Ethan’s World

by Daphne Childress

Ethan Martin and his mother live a simple life in a small Southern town... with a twist: She makes dresses to pay the bills and he helps out as best he can.
 

Chapter Fourteen: The City Weekend

A trip to the big city is an adventure Ethan never quite expected.
 

The Saturday morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window like honey poured over the table, warm and golden, the last precious weekend before the school year began. Ethan had hoped for a quiet morning. Maybe he could sneak back into bed and pretend he didn’t exist. But fate, as always, had other plans—or more precisely, Mother did.

Colleen stood by the counter, her expression a curious mixture of delight and mischief as she watched her son pick cautiously at his French toast. “Eat up, darling. You’ll need your energy. Auntie Penelope is taking us to Capital City today.”

Ethan blinked. “Capital City?”

“Yes, we’re all going on a weekend adventure,” Colleen said, dabbing her lips with a cloth napkin. “Sightseeing, shopping, the whole kit 'n kaboodle. Auntie is feeling generous. And you’re her favorite girl.”

“Favorite?—” His fork froze in midair. “I’m not going as Ethan, am I?”

“Of course not, sweetheart,” she said sweetly, pouring tea with elegant precision. “Penelope wants Emily to join us.”

Ethan let out a soft groan, but it wasn’t loud enough to stop the familiar chain of events. His mother set the tea down and moved to the laundry room, emerging moments later with her son’s archnemesis, the yellow sundress. It was already ironed to perfection. The puffed sleeves, the high gathered waist and flaring skirt practically glowed in the morning light.

Behind it came the blonde wig—the nice one that Penelope had given him—brushed into a stylish, shoulder-brushing flip, and the matching yellow hairbow, tied just-so. The white sandals were placed gently beside the outfit, already polished.

Ethan shrank in his chair. “Do I have to wear all that?”

Colleen smiled, but there was a glint behind her eyes. “Everything else is unavailable, I’m afraid.”

“But—”

She raised an eyebrow. “I can always call your auntie and tell her you aren’t feeling up to it. She mentioned a garden party as an alternative. With her lady friends, of course—and their granddaughters. She’ll need her little maid to serve tea and cookies.”

Ethan’s lips pressed together. He swallowed hard. “So I guess we’re going to Capital City, huh?”

Colleen smirked. “I guess so.”

He was soon upstairs in his mother’s bathroom, standing miserably in a matching yellow bra and panty set as Colleen fastened the wig over his pinned-down hair. Her hands were gentle, and yet every stroke of the brush made him squirm. When the bow was tied snugly atop his head, Colleen cupped his chin and turned his face side to side.

“You’re acting strange, my love. What exactly is going through that pretty little head of yours?”

Ethan bit his lip. “I’m… well, me going to Capital City, like this.” He tugged at the shoulder strap of his training bra and sighed. “It’s kind of scary.”

“There’s nothing to fear, darling. You’ve been out and about in our little village, right? Capital City is just a bigger version, that’s all.”

“That's not the point, Mom. You can dress me up all you like, but I’m still just a boy in a dress.”

“Just a boy he says.” Colleen snorted. “Darling, you are anything but ‘just a boy.’ Trust me on this.”

She helped him slip into the sundress and buttoned up the back. He stared at his reflection, pursing his lips. “You know what I mean. It’s scary sometimes, being out in public dressed like a prissy girl. I mean, I could be arrested or kidnapped… or something.”

“Oh, cheer up, my love.” Colleen touched his chin, prompting him to look her in the eye. “You’ll be with me and Auntie Penelope the whole time. We won’t let anything bad happen to you,” she said, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. “If anybody kidnaps you it’ll probably be your auntie.”

Ethan bristled. That statement alone was more ominous than reassuring.

“The best thing for you to do is to act as pretty as you look.” Colleen raised an eyebrow, shifting into teaching mode. “Let’s try your voice. Soft and bright, like you’re delighted to help. Remember, you’re not a moody little boy. You’re a cheerful girl named Emily.”

Ethan sighed. “I get it.”

“Say it properly.”

He cleared his throat, took a breath, and said in a clumsy sing-song lilt, “Y-Yes, Mother. I understand.”

Colleen grinned. “A little better. Now let’s hear a ‘Thank you, Mother,’ for brushing your pretty hair.”

Ethan hesitated, cheeks burning. “Thank you for brushing my hair, Mother.”

“Perfect. Now show me a curtsy.”

He gave a stiff little dip.

“No, no, you silly girl. Left foot behind the right, just like you’ve done a hundred times before. Fingertips grasping the hem of your skirt. Now, again.”

He tried again, blushing harder.

“One more time, please—and with a nice thank you.”

“Thank you, Mother,” the cross-dressed boy said, once again dipping the best he could.

“It’s probably just nerves,” Colleen said, shaking her head. “We’ll work on it.”

By the time Penelope’s sedan pulled up outside, Ethan was in full costume. Panties and bra. Yellow sundress flaring softly at the knees, the sandals buckled neatly on his feet. Finger and toenails polished a soft pink. A small faux pearl bracelet on his wrist. Colleen handed him a white patent-leather purse. “Hold it like a lady. Over your shoulder. Or tucked neatly by your side. And for goodness’ sake, stop slouching.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Colleen smirked. “I put a new tube of lip balm in your purse. I think you’ll like it… it’s strawberry.”

Ethan sighed and took the hint. His mother watched with satisfaction as he pulled the top off, put it in between his middle and ring finger as she’d taught him, and quickly and efficiently applied a coat over his lips. He smacked them together and—checking himself with a small compact mirror from his purse—smiled. The taste—and fragrance—of strawberries was strong. He licked his lips, hating that he actually liked it so much. He blushed under Colleen’s gaze as he put away his mirror and the little red plastic tube.

“Mmm, very nice,” she said, giving him a warm kiss on the lips. She smiled as she pulled away, their noses barely touching. “You taste delicious!”

“Ew! Mother!” Ethan tried to look irritated, but a crooked smile gave him away.

Mother and “daughter” stepped out onto the front porch just as the car door opened—there was Penelope, dressed in a flowing floral blouse and linen slacks. Her red lipstick matched her wide-brimmed hat.

“There she is! My favorite niece! You can sit up front with the adults, Emily dear.”

Ethan froze. “Front seat?”

“Of course, darling,” the old woman said with a little wink. “It’s the best view.”

Trapped between two women who were clearly enjoying every second, Ethan climbed into the front bench seat of the plush sedan. It smelled of lavender sachets and expensive perfume.

“Seatbelt, sweetie,” said Penelope, leaning across him to snap it into place herself. She gave his knee a gentle pat. “There we go. Perfect little lady.”

As they pulled away, the teasing began in earnest.

“Look at her sitting there like a doll,” Penelope beamed. “I almost don’t need a radio. Emily keeps us so well entertained. Mm, is that strawberry I detect?”

Ethan stiffened—Colleen giggled. “Emily has a new lip balm. Her kisses are just yummy.”

Penelope hooted. “I can’t wait to find out!”

“Also, she’s been practicing her curtsy,” Colleen added. “Show Auntie, darling.”

“Mother… seriously?” A raised eyebrow was all it took. “Oh, all right.”

In the confines of the seat, Ethan could only mimic the motion awkwardly, cheeks flushing as he accidently exposed the tops of his thighs.

“Precious!” Penelope exclaimed.

The women chatted animatedly about their itinerary—boutiques, accessories, shoes, perhaps a nice lunch somewhere sunny.

Ethan stared straight ahead, out the windshield, doing his best to keep his knees together and purse neatly balanced in his lap. Every bump in the road made his bow bounce. And, of course, his panties bugged him like something awful.

Yep, this is just how I wanted to spend my summer vacation, he thought with a pout. Twelve years old, going into eight grade, and out shopping with my mom and aunt in a dress and panties. I was hoping Dani would teach me how to use a skateboard. He bit his lip as he thought about his cousin. At least she’s not here to give me a bunch of grief.

