14. Here Goes Nothing
Chapter 14
Here Goes Nothing
T he Monday morning after Move-in Day, I wake up too late. My body doesn’t care about the extra mileage during my new commute and is still in sleep mode when my alarms blare before the sun declares a new day. Stumbling around, eyes still closed and hair sticking up in all directions, I dress halfway, planning to finish on my walk to Sam’s car. Running a brush through my hair, I bump into door frames and wall corners on my way to the kitchen. While I wait for the coffee to brew, I lean over the counter and rest my head on my crossed arms.
“You know, if you went to bed earlier, you might not be such a disaster in the mornings,” drawls a deep, amused voice.
My head jerks up at the sound to find Nick leaning against the counter, one hand resting in his pocket, the other holding the handle of a coffee mug. He brings the rim to the smirk on his lips and drinks.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask.
“Long enough to see that you’re a disaster in the mornings.”
I stand up straight and rub my eyes. “I am not.”
He looks at my bra bulging underneath my shirt, then at my pink underwear peeking out from the opening of my pants, before raising his eyebrows at me. Holding his stare, I quickly reach up my shirt to clasp my bra at my back, then button and zip my jeans before crossing my arms.
“Are you running late?”
“Technically, no. But I like to arrive fifteen minutes early, just in case.”
He takes one last gulp from his mug before placing it in the sink. Passing by me on his way out, he pulls a chunk of my hair from where it sticks to my cheek, a smug grin slowly spreading over his face.
Once he’s out the door, I groan, humiliation cramping my stomach, before running to the bathroom to scrub my face clean of dried drool. I promise myself I’ll rise with my first alarms from now on, instead of pressing the snooze button repeatedly until I don’t have a second to spare.
But by the time Friday arrives, that has yet to happen. As if to rub it in my face that I have no willpower, Nick has had my coffee already made and waiting on the counter in a travel mug for me every day this week. Along with the same smug grin on his face.
This morning is no exception.
“Thank you. Once again,” I say after I’ve grabbed the cup from the counter.
Already dressed in the gray, grease-stained coveralls he wears to work, he leans against the counter, his preferred spot for drinking his coffee. “No problem. Once again.”
“I won’t need coffee tomorrow, though.”
“Oh, you finally going to wake up on time?”
“No,” I say defensively, then blow out a breath of frustration. “I mean, yes , but I don’t have to be awake as early. I have tomorrow off.”
“Two Saturdays off in a row? Lucky you.”
“After today, I’ll have already reached forty hours for the week.” Plus, Saturdays tend to be busier and Mike likes to save those shifts for his favorites.
His forehead creases as he washes out his mug. “I don’t understand their scheduling. They schedule you for doubles all week, then take your weekend shifts away because they don’t want to pay you overtime?”
“Yeah, well. As my dad says, ‘ If you don’t like it, find a real job.’ ” I hold up the coffee in thanks and say goodbye before heading out the door, but he follows me.
“But it is a real job,” he counters as we walk quietly down the tiled hallway.
“ I know that, but he doesn’t think so.”
“Is your dad the one that does the scheduling?”
“No, it’s the manager, Mike. But he doesn’t spend much time on it. He just writes some random names down and adjusts it as needed throughout the week.” Dad doesn’t do anything with the diner, except complain about what a burden it is.
“It sounds like there’s a lot of room for improvement there. Hint hint.”
I think back to the conversation we had in his truck when we moved my things, about his encouragement to make my job less miserable of a place to be. But Dad’s already shut down my ideas several times; if I present them again, the only thing I’ll accomplish is pissing him off.
I tell Nick this as we descend the steps and walk toward his and Sam’s vehicles; mine is still in the shop.
“Guess you’ll just have to piss him off.” I stop but he continues to his truck and waves over his shoulder.
Just what the hell am I supposed to do with that advice?
* * *
A s I clocked into work, I naively assumed my shift would go as any other: I’d take orders, deliver food, wipe tables, cry in the bathroom a few times, scream in the walk-in at least once. I’d do the best an awkward, socially anxious introvert could do to serve customers without having a mental breakdown from all the human interaction.
In my years as a server, I’ve developed a talent for disassociation that helps tremendously, but there are still moments of pressure that I have yet to conquer. I have no issue serving larger tables, or having all of my tables occupied at once, but I do have issues with sales competitions. And Mike announced one starting today among the servers to improve sales and show Dad that the diner is worth keeping.
Inside the normal menu, there’s an insert advertising limited time, special items, such as strawberry lemonade, mozzarella sticks, and a burger with some secret sauce. That pressure sets in when Mike stands over your shoulder at each table to ensure that you’re convincing the guests to order these items and not taking no for an answer. The pressure is made worse when you’re lectured in between tables because you’re falling behind in the competition and told you just need to try harder. The pressure becomes unbearable when Mike asks if you should be demoted to washing dishes because “ you suck at sales.”
“You know what, Mike?” I throw down the rag I was using to wipe down a table, sick and tired of hearing his nagging for the past six hours. The cleaning wasn’t doing any good anyway, the stains from the past fifty years still coat the laminate top. “I know I suck at sales. Wanna know why? Because the food sucks. No one wants gray mozzarella sticks or questionable fajitas from a diner .”
