I was re-reading Twilight the other day when I came across the infamous Chapter 8. A character caught my eye—she had a minor role, but it was influential to Edward and Bella's relationship. As I read, I couldn't help but feel sorry for her, and that Bella's POV hadn't done her deserved justice. And that's how the idea of this story was born. I hope you enjoy, because I had a lot of fun writing it—it was easy to relate to the main character, because she's a lot like me. Thanks for reading!
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, though I hope I was able to put a personal touch on one of the less-noticed ones. All credit for the characters and some of the lines goes to Stephenie Meyer.
The clattering and clanging of the five o' clock shift met me with an unwelcome din as I walked through the back door of the restaurant, ready but unwilling to work. A lukewarm breeze of ventilated air blew my cropped hair into my face, and I tucked it back behind my ears, dreadfully regretting last week's trip to the barber's. My jet-black mane had been trimmed several inches, now barely touching the bottom of my cheekbones, rendering all hair scrunches useless. The hairdresser was new, right out of college and with only a simple degree. She had assured me, however, that she was completely dependable, and that I had absolutely nothing to worry about.
I should have known better.
A single wrong snip of the scissors had doomed my hair to a striking seven-inch loss, the only way in solving the dilemma being to do the same with the rest of my locks. The girl had oh my-ed and so sorry-ied a million times, but it hadn't changed the one fact: my precious hair was gone. Not forever, thank goodness, but that was certainly how it felt. Thankfully the girl had offered one redeeming tip; sideswipe bangs gave the illusion of longevity and a stylish flare. I was amazed at how such miniscule a change had increased my confidence—not much, of course, but it was a noticeable difference.
Even so, my shy nature was still firmly intact; heavy bolts, thick cement, and countless uses of a staple gun created a wall between me and any other innocent stranger. 'Just a stage' my mother had called it when Mrs. Barnes, fourth grade teacher, noted my reluctance to communicate with the other students. But my inability to interact with anyone had stuck like the plague, following me all through high school and into college. So far, my sophomore year had seen no change. It seemed I was cursed for life. The only people who got close were those that actually bothered to try, and it still took them a while at that. I could count those people on one hand.
My best friend Stephenie was the highest on that list. Loud, bubbly, obnoxious…never had the phrase 'opposites attract' been proven so fully. She had refused to give up, poking and prodding me day after day with endless questions until I finally had the nerve to answer. Fate took care of itself from that day on.
A few others were simply students from various classes who were quiet like me and easy to relate to. Just acquaintances, really, some people to partner with for group projects.
The last was waiting for me in the kitchen, hands on her hips most likely, staring anxiously at her waterproof watch while counting the second hand ticks until my arrival. I was her only company in the tiny kitchen, and the early hours of her shift were, as she put it, "complete and total agony" until I walked through the door. Becca was never one for evasions, and had declared us partners my first day on the job. I was confused; wasn't only one waitress needed per table? But she had explained to me that there was plenty of time to waste behind service doors; after all, a tiny Italian pizzeria on the boardwalk wasn't exactly the most popular place in Port Angeles.
Sure enough, she was leaned against the stove, pounding her watch on the side, apparently trying to somehow make it work faster. As if time was something you could speed up. If that was possible, the first thing I'd do was fast-forward myself right out of college. This was only one of many shifts essential in dissipating the heavy cloud of tuition looming over my head. Scholarships didn't help much these days, especially when you were at one of the most prestigious schools in Washington.
Becca seemed to notice me then, and stalked over, fitting her hands on her hips and mouth in a pout. "What took you so long?"
I looked at my own watch, a simple silver model from two Christmases past. "Actually, I'm three minutes early."
"Right," she was miffed.
I grinned and hung up my purse and keys, then grabbed an apron from its peg and tied it tightly around my slim waist. I slipped a notepad and pen into the front pocket and headed towards the swinging doors into the main dining room. Table 3, the memo stuck to the stainless steel door announced, party of two. A stack of menus lay on a side table; I grabbed two and glided out of the doors, imagining that the serenity and quiet of my dorm room waited on the other side.
