Bittersweet

  All the people I love, my family and the friends like Trick and Dani who’ve become family. All the little quirks that make even the most barren, frigid places beautiful, that make a tiny gray dot on the map the one place you’ll always call home, no matter where your glamorous, boring, adventurous, average, ridiculous, impossible, epic, romantic, bacon-infused life leads you.

  “I’m sorry, Dani. I was a million miles away. But not now. Listen … you’re my best friend. I can’t imagine my life without you in it, no matter how much we fight or who we’re with or where we live. None of that stuff matters. We’re sisters, you know?”

  She nods, wiping her eyes on the edge of her apron. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “Do-over?” I whisper.

  “Do-over.” Dani reaches out and squeezes my hand. She leans in for a hug, but I pull back.

  “Wait. There’s one more issue to discuss. Probably the most important one of all.”

  “What?” she asks, eyebrows crinkling.

  “I’m not sure how to say this.” I put my hand on her shoulder and look deep into her eyes. “Dani, does Frankie … does he know about your obsession with pirates?”

  “Are you kidding me? Pirates are soo last month. I’m on to ninja spies now. Bedroom Assassin, by Ella Drake? Very sexy.”

  “Naked ninja hotties? I dig it.” I smile, and Dani finally gets her hug. Inside, the opening chords of Van Morrisson’s “Brown Eyed Girl” spill out of the old radio, muffled through the door.

  “Listen.” I make my voice man-deep. “I think they’re playing our song.”

  “Well?” She tilts her head and holds out her hand, corkscrew curls shining under the silver moon. “What do you think?”

  “You asking me to dance?”

  “In that outfit? Hell yeah, I’m asking you to dance, mama. Shake that fine, sequin-covered ass!” She grabs my hands and we jump and twirl behind the diner, the seagull squawking in vain protest as Dani tries desperately to carry the tune. I keep my hands locked on hers and close my eyes, and my off-key, vocally underdeveloped best friend sings it long and loud into the wintry night, snowflakes falling softly on my tongue.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Not-So-Impossible Orange Dreams

  Vanilla cupcakes iced in swirled vanilla and orange buttercream, garnished with an orange slice and shaved dark chocolate

  When Dani and I get back inside, only a handful of people dot the dining room, families waiting for their to-go boxes, kids licking cupcake crumbs from their plates. As I refill the salt and pepper shakers on the counter, I keep my eyes on the front door, betting against the odds on one final customer. One last chance.

  But he doesn’t show.

  “Hudson?” Mom leans out the kitchen door, hair slipping out of her ponytail, eyes puffy and tired. She nods toward the booth near the counter. On one side, Bug’s curled up on the bench with his backpack, a shoeless foot dangling off the seat. “He asleep?”

  “Totally zonked.”

  Mom smiles. “He was quite a trouper tonight.”

  “No kidding.” I replace the big jars of salt and pepper under the counter and line up the shakers against the sugar dispensers. “A few more years and you can give him his own Hurley Girl dress.”

  “I think he’d prefer a Hurley Man space suit.” Mom reties her ponytail and sighs. “Okay, Hudson. Now that we’re out of the weeds, we need to have a little chat.”

  “Start by telling me where you went tonight.” Mom closes the office door behind me and takes the seat at her desk. “Before the cupcake free-for-all.”

  I sit in the small swivel chair across from her, smoothing my hands over the silky skirt of my competition dress. All winter I’ve kept this from her. Now that I have no choice but to tell her, everything I thought I’d be confessing is different. The scholarship, the competition, all those months on the ice at Fillmore—it all means something else now.

  I take a steadying breath. Whatever it means, it’s time for the truth. And if I’m finally being honest about my dreams, I have to start by yanking them out of the closet.

  “I’ve been skating again, Ma. Training.”

  Mom doesn’t say a word as I tell her the entire story: work breaks at Fillmore, the foundation letter, Baylor’s, the Wolves gig, Kara, my guilt about Empire, all the secrets and lies, everything I thought I wanted to achieve this winter. For the first time since my father left, I don’t hide behind my apron and a mixing bowl. I don’t shy away from honesty just because it’s hard and uncomfortable for both of us. I tell her the truth. The real deal about me, about what I want. About who I am. Who I’m not.

