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 Forty-Six: Into the Crucible

 
The madness continues—hang on for a wild ride!
 

The Capital City Convention Center glowed in the evening haze, its steps lined with planters overflowing with white lilies. Beyond the glass doors, light spilled onto a crimson carpet that unfurled toward a slow-moving crowd in silks and tailored suits.

Ethan felt a fluttering in his stomach—along with a sudden urge to pee. The crowd got larger as seconds passed—a chill went over his entire body as he came to realize what he was about to step into. He looked down to see his arm covered in goosebumps.

What is all this? he thought, panicked. Who are these people? Is Auntie Vivian crazy? I can’t go out there… all those faces, those eyes, me looking like this? This isn’t right… maybe if I ask she’ll let me stay in the car….

Vivian didn’t wait for the chauffeur to open her door—she did it herself, stepping out as if the night belonged to her. Heads turned. She turned, grabbed his hand and spoke:

“Come.”

Ethan clumsily followed, the blood-red high heels catching him slightly off-balance as he emerged from the limo, the tight dress binding his knees together, forcing him to mince behind his aunt in small, rapid steps. His bobbed hair—blown by the autumn wind—tickled his ears, his bangs brushed his eyelashes. Vivian moved quickly and with intent across the pavement and toward the venue, skirts flowing, hair flying. The air smelled of perfume and warm concrete as the cross-dressed boy pranced practically on tiptoe, desperate to keep up with his aunt.

I’ve got to look foolish, like such a dumb, prissy thing, he thought. This dress is way too tight, and too short! Omigosh, are my garters showing? Is my top falling down? Is my wig coming loose? Oh, that’s right—no wig. Thank goodness for the little things…

Just inside the doors she stopped him next to the coatroom, smoothing the front of his dress with two practiced swipes of her palms before meeting his eyes. He tried to speak—he was already exhausted by the walk from the car and his mouth was dry. He caught his breath, tried again, wheezing.

“Auntie, I’m scared.”

“I know,” she whispered, her expression patient, reassuring. “Focus. What are you supposed to do?”

“Um—”

“Breathe, Ethan. And think. What did I tell you?”

He took a deep breath and nodded. “Watch you,” he squeaked. “Do as you do.”

A slight smile was followed by: “Good boy.”

Inside, the noise shifted from street murmur to the hum of polite conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clink of glasses. Chandeliers dripped light over round tables set with white linens and silver, each place card bearing a name written in an elegant hand.

Vivian accepted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. She snatched another with sparkling water and a lemon slice, which she handed to the bewildered boy.

“Auntie, I don’t think this is—”

“Don’t drink anything from anyone but me,” she interrupted. “Also, unless you want to fight all that—” she nodded toward his dress and undergarments— “I’d take little sips, make it last as long as you can.” She smirked. “Going to the bathroom in a dress like that is a woman’s plight. Now it is your privilege.”

“Yes, Auntie,” he murmured.

She steered Ethan into the current of guests with a touch to his elbow—light, but inescapable. He felt a quiver go through his body as he saw so many eyes looking his way. His heart raced and he noticed the glass in his hand trembling, the sparkling water bubbling, virtually boiling with anxiety.

“Judge Winthrop,” a man in a midnight-blue tuxedo greeted her, his smile wide. “And who is this vision?”

“Ah, Councilman Anderson. Good to see you again.” Vivian’s lips curved just enough to suggest amusement. “Allow me to present my… nephew, Ethan O’Brien.”

The man’s brows lifted only slightly. “Pardon me… your… nephew?” His eyes did a quick sweep over the feminine boy and then quickly locked in on Vivian’s smug face.

“My sister’s son, her only child,” she continued smoothly. “He’s a sensitive artist. A talented young dressmaker and designer, devoted to his mother and with a bright future ahead.”

“Ah, of course.” The man took Vivian’s proffered hand, gave it a single, ever so slight shake. Ethan thought for a moment he might kiss it, but he didn’t. He suddenly realized what was about to come and he almost panicked—champagne glass in one hand, clutch in the other.

My hands are full…what do I do? What to do? What am I—

Then the words came to him: “Watch what I do, do as I do.”

Of course.

He took a breath and then, copying his aunt’s actions, he tucked his purse under his arm, switched the flute of water to his left hand, freeing his right, which he held out.

“So, Ethan, is it?” The councilman’s eyes lit up with interest as he took the cross-dressed boy’s hand—and kissed it. “Well, young man, if you’re anything like your aunt you’ll go far.”

Ethan tried to think of something to say, but he went blank. He looked to Vivian for guidance, but she seemed nonchalant, sipping her champagne and chatting with the councilman. The words Ethan and my nephew seemed to echo in the space between them, heavier each time she said it.

She said I was an O’Brien? But that’s… Now I’m really confused. He shook his head and made a mental note to ask about that—along with a thousand other things.

They moved from handshake to handshake. Each time, Vivian repeated the introduction—always nephew, always Ethan. And always O’Brien. Followed by sensitive artist, devoted to his mother. Always with a casual air with a hint of pride. The responses varied: mild surprise, warm compliments, and, from some, glances that lingered a beat too long. Handshakes followed a similar pattern. His hand got kissed more often than not, which unnerved him.

After the fourth introduction, he leaned toward her, voice low. “Could you… maybe not tell everyone I’m a boy?”

“No,” she said simply, eyes still forward.

“Please—”

“You need to get used to the idea,” she murmured. “This is a discreet crowd. No classmates here. And if word gets out—so what? Your friends have already seen you on stage, have they not?”

He bit his lip. She wasn’t wrong. But there was something dizzying about being outed as a boy in such exotic feminine attire, almost breathtaking. He was also curious that no one seemed particularly scandalized—if anything, they seemed intrigued.

“You’re telling everybody my last name is O’Brien?”

Vivian allowed herself a smile. “Your mother’s maiden name, remember? Mine as well. Not your father’s. We’re introducing you to the world anew. Besides—” she gave him a sidelong glance— “it’s insurance in case any of your so-called friends hear about the mysterious boy in that dress—and those marvelous shoes—at the big political convention in Capital City.”

Ethan nodded. That was actually a good idea. The only O’Brien at school is Dani. He thought about his new red hair and grinned. I wonder what she’ll think—

“Any more questions?” His aunt was beginning to look impatient. “We have work to do.”

“Um, well,” he whispered, “why are these old men kissing my hand?”

“Oh? Are they?” Vivian waved to someone. “I hadn't noticed.”

Ethan huffed. “But, isn’t that weird?”

His aunt looked him up and down, then raised an eyebrow. “You tell me.”

They met more people—another councilman, businessmen, business women, directors of this foundation, that charity… a senator—most of whom Ethan couldn’t remember, he was so confused. Between handshakes and introductions, he pondered the things his aunt talked about in the limousine. They were beginning to make sense—well, some of them at least. He was being exposed and tested on her ground, among her friends and co-workers, or at least that’s who they seemed to be. And so far he hadn’t died. Not yet.

There was a momentary break, just long enough for Ethan to finally ask the question building since they’d arrived. “Why doesn’t anyone care?”

Vivian took a sip of champagne, studied the crowd as if reading a brief. “About what? You? Oh, they do. Very much so. Which is why you’re here.”

“I don’t under—”

“Times are shifting, Ethan.” She kept watch, waving and smiling at a select few—all the time calculating who got what, a smile, a wave, or a combination of both—as she spoke. “You may or may not appreciate this yet, but I intend to be useful to these times. Having you with me—seen as you are, a boy in lipstick, pearls, those shoes… that dress—is a revelation to those who think they know me. Having you on my arm, by my side, as Ethan O'Brien, my sister’s son, not a make believe Emily—some childish fairy tale that can be easily dismissed—tells the room I’m not beholden to yesterday’s language. I am here to help shape the world, our future. And because you are authentic, real, and the face of change, you sell that message.”

She met his eyes. “This also tells them where you stand. Beside me.”

“So this helps you,” he said, not unkindly.

“It helps us,” she said. Then, after a beat, quieter: “Ethan, I don’t want you becoming a ghost that people pretend not to see. That happens to way too many young people who share your… eccentricities—they become victims—I see that in my courtroom all too many times. Your mother and I don’t want that for you—we want you to rise above the rest… to shine. You can and—if I have any say in the matter—you will.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “What does that have to do with you dragging me here in a dress and heels? Having so many people stare at me. Laughing at me.”

