Chapter 21
Cherry was twenty-five, and it was the first time she’d worked somewhere that had a big Christmas party . . .
A big, mandatory Christmas party.
Cherry had been at the railroad for ten months or so. She was an entry-level designer in the marketing department, which meant
she spent her days resizing help-wanted ads for small-town newspapers and formatting endless brochures for Employee Health.
Like—Naps: Part of Your Safety Toolbox. And—Tobacco Cessation: No More ‘Butt’s.
It was pretty mind-numbing.
But at least she worked in a cool building—Western Alliance’s seventeen-story glass headquarters in downtown Omaha—and the
railroad itself was interesting. It felt like Cherry was doing something real. Everyone at Western Alliance acted like they were part of a patriotic mission to supply the country with finished goods
and raw materials. There were American flags everywhere. The company had a famous TV commercial that was just thirty seconds
of trains zooming past the camera, with flags painted on their cars. The commercial played in her building’s lobby and cafeteria,
and on some of the elevators. Cherry knew the voiceover by heart.
This was not how Cherry had expected to use her art degree—but now she wondered what she’d ever planned to do with an art degree, from a Jesuit university, no less. All her classmates had gone on to law school and medical
school and PT school. Stacia was going to be a chiropractor.
Cherry’s goals when she graduated were modest: make art; get health insurance.
The railroad checked one and a half of those boxes.
It really wasn’t so bad . . . Cherry was doing well at Western Alliance. Her boss, Doug, trusted her—he sent her to all the
meetings he didn’t want to go to. And Cherry was mostly adjusting to corporate culture.
She was really anxious about this holiday party.
The railroad’s vice president of public affairs (Doug’s boss’s boss) invited all her departments to her house every year.
Cherry had gone to a fancy liquor store to buy a hostess gift—which her coworkers said was crucial. She’d spent more on one
bottle of wine for this rich VP than she’d ever spent on her own mother. It was ridiculous. And now she had to figure out
what to wear . . .
Everyone at the railroad was so conservative, and Cherry so wasn’t. It was the only thing Doug got on her case about. He said that she dressed like the host of a children’s television show.
The first time he’d said it, Cherry had been wearing an adorable red polka-dot dress, with a navy blue sweater and a yellow
kerchief tied around her neck.
“I love this outfit,” she’d said without looking up from her computer.
“It’s a good outfit for Pee-wee’s Playhouse,” Doug said. “Or maybe, whatchamacallit . . .”
“The Howdy Doody Show,” Wallace offered. Wallace was the senior designer who sat across from Cherry. He was ancient.
“Exactly,” Doug said. “I was going to say Bozo’s Circus.”
Cherry side-eyed him. “Am I supposed to dress like you guys?” (Doug didn’t mind a little sass.)
Cherry was the only woman on their team—everyone else wore khakis with red, blue or black Western Alliance polos.
Doug shrugged. “Just dress like the girls in the other departments.”
“Like the other women,” Wallace corrected.
“Right,” Doug said. “The women.”
“I’m an artist,” Cherry said. “This is the art department.”
He rolled his eyes. “This is the design arm of the marketing department. You’re a marketer.”
Cherry turned away from her computer screen to give him the full weight of her distaste. “Am I actually going to get in trouble
for having some panache?”
“No. You just won’t get promoted.”
She folded her arms. “If my panache gets me pigeonholed, I’ll pass on that promotion, pal.”
Doug smirked. Wallace hooted. (Wallace was an easy mark. Cherry could crack him up at will.)
Doug leaned on the top edge of Cherry’s cubicle. His voice dropped, even though Wallace could still hear him. “You should
listen to me, Cherry. Everyone around here likes you—but they don’t take you seriously.”
“Because I’m a young woman,” she said.
“Yeah, probably.” Doug was at least honest. “But also because you dress like a cartoon character. This is a railroad—no one
values creativity. You make people nervous. If you want a career here, dress like it.”
Cherry wasn’t sure that she did want a career at the railroad, but she definitely wanted a raise. So she took the note . . .
Sort of. Cherry was too broke to buy all new clothes. She already had credit card debt, and she’d had to buy a new car when
she got this job. She was living close to the bone—she still went to her parents’ house most nights for dinner.
The best Cherry could do with her work wardrobe was rein herself in. She started wearing her clothes in the most boring way
possible. Sometimes in the elevator on the way to her desk, she’d look in the mirrored doors and take off the accessory she
liked most.
Her goal for this Christmas party was to look unobtrusive.
