It took Avery about a week to conclude that her entire job at Mortimer’s consisted of (1) lying and (2) selling. That was it. Lie and then sell. It was kind of fascinating to watch the whole process. She felt like she had the smoking gun on the whole conspiracy of life.
First of all, the P. J. Mortimer’s ads stressed that people were supposed to come and sit and stay for a long time, enjoying the warm Irish hospitality. This was the first big lie that Avery uncovered. One of the main issues emphasized in training was that she was selling experience, not product, which was some weird way of saying that she was supposed to entertain people. She was supposed to be cheerful and friendly, as if she actually lived at P. J. Mortimer’s and the people at her table were unexpected but welcome guests in her living room. At the same time, she was told she had to get people out the door the minute they stopped ordering. If someone turned down a dessert or another round of drinks—bam!—she was to drop that check.
Then there was the selling. The entire existence of P. J. Mortimer’s seemed to depend on appetizers, desserts, and frozen drinks—and these were the things she had to push. When people first sat down, she was supposed to interest them in some pub fries or onion blossoms or Paddy’s Frozen Peppermint Patties. And when they were done, after Avery cleared away the plates of bones from the baby back ribs and the remains of the half-pound hamburgers, it was time to put her hands on her hips and say, “Okay. I know somebody wants dessert!” She should have just passed out the phone number of a good cardiologist.
Just to make things a little more unpleasant, management kept a scoreboard in the staff changing room (a hallway with some boxes in it), charting exactly how much money every server made each shift. Most of the guys, she noticed, got really competitive about it, like selling piÑa coladas and Paddy’s Frozen Peppermint Patties was some kind of sport that required skill and prowess. Avery saw it as badgering people to buy things she didn’t feel like waiting for at the bar all night, so she didn’t bother too much. She felt that her soft stance on the frozen drink issue allowed her to keep a little bit of her dignity, which was rapidly eroding because of the very worst part of her job: the birthday jig band.
There was no way Avery could have known that by answering “yes” to the bizarre question “Can you play the piano or accordion?” on her job application, she would commit herself to becoming one of the official—and few—members of P. J. Mortimer’s Birthday Jig Band. She soon came to the conclusion that her thirteen years of piano lessons were probably the only reason she was hired in the first place, since she didn’t exactly seem to have the personality that Mortimer’s was looking for. She was called into action when she heard a whooping noise and then the heavy beat of a mechanical bass drum that was mounted on the wall by the front vestibule.
She was hearing it right now, as a matter of fact. This was the P.J. Mortimer’s Birthday Jig Alert.
Avery swerved around a busboy carrying a heavy load of dirty dishes and ducked into the pantry. If she could just slip through and get out the fire door fast enough, she could claim she was taking her five-minute break and never heard the alert.
Mel was right on her heels. Avery stuck herself in the corner, next to the ice cream freezer, and jammed her hands into her apron pockets.
“I’m not doing it this time,” she said under her breath.
“But this one’s my table,” Mel pleaded.
“I’ll make you a deal.”
“What?”
“Come with me to Gaz’s tonight,” Avery said.
The alert was still banging and whooping in the background. Mel glanced through the doorway nervously and looked at the group of other servers, who were clumping together and all looking a little pained at the thought of having to sing.
“Come on, come on, come on….” Avery scrunched up her face. “You know you want to.”
Big parties always freaked Mel out, and she tried to get out of them whenever she could. But now that Avery had Mel on her own, she’d found that she had a lot of leverage. It had gotten incredibly-easy to convince Mel to do things in the last week or so, now that Nina wasn’t around to protect her.
“Say you promise.”
“I … promise.
“Okay,” Avery said. “Let’s go.”
Mel borrowed Avery’s lighter to light the candles on a small green-and-white cake that was waiting on the prep counter. Avery headed out onto the floor and took her seat in front of a keyboard on a small raised platform in a corner of the room. The jig was a very simple tune that just about anyone with the most basic piano skills could play. Avery banged out the chords automatically, keeping her eyes trained on Mel as she brought out the cake. The other servers fell in behind her, letting her lead them to the birthday table. You could always tell which one it was by looking for someone trying to slide down out of sight or covering his or her face with a pair of hands. Sure enough, there was a group of women in one of the booths, and one was slinking down, looking like her cover in the Witness Protection Program had just been blown.
All the servers locked arms and began to sing:
We heard it was your birthday, so we’ve come to make a fuss!
So happy, happy birthday, to you from all of us!
Hi-di-hi-di-hi-di-ho
On this fine day we wish the best to you and all of yours
The merriest of birthdays, from P.J. Mortimer’s!
