Dress Code

Gary woke up groggy, blinking into the soft morning light. Had he not long ago become nose-deaf to his own smell, he would have slept with his window open to free him from the heavy teenage musk his room was soaked in. He had gone to bed in his boxers, same as always, having left his jeans and t-shirt in a crumpled pile on the floor.

For a few seconds, he forgot everything. The weirdness of the night before, the conversation with his parents, the haunted look in his mom's eyes when she saw him wearing a t-shirt like he had just run over the family cat.

Then he remembered Wyatt's laugh. That musical, impossible sound. And the lace. And the dresses.

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. Maybe it had been a dream. Maybe he'd wake up and the world would be normal. His computer would be there, humming softly, his clothes, his life. Everything would make sense.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. The floor was cold against his feet. He turned toward the pile of clothes—

And froze.

They were gone.

The floor was clean.

"Mom?" he called.

No answer.

He stepped out into the hall, wearing only his boxers, the air sharp against his skin. Downstairs, he could hear the faint clatter of breakfast dishes.

He trudged down the steps, already knowing, somehow, that this wasn't going to be good.

Lucy Wallace stood at the kitchen counter, humming softly as she poured orange juice into two glasses. Her hair was perfect, her lipstick on. The kind of put-together look that suggested someone preparing for emotional warfare.

"Good morning, sweetheart," she said brightly, not turning around.

"Morning," Gary muttered. "Hey, uh, where are my clothes?"

"Oh, I took care of them."

He blinked. "You what?"

"I took care of them. They were inappropriate."

"Inappropriate? They were jeans!"

His mother turned and looked at her son, the gentle expression on her face quickly turning to horror.

"Dear Lord, Gary! What are you wearing?!"

She quickly turned away, holding her hand up in front of her face.

"Just my boxers..."

"Gary Wallace," his father's voice boomed, "I don't know what you think you're doing, but you march upstairs right now and put on a pair of panties. I can't believe you would come down here and... expose yourself to your mother like that!"

Gary was shocked. He looked down at himself. Just a regular pair of boxer shorts. A pair he'd had for years.

"Panties?"

"I don't know what kind of phase you're going through," his mother shrieked, still looking away, "But no son of mine is going to walk around the house like some drag queen prostitute. The blinds are up! Anyone could just walk by and see you prancing around like that! Do you want people to talk? Do you want them thinking you're… confused?"

Gary stared at her. "You've seen me wear these a hundred times! You bought them for me last Christmas!"

"You wipe that filthy lie out of your mouth right now!" she said sharply. "You live under our roof, you'll follow our rules. When you're living on your own, you can follow whatever... alternative... lifestyle you want to follow. You can dress however you want. If you want to look like some kind of Hollywood hooker then, be my guest. But in this house, you'll look like a proper gentleman."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed his forehead. "So you want me to go wear, like, a dress or whatever?"

His mother nodded, still unable to make eye contact. "You'll thank me later. Shermer is a small town and walking around dressed like... well... I think you'll do much better in life if you just go back to the way you used to dress and put this new phase of yours behind you."

He looked at his father, ****. "Dad?"

"You have until the count of three to hit those stairs and start making some good decisions, mister," his father spat.

"But I don't want..."

"One..."

"Can't we talk..."

"Two..."

"Okay! Okay! I'm going!" Gary scrambled out of the room and back up the stairs. Each step, each riser seemed to add weight to his feet. But he still moved, knowing full well that once his parents were this set on a course of action, there was no changing their minds.

He stopped outside his bedroom door. His hand lingered on the knob.

He didn't want to open it.

But he did.

He crossed to the closet, bare feet padding softly on the carpet. He could almost feel his mother's expectation radiating up from the kitchen below.

He took a deep breath.

Reached for the handle.

And opened the closet door.