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 halo 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 red 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