His mind wandered, wistful and longing, thinking about what might have been and what might not have—and how different things could be if he just wasn’t so nice… so… helpful?

Colleen noticed his anxious expression.

“Something on your mind, sweetheart?”

He hesitated. Then, in a soft girlish voice that felt more and more like second nature, he said, “I was just wondering, Mother… I mean… since we’re out and all… if maybe we could stop by the video game store, just for a minute?”

Penelope glanced at him in the mirror with a raised brow. “Video games? My, my… that doesn’t sound very ladylike.”

Colleen laughed. “Sure, why not? She’s got plenty of money coming to her from the shop, so anything for our little miss.”

 

* * *
 

An hour later they arrived at the upscale shopping plaza in Capital City. The gleaming glass storefronts glinted in the late morning sunlight as Penelope’s imposing sedan glided into a reserved parking space. Ethan sat wedged between his mother and Penelope, his dainty yellow sundress fluttering slightly in the car’s air-conditioned breeze. His knees were pressed together demurely, his new purse gripped with both hands atop them, and his freshly glossed lips were pursed in anxious silence.

“Now, Emily, dear,” Penelope cooed as she turned off the ignition, “remember to smile and keep that little chin up. It won’t do for a lady to walk about looking like she’s lost her puppy.”

“Yes, Auntie,” Ethan murmured in his best girl voice without going too high or too deep.

“And don’t forget your posture,” Colleen added, reaching across him to gently tug his shoulders back. “Shoulders back, chest out, and take small, ladylike steps. You don’t want to stomp about like a lumberjack, darling.”

“Yes, Mother,” Ethan said automatically, eyes fluttering shut in momentary despair.

This is going to be horrible, he thought desperately.

Together, the three exited the vehicle and walked toward the main shopping promenade. Ethan teetered slightly in his low-heeled white sandals, their delicate ankle straps clicking softly against his skin with every tentative step. The yellow sundress swayed with each movement, its hem brushing just above his knees. The matching yellow bow perched atop his blonde wig, which framed his face in softly curled waves. He tried not to think about how every pedestrian, every storefront mirror, every passing child might be staring at him.

To his relief, the few people who passed by didn’t say a word, but he did get more than his share of polite smiles and approving nods. Men, women, girls… they just acted like there wasn’t anything wrong with a middle school boy in a frock as bright as the sun mincing down the sidewalk with his mother and aunt—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then he caught a glimpse of himself in a store window. And was shocked to see what he knew but was having such a difficult time accepting. Three females were reflected back at him: his mother and Auntie Penelope—and between them, Emily. Ethan was nowhere in sight. There was only Emily, with her blonde locks, ruffles and lace, and a dazed look of wonder on her face.

It’s so weird, how nobody notices me when I dress as a girl. It’s like I don’t exist—well, me as Ethan I don’t. Me as Emily… she attracts everyone’s attention and they seem to really like her. Everywhere we go everybody sees her and knows her and loves her—or loves looking at her. So weird…

“Come along, Emily,” his mother prodded. “You can admire yourself later, sweetheart.”

“Such a vain child,” teased Penelope. “But it’s well-earned, I suppose.”

Inside the first boutique—Marguerite’s Finer Things for Girls—the scent of perfume and polished wood filled the air. Rows of pastel dresses, lace-trimmed cardigans, and girlish accessories lined the walls. Ethan stood helplessly as the two women pawed through hangers like eager hens, chirping their commentary.

“Oh, look at this one, Colleen,” Penelope said, holding up a pink chiffon dress with puff sleeves and an embroidered hem. “Can’t you just see our Emily twirling in this?”

Colleen laughed. “Add a white cardigan and those lace-trimmed socks and she’d be ready for her next piano recital.”

“Don’t I have enough dresses already?” Ethan pouted. “Why do I need more?”

“Pfft! I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Penelope scolded. “Beautiful girls never have enough dresses!”

“But Mom makes pretty much anything I need. Can’t we just—”

“Really, Emily! You and your mother need to focus on making things to sell so you can pay your bills, not fill your closets.” The old woman’s expression went into a playful pout. “Besides, can’t I spoil my favorite niece?”

Colleen chuckled. “You may as well give up, darling. Auntie’s mind is made up—this is one argument you’ll never win.”

I never win any arguments, Ethan thought.

Having lost that battle, the cross-dressed boy flushed crimson as he was led into a curtained fitting room and handed his new dress. Changing in the strange room felt surreal, like slipping from one dream into another, only in panties. His mother helped button him up, smoothing the slippery pink fabric at his waist.

“Now go out and show Auntie, sweetheart,” she said brightly.

Reluctantly, Ethan stepped out, keeping his head bowed. The sales associate, a perky college-aged woman with a beaming smile, clapped her hands.

“Oh, precious!” she cried. “You look like a little fairy tale, honey!”

“I—I feel ridiculous,” Ethan whispered.

“Hush, dear,” Penelope said as she adjusted the bow on his wig. “You look like a lady. Now turn around for us. Slower. Good girl.”

They tried on dress after dress—ivory, lavender, pale mint, yellow—each more darling than the last. Ethan’s pleas for mercy were met only with coos and compliments. By the time they made their purchases he was mentally exhausted.

“I don’t know why you’re acting this way,” Colleen mused. “You model things for me all the time at home without complaining. Aren’t you having fun, darling?”

Ethan huffed. “Not really.”

Penelope snorted. “Well, we’ll just have to turn that frown upside down then, won’t we, Mother?”

Colleen chuckled. “I think you have your work cut out for you.”

Back on the sidewalk, Ethan trudged between the women, shopping bags with dresses in hand, his feet aching. He couldn’t wait to get to the car and head home.

When is this day going to end? he wondered fretfully.

His attitude suddenly changed when they approached a video game store—a wall of LED displays flashing the latest titles caught his eye. For a moment, he forgot himself and paused, staring wistfully. He so wanted to go in—the lure of the sounds and lights and graphics triggered the boy beneath the wig—but again, he caught his girlish reflection in the store window and hesitated.

“Do you want to go in?” his mother said sweetly, far too sweetly. “Let’s see what catches your eye. Go on. You know you want to,” she teased.

“C-Can we just forget it? I-I mean… never mind. Please, Mother… I’d rather not.”

“Nonsense, sweetheart. You were very patient while we were shopping for Emily.” Colleen smirked. “Go get something nice for Ethan.”

Exchanging the shopping bags for his mother’s credit card, the nervous boy entered the store. He was mincing toward one of the displays when a voice called out.

“Hey—hey, just where do you think you’re going!”

Ethan froze. He turned slightly, just enough to see a knot of boys standing nearby. His mother and Penelope were just outside the store, too far away to help.

One of the boys—a lanky teenager in a hoodie—sauntered over, an arrogant look of disdain on his face.

“What are you doing here, Miss Priss?” He looked Ethan up and down with a sneer. “Girls like you don’t play video games!”

Ethan’s pulse quickened. He clutched his purse tighter under his arm, suddenly too aware of his wig, his painted nails, his silly, girlish sundress, and how his sandals clicked against the tile floor when he moved. He considered for an instant running for the door, but he was too scared to move a muscle.

“I, um…” he began, voice tight, Emily-soft. He could feel the weight of both women’s gazes behind him. “I was just looking…”

The boy laughed. “Let me guess—you probably play some sissy girl game, huh?” His friends chuckled behind him. “Probably some Barbie crap.”

“Yeah, they don’t sell My Little Pony here, girly-girl!” one of the other boys teased. “Why don’t you go back to your mommy?”

Ethan flushed, his fists curling slightly at his sides. He wanted to shout, to throw that dumb purse to the ground and declare: I’m a boy, not some girly-girl! I bet I could beat all of you! But instead, something else came to his lips—something softer, but no less pointed.

