A Wish after a Party -1- Lajien

“Are you sure about this, Ava?” Jayden whispered, his voice trembling as he stared at the mirror in her room, the glass reflecting every inch of his nervous frame while she fastened the garter with quick, practiced snaps. The black stockings slid against his newly shaved legs, the cool nylon sending a shiver up his spine.

“Hell yeah, Jayden—trust me, you’ll slay the party,” Ava fired back for the hundredth time, her tone bright and unyielding, refusing to let doubt creep in. She was eighteen, senior, ex-volleyball captain, cheerleader—loud, fearless, everyone’s orbit, the kind of girl who walked into a room and owned the air.

Jayden, fifteen, shy, awkward, took her classes, fixed her homework nightly with quiet precision. Not Dad’s muscle dream—just lean, endless stamina. Could outrun Owen, track star, no sweat. But if Dad saw the stockings--grounded till college. Same heart-shaped face as Mom, warm brown eyes, long silky hair he refused to cut. Bullied, tripped, once bloodied. Tonight, Ava made it armor.

Jayden crushed on Mia—same age, grade, quiet smarts. Hated jocks, loved sharp minds.

Two nights earlier—gym lights humming, the squeak of sneakers still echoing, Mia twisting her water bottle cap with a casual flick.

“Mia, real talk,” Ava had said, dropping her pom-poms with a soft thud onto the bleachers. “You actually meant that thing about Jayden?”

Mia smirked, water dribbling down her chin as she wiped it with her sleeve. “I said if he ever wore a skirt—full femme, no half-measures—I’d say yes if he asked me out. That’s the quote.”

“Define full femme,” Ava pressed, leaning in, eyes sharp.

“Skirt. Stockings. The works. Not ironic. I want him to own it,” Mia replied, her voice steady, a challenge beneath the words.

Ava folded her arms, a grin forming. “Spill the checklist. Why him?”

Mia’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. “One: he’s smart. Fixes my calc like it’s nothing, never brags. Two: not a jock. Zero ego, zero gym-bro vibes. Could outrun Owen and doesn’t care. Three—” She glanced at the empty court, lowering her voice. “That face. Same heart shape as your mom, warm brown eyes, long silky hair, he won’t cut even after they bloodied him for it. Feminine. Real. I like that.”

Ava grinned wider. “Skirt equals date?”

“Skirt equals date,” Mia said, fist out, steady and sure. “Halloween party. You get him there in full Elara mode, I’m his date. You fail? You’re buying me boba every single day for a month—five bucks a pop, no excuses, no ‘I forgot my wallet.’ I win? I’m covering yours. Deal?”

Ava bumped it hard. “Deal.”

Back to present. The bedroom carried a hint of vanilla and tension, the overhead light casting soft shadows across the cluttered dresser and the faint scent of Ava’s coconut hairspray lingering in the air. Jayden stood barefoot on the plush rug, his heart hammering as he lifted his arms, the cool fabric of the stockings already clinging to his freshly shaved legs.

“Stay put,” Ava said, her voice steady but edged with excitement. She gripped the emerald-green dress by the shoulders and eased it down over his head, the cotton sliding smoothly into place.

It was a basic cotton A-line dress, nothing fancy—just a clean knee-length cut that brushed his thighs and hung naturally, the hem settling just above the garter clips. The material brushed against the sheer black stockings already fastened to the garter, a faint rustle that made Jayden’s stomach flip.

Ava stepped away, scanning him from head to toe, her cheerleader instincts kicking in as she tilted her head like she was sizing up a play. “Spin,” she commanded, crossing her arms.

He turned slowly, the dress shifting with him, simple yet present, the fabric catching the lamplight in subtle waves. She gave a quick nod, her lips curving in approval, then reached for the studded black collar on the dresser—thick leather, flat silver studs glinting under the lamp like tiny warnings. She stepped close, her fingers deft as she locked it around his neck; the weight settled firmly, a steady pressure that grounded him in the moment.

“Guns now,” she said, dropping to one knee with a playful grin. She wrapped Velcro holsters around each leg, the scratchy sound loud in the quiet room, and snapped the matte-black prop pistols in place. The barrels extended just past the hem, partly concealed, partly bold, their plastic edges cool against his skin. “Elara had these in the greenhouse. You know the scene,” she added, glancing up with a knowing look.

