Chapter Eleven
Xander
OPTIONS, OPTIONS.
So many options, not one of them good enough.
I go through my closet for the fifth time, cringing at every item I touch.
What the fuck does one wear to a trash metal show, anyway?
Not anything I own, that's for sure. My clothes are all either sporty, or semi-formal, or…
pigmented. I've already pulled out my sole pair of black jeans, but it seems, for twenty-two years I was somehow unaware black t-shirts were a thing.
Sighing, I grab one of my button-ups. It'll have to do. I bang my fingers against the wood of the closet door and pull the hanger to my neck, checking myself in the mirror.
Maybe…?
I pace to my desk, open the messy drawer and palm my way through the various odds and ends until I locate scissors. I do like this shirt, but it's not like I don't have another ten just like this one. Fuck it. I cut off the sleeves at the shoulders. That'll do.
I pull on my jeans and what’s left of the shirt. I button it up halfway, tuck it in, and look myself up in the mirror. I shag my hair, messing it up on purpose, content I at least don't scream jock anymore.
Still, something's missing. For a few moments, I can't quite put my finger on it, testing different ways to button up the shirt. Then I realize—it's not the clothes. It's my face.
I open another drawer while glancing at the clock that's ticking too fast, cursing myself for not keeping the place tidier.
I know it's in here somewhere. Finally, my fingers encounter something long and thin and plastic.
Bingo. I grab the eye pencil that's probably long expired, given I got it—and by got, I mean stole, most likely—freshman year and then almost poke my eye out trying to put it to use.
How the fuck do people do that?
After several precious minutes of trial and error, I finally manage to put on two messy and completely uneven lines on my lower eyelids. I use my pinky to smudge them. No one's gonna know.
Once I'm done, I step back to give myself a full body look, and… Well, fuck. I look more punk than I do metal. Still, at least it's not jock anymore.
I nod at my reflection, grab my phone, my wallet and my car keys, and glance at the clock before I lock the door behind me.
Check me out. Only ten minutes late.