We were instructed to wear a white top and black bottoms. White top. Black bottoms. No logos. No designs.
How sad and empty this outfit would be.
I tossed clothing out of my drawers, filling my room with mountains. I drowned, colorful rivers of cotton and polyester grabbed at my wrists. They begged me to wear them. I fought back.
I need to follow the instructions. White top. Black bottoms. White. Black. Black and white.
I found something.
Leggings almost two sizes two small with a black and white flannel design plastered over it. When I bent my knee, the design faded away.
I found a shirt in the closet of forgotten clothes. Clothes that I wore every once in a while, rediscovering their existence every now and then. I stumbled across a black and white flannel button up with hints of glitter here and there.
I buttoned up my shirt. My outfit was complete.
When I arrived, flannel on flannel and a cello slung over my shoulder, people whispered and pointed.
That’s when she approached me, baton in hand. I had in fact not followed the outfit instructions.