After a few blocks, I slowed to a walk, but my heart kept racing.
“So stupid,” I muttered to myself. This wasn’t the best end of town, so I kept a wary eye on my surroundings. But I was used to neighborhoods like this one. I grew up in neighborhoods like this one.
Only the best for the Evans clan.
I huffed a breath, watching the guy sleeping on the corner under a makeshift tent. There was generally a live-and-let-live mentality here, but all it took was one. One asshole who decided to make me their late-night snack. One asshole who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.
This guy continued to sleep and didn’t move. But still I crossed the street rather than pass in front of his makeshift home.
A home I might need to copy if I couldn’t figure out what to do about my own living situation.
When I finally reached my apartment, the notice taped to the door mocked me. I’d taken the first one down, embarrassed for my neighbors to see I was getting evicted. What an asshole move to put up another one.
I ripped this one down too and shoved it in my pocket.
After pulling my keys out, I tried to slide it into the lock, but it wouldn’t fit. Confused, I flipped the key over and tried it again.
Still didn’t fit.
My heart pounded in my chest and a sense of dread swept over me.
The notice yesterday said ‘three day notice to quit.’ I still had today and tomorrow. He couldn’t have locked me out yet.
I flipped my key over and tried again.
And again.
Then flipped it over and tried again.
And again.
It didn’t work.
I was locked out.
My breath came in hitches as I fought to stay calm.
It didn’t work.
There was no calm here.
My dad was in prison.
I was locked out of our apartment, and it was 3 AM.
What should I do?
Where could I go?
I didn’t know any of our neighbors. And the few I’d seen in passing, I wouldn’t ever want to go knocking on their door at this time of night—or ever.
I didn’t know any of my coworkers at the sandwich shop well enough to justify calling them to bum a bed or their couch. I’d only been working there for three weeks. Most of them still called me Cindy.
I’d made a few friends at school, but that had fallen away once the news had hit. Suddenly, no one wanted anything to do with the girl who had ties to 1%ers. I knew I should’ve gone to community college. Stupid me and my hubris of getting into a UC school.
Like that mattered now.
I hadn’t been to classes in over a month since my car got repossessed. Apparently dear ole dad had fallen behind on my car payments.