“Well, um… no,” he said sweetly, in the breathy, practiced lilt of Emily. “I’m not familiar with that one. I do like Zombie Apocalypse IX, though. I just made Master Chief Rank Fifty.” He fluttered his lashes, managing a slight smirk. “It’s not that hard if you know what you’re doing.”

The boy in the hoodie stared, blinking once.

“No way a girl like you made Master Chief,” he muttered, eyes darting to the yellow dress, the hairbow, the pearl bracelet. “No way!”

Emboldened by the boy’s reaction, Ethan shrugged. “Oh, yes way! My cousin Dani showed me all the special moves, how to increase the rate of fire in that machine gun thingie, how to get extra medical supplies and stuff.”

Another boy, this one wearing a backwards baseball cap, scoffed—it wasn’t often that a girl looking like that knew so much about video games. “Yeah, well, sure, everybody knows that stuff. Big deal.”

Ethan raised a single eyebrow, just like his mother did when she was about to give him grief. “So, then you know all about the secret map to the headquarters, too, hmm?” he cooed almost too sweetly.

“There’s a map to the headquarters?” Hoodie boy’s eyes went wide. “Where?”

“Sure. Just throw one of those little grenades in the hatch of the damaged tank. A pretty little map pops right out.” Ethan grinned at the bewildered reaction of his audience. “Everybody knows that,” he tutted, mimicking his Auntie Penelope’s smugness.

The cross-dressed boy then turned without another word, the hem of his sundress swirling gently against the back of his knees as he walked out of the store, hips swaying with the unconscious rhythm he’d been taught to fake. Behind him, he heard the boy wearing the baseball cap calling out.

“Hey! Did you guys hear what that prissy girl just told us? She’s, like, rank fifty! For real!”

“Yeah," Hoodie guy yelled. "She even found a map to the headquarters—”

More chatter, confused and shocked, followed him out the door.

Penelope put a hand over her mouth, stifling a delighted laugh. “Well, that was unexpected.”

Colleen looked down at Ethan with an arched brow. “Nicely done, young lady. You really are full of surprises.”

Ethan’s cheeks burned, but something within him swelled with strange pride.

“They didn’t have to be mean,” he mumbled, eyes down. “I just wanted to leave.”

“Of course you did,” said Penelope, patting his back. “And we’ll do that soon enough, darling. But let’s not leave here disappointed, hmm?”

She gestured cheerily to the pastel-colored entrance to a doll shop ahead.

“Since you’re not getting anything for Ethan, let’s find something special for our clever little Emily.”

 

* * *
 

They entered a shop filled with glittering boxes of molded plastic girls, miniature wardrobes, and tiny tea sets. Ethan’s heart dropped—shopping for girl’s clothes was bad enough, but being in a doll shop was terrifying. He tried to picture himself playing with dolls, dressing them up, going through all of the motions. That was bad enough. Being seen playing with dolls—especially by the likes of his mother and auntie—the idea of that was even more dreadful.

Penelope gave Ethan a firm nudge. “Pick one, darling. Every proper girl needs a dolly to keep her company. Who know, this may be the start of another fun little hobby.”

That’s what I’m afraid of, thought the cross-dressed boy.

Ethan was reluctant at first. But he surveyed the shelves anyway. He was amazed to see that many of the dolls wore outfits similar to what he and his mother made for their business. Oddly, that was enough to reel him in. For all of his boyish bravado and posturing and resistance, he’d developed a fascination for the craft he’d learned under his mother’s tutelage—here, before him, were dozens of miniature examples of the very thing he’d mastered over the past several weeks… and he could not resist the call.

The variety of dolls and their outfits was overwhelming. He was taking more time than he’d expected, and he blushed to see his mother and Auntie Penelope taking delight in his browsing.

“Take your time, darling,” Penelope cooed. “No need to rush. We’re just enjoying the view.”

“Of course they are,” he muttered. “Everybody likes watching the pretty little sissy boy pretending to be some girly-girl… hmm, look at that…”

At long last Ethan gravitated to a vintage-style fashion doll in a crisp polka dot housedress and apron. He noted with a smile her red lipstick and her equally red hair: a trademark of his mother and Aunt DeeDee and cousin Dani—except that Dani would never wear lipstick, of course.

“She looks like a 1950s housewife,” the cross-dressed boy said, smiling faintly. “She’s even got the rabbit’s ear hairbow like we do,” he murmured.

“She certainly does,” Colleen said, chuckling. “That’s Lucy from the old ‘I Love Lucy’ TV show. That hairbow is so you, Emily. Her entire outfit is, don’t you think?”

“I guess.” Ethan felt his cheeks flushing. “I think she’s kind of… classy.”

“Of course she’s classy,” Auntie Penelope said gently. “Just like our sweet little housewife.”

He looked at the doll and thought about the clothes he wore at home—his gingham and polka dot dresses, and the scarves and aprons—and all of the chores and tasks that went along with them. Having a small-scale reminder of his place in the world was both enticing and worrisome.

“I think I see a smile.” Penelope smirked. “Let’s get that one, Emily. Don’t you agree, Mother?”

Colleen nodded. “She’s perfect. A perfect doll for my perfect daughter.”

The old woman sniffed. “Then it’s official. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Yes, Auntie,” Ethan said softly, his voice once again delicate and properly sweet. “Thank you, Auntie.”

And then he gave a curtsy so perfect, so well-practiced, that both women clapped.

 

* * *
 

There was yet another stop to make.

Penelope, humming along with the radio, steered her Cadillac into a shaded lane lined with magnolia trees and high-end boutiques. Nestled between a French linen importer and a perfume atelier stood a modest little salon with a frosted glass door and a discreet sign in gold leaf that simply read: Stefan.

Inside, the air smelled of jasmine and talcum powder. The lighting was soft and flattering, and the plush leather chairs looked more like something from a private club than a beauty parlor. A silver-haired gentleman in a lavender vest and perfectly creased trousers floated toward them, his grin bright and theatrical.

“Darlings!” he trilled, clasping Penelope’s gloved hand in both of his. “You must be my special guest.”

Colleen winked at Ethan. “He means you, sweetheart.”

At first it was a nerve-wracking experience. Penelope made no secret that her “nephew” was in desperate need of style options, loudly describing his “limited inventory” and his “upcoming social calendar,” which seemed to include everything short of a debutante ball.

Stefan didn’t bat an eye. Boy, girl, it made no difference to him—someone was in dire need of his talents! With a practiced sweep of his hand, he gestured to a mirrored seat. “Sit, sugarplum. You’re in the hands of an artiste.”

Ethan gave his mother a helpless look. “Do I really?—”

Colleen gently guided him by the shoulders. “You’ll thank us. Eventually.”

The cross-dressed boy obeyed with a sigh, perching stiffly on the leather chair as Stefan approached like a magician preparing his assistant. Ethan’s current wig—which he had worn so many times and was now in need of some tender loving care—was lifted off and placed reverently on a stand. He blushed as cool air brushed his scalp, the vulnerable sensation amplified by the salon’s quiet intimacy.

Now I definitely look like a boy in a dress, he thought wryly. I may as well be naked.

“Such a darling head shape,” murmured Stefan. “Like a porcelain figurine. Let’s tidy things up, shall we?”

He gave Ethan a quick but professional haircut—“To better frame the canvas,” as he put it—then leaned him back for a shampoo. The warm water and slow massage of Stefan’s fingers through his damp hair proved unexpectedly soothing. Ethan nearly dozed off. Nearly.

After a thorough brushing and blow-dry came the real show. First was a crisp, curled 1950s flip, honey-blonde with sunlit highlights. Colleen adjusted the puffy shoulders of Ethan’s dress to admire the effect. “Oh, that is trouble,” she said with a low whistle. “She looks like she’s ready for a garden party.”

Penelope hooted. “Or a walk in the park with a boy.”

Ethan squirmed. “Ew, Auntie, please don’t say that!”

“Never say never.” She gave him a playful wink.

