CHAPTER 2: Then

                                    

                                          
The summer before my senior year of high school, I decided to work at a local hotel restaurant. I had imagined myself undertaking a glamorous job, cooking savory courses and decadent desserts and maybe even serving them to the celebrities that often stayed there.
                          
I had only worked there for a week before I realized how wrong I was. The well-dressed, sophisticated waiters that the guests saw were quite different from the people who worked behind the scenes. The kitchen was a noisy array of chefs and other workers, crowded in one hot stuffy room, rushing from one side of the room to the other to check that their roast hadn’t burned or their soup hadn’t boiled over.
                          
I was the lowliest of the workers, the bottom of the food chain, one could even say. My job was to clean the mess made by the chefs and, most often, to wash the dishes.
                          
 I thought working at the hotel that particular Saturday night would be the usual, but as soon as I opened the backdoor to the kitchen, I knew something was up. My boss charged toward me, waving an egg beater in the air, her black hair a mess and her face tomato-red.
                          
“Jenny!” Stacy exclaimed. “Finally you’re here!” I looked at my cell phone which confirmed that I was actually ten minutes early to my shift. Stacy, however, was oblivious. “Half of the waitresses came down with some sort of food poisoning and are out sick. I need you to cover the shift.”
                          
It took me a moment to process this before responding. “Food poisoning?” I repeated, looking at her with raised eyebrows.
                          
Stacy rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Not my food, obviously. We’re a five-star service. But not for long if you don’t get out there,” Stacy said, nodding emphatically at the door.
                          
“Stacy, I don’t think this is such a good idea,” I said, suddenly apprehensive. I was pretty sure she had mentioned yesterday that tonight’s guests were extremely important, and, judging by my clumsiness, I was the last person she wanted to serve them. I had realized by now that I was not cut out to be one of those elegant waitresses; I’d much rather stay in the kitchen than embarrass myself out there. “I’ve only been working here for a month, and only in the kitchen,” I added, hoping that would change Stacy’s mind. It didn’t.
                          
“Well, there’s a first for everything,” Stacy said, ignoring my anxiety. She went back to her bowl of eggs and continued mixing them vigorously as she filled me in on the details. “The party’s being held in the ballroom just around the corner on your right. I’ll be preparing the food here in the kitchen. Go and serve the food, then stay awhile to make sure everyone’s happy. I’ll go check up on you later.”
                          
Stacy stopped mixing and looked me in the eye, making sure I was aware of her next point. “Make yourself inconspicuous. Whatever you do, do not cause a scene. Waitresses are there to serve. You are not a guest,” Stacy said firmly, wagging a floury finger at me. I nodded, wondering why she was so adamant about this.
                          
“Relax,” Stacy said, forcing a smile. She patted me on the back, her flour-caked hands sending puffs of white clouds into the air. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.” Well, it hadn’t sounded too bad to me until she said that.
                          
I smoothed down my blouse and tied up my hair, trying to make myself look as presentable as possible. I carefully loaded a plate with glasses of champagne, carrying it with both hands. As soon as I pushed open the kitchen doors with my hip, I could hear the happy chattering coming from the party next door.
                          
Okay, you got this, I said to myself. I stepped out into the hall, noticing the clean, cream-colored carpet, and immediately regretted imagining the scenario of spilling the drinks on it.
                          
Slowly, I made my way down the corridor. My eyes were focused on the drinks, making sure none of the liquid spilled out. I felt like I was walking at the pace of a snail, but there was no way I was going to allow myself to mess this up. Just as I turned the corner, I sensed movement in my peripheral vision, but a second too late.