Page 1 of Double Fault

CHAPTER 1

SABRINA

The bright yelloweviction notice glares at me from across the hall as I near the door to my apartment. It was inevitable, really, regardless of how hard I’ve tried to avoid it. But after a day spent bouncing from place to place, handing out my résumé, it’s a slap in the face.

More often than not, I was told to apply online. And I have, but so far, it hasn’t gotten me anywhere. So I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.

With a huff, I swipe the notice off the door and let myself inside.

The place isn’t even nice. Hell, I wouldn’t even categorize it asdecent. It’s the size of a closet and shabby—and not in the chic way. But the rent is cheap—though obviously not cheap enough—and it’s a place to lay my head at night. Or it was before this notice appeared.

Head tilted back, I blow out a breath that’s pure frustration.

I straighten, set my shoulders, and drop my bag onto my unmade bed. Then I go in search of the half-eaten tub of vanilla ice cream tucked away in my freezer. People can call vanilla ice cream bland and boring all they want, but I can’t help but love it.

The container gives a little too easily in my hold, and my stomach sinks. I know before I even take the lid off that the ice cream has melted. I close my eyes and breathe. This feels like the cherry on my already shit-tastic day. Though the eviction notice is far more harrowing, the melted ice cream is what sends me over the edge.

Tears sting my eyes.

“Don’t you fucking cry, Sabrina,” I mutter. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Crying won’t get me anywhere. It won’t solve my problems.

I have a degree in elementary education, yet I can’t find a single job in the field. Surely there will always be a need for teachers. That need just isn’t around here, I guess. What a waste those college years feel like. Not only because I spent years working toward a pointless goal, but because I buried myself in debt in the process. I’m drowning in loans, not to mention the bills that have been piling up.

Mrs. Coin, my favorite high school teacher, was such an encouraging and motivating presence in my life. I’d always loved school, and after her ninth-grade English class, I decided I wanted to be just like her. We stayed in touch through my time in high school, and she urged me to pursue my passion for teaching and my desire to better the lives of children. She passed a year ago. It was crushing. And now I feel like I’m failing her. Whatever she saw in me, no one else has noticed, I guess.

I pour the ice cream into the sink, then run the water and watch it dissolve and drain away.

My fingers end up sticky in the process, which only adds to my already mounting annoyance. The sensation propels me across the tiny kitchen to the trash, where I toss the carton.

There’s no point in calling my landlord about the broken freezer, not when I can’t even pay rent. He’s not going to do anything to help me, and I’m not sure I can even blame theguy. He’s been beyond understanding, but his generosity has apparently run out.

I wash my hands, then, weary from it all, drag myself over to my bed, drop onto the mattress, and yank off my combat boots. They drop to the old wood floors with a thunk. Within seconds, Mrs. Torres, who lives below, bangs the ceiling with her broomstick. I swear that woman stands there day and night just waiting for me to make some sort of noise so she can chastise me.

Blowing out a puff of air, I collapse backward onto my sheets.

“What am I going to do?”

The idea of working yet another dead-end job in an effort to make ends meet causes dread to coil in my stomach. But what choice do I have? If I don’t work, I’ll be homeless. At this point I’d say yes to any job I was offered.

I drag my arms up and down in a mockery of a snow angel.

A sheet angel, if you will. Sheets I should’ve washed two weeks ago, along with the pile of clothes in the corner. I hadn’t wanted to spare the money at the laundromat. That’s how I spend my time these days: looking at the meager amount of money I possess after paying bills and deciding what needs to be done and what can wait.

Even then, I can’t pay my stupid rent.

I thought I’d at least have some semblance of order in my life by the time I was twenty-two.

I figured I’d feel more adult-y.

Although I guess using words like adult-y, even in my head, proves howun-adult-y I really am.

I heave myself up to sitting again, then drop to my hands and knees beside the bed and dig my duffel bag out from beneath it.

The last thing I want to do is crash at my best friend’s place yet again, but I’m out of options. There’s no point hangingaround here hoping I can scrounge up enough funds to buy my way out of an eviction. I don’t even have a working refrigerator.

The duffel is in the farthest corner. I stretch until my fingers barely touch the fabric, then pinch it and tug it closer. It slides out easily, along with a cluster of dust bunnies.

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