  My father was the one who bought me my first pair of skates and set me on the ice so long ago. He made sure there was money for private lessons with Lola and all of the equipment I needed. He came to every event, home and away. And he took me skating when I just needed to run around the rink and be silly, no choreography, no moves, no routine. He rented skates and chased me in circles and bought us hot chocolate when we got tired. Skating was ours, mine and his, and in that moment on the ice at the Empire Games, I knew that my mother could no more fill his empty place in the stands than she could fill his empty place in my life. For all the dreams my father and I shared, nothing was strong enough to keep him here with us. And in his absence, I thought I wasn’t strong enough to carry those dreams on my own.

  But I was wrong. I’m strong enough to carry any dream on my own. I was just trying to carry the wrong one.

  “Dad’s gone,” I say, “and I let him take skating with him. For three years I told myself he ruined it. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. I miss it, Ma. I miss being on the ice. And I’m tired of sneaking around to do it.”

  Mom leans back in her chair, eyes glazed with tears. “Baby, I had no idea you were skating again. No idea you wanted any of this. You could’ve told me and saved us both a lot of grief. Not to mention money—how much extra cash have you been floating Mrs. Ferris?”

  My face goes hot. “Enough to cover a few months of gas bills.”

  “Oh, Hudson …”

  “I felt like I couldn’t talk about it because you’d get upset, either about the cost of everything, or just remembering stuff with Dad. So when I got that letter, I thought if I could find a way to skate and earn a scholarship, I could tell you after. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about paying for college, and I could still do something I love.”

  “Hudson, your father and I have a college savings for you.”

  “You—what?”

  Mom reaches for a tissue. “It’s not fifty grand—not even close—but it’s a start. Enough for in-state tuition, anyway.”

  “But …” I close my eyes, memories resurfacing. “You guys had the lump sum thing. I remember the lawyer explaining it when we sold the old house. Dad didn’t have to pay anything else.”

  “That was for alimony and child support, hon. He’s still putting up for part of your education. He makes a deposit every other month. As much as it pains me to say this—and trust me, it does—he’s not a total heartless jerk.”

  I fold my arms over my sequins, images of Dad and Shelvis flickering through my head. “I don’t want anything from him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s your father, even if he’s not around. Helping with college is the least he can do. Believe me.”

  I stand up and shove my chair back. “No. He bailed on us, Ma. Divorce is one thing, but he totally bailed. He never calls, he barely ever e-mails, and even then it’s just to talk about himself.”

  “I know, and it tears me up that he does that to you kids. But college is expensive, and it’s his responsibility as a father to—”

  “He’s not allowed to feel like a good father just for writing a check. I’d rather have a mountain of student loans than let him buy me a single textbook.” I slump back into the chair.

  Mom reaches for my hands across the desk. “You don’t have to decide about that right now, and I’m not trying to turn this into a conversation a
bout your father’s issues. The point is, you could’ve been honest with me. All this time you’ve been training for another competition, and I was in the dark. I didn’t even know you still had skates. Are you signed up for anything else? More competitions? Scholarships? Lessons?”

  I shake my head. “No competitions. But I do want to keep skating. Maybe just at a club or coaching little kids or whatever.”

  “What about work?” Mom releases my hands and shuffles through the mound of papers on her desk. “You’re still on the schedule this month, and you’ve got a ton of Valentine’s orders coming up, and—”

  “I know. And I want to do them. All of them. I like baking cupcakes. I like being here with Trick and Dani in the mornings, hanging out in the kitchen, inventing new flavors.”

  “You do?”

  I nod. “I just don’t want to work at Hurley’s forever. Not as a waitress and not as the future owner. Who knows what’ll happen down the line, but right now, I don’t want the same things you did. I want my own life.”

