them was a boy who dressed as a girl and the other a boy who had decided to not climb a slide did not cancel each other out. It felt, if anything, like a proof.

“When they call me that again,” Bobby said, picking lemon sugar off his thumb, “can I tell ‘em Miss Emily said astronauts probably listened to their moms?”

“You can tell them Miss Emily said astronauts listened to Mission Control,” Ethan said. “And sometimes Mission Control sounds a lot like your mother.”

Bobby grinned. “Okay.”

They sat awhile longer. Ethan sketched the curve of a sleeve that would not bind at the elbow. He added a tiny, private sunflower at the hem, a little joke for himself, then turned the page and tried a rocket, which, yes, came out with suspiciously elegant lines. Bobby directed him to add some cool fins and a window in case Gingersnap went along and wanted to look out. Ethan obliged and then, on a dare from himself, added a pocket on the side “for snacks.” Bobby approved the pocket. It was, he agreed, visionary.

There were no satin bows, though.

Time blurred into the kind of hour that lets the day recover from itself. The swings squeaked and then quieted. Somewhere across the grass a mother pushed a toddler who shriek-laughed with each bounce; farther still, a couple of teenagers sat by a fountain and pretended to be bored by each other and failed. Sunlight dappled Ethan’s knees. He found he could breathe, not just in short, careful sips, but all the way to the bottom of his lungs. The dress was still the dress; the wig was still a question on his head; the sandals still determined the speed of his escape if escape were called for. But there was no siren, no summons, no trial. Just the moment.

Eventually Bobby slid off the bench and stood as if the ground, freshly negotiated, might be his friend again. “I gotta go,” he said, showing the time on his authentic official astronaut watch. “My mom said be home at four.”

“That’s an excellent rule,” Ethan said. “Tell her… tell her you learned that astronauts always carry pockets for snacks.”

Bobby snorted.

“Here, take this with you.” Ethan carefully followed the perforated line in his sketchbook as he tore out the page with the rocket with the pocket. “A souvenir.”

Bobby grinned as he looked at the drawing. “Thanks! I’ll hang it on my wall.” He lifted his hand in the awkward, grateful wave of boys who have not yet learned a dozen varieties of cool. “Bye, Miss Emily.”

“Bye, Bobby.”

Ethan watched him lope across the grass, a little looser, a little less alone. He put the cap back on the tea, brushed the cookie dust from his skirt, and checked Gingersnap, who had slipped into the kind of nap that suggested she had important dreams. He tucked the sketchbook away.

When he finally stood, he did so with a small, steadying smile he wouldn’t have known how to explain. Mama’s boy. The words that had choked him had softened in his mouth, not because they had changed, but because he had. He touched the brim of his hat to the willow tree as if acknowledging a witness, released the stroller brake, and set off home at a measured, stroller-safe pace.

Under the dappled shade, Gingersnap’s ear twitched, and she resettled into her pillow with the contentment of a creature certain her humans, whoever they were, had handled things appropriately. Ethan, his sandals tapping a light beat against the path, pushed the stroller past the playground and into the slow, forgiving brightness of afternoon.

He hadn’t lied to Bobby. Being a mama’s boy sometimes came with certain risks, but it was, as far as he was concerned, a very nice thing, indeed.

Next up: Polka Dots and Secrets

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 Twelve: Polka Dots and Secrets

Aunt DeeDee makes a discovery. And Ethan learns a truth.
 

It was late afternoon, and the sun slanted low enough to catch every speck of dust in the Martin house, transforming the air into a glittering golden haze.

DeeDee let herself in, as usual, flicking the remains of her cigarette into the yard before stepping across the threshold. Her hair was cropped sharp around her ears, auburn streaks catching the light, and she wore a red bandana tied like Rosie the Riveter, and an oil-smudged work shirt knotted at the waist; her flat stomach suggested a fit and firm existence. In contrast to her impeccable mascara and red lipstick she had grease beneath one thumbnail and the permanent look of a woman who could change your carburetor and wipe the floor with you at poker.

“Colleen?” she called. No reply.

Instead, music pulsed through the house—a bright, bubbly pop song from some all-girl group. DeeDee cocked her head, listening.

“Now what the hell…?”

She followed the music like a bloodhound. Pushing open the sewing room door, she found herself stopping short, lips curving into a wicked grin.

There was her twelve year old nephew, Ethan, framed in a rectangle of late-day sun, dust rag poised high, twisting his slender body as he danced. He wore a snug white and yellow polka dot crop top with a ruched sweetheart neckline, a matching pair of high-cut bikini panties hugging his round bottom. A polka dot scarf—also matching—tied in a perfect vintage bow, perched atop his brown hair like a pair of rabbit ears. As he swayed and gyrated and moved about the skimpy top left a good portion of his belly and the top of his panties exposed. His cheeks were flushed, his long eyelashes damp with sweat, and his bare feet squeaked softly on the polished wood floor as he spun.

Ethan sang along in a small, breathy voice, completely unaware he was no longer alone:

🎵 My baby says he loves me, and I believe it’s true… 🎶

DeeDee leaned one shoulder into the doorframe, folding her arms, smirking. The sight before her was just too good to be true.

🎶 He calls me sugar-darlin’ and says there’s no one new… 🎵

“I thought you didn’t know how to dance,” she drawled.

Ethan shrieked so high-pitched DeeDee half-expected the windows to shatter. He wheeled around, hair flying, eyes saucer-wide. The dust rag fluttered to the floor.

“A-Aunt DeeDee!”

“Aw, don’t mind me, Princess.” She gave him a playful wink. “I’m just here for the entertainment.”

Ethan, face crimson, scrambled to cover himself, trying to tug his short top lower over his abdomen, only succeeding in exposing more bare skin and even more of the waistband of his panties.

DeeDee let out a slow, appreciative whistle. “Cute. Now I see what my sister’s been talking about.”

“Don’t look at me!” he squeaked. “Please, don’t look at me!”

“Oh Princess, you’re way too late,” DeeDee purred, stepping into the room, “I been lookin’ for a while now. I mean, you gave me quite the show. The dusting. The hip action. The polka dots on that sweet little booty! I’d pay good money for front-row seats to see the whole routine.”

Ethan clasped his hands over his panties, trembling. “It’s not what it looks like!”

DeeDee raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. Sure. So… explain to me what exactly it looks like, then.”

“It’s… it’s hot in here!” Ethan stammered. “The sun in the windows … and Mom’s sewing machines … make the room stuffy. I was just trying to be comfortable while cleaning—”

DeeDee gave him a dry look. “Mmm-hmm. So naturally you decided the solution was to dress like a teeny bopper from an old beach party movie and do a burlesque show with a dust rag?”

“I wasn’t doing a show!” Ethan wailed, stamping one foot. “I’m just cleaning!”

DeeDee paused, folding her arms tighter. Her eyes traveled over him thoughtfully.

Here was this shy, delicate little kid, teetering on the edge of thirteen, cheeks red as cherries, hair tied up like a movie starlet. And yet… the way he moved, the way he posed. Not entirely accidental. A flick of the hips, a bounce on his toes. DeeDee could see it in the tiny flashes of joy across his face, quickly smothered by panic.

Lord help me, DeeDee thought. He doesn’t even know himself yet, does he?

She softened her voice. “Okay, Princess, if you’re so embarrassed to be seen wearing girls’ clothes—especially their panties—then why are you sneaking around behind your mother’s back?”

Ethan’s lower lip trembled. “I’m not sneaking! It’s just… I didn’t think anybody would be home… and it’s only because my shorts were in the wash, and Mom has all this extra fabric…”

DeeDee interrupted with a snort. “You made that outfit? Of course you did. And let me guess: you’re gonna tell me you ‘accidentally’ tied a bow in your hair.”

“I like how it keeps my hair out of my face when I’m dusting!” Ethan whispered, his eyes glistening with tears.

DeeDee smirked. “Uh huh. And that’s why it matches your panties.”

He groaned and dropped to his knees, scooping up the dust rag like it was his last shred of dignity.

DeeDee crouched down beside him. She lowered her voice, eyes twinkling but gentle.

“Ethan, look at me. Seriously. You know I’m not mad. I just wanna understand something.”

He peeked at her through his fringe of hair.

“You’re scared to be seen like this, right?” DeeDee asked.

Ethan nodded vigorously.

“Then tell me why, Princess,” DeeDee continued, tapping her chin with an unlit cigarette, “do you keep coming back to it? Don’t try to deny it ‘cause you and I both know this sure ain’t the first time.”

Ethan shrank, curling his toes against the floor. “I… I don’t know. Maybe I feel… pretty. It’s fun at first… but then I hate it. And I hate myself. I don’t mean to be a sissy… but ….” His voice cracked. “Please don’t tell Dani.”

DeeDee blew out a slow breath. Her chest ached unexpectedly.

My poor baby, she thought. He’s dealing with so much now. I know grown men who wish they had half his courage. And he’s just a kid.

She reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Ethan’s ear. “You know why she calls you that, don’t you?”

Ethan sniffed. “What? A sissy?”

“That's not what she’s sayin’. She’s never said you were a sissy. As far as she’s concerned you’re just ‘Sissy.’ It’s her nickname for you.”

“What’s the difference? She’s still being mean to me.”

“Well, maybe. A little.” DeeDee scratched her ear. “The thing is, she calls you that because that’s what I called your mom when I was little. Colleen was my favorite big sister—my ‘Sissy’. Dani doesn’t have that. You’re all she’s got. She loves you like you’re her brother, sister. Whatever.” She laughed. “You dressing up all girly, that just gave her the perfect excuse to call you her Sissy.”

Ethan nodded. “So, she calls me… ‘Sissy’… because… she… loves me?”

“Maybe. Wearing panties around the house probably has more to do with it than anything. Hell, Princess, what do I know?”

Ethan picked at his dust cloth and pouted. “So, why do you call me that… other name?”

“What name? Oh, Princess?” She raised an eyebrow. “Do you really want me to explain that?”

The cross-dressed boy looked down at himself and shrugged. “Guess not,” he said with a rueful laugh.

DeeDee reached out and put her finger under his chin, forcing him to look her in the eye. “Look, kiddo, maybe you’re a sissy, maybe you aren’t. Either way… so what? You’re still my nephew. I love you to death. And I ain’t tellin’ Dani squat. Though, for the record, I think you’d make one hell of a pinup girl.”

Ethan let out a watery laugh. “Please don’t say that, Auntie DeeDee.”

DeeDee squinted. “Don’t you dare call me Auntie DeeDee.”

Ethan blinked. “But… you are my aunt.”

“Yeah, well, ‘auntie’ makes me sound like some old lady knitting doilies,” DeeDee snapped. “I’m your Aunt DeeDee. Or just DeeDee. Call me ‘auntie’ again and I’ll get Dani over here to run you around the neighborhood in those little polka-dot panties.”

Ethan gasped. “No, please don’t!”

DeeDee grinned and kissed his forehead, leaving a crimson lip print that he wouldn’t see for the rest of the afternoon. “Then we’re clear.” She straightened up, sticking the still unlit cigarette between her lips.

He sat on the floor a moment longer, hugging his knees, looking utterly small and relieved all at once.

DeeDee studied him. Part of her still wanted to push a little further, poke at the puzzle. Does he wanna be a girl? Or just dress like one? Or is it about pleasing Colleen? Hell if I know. Kid’s complicated.

But she decided to let him off the hook. For now.

“You’re okay, Ethan,” she said, softer now. “Just… keep your chin up. And stop apologizing for who you are. You hear me?”

He nodded shyly. “Thanks, Aunt DeeDee.”

“I do have a couple of questions, though.” The grinning woman raised an eyebrow. “So, who’s your ‘baby?’”

“My… baby?”

“You know, the one you were singing about.” She snickered. “The one who calls you sugar darlin’. Anybody I know? Or should know? A boy at school, maybe? Come on, Princess, ‘fess up!”

Ethan looked horrified. “Aunt DeeDee! It’s just a song! There’s no… boy or anything. Ew, gross! It’s just a stupid song.”

DeeDee laughed. “Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a wad. My other question is, who taught you to dance like that? Didn’t you learn anything the last time you were at my house? Come here, Princess, let me give you a lesson in real dancin’….”

 

* * *
 

Colleen walked through the front door with her arms loaded with purchases. She’d gotten a good deal on material at Joanne’s, along with additional thread and seam tape and other items she’d need for the next several projects. She hoped Ethan was done with his chores as she needed him to help her sort through everything. He’d become indispensable since he began working for her business. After lunch she wanted to get him to work cutting cloth from her latest pattern.

As she walked through the house she heard music playing, along with the sound of laughter. She’d seen DeeDee’s red Mustang out front, so it figured. That girl was always giving Ethan grief. She just hoped she hadn’t gotten him too upset or they’d never get any work done this afternoon.

🎵 She’s peekin’ from behind the car, blushin’ so sweet,,, 🎶

🎶 In her polka-dot bikini, lookin’ cute and neat… 🎵

“DeeDee? Is that you?” More laughing—and now squealing—came from the sewing room. “Ethan, baby… is Aunt DeeDee giving you a hard time—”

🎶 …hidin’ in her towel, pink cheeks and all… 🎵

🎵 In a polka-dot bikini that’s so teeny and small… 🎶

She stopped at the sewing room door, taking in the scene before her. DeeDee and Ethan were dancing face to face, the tall woman with a cigarette in her mouth, twisting and gyrating her hips and doing a shimmy that caused her breasts to wobble wildly from side to side. Ethan—wearing the cutest little polka dot top and panty set—was following her lead with surprising skill, wiggling his butt and shoulders, doing his best to imitate his aunt’s chest shake, though with less impressive results.

🎶 She giggles when they whistle, won’t come when they call… 🎵

🎵 My bikini baby is the belle of the ball! 🎶

Like DeeDee thirty minutes earlier, Colleen was as amused as she was fascinated by the sight. She put down her purse and shopping bags and stood with her hands on her hips until the end of the song, a mischievous grin on her face.

“How about an encore?” She slowly applauded as the exhausted pair laughed and hugged. “If I didn’t know better I’d say my little sister finally found the daughter she always wanted.”

DeeDee and Ethan both froze in place. Before Colleen could say another word DeeDee glanced at the watch she wasn’t wearing and declared, “Hey, look at that! I’m late for that… uh, thing. Gotta get going! Thanks for the dance lesson, Princess!”

She scrambled past Colleen, leaving Ethan to face his mother, still clad in his scandalously cute polka dot get-up.

“What were you two up to?” she demanded. She gave her son the dreaded raised eyebrow look. “She’s acting guilty about something. Is there anything I need to know about?”

Ethan froze. “No, Mother. Nothing’s going on. I promise! We were… um, just dancing.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Colleen arched one brow. “Just dancing, you say.”

DeeDee’s voice drifted faintly from the hallway: “He’s been workin’ real hard, Collie! Nothing to see here! Just takin’ a break, that’s all. Call you later!”

And then she was gone.

Colleen looked her son up and down, lips twitching between a frown and a smile. The crimson lip print on his forehead told her all she needed to know.

“Nice panties, honey. You made them, yes? The top, too? Good job.”

Ethan, looking every inch a startled fawn, fidgeted and squirmed under his mother’s gaze. He glanced down at his polka dot outfit and mumbled, “Um, thank… you? There was extra material and I… uh—”

“You did just fine, baby. The knotted bows on the hips are very chic.”

“Um, yeah.” The blushing boy stood pigeon-toed, his hands behind his back, not realizing how that made him look. “I saw them in one of your catalogs and thought it looked, you know… cute.”

“Good call.” Colleen smirked. “They look quite cute. Cuter than you might think.”

There was an awkward silence. Ethan finally spoke up. “You’re not mad, are you?”

“Not at all. Just… curious.”

The red-faced boy started up the music again. “Well, I still have cleaning to do. Sorry it’s not done yet, Mother.”

“Oh, you go ahead and finish, darling. Do what you have to do.” Colleen crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, a hard look on her face. “Don’t let me stop you. I need a little break myself, so I think I’ll just stay right here—and supervise.”

The blushing boy gave his mother a feeble smile, turned around and resumed dusting, slowly and carefully at first, but then his hips started swaying again, cautiously at first, then more freely as the music swept him up.

🎶 When I woke up this mornin’, all I could think of was you…. 🎵

🎵 All I could think of was you … 🎶

🎶 Would you hug me, whoa-oh… would you kiss me, whoa-oh… 🎵

🎵 All I could think of was you… 🎶

Colleen watched her son dance about the room for the longest time, shaking her head but unable to hide an amused, crooked smile.

Mercy sakes alive, she thought, he’s half my son and half my daughter already. And this is only the beginning.

And the dust motes danced around Ethan like glitter as he wiggled his plump, polka dot clad bottom in time to the beat.

 
Next: A Fitting Afternoon

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 Thirteen: A Fitting Afternoon

Ethan has an uplifting experience.
 

The doorbell rang at 2:05, and Ethan, wiping dust off his hands, glanced up from the laundry basket. He was in the back room, sorting tea towels while Colleen adjusted pattern pieces on her worktable. She didn’t look up.

“That’ll be your Aunt DeeDee,” she said, her voice light, almost singsong. “Would you be a dear and let her in, sweetheart?”

“Why is she coming over?” Ethan asked, already suspicious.

Colleen smiled. “Oh, just a little favor.”

Ethan paused, then padded barefoot to the front door, smoothing his sleeveless pink and white top and gave his panties a little tug down over his cheeks. After helping his mother with some modeling he’d kicked off the rest of his outfit, the matching gingham skirt, ankle socks and slippers, to do his chores, but he hadn’t bothered changing into his regular boy clothes.

By now it wasn’t uncommon for him to run about the house in a short top and undies while doing housework, especially in the heat of the summer. It was certainly much more comfortable when he was tackling labor intensive tasks like laundry and vacuuming and cleaning the bathrooms. Most important, his mother didn’t mind.

But the closer he got to the front door the more he regretted that choice—his bare legs felt oddly exposed and vulnerable, and he was acutely aware of how the fabric of the short crop top hugged his ribs. Aunt DeeDee had seen him in his undies before, so it shouldn’t have been a big deal. But he got a little tingle in his belly which told him something wasn’t right. And as he opened the door he got second thoughts; maybe he should have at least put the skirt back on—but by then it was too late.

“Hey, Little Mister,” Aunt DeeDee said, stepping inside with two department store bags on one arm and sunglasses perched in her short auburn hair. “Wow, cute panties! Aren’t you just the cutest hostess this side of the retirement home?”

Ethan blinked. “Why do you have shopping bags?”

“Oh, these?” She breezed past him, brushing a kiss onto his cheek. “Just a little parcel pickup. Your mother asked for some assistance.”

Colleen called from the back, “Did you find a good variety?”

“Four styles, three sizes,” DeeDee said. “A nice spread.”

Ethan stared. “Wait. A what?”

A third voice piped up behind him. “This is gonna be good!”

Ethan turned just in time to see Dani slip through the open door, backpack on one shoulder, grinning ear to ear. “Hey, Sissy! How’s it hanging?”

“You weren’t invited,” he said flatly.

“Didn’t need to be,” she said, holding up a bag of caramel popcorn. “I smelled something funny in the wind.” She glanced down at his bare belly and legs and winked. “Mmm, nice panties, Sissy! Looks like I was right.”

The living room was transformed in a matter of minutes. Colleen pulled the ottoman forward and laid out a pale blue towel. The air smelled of lavender spray starch and popcorn. DeeDee unwrapped tissue paper and laid a neat row of bras across the sofa back: one padded nude bra, a soft white training bra, a pale pink one with tiny strawberries on the band, and one lacy lemon-colored number that looked purely decorative.

“Why are there bras here?” Ethan demanded, red-faced and staring at the wondrous sight. “They better not be for me!”

“Oh, they’re for you, all right, panty boy.” Dani grinned like the cat going after the canary. “Who else would wear such prissy little boobie bags? Not me!”

“She’s… kidding, right?” The mortified boy looked towards his mother and his aunt. The smirks on their faces answered his question. “But… why?”

“Because you’re still growing,” DeeDee said breezily. “And because your mother wants to see which style flatters your shape. Which, so far, is mostly collarbone and nerves.”

Colleen chuckled as she unrolled a soft measuring tape. “Don’t pout, honey. This is to help with proportion when you’re modeling for me. I need to see how my designs look with the proper underpinnings.”

“And to see how much of a sissy you really are,” Dani added.

“I am not—!”

“Shhh,” Colleen cooed. “Less whining, more slipping off your top, please.”

“Do I have to do this in front of them?”

“You’re not doing anything inappropriate,” Colleen said calmly. “You’re trying on undergarments. It’s no more shameful than socks.”

“Socks don’t hug my chest!”

“That depends on the sock,” DeeDee muttered.

Ethan slid out of his gingham top, leaving him standing before his audience wearing just the panties—soft pink with a white bow and scalloped edges. One arm crossed tightly over his bare chest, the other doing its best to hide his modesty between his legs..

“Nice not-boobies, panty boy,” Dani said through a mouthful of popcorn.

“Mom!”

Colleen clucked gently as she pulled his hands to his side. “No need to cover up, sweetheart. We’ve all seen a chest before.”

“Not mine,” he said, turning a shade pinker than his panties.

Dani snorted from the couch. “What chest?”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

“You’re gonna blush yourself inside out first.”

Ethan fumed. “That’s it! I’m moving to Australia!”

“Children,” DeeDee snapped. “Let’s focus.”

She held up the white training bra, simple and soft, with wide straps and no padding. “Let’s start conservative.”

Ethan looked at it like it might bite him.

Colleen nudged him, her voice gentle but firm. “Come on. Arms up.”

With a defeated sigh, he lifted his arms and DeeDee slid the bra down over them, then tugged the soft cotton into place. She spun him around, adjusted the band and fastened the back, giving a little tug at the straps.

“There,” she said. “Now let’s see.”

Ethan stood stiffly, eyes closed.

“Look at me,” she said.

He opened one eye.

“No, all the way.”

He looked up, his bottom lip tucked under his teeth.

Dani leaned forward, studying him like a museum exhibit. “Huh. You know what? It doesn’t look that weird.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I mean,” she shrugged, “it kind of… fits?”

“It fits too well,” Colleen murmured, circling him. “He’s got just enough taper under the ribcage to give the illusion of…”

“Don’t say illusion,” Ethan muttered.

“Well, what do you want us to say?” DeeDee asked. “That you’ve got womanly curves? Because you don’t, sweetie. But with a little cotton and the right posture…”

Colleen stepped back. “Let’s try another.”

This time DeeDee handed him the pink one. Small strawberry print along the band, eyelet trim, and slight padding in the cups. Ethan took it with trembling fingers and turned toward the wall.

“Oh no you don’t,” Dani called. “Turn around so we can see!”

“I’m not stripping in front of you!”

“Too late, cupcake,” she said, grinning. “You already did.”

Colleen gave him a look. “We don’t have time for modesty, Ethan. Off with the white one, on with the pink one. Hurry up, please.”

With a red face, he reached behind to remove the training bra. After fumbling for a moment, DeeDee sighed.

“Come here, Princess.”

He stepped over slowly toward his aunt. She slid it up and off with a quick flick. “Now put on the other.”

He turned the strawberry bra around backward, fastened it, then spun it back around again and slipped his arms through the straps, pulling it up. He then tugged at it here and there until it felt… comfortable?

“Wow, you really act like you know what you’re doing!” Dani jeered. “Where’s you learn that, Sissy?”

“Mom!”

“Oh, she doesn’t mean it, honey,” Colleen said. “Now face us.”

He did—arms limp, eyes pleading.

Dani burst out laughing. “Oh my god. That one actually gives you boobies!”

“Stop saying that word!”

“You look like the shy girl in gym class who forgets her sports bra.”

“Mom!”

Colleen stepped forward and tugged the straps a little tighter. “It’s snug, but not too tight. I like the shape. It’s… sweet.”

“I look like an idiot.”

“You look like someone who’s cooperating,” DeeDee said. “Which is shockingly attractive on you.”

She reached for the nude bra next. It was slightly larger and had even more padding in the cups—a subtle boost meant to mimic a budding bustline.

“I’m not wearing that!” Ethan backed away. “It’s… it’s way too big.”

“Stop being so dramatic, baby. It’s meant for structured garments,” Colleen explained. “For when you’re modeling older-girl dresses. It’s not for every day.”

“But I don’t need padding.”

“Princess,” DeeDee said dryly, “you didn’t need frilly panties either. Yet here we are.”

“Here, I’ll help,” Colleen said, slipping it around his torso before he could object.

As she tightened the back clasp, the cups pushed ever so slightly forward.

Ethan looked down—and gasped.

“It’s too much!”

“Oh, it’s not that much,” Dani said. “You look like you’re about to give a speech in front of the whole seventh grade about your summer volunteering at the library.”

“You’re not helping!”

Colleen guided him to the full-length mirror. “Look.”

He did. And there he was: barefoot, in pink panties, wearing a padded bra that gave the illusion—no, the promise—of a chest.

“Whoa,” he whispered.

“You see it?” Colleen asked.

“I look like…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

DeeDee held up the last bra—lemon yellow with lace trim and a decorative bow. “I like this one best,” she said, tossing it to him. “I got it mostly for laughs.”

Dani giggled. “And I helped!”

Ethan caught it, stared, then looked up.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Try it,” Colleen said, not smiling.

Ethan stared at her.

She crossed her arms and stared back.

He sighed.

It was a struggle—the little hooks were more stubborn than the others—but he got it on. This time with his hands behind his back—"Like a normal person,” quipped DeeDee. The lemon lace glowed softly against his pale skin. It didn’t fit as well—well, he didn’t think so—and the lace itched slightly, but none of that mattered. It was frilly. It was loud. And it made Dani shriek with laughter.

“I knew you had it in you!” she gasped. “You’re a walking lemonade stand! And you got lemons for boobies!”

“I’m going to die,” Ethan said.

“No, sweetie,” Colleen said kindly. “You’re just growing up.”

Ethan sat on the ottoman, arms folded across the lace-trimmed bra, trying very hard not to exist. The bra strap itched slightly at the shoulder, and he kept shifting his weight as if to remind everyone—himself most of all—that this was temporary.

Colleen laid the other three bras neatly back in a row across the ottoman.

“I’ll take all four,” she said.

“Called it!” DeeDee and Dani said in unison. They gave each other a high five and grinned at the embarrassed boy.

“All four?” Ethan asked, scandalized.

“Sure, why not? You never know what I’ll need when I’m fitting dresses,” she replied. “Structured bras for structured garments, sweet soft ones for school dresses, and a little fun one for when I’m feeling indulgent.”

“I’m not wearing lemon lace for your indulgence!”

DeeDee handed Dani a soda and flopped onto the couch. “You’ll wear whatever ends up in your drawer, honey. Don’t get precious about it now.”

“I think he should wear one now,” Dani said, grinning. “You know, like practice through the rest of the day… and dinner.”

“Absolutely not!”

“Why not?” Colleen said innocently. “Dani’s right. You do need to practice and you’ll be dressed anyway. It’s good to learn how a bra feels with movement. You’ll move more naturally during our photo shoots… or if we happen to go out somewhere nice.”

“Go out somewhere nice!?” Ethan looked betrayed. “I thought this was just for fittings!”

“It was,” Colleen said with a shrug. “But you’re already fitted. Besides, Aunt DeeDee doesn’t get to see this side of you all that often.”

DeeDee sighed. “Yeah, I’m going to have to come around a lot more.”

Dani leaned over, smirking. “C’mon. I dare you. Put the strawberry one back on. You can’t chicken out now, Little Miss Strawberry Shortcake.”

DeeDee cackled and raised her soda can in a toast.

“I hate all of you,” Ethan muttered.

“Arms up,” Colleen said gently.

He obeyed.

Later, after they’d eaten cold pasta salad and slices of melon—Dani made him fetch extra napkins and another can of soda while she watched him move about, causing her to giggle like a maniac—Ethan stood in the parlor, now wearing the pink gingham sundress but with the strawberry bra underneath. In his hands were his new gifts, which Colleen insisted that he handwash, press and fold before DeeDee and Dani left. His cousin, as always, insisted on supervising.

His cheeks burned as she hovered over him. “See, this is why you’re the sissy. You do these kinds of thing so much better than I ever could.”

Why does she always have to say stuff like that? he thought to himself.

A little while later he opened the top drawer of his dresser. It used to hold socks and old video games and spare cables. Now it was filled with pastel panties folded neatly, a few camisoles, and several pairs of frilly ankle socks and knee socks. He hesitated before adding the bras. The white one went in first. Then the lavender, then padded nude.

He held the lemon lace one a moment longer. It looked like it belonged in a costume trunk. Or a very glamorous dollhouse.

He set it gently on top.

The drawer closed with a soft click.

He caught himself in the mirror.

Not just glanced—looked.

Shoulders soft. Collarbones prominent. The strawberry bra under his dress gave the slightest hint of shape, just enough to draw the eye. His hair had grown out a bit, but it still looked like a boy’s. His face was still his. But the rest?

It was hard to tell where he began and the girl in the mirror ended.

He didn’t smile.

But he didn’t look away.

 

* * *
 

Colleen knocked once, then opened the door. She didn’t ask for permission. She walked over, placed a hand on his shoulder and fondled an exposed bra strap before sliding it under the collar of his dress.

“Thank you for trusting me today,” she said softly.

Ethan nodded.

“You did beautifully.”

He looked up at her. “Do I have to wear one all the time now?”

“Of course not,” she said, smiling. “But you should as often as you can. You need to get used to them—for when we really need you to wear it. And when it makes sense. And maybe… sometimes when we’re trying something new.”

“That sounds like ‘all the time’.”

“It sounds like growing up.”

She took his face in between her hands and lightly kissed his lips. “Come downstairs, baby. You’ve earned a cookie.”

He followed her, his skirts swishing, the strawberry bra snug around his ribs, a reminder of who was in charge.

 

Next, The City Weekend

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 Fourteen: The City Weekend

A trip to the big city is an adventure Ethan never quite expected.
 

The Saturday morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window like honey poured over the table, warm and golden, the last precious weekend before the school year began. Ethan had hoped for a quiet morning. Maybe he could sneak back into bed and pretend he didn’t exist. But fate, as always, had other plans—or more precisely, Mother did.

Colleen stood by the counter, her expression a curious mixture of delight and mischief as she watched her son pick cautiously at his French toast. “Eat up, darling. You’ll need your energy. Auntie Penelope is taking us to Capital City today.”

Ethan blinked. “Capital City?”

“Yes, we’re all going on a weekend adventure,” Colleen said, dabbing her lips with a cloth napkin. “Sightseeing, shopping, the whole kit 'n kaboodle. Auntie is feeling generous. And you’re her favorite girl.”

“Favorite?—” His fork froze in midair. “I’m not going as Ethan, am I?”

“Of course not, sweetheart,” she said sweetly, pouring tea with elegant precision. “Penelope wants Emily to join us.”

Ethan let out a soft groan, but it wasn’t loud enough to stop the familiar chain of events. His mother set the tea down and moved to the laundry room, emerging moments later with her son’s archnemesis, the yellow sundress. It was already ironed to perfection. The puffed sleeves, the high gathered waist and flaring skirt practically glowed in the morning light.

Behind it came the blonde wig—the nice one that Penelope had given him—brushed into a stylish, shoulder-brushing flip, and the matching yellow hairbow, tied just-so. The white sandals were placed gently beside the outfit, already polished.

Ethan shrank in his chair. “Do I have to wear all that?”

Colleen smiled, but there was a glint behind her eyes. “Everything else is unavailable, I’m afraid.”

“But—”

She raised an eyebrow. “I can always call your auntie and tell her you aren’t feeling up to it. She mentioned a garden party as an alternative. With her lady friends, of course—and their granddaughters. She’ll need her little maid to serve tea and cookies.”

Ethan’s lips pressed together. He swallowed hard. “So I guess we’re going to Capital City, huh?”

Colleen smirked. “I guess so.”

He was soon upstairs in his mother’s bathroom, standing miserably in a matching yellow bra and panty set as Colleen fastened the wig over his pinned-down hair. Her hands were gentle, and yet every stroke of the brush made him squirm. When the bow was tied snugly atop his head, Colleen cupped his chin and turned his face side to side.

“You’re acting strange, my love. What exactly is going through that pretty little head of yours?”

Ethan bit his lip. “I’m… well, me going to Capital City, like this.” He tugged at the shoulder strap of his training bra and sighed. “It’s kind of scary.”

“There’s nothing to fear, darling. You’ve been out and about in our little village, right? Capital City is just a bigger version, that’s all.”

“That's not the point, Mom. You can dress me up all you like, but I’m still just a boy in a dress.”

“Just a boy he says.” Colleen snorted. “Darling, you are anything but ‘just a boy.’ Trust me on this.”

She helped him slip into the sundress and buttoned up the back. He stared at his reflection, pursing his lips. “You know what I mean. It’s scary sometimes, being out in public dressed like a prissy girl. I mean, I could be arrested or kidnapped… or something.”

“Oh, cheer up, my love.” Colleen touched his chin, prompting him to look her in the eye. “You’ll be with me and Auntie Penelope the whole time. We won’t let anything bad happen to you,” she said, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. “If anybody kidnaps you it’ll probably be your auntie.”

Ethan bristled. That statement alone was more ominous than reassuring.

“The best thing for you to do is to act as pretty as you look.” Colleen raised an eyebrow, shifting into teaching mode. “Let’s try your voice. Soft and bright, like you’re delighted to help. Remember, you’re not a moody little boy. You’re a cheerful girl named Emily.”

Ethan sighed. “I get it.”

“Say it properly.”

He cleared his throat, took a breath, and said in a clumsy sing-song lilt, “Y-Yes, Mother. I understand.”

Colleen grinned. “A little better. Now let’s hear a ‘Thank you, Mother,’ for brushing your pretty hair.”

Ethan hesitated, cheeks burning. “Thank you for brushing my hair, Mother.”

“Perfect. Now show me a curtsy.”

He gave a stiff little dip.

“No, no, you silly girl. Left foot behind the right, just like you’ve done a hundred times before. Fingertips grasping the hem of your skirt. Now, again.”

He tried again, blushing harder.

“One more time, please—and with a nice thank you.”

“Thank you, Mother,” the cross-dressed boy said, once again dipping the best he could.

“It’s probably just nerves,” Colleen said, shaking her head. “We’ll work on it.”

By the time Penelope’s sedan pulled up outside, Ethan was in full costume. Panties and bra. Yellow sundress flaring softly at the knees, the sandals buckled neatly on his feet. Finger and toenails polished a soft pink. A small faux pearl bracelet on his wrist. Colleen handed him a white patent-leather purse. “Hold it like a lady. Over your shoulder. Or tucked neatly by your side. And for goodness’ sake, stop slouching.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Colleen smirked. “I put a new tube of lip balm in your purse. I think you’ll like it… it’s strawberry.”