The second wig was a bright, almost platinum pageboy with subtle tapering around the chin. Penelope sat forward with gleaming eyes. “Perfect for polishing silver. Or serving tea to company.”

“Or writing thank-you notes in pink ink,” added Colleen.

Each wig was carefully fitted, snipped, and brushed, with Stefan fluttering and fussing, making little delighted noises as he worked. When he stepped back, he clasped his hands beneath his chin and beamed.

“Marvelous! I can’t believe he is not a she! It’s not just the wig—which is amazing, of course—but her bone structure, her skin tone, and that blush! And those pouty lips—simply incredible.”

Ethan glanced at the mirror. He could hardly recognize himself, and yet—there he was, beneath the satin smock, blinking uncertainly at a girl who looked like she should be hosting an etiquette segment on daytime television.

“And now—” Stephan cleared his throat, as if he was about to make a major announcement “—it is time for the tour de force, the final act of our little play.”

A third—and indeed, final—wig was presented, done up in golden shoulder-length ringlet curls, tight and springy, parted in the middle. Once in place it made Ethan look more girlish than the girliest of girls. The surprised boy felt a little thrill go through his body as Stefan primped and pulled and tugged at the curls, the sensation so powerful that he almost didn’t want the stylist to stop. When Stefan was done, Ethan couldn’t take his eyes off his reflection, turning his head this way and that like a self-absorbed teenage movie star.

“My goodness, I recognize that smile,” Stefan gushed. “Someone has fallen in love! I’m so happy!”

Colleen chuckled. “I believe you’re right. I haven’t seen that look on his face for quite a while.”

“Then our job is done!” Penelope clapped her hands. “Well done, Stefan. This has been a profitable day for all of us.”

Arrangements were made for the wig Ethan arrived in to be washed, conditioned and returned with a new and even more exciting hairstyle. They can do that? the cross-dressed boy thought. I had no idea.

Then he saw Penelope hand over her credit card without flinching.

He swallowed hard. The price tag made him feel faint, but Auntie Penelope didn’t so much as blink. There was pride in the way she handled the transaction, like a patron funding a great work of art. Or a cause célèbre.

To the surprise of everyone—himself included—Ethan suddenly stood up slowly, gracefully smoothing his skirt, his voice small but sincere.

“Thank you, Auntie Penelope,” he said, in his best Emily voice. “For the wigs. For everything.”

He then performed a half-curtsy, then remembered himself and did a better one, the way Penelope had shown him. To her credit, Penelope said nothing—only gave a small, approving nod.

Ethan then turned to Stefan and repeated the curtsy. “Thank you, Mr. Stefan,” he said, his voice soft and breathy. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You are a true artiste.”

“Oh, the poise, the drama!” The hair stylist wiped his eyes and clapped. “My dear, the pleasure is all mine. You must come back soon! Promise me?”

A smirking Colleen gave her son a nod of approval, then gathered her purse. “Lunch, I think?”

Penelope tapped her gloved fingers together. “Of course. Our little miss here is probably starving. We can’t let her waste away.”

And with that, Ethan was ushered out of the salon, the soft swish of his new ringlets brushing against his cheek, the faint scent of jasmine still clinging to his clothing.

 

* * *
 

They ate at a simple but elegant sidewalk café. All three had the chicken salad, tomatoes and iced tea. Dessert was lemon cheesecake.

Ethan sat between the two women and endured their ceaseless chatting about everything from the day’s purchases to business. For the most part he let their conversation pass over him, focusing instead on the passersby. All day he’d been anxious, concerned that someone would point at him and say, “Look at that boy! He’s wearing a dress!” Worse yet, one of his friends could just show up out of nowhere and then his life would be over.

But it never happened. None of it. He’d been to the shopping plaza, he’d tried on dresses and bought a doll… he’d even confronted a bunch of arrogant and rude boys—the kind of boys he might have been at one time—and walked away triumphant.

And now, sitting at the table in full view of dozens if not hundreds of complete strangers, playing with the curls of his new wig, he was beginning to relax in his role as the prim and proper daughter, the pretty niece… as Emily. He fooled them all… portraying the shy girl from out of town, visiting the big city and taking in the sights.

“Emily?” Ethan jerked, startled by the touch of his mother’s hand on his shoulder. He blushed to feel his ringlets tickle his neck and collarbone. “Darling, I asked you a question. What did you think of those awful boys at the video game store?”

“Sorry, Mother.” The cross-dressed boy gave her an apologetic smile, stifling a yawn. “I was… daydreaming, I guess.”

Penelope laughed. “I think our little miss is tuckered out. We’ve had a big day, haven’t we?”

Colleen nodded. “Still, I’d like your opinion, darling. Those boys you talked with… what did you think of them?”

Ethan nodded, thinking. “Well, to be honest, I was scared to death when I walked into that store. I wasn’t thinking when I told you I wanted to buy a game, and when I realized that meant actually going into a place like that—dressed like… this—” he glanced down at the fluffy skirt and puffy sleeves of his dress—“I, um, almost… peed myself.”

The two women stared at him for an instant, then they both burst out laughing.

The cross-dressed boy’s face reddened. “Sorry, Mother… Auntie… but it’s true. I was really scared. But something inside me gave me a little shove… and I got out of there before they figured out who… and what I was.”

“Well, I’m very proud of you, sweetheart. You handled yourself very well. And for the record, none of those boys had the slightest clue who Ethan was. They were so distracted by how adorable Emily was, though.”

Penelope chimed in. “It’s so true. You should have seen them and their beady little eyes, locked in on your cute little bottom—”

Ethan pouted. “Ew, gross! Auntie, please stop saying stuff like that!”

Both women laughed. Penelope put her hand on his and winked. “We keep telling you, you’re so precious, so pretty, you’ve got nothing to worry about. No boy will ever think of you as anything but a beautiful, well-dressed girl.”

Ethan smiled, but inside he felt his heart pounding. Being looked at as a girl—by all of those boys—was scary, probably one of the scariest things he’d every experienced. But now that he survived it…

Stop thinking about that! he thought. What is wrong with you… do you really want to be that way? Don’t let Mom and Auntie Penelope get inside your head.

Penelope suddenly pushed away from the table and stood up. “Now, speaking of… ahem… the need to go to the powder room, I’m going to visit it myself. Then we can do a little sight-seeing before checking into our hotel.”

“Hotel?" Ethan’s eyes went wide. "We… we’re not going home?”

Colleen smiled. “Oh no, darling. I told you, this is a weekend trip. We’ve still got this evening and all day tomorrow before heading back.

“I was… just surprised, I guess.”

Colleen took her son’s hand. “Come on, Emily. Let’s go freshen ourselves. You heard Auntie. It’ll be a while before we have another chance.”

Ethan sighed. “Yes… Mother.”

 

* * *
 

They left the little sidewalk café just as the river light turned to honey. Ethan stood, smoothed the bright yellow sundress he and his mother had made together in their shop—he felt the fabric flourish against his knees as a breeze came up the boulevard. Traffic hummed, the scent of hot pavement and magnolia drifting together, and the skyline rose in crisp, glassy tiers over the old brick warehouses.

“Sightseeing before the hotel,” Penelope declared, tapping her purse with the decisive, jeweled finger that meant no one would be going to a lobby until she had her fun. Her bangles chimed. “Capital City won’t wait for you to stop blushing, little lady.”

Colleen looped a hand through Ethan’s elbow, steering. “Posture,” she murmured. “Shoulders back. Let the dress hang, don’t fight it.”

“I’m not fighting it,” he whispered.

“You love it,” Colleen said, smiling without looking.

He didn’t argue the point.

They crossed to the river park where an antique steamboat—white deck rails, fluted smokestacks, a huge scarlet paddle—slept at its moorings. Cattails and river grass nodded at the bank. Someone played a calliope melody from a speaker under the awning: tinny, cheerful, a chorus from an older America.

