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I didn’t even own a single romance novel, nor did I have a poster of a guy on my bedroom wall to fantasize about. I did have this one crush in high school- not the captain of the basketball team that all the girls drooled over but the brooding delinquent at the back of the room with the leather jacket that sometimes smelled of cigarettes. I didn’t lust after him, though, like Mandy’s talking about. Mostly, I was just curious because I knew so little about him even though we shared a lot of classes, impressed by how he kept his grades up even though I never saw him studying, and envious of how he didn’t seem to care about the rest of the world. I don’t even remember his name anymore.
So no, I don’t know what Mandy is talking about. I don’t even know much about sex, except for what I’ve seen in movies, which happens mostly under sheets and shadows.
Yup, I’m in the dark on this one.
“Holy shit.” Mandy takes a step back and looks at me with wide eyes, like she’s just seen a ghost. “You’re a fucking virgin, aren’t you?”
I purse my lips and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear as I feel the dishwasher’s glance. Did Mandy really have to say it that loudly?
“Well, obviously, a non-fucking virgin.” Mandy shakes her head and clicks her tongue in disapproval. “That’s just sad.”
Is it? It’s never bothered me before.
“How old are you again?”
“Almost twenty-two,” I answer.
“A virgin at twenty-two?” I don’t know if she’s looking at me like a criminal or like a freak from the circus, but she’s making me feel like both.
I shrug. “So?”
“Oh, Leah, you poor thing.” Now she’s looking at me like I’m a stray kitten drenched in the rain. “What on earth have you been doing?”
“Surviving?”
Mandy sighs. “You have no idea what you’re missing.”
Which is why I’m not missing it. What’s so good about sex anyway? Is it really such a big deal?
“You better get yourself out there.” She points to the door. “ASAP.”
My eyebrows crease. She wants me to leave right now so I can- what, have sex with the first man I bump into?
“Um, I have work to do,” I remind her as I pick up a plate from the pile of dishes that need drying.
“Oh, you bet you do.” Mandy puts her arm around me. “You know, I wasn’t going to tell you about this gig that I learned about. Thought I would just reap all the rewards for myself. But I think you need it even more than I do.”
I narrow my eyes at her curiously. “What gig?”
“There’s this rich woman, a widow with no children, that this friend of mine knows. And I mean filthy rich, like she has an apartment near Little Italy and this huge house in Greenwich. That’s where the party is going to be.”
“A party?”
And one at a wealthy person’s house at that. I don’t see how this can have anything to do with me, though.
“Not just any party,” Mandy tells me. “It’s a masquerade party for very rich and famous people. We’re talking CEOs, professional athletes, producers, actors, models.”
“Which we’re not,” I point out as I grab another plate.
“We’re not going as guests, silly.” Mandy slaps my shoulder. “We’re waitresses, so we’re going as waitresses.”
Now I understand.
“So it’s like a sideline?”
“A gig. Just one night. My friend says they’re short on staff so they need a few more waitresses.”
My eyebrows crease. “We’re applying?”
“Shh.” Mandy holds a finger to her lips. “Ron might not let us go if he hears. I think it’s against the rules or something.”
I nod, remembering something like that in the contract. “Right.”
So should I still go?
“Speaking of rules, I think Kate said something about how the waitresses are supposed to be at least twenty-four years old. Or was it twenty-five?” She scratches her chin.
“Like I said, I’m- ”
“I think you could pass for twenty-five,” Mandy cuts me off. “I mean, you’ve got a bit of muscle on you and your features are a little mature.”
I don’t know if that’s an insult or a compliment.
“They won’t ask for an ID anyway.”
They won’t? Still, I’m not so sure I want to break the rules- Ron’s rules or the minimum age rule. As an athlete, you treat rules like law.
“Anyway, it’s on Sunday night, so you know, we’re free,” she adds. “You should come with me.”
Should I?
“How much does it pay?”
“Five hundred for the whole affair.”
The plate nearly slips from my fingers. Five hundred? For like eight hours of carrying trays of food and pouring champagne? That’s nearly as much as what I make in a week here at the restaurant. And that’s without any deductions.
“I could definitely use that money,” I confess.
In fact, I’m already thinking of all the things I could use it for. My rent. My phone bills. A handful into that jar I’m trying to fill up so I can go back to college and finish those three semesters I have left.
