Chapter 4 Playlist Kat and Amelia’s Shitlist
We’ve avoided talking about how her not being able to drive on the highway might affect our plans for her to return for Summerfest in August. I refuse to entertain the thought that she won’t be here for it.
We video chat to decide where she should hang her Coco Gauff poster and mount the shelves where she displays her trophies and medals. When I have to go to the bathroom, she asks me to leave my phone next to my open window so she can hear the ocean while I’m gone.
We chat constantly the next day too.
I wonder if she’s lonely and regretting leaving early instead of waiting until the end of summer, especially because her dad’s never been a big talker.
I don’t ask, though, because I don’t want to jinx it.
I’m just happy it feels normal and like maybe my fear that she’d move away and completely forget about me won’t come true.
She sends a message on Monday morning that makes me laugh out loud. I’m about to head to Pearl’s to work my first shift and am putting the finishing touches on my mascara—basically the only makeup I wear every day—when my screen lights up.
Kat: I will send you ten million dollars if you mail me some of your mom’s stuffed clams
I quickly switch over to the thread with my mom and ask her to make stuffed clams for dinner tonight, because that sounds top-notch delicious, and then go back to Kat.
Me: Something tells me Post Office Dan wouldn’t go for that
Me: What happened now?
Kat’s welcome packet included some sort of health and nutrition brochure from the tennis program, and her dad, the only person who takes Kat’s tennis more seriously than Kat, has been trying to cook ever since they arrived.
It hasn’t even been three full days, and so far he’s overcooked the chicken, undercooked the rice, required stitches from what the nurse dubbed “avocado hand,” and started one fire.
I’ve received photo evidence for everything except the stitches because Kat knows that anything even blood-adjacent makes me queasy.
The one thing he’s mastered is scrambled eggs, and yesterday Kat requested breakfast for dinner. I’ll take my wins where I can get them, she texted after sending me a photo labeled EGGS FOR DAYS, followed by, Tell me truthfully, is this too much cholesterol?
Kat: i’m too hungry to even talk about it
Kat: i’m on pinterest right now creating my first recipe board. i can’t take this anymore
Me: I’d send you instructions for my famous grilled cheese if you weren’t a total freak who DOESN’T LIKE CHEESE
Kat: tbh at this point i’m so desperate i’d risk the farts
Me: Really? In that case, email incoming. You’ll have to wait a couple of days, but I’ll even ship you some of Mrs. Reacher’s fig jam.
Me: Also, I’m kind of glad you’ll be four hours away when you eat one.
Kat: this is no laughing matter. i’m starving but my dad says we can’t go to the store until after tennis practice today. it’s not for another two hours!
Me: Why don’t you have something delivered?
Kat: oh my god why didn’t i think of that
Kat: i’ve never loved you more
I send her a GIF of Captain America saluting, then tell her I’m heading out for my first Pearl’s shift.
Kat: your first shift, my first practice
Kat: let’s nail this
I heart the final message and slide my phone into the back pocket of my jeans.
Trish, the manager at Pearl’s, is easing me in with a couple of weekday lunch shifts, which aren’t as busy as evenings or weekends.
I only wrote down my days when I checked the schedule after my final training last week, and didn’t pay attention to who else will be there too.
Which means I don’t know if Myles will be there.
I’m nervous for my first shift to begin with, and this is serious additional oversight that I vow won’t happen again.
I spend extra time on my hair and walk through a mist of my favorite vanilla perfume just in case. Just because I can’t date him doesn’t mean I don’t want to impress him, okay?
Our house is a twenty-minute walk from Pearl’s, and I decide to head out on foot today.
I walk or ride my bike a lot, which is easy in this town.
It’s so low-key, the speed limit doesn’t go above thirty anywhere, so it feels pretty safe to move around on foot.
I pass the elementary school on the way, and I smile at two kids playing on the swings.
It’s the exact spot where Kat and I met a lifetime ago.
Most friends as close as Kat and I probably have some cool origin story—like, one person rescues the other from a bully or shares their lunch on the first day of school.
