“Good luck,” she calls to me as I make my way out of the tent and back onto the dance floor.
Without the thick drapery muting the sound, heavy bass from the dance music reverberates through me. I stand at the edge of the crowd, watching bodies kaleidoscope around me and weighing my options. Am I really considering going through with this hokey directive from a fortune teller?
A pair of arms cinches around my shoulders, and my thoughts immediately fly to the creepy clown. I whirl around, but instead, I find Kasumi standing there with a happy grin on her face. “Sadie! I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she yells over the noise. “Isn’t this party amazing?”
“Unbelievable,” I yell back, patting my purse to make sure the powder is safely tucked inside. I don’t want to have to explain what I’ve been doing.
“Guess who came tonight after their shift was over,” Kasumi says. “Sonya and Marianne! We should all do shots!”
I smile weakly. Along with Kasumi, Sonya and Marianne both work at Xavier’s. We were all friends when I was employed there, but ever since I got fired, I’ve been avoiding my former coworkers. I’m embarrassed to face them knowing I haven’t been able to find another job as a pastry chef anywhere in the city. Xavier went out of his way to make it known that I’m difficult to work with, and even if another chef hasn’t heard the rumors about me, they still want a reference from my former employer. I didn’t just burn that marshmallow when I left Xavier’s, I incinerated it.
“You know, I actually think I feel a migraine coming on,” I improvise. “I’m going to head out.”
“Oh no, I’m sorry.” Kasumi’s shoulders slump. “I’ll ride home with you.”
I shake my head. She’s clearly having a blast, and I’d feel even worse if I ruined it for her. “No, you stay with Sonya and Marianne. It’s not even midnight yet. I’m fine to get home by myself.”
“Are you sure?” She glances over my shoulder at the dance floor, her forehead scrunched with uncertainty.
“Yes, absolutely.” I pull her in for a hug. “Call me tomorrow.”
I wade back into the crowd, making my way toward the exit. Near the coat check is one of the bars scattered around the periphery of the warehouse, and the line is unexpectedly short. I hesitate with my hand on my purse, eyeing the Grey Goose and Absolut bottles lined up on the shelf.
Should I?
What could it really hurt?
Before I lose my nerve, I order a shot and carry it to a darkish corner where couches and beanbag chairs are scattered around on the floor. A few couples are talking, or making out, but nobody even glances in my direction. I set my shot on a table and pour the colored powder into my hand.
This is it.
I’m ready.
In one swift motion, I toss back the vodka, feeling the burn all the way down, and then I whirl around in a circle once, twice, three times. Dizzy now, I stumble to a stop and send my wish into the universe. Please give me a second chance. Please give me a do-over of the past year. Eyes still squeezed tight, I toss the powder high into the air and feel it settle softly around me.
All the anxiety and angst of the past year seem to drain from my body, and a calm washes over me. The stale warehouse air shifts to a sultry, tropical breeze that teases my hair and warms my skin. I spread my arms wide, floating on the cloud of sensation and, in this moment, I believe in magic.
I slowly open my eyes, adjusting to the darkness. Is this it? Is it possible I’ve really changed the trajectory of my life? Will I have a chance to right my mistakes? I take a deep breath in, and then—
I scream at the top of my lungs.
The clown. The clown is standing in front of me, his too-wide painted-on eyes only inches from my face. He cocks his head, raising his hands in a questioning motion, as if to ask what the hell I’m doing. I blink as the throbbing beat of dance music works its way back into my consciousness. Suddenly, it hits me that the man wearing a red rubber nose and polka-dot coveralls is actually the rational person in this situation. What the hell am I doing? My heart drops to the vicinity of my stomach.
Before I can humiliate myself any further, I push past Bozo and make a break for the door.
Chapter 3
You’d think my night couldn’t get any worse, but as soon as I get to the subway station, the digital display announces that the L train broke down inside the tunnel, and outbound service to Brooklyn has been suspended. There’s no way I’ll catch a cab on New Year’s, so I end up walking an extra ten blocks in order to catch the M train.
On the ride home, reality sinks in. Am I so pathetic that I actually allowed myself to believe that an old lady shilling fortunes for tips could change my life for the better? I wish I could blame my complete break from reality on party drugs, but the truth is that even the alcohol wore off a while ago.
The train arrives at my stop, and I get off, swimming upstream through crowds of revelers carrying New Year’s party hats, noise blowers, and bottles of champagne. Off to parties like the one I just fled. Out on the street, the buildings create a wind tunnel, pushing the cold December gale straight through my scarlet bolero jacket. But instead of shivering, my skin grows hot with humiliation. What if Sonya and Marianne had spotted me spinning around in the darkness like cake batter in a KitchenAid? Can you imagine what they’d tell everyone back at Xavier’s about how poor Sadie has gone off the deep end?
My alternate route back to Jacob’s takes me by my old apartment building, and I keep my head down because it hurts to gaze up at the second-story window that used to be mine. A few blocks later, Higher Grounds Coffee is closed up for the night, but I’ll be there bright and early for my shift in the morning. As I approach Jacob’s building, a text comes in from my dad.
Happy New Year. Did you look at those Brooklyn College brochures I sent you? You can’t live on Jacob’s couch forever.
I close my eyes with fresh humiliation. I’m not living on Jacob’s couch…
I just spend a lot of time there.
Somehow, my dad always manages to make me feel like I’ve dumped salt instead of sugar into a batch of cookie dough, ruining everything. Despite some less-than-gentle prodding from my college-professor parents, I chose culinary school instead of the local university, and they’ve never gotten over it.
But maybe my dad’s right. I can’t stay at Jacob’s forever and it’s not like the pastry chef jobs are flying in. Sighing, I quickly fire off a text. Maybe I’ll check them out later this week.
The second I hit send, I want to take it back.
Great! my dad replies. Maybe this is all for the best. I’m proud of you.
I stare at those last four words on my phone. I don’t know if either of my parents have ever said they were proud of me before. The fact that this is what it took depresses me.
I arrive at Jacob’s building, an updated prewar with a doorman. As I step off the elevator onto his floor, I nearly crash into Jacob’s next-door neighbor Paige and her boyfriend. When I first moved in, I couldn’t help but notice Olivia Rodrigo playing constantly on repeat through our shared wall, and I pieced it together that Paige was going through a rough breakup. I could relate. One evening, after listening to a muffled version of “traitor” coming from the direction of the exposed brick for about six straight hours, I had a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates delivered to her apartment. In a happy turn of events, Paige and the long-haired delivery guy named Brandon really hit it off. Now, I have the pleasure of seeing them make out in the hall whenever I get off the elevator.