The Queen of Minor Disasters (33 page)

I fling the covers off my bed
and get out of it before I change my mind. Today marks the start of the new
Stella DiLucio.

I look at myself in the
full-length mirror and notice how drab I look. How is it possible that I looked
so good just one day ago? Did being flat out rejected automatically turn me
into a spinster? It’s like my body knows that I’ll end up alone.

I give my body the once over
in the mirror and decide that the new Stella desperately needs to get in shape.

I’ve never been big on
exercise but this morning I want to run. Lucy used to run every morning, and
look at her now. She’s married!

Within five minutes I’m
dressed in shorts, a sports bra, tank top, and white Nikes. I pull my hair into
a ponytail as I walk down the steps, careful not to wake anyone up.

When I step outside and
breathe the fresh morning air I suddenly feel at peace. I start to run at the
end of the driveway and am surprised at how quick my pace is. I can’t even
remember the last time I went running, yet, there’s something inside of me that
pushes me to go on.

I run down 99
^th
Street across Third Avenue without a problem, but by the time I get to Second
Avenue I’m out of breath. I slow down and feel a stabbing pain in my side. I
hold it and start walking.

I cross First Avenue still
walking and can see the sun starting to rise. I need to get to the beach as
quickly as possible, so I start to jog a little to get there. Soon I’m running
up the sand dunes and standing on top of a small hill.

That’s when I see it.

The sun seems to be coming up
from the ocean in a giant ball. It moves quicker than I imaged it would, and
looks like it’s being thrown into the sky. Shades of pink and purple, yellow
and gold fill the atmosphere, and I feel refreshed and able to start anew. No
wonder my grandmother loved the beach so much.

The next two and a half weeks
pass quickly. Slowly, the waiters leave us and return to college, which means
we’re short staffed, as usual for this time of the year. My parents have closed
La Cucina until Labor Day, so my mother is working the hostess stand, while I
fill in as a waitress. It’s crazy but I don’t mind. Lucy even came back; she’s
been feeling so good lately that she wanted to make some extra money before the
school year starts. 

I’ve kept to my resolution and
have started every morning with a sunrise run on the beach. It’s actually helping
me figure out what I want in life.

I thought that all the running
I’ve been doing would make me hungry, but somehow, I’ve lost my appetite
completely. I can barely force down a meatball a day, and you
know
how much I love meatballs.

Still, I must say that this
new regimen of not eating and running has really improved my figure. I’ve lost
the impossible five pounds from my gut, and now tote a flatter stomach than
Lucy (Granted, she
is
pregnant,
but not by that much). She laughs at me when I point this out to her in the
waiters’ station.

“I have a baby living inside
of me!” she protests.

“Whatever Luce, that kid is
barely a peanut. Just admit it, I’m skinnier than you for once in my life.”

“Well enjoy these nine months,
because I plan on bouncing right back after this kid.”

We both laugh and I must say
it feels good. I’ve been feeling so strange lately. I always get reflective as
the summer winds down, but with all the changes that happened this summer, I’m
even more so.

Tonight feels especially strange
since tomorrow is my birthday. I honestly don’t feel like celebrating at all,
but Lucy keeps insisting that we go to the Beachcomber after work tomorrow
night. I guess Lorenzo wants to go there. After all, it’s his birthday too.

Besides Lucy and me, Dante and
Ryan are working tonight too, and since it’s only the four of us left on staff,
we’ve been seeing a lot of each other lately.

The restaurant fills at 6:15,
and since my mother can’t say no to people, we all get double sat. We go from
zero to one hundred, but that’s how it is in the restaurant business, so I know
we shouldn’t complain.

At around 7:45 I’m the only
one with free tables in my section. I can see Lucy is struggling a bit, so I go
into the kitchen to help her run food, and when I come out, I see my mother
seating Mr. and Mrs. Lancetti at my table.

My heart races.

Luckily they’re alone.

I mean, obviously Roberto
wouldn’t have the nerve to come here. I haven’t seen him since my brother’s
wedding, which is probably a good thing. I’m still totally embarrassed.

I approach the table and
notice the extra menu and place setting sitting there.

Shit.

“Hello Mr. Lancetti. Hi Mrs.
Lancetti,” I say with a smile. He waves at me and opens the menu while she
stands up to give me a hug.

I smile as she sits down. “Are
you expecting someone else?” I say casually, reaching for the extra place
setting.

 “Robbie should be here in a
minute.” She winks at me. “Sorry about the whole flowers incident. Robbie was
really mad when he found out. I never heard the end of it. Sheesh.”

I force out another smile and
ask them what kind of water they’d like, though I’d like to school her in the
dangers of meddling in her son’s love life.

“San Pellegrino,” Mr. Lancetti
says without looking up.

“I’ll be right back with it,”
I say. I walk into the waiters’ station to get it and thankfully Lucy is there
at the credit card machine. “Roberto’s coming in and sitting at my table.”

She frowns. Lucy knows how
much I hate waiting on friends of the family. There’s something degrading about
it. I’d much rather deal with strangers. At least strangers can be easily
impressed with stories, and don’t ask too many personal questions. And of
course, I never threw myself at a stranger like I did with Roberto.