Of course, the mismatched furniture and heavily decorated walls of Bella Italia were there instead, taunting me with their loud and boisterous accents. Cheesy Italian opera lofted down from loudspeakers and glasses and silverware clinked with muted conversation. Two rooms were distinguished for eating, with red upholstered booths and multi-material chairs tying in to the tomato-colored theme. Refurbished chandeliers lit the main room, sconces the next, all trying their best to add an elegant aurora to the second-class scenery.
Pushing aside various scattered chairs, I waded through the maze of tables to number three. A mother and her toddler waited expectantly as I approached. The woman was petite and blonde, definitely the soccer mom type. The little boy was sweet-looking, brown hair combed over into a neat style, but tousled. His dimples grinned up at me as I put on an overly-cheery smile and bubbly voice.
"Welcome to Bella Italia," my words were a flourish, "My name is Amber, and I'll be your server tonight. What can I get you to drink?"
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Five tables and two hours later, I was close to my breaking point – those flashing red emergency exits were becoming more tempting by the minute. Little Timmy had been anything but sweet. It seemed he was destined for Broadway; his seat became the Kodak Theater stage when his 'Little Maters' meal was served, and he performed a moving rendition of 'On Top of Spaghetti' while teetering on top of his spindly chair. When I politely asked him to quiet down, he changed career paths, instantly transforming into an astronaut about to head into Space. A white china plate became a NASA base and rockets in the shape of forks and knives were conveniently launched in the direction of my head.
The next table hadn't been much better. One lesson they never teach you in Calculus III: Two grandmas, minus a well-equipped hearing aid, equals twenty minutes of frazzled nerves and one worked-up waitress. Old age had really worn down on ol' granny, and neither of her ears seemed to be wired correctly, or wired at all for that matter. It had taken a full ten minutes to take her drink order, the same for main course. A normal tone hadn't done; she squawked "Eh, what was that?" every time I asked which beverage she would prefer. Finally, I became so frustrated that it didn't matter how many stares I got.
"I said, What. Would. You. Like. To. DRINK?"
Thankfully, the restaurant had been fairly empty, and only a few curious glances came my way.
"Oh, why didn't you say that in the first place, dearie? Hmmm...Well, tell me what you have..."
The other customers were well-behaved—two men on a business lunch, a small family of four, and three teenagers draped with shopping bags and cheap knock-offs. Thank goodness. Any more madness and I would have fled for my sanity, leaving a salad server and basket of breadsticks wobbling in my wake.
Becca had finished sulking by the end of my mini Broadway-star-turned-rocket-scientist escapade, and filled the daily dose of gossip with her usual enthusiasm. There wasn't glue in the world strong enough to keep that girl's mouth shut, though a staple gun might do the trick. Or maybe not. She seemed to be accustomed to painful piercings in unusual places. Just last week she had shown off her new belly button ring and told me of her plans to get a bar sliced through her tongue.
Yuck was all that I had to say to that.
Hopefully the manager would convince her otherwise—it shouldn't be too hard. It was probably best not to have a waitress who could barely talk. That was what stumped me the most, really. As much as Becca loved to talk...it was unfathomable to think of her in any way silent.
After an update of all of the celebrity and kitchen rumors, she moved on to the topic I dreaded the most of all: me.
In particular, my sensitivity to a certain brown-eyed scholar in my Sociology class.
Benjamin Stallings's superiority was in no way limited to a shining report card and valedictorian title. Even the queen bees of the sorority couldn't ignore his dazzling smile and glistening brown hair. The tiny curl hanging at the base of his neck was mesmerizing, holding my attention every day from 9:30 to 10:30. Every minute sitting behind him was excruciating, yet my heart never ceased to speed up exponentially whenever he turned around halfway to catch my eye or stretched backwards, his hands splaying against my desk and almost brushing against my cheeks. A myriad of internal boxing matches dominated that single hour, my mind housing the arena. I could just imagine the announcer…
"In one corner, weighing in at one-hundred-and-twenty-two pounds, a skinny newcomer at his first try, introducing Just Talk To Him Already!
"And in the next, weighing in at a striking six-hundred-and-seventy-four pounds of bulging muscle, please welcome our reigning champion, I'm Too Scared!"
It's painfully obvious who wins that match.
"Talked to him yet?" Becca jerked me out of my reverie, her voice hopeful, expectant. I hated to disappoint her.
My head shook reluctantly. "Just an 'Is this your pencil?' last week."
