Ethan’s World

by Daphne Childress

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

Chapter Twenty-Five: Errands for Auntie

Penelope has some fun at Ethan’s expense.
 

Ethan Martin’s life had become very busy. The twelve year old’s responsibilities at home had grown so much that summer: his mother’s dressmaking business was booming—due in large part to his help as her model, muse and assistant—so while she was busy in her sewing room he’d taken over all of the housework, including cleaning and laundry and most of the cooking. He didn’t mind so much—where most boys his age were out playing ball, riding their bikes or were hooked on video games, he actually preferred staying home, making himself useful around the house—and working in his mother’s sewing room—though he’d never admit any of that to his friends.

In addition to his other responsibilities, Ethan was also employed by his Auntie Penelope as her housekeeper. Wednesdays with Whitaker had become almost normal for him. Almost. He’d grown accustomed to vacuuming the endless floors and carpets, polishing silver and dusting endless collections of knickknacks and tchotchkes under his adopted aunt’s eagle-eyed supervision. And things being what they were, Penelope continued to insist that he dress as “Emily” during his visits, which varied between a modest cotton housedress with a bibbed apron and sensible flats and, on special occasions, a cute maid’s uniform and one of his blonde wigs.

More than once, Ethan thought about begging out of the job entirely, citing his mother’s sewing business as an excuse; while he loved his Auntie Penelope, she could be a bit much at times. But somehow—between his mother’s encouragement and Penelope’s sly schemes… and a generous paycheck—he remained her faithful housekeeper, maidservant and companion.

“She’s family, baby, and we have to take care of each other,” Colleen reminded him. “You know she loves you and she would do anything for you, so just be patient and have fun with all this. One day you’ll look back and be glad you did it.”

“I doubt that,” the rueful boy muttered. “But I’ll pretend you’re right.”

“Don’t be rude, darling.” She gave him a quick peck on the lips. “I’m your mother. I’m always right.”

On this particular day, the air in the old woman’s Victorian parlor was thick with the scent of lemon polish and lavender talcum. Ethan was bent over the hearth, brushing soot from the brass fender, when he heard a delicate sigh from the chaise.

“Oh, dear,” Penelope murmured, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead with the exaggerated grace of a silent film star. “I’m not quite feeling myself.”

Ethan turned quickly, concern knitting his brow. “Are you okay, Auntie Penelope?”

She fluttered her hand toward the side table. “It’s my prescription, darling. I forgot to pick it up this morning. Would you be a dear and fetch it for me?”

Ethan straightened up, flustered. “Me? But I’m—I mean, look at me.”

She opened one eye just enough to take in the sight of him: the crisp pink floral print dress, the tidy apron, the bare neckline exposing his boyish collarbone, a pair of faux pearl barrettes taming his dark brown locks. “You’ll do just fine, Emily. The pharmacist knows me well. Just give him my name.”

He stood frozen, mouth half open in protest.

“My bursitis is flaring something awful,” she added with a little wince. “If I don’t take my medication soon, I might be bedridden for days.”

That tipped the scale. Ethan’s mother was out for the afternoon and his house key was in his jeans pocket—at home. There was no easy way out.

“Do you—do you have any of my wigs, Auntie?” he asked faintly.

“Top cabinet in the guest room armoire,” she said, already sounding more cheerful. “The one with the flip.”

Five minutes later, Ethan stood before the hallway mirror, heart hammering in his chest. The blonde wig, neatly combed and fastened with a slim white headband, framed his face in soft curls. Penelope had even pinned a little daisy brooch to his dress “for cheer.”

He clutched the small coin purse she’d given him and peeked out the lace-draped front window. The sun was shining mockingly. Of course it was. He took a deep breath, stepped through the front door… and toward certain doom.

Ethan had been outside dressed as Emily several times in the past, running errands and even walking Gingersnap, his aunt’s cat, around the block. But today was different. What his Aunt Penelope didn’t realize—what no one else, not even his mother, knew—was that he recently had a frightening encounter with a boy from school, the infamous Samuel Torres, the biggest bully of Lincoln Middle School. Samuel had caught Ethan dressed as Emily—in a maid’s costume, complete with apron, petticoats, lipstick and wig—and that had been a reality check for the shaken youth. He’d always feared being found out and exposed as a mama’s boy, a sissy and all of the other terrible, horrible things associated with boys who wore dresses. Getting caught by Samuel was a nightmare as far as he was concerned.