“Want me to take them
instead?” she asks.

“I already greeted them, it
would just look weird now,” I reply. Why didn’t I think of passing the table to
Lucy? God, I’m
dumb
sometimes.

She looks out into the dining
room. “He’s sitting down with them now,” she says. Then adds, “He looks good.”

“He
always
looks good,” I hear myself say. “Too bad he doesn’t
like me.”

“It’s just so weird,” Lucy
says while pouring coffee into a cup. “He asked Lorenzo if he could come to the
wedding. He wanted to be your date.”

“Probably so he could reject
me. He used to torture me when we were little. I guess that’s still his thing.”
I try to shrug it off as if I don’t really care. In reality I’ve been replaying
the scene in my head for two weeks now and I’ve come up with three possible
reasons for his behavior. Number one: he’s a player (though, then he would have
taken me home and never called again), number two: he’s gay (he does dress
well), or the most likely scenario, number three: he’s just not into me. Which
of course, infuriates me. I mean, what’s wrong with me?

Maybe I don’t have a PhD or a corporate career, and maybe
I’m not the best at holding down my alcohol, but dammit, I have good qualities.
I can make people smile and feel welcome when they come in here; I can work an
eight-hour shift in six-inch heels; I try my hardest to look on the bright side
of things; I don’t allow myself to be frumpy in public; older people tell me
I’m sweet; and have you tasted my desserts? Most importantly, I’d bend over
backwards for the people I love. If Roberto Lancetti thinks he’s too good for
that then he’s no better than Drew. And they can both go to hell.

I grab the bottle of San
Pellegrino and take a deep breath. I’ll show him that rejecting me was a big
mistake.  

“Hi Roberto,” I say as I reach
the table.

“Hey Stella,” he says not
really looking at me.

I feel myself frowning as I
pour the water into their glasses.

“You know, Stella’s birthday
is tomorrow. She’s almost thirty,” Mrs. Lancetti says, which makes me sound
pathetic. For a minute, I feel like a fool. Why couldn’t I be at the hostess
stand wearing a cute dress, instead of standing here in a freaking tie looking
like a twelve-year-old boy for God’s sake? That’s it. We’re changing these damn
uniforms. They’re completely sexist. No woman should have to wear a tie. Ever.
It’s inhumane.

 “Would you like to know
tonight’s specials?” I hear myself ask with confidence in my voice.

“Sure,” Mr. Lancetti says
looking at me. Mrs. Lancetti places her menu on the table then nudges Roberto
to do the same. I feel my face getting hot as they all stare at me.

“We have osso-buco, served on
a bed of saffron risotto…” I start. I can feel Roberto’s eyes looking at me and
I wonder what he’s thinking. “Then halibut, wrapped in prosciutto and served on
a bed of rosemary and fig polenta cubes…” They’re all still looking at me.

“…And finally chocolate
soufflé for dessert.” I move to walk away from the table. “I’ll give you a
minute to decide.”

“No need. I think we can all
order now,” Mr. Lancetti says.

Right.

I take a deep breath and
smile.

“I’ll start with an arugula
salad and then I’ll have the grilled salmon,” Mrs. Lancetti says. “I’m on a
diet you know.” She winks at me then continues. “Speaking of diets, Stella
honey you look
fabulous.
What
have you been doing?”

“I run on the beach,” I say
without thinking.

 God, why couldn’t I just
ignore her?

“Well it’s working,” she
smiles.

 I can feel my face flushing.

“You look beautiful. Doesn’t
she Robbie?”

God, please kill me now.
Please just strike me dead.

“I’ll take the Salumeria,” Mr.
Lancetti interrupts, thankfully. “And the filet with gorgonzola, medium rare.”

I nod my head as I write down
his order. Then I look at Roberto. Our eyes meet and I quickly look away.

“I’ll start with a house
salad,” he says. “And then I’ll take the sea bass.”

I smile a little. That’s my
favorite dish on the menu.

“Stella makes the chocolate
soufflés, don’t you hon?” Mrs. Lancetti says. It seems like she’s trying really
hard to sell me and it’s making me feel like a big loser.

“Yep,” I reply. “I make all
the desserts.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man at table four waving
his credit card in the air. Normally I’d want to ignore this public display of
rudeness, but right about now, I could kiss that man.

“I’ll take one,” Roberto says,
looking at me with a smile.

“Okay,” I say scribbling down
his order and walking away from the table.

Thankfully, the other
customers in my section are equally as demanding as the man at table four, so I
spend as little time at the Lancetti’s table as possible. I barely check on
them while they’re eating their appetizers and once I place their entrées in
front of them, I bounce to another table to take its order. I even forget to
tell Roberto to watch out for pits in the olives of his dish, but I’m sure
he’ll figure it out. And if he cracks a tooth and has to leave before he gets
his soufflé, well, I’m sure it’ll be for the best.

           
But apparently, Roberto is a careful eater, because not only does he
survive the olive pits, but he’s also eaten his entire piece of fish without
choking on a fish bone. Why does Lorenzo have to be so precise about removing
all
of the bones?