“Perfect,” Colleen said, already producing her phone. “Emily, darling—up on the boardwalk there, the sun at your back.”

Ethan hesitated. A family drifted past—father in a polo, mother in sunglasses, a little girl dragging a stuffed rabbit by one ear—and the girl pointed at his dress and shouted, “That girl looks like a butterfly!”

Penelope, satisfied, folded her arms. “You heard the expert.”

Ethan climbed the boardwalk step and tried to look small without actually shrinking. He put a hand on the rail, bent his wrists the way his mother liked, and felt the bright wig’s curls kiss his cheek. A gull barked, the river slapped the pilings, and Colleen lifted the phone, her voice changing into that breezy, helpful tone she used for the blog.

“Turn just a smidge. Good. Touch your chin with your left hand. You’re thinking about summer lemonade and not about anything scary. Lovely. Now, one where you show the skirt—pinch and lift, not too high. That’s it, my love. Perfect!”

Click-click.

Ethan obeyed, warm-faced but buoyed by the way passersby smiled instead of stared. The dress—proud little darts, a neat waist, hem banded with white lace—caught the light like a dandelion. He didn’t quite forget he was a boy on display; he did, however, feel the river take him in and hold him, and the feeling was…not terrible.

“Don’t scowl,” Penelope warned. “You’ll age yourself five years and we can’t afford that in a hemline this innocent.”

“I’m not scowling,” he said, but he softened his mouth anyway. Colleen laughed.

Click-click. Click-click.

They wandered deeper into the park. The glass house of the butterfly atrium rose ahead like a soap bubble the size of a chapel. Inside, it was warm and thick with the smell of citrus peels and wet soil. The air moved with wings. Blue, flame-orange, lemon-yellow; they turned and folded, lights in a gentle parade.

“Remind me to put a note on the blog,” Colleen murmured, adjusting a renegade curl under the wig cap. “Yellow draws the Swallowtails. See them? They’re flirting with you.”

“That’s because he’s wearing their flag,” Penelope said.

“Her flag,” Colleen corrected softly, never breaking rhythm. “All right, Emily—hands loose, do that pigeon-toed thing you always do."

"I don't—" He stopped talking as he realized he always did.

Click-click. Click-click.

"Now imagine the butterflies are your audience." Colleen smirked. "No grimacing, please.”

Ethan managed a face that counted as not-grimacing. “Mom, I already did the riverboat. Do I have to—”

“Dear heart,” Penelope cut in, laughter in the scold, “if I had a wardrobe that behaved this nicely I’d be photographed in front of the courthouse, the post office, and the dog catcher’s van.”

“You do have a wardrobe that behaves that nicely,” Ethan said.

“Exactly,” said Penelope, victorious.

Colleen’s phone stitched the atrium into a string of stills. Butterflies found Ethan as if coopering with the whole enterprise: a paper-thin white one clung to the shoulder strap like lace; a yellow swallowtail hovered in front of his nose, astonished to find its color on a person.

Click-click-click.

“They like you,” a docent said, stopping with a watering can. “It’s the shade you’re wearing. They’re drawn to light.”

Ethan stuck out a careful finger. A small monarch alighted, as polite as a handshake. Something in him unclenched. He smiled for real, the kind that pulled his eyes, and Colleen didn’t waste it.

Click-click-click-click.

“You’ll want that one for the brochure,” Penelope said, already picturing it: Emily in the Wildflower Sun Dress—Make It Your Own. Include a little butterfly pin.”

“Good idea.” Colleen nodded, scrolling through her collection of photographic gold.

When they checked into the hotel suitcases Ethan didn’t know about suddenly appeared out of nowhere. The lobby shone like an opera set: marble floors, a chandelier like a galaxy, the front desk staffed by men who ironed their collars with their own gazes. Penelope sailed through introductions as if she were a dowager queen and not an eccentric neighbor from Maplewood. The clerk said, “Welcome, ladies,” and Emily felt a tiny earthquake in his ribs.

In the elevator, mirrors multiplied them—three, six, nine Emilys, all trying to keep her smile sensible. In the room—plush, high windows, a little sofa, two queen beds—he discovered his mother had packed a second layer of courage.

“You brought more dresses,” he said.

“Of course I did,” said Colleen, kneeling by the suitcase with the secret compartments she loved. “We’re not eating dinner in your sewing clothes. Here—seafoam. Tea length. The sash pulls the line together. I think it will be a best-seller for us, don’t you?”

The dress smelled of starch and satisfaction. Ethan forgot to breathe, then remembered that he could. He would be wearing that dress soon, and in front of who knew how many people. The very thought drained him.

Penelope hung her caftan in the closet with enough ceremony to christen a ship and said, “Our little ingenue is in need of some rest. We’ll go eat in a couple of hours—time enough for her to get in a little snooze.”

Ethan didn’t argue, especially when he realized that meant taking a break from his wig. He watched with curious amazement as Penelope placed the expensive mass of curls on a foam form that she pulled out from one of several suitcases she brought along on their trip. We’re just here for one night, he thought wryly. Why does she need so much stuff? He then allowed his mother to remove his sandals and the yellow sundress, put his real hair back in a couple of small clips, and lead him to bed.

He felt self-conscious wearing just his bra and panties, but no one said a word, though Penelope did shoot him a playful wink and an approving nod as he curled up for a welcome nap.

After a while Ethan woke to the sound of women’s voices. Colleen and Penelope were on the phone, the tinny voice of his Aunt DeeDee in the background. There were soft murmurs, a cackle from the speakerphone and some quiet chuckling on this side of the line. He heard his mother said, “Good job, Dee. We’ll see you tomorrow afternoon,” before ending the call. A moment later he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder.

“Wakey-wakey, my love.” Colleen stood over him, a warm smile curling her lips. “Time to rise and shine. We have an evening of excitement ahead of us.”

Ethan sat up, rubbing his eyes. He pulled up an errant bra strap and looked around the room. “Was that Aunt DeeDee on the phone? What’s going on?”

“Oh nothing,” Penelope giggled. “She’s taking care of Gingersnap for me. Just giving us a report.”

“Okay.” He paused, thinking. “I heard laughing. Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s—” both women started at the same time. Penelope looked at Colleen, smirking. Colleen, in turn, put her hand over her mouth. “Everything’s fine, darling,” she said. “Dani was just acting up on the phone—you know how that girl is. And Gingersnap is safe and happy.”

“Yes, sweet girl,” Penelope added, her face alight with mischief. “The little duchess is being cared for. Everything else is going according to plan.”

“Everything else… according to?—” Ethan narrowed his eyes, his lips pursed. There was something in the way his mother and aunt looked at one another, but he was overwhelmed as it was. “Well, okay then. I guess.”

“Come along, darling,” Colleen said. “We’ve much to do and don’t want to be late.”

After Ethan made a quick closed-door visit to the bathroom, Colleen helped him wash his face and put his wig back on. To his surprise she insisted on applying the slightest touch of makeup, a hint of eye shadow, a swipe of blush across his cheeks, and a generous coating of pink gloss on his lips. Then came the seafoam dress and shoes on bare feet—and it was done.

Penelope looked as though she was about to faint from happiness. “Oh my goodness, how quickly we’ve grown up! My sweet girl… my precious niece… just look at you! You make me so happy, just standing there.”

Ethan hadn’t said much since his nap. But when he looked in the full-length mirror next to the bathroom door he gasped. “I… I look… different. The same, but… different.”

Indeed he did. The seafoam chiffon fell to his calves like a river of light. A narrow belt, just below his ribs, pricked a neat bow at the side. His white kitten heels—not foolish, but not nothing—practically clicked on the carpet. Just as Penelope had said, he looked older with his smooth legs and shiny lips, or maybe just farther away from Maplewood; he could have been—and probably was—mistaken for a high school girl. The wig’s curls framed him in ways that kept surprising him, helped by a hairbow that matched his dress.

