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This Year's Model
By Carol Alt HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2008 Carol Alt
All right reserved. ISBN: 9780061366246
Chapter One
Morristown, New Jersey Eight months earlier . . .
"Welcome to the Porter House, sir. I'm Melody Ann, and I'll be your server this evening." Lucky me: middle-aged guy, nicely dressed, dining alone—maybe he'll even order a bottle of wine, really run up the bill. I'm already calculating the tip.
"No . . . ," he says.
"No?" What does he mean? It's not like he gets to pick. If you're seated at table eight on a Wednesday evening, you get me.
"That apron, it's not some fetishistic trompe l'oeil diversion?" My table for one removes his sunglasses and looks at me so strangely, I suddenly feel self-conscious. It's almost as if he's . . . weighing me, wondering what I cost per pound. "Miu Miu isn't reinventing black-and-white polyester this season?"
I don't even understand what he's saying. Maybe I'm not so lucky—maybe I've got a crazy at table eight. Crazies aren't necessarily bad tippers, but they really make you earn it. "Excuse me?"
"Goddamn it, if I didn't know we were in some burb an hour outside of Manhattan, I would swear you were walking a Bryant Park runway right now. In fact, you're pretty graceful for a girl your height. Most models are gawky until they learn how to walk," he says. "So you really are a waitress?"
I smile, still trying to humor him. "Must have been all thoseballet lessons my mother took me to as a kid. I'll send on your compliments. In the meantime, yes, I really am a waitress, though actually we prefer the non-gender-specific 'server.' It's more professional, don't you think? May I bring you a beverage?"
"What I think is your smile is dazzling, simply dazzling. And, sure, I'll have a beer."
"On tap we have Amstel, Beck's—"
"Surprise me—I trust you. And listen, I'm not kidding, you really are a beauty."
"Thank you. I'll be right back with your beer."
I hustle to place his drink order. What do I know about beer? I've tasted it twice, and once was enough. Charlie, the bartender, is cool; he commiserates when I moan about table eight.
"He says I should surprise him."
Charlie laughs, pulls the tap. "Well, I could spit in it if you like. Bet that'd be a surprise."
After I decline Charlie's offer, I start back with the beer, hurrying past the party of five at table six. It's a family—must be a special occasion. Morristown isn't a fancy town; the Porter House is not the best restaurant we've got, but it's affordable for a family. Any cheaper is a drive-thru. Two of the kids are fighting over who has more French fries. As I go by, the dad asks me for steak sauce, and I tell him it's coming right up.
Back at table eight, Mr. Cuckoo says, "So . . . ah . . . Melanie, is it?"
"Actually, it's Melody, Melody Ann. Our specials this evening—"
"You're what's special."
He thinks he's so clever, so what's the word . . . suave. This is going to be a long night.
"I've been watching you, the way you move. Those ballet classes paid off. You've really got presence."
"Well . . . sir . . . I'm not on the menu. But we do have a wonderful New England clam chowder. I highly recommend it—it's yummy," I recite. "As an appetizer we have stuffed mushrooms, and the catch of the day is mahi-mahi, grilled with a citrus glaze."
"How could I not have the clam chowder with your endorsement?" He ogles me, slowly and serenely. " 'Yummy,' you said."
Uck, I think.
"And bring me the filet mignon, medium."
"Will do."
It's a madhouse in the kitchen, a madhouse in hell—flames leaping from the grill, sauces trying to escape sauté pans, cooks sniping at servers, the kitchen manager reading the sous-chef the riot act. I wish for the thousandth time that I'd tied my hair back before I got here but my ponytail thingie was so stretched out, the elastic was shot, and it broke. My hair is my best feature, I think, but it's hell to live with. The only reason I wear it long is so I don't have to do anything to it; girls with shorter hair are always pumping on product and endlessly blow-drying. All I commit to is conditioner. Shampoo is whatever I can find in the shower. Usually soap, as my brothers always use up the good stuff. My hair is so low-maintenance I can't even remember to buy ponytail thingies. Maybe they've got a regular rubber band in the office or at the cash register. . . .
I swing out with table seven's orders; they need extra sour cream, they need more bread, they need soda refills. Yes yes yes. Minimum wage at some store in the mall is looking so good to me right now. Better push that thought from my mind; at least as a server I earn tips, and where I'm going I'm going to need some real money. It's a miracle I got this job, with no experience. But if I didn't have a miracle, I had one thing better: a connection. The restaurant owner remembered when my firefighter dad rescued his family's puppy. There'd been a blaze at his home—luckily, there wasn't much damage, but when Dad found the little dog cowering under the sofa, he became an instant hero . . . and I found myself employed. I shouldn't complain about the work. It's only been two weeks; I'll get the hang of it. I swing back into the inferno to see if the order for table eight is up and it is.
Plate in hand, I make my way over to my least favorite table tonight. "Your steak, sir."
"Stop with the 'sir'—makes me feel old," table eight grumbles. "I'm Jonathan Novak. Ever hear of me?"
Continues...
Excerpted from This Year's Model by Carol Alt
Copyright © 2008 by Carol Alt. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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