For a moment he thought his aunt didn’t hear him. Vivian remained silent as she reached over and pretended to adjust the top of his dress, tugging the silk material up and then smoothing it against his chest. She then allowed her fingertips to trace along his exposed collarbone and his naked shoulder, slowly guiding him toward one of the walled mirrors. Only then did she say:

“Take a good look. Do you see yourself, Ethan? Do you see how gorgeous you are? How stylish, how incredible you look? How unique you are?” She put her arm around his waist and posed next to him, her hand on her hip, her smile powerful, almost dangerous. “Now, see how we look together? Do you see what I mean?”

Ethan nodded. He’d seen it before, at the salon. But here, out in the public eye, after the chaos of getting out of the limo, the onslaught of the crowd, being cast into a world he knew nothing about… he’d lost his nerve. And now… in this quiet moment… staring at his reflection in the mirror… this imposing, incredible and commanding woman by his side, that was a powerful reminder.

His Aunt Vivian was right. From his bobbed hair and pearl choker to the ruffles around his knees and those blood-red high heels, he looked nothing at all like an eighth grade schoolboy. Nor anything close to the fantasy that had been Emily. More like someone from far outside Emily’s world. A different universe, even. He could have been a college student, the daughter of a millionaire businessman… someone’s girlfriend… or even the niece—or nephew—of a powerful judge running for office.

Standing with Vivian amplified his appearance—and hers—beyond the sum of their combined parts. He felt energized when he realized how they looked together—worldly, intriguing... provocative.

Vivian whispered in his ear. “Now turn around. Do you hear anyone laughing at you?” She positioned him so he could see the crowd. And so they could get a good look at him. “Do you see anyone laughing at you?”

He shook his head, just barely. Eyes flickered and flashed in his direction, in varying degrees of interest and intensity. There were smiles and nods—mostly to his aunt—and a few good-natured winks, perhaps to him? But as his aunt said, not a sign of derision.

“Context is everything, Ethan.” Vivian’s voice was almost husky, aroused, not at all its usual judicial hardness “What these people are looking at, and what they’re seeing isn’t like anything they’ve seen before. Not at a venue like this, in any case. You are a curiosity, yes, but you are as my friend Councilman Anderson said earlier, literally a vision. Of the future. Of our society and culture. Your style—well, my style, but you own it, trust me on this—and how you’re carrying yourself, strong, with purpose and intent, does not invoke laughter and ridicule. You spark interest, you are the focus of conversation—or you soon will—which makes people think. Which is exactly what I’m after.”

“But—”

She put her hand under his chin, looking him in the eye. She wasn’t scolding—he could tell that—she was nurturing:

“Here’s a news flash for you, dear child. You’ll most likely be dressing as a woman for the rest of your life. That’s usually what happens… to boys like you. You’re already so far into this—” she reached up and swept his auburn hair behind his ear, lightly touching the button pearl decorating his earlobe— “that your mind and body have imprinted on it... and you are addicted. That’s the physiology and the psychology of it—don’t try to figure it out now, I’ll explain later.”

Ethan started to ask her something, then changed his mind. “Okaaay—”

“In order for you to grow successfully into adulthood, you have to understand that playing dress up with your mother and being her precious little… housewife… that won’t last forever. It can’t—and it won’t. You are in the beginning of your own life, your own path, and you need to figure out how you want to live it.”

She leaned in close, her nose brushing his cheek, and whispered in a low, guttural tone: “And I can help you with that.”

Ethan nodded. He didn’t get it all, but enough to know that things between the two of them had just changed in the last few minutes. In a big way. And it sounded important. He felt his eyes burn, and he fought the urge to wipe them, partly to avoid smearing his makeup, but mostly because he didn’t want onlookers to see him crying.

Vivian smiled. A real, genuine smile. Warm, almost sympathetic. Maternal, even. “My darling boy, you’ve learned so much under your mother’s tutelage, I’ll give her that. But you need to progress, stretch… grown. Tonight I’m giving you a taste of what your future could become. And how you can live the life you want and deserve.”

Ethan sniffed. “I think I understand—”

She held her hand up, signaling for him to be silent. “Okay, here’s our chance. Let’s be quick about this.” She handed off their beverage glasses to a server and used a napkin to dab an errant tear from Ethan’s face. She gave him a quick once over and then: “All right then, you look perfect. Hold on because here we go…”

She then steered Ethan toward an important looking man and his entourage. He struggled to match her gait, mincing along in short, ridiculous steps as fast as his tight skirt and blood-red heels allowed.

“Mr. Mayor, allow me to introduce you to my nephew, Ethan O’Brien, my sister’s boy and my protégé—”

 

* * *
 

After a brief but fruitful conversation with the mayor of Capital City and his wife, auntie and nephew flowed on, a singular pair that stood out amidst the power players that ran city and state. Vivian was in her element—she made introductions like dealing cards she already knew the values of: a different senator—this one female—and her aide, followed by a hospital director, a television executive, a foundation chairwoman with a look of permanent appraisal. Each received the same refrain—my nephew, Ethan—and each time the word nephew fell into the air and landed like a small, gleaming stone.

Wherever they went interest in “The Judge” erupted in enthusiastic ooohs and aaahs, partly—Ethan realized—because of her peculiar and stylish companion. Bystanders glanced twice. Some more. Very few didn’t. Those who openly stared, stared at Vivian, not at him, measuring what it meant that she had chosen this glamorous young person to be by her side.

Vivian made her way through the crowd like a shark looking for its next meal, Ethan mincing alongside, the restriction of his little black dress a continuing hindrance.

Suddenly Ethan felt a hand slide over his bottom. First a gentle caress—emboldened, it pressed lingering, strong… possessive—and then came a forceful squeeze, claw-like, intentional. Just as he was about to turn and confront the offender, someone from a different direction grabbed his wrist—a donor in a velvet jacket held it tightly, pulling him close.

“My dear child… you are… striking.” He lifted Ethan’s hand and put it to his lips.

Vivian suddenly turned about, casually sliding her arm around Ethan’s corseted waist. “He is exact, not striking,” she corrected sternly. “Precision is the point.”

“He. Ah, of course.” The man’s eyes flicked up and down, sly and undisguised, appraising Ethan’s attire and presence. “A lovely young man, indeed,” he hissed. His voice reminded Ethan of a cartoon rattlesnake. “You are in college, I presume, my dear boy?”

Her smile thinned to a blade. “Mr. Crowley, if you wish to make an appointment with my nephew, you’ll do it through me.” She didn’t tug Ethan back; she simply looked at the man until the fingers released of their own accord.

“I see.” The man’s smile seemed to grow broader than before. “Always a pleasure, Judge Winthrop.” He nodded toward Ethan. “Young sir.”

As he departed Vivian placed the shaken boy’s hand atop the clutch, arranging his thumb along the clasp, her grip firm, almost motherly.

“Be careful,” she said, soft. “Hands read as sentences. Write the right ones.”

Ethan nodded. He felt something from her touch during that encounter that he hadn’t expected.

She cares.

She's protecting me.

I think… no, I actually believe... she would kill for me.

 

* * *
 

The keynote began. The room settled. Vivian didn’t sit. Ethan couldn’t—his dress was too tight, too short, the fussy ruffled hem causing him all sorts of havoc. And so he stood, attentive and silent, the boning of his undergarment keeping him rigid, upright. They remained at the back, one a column of black silk and law; the other a frivolous, playful object of the gaze, the focus of endless glances and raised eyebrows and whispers.

At the podium—after droning on about whatever it was that everyone had gathered to celebrate—the speaker finished his remarks with:

“… and I want to thank someone very special for her help behind the scenes in this year’s efforts: Judge Vivian Rose O’Brien Winthrop, who—in case you’ve spent this past year hiding under a rock and didn’t know—is running for district court judgeship this coming election. Where is she? Judge Winthrop…?”

It took a moment, but prodded by aides galore, he smiled and pointed, directing all eyes toward Ethan and his aunt. “Oh, there she is, in the back with her niece... What? That’s her nephew? Are you sure?” He blinked, shook his head, recovered (barely): “Okay, I stand corrected—she is accompanied by her nephew, Ethan, I'm told...”

The speaker took a deep breath and continued, bright smile fully engaged, unfazed (not really). “Anyway, isn’t she amazing? And aren’t they a gorgeous pair? Good luck, Your Honor, in the upcoming election… though we all know she doesn’t need it.”

There was a wave of laughter, along with some polite applause. Vivian nonchalantly acknowledged the crowd, then—prompted by a light nudge—Ethan followed her lead, nodding his head (his French bob bobbing), waving shyly at the beaming faces surrounding them.

Sensing a need to make the moment even more special—as he so often did with his mother’s designs in the quiet of their sewing room back home—Ethan rose up ever so slightly on his toes (no easy task in those heels, mind you) leaned in and kissed his aunt on the cheek.