Ethan sighed and took the hint. His mother watched with satisfaction as he pulled the top off, put it in between his middle and ring finger as she’d taught him, and quickly and efficiently applied a coat over his lips. He smacked them together and—checking himself with a small compact mirror from his purse—smiled. The taste—and fragrance—of strawberries was strong. He licked his lips, hating that he actually liked it so much. He blushed under Colleen’s gaze as he put away his mirror and the little red plastic tube.

“Mmm, very nice,” she said, giving him a warm kiss on the lips. She smiled as she pulled away, their noses barely touching. “You taste delicious!”

“Ew! Mother!” Ethan tried to look irritated, but a crooked smile gave him away.

Mother and “daughter” stepped out onto the front porch just as the car door opened—there was Penelope, dressed in a flowing floral blouse and linen slacks. Her red lipstick matched her wide-brimmed hat.

“There she is! My favorite niece! You can sit up front with the adults, Emily dear.”

Ethan froze. “Front seat?”

“Of course, darling,” the old woman said with a little wink. “It’s the best view.”

Trapped between two women who were clearly enjoying every second, Ethan climbed into the front bench seat of the plush sedan. It smelled of lavender sachets and expensive perfume.

“Seatbelt, sweetie,” said Penelope, leaning across him to snap it into place herself. She gave his knee a gentle pat. “There we go. Perfect little lady.”

As they pulled away, the teasing began in earnest.

“Look at her sitting there like a doll,” Penelope beamed. “I almost don’t need a radio. Emily keeps us so well entertained. Mm, is that strawberry I detect?”

Ethan stiffened—Colleen giggled. “Emily has a new lip balm. Her kisses are just yummy.”

Penelope hooted. “I can’t wait to find out!”

“Also, she’s been practicing her curtsy,” Colleen added. “Show Auntie, darling.”

“Mother… seriously?” A raised eyebrow was all it took. “Oh, all right.”

In the confines of the seat, Ethan could only mimic the motion awkwardly, cheeks flushing as he accidently exposed the tops of his thighs.

“Precious!” Penelope exclaimed.

The women chatted animatedly about their itinerary—boutiques, accessories, shoes, perhaps a nice lunch somewhere sunny.

Ethan stared straight ahead, out the windshield, doing his best to keep his knees together and purse neatly balanced in his lap. Every bump in the road made his bow bounce. And, of course, his panties bugged him like something awful.

Yep, this is just how I wanted to spend my summer vacation, he thought with a pout. Twelve years old, going into eight grade, and out shopping with my mom and aunt in a dress and panties. I was hoping Dani would teach me how to use a skateboard. He bit his lip as he thought about his cousin. At least she’s not here to give me a bunch of grief.

His mind wandered, wistful and longing, thinking about what might have been and what might not have—and how different things could be if he just wasn’t so nice… so… helpful?

Colleen noticed his anxious expression.

“Something on your mind, sweetheart?”

He hesitated. Then, in a soft girlish voice that felt more and more like second nature, he said, “I was just wondering, Mother… I mean… since we’re out and all… if maybe we could stop by the video game store, just for a minute?”

Penelope glanced at him in the mirror with a raised brow. “Video games? My, my… that doesn’t sound very ladylike.”

Colleen laughed. “Sure, why not? She’s got plenty of money coming to her from the shop, so anything for our little miss.”

 

* * *
 

An hour later they arrived at the upscale shopping plaza in Capital City. The gleaming glass storefronts glinted in the late morning sunlight as Penelope’s imposing sedan glided into a reserved parking space. Ethan sat wedged between his mother and Penelope, his dainty yellow sundress fluttering slightly in the car’s air-conditioned breeze. His knees were pressed together demurely, his new purse gripped with both hands atop them, and his freshly glossed lips were pursed in anxious silence.

“Now, Emily, dear,” Penelope cooed as she turned off the ignition, “remember to smile and keep that little chin up. It won’t do for a lady to walk about looking like she’s lost her puppy.”

“Yes, Auntie,” Ethan murmured in his best girl voice without going too high or too deep.

“And don’t forget your posture,” Colleen added, reaching across him to gently tug his shoulders back. “Shoulders back, chest out, and take small, ladylike steps. You don’t want to stomp about like a lumberjack, darling.”

“Yes, Mother,” Ethan said automatically, eyes fluttering shut in momentary despair.

This is going to be horrible, he thought desperately.

Together, the three exited the vehicle and walked toward the main shopping promenade. Ethan teetered slightly in his low-heeled white sandals, their delicate ankle straps clicking softly against his skin with every tentative step. The yellow sundress swayed with each movement, its hem brushing just above his knees. The matching yellow bow perched atop his blonde wig, which framed his face in softly curled waves. He tried not to think about how every pedestrian, every storefront mirror, every passing child might be staring at him.

To his relief, the few people who passed by didn’t say a word, but he did get more than his share of polite smiles and approving nods. Men, women, girls… they just acted like there wasn’t anything wrong with a middle school boy in a frock as bright as the sun mincing down the sidewalk with his mother and aunt—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then he caught a glimpse of himself in a store window. And was shocked to see what he knew but was having such a difficult time accepting. Three females were reflected back at him: his mother and Auntie Penelope—and between them, Emily. Ethan was nowhere in sight. There was only Emily, with her blonde locks, ruffles and lace, and a dazed look of wonder on her face.

It’s so weird, how nobody notices me when I dress as a girl. It’s like I don’t exist—well, me as Ethan I don’t. Me as Emily… she attracts everyone’s attention and they seem to really like her. Everywhere we go everybody sees her and knows her and loves her—or loves looking at her. So weird…

“Come along, Emily,” his mother prodded. “You can admire yourself later, sweetheart.”

“Such a vain child,” teased Penelope. “But it’s well-earned, I suppose.”

Inside the first boutique—Marguerite’s Finer Things for Girls—the scent of perfume and polished wood filled the air. Rows of pastel dresses, lace-trimmed cardigans, and girlish accessories lined the walls. Ethan stood helplessly as the two women pawed through hangers like eager hens, chirping their commentary.

“Oh, look at this one, Colleen,” Penelope said, holding up a pink chiffon dress with puff sleeves and an embroidered hem. “Can’t you just see our Emily twirling in this?”

Colleen laughed. “Add a white cardigan and those lace-trimmed socks and she’d be ready for her next piano recital.”

“Don’t I have enough dresses already?” Ethan pouted. “Why do I need more?”

“Pfft! I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Penelope scolded. “Beautiful girls never have enough dresses!”

“But Mom makes pretty much anything I need. Can’t we just—”

“Really, Emily! You and your mother need to focus on making things to sell so you can pay your bills, not fill your closets.” The old woman’s expression went into a playful pout. “Besides, can’t I spoil my favorite niece?”

Colleen chuckled. “You may as well give up, darling. Auntie’s mind is made up—this is one argument you’ll never win.”

I never win any arguments, Ethan thought.

Having lost that battle, the cross-dressed boy flushed crimson as he was led into a curtained fitting room and handed his new dress. Changing in the strange room felt surreal, like slipping from one dream into another, only in panties. His mother helped button him up, smoothing the slippery pink fabric at his waist.

“Now go out and show Auntie, sweetheart,” she said brightly.

Reluctantly, Ethan stepped out, keeping his head bowed. The sales associate, a perky college-aged woman with a beaming smile, clapped her hands.

“Oh, precious!” she cried. “You look like a little fairy tale, honey!”

“I—I feel ridiculous,” Ethan whispered.

“Hush, dear,” Penelope said as she adjusted the bow on his wig. “You look like a lady. Now turn around for us. Slower. Good girl.”

They tried on dress after dress—ivory, lavender, pale mint, yellow—each more darling than the last. Ethan’s pleas for mercy were met only with coos and compliments. By the time they made their purchases he was mentally exhausted.

“I don’t know why you’re acting this way,” Colleen mused. “You model things for me all the time at home without complaining. Aren’t you having fun, darling?”

Ethan huffed. “Not really.”

Penelope snorted. “Well, we’ll just have to turn that frown upside down then, won’t we, Mother?”

Colleen chuckled. “I think you have your work cut out for you.”

Back on the sidewalk, Ethan trudged between the women, shopping bags with dresses in hand, his feet aching. He couldn’t wait to get to the car and head home.

When is this day going to end? he wondered fretfully.

His attitude suddenly changed when they approached a video game store—a wall of LED displays flashing the latest titles caught his eye. For a moment, he forgot himself and paused, staring wistfully. He so wanted to go in—the lure of the sounds and lights and graphics triggered the boy beneath the wig—but again, he caught his girlish reflection in the store window and hesitated.

“Do you want to go in?” his mother said sweetly, far too sweetly. “Let’s see what catches your eye. Go on. You know you want to,” she teased.

“C-Can we just forget it? I-I mean… never mind. Please, Mother… I’d rather not.”

“Nonsense, sweetheart. You were very patient while we were shopping for Emily.” Colleen smirked. “Go get something nice for Ethan.”

Exchanging the shopping bags for his mother’s credit card, the nervous boy entered the store. He was mincing toward one of the displays when a voice called out.

“Hey—hey, just where do you think you’re going!”

Ethan froze. He turned slightly, just enough to see a knot of boys standing nearby. His mother and Penelope were just outside the store, too far away to help.

One of the boys—a lanky teenager in a hoodie—sauntered over, an arrogant look of disdain on his face.

“What are you doing here, Miss Priss?” He looked Ethan up and down with a sneer. “Girls like you don’t play video games!”

Ethan’s pulse quickened. He clutched his purse tighter under his arm, suddenly too aware of his wig, his painted nails, his silly, girlish sundress, and how his sandals clicked against the tile floor when he moved. He considered for an instant running for the door, but he was too scared to move a muscle.

“I, um…” he began, voice tight, Emily-soft. He could feel the weight of both women’s gazes behind him. “I was just looking…”

The boy laughed. “Let me guess—you probably play some sissy girl game, huh?” His friends chuckled behind him. “Probably some Barbie crap.”

“Yeah, they don’t sell My Little Pony here, girly-girl!” one of the other boys teased. “Why don’t you go back to your mommy?”

Ethan flushed, his fists curling slightly at his sides. He wanted to shout, to throw that dumb purse to the ground and declare: I’m a boy, not some girly-girl! I bet I could beat all of you! But instead, something else came to his lips—something softer, but no less pointed.

“Well, um… no,” he said sweetly, in the breathy, practiced lilt of Emily. “I’m not familiar with that one. I do like Zombie Apocalypse IX, though. I just made Master Chief Rank Fifty.” He fluttered his lashes, managing a slight smirk. “It’s not that hard if you know what you’re doing.”

The boy in the hoodie stared, blinking once.

“No way a girl like you made Master Chief,” he muttered, eyes darting to the yellow dress, the hairbow, the pearl bracelet. “No way!”

Emboldened by the boy’s reaction, Ethan shrugged. “Oh, yes way! My cousin Dani showed me all the special moves, how to increase the rate of fire in that machine gun thingie, how to get extra medical supplies and stuff.”

Another boy, this one wearing a backwards baseball cap, scoffed—it wasn’t often that a girl looking like that knew so much about video games. “Yeah, well, sure, everybody knows that stuff. Big deal.”

Ethan raised a single eyebrow, just like his mother did when she was about to give him grief. “So, then you know all about the secret map to the headquarters, too, hmm?” he cooed almost too sweetly.

“There’s a map to the headquarters?” Hoodie boy’s eyes went wide. “Where?”

“Sure. Just throw one of those little grenades in the hatch of the damaged tank. A pretty little map pops right out.” Ethan grinned at the bewildered reaction of his audience. “Everybody knows that,” he tutted, mimicking his Auntie Penelope’s smugness.

The cross-dressed boy then turned without another word, the hem of his sundress swirling gently against the back of his knees as he walked out of the store, hips swaying with the unconscious rhythm he’d been taught to fake. Behind him, he heard the boy wearing the baseball cap calling out.

“Hey! Did you guys hear what that prissy girl just told us? She’s, like, rank fifty! For real!”

“Yeah," Hoodie guy yelled. "She even found a map to the headquarters—”

More chatter, confused and shocked, followed him out the door.

Penelope put a hand over her mouth, stifling a delighted laugh. “Well, that was unexpected.”

Colleen looked down at Ethan with an arched brow. “Nicely done, young lady. You really are full of surprises.”

Ethan’s cheeks burned, but something within him swelled with strange pride.

“They didn’t have to be mean,” he mumbled, eyes down. “I just wanted to leave.”

“Of course you did,” said Penelope, patting his back. “And we’ll do that soon enough, darling. But let’s not leave here disappointed, hmm?”

She gestured cheerily to the pastel-colored entrance to a doll shop ahead.

“Since you’re not getting anything for Ethan, let’s find something special for our clever little Emily.”

 

* * *
 

They entered a shop filled with glittering boxes of molded plastic girls, miniature wardrobes, and tiny tea sets. Ethan’s heart dropped—shopping for girl’s clothes was bad enough, but being in a doll shop was terrifying. He tried to picture himself playing with dolls, dressing them up, going through all of the motions. That was bad enough. Being seen playing with dolls—especially by the likes of his mother and auntie—the idea of that was even more dreadful.

Penelope gave Ethan a firm nudge. “Pick one, darling. Every proper girl needs a dolly to keep her company. Who know, this may be the start of another fun little hobby.”

That’s what I’m afraid of, thought the cross-dressed boy.

Ethan was reluctant at first. But he surveyed the shelves anyway. He was amazed to see that many of the dolls wore outfits similar to what he and his mother made for their business. Oddly, that was enough to reel him in. For all of his boyish bravado and posturing and resistance, he’d developed a fascination for the craft he’d learned under his mother’s tutelage—here, before him, were dozens of miniature examples of the very thing he’d mastered over the past several weeks… and he could not resist the call.

The variety of dolls and their outfits was overwhelming. He was taking more time than he’d expected, and he blushed to see his mother and Auntie Penelope taking delight in his browsing.

“Take your time, darling,” Penelope cooed. “No need to rush. We’re just enjoying the view.”

“Of course they are,” he muttered. “Everybody likes watching the pretty little sissy boy pretending to be some girly-girl… hmm, look at that…”

At long last Ethan gravitated to a vintage-style fashion doll in a crisp polka dot housedress and apron. He noted with a smile her red lipstick and her equally red hair: a trademark of his mother and Aunt DeeDee and cousin Dani—except that Dani would never wear lipstick, of course.

“She looks like a 1950s housewife,” the cross-dressed boy said, smiling faintly. “She’s even got the rabbit’s ear hairbow like we do,” he murmured.

“She certainly does,” Colleen said, chuckling. “That’s Lucy from the old ‘I Love Lucy’ TV show. That hairbow is so you, Emily. Her entire outfit is, don’t you think?”

“I guess.” Ethan felt his cheeks flushing. “I think she’s kind of… classy.”

“Of course she’s classy,” Auntie Penelope said gently. “Just like our sweet little housewife.”

He looked at the doll and thought about the clothes he wore at home—his gingham and polka dot dresses, and the scarves and aprons—and all of the chores and tasks that went along with them. Having a small-scale reminder of his place in the world was both enticing and worrisome.

“I think I see a smile.” Penelope smirked. “Let’s get that one, Emily. Don’t you agree, Mother?”

Colleen nodded. “She’s perfect. A perfect doll for my perfect daughter.”

The old woman sniffed. “Then it’s official. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Yes, Auntie,” Ethan said softly, his voice once again delicate and properly sweet. “Thank you, Auntie.”

And then he gave a curtsy so perfect, so well-practiced, that both women clapped.

 

* * *
 

There was yet another stop to make.

Penelope, humming along with the radio, steered her Cadillac into a shaded lane lined with magnolia trees and high-end boutiques. Nestled between a French linen importer and a perfume atelier stood a modest little salon with a frosted glass door and a discreet sign in gold leaf that simply read: Stefan.

Inside, the air smelled of jasmine and talcum powder. The lighting was soft and flattering, and the plush leather chairs looked more like something from a private club than a beauty parlor. A silver-haired gentleman in a lavender vest and perfectly creased trousers floated toward them, his grin bright and theatrical.

“Darlings!” he trilled, clasping Penelope’s gloved hand in both of his. “You must be my special guest.”

Colleen winked at Ethan. “He means you, sweetheart.”

At first it was a nerve-wracking experience. Penelope made no secret that her “nephew” was in desperate need of style options, loudly describing his “limited inventory” and his “upcoming social calendar,” which seemed to include everything short of a debutante ball.

Stefan didn’t bat an eye. Boy, girl, it made no difference to him—someone was in dire need of his talents! With a practiced sweep of his hand, he gestured to a mirrored seat. “Sit, sugarplum. You’re in the hands of an artiste.”

Ethan gave his mother a helpless look. “Do I really?—”

Colleen gently guided him by the shoulders. “You’ll thank us. Eventually.”

The cross-dressed boy obeyed with a sigh, perching stiffly on the leather chair as Stefan approached like a magician preparing his assistant. Ethan’s current wig—which he had worn so many times and was now in need of some tender loving care—was lifted off and placed reverently on a stand. He blushed as cool air brushed his scalp, the vulnerable sensation amplified by the salon’s quiet intimacy.

Now I definitely look like a boy in a dress, he thought wryly. I may as well be naked.

“Such a darling head shape,” murmured Stefan. “Like a porcelain figurine. Let’s tidy things up, shall we?”

He gave Ethan a quick but professional haircut—“To better frame the canvas,” as he put it—then leaned him back for a shampoo. The warm water and slow massage of Stefan’s fingers through his damp hair proved unexpectedly soothing. Ethan nearly dozed off. Nearly.

After a thorough brushing and blow-dry came the real show. First was a crisp, curled 1950s flip, honey-blonde with sunlit highlights. Colleen adjusted the puffy shoulders of Ethan’s dress to admire the effect. “Oh, that is trouble,” she said with a low whistle. “She looks like she’s ready for a garden party.”

Penelope hooted. “Or a walk in the park with a boy.”

Ethan squirmed. “Ew, Auntie, please don’t say that!”

“Never say never.” She gave him a playful wink.

The second wig was a bright, almost platinum pageboy with subtle tapering around the chin. Penelope sat forward with gleaming eyes. “Perfect for polishing silver. Or serving tea to company.”

“Or writing thank-you notes in pink ink,” added Colleen.

Each wig was carefully fitted, snipped, and brushed, with Stefan fluttering and fussing, making little delighted noises as he worked. When he stepped back, he clasped his hands beneath his chin and beamed.

“Marvelous! I can’t believe he is not a she! It’s not just the wig—which is amazing, of course—but her bone structure, her skin tone, and that blush! And those pouty lips—simply incredible.”

Ethan glanced at the mirror. He could hardly recognize himself, and yet—there he was, beneath the satin smock, blinking uncertainly at a girl who looked like she should be hosting an etiquette segment on daytime television.

“And now—” Stephan cleared his throat, as if he was about to make a major announcement “—it is time for the tour de force, the final act of our little play.”

A third—and indeed, final—wig was presented, done up in golden shoulder-length ringlet curls, tight and springy, parted in the middle. Once in place it made Ethan look more girlish than the girliest of girls. The surprised boy felt a little thrill go through his body as Stefan primped and pulled and tugged at the curls, the sensation so powerful that he almost didn’t want the stylist to stop. When Stefan was done, Ethan couldn’t take his eyes off his reflection, turning his head this way and that like a self-absorbed teenage movie star.

“My goodness, I recognize that smile,” Stefan gushed. “Someone has fallen in love! I’m so happy!”

Colleen chuckled. “I believe you’re right. I haven’t seen that look on his face for quite a while.”

“Then our job is done!” Penelope clapped her hands. “Well done, Stefan. This has been a profitable day for all of us.”

Arrangements were made for the wig Ethan arrived in to be washed, conditioned and returned with a new and even more exciting hairstyle. They can do that? the cross-dressed boy thought. I had no idea.

Then he saw Penelope hand over her credit card without flinching.

He swallowed hard. The price tag made him feel faint, but Auntie Penelope didn’t so much as blink. There was pride in the way she handled the transaction, like a patron funding a great work of art. Or a cause célèbre.

To the surprise of everyone—himself included—Ethan suddenly stood up slowly, gracefully smoothing his skirt, his voice small but sincere.

“Thank you, Auntie Penelope,” he said, in his best Emily voice. “For the wigs. For everything.”

He then performed a half-curtsy, then remembered himself and did a better one, the way Penelope had shown him. To her credit, Penelope said nothing—only gave a small, approving nod.

Ethan then turned to Stefan and repeated the curtsy. “Thank you, Mr. Stefan,” he said, his voice soft and breathy. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You are a true artiste.”

“Oh, the poise, the drama!” The hair stylist wiped his eyes and clapped. “My dear, the pleasure is all mine. You must come back soon! Promise me?”

A smirking Colleen gave her son a nod of approval, then gathered her purse. “Lunch, I think?”

Penelope tapped her gloved fingers together. “Of course. Our little miss here is probably starving. We can’t let her waste away.”

And with that, Ethan was ushered out of the salon, the soft swish of his new ringlets brushing against his cheek, the faint scent of jasmine still clinging to his clothing.

 

* * *
 

They ate at a simple but elegant sidewalk café. All three had the chicken salad, tomatoes and iced tea. Dessert was lemon cheesecake.

Ethan sat between the two women and endured their ceaseless chatting about everything from the day’s purchases to business. For the most part he let their conversation pass over him, focusing instead on the passersby. All day he’d been anxious, concerned that someone would point at him and say, “Look at that boy! He’s wearing a dress!” Worse yet, one of his friends could just show up out of nowhere and then his life would be over.

But it never happened. None of it. He’d been to the shopping plaza, he’d tried on dresses and bought a doll… he’d even confronted a bunch of arrogant and rude boys—the kind of boys he might have been at one time—and walked away triumphant.

And now, sitting at the table in full view of dozens if not hundreds of complete strangers, playing with the curls of his new wig, he was beginning to relax in his role as the prim and proper daughter, the pretty niece… as Emily. He fooled them all… portraying the shy girl from out of town, visiting the big city and taking in the sights.

“Emily?” Ethan jerked, startled by the touch of his mother’s hand on his shoulder. He blushed to feel his ringlets tickle his neck and collarbone. “Darling, I asked you a question. What did you think of those awful boys at the video game store?”

“Sorry, Mother.” The cross-dressed boy gave her an apologetic smile, stifling a yawn. “I was… daydreaming, I guess.”

Penelope laughed. “I think our little miss is tuckered out. We’ve had a big day, haven’t we?”

Colleen nodded. “Still, I’d like your opinion, darling. Those boys you talked with… what did you think of them?”

Ethan nodded, thinking. “Well, to be honest, I was scared to death when I walked into that store. I wasn’t thinking when I told you I wanted to buy a game, and when I realized that meant actually going into a place like that—dressed like… this—” he glanced down at the fluffy skirt and puffy sleeves of his dress—“I, um, almost… peed myself.”

The two women stared at him for an instant, then they both burst out laughing.

The cross-dressed boy’s face reddened. “Sorry, Mother… Auntie… but it’s true. I was really scared. But something inside me gave me a little shove… and I got out of there before they figured out who… and what I was.”

“Well, I’m very proud of you, sweetheart. You handled yourself very well. And for the record, none of those boys had the slightest clue who Ethan was. They were so distracted by how adorable Emily was, though.”

Penelope chimed in. “It’s so true. You should have seen them and their beady little eyes, locked in on your cute little bottom—”

Ethan pouted. “Ew, gross! Auntie, please stop saying stuff like that!”

Both women laughed. Penelope put her hand on his and winked. “We keep telling you, you’re so precious, so pretty, you’ve got nothing to worry about. No boy will ever think of you as anything but a beautiful, well-dressed girl.”

Ethan smiled, but inside he felt his heart pounding. Being looked at as a girl—by all of those boys—was scary, probably one of the scariest things he’d every experienced. But now that he survived it…

Stop thinking about that! he thought. What is wrong with you… do you really want to be that way? Don’t let Mom and Auntie Penelope get inside your head.

Penelope suddenly pushed away from the table and stood up. “Now, speaking of… ahem… the need to go to the powder room, I’m going to visit it myself. Then we can do a little sight-seeing before checking into our hotel.”

“Hotel?" Ethan’s eyes went wide. "We… we’re not going home?”

Colleen smiled. “Oh no, darling. I told you, this is a weekend trip. We’ve still got this evening and all day tomorrow before heading back.

“I was… just surprised, I guess.”

Colleen took her son’s hand. “Come on, Emily. Let’s go freshen ourselves. You heard Auntie. It’ll be a while before we have another chance.”

Ethan sighed. “Yes… Mother.”

 

* * *
 

They left the little sidewalk café just as the river light turned to honey. Ethan stood, smoothed the bright yellow sundress he and his mother had made together in their shop—he felt the fabric flourish against his knees as a breeze came up the boulevard. Traffic hummed, the scent of hot pavement and magnolia drifting together, and the skyline rose in crisp, glassy tiers over the old brick warehouses.

“Sightseeing before the hotel,” Penelope declared, tapping her purse with the decisive, jeweled finger that meant no one would be going to a lobby until she had her fun. Her bangles chimed. “Capital City won’t wait for you to stop blushing, little lady.”

Colleen looped a hand through Ethan’s elbow, steering. “Posture,” she murmured. “Shoulders back. Let the dress hang, don’t fight it.”

“I’m not fighting it,” he whispered.

“You love it,” Colleen said, smiling without looking.

He didn’t argue the point.

They crossed to the river park where an antique steamboat—white deck rails, fluted smokestacks, a huge scarlet paddle—slept at its moorings. Cattails and river grass nodded at the bank. Someone played a calliope melody from a speaker under the awning: tinny, cheerful, a chorus from an older America.

“Perfect,” Colleen said, already producing her phone. “Emily, darling—up on the boardwalk there, the sun at your back.”

Ethan hesitated. A family drifted past—father in a polo, mother in sunglasses, a little girl dragging a stuffed rabbit by one ear—and the girl pointed at his dress and shouted, “That girl looks like a butterfly!”

Penelope, satisfied, folded her arms. “You heard the expert.”

Ethan climbed the boardwalk step and tried to look small without actually shrinking. He put a hand on the rail, bent his wrists the way his mother liked, and felt the bright wig’s curls kiss his cheek. A gull barked, the river slapped the pilings, and Colleen lifted the phone, her voice changing into that breezy, helpful tone she used for the blog.

“Turn just a smidge. Good. Touch your chin with your left hand. You’re thinking about summer lemonade and not about anything scary. Lovely. Now, one where you show the skirt—pinch and lift, not too high. That’s it, my love. Perfect!”

Click-click.

Ethan obeyed, warm-faced but buoyed by the way passersby smiled instead of stared. The dress—proud little darts, a neat waist, hem banded with white lace—caught the light like a dandelion. He didn’t quite forget he was a boy on display; he did, however, feel the river take him in and hold him, and the feeling was…not terrible.

“Don’t scowl,” Penelope warned. “You’ll age yourself five years and we can’t afford that in a hemline this innocent.”

“I’m not scowling,” he said, but he softened his mouth anyway. Colleen laughed.

Click-click. Click-click.

They wandered deeper into the park. The glass house of the butterfly atrium rose ahead like a soap bubble the size of a chapel. Inside, it was warm and thick with the smell of citrus peels and wet soil. The air moved with wings. Blue, flame-orange, lemon-yellow; they turned and folded, lights in a gentle parade.

“Remind me to put a note on the blog,” Colleen murmured, adjusting a renegade curl under the wig cap. “Yellow draws the Swallowtails. See them? They’re flirting with you.”

“That’s because he’s wearing their flag,” Penelope said.

“Her flag,” Colleen corrected softly, never breaking rhythm. “All right, Emily—hands loose, do that pigeon-toed thing you always do."

"I don't—" He stopped talking as he realized he always did.

Click-click. Click-click.

"Now imagine the butterflies are your audience." Colleen smirked. "No grimacing, please.”

Ethan managed a face that counted as not-grimacing. “Mom, I already did the riverboat. Do I have to—”

“Dear heart,” Penelope cut in, laughter in the scold, “if I had a wardrobe that behaved this nicely I’d be photographed in front of the courthouse, the post office, and the dog catcher’s van.”

“You do have a wardrobe that behaves that nicely,” Ethan said.

“Exactly,” said Penelope, victorious.

Colleen’s phone stitched the atrium into a string of stills. Butterflies found Ethan as if coopering with the whole enterprise: a paper-thin white one clung to the shoulder strap like lace; a yellow swallowtail hovered in front of his nose, astonished to find its color on a person.

Click-click-click.

“They like you,” a docent said, stopping with a watering can. “It’s the shade you’re wearing. They’re drawn to light.”

Ethan stuck out a careful finger. A small monarch alighted, as polite as a handshake. Something in him unclenched. He smiled for real, the kind that pulled his eyes, and Colleen didn’t waste it.

Click-click-click-click.

“You’ll want that one for the brochure,” Penelope said, already picturing it: Emily in the Wildflower Sun Dress—Make It Your Own. Include a little butterfly pin.”

“Good idea.” Colleen nodded, scrolling through her collection of photographic gold.

When they checked into the hotel suitcases Ethan didn’t know about suddenly appeared out of nowhere. The lobby shone like an opera set: marble floors, a chandelier like a galaxy, the front desk staffed by men who ironed their collars with their own gazes. Penelope sailed through introductions as if she were a dowager queen and not an eccentric neighbor from Maplewood. The clerk said, “Welcome, ladies,” and Emily felt a tiny earthquake in his ribs.

In the elevator, mirrors multiplied them—three, six, nine Emilys, all trying to keep her smile sensible. In the room—plush, high windows, a little sofa, two queen beds—he discovered his mother had packed a second layer of courage.

“You brought more dresses,” he said.

“Of course I did,” said Colleen, kneeling by the suitcase with the secret compartments she loved. “We’re not eating dinner in your sewing clothes. Here—seafoam. Tea length. The sash pulls the line together. I think it will be a best-seller for us, don’t you?”

The dress smelled of starch and satisfaction. Ethan forgot to breathe, then remembered that he could. He would be wearing that dress soon, and in front of who knew how many people. The very thought drained him.

Penelope hung her caftan in the closet with enough ceremony to christen a ship and said, “Our little ingenue is in need of some rest. We’ll go eat in a couple of hours—time enough for her to get in a little snooze.”

Ethan didn’t argue, especially when he realized that meant taking a break from his wig. He watched with curious amazement as Penelope placed the expensive mass of curls on a foam form that she pulled out from one of several suitcases she brought along on their trip. We’re just here for one night, he thought wryly. Why does she need so much stuff? He then allowed his mother to remove his sandals and the yellow sundress, put his real hair back in a couple of small clips, and lead him to bed.

He felt self-conscious wearing just his bra and panties, but no one said a word, though Penelope did shoot him a playful wink and an approving nod as he curled up for a welcome nap.

After a while Ethan woke to the sound of women’s voices. Colleen and Penelope were on the phone, the tinny voice of his Aunt DeeDee in the background. There were soft murmurs, a cackle from the speakerphone and some quiet chuckling on this side of the line. He heard his mother said, “Good job, Dee. We’ll see you tomorrow afternoon,” before ending the call. A moment later he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder.

“Wakey-wakey, my love.” Colleen stood over him, a warm smile curling her lips. “Time to rise and shine. We have an evening of excitement ahead of us.”

Ethan sat up, rubbing his eyes. He pulled up an errant bra strap and looked around the room. “Was that Aunt DeeDee on the phone? What’s going on?”

“Oh nothing,” Penelope giggled. “She’s taking care of Gingersnap for me. Just giving us a report.”

“Okay.” He paused, thinking. “I heard laughing. Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s—” both women started at the same time. Penelope looked at Colleen, smirking. Colleen, in turn, put her hand over her mouth. “Everything’s fine, darling,” she said. “Dani was just acting up on the phone—you know how that girl is. And Gingersnap is safe and happy.”

“Yes, sweet girl,” Penelope added, her face alight with mischief. “The little duchess is being cared for. Everything else is going according to plan.”

“Everything else… according to?—” Ethan narrowed his eyes, his lips pursed. There was something in the way his mother and aunt looked at one another, but he was overwhelmed as it was. “Well, okay then. I guess.”

“Come along, darling,” Colleen said. “We’ve much to do and don’t want to be late.”

After Ethan made a quick closed-door visit to the bathroom, Colleen helped him wash his face and put his wig back on. To his surprise she insisted on applying the slightest touch of makeup, a hint of eye shadow, a swipe of blush across his cheeks, and a generous coating of pink gloss on his lips. Then came the seafoam dress and shoes on bare feet—and it was done.

Penelope looked as though she was about to faint from happiness. “Oh my goodness, how quickly we’ve grown up! My sweet girl… my precious niece… just look at you! You make me so happy, just standing there.”

Ethan hadn’t said much since his nap. But when he looked in the full-length mirror next to the bathroom door he gasped. “I… I look… different. The same, but… different.”

Indeed he did. The seafoam chiffon fell to his calves like a river of light. A narrow belt, just below his ribs, pricked a neat bow at the side. His white kitten heels—not foolish, but not nothing—practically clicked on the carpet. Just as Penelope had said, he looked older with his smooth legs and shiny lips, or maybe just farther away from Maplewood; he could have been—and probably was—mistaken for a high school girl. The wig’s curls framed him in ways that kept surprising him, helped by a hairbow that matched his dress.

Colleen was proud, but quiet. “You’ll want a cardigan darling; the restaurant will think it’s Paris in January even if we don’t.”

The restaurant waited behind a screen of palms. Linen, candlelight, silver a little too bright. A waiter in black held menus like pamphlets for a very exclusive club. “Good evening, ladies” he said. “Table for three?”

“Table for three,” Penelope repeated, the queen’s hand blessing the commoner. She watched the waiter watch Emily and gave the smallest nod: yes, she’s with us; yes, she’s allowed.

Ethan sat as he’d been taught: ankles tucked, back easy but straight, napkin on lap, hands in the space between nervous and noticeable. The room hummed with low talk and the soft orchestra of cutlery. If anyone looked, they did it kindly or not at all. He decided to breathe.

“You’re doing beautifully,” Colleen said, menu up, eyes over the top. “Don’t nibble on your hair.”

“I’m not—” He stopped. A curl had found his mouth. He gently shooed it away and tried not to die of it. “Thanks… er, thank you, Mother.”

Penelope leaned in. “And now a compliment from your gentlest of aunts. You pass, dear girl. With extra credit for courage. Keep your voice where it lives today—don’t push it up, don’t drag it down. Anyone worth impressing will hear the manners first.”