Colleen was proud, but quiet. “You’ll want a cardigan darling; the restaurant will think it’s Paris in January even if we don’t.”

The restaurant waited behind a screen of palms. Linen, candlelight, silver a little too bright. A waiter in black held menus like pamphlets for a very exclusive club. “Good evening, ladies” he said. “Table for three?”

“Table for three,” Penelope repeated, the queen’s hand blessing the commoner. She watched the waiter watch Emily and gave the smallest nod: yes, she’s with us; yes, she’s allowed.

Ethan sat as he’d been taught: ankles tucked, back easy but straight, napkin on lap, hands in the space between nervous and noticeable. The room hummed with low talk and the soft orchestra of cutlery. If anyone looked, they did it kindly or not at all. He decided to breathe.

“You’re doing beautifully,” Colleen said, menu up, eyes over the top. “Don’t nibble on your hair.”

“I’m not—” He stopped. A curl had found his mouth. He gently shooed it away and tried not to die of it. “Thanks… er, thank you, Mother.”

Penelope leaned in. “And now a compliment from your gentlest of aunts. You pass, dear girl. With extra credit for courage. Keep your voice where it lives today—don’t push it up, don’t drag it down. Anyone worth impressing will hear the manners first.”

The food came as if the room were finishing a sentence: crisp salad with a tart whisper, a little filet properly shy of done, rolls you wanted to pocket because they were so small and perfect. The waiter said, “Miss?” to Emily when he refilled water, the slight flirtation in his voice causing the cross-dressed boy to tremble.

Colleen and Penelope traded smirks. Ethan’s face reddened as he realized that he—well, Emily, rather—was the evening’s entertainment.

By dessert, the shaking that had traveled his bones settled into a pleasant thrum. He could pretend to be a real girl in exactly the way that meant being a careful boy: please and thank you, listen and smile, watch your hands, knees together, feet pigeon-toed, don’t pick at the sash. He was worn and proud and peeking over a fence at a world where he hadn’t been told to go, and no one stopped him.

“One more surprise,” Colleen said, dabbing her lips. “We brought you to the city for shopping, but we’re not leaving without a little culture.”

The ticket-taker at the theater—old plush seats, gold plaster cupids, velvet curtains rumored to remember presidents—tore their stubs and said, “Enjoy the show, ladies.” People around them sparkled: tuxedos, sequins, a woman with flowers in her hair as if she had simply walked out of an advertisement from 1952. Ethan kept the program cupped in two hands like a prayer book. The orchestra tuned.

“It’s very grown-up,” he whispered, brushing a lock of blonde hair behind his ear.

Penelope’s eyebrow climbed to the mezzanine. “So are you,” she cooed, thinking of her own youth and the curly haired girl she’d once been.

The overture spun and the stage opened into a town square that was also a song. It was an old musical—the kind with pretty trouble, comic relief in a hat, and a melody that would follow you home and sit on your porch. At first Ethan felt odd, worried, but soon he forgot the wig and the sleeves and the deliberate ankles; he remembered to laugh when the man with the quick shoes did his ridiculous soft-shoe and to sigh when the heroine’s voice went up into light. He clapped and didn’t check if he clapped correctly. He became, for a whole hour and then another, just one small person in a big, delighted audience.

At intermission, they stood in the red-carpet corridor with lemon ice in paper cups. “Well?” Colleen asked. “Absolutely dreadful? The worst thing you’ve ever seen? Or are you having maybe a little bit of fun?”

“It’s…good,” he said, dazed by the grandness of the foyer and the crowd around them. “Better than the movie musicals on TV. It’s like everyone decided to make pretend together.”

“That,” Penelope said, “is the definition of theater. Also of families, when they’re doing it right.”

Ethan nodded, not quite understanding, but pretending…

Oh.

After the final bow, they drifted back to the car and not to the hotel. “A few more pictures. Nighttime in the big city,” Colleen said, and Ethan groaned for form, which delighted both women.

They wound up to a municipal overlook where the cityscape lay like a jewelry case left open. A steady wind brushed the hillside, rearranging clouds like stagehands fussing with scrim. The lavender dress looked almost silver under the streetlamp. With the skyline behind him and the curls just so, Ethan felt taller, not by inches but by angle.

“Here,” Colleen said. “Hold the clutch at your side. This could be the cover of our catalog, Emily.”

“We have a catalog?”

Click-click. Click-click.

Colleen raised an eyebrow. “One day we will.”

Click-click.

After several shots he finally relaxed. Again. Colleen showed him some of the photos. “I do look older,” he murmured, seeing himself in the phone’s dark glass.

“Only because you’re learning how to stand,” Penelope said. “Nothing ages children like poise.”

They did a dozen shots against the rail, another handful by the stone sign, several where the wind set the skirt rippling and Colleen squeaked as if she’d caught a butterfly in the lens. “That’s the one,” she said, low and thrilled. “Emily taking in the urban nightlife. It will sell ten of these dresses by Tuesday.”

Back at the hotel, the quiet felt like velvet. Ethan took off the wig—ah, the relief—and smoothed his own hair flat with damp hands. After a quick shower he slid into the modest ivory nightgown his mother had packed. It felt like a truce he’d signed with sleep. His slippers made small whispers on the carpet.

Colleen appeared in her soft gown and robe, the color of leaf tea with cream. Penelope emerged from the bathroom last, wearing an exotic nightgown printed in lantern reds and peacock blues, a pattern loud enough to set off car alarms. She looked, impossibly, like an old queen from a country no one could find on a map.

“Don’t gawk,” she said to Ethan without heat, easing herself onto the bed nearest the window. “If I didn’t dress like a rare bird, men would mistake me for the furniture. And now—” she clicked off her lamp—“if I begin to snore, you have my permission to applaud during the quiet parts.”

She was asleep in minutes, and the snore proved nobler than a saw: a dignified, steady commotion like someone pushing a wardrobe across a ballroom.

Ethan and Colleen sat on the little sofa with their knees sometimes touching. She brought out her hairbrush and played with his dark brown locks, helping them dry.

“I forgot myself,” he confessed. “During the show. I wasn’t Emily—I was just… me… but not me. Does that make any sense?”

“I know.” Colleen’s hand found his shoulder, rested, warmed. “We saw it happen. You were wonderful.”

“I was pretending at first,” he said, which felt both untrue and true. “But then… I wasn’t.”

“I could tell,” Colleen said. “Pretending can be fun, but it can get confusing. Maybe just being yourself is best.”

“But my problem is… which version of me is the best?”

“Good question, though that’s not for me to answer.” Colleen smiled. “Give it time, baby. There’s no hurry. Also,” she added, “you were an excellent model today, even when you were a grump.”

“I wasn’t pretending then.” He smiled into his lap. “Penelope’s snoring is like a steamboat.”

“A paddle boat,” Colleen agreed. She put down her hairbrush and added a pair of clips in his hair in an attempt to tame it. “We may not sleep at all. We’ll be zombies at breakfast.”

Ethan slipped under the covers and thought about the day that passed and what might happen the next. He closed his eyes, smiling as his mother hummed a familiar melody from his childhood; he was almost asleep when she slid in beside him—a warm kiss on the nape of his neck was the last thing he remembered.

Morning came in sheets of pale gold over the city, and the air held the Sunday quiet particular to places with a thousand bells. Contrary to Colleen’s prediction they were not zombies. Ethan actually felt energized as he dressed himself—this time in a sweet white frock sprigged with yellow roses, a crinoline giving it a cheerful bell. The curly blonde wig went on; the mirror complied. He added a soft butter-yellow cardigan because Penelope’s prophecy about cool temperatures rang true. A satin ribbon in his wig and a pair of pastel yellow kitten heels finished his statement.

