Bittersweet

  Right. I shake off the impossible daydream and come back to reality. “Here’s what we do. Change the specials board to stuff with ham and sausage to get people off bacon. I’ll frost and box a bunch of Cherry Bombs for your big table—that should keep them from ordering off the menu and you can shoo them out before the lunch rush.”

  Dani smiles, her shoulders relaxing. “Dude, this place would seriously self-destruct without you.” She reaches up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “And it’s not just your cupcakes. You have—what’s wrong?”

  “Cupcakes. I have a big birthday order tomorrow, and I just remembered I have to do two more batches for that stupid careers and hobbies thing in French. What are you doing for it? Photography?”

  “Of course.”

  “You figure out your final photo project yet?”

  “Still thinking about it.” Dani hops up on the vanity counter, legs dangling over the edge. “The theme is passion, so of course everyone’s going for lovey-dovey.”

  “Sounds right up your alley.”

  “Nah, too predictable. Maybe I should bring in my nude self-portraits for French. Ooh la la! Madame Fromme would die!”

  “It would serve her right.” I laugh. “I swear she only gave us that assignment so I’d bring her something from Hurley’s. I should do a plumbing demo instead.”

  “That’d go over well.” Dani switches to a falsetto. “‘Mademoiselle Avery, où est les cupcakes? J’ai besoin des cupcakes!’”

  “It’s les petit gâteaux. I looked it up.”

  “Huh?”

  “‘Cupcakes’ in French. Les petit—”

  “Girls?” Mom barges into the bathroom, still clutching her clipboard. “I just sat three more tables, and Carly’s hyperventilating in the kitchen. Dani, I need you on the floor. Hud, Mrs. Zelasko called about her cupcakes—she wants to pick them up tonight instead of tomorrow. Can you stay late to finish?”

  I reach over my batter-mixing shoulder to tighten my bra strap. I should just move in to this place. Set up a cot in back. Hang my clothes on the rack with the pots and pans. “Why not?”

  “Thanks, hon. Oh, there’s a boy at table seventeen asking for you.” She wipes the back of her hand across her forehead. “John something? No, Josh. Josh Black-something. Make it quick, okay?”

  The ladies’ room door swishes closed behind her.

  Dani smirks as I dig into my apron for some lip gloss and/or a cloak of invisibility. “Interesting development.”

  “It’s a diner, Dani. People eat in them sometimes. Not that interesting.” I smear on the gloss and say all this like the inside parts of me haven’t turned into lime Jell-O. The prospect of talking to him was much less intimidating when he was driving away from me. “Maybe he’s just … craving the meat loaf?”

  Dani hops off the counter and gives me the once-over. “Craving the meat loaf? Is that what the kids are calling it now?”

  “This is really not funny.” I take another look at that window over the first stall, but my ass and I both know we won’t fit. “You have to cover for me.”

  “You can’t hide in here all day.”

  “I’m not hiding. Just go take his order and distract him while I break for the kitchen.”

  She smiles and shakes her head. “All right. But if you’re not out in five, I’ll come out you myself.”

  “Grilled cheese and tomato on rye, chocolate shake, and a side of you.” Dani breezes into the kitchen where I’m taking my sweet time boxing up those cupcakes for her big party. “Guess he wasn’t craving the meat loaf after all.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’s not here to say stuff to me.”

  “Dani—”

  “Listen up, sugar smacks,” Trick says. I almost forgot he was here, standing at the other end of the prep counter with a butcher’s knife and his big sonar ears. “Better go talk to him before I do it for you.” He brings the blade down on an unsuspecting carrot with a thwack.

  “You two suck, you know that?” I wipe my icing-covered hands on my apron and push through the doors.

  “Heyyyy,” I say when I get to his table, clutching a notepad and pen as if his order isn’t already in. As if I’m a waitress. As if I even remember how to write stuff. Anyway.

  Josh’s gaze slides up from the bottom of my apron, stopping to rest on my face. He smiles, but it’s different now—muted a little by the harsh lights of the diner.

  I scratch a squiggly line onto the notepad. How many times has he seen me skate before today?

