Free Cherry Money Baby by John M. Cusick Page A

like a news anchor transitioning from the weather report to “Buyer Beware.” She squeezed Cherry’s elbow. “Steer clear of him. He’s the devil incarnate.”

Ardelia guided Cherry through the room, introducing her to beautiful people of both sexes and the occasional distinguished old fart with white hair and a black turtleneck. But soon Ardelia was called away, and Cherry had to fend for herself. She was good at parties, typically, but these people talked about things entirely foreign to her, about places she’d never heard of, like Croatia, and the best place to buy organic cheese. But more than anything else, movie people talked about
themselves.
They talked about other times they had been at parties and talked about themselves.
    And then, as sometimes happened, something clicked in Cherry’s head, and she suddenly
got
these people, from their understated shoes to their overstated hair. They were just popular kids. Perhaps
slightly more popular
popular kids, but popular kids, nonetheless. Popular kids liked to shine, but not at the center of anything. A crowd of popular kids wanted to be a
halo,
which was why they always stood in circles (dorks and losers lined up against the wall like a mass execution). Once she understood this, she instantly relaxed. By midnight a crowd of models, actors, and older film people encircled her. The beer was making her loose, and the added height of the heels gave her authority. She was a tipsy Titan. A wobbly Amazon.
    “So it was me, Vi, and Sharon Hanniford,” she explained, revving up another story.
    “The one with the lazy eye?” a girl in a teal cocktail dress asked.
    “You’re thinking of Sharon Gregory,” said her date. “Sharon Hanniford’s the one from the beer-bottle story. Right?”
    “Exactly,” said Cherry. “So, Sharon’s all heartbroken because of the whole Danny cheating thing. I mean, the girl is
tore up.
So, I got this box of M-80s —”
    “Pardon,”
said a French fashion model. “M-80s?”
    “Fireworks,” said the model’s husband, also a model.
    “Yeah, but
serious
fireworks,” Cherry corrected. “Vi’s cousin brought them down from Canada.
Anyway,
we got this box of M-80s, and we pull through the parking garage where Danny is in the backseat with this skank from Aubrey Private.”
    “That asshole,” said the girl in the cocktail dress.
    “I hate Danny,” said her date.
    “Totally,”
said Cherry. “So we pull up real slow and quiet like we’re just another car looking for a spot . . .” She paused for dramatic effect. This story had slayed the Aubrey football team at last year’s homecoming. “And then I just let loose from the passenger seat. I’m throwing them under his car, on the roof. M-80s are going off —
bang! Bang!
” Cherry made explosion shapes with her hand. “It sounded like a drive-by. They were
shitting
themselves.”
    The crowd applauded. A woman in a frosted bob held her hand against her chest. “Oh, that is too much.”
    “Serves him right,” said the director of photography.
    “It was
sick,
” said Cherry, flush with attention and booze. Everything she said was fucking
fascinating.
And once you got past the goofy accents and conversations about cheese, these people weren’t so bad. Cherry said so and got a big laugh.
    Ardelia appeared at Cherry’s side, putting an arm around her waist.
    “Ardy,
where
did you find her?” asked the frosted bob.
    “In a burrito place,” Ardelia said. “And she’s
all
mine, so none of you go and steal her. Anise, don’t give me that look. I know you’re searching for a new PA.”
    The teal cocktail dress fluttered her eyelashes. She leaned toward Cherry with a confidential air. “Well, I
am.
”
    “Tough!” Ardelia said, snapping her fingers. She did that a lot, Cherry noticed. She imagined Ardelia snapped things away, or snapped them into existence, all day long.
Quickly, more wine!
Snap-snap.
Bring the serving boy to my boudoir!
Snap-snap.
Take this girl