“Why do I have to tell a story?” I asked. “Because if you don’t tell the story, someone else will tell it for you.” I turned to see Xander Hawthorne standing in the doorway, holding a plate of scones. “Makeovers,” he told me, “like the recreational building of Rube Goldberg machines, are hungry work.” I wanted to narrow my eyes, but Xander and his scones were glare-proof. “What do you know about makeovers?” I grumbled. “If I were a guy, there’d be two racks of clothing in this room, max.” “And if I were White,” Xander returned loftily, “people wouldn’t look at me like I’m half a Hawthorne.
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