“Amanda what?” she asks. I can’t say Beckendale. Not when all you have to do is Google Amanda Beckendale and a thousand entries for the real name of Star Beck pop up. My eyes rove around the table.

“Pepper!” I say.

“Amanda Pepper?” she repeats. Okay, it sounds a bit weird. But Pepper could be a last name. Right?

“Okay then,” Bev says, wiping her hands on her apron. She checks her watch, then picks up the pitcher of Coke she set on the corner of my table. “Pleased to meet you, Amanda Pepper. Can you be back here in two hours? That’ll give me an hour to train you on our system here before we open for dinner at four. Does that work for you?”

“Sure. And thanks,” I say as she smiles and walks back to the kitchen. “You just got your first real job,” I say to myself in awe.

Waiting tables isn’t as easy as it looks. Actually, it’s next to impossible. I’ve never felt so stupid in my entire life.

Who knew that living a pampered pop-star life would leave me so completely unprepared for reality?

“We want two glasses of water and a bottle of Chianti,” says the large, pockmarked, artificially redheaded woman seated in my first booth. Her voice is nasal and she’s with a rail-thin, hollow-eyed man who doesn’t make a peep. I nod and write it down on my pad, then I look back at her, wondering if she wants to order an appetizer or anything. She stares at me.

“What are you waiting for?” she demands after a moment. “We’re thirsty!”

I feel silly and quickly apologize. I’m back in the kitchen before I realize that I have no idea what Chianti is. I grab a menu and flip it open. I scan the beverages and realize it’s a red wine. Okay, red wine. No problem. I scan the bottles on the shelf in the back until I see one that says Chianti. See, this is easy.

I bring out the glasses of water first; then I return with two wineglasses; then I finally come back with the bottle of wine. Bev stops me on the way and whispers, “You can use a tray, you know. It will hurry things along.”

Right. A tray. I set the wine bottle on the table, smile and say, “Here you go. I hope you like it. I’ll be back in a moment to take your order.”

I’ve just started to walk away, feeling impressed with myself for completing this first task so successfully, when I hear the woman’s nasal voice calling out behind me.

“Waitress!” she squawks. “Where are you going? Aren’t you going to open the wine?”

I have to open it? I paste a pleasant smile on my face and return to the table.