  Mom straightens the papers on her desk, flipping through the stacks with her thumb. I pick at a loose sequin from my dress, pulling it off and rolling it between my fingers. Mom opens her desk drawer and shoves a stack of inventory sheets inside. Closes it. Taps a pencil on the arm of her chair. I roll and unroll my leg warmers, stretch them out, pull them up over my knees.

  “So the diner’s not your big dream,” Mom finally says, dropping her pencil into the abyss on her desk. “I can accept that. It’s my dream—always was. The thing is, right now, it’s also our family’s only source of income. And I really can’t make it work without your help.”

  I lean back in my chair and let out a long sigh, remembering Ms. Fanny Pack and her viable income models. “I know.”

  “I kept telling you the waitressing gig was only temporary, but I guess it didn’t work out that way.”

  I shrug. “I understand, Ma. I know I didn’t make it easy, and I know you do a lot for me and Bug. I want to help. Just, maybe in a different way.”

  “What way? We got a huge boost tonight, sure. But that review comes out next week, and it could really break us. If that happens, I don’t know how much longer I can keep this place open. This isn’t a guilt trip. It’s a fact.”

  “Let’s just see what he says. Maybe it won’t be that bad. Besides, Dani made a good point—people around here only care about the sports page.”

  Mom laughs. “True.”

  “Anyway, I’m not ditching again—keep me on the schedule for now. Tonight was good. Dani said she got a bunch of catering and party requests, so things might turn out fine. In the meantime, I really just have one request.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Eighty-six the uniforms. The Hurley Girl dresses are a little ridiculous, Ma.”

  She smirks. “Says the girl in skintight rainbow sequins and pink leg warmers?”

  There’s a knock on the office door, and Dani pokes her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a table here for Hudson.”

  “Mind getting their drinks?” I ask.

  “Already done. Now they’re just getting impatient, banging their silverware on the table and everything. Very middle school, if you ask me.”

  Bug trails in behind her, rubbing his eyes. “Jeez, your friends are loud. Some of us are trying to sleep!” He crawls into Mom’s lap and rests his head on her shoulder.

  “Ooh, there they go again. Listen.” Dani pushes the door all the way open. From the dining room, all through the kitchen, right straight into the office, a silverware-banging chant floats on the air.

  “Pink! Pink! Pink! Pink!”

  “Pig?” Mom asks as she arranges Bug on another chair. “No, wait … pink? Is that what they’re saying? Dani, why are they saying that?”

  Dani shakes her head and laughs. “It’s … a really long story.”

  “Those are the best kind.” Mom tightens her ponytail and ushers us out into the kitchen. “I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee. Hudson, see to your table. You won’t have the honor much longer, so make it count.” She winks at me, and I turn toward the dining room, still clad in my skating getup and a frosting-spattered half apron, ready to face the music. Er, chanting. Whatever.

  I push through the doors. Crammed together around a long row of pushed-together tables, all nineteen of the Watonka Wolves—plus Ellie, Kara, two of Amir’s cousins, and a handful of other girls from school—whistle and cheer as I make my dazzling appearance.

  After the fight on the ice last week, Will’s scandal with Dodd, everything that happened and unhappened between Josh and me, the rise and fall of my big fat skating plans—I didn’t expect to see them again. Not like this.

  “What are you guys doing here?” I ask.

  “Celebrating,” Amir says. “Not sure if you heard, but we’re kind of a big deal around here. Championship contenders and all. Howoooo!”

  The other guys join in and pull me into some kind of fumbling group hug, and even Kara gives me a quick squeeze.

  “I heard about what you did tonight,” she says quietly into my ear. “I’m proud of you, Hudson. I mean it.”

  After the rousing cheers and generally obnoxious ordering process, the group dogs their postgame dinner, along with twelve large loganberries, seven hot chocolates, three coffees, five fake ginger ales, three dozen cupcakes, and anything else they could cram into their mouths.