And now, here he was, once again in the public eye, posing as the prissy, goody-two-shoes Emily, ripe pickings for the neighborhood bullies and who knew what other ne’er do wells that he might encounter. He had no choice, however—Auntie Penelope was ill and he had to take the risk, bullies or no bullies.

I can do this, he thought bravely. He pursed his lips, feeling all too vulnerable in the short pink frock, the cool summer breeze tickling his thighs and panties. Auntie Penelope is depending on me—as long as I just pretend I’m… her… and don’t do anything too stupid, no one will figure me out—I’ll be all right.

The walk to Prescott’s Pharmacy was six blocks. He could take the alleyways, but that seemed even more dangerous. So he stepped off the porch and onto the sidewalk, shoulders hunched, arms pulled in tight like he could shrink into himself.

The full skirt swished traitorously with each hurried step. His flats made little tapping noises against the pavement. The wind lifted the hem of his petticoat. Ethan pressed it down with one hand and kept walking. He was so scared, he could feel a trickle of sweat rolling down his back and under the waistband of his panties.

“Hey, sweetheart!” called a mailman from across the street. Ethan flinched and kept walking. A moment later: “Pretty day for a walk, huh?”

He waved and nodded weakly, but didn’t dare look back.

Near the corner market, old Mrs. Carmody was watering her petunias. She squinted at Ethan, then smiled. “Emily! Hello, honey! My goodness, aren’t you a picture? What a darling little dress. And what a sweet apron!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Carmody,” Ethan mumbled, hurrying past. In his rush he’d forgotten to remove that silly apron. No wonder people were looking at him funny.

 

* * *
 

Ethan reached the pharmacy without running into Samuel Torres or getting hit by a truck—though both seemed equally likely for a while. He ducked inside, welcomed by the bell that chimed overhead.

Prescott’s was mercifully quiet. Mr. Callahan, the pharmacist, looked up from behind the counter and beamed. “Well, good afternoon, young lady. How can I help you?”

“I’m here to pick up a prescription for Mrs. Penelope Whitaker,” Ethan said, voice a bit too high and breathless.

Mr. Callahan nodded. “Ah yes, got it right here.” He turned and reached for a small white paper bag. “She doing all right?”

“She said she wasn’t feeling well,” Ethan replied honestly.

The man chuckled. “She’ll be just fine. It’s just her bursitis acting up again, I’d wager.”

“She did mention her bursitis.” Ethan frowned. “Isn’t that serious?”

“Oh, not really,” Mr. Callahan said cheerfully, handing over the bag. “It’s just a little pain on her part, but nothing too bad. Otherwise she’s fit as a fiddle. Don’t be surprised if she lives to a hundred.”

Ethan took the medicine and left without another word.

Outside, the wind had picked up. The front of his dress flapped gently against his knees, the petticoat rustling beneath. He could feel his panties working their way up his crack, causing him wiggle more than he liked—and to blush more than usual.

As he walked back, slower this time, a pair of older boys passed him on bicycles. A shiver went down his spine. Travis and Dylan.

This isn’t good, he thought ruefully. At least it’s not Samuel Torres.

“Whoa—hey there!” said Dylan, swerving his bike just in time to not run over the cross-dressed boy. He gave Ethan a grin. “Sorry, didn’t see you. Gosh, that’s a pretty dress. Not many girls around here look like that.”

The cross-dressed boy froze. His voice caught in his throat. They were standing close, too close. Their eyes weren't mocking. If anything, they looked intrigued. And then something worse: Dylan looking him in the eyes… and smiling in the creepiest way.

“You go to Lincoln?” the older boy asked.

Ethan shook his head quickly. “No. I’m just visiting.” He winced slightly at how high his voice had come out.

Not to be outdone, Travis rolled up and shoved his friend aside. “Well, hey, you should come around more often. You’re really cute.” His eyes went up and down Ethan's body, liking what he saw.

“Um… thanks?”

“You got cute legs,” Dylan said, leering.

That was enough. Ethan turned and nearly fled, holding his bag tightly. The sun had returned with a vengeance, and his face felt aflame. He half-walked, half-pranced down the sidewalk, the heat of embarrassment settling over him like a second petticoat.

“So, who are you staying with?” Ethan glanced back to see Travis just a few feet behind him, following on his bike; Dylan approached from the other side.

“I … I’m staying with my… my auntie,” Ethan squeaked. “Mrs. Whitaker. She doesn’t… uh, like me talking to… strange boys.”

Dylan laughed. “Hey, we’re not strange.”