This was followed by a short jig (skipping in circles), with several more hi-di-hos, after which the singers skittered away as quickly as possible, like roaches when the lights come on.
Back in the safety of the pantry, Avery grabbed a dessert fork and pressed it into Mel’s hand.
“If I have to do that again,” Avery said, “I want you to kill me with this.”
“You can do me too,” said a voice behind them.
Mel and Avery turned. One of the other servers had come in and was slouching against the wall, demonstrating his utter contempt for the official birthday jig. He was tall but had a young-looking face, with a dash of golden freckles over his cheekbones. His very dark brown hair had overgrown a bit, sweeping down over his high forehead in a thick swag that he kept pushing back with his hand. What really stood out, though, were his eyes, which were the same deep brown as his hair and were very intense and bright. They actually glistened a little just at the thought of the jig.
“Kill me, I mean,” he added, after a moment’s thought on his remark. “I trained nights, and they were even worse. We did the song about a dozen times every shift. I’m not kidding.”
He leaned forward and stared at the name tag pinned to Mel’s green suspenders.
“Molly Guinness,” he read.
“I’m Mel,” Mel said. “This is Avery.”
He glanced over and looked at Avery’s name tag, which read: Erin Murphy.
“I like that we all have these fake Irish names that double as beer ads,” he said with a smirk. “It’s good to reinforce the idea that all Irish people are alcoholics. Keep the stereotype alive.”
Avery leaned forward to read his tag.
“You’re Shane O’Douls?”
“I know,” he said. “The nonalcoholic one. I’m Parker.”
Though he made occasional attempts to turn his head and look in Avery’s direction, Parker’s attention was really on Mel. This was nothing new to Avery. All guys looked at Mel. Mel was candylike, adorable. Guys hung out with Avery and talked about music and maybe hooked up once in a while. They were usually a little intimidated by Nina because she was tall and assertive and she ran everything. They took Nina as a challenge. With Mel, though, guys developed instantaneous, epic crushes—the kind that caused them to want to iron their clothes and listen to the lyrics of slow songs.
The kitchen bell rang.
“Thirty-nine up,” yelled a voice from somewhere behind a small opening. Two plates of buffalo wings were thrown down under the heat lamps. Parker pried himself from the wall and got the two plates. He took them over to the prep counter and reached into a large jug of carrot and celery pieces floating in water, snagging a fistful and setting them on the side of the plates. He grabbed a tub from the refrigerated cabinet, unscrewed the lid, and poured some of the contents into two tiny condiment cups. It oozed out in thick milky chunks.
“Blue cheese dressing is so pretty,” he said, grimacing. “Doesn’t it make you hungry?”
“I like blue cheese dressing,” Mel said.
Parker flushed a little over the fact that Mel had chosen to reveal this to him. He seemed to take a more charitable view toward the dressing, replacing the lid with care.
“She used to eat a lot of paste,” Avery explained.
When Parker had taken his plates out to the floor, Avery reached over and retrieved her lighter from the front pocket of Mel’s apron.
“Looks like you have a new one,” she said.
“A new what?”
Avery did her best imitation of Parker leaning in and reading Mel’s tag at very close range.
“Shut up,” Mel said.
“What? He’s cute. He kind of looks like he’s one of those guys who keeps going in Boy Scouts until he’s legal.”
“He’s fine. He seems nice.”
“Oh, you’re not interested.”
“In … what?”
“What kind of sign do you need?” Avery said, laughing. She grabbed Mel and wrapped her arms around her, coming in close to her face. “I love you, Melanie Forrest. Can’t you see I love you?”
One of the cooks peered through the narrow kitchen window.
“Nice!” he said. “You guys dating?”
“You wish,” Avery said over her shoulder. Mel still hung limply in her arms.
“I do wish.”
“Tell you what, we’ll kiss for ten bucks.”
Avery nodded. She glanced at Mel, who was looking at Avery with amazing calmness. Usually everything embarrassed her. Waitressing was obviously toughening her up.
The cook was going through his pockets.
“I have … six,” he said.
“Sorry.”
“Hold on, hold on,” he said, laughing. “I think I can get four more.”
“Onetime offer,” Avery said sternly.
“Damn.” He slid over a large club sandwich and a burger. “Forty-six.”
Avery released Mel, who stood there, seeming a little baffled.
“I’d better feed my people.” Avery grabbed the two plates. “But you promised, remember?”
“I remember.”
“No take backs.”
Avery winked to the cook, who was still peering through the window, his face glowing an eerie red under the heat lamp.
“Stay back,” she said, nodding at Mel. “She’s mine, and I have claws.”