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1
WINTER
The things I’ll do to avoid getting evicted.
Not like taking a job as a server at a big charity event is such a terrible opportunity. It’s not like the woman down at the employment agency asked me to strip at a bachelor party or, I don’t know, empty porta-potties. Basically, things could be worse than serving filet mignon to rich people.
Who knows? I might even end up eating a full, hot meal for the first time in as long as I can remember. Weeks of living on ramen and cereal have left me practically swimming in the white button-down shirt I found at the back of my closet. When I step into the kitchen of the hotel hosting the event, the aroma of so much rich food hangs heavy in the air and makes my empty stomach growl audibly.
Not that anybody would hear it. I've never worked in a kitchen before, and the first thing that comes to mind as I stand in the doorway with my mouth hanging open is the opening scenes ofSaving Private Ryan. In other words, it's brutal chaos: pans slamming onto burners, cooks shouting back and forth, open flame flaring up here and there. It's a wonder nobody singes off their eyebrows.
Dishwashers carry racks of glasses, plates are stacked, and always there’s shouting, the voices overlapping, making my head ache. And the servers, like me, are already in a frenzy. I barely jump out of the way in time to avoid getting run over by a girl dressed the same as me, her hair slicked back in a bun like my blond locks are.
“Get moving!” she shouts over one shoulder, carrying a stack of empty trays on the other one.
Yeah, I’ll get moving. Right out the door.
What have I gotten myself into? Now I'm starting to regret lying about having restaurant experience. What was I supposed to do? They needed somebody to fill in tonight, and it's either sink or swim—only sinking means getting thrown out on my ass with the few belongings I haven't yet sold off to make ends meet.
Fake it till you make it. Isn't that how the saying goes? I have to fake it, is all. Immediately, my eyes dart around, searching for the first person who seems like they might be willing to help me out. If I can follow their lead, I'll get out of this in one piece. And once again, I'll have kept the wolf from my door, at least for now.
“Get these out to your assigned tables!” A man in a white jacket claps his hands over his head before pointing down at a gleaming, stainless-steel table in front of him. On it are assembled a few dozen baskets heaped with steaming rolls whose aroma makes me feel a little dizzy. I’m way too hungry to be working around food.
Shit. We have tables assigned to us? My head swings around, bile rising in my throat as I search for a chart or a list or something, anything to give me a clue. I'm almost paralyzed with indecision and the sense of being in way over my head when my gaze lands upon a clipboard holding the layout of the ballroom. I peer down at it, searching for my name. Winter, in charge of tables twenty-five through thirty.
Gulp. No pressure or anything.
If I can fall back on one thing, it's being a quick study. I grab one of the remaining trays that hasn't already been loaded up and carried away, then fill it with baskets. I can't believe all I had to do was walk in here and get started—nobody has even asked me my name. What if I can't hack it?
I have to. There's no other choice. It's either this, or I'm homeless. I've run out of options, and this was the only job Susan down at the office could find for me. At this time of year, parties and charity events are always going on. And I guess it's better than dressing up like an elf and taking pictures of kids sitting on Santa's lap.
With the tray balanced precariously on my shoulder—not too hard, as light as it is—l push through the swinging door leading out to the ballroom, where the other servers have already gone about placing their baskets and making sure everything looks the way it should. How will I know if it does or not? I make a point of studying tables as I pass, so I know what they're supposed to look like when I reach the ones assigned to me.
It isn't until I find my cluster of tables and begin placing bread baskets on them that I take notice of my surroundings. That's the thing about me. When I'm overwhelmed, I tend to go into complete tunnel vision, focusing solely on the most important task.
Now I have the chance to glance around, and what I find damn near floors me. “It's a big, fancy charity dinner,” Susan told me over the phone. “Lots of rich people.”
No kidding. But it's the room itself that takes my breath away. It would be beautiful enough on its own—I know the hotel was built at the turn of the 20th century, so the architecture and attention to detail is like nothing that would be built today. Towering ceilings, crystal chandeliers, stained glass windows, wood paneled walls, and shining floors that the city’s most esteemed citizens must have danced on over the years. I'm afraid to breathe too hard in a place like this, somewhere I would never visit as a guest.
Add to that the lavish Christmas decorations, and it's like I'm a little kid again, a little breathless as I admire the trees lining the walls, all of them festively lit and hung with tinsel that shimmers as it sways whenever someone walks past. There’s a river of poinsettias arranged around them, too, and garland draped on the walls, swagged across the tops of the windows. If I was a guest, I’d forget to eat, gaping at the beauty that makes my heart ache for some reason.
And the people! Men in tuxedos, women in formal gowns, some of them practically dripping diamonds as they air kiss and mingle before the meal is served. A few staff walk around carrying champagne flutes on trays that don't stay full for long. Nobody pays much attention to them–we’re supposed to fade into the background, after all.
“Get moving,” one of the other servers hisses when they catch me gaping at my surroundings. I probably look like some poor hick getting her first look at how the other half lives. It only makes sense since that's exactly who I am.
It's like a dream world, and I've never felt so poor and so unworthy in all my life. Here I am, scrambling around, trying to make a bit of last-minute money to cover the rent. I'm sure some of these women dropped more money than that on having their hair done for tonight.
“Here.” I hardly notice the server before he thrusts a tray of empty champagne flutes at me. “I've got to go take a piss. Can you take these back to the bar?”
Normally, I like to be on a first-name basis with somebody before they tell me about their bladder. “Sure.” He didn't say which bar—there are two, sitting diagonally from each other on opposite ends of the room—but I guess it can't matter.
Carrying a tray of crystal is a little trickier than bread baskets, and it doesn't help that my hands are still shaking from the nerves I can't suppress. Somehow I manage to make it without tragedy striking, then unload the flutes.
“Wait!” One of the two bartenders, red-faced and frazzled, finishes filling a cluster of flutes before he begins loading them onto my tray, even though I didn't ask for any.
I strain to make my voice heard over all the commotion, enhanced by Christmas music piped in through speakers nearby. “No, I'm supposed to—”
“You're supposed to get out there and get these people what they want.”
