2. Bea
2
BEA
M ost people hate their job—there’s a reason you’re paid to do it.
I know I’m not special.
And to be fair, when I started waiting tables, I didn’t hate it. My first time working as a waitress was at Dave and Seren’s inn, and it was small enough that there were never many people.
Thanks to Dave and Seren, it never felt like work.
But when I started college to study music, it never occurred to me that even after I graduated, I’d still be waiting tables. I’m working at the nicest place in Scarsdale, but that cuts both ways. My tips are so good that I haven’t been able to quit. No music job I could find would come close to what I make working five nights a week at the Red Horse.
Well, that, and I haven’t actually gotten a job I’d want.
“No, not like that,” Mrs. Stevens says. “Lighter. Springier, like the notes are sassy.”
I still take piano lessons, but it might be out of habit at this point .
I was a music theory major, and I’ve taken piano lessons since I was twelve, so you’d think that by now, I’d be teaching lessons instead. Or maybe I’m still taking lessons because my teacher has my dream job and she lets me help her most weeks.
After another twenty minutes of somewhat rewarding torture, my lesson’s finally over. That’s when the fun part starts. “I thought you might want to take a look at this one.” Mrs. Stevens hands me a sheet of music.
“Who’s it for?”
“The Honda dealership.”
“And?”
“They want it to be fast, upbeat, and staccato.”
I lift my eyebrows. “They said staccato?”
Mrs. Stevens laughs. “Of course not.”
The world around me disappears as the notes on the page begin to play in my head. Her jingle isn’t bad, but it’s soggy in the middle. Right when it should really pop, it sinks. “This line is the one that needs work,” I finally say. “You should bring it up a third, and maybe cut the weird chords here.” I point.
“Like this?” Mrs. Stevens’ fingers fly over the keys.
“More like this.” I sit next to her and she shoves over. As I’m showing her what I meant, I have another idea. It’s a good one.
“Oh, that’s much better.” She plays it twice, and then she tightens it up a bit more, condensing two measures into one to segue better than mine. The bridges are always the trickiest part. Almost an hour later, when I leave, it’s perfect . She lets me sit in on the conference call when she plays it for the client.
To the car dealership, the melody is probably the least exciting part of their commercial, but Mrs. Stevens and I know that we’re making the magic happen. The reason people will remember the commercial, the reason they’ll think of Holdam Honda is because we did our job.
Of course, it’s not really my job. It’s hers.
But still.
One day, hopefully. I have applied for over a dozen jingle jobs in the last year, but they’re hard to land. It’s a job that can be done from home, and it’s a job that most everyone who can play basic musical instruments is qualified to do. But you can work from home , and for an introvert, that sounds magical enough already.
Add in the bonus that you’re able to take the notes I love so much and turn them into a limitless number of new songs that will stick with people, and it sounds like nirvana. Being paid to create music that people will hear, and I can do it in my pajamas in my own home?
Please and thank you.
Unfortunately, with as long as working on that jingle took, I barely have time to shower before my shift. My long hair takes forever to dry, so I always try to blow dry it before heading in. I’m going to wind up with water all down my back, but hopefully my hair will cover the damage itself. Sometimes I wish we had a more flexible dress code, but it’s nice not to stress over what I’m wearing as I pull on the same boring black pants and white button-down shirt that I always wear.
Our uniform could turn a supermodel into a frump, but when you start out at barely five feet tall, and you already have almost nothing in the way of curves, it’s a death knell. When I pass the mirror, it could be a teenage boy staring back.
Not that it matters. When I wait tables, I disappear. It’s actually my favorite thing about the job. Yes, I have to interact with a never-ending stream of people all night long. And yes, the other wait staff and cooks are talking to me constantly, but it’s not the kind of thing that requires thought or effort. It’s, “table five needs this cooked longer.” Or “they need water at table six.” None of them care about me—the diners or the staff—and I like it that way. I’m a tool to them. I show up with a pleasant expression, bring their waters, their mojitos, and their whiskey neat when they ask for them. Their food is hot. Their drinks are cold.
And I get a decent tip.
They promptly forget me, exactly like I want.
There’s actually one guy who literally comes in every single Friday night at eight p.m. He has eaten at Red Horse for more than three years, since a few weeks after I started working at the Westchester, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know I’ve been his waiter every single week. He’s a pretty good tipper, so that’s just fine by me.
Actually, I like it that way.
I don’t have hard feelings about being invisible. In fact, it’s the one thing in the world I’ve always been best at. Waiting tables is the kind of job where people noticing you and remembering you is a liability. The less they think about their waiter, the better you’re doing your job. It means their drinks are never empty. Their check is never wrong. And their food is done just right .
The key to that, of course, is making sure the chef and other cooks like me best.
I’m not above bribing, but since I have almost no social life, I’m also available to cover shifts when the restaurant is down a waiter, and that makes them grateful. There’s nothing worse than a bunch of customers who are mad because their food was cold, and that’s what happens when we’re short-staffed on wait crew. The chefs take the blame, but it’s usually our fault.
When I walk through the door, I’m a little shocked when the head line cook points at me. Iggy isn’t usually a pointer. “You—we called a sub for you.”
I blink. “But I’m here—I’m not even late.”
“Our pianist canceled again.”