In the hotel dining room, sunlight found the silver and painted it. The hostess said “Good morning, ladies” and took them to a table by the window where the skyline did its best impression of a handsome stranger. Ethan ordered pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream and felt nine years old until the petticoat brushed his knees and reminded him to sit like a picture again. Penelope ordered coffee strong enough to wake the dead. Colleen checked her phone, sorting through the night’s treasure—riverboat, atrium, skyline, the shot. “We’ll do a photo essay for the blog,” she said. “And captions about courage and yellow roses and seafoam.”

“Make sure you don’t use my name, please,” Ethan said, the old worry peeking out.

“Your name is Emily when you’re on the clock,” she murmured casually. “I’ll deny anything else upon pain of death.”

After they ate, they walked the little park beside the hotel, where an alley of trees made a shady tunnel and the grass had that Sunday damp that pretends to be dew. Colleen directed a final set of photos: “Emily” on the path with her hands behind her and her head tilted; on a low stone wall, feet together and toes pointed, the crinoline just not quite revealing anything except how well it behaved; laughing because two mallards decided to stroll past like critics.

“Hold still, rosebud,” Penelope said when he threatened to jitter away. “If you wobble I’ll bring wardrobe tape next time and strap you to the flagpole.”

“Please, dear heart,” Colleen said, laughing, “don’t give the child nightmares.”

By the last shot, Ethan had perfected his smile so that he could put it on without thinking. It landed on his face and simply lived there. A woman with a stroller paused, looked at them—a mother, a fashionable aunt, a girl in Sunday dress—and said, “You all look so lovely.”

“Thank you,” three voices said at once, slightly different keys to the same chord.

Back upstairs, the room returned to a puzzle: half-open drawers, the corner of a sash, Penelope’s scarf flung over the chair like a lighthouse flag. Ethan folded the cardigan properly, because that had become a thing he did without being told—plus, he wouldn’t need it for the car ride home. The “I Love Lucy” doll—unboxed while Penelope snored—went back into its packaging with a promise he would sew her a new dress and apron when they got home.

Colleen zipped the suitcase with the satisfaction of a woman who had made the world, for one weekend, exactly as tidy as she liked. “One last check,” she said. “Teeth, hair, lip balm—and potty.” She winked. “It’s an hour’s drive. If we leave now we can be back before the cat assumes we’ve moved to Europe.”

“Poor Gingersnap,” Penelope murmured. “With DeeDee and Dani in charge, she’s probably traumatized. The duchess will scold us all upon our return, no doubt.”

The elderly woman packed as if she were both leaving and arriving. She plucked a city postcard from the desk and wrote something motivating and extravagant before handing it to Ethan. “For your scrapbook,” she said. “A lady must keep records of her victories.”

“I’m not a—” he started, then saw the look and corrected himself with a blush. “Thank you.”

After leaving their luggage in good hands, they made the elevators, made the lobby, made the easy glide through the revolving door into the bright, forgiving day. On the curb, while Penelope argued fondly with the valet about something no one else could possibly find interesting, Ethan and Colleen stood together.

“You were brave this weekend,” Colleen said, not looking at him in the way that made it easier to hear. “You were kind and beautiful and game, you stood with us and you stood up for yourself. And you helped me with the photos for our business. I’m so proud.”

“I was just… being Emily?”

She pursed her lips, thinking. “How about you were just being you?”

Ethan nodded. He looked up at the skyline one last time. He liked the way the buildings made room for the river and how the river made room for its own reflections. He liked that he had been one of those reflections last night, and again this morning, and that the water didn’t mind.

“Okay,” he said, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d held. “I’m ready to go home.”

Penelope’s bracelets announced her approach. “Homeward bound,” she decreed as her car showed up. She settled in behind the steering wheel like a captain helming a ship. “And, Colleen? I’m thinking on the way out of town we should find a place where we can buy half a dozen lemons.” She reached over and tapped one of the roses decorating Ethan’s skirt. “I have an idea about a dress and a pie, and both require zest.”

Colleen laughed as the car slid into the late-morning flow, and Capital City—its theaters, its butterflies, its generous mirrors—folded itself away behind them like a curtain at the end of a show. Ethan touched the satin bow at his waist, felt the petticoat’s whisper, and let the road carry him back to the small streets that had made him brave enough to visit a larger one.

 

* * *
 

Penelope’s stately sedan hummed along the highway back toward their quiet suburb, the mood inside having shifted—lighter in some ways, heavier in others. The fragrance of fresh lemons and leather permeated the air. Ethan sat between the two women, trying his best to remain still, proper, and composed despite the heaviness in his eyes and the touch of ringlet curls against his neck and shoulders.

He shifted in his seat, smoothing his full chiffon skirt with the flat of his hands just as he'd been taught. His little white purse rested demurely on his lap, a gentle reminder of how far he’d come—or fallen, depending on the mood—since that morning.

Colleen checked her phone for the umpteenth time and mentioned casually—and cryptically—that “Everything is on schedule.” Ethan’s eyes narrowed, but his question was deflected before he could open his mouth:

“I must say,” Auntie Penelope chirped brightly, sipping from her bottled iced tea, “our Emily was simply radiant throughout the weekend. Stefan practically swooned when she did that cute little curtsy, didn’t he, Colleen?”

“He did indeed,” his mother replied, barely suppressing a laugh. “And he wasn’t the only one. I don’t know if you noticed, Emily dear, but you turned quite a few heads. Everyone who saw you at the theater last night seemed to glow in your presence.”

“Oh, Mother, you know that’s not true.” Ethan blushed, amused by the way the title rolled off his tongue. The affectation felt strange at that moment, despite having become habitual when dressed as Emily, especially around other women. “But thank you anyway.”

Colleen leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You’re welcome, my love.”

Ethan blushed and looked out the window, unsure whether the warmth in his chest was from embarrassment or the strange sense of pride that now accompanied these feminine validations.

 

* * *
 

It was approaching late afternoon when Penelope guided her sedan into the Martin driveway. Ethan sat quietly in the front seat as the engine shut down, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his purse resting against his bodice. His mother was first to get out and when he followed his blonde wig bounced about and his petticoat and dress rode up his legs, exposing his panties.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” Colleen said kindly, brushing his skirt down over his thighs as his feet hit the pavement. “Keep those knees together, and don’t forget your purse.”

“Yes, Mother. Sorry, Mother,” Ethan said dutifully, taking care to use the feminine tone he’d been practicing all day. His voice had started to lift automatically now, though every syllable still felt slightly too sweet, too airy for comfort. Thankfully his adventure was coming to an end and he could go back to being… himself?

It’s gonna be strange changing back into my regular clothes, he thought. I almost forgot what wearing a pair of pants is like. That, and not having to curtsy every time I turn around.

They retrieved the shopping bags from the trunk—suitcases, bags filled with carefully chosen dresses, packages of tights, slips, underthings, and of course, his “I Love Lucy” doll. Auntie Penelope placed boxes of wigs and dolls and accessories in his arms like sacred relics, giving him a satisfied smile.

“Wait until you see what’s waiting for you inside,” she said with a wink.

“Inside where?” Ethan’s brow furrowed. “In the house? Waiting for me?”

Colleen and Penelope exchanged an all-too-innocent look.

“You’ll see,” his mother said breezily.

The house smelled faintly of new paint and something floral—like a soft spring perfume. Upstairs, the two women pushed Ethan past his bedroom door and instead toward the guest bedroom, which was where they normally stored plastic bins of dress-making materials and a spare bed and whatnot. The door was closed, but there was a shiny pink ribbon tied into a large bow around the knob.

“Go ahead,” Colleen said gently. “Open it—Emily.”

Heart thumping, Ethan stepped forward, turned the handle, and pushed the door open.

He froze.

The room had been transformed. What had once been drab and boring was now alive, dazzling, even: the walls were painted a delicate ballet pink, accented with white trim. A new twin-sized bed sat against the far wall, dressed in ruffled pink sheets, a white quilt embroidered with roses, and a fluffy cloud of pillows. A white vanity stood near the window, complete with a round mirror and a collection of makeup brushes arranged like bouquets in porcelain cups. A delicate white lamp with a lace shade cast a gentle glow. On the far side of the room stood a tall pink and white wardrobe with heart-shaped handles, and just beside it, a dressmaker’s mannequin stood, draped in one of the first dresses he and his mother had worked on together.

