If anyone were to take one look at Deziree Tremaine and say she looked absolutely thrilled to be at the Hootenanny, they would be lying through their teeth. She was here only out of obligation. Obligation to tradition and her mother’s voice in the back of her head. It was mortifying, standing here in a dress that was out of season amongst Redwood residents flaunting their most expensive garb, and still feeling the obligation to network with anyone above her station, despite the utter failure that it was proving (and had proven) to be. Demoralizing was the understatement of the century.
By eight thirty, Deziree had become what she had always been told not to; an undesirable wallflower. Lingering at the edge of the room, nursing her one free drink... Judging the absolutely horrendous accessory choices some of the party-goers were sporting. If it wasn’t for the major FOMO she’d have already gone home, despite mommy dearest’s voice.













