He must have sensed what I was thinking, because he put his hands up in mock self-defense. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I have a girlfriend. An actress. A comedienne, actually. You’ll love her when you meet her. She’s from one of those M states, like you.”
“Wisconsin isn’t an M state, it’s a W state,” I told him.
“Good point. Anyway, you remind me of her. Good luck tonight.”
As I’d moved off and Gabi had prepared to open the doors, it felt good to have Steven watching my back. At a restaurant where dinner for four could easily run a thousand dollars, I got precious little training. The poop sheet had mostly covered wages (minimum wage for waitstaff, natch), how to share tips with the busboys (10 percent of my tips), how to collect my tips from credit cards, and a bunch of stuff about breaks, dress code, parking, and the like.
When I’d arrived at Whitehall, Gabi had given me a crash course in how to introduce myself to our guests, how to take an order, where to deliver orders to the chefs, and how to deal with the cashier. I met my busboy for the evening, a quiet Latino man named Jose.
That was it. You would have thought that an impossible-to-get-a-table place like Whitehall would have a lot more formal training. But there were three new waiters starting that night—me, an Asian woman named Xi-Xi, and a gay guy from Alabama named Keithie—so there really wasn’t time. Training would have to be on the job.
Gabi’s parting words to me before they opened the doors at five-thirty? “They’ll forgive everything except pasta sauce on your pants. Keep clean.”
Gabi’s words were prophetic. The restaurant grew crowded. Very crowded. With three newbies on the floor, orders backed up in the kitchen. All I did, though, was explain the situation to my tables—the Lucy Wainwright party of four; a group of young women who looked like models; and an older couple, who I learned were the former mayor of Los Angeles and his wife. Everyone was remarkably understanding.
Then Xi-Xi managed to get a fist-size splotch of squid ink sauce on her white skirt. I saw Gabi hustle her back to the kitchen and berate her. “Whitehall! We’re called Whitehall! Not Spothall! Keep clean!” He thrust a white apron at her, which made me wonder why we didn’t all wear white aprons.
Anyway, Lucy’s table all ordered the seven-course prix fixe with the optional wine flight. Two hundred fifty-five dollars a head, times four. They tipped at 20 percent. Do the math. Wow. The models and the mayor and his wife were nearly as generous.
My night was only half over, and I already could take Brett to five dinners.
It got better.
I was just bringing back the receipts to the models when I saw Gabi seating two new customers for me. One was a mahogany-haired young beauty in a short white 1950s-style dress. The other was a petite African American girl with dreadlocks, who had on long white shorts, a white tank top, and a white sheer blouse.
Alex and Mia.
To say I was shocked is an understatement. Pleasantly shocked, that is.
“Surprise!” they called as I approached.
“We knew it was your first night, and we wanted to make sure at least one table would give you a hard time,” Alex explained. “Now bring us a couple of Tanqueray martinis very dry. And back ’em up!”
Gawd. Was she really ordering alcohol?
I shook my head. “Alex, you can’t—”
Alex chortled with delight. “Seriously, Nat. You’re the most gullible girl ever. I’m not drinking, even if I could.”
“And I don’t drink at all, you know that,” Mia added. “Now, you know what would be nice?”
“What’s that?” I was still thrilled that my two best friends had come to surprise me.
Mia dead-eyed me. “Menus. And the specials.”
Alex frowned. “Nah. Let’s just order the most expensive things on the menu. What we save on booze we’ll spend on truffle shavings. And chop-chop! Before we get you fired!”
They cracked up, which made me crack up, too. I tried to get them to change their order to something more reasonable, like the seared monkfish on a bed of scalloped potatoes or the roast Long Island duck with couscous and fresh Chinese eggplant.
No luck. They wanted the seven-course prix fixe. That’s what they got. And I ended up with another humungous tip.
When my shift was over, I was five hundred dollars richer. Not only that, but Mia and Alex agreed to come with me to the Haute Max studio theater, off Sunset Boulevard in the Fairfax District, where Gemma was going to be performing in her first showcase.
