“Of course,” I say brightly. I pick up the bottle and look at it, then peel off the paper that’s around the cap. Except, there’s no screw cap. The neck of the bottle is stuffed with a cork.

“It’s a cork,” I say dumbly, looking at the bottle in confusion. The woman just stares at me.

I have no idea how to open a bottle of wine. Luckily, Bev does.

“Sorry, Amanda.” Bev comes over with a small metal gadget. “I must have forgotten to give you a corkscrew.” She deftly inserts the gadget into the cork, twists a few times and pulls. The bottle pops open, and she pours two glasses. The woman grumbles something under her breath and takes a big sip of the wine. Bev puts a hand on my shoulder and leads me away. “Some of our customers can be a little grumpy,” she says. “You’ll get used to it. Just don’t let them get to you.”

Two hours later, they’ve gotten to me. We’re in the middle of the dinner rush, and my night is only getting worse. I’m so embarrassed and flustered that I can barely function anymore.

I screwed up the order of the Fat Lady–Quiet Man couple and brought them two spaghetti and meatballs when they had actually asked for one spaghetti and meatballs and one lasagna (or so the woman claimed). With my next table, I mixed up the Coke and Diet Coke in my hands and wound up giving the man the diet and the woman the regular, which of course they complained about. Oops. Moments later, I brought two teenagers a delicious-looking green pepper and mushroom pizza when they had actually asked for jalapeño peppers and olives.

Bev is still pleasant, but I also don’t think it’s my imagination that she’s looking at me a bit skeptically now too. I’m sure she’s starting to wonder exactly what kind of waitressing experience I’ve actually had, since I can’t seem to get even simple things right. She’s probably preparing to fire me any moment now.

That’s why I’m relieved—for a split second, at least—when I return to the kitchen a few minutes after the botched pizza delivery and she asks me to deliver some drinks to one of Amber’s tables, since Amber is busy trying to ring someone’s order up right now. I cheerfully agree and ask what drinks they need.

“They’re already poured,” Bev says, barely paying attention to me. She’s typing something into a calculator and looks lost in thought. “They’re over there. I already loaded them onto a tray for you. They go to table thirty-four, the big table in back. There’s a party of ten there. You can’t miss ’em.”