Reverie - Michael Jackson Imagines

The Look✨

Triumph Era

"I asked for a simple coat and you give me Sukiyaki. Can't you ever listen, Y/N?"

The bright red acrylic nails drum against the tabletop in disapproval of the sketch in front of you.

You brush your thumb against the vibrant wash of turquoise, admiring the intricate and alluring design. You thought it was your best work yet.

"It's not exactly simple," you retort in your defense, glancing into the cold, pale eyes of your instructor. "But it's quite beautiful. I passed a Japanese tea shop on the way over and everything was so beautiful I got inspired-"

"I don't care. I asked for a simple coat. Simple. Don't you understand those words?"

You sigh. If you had a dollar for every time your creative differences had clashed with the rigid, Leticia Crawford, you'd have enough money to move to Beverly Hills.

She'd had it out for you since the day you stepped foot into her classroom.

Ever since you were a little girl, you'd had a passion for clothing. You loved playing dress-up, admiring your mother's evening gowns, and trying on her jewels.

By the time you became a teenager, you religiously read fashion magazines, following trends closely and adding your own flair. Once you mastered the art of sewing, you began to make your own clothes that quickly became the envy of your peers.

You had a keen eye for fabrics and patterns-always knowing what colors and shapes worked together.

So it was no surprise to anyone when you decided to leave your hometown for design school in one of the country's fashion capitals, Los Angeles, in hopes of making it big as a fashion designer.

You dreamed of dressing the stars and seeing your creations glittering behind glass windows of Rodeo drive but the only thing standing between you and that dream was Leticia Crawford and the slums of Hyde Park.

"But, Mrs. Crawford," you start slowly. "Can I call you Tish? All everyone else turned into you was a simple coat. But I gave you an original piece- a Y/N original,"

A scowl settles upon Mrs. Crawford's aging face as she plucks the ink pen behind her ear, scrawling a big red x over your sketch.

You swallow a lump of anger in your throat at the sight of her violating the art you'd worked so hard on.

"Until your name is ringing through the fashion world you will do what I say and follow my instructions," she drawls in her horrid trans-Atlantic accent. "If you want to pass this class you'll simply have to get your head out the rhinestone-studded clouds and come back down to earth with the rest of us."

You roll your eyes, stuffing the tainted drawing into your leather-bound portfolio. You'd had it with the discouragement, everyone saying your designs and dreams were too lofty and frivolous.

You thought fashion was supposed to be a celebration of creativity and individualism but here you were only being told to conform to a pedestrian style.

"If you'll excuse me, I've got a bus to catch,"

You push yourself from the work desk and snatch up your satchel, ready to storm out of the cold classroom when Mrs. Crawford beckons you back.

You give your eyes another quick roll before turning to face her.

"I want the whole thing done again, Y/N. Your whole portfolio. Or I simply cannot promote you to the next course,"

She folds her arms across her stiffly starched blouse, an eyebrow arched in satisfaction. If she couldn't stifle your creativity she could break by forcing you to take the same basic course again.