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.
“And who are you?” the woman asks in a husky two-pack-a-day voice.
I open my mouth to spill the story of my Great Clown Getaway when a thought stops me in my tracks. “Wait. Aren’t you a fortune teller?”
She nods in acknowledgment.
I prop my fists on my hips. “Then shouldn’t you already know who I am?”
The woman folds her hands on the table. “I’m a fortune teller. Not a psychic. I need to consult the crystal ball.”
At that moment, the lustrous orb in front of her seems to glow brighter, and I blink, wondering if maybe someone slipped something into my carnival cosmo when I wasn’t looking.
“Would you like me to tell your fortune?” the woman asks.
Part of me knows this is completely bogus, but for a moment, I consider the offer anyway. What if someone had looked into a crystal ball last December and warned me about the terrible year I was about to have? Would I have done something differently?
I know I’m outspoken and quick to react if someone offends me. What if I’d reined it in? On those nights out with Alex, when his coworker was being a jerk, maybe I could have taken a deep breath and spoken calmly instead of telling him off in front of the whole bar. If I had, would Alex and I still be together? What if, instead of yelling at my boss when he was being a bully, I’d tried having a reasonable conversation with him? Would I still have my job at Xavier’s and my cute studio apartment with the walk-in closet?
And would I still be on track to making my dreams a reality?
I sigh. None of this really matters. I don’t need to see the future; I need to change the past. And that’s not on the table…
Is it?
I eye the old woman’s crystal ball. “Does that thing do any other tricks?”
Her eyes drift from the crystal ball to my face. “It’s not an iPhone. You can’t use it to watch TikTok videos.”
“I know…” I sink down onto a tufted-velvet stool. “Look, the last year of my life sucked like a straw in a milkshake. I can’t help thinking if I’d known what was coming, I would have made different choices. So, while knowing my fortune is fine and all… what I really need is a do-over of the last year.”
“Ah, yes. I see.” She nods sagely. “You’re one of those.”
“One of those… what?”
“One of those people who want to go back and meddle with the past. It’s not a good idea. I’m telling you”—she waves a crooked finger at me—“it never ends well.”
A shiver runs up my spine, but I shake it off, keeping my eyes on the prize. “So, you’re saying you can help me?”
The woman looks me up and down. Finally, she throws her hands up in the air. “Fine. I can grant you one wish. But before I do, you must be sure you want to go through with this. It may not turn out the way you think it will.”
Goose bumps pop up on my skin, which is ridiculous because this whole thing is a total sham, and if I weren’t slightly tipsy and there wasn’t a clown stalking me, I’d be out of here. But for some reason, I find myself nodding anyway. “Yes. I want this.”
The old woman sighs deeply. Then she slowly pulls a wooden box out from under the table and opens it. I sit up on my stool, trying to peer over the top. “Is that where the magic happens—?”