Kat and I don’t have one of those. It was maybe the second week of kindergarten, and I was on the swings because it was my favorite playground activity (still is). A small blond girl walked up and sat on the empty swing beside me.
“I’m Kat,” she said. “Want to be my friend?”
“Sure,” I replied.
That was that, literally. She’s been my person ever since, and we’ve replayed a similar conversation more times than I can count.
“Wanna race to the water?”
“Sure.”
“Wanna sneak into that new horror movie?”
“Sure.”
“Wanna get a job at Pearl’s next summer?”
“Sure.”
Kat’s always been the instigator, and I’ve always been along for the ride.
I pause and snap a picture of two empty swings next to the kids playing and send it to Kat. I expect a quick reply, or even a reaction to the photo, but by the time I arrive at Pearl’s, nothing has come through.
Maybe she already left for practice.
I’m a little early but wanted to give myself plenty of time to help set tables and taste the special before customers start arriving at eleven. I run through the mental list I made during training:
Wear comfortable shoes
Smile!
Greet a new table within ninety seconds
If someone orders a lobster roll with butter, just let it go
If you get a pissy table, stay calm but get them out as soon as possible
Guard your pens with your life
Pearl’s is casual, but it serves such good seafood that it’s where all the locals go, even in the offseason.
It’s the kind of place that’s all T-shirts and cutoff shorts and old fisherman’s nets hanging in the dining room.
Pearl’s doesn’t give a damn about white tablecloths or which fork you should use, but Chef Ray’s fried calamari and seared tuna are so amazing, you just might shed a tear when you take that first bite.
It’s where we go for my birthday dinner every year. And my dad’s. My mom’s, too.
If we’re being completely honest, when Kat first suggested we work here, the prospect of free food might have tempted me more than the tips.
My first stop is the small office where Trish said we could store our stuff. I tuck my purse into a cubby and send Kat one last text saying here I go! before sliding my phone in there too. I turn to walk out and almost collide with someone. Someone tall and muscle-y.
It’s Myles Ford.
“Oh, s-sorry,” I stammer, my cheeks heating as I look up at his face.
I send up a futile prayer that he won’t notice my blush as butterflies fill my belly.
We’re sporting the same Pearl’s T-shirt, the red one with a cartoon clam from two summers ago.
Wearing one of their themed shirts is the only uniform requirement, which made it easy for me because I already had four in my closet.
Red’s a good color on him—not like there’s one that wouldn’t be.
I’m glad he’s here, but I’m kind of not. It’s equal parts thrilling and terrifying that we might hang out a little bit as coworkers. I’m absolutely that person who could spill a glass of water or bowl of clam chowder all over some VIP customer and make a fool of myself in front of him.
I am glad I spritzed on that perfume, though.
“No worries.” He dazzles me with a smile and reaches past me—oh my God, hello, delicious spicy-guy smell—to set his phone and keys in a cubby beside mine. “First shift?”
Wow, his eyes are so blue. Breathe. “Yeah, yours too?”
“Second.” He turns toward the doorway and gestures for me to go first as we head to the kitchen. “I did lunch yesterday, too. With Anders.”
“How was it?”
“Not bad, actually. I had to ask Trish a lot of questions, but it wasn’t that busy, so I think it was okay.” He kind of slows and rubs his chin like he’s thinking. “No one yelled at me or ran out on their tab, so I’m calling it a win.”
I nod in agreement, even though the idea of Myles having to ask questions is a foreign concept.
He seems so capable and confident. “I like that plan—set a low bar for the first day.” I’ve envisioned making such a good impression on a customer, like an adorable family on vacation, that they return the next day and ask for me by name.
I push that to my week-three goal and lower my sights for today. Victory for today will be no tears.
We stop at the kitchen like we did every training shift, and I congratulate myself for another successful mini conversation with Myles.
Chef Ray has prepared his special for the day, and he gives us the blurb we’ll use for our tables.
We have the option of tasting it for ourselves (if I ever decline, someone please take me to the hospital because something is seriously wrong with me), and today’s crispy fish taco with slaw, salsa, and a chipotle tartar sauce is culinary perfection.