He raises his eyebrows at me and I start to panic. That’s your boss you’re yelling at .
I lower my voice and soften my tone, “My sales numbers on these special items may not be where you want them, but why don’t you ask the regulars how I am as a server? Why don’t you look at my overall performance, how I’m always running other servers’ food for them, how I pick up extra shifts, how I keep my section clean and don’t spend all my time talking and flirting with the cooks?” I fight the urge to say, ‘Like Sage.’
As a shy person, I try to talk to my customers as little as possible. I ask what they want, I get it for them, and I leave them alone to eat. I’m here to serve, not to make friends. If the customers ask for recommendations from our menu, I have no problem giving them. But if they don’t, they most likely already know what they want, and no amount of begging will convince them to order something extra. It’s just a better experience all around if I leave them in peace.
Mike stares at me, a silent question on his face of whether I’m done with my outburst.
But I’m not.
This is my chance. My chance to get my ideas heard. If Dad won’t listen, maybe Mike will. Dad always tells me I don’t have ambition, but I do. I have loads of ambition and amazing ideas and they all fester inside with no relief because I lack confidence to put them out into the world. Or, when I muster up the courage to do so, they’re shot down before they’re fully spoken.
I take a deep breath and ignore the impending heart attack and the fire about to burst from my cheeks.
Here goes nothing.
“What is our biggest seller?” I ask.
“The pancake breakfast,” he answers slowly.
“And what goes great with breakfast?”
He shrugs and says with attitude, “I don’t know, what?”
“Coffee. Which is what I’m good at upselling.” When a customer asks for coffee, I follow the request with clarifications. “Coffee? I can definitely get that for you. Would you like hot or iced? Maybe some caramel and milk?” And if they don’t order coffee, but they order pie or breakfast, I ask if they’d like coffee to go with it. It’s much smoother than, “Would you like an appetizer? Maybe some cheese fries that look nothing like the picture on the menu and will leave you with the shits for days because it’s barely edible?”
Suspicion creeps over his features, so I continue. “If we stopped trying to add random items to the menu and simply expanded on the items that already sell well, we’ll do a lot better. Offer flavored coffee instead of just plain black. Offer fresh ingredients on the items we already make and improve their taste. And put me behind the counter to make the coffee drinks and serve the customers there—it’ll save time for the other servers and we could even work on doing more to-go business. We could offer ready-to-grab sandwiches and fruit cups and have seasonal flavors and-”
His hands come up to cut me off as he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Slow down, you’re all over the place. What are you talking about?”
“These are my ideas on how to make this place great again. I have tons more, plenty of ideas to improve sales and bring back the happy, friendly atmosphere that existed when Grandma ran this place.” I leave out who’s to blame for why the diner’s in the state it’s in, partly because I don’t want Mike to hate me and shut down my ideas, and partly because it’s as much Dad’s fault as it is Mike’s. Maybe more so.
Staring off at nothing, he taps his fingers against his chin in thought. And since I’ve already gone over Dad’s head, I keep going. “You know, while we’re trading ideas back and forth, you seem stressed. You work here six days a week and never take a vacation.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“You need an assistant manager.”
His eyebrows jump. “And you think you should get that position.”
“Why not? I’m the owner's daughter. And I just told you a bunch of great ideas. I can work behind the counter for the first half of the day, then do some assistant-type duties for the second part of the day. I can work in your place on your days off and help you out with whatever you need.”
Mike strokes his chin while he studies the counter in thought.
“I should run it by your dad, first.”
Shit. “Better to have all the information first, you know? The sales numbers from coffee and such before telling him? Otherwise, he’ll just reject the idea. Besides, you’re the big boss man here, he trusts you to make the decisions, right?” I’m not great at ego-stroking, but that should work.
He nods, pointing his finger. “Alright. Get me a sample menu and I’ll think about it.” He walks back into his office, leaving me gawking at his back.
Did that really just happen?
Oh my God, it did.
I look around, but no one stands close enough that could have overheard my almost success. Or anyone to confirm that I did in fact wake up this morning and I’m not still lying in bed, blissfully dreaming. Except, I can’t be dreaming because my dreams are almost always nightmares, and I resist the urge to fist pump the air while I stand alone and smile at nothing.
Okay , a sample menu. I’ll make one that we can start with using ingredients we already have, and another with drinks we need syrup and sauce for. I’ll also make a spreadsheet with the cost of supplies and possible prices. My mind starts writing to-do lists and planning out my day off that I will be spending working after all.
It’s small things like this that are so much harder for me—voicing ideas out loud to people of authority. Staying silent is the safer option because the threat of rejection is too scary to consider, like all the times Dad has interrupted me and brushed me off without letting me finish speaking. And that makes the simple act of speaking up that much more triumphant.
I immediately pull my phone out to text Sam and Hailey the good news, but I change my mind and put the phone away. I don’t want to celebrate too early, because what if I jinx it? What if Mike ends up saying no? What if Dad shuts it down again before we can prove to him that it’ll succeed? Or, what if it doesn’t end up succeeding after all?
What if Dad is right and I have no idea what I’m talking about?