As you probably know by now, I’m not big on praying for specific things. If God even listens to prayer, he has better things to do than respond to the entreaties of a seventeen-year-old girl who lives in Ricardo Montalban’s mansion. But as I said good night to Gabi and Steven before we went out to our cars, I sent a little prayer to the Almighty.
Please let Gemma be great. She really, really needs this.
Not that God should be concerned about a rookie improvisational-comedy showcase.
But still.
“Give it up for our newest improv students, participating in their very first showcase. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to the Haute Max Improv Rookie Team!”
We were a small crowd in Haute Max, which was less a theater than a room with folding chairs and a low wooden stage. The small crowd made sense, since the only people who would be expected at a midnight show done by rookies would be friends and family. I was there as the Shelton family representative. That had been at Gemma’s request. Too many family members would have made her too nervous.
The cast ran onstage. The audience whooped and hollered. There were eight actors, four guys and four girls of all shapes and sizes. That was nice, and a good lesson for Gemma. What mattered here was not how great you looked, but how quick and funny you were.
The MC for the night, though, was striking: a young woman in her early twenties with spiky platinum hair, a ring through one nostril, and a rockin’ body. “I’m Carlie and I’m the rookies’ instructor,” she announced. We all laughed, because she’d given herself an Indian subcontinent accent. “We’ll begin with a game called Party Quirks, and let’s start with Gemma, Cristina, Dudley, and Rod.”
I knew how Party Quirks worked from the old show Whose Line Is It Anyway? One of the actors would be the host to a party. The other three actors would play guests with “quirks.” The guests would know the quirks, and the audience would know the quirks, too. For example, a quirk might be “allergic to everything.” The host’s job was to figure out the quirk and work the solution into regular conversation.
Carlie named Gemma the party host. I learned forward with anticipation and hoped she would be great.
Some hopes come true. Some don’t.
This one didn’t.
My sister was dreadful. Worse than dreadful.
The party quirks were “thinks he’s Harry Potter,” “acts like everyone needs a shower,” and “afraid of her own shadow.” Gemma guessed none of them, even after the actors gave her big hints. She did get a lot of sympathetic laughs, but Carlie brought the game to a merciful close when Gemma got hopelessly stuck.
“That’s not a great start,” Mia whispered.
“I’ll say.”
“Maybe she’s nervous,” Alex suggested.
“Maybe.”
I didn’t want to say what we all were thinking: Maybe she just doesn’t have any talent.
It didn’t get better. During a game called Ask the Expert, in which three actors onstage took questions from the audience as a single entity, with each actor contributing by adding one word at a time to an answer, Gemma froze on the question “What would you do about global warming?” She’d been set up perfectly by the other two actors: cover the world in ice cream and top it off with whipped cream and a cherry. All she had to do was add the word “cherry.” Instead, she’d just sat silently, with a goofy look on her face.
The audience still laughed, though. Maybe people thought she’d stayed silent on purpose.
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Finally, Gemma was in the last number of the night, called Blues. She and an actor named Dudley were supposed to make up an instant blues song about a topic that Carlie suggested. Carlie slung on a guitar and started a twelve-bar blues. “Sing about an audience member!” she called.
Finally. Something easy. In fact, I quickly wrote a blues lyric in my head. About me.
There’s a preacher’s daughter who’s here.
She and her friends are in white.
She can try to sing the blues,
But I’m telling you, that ain’t right!
No problem, right?
Wrong. Gemma got stuck again. Fortunately, the audience again thought it was deliberate, and laughed hysterically.
We all joined in the standing ovation at the end of the show. Gemma was happy and excited as she took her bow. Yikes. Someone was going to have to tell her that she wasn’t all that great. In fact, whatever she was destined for in life, improv comedy wasn’t it.
I didn’t want that someone to be me.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“So, what did you really think of last night?” Gemma looked down at me, eyes shining, as we walked together through the church parking structure.
Did she have to ask me that here? We were supposedly on God’s turf. I was already carrying around one big lie. Was the right thing to be honest, or to tell a lie of kindness?