Jayden nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah,” he managed, the word barely audible.

Ava rose, her movements quick and confident, and grabbed the gloves—black lace, fingerless, light but pointed, the delicate weave catching on her nails as she handled them. She slid one over his left hand, then the right, tugging the cuffs so the lace stopped at his wrists, framing his fingers like a subtle frame. The mix worked: gentle dress, firm details, a balance that made the whole look feel intentional.

“Mirror,” she said, stepping aside with a flourish.

He faced it, his breath catching at the sight.

The reflection showed the green dress ending at his knees, the sheer black stockings catching the glow from the lamp, the collar catching the eye with its quiet menace. The guns at his knees looked solid enough to raise his heartbeat, their weight a constant reminder. Ava stepped in behind him with a makeup sponge, her presence warm and reassuring.

“Eyes,” she murmured, blending charcoal into the outer corners with careful strokes, adding a neat flick of liner that sharpened his gaze, and tapping silver near the tear ducts for a subtle shimmer. Daytime clean, nighttime edge —the look perfectly balanced.

“Lip,” she said, pressing on a muted berry gloss with a steady hand. Subtle, not screaming, just enough to tie it all together.

She moved back, hands on hips, surveying her work. “Finished,” she declared, her voice full of pride.

Jayden breathed out, a slow release of the nerves that had been building all evening. The dress felt like part of him now, no longer foreign. The collar sat close, a quiet anchor. The guns pulled at his legs, grounding him further.

Ava set her chin on his shoulder, meeting his gaze in the mirror, her reflection a steady presence. “Elara Thorne, ready,” she said softly.

He gave a slight, unsteady grin, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Let’s go own the party,” he replied, his voice gaining a touch of resolve.

The Verdant Veil had blown up last Halloween, the kind of horror flick every kid their age streamed in the dark with headphones on, jumping at every rustle. Elara Thorne was the lead—a botanist who inherited her family’s overgrown greenhouse, only to discover the vines were alive, hungry, and tangled in decades of buried secrets.

This exact outfit came from the third act: Elara racing through shattered glass corridors, dress ripped at the hem, guns blazing, torch in hand as she burned the roots before they could choke her out. The green sundress had been her mom’s everyday gardening one; the studded collar, her mom’s old choker; the pistols, her dad’s retired service weapons. Half scientist, half avenger. Jayden was wearing the moment Elara stopped running and started fighting back.

Jayden paused at the top of the stairs, emerald dress brushing his knees. He gripped the banister with one lace-gloved hand and started down. The black two-inch heels clicked in perfect rhythm—no stumble, no sway. Ava followed, bow slung across her back.

Halfway down, she muttered, “How are you walking like that in heels?”

Jayden’s cheeks flushed hot beneath the makeup. “Uh… balance drills for drama club,” he mumbled. “You know, for the spring play.”

Ava snorted and kept moving. She didn’t believe it and she was going to dig for the excuse later, but for now, she will let it go.

The truth that Jayden didn’t want to tell her was that since he was five, whenever Dad was at work or fishing, Mom locked the bedroom door and pulled out her old sundresses, low heels, scarves. They’d spend the day together—tea parties, runway walks, quiet laughter. She always had an excuse: “Aunt Lisa’s visiting,” “Henry’s at practice.” Dad never knew.

Jayden loved those secret hours, but the idea of anyone else seeing had kept him silent.

Tonight was the first time the door stayed unlocked.

They hit the foyer. Mom knelt by Henry, adjusting the twelve-year-old’s pirate sash.

Henry—Dad’s ideal son, loud, athletic, fresh on the junior football team, friends in every grade—spun his plastic cutlass and froze at the sight of Jayden.

“You look like a sissy,” he blurted.

Jayden opened his mouth. Mom’s voice cut in, calm but sharp. “Henry. Maybe Jayden stops helping you with math.”

Henry’s grin vanished. “That’s not fair!”

“Apologize.”

Henry scuffed his sneaker. “Sorry, Jay. You look… cool.”

Mom ruffled his hair, then turned to Jayden, voice low. “Dad’s still at the lake, but he could be back any minute. Go.”

Ava yanked the front door open. “Move, Elara. Party’s waiting.”