I suppress my groan and remind myself that this is just another way I can make sure that everyone loves me. On weekends, the fine dining at the Westchester always has live piano music. They usually want someone who can sing, but when the musician cancels, as flaky artists often do, well. Let’s just say that when I offered to pinch hit once, I didn’t realize it might happen once a month .
The tips aren’t awful, and even though I’m asked to play Piano Man far too often, it’s really not that bad.
Usually.
Most of the time the guests who come in are pretty busy with what they’re doing. Usually they want to come in, eat some food, chat with their dinner companion, pay the check, and leave. That’s the ideal, anyway. But sometimes you find people, especially when you play well, who stop eating, who don’t bother chatting, and who just turn around in their seats and stare .
I swear, I can feel their eyes on me.
After spending a lifetime learning to make no impression on others, to attract no attention, it’s disconcerting. There’s a reason I wasn’t a performance major. There’s a reason I never considered trying to write and perform my own music. I have a terrible voice and shouldn’t sing in public, for one, but for another, it makes me feel absolutely ill to have people staring at me. Talking about me. Paying attention to me .
I can usually muddle my way through, as long as it’s sprung on me.
Instead of grumbling, or cursing Paul for flaking again, I just put my bag in my locker and head for the piano. At least at five in the afternoon, there’s hardly anyone here. None of the few patrons we do have seem to care that I’m playing. There’s an art to not playing so loudly that people can’t chat, but playing loudly enough that it creates ambiance.
That’s one thing I’m very good at gauging.
About three hours later, right as my arms are so exhausted from playing that I’m about to cry, Stacy shows up. They usually stack musicians on weekends. There’s only so many songs you can bang out before you need a break. I get paid almost the same thing for a three-hour shift as I make waiting tables for six, which is pretty nice.
Unfortunately, before I can leave, Iggy catches my eye and shakes his head. “Lincoln puked in the sink. You’re covering section 7.”
I don’t argue. I don’t complain. I just nod and close my locker without touching my bag. It takes me almost half an hour to get caught up on his tables, who cannot be told their waiter just puked his guts up. They were not super happy to have a twenty-minute interruption in their service, but I’ve nearly gotten them all happy when I catch a new table.
It’s only a two-top, but the client’s a VIP, apparently.
I used to think all VIPs would tip huge, but I was wrong. It’s honestly just as hit and miss with them as anyone else, but they’re much more likely to throw tantrums, so they almost always give them to their top servers, either me or Ollie.
When I reach the table, our host Frank is handing them menus. “Not that you’ll need this,” he says. “Not with Beatrice as your waitress.”
“What does that mean?” The woman’s lips are pumped so full of collagen that I’m shocked she can talk at all.
“She has a magical skill,” Frank says.
I wave him off. “Stop with that.”
“I mean it,” he says. “It’s uncanny. If you answer just three questions, she can order the perfect meal for you. Guaranteed.”
“You’re kidding,” the man says.
“Not at all,” Frank says. “You should let her work her magic. You won’t regret it.”
I was so distracted by the collagen-lipped, saline-chested woman that I hadn’t even glanced at her date. When I finally do, I realize to my horror that I know him.
It’s Easton Moorland.
His sister Elizabeth is married to my brother Emerson. We’ve met twice now—once at their friend’s video game launch, where my brother Jake half-knocked him over when they arm-wrestled. Jake doesn’t ever play fair, but it was pretty clear at Emerson’s wedding that Easton hadn’t let it go.
And now he’s my VIP.
His company was doing well for years, or so I hear, but it exploded not that long ago, and I’m kind of sick of hearing about it. If I’m lucky, he won’t even recognize me.
“Weren’t you just playing piano?” Easton asks.
I blink—how could he have seen that?
“The idiot hosts didn’t realize who he was.” The collagen-woman pouts. “They made us wait for a table.”
Easton, at least, has the decency to look embarrassed, but he doesn’t appear to know who I am. Thank heavens for small blessings. “I didn’t mind waiting—the music was incredible.”
“Incredible?” The woman arches one eyebrow. “If you like elevator music.”
“I do happen to like Chopin,” Easton says.
“I actually prefer Beving,” I say, “but they want straight classical here.”
“It was boring, so they should let you branch out,” she says. “Now, if you could play, like, the Piano Man , that would be something.”
“I’ll make note of it,” I say with a smile that I hope doesn’t look forced.
“How about it?” Easton asks. “Feel like working a little more magic tonight?”
“What?” Collagen asks.
“What questions do we have to answer to have you order for us?” He’s smiling, but not at his date.
At me.
“It’s probably easier if you just choose what you like from the menu,” I say.
“Oh, come on, Bea,” Easton says.
Apparently he knows exactly who I am, and that means he probably knew when I was playing, too. I hate when real life collides with work. I force another smile. “The first question is whether you have any allergies, Easton.”
“Wait, do you two know each other? Or, like, did they say your name earlier?” Collagen’s squinting as she stares at my very small chest. I’m assuming she’s looking for a nonexistent nametag.
“Bea’s brother Emerson married my sister,” Easton says. “Though until I saw her playing earlier, I had no idea she worked here. ”
“It’s not like people advertise when they have this kind of job,” Collagen says.
Easton frowns. “I’ve spent the last few years chained to my desk at the office, but had I known you worked here, I’d have been here sooner. I’ve heard their pork chop is to die for.”
I cluck. “I don’t think that’s the right choice for you,” I say. “Once you answer the questions, I’ll pick something better.”
And I really, really want to get this one right.