“Oh, you’re strange all right,” Travis spat. “You’re not just strange—you’re queer!”

“Shut up, dumbass! I’m talking to my new girlfriend.” Dylan smiled at Ethan. “Seriously, I mowed Old Lady Whitaker’s grass plenty of times. Ask her, she’ll put in a good word for me.”

Ethan was in a panic. He was afraid that any minute either boy would figure out who he was and then his life would be ruined—he grimaced as he thought about all those dumb threats he made about moving to Australia.

They don’t sound so dumb right now, he thought.

“I really have to hurry,” he squeaked. “Auntie needs her medicine.”

“Well, if you’re in that much of a hurry let me give you a ride.” Dylan made a sad attempt to do a wheelie; Ethan bit his lip, repressing the urge to laugh—his cousin Dani was an expert at doing that kind of thing. “Seriously, I’ll get you there in no time!”

Not to be outdone, Travis actually did a wheelie, but once again, it was weak compared to one of Dani’s. “Don’t ride with him. Ride with me! I’m a better biker than he is.”

Dylan heehawed at his friend. “Naw, you’re the worst. You’ll just fall over like you did that time you tried giving your sister a ride. You almost broke her neck.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

Ethan stopped and turned around. He intended to make a stand against the two show-offs and tell them to leave him alone—but they’d apparently lost interest in him and were arguing with one another.

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Aw, you’re stupid!”

“No, you’re stupid, you fag!”

“Me a fag? You’re the fag, you homo!”

Ethan shook his head and quickly spun back around.

Boys! Do we all look… and act that dumb?

He minced along the sidewalk as fast as he could—one does not run in ballet slippers and petticoats. In the distance he heard Travis and Dylan ride off in a different direction, still shouting at each other.

“Stupid head!”

“Me? You’re the stupid head!”

“So’s your mother!”

“Fuck you!”

Ethan practically steamed with embarrassment and anger. The rest of the walk back to Penelope’s was a blur of swishing skirts and red-faced misery.

He slammed the screen door behind him and marched into the parlor, brandishing the paper bag like evidence.

“You tricked me,” he accused.

Penelope sat primly with her knitting, a snifter of brandy within reach on the tea cart. “Is that so?” she said sweetly.

“You’re not sick! It’s just bursitis! The pharmacist told me what that is. He said you’re fit as a fiddle!”

“Well, that’s a relief,” she said, looping a bit of yarn over her needle. “I was beginning to worry.”

Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“You were marvelous, Emily,” she continued. “Brave, polite, and absolutely darling. According to Mr. Callahan you were quite lovely.”

“You… he…” The cross-dressed boy fumed. “Does he know… I’m… I’m—”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “Of course not, darling. I just called to make sure my pretty niece made it there safely. He said you’d just left. He was quite complimentary. He wanted to know if you might be interested in meeting his nephew. I told him you were too young to date.” She snorted. “You’re welcome.”

Ethan set the paper bag on the side table. “I bet that’s not even real medicine.”

“Oh, it is. I don’t need it now, but I will later this week.”

“Very funny.”

“I watched you from the front window—like a little flower blossoming in the sunshine.” The old woman shot him a sly grin. “I noticed you came in the back door. Are you avoiding those two boys out front, Travis? Or is it Dylan? I always get them confused.”

“Both. They followed me from the drug store,” Ethan muttered, deflating. “I lost them and took the back alley and climbed over the fence.”

Penelope giggled. “In that dress? And those petticoats? I wish I’d seen that.”

“I am humiliated.”

“Nonsense. You are fetching. Too bad I missed the boys. I would have enjoyed seeing how you handled them.”

“Not. Funny.”

The old woman chuckled. She reached to the tea cart and lifted a silver lid revealing a small bowl. “Caramel chocolate gelato, your favorite. And there’s whipped cream and strawberries, too.”

Ethan crossed his arms dress and pouted. “You’re trying to bribe me. It won’t work.”

“You’ll change your mind when you see how much I added to your housekeeping pay.” Penelope took a sip of her brandy. “You’ve earned it.”

He took the bowl, still glaring, but sat beside her with a huff.

“You’re so cute when you’re mad, sweetheart,” she teased, and kissed the top of his wig.

Ethan said nothing, but his spoon clinked quietly in the bowl as he took a bite.

Outside, a breeze whispered through the trees. Inside, a boy in a dress sat on a velvet sofa, halfway between fury and flattery, unsure which one felt more real.

Next: My Favorite Sissy