It wasn’t scripted… he wasn’t asked or prompted to do anything… and to be honest, he didn’t really think about his actions—he just did what felt right, much like adding an extra pleat or set of sleeves to make an otherwise run-of-the-mill dress stand out among the rest.

A collective “awww” warmed the room, and that set off yet another, more enthusiastic round of applause. Reading the moment, Vivian didn’t hesitate in her reaction: she returned Ethan’s kiss, light and quick (but not too quick), her movements perfectly synchronized and captured by an armada of cameras clicking and flashguns flashing. Aunt and nephew then shared a genuine familial hug—the room's approval swelled to new heights.

Ethan’s simple actions were only a lark, not intentionally performative (perhaps) but those few seconds would be rewarded the next day with a feature photo in The Capital City Chronicle and generous online buzz about Judge Winthrop, the stuffy, non-nonsense “Iron Maiden of The Courts,” sharing a warm, genuine moment with her artistically gifted, gender-diverse, and spectacularly dressed nephew at the evening’s big gala.

“Thank you for that,” Vivian murmured against Ethan’s ear, while laughing a very un-Vivian laugh (partly for the cameras, mostly out of emotion). “You continue to amaze me,” she whispered, giving him another kiss.

The blushing boy responded with a bashful smile and a shrug, but said nothing.

After a few minutes the crowd loosened its tie and relaxed. While his aunt exchanged rumors with one of her tuxedoed colleagues, Ethan decided to take a chance. He carefully retrieved the bejeweled phone from his clutch and powered it up. He pretended to scroll—as would any other stylish but bored teenager in a little black dress and attention-getting high heels—then he took a selfie, smiled at the result, then another. And yet another. He glanced up every few seconds, making sure he hadn’t been noticed—or left behind.

So far, so good, he thought. Wonder if I can get one of Auntie Vivian….

Suddenly, in the afterglow of all the speeches and applause, Vivian tipped her head close, the wafting fragrance of her perfume thrilling him. He put his phone hand behind his back and listened as she murmured: “You’ve done well. The crowd is with us, one hundred percent—the mayor is impressed, along with his wife, which is just as important. Things are progressing beautifully, thanks to your performance.”

“Performance?” He looked up at her. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Haven’t you?” she asked, eyebrow raised. “Darling boy, you’re out of your element, but you’ve allowed yourself to be presented, and you’ve shown poise, elegance and nerves. And an instinct I had not anticipated.” Her voice faltered for an instant, then regained its steel. “Most adults can’t manage any of that without flinching. For a first timer you’ve done yeoman’s work.”

Ethan didn’t know what “yeoman” meant, but it sounded like a compliment. He just did what he did best, which was to nod and smile. And sneak a few more photos.

After the program, the phone was returned to its cocoon as people queued to greet “The Judge.” Vivian introduced him again and again—my protégé, Ethan O’Brien—changing the order of the beads in her litany to suit the listener. The architect got “designer.” The hospital director and archbishop got “devoted to his mother.” The congressman’s leering aide got “my nephew.” Always assertive. Never an apology.

The hyenas kept coming. A pair of younger council members—men with perfect hair and disposable confidence—let their eyes linger a beat too long. Vivian felt it and shifted, half a step that placed her directly between them and Ethan. Her voice did not rise. “Gentlemen, Ethan here is my nephew and protégé. You’ll speak to him accordingly.”

“Of course, Judge,” they said in tandem, suddenly very interested in the upcoming election and constituency planning.

At a table near the stage, a councilwoman in a tea-rose jacket smiled at Ethan and held his hand warmly. “I’ve heard so much about you, my dear, and it’s all true. You’re so stunning—and brave,” she said, and meant it.

“He’s prepared,” Vivian answered. “Bravery is what people call preparation they didn’t see.”

The councilwoman responded with a chuckle and air kisses for both aunt and nephew. “Your aunt is also stunning, Ethan,” she said, winking. “But she is a judge, through and through. I’m surprised she hasn’t traumatized you, you poor thing.”

Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it. He thought for a second, then said: “Auntie Vivian is very good to me. And for me, ma’am.”

The councilwoman laughed. “Well, if that isn’t an endorsement, I don’t know what is!”

Vivian stared at the cross-dressed boy, her gaze ever-judgmental. “Perhaps you’re right, Miriam.” She snorted. “It appears that he can be very brave… and stunning—in ways I never expected.”

They moved on. Ethan retrieved his shiny pink toy and surreptitiously snapped more photos before meeting up with the next parade of well-wishers. As Vivian spoke he listened more carefully for the pattern in her voice: nephew, artist, designer, devoted to his mother—she’d added single mother, working class… resilient, pursuing the American Dream—each phrase another bead in a rosary of presentation. He could feel people calibrating around it. No scandal. All context. And underneath it all, the vibration of Vivian’s prideful claim, steady as a heartbeat: My nephew, artist, my protégé, my sister’s son.

Our future.

 

* * *
 

After the hundredth or so handshake, the room softened at the edges. Ethan felt the pinch of the heels, the hold of the shaper, the snugness of the pearl choker around his throat. Worse, his bound boyhood felt numb and forgotten in its spandex confines, which worried him. When he drifted a shade too far, Vivian’s fingers found the inside of his elbow again, guiding him—not rough, not even firm, just irrefutable.

Ethan also noticed his aunt’s attention shift. She held his hand with more affection, holding him nearer, gently caressing his bare shoulders in reassurance, warmly pressing against the hollow between his shoulder blades as she introduced him to people who might help his mother’s business.

At one table, Vivian drew a woman aside—silver hair, a leader’s posture—and in a proud tone, she spoke of Colleen’s craftsmanship, her line, her finishings, the care of her seams. The woman’s card appeared as if conjured.

“Have your mother ring me,” the woman told Ethan. “I’m redoing the orchestra’s gala wardrobe and we need new ideas.” She looked him up and down, eyebrow raised, her lip curled knowingly. “I’m especially interested in what you can offer me, Ethan.”

Vivian accepted the card and passed it to Ethan only after she had read it herself, as if endorsing a negotiable bond. “See?” she murmured as he put the card in his purse. “Ownership carries obligations. I meet them. And so will you.”

He had questions, like Why did that lady look at me like that? along with What did she mean, what I can offer? But those would have to wait.

The band slid into something gentle and couples began to move. Ethan shot a few more selfies, another couple of photos of Vivian, then put away the phone. He then entertained himself by trying to imitate his aunt, watching the crowd, paying attention to who was dancing with whom. Was that another senator? A business owner? A millionaire? Or just an aide? And who were all of these beautiful women, some escorted, some with an entourage, some alone. He turned to ask a question and…

Auntie Vivian was nowhere to be seen!

He looked around, expecting to see her chatting with one of the dozens of tuxedoed men nearby, but… nothing.

The cross-dressed boy swallowed. He’d gotten overconfident. He hadn’t paid enough attention, had let his mind wander—and now he was alone, lost in a sea of nameless faces, piercing eyes and leering smiles. He felt dizzy as he glanced down at that outrageous dress, those hideous shoes, his naked arms and shoulders. It was as though he’d suddenly awakened to find himself in this terrifying plight, abandoned, vulnerable, ridiculously open to who knew what.

Auntie Vivian! He wanted to scream, but the pearl choker constricted his breathing. Where are you?

He squeezed his purse with both hands, trying his best to hide his panic as he minced daintily, frantically, in a circle, looking for his aunt. He hadn’t moved that much since they last spoke, and it hadn’t been that long—or had it? She couldn’t have gone that far—

Suddenly, he was startled by a loud, blaring electronic burst of music, accompanied by the sugary-sweet voices of a girl pop group singing their hearts out.

My phone!

He fumbled with his clutch—the crowd around him looking in his direction. Some appeared annoyed, most smiled and a few even laughed good-naturedly. After all, the feminine creature among them was a teenager, a mere slip of a girl… a college coed, perhaps… so this kind of thing was to be expected.

Ethan fumed. The music and singing started up again as he struggled with the clasp—Stupid fingernails! They’re way too long… how do girls live with these things?—and, to his horror, the purse fell to the floor.

The music finally stopped, thank goodness, but then it was replaced with a loud bell-like ting! followed by a girlish giggle and an attention-getting “oopsie!”

Chuckles and laughter rippled around him. He thought he heard a light-hearted voice go “oopsie!” in response. He groaned. Someone—Vivian, no doubt—was texting him.

The bright ting! giggle and sing-song “oopsie!” repeated itself. And repeated itself. And would keep doing so until someone picked it up.