It was the Sunday morning after Gemma’s showcase, and I was dragging. We’d awakened at seven to catch a ride with my mom. There was a Wait/Great planning meeting at nine. Then we’d go to the late service. At least I didn’t have to work again until Tuesday, since Whitehall was closed Sundays and Mondays. When I told Alex that I thought closing two days a week was civilized, Alex said civilization had nothing to do with it.
“First law of Angeleno restauranting: the harder it is to get a reservation, the more people want to come. Whitehall could book every table seven days a week, but why give people what they want when they can want what you have?”
Interesting logic, no?
I looked at my sister and took a deep breath. Then I opted for nonresponsive truth. “I thought … I thought the crowd really loved you.”
Gemma was delighted. “Really? That’s what I thought, too! I think I can do this! Don’t you?”
“When’s your next class?” I answered her question with a question.
“Tuesday morning. I can’t wait.”
Our Wait/Great meeting was in the church courtyard, because the building on Sundays was a Christian Grand Central Station. There were the regular services, Sunday school, music ministry, Christian group meditation, adult Bible discussion, and day care, all under way at the same time.
“Hey, Sheltons! What a zoo! Am I late?”
Mia came running up behind us. She wore a long red skirt with a pink top; her dreads were held back by several red barrettes. Gemma had on a simple gray T-shirt dress, and I’d chosen more of my Threads threads—a polka-dotted skirt, black tights, and a slightly-clingy-but-still-tasteful ribbed black top.
“Nope, right on time,” Gemma told her confidently. “You look great. Thanks again for coming to my showcase. I mean it.”
“You’re very welcome,” Mia told her. “It was fun.”
We were the last to arrive for the meeting, and slid into the last empty chairs that had been arranged in a circle in the center of the courtyard. The same people were there as had been for our first meeting, but there were also a few guys. There was Fitz, the guy I’d met on the homeless shelter project. Also, a guy named Lars and another named Jonny. Lars was very tall and skinny, with a prominent Adam’s apple, while Jonny was short and powerfully built.
Sandra called the meeting to order.
“Hi, and welcome to Wait/Great,” she said after a brief opening prayer.
“We’ve got just one more meeting before we go public on Saturday night.”
Saturday night? Oh no.
I don’t know how I hadn’t thought of it, but I hadn’t thought of it. I would probably be scheduled to work that night. In fact, I was sure I would be. I’d have to ask Gabi for the night off. What if he said taking that night off was impossible? That it was the most important night of the week for Whitehall, and I had to be there if I wanted to keep my job?
I pushed that ugly thought away as Sandra laid out the agenda for our discussion. “I thought we’d focus today on details for Saturday. Music, programs, who’s going to speak, who’s going to do refreshments, et cetera. But I also thought that since it’s Sunday, maybe we could start by talking about this group personally. Why we’re all here. What we hope the group will do for us in our lives. In some other churches they’d call it testimony. Who wants to start?”
Huh. This wasn’t what I’d expected.
Gisela raised her hand. “I’ll start. I’m here because I don’t want to end up like my mother and father. My father’s the consul general for Germany, right? And he’s this big deal at Lufthansa, the airline? All I can say is that looks can be deceiving. He and my mom don’t set a very good example. There’s just a lot of temptation around the house. Too much temptation, if you know what I mean. I hope this group can make me not like them. Thanks.”
It was hard not to be held rapt by Gisela’s words, but something about them made me uncomfortable, too. Was it that little thing called “Honor thy father and mother?” Was Gisela’s speaking so frankly—I could only imagine what her parents left on the coffee table—simply her being honest to everyone’s benefit? Or was she being dishonorable? Or both?
Kiley, the girl who worked as an au pair for the rock star Platinum, held up a finger. Sandra called on her.
“Gisela, I work for a rock star. It’s pretty crazy. I think I know what you’re talking about.”
Gisela shook her head. “I’m not sure you do. I like to think I’m a strong person. But sometimes even a strong person needs help. And I—I won’t go into the sex stuff.”
