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“Shane.”
“And…?” she asked.
I thought back to his pain and thirst for vengeance. “He’s awesome. Just amazing. And you should see his place—”
“Oh, my god. They’re calling me. I gotta run.”
“Okay, don’t forget about tonight,” I said.
But she was gone, off to another audition that would bring her one step closer to seeing her name in lights.
* * *
After my productive day, I sneaked out of work early, feeling doubly guilty because I’d arrived late to begin with. But I had to get home for some fresh clothes and to put on a little makeup before meeting Fantine and her theater friends for dinner.
That was one of the things I loved best around New York. You could never run out of things to do.
I took the subway home, because that’s how I rolled except for when I was terribly late and had to spring for an Uber or cab. I entered my apartment building and bounded up the stairs to the third floor, comforted by the familiar mustiness of the hallways and their tile worn bare from years of tenants coming and going.
When I put my key in the deadbolt, I realized it was open. Fantine must have come home, too, before the night’s festivities.
“Fantine?” I hollered.
My heart made a thump so hard in my chest, it almost knocked me over. Our apartment was a mess, our belongings strewn all over the place. I looked toward the kitchen, and my biggest fear was realized.
My sewing machine was gone.
They say that when your home has been broken into, you’re not supposed to enter, but instead, you should leave right away and call the police. I later wondered how many people followed those instructions, because all common sense left my little brain as I ran into the apartment to see if anyone was still there.
Thank god, no one was. Like I was going to take down a burglar? Right. But my fury at being invaded in such a way was so intense, I probably could have shredded someone with my bare hands.
At least, that’s how I felt at the moment.
After a quick look around, and finding that the entire place had been pretty much ransacked, I wandered to the flimsy table where my machine had been.
Who steals a fucking sewing machine?
I grabbed my phone from my bag.
“Fantine?” I said in a shaky voice.
“Hey, you sound funny. What’s up?”
“Fantine, someone broke into our apartment.”
“What?” she said.
“You’d better come home.”
“Oh, my god. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
I was close to a panic attack. It was bad enough someone had been in our place and made a mess of it. Honestly, we didn’t have much worth stealing. Whoever went through the trouble to get in was probably pissed he or she’d bothered breaking into a place with no jewelry, money, or other valuables. But my sewing machine was everything to me, symbolizing when I really began to believe my life was permanently taking a turn for the better, and that I’d never go back to where I’d started.
Shit, my sketchpads.
The last time I’d been drawing was in bed. I raced into my bedroom and saw my latest notebook nearly all the way under my bed.
Whoever broke in had taken no interest in it, and instead, had just kicked it out of the way.
Thank god for little miracles.
That’s when the tears started. What was it with life? Just when you think you’re getting ahead, there’s always something out there to kick you right in the teeth and to remind you that you weren’t so special, after all.