The problem was getting low enough to pick up the purse… and that ridiculous girly-girl phone. That was going to be a most difficult chore, however, given how he was dressed. His thighs were snugly bound together by the strong silk fabric of his dress, his sides held tight and his upper body upright by the boning of his foundation garment. He could barely bend at the waist without passing out. Taking a deep breath, the beleaguered boy bent at the knees and squatted as low as he could—he almost toppled over on his heels, but he regained his balance and somehow got down enough to retrieve the purse and its demeaning contents.

Ting! Giggle. “Oopsie!”

“Auntie—” Ethan muttered— “please stop. I’m doing the best I can!”

Getting up was going to be a problem. But first he had to stop that phone from going wild. Sitting upright, his spandex-encased butt resting on his heels, he finally pried open his clutch and pulled out the gem-encrusted menace. Two calls and four, no, make that five texts. All from Vivian, of course.

“Dang it!”

He was trying to figure a way up when a woman’s hand appeared unexpectedly, just inches from his face. He grasped it gratefully, felt himself lifted to his feet, and turned to face his savior.

“Oooh, I just adore your bracelet, darling,” an alluring voice cooed. “Pearls are my favorite.”

A beautiful woman about Vivian’s age stood before him, glamorous bordering on the erotic, a silver-white coiffure piled stylishly atop her head, dark red, almost black lipstick, eyes bright with curiosity. The piercing fragrance of her perfume stung his nose. Her fleshy cleavage inches from his face, full and proud, practically spilling over the top of a shiny purple gown that showed off a voluptuous, hourglass figure. He quickly averted his eyes, but it was too late. She smiled at him with a raised eyebrow—and a certain indefinable allure—that caused an ache within his spandex prison.

“Do you like my… necklace?” She slid her hand over her breasts, lifting the strand of pearls draped around her abundant decolletage. “See here, we’re practically twins.”

Ting! Giggle. “Oopsie!”

Ethan pursed his lips. “Sorry. Someone’s trying to—”

“That shiny little pink thing is so adorable… just like its owner.” The woman laughed as it went off again. “My goodness, you seem to be very popular.”

“Um, thank you?” Ethan blushed as he fought the urge to squirm, aggravated by all of the elastic and spandex that bound his “boy bits,” as Penelope would call them. His breathing was at an all-time high, partly from the effort of the past few moments, partly from not knowing what to say—or do—in the next few.

He thought about what Auntie Vivian would expect him to do. He took a deep breath and said:

“And, uh, thank you for helping me… just now.” He started to offer up his hand, but caught himself just in time.

“Hands read as sentences... write the right ones.”

The corner of the woman’s mouth twisted upward as she moved close. “My pleasure, you dazzling young thing, you. I’ve been in that situation a few times myself. You’d think a man would come by and help, but not here, apparently.” She gave him a quick wink, leaned in even closer—her breath smelled of mint mixed with aged bourbon and tobacco. He could feel the moisture of her breath against his ear as she whispered:

“We girls have to… lick… together, am I right?”

Ethan blinked, then shivered. Did she just say what I think she said?

The bewildered boy tried to think of a reply when his champion’s attention turned to something—or someone—behind him.

He felt a light touch on his elbow.

Vivian.

“Ah, Judge. I was just giving a little assistance to your…?”

“My nephew,” Vivian said easily. “Isn’t he perfectly turned out?”

“Oh my… he is!” The woman’s smile widened, as did her eyes. This revelation just made Ethan more interesting—and tempting—to his rescuer. “Your sweet nephew… of course. My goodness, Vivian, he is absolutely flawless! I mean, what a gorgeous creature you’ve got here. Not like anything I’ve seen in a long time.”

“I’m not sure I believe that, Bella,” Vivian said. Ethan heard a flicker of humor in her reply.

“Mmm, sometimes I forget how well you know me.” The woman licked her dark red lips, baring her teeth just enough to be suggest an innate hunger. “That dress isn’t much, is it, my sweet? Ah, but the way you wear it is… superb.” She made a sound, guttural, with a slight growl, like something an animal might make. “Though I must say that it would look better on my bedroom floor.”

Ethan’s face burned to hear such words, especially from such a mature and sexually-expressive woman. He glanced over at his aunt for a sign as to what he should do, but she seemed more amused than alarmed at his plight; it was as though she was waiting out the other woman, to see just how far she should might go—or was she waiting to see how he might react?

What am I supposed to do? he wondered frantically. Tell me, Auntie! he prayed. Give me a hint.. a clue! Anything—

“Mmm,” the tall woman purred. “I was telling your sweet nephew here how those pearls around his throat are a dream come true. You know, Vivian, how much I love a … choker—”

Ethan felt dizzy, but he didn’t falter as she moved catlike around him, her eyes fixed upon his body, pupils dilated—drifting up and down—studying him as if he were a work of art—or a meal—she desired. She reached out and brushed something off his bare shoulder. Behind her perfume she exuded a warm, musky fragrance that was formidable, intoxicating, causing him to wilt at the knees, but become rigid elsewhere.

“So pretty… so helpless.” Her hand drifted downward, her clawlike finger poised within millimeters of his bodice—

“Take it easy, Bella,” Vivian murmured, her voice almost musical. “He’s a minor.”

The spell was ruined. The woman’s face took on a coy pout, much like a spoiled child who’d been reprimanded for stealing a playmate’s dolly. “Ah well. I suppose I must return you to your auntie, little boy,” she said playfully, retracting her talons. “Perhaps in a few years I’ll get to see… more of you.”

Ethan nodded as the woman in purple moved on. He noticed that she kept looking back, her eyes alight with curiosity… and covetousness. He felt that familiar tingle growing down there—or growing as best it could within its unique prison. Instead of fighting it, he allowed it to linger, savoring the moment, as frightening as it was.

“Auntie,” he whispered weakly, “who was—”

Vivian chuckled. “That, my dear child, is why I have you tucked away and buttoned up. To keep you safe. For now, at least.”

Ethan bit his lip and nodded. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wander off.”

“It’s all right, darling. It’s my fault. I was looking forward when I should have been looking back… watching out for you.” She nodded at the phone in his hand. “I did try to warn you.”

Ethan tapped the screen, revealing the photo of Emily and his mother. He pursed his lips for an instant, then fumbled about until he found the texting app.

BEHIND YOU!

CAREFUL!

COMING

DANGER CLOSE!!!!

COMING

He looked up. “You saw me. And her. You were trying to warn me. To… protect me.”

“You did fine, given your lack of experience. That’s why I let her have her way, if only for a moment.” Vivian touched his shoulder, gently, lovingly. “One day I won’t be around and you’ll have to make your own decisions. Men, women, they’re all the same. Just remember that when you get in their clutches, they might not be as kind as I am.”

Before Ethan could reply, she glanced over his shoulder, the corner of her mouth twitching. “I am not the only one looking out for you, though.”

He felt impish, playful fingers tickle the back of his neck. He turned around and was stunned.

It was Ivy.

 

* * *
 

They had five minutes, no more, probably less. Vivian had gone over to confer with more of her colleagues, leaving the two friends alone to catch up as quickly as possible.

“OMG! Ethan! I can’t even!” Ivy squealed. “I knew it was you the minute I saw you come into the convention center. I saw your aunt first, of course—everyone saw her, my God, she’s absolutely gorgeous when she’s not a hardcore bitch.” She bit her lip. “Oops. Sorry.”

Ethan grinned so hard his cheeks hurt. “Don’t be. Aunt DeeDee calls her that sometimes. I get it.”

“I figured as much.” Ivy giggled. “Anyway, then there you were, flitting behind her like a pitiful little butterfly, struggling to keep up. Everyone was like, ‘Who’s that chic little thing clinging to The Judge?’ But right away I recognized those legs and that wiggle in your walk.”

“I don’t wiggle when I walk.” Ethan gritted his teeth. He knew he did, he just didn’t like people reminding him all the time.

“Liar. Anyway, I had stuff to do, but I added stalking to my itinerary.” Ivy laughed again, tickling his arm as she spoke. “I’ve kept my eye on you all evening. I even took your empty champagne glass—and you didn’t recognize me? Kind of hurt my feelings.”

“Sorry. I had no idea—”

“Oh, don’t be.” She tilted her head, studying him. “It’s not like you don’t already have a lot on your mind. You're in a tight spot—your aunt showing you off to all those important people. It figures, though, her running for office and all.”

The cross-dressed boy nodded. He was only half-listening, more focused on Ivy than what she was talking about. He looked at her carefully, studying her soft, dimpled cheeks, her curly locks, her eyes and lips—not really staring, just taking her all in.

She gave him a suspicious look. “What? Do I have something on my face? What are you staring at?”