The food came as if the room were finishing a sentence: crisp salad with a tart whisper, a little filet properly shy of done, rolls you wanted to pocket because they were so small and perfect. The waiter said, “Miss?” to Emily when he refilled water, the slight flirtation in his voice causing the cross-dressed boy to tremble.

Colleen and Penelope traded smirks. Ethan’s face reddened as he realized that he—well, Emily, rather—was the evening’s entertainment.

By dessert, the shaking that had traveled his bones settled into a pleasant thrum. He could pretend to be a real girl in exactly the way that meant being a careful boy: please and thank you, listen and smile, watch your hands, knees together, feet pigeon-toed, don’t pick at the sash. He was worn and proud and peeking over a fence at a world where he hadn’t been told to go, and no one stopped him.

“One more surprise,” Colleen said, dabbing her lips. “We brought you to the city for shopping, but we’re not leaving without a little culture.”

The ticket-taker at the theater—old plush seats, gold plaster cupids, velvet curtains rumored to remember presidents—tore their stubs and said, “Enjoy the show, ladies.” People around them sparkled: tuxedos, sequins, a woman with flowers in her hair as if she had simply walked out of an advertisement from 1952. Ethan kept the program cupped in two hands like a prayer book. The orchestra tuned.

“It’s very grown-up,” he whispered, brushing a lock of blonde hair behind his ear.

Penelope’s eyebrow climbed to the mezzanine. “So are you,” she cooed, thinking of her own youth and the curly haired girl she’d once been.

The overture spun and the stage opened into a town square that was also a song. It was an old musical—the kind with pretty trouble, comic relief in a hat, and a melody that would follow you home and sit on your porch. At first Ethan felt odd, worried, but soon he forgot the wig and the sleeves and the deliberate ankles; he remembered to laugh when the man with the quick shoes did his ridiculous soft-shoe and to sigh when the heroine’s voice went up into light. He clapped and didn’t check if he clapped correctly. He became, for a whole hour and then another, just one small person in a big, delighted audience.

At intermission, they stood in the red-carpet corridor with lemon ice in paper cups. “Well?” Colleen asked. “Absolutely dreadful? The worst thing you’ve ever seen? Or are you having maybe a little bit of fun?”

“It’s…good,” he said, dazed by the grandness of the foyer and the crowd around them. “Better than the movie musicals on TV. It’s like everyone decided to make pretend together.”

“That,” Penelope said, “is the definition of theater. Also of families, when they’re doing it right.”

Ethan nodded, not quite understanding, but pretending…

Oh.

After the final bow, they drifted back to the car and not to the hotel. “A few more pictures. Nighttime in the big city,” Colleen said, and Ethan groaned for form, which delighted both women.

They wound up to a municipal overlook where the cityscape lay like a jewelry case left open. A steady wind brushed the hillside, rearranging clouds like stagehands fussing with scrim. The lavender dress looked almost silver under the streetlamp. With the skyline behind him and the curls just so, Ethan felt taller, not by inches but by angle.

“Here,” Colleen said. “Hold the clutch at your side. This could be the cover of our catalog, Emily.”

“We have a catalog?”

Click-click. Click-click.

Colleen raised an eyebrow. “One day we will.”

Click-click.

After several shots he finally relaxed. Again. Colleen showed him some of the photos. “I do look older,” he murmured, seeing himself in the phone’s dark glass.

“Only because you’re learning how to stand,” Penelope said. “Nothing ages children like poise.”

They did a dozen shots against the rail, another handful by the stone sign, several where the wind set the skirt rippling and Colleen squeaked as if she’d caught a butterfly in the lens. “That’s the one,” she said, low and thrilled. “Emily taking in the urban nightlife. It will sell ten of these dresses by Tuesday.”

Back at the hotel, the quiet felt like velvet. Ethan took off the wig—ah, the relief—and smoothed his own hair flat with damp hands. After a quick shower he slid into the modest ivory nightgown his mother had packed. It felt like a truce he’d signed with sleep. His slippers made small whispers on the carpet.

Colleen appeared in her soft gown and robe, the color of leaf tea with cream. Penelope emerged from the bathroom last, wearing an exotic nightgown printed in lantern reds and peacock blues, a pattern loud enough to set off car alarms. She looked, impossibly, like an old queen from a country no one could find on a map.

“Don’t gawk,” she said to Ethan without heat, easing herself onto the bed nearest the window. “If I didn’t dress like a rare bird, men would mistake me for the furniture. And now—” she clicked off her lamp—“if I begin to snore, you have my permission to applaud during the quiet parts.”

She was asleep in minutes, and the snore proved nobler than a saw: a dignified, steady commotion like someone pushing a wardrobe across a ballroom.

Ethan and Colleen sat on the little sofa with their knees sometimes touching. She brought out her hairbrush and played with his dark brown locks, helping them dry.

“I forgot myself,” he confessed. “During the show. I wasn’t Emily—I was just… me… but not me. Does that make any sense?”

“I know.” Colleen’s hand found his shoulder, rested, warmed. “We saw it happen. You were wonderful.”

“I was pretending at first,” he said, which felt both untrue and true. “But then… I wasn’t.”

“I could tell,” Colleen said. “Pretending can be fun, but it can get confusing. Maybe just being yourself is best.”

“But my problem is… which version of me is the best?”

“Good question, though that’s not for me to answer.” Colleen smiled. “Give it time, baby. There’s no hurry. Also,” she added, “you were an excellent model today, even when you were a grump.”

“I wasn’t pretending then.” He smiled into his lap. “Penelope’s snoring is like a steamboat.”

“A paddle boat,” Colleen agreed. She put down her hairbrush and added a pair of clips in his hair in an attempt to tame it. “We may not sleep at all. We’ll be zombies at breakfast.”

Ethan slipped under the covers and thought about the day that passed and what might happen the next. He closed his eyes, smiling as his mother hummed a familiar melody from his childhood; he was almost asleep when she slid in beside him—a warm kiss on the nape of his neck was the last thing he remembered.

Morning came in sheets of pale gold over the city, and the air held the Sunday quiet particular to places with a thousand bells. Contrary to Colleen’s prediction they were not zombies. Ethan actually felt energized as he dressed himself—this time in a sweet white frock sprigged with yellow roses, a crinoline giving it a cheerful bell. The curly blonde wig went on; the mirror complied. He added a soft butter-yellow cardigan because Penelope’s prophecy about cool temperatures rang true. A satin ribbon in his wig and a pair of pastel yellow kitten heels finished his statement.

In the hotel dining room, sunlight found the silver and painted it. The hostess said “Good morning, ladies” and took them to a table by the window where the skyline did its best impression of a handsome stranger. Ethan ordered pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream and felt nine years old until the petticoat brushed his knees and reminded him to sit like a picture again. Penelope ordered coffee strong enough to wake the dead. Colleen checked her phone, sorting through the night’s treasure—riverboat, atrium, skyline, the shot. “We’ll do a photo essay for the blog,” she said. “And captions about courage and yellow roses and seafoam.”

“Make sure you don’t use my name, please,” Ethan said, the old worry peeking out.

“Your name is Emily when you’re on the clock,” she murmured casually. “I’ll deny anything else upon pain of death.”

After they ate, they walked the little park beside the hotel, where an alley of trees made a shady tunnel and the grass had that Sunday damp that pretends to be dew. Colleen directed a final set of photos: “Emily” on the path with her hands behind her and her head tilted; on a low stone wall, feet together and toes pointed, the crinoline just not quite revealing anything except how well it behaved; laughing because two mallards decided to stroll past like critics.

“Hold still, rosebud,” Penelope said when he threatened to jitter away. “If you wobble I’ll bring wardrobe tape next time and strap you to the flagpole.”

“Please, dear heart,” Colleen said, laughing, “don’t give the child nightmares.”

By the last shot, Ethan had perfected his smile so that he could put it on without thinking. It landed on his face and simply lived there. A woman with a stroller paused, looked at them—a mother, a fashionable aunt, a girl in Sunday dress—and said, “You all look so lovely.”

“Thank you,” three voices said at once, slightly different keys to the same chord.

Back upstairs, the room returned to a puzzle: half-open drawers, the corner of a sash, Penelope’s scarf flung over the chair like a lighthouse flag. Ethan folded the cardigan properly, because that had become a thing he did without being told—plus, he wouldn’t need it for the car ride home. The “I Love Lucy” doll—unboxed while Penelope snored—went back into its packaging with a promise he would sew her a new dress and apron when they got home.

Colleen zipped the suitcase with the satisfaction of a woman who had made the world, for one weekend, exactly as tidy as she liked. “One last check,” she said. “Teeth, hair, lip balm—and potty.” She winked. “It’s an hour’s drive. If we leave now we can be back before the cat assumes we’ve moved to Europe.”

“Poor Gingersnap,” Penelope murmured. “With DeeDee and Dani in charge, she’s probably traumatized. The duchess will scold us all upon our return, no doubt.”

The elderly woman packed as if she were both leaving and arriving. She plucked a city postcard from the desk and wrote something motivating and extravagant before handing it to Ethan. “For your scrapbook,” she said. “A lady must keep records of her victories.”

“I’m not a—” he started, then saw the look and corrected himself with a blush. “Thank you.”

After leaving their luggage in good hands, they made the elevators, made the lobby, made the easy glide through the revolving door into the bright, forgiving day. On the curb, while Penelope argued fondly with the valet about something no one else could possibly find interesting, Ethan and Colleen stood together.

“You were brave this weekend,” Colleen said, not looking at him in the way that made it easier to hear. “You were kind and beautiful and game, you stood with us and you stood up for yourself. And you helped me with the photos for our business. I’m so proud.”

“I was just… being Emily?”

She pursed her lips, thinking. “How about you were just being you?”

Ethan nodded. He looked up at the skyline one last time. He liked the way the buildings made room for the river and how the river made room for its own reflections. He liked that he had been one of those reflections last night, and again this morning, and that the water didn’t mind.

“Okay,” he said, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d held. “I’m ready to go home.”

Penelope’s bracelets announced her approach. “Homeward bound,” she decreed as her car showed up. She settled in behind the steering wheel like a captain helming a ship. “And, Colleen? I’m thinking on the way out of town we should find a place where we can buy half a dozen lemons.” She reached over and tapped one of the roses decorating Ethan’s skirt. “I have an idea about a dress and a pie, and both require zest.”

Colleen laughed as the car slid into the late-morning flow, and Capital City—its theaters, its butterflies, its generous mirrors—folded itself away behind them like a curtain at the end of a show. Ethan touched the satin bow at his waist, felt the petticoat’s whisper, and let the road carry him back to the small streets that had made him brave enough to visit a larger one.

 

* * *
 

Penelope’s stately sedan hummed along the highway back toward their quiet suburb, the mood inside having shifted—lighter in some ways, heavier in others. The fragrance of fresh lemons and leather permeated the air. Ethan sat between the two women, trying his best to remain still, proper, and composed despite the heaviness in his eyes and the touch of ringlet curls against his neck and shoulders.

He shifted in his seat, smoothing his full chiffon skirt with the flat of his hands just as he'd been taught. His little white purse rested demurely on his lap, a gentle reminder of how far he’d come—or fallen, depending on the mood—since that morning.

Colleen checked her phone for the umpteenth time and mentioned casually—and cryptically—that “Everything is on schedule.” Ethan’s eyes narrowed, but his question was deflected before he could open his mouth:

“I must say,” Auntie Penelope chirped brightly, sipping from her bottled iced tea, “our Emily was simply radiant throughout the weekend. Stefan practically swooned when she did that cute little curtsy, didn’t he, Colleen?”

“He did indeed,” his mother replied, barely suppressing a laugh. “And he wasn’t the only one. I don’t know if you noticed, Emily dear, but you turned quite a few heads. Everyone who saw you at the theater last night seemed to glow in your presence.”

“Oh, Mother, you know that’s not true.” Ethan blushed, amused by the way the title rolled off his tongue. The affectation felt strange at that moment, despite having become habitual when dressed as Emily, especially around other women. “But thank you anyway.”

Colleen leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You’re welcome, my love.”

Ethan blushed and looked out the window, unsure whether the warmth in his chest was from embarrassment or the strange sense of pride that now accompanied these feminine validations.

 

* * *
 

It was approaching late afternoon when Penelope guided her sedan into the Martin driveway. Ethan sat quietly in the front seat as the engine shut down, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his purse resting against his bodice. His mother was first to get out and when he followed his blonde wig bounced about and his petticoat and dress rode up his legs, exposing his panties.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” Colleen said kindly, brushing his skirt down over his thighs as his feet hit the pavement. “Keep those knees together, and don’t forget your purse.”

“Yes, Mother. Sorry, Mother,” Ethan said dutifully, taking care to use the feminine tone he’d been practicing all day. His voice had started to lift automatically now, though every syllable still felt slightly too sweet, too airy for comfort. Thankfully his adventure was coming to an end and he could go back to being… himself?

It’s gonna be strange changing back into my regular clothes, he thought. I almost forgot what wearing a pair of pants is like. That, and not having to curtsy every time I turn around.

They retrieved the shopping bags from the trunk—suitcases, bags filled with carefully chosen dresses, packages of tights, slips, underthings, and of course, his “I Love Lucy” doll. Auntie Penelope placed boxes of wigs and dolls and accessories in his arms like sacred relics, giving him a satisfied smile.

“Wait until you see what’s waiting for you inside,” she said with a wink.

“Inside where?” Ethan’s brow furrowed. “In the house? Waiting for me?”

Colleen and Penelope exchanged an all-too-innocent look.

“You’ll see,” his mother said breezily.

The house smelled faintly of new paint and something floral—like a soft spring perfume. Upstairs, the two women pushed Ethan past his bedroom door and instead toward the guest bedroom, which was where they normally stored plastic bins of dress-making materials and a spare bed and whatnot. The door was closed, but there was a shiny pink ribbon tied into a large bow around the knob.

“Go ahead,” Colleen said gently. “Open it—Emily.”

Heart thumping, Ethan stepped forward, turned the handle, and pushed the door open.

He froze.

The room had been transformed. What had once been drab and boring was now alive, dazzling, even: the walls were painted a delicate ballet pink, accented with white trim. A new twin-sized bed sat against the far wall, dressed in ruffled pink sheets, a white quilt embroidered with roses, and a fluffy cloud of pillows. A white vanity stood near the window, complete with a round mirror and a collection of makeup brushes arranged like bouquets in porcelain cups. A delicate white lamp with a lace shade cast a gentle glow. On the far side of the room stood a tall pink and white wardrobe with heart-shaped handles, and just beside it, a dressmaker’s mannequin stood, draped in one of the first dresses he and his mother had worked on together.

Ethan stepped inside slowly, as though the room might vanish if he moved too quickly.

A full-length mirror leaned against the wall across from the bed. Framed prints of vintage fashion illustrations—cinched waists, petticoats, hats and gloves—hung like guardian angels above the vanity. Several fashion dolls—his mother’s vintage Barbies, he later learned—in elegant 1950s attire stood posed on a set of pink-and-white shelves.

And next to the window his mother’s old sewing machine sat on a painted table. Spools of thread in pastel shades were arranged in a rainbow across the wall above it. A pin cushion shaped like a cupcake waited invitingly nearby, along with his trusty Little Miss sewing kit.

“You did this?” Ethan whispered, barely recognizing the softness of his own voice.

Colleen grinned. “Well, we had a little help from some very energetic—and mischievous—elves.”

“Elves?—”

“Surprise!” Ethan jumped as DeeDee and Dani appeared at the door—both were wearing paint-stained jeans, T-shirts and the kind of sweat that came from hard work. DeeDee held a chilled bottle of root beer by the neck and Dani chewed a wad of bubble gum that—when she blew it—grew to the size of a baby’s head. Their combined grins were contagious, even to the most reluctant of cross-dressed boys.

“Ooo-la-la! Look at Princess Curly Top in his pwetty wittle dwess,” Dani crowed. “Ain’t she just the cutest wittle thang you ever seen?”

“Shut it, rugrat!” DeeDee grabbed Dani’s baseball hat and threw it into the hallway, sending the tomboy out of the room for the moment. “Sorry about that, little mister. What mini-me is trying to say is, did you have a glorious time in the big city? And you are looking quite fetching, if I do say so myself.”

Ethan blushed. They were always teasing him like that and part of him didn’t hate it. “Um, yeah… I mean, yes, Aunt DeeDee. We had a good time. I guess.”

Hat in hand, Dani gave him a not soft at all punch in the shoulder. “It sure was boring without you around, Sissy. No skirts to flip, no hair ribbons to pull—I didn’t have anybody to give a hard time.”

“Why do I think that’s not true,” the cross-dressed boy muttered.

“’Cause it’s not,” the tomboy chirped. “But you are my favorite panty boy.”

“So, whaddaya think, Princess?” DeeDee took a swig of her root beer and burped. “We done a pretty good job, wouldn’t you say? You better like it ‘cause we worked our butts off.”

“True that.” Dani stretched her arms and grunted. “That furniture was heavier than heck. I think that wardrobe knocked my sacroiliac out of whack.”

Ethan didn’t know what to say or how to act. He put the boxes and bags on the bed and looked around, trying to take everything in without getting emotional. The events of the past two days were more than enough to unnerve him, but to come home and see this room, literally dripping in girlishness—and to be surrounded by his family in its midst—rendered him speechless. And not entirely unhappy.

He looked at his mother and Auntie Penelope. “So… you knew about this? While we were gone, you… you all set this up? With them?”

“Of course we did, you darling child.” Penelope giggled like a teenager. “Why do you think we took you to Capital City? Aside from the fact that I wanted to spoil my favorite niece, of course. But don’t blame me, sweetheart—this mostly was your mother’s idea.”

The frown on Ethan’s face caused Colleen to laugh. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Emily. We had to do something. Your wardrobe is getting out of hand and I was pretty sure you didn’t want all of your pretty things in Ethan’s room.”

“So—” Ethan thought for a moment—“This is what you came up with?”

“You don’t sound very grateful,” murmured DeeDee. “After all the work we put into this? I mean, sheesh! Tell us how you really feel, little mister.”

“I’m sorry, Aunt DeeDee” The cross-dressed boy sighed. “It’s just that… this is… a lot.”

Colleen stepped beside him and placed an arm around his shoulders. “We didn’t do this to be mean, baby. We just thought it was time you had a proper space for your… hobbies.”

Penelope beamed. “And where else would a young lady sew her little dresses and play with her dolls… and dream of things to come?”

Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, so he chose the better option for the moment. Part of him felt intimidated by the sheer girliness of it all, the commitment of the time and effort that had been put into making this space for a part of him that he still doubted—and another part of him was intrigued by the idea of having a place where he could be and do and even do nothing… in the guise of Emily. Or even himself, his feminine self.

Whatever that means, he thought wryly.

“So… I don’t hate it?” he murmured.

“Faint praise, but I’ll take it,” DeeDee grunted.

“Yeah, it’s the perfect room for my most perfect Sissy.” Dani put her arm around his shoulders, gesturing to the room with the enthusiasm of a real estate agent. “C’mon, cuz, be real! You can’t be mad. I mean, just think about it—it’s your own personal Girlyville. You can live out your Emily fantasies to your heart’s content here and nobody will bother you. And if it makes you feel better, I promise I won’t come in here and bother you without your okay. Scout’s honor.” She grinned and added: “Outside this room, well—all bets are off.”

Ethan took a deep breath, then let it out. “This… does looks like… like a room for a real girl.”

His mother’s smile was gentle but firm. “And who’s to say you aren’t one—at least when you want to be?”

“To be a princess, or to be a little mister,” DeeDee added, her face marked by bemusement and irony. “That is the question, methinks.”

“I don’t know what I am,” Ethan admitted, voice trembling. “This is all so much.”

“Oh darling, you’re still you,” Colleen said, giving him a kiss on the temple. “This is just a different side of you. A softer, sweeter one.”

“Yeah, cuz, you’re still you.” Dani pursed her lips. “Weird as you are. And that’s cool with us.”

“Well said, Danielle,” chirped Penelope. She took Ethan’s hand and held it to her heart. “You’re not just cool—” she winked at Dani— “with us, darling, you’re truly precious.”

“Um, thanks?” Ethan frowned. “I think?”

DeeDee tugged the bewildered boy from Penelope’s grasp and gave him a hug that would have been approved by the Guild of Perpetual Aunties if there was such a thing. “Well, it’s all yours now, Princess. You can move some of your other things in here when you’re ready—or not. Though I don’t think there’s any room for your video games.”

“I’ll take care of those for ya,” Dani offered, half-teasing, half not.

Ethan flushed, remembering the stares of the boys in the electronics store. He turned toward the vanity and looked at his reflection in the mirror. For a moment, he didn’t look like any of those boys. He didn’t look like a boy at all, much less a boy pretending to be a girl. He just looked… like Emily.

“I’m not sure what to say,” he murmured.

“Say thank you, my love,” Colleen prompted gently, stepping behind him and adjusting his wig just so. “It’s not that difficult.”

Ethan swallowed, then nodded. “Thank you, Mother. Thank you, Auntie Penelope.” He did a proper curtsy to each, then turned to his aunt and cousin and did the same for them. “Thank you, Aunt DeeDee. Thank you, Dani.”

“You actually curtsied for us?” Dani high-fived her mother. “Score!”

“You’re welcome, Princess.” DeeDee kissed his forehead, leaving a red smudge that caused Dani to fight a giggle. “Us girls have to take care of each other.”

Penelope snorted. “As much as I hate to admit it, I couldn’t have said so better myself.”

The cross-dressed boy turned again to the room—his room now—and spotted a small sign hanging over the vanity. It was pink with glittery script that read: “Be your own kind of beautiful.”

“That was my idea,” Dani whispered, adding an affectionate shoulder bump. “Saw it at the flea market and thought, I know the perfect place for somethin’ like that.”

Ethan sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, his skirt billowing around him. He looked his family—his mother and Auntie Penelope and DeeDee and Dani—at the dolls on the dresser, the pile of purchases on his new bed, and finally… at his reflection.

And for the first time that weekend, he didn’t feel like an imposter.

 
Next up: The Little Housewife

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 Fifteen: The Little Housewife

Dani stops by. Awkwardness ensues.
 

It was Saturday morning and the house smelled like lemons, starch and warm cotton. Sunlight poured through the kitchen window, catching on the edges of a dish-drying rack and dancing over the faded linoleum floor. Somewhere in the background, Colleen hummed a tune from the radio while sorting napkins into tidy stacks.

From the laundry room came the soft splashing of water and the rhythmic squish-swish of fabric being worked by hand. Ethan Martin, age twelve, stood over old porcelain basin, sleeves rolled carefully past his elbows, a white eyelet-trimmed apron tied snugly around his waist. The apron matched—unfortunately, in his view—the vintage-style frock he’d worn all morning: a soft blue cotton print with short, puffed sleeves and a white peter-pan collar that brushed against his neck every time he leaned forward. His legs, pale and goose pimpled, were bare beneath the hem, save for the white bobby socks and rubber cleaning slippers.

He gave a sigh and dunked another garment into the sudsy water, trying not to dwell too long on the fact that it was a lace-trimmed slip. Or that it was his.

From the front door came a knock, followed by the creak of hinges and a familiar voice calling out, “Aunt Colleen? It’s me! I brought my board!”

Colleen’s voice came bright and cheerful from the kitchen. “Laundry room, Dani. Come say hello—your cousin’s helping me today.”

Footsteps thudded down the hallway, and before Ethan could so much as straighten up, Dani burst through the door with all the energy of a small cyclone. She wore cut-off jean shorts, a sleeveless T-shirt with a skate brand logo, and a scab on one knee that looked barely a day old. Her skateboard was under one arm, a lopsided grin already forming as her eyes fell on the scene before her.

She blinked. Then blinked again.

Ethan, standing before the steaming water, blushed furiously and tried to cover the pile of rinsed panties and slips stacked neatly beside him with a damp towel.

Dani’s grin widened to full glee.

“Oh, this is great!” she laughed, dropping the skateboard with a clatter. “You look like you’re wearing one of your mama’s dresses!”

“It’s not hers,” Ethan mumbled, eyes darting to the floor. “She… made it for me. For helping around the house.”

“And it looks marvelous on you!” Dani stepped closer, hands on her hips. “Seriously, you look like a housewife in one of those 1950s cartoons. You just need a string of pearls and a cigarette.”

“I don’t smoke, Dani.”

“That’s the part you object to?” she snorted.

From the kitchen, Colleen’s voice floated in, bright and amused: “Be nice, Dani. He’s being a big help today. The washing machine broke and can’t be fixed until Wednesday. I just don’t know what I’d do without my little housewife!”

“Mom, please!” Ethan said.

“Little housewife.” Dani chuckled. She leaned over the sink and raised an eyebrow. She reached in before Ethan could stop her, lifting a dripping pink bra with two fingers.

“Wait a minute…” she said slowly. “This isn’t even your mom’s size.”

Ethan turned redder. “Put that down!”

“Oh-ho-ho, don’t tell me—” Dani inspected the tag theatrically, lips puckered in fake concentration. “Thirty-two A? Why Ethan… is this one of yours? You’ve actually been wearing those things? Just wait until I tell my mama!”

“Yes, and so what?” he snapped, snatching the bra away and tossing it into the rinse pile. “You were here when I got them. They’re for modeling. It’s part of the job.”

Dani folded her arms and rocked on her heels, savoring every second. “So lemme get this straight. You’re wearing housewife dresses, doing all the housework, and handwashing your own bras now? This is amazing. I was gonna teach you how to ride my skateboard, but this? This is so much better.”

“I want to go skateboarding,” Ethan muttered. “But Mom said I have to finish my chores first.”

Colleen appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel, eyes dancing with amusement. “That’s right,” she confirmed. “And he’s being very thorough. Aren’t you, baby?”

Ethan gave her a look that begged for mercy. She smiled back sweetly.

“He just started the delicates,” she continued. “Still has to do the towels and sheets. He’ll be at it for a while. Sorry to spoil your plans.”

“Don’t be, Aunt Colleen. This is better than cable TV.” Dani couldn’t help herself. She dug into the pile of damp garments and held up a small-ish pair of lavender panties with a tiny satin bow.

“And these are yours too?” she asked innocently.

Ethan said nothing. His ears were practically glowing.

“Well?” Dani prompted. “You gonna tell me which ones are yours, or do I have to guess?”

“I’m not playing this game,” he said through clenched teeth.

She held up a frilly white pair with lace edges. “These?”

Ethan turned his face away.

“Or these?” She picked up a pale yellow pair with embroidered daisies. “These look like Sunday panties.”

“Dani,” came Colleen’s voice in a warning tone, but even she had to bite back a smile.

“What? I’m just learning about my cousin’s wardrobe. It’s just so… fascinating.”

Ethan plunged his hands back into the basin, determined to drown the rest of the embarrassment before it could bubble up.

Dani, not missing a beat, leaned against the doorframe and asked, “So… do you get to wear a bra all the time?”

“Maybe,” he mumbled.

“You’re wearing one now, ain’t ya!” She grinned as she reached over and slid her fingers across the back of her cousin’s dress. She gave it a pull and let it snap.

“Ow! Stop it, Dani!”

“I knew it! I bet it’s the strawberry one, too!”

Ethan kept silent, focusing on scrubbing the panties in his hands.

“So what’s next? I know, we need to find you a boyfriend.” The tomboy cackled with delight. “I mean, you’ve already got the outfits, the chores, the panties—what’s left? You can’t be a housewife if you don’t have a husband.”

“Mom!” Ethan yelled. “Make her stop teasing me!”

“Or what?” Dani giggled. “You’ll move to Australia?”

“Shut. Up.”

Colleen chuckled softly, shaking her head. “You two are something else.”

“I’ll say,” Dani replied. “I show up ready to skateboard and I find Betty Crocker here doing his unmentionables by hand.”

“Then maybe you should stick around and help,” Colleen suggested lightly. “You could hang them up while he rinses.”

“Oh no,” Dani laughed, throwing her hands up. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the performance. This is way too entertaining.”

Ethan finished rinsing the last item, one of his camisoles, and hung it carefully over the edge of a laundry basket, his fingers trembling slightly. He then picked up the basket and hugged it against his hip with practiced expertise.

Dani’s eyes went wide. “Oooo, now you really do look just like a mom on those old TV shows. Seriously, dude, you got it bad, don’t you?”

“I hate you,” he muttered at Dani.

“No you don’t,” she replied cheerfully. “You love me. Besides, you’d be bored without me.”

 

* * *
 

The back porch door creaked open and Ethan stepped out into the early afternoon sun, arms full of damp laundry. The basket, heavier than it looked, was balanced against his thigh, and with every step the lace and elastic spilled slightly over the sides. He squinted up at the clothesline that stretched from the edge of the garage to the garden trellis. Clothespins dangled like little beaks waiting to peck.

Dani bounded out behind him, her skateboard clutched in one hand and a mischievous energy bubbling just beneath her freckles.

“Behold!” she declared, hopping down the steps. “The suburban sissy begins his sacred ritual: the ceremonial Hanging of the Panties.”

Ethan didn’t rise to the bait. He simply set the basket down on the grass and began pulling out the first slip—his mother’s, long and cream-colored with pale lace trim. He draped it over the line and reached for a clothespin.

Dani dropped her board and launched into a cartwheel, her limbs long and loose like an accomplished gymnast’s. “Hey, you ever think about hanging them in color order?” she called out mid-flip. “You know—pink, white, lavender. Might be cuter.”

“I’m not trying to be cute,” Ethan grumbled, pinning up a pair of white panties with tiny roses printed along the waistband.

“You succeed anyway,” Dani teased, landing in a one-handed handstand and holding it, her shirt flopping toward her ribs. “I mean, look at you. You’re like a Sears catalog come to life.”

“Shut up, Dani.”

From the kitchen window, the screen door slightly ajar, Colleen’s voice floated out with perfect timing. “Language, young lady.”

“I meant shut up please,” Ethan muttered, cheeks hot.

Dani collapsed onto the grass in a mock faint. “Oh, the sass! I’m wounded!”

Ethan pressed a pale blue bra against the line and fumbled with the clothespins. The cups flopped forward until he fixed them with gentle, practiced hands. The sunlight shone through the thin nylon, catching his attention for just a moment. He had to force himself to look away.

“Why do you have to be so mean?” Ethan shot an annoyed look at his cousin. “I’m just doing my job.”

Dani snorted. “Hey, I’m not being mean. I’m just providing play-by-play commentary. I like watching you do this stuff. Gotta love a guy who is into hanging up his panties.” 

Ethan grunted. There was some truth to what Dani said. It wasn’t that he enjoyed the task—he told himself that again and again—but there actually was something quietly satisfying about seeing the pieces arranged neatly in the sunlight, like strange flags marking a hidden country.

“You missed a spot, Sissy.” Dani said, pointing to a small pair of polka-dotted panties still in the basket. “Literally. Go on, don’t be shy. Show the world your Tuesday undies.”

Ethan groaned but obeyed. The wind tugged gently at the hem of his dress as he bent over to retrieve them, and he caught Dani smirking out of the corner of his eye.

She rolled onto her stomach and propped her chin on her fists. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I think my favorite part is how normal you are about all of this now. Like, oh yeah, here’s me, in a dress, hanging up lingerie. Just another Saturday in Girlyville.”

“I don’t live in Girlyville.”

“Don’t you?” Dani teased. “I mean, isn’t your address Petticoat Parkway? Or is it Apron Alley?”

Ethan bit his lip and reached for the last item in the basket: a pair of his own soft yellow panties with a tiny satin bow. He glanced around before pinning them quickly to the far end of the line.

Dani clapped. “There they go! The royal bloomers, fluttering proudly!”

He turned on her. “Why do you care so much? It’s just laundry.”

Dani sat up and shrugged, brushing grass off her knees. “I dunno. I guess… it’s fun seeing you like this. You’re so serious all the time. Like, Ethan-the-boy is always scowling or muttering. But Ethan-the… laundry fairy? He’s kinda sweet. Soft around the edges.”

“I’m not a laundry … fairy,” Ethan felt weird saying that word.

“Well, you’re not a skateboarder, either,” she said with a wink. “So I guess we’re both still figuring you out.”

From the kitchen, Colleen appeared again, calling out, “Lunch in fifteen! Ethan, come wash up and help slice tomatoes.”

“Coming, Mother,” he called back, relieved for the distraction.

As he turned to go inside, Dani twirled her skateboard lazily in one hand and said, “I’ll wait out here. Don’t want to mess up your flow.”

Ethan paused. “What flow?”

She grinned. “You know—folding, fluffing, blushing. All the classic steps.”

He gave her a dirty look but said nothing. As he disappeared through the screen door, Dani leaned back in the grass and looked up at the sky, the line of pastel underthings fluttering overhead like some kind of absurd, intimate parade. She smiled to herself. For all her teasing, she had to admit it: she kind of liked this weird new version of her cousin.

 

* * *
 

The clock ticked softly in the hallway as lunch wrapped up and the scent of lemon and laundry still lingered in the air. Colleen collected the plates with a little hum, Ethan trailing behind her like a deflated balloon, still in his dress and apron, shoulders hunched, hoping he could slip away before any more humiliation caught up with him.

But of course, it was Saturday. And Saturdays, as he had learned, were never quite done with him.

“You can do the dishes after you’re done with the laundry, okay?” Colleen smiled as she set the plates in the sink.

“Yes, Mother.”

“But before you get back to that, I’d like your help with something in the sewing room.”

Ethan froze mid-step. “Can’t I?— I mean … Dani’s still here.”

“No, you can’t,” she replied with soft authority. “It’s for a customer, and it needs a quick fitting. You’re exactly her daughter’s size. Dani won’t mind, will you, sweetheart?”

Dani perked up instantly, still licking her spoon from the last bite of pudding. “Ohohoh—I wouldn’t miss this for the world!”

Colleen smiled serenely. “See? What did I tell you. It won’t take a minute. Just a quick try-on. You’re welcome to come supervise, Dani.”

“Absolutely,” Dani grinned, already on her feet. “I can’t wait.”

Ethan turned to his mother, pleading. “Do I have to? She’s gonna make fun of me again.”

Colleen gave him a patient, knowing smile. “You’ve been such a good helper already. Don’t ruin your streak now, baby.”

Ethan gave a theatrical sigh and trudged toward the sewing room.

“Don’t dawdle,” she added. “You’ll be trying on two dresses—one is practically done, and the other just needs hem-checking. You’ll need to undress completely between fittings. Dani, help me keep your cousin on task.”

Dani grinned. “Don’t worry, Aunt Colleen. I’ll make sure he doesn’t get distracted.”

 

* * *
 

The sewing room was warm with the scent of fabric starch and fresh thread. Mannequins stood in corners like ghosts waiting for instructions. The customers’ dresses hung neatly over the sewing chair—one pink flower print, one pale mint green with a sailor collar.