  “I thought you were trying to escape back there,” he says, and I drop the pen.

  “No! I was … um … on break. In the break room. There’s a lounge. Outside. Where we take our breaks. When we’re on break. I mean, we don’t have to go outside, but sometimes we do. Because there’s air out there and I didn’t … um … how are you? Everything okay?”

  Where’s Dani with that milk shake? Why can’t that family in the next booth set their table on fire? I crouch down as delicately as I can to retrieve the pen.

  “Oh, definitely,” he says. “I just … I feel bad about before. I wanted to check on you.” He rubs his head again, hair still messy and adorable. “No permanent damage, right?”

  “Nah.” Just the temporary mental kind, causing my mind to wander dangerously into forbidden crush territory. “I’m totally okay, so enjoy your dinner. I mean lunch. Or … whatever.” I slip the notebook back into the pocket of my icing-smudged apron. I must look like a total freak show. “I’ll go find your waitress.”

  “Wait,” he says, lowering his voice. “I wanted to talk to you about something before, but … can I ask a crazy favor?” He looks into his water glass and pokes the ice with a straw, shifting nervously in the booth.

  “What’s up?” Need a kidney? Two of them? Where do I sign? I grab my pen again, just in case.

  “When I saw you on the ice … you’re really good.” He looks straight at me this time, and the Jell-O formerly known as my bones wobbles. I wonder if he knows how amazing those eyes are. He must. That’s how he casts his magic, bone-wobbling spells on unsuspecting cupcake bakers.

  “You used to compete, right?” he asks.

  “Yeah, but I haven’t … it’s been a few years.” Now it’s my turn to shift nervously. I stare at the fresh Band-Aids around his index and middle fingers, knuckles undoubtedly scraped when we skidded across the ice this morning. His hands look strong and sure, clean but a little rough, and I imagine them sliding over the curves of my waist….

  “Hud?” Mom calls from the front entrance, nodding toward the crowd that just piled in. “Can you help these folks, please?”

  “Be right back,” I tell Josh. I seat three tables and cash out another while Dani delivers his lunch.

  “How’s your sandwich?” I ask when I finally make it back. “Grilled cheese is awesome in the winter, isn’t it?”

  “It’s awesome always.” He holds up half. “Want a bite?”

  “I’ll make one later.”

  “Cool. Listen, about that favor …” He bites his lower lip so lightly that I don’t think he knows he’s doing it. I stare. I can’t help it. I see the white edge of teeth against his lips, the thin shadow of stubble along his jaw, the blue sky in his eyes, and Parallel Hudson takes over.

  What do you need, Josh? Just name it. Anything. I’m totally here for you.

  I knew I could count on you, Hudson. The thing is … I don’t know if I’m a good kisser. It’s not the sort of thing you can figure out on your own, you know? So I was thinking, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, maybe you could kiss me, every day for a year, and then you can …

  “Hudson?”

  I meet his gaze, trying not to think about what it would be like to kiss him. Every day. For a year.

  “Is it cool if we skate together sometime?” he asks. “Meet up at Fillmore, maybe you could show me some stuff?”

  “What?” I laugh. “You’re the hockey captain. You could probably
show me stuff.”

  “Not technical moves. Why do you think the Wolves suck so hard? No technique. And don’t even get me started on our lame coach. Please? I’d owe you majorly.”

  My brain starts to replay that cozy little café fantasy from before, but I shut it off. He’s not asking me out, he’s asking for skating lessons. Planning a solo program in my head was one thing, but skating with another person on my secret spot? Teaching him technique? Forming a team?

  Josh folds and unfolds his napkin, and I click the pen inside my apron pocket. The foundation letter was like a seed that took root deep in my subconscious. Maybe I really am good enough to try again, I secretly thought. Maybe, with a little practice, I can get into shape and compete, score that prize. But Josh is asking for help, asking me to show him my moves, show him how it’s done. His favor isn’t a letter generated by a faceless machine, signed and sent out to an entire mailing list. It’s a real request, waiting for a real, face-to-face answer.

  And I’m shrinking in the light of it.