Ethan stepped inside slowly, as though the room might vanish if he moved too quickly.

A full-length mirror leaned against the wall across from the bed. Framed prints of vintage fashion illustrations—cinched waists, petticoats, hats and gloves—hung like guardian angels above the vanity. Several fashion dolls—his mother’s vintage Barbies, he later learned—in elegant 1950s attire stood posed on a set of pink-and-white shelves.

And next to the window his mother’s old sewing machine sat on a painted table. Spools of thread in pastel shades were arranged in a rainbow across the wall above it. A pin cushion shaped like a cupcake waited invitingly nearby, along with his trusty Little Miss sewing kit.

“You did this?” Ethan whispered, barely recognizing the softness of his own voice.

Colleen grinned. “Well, we had a little help from some very energetic—and mischievous—elves.”

“Elves?—”

“Surprise!” Ethan jumped as DeeDee and Dani appeared at the door—both were wearing paint-stained jeans, T-shirts and the kind of sweat that came from hard work. DeeDee held a chilled bottle of root beer by the neck and Dani chewed a wad of bubble gum that—when she blew it—grew to the size of a baby’s head. Their combined grins were contagious, even to the most reluctant of cross-dressed boys.

“Ooo-la-la! Look at Princess Curly Top in his pwetty wittle dwess,” Dani crowed. “Ain’t she just the cutest wittle thang you ever seen?”

“Shut it, rugrat!” DeeDee grabbed Dani’s baseball hat and threw it into the hallway, sending the tomboy out of the room for the moment. “Sorry about that, little mister. What mini-me is trying to say is, did you have a glorious time in the big city? And you are looking quite fetching, if I do say so myself.”

Ethan blushed. They were always teasing him like that and part of him didn’t hate it. “Um, yeah… I mean, yes, Aunt DeeDee. We had a good time. I guess.”

Hat in hand, Dani gave him a not soft at all punch in the shoulder. “It sure was boring without you around, Sissy. No skirts to flip, no hair ribbons to pull—I didn’t have anybody to give a hard time.”

“Why do I think that’s not true,” the cross-dressed boy muttered.

“’Cause it’s not,” the tomboy chirped. “But you are my favorite panty boy.”

“So, whaddaya think, Princess?” DeeDee took a swig of her root beer and burped. “We done a pretty good job, wouldn’t you say? You better like it ‘cause we worked our butts off.”

“True that.” Dani stretched her arms and grunted. “That furniture was heavier than heck. I think that wardrobe knocked my sacroiliac out of whack.”

Ethan didn’t know what to say or how to act. He put the boxes and bags on the bed and looked around, trying to take everything in without getting emotional. The events of the past two days were more than enough to unnerve him, but to come home and see this room, literally dripping in girlishness—and to be surrounded by his family in its midst—rendered him speechless. And not entirely unhappy.

He looked at his mother and Auntie Penelope. “So… you knew about this? While we were gone, you… you all set this up? With them?”

“Of course we did, you darling child.” Penelope giggled like a teenager. “Why do you think we took you to Capital City? Aside from the fact that I wanted to spoil my favorite niece, of course. But don’t blame me, sweetheart—this mostly was your mother’s idea.”

The frown on Ethan’s face caused Colleen to laugh. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Emily. We had to do something. Your wardrobe is getting out of hand and I was pretty sure you didn’t want all of your pretty things in Ethan’s room.”

“So—” Ethan thought for a moment—“This is what you came up with?”

“You don’t sound very grateful,” murmured DeeDee. “After all the work we put into this? I mean, sheesh! Tell us how you really feel, little mister.”

“I’m sorry, Aunt DeeDee” The cross-dressed boy sighed. “It’s just that… this is… a lot.”

Colleen stepped beside him and placed an arm around his shoulders. “We didn’t do this to be mean, baby. We just thought it was time you had a proper space for your… hobbies.”

Penelope beamed. “And where else would a young lady sew her little dresses and play with her dolls… and dream of things to come?”

Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, so he chose the better option for the moment. Part of him felt intimidated by the sheer girliness of it all, the commitment of the time and effort that had been put into making this space for a part of him that he still doubted—and another part of him was intrigued by the idea of having a place where he could be and do and even do nothing… in the guise of Emily. Or even himself, his feminine self.

Whatever that means, he thought wryly.

“So… I don’t hate it?” he murmured.

“Faint praise, but I’ll take it,” DeeDee grunted.

“Yeah, it’s the perfect room for my most perfect Sissy.” Dani put her arm around his shoulders, gesturing to the room with the enthusiasm of a real estate agent. “C’mon, cuz, be real! You can’t be mad. I mean, just think about it—it’s your own personal Girlyville. You can live out your Emily fantasies to your heart’s content here and nobody will bother you. And if it makes you feel better, I promise I won’t come in here and bother you without your okay. Scout’s honor.” She grinned and added: “Outside this room, well—all bets are off.”

Ethan took a deep breath, then let it out. “This… does looks like… like a room for a real girl.”

His mother’s smile was gentle but firm. “And who’s to say you aren’t one—at least when you want to be?”

“To be a princess, or to be a little mister,” DeeDee added, her face marked by bemusement and irony. “That is the question, methinks.”

“I don’t know what I am,” Ethan admitted, voice trembling. “This is all so much.”

“Oh darling, you’re still you,” Colleen said, giving him a kiss on the temple. “This is just a different side of you. A softer, sweeter one.”

“Yeah, cuz, you’re still you.” Dani pursed her lips. “Weird as you are. And that’s cool with us.”

“Well said, Danielle,” chirped Penelope. She took Ethan’s hand and held it to her heart. “You’re not just cool—” she winked at Dani— “with us, darling, you’re truly precious.”

“Um, thanks?” Ethan frowned. “I think?”

DeeDee tugged the bewildered boy from Penelope’s grasp and gave him a hug that would have been approved by the Guild of Perpetual Aunties if there was such a thing. “Well, it’s all yours now, Princess. You can move some of your other things in here when you’re ready—or not. Though I don’t think there’s any room for your video games.”

“I’ll take care of those for ya,” Dani offered, half-teasing, half not.

Ethan flushed, remembering the stares of the boys in the electronics store. He turned toward the vanity and looked at his reflection in the mirror. For a moment, he didn’t look like any of those boys. He didn’t look like a boy at all, much less a boy pretending to be a girl. He just looked… like Emily.

“I’m not sure what to say,” he murmured.

“Say thank you, my love,” Colleen prompted gently, stepping behind him and adjusting his wig just so. “It’s not that difficult.”

Ethan swallowed, then nodded. “Thank you, Mother. Thank you, Auntie Penelope.” He did a proper curtsy to each, then turned to his aunt and cousin and did the same for them. “Thank you, Aunt DeeDee. Thank you, Dani.”

“You actually curtsied for us?” Dani high-fived her mother. “Score!”

“You’re welcome, Princess.” DeeDee kissed his forehead, leaving a red smudge that caused Dani to fight a giggle. “Us girls have to take care of each other.”

Penelope snorted. “As much as I hate to admit it, I couldn’t have said so better myself.”

The cross-dressed boy turned again to the room—his room now—and spotted a small sign hanging over the vanity. It was pink with glittery script that read: “Be your own kind of beautiful.”

“That was my idea,” Dani whispered, adding an affectionate shoulder bump. “Saw it at the flea market and thought, I know the perfect place for somethin’ like that.”

Ethan sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, his skirt billowing around him. He looked his family—his mother and Auntie Penelope and DeeDee and Dani—at the dolls on the dresser, the pile of purchases on his new bed, and finally… at his reflection.

And for the first time that weekend, he didn’t feel like an imposter.

 
Next up: The Little Housewife