Ethan stood facing away from his cousin, tugging at the buttons of his housewife dress with awkward fingers.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered. “With you here.”

Dani sat cross-legged on a floral armchair, tapping her fingers against her knee. “I can,” she chirped. “This is exactly how I imagined my afternoon going.”

Ethan sighed and peeled off his apron, carefully folding it over the chair. Then he slid out of his dress, letting it slip to the floor in a soft puddle. He careful picked it up, folded it and placed it alongside the apron. He stood now in only his bra and panties.

“I knew it!” Dani yelped. “I just knew you were wearing the strawberry bra! And look at those cute little panties! They’ve even got strawberries on the butt! Oh, Sissy, you’re killing me.”

Ethan covered himself as best he could. “Go away, Dani!”

“Nuh-uh! I’m invited, remember?” she said smugly. “Besides, this is educational.”

Colleen’s voice floated in from the hallway. “Is he undressed yet?”

“Yep!” Dani called. “And what a vision he is!”

“I’ll be there in a minute. Tell him to put on the flower print one first, please. The flower print one, okay?”

“I can hear you, Mother!” Ethan sighed as he reached reluctantly for the floral frock, which had tall cap sleeves, a high yoke neckline with scalloped trim, and a white satin sash that tied in the back. The fabric felt crisp and cold in his hands.

He stepped into it and worked it up over his torso, trying not to breathe as he adjusted the fit. The bodice hugged him tighter than expected, and the skirt puffed out around his hips with stiff crinoline.

Colleen entered the room, her pin cushion bracelet and a measuring tape slung over one shoulder. She smiled approvingly.

“Turn around and let me button you up, honey,” she said.

Ethan did as he was told, face burning, and stood miserably in the center of the room. When his mother was done he turned to face his cousin.

Dani let out a low whistle. “Wow. You look like you belong in second grade. Is this what your customer’s dressing her daughter in? Or her doll?”

“Now turn to the left for me, honey,” Colleen said, crouching slightly. “Let me check the hem.”

Ethan quietly obeyed, the skirt flouncing with a little rustle. His mother made several quick adjustments, adding a pin here and there.

“I love the puff in the sleeves,” she said. “Makes the shoulders look darling.”

“Or dainty,” Dani added. “Definitely dainty. So what’s next? Mary Janes? A cute little sunhat? I know… a bonnet!”

Ethan scowled. “Can we just get this over with?”

“Oh, hush,” Colleen said gently. “We’re halfway done. Undress, please. Time to try the sailor dress.”

Ethan turned quickly, the hem flaring a bit as he followed his mother’s instructions.

A few moments later…

“I can’t fasten it,” came Ethan’s muffled voice. “The buttons in the back are too tight.”

“Come here, I’ll help,” Colleen said.

He stepped forward reluctantly, the baby blue sailor dress half-done. The square navy collar flopped softly over his shoulders, and the skirt barely covered the tops of his thighs. His panties were visible as Colleen reached around and began fastening the buttons up his spine.

“This one’s more refined,” she murmured. “Almost a Sunday school look.”

“Perfect for his next tea party,” Dani quipped.

Colleen stepped back and took it in. “Hmm. I might shorten the sleeves a touch.”

Ethan stood frozen, arms limp at his sides. The dress’s sailor bow sat perfectly at the center of his chest, and the flare of the skirt moved gently as he shifted his weight.

Dani gave a low, delighted chuckle. “You know, you actually look younger like this. Like, I don’t think you could convince anyone you’re going into eighth grade right now. Not even close. Second, maybe. No. First.”

“I hate you,” Ethan mumbled.

“You keep saying that,” Dani replied, resting her chin in her hand. “But you never actually stop putting on the dresses.”

“Because I have to.”

Colleen gave him a pat on the cheek. “And you do it so nicely.”

 

* * *
 

Ethan was soon back in his original housework dress, adjusting the sash at his back as he helped Colleen fold and pack the two customer outfits. Dani leaned against the window frame, watching with quiet glee.

“You know what I realized?” she said suddenly.

Ethan didn’t answer.

“You’re not just wearing girl clothes. You’re learning how to act in them. Like, your little movements—you always curtsy when you hand things over. You walk differently. You even fold things like a girl now.”

Colleen smiled without looking up. “Practice makes perfect.”

“I don’t always curtsy,” Ethan protested.

“You do,” Dani and Colleen replied at the same time.

Ethan gave a long, resigned sigh. “Can I go take down the laundry now?”

“Yes, baby,” Colleen said kindly. “You’ve earned it.”

As Ethan padded off, skirts swaying gently with every step, Dani turned to Colleen with a smirk.

“Do you think he even realizes how far in he is?”

Colleen smiled and began collecting her pins. “Oh, he’ll figure it out eventually. But by then… he’ll be too well-trained to stop.”

Dani laughed softly and followed her cousin down the stairs.

 
Next up: Polishing Toward Perfection

 

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 Sixteen: Polishing Toward Perfection

Ethan gets a crash course in the feminine arts.
 

The cicadas were turning the evening into a soft electric hum by the time Ethan wiped the last dish, set it in the rack, and drew the towel over his damp hands with the prim, efficient motions his mother liked. The kitchen window stood open to the backyard—fireflies blinking like somebody’s careless Morse code—and a box fan grumbled from the doorway to push the day’s heat along. Outside, beyond the trees, some boys were laughing and yelling, and a frog began its nightly call.

Ethan thought about the boys and wondered who they were and what they were up to. Mischief, perhaps, or just a bit of last minute fun before heading inside to watch television. Maybe a movie or a ball game. He pictured it in his mind—middle school boys, all horseplay and swagger, guzzling soft drinks and stuffing themselves with snack food, yelling and cheering for their respective teams.

That could have been me, he thought. Maybe. But not now.

He looked down, sighing—he’d little doubt that whoever they were, the boys he heard weren’t wearing anything like what he wore, a pink gingham housewife dress he’d sewn for himself “as practice” with a little help from his mother. The fabric felt light and fresh against his collarbone, cool where the bodice scooped, and warm where the small apron tied snug at his waist. A matching gingham scarf—tied into a rabbit’s ear bow atop his head by his mother before he’d even had the energy to protest—barely tamed his scruffy mop of hair.

His cleaning slippers squished softly as he stepped back from the sink. He always stood a little pigeon-toed in them, even when he remembered to straighten, as if they had been built for the posture his mother favored.

It’s not so bad—I like how things are. Most of the time, I guess…

On the kitchen table—yellow Formica edged with chrome—Colleen had laid out a small arsenal of jewel-like bottles filled with various colors, along with some odd-looking tools: nail clippers, a metal cuticle pusher that looked cruel until she showed him how gentle it could be, a couple of orange sticks, two nail files (one coarse, one whisper-fine), a little glass dish of cotton balls, and six glass bottles of polish that caught the lamplight like candies in a jar. There was also the squat pink-labeled bottle of remover, its chemical promise already hinting in the air.

Colleen wore a green dress that skimmed her figure in a way that always seemed to make women at church whisper compliments. The color brought out the red-brown in her hair and made her skin glow. She had turned down the radio to a hush—the weatherman talking about a hot spell—and wiped off a chair with the heel of her hand.

“There,” she said, satisfied, the word a soft ribbon in the evening. “A salon in our very own kitchen.”

Ethan tried to swallow the odd thrill in his chest. He glanced at the gleaming bottles again and then searched her face for the joke. “Mom…”

She smiled the smile that never failed to make him apprehensive and safe at the same time. “It’s time, sweetheart.”

“For what? For—this?” He lifted a hand vaguely over the spread of implements, nervous and unsure.

“For finishing what we start. For doing it right.” She tapped the table’s edge and he sat, because he had. “You’ve been modeling for me as Emily a few weeks. You’ve been brave. You’ve been careful. And now we’re moving into detail. When we put you in that seafoam green dress at the fair, or you give out fliers, I want your hands to look like they belong to a girl who takes care of herself.”

“But I’m not a girl—”

“No, but you’re my assistant,” she interrupted lightly, tugging his gingham scarf a touch tighter at his nape. “And we’re artists. Artists do what the piece needs. This is a finishing school for fingers.” She lowered her voice and made her eyes comically grand. “And besides, it’s fun. And you know what I always say—”

“If you wear something fun, then the job’s fun,” he mumbled with adolescent frustration.

“That’s my boy.” She adjusted the apron bow at his waist and kissed his forehead. The citrus of dish soap lingered on his skin. “Hands up, elbows on the towel. Let’s start with the left.”

Through the open window Ethan could hear the fading voices of the boys still outside. He felt a twinge of shame, sighed, and tried to put his earlier thoughts out of his mind. He placed his elbows on the towel, hands bent at the wrist. His nails were trimmed—he’d learned to keep them manicured since his mother had warned him that workshops and photographs both captured everything.

Colleen smirked to see her son posing so girlishly. “Perfect. Neat is the best canvas. We’re going to shape them, then push back the cuticles very gently—don’t make that face, Ethan, I promise it doesn’t hurt—and then we’ll try a coat of clear.”

“Clear?” He perked up, hopeful. “As in you can’t see it?”

“As in you can see it and pretend you can’t,” she said. “We’ll call it natural. Hand please.”

He offered his left hand. She took it, cradling his fingers in her palm, the back of his hand warm against her thumb. She used the clipper very little—just a snip or two to clean a corner—and the fine file to shape and smooth the edges. She worked with the small breaths of concentration he knew from her hemming. A few strokes under the tip—”You always finish across, not down. The nail is like a little roof; you want to seal the shingle”—and then the cuticle pusher, which wasn’t cruel at all, only firm and patient, urging that pale crescent back like a tide.

“Now see how simple that was?” Collen cooed sweetly. “See, your nails are still soft from washing the dishes, which made everything so easy. If we make a habit of doing this after supper it’ll always be a quick and painless job.”

She grinned as the cross-dressed boy wriggled in his seat and nodded.

Colleen then started on his right hand. Ethan stared at his new look, fascinated against his will. The cuticle yielded. His nails looked tidier, like the diagrams in the etiquette book Aunt Penelope had once pressed into his hands “for the comedy of it, darling.” He swallowed. His throat felt small. He hated that what he felt most—pressed under the embarrassment and the itch to run—was the pride of good work.

“Now for the fun part,” Colleen said, eyebrow raised, smug smile engaged.

She shook the first bottle vigorously, opened it and slid brush against rim. The smell rose cool and sharp, wrong and right at the same time, like opening a new can of model car paint with the windows shut.

“I want you to notice three things when I apply the polish,” she murmured. “One: the thinness of the coat—don’t go gloppy. Two: three strokes. Down the middle, down the sides, like mowing a lawn with no ridges. And three: the coolness. Some girls love the coolness. It’s like a sigh.”

She drew the first stroke down the center of his thumbnail. The clear polish was indeed cool, so cool that a shiver tickled along the nail bed and up the tendons of his wrist, as if his body could measure the wet with a ruler made of gooseflesh. He breathed through his nose, which was a mistake—the aroma slid into him, not just sharp like the paint for his models but with something sweet underneath, a strange sweetness that made his stomach flip and settle and then flip again.

“That smell,” he said, and his voice sounded unsteady.

“Mm-hm.” Her smile didn’t falter. “It makes you a little squirmy, doesn’t it?”

“It… it’s just weird,” he whispered, evading her question.

Colleen smirked, a single eyebrow raised. “That’s one way of putting it,” she cooed knowingly.

She finished up, gently blowing across his knuckles to set the polish, and every breath of air from her lips lit tiny cold trails that joined the polish and the scent and the gratitude he didn’t want to admit. She held his fingers a moment longer than necessary, admiring her work.

“See? Natural. Tidy. Useful for photographs. You look like a girl who washes her hands and says ‘yes, ma’am.’”

“I do say ‘yes, ma’am,’” he muttered.

“I know you do.” She squeezed. “Now we take it off.”

He blinked. “Already? You’re not going to do my other hand?”

She was already unscrewing the remover. “Mm-nope. You’re going to learn. That means you doing it,” she said with cheerful ruthlessness. “If we were going to leave it on it’d take about five or ten minutes to set properly. But right now we’ll take it off, and you’ll do it in pink.”

“Me?”

“You?”

He flinched. “Pink again?”

Colleen grinned. “Light pink. Barely there.” She dampened a cotton ball, pressed it to his thumbnail, and the polish disappeared in two rubs, leaving a faint squeak behind that made his teeth twinge. She repeated the action until his fingertips were clean and tingling.

“Your turn. Color is your job. Remember what I told you. Thin coats. Three strokes. Slow is smooth.”

His heart thudded closer to his throat. He reached for the sparkling bottle of pale pink that looked almost milky through the glass, like late strawberry milk after ice cream had been spooned away. His hand trembled slightly as he opened it. He dragged the brush against the rim exactly as she had, swallowed the smell that reached for him, and braced his wrist on the towel to steady himself.

Big breath. Confidence. He imagined the hood of his favorite model car kit, the one that always gommed up if he got greedy with the paint. He set the brush down the center of his left thumbnail.

Coolness again. An almost electric tickle at the cuticle. He concentrated so hard his tongue peeked from the corner of his mouth until he noticed and tucked it back. He moved to the side stroke, and then the other, and he didn’t go gloppy. He did get a little close to the edge, where the polish dragged up onto the skin like a hungry tide.

“Shoot,” he breathed, dismayed.

Colleen didn’t scold. She took the orange stick, dabbed the tip with remover, and slid it along the edge, erasing the mistake like a new eraser on fresh paper. “Precision,” she murmured. “Like stenciling. You don’t have to be perfect in the first pass. You learn the angles.”

“I can do it.” He couldn’t help the stubbornness, which was his mother’s legacy. “I want to do it right.”

Colleen smiled. “I know.”

He moved on to the index finger. Stroke, stroke, stroke. The scent climbed—he fought the urge to squirm… and failed. The coolness shivered. He breathed shallowly and fell into the click-and-hum of the summer kitchen: the box fan, the television weatherman’ voice, his mother’s quiet praise—this time he didn’t notice any boys outside.

Doing his right hand was more of a challenge, as it meant painting with his left. Colleen did clean up duty twice, but that was all. Like with the sewing machine and a hundred other skills he’d learned that summer, he soon got the hang of it. When he finished, he sat very straight, fingers spread, watching the shine.

Colleen tilted his hand to the lamp. The pink was soft and shy, almost a secret. “Well,” she said, proud as if he’d piped frosting roses. “We might make a lady out of you yet.”

He gave her a look that wanted to be a glare but was more like a smile.

“Off again,” she said, merciless in the way of women who want excellence and also know the shortest path. “Then pick a nude. We’ll practice tones, see what works best for you.”

They did. She had him remove the pink—he was careful not to scrub too hard and smudge the remover across the towel—and he chose a safe shade of nude that made his skin look like a peach in shadow. While he worked they discussed undertones and nail shapes and files—subjects he knew other boys would never talk about with their mothers. Or anyone.

Then they started all over again, this time with him applying a mauve that seemed too grown-up and made his hands look elegant in a way that rattled him.

Then a yellow for a joke, cheerful as lemonade—he nearly blotted it thick, and she taught him to thin the brush with a twist.

Finally a small bottle of a timid red that, even watered to one light coat, made his hands pop like picture-book apples.

He was admiring the red—and hating himself for doing so—when the screen door creaked.

“Knock-knock,” said DeeDee’s voice, which always sounded like she’d smoked too many cigarettes and then laughed anyhow. “Don’t shoot, we brought no men.” The spring whined; the screen door bounced. “Though I did see a pretty little housewife through the window.”

Ethan’s head snapped up so fast the pink bow at his crown tipped. His hands shot under the table on reflex, which only made Dani, behind her mother, lift up the tablecloth with the grin of a fox who has finally treed the rooster.

“Well, looky, Sissy,” Dani sang, her ponytail swishing with righteous delight as she surveyed the scene. “Got your nails did, did ya?”

“Mom!—”

“Dani,” Colleen said, tone pleasant and warning in the same breath. “Inside voice.”

DeeDee had already come around to sweep Colleen into a one-armed hug that smelled like gas-station coffee and an expensive French perfume stolen from somewhere. DeeDee always wore something borrowed; she made it look claimed. She wore her hair short, cat-eye glasses gleaming, and a blouse tied at the waist that made her look like a pin-up mechanic in a poster that had somehow come to life.

“Well well well,” she said, looking Ethan over with the slow grin she reserved for trouble she approved of. “Little mister’s girly training just went up a whole new level.”

Ethan heard his own swallow. “We were practicing for the next crafts fair,” he muttered, as if there were any other reason for a boy to be wearing red nail polish and a pink gingham dress. His bare toes curled in his slippers.

Dani came around his chair and bumped him with her hip, friendly and merciless. “Mama tried that on me once, but I ain’t no miss priss,” she said, eyes dancing. “She’s got her eyes on you, Sissy, so you’re in for it.”

“Mom, she’s teasing me again!—”

“Oh, hush, Ethan! She’s just having a bit of fun.” Colleen gave Dani a little wink. “Don’t be so mean, darling.”

The tomboy gave a sharp salute before taking a seat. “Roger than, Aunt Collie.”

“Here, let an expert take over here,” DeeDee said, her eyes fixed on Ethan’s hands, which—obedient to the part of him that craved approval like bread—came out from under the table. The red made his fingers look long and deft. His stomach turned a small, astonished cartwheel.

DeeDee leaned on the table, peering as if through the loupe of a jeweler. “Neat cuticles. Good shapes. Oh, honey, the angles on those brush strokes—did you do that?”

“I—yes ma’am,” Ethan admitted. “Well, some of them.”

“All of them,” Colleen proudly corrected.

“Ah, Colleen, look at this. He’s got the wrist for it.” DeeDee flicked her gaze at her sister with uncomplicated excitement. “I could get used to this.”

“You’re not taking him home as a trophy,” Colleen said dryly, but she was smiling.

“Maybe just to Dairy Queen,” DeeDee said, sing-song, and Ethan’s head came up like a pointer dog’s. Dairy Queen meant a ride. A ride meant her muscle car. “In exchange for borrowing these cute little nubbins.”

“No,” he said, a little too fast. “I—no, thank you.”

DeeDee made a sympathetic mouth and then ruined it with a wicked smile. “You sure about that, little mister? We just got the carburetor tuned, and last week I installed a new set of headers. She purrs like a bobcat that swallowed a clock.” She leaned closer, voice dropping seductively. “Soft-serve in a waffle cone as big as your face. I’ll even let you pick the song before we burn rubber out of the driveway.”

He knew he’d lose. That was the worst part, knowing the exact moment his resistance was going to fail and watching himself go through the motions anyway. He pretended to think about it for a heartbeat longer than necessary, so he could tell himself later that he’d at least tried to resist.

“What would you do?” he asked, miserably curious.

“What would I do?” DeeDee echoed in mock scandal. “Why, darling boy, I would do what only God and Revlon know how to do.” She slid into the chair at his side like a gambler coming to a hot table and looked to Colleen with exaggerated politeness. “Permission?”

Colleen made a grand little gesture with her hand. “Far be it from me to come between a woman and her art.”

“Princess?” DeeDee asked. It wasn’t fair that she did that—asked him directly, eyes bright but steady, offering a real choice after making the temptation impossible. “Yes?”

He looked at his mother. Her face was calm and proud and soft. He could say no. He also could not.

“…I guess,” he heard himself say.

“Attaboy,” Dani crowed reflexively, then caught herself and snorted. “Attagirl. I mean, attaprincess—whatever.”

“Shush,” DeeDee said without heat, already lining up the tools like a surgeon. “We’re going to do French tips.” She winked at Ethan’s panicked glance. “Not fries, sugar. Classic white tip with a color base. Keeps it sweet. Makes the nail look longer.”

“They aren’t long,” he protested, dismayed.

“That’s the trick.” She reached for the bottle labeled: Girl Crazy: Bubblegum Delight. The pink inside popped way brighter than the first pink he’d tried and somehow fresher, like the first bite from a stick of gum after the wrapper skitters down your wrist. “We extend the line of the nail bed with color, then a crisp little smile of white for the tip. Optical illusion. You’ll look like you’re going to a tea party to steal somebody’s heart.”

“I don’t want to steal anybody’s heart,” he said, but it came out half a whisper because he was watching DeeDee’s hands. He’d never really paid much attention before, but his aunt’s hands were not like Colleen’s—they were nicked and faintly scarred and strong from pulling fan belts and turning wrenches, but when she held his fingers and cleaned off the red polish, she was as precise and delicate as any ballerina tying a slipper string.

“All right, I’m going in, base coat first,” she said, and laid the bubblegum pink in one whisper-thin layer over the nail plate. It cooled his fingers and sent that shiver up his wrists again. “Look how we leave the little crescent bare near the cuticle? That’s the little moon. See? It makes the living part of the nail glow. It’s like a bed. Don’t cover it, just kiss it.”

“Kiss it,” Dani repeated behind them, teasing—she suddenly quieted when her mother turned her head a fraction. “Oops! Um, sorry, Mama.”

DeeDee did all ten fingers quickly and expertly, then went back to the first, tilting it to the light. “Now the white.” She didn’t reach for any helpful sticker guides; she freehanded with a brush that seemed to obey her thoughts. The white band appeared across the tips—thin, debonair little smiles, curved exactly so.

“This is witchcraft,” Ethan muttered, unable to stop himself.

“This is geometry,” DeeDee said. “And some flirting.” She glanced up and grinned when he flushed. “You’ll catch sight of your hands and think, ‘Well, hello there, darlings… where have you been all my life?’” She looked up and winked. “Doesn’t hurt anything to be pleased by yourself, Ethan. The world will try to take that away. Keep a little for you.”

Watching from the sidelines, Colleen nodded and smiled.

He didn’t know what to do with the warmth that rose in his chest at that instant, so he watched the line. The brilliant white at each tip made the pink sing. His nails—it was ridiculous to say this—actually did look longer, like he might tap them on a counter while thinking of something smart to say.

“There,” DeeDee said finally, blowing gently across his fingers as his mother had done. He didn’t shiver only from the coolness; it was the intimacy of the caring. “Look.”

He looked. He stared. The bright bubble-gum pink sat on his hands like something inevitable. The tips were crisp as a clean shirt collar.

“I…” He tried to find a word that wouldn’t make him blush. The blush came anyway. “I don’t hate it.”

“A high compliment, indeed!” DeeDee declared, satisfied. She then clapped her hands. “Now give me your feetsies so’s I can do your wittle toesies.”

“Absolutely not,” he said, so fast the rabbit-ear bow on his scarf flopped.

“Absolutely yes,” DeeDee said, with the mildness of someone already planning their victory parade. “Dani, a little help please.”

The cross-dressed boy cringed as his cousin leaned over and bumped him with her shoulder. She smelled like grass stains and bicycle grease. He anticipated the mocking quip, the sarcastic joke… the belittling comment. Instead, what he got was:

“Just imagine it, Sissy—you and me, in Mama’s Mustang, doing over a hundred down Old Mill Road, headed for a double scoop of chocolate caramel crunch. The roar of the engine, the smell of aviation fuel. You gotta let her do this, if only for the chance of seeing her get a speeding ticket.”

Ethan grinned. “Well, since you put it that way—”

“My son is not doing a hundred miles an hour in anything—” Colleen said firmly— “much less that monster truck of yours.”

“She’s not a monster truck,” DeeDee muttered, her feelings hurt. “She’s a vintage Shelby, a GT-500 for chrissake, Collie. I rebuilt her myself… she’s a thing of beauty.”

“Please, Aunt Colleen, I’m in negotiations.” Dani put her arm around Ethan’s neck and playfully pinched his cheek. “I get Sissy here to agree, then we can discuss speed limits.”

“Of which there will be no breaking,” Colleen insisted. “Not with my little housewife, there better not be.”

“Please, can I go Mom?” Ethan pleaded. “I never get to ride in Aunt DeeDee’s Mustang. She can paint my toes—she can paint my fingers any color she wants, I don’t care! And she’ll go slow, too, won’t you, Aunt DeeDee?”

DeeDee held up her hand in a solemn Boy Scout salute. “On my honor.”

“Your other fingers are crossed.” Colleen scoffed. “All right, you can go. But only one scoop. I don’t want my little model getting chubby.”

Ethan and Dani exchanged grins. “I’ll share,” Dani whispered a bit too loudly.

“Now that we got that out of the way—” DeeDee lifted Ethan’s foot onto her lap and cracked her knuckles— “let me see what I can do with these little piggies.”

Ethan bit his lip as his aunt worked. Being the center of so much attention—and in such a girlish dilemma—was as unnerving as it was exciting. DeeDee slipped little twists of paper towel in between his toes and held his foot in her hand as she worked; it suddenly looked young and soft and very public in his mind. The coolness of the polish sent chills up his legs and the back of his thighs. He wanted to curl his toes and couldn’t.

“It tickles,” he said, trying to explain his squirming. A stern look from his aunt shut him down.

Still, he fought the urge to fidget. It didn’t help that Dani kept tugging at his head scarf and flicking his ear. That, and he kept tugging down on the hem of his dress, wary of his cousin’s fondness of flipping it up and exposing his panties.

“Someone’s going to find herself wearing one of Colleen’s girly-girl creations if SHE doesn’t leave HIM alone,” DeeDee growled at one point.

Dani suddenly sat up straight in her chair. “Um, you got any root beer, Aunt Collie?”

Colleen smiled and nodded. “In the pantry. For emergencies. You’ll have to get some ice.”

“Okie dokie artichokie,” the tomboy said, taking off.

After about ten minutes and half a glass of iced root beer later, DeeDee was done. She blew on Ethan’s toes—which he secretly found thrilling—and then presented him with ten shiny bubblegum pink jewels, signaling a new chapter in his life.

Colleen—who had been leaning at the counter with her arms crossed and a look on her face that mixed amusement with a kind of humming pride—left the room while everyone admired DeeDee’s handiwork. She came back holding a pair of white sandals.

“I wondered if we’d get here,” she said. “We did, so now let’s see the finished look.”

She knelt—a queen serving her princess in a fairy tale—and buckled the white strap over each pink-dotted foot. She then stood and set her hands on her hips, tilting her head the way she did when she was deciding whether a display window needed a taller vase.

“Well,” she said softly. “What do you think?”

DeeDee tapped an unlit cigarette on the table and hooted. “I’m lovin’ it! I gotta say, Princess, you’re makin’ me jealous. My nails are a mess all the time from workin’ in the garage, and this rugrat here—” she slapped Dani’s denim-covered butt— “won’t let me near her with anything resembling a nail file much less polish. You have made my day, darlin’!”

Ethan couldn’t help but smile under such praise, though he wished it hadn’t been because of bubble-gum pink nails. But he was glad to get what he could from his hardcore aunt. She wasn’t easy to please and any day he could make her happy was a good one.

Dani, on the other hand, was another story—her joy often meant his embarrassment. He watched as his cousin bent over to get the best angle. She was trying hard not to show admiration, which made Ethan like her all the more.

“His toes look… nice. Pretty, actually,” she said finally, and then rolled her eyes for cover. “Holy crap, I’m talking about Ethan’s feet! Don’t tell anybody I said that—I sound like a weirdo!” She sighed and nodded. “But hey, cuz, your toesies is very pretty. If that’s what you were going for, I mean.”

Colleen shook her head. “What about you, baby? What do you think?”

Ethan looked down at himself the way one looks at themselves in a new outfit in a mirror. White sandals. Bubblegum pink toes. Gingham dress. Apron. Hairbow. Pink and white tips on his fingers, little smiles that couldn’t help but seem pleased to be attached to him. His stomach did a strange, glad swoop that he would have sworn wasn’t allowed.

“Okay,” he said, to someone and no one. “I mean, yeah, I kinda like it. They are pretty, I suppose.”

“All right!” DeeDee agreed briskly, and clapped her hands. “The paints dry and time’s a-wasting. Let’s all go get ice cream!”

Colleen made a face of exaggerated suffering. “I’m not getting in that thing,” she said, which made Dani hoot. “It’s too loud and fast for my taste. I prefer cars that sound like they were made by people who believe in windows that roll up without prayer.”

“You wound me,” DeeDee said, grinning. “She’s a lady.”

“She’s a temptress,” Colleen returned. “Ethan can go. Just keep it under the speed limit.”

“Come on, Sissy, it’ s me.” DeeDee shot the two teens a little wink. Ethan smirked—Dani snorted.

“Yes, it is you. And that’s what worries me.” Colleen leaned over to kiss her son’s lips. She studied his mouth. “Lip balm, please.”

“Oh,” Ethan said, startled at the ordinary intimacy of the instruction. DeeDee and Dani giggled even before he pulled the little pink and red tube from his pocket, along with his compact mirror. He popped the cap, put it between his middle and ring fingers, and rolled the balm onto his lips, careful, the way Colleen had taught him. He checked the mirror, pressed his lips together—the taste of cherries triggering a little smile—and tried to not notice how Dani watched, amused and primed for teasing.

“Watch out, Sissy,” Dani said, delighted. “They’ll have you wearing lipstick next.”

“And I got the color already picked out for him,” DeeDee crowed. “Red is the color of my one true love…”

Dani moaned. “She’s talking about her car.”

“Only when he’s ready,” Colleen said mildly. She kissed him again, then leaned close to whisper in Ethan’s ear a mother’s tiny ferocity: “You look darling. And you taste yummy.”

He couldn’t help the small, foolish smile that spread over his face. He turned to DeeDee, trying to sound blasé. “Can I, um, ride in front, Aunt DeeDee? Please?”

“I call shotgun!” Dani hollered, making a dash for the door.

DeeDee spread her hands, palms-up apology. “Sorry, Princess. Maybe one of these days. Girl code.”

He huffed, exaggerated, and they all laughed, including him. The screen door creaked and the evening hit them like a warm hand.

The Mustang waited before him—a red so glossy it seemed wet, the chrome throwing the kitchen’s yellow light back in flashes. He anticipated the sound of DeeDee turning the key, the engine rumbling awake, a lion’s roar turned into machinery—loud, yes, but with a heartbeat steadiness under it that Ethan felt in the bones of his feet through his sandals.

He followed his aunt and cousin off the walk, the grass warm against his ankles, and couldn’t help but look at his hands. The French tips caught the porch light in thin crescents, a secret message only he could read. He lifted one, watched it glimmer, and felt, in the space between horror and thrill, something like recognition. The smell of polish still hung at the edge of his imagination. He wanted to shove his hands in his pockets; he wanted to hold them up to the streetlight and admire the work.

At the porch, Colleen leaned on the post, one arm around her middle, the other loose, the gesture she wore when she felt something big and said nothing. The green dress glowed in the dusk.

She watched her boy with the patient pride of a gardener who has seen a seed sprout and knows exactly what it might become. She was happy, she realized dimly, not because he looked like a girl, not because he was a good model, or because he was obedient and helpful: but because he was not hardening into the man his father had been—defensive and mean, petty and dull. She wanted her son complicated and careful and capable of tenderness and love.

She wanted him his own. And her own, too, if she was being honest with herself.

“Have a good time, my love,” she called over the rumbling engine.

“I will,” he said, meaning it more than he’d expected.

Dani bounded into the front seat with a triumphant whoop. DeeDee slanted a look over at Ethan, and the nickname that usually made him squirm sounded different in her mouth—fond, a little proud: “Hop in and buckle up, Princess.”

He climbed into the back, his skirt askew, the black leather hot against his panty-covered bottom and the backs of his thighs, and he buckled obediently—a boy princess about to ride a wild stallion.

“Hey, Sissy, what about this one?” Dani wagged her eyebrows and slammed a cassette into the stereo. “It’s one of Mama’s favorites.”

The psychedelic sound of screeching guitars filled the cabin, competing with the rumbling engine. Then the bass and rat-a-tat of drums kicked in, along with:

🎵 I like to dream, yes, yes

Right between the sound machine

On a cloud of sound I drift in the night

Any place it goes is right

Goes far, flies near

To the stars away from here 🎶

Ethan gave her a thumbs up, shouting as the engine made a spine-tingling howl: “That’s perfect!”

The two cousins began dancing in their seats, Dani’s hair flying wildly, Ethan flipping his gingham hairbow from side to side. DeeDee grinned wickedly, slapped the gearshift and popped the clutch.

“Hang on, chillun—it’s gonna be a bumpy ride!”

As they squealed off, Colleen lifted her hand. Ethan paused long enough to lift his in return, pink-and-white tips bright as a promise. The car sped down the block with a throaty purr. He let the night wind move across his face, the scent of summer cut grass and warm metal, and chocolate-caramel to come.

🎵 Well, you don’t know what we can see

Why don’t you tell your dreams to me

Fantasy will set you free 🎶

There was a time when he’d focused on his aunt’s car and her driving skills. But not this time, not this night—as he swayed in time to the music, he pressed his palms together and then turned them apart, like opening a book only he could read, and told himself he was only checking for smudges. He wasn’t—he was admiring. Confused and excited, twice shy and twice pleased, he kept looking, kept reading the small, crisp smiles at the ends of his fingers, and tried out the idea that something could be scary and right at once.

The car hit a bump, causing the cross-dressed boy to bounce in his seat, skirts flying. DeeDee looked back, smirking, and sang joyfully along with the tape at the top of her voice:

🎵 Close your eyes, girl

Look inside, girl

Let the sound take you awaaay 🎶

Back on the porch, Colleen watched the red car shrink and gave a soft sigh. She touched the post the way she sometimes touched Ethan’s shoulder when he passed, a small affectionate stroke, reassuring, maternal and warm: her boy was going to be fine, better than fine—another step, she thought, away from hard, cruel men and toward something that felt like grace.

She went inside to arrange the little jeweled bottles of color neatly in a row, ready for tomorrow. The kitchen smelled faintly of polish remover and the kind of sweetness you don’t know you’re hungry for until it’s on your tongue.

🎵 Well, you don't know what we can find

Why don't you come with me, little girl

On a magic carpet ride 🎶

 
Next up: Auntie Vivian

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 Seventeen: Auntie Vivian

Colleen’s sister stops by to see what all the fuss is about.
 

The screen door creaked open with a wheeze and snapped shut with a slap. Ethan stumbled into the kitchen, sweat clinging to his temples and neck, a streak of dirt smudged across one cheek, his disheveled hair a wild mess. His T-shirt, a faded red with the logo of a video game peeling off the chest, was damp with perspiration. Grass-stained sneakers squeaked faintly on the tile as he stepped inside, blinking in the coolness of the house.

He froze when he saw her.

Auntie Vivian.

She was seated at the round kitchen table as if posing for a portrait, back perfectly straight, legs crossed at the ankle. She wore a crisp white blouse under a dove-gray jacket, a black pencil skirt that didn’t dare wrinkle, and black heels that rested like punctuation marks on the floor. A pair of cat-eye reading glasses perched on her nose. Her auburn hair, pulled into a sleek bun, made her look more like a courtroom judge than someone visiting family.