“I’m just glad to see you.” The cross-dressed boy beamed. “I never thought… well, I sure didn’t expect you here.”

“That’s exactly what I thought about you!” She snorted. “I work here at the center part time, you know, helping set up these events, parties, that kind of thing. I’m kind of a glorified server, waitress, janitor and organizer, all in one, when I’m not in classes.”

Ethan nodded. “So, you’re at a lot of these kinds of events, then?”

“Pretty much. I got to know the players and the game, sort of.” Ivy glanced at her watch “We have to hurry. I’m on the clock and your aunt is, well… your aunt.”

“Tell me about it.” Ethan shook his head, sighing.

“So, you probably think this is all pretty crazy, huh? I keep hearing about Judge Winthrops’s artistic genius nephew prancing about in high heels and a little black dress—that’s what they’re calling you, you know—artistic genius. There’s all sorts of buzz about ‘Ethan O’Brien’ this and ‘Ethan O’Brien that'—which kind of threw me off ‘cause I thought your name was Martin—”

“It is. O’Brien is my mom’s maiden name.”

Ivy blinked. “Okay, I guess that makes sense. Maybe. Anyway, I thought, my gosh, Ethan did it! He’s come out… and, my gosh, did you ever—big time!”

“It’s all my Auntie Vivian’s idea,” Ethan murmured. “She trying to push me out of my comfort zone—I guess she kinda got carried away. Plus, I just think she likes being in charge.”

“No doubt.” Ivy laughed. “She sure was in charge when she put that Mrs. Redmon bitch in her place!”

“Say again?” Ethan frowned. “Who’s that?”

Ivy blinked. “You don’t know…? Oh, come on, baby, how could you forget? That tall seductress in the purple dress? With the silver bouffant? The vampire queen who almost ate you alive? And I mean that, both figuratively and for reals. She eats people up and spits them out like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Oh… her.”

“Oh her, indeed.” Ivy snorted again. “You were so cute, fighting your little black dress, trying to pick up your purse—you poor thing, you. It would have been hilarious… you looked so sexy, wiggling that fat wittle butt of yours, trying to stand up, all shaky, like a baby deer—”

“I am not fat!” Ethan’s face reddened. “Wait, you were looking at my butt?—”

“Always.” Ivy raised an eyebrow, her smile wicked. “Anywaaay… when I saw that horrible woman coming after you, getting ready to dig her meat hooks into your pretty little hide, I had to get your aunt. Mrs. Redmon is bad news… especially for a naïve, pwissy wittle fing wike you,” she added with a gleam and a giggle.

Ethan bristled, but only for an instant. He’d forgotten how much he liked it when Ivy talked to him like that. Hearing her now, after all this time, he really missed it.

“Um, well, thanks. You’re probably right.”

“Oh, I’m right, all right, my pwetty wittle sissy.” There was that snort again. “You’re just lucky that I found the Judge in time. I couldn’t say or do anything—Mrs. Redmon has a lot of power around town and I’m just a poor struggling college girl, know what I mean?”

Ethan nodded. He had been paying attention, but his mind wandered back to Ivy. She looked amazing, he thought, even in the plain white blouse and black skirt that served as her uniform. He tried to not stare at how her breasts stretched her top, or how her skirt struggled to contain her round bottom… or how her nude lipstick—Was that shade En Vogue or Mademoiselle? he wondered. I’ll have to ask later—glistened in the venue’s harsh lighting. He felt himself fall back a few weeks—or was it months?—when they were alone in the tiny dressing room of that little boutique… kissing, touching… and how she caressed his—

“You know—” she cooed— “I think about you a lot more than I thought I would. I shouldn’t, you’re so young, and me being an old woman.” She giggled again. “But I can’t help myself.”

Ethan swallowed. “Yeah, well, I think about you a lot, too.”

“We had a lot of fun together, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did.” The cross-dressed boy played with his purse, the tight skirt forcing him to stand knock-kneed, his feet pigeon-toed. “So, did you get a girlfriend? Or a… boy… friend?”

There was a pause, punctuated by a snicker. “Well, pretty boy, I think the real question is, did you get a boyfriend?” Ivy smirked. “I hear rumors, you know. You’re going to have to tell me all about Samuel Torres sometime. Are y’all really a thing now? The sissy boy and the bully? Really?”

Ethan felt his face burn. There was that snort yet again.

“I like it when you blush,” she said sweetly. “You can’t keep secrets, can you, my sweet, sweet little girly-boy.”

“You’re just awful,” he croaked. “But I miss you, anyway.”

Ivy nodded, running her fingers up his arm, across his collarbone. She tapped the button pearl attached to his earlobe with her fingernail, her touch partly out of affection, partly out of admiration. “This is such a different look for you, not at all like that little blonde cutie back home. Your hair looks amazing, by the way! Is that red I see? I can’t even!”

“Thanks. I… we got it cut…. Just for tonight.” Ethan frowned. “I’m not sure how I’m going to explain it at school Monday.”

“Pfft! Who cares? You look really good, Ethan! Better than most of the girls at my college. I am so stoked by how sexy you are.” She gave him a sly wink, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Boyfriend or no, I want to kiss you so bad! You have no idea how you make me feel—I’m so horny… I can’t even!”

Ethan grinned, his cheeks hot. Hearing her say that made the whole evening worthwhile. He felt his eyes burn, and for an instant his vision blurred.

“Oh honey, is that a tear?” Ivy pulled out a tissue. “Here, let mama fix you up.”

They both giggled as she dabbed at his eyes, careful to preserve his mascara. She used the same tissue to wipe her own tears.

“Look what you do to me,” she murmured. “Damn you, Ethan Mar-… sorry… Ethan O’brien.” She sniffed. “Whatever your name is!”

Ethan shrugged awkwardly, but didn’t dare speak.

Don’t cry, he told himself. Don’t you dare cry—

Suddenly, right on cue: Ting! Giggle. “Oopsie!”

“That phone is so you!” Ivy gave a watery laugh. “And those ringtones are just your vibe. The idea of you carrying that prissy pink thing around all the time makes me so happy.”

“Well, that makes one of us.” Ethan popped open his purse and checked his messages. “I’m sorry, Ivy, but I have to go. Auntie’s—”

“Oh, I know. My little sissy boy has to do his mean ol’ auntie’s bidding.” She winked. “I’m just kidding. Go on, Miss Priss, get going before she gets her panties in a wad. Oh, wait, let me have your number!”

Ethan gritted his teeth. “I can’t. I’m locked out. I don’t even know—”

“Of course you are. Here, quick, gimme.” Ivy grabbed his phone, used it to shoot a photo of her own—she then pulled him close, their faces cheek-to-cheek, and shot a selfie of the two of them together before handing it back. “There, now you have a picture of my contact info, and a souvenir of tonight.” She shot him a wink. “You can figure how to call me later.”

Ting! Giggle. “Oopsie!”

Ethan began to get anxious. He tapped a quick reply to his aunt, muttering in frustration. “Sorry, Ivy, but I really have to get going.”

“Okay, I know… but before you do—” Ivy looked around for whomever, shrugged, and then leaned in and kissed him—on the mouth, full force, warm and wet, slipping her tongue past his crimson lips, until it found his. The kiss only lasted a second, but it was enough. She grinned as she pushed him away, leaving them both breathless—after a moment that lasted an eternity.

“Something else to remember me by,” she said impishly, backing away. “Text me when you can. Oh, and check your lipstick… it got smeared. Wonder how that happened?”

She was nearly across the venue when she turned and called out, “Hey… Ethan?”

“Yeah?”

She blew him a kiss, then shouted: “I love you!”

“I… love… you, too,” Ethan replied weakly. He watched as long as he could, until she disappeared into the crowd.

And once again, he was alone.

 

* * *
 

Ethan didn’t have any trouble finding his aunt—he walked to the overlook and saw her holding court on the next level down, surrounded by several important-looking men. He first checked and repaired his lipstick, then minced down the stairs—taking extreme care to not fall—and slipped in through the crowd, using his new-found celebrity as a shield. He pranced up beside her just as she finished making a point. Eyebrow raised, she looped her arm around his slender waist as if his appearance had been intentionally timed and choreographed.

“Oh, and by the way, this is my nephew, Ethan O’Brien, gentlemen, my protégé. He and his mother run a unique fashion design house, so I’m sure you—and your wives and daughters, especially—will be seeing more of him in the future.” She nudged him, and he casually and gracefully proffered his hand as he’d done dozens of times that evening. “Ethan darling, Mr. Burgess and Mr. Hopkins are with the state Chamber of Commerce. They’re interested in talking with both you and your mother about your company’s expansion plans….”

Nothing was said about Ethan’s meeting with Ivy, nor his tardiness.