The invitation said “holiday attire.” When Cherry asked Doug what that meant, he said, “For Christ’s sake, don’t wear anything that blinks.
Nothing too cute. No Santa hats and what have you .
. . reindeer. Everything in Meg Jones’s house is a neutral color.
Just wear black. Do you have anything black? ”
“I have some black,” Cherry said. She thought she might, anyway.
Wallace sat back in his chair so that he could join the conversation. “It’s a wild party. Some of the gals around here get
kind of . . . slinky.”
“Some of the women,” Doug corrected.
“Right.” Wallace looked ashamed. “The women.”
Doug pointed at Cherry. “Don’t you dare wear anything slinky. And don’t get drunk, either of you. For Christ’s sake.”
On the night of the party, Cherry put on a pair of very boring, very plain black jeans and a plain black V-necked sweater.
In her normal life, she would never wear these two pieces together. She felt like a theater tech. For jewelry, she wore only
her gold heart locket. (She always wore it when she needed some luck—it was a gift from her mother with her sisters’ baby
pictures inside. It folded out into a four-leaf clover.)
The only interesting part of Cherry’s outfit was a pair of black leather, calf-length boots with perfect heels—three and a half inches, not quite stiletto but definitely not stacked, with the sexiest little curve. They made Cherry
feel like a cartoon character in a good way. Like Jessica Rabbit from the ankles down. (This line of thinking was the reason Cherry had credit card debt.)
The vice president of public affairs—Meg Jones—lived in one of the wealthiest parts of town, a suburb where the houses looked
actually built, not 3D-printed. The house had a two-lane circular driveway, like a hotel. Cherry parked her used Hyundai at
the end of a long line of black SUVs. (Railroad execs drove the same cars as rappers.)
She was late. She hadn’t wanted to be one of the first people here. Meg Jones was nice, but very intimidating. Cherry couldn’t
tell how old she was. She wore Michael Kors suits and looked like she had her hair highlighted strand by strand. Her face
didn’t have a single line.
Cherry hiked up to the double-sized front door and then couldn’t decide what to do next. Did you knock at a big party? She didn’t think she should just walk in. There was Christmas music playing inside. She decided to ring the doorbell. A minute later, the vice president herself opened the door.
That’s when Cherry realized her mistake.
Meg Jones was wearing a long, sparkly red dress. Like a prom dress. Even fancier—like a ball gown.
Cherry’s mouth fell open, and she couldn’t close it.
“Cherish!” Meg Jones said. (It said Cherish on all of Cherry’s work documents.) “Thank you for coming.”
She opened the door, and Cherry stepped inside. Just past the entryway was a huge room with a cathedral ceiling. It was decorated
with real greenery and tiny white lights, and it was wall-to-wall rich people in fancy clothes. Men in suits. Women in red-carpet-worthy
dresses.
“Thank you for inviting me.” Cherry mechanically held out the bottle of wine.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Meg Jones said, taking the wine. “Thank you. Do you have a coat?”
Cherry shook her head.
“Let me introduce you to my husband. I just saw him . . .”
“Would you mind if I used the restroom first?”
“Oh, of course.” The vice president motioned toward an archway across the big room. “There’s one down that hall. And one off
the kitchen. And if those are both occupied, there’s one out the patio door, by the pool.”
“Thank you.” Cherry made herself smile. She didn’t need to use the bathroom, but she did need to get away, as quickly as possible. She thought about walking back to her car, but Meg Jones was standing in front of the door.
Cherry walked swiftly toward the hallway bathroom, along the wall. She could feel people looking at her. She could see people looking at her. A waiter strode past her, wearing all black. Cherry hoped everyone would think she was on staff.
She slipped through the archway and stood in a wide, off-white hallway, catching her breath.
Why hadn’t anyone told her this was a formal party? She’d asked for guidance! What was she supposed to do now?
On the one hand, Cherry should make sure that Doug knew she was here. (Attendance was mandatory.) On the other hand, she didn’t
want him to see her dressed like this—and she couldn’t bear to walk through that room again! Maybe the bathroom had a window
big enough for her to crawl through . . .
Or maybe she was overreacting.
Was she overreacting? Was every single person at this party really dressed to the nines?
She crept back to the archway and peeked out. Shit. Some of them were dressed to the tens. Cherry didn’t even know where you bought dresses like that.
Fortunately no one was paying attention to her at the moment. They were all drinking and laughing. She scanned the crowd for
familiar faces . . .