She looked up from a glossy fashion magazine. “My,” she said without inflection, “what an entrance.”

Ethan shifted on his feet. “Hi.”

Her eyes scanned him from top to bottom with an expression that could starch linen. “You’re tracking in dirt,” she said.

Ethan looked down at his shoes. “Sorry.”

“And you’re flushed. Have you been… playing?”

He nodded. “Just outside. With Dani. She had to go home, so I—”

She clicked her tongue. “You might at least consider taking off your shoes before coming into a house your mother has spent so much effort to keep clean. Or is that too much to ask?”

Ethan’s ears burned. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” she interrupted, folding the magazine closed. “And yet here you are, stomping through the kitchen like a Labrador retriever. While your mother is in the other room, working herself half to death.”

Ethan opened his mouth, then shut it. He heard the hum of the sewing machine from the next room—the whir and pause, whir and pause—as if his mother were stitching that very moment together.

“I help,” he said quietly. “I—I work around the house. A lot.”

Vivian arched a brow. “Do you.”

He nodded again. “I clean. I make lunch. I help Mom in the sewing room.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” she said flatly, lifting her tea glass and taking a long, slow sip.

Just then, the sewing machine stopped.

“Well,” came Colleen’s voice from the next room. “Then maybe you should show her.”

Vivian’s head turned slightly as Colleen appeared in the doorway. She was in her work apron, floral print with scissors clipped to the pocket, pins tucked into a wrist cushion, and a faint smile on her face that suggested she’d been listening the entire time.

“Mother,” Ethan said, half a plea.

“No, it’s a lovely idea, so let’s do it,” Colleen said, stepping into the kitchen, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Why argue when you can demonstrate? Go on, sweetheart. Upstairs, quick shower, and then you can give your aunt a little tour of your daily duties.”

“But—”

“For me, darling?”

Ethan sighed but obeyed. “Yes, Mother,” he muttered, trudging toward the stairs.

“Oh, and Ethan?” Colleen called after him.

He paused, hand on the banister.

“House rules,” she said sweetly. “Appropriate attire.”

He blushed. “Yes, ma’am.”

Vivian’s gaze followed him up the stairs like a silent verdict.

As soon as he disappeared, Colleen turned toward her sister and poured herself some tea.

“Well,” she said, stirring in a slice of lemon, “he’s certainly not your ex-brother-in-law, now is he?”

Vivian’s lips tightened. “He has his hair. And his eyes.”

“He has my eyes,” Colleen countered gently. “And his grandmother’s stubborn chin.”

Vivian didn’t respond.

Colleen sat down across from her. “He’s a good boy. Not perfect. But not who you think he is.”

“I think he’s twelve,” Vivian said, resting her fingers on the magazine. “And I think twelve-year-old boys don’t belong in sewing rooms or kitchens. I think they belong at baseball or soccer practice or whatever. With their tomboy cousins, perhaps,” she said with a hint of a sneer.

Colleen smiled. “He’s been to plenty of practices. But they didn’t take. Besides, I need help here, Vivian. And he gives it—without complaint.”

Vivian’s voice was quiet but sharp. “He still reminds me too much of your ex. Not just in the face. In the way he moves. The way he shrugs off responsibility. His disrespect toward you. I saw it in his actions, I heard it in his voice.”

Colleen laughed softly. “You think that was shirking responsibility, what you just saw?”

Vivian didn’t answer.

“Well,” Colleen said, leaning back in her chair, “I think you’re about to be very surprised.”

 

* * *
 

The sound of soft footsteps on the stairs announced Ethan’s return.

Vivian turned her head just slightly, her narrow eyes waiting to see everything that was about to happen. She didn’t speak, just sat there in silent judgment.

Colleen did. “Ah,” she said with a smile in her voice. “There he is.”

Ethan stood at the edge of the kitchen in what Colleen affectionately called one of his “housewife” outfits. He wore a pale lavender floral print dress with puffed short sleeves and a gently scalloped collar, the hem falling just above his knees. A dainty white apron was tied in a careful bow at the small of his back. His freshly shampooed hair wasn’t quite long enough to hold a style—not quite yet—but it was brushed and soft, a white plastic hairband keeping it clean and tidy. He wore white ankle socks and soft house slippers. His cheeks were still pink from the shower, and a bit more pink from sheer embarrassment.

He gave a stiff little curtsy.

“Good afternoon, Auntie Vivian,” he said in his quietest voice. “Would you like me to fix some lunch?”

Vivian’s mouth didn’t move, but her eyes widened, then flicked over every detail. The smoothness of the apron’s ties. The stiffness of his posture. The careful avoidance of eye contact.

“You may try,” she said. “If you think you can manage something edible.”

Ethan nodded, and without waiting for further comment, moved to the sink and began washing his hands.

Colleen rose from the table and slipped past her sister. “I’ll just go freshen up,” she said sweetly, “since I appear to have my own little homemaker here to take care of things for me.”

Vivian muttered something inaudible.

Alone in the kitchen with his aunt, Ethan began his work. He opened the refrigerator with care, taking out a covered bowl of chicken salad, chilled grapes, two boiled eggs, and a small container of cut cantaloupe. From the pantry, he retrieved crackers and a jar of sweet pickles. With quiet precision, he selected plates and glasses, arranged silverware, and fetched the pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator.

The room was so silent that the clink of glass sounded like wind chimes.

Vivian didn’t speak, but her gaze was constant. She watched him slice the eggs in half and dust them with a pinch of paprika from the rack. She watched as he shaped the chicken salad with a chilled spoon and laid the crackers like spokes around the mound. She noticed—though didn’t admit—that the color coordination of the plates, the garnish, even the napkins, was meticulous.

He set the table gently, then turned to her.

“Auntie Vivian?” he said, clearing his throat.

“Yes?”

“Would you like me to refill your tea?”

She nodded.

“Um, do you like it with lemon or plain?”

“Lemon.”

He gave her a weak smile, poured the tea, added a lemon slice and placed it at her setting.

When Colleen returned, her face beamed with maternal pleasure. “Oh, my. It’s like having a little café in my own kitchen.”

Ethan didn’t look up. “I didn’t do anything fancy.”

“Don’t be modest,” Colleen said, seating herself. “You even remembered the paprika. I taught you well. And as always, you listened, didn’t you?”

“Of course, Mother.”

Vivian sat with the posture of a diplomat at a formal luncheon. She lifted her fork and sampled the chicken salad. Then the fruit. Then a sip of tea.

She said nothing.

But she did take a second helping.

Colleen caught Ethan’s eye and gave him a wink.

They ate quietly. Ethan waited until the women began before taking a bite. And he never served himself first. He offered additional helpings with a shy, murmured “Would you like more, Auntie?” and cleared the table when they were finished.

Vivian dabbed her mouth with her napkin and watched him load the dishes carefully into the sink, not an automatic dishwasher. This family still did things the old-fashioned way—their dishwasher wore ruffles and lace. The sound of warm running water, the clink of plates, and the low hum of Colleen chatting about her latest sewing order filled the room.

As Ethan scrubbed and rinsed and dried, Vivian’s words cut through.

“How often does he do this?”

Colleen smiled. “Pretty much every day.”

“And he doesn’t complain?”

Colleen’s smile deepened. “Not more than once or twice.”

Ethan kept his head down. But his chest swelled just a little, like a handkerchief catching the breeze.

When the kitchen was spotless—dry counters, polished table, all dishes cleaned and shelved—Colleen stood and stretched.

“I think we’ll keep him,” she said playfully. “What do you think, Vivian?”

Vivian didn’t answer immediately. She glanced at Ethan, who was wiping down the chairs now, as if every inch mattered.

“I think,” she said at last, “he’s trying very hard.”

That, from Vivian, was high praise indeed.

Colleen walked over and tousled Ethan’s hair. “Well done, darling. Why don’t you sort the laundry next? Whites first. And then maybe mop the floor? Your aunt’s had quite the show. Let’s give her an encore.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ethan said, already heading toward the laundry room, apron rustling faintly behind him.

Vivian started to rise, but Colleen caught her hand.

“Let him work,” she said gently. “You can sit.”

“I’d rather watch,” Vivian replied.

Colleen raised an eyebrow. “Are you evaluating him?”

“I’m observing.”

Colleen let out a small laugh. “You always did love cross-examination.”

Vivian allowed a tiny smile. “I always did love the truth.”

And so she watched.

 

* * *
 

The laundry basket was heavier than Ethan liked to admit. It was full to the brim with folded towels, rumpled sheets, a few blouses, and the usual pile of underthings. He carried it from the hallway to the laundry nook just off the kitchen with practiced care, balancing the weight against his hip.

Vivian stood at the laundry room door, her tea refreshed, her eyes unreadable behind those slim-rimmed glasses.

Colleen had gone back to her sewing room—“for just a few finishing touches,” she said—but her voice still drifted in from time to time, humming or softly laughing to herself.

Ethan bent to separate the whites from the colors. His dress—soft cotton with a rounded collar and three mother-of-pearl buttons—pulled slightly at the shoulder as he reached. His apron bow, still perfectly tied, swayed with each motion.

Vivian gasped. An errant bra strap peeked from under his collar. She composed herself, then cleared her throat.

“You missed a sock.”

Ethan froze for half a second, then spotted it: a balled-up white ankle sock caught in the leg of a pair of slacks.

“Thank you, Auntie Vivian,” he said quietly, adding it to the whites.

“Efficiency,” she said, almost absently, “requires attention to detail.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

He loaded the washer methodically—first the whites, then detergent measured precisely—and started the cycle. His movements were automatic, but his heartbeat wasn’t. It pounded like a second clock in his chest.

He turned to return to the kitchen, glancing quickly toward Vivian, who hadn’t shifted a muscle. Her posture was as erect as ever, one hand holding her tea, the other on her hip.

“Mother said to mop the kitchen floor,” Ethan said shyly.

Vivian gave a faint nod. “Then you’d better see to it.”

He slid by her, retrieved the mop and bucket from the cabinet, filled it with warm soapy water, and began with the far corner of the room, working in careful, concentric sweeps. He was barefoot now—he’d taken off his socks and slippers so as not to get them messy—and the cold tile sent little shivers up his legs. His bare feet made gentle sounds against the wet floor: squeak, swish, pat.

Vivian sipped her tea and watched.

At one point Ethan fetched a scrub brush, got on his hands and knees, and fussed with a stubborn stain. He’d pulled the hem of his apron and dress up so they wouldn’t get wet. Tugged at the loose bra strap, whispering “dumb bra,” just loud enough for his audience to hear.

He could feel his aunt’s gaze as he worked, but he forced himself to not look up. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be scared or mad, so he tried to not be either.

After several minutes, Colleen’s voice floated in from the other room. “How’s our little Cinderella doing?”

“Still scrubbing,” Vivian replied.

Colleen peeked in through the sewing room door, arms crossed over her apron. “He knows better than to rush a floor. He’s had plenty of practice.”

Vivian didn’t speak.

Colleen came further in, watching as Ethan—having defeated the stain—dipped his mop, wrung it with delicate hands, and began a new section. His movements weren’t graceful, not exactly—but they were careful. Thoughtful.

“I taught him to move with intention,” Colleen murmured.

Vivian arched an eyebrow. “So this is real? He’s not just a prop for your clothing line?”

Colleen gave her a look—more amused than offended. “Don’t be cruel, Vivian. He’s more than a mannequin. He’s my child. And he’s a hard worker.”

Vivian shifted her gaze back to Ethan. “You’ve made him obedient.”

Colleen smiled faintly. “I’ve made him capable. The obedience was already there.”

Ethan, cheeks flushed and eyes downcast, continued mopping. He said nothing, but inside him, a slow bloom of pride opened. He felt it in his chest, in his wrists, in the soles of his feet. He wasn’t just performing. He was proving something.

When the floor was done, he rinsed the mop, wrung it twice, and put everything back in its proper place. Then he stood, apron still neat, hair slightly damp, and turned to face the two women.

“All finished,” he said softly.

Vivian looked at the floor. It glistened. Not a streak, not a missed patch. Even the corners had been attended to.

Colleen clapped lightly, almost to herself. “Good job, sweetheart.”

Ethan smiled faintly, unsure whether to bow, curtsy, or just stand there.

Colleen crossed the floor, leaned down and kissed him on the lips, and said, “Now. Since you’ve earned a little break, how about you come help me in the sewing room?”

Ethan nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Vivian made no move to rise.

Colleen tilted her head. “You’re welcome to join us.”

Vivian hesitated.

Then, with a small sigh, she stood, gathering her glass of tea as if it were a gavel, and followed them.

 

* * *
 

The sewing room had a strange serenity to it.

Threads in every color fanned out like little sunrays in glass jars. Fabrics hung from pegs along the walls—soft pastels, prim calicos, bolts of linen and sateen, lace trims curled into delicate loops. The large table near the window was crowded but tidy, scissors gleaming beside a notepad filled with neat sketches. A second, smaller table held two teacups and a plate of ginger snaps.

Vivian stood in the doorway a moment before stepping inside.

Colleen was already seated at her machine, adjusting the stitch tension. “Could you hand me that light blue thread, Ethan? Top shelf.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He reached up without hesitation, selected the correct spool, and set it on the holder. Then, as if it were second nature, he opened the bobbin drawer, chose one, and began winding it with a gentle buzz of the motor.

Vivian settled into the second chair, setting her tea on the side table. Her posture hadn’t changed, but something in her eyes had softened. Barely. A hairline crack.

“You’ve trained him well,” she said.

Colleen looked up, her fingers pausing at the hem of the fabric. “I didn’t train him. I included him. Big difference.”

Vivian made a soft “hmm” sound and sipped.

Ethan finished threading the bobbin, popped it into place, and stepped back. “What next?”

Colleen patted the padded modeling pedestal. “I need you to try something on, sweetheart. Just for a fit check.”

He nodded quietly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Vivian raised an eyebrow.

Ethan turned to face away from his aunt, slipped out of the lavender housedress and hung it neatly on a hook. His voice was soft and without irony.

“Should I keep my slip on?”

“Yes,” Colleen said without missing a beat. “The fabric hangs better that way.”

Vivian said nothing. But her eyes lingered on her nephew as he turned around.

The white cotton slip was thin-strapped, modest, clean. Underneath she could see additional shoulder straps.

“I see a bra,” she said pointedly. “So he’s also wearing… panties?”

“Efficiency requires attention to detail.” Colleen smiled. “You said so yourself. People pay a lot of money for the dresses we make, so we don’t cut corners. Nor do we take a chance that we might get something wrong. We’re professionals, aren’t we, sweetheart?”

Ethan nodded, blushing to hear his underwear being discussed so openly.

“Besides, it’s just underwear, right?” Colleen winked. “What is it I told you, darling? If you wear something fun—”

“—the job’s more fun,” Ethan said, giving his aunt shy smile.

Vivia didn’t say a word. But she considered everything.

Colleen handed Ethan the dress, a soft sky-blue day dress, sleeveless with a fitted bodice and a flared pleated skirt. The fabric caught the light, not shiny, but with a quiet sheen. She helped guide it over his head, careful not to disturb the pins along the bodice. The dress rustled softly as it slid down, settling over his slip. She tugged the seams at the sides, smoothing the shoulders, and reached behind him to fasten the hidden zipper with a delicate zzzzz.

“Arms up,” she said gently.

Ethan obeyed, lifting his arms like a doll on display.

Colleen stood back and nodded with satisfaction. “Just as I thought. We’re only a few darts away.”

He stepped up onto the small pedestal with care, the hem of the dress brushing just below his knees, swishing faintly with each movement. His cheeks were red again—not from shame, exactly, but from the complex heat of being seen.

Vivian watched in silence.

Colleen circled her son like a master tailor, tucking a bit here, straightening a pleat there. “Turn a little, darling. Good. Posture, please. Back straight.”

Ethan lifted his chin, arms up, his hands bent girlishly at the wrist, mimicking the poised stance Colleen had shown him weeks ago. One foot just slightly behind the other.

“Now hold still,” she said, crouching to pin a loose hem. “Vivian, what do you think? Does it hang properly?”

Vivian didn’t answer at first.

She stood, crossed the room slowly, and studied the boy on the pedestal like a sculpture in a gallery. He didn’t flinch under her gaze, but she could see the tension in his shoulders. His chest rose and fell quickly, his lips parted slightly.

At first glance he looked like a child playing dress-up.

And yet she could see it was… not quite that.

“The line is clean,” she said at last. “You’ve taught him how to stand properly.”

“I’ve taught him to respect the garment,” Colleen replied without looking up. “And the person who made it.”

Vivian let her arms rest at her sides. Her expression remained neutral, but something had shifted behind her eyes.

“This isn’t just… roleplay,” she said, mostly to herself. “He’s not pretending.”

“No,” Colleen agreed, rising. “He’s participating. There’s a difference.” She cocked an eyebrow. “You keep asking me questions… you could talk to him. He can speak for himself, you know.”

Vivian bristled.

Taking a cue from his mother, Ethan swallowed. “Do you want me to turn again for you, Auntie?” he asked.

Vivian hesitated. And then, softly: “Yes.”

He kept his forearms up, hands dangling even more girlishly, and turned slowly, letting the skirt swing just slightly. His arms stayed as they were, graceful but at the same time awkward.

Vivian looked at his face—not just the dress or the manners or the submission—but at the boy himself. And for the first time since she’d arrived, she didn’t see him. Not Colleen’s ex. Not the arrogant man who had almost ruined her sister’s life.

What she saw instead was Colleen’s child.

Obedient. Earnest. Unformed, yet being shaped by love and labor and lace.

“Tell me something,” Vivian said, her voice quiet now.

Ethan blinked. “Ma’am?”

“Do you like helping your mother like this?”

He looked at Colleen, then back at Vivian.

“I like that she needs me,” he said softly. “And I like when she’s proud of me.”

Vivian’s lips parted, but she didn’t speak.

Colleen stepped forward, hand on her son’s shoulder. “He’s not a disappointment, Vivian.”

“No,” Vivian said at last. “No… he’s not.”

There was silence in the room for a long, humming moment. The sewing machine sat idle. The sun angled through the window, striping the blue dress with soft gold.

Vivian turned to her glass of tea. It had gone warm.

She lifted it anyway, took a sip, and said with the faintest, rarest smile:

“Well. I suppose you’ll want to teach him how to hem next.”

Colleen grinned. “Oh, he already knows. You should see him at the sewing machine. He runs it better than me.”

Vivian looked back at the boy—still on the pedestal, still waiting for approval. She didn’t nod. She didn’t fawn. But she met his gaze fully, and for once, without judgment.

And in that moment, the unspoken legacy of a broken man vanished like a chalk line in the rain.

What stood in its place was a quiet, delicate thing:

A new generation.

 

Next, The Doll Whisperer

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 Eighteen: The Doll Whisperer

Most boys don’t play with dolls—and some do.
 

It was a warm, sleepy sort of Thursday—one of those late-summer days where the sun filtered through the blinds like warm syrup and the world outside seemed to be waiting for school bells and falling leaves. Ethan—wearing one of his several little housewife dresses, this in light green gingham—had just finished wiping down the mantle in the living room when Colleen approached him.

“You’ve done such a lovely job in here,” she said, adjusting the white ribbon holding his dark brown hair in place. “Why don’t you take a little break, sweetheart? Auntie Penelope wants to take you out for a bit.”

Ethan froze, still holding the dust cloth. “Out? Like, out out?”

Colleen smiled sweetly. “Just a quick errand. She needs help carrying something delicate. I just laid out an outfit on your bed—something simple, don’t worry.”

Ethan sighed. This was happening more and more, going out dressed as Emily. He still hadn’t gotten over his fear of discovery, especially in such a small town—plus, it was just the bother of having to put on his wig and getting dressed and all of the little things that included. But he did it anyway, partly because it was expected and—if he was honest—the element of danger was a bit seductive, despite his anxiety.

After putting away his cleaning supplies he followed his mother upstairs to their former guest room—or what Colleen unironically called “Emily’s Room.” On the quilted coverlet lay a pale peach dress with fluttery cap sleeves and a scalloped white collar, dainty pearl buttons marching down the front like tiny soldiers. White socks. White patent Mary Janes. And, of course, a large satin bow—in the same shade of peach as his dress—for his hair.

He looked at the wig that had been set out—the one with the ringlet curls—and could already feel his insides tingle.

“I don’t know…” he began, trying to ignore his mother’s raised an eyebrow. “In public… in that, Mother? It’s going to make me look like a little girl.”

“Well, I would hope so,” she said, amused. “Better than looking like a little boy.”

“I guess so.”

“But seriously, darling—” Colleen smirked— “after all you’ve been through, you’re not afraid of a little shopping trip with your auntie, are you?”

“I guess not,” Ethan muttered, cheeks already pink.

“Then be a dear and get changed.”

 

* * *
 

Twenty minutes later, he was seated primly beside Auntie Penelope in the passenger seat of her spotless powder-blue Cadillac. She wore a floral blouse with a brooch shaped like a cameo, her gray hair pinned back neatly beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat. She smelled faintly of lavender and just a touch of something old and spicy—vintage perfume, Ethan guessed.

“You look darling,” she said casually as she adjusted the mirror. “Like a sweet little Sunday school girl. If only your posture were better.”

Ethan straightened reflexively.

Penelope smiled. “There. That’s the spirit.”

 

* * *
 

The antique store was tucked between an old shoe repair shop and a shuttered soda fountain, the front window cluttered with teacups, bird cages, and a half-dressed mannequin in a 1940s swimsuit. A hand-painted sign read Miss Agatha’s Curios & Collectibles – Est. 1932.

A bell tinkled overhead as they stepped inside.

“Well, if it isn’t Penelope Whitaker,” came a voice from the back. “And who is this darling creature?”

Miss Agatha was a trim, birdlike woman in her seventies with cat-eye glasses and lipstick just slightly too dark for her complexion. She wore a pencil skirt and blouse, a string of beads clacking as she walked.

“This is my niece, Emily,” Penelope replied smoothly. “She’s visiting for the summer.”

Ethan managed a stiff curtsy and a mumbled, “Hello, ma’am.”

“Oh my! Such manners! And what a beautiful little dress.” Agatha beamed. “You don’t see girls dressing like this much these days.”

“Thank you,” Ethan said, barely audible.

Penelope led him past a display case of cameo brooches and into the back room, which smelled of cedar and powder. Along the way they passed a collection of dusty old dressing mirrors. He paused for just an instant to look at himself—it felt like he was being watched by a dozen or so curly haired little girls, all dressed in peach.

I look like I’m eight years old. In an act of self-mockery, he struck a pretty pose for just an instant, then shook his head at the effort. It’s a good thing Dani isn’t here—she’d never let live this down.

“Why don’t you explore a bit while I speak with Agatha about that sideboard,” his adopted aunt said. “There’s a little tea set in the corner, and I believe there are some dolls too.”

“Dolls?” Ethan blinked. “Auntie, really?”

Penelope’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to play with them. But it might be nicer than standing around looking like a nervous little rabbit.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he said nothing and wandered to the corner where a faded pink rug lay beneath a dainty child-size table. The tea set was porcelain, painted with roses and faint gold trim. Beside it sat a wooden cradle with three dolls nestled inside: one raggedy, one plastic, and a porcelain one exquisitely dressed in pink velvet.

Ethan knelt slowly and picked up the third. She had dark ringlets, soft lashes, and a tiny beaded necklace. Her name—stitched into her lace petticoat—was Adeline.

“She was handmade in Paris,” came Agatha’s voice behind him, soft as a memory. “One of my personal favorites.”

Ethan almost dropped her. “Oh—I was just—sorry, I—”

“No need to panic, darling. I always say: dolls are meant to be held. Especially by young ladies with gentle hands.”

Penelope appeared beside her, arms folded. “She does have gentle hands, doesn’t she?”

Agatha smiled knowingly. “She does.” She crouched beside Ethan. “Would you like to take Adeline home?”

He stared at her, stunned. “I don’t know. I’m not really—I mean, I already have several—”

“She’s talking about those modern fashion dolls girls like nowadays,” Penelope told her friend. “You know, Barbies and the like. The child doesn’t know a proper doll to save her life.”

The shopkeeper chuckled. “A girl like Emily should have a proper doll,” she said warmly, brushing imaginary dust from Ethan’s collar. She stood up and looked at Penelope and winked. “I’ve been waiting for the right little girl to adopt Adeline. Your pretty niece just might be the one, don’t you think?”

Penelope grinned. “Oh, absolutely. Adeline could not be in safer hands.”

Ethan bristled. “But Auntie… what about?—”

“Tut-tut,” the old woman smirked. “Grown ups are talking, darling.”

He looked at his aunt. He hated when she raised her eyebrow like that.

“Yes, Auntie,” he whispered.

The two women whispered to one another and a deal was struck. Ethan overheard a dollar amount, but he had to be mistaken: No doll is worth that much money, he thought.

“Then it’s settled,” Agatha said. “Adeline is yours, dear. On one condition.”

Ethan’s eyes widened.

“You must promise to treat her with care. Brush her hair. Keep her dressed nicely. Speak kindly to her, especially when no one else is around. Dolls have feelings too, you know.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” He dipped slightly at the knees, wincing as he realized that he’d done so without thinking.

The two women exchanged smirks. “Good girl,” Penelope cooed approvingly. “You get to know Adeline while I finish up with Miss Agatha, all right. That’s my girl.”

Ethan held Adeline carefully in his lap all the way home, watching the afternoon light flicker across her glassy eyes and wondering—half in dread, half in something else he couldn’t name—how he ended up with yet another doll. He already had so many, the one Penelope bought him in Capital City, his mother’s old fashion dolls… and now an old-fashioned baby doll? It wasn’t as though he hated dolls—he actually thought they were kind of interesting, if he was honest about it—but sometimes he felt like he was falling further and further into the role of being Emily… and he worried that one day he might find himself trapped… with no way out.

And if that ever happened… what would come next?

 

* * *
 

By the time they returned to the house, the sun had dipped low behind the trees, casting long golden shadows across the lawn. Ethan stepped gingerly out of the Cadillac, Adeline still nestled carefully in his arms, wrapped in tissue and reverence. From the trunk Penelope retrieved a small pink and gold painted cradle—containing a silver brush, a tiny satin hair bonnet, and two spare doll outfits.

“Well,” she said with mock solemnity, “Miss Adeline is officially under your guardianship now, young lady. I expect nothing less than devoted service.”

Ethan swallowed hard. “Yes, Auntie Penelope.”

Penelope kissed him lightly on the crown of his wig. “Good girl.”

 

* * *
 

Inside, the house was quiet. Colleen was in the kitchen, apron tied smartly over her blouse, hands busy arranging dinner in the oven. She turned as they entered and paused, eyes flicking from the cradle Penelope carried to the doll in Ethan’s arms.

“Oh my…” she murmured, taking in the whole tableau. “That’s Adeline, isn’t it?”

“You know her?” Ethan asked, surprised.

“Oh, everyone who’s been to Agatha’s knows Adeline,” Colleen replied, wiping her hands and stepping closer. “She’s been there for as long as I can remember. But she never left the shop… until now.”

Ethan flushed. “Auntie said I could have her. Miss Agatha almost insisted.”

“I’m not surprised,” Colleen said softly. She reached out and touched the little doll’s velvet sleeve. “She looks happy. Doesn’t she, Penelope?”

“Oh yes,” Penelope said sweetly. “And I dare say our Emily will be an excellent little doll mother, once she gets used to it.”

Ethan shifted on his feet. “She’s not, um… like a toy, is she?”

Colleen’s smile deepened. “Oh no, darling. Not a toy. A keepsake. A responsibility. Just like you are for me.”

He looked down at the doll again. Her face was porcelain perfection—painted lips, delicately arched brows, and eyes that never quite blinked. In the right light, they shimmered.

Colleen rested a hand on Ethan’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Come now, little miss. Let’s get Adeline settled in her new home.”

 

* * *
 

Upstairs, in Emily’s room, Colleen had cleared a space just the right size on the dresser for Adeline’s cradle.

“Here we are,” Colleen said, gesturing to the shelf. “Why don’t you place her down, gently now.”

Ethan obeyed, handling Adeline as if she were made of glass and laying her in the cradle. The pink velvet of her dress shimmered faintly against the soft floral quilt beneath her. Her tiny bonnet, now tied over her curls, made her look like a child from another century.

He looked over at the vintage Barbies his mother had given him, and the “I Love Lucy” doll he’d gotten at Capital City. Part of him winced to think what his friends would say if they knew he had a collection of such childish, foolish things—another part of him felt a bit of excitement in knowing that he could cross between two worlds, being a girl and being a boy.

“She looks… kind of regal,” he said.

“She is,” Penelope said from the doorway. “She’s a little lady, like you. And little ladies require care. You’ll brush her hair every night, hmm? And no tossing her about. I don’t want to find her under your bed or—heaven forbid—with one of your old action figures.”

“I don’t have those anymore,” Ethan muttered.

Colleen chuckled. “No, I suppose not. Those were boxed up a while ago.”

There was a pause—quiet, full of lace and glances.

Colleen stepped closer, smoothing a wrinkle from Ethan’s dress. “Every girl remembers a favorite doll,” she said softly. “It’s… a sort of rite of passage.”

Ethan looked up at her. “But I’m not really—”

She touched a finger to his lips. “Hush, sweetheart. Adeline doesn’t care. And neither do we.”

Penelope’s voice chimed in behind them. “She’s part of the family now. Just like you, Emily.”

Ethan felt something shift in his chest then. Something small but unmistakable. A strange flutter of pride and terror all at once. He glanced at Adeline. Her eyes seemed to gleam.

“Come downstairs when you’re ready,” Colleen said, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. “And do fix your ribbon before dinner. You got it crooked somehow.”

She and Penelope left the room, closing the door with the softest of clicks.

Ethan stood alone for a moment, fingers twitching near his skirt hem. Then he turned to Adeline and whispered, “I guess… I’m your mother now?”

Adeline didn’t answer, of course. But he could feel her approval.

He sighed, bent to straighten his ribbon in the vanity mirror… and smiled, just a little, at his reflection.

 

* * *
 

The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of lace curtains and the rhythmic brushing of Adeline’s hair. Ethan sat cross-legged on the rug in his—no, Emily’s—room, dressed in his “after-dinner frock,” as Penelope called it. Soft rose-colored cotton with tiny white tulips. A sash that tied in a bow so large it made sitting back in a chair nearly impossible.

This isn’t too bad, he thought as he studied the little brush he’d been running through Adeline’s locks. He shifted his shoulder, adjusting an errant bra strap. At least Dani isn’t around to tease me.

Penelope sat in the rocking chair by the window, her knitting needles still in her lap, untouched for the last ten minutes.

“I was seven,” she began abruptly, startling Ethan from his careful parting of Adeline’s ringlets. “And I remember it because my grandmother had just given me a hideous plaid jumper for Christmas. I detested it. Red and green. It made me look like a boiled ham at a church picnic.”

Ethan blinked. “You… wore plaid?” saying it like it was a bad word.

“I endured plaid,” she corrected tartly. “And only because Grandmother insisted on photographs. Which, mercifully, were lost in the fire. But never mind that. The point is, that year… I didn’t get a doll.”

She paused. Let the silence hang just long enough to pull Ethan’s curiosity forward.

“My younger sister, Mary Alice, did. A proper bisque doll, imported from Germany. Blonde curls, blue eyes, a trunk of dresses that would put your little Emily wardrobe to shame.”

Ethan glanced down at Adeline, suddenly and oddly protective.

“I wasn’t jealous,” Penelope went on, adjusting a fold in her skirt. “At least not at first. I thought, ‘Why should I want a silly doll? I’m not some simpering baby.’ I said as much, too—loudly, and with a toss of my head, I’m sure. Grandmother said I was ‘showing off.’”

Ethan nodded. That sounded like something Penelope would have done.

“Shortly afterward, Mary Alice got sick and died,” she said softly. “Diphtheria. While everyone grieved, I crept upstairs and found the doll box. Took it out. Unwrapped her. I can still remember the smell—like lavender and sawdust. I sat with her for almost an hour, brushing her hair, trying on the different dresses. Pretending her name was Mary Alice.”

She sighed. “I suppose that was my way of grieving.”

Ethan said nothing. Adeline stared up at him from his lap.

“Of course,” Penelope continued, “I was caught.”

“What happened?” he asked, truly intrigued.

“Oh, nothing terrible,” she said breezily. “Just shame. My aunts all shook their collective heads, and Grandmother said I was ‘too old for that sort of play.’ I was seven, mind you. Seven and already being told to grow up and ‘be proper.’"

She sniffed. "I suppose I’ve been overcorrecting ever since.”

There was a pause. Ethan looked up. “Do you… wish you hadn’t been caught?”

Penelope didn’t answer right away. Her eyes went to the doll in his lap, to the careful way his fingers smoothed the velvet trim of Adeline’s sleeve.

“I think,” she said at last, “I wish someone had told me it was fine to be gentle. And to grieve in my own way. That I didn’t have to pretend I didn’t want tenderness. That softness isn’t weakness.”

She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice.

“And I think you, my dear, are the sort of child who might need to hear that, too.”

Ethan looked down quickly, cheeks hot. “I’m not—I mean, I didn’t say—”

“I know,” Penelope interrupted. “You didn’t say. And neither did I.”

She reached over and tapped Adeline’s little shoe with her fingertip.

“But that doll—my little Mary Alice—sat in the attic for years. Then there was the fire. As far as I know, she was never touched again.” She paused, her eyes glistening. “I think Adeline will be luckier than that. Don’t you?”

Ethan nodded, barely.

“Good,” Penelope said briskly, rising from the chair. “Now come downstairs. Your mother made peach cobbler, and if we’re not quick, she’ll eat the corner piece.”

She turned with a swish of her skirt and walked out. Ethan sat still a moment longer, his hands gently cupping Adeline’s body, as if protecting her from some unseen breeze.

Then he whispered, “I guess I’ll have to do better,” and followed after.

 

Next up: Babysitting in Bows

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 Nineteen: Babysitting in Bows

Ethan’s resume gets an update.
 

Ethan stared at the yellow sundress as if it might lunge at him.

“This is so not fair,” he muttered.

His mother hummed a cheerful tune as she slid the dress from its hanger. “It’s perfectly fair. You’ve been getting paid quite well for your recent… let’s call them ‘appearances.’ This one’s a charitable gesture.”

“I don’t even like kids.”

“That’s not what you’ll say by the end of the night.”

Ethan groaned. “Why Emily? Why can’t I just go as me?”

