Page 2 of Her Secret Santa

“I told you to go,” Mr. Folt says unapologetically. “Don’t make me call the cops and say you’re trespassing.”

My mouth drops open in shock. Surely, even he wouldn’t go that far. The look in his eyes says he’s not joking in the slightest.

I stumble back, just barely avoiding slipping in the spilled food. Holding back tears, I turn tail and run, bursting out of the stifling air of the kitchen and into the chill of the alleyway behind the diner. It’s littered with trash and stinks like all the alleys of New York do, but it’s a million times better than watching Mr. Folt fire me like four months of hard work meantnothing.

I make it to my beat up old Chevy Cavalier before collapsing into sobs, terror and anger mingling in my gut.

Ilikedworking at Lucky’s, for the most part. The shifts were exhausting, but the pay was alright, and the tips were great. My customers were almost always nice, and I’d gotten to know my regulars.

Besides all that, I can’t afford to lose my job right now. Thanksgiving is in two days, and rent is due in a week. The nursing home bill a week later. My grandma will always come first, but I really can’t afford to be late on rent again. I’ve got enough to pay both bills if I eat nothing but ramen, but that’ll only barely get me into December. After that, my wallet is empty. I’ve got nothing.

I lean forward against the steering wheel, my tears flowing freely as I struggle to come up with a solution to all of this.

The only thing I can do for now is go home, calm myself down, and try to figure out a plan. There is no time to mope around.

I shoot Allie a text, explaining everything that happened, and then toss my phone onto the passenger seat. Writing the words out hurts more than I expect, and I take several deep breaths before starting the car. I can wait until I get home to properly break down. Traffic is just as unforgiving as it always is around the holidays, decorations and glittering lights mingling with honking horns as people rush to get back home to their families. Thankfully, I don’t live too far from Lucky’s, and I pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex before panic can take root.

I walk up the stairs to my third-floor apartment in a bit of a fugue state, the squeaky old stairs familiar even though the whole world feels like it’s falling apart. The paint on my door is still peeling, the hinges still creak, and there’s still an awful draft that comes in from beneath it.

At least the rest of my apartment is warm. The lamp on the coffee table offers just enough light to see by, and the string of lights on the tiny Christmas tree on my kitchen counter twinkles merrily. It almost hurts to look at right now, with how upset I am. I collapse onto the ancient, threadbare couch and breathe in the scent of home, desperate to calm my thoughts before they race again. The blanket draped over the arm of the couch is older than I am and hardly thick enough to offer any real comfort, but it smells like my grandmother’s perfume, and that’s enough to keep me from the brink of panic.

My phone buzzes where I dropped it on the floor along with my bag, and I reach out blindly, searching for it on the worn through carpet.

I crack one eye open to read the text from Allie. A lot of it is expletives and threats to yell at my ex-boss, but there’s also an invite in there to go over to hers in an hour when she’s off work.I could really use some comfort, and I don’t want to worry my grandmother over this, so I text her back with a promise to be there when she’s off.

After attempting to job search on my phone, I stumble my way through a shower, frustration and worry making my movements sluggish. All of the exhaustion that’s been building up is hitting me at once, and I can hardly muster the energy to dry my hair and get redressed when I get out.

I do feel a bit better for being clean, at least.

By the time I’m dressed again, it’s time to head out, so I turn off all the lights and make sure the windows are locked before heading back out into the chilly winter air. I pass by the mix of Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations on people’s doors as I make my way back down the rickety stairs and to my car.

Thankfully, the drive to Allie’s doesn’t take long, and before I know it, I’m knocking on her door and being bundled into her bed with a pint of ice cream in my hands. Her place is a shitty little one bedroom in the Bronx, too, and it’s always felt like a second home. Half of my pajamas are here anyway from how often I sleep over. Allie lets me cry and complain as much as I need to, waiting patiently for me to pull myself back together.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve cleared out, like, three different websites, and it only took me like five minutes. There are hardly any postings up,” I huff, digging my spoon into the ice cream. “Everyone’s already filled their holiday positions with college kids and part-timers. I’m just going to walk around and hope someone will hire me.”

Allie frowns sympathetically as she ties her wavy chocolate hair up in a bun for the night. She picked me up my favorite strawberry ice cream on her way home from work, her idea of the best friend cure all. Personally, I think the cure is really just her innate ability to listen to all my worries and help me figureout an actual solution instead of just complaining. She’s always been good at that.

“I know you don’t want to hear it,” she says, “but you really need to start saving some of your money.”

I sigh at her as I adjust the blanket around my shoulders, already knowing where this is going. This is a long-standing argument between us, and I understand where she’s coming from, but it’s just not something I can bring myself to do.

“I’m not saying to saveallof it,” she adds, stealing a bite of ice cream. “But if you don’t have a cushion for yourself, you won’t be able to help anyone else. Brooke and the folks at the nursing home would adore you even if you never gave them a penny.”

I shake my head, smiling sadly down at the blanket that pools in my lap. I know she’s right, but that’s just not who I am. The children’s home Brooke runs barely scrapes by, and those kids deserve the world. Even if all I can give them is a few extra books and some new blankets, I’m going to do that.

The nursing home is the same, really, although my reasons for that are a little more selfish. I can’t take care of my grandma all by myself anymore, no matter how much I want to. I work too much to be home as often as she needs, and if I don’t work as often as I do, I won’t be able to pay the bills. Besides, my grandma may be frail these days, but she’s still taller than I am, and I just don’t have the strength to help her move around the house safely.

I also just can’t help feeling a bit guilty. A lot of the people at Brooklyn Gardens with my grandma don’t have anyone left. They don’t get or give Christmas presents, no grandkids come to visit them. If I have a little left over to buy them a blanket that’s on sale or some board games at the thrift store, I want to help. They have even less than I do, and that’s something I can’t stand to watch.

“You know I can’t do that,” I say, grinning unapologetically at Allie.

She rolls big blue eyes at me, but there’s a hint of an answering smile on her lips.

“What about your other jobs, then?” she asks.

I blow out a tired breath as she climbs under the blankets beside me. If I could go full time at either of them, things would be fine, but unfortunately, that’s not an option.

I didn’t get to finish my college degree—even with the scholarships I qualified for, I just couldn’t afford it—so I don’t have the education that graphic design jobs at real companies require, even if I’ve got the skills. All I can rely on is freelance work, and without a laptop of my own, that’s spotty at best. Allie and I actually met in the one college class I ever got to take, and she’s been my biggest supporter.

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