She holds up a hand, and I stop talking. Reaching into the box, the woman pulls out a ceramic bowl and several small glass jars full of what look like dried herbs in an array of colors. She tosses a handful of red herbs into the bowl, followed by green, then a pinch of blue and a dash of orange. Smashing it all together with a pestle, she grinds the colors into a maroon-colored powder that she pours into a small cloth bag.
“Now. Go to the bar and order a shot of vodka,” she instructs me.
I wrinkle my nose. Vodka tastes like lighter fluid. “I’m really more of a tequila kind of girl. Do you think I could—”
The woman cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “Silence!”
I press my lips together, examining the bag full of powder. It occurs to me that the fortune teller might want me to pour that stuff in a shot of vodka and drink it. That’s going to have to be a hard no, and not just because I don’t like the taste of vodka. If I was worried about someone slipping something into my drink before… well. This is not a good idea. But I’ve come this far and I can’t quite make myself get up and leave.
“Order a shot of vodka,” she repeats. “Drink it. Then close your eyes, spin around three times, make your wish, and toss this powder in the air.”
Even though the rational part of my brain is rolling around on the floor laughing at these instructions, I nod along, going over the steps in my head to make sure I have them straight. Vodka, spin, wish, powder… vodka, spin, wish, powder… Got it. “And then what happens next?”
“What do you think happens next?” She closes her eyes and shakes her head like I’m the dumbest person on the planet. “And then your wish comes true.”
I feel like that answer only raises more questions, but I’m not sure it’s appropriate to point it out when she’s gone to all this trouble to mix up a potion for me. Instead, I gather up my bag of powder, shove it in my purse, and stand up. “Well, thanks for your help.”
The fortune teller clears her throat and hitches her chin at a glass jar on the table. TIPS, the sign says. Right. I stuff a twenty I can’t really afford into the jar.
“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.