“Because,” his mother said sweetly, “Little Niecy is terrified of older boys. Her father hasn’t been around in a while, and there’s been trouble, in their family, in their neighborhood. She associates boys with yelling and fighting, terrible things. Mrs. Jackson was looking for a girl, but not many like babysitting. Not like they used to. Fortunately—” she gave him a very meaningful look— “I happen to have one I can lend out.”

“I feel like I’m being trafficked.”

“Oh, hush,” she said, handing him his purse. “It’s charity, darling. Sometimes you have to give.”

“Charity in lip gloss,” he muttered.

 

* * *
 

The transformation took almost an hour. Clad in panties and a simple training bra, Ethan sat dutifully in front of the mirror as his mother worked her magic. She brushed out the golden wig, smoothing the curls and pinning a pale yellow bow just above the right ear. The result was astonishing. A soft, sunlit innocence framed his delicate face, and for a moment—even in his own eyes—he looked like a shy elementary school girl ready for her first recital.

The sundress was sleeveless with thin ruffled straps and a high waist so popular on little girl frocks. The fabric was light cotton, covered in a pattern of daisies and tiny honeybees. Colleen helped him step into it, zipping up the back and adjusting the smocking to fit properly over his slim torso. He couldn’t help but flinch slightly as the hem settled around mid-thigh. It was short. Too short.

“Yellow suits you,” Colleen murmured, crouching to adjust the hemline and brushing imaginary dust from his knees. “It makes your skin look creamier. Radiant, even.”

“Mom, please—” Ethan bristled. He hated that word with a passion.

“Can’t forget your footwear, can we?” Colleen held up a pair of sandals. “They’re just what this outfit needs.”

The cross-dressed boy pursed his lips. The sandals were white and strappy with a tiny faux pearl buckle at each ankle. “Mother,” he said reluctantly, watching as she knelt to fasten them, “you know I don’t like how these show my toes.”

“That’s why you needed to paint your nails,” she said sweetly. “Besides, what proper young lady wears sneakers with a sundress?”

He caught sight of himself in the mirror again. The bow, the wig, the delicate shoes, the fluttering hem. A boy in a girl’s body. Or perhaps… a girl with secrets. He looked away, conflicted. There was a whisper of pride in the way the outfit came together, how smooth his legs looked, how he couldn’t spot a single boyish feature in his reflection.

But there was shame too. A warm, creeping heat that tickled his ears and turned his stomach. The kind of shame that would have sapped the strength of any other boy. And yet…

“Do I look—okay?” he asked as he quietly applied a touch of lip gloss. He stared into his compact mirror and pursed his lips—the taste of strawberries added to his bewilderment. “I feel like I’m supposed to be eight years old.” He flicked a pink-tipped finger at one of the honeybees that decorated his dress.

Colleen straightened and put her hands on his shoulders. “You look adorable, sweetheart. Just remember, polite voice. Don’t get carried away and use that high pitched thing again, please. It sounds like you’re trying too hard. Just think soft and lilting. Let the words float out, don’t push them like you do when you’re annoyed.”

Ethan sighed again. “Yes, Mother.”

“Say that again.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Say it like Emily would. Remember what I told you—ladylike.”

“…Yes, Mother,” he repeated, softening his voice to something featherlight, giving it a dainty, polite edge.

She beamed. “That’s better,” she cooed, pulling out her phone. “Let me get a picture!”

“Mother!”

 

* * *
 

The Jacksons lived in a narrow two-story duplex with a patchy lawn and a plastic tricycle tipped on its side near the porch. Ethan—now “Emily”—clutched a small purse with his emergency wig brush, lip gloss, notebook and a few essentials. His mother gave him a peck on the lips, straightened his bow, and rang the bell.

“You taste yummy,” she murmured just as the door opened.

“Mother—”

Thelma Jackson answered wearing a tired but warm smile. She was a tall, slender woman with an ebony complexion and a frizzy ponytail and eyes that looked like they’d seen too many sleepless nights. “You must be Emily. Thank you so much for helping.”

Ethan curtsied. Automatically. “Yes, ma’am. I’m happy to help.”

The woman blinked, then chuckled softly. “Well, my stars. Aren’t you just the most proper little thing?”

She leaned in conspiratorially toward Colleen. “She’s too pretty for babysitting. You sure this sweet little thing… is a boy?”

Colleen only smiled. “She’s exactly what Niecy needs.”

Inside, the six-year-old was clinging shyly to a worn bald baby doll and watching cartoons. When she saw Emily—wig bouncing slightly, dress twirling—she gasped. “Wow! You look like the princess in my storybook!”

Ethan melted just a little. “Hi there. I’m Emily. I’ll be watching you today. We’re going to have so much fun.”

Niecy’s smile gleamed in contrast to her dark skin, emphasizing her delight. “Oooo, I like your dress,” she said, touching the hem of his sundress. “Look Mommy! Emily’s dress has honeybees! Yellow’s my favorite color!”

Ethan smiled. “Me too… I think.”

His mother gave him a light swat on his butt. He winced as he realized his voice hit that high, singsong pitch, almost cartoonishly bubbly. Too much. He tried again, softer. “Do you want to show me your toys?”

“Yes please!” the little girl squealed.

Colleen offered Mrs. Jackson a ride to work and the two women headed for the car.

“Have fun, Emily,” his mother sang a little bit too sweetly. “Call if you need help.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Ethan followed Niecy into her bedroom. There he saw a small collection of dolls that were worn at the joints and barely had enough clothes between them. Ethan found his heart aching a little. The little girl had so little, and yet she was so proud, so eager to show him everything—her dollies, her tea set, her plastic wand with one missing star.

The next hour passed in a whirlwind of tea parties, glitter stickers, and the world’s most off-key rendition of Let It Go. Niecy was delightful and chaotic—she asked a million questions a minute and barely waited for the answers.

But it wasn’t until she proudly showed off her dolls that Ethan softened fully.

“This one’s name is Tina,” she said, holding up the brown plastic baby with the bald head. “And this is Lily. But I don’t have many clothes for them. Mommy said we can’t afford new ones yet.”

Ethan looked down at the sad smattering of yard sale doll clothes, all ripped velcro and faded sleeves. He felt a pang of guilt. Here he was, sulking about in his sundress and wig while Niecy only had a few ratty doll outfits and didn’t complain at all.

“Hold on,” he said. “I have an idea.”

He called his mother.

“Can you bring my sewing kit?” he asked. “And that box of fabric scraps from our old projects? And that yarn from Aunt DeeDee’s project that she’s never going to finish? I want to make something for Niecy.”

There was a pause.

“Yes, Mother… my Little Miss sewing kit, please.” He sighed. “Thank you, Mother.”

Colleen arrived ten minutes later, handing over the pink plastic box filled with needles, thread, thimbles and scissors. She also had a box with a ball of yarn and a rainbow of discarded cloth. She peeked inside Niecy’s room, where the little girl was setting up a tea party. She saw the dolls and raised her eyebrows at her son.

“Please, Mother,” Ethan said delicately, “don’t tease me.”

She smiled but said nothing. “Emily” was in full bloom.

 

* * *
 

Niecy was spellbound. Ethan showed her how to measure doll bodies, sketch outfit ideas, and pin little paper templates. She picked out the colors, he did the cutting, and soon he was stitching together a surprisingly cute little jumper made from a floral scrap of leftover apron fabric and some lace. He even made hair for Tina using black yarn and contact cement.

“Can you make her a party dress too?” Niecy asked.

“Of course,” he said. “We’re going to make a whole collection.”

Colleen wanted to stay and watch, but instead of smirking or gloating, she blew him a kiss and quietly left the two to their fun.

 

* * *
 

“You made Lily look like a movie star!” Niecy gasped. She held up a fashion doll that until a moment ago had spent most of its life naked. “I never had a sparkly dress for her!”

Ethan smiled, flushed with pride. “Every doll needs a special occasion outfit,” he said, slipping back into the gentle singsong voice that had come more naturally as the day wore on. “And she definitely deserves one.”

He was perched delicately on a folded throw blanket—legs neatly tucked to the side, just like his mother had taught him—his little yellow honeybee and daisy sundress pooling lightly around his thighs. The back bow of his apron was tied just so, and his blonde wig still sat perfectly in place, the hairbow fluttering slightly whenever he turned his head.

“How do you know how to make dresses for my dollies?” Niecy was lying on her stomach, chin resting on her fist. “Did your mommy teach you or did you go to dolly dressmaking school or something like that?”

Ethan snorted. “Well, my mother makes dresses for a living and I help her. I practice on my—um, my dolls for fun. I never really thought about it, so I guess that’s how learned.”

“You make people dresses?” Niecy looked at him as if he said he’d hung the moon. “And you have dollies, too? What kind? Do they have names? Aren’t you too old for dollies? Do you play with them or just look at them? How many do you have? Do any of them look like you?”

While the two “girls” chatted about dolls and dresses “Emily” decided to fix lunch—Mrs. Jackson left a note with instructions for pot pies, but when he saw there were only two in the freezer and not much else, he called his mother. Twenty minutes later Colleen showed up with a basket containing chicken salad, tomatoes, lemon crinkle cookies and bottles of iced tea wrapped in dish towels.

“Oh wow!” Niecy was so excited as Ethan began laying out their meal. “Can we have a picnic in my room? Please, Emily, pleeease?” She drew the word out like a song lyric.

“I suppose.” Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “You have to help me clean up, though. I don’t want your mother mad at me.”

The little girl jumped up and down, hands clapping. “I will! She won’t! I promise!”

Colleen smirked as she headed for the door. “Have fun, girls,” she cooed. “And Niecy, you make sure Emily here behaves, okay? And Emily, I don’t want any bad reports from Niecy on you, young lady!”

Niecy giggled. “I will, Mrs. Emily’s Mom!” She grinned at Ethan. “Your mommy is so funny!”

Ethan huffed. “You can say that again.”

A blanket was found and a picnic spread prepared in Niecy’s bedroom. The two “girls” had just finished up their cookies and were cleaning up when Niecy tugged on Ethan’s skirt.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, gazing up at him with big, honest eyes. Ethan noticed with surprise how they glowed bright green.

How odd… I didn't know black folk—

“So, are you a regular girl, or a magical girl?”

Ethan’s heart skipped. “Why, um, do you think I-… I’m not a girl?”

“Mmm, I dunno.” Niecy shrugged. “I mean, you’re a girl, for sure. But you seem more like a magical girl than a regular girl. Like in cartoons. They change clothes and become someone new. Then they do magic, like this.” She giggled and shook Tina so her braids wiggled wildly about.

The question made something ache and twist deep in Ethan’s chest.

“I guess I’m a little bit of both,” he said quietly. “Emily is kind of… special.”

Niecy seemed to accept that. “Well, you’re the prettiest babysitter ever. And my favorite. Even if you’re only a little bit magic.”

 

* * *
 

By the time Mrs. Jackson returned, the coffee table had become a catwalk. The dolls—Tina and Lily—were now clad in dazzling new outfits. More were laid out neatly, awaiting their debut. Niecy clapped gleefully while Ethan, still in his yellow sundress and now with sewing threads stuck to his sandals, walked the dolls along the table like runway models.

Mrs. Jackson stood in the doorway, stunned.

“Did you make those?”

Ethan stood up sheepishly. “Uh… yes, ma’am.”

“They look store bought.”

Niecy ran to her mother. “Emily made them all! She even fixed Tina’s hair, Mommy! See?”

The amazed woman nodded. “I see, baby. She’s… beautiful.”

“And look at she fixed my magic wand!” The little girl waved it about, showing off the star Ethan had fashioned out of a piece of crinoline, some ribbon, glitter and glue. “Now I can do real magic!” she squealed happily.

Mrs. Jackson smiled. “I can see that,” she said softly.

“Emily’s my bestest friend,” screamed Niecy. She jumped into Ethan’s arms and hugged him with all her might. “My bestest friend and the bestest babysitter ever!”

Mrs. Jackson reached into her purse and pulled out a few dollars. “I don’t have much to offer, but—”

He shook his head quickly. “No, please—it’s okay, Mrs. Jackson. Really. I like making things and Niecy’s a lot of fun.”

The grateful woman examined the dolls and their clothes. She was fascinated by what Ethan had done with Tina’s hair.

“This little thing means so much to Niecy. Never in a million years…” She had tears in her eyes. “Your mother’s so right about you, sweetness. You make a better girl than most… other girls.”

Ethan blinked. “Thanks… I think?”

“Emily’s a magical girl!” Niecy threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “You’re coming back again, aren’t you, Emily? You have to come back again! You have to!”

Ethan laughed, cheeks red. “I’ll try.”

 

* * *
 

On the porch, as he waited for his mother to pick him up, Ethan sat quietly, watching the shadows stretch across the street. Purse in his lap, his Little Miss sewing kit beside him, along with his box of scrap yarn and cloth. His feet, still in white-strapped sandals, brushed the concrete step rhythmically. The sundress was wrinkled from the day, the bow on the back slightly lopsided, but he hadn’t fixed anything. He didn’t want to. Not yet.

Colleen’s car pulled up with a soft crunch of gravel, and Ethan gathered his belongings and minced down the walk, the hem of his dress fluttering about like a buttercup caught in the breeze.

In the car, Colleen said nothing for a while. Ethan rested his head against the seat, watching the passing streetlights.

Finally, she asked, “Ice cream?”

“Yes please.”

They sat in the car, licking their cones in silence. His sandals were dusty, and a little glue from a rushed hem job still stuck to his fingers.

“You put up quite a fuss about going,” Colleen said.

“I know.”

“You declared it cruel and unusual punishment. I was waiting for you to threaten to run off to Australia like you always do.”

“I remember, Mom.”

She bumped his shoulder with hers. “But look at you now. You made a little girl’s night magical. And her mother’s too.”

Ethan was quiet.

“Mrs. Jackson told me what you did with that one doll… she was thrilled.” Colleen looked at him fondly. “I’m so proud of you.”

There was a long silence as they finished up their cones.

“Do you think I’m weird?” Ethan suddenly asked.

His mother stopped mid-bite. “What?”

“I mean… I don’t hate this. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes—please don’t tell Dani—I kind of like it. Like tonight… with Niecy. It was actually fun.”

Colleen smiled. “I won’t say a word to your cousin.”

She then looked out over the park, the dusk casting gold against her face. “And don’t worry so much, my love. You’re so young, you’re still figuring things out. It will feel weird, yes, but it’s not at all weird. It’s just growing up.”

He didn’t reply. He only licked his cone and watched the night sky.

Is Niecy right? Am I magical girl?

“This is getting really confusing.”

She nodded. “Tell me about it. Some days I wonder who I like better—my fussy little boy or my beautiful daughter.”

“Very funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.” She took his pink-tipped fingers in her hand and kissed them. “You’re both. And you’re mine.”

They sat quietly a while longer, watching the stars and fireflies blink across the darkening sky.

 
Next, Auntie Vivian, Part Deux

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 Twenty: Auntie Vivian, Part Deux

Auntie Vivian is back… and becomes enlightened.
 

Ethan was trying not to fidget, but the silky waistband of his bloomers felt tighter than usual beneath the starched bodice of his dress. His legs, bare beneath the ruffled hem, felt cold against the kitchen chair, and the bow tied behind his back tugged every time he leaned even slightly forward. Colleen had made him wear his new Sunday best—an apple-green dress with puffed sleeves and a Peter Pan collar trimmed in lace. He wore it with a full petticoat and white anklet socks edged in pink and his glossy black Mary Janes, polished to a shine so bright he could see his reflection in them if he looked down and bent his neck just so.

His hair had been pinned under a sandy-blonde wig styled with side-swept bangs and a matching grosgrain bow. Emily was expected today, not Ethan.

Colleen bustled around the kitchen, humming. She was dressed in her fancier slacks and a nice blouse, and her eyes sparkled with a particular anticipation. “Now, sweetheart, remember—Auntie Vivian is… different. She’s very put together. No nonsense. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t care.”

Ethan fidgeted with the hem of his dress. “Then why doesn’t she visit more often?”

Colleen sighed, flicking off the kettle. “Because sometimes sisters argue, honey. But that doesn’t mean they don’t love each other. She just... hasn’t had much reason to come around since the divorce. But I think after her last visit—” she looked at her son and softened— “I think she’s curious about you.”

“You mean about me being Emily.”

Colleen nodded. “Exactly. And you’re going to be on your best behavior, aren’t you?”

Ethan sighed. “Yes, Mother.”

She gave his shoulder a little squeeze. “That’s my girl.”

The sound of heels clicking on the front porch made them both freeze. Colleen smoothed her blouse and gave Ethan’s bow a quick tug. “Posture, sweetheart.”

The doorbell rang.

Ethan sat up straight, feeling ridiculously childish with his lace-gloved hands folded in his lap. His heart thudded with a mixture of dread and curiosity.

Colleen opened the door with a beaming smile. “Vivian! Welcome back!”

Ethan could hear the cool voice before he saw her. “Hello, Colleen.”

She stepped inside, a tall, elegant woman in a sharply tailored navy suit, the skirt stopping modestly at the knee. Her black heels clicked authoritatively on the hardwood floor, and her long auburn hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense twist. She carried herself like someone used to courtrooms and deadlines, not tea in the countryside.

And then she saw Ethan.

Her eyes widened slightly, scanning him from patent shoes to the bow perched jauntily atop the blonde wig. Ethan blushed furiously, crossing his ankles and trying to fold into himself.

Colleen stepped aside proudly. “Vivian, this is Emily. Emily, darling, come say hello to your Auntie Vivian.”

He rose, curtsied as instructed, and whispered, “Hello, Auntie Vivian.”

Vivian tilted her head. Her lips curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “My, my,” she said. “Aren’t you the perfect little lady. Not at all like that boy that I saw during my last visit.”

Ethan blinked up at her. “Thank you, Auntie Vivian.”

“Good girl,” Colleen whispered from behind him.

Vivian glanced at her sister, eyebrows raised. “Well,” she said dryly. “This is more than I expected. The wig is new?”

Colleen shrugged. “We got it for modeling our products. Actually, Penelope gave her several, each as pretty as the others. You’d see her wearing them online if you bothered to look.” Colleen cleared her throat. “But they come in handy plenty of other times, too.”

Vivian nodded. “Hmmm,” was all she said.

Colleen led them to the living room where tea had been prepared with delicate cups, lemon slices, and tiny cookies. Vivian sat stiffly, smoothing her skirt. Ethan sat next to his mother, prim and proper, knees pressed together like Colleen had coached him, smoothing his dress across his lap.

Vivian kept sneaking glances at him. She stirred her tea without drinking it.

“I see you’ve gone... all in,” she finally said to Colleen. “This is different than... before.”

Colleen smiled brightly. “You know me. If I do something, I commit.”

Vivian’s gaze returned to Ethan. “He really looks the part.”

“You saw for yourself how he’s helped me with modeling, sewing, housework... and even more than before,” Colleen said, pride unmistakable. “You should’ve seen him as Emily at the craft fair. Everybody loved her. We sold more than ever before. Eleanor just loves her, too, and put her in her catalog. I’ve got orders than I know what to do with.”

“Eleanor? Really.” Vivian sipped her tea this time, very slowly. “I’m surprised she likes… him.”

“She’s not met Emily in person, not yet. But that’s coming.” Vivian laughed. “We may have to raise our prices.”

Ethan sat silently, cheeks burning. He wanted to vanish behind the teapot.

Eventually, Vivian turned to him again. “And how do you like it... Emily?”

He hesitated. “It’s... um, it’s fine, Auntie Vivian.”

She arched a brow. “Just fine?”

Colleen gave him a look.

“Yes, Auntie Vivian.” Ethan straightened a little. “I mean... I really do like helping Mother. And Auntie Penelope. And... and Niecy.”

Vivian’s eyes narrowed in a way that reminded Ethan of a headmistress in an old movie. “Penelope I know, of course. Who is this… Niecy?”

“A little girl I babysit for,” he explained, then realized too late how ridiculous he must sound; he suddenly saw himself in a honey bee print dress, playing dolls with a six-year-old.

“I see.” Vivian’s voice was unreadable. “And are you always dressed like—” she waved her hand, gesturing toward his outfit— “this when you babysit?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Vivian set her cup down carefully. “And how do your friends feel about that?”

“Um, well…” Ethan looked at his mother. “They don’t—I don’t want them to know, soooo—”

“Oh Vivian, don’t be so mean to the boy.” Colleen laughed lightly. “What did you expect him to say? That’s he’s the most popular girl in school?”

“I wanted to hear what he has to say, that’s all. You can’t fault me for being curious.”

“I can fault you for bullying him.” Colleen took a deep breath. “You know how the world is. Not everyone understands little boys in dresses. But I can assure you, everyone who meets Emily adores her. She’s practically famous in certain circles. My closest friends love her. And my customers are among her biggest fans.”

Vivian crossed one leg over the other, slowly. “I see.”
 

* * *
 

Vivian’s presence dominated the house like expensive perfume—sharp, sophisticated, and impossible to ignore. While the adults talked about… things… the past, deceased relatives and long lost memories, Ethan, in his Emily persona for the evening, squirmed in his seat. The puffed sleeves made him feel childish, the matching satin bow in his wig was cinched just a bit too tightly, and the ankle socks itched, not terribly, but in a way that made him restless.

Suddenly, Colleen gave a light clearing of her throat.

Ethan froze, then looked up to see two pairs of eyes watching him.

Vivian’s lips curled. “Sit up straight, Emily. Better. Posture, dear. A girl with slumped shoulders always looks defeated.”

Ethan did as he was told, perching gingerly on the edge of the loveseat. His skirt flared slightly with the motion, and he hurried to tug it back down, only to realize the hem barely covered his thighs anyway.

“Sorry, Auntie Vivian,” he said, lilting his voice in his best Emily manner.

Colleen looked on in quiet amusement, sipping her tea. “Vivian has an eye for manners,” she said. “She was the only girl at Sacred Heart to get a written commendation from Sister Euphemia.”

Vivian gave a satisfied nod. “That woman ran a tight ship. Emily here could use a bit of that discipline.” She looked at Ethan. “Your mother did all right there. But Lord knows DeeDee never took to it.”

The two laughed as if they shared a secret. Ethan thought about some of the things DeeDee had said about Vivian and they began to make sense.

The conversation drifted back to Ethan—Vivian asking cool, pointed questions about his schooling, piano lessons, and more about his contributions to the household chores and Colleen’s sewing business. Ethan stumbled through polite answers, trying not to fidget in the unfamiliar tights and avoid shifting his hem too much—he resisted the urge to adjust his bra.

At one point, Colleen stood to get more tea, leaving the two of them alone. Vivian leaned in slightly.

“So, little man,” she said softly, “do you prefer being a niece or a nephew?”

Ethan blinked. “I—I don’t know, Auntie Vivian.”

“That’s not an answer.” She reached out, straightening the bow on his wig. “Look at me when you speak.”

Ethan bristled at being talked to like that, but he obeyed. He met his aunt’s stare with one of his own, even if it wasn’t quite as compelling.

“It’s… it’s different,” Ethan stammered. “I just do what Mother asks. It’s for her business. And it makes her happy.”

Vivian’s lips twitched. “Mmm. Yes. Clever little mother’s helper, aren’t you? Nothing at all like your father, thank goodness.”

Ethan froze at the mention of his father. That was a topic rarely discussed in the Martin household. He looked at his aunt, biting his lip, uncertain how to take her tone—was it mocking? Affectionate? Both?

“I don’t know much about that,” he said, barely whispering.

She raised an eyebrow. “I wonder what he would say if he could see you now? Do you think he would approve of you wearing a wig and a dress? Panties and a bra?” Her mouth twitched, one corner curling upward. “Acting like a girl?”

The cross-dressed boy’s face reddened. “I… he… probably… I don’t know, Auntie.”

Vivian nodded. “You don’t know? What do you know?”

He gritted his teeth. “He wasn’t very nice to Mother. I do remember that.”

“Hmmm.” Vivian stared into his eyes. “What else do you remember? How did he treat you?”

Ethan felt his nose twitch, like it did sometimes before he cried. “Okay, I guess. It’s kind of… it seems a long time ago, so I don’t remember much about him. He was always at work, never paid much attention to me. I do remember him yelling at Mother and how he hit—”

Just then the doorbell rang—it was Penelope, of course, arriving for her evening visit. She swept in with her usual perfume and pearls, her cane clicking against the floor, and brightened immediately at the sight of Emily.

“Oh, what a darling you are tonight! Just what this old lady needed.” She beamed. “And Vivian—how wonderful to see you again! I almost didn’t recognize you in anything that wasn’t all black.”

Vivian actually laughed—a quiet, surprised sound—and the two exchanged air-kisses.

Ethan slipped into the background, feeling like a decorative pillow: fussy, floral, and meant to be seen, not heard.

The rest of the evening blurred—Vivian continuing her quiet assessments of Emily, issuing the occasional command with a cool tone and arched brow. Ethan was made to fetch this and that from the kitchen, serve teas and snacks. He realized that she was watching him, judging his performance, so he did his best. He had to demonstrate the way he curtsied more than once and even how to balance a book on his head. He dropped the book once—Colleen smiled and Penelope hooted good-naturedly as he recovered and repeated the exercise successfully. But Vivian said nothing, merely watching with professional interest, nodding as if inspecting a product line.

“I must say,” she told Colleen at the end, “he’s not hopeless. He’s already better at being a little lady than DeeDee ever was. As good as you were at one point in time.”

“No argument here,” Colleen agreed with little laugh. She gave Ethan a proud grin. “But yes, he is the best thing in my life right now. He’s just soft around the edges.”

Vivian turned her gaze back to Ethan. “That’s not a flaw.”

The cross-dressed boy wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a warning. He would have to ask DeeDee about that when the time was right.
 

* * *
 

Vivian visited every day that week, usually in the afternoon. She mentioned something about an extended recess from her courtroom duties, and preparing to go to Ireland to visit an old relative. But for the next few days Colleen and Ethan—and Emily, it seemed—had her full attention.

Ethan didn’t know what surprised him more—how comfortable he was starting to feel around his Auntie Vivian, or how utterly not comfortable she made him feel when she corrected his posture, voice, or manners. It was strange. She still seemed cold to him, as if Ethan the boy didn’t exist; but to Emily, she was attentive—too attentive.

“Back straight, dear. Chin up,” she said from her perch in the living room wingback chair as the cross-dressed boy carried a silver tray holding teacups and sugar cookies. Ethan was dressed in a periwinkle day dress with capped puff sleeves and white lace trim at the collar. It had a subtle floral embroidery stitched along the hemline, which barely reached his knees. Underneath, he wore a white training bra, panties, and one of Colleen’s handmade petticoats edged in frills—his mother insisted, he endured. White lace ankle socks and patent blue Mary Janes completed the look.

He tried to focus on walking gracefully, feeling Vivian’s sharp eyes measuring every detail. She wore a tailored black suit today, paired with a silver blouse and towering heels. Her long auburn hair was hair pinned into a glossy bun, and even seated, she exuded elegance—and authority.

“Say ‘Would you care for another cookie, Auntie Vivian?’” she prompted as he offered the tray.

Ethan flushed. “Would you care for another cookie, Auntie Vivian?” he managed softly.

“Hmm. Almost. Try again, and remember to smile. You’re an elegant young lady, Emily, not a frightened housemaid.”

He tried again, smiling this time as he bowed his head slightly. “Would you care for another cookie, Auntie Vivian?”

“Lovely.” She took one delicately with her long fingers and smiled. “Much better. You do have a certain... charm about you, you know.”

Ethan blinked, unsure whether he was being complimented or mocked.

Every day, Vivian seemed more involved in shaping him into Emily. She gave feedback on his clothing, corrected his speech, and even brought a pair of pearl clip-on earrings she thought would suit him. “Accessories are a necessity,” she said crisply.

“That’s what Mother says all the time,” he squeaked shyly.

“Does she now?” Vivian almost smiled. “I wonder where she got that from…”
 

* * *
 

“She’s just like you,” Ethan muttered to his mother that night as she brushed out his wig at bedtime.

“Maybe a little bit,” Colleen said with a proud little grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

But Ethan wasn’t so sure.
 

* * *
 

That Sunday, after lunch, Colleen insisted Ethan do his daily piano practice while she and Vivian relaxed in the parlor with iced tea.

Dressed in a pastel yellow smocked dress with puff sleeves and a matching hairbow clipped into his blonde wig, Ethan settled onto the piano bench with a sigh. His white tights brushed against the polished wood as he positioned his fingers—his bra straps only mildly irritating him under the light cotton. The sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains, making the gold threads in his dress shimmer.

He began his scales—up and down, trying to keep time, keep focus, ignore the crinkle of his petticoats beneath him. Aunt Vivian had commented earlier how “adorably proper” he looked seated at the keys. That compliment alone caused him to almost smile.

“Play that new piece Mrs. Gilkey gave you,” Colleen suggested. “You know the one.”

Ethan looked nervous. “Are you sure, Mother? I don’t think I’m—”

Colleen smiled encouragingly. “Don’t worry, my love. Trust me.”

He nodded. “Yes, Mother.”

The cross-dressed boy took a deep breath, put his hands just so over the keys, and began playing. Vivian started to say something, but after the first four notes her voice quickly faded into silence.

“Is that?—”

She rose from her seat and stood in amazement at the boy in the wig and dress seated at the piano. She said nothing, her arms at her side, her expression unreadable. Ethan was oblivious, focusing instead on getting each note just right. The room was silent except for the sound of the piano and Ethan whispering softly, “One two three, one two three…”

Finally, he was done. He turned and looked at his mother, who beamed proudly. He then looked at his aunt, surprised to see her standing so close. She stared down at him, no words, her face unreadable. For a moment he thought the worst.

After a long pause, Vivian said in a tone unlike her usual one, “You play beautifully.”

Ethan turned his head, startled. “Oh... um, thank you, Auntie Vivian,” he remembered to say, though his cheeks flushed with the heat of the moment.

She turned to her sister. “You put him up to this, didn’t you?”

Colleen smiled. “Maybe. I know you have a thing for Satie.”

“His Gymnopédie is my favorite.” Vivian looked down at Ethan, her lips tightly compressed, as if she was keeping a secret.

“Do you—do you want me to stop… Auntie Vivian?” he asked nervously.

She shook her head slowly. “No, Emily. Please, play it again. For your mean old auntie.”

Ethan looked at his mother. Colleen raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He turned and did as he was told. It was a soft, lilting melody, almost hypnotic. He made a few mistakes, but his fingers found their place again. At the end he glanced up and saw something strange in Vivian’s eyes.

Moisture.

He looked back to the keys, uncertain.

Vivian turned and walked away, leaving him to wonder.
 

* * *
 

A while later, Colleen found her sister sitting alone on the front porch. A glass of brandy was in her hand.

“I see you found Penelope’s stash,” she said quietly, sitting beside her.

Vivian shrugged. “I needed a little something.”

“You cried.”

Vivian scoffed gently. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Colleen smiled knowingly.

“I just... I never had that,” Vivian said. “A child. A home. A little girl to play tea party with… to dress up… learn piano.”

“You have that now,” Colleen said gently. “Sort of.”

Vivian looked down. “It’s not quite the same.”

“No,” Colleen agreed. “But she’s real. And she loves you, even if she’s also a twelve-year-old boy named Ethan.”

Vivian looked toward the house, her eyes misty again. “He’s lucky to have you.”

“No,” Colleen said. “We’re lucky to have him. And her.”

Vivian nodded.

“Come on,” Colleen said with a nudge. “Let’s go ask our little lady to play for you one more time.”
 

* * *
 

Ethan, nervous as always around his Aunt Vivian, cleared his throat and said, “Now you will hear Johann Sebastian Bach’s Minuet in G.” He then did a little curtsy and sat rigid on the piano bench. His panties itched slightly beneath the white tights, but he didn’t complain. Vivian was watching.

His mother smiled encouragingly from the sofa. “Go ahead, sweetheart.”

He nodded, poised his hands, and began.

The piece was a gentle one, a soft lullaby of cascading notes and fragile timing. He stumbled more than once but kept going. As the melody floated into the still air, he risked a glance toward his aunt and noticed that she had leaned forward and was watching him carefully, hands clasped in front of her, her lips tight. He felt terrified, but somehow he was able to finish the piece without wetting himself.

When he finished, silence hung like gauze in the air.

Then: “That was quite nice,” Vivian said quietly. “Better than I expected.”

Ethan turned on the bench. “Thank you, Auntie Vivian,” he said.

She gave him a small smile. “Your curtsy was crooked earlier. Try again.”

He blinked, stood, and gave a slightly flustered curtsy.

Colleen bit her lip, repressing the urge to smile.

“Better,” Vivian said. “But next time, more knees, less ankles.”

“Yes, Auntie Vivian,” he murmured.

She got up and stepped close to him. She leaned down, adjusted a curl of his wig, and then, unexpectedly, kissed his forehead.

“Don’t get too used to praise,” she said crisply. “I still prefer Satie.”

“Yes, Auntie Vivian.”

But when she turned, her face was gentler than before.
 

* * *
 

That night, in Emily’s room, Ethan sat still on his bed as his mother brushed out his wig. He’d changed into his strawberry-pink nightgown and matching robe, looking for all intents and purposes like a preteen girl getting ready for bed. Vivian stood nearby, watching with soft, unreadable eyes.

“You know,” she said finally, “I used to imagine I’d have a daughter. I even picked out names.”

Ethan looked up from the mirror.

“Did you?” Colleen asked gently.

Vivian nodded. “Madeleine. Or Elise.”

“They’re beautiful names,” Colleen said, smiling.

“I suppose I can add Emily to the list now,” Vivian murmured, her voice tight with something unspoken.

Ethan’s breath caught.

Colleen paused her brushing and met her sister’s eyes. “That means a lot, Viv.”

“I still don’t completely understand all of this,” Vivian said, waving a hand vaguely at the wig, the dress hanging on the closet door, and at Ethan. “But… I suppose it is better than the alternative. You were right—he’s not like his father. And so, for what it’s worth, I approve.”

She stood, smoothed her blazer, and walked to the door. Just before leaving, she turned to the cross-dressed boy and added, “Thank you for playing so sweetly today—Ethan. It helped more than you know.”

Then she was gone.

Ethan sat in silence for a long moment, his cheeks flushed.

“She called me by my real name.” He felt his eyes water up. “Didn’t she?”

Colleen nodded. She leaned down and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “You brought her peace, darling.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said softly.

“I know,” Colleen whispered. “That’s what makes it so lovely.”
 

Next: Emily’s Audition

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 Twenty-One: Emily's Audition

Ethan gives his mother’s dressmaking business an expected boost.
 

It began, as many of Ethan’s recent misadventures did, with a perfectly reasonable-sounding request.