To my surprise, Lars cleared his throat. “She won’t. But I will.”
The new guy stood. He was so skinny that his khaki pants and yellow dress shirt sort of hung on him. “I’m Lars and I’m new here, as you guys know. Gisela said she didn’t want to go into the sex stuff. But I think we have to go into the sex stuff.”
He took out his Android phone. “All I have to do is type in the right URL or download the right free app, and I’m going to see stuff that would have been illegal fifty years ago.”
I looked at my sister. She was riveted. Same thing with everyone else.
“I’ve never had an issue with booze,” Lars said. “Believe me. If I wanted it, I could get it. Same thing with drugs. Blow, four-twenty, pills. All you have to know is the right people. But the fact is I haven’t been tempted. But the Internet? I know the difference between healthy curiosity and not-healthy curiosity, and sometimes my curiosity isn’t so healthy. If this group helps me stay healthy, then I think Wait/Great is great.”
When Lars sat down, there was actual applause.
Now was the time for me to spill. I knew it. I could get it off my chest and not be judged for it. They’d applauded Lars. They probably would applaud me.
If Gemma hadn’t been there, I probably would have raised my hand.
I didn’t.
We moved on to the nuts and bolts of our first public meeting. We decided that Sandra should be our keynote speaker, though Jonny made a strong case for it to be Lars. We chose Courtney as backup when Lars took himself out of the running.
Fine. Dandy. As long as it wasn’t me.
Second service of the morning. The usual extravaganza.
The church orchestra played brilliantly, and the choir sang a collection of patriotic songs, since we were nearing July 4. They finished with the full “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” which I’d never listened to closely before. The line in the final verse about how “He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free” gave me a lot to think about.
I sat in our usual pew with my dad,
Chad, and Mia. Gemma was with some of the church girls. Not Lisa Stevens, but some of the others. Did the confidence that came with doing improv onstage have anything to do with that? I hoped so. How crushing it could be if her improv teacher told her that she was talentfree.
When the “Battle Hymn” ended, my mother stepped to her lectern. As usual, she wore her black worship robe with the quirky red stripe that started at her neckline, crossed over her heart, and followed a seam to the base of the robe. There was palpable excitement. The sanctuary was filled to overflowing. Word of the amazing new minister at the Church of Beverly Hills was spreading.
Just before my mom began to speak, someone new made his way into our pew.
Shepard Samuels. Alex’s brother.
He wore khakis, a tan cotton button-down shirt, and a dark brown sport coat. I edged toward Mia so that Shep could sit between my brother and me. He greeted us all warmly and even kissed me on the cheek. He’d never met Mia before, so I made a hurried sotto voce introduction.
My mom liked to begin with her sermon, on the theory that it got people to church on time and covered them if they had to leave early.
“Plus,” she’d always say, “if people hate sermons? They can arrive fifteen minutes late and won’t have to hear me drone.”
My mom opened her Bible. “Today’s lesson comes from Paul’s Epistle to the Hebrews, chapter twelve, verse eleven.” Her eyes twinkled. “Of course, there’s some question about whether Paul even wrote this Epistle, but we’ll defer that controversial discussion to the Sunday after Christmas, when there’ll be fewer of you here.”
The congregation laughed appreciatively at my mom’s diplomacy. A thousand Bibles opened. My mother taught that Paul’s letter was written at a time of great tribulation for the early church. But it still exhorted the followers of the risen Jesus to be steadfast, cheerful, and especially disciplined in their faith.
“When we flag, when we feel weary, when we doubt ourselves, doubt our self-reliance, and doubt our steadfastness, let us do two things,” my mom preached. “Let us remember the determination of Jesus himself, in the face of Roman persecution and challenge from members of his own faith. Let us remember that though we may feel alone, we are not alone. Not only do we have God and Jesus to guide us, but we have each other. What good is a congregation if we can’t rely on each other, the way the walls of a church rely on every brick to stand?”
Little Lies Page 10