  He really could’ve asked me anything else—Can I have that kidney after all? Wanna give the kissing thing a go? Can you dismantle a bomb out on the thin ice of Lake Erie wearing nothing but a feathered bikini?—and it would’ve been easier for me to say yes.

  I guess I’m not as ready as I thought.

  “You doin’ okay over here, hon?” Dani appears like a rabbit pulled from a hat, setting a fresh glass of water on the table. The look she flashes me says it all: She heard our conversation, and now she’s waiting for my answer, just like he is.

  “I’m good,” Josh tells her. He traces lines into the frosted edge of his glass with a fingertip, looking at me hopefully. “So it’s a date?”

  “Sounds fun, but I can’t,” I say. Dani sighs behind me. “My schedule is kind of—”

  “Hudson?” Mom’s voice cuts through the din again, this time from the window over the grill that looks out over the dining room counter. “What’s going on with Mrs. Zelasko’s order?”

  “Coming,” I tell her. I turn back to Josh. “Sorry. I have to work. See you at school?”

  “Of course,” he says. His voice is soft, but he flashes an animated smile. “I’ll try not to crash into you next time we meet.”

  I laugh. “Thanks.”

  I leave Josh with Dani and head back to cupcake central, the heavy doors swinging closed behind me. After checking Mrs. Z’s details in my order book, I set up fresh mixing gear on the prep counter and get to work.

  Trick looks at me over his shoulder and winks. “What’s good, puddin’?”

  I hold out a jar of Dutch cocoa for an answer, and he turns up the radio, letting Miles Davis do the talking as Team Diner spins into its bad-weather frenzy. Josh heads out. Other customers come and go. Mom, Dani, and a mostly useless Carly run back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room as Trick cranks out that home-cooked flavor, hot and fresh.

  But me? I take my seat at the prep counter, lost in the solo pursuit of the perfect cupcake. It’s my place now, back of the house, out of the spotlight, exactly where I belong—no matter how adorable the hockey boy is.

  Chapter Four

  When Life Hands You Lemons, Stuff ’Em in Your Bra Cakes

  Extra-large lemon cupcakes with light pink vanilla cream cheese icing, topped with a maraschino cherry and served two on a plate

  By the time I get home, it’s dark outside, my feet and shoulders ache, and Mrs. Ferris is chattering on about how Bug is such an angel of a little boy. After the third “Bug is so wonderful” story, I connect the obvious dots: Mom forgot to leave the money. Again. I fish a few tens from the stash in my underwear drawer, hand them over, and lock the front door behind her.

  “Hudson, what were the primary factors that led to the Civil War?” the squirt wants to know before I have my coat off. He doesn’t even ask about the cupcakes I promised him earlier. Which is good, because I forgot them.

  “That’s a tough one.” I slide off my boots and stretch my toes against the carpet, careful not to step on the plastic ball encasing Mr. Napkins.

  Bug waits patiently, clutching a notebook against his slightly too-small alien pajamas, eyes big and hopeful. “Any ideas?”

  “I kinda suck at history.” Mom should be here to field these important questions, but she’s still at the diner making sure all the vendors are paid and the register drawer balances. I hope he doesn’t turn into a serial killer on account of my ineffective parenting. “Did you check your textbook?”

  “I only have the second-grader version.”

  “That’s probably because you’re in second grade.”

  “Hudson, please.”

  “All right, all right. Let’s see what you’ve got.” I follow him back to tactical HQ—a.k.a. the coffee table—and check his notes. The American Civil War. There’s the title, underlined twice, with a bulleted list and arrows and Xs and an enhanced sketch of one of the plastic army men from his collection.

  “You shouldn’t have so much homework for at least another three years.” I flip through the notebook to an intricate, hand-drawn map dotted with bright green Post-it tabs.

  “It’s not homework.” He rearranges the plastic front line, glasses slipping down his nose. I keep forgetting to ask Trick for one of those tiny screwdrivers so I can fix them. “I was watching a documentary on PBS and wanted to learn more stuff.”

  “A documentary?” This kid. “Must’ve missed that one.”

  “Maybe Dad knows. He’s, like, Mr. History.”

