Dress Code and Other Stories

Copyright © 2024 by Zoe Storm

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise) without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and events portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or localities, is entirely coincidental.

Zoe Storm asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All brand names, service names, trade names, and trade marks used in this book are the property of their respective owner and are used fictitiously. The author and publishers of this book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned therein. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed it.

Cover design by Laura Tempesta

https://lauratempesta.myportfolio.com/

First edition.

This book is dedicated to all trans kids past, present, and future.

Things will get better.

Be strong.

Letter to Yourself

Aknock on the door pulled my attention away from the screen. Who is it? I called.

It’s Randall, Jo, my friend’s voice said in response.

Come in, it’s open.

I focused on the TV again as the door opened and then closed again behind me. Do you have a moment? There’s something I want to discuss with you, Randall said.

Is it urgent? I mean, right-now urgent? I replied.

Randall chuckled. No, it can wait until you’re done with your shows. I nodded, and Randall walked around the sofa, to stand just in front of it; he squinted at the screen. What’s this? I don’t think I’ve seen it before.

"It’s new, this is the first episode. Doctor Who, it’s called."

With or without a question mark?

Without. Now shush, I don’t want to miss anything.

Okay, he nodded. While I sat in silence, watching the final minutes of the episode, he moved to the kitchen, put on the kettle, and made tea.

Okay, that was interesting, I said s rolled on the screen; I got up, walked over to the TV, and turned it off. Now, what can I do for you? I asked, turning back to Randall.

I wanted to talk about one of my students, Louis Ingram, he replied. Nice kettle, by the way.

It’s new, I like it because it shuts down on its own, I said as I walked across my flat’s living room to the kitchen, sitting down at the table with Randall. So I don’t risk burning my flat down when I get distracted and forget I’ve put it on.

He poured me a cup of tea and grinned. Which is often.

Which is often, I agreed. Louis Ingram, you said?

Yes.

Ingram, Ingram… I mused. Doesn’t ring a bell. Baron? Viscount?

Guess.

I punched him in the shoulder. "Don’t make me go get Burke’s, you arse, just tell me."

Randall laughed. Would be useless anyway, he’s not an aristo.

Alright. So what, banking family? Merchants? Industry?

Nope, his family’s completely unimportant.

Seriously? I said, my eyebrows rising in surprise. Poor lad, the other boys must be giving him hell.

He took a breath, and sighed it out. Yeah, they are. I’m trying to shield Louis from the worst of it, but you know how it is.

I remember. Unfortunately. But what’s he doing at Howarth, then?

Well you see, his dad’s in the RAF. Vulcan pilot. He gets sent all over the country, even overseas, and brings his wife along with him. But they decided the children needed stability, not moving house every few months: and both sets of grandparents died in the Blitz, thus the boarding school; the government’s footing the bill. Louis’ sisters are just over the hill, at Carpenter.

Carpenter, of course, being the girls-only Carpenter School for Young Ladies, sister school to the boys-only Howarth Academy; I nodded. "Makes sense. I mean, I don’t like it: kids need a family much more than they need to be cooped up in ancient manors in the countryside, being watched upon by some old codgers. I took a sip of tea. No offence."

None taken.

So, what about Louis Ingram?

Right, I should probably start at the beginning. A week ago I tasked my students with writing a letter to themselves, ten years from now.

Oh? I inquired, raising an eyebrow at him. It’s not unheard of, a few authors have done it, but it’s the first time I’ve heard of someone doing that in an educational setting.

"It’s a new thing. They’ve been doing it for a while across the pond, and it’s apparently quite useful: students learn how to write a letter, while at the same time developing their critical thinking skills by trying to imagine where they will be a decade later. Who they’ll be a decade later. Plus it’s good penmanship practice, and–"

Okay, I get it, I cut Randall off before he could launch off into one of his usual speeches about educational techniques – the man could be very enthusiastic about his job. So your students wrote a letter to themselves. Including young Ingram.

He nodded. And I’ve read all of them, of course.

You did? I frowned. What about privacy?

"It’s homework, Jo, Randall replied. I have to grade them somehow."

Did they know you would read the letters?

…No.

Well then.

Okay, alright, fine, I get it. I should’ve told them I would read them, my bad, I’ll do it next time. Most of the letters were completely boring and uninteresting anyway: I’ll join Father in his business, I’ll be a Member of Parliament, I’ll marry into the Royal Family, stuff like that. He scowled. I swear, these children are woefully unimaginative.

That’s what you get when you have your life path laid out for you since birth, I said. "Maybe some of them will learn to rebel against their pre-ordained fate; I’m not hopeful. But you said most, didn’t you? I’m guessing one of the few original ones was Louis’?"

"The only original one, actually. He reached into the pocket of his blazer and produced an envelope, which he set down on the table. Here. Give it a read."

I looked at the letter, and then up at him. Should I really? I mean, we’ve just talked about privacy, haven’t we?

Yes, but the well-being of my students comes before anything else, even their privacy.

Well-being…? I murmured.

I kept looking at him for a few more seconds, my head inclined to the side, but he didn’t answer my question. Instead he said, Just read it, please?

I sighed. Okay.

