The Second Chance Year(3)

As I hover there, debating, the door swings open, and Jacob is towering over me. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, as if to summon what little patience he has left. “Did you need something, Sadie?” He stares over my shoulder as if he could not be more over this conversation.

“Uh. No. Nope. Not at all.” I back up a few steps. “I was just heading to my room. Just this way. Down the hall here.” I gesture toward my bedroom door, which is, of course, unnecessary. It’s his apartment; he knows where my room is. But he reduces me to this nervous babble. Every. Single. Time. “Okay, well. Have a good night.”

And with that, I turn and flee.





Chapter 2


In retrospect, I probably should have passed on the buttered popcorn martini, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I’ve downed three carnival cocktails at this party in the hopes that the alcohol would help fun-Sadie rise from the ashes of my Very Bad Year, but so far, all I feel is nauseated. For the past half hour, Kasumi’s been dancing with a shirtless, tattooed sword-swallower, and there’s a dirty joke in there somewhere that I don’t even have the heart to make. I’m happy she’s having fun, though, and I don’t want to drag her away to deal with my attitude.

Kasumi’s friend Devon really outdid himself on this party, and for a social media famous event planner, that’s saying a lot. The steel beams of the warehouse ceiling are obscured by huge red-and-white–striped curtains that mimic a circus tent, and acrobats in sparkly leotards contort their bodies like rubber bands on long silks that hang above the dance floor. A DJ wearing a yellow cat-ear headband and furry gloves spins records from inside an old-fashioned lion’s cage on red-painted wheels while partygoers pulsate to the beat.

I should be out there shimmying up against the strong man in the red leather bodysuit, or at least checking out the array of circus-themed baked goods to see how they compare to my own recipes. But I can’t seem to move from my makeshift bench on the leg of a giant fiberglass elephant installation. This party feels like a metaphor for my life. Everyone is out there, living their best life, while I sit on the sidelines.

I know I ought to focus on the silver linings: I have a job at the café, even if it does pay a third of what I used to make at the restaurant, and I’m lucky that Jacob is letting me live rent-free in his spare bedroom. But none of it is what I imagined when I moved to New York with the dream of working my way up to executive pastry chef at a place like Xavier’s, opening my own bakery, and catering buzzy events like this one. Nothing about my current life is going to prove to my parents they were wrong when they said I was wasting my time on culinary school and should go to college like my brother.

As I sink deeper into my pot de crème of self-pity, a red-wigged clown pops out from behind the elephant’s trunk and cocks his head at me. It’s irrational, I know, but my heart whirs like electric beaters set to high speed, and my breath grows shallow. The clown tiptoes closer in his gigantic red shoes and I jump to my feet and slowly back away. He gives me an exaggerated frown, and then raises his gloved hands to his mouth, miming the motion of pulling his lips into a smile. And then, oh God, he reaches for my mouth as if he’s going to do the same to me.

I’ll smile at you over my dead body.

I lurch backward, ready to bolt, but my shoulder blades hit the hard surface of the elephant’s rump, and there’s nowhere to run. The clown creeps toward me, slowly wiggling his fingers at my face. I look around wildly for help, but I’m alone in a dark corner with this bozo and suddenly it seems possible that my dead body could actually factor into this story.

My thoughts ricochet around in my head. If I scream, will anyone hear me? If I fight back will he overpower me? I am frozen, pinned against an elephant’s ass. Is this how it ends?

At that moment, a couple comes strolling around the elephant’s trunk, the taller man’s arm around the shorter man’s shoulder. I open my mouth to cry for help, but it comes out choked, and the sound is quickly swallowed up by the thumping bass of the dance music. I reach out an arm, almost in slow motion, to flag the couple down. They’re my only hope. But oblivious to my plight, they only have eyes for each other, and they keep walking. No, I’d yell, if only I could form the words. As they pass by me and the clown, I see my chance slipping away.

And then a miracle happens. The shorter man, clearly tipsy, stumbles, and when he takes a step forward to catch himself, he trips over the clown’s colossal shoe. His shoulder hits the clown squarely in the chest, and both the man and clown go flying sideways and sprawl on the floor in a heap.

I take off running, weaving in and out of the dancers until I’ve made it to the far end of the warehouse. Only then do I glance over my shoulder for signs of curly plastic hair or a bright red clown nose, but the pulsing strobe lights and bodies moving on the dance floor leave me disoriented. Swinging back around, I scan for an exit, and in front of me looms a purple-and-gold velvet tent. I duck inside and lean against a tent pole to catch my breath.

“Well, hello there,” a deep voice intones.

“Oh my God.” I jump about a thousand feet into the air and spin around.

In the far corner of the tent is a tiny old woman in a scarlet-and-gold peasant dress with a matching scarf tied over her long graying hair. She sits behind a table covered in a gold cloth with a crystal ball resting in the center.