The Good, the Bad, and the Cupcakes
Oatmeal pumpkin cupcakes shot through with chocolate fudge, topped with a thin layer of fudge icing and toasted coconut tumbleweeds
“So, the stretchy jeans. Did they or did they not get the job done?” Dani demands, watching me over a bowl of peaches-and-cream batter on our usual Saturday-morning shift. “Usual” meaning I still had to be here before sunrise to bake, only now, instead of hitting up Fillmore for a late-morning break while my cupcakes cool, I’ll be working the floor. After nearly a week of training, I’m still not winning any customer service awards, but it is getting easier.
I pour the batter into cups and slide everything into the oven. “Promise you won’t laugh.”
“Are you kidding me with this right now? I gave up ladies’ night so you could hang with the hockey boys, and you’re making conditions?”
“Promise!”
“Okay, okay. No laughing.” She drops a stack of laminated menus on the counter for their weekly wipedown. “Now tell me!”
I clear my throat for dramatic effect. “For starters, every time I see hockey boys, I bite it on the ice.”
“You fell? Again?” Dani’s cough-that’s-supposed-to-cover-the-laugh-she-promised-not-to-do is only slightly muted by the howl of a passing ambulance out back.
“Hey! I said no laughing! This is so not funny.”
“It’s totally funny. You’re the most graceful person I know. I can’t believe you’re such a klutz around your crush.”
“He’s not my—”
“Mmm-hmm.” Dani tosses an unsavable grease-stained menu into the trash. “You know, hon, it occurred to me that this whole Wolves thing might be a really bad idea. What kind of a hockey team has not one, but three black dudes? No wonder they can’t win.”
“You think we live in Norway or something? Amir Jordan is Pakistani. There’s also an Asian guy, some Puerto Ricans, and the starting left wing has, like, carrot-hair. He must be Irish. It’s the whole UN over there.”
“Yeah, but did you ever notice there aren’t many black guys in the NHL? There’s no hockey in the homeland, Hud. It’s unnatural.”
“I’m pretty sure there’s no corned beef hash in the homeland, either, but you dogged that stuff Trick cooked up like it was your job.”
Dani laughs. “You’re just a regular, hockey-playing Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?”
I scoop some brown sugar into a bowl of buttercream, add two drops of orange tint, and flip on the mixer. “I’m not playing. Just helping out with a few practices so I can train afterward. Which, by the way, was your idea.”
“I know.” She lets the air out of her lungs, slow and loud, all the funny stuff suddenly erased. “Hudson, listen. I get that you pretty much skated right out of your mother’s uterus, okay? No doubt you can rock the rink from here to Antarctica, and that scholarship is a kick-ass opportunity.”
“Okay, one: Don’t mention my mother’s uterus. And two: That scholarship is the only reason I’m doing this.”
“I know, and I’m with you. If you want to get back out there, pull on those skates and lace ’em up, girl. I’ll be in the stands, stompin’ out my Hudson cheer. Just be realistic, too. You have a lot going on right now, and—”
“Hold up.” I flip off the mixer. “You have a Hudson cheer?”
“Maybe.”
“There’s no singing involved, is there?”
“That’s not—”
“Trust me, Dani. I can work this. They just need me once a week. And with the extra money from waitressing, I’ll pay Mrs. Ferris to stay longer with Bug. All I have to do is keep up with cupcake orders, put in my Hurley Girl time, and fly under the Mom-radar long enough to train for my competition. Two, three months tops.”
“Then what?” Finished with the menus, Dani grabs the clean silverware bin and a stack of paper napkins. “The wolf pack comes back from the dead, you score the Capriani thing, and you and the boys dash off into the sunset on your magical golden ice skates? How ro-man-tic.”
“And leave all this behind?” I sweep my arms around the steel kitchen, air saturated with bacon and cupcakes and my entire family history. “No way.”
“You know you can’t get extra-hot extra–bleu cheese chicken finger subs in any other city. And if you ditch me right after high school, I’m not FedExing them.” She tries to laugh, but it comes out too fast, a soft rush that disappears as soon as it hits the light.
Dani’s a Western New York girl, all the way. We’ve talked about going to college in Buffalo together, sharing a dorm or apartment, staying close to home. Even if I got stuck helping out at the diner on weekends, we could still live together, still see each other every day. But now, with this skating opportunity, I could do something else. I could actually leave here. And we both know it.
I lean on the counter as my best friend methodically rolls forks and spoons into napkins, not meeting my eyes. When I saw her the first morning at my new bus stop freshman year, she was like the one-girl welcoming committee, all dimples and crazy black curls that bounced when she laughed. She’d recently moved to the neighborhood, too—from some place in North Buffalo—and everything about her was different from me and the world I’d just left behind. When she smiled, it was like when the sun unexpectedly comes out in the middle of a harsh winter, and I just turned to the light of her.
Still, things had blown up with Kara and I wasn’t ready for a replacement. I kept my distance—polite yet cool, friendly but not too inviting. It was the I-fly-solo vibe that I’d spent the aftermath of my father’s disappearing act perfecting, but it didn’t faze Dani. She’d wait for me at the bus stop every morning and sit next to me for the ride, sharing her cherry-frosted Pop-Tarts and asking me what kind of music I listened to and how I liked our apartment and whether I had any siblings. Nothing about skating or competitions or coaches. Nothing about Kara and the friends I’d ditched. From that very first day, Dani looked at me like no one else had in years—without expectations, pity, or disappointment.
I fell in love with her then.
“Mom will be here any minute,” I say softly. “Let’s make sure everything’s ready.”
“Cowboy at table seven’s yours today, babe,” Dani says, armed with an empty coffee carafe and a devious grin. “Be warned: He likes to send his food back a lot, and he only tips a dollar, no matter what the bill is. Watch his hands. Oh, and don’t bend over in front of him.”
I tighten the strings on my apron. “Thanks for the A&E biography. If you know him so well, why don’t you take him?”
Dani shrugs. “Consider it your final rite of passage. If you can handle Cowboy, you can handle anyone.”
“That’s what you said about the Buff State frat boys at table twelve.” I tug on the bottom of my dress, square my shoulders, and head out to face the country music.
“Howdy,” the man says with a cheesy wink. “I’ll do the usual.”
“Sounds good. Um, what is it?”
He looks me up and down and sighs loudly through his nose. “Large orange juice, hot coffee, black, two sugars, side-a home fries, and a westerner omelet, with extra cowboys and Indians, if you please.”
Folks, we’ve got a live one here.
“OJ, coffee, home fries, western. Got it.” I scoot back toward the kitchen to put in the order, but frat house central snags me before I clear the floor.
“Can we get some more nog, please?” One of them points to his empty glass. Mom really needs to reconsider the bottomless eggnog deal. I’ve spilled so much of it on my Hurley Girl dress, the bacon grease stains are jealous. Besides, I hate that word. Nog. Ugh.
“More nog, coming right up.” I try to smile, but my cheeks hurt.
“And some ketchup,” another says.
“Sure thing.” I turn back to the kitchen.