Pearl’s is a fairly small place, so there’s only one other server with Myles and me today—a college girl named Shelby that I met at a training shift.
Ned, the busboy, is a fellow Kingfisher High senior like Myles.
He works here year-round and is already in the dining room when we walk in.
He gives us all a nod from a table where he’s set himself up a little assembly line of napkins and utensils and bundles them up into neat rolls.
I grab an armful of the finished product and make my way around, depositing one at each chair.
Myles trails after me with drinking glasses, and it doesn’t take long before everything’s ready to go.
Lunch is casual, with a large Please Seat Yourself sign. We—the servers—hover around the host stand and take turns claiming tables. Shelby calls dibs on the couple that walks in two minutes after the doors open, leaving me alone with Myles.
A few long beats of silence pass, and awkwardness creeps in. What am I supposed to talk to Myles Ford about?
He’s the popular guy—Most Likely to Be President, for goodness’ sake. Shouldn’t he be the outgoing one? A smooth talker?
I shift on my feet and pull a lock of hair over my shoulder, then finally ask, “So you worked with Anders, huh?”
Anders is the oldest guy on staff and has worked at Pearl’s forever.
Rumor has it he was born in the corner booth and never left.
He’s probably only in his fifties, but with his deeply tanned, leathery skin and smoker’s voice he gives off eighty-year-old-uncle-who-will-never-die vibes.
I did one of my training shifts with him, and honestly, the only thing I learned was to stay the heck out of his way.
Even if he’s antisocial with the rest of the staff, the customers adore him.
He knows the menu like the back of his hand and could sell a twelve-ounce rib eye to a vegan. “What’s he like?”
Myles leans back and rests his elbows on the wooden podium behind him. He has a scar on his chin I’ve never noticed before. I wonder how he got it. I quickly look to the floor before he notices me staring.
“I tried to make small talk.” He pauses to push his lips up against his nose. “It was a mistake.”
“Oh no,” I say with a wince. “What happened?”
“It went like this. I start with ‘Hey, man, how’s it going?’ ” Myles pauses, then turns as if he’s talking to where he just stood.
He adopts a flat, very Anders-like expression and grunts, and I laugh.
He spins back around to his original spot.
“Then I’m all ‘Cool, cool, me too, me too. How long have you worked here?’ ” He’s back to fake Anders and drawls, “Longer than you’ve been alive.
” He drops the frown—back to Myles. “Then I asked what his favorite thing on the menu is.” His sudden glare is so good, for a second I think he’s actually pissed at me, but then he says in his Anders voice, “Lemon wedge.”
I clap my hand over my mouth to cover my laugh.
“My last attempt was to ask about that Tweety Bird tattoo he’s got on his forearm.” His eyes go wide and he leans down. I inhale his scent again—is it his deodorant? Cologne?—and try to focus. “Take it from me, do not ask about the tattoo.”
“But.” I blink, taking a surreptitious step back because I’m feeling a little flustered at his proximity but don’t want it to show. “Now that’s all I want to do.”
“Not worth it. Trust me.”
“Now I’m kind of scared to work with him,” I say, chewing my lip.
“Nah, he was fine. Actually saved my ass when I almost delivered food to the wrong table. I got the feeling he was sort of watching out for me but didn’t want me to know. He’s just not chatty.”
I nod, relieved. “Okay, I can work with that.”
The front door opens, and a couple with two small kids walks in. Myles gives them a friendly smile, flashing perfect white teeth. I send his parents a telepathic message that those braces he wore all through eighth grade were a good investment.
“Welcome to Pearl’s,” he says to the newcomers, all smooth and charming. His dimple pops. “Feel free to sit wherever you want.”
The kids take off in search of the perfect table, and I glance up at Myles with envy. “How are you so good at this?”
He grins. “I’m channeling my inner Anders. Cool, confident, as steady as a rock.”
I sigh. “I wish it was that easy.”
“Well, the only other option is to just jump in and do it.” He tips his head toward the dining room. “That table’s yours if you want it. Ready?”
I take a deep breath and attempt to manhandle my nerves into submission. “As I’ll ever be.”