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don’t advocate rip ping Christmas sweaters off little old ladies and shipping them off to thirdworld countries. Um, the sweaters, not the little old ladies.”
    “That’s not exactly what I said.” Cassandra puffed out her chest in indignation.
    “I paraphrased.”
    “You made fun of me!”
    “I have not yet begun to make fun,” Lacey retorted. “And don’t you think there’s room for more than one opinion on any given issue? And a little fun too?”
    “Opinion? Is that what you call it? This drivel?”
    Lacey felt her cheeks blush red, but she decided it was more interesting to watch Cassandra quiver in indignation than to get indignant herself.
    “Opinion. Yes, that’s what I call it.” She decided to change the subject. “But speaking of Christmas and not its sweaters, aren’t you going to change into something festive for the office Christmas party tonight?” She surveyed the woman’s bike togs. “Okay, maybe festive is the wrong word. Something more suit able. Gravely and somberly celebratory. You know: ‘Don we now our grave apparel’? Fa la la la la?”
     
    “It’s a holiday party, not a Christmas party!” Cassandra cor rected her. “And I don’t think I could be happy eating like a pig and swilling booze like a camel when there are oppressed peo ple in the world who will never be able to enjoy a nice holiday party.”
    “Camels swill booze?” Lacey leaned back in her chair. “I had no idea. But you’ll miss Felicity’s outfit.” Lacey had no idea what Felicity would wear, but she had faith in Felicity’s Christmas spirit. “I’m sure it will be festive. Ferociously festive.” “Everything’s just hilarious to you, isn’t it?” Cassandra picked up Lacey’s column off the floor. She crumpled it up into a ball and with a surprising show of fury pitched it at Lacey once again. Lacey caught it. “You and Felicity Pickles can wear nothing but holly and ivy and choke on your mistletoe, for all I care!”
    “You forgot the part about the starving oppressed masses.” Lacey looked at the ball of paper and tossed it neatly over her shoulder into the wastebasket without looking. “And mistletoe is poisonous.”
    “You’re disgusting.” Cassandra swung her yellowandblack backpack over her shoulder and stomped off. “You people! All of you!”
    All of who ? Lacey wondered. “That’s hardly the Christmas spirit, Cassandra!” she called after the hunched form receding down the hall. Lacey fished her crumpled column from the wastebasket and flattened it out. But she had no time to brood over Cassandra’s hostility; she had to change her clothes. It was nearly time for the party and Lacey was determined to have a good time, even if it killed her.
    The entire newspaper was humming with anticipation over tonight’s Christmas party. It was “blacktie optional,” an in struction that never failed to send reporters into spasms of pan icky indecision. How blacktie is “blacktie”? How optional is “optional”? Wouldn’t that rumpled blue blazer do just as well? Navy blue is just like black, isn’t it? But who wants to be the only guy at the party not wearing a tux?
    The male managers were all expected to wear tuxedos, even the grouchy and generally illdressed Mac Jones. But there was also a festive final touch intended to jumpstart the holiday spirit: A jolly redandwhite Santa cap was mandatory wear for the male managers. The female managers were merely ex
     
    pected to be attired “formally,” sufficient challenge in itself for the Washington women of the Fourth Estate. For them, the Santa caps were “optional.” Lacey did not know for certain, but she suspected that Claudia was having a little joke with her Santa motif. There was a certain amount of grumbling over this “blacktie optional/Santa hat mandatory” dress code, but Lacey knew newshounds everywhere loved free food and liquor. They’d wear much worse than a tux and a Santa cap for free food and liquor. For