Becca huffed exasperatedly. "Amber, seriously. Have you ever flirted with a guy in your entire life? Wait—don't answer that." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "There's got to be some way to help you…"
"Becca!" someone called from the front of the kitchen, "A table of nine is waiting to order, and there's a couple who needs seating! Get a move on!" Becca shot an annoyed glare in the direction of the voice.
"You'd think I was getting paid or something," she grumbled before grabbing a notebook and pen and sulking through the service doors.
I laughed and set myself to the task of organizing the new advertisement board going up on the wall by the front door. It was a new gimmick created by the manager to attract customers and companies. Miscellaneous business cards were the main ingredient; brochures took up some more space on the oversized corkboard. I was placing them all into an eye-appeasing arrangement when an orange neon flyer caught my eye: an advertisement for a concert in two weeks for my favorite band. I grimaced and considered tossing it out, not looking forward to having to see it every evening for the next fourteen days.
I'd known about the concert for weeks, and had planned on buying tickets the second the box office opened. But I didn't want to go alone, and that was unfortunately the circumstance. It's not like I had a boyfriend to take me, and Stephenie was going on a two week-long vacation with her family to Europe. When Becca had been asked, she declared it 'heavy metal crap' and made a gagging motion with her index finger.
I'd taken that as a no.
So I was stuck with yet another Saturday night. Empty, alone, deserted…I could rattle off negatory adjectives for hours. It wouldn't be so bad, I guessed. I was use to my own company. A good book, a steaming cup of mocha in one hand, my favorite Vivaldi in the background…I would survive.
My mini pity-party was interrupted by Becca running raucously through the kitchen and slamming forcefully into the table I was working on, jostling most of the papers into a disorganized mess.
"Becca," I growled, "someone better be either dying or on fire."
She rolled her eyes, and then smirked mischievously. "No, but I did figure out a way to get you and your man-candy together."
I couldn't help but blush, and her grin grew wider.
"You just have to talk to him, right? What you need is a test subject—someone to practice your flirting on."
"Wha-"
"He's waiting in booth 9. There's a girl with him, but no one special. Who knows, you might even be able to pick him up. You've already got a head start—I warmed him up for you." She winked, and then headed off to fetch a steaming plate of three-cheese tortellini. I stood there in a mini state of shock. Booth 9? Who would want something so private and distant on an unoccupied night like this? I was still standing there, contemplating, when Becca walked by with a dish balanced on her arm. Before pushing through the swinging doors, she turned to me, and said in a low whisper, "Now let me give you some tips."
"Becca, I really don't think-"
"First, and most importantly, don't be afraid to look him in the eye. Show some boldness—make yourself approachable." Her voice was so confident, so certain. So completely opposite of mine.
"If there's someone with him, it probably wouldn't-"
"Secondly," she continued, ignoring me, "Smile. It's really not that hard. Show off those pearly whites as if your life depended on it."
"But-"
"And, before these people start wondering where the heck their tortellini is, one more: Don't do that lip-biting thing you always do when you get nervous. It just screams "uninterested", and, not to be rude or anything, but it's kind of gross. Save your teeth for smiling."
Satisfied with her five-minute help session, she headed off to serve her food.
"Wait!"
She paused, one hand on the door, and turned slightly.
"I don't think I can do this. This really isn't my style, and besides, what about the girl with him? She won't be too happy."
She waved it off. "Trust me—one look at this guy and you won't care if the queen of England wasn't too happy." She tossed her unnatural blonde hair over her shoulder and walked through the doors with a dismissive air. "Now, off to the work yard." She turned one last time to send me an encouraging wink. "Good luck, kid. I'll be watching."
A second later and she was gone, leaving me stranded with Booth 9 and its two occupants. No other servers were available; it was almost as if Becca had planned this whole thing out. Groaning, I grabbed a pair of menus and reluctantly headed towards a remote corner in the restaurant.
Before I rounded the partition, I caught Becca's watchful eye from a few tables over. She gave me a thumbs-up and an expectant smile. It seemed there was no getting out of this one.
But was it really such a bad idea? I would most likely never see this guy again, unlike Benjamin, who would be waiting at 9:30 sharp the next morning. That relationship would be nothing but a dream if I didn't get my act together. A new resolution fresh in my mind, I gathered every speck of confidence I had ever acquired and rounded the corner to come in view of the booth. I almost stopped dead in my tracks when I saw who waited there.