And so, the Judge and her protégé made a peculiar power couple, strategically wandering about the venue, Vivian shaking more hands, making more introductions—Ethan sneaking in a few more selfies here and there. They finally paused in a quiet alcove near the buffet, the noise of the gala thinned to a breathable whisper. Ethan exhaled for what felt like the first time since stumbling out the limo door.

“I can’t wait to get out of this damned dress,” Vivian muttered. “Do you have to pee? I do, something awful. I drank too much champagne—”

Ethan blinked. This was yet another side to his aunt he’d never known. He realized things had changed between them in the short time they’d been together that evening, but he had no idea they’d gotten to this level of intimacy. He nodded, smiling weakly.

“I know how you feel,” he confessed.

Vivian reached out, taking his hand and smiled. “I believe you do. No, I know you do. You’ve outdone yourself tonight, my dear boy. You’ve actually surprised me.”

Seeing his chance, he took a deep breath and asked the thing that had been haunting him ever since they’d arrived: “Why me, Auntie?” He surprised himself with the question’s rawness… and his own boldness. “Why so much focus on me? And now? I’m just a kid. I mean, I just turned thirteen, so why me?”

Vivian looked at him, her head tilted in a way he’d not seen before. For the first time all evening, the power in her gaze softened from heat to warmth.

“Because you need this, Ethan,” she said, honest as a gavel. “And because I refuse to let you fall to the wayside like your father did. That piece of shit—” Ethan’s eyes widened to hear such words from his aunt’s lips— “gave up on both you and your mother. He refused to own up to any responsibility in your lives.”

For an instant Vivian scowled as though she’d just tasted something bitter. Her voice took on a whisper, as though she was reciting lines that she’d repeated a thousand times over the years: “Worse, he terrorized and abused your mother—my sister.”

A silent pause, a breath taken—then: “DeeDee almost killed the bastard, but Colleen stopped her.” She snorted. “If I had my way…”

But then her voice relaxed, as did her countenance. She looked at the cross-dressed boy, latching onto him with reverence… and peace. “I’m sorry, darling. The point is, even in your cute little dresses and lipstick and high heels, you, Ethan O’brien, are more man than your father ever was, or ever will ever be. He refused responsibility, you accepted it—he abandoned you and your mother—you’ve stayed and you have flourished. And because of this, so has she.”

Her eyes glistened. “This is no small thing, dear child. Believe me.”

He blinked. The answer should have stung. Instead, it landed with the weight of something that had been waiting to be named.

“Samuel told me the same thing. The words were… different, but pretty close to what you just said.”

“He did?” Vivian smirked. “I knew there was a reason I liked that young man.”

Ethan blushed. Hearing her say that made him happy.

Her voice was now calmer, with none of its earlier sharpness. “I know how I come across, believe me. Your mother is gentler than I am. Penelope is kinder, but careless. DeeDee is… chaos.” A ghost of a smile. “Ever since our mother died, I’ve always been the one to command strength and order, and I'm the one who builds walls that don’t fall in storms. Tonight I built one around you. For you. If you felt the edges, good. Edges are how we know where we are.”

He nodded, throat tight.

“So, thank you,” she added, almost grudging, which made it truer. “For going along with my little scheme. For letting me claim you in public, at least for tonight. And for standing on my left and not wandering off when the room tried to swallow you.”

He risked a smile. “I wandered a little.”

“Perhaps,” she said, but she wasn’t scolding. “I asked you not to be perfect. I asked you to be mine for this one evening. To trust me. You were. And you did.” Her eyes shined. “Together we have laid out a path for our mutual futures.”

A hush settled between them that wasn’t empty. He felt the clutch’s weight, the pearls around his throat, the echo of heels on marble as the gala ebbed.

“Come,” she said at last. “Let’s allow them one more entrance to remember.”

They returned to the main room, did a final sweep—Colleen’s Collections business card secured, more introductions made, a promise of tea with the orchestra board chair penciled in. Ethan shot a few more photos, including one of Ivy serving champagne to the mayor and his wife. He also looked for the silver haired woman in the purple dress—Mrs. Redmon, the vampire queen, as Ivy called her—partly because she was so alluring, partly out of curiosity—but she was nowhere to be seen.

I wonder if she found someone else’s nephew… or niece, he thought ruefully.

 

* * *
 

When the limo door closed behind them, the city slid away in ribbons.

Vivian didn’t speak for a full minute. Then: “Miriam was right.”

He waited.

“You are brave. And strong,” she said. “You stood in the open and let the wind see you. That is not nothing. It’s the beginning of never running when people see you for what you are, when they say your name.”

He let his head tip back against the seat. The heels pinched, the boned corset held, but the pressure inside his chest had loosened. “You were… generous,” he said. “And a little terrifying.”

“Both are tools,” she said. “I’ll try to use them in the right order.” A small, wry pause. “I will also try harder to understand you, Ethan—Emily, as far as I’m concerned… she no longer exists.” She huffed. “Sorry about that. But not really.”

He thought about that long and hard. He didn't feel like Emily, not at all. He felt like... himself. Not his old self exactly, but maybe a new kind of self.

“I believed you when you said I’m yours.”

“I don’t expect belief,” she said. “I expect behavior.” But her eyes were warmer than the words. “Still. Thank you.”

She then held out her hand. “Your phone. Please.”

Ethan blinked, then complied. He watched Vivian tap away, scrolling, the glow of the screen giving up nothing. He thought—he hoped, actually—that he'd earned her trust, and that she was unlocking the device, giving him back some control over his life. For an instant he imagined not having to deal with that awful ringtone again. But then:

“Smile. Do that silly thing with your hands that girls always do, you know, making a heart or whatever.”

Puzzled, Ethan complied once more, smiling and feeling more than a little foolish, which by that time had become his baseline. Vivian took the picture, checked it, then ordered him to try again. She took several more of him in various poses, as if he was a supermodel, smiling, blowing kisses, camping it up for the lens in the back of the limousine. He’d played around in front of the mirror in private back home, but doing so in front of—and at the behest of—his Auntie Vivian felt… more than a little weird.

Is this another test? I thought we were starting to get along. Is she setting me up to fail at something?

Satisfied at last, Vivian tapped out something, and the phone made a whoosh!

Did she just send someone a text?

Without a word, she handed back the phone.

Almost immediately there was a ting! followed by the inevitable giggle and the musical “oopsie!”

Sighing, Ethan checked the message. I guess this is my life now, he thought, dejected.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw who it was from.

Ivy.

His chest and neck warmed as he realized what had just happened. His aunt had sent a message to Ivy, no words, but two pictures of him in his French bob, lipstick and little black dress—one making the girlish heart hands, the other blowing a kiss while reclining on the limousine seat like a Hollywood starlet.

Ethan looked at his aunt, but she was checking her own phone, detached and seemingly occupied with matters beyond those of a mere teenager.

His phone buzzed—he looked down and saw that Ivy had sent two photos, one of him (close up) and Mrs. Redmon (in the distance). He bit his lip to see how ridiculous he looked, squatting on his heels in his little black dress—garters peeking out from underneath—struggling to get up—and just as Ivy had described, Mrs. Redmon—purple gown, silver-white hair, and that wolfish, leering grimace—watching him with a frightening hunger.

I guess my butt does look kinda fat, he thought with a sigh.

The second photo—shot at considerably closer range—showed him and Vivian together, her arm around his waist, in conversation with Mrs. Redmon. A casual observer might have mistaken the scene as a chat between friends, but Ethan felt a chill come over him as he recalled the seriousness of the matter.

Ting! Giggle. “Oopsie!”

A new text came in—it was another photo, this one of Ivy making the heart hand sign.

call when u can ❤️

Any chill he felt was long gone. He replied with a ❤️, nothing more. He then looked at his aunt and took her hand in his, gripping it tightly.

“Thank you,” he whispered. He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

Vivian shrugged, waving off the gift as though it was nothing. But it was something. And they both knew it.

 

* * *
 

The driver took a corner. Ethan still held onto Vivian's hand, fond, warm—their matching pearl bracelets clicked together like a quiet duet.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “you will call the architect. You will thank her for her time. You will call the chairwoman of the orchestra and ask how you and your mother can be useful to her gala. You will call that councilwoman and thank her for her attention.” She ticked off a list of other tasks, all designed to benefit not just her, but him and his mother. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Auntie,” he said, and felt the word make a room in his mouth.

“Good boy,” she said, not as a diminishment but as the closing of a circle. She squeezed his hand and then, after a beat, a concession that might have been an offering: “You know, young Ethan O’brien, I think I'm actually beginning to like you.”