  The team and their entourage are lighthearted and red-faced from celebrating, but Will and Josh are more subdued than the rest, smiling quietly from opposite ends of the table. Neither looks at me fully, but the tension between them seems to have eased, at least for now. So I refill their drinks and congratulate them again on their win, and in the end, they clap and cheer and pull me into another hug. I’m pretty sure Brad palms my ass and tries to play it off like a too-many-hands-in-the-group-fondle-fest accident, but hey, I can’t say I wasn’t warned about sporting events and rowdy customers. I let it slide for now, but next time? Adorable championship varsity hockey boy or not, he’s totally getting a pitcher of ice water in the lap.

  We settle up the check and I watch them leave, the girls huddled together against the cold, the boys fist-bumping and fake fighting in the parking lot as they make their way through the slush.

  I trace circles on the glass as they disappear, group by group, couple by couple. Will ducks into his car alone and motors out of the lot, and soon the last remaining Wolf is Josh. He opens his car door, the interior light casting a soft glow on the snow. As if he senses me watching, he turns back to the diner, one hand on the car door, hesitating.

  But then he slips into the car and pulls the door shut, the light turning black in the space he left behind. As he rolls across the lot to the exit, his tires carve twin black paths in the slush. The car stops. Break lights flash twice. And then he’s gone.

  I turn from the window and head to the kitchen for the empty bus bins, ready to tackle the monumental task of clearing their tables.

  “I still can’t believe they did it,” I say to Dani as we scrape food and stack dishes into the bins.

  “News dude was right,” she says. “Talk about a comeback.”

  I smile and arrange a row of chocolate-stained mugs in the bin. After a ten-year losing streak, decades out of the finals, the Watonka Wolves are going to the division championships. “I think they might get a felt banner on the gym wall. Finally.”

  “With your name on it, Princess Pink,” she says.

  “Hey, stranger things, right?” I heft a full bin onto my hip and lug it into the kitchen, feet aching, shoulders sagging, but heart—at least for now—a little lighter. Even if I can’t be part of the team anymore, even if things got weird with Will and didn’t work out as I’d hoped with Josh, even if I carry the scars of regret for the rest of my life, I know that this winter, for a little while, I was part of something bigger. Something special.

  Cheers to that, wolf pack.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

&nb
sp; Have Your Cupcakes and Eat Them, Toos

  Vanilla cupcakes topped with blueberry vanilla buttercream, miniature sugared hearts, gold and silver glitter, and dark chocolate edging

  They say there’s no such thing as bad publicity, and maybe that’s true. But I have a feeling if the Buffalo News ever learned we put out an APB on a certain missing hamster that night, Hurley’s would be in some serious publicity trouble—not the good kind.

  Fortunately, the restaurant critic never knew that while he feigned indifference over the beef tips two weeks ago, Mr. Napkins launched his own exploratory committee, investigating the leftovers and cobwebs under the grill.

  Unlike my “Teen’s Talent” piece, our newest claim-to-fame article has only been tacked behind the register for a few days, so I haven’t memorized it yet. You can see the headline from across the room, though, even without leaning over and squinting:

  “Hurley’s Homestyle Diner in Watonka: A Rare Oasis in the Culinary Tundra.”

  Oasis. Believe that? Thank you, Mr. Poker Face. If the whole food critic thing doesn’t work out, you should totally consider figure skating judgery. You’ve got a gift, friend. A true gift!

  The review didn’t mention cupcakes specifically, but that didn’t stop my zany creations from wowing Watonka again. Between that angel of icing stunt and the Valentine’s orders I booked at school—sales really picked up once the hockey wives decided my goodies have more romantic street cred than those cheesy carnations the cheerleaders peddle—the baking biz is booming.

  I haven’t retired my bangin’ Hurley Girl dress yet, but Nat’s back after a brief respite, and Mom promised to start interviewing for two new girls. Plus, she promoted Dani to head server and all-around front-of-the-house boss, which was just fine with Marianne, because after working here for, like, a hundred years, she’s not looking to move up the exciting Hurley’s career ladder anyway. Now, with Dani helping Mom screen potential new girls and keep tabs on everything up front, I can spend more time in the back, training my new recruit.