She stands on a stage, dropping her mink to the floor. Her evening gown is a designer. It is red and sparkly. It matches her hair, a fiery red, paired with pearl earrings the size of softballs. “Hello,” she whispers huskily into the microphone. “My name is Esther Pruella. What’s yours?” There’s a fair amount of whistling in the audience. She smiles coyly and gently grasps the microphone. Her big red mouth opens, ready to sing the first note, and—

“Billy, we’ll be back in an hour,” his mother hollered to him from the living room. “Don’t answer the door for anyone unless it is either your father or I. Okay?”

“Okay!” He hollered back. They always have to interrupt me in the middle of a performance, don’t they? Billy thought to himself. He stared at himself in the mirror. And just when I was about to do my solo. Clad in a pink feather boa, clip on earrings, and one of his mother’s various lipsticks smudged around his lips, he stood up straight, ready to start again. His red dress was far too long for him, and it wasn’t even near the shade of red he wanted. One weekend he rode his bike into town and bought a roll of scratchy red fabric, thanking Mrs. Lieberman, the woman that ran the shop. Only cost him two dollars. Every Sunday since then, he took his mother’s sewing kit out of the pantry while his parents went to church. He never went, saying that he had a lot of homework. But what ten year old gets an hour and a half of homework on the weekend? Billy spun around in front of the full-length mirror, his short self enrobed in heaps of red taffeta, almost toppling over in his mother’s sinful black pumps. For being a fairly quiet boy around his peers at school, Billy was quite the dramatic when he was at home. Well, when his parents weren’t home. For his dad, this was every weekday until six o’clock. For his mother, well, she was home quite a lot, pretending to be happy with ironing and hemming and playing canasta with the gals from the block a few times a week. But then Sunday came, which was his real day of freedom. The Lord’s day. The time he got to be his true self, at least for a few hours. His true self being Esther Pruella, a five foot four redheaded cabaret singer. She was everything he wished he could be; poised, coy, flirty, and curvy. The only similarity they had was the red hair. A Midwestern thing, Billy supposed. Snapping out of his trance, he stared at the blue clock on his wall. It was 9:30. Time for lessons! He thought to himself. He raced down the stairs, holding up his dress, (as a lady should) clomping away in his black pumps. He ran across the kitchen into the study, where the record player was. Today, he was feeling Doris Day. He put her on the turntable, eagerly awaiting her sweet voice.

“I'm a girl, and by me that's only great! I am proud that my silhouette is curvy, that I walk with a sweet and girlish gait with my hips kind of swivelly and swervy…”
“When I have a brand new hairdo with my eyelashes all in curl, I float as the clouds on air do, I enjoy being a girl!”

He sang along, trying to mimic Ms. Day’s beautiful voice.

“I’m a little flat,” he announced to no one in particular. Then he giggled. I’m flat in a few ways, he thought to himself, staring down at his fabric-covered chest. God love her, but he soon got tired of Doris and decided to switch to his absolute favorite; Judy Garland. With her beautiful haunting tone playing in the background, he went into his father’s musky desk and pulled out a pack of Camel Lights, slipping a cigarette between his index and middle finger. Billy would never light it, oh no. That would hurt his lungs! He didn’t want that sultry, raspy voice until old age. He glanced at the grandfather clock. It read 9:45. Now it was time for his acting lessons. Every good cabaret performer knew how to talk to an audience, didn’t they? And so he commenced.

