{WATTYS 2021/2022 SHORTLIST}{Editor's Pick} {Featured Story}
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One girl. Two boys. An impossible choice.
Stella LaFever, a theatre student from California, can't wait to spend a summer in Newport, Rhode I...
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Chapter Song: ...Ready For It? by Taylor Swift
Leona and I showered and changed inside our small camper. And I'm using the word small in the most liberal way possible. Inside, there was a queen-size bed, a very modest kitchen, and a bathroom that you could barely turn around in.
That's it.
I struggled into the uniform Gran had given me, which was a little snug but cute. A simple white collared shirt and fitted black wool pencil skirt. I threw my thick hair into a messy bun and added a wine-colored lip stain.
This is exactly what I needed. To be busy. To bitch about work. To be around other people. I needed distractions.
"Can you see my bra through this shirt?" Leona asked.
"Kinda." I squinted. "Wait, is it hot pink?"
"Yeah, so?"
I let out a laugh. "Why don't you wear a nude bra?"
"Girl, you know I don't own anything that basic."
"It's not basic. It's practical," I replied, fussing over the front of my shirt. "I'm more concerned about these tiny buttons. I swear my tits are going to spill out the front if I bend the wrong way."
Leona laced her arm through mine. "If that happens, I'll tie my apron around your chest and call it a new fashion statement."
On our way to the restaurant, Leona and I drove past homes that could be described as French country estates. I'd never seen anything like it in my life. Grass and sand and gardens sweeping around palatial mansions. Again, it struck me just how much money someone would need to live here.
Then there was Castle Hill Inn.
Oh, my.
I drew in a breath as we pulled into the parking lot.
Castle Hill Inn was more Castle than Inn, and Leona and I quickly realized we would not be waiting tables at some intimate restaurant.
Suddenly, waitressing at Leona's family restaurant back in Imperial Beach seemed less like work experience.
Leona's old pickup truck rumbled into a spot between a Mercedes and a Land Rover, and my grandpa's comment about old money started to make more sense.
This was just like acting, I told myself. Consider this your next great role—a confident, elegant girl who knows how to serve food to people with more money than sense.
Leona and I hopped out of the cab and stared up at the restaurant. Well, I supposed if you lived in a mansion, you'd want to eat at a restaurant that also looked like a mansion.
But this particular restaurant-mansion was crawling with uniforms.
And not wool pencil skirts and collared shirts—but the military kind. White jackets and gold buttons. White shoes and gloves. Swinging cutlasses at trim hips. I could almost smell laundry starch over the scent of simmering seafood and salty ocean air.
