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"Steph, oh my God, I can't believe what happened – I just arrived in Grand Central Station on my way to my new job and was just helping this little old lady with a babushka and someone who was her accomplice took my backpack and--"
Finally, she stopped me.
"Ella!" she said in a firm voice. "Slow down. Slow down. Don't panic."
Don't panic? How could she tell me not to panic? She knew me better than anyone. Panic was my middle name.
"What do you mean, don't panic?" I said, glancing around the station. "Everything's gone! I've been robbed. I have nothing. No money, no ID, no laptop."
"Nothing?"
"I have my suitcase with clothes in the Airbnb I rented but everything else is gone and I can't even get into my apartment because the key is in my backpack. That's why I'm calling collect."
"Oh, God," she said, and even she was starting to sound panicked. "You have to call your bank immediately and cancel your credit cards and debit cards. You have to go to the police and report the theft. If you want, I'll buy you a ticket so you can come home. I'll pay for it and you can pick it up."
"I don't want to come back," I replied, glancing around the station. Even if it was big and scary, I had a job here and I was damned well not going to go running back home, tail between my legs. "I've been wanting an opportunity like this for years."
"Sometimes you have to admit defeat. Besides, the internship is unpaid. I'll buy you a ticket. All you have to do is pick it up."
"With what?" I asked, running my hand through my hair. "I can't even prove who I am."
I heard a huge sigh on the other end of the line. "I don't know what else to do. Go to the American Consulate?"
"Seriously?" I chewed my nail. "Maybe I can go to the Social Security Office and tell them my card number?"
"I don't know. My brother lost his wallet once and it was hell trying to get everything replaced, but he had his Social Security card at home. You're not supposed to carry it in your wallet, you know. Just in case someone steals it or you lose it. Identity theft? John used his Social Security number as proof of ID. Plus he had all his banking info. Letters to him from the bank. The only other option you have is to call your dad. He probably has friends in Manhattan. They could provide for you, get you some money until you can replace everything – but it'll be expensive. New cell, new laptop. All that ID."
A surge of adrenaline went through my veins. "He'll more likely to send a private plane and make me come back to New Hampshire."
"He might, but only because he loves you."
I rubbed my forehead, feeling the first tinges of a headache coming on. "I can't call him and ask for help. It'll just confirm in his mind that I can't take care of myself."
"Which, obviously, you can't..."
"Steph! I'm the victim here. You're supposed to be my bestie. You're supposed to be sympathetic."
"I'm supposed to tell you the unvarnished truth. You're clearly too inexperienced in the ways of the world to be in Manhattan all on your own. You were robbed your first week."
"My third day."
"Even worse," she said. "Call your dad."
No freaking way. Yes, I got taken in, robbed in the middle of the morning in a public space. That wasn't lost on me. But I wasn't going to give in so easily.
The very last thing I'd do was call him – Mr. Future President, as I liked to call him teasingly. He'd shake his finger at me and tell me that he was right, I shouldn't have moved to Manhattan. I should have stayed in Concord and lived with him and my mother until I found another husband.
"Look, I have to go to my job, talk to my boss. Maybe she'll accept an email transfer and give me some cash so I can at least get a new cell. I could probably get by with a tablet instead of a laptop. That would be cheaper. I could use my computer at work to access my bank account and send her my money."
"Ella..."
"Well, it's worth a try, right?"
"Okay, but she'll think you're a total loser if you tell her you were robbed on your first day on the job and need to hit her up for money."
"What's worse is that my cashier's check for first and last on the Chelsea apartment was in my bag. I don't even have that or my keys to the Airbnb."
"Oh, God, Ella. You are so screwed. Where are you going to stay?"
