Chapter Two - THE DRESSING ROOM
By Emily Firmston
You timidly step through the door of your new workplace, walking in on a wall to wall paisley shag carpet. You had no idea that existed. The room is lit with a dusty yellow-gray light which hits the 1970s floral wallpaper in a way that makes it look like some sort of crusty motel. The hideous carpet is slightly worn, although, being the entrance of the building, it should have been more so. You brush it off. For all you know, it could be new.
“H-hello? I’m the new intern. Is anyone there?” You stutter, moving forward warily. The ominous silence is reminding you far too much of the beginning of a crappy indie horror movie.
“No-one there. Someone over here, though,” a slightly disinterested Scottish voice rings out from behind you. Nearly jumping out of the business suit you rented for your first day, you spin around to face the voice. A girl, no older than sixteen, squats on the dilapidated reception counter in the corner, eating yogurt. A light blue mask is set on her face. It has what you assume are angel wings spreading from the sides. The eyeholes glow baby blue on one side, and cotton candy pink on the other. Her hair is equally strange, blonde with a blue streak on one side, black with a red streak on the other. Most of her oddly dyed hair is covered with a hoodie that looked worse off than Frankenstein’s monster. Going with the split personality motif, it has two sides of different hoodies, crudely sewn together in the middle. Baby blue and white striped on the left, while on the right, blood red, and looking like a serial killer attacked it with a machete. It has the same crude stitching as the middle. A pink heart is plastered on the right side, contrary to actual human anatomy. The girl sticks out a darkly tanned hand. You assume she is of aboriginal decent.
“I’m Character. ’s a pleasure ta meet our new intern.” You go to shake her hand but she moves it away before you can.
“O-oh. I’m—” you say.
“Intern. I know. I need to get you into some clothes that suit your character. You look terrible in formal stuff. Come on.” She snatches your hand and pulls you through a door in the back of the lobby and slams the door behind you. The room is much more dimly lit than the foyer and is illuminated by red. You panic at first, but then realize it looks very similar to a dressing room for a performance. Costumes on racks line the walls, while a Broadway-esqe makeup mirror takes up a large section.
“Alrighty. ’ere’s the fun part.” She strides over to one of the racks and pulls out a crimson plaid sweater and a black tee. She then slides across the floor and picks a pair of Converse from a shelf. Waltzing over to another rack she mulls about until deciding on a pair of jeans.
NOTE: Let’s put this in here now. If, for whatever reason, you do not like pants, you may change ‘jeans’ to, say, ‘a denim skirt’ or ‘jean shorts’. Even ‘denim speedo’ if you so prefer. We, as the Reality is Optional kid’s writing club, will not enforce pants upon you.
“Put these on,” Character commands, shoving the clothes into your arms and walking over to the exit. “They fit your character much better than that.” She addresses your formal wear. “I have to go. Be seein’ ya!” Muttering something about suits, she shuts the door leaving you with the clothes hanging from your arms. Sighing you begin to take off the constricting attire and slip on what she gave you. It fits absolutely perfectly. Checking yourself in the mirror, you decide society should reconsider plaid as an option for casual wear. Damn you look good in this. You remind yourself to thank Character later.
“H-hello? I’m the new intern. Is anyone there?” You stutter, moving forward warily. The ominous silence is reminding you far too much of the beginning of a crappy indie horror movie.
“No-one there. Someone over here, though,” a slightly disinterested Scottish voice rings out from behind you. Nearly jumping out of the business suit you rented for your first day, you spin around to face the voice. A girl, no older than sixteen, squats on the dilapidated reception counter in the corner, eating yogurt. A light blue mask is set on her face. It has what you assume are angel wings spreading from the sides. The eyeholes glow baby blue on one side, and cotton candy pink on the other. Her hair is equally strange, blonde with a blue streak on one side, black with a red streak on the other. Most of her oddly dyed hair is covered with a hoodie that looked worse off than Frankenstein’s monster. Going with the split personality motif, it has two sides of different hoodies, crudely sewn together in the middle. Baby blue and white striped on the left, while on the right, blood red, and looking like a serial killer attacked it with a machete. It has the same crude stitching as the middle. A pink heart is plastered on the right side, contrary to actual human anatomy. The girl sticks out a darkly tanned hand. You assume she is of aboriginal decent.
“I’m Character. ’s a pleasure ta meet our new intern.” You go to shake her hand but she moves it away before you can.
“O-oh. I’m—” you say.
“Intern. I know. I need to get you into some clothes that suit your character. You look terrible in formal stuff. Come on.” She snatches your hand and pulls you through a door in the back of the lobby and slams the door behind you. The room is much more dimly lit than the foyer and is illuminated by red. You panic at first, but then realize it looks very similar to a dressing room for a performance. Costumes on racks line the walls, while a Broadway-esqe makeup mirror takes up a large section.
“Alrighty. ’ere’s the fun part.” She strides over to one of the racks and pulls out a crimson plaid sweater and a black tee. She then slides across the floor and picks a pair of Converse from a shelf. Waltzing over to another rack she mulls about until deciding on a pair of jeans.
NOTE: Let’s put this in here now. If, for whatever reason, you do not like pants, you may change ‘jeans’ to, say, ‘a denim skirt’ or ‘jean shorts’. Even ‘denim speedo’ if you so prefer. We, as the Reality is Optional kid’s writing club, will not enforce pants upon you.
“Put these on,” Character commands, shoving the clothes into your arms and walking over to the exit. “They fit your character much better than that.” She addresses your formal wear. “I have to go. Be seein’ ya!” Muttering something about suits, she shuts the door leaving you with the clothes hanging from your arms. Sighing you begin to take off the constricting attire and slip on what she gave you. It fits absolutely perfectly. Checking yourself in the mirror, you decide society should reconsider plaid as an option for casual wear. Damn you look good in this. You remind yourself to thank Character later.