“Sweetheart,” Colleen said over breakfast, slicing a peach with practiced elegance, “I need to drop by Eleanor’s Boutique this afternoon. She’s one of the big buyers for the fall line, and she’s asked to see a few samples in person.”

Ethan glanced up from his cereal, already wary. “Do I have to come?”

Colleen’s smile was honeyed. “I need help carrying the garment bags. And it’s just across town.”

He sighed. “I guess.”

She sipped her coffee. “And… I’ve packed Emily’s things in case Miss Eleanor wants to see them modeled.”

His spoon paused midair.

“What?”

Colleen tilted her head. “It’s not a guarantee, darling. But she might want to see how the fabrics move on a live body, not just in the pictures we took. I thought I’d be prepared.”

“You mean me?”

“You’re the only model I’ve got this week, honey. And Eleanor’s seen your photos. She just hasn’t met you yet.”

He set his spoon down slowly. “Mom... I don’t think I want to—”

“I know,” she said softly, brushing a crumb from the table. “But you’ve already done so well. This isn’t about dressing you up, Ethan. It’s about closing a deal. For the business.”

There it was—that quiet guilt dagger, slipped in so expertly he didn’t even bleed until he stood in front of the full-length mirror later that day, trying not to worry.

 

* * *
 

They arrived a little after one. Eleanor’s Boutique was pristine and bright, all cream walls and brass fixtures, with a long marble counter and racks of clothing spaced like gallery installations. A sign in the window read: Fall Preview Week—By Appointment Only.

Ethan carried the bag inside, stiff and silent, in plain jeans and a white T-shirt. He was hoping—praying—they’d just drop it off and leave. But as soon as Eleanor saw them, she gave a warm, catlike smile and said:

“Oh good. You brought Emily.”

Ethan frowned. “My name is Ethan, not that… other one.”

Colleen laughed. “As you can see… she’s a little shy today.”

“I’m used to that,” Eleanor said. She was tall, sharp-eyed, with a streak of silver in her black hair and long red nails that tapped her clipboard like a metronome. “Dressing room’s free.”

Ethan’s throat tightened.

 

* * *
 

The dress was soft lavender—sleeveless, with a gathered waist just below the bodice and a low neckline trimmed in lace. Colleen helped him into it in the boutique’s back room, zipping it up slowly.

“I hate this,” he whispered, voice catching. He squirmed a bit, his panties and bra a distraction.

“I know,” she said gently. “But you look like a dream. And you’re doing something brave.”

He didn’t feel brave. He felt like a boy in a dress in someone else’s world. The wig was straight and shiny, Mary Janes strapped on tight, the air thick with perfume and soft jazz. But he let her guide him out, one trembling foot in front of the other.

Eleanor took one look and smiled.

“Well,” she said, folding her arms. “Now that’s the Emily I’ve seen in the lookbook. You’re even prettier in person.”

Ethan blushed furiously. “Thank you,” he muttered.

Colleen positioned him under the high skylight and primped his dress one final time before stepping back. He stood primly, his hands clasped in front of his lavender skirt, knees touching, ankles crossed, heart pounding. The room was perfumed with rose oil and velvet upholstery. The walls were mirrored. Everything was visible.

“Turn slowly. Show Miss Eleanor how the skirt moves.”

He did. Barely. Shoulders tight, eyes on the floor.

Eleanor circled him like a cat, occasionally lifting the hem or adjusting a seam. “She’s got poise,” she said finally. “Still a little green. But natural. No wonder your pieces photograph so well.”

Colleen nodded. “She does have a gift.”

“I can hear you,” Ethan huffed. “And I’m a he!”

“Sure you are, sweetheart,” Eleanor cooed from across the boutique, perched on a dainty blush-pink settee with her legs crossed like a queen. “Now, chin up! Let’s see how the hemline falls when you walk.”

Ethan swallowed. “Walk?”

Colleen raised her voice just enough to catch his attention. “Yes, Emily, walk. Pretend it’s a runway. This is very important, darling, so please pay attention to Miss Eleanor.”

Ethan glanced between them—his mother, arms folded, one eyebrow raised; Eleanor, all smiles and steepled fingers.

He took a step.

“Slower,” Eleanor called. “Gracefully. Imagine you're walking to meet someone very important.”

Colleen nodded. “And do not stomp. That’s a lady’s heel, not a basketball sneaker.”

Ethan obeyed, stepping slowly across the plush rug, the lavender fabric swaying lightly at his knees. The dress had a smocked bodice and pleated skirt—sweet, but grown-up. The matching headband itched behind his ears.

“Stop there,” Eleanor said. “Now a turn. No, not like a robot—flowing. Fluid.”

Ethan turned, trying to hide his scowl. He’d been in this outfit all of five minutes and already wanted to crawl under a table.

Colleen clucked her tongue. “Better. Now smile, darling. You can smile, can’t you?”

“I guess.”

“Then do it like you mean it.”

He gave a stiff little smile.

“Hmmm,” Colleen thought for a moment. “Ethan, what would you think if I gave you another raise? Say… ten dollars?”

“There we go!” Eleanor purred. “Now that’s the Emily I saw in those photos. Such a darling. Honestly, Colleen, how did you keep her hidden this long?”

Colleen smirked. “Trade secret.”

 

* * *
 

Back in the changing room, Ethan pulled at the zipper of the lavender dress.

“I don’t think I can do another one,” he muttered.

Colleen was already had the next garment on a padded hanger. “Of course you can. We’ve got at least three more to show her. And you’re only on dress number one.”

“But I—”

She turned sharply. “Ethan. Look at me.”

He did.

“You’re helping me close this deal. You’re being paid for this, even if I haven’t put it on paper yet. Believe me, you’re doing a lovely job. But I need you to commit. For me. For us.”

His cheeks flushed. “I just don’t like how she looks at me.”

“She looks at you like a buyer who sees dollar signs. That’s what we want. That’s the point. Remember, this isn’t about you—well, it is, of course—but it’s also about us. This is our livelihood, how we pay our bills… put food on the table...”

“She knows, Mom.”

Colleen’s tone softened just a notch. “Of course she knows. And she loves it. Do you understand how rare that is? A buyer who sees your work and says, ‘Yes, this—this pretty little paradox—is exactly what I want.’ That’s a gift, honey. Don’t waste it.”

He turned away, heart sinking.

She reached for a hanger. “Now. Try this one. It’s the floral drop-waist with the tulle lining.”

 

* * *
 

The moment Ethan stepped out, Eleanor gasped. “Oh my stars. That is darling. Spin for me, sugar.”

The dress was a crisp white with navy flowers, a sash that tied in the back, and a tulle petticoat that made the skirt bounce slightly with each movement. Colleen had added a straw hat with a navy ribbon.

Ethan turned slowly, cheeks aflame.

“Come on, darling,” Colleen encouraged. “You can do better.”

The cross-dressed boy bit his lip, imagined himself somewhere else… then did a little twirl…

“Perfection,” Colleen whispered. “That’s my girl.”

“Oh yes,” Eleanor said, rising now. “See, this is what I was hoping for. Youthful but not childish. And that blush—are you actually blushing, darling? That’s perfect. We can’t buy that.”

“Let’s try walking again,” Eleanor said. “Now with just a hint of a skip. Pretend you’re going to meet your favorite cousin at the park.”

Colleen chuckled. “That would be Dani.”

Ethan fought the urge to pout. Instead, he walked. Skipped. Smiled. Twirled without being asked.

Eleanor clapped. “Exquisite. And the way the skirt lifts just a bit when she skips—Colleen, I’m going to need three of these in those prints you showed me.” She shot Ethan a little wink. “My dear, you are going to make us a lot of money.”

Colleen beamed. “Say thank you, Emily.”

Ethan tilted his head just so, smiled coyly, knees together, feet pigeon-toed. He even forced himself to flutter his eyelashes. “Thank you, Miss Eleanor.”

 

* * *
 

This one was satin. Pale turquoise with pearl buttons and capped sleeves. It was demure, elegant—something a young lady might wear to church, or to tea with an older cousin who insisted on table manners and thank you notes.

“Shoulders back. And give her your eyes, not your scalp.” Colleen adjusted the bodice. “Now, arms up, hands down… yes, dangle them just like that.”

Eleanor stepped closer, examining the seams. “Now this… this is versatility. A shy, pretty girl with a secret. A little story in every position, every little movement.”

Ethan stood still as Eleanor circled. He felt foolish with his hands drooping in such a silly, girlish pose. But he did it—perfectly.

“You’re a dream,” she said softly. “And I can tell you’re embarrassed, which means I’m right. You do feel beautiful, don’t you?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Stared at the mirror. Nodded.

“I knew it! Darling boy, you know how this dress moves better than most girls your age,” Eleanor continued, her voice a velvet hum. “That’s something special, sweetheart. Something you shouldn’t hide. The world needs more beauty like this.”

Colleen watched her son’s reflection closely. “You’re doing wonderfully… Ethan.”

He nodded slowly. “Thanks,” he said, too softly.

 

* * *
 

They packed up a little while later. Eleanor had made her decisions. Colleen had made her sale. More than she’d hoped.

Ethan, now back in jeans and a T-shirt, sat in the passenger seat of the car, staring at his hands. Even after having taken his bra off he could still feel the straps digging into his skin.

Colleen looked over. “You were magnificent.”

He gave her a glance. “I feel like I just played dress-up for an hour.”

“You did.”

“And you enjoyed it.”

Ethan frowned, then nodded. “I did.”

He looked out the window. “So did she.”

“Well,” Colleen said, turning the ignition, “maybe that’s because watching someone find out who they really are—even when they’re resisting it—is something kind of… magical.”

He didn’t answer.

But when they got home, and he went into the sewing room to hang up the dresses, he didn’t just cram them on the rack. He adjusted the hangers. Smoothed the fabric. Even re-tied the sash on the blue satin one.

And then he stood there a long moment, looking at them—three dresses, three selves. One face in the mirror.

Behind him, at the door, Colleen stood watching.

And smiling.

 

* * *
 

After supper Ethan stood at the sink, elbows deep in lemon-scented bubbles, wearing one of what Colleen had affectionately labeled his “housewife outfits”—a soft mint shirtwaist dress with a flared skirt, tiny white buttons, and—of course—a white apron with eyelet trim and heart-shaped pockets. No wig, just his real hair, which had been brushed and clipped back with a pair of barrettes that matched his dress. Colleen insisted it made cleanup easier. He suspected it was just another trap, but he gave no argument.

Behind him, Colleen sat at the kitchen table, phone cradled between shoulder and cheek, sipping wine from a glass and leisurely flipping through Eleanor’s order forms.

“Oh yes, I think we’re in,” she purred into the receiver. “She wants a half dozen of the Matinée dress alone. Said it made her ache for the old days of debutantes and proper posture.”

She glanced toward the sink and smirked.

“No, no, he didn’t faint. He did freeze one time, though. Like a deer in lip gloss. But once we got him into that little navy floral number? Mmm. Graceful as a dream.”

Ethan said nothing, but his ears turned a shade darker.

Colleen swirled her drink lazily. “Of course I brought the Paris Picnic. And he showed it off perfectly. I swear, Eleanor looked ready to take him to lunch and sign him up for finishing school.”

A pause. Then laughter.

“Oh, she did! You should’ve seen his face when she said, ‘Smile for me, sweetheart. Chin up like you’re in Paris.’ He nearly swallowed his tongue.”

Ethan cleared his throat. Loudly.

Colleen ignored it, crossing her legs and continuing, “Yes, he walked. Spun. Twirled. Did a darling little skip, didn’t even fall. And she was just eating it up. Said she loved seeing a model who enjoys her work.”

Clink. Ethan dropped a glass into the soapy water with a little more force than necessary.

Colleen raised an eyebrow and took another sip. “Hmm? Oh, he’s at the sink now. Recovering. Wearing his mint dress with the full skirt. You know the one.”

Another pause, then a dry chuckle. “Yes, that one. Rubber gloves, apron, the whole bit. I’m letting him soak in the glow of productive femininity.”

Ethan muttered, “I can still hear you, you know.”

Colleen winked at him and kept talking. “Eleanor asked if she could take pictures next time. I told her we’d have to ask ‘Emily’... but I’m sure she’ll say yes if we dangle the right carrot.”

Ethan turned halfway around, suds trailing down his forearm. “I didn’t agree to pictures.”

Colleen covered the phone. “We’ll negotiate, sweetheart. Back to rinsing, please.”

He groaned and turned back to the sink.

Into the phone: “He’s pouting. It’s adorable. He does this thing with his shoulders when he sulks—I swear, he’s not even aware he does it. All dainty and dramatic. I could die.”

Pause. Listening. Then Colleen’s laugh—a warm, conspiratorial sound.

“Oh yes, I’ll tell him. Hang on.”

She leaned back and called to Ethan, sing-song: “DeeDee said to tell you how proud she is of her princess. She wants to come by after work tomorrow so you can put on a little fashion show for her.”

“Tell Aunt DeeDee I’m retiring,” he called back.

Colleen snorted. “You hear that? He’s retiring. That’s fine. DeeDee said we’ll throw you a going-away party with lace napkins and tea cakes.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m moving to Australia!”

Another pause. “You heard him? Oh, he’s always saying that. Wait, I’ll tell him.” Colleen laughed. “Dee says be sure to pack sunscreen. And watch out for wallabies.”

Ethan huffed. “Ha. Ha. Very funny.”

Colleen giggled. “Very funny he said. I tell you, Dee, you’re missing out…”

She wrapped up the call with a few more soft chuckles and one last toast to “our girl.” Then she set the phone down and joined Ethan at the counter.

He didn’t look at her.

She picked up a towel and began drying glasses.

“You were spectacular today,” she said softly.

“I felt like a mannequin.”

“You were more than that. You were charming. Poised. Almost… radiant.”

He winced. “Don’t say that.”

“Okay. Glowing?”

“Worse.”

She set down the towel and turned toward him. “Ethan.”

He paused.

“You didn’t hate it.”

He didn’t move.

“I think you hated that you didn’t hate it.”

He glanced sideways, his mouth twitching. “You’re pretty annoying.”

Colleen tapped him on the nose, then kissed him on the lips. “And you’re very, very pretty when you’re annoyed.”

 

Next: Model Behavior

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 Twenty-Two: Model Behavior

Colleen’s favorite model takes another step toward fame.
 

Colleen called it a “rehearsal shoot.” A trial run for the upcoming charity fashion show, “just to get the lighting right,” she said.

“We’re not doing the full show yet,” she explained as she threaded her needle. “But Eleanor wants to see how the fall line looks on a live model in natural light. A few shots. No pressure.”

“A live model.” Ethan blinked at her. “You mean me. Again.”

“Well of course you, sweetheart. Emily is the only model I trust to wear the more delicate pieces.”

“I thought Miss Eleanor was hiring girls for the show.” He fidgeted in his seat. “I mean, I’m not going to be in it, right? I don’t want anybody to know—”

“Don’t worry, my love. Eleanor understands—your secret is safe… you know, like Batman.” Colleen winked. “But she would like to see our collection. Those other girls, they’re amateurs. You, my darling, are a professional.”

He groaned, his face in his hands.

She gave him a crisp smile. “Oh, hush. You’ll be home by four, and I’ll make lemon cake.”

“Lemon cake with icing?”

“Three layers.”

He narrowed his eyes. “How about four?”

“Don’t push it.”

 

* * *
 

They arrived at the converted barn just before noon. The upstairs loft was flooded with warm light, the walls strung with gauzy curtains and racks of dresses lined up like debutantes. Ethan—wearing a simple yellow print sundress and Emily’s blonde wig, the one with the 1950s flip—had barely stepped inside when he heard the unmistakable click of heels on hardwood.

“Ohhh, there she is,” Eleanor sang from the staircase, wearing a tailored black sheath dress with rhinestone buttons and a brooch shaped like a parasol. “Our amazing Emily.”

Ethan froze. “Hi, Miss Eleanor.”

She descended like a queen descending into Versailles. “Sweetheart, I’ve been dreaming of this shoot all week. We’ve cleared the whole afternoon just for you.”

The two women exchanged air kisses. “We’re so grateful. Aren’t we, Emily?”

“Yes, Miss Eleanor,” the cross-dressed boy said in his breathy, Emily voice. “Thank you so much for today.”

Before he could curtsy, Eleanor suddenly leaned in and gave him air kisses. Startled, he followed his mother’s example and returned the gesture—the older woman’s warm cheek soft against his, her cologne piercing, thrilling, even. This unexpected encounter gave him a squirmy, dizzying feeling, like he’d just been taught a secret handshake. Tingling all over, he glanced at his mother, who smirked proudly.

“Oh darling, I’m the one who’s grateful. This is so exciting!” The shopkeeper winked at Ethan. “Marcel should be here any—”

“Voilà!” came a booming voice from behind the curtains. Marcel emerged, salt and pepper pony tail, cameras slung dramatically across his chest like weapons of war, wide-legged trousers and a stylish scarf. “I heard angels. Must be Emily!”

Ethan didn’t know what to say. He offered a tight smile.

Eleanor clapped her hands. “Perfect. Everyone’s here. Emily, dear, come with me—we’ll get you into wardrobe.”

The dressing room was sun-dappled and smelled faintly of lavender. Eleanor directed Ethan to a modesty screen and hung the first dress—a soft cream cotton creation of his mother’s design—over the top.

“Don’t be nervous,” Colleen said, adjusting a hair ribbon. “You’re just trying on a few outfits and posing naturally. No crowds, no fuss.”

“Just three grown-ups watching me pose in a bunch of dresses,” Ethan muttered.

“And one of those grown-ups is me,” Colleen said. “Which doesn’t count. And Miss Eleanor and Marcel are practically family.”

“Family with a camera.”

“Better than family with opinions,” she countered.

 

* * *
 

Ethan stepped out of the dressing room to a chorus of delighted gasps. The soft cream cotton tea dress suited his skin perfectly, causing him to glow under the natural lighting of the barn. Puffed sleeves and a low, square collar trimmed in lace enhanced his physical feature, and the matching hairbow pinned atop his wig was the perfect finishing touch. The pleated skirt floated gently around his knees, paired with white ankle socks and glossy Mary Janes.

Colleen had added a bit of makeup—some pink gloss and the slightest touch of mascara—to bring out Emily’s feminine features. But the focus was on the dress.

“Oh, look at you,” Eleanor breathed. “So sweet I may get a toothache.”

Colleen nodded. “He’s got the frame for it. The low neckline suits his collarbones.”

“A vision!” Marcel exclaimed, clicking his tongue. “The camera aches for moments like this. Now, chin up, darling. Pretend you’re in the churchyard, waiting to hand out hymnals.”

“Why would I be doing that?” Ethan asked, bewildered.

Eleanor perched herself on a velvet ottoman. “Because you’re helpful, dear. You’re the sort of girl who gets praised for her manners and is always asked to pour the lemonade.”

Colleen grinned. “Oddly, that happens more than you’d think.”

Ethan got into position, arms awkwardly posed.

“No, no,” Eleanor said gently. “Try this instead—” She made a face, eyes wide, mouth in an O shape. “Act as if you’ve just been surprised by a compliment.”

“I haven’t,” he muttered.

“Then pretend.”

Click. Flash.

“Marvelous! Now look up, darling,” Marcel coached. “Not like a deer—like you just saw that special boy walk into church.”

Ethan blinked. “What?”

“Yes! That hesitation—that’s perfect!”

Click. Flash.

“Turn a little. Now pretend you’re hiding a secret.”

“What kind of secret?”

“Um,” Colleen offered, “your secret identity, perhaps?”

Click. Flash.

“Now you’re nervous. He’s your first crush and you just handed him a hymnbook.”

Click-click.

Eleanor stood to the side, nodding. “Shoulders back. Smile, but soft—like you’re thinking about kissing him but haven’t decided yet.”

Ethan nearly fell off the rug—Colleen beamed.

“That’s the expression!” Marcel cried. “Perfection!”

Click-click-click.

Next came a peach sundress with a fitted waist, capped sleeves, and a wide-brimmed hat tied beneath his chin.

Ethan tugged at the ribbon. “Do I have to wear the hat?”

Eleanor appeared at his elbow. “Darling, the hat makes the outfit. Without it, you’re just a girl in a sundress. With it, you’re a guest of honor.”

He stood on a faux grass mat beneath hanging flower garlands Marcel had brought “for ambiance.”

Marcel waved him toward a flower-draped trellis. “Twirl for me, sweetie.”

Ethan twirled. The petticoat whispered around his knees.

“Oh yes,” Eleanor said softly. “Now pause… imagine your mother’s friends are all watching you, and you must not disappoint.”

Click. Click.

“Now you’re in Paris, on the Eiffel Tower. With your boyfriend.”

“Why would I be in Paris?—”

Colleen chuckled. “How about downtown Maplewood instead? On Main Street.”

“What?—”

“Here we go!” Marcel cried, crouching down and working the shutter as fast as he could, which was very fast, indeed. “Good job, Mother!”

Click-click-click. Click-click-click.

Colleen leaned toward Eleanor. “He’s getting better, isn’t he?”

Eleanor sipped from a crystal water glass. “He’s crossing the line from ‘doing a favor’ to ‘owning the role.’ He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Next came a full-skirted gown in teal green satin, with a scalloped neckline and pearl buttons trailing down the back. Ethan had to be helped into it—Colleen buttoned him up slowly, smoothing every seam with practiced reverence.

Marcel exhaled when he saw him.

“Oh, my darling. This is art. The dress, the girl, the everything!”

He posed on the staircase. On a velvet chaise. Against a sheer curtain that caught the afternoon light like spun sugar.

Colleen whispered to him between takes: “Pretend you’re someone else. Pretend you’ve always worn this.”

And for a few minutes… he did.

 

* * *
 

The final dress was pure theater—rose satin, with a sweatheart neckline and a fitted bodice, a pink sash, and a full-circle skirt. Colleen adjusted his shoulder straps of his bra and fluffed up the padded cups a bit, looking at him with glowing eyes. “This one’s a bit more grown-up. Just wear it with grace.”

Ethan nodded. “I… I’ll try.”

“You’re so brave, my love.” She leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me. To us.”

The cross-dressed boy stepped out carefully, the skirt rustling like a secret.

Marcel gasped. “My god. You are a painting.”

Eleanor stood up. “This one, we shoot everywhere. On the staircase, on the chaise, against the window. I want romance. I want restraint. I want… transformation.”

Ethan flushed. “You mean like a princess?”

Eleanor’s eyes gleamed. “I mean like a caterpillar. Right before he realizes he’s a butterfly.”

Click-click-click. Click-click-click. Click-click-click.

 

* * *
 

When it was over, Ethan sat in his robe, wig hair mussed, cheeks flushed.

Colleen handed him a bottle of lemonade with a straw. “You were spectacular.”

“I felt ridiculous.”

“And yet you looked glorious.”

“Mom, please—”

Marcel wandered over, cameras still around his neck. sat down beside him, exhausted and thrilled. “Those are going in the portfolio. She’s not a model, she’s a mood.”

Ethan stared at him. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Sweetheart,” the photographer said gently, “I’ve shot professional girls who couldn’t do half what you just did. Most are fakers. Not you. You’re not pretending. You’re becoming.”

Eleanor crouched before him, elegant and perfectly composed.

“You were magnificent,” she said gently. “You may think you didn’t enjoy it. But the camera never lies, my child.”

He stared down.

“I simply must show these to the charity board,” she said.

Ethan hesitated.

Colleen gave him a look.

He nodded.

“I guess so,” he said. “Only if I don’t have to smile.”

Eleanor rose. “Too late, darling. You already did.”

Ethan stared at his shoes. “I didn’t want to.”

“And yet you did it with grace,” Marcel said. “That’s power. That’s bravery.”

Colleen kissed the top of his head. “And when we get home, you get lemon cake. Four layers,” she said, winking.

He didn’t answer. But later, as he passed the mirror, he paused again.

And this time… he smiled.

 

* * *
 

It was quiet in the house. The kind of quiet that made clocks tick louder and floorboards seem guilty.

Colleen was upstairs, in the bath. Penelope had left after dinner with a smirk and a kiss on Ethan’s forehead. The air in the kitchen still smelled faintly of lemon cake and soap. And Ethan—still wearing one of his little housewife dresses and matching apron—was supposed to be drying the dishes.

Instead, he stood just outside the threshold of Colleen’s sewing room, fingers pressed to the frame of the open door, heart pattering like a skittish rabbit.

The table was covered in fabrics, pattern books, a half-cut dress pinned to a mannequin. But the real treasure—or danger—was spread across the worktable: glossy photo prints, laid out neatly where Colleen and Penelope had left them.

Marcel’s work.

Ethan stepped closer, bare feet silent on the linoleum. The first photo made him stop short.

It was him—in the rose satin gown. Full-skirted, back arched ever so slightly as he turned on the staircase. Eyes soft, mouth half-open. A mood, Marcel had said. A painting.

He stared. That wasn’t how he remembered it.

He remembered feeling itchy. Nervous. Self-conscious. The annoying click-click-click… click-click-click of the camera. But in the photo, he looked... calm. Elegant. Almost confident. Almost...

Pretty?

He reached out, one trembling hand inched forward—but stopped just before touching the glossy surface.

The next photo showed him in the lemon sundress, hat tilted back slightly as if caught mid-laugh. He hadn’t even smiled, had he? And yet… here he was, all ribbons and motion, frozen in a moment of airy grace.

Click-click-click. Click-click-click.

He frowned.

The next photo—him in the floral dress, ankles crossed, hands with pink-tipped fingers folded over his lap, eyes downcast—felt almost too intimate to look at. It was how he imagined Adeline might sit for a portrait. Or how Emily might sit if she really were someone else entirely.

He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he let it out in a shaky sigh.

Behind him, the stairs creaked.

He spun around.

Colleen stood halfway down, hair up in a towel, robe wrapped tight, one eyebrow gently arched.

“I thought I heard a mouse.”

Ethan looked away quickly. “I was just—”

“Looking.”

He nodded.

She stepped into the room, water still glistening on her collarbones. “Did you see the one on the staircase?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

“You liked it.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Then you stared at it for quite a while for someone who didn’t like it.”

He looked down.

Colleen brushed past him, flipping one of the prints toward the light. “You look just like my grandmother in this one. The way she held herself when she thought no one was watching.”

“Why do they look so different—” he asked softly— “than how it felt?”

“Because sometimes,” she said, turning to face him, “you don’t recognize yourself… until someone else shows you the picture.”

She kissed his lips and walked out, leaving him alone with the prints and the soft whisper of tulle in his ears.

 

* * *
 

It was past nine. The boutique was closed. The lights dimmed. Only a lamp glowed in the back office, its amber shade casting long shadows across Eleanor’s desk.

She moved slowly tonight—not with her usual sharp click of heels, but a softer tread. The air smelled faintly of old perfume and dusted velvet. Her clipboard lay untouched. The register was locked. The tea had long gone cold.

In front of her: a single 8x10 print. Unframed. Still resting in its delivery sleeve from Marcel.

She’d seen it before, of course—on set, on his camera screen, even in the small proofs he’d emailed. But this… this was different. A proper print. Real. Glossy. Heavy in the hand.

Eleanor lifted it gently and studied the image again.

Emily.

Sitting on the chaise in that rose satin dress. One leg tucked politely to the side. Chin tilted slightly downward. Eyes lifted toward the light like someone about to answer a question she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to be asked. Her lips not quite smiling, not quite in a pout. Enigmatic.

It was poise, yes. But not rehearsed. And not quite aware either. That’s what made it perfect.

Eleanor exhaled. “Beautiful,” she whispered, not for anyone else. Just for herself.

She reached behind the filing cabinet and pulled out a large but simple black wood frame, dark gray matboard and without embellishment. One she kept on hand for something… special.

She slipped the photo into place, securing it with linen tape. Smoothed the edge.

Then she opened the glass display case on the far wall—the one she reserved for private pieces. Personal treasures. Items not for sale. A sketch from her first Paris trunk show. A hand-written note from a seamstress she once loved. A portrait of her long-deceased daughter. And now, this.

She placed the frame on the top shelf, centered. No label. No plaque.

Just a photograph of a girl—quiet, elegant, haunted slightly by the knowledge of her own transformation.

She shut the glass door with a soft click.

Then Eleanor poured herself a drink—something amber, something old—and raised the glass slightly toward the frame.

“To Emily,” she murmured. “And the future.”

Then, under her breath, almost reverent:

“And to the things we don’t get to keep, but must remember.”

 

* * *
 

The bell above the boutique door gave its usual elegant chime as Colleen pushed it open, one hand on Ethan’s back.

“Won’t take a minute,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Just need to pick up that check from Eleanor. You can wait by the counter.”

Ethan, worn out after a day of hanging out with his cousin Dani, sneakers, cut-off jeans and a T-shirt with a Mustang logo—a hand-me-down from his Aunt DeeDee—nodded. He looked like any tired twelve-year-old boy on a summer afternoon.

Except… he wasn’t.

And in precisely seventeen seconds, he’d remember why.

The boutique smelled of feminine fabrics and faint traces of perfume testers. As Colleen disappeared through the curtain to the office, Ethan wandered to the nearest mannequin, mostly out of habit. This one wore a long chiffon number with a ruffled neckline and a brooch the size of a sand dollar.

Then he saw it.

In the display case along the far wall—set apart from the jewelry and accessories—was a single framed photo. Centered. Elevated. Lit from above, like a museum piece.

He froze.

It was him.

Not him-him, but Emily-him. Sitting gracefully on the chaise. One foot tucked. One hand resting on her knee. That rose satin dress draped like a ribbon across her frame, catching the light in delicate folds.

He blinked. His throat went dry.

She—he?—looked beautiful.

Elegant.

And... real.

His backed into a chair, nearly knocking it over. He didn’t notice.

Behind him, the curtain swished. Eleanor emerged like she always did—graceful, immaculate, and entirely too pleased with herself.

“Oh,” she said airily. “I see you’ve found our centerpiece.”

Ethan flinched. “You… framed it?”

“I most certainly did. It’s one of my favorite images from the entire season. Marcel agreed—it was more than a photo. It was a moment.”

He stared harder, willing himself not to blush. “You didn’t say you were going to frame it.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t.” Her voice was silk over steel. “Besides, no names, no fanfare. Just a beautiful young lady, captured in her natural state.”

“That’s not my natural state,” he mumbled.

“Mmm,” Eleanor hummed. “Could’ve fooled me. And Marcel. And everyone who’s seen it.”

Colleen reappeared, envelope in hand. “What’s this?” she asked, spotting the standoff. Then she followed Ethan’s gaze and smiled. “Oh! You found it.”

Ethan looked between them, blinking. “You both knew?”

“Darling, I posed you,” Colleen said, amused. “You didn’t think Miss Eleanor would just leave that photo in a drawer, did you?”

“It’s just... weird. Seeing me. Like that.”

“Beautiful,” Eleanor corrected.

“Elegant,” Colleen added.

“Embarrassing,” Ethan muttered.

The women exchanged a glance.

Eleanor stepped closer. “Do you know why the image works?”

He shrugged.

“Because you understand fabric,” she said. “You don’t just wear a dress. You move with it. You listen to it. Very few girls—real girls—can do that instinctively.”

Colleen nodded. “You never fight the garment. You give it space to shine.”

“I wasn’t trying to do that.”

“Exactly,” Eleanor said softly. “Which means it’s natural.”

Ethan looked again. That girl in the photo… she did look natural. Not like someone playing dress-up. Like someone who belonged.

“But I’m not a girl,” he said, almost to himself.

“No,” Eleanor said. “You’re something rarer.”

Ethan looked up sharply.

“A boy who knows how to be graceful,” she continued. “Who understands elegance. Who can wear beauty without mocking it. You respect it and the one who made it. That’s art, sweetheart. And very few people, boy or girl, ever learn it.”

He felt his ears burning.

Colleen stepped in with a warm hand on his shoulder. “You have a gift, honey. You may not want it. But it’s there.”

He glanced at the photo one more time. “Do other people see it?”

Eleanor’s smile curled. “Everyone who matters.”

He didn’t respond. But as they left, he looked back over his shoulder… and didn’t flinch.

 

* * *
 

The house had settled.

Downstairs, the air conditioner hummed along. The back porch light buzzed faintly. From the hallway came the comforting creak of floorboards and the occasional sleepy sigh of a settling wall.

Ethan lay in bed, arms clasped behind his head, eyes wide open. The ceiling stared back, blank and impenetrable.

He was in his real pajamas—flannel pants and a cotton tee. No lace, no ribbons. His hair was damp from his shower, combed flat, and he still smelled faintly of lemon soap and shampoo. His cheeks were clean. No makeup. No clips. No Emily.

But sleep wouldn’t come.

Not yet.

The image of the framed photo kept slipping back into his mind. He’d only seen it for a few minutes, but it was burned into him now—her sitting like that, looking calm and composed and… not pretending. That was the part that haunted him. She hadn’t looked like she was acting. She looked like someone who belonged in the frame.

And he had never felt like that in his own skin. Not quite.

I’m not a girl.

He’d said it out loud. They hadn’t disagreed.

But they’d looked at him like… like that didn’t matter. Or worse—like it was beside the point.

You understand elegance, Eleanor had said.

You give the garment space to shine, his mother had added. You're something rarer.

Marcel declared him “a muse.”

Ethan rolled onto his side, clutching his pillow.

What did that even mean?

Did they think he liked it? That he wanted to be seen like that again? That he was asking for it when he twirled, when he smiled, when he let the dress settle around him just right?

He hadn’t meant to.

But he hadn’t stopped it either.

His eyes drifted to the dresser in the corner—Emily’s dresser. Pale yellow, soft-edged, with the little silver handles shaped like bows. On top sat Adeline, perfectly posed, wearing her green bonnet. Her eyes—dark and glassy—seemed to shimmer in the half-light.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered.

The doll didn’t move. Of course she didn’t. But she didn’t look away either.

He sighed, turning back over.

The sheets were cool and clean. The bed was comfortable. But he felt like he was lying on something fragile. Like the fabric of who he was had thinned a little, and the seams didn’t quite line up anymore.

Tomorrow, he’d wear jeans. He’d kick a ball with Dani. And maybe she would tease him. Maybe Claire would stop by and talk to him. Maybe he and his mom would go out for ice cream.

And maybe he’d forget about the photo.

But tonight?

Tonight he could still feel the hem of the rose satin dress brushing the back of his knees.

And just before he drifted off—finally, reluctantly—he imagined what it might be like to see another photo. Just one. A different dress. A different pose.

A different kind of boy.

Next: The Stuff Dreams are Made Of

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 Twenty-three: The Stuff Dreams are Made Of

Ethan gets a taste of things to come.
 

