Imagine my surprise when my History of Opera professor called Noah Kincaid’s name during our first night class Thursday and he was nowhere to be found.
Then when Music Theory rolled around Friday morning and the guy I was obligated to repay was conveniently missing, I entertained the possibility that my overactive imagination had fabricated him out of thin air. Common sense didn’t stop me from going straight to WebMD and reading up on schizophrenia when I got back to my dorm after retaking Slade’s quiz.
I’d spent most of my free time the past two days—minus a few hours distracted by games on my phone and a hot new crime show—studying for that quiz, and Slade decided to make the questions five times harder on the retake. It was painful to get through, and my concentration was shot for the weekend.
Or at least, that was how I explained why I’d agreed to tag along on Teresa’s catering gig when she claimed Mr. Everton could use the extra hands.
“We’re not expected for another twenty minutes, but it won’t hurt to get there early for your first night,” she said while rifling through her side of the closet. I hovered beside her and picked lint off the black shirt she’d just handed me. “I picked up a uniform that should fit you. Just make sure to put your hair up and wear black shoes.”
My nose scrunched as I took in my meager selection of footwear. “They don’t have to be heels, right?”
“Not unless you want to trip straight into the buffet table and get fired before the night is over.” She snorted before pulling on her own simple black shirt. I quickly tugged mine on, keeping my back turned away from Teresa so she didn’t see my father’s handiwork. The scar on my shoulder blade was a nice reminder of what he thought of second place at recitals.
“Good call.” I slipped on a pair of black ballet flats. While not as practical for walking around with food all night, I didn’t exactly have combat boots lying around. “What kind of party is it?”
“One full of five-year-old terrors on sugar highs.” She rolled her eyes. “Upper-class birthday parties are a great test run, because the parents are happy as long as food is there for the kids and booze is there for them. They couldn’t care less about professionalism.”
Kids? My stomach churned. It was safe to say that children and I didn’t exactly get along. I’d put a minimum age requirement on the students I tutor after a three-year-old went allExorciston me when I tried to teach herChopsticks.
“Let’s go!” Teresa practically cheered, before I shuffled considerably less cheerfully behind her.
I wondered if there was time to stop by the coffee cart.
* * *
It didn’t take long to see Mr. Everton ran a tight ship. We’d loaded the catering van with food, driven to suburbia, promptly unloaded the food into a kitchen, set up six buffet tables, and gone over assignments, all in less than forty minutes.
Mr. Everton had assigned me buffet duty—something both Teresa and I had hoped for—and I’d spent the last thirty minutes refilling macaroni and gourmet dino-nuggets.
“How’s it going over here?” Teresa asked as she rounded back from the adults’ tables, weaving her way through a game of short-people tag. I had to actively remind myself to keep my mouth closed, because the hosts’ backyard was gorgeous—filled with paper lanterns, a humongous pool,threehot tubs, two tennis courts, and a freaking garden maze.
“Well, the food has remained off the floor, my feet haven’t tripped over themselves, and the sky hasn’t fallen yet. I’d say it’s going pretty well,” I said with a proud nod. I scooped another helping of mac and cheese into the silver chafer. “How’re the parents doing?”
Teresa grimaced. “Two drinks away from Margaritaville.”
A shudder racked through me. “I don’t think I’ll ever get that drunk.”
“You haven’t even been tipsy,” she countered with a snort before leaning down to pry open the cooler and dish out a few juice boxes to add to my award-winning table. “Yet.Just wait until I get you to a frat party. If you can get past the questionable music and people humping on and off the dance floor, it’s worth it just for the free kegs.”
“That sounds awful.” I frowned, hoping she never actually tried to drag me to one. Another date with Charlie Davenport sounded more pleasant.
“I’ve only been to one so far with the soccer team, but it wasn’t so bad.” Teresa hummed, and she gave me a thoughtful look. “Even if you end up hating it, at least you tried, right?”
The same could be said for jumping off a bridge, but I kept my mouth shut and zoned in on arranging the dino-nuggets to look like the dinosaurs were climbing out of the chafer. Surely a frat party wouldn’tkillme. I hoped.
Teresa sighed and balanced the tray against her hip. “Fine, I guess I’ll have to talk you into it later. Wanna help me bring out some desserts?”
“Yes!” My head shot up with an eager grin. Cake at birthday parties may have been a given, but I hadn’t caught a single glimpse of one yet. “Yes,please.”
“No samples, Emma.” Her eyes narrowed in warning before she led the way toward the house. I kept up, hot on her heels through the back door and wondering if we were lucky enough to have an ice cream cake. Surely the kids were stuffed from eating twice their body weight in dino-nuggets, and now they wouldn’t have enough room for sweets. Right?
Mr. Everton’s voice boomed as we passed the kitchen. “Bring those knives over here! I don’t want someone knocking them off the counter and taking off a toe. Where’s the rest of the Riesling? Are we out already?”
“This way,” Teresa whispered, pointing toward the dining room as we passed a frazzled server.
Turning the corner, I had to suck in my stomach to hold in a gasp of awe.
Right in the center of the table, a princess-themed three-layer cake dominated the show. It was elegant and covered in roses andverypink, but it only held my attention for the initial glance. Because around that fantasy cake?
