Robin Constantine: The Promise of Amazing

None of us were ever forced to work, but there was an unspoken expectation that we would pitch in when we hit high school. Brooke had worked around her studies and social life. Josh, on the other hand, had turned the Camelot into his social life when he was on, recruiting friends and transforming the back room into a party between courses. I filled in here and there through sophomore year, but now, since both Brooke and Josh were away at school, I took on a full weekend schedule when necessary.

As I breezed through the front doors, the chaotic energy of wedding prep gave me an instant lift. I’d been joking with Jazz and Mads, but maybe it wouldn’t be so crazy for me to take over in the future. I already knew the business like the back of my hand, and I definitely had opinions on what worked and what didn’t. I’d even helped my mother pick out colors when we gave the ballrooms much-needed makeovers. Since Brooke was in law school and Josh was . . . well, doing whatever he was doing at Rutgers, it was a sure bet that neither of them was interested. The Camelot, right under my nose, might be my calling. I knocked on the doorjamb to my mother’s office before strolling in, ready to share my recent epiphany.

She slammed down the phone and fumbled with a bottle of ibuprofen before shaking out two little orange pills.

“You were supposed to be in twenty minutes ago,” she said, popping them into her mouth and washing them down with a swig of water from the bottle on her desk.

“I’m sorry. I had to walk,” I answered, whipping off my coat and pulling down the sleeves of my starched white work shirt. My underarms were damp. I did a quick sniff test. Clean.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you, Wren,” she said, rubbing her eyes and leaning back in her rolling chair. The wall of her office was covered with forty-five years’ worth of framed thank-you letters and pictures of smiling couples. Mom looked harried. The weight of the world or, more precisely, the weight of every wedding and event, sat on her shoulders.

“Well, I’m here now,” I said.

“If one more thing goes wrong tonight, I’m going to jump ship myself. The florist is running late, Chef Hank is complaining about the quality of the salmon, and Marguerite and Jose called in sick. We’re seriously understaffed for this wedding tonight. Any chance Jazz or Madison would want to earn some extra cash?”

“I think they’re already out,” I said, tightening my messy French knot.

“Then you’d better hustle, sweetie. Cocktail hour starts in less than thirty minutes,” she said, standing up and reaching for her suit jacket.

I hurried into the Lancelot to find a dozen or so black-and-white-clad Camelot staff assembling table settings with more silverware than any modern-day person needed. Eben saw me and grinned.

“Hey, ’bout time you showed up.”

Twenty-one and working his way through culinary school, Eben Phillips had started at the Camelot around the same time as my sister, Brooke. He was practically part of the family and hands down my favorite work bud.

“Check this out, charitable donations as favors,” he said, handing me one of the cards.

In lieu of little glass swans or bars of chocolate with their names on them, the couple had donated money to a charity that distributed mosquito nets to needy families in Africa.

“Cool. That’s one I’ve never heard of,” I said. “Need help?”

“I’ll be your bestie for life if you take over,” he said. “I’m assigned the head table tonight, and they’re in Guinevere’s Cottage. I have to get over there, like, yesterday, to make sure everything is in order.”

“Lucky. Can I be your second in command?” I asked, batting my eyelashes.

Cocktail hour at the Cottage was always fun because it was like being at the epicenter of the party. You caught a glimpse into the lives of the couple and their friends as they rehashed the ceremony and took silly photos. The change of scenery also made the night go faster somehow.

“Aww, baby, maybe if you had your butt here on time. I already picked the new guy,” he said, motioning with his chin over to a tall, blond boy who appeared confused as to how to arrange the water goblets.

“New guy? Come on,” I said. “But I guess it’s not his skills you like.”

“Um, don’t go there, Baby Caswell. I’m not into jailbait,” he said. “You’ll just hafta sling those cocktail franks yourself tonight, darlin’.” He handed me the box with the rest of the engraved donation cards and summoned Clueless Blond Boy to follow him across the parking lot to the cottage.

By the time I’d finished setting out the favor cards, there were guests in the lobby waiting for cocktail hour. I closed the curtains on the glass doors to the ballroom so the big reveal would be more dramatic and made my way to the frenzied kitchen to pick up a serving tray for the first round of hors d’oeuvres. I waited and watched as others walked by with platters of mini quiches, fried ravioli, and shrimp-cocktail shooters, getting a sinking feeling about what I’d get stuck serving.

Chef Hank pushed a tray of cocktail franks toward me. I reluctantly grabbed it and made my way to the already bustling ballroom as the opening strains of the wedding band’s version of “Fever” echoed through the back room.

Little hot dogs were the bane of my existence. On my first day serving, when a guest asked what they were, I felt like saying, “Duh, are you blind?” but instead came out with “Tiny batter-wrapped kosher frankfurters with dipping sauce” in a formal voice that Eben never let me live down.

“The proper name is cocktail frank , but I like your style,” he told me, after he composed himself in the back room.

“I was just trying to make them sound . . . I don’t know, more impressive.”

“Call ’em whatever you want. They’re the height of tacky, but everyone gobbles them up faster than you can say, ‘Mustard with that?’”

Since then, whenever a guest asked that idiotic question, Eben and I made up some lavish-sounding name to make the lowly cocktail frank sound classy. The hot dog game was more fun when the two of us were working the same room. I was not in the mood.

When I ran the Camelot, they would be banished from the menu.

I put on my cheek-busting service smile and wandered into the crowd, offering the tray to anyone who looked interested. It wasn’t long before I ran into the other bane of my existence at work: the group of rowdy guys. They were the ones at a wedding who made obnoxious jokes, drank too much, and flirted with anything that had a pulse.

“The Weenie Girl!” bellowed a ruddy-faced man in a brown suit.

Rowdy guys who gave me a nickname: a special breed. At least I knew they wouldn’t ask me what I was serving.

“Not a party till the wieners come out!” someone else said as thick hands emptied the tray, leaving nothing behind but grease stains and crumbs on the paper doily. I went back to the kitchen, hoping to snag more trendy hors d’oeuvres like crab-cake sliders or raspberry Brie bites. Instead I watched helplessly as Chef Hank gave me more of my vile food nemesis.

“You really hate me, don’t you?”

He saluted and busied himself with the next server.

Back in the Lancelot, I took my time weaving through the crowd, ducking here and there and trying to avoid the Rowdies.

“Hey, Weenie Girl!”

People actually turned to look at me. I froze, embarrassed from the shouted nickname and the laughter it provoked. My face cramped from smiling. I walked slowly toward them, but all I wanted to do was throw the tray Frisbee-style across the room and let them deal with the fallout.

“Grayson, just the girl you’re looking for,” said the brown-suit man.