“Oh, hello dearies. Oh hello, ladies and gentleman. Especially gentleman,” he said with a wink. Slowly pacing around the small, smoky study, he tried different opening statements. He tried to deepen his voice, tried to make it...sexy. He blushed at the thought of that word. Sexy. How could he dress up and make suggestive comments to the mirror but still get embarrassed at hearing the word sexy? Maybe it was his upbringing. In an all white neighborhood on a manicured little street in a manicured little town in the little state of Iowa, the word “sexy” was only used to describe a car. Or for your wife in the bedroom, after the kids had gone to sleep. And even then it was a little risqué. He tried to think of the people around his neighborhood. There was Mr. and Mrs. Carver, a crotchety old couple who had little gnomes all around their front yard. There was the McCarthy family, a family of six. Billy and the kids used to play when they were younger, until the parents got uber-religious and decided that the kids could only play with kids who went to the church. A lot of the other families in the neighborhood thought this as well. Needless to say, Billy didn’t have many friends. But who needs friends when you’ve got a collection of jazzy records and your mother’s diamond bracelet? He went to church, once. Before he found out that he was one of the things that Reverend Lewis was condemning. But he waved it off. No matter. In Billy’s own little world, he was a star. He would one day be the asteroid that lands on Earth, taking everybody by surprise. Then again he’d probably kill a few people in the process, but no matter. For the next few hours, he traipsed around the house, singing at the top of his lungs, dancing like nobody was watching, and tried to learn how to properly hold a cigarette. It was now noon, and boy was he tuckered out. Besides, mother and dad would be home soon. After church, they liked to try and rekindle their romance by heading into town to try a restaurant that they had never been to before. But of course, dad didn’t want anything to do with anything relating to the Chinese, and pizza made mother’s stomach hurt. So they just went to the same place every single Sunday, a diner off of Main Street. All of a sudden, Billy heard mother and dad quietly arguing on the front porch, thinking that Billy couldn’t hear them if they were quiet. His eyes got wide. If his parents found out about Esther Pruella, he’d never be able to see her again. He quickly ran to the staircase, and clambered up that thing like it was Mount Everest and a pack of wolves were close behind him. He slammed his bedroom door shut and practically threw the poorly stitched dress off of himself, folding it neatly to put under the bed. He threw his clip on earrings into a desk drawer and took his mother’s extra container of Pond’s Cold Cream, vigorously smearing it all over his lips. He threw his green pajamas back on and climbed into bed pretending to read a comic book. He heard his parents climb the stairs, nearing his bedroom. Why was he so nervous? This wasn’t the first time he had to switch his identity in under four minutes. Usually it took about ten. From the soft knock on the door, Billy could tell it was his mother.

“Billy, honey, may we come in?” she asked softly.

“Uh…sure,” he responded. He buried his nose deeper into the book. The door swung open, and he greeted his church-clothes clad parents with an unconvincing smile.

“Hiya son,” his dad said roughly.

“Hiya dad,” Billy said glumly.

“How was your day? It seems you haven’t moved since we’ve left!” his mother exclaimed with a smile.

“Ha, um, yeah, I’ve been…not feeling well,” Billy squeaked. He fake coughed.

“Well, nothing the great outdoors can’t do to fix a head cold! Whaddya say we go out back and throw around the ol’ pigskin?” His dad asked, a small smile evident on his face.

“The ol’ what?”

“Never mind him, Billy dear. I’ll go get you some Vick’s Vapor Rub. Paul, would you be a dear and go fetch it for me?” His mother asked dad sweetly. Dad rolled his eyes.

“Sure, honey,” he replied and swiftly left the room.

“Mother, I don’t need any Vick’s, I’m sure if I just get some rest, I’ll–”

“Look, Billy. Why don’t you let me make you a dress next time you decide to, uh, frolic. Your sewing is absolutely dreadful,” she whispered with a small eyebrow raise and a smirk. Billy’s eyes widened, his mouth agape.

“Mother, I don’t know–”

“Honey, don’t leave your mouth open so wide. It could get stuck like that,” she replied with a wink, and got off the bed, preparing to leave.

“How did you–”

“Pond’s can’t get rid of my lipstick that easily. Why do you think I always have lipstick on first thing in the morning?” she asked Billy smartly. She left the room. Well, this was a side of his mother Billy had never seen.

Perhaps one day he could introduce his mother to Ms. Pruella. Maybe they could all have cocktails together.