There is an unfamiliar girl standing by the host desk with a bouquet and the expression of someone who has been dropped into enemy territory with no map. Rose sent a replacement fromthe florist shop, which can only mean Rose herself is not coming in.
Bad enough.
Then my phone buzzes with two texts.
One from Erin. One from Savannah.
Both calling in sick.
My stomach drops.
Three girls. Three.
Rose replaced herself, thank God, but that still leaves Erin’s section uncovered and Savannah missing from the kitchen. Gerard can cook, yes, but not alone on a full night. And I cannot run the dining room properly while also trying to patch over kitchen delays and table disasters.
As expected, lunch rush is a nightmare. Somehow I manage, but only because we’re never as full during the day as we are in the evenings.
It’s still hell on earth.
At two, when Amber shows up—thank God at least she’s here—I get her up to speed. She helps immensely with clean-up, but I can’t shake the terrified look she gives me when I tell her Rose has called in sick too. Like she thinks something happened to her.
“Hey,” I tell her. “It’s just some nasty bug. Everyone caught it. Just please, bulk up on vitamins or something so I don’t have to do this alone all week?”
Amber laughs. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but it’s something. “I’ll pop orange slices like it’s oxy.”
“Attagirl.”
When we finally close up for the afternoon, I slump against the lounge counter and consider collapsing. Or getting shitfaced on Donald’s good liquors.
Too bad I can’t afford either. I need my overtime paid, and I need it yesterday. Staying lucid is non-negotiable for that.
Unfortunately.
Around eight,right in the middle of dinner service, Donald finally deigns to show up.
I follow him into the office with a full tray of spaghetticacio e pepebalanced on my palm. “We need replacements,” I demand. “For Erin and Savannah. They both called in sick for the week.”
Donald laughs. “No.”
I am not taking no for an answer. “Then, we close tomorrow.”
That gets his attention.
“We are not closing.” His voice is firm.
“We do not have the staff.”
“We’ll make do.”
I stare at him. “Donald.”
“The restaurant has enough expenses as it is,” he says. “We’re not paying extra people because a few girls couldn’t be bothered to show up.”
This, from the man who vanishes before closing, is news to me.
“Then you need to stay on the floor tonight,” I say. “And help.”
He makes a face like I suggested he scrub the toilets with his tongue.
