Dewey slips into his parent’s closet and drapes himself in his dad’s terrycloth robe, which hangs so low it dusts the floor as he walks. He climbs onto a footlocker and reaches for a pinstriped tie.
Violet hears the commotion and bursts into the closet. She yanks at the tie. ‘Daddy, is going to kill you when he gets home!’
‘Nuh uh.’ Dewey sets his eyes on his father’s wall of caps. He reaches for the green and gold of the Athletics and sets it upon his head like a crown. ‘He said I could be anything I want.’
Violet looks past her brother. ‘If you get to play dress up, so do I.’ She runs her fingers along her mother’s long flowing dresses. She sticks her hands inside a cavernous knee-high boot.
Dewey adjusts his scarf so it points towards his socks. He looks at his sister. ‘Are you going to pick something? Or are you chicken?’
Violet storms out of the closet. ‘I didn’t say I wanted to dress up like Mom. I want to dress up like the ugliest creature known to man.’
Dewey chases after his sister, holding the robe to keep from tripping. ‘What?’
Violet stops. She lifts the oversized cap so she can stare directly into his eyes. ‘You!’ She runs into his bedroom and slams the door shut. She slides an old wooden chair in front of the door.
Dewey bangs at the door. ‘What are you doing in there? Let me in! It’s my room!’
Violet’s mocking cries echoe through the house. ‘I can do anything I want.’ She opens her brother’s drawers and tosses clothes astray. Nothing feels right. She realizes her mistake—her brother would never pick a clean shirt. She overturns his hamper and digs through the mess.
Dewey forces the door open just as his sister has finished changing into his cherished train pyjamas. The sleeves make it halfway past her elbows. Dewey screams. ‘Those are mine!’
Violet crosses her arms and does her best mom impression. ‘And whose scarf are you wearing?’
‘I’m going to kill you!’ Dewey charges after his sister but slips on the long robe and falls to the floor.
Laurel hears the loud thump and runs up the stairs. ‘Kids, what are you doing up there? I told you to play nice!’
Dewey hears his mother’s footsteps and starts to cry. Violet nudges him with her foot but that only makes him cry harder.
Laurel stands at the doorway, arms folded. ‘What is going on in here?’
Dewey speaks through tears. ‘Violet’s wearing my pyjamas.’
‘He’s wearing Dad’s robe!’
Dewey wraps his arms around his mother’s ankles. ‘Dad said I could!’ He wipes his spittle with the sleeve of the robe. ‘He said I could be anything I want.’
Violet cackles. ‘So can I. And I chose to be the ugliest creature in the world.’ She pauses for dramatic effect. ‘Dewey.’
Laurel walks through the bathroom that links the children’s rooms. She stops at Violet’s dressing table. ‘Well maybe I want to look like you.’ She grabs a plastic hairband and slides it over her bangs. She uncaps a tube of lipstick and brings it to her lips.
Violet grabs the makeup out of her mother’s hand and sets it back where it goes. ‘Stop that!’
Laurel fiddles with a pair of clip-on earrings. ‘Fair is fair.’
‘Fine!’ Violet grabs her mascara and chases after her brother. ‘If you want to look like dad, you’ll need his goatee.’
Richard enters the room just as Violet is applying the final strokes. He slams the door behind him. ‘Violet, get off your brother. Dewey, go wash that junk off your face before it stains.’
Violet rolls off her brother. ‘You are, like, no fun, Dad.’
Dewey wipes the mascara with his sleeve. ‘You said I could be anything I want.’
‘And you can. But that doesn’t mean you can take someone else’s things.’ Richard unwraps the tie from his son’s neck. ‘Throw the robe in the hamper, then go wash up for dinner.’
Richard carries the tie back to his closet and drapes it over the rack.
Laurel’s voice tickles the back of his neck. ‘They were only playing.’
Richard keeps his tone flat. ‘She had a knee to his throat. And instead of breaking them up, you were messing around with that costume jewellery.’
Laurel models her new earrings. ‘It’s fun to dress up.’
‘Whatever you say.’
Laurel throws a lace bra at her husband’s face. It lands on the bridge of his nose. Her voice teases. ‘You know, no one’s dressed like me yet…’
He stares at her through the sheer material. He unbuttons his shirt, slowly, teasingly. He holds the bra to his chest and studies his reflection in the mirror. Off the glass, he spots his children staring at him, eyes agaze. ‘You can be anything you want,’ he reminds them, handing the bra back to his wife and ushering the family down to the kitchen table.