Mamma, mia.
Greek gods had nothing on this guy. Striking features, shimmering bronze hair, flawless porcelain skin…I felt like I was looking at a Michelangelo come to life. He was staring curiously at a girl with long brown hair and pretty brown eyes. My self-confidence plummeted instantly, and I would have given anything to sink into the cheaply carpeted floor.
As I finished off the few feet left in between me and the booth, I struggled to remember what Becca had said. Might as well make the best of it, I thought dejectedly. The beginning was easy—"Look him in the eye and smile." It was what I normally did to customers. Taking a deep breath, I approached the couple, and looked shyly into the eyes of the bronze-haired god.
"Hello. My name is Amber, and I'll be your server tonight. What can I get you to drink?" My voice was unsteady, and I pulled nervously on the ends of my hair, willing them to grow into the long shield I was accustomed to using.
The guy looked to his partner, waiting expectantly for her answer. She seemed nearly as nervous as I was, and managed to squeak out, "I'll have a Coke?"
The boy turned back to me. "Two Cokes."
I added unnatural warmth to my tone and fluttered my eyelids they way Becca sometimes did when she was talking to the delivery guy. "I'll be right out with that."
But I felt stupid, and thankfully he was too busy looking at the girl to notice my amateur attempts at flirting. Quickly, I retreated into the safety of the kitchen.
Becca was there, waiting by the drink machine with two glasses in her hands.
"Two Cokes," I grumbled, and she pressed the button that released a steady stream of brown liquid over the ice.
"So, how'd it go?"
I glared at her, annoyed. "I feel like an idiot."
She looked disappointed, but then perked up. "You'll get used to it. It was pretty awkward when I first tried."
"When was that? Kindergarten?"
She ignored my comment and commenced with more 'helpful hints'.
"Ignore the girl—focus on him. That's the best way to let him know you're interested. And always, always smile. That's a girl's best feature."
I huffed out, blowing a stray strand of hair from my vision. "I'm obviously doing it wrong—he hasn't looked at me once."
"Nonsense. Now shoo." She handed me the glasses and a steaming basket of breadsticks, then pushed me gently through the service doors and into the lobby.
Inhaling deeply, I sauntered to the booth once more and offered my most dazzling smile. "Are you ready to order?" My words were directed specifically to the male customer, but were answered by the other.
"Bella?" he asked her politely. I turned towards her, reluctant to disobey Becca's command.
She glanced quickly at the menu. "Umm… I'll have the mushroom ravioli."
"And you?" I turned back to him, a coy smile stolen straight from Becca on my lips.
"Nothing for me," he answered.
"Let me know if you change your mind," my smile was alluring. He didn't see, though—he was still staring at the girl. I left, defeated.
While I waited for the mushroom ravioli to cook, my mind was full of unwanted things. Regret—I wanted to beat my head against the wall for agreeing to Becca's plan. Guilt—that girl must hate me for acting like such and slut. And relief—it wouldn't be much longer until I could give up this charade and wait on other, less gorgeous customers.
Becca was out waiting tables, so thankfully I didn't have to confess another report of failure. The ravioli was done in a few minutes, and I set it on a serving tray and carried it out. Becca winked at me from a few tables across, so I knew she was still watching. My acting gig wasn't over just yet.
I noticed the girl was now wearing a jacket—his jacket. The remaining ivory turtleneck sweater was snug, emphasizing his muscular chest. Great. So much for looking him in the eye.
They were leaned in so close to each other, so lost in each other's eyes, that they both straightened, surprised, when I set the food down. I turned quickly towards the guy, ready to get this over with. From behind me, I could almost feel Becca's eyes boring into my back.
"Did you change your mind?" I asked. "Isn't there anything I can get you?" I cringed, realizing the optional double-meaning in my words.
"No thank you, but some more soda would be nice." He gestured with a thin, pale hand to the drained glasses in front of the girl.
"Sure." I gathered them in my arms and walked away, my shoulders relaxing from their strained pose.
This time Becca bombarded me as soon as I swung through the doors, and I almost dropped the glasses in my surprise.
"How's it going? He's all over you, isn't he? I knew it!"
