“November.” I roll the can of soda between my palms. “I was wondering … do you know where the house Gran grew up in is? I’d like to see where she lived.”
Celia reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I think I have the address somewhere.”
I know that visiting all of the places Gran’s told me about won’t make a difference. It won’t miraculously help her remember me. But I’m hoping that, if I’m really lucky, maybe it just might help me remember her.
five.
I slip behind the front desk, nudging Rachel aside so I can check out my assigned section. Rachel’s on the phone, taking a reservation. Her hair is gathered in a fake braided brown bun. Her actual hair is short but since girls in medieval times did not do short hair, management insists she wear this heinous clip-on.
“For tonight?” Rachel chews her bottom lip. “Okay, yes. We can fit you in. No problem.” She scribbles “party of sixteen” on the glass map of the restaurant, over the icon of the long oak table we use for large parties.
My heart begins to pound. The only parties we get at Tudor Tymes are kids’ birthday parties. And kids’ birthday parties are the worst. THE WORST. Food always ends up everywhere. The last time I worked one, it took me forty-five minutes to grout out all the mashed food embedded in the cracks in the stone floor.
Rachel must sense my panic because she points the tip of her pen at my name, scrawled over tables ten through seventeen. My section.
I sag with relief. It doesn’t mean I’m totally off the hook. I still have to sing. Yes, we are one of those annoying restaurants that sing to you on your birthday. And force you to wear a huge purple-and-yellow jester’s hat.
Rachel writes Wesley’s name above the birthday party—ha!—then adds Amy as well. Wesley hasn’t been here long enough to work a party on his own, so she’s stuck helping him. Poor Amy. She hates working birthday parties more than I do.
I squeeze past Rachel and head down the hall, past the gift shop, through the kitchen, and into the staff room.
Wesley’s on the couch. He’s wearing his ridiculous pirate costume, his black-booted feet propped up on the coffee table, spinning a magic wand in his fingers.
“Hey,” he says, dropping his feet to the floor. His heavy boots clunk against the linoleum.
Ignoring him, I yank open one of the small lockers lining the wall and stuff my messenger bag inside. Slamming the metal door shut, I pull the tiny key from the lock. I keep my back to him as I fasten the safety pin dangling off the key to the inside of my corset. Don’t want to accidentally treat him to a peep show.
The gong rings, signaling that the drawbridge is about to be lowered. All staff—with the exception of their Royal Highnesses, King Henry and Queen Catherine—are supposed to be up front to welcome guests when the doors open. Restaurant policy.
I hurry down the hall, tying my apron on behind my back, and arrive at the doors as the last gong sounds. As Joe unbolts the huge, curved wooden door, Wesley steps in line. I peer around him at Bruce and Rachel, standing at attention.
There’s no sign of Amy.
Wait. Where is Amy?
The door starts to creak open, spilling sunlight onto the floor. I try to catch Rachel’s eye, but she’s avoiding looking at me. Which can only mean …
“Sorry, Quinn.” She hands me a thick stack of paper crowns. “Amy called in sick.”
This is not good. I can’t be stuck working with Wesley tonight. Or any night.
I shoot a pleading glance at Bruce.
“No way,” he says. “I’m still recovering from yesterday. Twenty-three six-year-olds.” He shudders.
“Okay, well. Wesley, I’m sure you can handle it.” I shove the paper crowns at him.
“Quinn, he’s never worked a party before,” Rachel says. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“I really don’t.” Wesley smiles.
This sucks. And there is no way to make it un-suck, either, unless Amy shows up. The chance of that being zero. There’s no longer any time to worry about it, though, because customers have started to trickle in.
“Good eventide, my lord, my lady.” I curtsey to an older couple hustling in two small girls dressed as princesses. “Thou art very pretty.” The girls stare at me, eyes wide.
As they pass by Wesley, he waves a foam sword at them. “Arrrrrgh,” he says in pirate-brogue. The little girls screech and hide behind their mother’s pencil skirt.
“Nice work,” I say.
“Yeah, that kind of played out differently in my mind,” he says as their mother ushers them away.
Once the first wave of customers has entered, Wesley and I head to our table to get ready for the party. I point to the paper crowns he’s almost crumpling in his hand. “Put one at each place setting.”
“I don’t remember you being so bossy,” he mumbles. He starts to place them around the table haphazardly. When I follow behind, straightening them, Wesley stops and glares at me. “Okay that? Is very annoying.”
“Actually, what’s annoying is having to fix them,” I say. “If you put them down right in the first place—”
He shakes his head. “Q, you seriously need to relax.”
You know what doesn’t relax me? Being told to relax.
“I can’t do this,” I say. “You’re on your own. I’m going to talk to Joe.”
I’ll beg him to make Bruce work the party with Wesley. Sure, Bruce will probably hate my guts, but it’s totally worth it if it means I’m not stuck with Wesley all night.
“And say what? That you don’t want to play with me?” He smirks. “You’ll have to tell him why. And what are you going to say?” In a high falsetto voice that doesn’t sound anything like mine, he says, “Well, Joe, it’s all because back in sixth grade Wesley told—”
“Okay,” I cut him off. “Fine.” I straighten the last paper crown. “Why do you want to work with me anyway?”
Wesley sighs. “Because, Q, believe it or not, I want to be friends.”
Friends. That is never going to happen.
“And I can see I have my work cut out for me,” he says. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re really stubborn?”
Yes. But whatever.
We finish the table and the kids arrive. Once they are settled into their seats, I fill their water goblets and take their orders, while Wesley jacks around, entertaining everyone with card tricks. It’s beyond annoying. And it’s definitely not the path to earning my friendship. By the time the mom signals that they’re ready for cake, I’ve done most of the work and I’m officially pissed off.
I drag Wesley away from the applause and into the kitchen. The birthday boy’s parents brought a huge sheet cake topped with a plastic pirate ship. The cake weighs about seven hundred pounds, so I order Wesley to grab it from the cooler. He rolls his eyes, but I guess he can tell from the look on my face that he shouldn’t mess with me, because he does it. When he comes back out of the cooler, I notice his finger is digging into the side of the cake.
“Seriously?”
He sets the cake on the counter, checks out the hole. “It’s not that bad. I bet no one will even notice.”