He smiled into the window’s dark. The city lights turned to stars in the glass. Beside his own reflection, Vivian’s hovered—her pearls a constellation, her gaze steady as a fixed star—and under that calm, undeniable gravity he found, to his surprise, that he could breathe easily.

For the first time, he wondered if belonging on her arm wasn’t defeat, but a way forward: not erasure, not surrender—just a line drawn in public that told the world where he stood, and who would stand with him when the room got loud.

 

* * *
 

The limousine was almost too quiet. The soft drone of the engine, the muffled city beyond the tinted glass, and the faint scent of Vivian’s perfume—rich, expensive, and impossible to shake—made the ride home feel dreamlike. Ethan now sat alone in the limo—his aunt having gotten out at a downtown hotel—his back against the leather seat, knees awkwardly crossed the way he’d coached, the ruffled hem of the little black dress holding them much too tight.

His head still buzzed with the evening: Crystal glasses catching the chandelier light, strangers leaning close to share their names and occupations, laughter like warm syrup, and Vivian’s hand on his shoulder—guiding, steering, claiming… and protecting.

The lecherous Mr. Crowley, his lips touching Ethan’s fingers, his syrupy, seductive voice, the skin-crawling leer, the suggestion of something that just didn’t feel… right. The realization that Auntie Vivian’s spirit animal had been poised to attack.

Mrs. Redmon and her pearls, draped over those magnificent breasts, thrust in his face, her cunning smile… her scent … her suggestive words. The fear and confusion he felt when he realized her intent, the risk he’d faced. And the relief that came with Vivian’s arm around his waist.

Ivy. Her laugh, her winking… her teasing… her “I can’t even!” Her touch, along his arms, his shoulders and neck. And that kiss. She was, he remembered always, his first kiss, and maybe, just maybe, the best of the lot. The most recent—shared just a couple of hours ago—was one to treasure and cherish, of that he was sure.

His heart raced as he thought of her last words. She said she loved me? Not "puppy love"? Did she actually mean...

The limo hit a bump, then swerved slightly, jostling his memories. Which was just as well.

His thoughts trailed back to the salon and the ordeal of being waxed, the shame of his eruption and the sweet, mischievous smiles of the attendants as they comforted him. He could still feel the cool drag of Stefan’s comb, the contours of the French bob framing his face, and how he felt the first time he saw his reflection.

Stefan was right. The time under his care had been life-changing. Ethan curled a lock of his hair around his finger, thinking. His hair. Not store-bought. His own. He was now free of the wig. Without it, he wasn’t Emily. He wasn’t pretending, either. He wasn’t living a fantasy. He was finally… him. All evening, being presented to so many people, the elite of the elite, at his Aunt Vivian’s side—it was Ethan O’brien, nee Ethan Martin—sharper, sleeker. More exposed. More real.

He was Ethan renewed.

He was—Ethan rising.

He wondered what his mother would say when she saw him. What would she think of his red hair? His dress, his pearls... that lipstick? Those shoes? Would she laugh? Would she blush for him? Would she see the same boy she’d sent away this morning—or someone new?

Auntie Vivian said, “Emily no longer exists,” he thought. Is she gone? Forever? Am I ready to let her go? What if I’m not—

He paused in his thinking, just for a moment. Then he took a deep breath, let it out… and turned the page in his mind to the hardest question of all:

What about Samuel? What’s he going to think when he sees me like this? Will he like me this way, or will he freak out?

This problem vexed him more than anything else. Ethan thought about what Vivian said, how Emily was a fairy tale… not real. That applied not just to himself, but those close to him—close to “Emily.”

This version of me is completely different than Emily, he mused. My whole look, my attitude, who I am. I’m not the same as I was yesterday. The “new me” is more grown up, more bold, more me than… her.

His heart raced, his face reddened as his imagination wandered. He thought about those moments he and Samuel shared, in the movie theater… on the dance floor… in the dark.

I’ve never kissed him as me… always as… her. Will he want to kiss me like this? Will he love me… even like me… now that Emily is going away… or…

The limousine turned into their street, the houses dark and still. The driver opened his door with the same polished courtesy he’d shown all night, and Ethan stepped out, gripping the little clutch purse Vivian had pressed into his hands, shivering as the night air chilled his exposed chest and shoulders. His heels clicked once on the driveway before he remembered that his tight dress and undergarments required him to mince in them carefully—yet another lesson.

 

* * *
 

The crunch of tires woke Colleen, and she smiled before her eyes were even open. At last, he was home. She had missed her boy fiercely, the silence of the house almost mocking her. There was no humming, no sound of the other sewing machine running, no clinking of plates and glasses being washed in the kitchen.

She felt empty without him.

She had caught herself speaking aloud once or twice, only to remember no one was there to answer, no one to fetch her scissors or bring her tea… or simply keep her company. She busied herself with sewing, pouring a glass of wine, soaking in the tub—but every stitch and every sip carried a whisper of worry.

Vivian’s silence all day was a kind of reassurance—no news was usually good news with her—but Colleen had not been able to shake her unease. Her sister’s discipline when they were young had made both her and DeeDee strong—but Ethan was tender-hearted, too eager to please. Vivian had never warmed to him, not really. He bore his father’s features, his history, and as far as Vivian was concerned, his potential.

“His negative potential,” she'd said all too many times.

That wound still cast its shadow.

“I just hope today softened something in Vivian, and didn’t make things worse,” she whispered, fretting something awful. “My poor baby—maybe it was a mistake, letting him go without me.”

She rose, tied her robe, and opened the door—expecting Vivian’s sensible sedan. Instead, a black limousine crouched in her drive, purring like some beast. The chauffeur, all polish and height, swung the rear door open. Out stepped a slim, graceful figure. For a heartbeat Colleen thought it was a girl. No, a young woman. Then the retreating headlights revealed the truth.

Ethan. Hair sculpted into a shining bob, a little black dress hugging his frame, pearls gleaming, scarlet heels flashing as he minced up the driveway.

Colleen stood in the warm spill of the porch light, robe belted, hair tucked behind one ear. Her eyes widened—just a beat—before she broke into a slow, wicked smile.

“Ohhh myyy… look at you!”

Ethan shifted awkwardly. “Please, Mother, don’t make a big deal. It… it’s just a dress.”

“Mmm. Just a dress, he says. And just hair, and just makeup, and just the most poised little man I’ve ever seen walking up my driveway like he owns the place.” She stepped aside. “Come in, my love, before the neighbors start peeking out their blinds.”

She kissed his cheek—lightly, careful not to smudge him—and hugged him close, her voice warm in his ear. “All right, mister, I’ve been sitting here for hours imagining what my sister’s been up to with you. I figured she'd get you fitted with a nice suit or maybe a tux, but… my God, you're... stunning! No, forget that—you… you really are radiant!”

“I keep telling you to stop using that word.” Ethan smiled. “But… yeah, thank you, Mother. I kind of feel radiant for the very first time.”

Colleen blinked. “Wait—is your hair red?” She slid her fingers under the auburn locks and carefully studied them, amazed.

Ethan shrugged, then nodded. “Mr. Stefan lightened it. He said it’s always been this color, but I don't take care of it and—”

“Well, it's official. You are an O'Brien, through and through. I can’t wait for DeeDee and Dani to see this. They’ll be thrilled!”

Ethan grimaced. He'd forgotten about them. Dani was never going to let him live this down. But that would have to wait.

“That O’Brien thing… is weird, because that's what Auntie Vivian kept calling me all night—Ethan O'Brien.”

Colleen’s eyes widened. “She did? She actually called you—Ethan… O’Brien?” She pulled him to her breast and hugged him, hard and long. She then kissed his lips, her eyes gleaming, happy beyond happy. “That’s good. Oh, you don’t know how good that is. That means—”

“It means she likes me, Mother.” Ethan allowed himself a light smile. “Me, not Emily. At least that’s what she said.”

“She said that?” Colleen felt tears coming on as she processed everything she was seeing and hearing. This was not the same child who left her house that morning. This was someone different, who’d gone through a crash course on Vivian Rose O’brien—never mind the Judge Winthrop part—in the matter of a few hours... and miraculously survived.

“Well, all right then.” She wiped her eyes. “You come and sit with me and start talking, little mister. You will tell me every single, humiliating, mortifying detail about all that’s happened to you today. And tonight.”

“Mother, please. I’m so tired—”

Despite his protests they settled in the living room. Ethan sank awkwardly into the sofa, careful with his corset and dress, while Colleen perched next to him, one leg crossed over the other, studying him like an exhibit.

“Garters? Really?”

The blushing boy tugged at the hem of his dress, then gave up.

