(Sample post: the people and events in this story are made up for display purposes.)
For my 16th birthday I decided to get a weekend job. Two reasons: I wanted to save up for a pair of sneakers, and I was curious what having a job actually felt like. I walked past the shops near my place way too many times before I spotted a handwritten sign on a bubble tea shop’s door: “Weekend crew wanted.” I took a deep breath, walked in and asked if I could leave my résumé.
Day one, I was so nervous I scooped double the pearls into the first cup. A little kid on tiptoes watched me shake it and said, very seriously, “That’s a LOT of pearls.” I went bright red. My manager just laughed: “Happy customer, though.” Later I heard “less ice” as “extra ice,” knocked over a mango slushie, and spent the end of my shift mopping.
On the bus home I honestly thought about quitting. But the next Saturday my manager showed me a trick: after every drink, say the order back in your head — sugar, ice, toppings. It sounds silly. It works. Bit by bit my hands learned the moves and I stopped staring at the recipe chart on the wall.
The best part turned out to be the regulars. There’s a grandma who comes in every week for a half-sugar hot oolong and tells me about working in a Hong Kong teahouse when she was young. There are twins who argue every single time about whose turn it is to pay. By week four I had their cups out before they reached the counter. Being remembered felt better than any tip.
When my first pay came in, I didn’t buy the sneakers straight away. I bought Mum some flowers first. She paused, then grinned: “Look who’s earning money now.”
I still do Saturdays there. I got the sneakers, but my favourite part is actually the ten minutes before we open — wiping down the bench, putting music on, waiting for the first customer to walk in. If you’re on the fence about your first job: give it a go. Wrecking a few bubble teas is totally fine.