  “He’s Mr. History, all right.” I sink back into the couch cushions. Bug was so small when my parents split—so young and bendable. He didn’t understand why our father left, or that we should have any reason to resent him. All Bug knew was that our dad was gone. And now the hole in his tiny, eight-year-old heart reminds him not that our father is thousands of miles away entertaining some ever-changing flavor of the month, but only that he misses someone he loves.

  I look at my baby brother with his giant, hopeful eyes and wish that things were that simple for me, too. That the feeling of missing Dad wasn’t all tangled up with the feeling of hating him for not sticking around. That together, Bug and I could whisper about how much we love him, how we wish he was still here, telling us everything he knows about the Civil War. That we could let Mom carry all the timeworn resentment on her own.

  “Can we call him?” Bug pushes out from the table and makes for the phone.

  “It’s two hours earlier in Nevada. Probably dinnertime over there.” Briefly, I wonder if Shelvis can cook.

  “Oh yeah.” He screws up his face and pushes his glasses up his little Bug-nose, and oh my God it just about kills me. Really. I might have a heart attack right here on the coffee table, all over the carefully arranged armies of the North and South.

  “But we can try,” I say, massaging my chest. “We can always leave a voice mail, right?”

  He shrugs, gathering up his books and papers and toys. “I’ll check online. It’s faster.”

  He zooms to the computer in the kitchen on superfast, round-and-round cartoon feet, stopping only once to rescue a lone little green man who fell to the linoleum in the rush.

  Civil War researched and Dad temporarily forgotten, I shoo Bug into bed and start on those cupcakes for Monday’s French presentation. An hour later there’s the click-clack-jingle-jangle of keys in the front lock as Mom struggles through the doorway with her giant purse and a few bags of leftovers.

  “Put this away for me, baby?” Mom hands over the goods and shakes out her snow-dusted coat in the hall.

  I transfer two stacks of aluminum take-out containers into the fridge, shove the plastic bags under the sink, and get back to work. “How’d the rest of the night go?”

  “Carly quit.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep. Said waitressing wasn’t what she expected. It’s food service, for the love of pie. What’s to expect?” She kicks off her boots and flops onto a chair at the kitche
n table. “What are you making over there?”

  “Carousel Cupcakes. They’re for this careers and hobbies thing for French.” I hold up my baking notebook to show her the rough sketch—white cake with sunshine-orange icing, a chocolate straw and animal cracker stuck into the top. I really wanted to do these two-tiered lavender honey cakes I saw on a wedding show at Dani’s, but I figured words like “bear” and “tiger” were easier to explain en français. Besides, no way the masses of Watonka High would appreciate a work of art like two-tiered lavender honey cakes.

  Mom’s beaming like a normal parent would if her kid just got accepted to Harvard. “You’re so clever with those things.”

  I stir a bit more yellow into the frosting, a drop at a time until I get the color just right. Mom’s always been my number one cupcake fan. The other day a lady asked to see our sample book, and Mom gushed over those photos like they were her grandbabies or something. “Look at this one,” she cooed, pointing to a shot of my lamb cupcakes—shaved coconut wool, a mini-cupcake head, and chocolate chips for eyes. “My daughter makes them all by hand. Aren’t they cute?” I smile when I think about it now, even though it is kind of silly. Lamb cupcakes? Honestly. But Mom goes crazy for stuff like that.

  “So,” she continues, “speaking of Carly—”

  “Yeah, I know we have that nondiscrimination policy, but is it illegal to discriminate against psychos? Because she’s the third psycho to quit this year, and—”

  “Hudson, there’s something we need to talk about, honey.”

  I toss my wooden spoon into the bowl. “Honey” is total red alert stuff in our house. Was she hovering when I talked to Josh at the diner? Did Bug slip up and tell her about the skates?

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  Mom taps her fingers on the table. Shuffles through the papers Bug left. Stares out the window as the plastic wall clock ticks off the seconds. Minutes.

  “Hurley’s …,” she finally says, “we’re not doing so hot.”

  “We were slammed today.”

  Mom shakes her head. “It’s not enough. We got a nice boost after your cupcake article, but … I don’t know. This was the worst month on the books in years.”