Page 1 of Knotty, Nice, & Holiday Lights
Chapter One
“You’re firing me?”
I had meant to remain calm. I really, really had. But I’m pretty sure my voice comes out as a shriek.
The art director, Troy, who’s my supervisor, cringes from behind his desk as he looks up at me.
I don’t remember jumping out of my seat, but here we are.
“I don’t make the decisions, Iz. I’m just forced to deliver the news.” A grimace. “If it were up to me, you’d stay. You’re an amazing engineer and artist.”
I know I am. I don’t needTroyto tell me so. But for fuck’s sake! Thanksgiving is in, like, a week. I just lost my only source of income, and I haven’t even finished my Christmas shopping yet!
“I’ll write a letter of recommendation and send it to you before the holiday.”
I narrow my gaze on this man who, until this moment, I’d considered a friend. Sort of.
Maybe, despite his title, I just never saw him as above me in the ranks here at CheckPoint Games. And the longer I stare at him, the more I realize this guy is a total tool. In the literal sense.
He does the dirty work of the owners, who do the dirty work of the shareholders.
How poetic.
I don’t think I say a word before spinning on the ball of my sneaker-clad foot and storming out of his office for the materials room, where I cut the plastic ties of a box of paper reams, dump the contents on the floor, and head to my desk with the empty box.
I’ve worked at this company for years, and I’ve never been so thankful not to be a pack-rat in my life, as I stuff my meager belongings into the cardboard container.
I’m in that weird state where you don’t know if you’re going to cry or blow a gasket, and when in doubt, I always lean toward anger.
Fuck this company.
Fuck theseguysin their dev cubicles who get to keep their jobs.
Fuck everyone and everything.
After the last of my personal items is in the box—an adorable, miniature stuffed bunny with a gamer headset and a pink tee that says “Girls Do It Better” that I got at a convention some years ago—I make my way to the exit.
Walking out of your office building with all your personal belongings in a box, there’s no doubt what’s going on; everyone’s pitying gazes trying not to stare too long, their voices hushed as you walk by.
It’s more shameful than anything.
I mean, at least if you’re doing theactualWalk of Shame from some rando’s apartment in the morning, chances are you were fucked in a good way.
This is not the “good” kind of fucked.
The entire drive home, my teeth grind and my head aches as I start wondering what I’m going to tell my family at our annual Thanksgiving gathering.
It took me years to convince my parents that character design in the gaming industry was the right career choice for me. A good choice.
Any time I had a bad experience, my dad would tell me, “You need to get a real job.”
So, I learned really quickly not to tell them anything that was going on in my career. Then, that turned into not telling them anything about my life in general, responding to passing inquiries with “Everything’s great.” Never an elaboration, and never one hundred percent the truth.
Now, it’s the holiday season, and I’m unemployed in an oversaturated industry, armed with the promise of a recommendation letter fromTroy.
Happy fucking holidays to Izzy Ross.
When I get home to my modest one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a building with multi-million dollar penthouses at the top, I toss my stuff on the kitchen counter and drop down onto my couch, fingers already tapping my phone before I land on my ass.