I rolled my eyes. "Hardly."
Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. "But you looked like you were doing so well…"
"Listen, Becca. She's wearing his coat, he doesn't look at me, and they were practically kissing the last time I went in there." I sighed. "There's really no point to this any more. I'm hopeless."
Her jumpy eyes softened. "Aww, Amber, you're not hopeless. You're just new at this. Don't give up."
I couldn't believe it. I was at the point of crying—I could feel my tear ducts welling up and my mascara sticking together. "Face it—I'm just never going to be good at this. I can't even speak a sentence to a guy who has been sitting in front of me for the past four months." I wanted to crumple on the floor at the truth. "I'm just not worth it."
Becca's expression had lost all of the excitement and confidence of before, and was now marked with sympathy. "Listen to me. Any guy who rejects you doesn't deserve you. You'll find someone, someday, and you know how many other guys will be jealous? All of them." Her face was tinged with guilt. "I'm sorry, Amber, I really am. This isn't you at all, and I'm sorry for trying to force you to become like someone else. Forgive me?"
Thankfully the tears hadn't spilled over, and I was able to keep them in place with a smile. "Yeah. I have to admit, though, you sure have an eye for test subjects."
She giggled. "I know. Isn't he dreamy?"
I quirked my eyebrow. "Yeah, he's just the grooviest."
She stuck her tongue out and led me through the service doors, pointing to where the couple was just finishing up their meal. "Keep it up a few minutes longer, and you're home free. Good luck." She walked back into the kitchen with an encouraging smile.
My walk back to Booth 9 was confident, a strut even.
"How are you doing?" I asked him, a genuine smile on my face.
"We're ready for the check, thank you." His voice was strained and weak, and I started, surprised.
"S-sure," I stuttered, and pulled the small leather folder from my front apron pocket. "Here you go."
His hand was ready with a folded bill, and he placed it swiftly into the small pocket. "No change, please." His smile was dazzling.
The couple stood up- the boy noticeably more graceful- and I stepped back, allowing them an exit.
"You have a nice evening." I smiled at him again, relieved that they were almost to the door. He didn't notice—his gaze was still on the girl, but the pang of disappointment was exceedingly less potent than before.
The couple went to the door- they were careful not to touch- and walked briskly into the cool night air. After they were gone, I inspected the bill pouch, curious as to how much change the guy had refused. As I pulled the thick bill out and unfolded it, other papers slipped out and onto the floor. Perplexed, I reached down and picked up the three items—a folded piece of white stationary and a pair of skinny wristbands. Carefully, I unfolded the note, unsure if I was breaking any sort of employee rules. A handwritten note was printed flawlessly on the thin paper, the letters scripted and flowing.
Amber,
Your efforts are much appreciated, but I must confess to you that another girl has captured my heart. I am flattered, however, from your attention.
Don't worry, your friend is right. You will find someone, someday, and that day may be closer than you think.
I hope that these tokens will provide an opportunity for you to find that someone—help strike up a conversation in Sociology, perhaps? I hear a certain brown-haired boy is partial to hard metal.
Thank you again for the wonderful meal and service. Good luck.
A Customer
Nothing could have prepared me for that note, and I nearly dropped in a startled heap on the floor. But then I remembered something. Hastily, I scrambled to pick up the wristbands. Two tickets to the concert, of course. One for me.
And one for Benjamin.
But how had he-?
Before I could stop myself, I ran through the front door, hoping that he was still there, unsure of what I would do if he was.
But I could see his profile in the silver car speeding out of the parking lot. I was too late. As he zoomed onto the freeway, I sat down on the little bench outside, Italian opera from the tinny speakers inside being the only noise to help drown out my heavy breathing and erratic heart.
I had no idea how that guy could have known my deepest secrets, but something told me it wasn't just a lucky a guess. The tickets, too. Out of all of the concerts in the northwest, how could he have happened to pick a flimsy underground, heavy metal band whose concert was one hundred miles away?
I didn't have an answer, but I had a conclusion. That vey next day, I was going to lose one of those tickets to the hand of Benjamin Stallings. There wasn't a doubt in my mind that I could do it.
As I walked back into the toasty interior of Bella Italia, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd been wrong all along. Maybe a god wasn't what that bronze-haired customer had resembled.
Maybe it was an angel.
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