I picked up the envelope, opened it, and unfolded the letter inside. After a few moments of looking at it I felt my eyes widen in surprise, and looked up at Randall again; he nodded. Turning back to the letter I kept following the words down the page, occasionally mumbling to myself as I read, until I reached the bottom.

I paused for a second, folded the letter up again, and set it on the table, on top of its envelope.

I took a deep breath and let it out.

Well then, I said.

Randall nodded again. I hope you understand now why I came to you, Jo, he said.

I do, I nodded back. "Poor kid. I remember what it was like, being in that situation, no one to turn to. No one who will listen, and no one who will understand even if they did listen. I leaned back into my chair. The question is, what do we do about this."

"There’s not much I can do: I’m just his English teacher, after all, and I can’t show favouritism. Also, times are changing; nowadays a thirty-seven year old man, he pointed at himself, approaching and befriending his young pupil is seen with much suspicion. You, on the other hand…"

I smiled. I see what you’re getting at. I’m in quite a different position than you, am I not?

That you are. You have many more resources at your disposal, and a sturdier safety net. Can I hand this whole situation off to you?

Gladly. So how do we do this?

I was thinking I could give my class some homework which will require them to come see you. And then you’ll take it from there.

Yes, that sounds fine, I nodded. When are you going to do it? Next week?

First thing on Monday. No sense in wasting time, right?

Right.

I just hope we can manage to help Louis, Randall said, and sighed. Ever since I first saw him walk into my class a couple months ago, I could tell there was something bothering him. He laid his hand on the envelope on the table, and tapped it a couple times with his finger. Now I know why.

I reached out, placed a hand on Randall’s, and smiled at him. You’re a good man, my friend, I said; he smiled back at me.

―

I looked up from the book I was reading as I heard the door open, and frowned as a small group of students walked in, chatting loudly and occasionally laughing.

Lads, I called out, barely raising my voice but moving the muscles in my throat to make the sound carry; they turned to look at me, and I pointed at the sign hanging over my desk, which read Quiet, Please in ornate silver letters inlaid into dark mahogany.

Sorry, love, the one who looked like the ringleader called out in response; I narrowed my eyes at him and put my finger to my lips, and he laughed again; still, they turned the volume down a few decibels, and started wandering the room, glancing at shelves, pulling books down.

I sighed and shook my head as I turned my attention back to the book; I would have to tidy up in the boys’ wake, I realised. But then again, it was my job.

Um. Excuse me, Miss, a voice said, and I looked up, startled, at the boy standing before my desk – I had neither heard him enter the room nor noticed him walk up to me: he’d probably been really careful not to make noise or draw attention to himself until he had to.

I shook myself. Yes? May I help you, young man?

Yes, he nodded. I have to write a book report for my English class. Mr. Wallace told us to pick any book from the Victorian Era.

Alright, I nodded. Did you have something specific in mind when it comes to genre?

Not really. Do you–

Oi! Ingram! one of the boys who’d been roaming the hall shouted, walking up to the young man standing in front of me. Are you doing that book report?

Uh… yes? Ingram – Louis Ingram, I belatedly realised – replied.

Great! Can you do mine too, mate?

Louis gulped. Um, Ben, I don’t think–

Well you’re not supposed to think, are you now? You’re just supposed to write, Ben said, passing his arm over Louis’ shoulders. You’ll write that report for me, won’t you?

Louis licked his lips nervously and gulped again. I… he began.

Why should he? I asked.

Louis and Ben both turned to look at me, identical, startled looks on their faces; and a quick glance around the room told me Ben’s cohorts had stopped in what they were doing, and were looking on at the unfolding scene. After a few seconds, Ben’s lips drew back into a smirk that was almost a sneer.

Because we’re friends, he said. Isn’t that right, Louis?

Um– Louis began again.

All the more reason, then, I said. Friends don’t let friends fail their classes. Which you will, if you have him write that report for you.

Ben scoffed. Oh, come on, it’s not like anyone will notice.

I looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. Suit yourself. But I’ll be sure to let Randall know what you think of him.

…Randall?

Randall Wallace. He’s your English teacher, isn’t he? Thing is, he’s also my close friend. And I think he’ll be quite interested in knowing some of his pupils think he’s such an idiot he wouldn’t notice someone cheating on their homework.

Ben narrowed his eyes at me, and removed his arm from Louis’ shoulders. You wouldn’t.

Wouldn’t I? I said, giving him an innocent smile.

Don’t you know who I am? Who my father is?

No, I don’t. And I don’t care.

"You will care, Ben said, trying to sound ominous and completely failing. Come on."

He made a gesture which he clearly thought was imperious, and his cronies quickly fell in behind him as he stormed out of the room, sparing a single glance backwards at me: I smirked at him and got a frown in return, and then he was gone, the door closing on its spring hinges behind him.

I turned back to Louis and smiled. Please excuse them. We get prats like him every year in this school. Now, where were we?

…You shouldn’t have talked back to him, Louis said in a whisper. I mean, I’m happy you stood up for me, no one’s ever done that before, but now you’ll get punished for it.

I gave him a curious look. Punished?

Yeah. He’ll write to his parents and get you disciplined, or even fired.

"Oh, they