“It’s been a weird day. Can you help me with my shoes, please. I’m in pain.”

“Poor baby.” Colleen snorted as she leaned down and slipped the blood-red high heels from his feet. “Mmm, very nice. Very Vivian. She had on red, too?”

Ethan nodded. “We were a matched set. Sort of. Hair, makeup, pearls, shoes… even our dresses matched. Kinda.”

“I see.” Colleen grinned as she lifted his feet onto her lap and began massaging them. “Better? Good. So tell mama all about it. From the moment she snatched you up in her clutches.”

“Not now, please Mom—”

“Oh no, you don’t. Right now, while it’s fresh in your memory. I want the unabridged edition. The special features.” She waved a hand. “The smells, the looks, the little things that made you squirm. I live for those.”

Ethan started with the safe parts—the drive to Capital City, the hair and makeup—”You know how Mr. Stefan is, Mom. He went crazy on me!”—then the event at the center, the introductions and shaking of hands. So many hands.

“Hold on, let’s go back to the salon.” Colleen tilted her head, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “You skipped over the part where they… waxed you?”

He froze. “I never said—”

“You didn’t have to.” She reached up and tickled his bare thigh between the top of his stocking and his foundation garment. “You’re glowing like a freshly polished teacup.”

“Mom, please! It was embarrassing enough.” Ethan squirmed.

“What? I’m just observing.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “So, back to the convention… any handsome young men in tuxedos ask you to dance? Pat you on your pretty bottom?”

He shook his head too quickly.

“That’s a maybe,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Or was it a pretty lady who wanted to know if you liked girls instead?”

“N-n-neither,” he muttered.

“Mm-hmm. I can tell you’re hiding something.” She raised an eyebrow. “You said my sister called you ‘Ethan O’Brien.’ Not Emily? Don’t tell me Vivian spent the entire night showing you off as a boy. In that dress? Those nails? And these legs?”

He hesitated. Then nodded. “Pretty much…”

Colleen’s grin sharpened. “So you blossomed?”

“I—no! Maybe. I dunno. I just… talked to people.”

“Talked to people,” she repeated, savoring the phrase like it was a dessert. “I’ll bet you did.”

Before he could protest again, the sugary pop tune of his new phone cut through the room. Ethan jumped, fumbling with the purse. Colleen lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Please tell me that’s—”

“It’s the phone,” he muttered, pulling the pink case into view.

Colleen dissolved into laughter. “Oh my God, that’s perfect!”

He stabbed the answer button. “Hello?”

“Speakerphone, now,” came Vivian’s crisp voice.

Ethan groaned but obeyed.

“Colleen.”

“Vivian.”

“Your son did well enough tonight,” Vivian said. “Better than I’d hoped. He has three phone calls to make in the morning—to the orchestra board chairwoman, the architect, and the councilwoman.”

Colleen glanced at him, all innocent mischief. “Oh? Why’s that?”

“Ask young Mr. O’Brien. He has his instructions.” A pause. “And Colleen, if you want the full picture, ask him about his little flirtations with Damian Crowley and that succubus, Bella Redmon. They were not in the plan, but he handled them both with admirable composure.”

Ethan buried his face in his hands. “Auntie!”

Colleen cackled. “Oh, don’t pout. It only makes you more charming. Vivian, tell me all about the waxing? How much did they do?”

A pause. “From what I saw, very little was left. Talk to your son. Maybe he’ll show you.”

“Auntie!” Ethan squealed—Colleen smirked.

Vivian went on: “Ethan, there’s another event in two months. A fundraiser at the Grandview Colosseum. Different crowd, same level of importance. We’re expected. We… not just me.”

Ethan groaned. Colleen glowed.

“This time, rather than another designer’s dress, I suggest you create your own. Something modern, chic… bold. You can help, Colleen, but it has to be Ethan’s creation. I’ve seen his potential—now let everyone one else. Give me something that will turn heads in my circle. Something avant-garde, alluring, but chaste. This could be a great opportunity for you both.”

Colleen’s eyes gleamed. “We’re up to it.”

“I'm thinking something red, you know the color.”

Colleen nodded. “I do.”

“And not so much in the bust like the dress he has on. We're not turning him into a girl, we're showing off your son and my nephew, a creative, an artist with a future. All that.”

“Got it. We’ll make a dress for our boy that will get everyone’s attention. Won’t we, my love?”

Ethan cringed, shaking his head no. His mother glowed with mischief.

“Exactly. And Mr. O’Brien”—Colleen had to bite her thumb to keep from giggling—”keep your phone with you. At school, Penelope’s, wherever. Even in the bathroom.”

“Yes, Auntie,” he said, flushing.

Vivian hung up, leaving the living room in amused silence.

Ethan threw his head back against the sofa cushion. “Argh! Another one of these things? She thinks she’s helping me, but she’s making things hard. My life is over.”

“Is it?” Colleen took his hand and pulled him close. “It sounds to me like it’s just getting started.”

“Maybe.” Ethan stared at his phone. “This girly thing is going to get me in so much trouble.”

“Oh, I think it’s adorable. You looked positively natural fishing it out of your purse.” Colleen smirked. “Now, I want to hear all about these flirtations…”

He groaned. “She’s exaggerating.”

“She’s my sister. She doesn’t exaggerate, she embellishes. There’s a difference. So—” she sat back, eyes twinkling “—this Damian character and, who was it, Bella Redmon? Did either of them pinch you? Squeeze you on the butt? Try to kiss you?” She made a pouty face. “You’d tell your mother, wouldn’t you?”

“Mom….”

They talked about the fundraiser. Colleen prompted him to sketch his new dress out loud—hemlines, necklines, fabrics—and Ethan’s stomach tightened. He could already see it in his head—silk again, ruby red, with an empire waist with a snug bodice and an outrageous white satin bow across his flat bust, a short, flared chiffon overskirt, a real corset this time—ugh!—and garters, again? If he thought what he was wearing now was bad, this next one would be extraordinary. The problem was, he’d be the one wearing it. Not Emily. Not a make-believe character he could hide behind. He, himself.

And he would look magnificent.

“I don’t know, Mom…” he moaned. For an instant he thought, I wonder what kind of shoes I should wear with a dress like that? Maybe we should come up with a dress for Auntie Vivian to go with it, so we will match, like tonight—then he moaned again.

Auntie is right, he thought wryly. I’m addicted. And if I’m not already, I’m gonna be.

How did she put it? Oh yeah: “… boys like you…”

“You’ll be fine,” Colleen said, leaning forward with that smug-maternal glint. “It’s not drag. It’s not pretending. It’s you, looking beautiful in silk. Not handsome, but gorgeous… stylish and pretty. Radiant.”

He groaned. “Please don’t say that again.”

“Why? You used the word yourself.” She smoothed the skirt over his knees. “And I’m just thrilled to see my son stepping into the world as his best self. My sister’s opened her heart to you. And the world. And you didn’t trip over your heels, so I’d call it a win.”

“Maybe.” He thought for a moment. “There’s, um… one more thing. We… I… saw Ivy.”

Colleen raided an eyebrow. “Oh? And how did that go?”

Ethan smiled, tired but happy. “Good. We got to talk. Auntie Vivian likes her, I think. She even took a picture of me and sent it to her… with my phone. She’s in my contacts now. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes, it’s fine with me.” Colleen held out her hand, he took it and they held tight to one another. “She must have done something right for Vivian to let her in. It shows trust in both of you, I would think.” She kissed his hand. “Just keep your head clear, all right? You’re a sensitive soul, my love, and I don’t want you to get hurt. Between Samuel and Claire… and an older girl like Ivy. I do like her… but….”

“I’ll be fine, Mother. I promise.” Ethan clenched his thighs together and wiggled his hips a bit, biting his lip. “Can we stop now? I really have to pee. I haven’t been since this afternoon.”

Colleen blinked, then grinned. “Ah, the glamorous life. So why didn’t you go?”

“Well, it’s not all that easy.”

There was that smirk again. “And why is that?”

“This—” he pulled up his skirt, exposing the tops of his stockings and his garters. He tugged at the bottom of his foundation garment— “I can’t get this thing off by myself. That, and the dress—”

“Oh my! Now I know you have a lot more explaining to do.”

“Mother, please! I gotta go. Now!”

Colleen stood, chuckling. “Come on, pretty boy. Let your helpful mother rescue you before we have a wardrobe disaster on my good sofa.”

She had to help him up, which she thought was just wonderful. She then followed him upstairs, happily watching his mincing gait, the sway of his hips, the swish of his stockings against his skirt. She felt uplifted, her heart light, and her hope for the future renewed.

 

Next up, Oopsie!