The back room of Eleanor’s Boutique smelled like steam, hairspray, and new fabric. Racks of dresses crowded in close, layers of tulle and satin and chiffon pressing on him from every side, like they were all breathing the same nervous air. Somebody had propped a box fan in the corner, humming uselessly against the July heat.

Ethan sat on a vinyl-topped stool in front of the big mirror while his mother fastened the tiny hook at the nape of his neck.

“There,” Colleen said, her voice calm, businesslike. “Turn your head for me, baby.”

He turned. Emily turned with him.

The wig—his “good” wig, the one Penelope had called “romantic”—fell in soft golden ringlets just to his shoulders, catching the light from the row of globe bulbs around the mirror. Colleen had brushed and smoothed and coaxed every strand into ringlets that bounced when he moved. The curls framed his face, making his chin look narrower, his cheekbones a little higher. A girl’s face, he thought, and his belly fluttered.

His legs looked wrong. Or maybe they looked right, and that was what bothered him. Two pale, bare, smooth limbs emerging from the hem of his robe, still faintly pink from the razor and lotion. They’d never had much hair anyway—just a bit of light down—but Colleen had insisted.

“Just in case,” she’d said in the bathroom earlier, her tone brisk as she worked. “You’ll thank me when you’re under those lights. Nobody’s going to be staring at your calves, but you’ll know. And that matters.”

Now, every time he brushed one bare leg against the other, it felt like someone else’s. And it wasn’t terrible.

He flexed his fingers in his lap. The French tips gleamed—soft pink beds with neat white crescents at the ends, ten tiny half-moons. His toenails matched in a pearly pink, waiting to slide into the open-toed high heeled sandals waiting by the chair. A whisper of mascara darkened his lashes. His mouth shone with pink gloss that tasted faintly of strawberry every time his tongue crept out to wet his lips.

And clipped to his ears, cool against his skin, hung the pearl earrings Aunt Vivian had given him during her last visit. He reached up and touched one of the pearls now, rolling it lightly between thumb and forefinger.

“Don’t fuss,” Colleen murmured, catching his hand and lowering it. “You’ll loosen it.”

“I just…” He swallowed. “They feel weird.”

“You look beautiful,” she said. “Like a dream. That’s what matters.”

A door banged somewhere and a cheerful chaos rolled down the hallway—heels clacking, girls laughing, hangers clattering. The murmur of voices from the showroom floated through the wall, a low restless tide. Someone tested the sound system: a squeal of feedback, a burst of swing music, then the volume adjusted.

“Oh, there you are.” Eleanor swept into the cramped back room in a flurry of perfume and authority. A clipboard was tucked under her arm, a pencil behind one ear. She gave Ethan a quick up-and-down, and her smile sharpened with satisfaction. “Well. If that doesn’t sell a dress or three, nothing will.”

Ethan’s cheeks warmed. “Hello, Miss Eleanor,” he said automatically, his voice already slipping higher, the edges softened.

“Hello, Emily.” She said it without the slightest pause, as if there had never been any other name. “Nerves?”

“A little,” he admitted.

“Good,” she said. “That means you’re alive and present. You just remember what I told you: you’re not walking to show yourself off. You’re walking to show off the dress. Let them look at you and see your mother’s work. We’re selling romance, not runway attitude. You can do that, can’t you?”

He nodded before he could think about it. “Yes, ma’am.”

Eleanor checked her watch, then clapped her hands once. “Ten minutes, people. Daywear in the wings, let’s go, let’s go.”

 

* * *
 

The show began as a blur of color seen through a slit in the curtains.

Ethan stood just behind the edge of the makeshift backstage area, peeking out past a hanging display of scarves. Eleanor’s Boutique had been rearranged for the event: the central aisle cleared to make a narrow runway lined with folding chairs, the fitting rooms converted to dressing stalls, the usual background music replaced with something brighter and bouncier that set the tempo for the girls’ steps.

From his vantage point, he saw only fragments. A swing of hair. The flash of a shoe. The bright, practiced smile of a tall blonde girl as she pivoted at the end of the aisle, hands on her hips to show the drape of a skirt. Marcel crouched near the far end of the runway, one knee on the floor, cameras hanging off him like ornaments, his ponytail down his back and a striped scarf trailing over one shoulder. Each time a girl turned, the camera shutter clicked like a nest of crickets.

The audience was a fog of faces and sound. He caught snatches: a woman’s murmur—”That sleeve, did you see?” and the reply of “I could never wear that!”—a dry chuckle, the rustle of programs. Somewhere near the front, Mrs. Julia Campbell sat with her hands neatly folded over her tote, her hair in its usual tidy bun, watching with a small, intent smile. Beside her, Penelope Whitaker looked like a queen at court, swathed in a flowing teal and purple dress, a large brooch glittering at her shoulder. She leaned close to a friend, whispering, eyes bright with mischief.

Ethan ducked back, heart pounding. “My teacher’s here,” he whispered.

Colleen, kneeling by a garment rack, didn’t look up from the hem she was straightening. “Which one?”

“Mrs. Campbell.”

Colleen smiled. “Good. She’ll have a story to tell the faculty lounge about how talented one of her students is.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he muttered.

Before she could answer, one of the college girls swept past them, skirts swaying. “Excuse me,” she said politely, then turned to Ethan with a grin. “Emily, right? You’re up after two more. Ready?”

“I—” His throat felt dry. “I guess so.”

“You’ll be fine,” she said. She was eighteen, with freckles and an easy manner. “Just don’t look at anybody’s face. Look at the clock over the register instead. Pretend you’re walking toward that.” She laughed. “And if you do fall, make a show of it. Marcel will love it.”

“That’s comforting, thank you,” he said faintly.

Colleen rose, dusting her hands on her skirt. “All right, Emily. Time to earn your keep.”

The first dress was a tea-length frock in soft robin’s-egg blue, the bodice fitted, the skirt full and swishy with layers of tulle, a white satin sash at the waist. Colleen’s hands were quick and sure at the zipper, the hooks. The fabric settled over him like a cool sigh.

His mother cupped his face lightly. “You’re doing this for us. For our little business. For rent and groceries and new thread and maybe some additional help one day.” She kissed his lips, just a peck. “But also for you. You remember how you felt when you tried this one on the first time?”

He did. He’d twirled in the living room until the skirt flared around his knees and he’d felt… something. Not just pretty. Correct, somehow. Like all the seams lined up.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Hold onto that,” she said. “Now go show them.”

A hand clapped twice, sharp. Eleanor’s voice: “Emily, darling, you’re on deck.”

He stepped into the heeled sandals—only a modest lift, but enough to make his calves tighten and his walk change. The pearl earrings brushed his neck as he straightened.

The girl ahead of him vanished through the curtain in a flutter of floral print. The music swelled.

Ethan took one breath, then another.

And then he was in the light.

 

* * *
 

It hit him all at once—heat, brightness, sound. The overhead spots made the blue of his dress almost glow. The runway stretched ahead, only a few yards really, but it felt like the distance between home and the moon.

He did what the older girl had told him. He didn’t look at faces. He fixed his gaze on the round electric clock above the register, its red second hand ticking steadily, and he walked toward it.

Heel, toe. Heel, toe. The skirt swished around his legs in time with the music. He remembered to let his arms hang loose, to let the dress move him, not the other way around. Colleen had drilled into him: You’re not marching. You’re letting them see how it hangs when a real girl moves in it.

Halfway down the aisle, he realized something.

The room was quiet.

Not silent—not completely. He could hear the music, the faint whirr of the ceiling fan, a cough from the back. But the low buzz of conversation that had accompanied the earlier girls—the little ripples of commentary and clinking of bracelets and shifting of feet—had faded.

He risked a glance.

All along the narrow rows, people were watching him. Watching the dress. Eyes tracking the way the skirt bounced, the way the sash cinched at his waist, the way the neckline curved just so.

For one dizzy second, he thought, They know.

His chest tightened.

Then someone in the front row nodded, almost to herself, and whispered, “Oh, that color,” a note of approval in her voice. Another woman murmured, “The flow of the material—” And then, “How she moves—so beautiful…”

Marcel’s camera clicked like mad.

Ethan reached the end of the runway, turned carefully—just like they’d practiced at home in the hallway—and gave a small, awkward dip of his head. Not much of a pose. His shyness made his hands stay near his sides, fingers lightly touching the tulle instead of going to his hips the way the other girls did.

Behind the lens, Marcel made a small, delighted sound. “Yes,” he breathed, mostly to himself. “Yes, little swan. So shy, so sweet.”

Ethan walked back, hips swaying, heart hammering. As he slipped through the curtains, a wave of applause washed over him, chased by a few murmurs and scattered “mmm”s that sounded, to his ears, like… satisfaction?

He stumbled a little once he was safely out of sight.

Colleen caught his hands. “Breathe,” she said. “You did it.”

“What was that?” he whispered. “Why were they so quiet?”

“Because they were looking,” she said. “Because they were seeing.” Her eyes shone. “Because you showed them, that’s why.”

 

* * *
 

After his first rotation, the show turned into something like a dream even before it actually was one.

Ethan changed into another outfit and walked, changed and walked, clothes appearing and disappearing around him with a magician’s logic. Time shrank and stretched, the edges blurred. He was never sure exactly how much passed between one trip down the runway and the next.

Backstage, girls moved around him in a practiced dance, talking over one another—complaining about straps, laughing about shoes that pinched, comparing notes on who was in the audience. Someone shared a tin of mints. Someone else spritzed perfume that smelled like gardenias and baby powder.

“Turn around,” said a tall girl with dark hair, zipping up the back of his next dress when Colleen’s hands were busy. “There you go. First show, huh?”

He nodded, swallowing.

She eyed him in the mirror. “You’d never know. You’re like…what’s the word?” She snapped her fingers. “Unbothered. That’s it. You’re all soft and floaty out there, like you’re just—” She wiggled her fingers in the air. “Dreaming.”

“If I pass out, it won’t look so floaty,” he muttered.

The next dress was a ballet-inspired confection, blush-pink with a fitted bodice and a skirt of layered tulle that brushed mid-calf. When he stepped out this time, the hush was familiar. He’d braced for it.

Eleanor drifted along the sidelines, her dress whispering, leaning down to speak low in people’s ears. Ethan heard snatches, little pieces that floated to him on the music as he moved.

“Yes, that’s the girl I told you about. Colleen’s daughter, Emily…”

“…the inspiration for the whole line, really, can you tell? She wears it like it belongs to her…”

“…helped design that one herself. Oh yes, she’s very talented…”

“…every stitch done by hand, Colleen and Emily together, you won’t find this kind of quality this side of the pond…”

“…no, not New York, locally made. Can you believe it?”

Each compliment made his stomach swoop, like he’d missed a step on a flight of stairs. She shouldn’t be saying that, he thought, panic flickering. They’ll ask me, they’ll ask me questions…

But nobody did. They just watched. When he turned at the end of the aisle and the tulle whispered around his legs, the camera flash strobed across the room, and someone whispered, “Just look at her… like a dream—”

Between walks, Colleen kept adjusting, smoothing, fussing in that way she had when she was happy and trying not to gush. “Your straps,” she’d say, nudging them a fraction of an inch. “Your sash. Here, let me see your hem. Marcel is getting your good side, I can feel it.”

Marcel, for his part, hovered at the edge of things when the girls came off the runway, eyes bright behind his glasses.

“Emily,” he said at one point, catching Ethan’s hands in his for a brief, impulsive squeeze. Up close, Ethan could see the fine lines fanning from the corners of the photographer’s eyes, the silver in his beard. “You feel the fabric, yes? You are not…how do you say…posing in the dress. You are breathing with it. This is very rare. Very rare.” He patted Ethan’s fingers before releasing them. “You are my little muse.”

Ethan’s face went hot. “I’m just trying not to fall,” he said.

Marcel laughed, delighted. He tapped his temple. “Remember this feeling. One day, when you are very famous and insufferable, we will look back and say, ‘Ah, remember when Emily was humble.’”

“I’ll never be famous,” Ethan blurted.

Marcel tilted his head. “We shall see,” he said softly, as if making a note to himself. “Challenge accepted…”

The other girls noticed, of course. Back near the curtain, between numbers, they clustered around Ethan with a mixture of curiosity and good-natured envy.

“This is really your first show?” asked the freckled girl, adjusting the bodice of her green dress. “You’re kidding.”

“I—yes,” he said.

“I wish I moved like you do.” Another girl, taller, with a short dark bob, snapped her fingers in frustration. “I keep forgetting about my shoulders. Eleanor’s going to kill me.”

“It’s not fair,” the freckled one said, though her tone was more admiring than bitter. “First show and Marcel acts like you’re some kind of movie star.”

“Maybe she is,” someone else put in. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“He’s just…being nice,” Ethan said. His fingers itched to fiddle with his earrings again, but he kept them still.

“I heard you actually made some of these,” the tall girl said. “Like, with your mom. Is that true?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Some of them.”

“According to Eleanor she designs them, too…”

“That is so cool.” The freckled girl sighed dramatically. “I can barely sew on a button. Color me jealous.”

“Me too,” pouted another. “So cute, so petite, and so talented. Life just isn’t fair!”

Ethan felt lightheaded, dizzy, as if he was in a waking dream. These girls were all taller than he was, their faces older somehow, sharper at the edges. Standing among them, he should have felt that old, familiar too-smallness, the sense of being the wrong puzzle piece in the wrong box. Instead, wrapped in Colleen’s dresses, smelling of powder and hairspray, the taste of strawberry on his lips, he felt…not bigger. But not invisible either. Like a different kind of small—precious, carefully shaped.

“Emily!” Eleanor’s voice cut through the murmur. “Back into the white satin, please. You’re closing this segment.”

Colleen’s hands were already reaching for the next hanger.

 

* * *
 

Stepping into the satin dress, Ethan felt the weight of it. The fabric was heavier than the others, the skirt fuller. A whisper of lace traced the neckline and cap sleeves. Tiny faux pearls were sewn along the waist in a pattern he’d helped sketch, little constellations that had taken him three evenings to finish.

“You okay?” Colleen asked as she zipped him up.

“I feel…older,” he said, looking at himself in the mirror.

He did. The wig, the makeup, the earrings, the line of the dress—they sanded off some of the roundness of his twelve-year-old face. He could almost believe what everyone else said, that the girl in the mirror was sixteen, seventeen. Petite, yes, but with a quiet self-possession he did not feel in the least.

“That’s kind of the point,” Colleen said gently. “This one’s meant for older girls. You’re just…borrowing it for tonight.” She finished up by painting his lips a deep rose color, just a few shades from muted red. “Smack them, please.”

He pressed his lips together, then nodded. “Okay?”

“Better than okay.” She leaned in so that their noses touched, and smiled against his mouth. “You are beautiful. Like a dream.”

When he stepped out this time, the hush was not surprising. It felt like walking into the center of a held breath.

Marcel’s camera made a different sound, slower, as if he were careful not to miss any frame. The white satin caught the light, the skirt gleaming like the inside of a seashell. Ethan walked more slowly, hips swaying ever so slightly, the way Eleanor had asked—a formal pace, not daywear—and let his hands glide lightly over the fabric as he moved, as if he were reassuring the dress itself.

Near the front, Penelope actually put a hand to her mouth, eyes shining. Beside her, Mrs. Campbell’s jaw dropped a little before she caught herself and clapped politely, quietly, her teacher’s composure slipping just a fraction.

“He never ceases to amaze me—” her whisper sotto voce.

Ethan reached the end of the aisle and turned. For the first time, he allowed himself to look—not at the clock, not at the ceiling, but directly at the people.

He saw admiration. Appraisal. Curiosity. He did not see mockery or surprise. Only heartfelt appreciation, as though he was a living work of art.

That scared him more than anything.

They really think I’m her, he thought. They really think I’m this girl.

Emily.

The thought was both a thrill and a weight.

 

* * *
 

Backstage, he barely had time to catch his breath before Eleanor descended on them, cheeks flushed, clipboard clutched tight.

“There you are.” She waved a sheaf of papers at Colleen. “Do you see this? We’re getting more orders than I ever dreamed! Three parties are practically fighting over that satin number—I know that was a show exclusive, but you’ve got to make more!—and the tea dresses? Don’t get me started. We’re going to have to find you some help, Colleen, or you’ll sew your fingers right off.”

Colleen laughed, a sound halfway between delight and disbelief. “Well, that’s a problem I don’t mind having,” she said. “Thank you. Truly.”

“Don’t thank me,” Eleanor said promptly. “Thank her.” She jerked her chin toward Ethan. “Your secret weapon. She’s a dream come true.”

Ethan flushed, hands twisting in the folds of his skirt. “I didn’t—”

Eleanor gave him a once-over again, slower this time, as if to memorize. “You know, my dear, there’s going to be interest in you. Separate from just the dresses, I mean.”

He blinked. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” She ticked items off on her fingers. “Pretty. Petite. Innocent but mysterious. You move like you were born for this. Marcel’s already talking about doing a spread with you for his portfolio. The Capital City fashion photographer is enchanted. And I can think of at least three other boutiques in the city who would chew off their manicures to have a girl like you in their display windows.” She paused. “We’d have to work around school, of course.”

Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it. Colleen chuckled. “We’ll think on it. Our little miss seems to be awestruck by all of his attention.”

Eleanor leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, until then, don’t be surprised when you see more of your face in my stores, young lady. Advertising your mother’s clothing, of course. I intend to make a great deal of money—for all of us—with your help.”

Ethan swallowed. “Um, yes, ma’am?” was all he could think to say. In his thoughts, however, there was panic: My face? Where everyone will see? My friends… the whole school… will find out… I can’t—they can’t—can they?

He looked over to see his mother talking excitedly to Eleanor and Marcel. He didn’t want to disappoint her, but at what cost?

This is has to be a bad dream!

“All right girls, listen up!” Eleanor checked her watch again. “Finale in less than five. Line up.”

 

* * *
 

The finale felt like the end of a movie—the part where the whole cast comes out to bow and the audience decides, once and for all, whether they’ll clap politely and go home or stand up and stomp their feet.

Ethan stood in the center of the line of girls, the white satin dress gleaming under the edge of the curtain. On either side of him, taller figures towered—green chiffon, red silk, navy taffeta. Someone’s perfume tickled his nose. Someone’s hand found his and squeezed; he didn’t know whose.

Eleanor stepped out first, her heels clicking a steady rhythm. The music faded. She took a microphone from a stand near the register, its cord snaking back behind the counter.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, and her voice filled the boutique, smooth as cream. “Thank you all for coming out tonight to see what we’ve been cooking up here at Eleanor’s.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

“It has been my absolute pleasure to introduce you to a new name in bespoke fashion,” she went on. “Some of you already know her from the market, from online, from the crafts fairs, from your own daughters’ closets. But tonight, we’ve seen what happens when her work is given the stage it deserves.”

She turned, beckoning.

“Please join me in thanking Colleen Martin of Colleen’s Collections—and her lovely daughter and partner in crime, Emily.”

The line of girls stepped out as one, like a wave. The lights hit them, and the audience rose.

For a moment, Ethan couldn’t hear anything. His own pulse roared in his ears. Then the sound resolved into applause—loud, enthusiastic, filling every inch of the little boutique. Hands clapping, feet stomping, a few whistles shrill and appreciative.

The other models smiled their practiced smiles, bowed, waved. Ethan’s own smile felt wobbly, his cheeks aching. He could see Colleen at the side of the runway now, not quite onstage but not hidden either, her eyes shining, her hands pressed together under her chin.

The applause was for all of them, he told himself. For Colleen. For Eleanor. For the dresses.

But when Eleanor took his hand and pulled him a step forward, something changed.

“And this young lady,” Eleanor said into the microphone, her arm around his shoulders, “is Emily Martin. A designer and maker as well as a model. I have no doubt you’ll be hearing more from her in the future. She’s as talented as she is beautiful, don’t you agree?”

The applause swelled.

It was subtle, but Ethan felt it—like the volume knob had been turned a notch higher just for him. People leaned forward, craning to see. Heads nodded. Lips whispered. He caught glimpses of faces he knew: Penelope beaming, her brooch sparkling; Mrs. Campbell clapping with an expression that was half awe, half I will never look at your book reports the same way again.

Heat flooded his face. His eyes burned, his chest swelled—he wanted to disappear and to stand there forever, all at once.

Then the room…changed.

He couldn’t have said how at first. Later, he’d remember it as a shift in color, the edges of things sharpening and smearing at the same time. The lights seemed brighter, whiter. The boutique felt bigger, and yet somehow the walls pressed closer.

New faces seemed to materialize in the crowd.

In the third row, past a woman in a hat Ethan had seen earlier, he suddenly spotted a boy from school—Tommy Rawls, from science class, his cowlick defying gravity as usual. Beside him, Allison Phillips from chorus, chewing on her lower lip. Behind them, a knot of kids in Lincoln Middle School T-shirts—Marcus Epperson and Benji Thompson, among others—all squeezed in among the society ladies and boutique buyers like they’d been there the whole time and he just hadn’t noticed.

That’s not right, he thought, stomach dropping. They wouldn’t be here. They can’t be here.

Tommy’s eyes widened.

“Hey, I know her—him!” Tommy said, loud enough to cut through the applause. “That’s Ethan. Ethan Martin!”

A gust of cool air caused him to shiver. He reached up and felt his hair—his real, dark brown hair—damp from sweat. Unkempt, tangled, as it usually was.

My wig! Where did it?—

A ripple went through the crowd. The clapping faltered.

“That’s no girl,” someone else said—another boy’s voice, Dylan Mitchell, maybe—cracking mid-sentence. “That’s Ethan Martin from school!”

Questions and insults flew at him like thrown stones, each one sharper than the last.

“He’s dressed like a girl?”

“He’s really Emily?”

“I told you… Mama’s boy…”

“What a sissy… faggot…”

Ethan’s breath hitched. The pearl earrings suddenly felt heavy, dragging his ears down. The white satin swelled around him, suffocating. High heels throwing him off balance.

“I—” he said, but the microphone wasn’t near his mouth, and even if it had been, he had no idea what would have come out.

He turned, seeking his mother.

She wasn’t there.

Colleen’s place at the side of the runway was empty. The space where Julia Campbell and Penelope sat was empty too. The aisle seemed longer now, stretching and stretching, the people on either side leaning in, faces blurring into a tunnel of eyes and mouths.

Mom? he thought, panic rising. Mom, where did you go?

A hand closed around his wrist.

“Looks like we got here just in time,” said a familiar voice in his ear.

 

* * *
 

Dani stood beside him on the runway, solid and scowling, her soccer jersey half-tucked into a pair of grass-stained shorts, cleats somehow clicking on the boutique’s polished floor. Her ponytail was frayed, backwards baseball cap, a smear of dirt on one cheek. She looked gloriously, defiantly out of place.

“What are you—?” Ethan started.

“Don’t argue,” she said briskly. She stepped in front of him, planting herself between him and the nearest row of staring faces. “Hey!” she snapped at the crowd. “Back off, you bunch of freaks. Nobody messes with my sissy but me.”

Laughter rippled, but it sounded wrong—echoey, distorted.

“Dani—” Ethan whispered, clutching at the back of her jersey. “Where’s Mom?”

“Come here, sugar.” Another hand, this one a little rougher, grabbed his other arm.

Aunt DeeDee stood on his other side, in oil-smudged jeans and a white T-shirt with Double D’s Auto Repair across her chest, her short red hair tucked under a bandana, cat-eye glasses glinting. She smelled faintly of gasoline and hand soap, an oddly comforting combination in the cloud of perfume.

“You look like a million bucks,” she said, giving him a quick once-over. “A very confused, very sparkly million bucks. C’mon, we gotta move. Now.”

The crowd had started to surge, the aisle shrinking as people stepped forward, phones in their hands—though he hadn’t noticed anyone holding a phone before. Faces pressed in, mouths open with questions.

“Is it true?”

“Why would she—he—do that?”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“Hey Ethan, what are you, queer or something?”

“… Told you, mama’s boy…”

DeeDee yanked him toward the back of the store. “Eyes on me, kiddo,” she said. “Don’t look at them, they don’t pay your bills. C’mon, I’m taking you to Australia.”

“Australia?—” His voice cracked. “But Mom—we can’t just leave her, DeeDee, we can’t—”

“Nobody’s leaving your mama,” she said. “She sent us. Remember? Quick, this way.”

He didn’t remember. But he followed.

The boutique had stretched impossibly, aisles longer than they’d been when he’d peeked out from backstage. Racks of dresses leaned in like trees along a road, the garments rustling as they passed. Dani ran interference, shoulders squared, glaring at anyone who tried to step into their path, holding her skateboard—which had miraculously appeared out of nowhere—en garde.

“Back off!” she barked. She swung the skateboard like a scimitar against the horde. “Show’s over. Go home and gossip about somebody else.”

Ethan stumbled, the white satin threatening to trip him, his high heels not at all helping. The pearl earrings swung wildly. Somewhere behind him, Eleanor was saying something into the microphone, but the words blurred together.

They burst through a door that should have gone to the back room, but instead opened straight onto the parking lot.

The evening sky outside was bruised purple, clouds stacked high and heavy. The boutique’s sign buzzed overhead, its neon flickering. Rain spotted the pavement, dark polka dots that spread and merged.

DeeDee’s Mustang idled by the curb, sleek and impatient, its red paint gleaming even in the strange light. The engine’s low rumble filled the air like distant thunder. The click-click-click of raindrops on the sheet metal hood a ghost of the shutter of Marcel’s camera.

DeeDee shoved him into the passenger seat. Dani held off the crowd, wielding her skateboard like a samurai and yelling threats about what she’d do to anybody who dared to touch her cousin.

“Go on without me!” she shouted over her shoulder. “I got you, cuz!”

“Seatbelt,” DeeDee snapped, leaning across him to yank it into place. “Those pretty legs won’t do you any good if you fly through the windshield.”

Ethan fumbled with the buckle, fingers slippery. “We have to go back,” he said. “We have to get Mom. And Dani… we can’t just leave them—”

Outside, the crowd had spilled into the parking lot, faces upturned toward the Mustang, mouths moving, tongues wagging. The sound of their voices was swallowed by the roar of the engine as DeeDee revved it.

“Go! Go! Go!” yelled Dani. “I can’t hold them off for—”

The shriek of 400 horses drowned out her last words. The car shuddered as tires grabbed pavement, friction burned rubber and a putrid cloud of smoke billowed out behind them.

“I’m not leaving Mom!” Ethan shouted over the noise, his voice raw. “DeeDee, we can’t leave Mom! We have to go back and get her!”

“No can do, Princess,” DeeDee growled. “Nothing bad is gonna happen to you on our watch!” She punched the clutch, shifted gears and shot him a wicked grin all in an instant. “You’re flesh and blood… family… never forget that.”

He twisted in his seat, heart pounding, wet eyes scanning the doorway of the boutique for a glimpse of a teal dress, of familiar hair, of anything.

“Mom! Mom!” he yelled, throat burning. “Where are you? I can’t leave without you!”

The engine roared louder, louder, filling his ears, his head, the whole world, until it wasn’t engine noise anymore but something else—

Thunder.

 

* * *
 

Ethan sat up with a jerk, his heart slamming against his ribs.

The Mustang, the boutique, the crowd—all of it vanished. In their place: the worn floral pattern of the living room sofa under his palms, the familiar sag of its cushions, the dim yellow light of the floor lamp in the corner.

For a second he didn’t recognize the room. The shadows jumped with the flash of lightning outside, turning the bookcase into a looming shape, the TV screen into a mirror. Then another roll of thunder boomed over the house, the sound so much like DeeDee’s engine that he flinched.

Rain rattled against the windows in earnest now, drumming steady on the porch roof. The air smelled of wet asphalt and whatever casserole they’d eaten for supper.

On the armchair opposite the sofa, Colleen sat with an embroidery hoop resting in her lap, a length of pale blue floss trailing from her needle. Her head was bent over the work, brow furrowed in concentration. The jingle from a commercial played low on the television, almost drowned by the storm.

She looked up when he moved, and her face softened.

“Well, hello, Sleeping Beauty,” she said. “You about gave me a heart attack with that hollering.”

His throat felt scratchy. “I was hollering?”

“You were,” she said. “Something about not leaving without your mama. Which, I have to say, earns you points.” She set the hoop aside and leaned forward. “You all right?”

He blinked, trying to pull the pieces of the dream into order. The lights, the dresses, the applause, the crowd turning on him. Dani’s fierce glare, DeeDee’s hand on his arm, the Mustang roaring, the smell of rain and aviation fuel combined.

And always, under it all, the sensation of looking for his mother and not finding her.

His eyes stung.

“I…” He scrubbed at his face, surprised to find it damp. “I guess I fell asleep.”

“You did,” Colleen said. “Right in the middle of Perry Mason, too. He’s going to be very offended when he finds out.”

He looked down at himself. No white satin. Just his soft pink gingham dress. His feet were bare and his legs were their usual lightly fuzzy selves. His fingers and ears were bare, too; no French tips, no pearl earrings. His hair was just his hair, flattened on one side from the sofa cushion—an errant barrette hung lose, failing its sole purpose in life.

For a heartbeat, he wondered if this was the dream instead, thinner and less vivid than the one he’d just left.

Colleen saw the confusion on his face. She rose from the chair and came to kneel beside the sofa, the floor creaking softly under her knees.

“Hey,” she said gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You’re home, honey. You’re safe. I promise.”

He swallowed. “I…had a dream,” he said, the words small.

“So I gathered.” Her thumb traced a little circle at his temple. “Was it a good one or a bad one?”

He frowned, trying to decide. “Both,” he said finally. “It was…so real. We… we were at a big fashion show. At Miss Eleanor’s. Only bigger, somehow. And I was…” He hesitated, but it seemed silly to be shy about it with her. “I was Emily. In the wig and the earrings and everything.”

Colleen’s mouth quirked. “Well, that sounds about right.”

“It was wonderful at first,” he said. “All the dresses, and the people clapping. Marcel was there, and Miss Eleanor, and Mrs. Campbell came, and Penelope and all her friends. And a bunch of older girls modeling too. And everybody was…” He searched for the word. “They liked me. Or they liked Emily. It was hard to tell.”

“That does sound wonderful,” she said softly.

“But then…” He shivered. “Then it got scary. All of a sudden there were kids from school there, and they started yelling that I was Ethan… calling me names. And everybody started staring, and I couldn’t find you. You were just…gone.” His voice wobbled. He laughed at himself, a shaky little sound. “Dani was there, though. And DeeDee. Dani was going to fight the whole crowd, and DeeDee dragged me out to her car.” He rolled his eyes faintly. “Of course it was the Mustang.”

“Of course,” Colleen agreed. “Dani and DeeDee to the rescue. That tracks.”

“But I didn’t want to go,” he said, the memory sharp. “I kept telling them we couldn’t leave without you. I was yelling for you and you weren’t anywhere. DeeDee said you’d sent her to save me.” His mouth curved into a crooked smile. “She was taking me to Australia.”

Colleen chuckled. “That would be quite a drive, even for DeeDee in that car of hers.”

Ethan frowned. “Yeah. But I didn’t understand any of it, so I kept yelling for you. And then the car got loud and everything kind of…fell apart. And then I woke up.”

Colleen’s eyes were shiny in the lamplight. She reached up and kissed his forehead.

“I’m here, baby,” she said, her voice very soft. “I’ll always be here for you.”

He closed his eyes, letting that sink in. The storm outside thundered again, but it sounded a little less like an engine now, a little more like ordinary weather.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked at her, really looked. At the faint smudge of blue floss on her fingertips. At the tiredness around her eyes she tried to hide. At the way she sat back on her heels without complaining, even though he knew her knees hurt sometimes after long days at the sewing machine.

“Mom?” he said.

“Yes, baby?”

“This thing with Eleanor…” He hesitated, picking at a loose thread on the sofa cushion. “It’s important, right? I mean…really important?”

She sat back a little, studying him.

“It is,” she said at last. “We’re doing better. Better than I ever hoped, honestly. You and me, we make a pretty good team.” A sad smile tugged at her mouth. “Better than your father and I ever did together.”

Ethan blinked, nodding. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Don’t be. That had nothing to do with you.” Colleen cleared her throat. “But yes. This thing with Eleanor, it could make our lives even better. More orders means more steady income, maybe a little cushion in the bank for once.” She sighed. “It’ll be hard work, but worth it. We still have bills to pay. The mortgage company doesn’t take dresses or good intentions in trade.”

He nodded slowly. The dream-voices of Eleanor and the buyers echoed faintly in his mind. Colleen and Emily made all of these—by hand… She helped design that one… The inspiration for the whole line…

He thought of the fear—the kids from school pointing, the crowd closing in. But there had been other things, too. The way the room had hushed when he stepped out. The way Marcel’s eyes had lit up. The way his mother had looked at him from the side of the runway, her pride so bright it almost hurt. Dani coming to his rescue, disappearing into the crowd, swinging her skateboard to the very end. DeeDee at the wheel of her Mustang, grinning and reminding him: “You’re flesh and blood… family… never forget that.”

“I’ll do better,” he said quietly. “I promise. I’ll help more. I’ll...I’ll model, and sew, and whatever you need. I can do it—I want to do it. And I’ll work hard to make you proud.”

Colleen’s expression softened in that way that always made his chest squeeze. She reached up and cupped his cheek.

“You always make me proud, my love,” she said. “Just by being you. That’s all I need.”

He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Even when ‘being me’ means…being Emily?”

“Just being you is all I need,” she said, without hesitation. “Being Emily is bonus, though.” She looked at him, appraising him in that way all mothers do when they realize their child is changing before their very eyes. “Because that’s brave. And kind. And generous. And a little bit stubborn, just like your mama.”

He huffed a little laugh. “I get it honest, I guess.”

“Oh, you do.” She kissed his lips, then went back for one more before hugging him. “Now—” she looked him in the eye, maternal warm— “A nice warm bath, and then bed. You look wiped out.”

“I feel wiped out,” he admitted. The last shreds of the dream were dissolving, leaving behind only their impressions, like the marks left on his skin by tight socks.

He swung his legs off the sofa and stood, the room steady under his feet. As he shuffled toward the hallway, he paused and looked back.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“If I…if I have another dream like that, and I start yelling again…” He shrugged, suddenly shy. “You’ll wake me up, right?”

She smiled. “I’ll be right here with my embroidery,” she said. “Guard duty. Go on. I’ll tuck you in when you’re done.”

He nodded, reassured in a way he couldn’t put into words, and padded toward the stairs. Behind him, the storm grumbled and fussed around the little house, but inside, the only sounds were the sounds of his feet scuffing the hardwood floor and the low murmur of the television.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, under the shampoo and the steam and fragrance of his mother’s favorite soap, the image of Emily in white satin lingered—not as something that might ruin him, but as something that might, just might, help save them.

For now, that was enough.

 

Next up, A Close Encounter of the Worst Kind