“I’ll go,” I say. “As long as I don’t have to do your English homework first.”
Will smiles. “No homework. I promise.”
I grab my stuff and follow him downstairs. A soft blue glow emanates from the living room at the other end of the house. Will’s father chuckles in halfhearted intervals with the canned laugh track.
Will opens the front door. “See you at the game tomorrow?”
“No. I work doubles on Saturdays. Waitressing and cupcakes, yay.”
“Yay for us, anyway. Thanks again for the cupcakes. Can’t promise I won’t dig in before Mom gets home.”
“That’s why I brought six. Try to save her at least one.”
“I’m not paying to heat the outside, kids!” Mr. Serious Pants calls out from the living room.
“She’s leaving, Dad.” Will grabs my hand. “Hey, are we cool? I mean, the stuff about Dodd—you’ll keep my dirty little secrets?”
“Hmm. The part about your godfather not being allowed to know about me, or the boys not being allowed to know about your godfather?”
“Yes.”
“We’re cool,” I say. “Good luck tomorrow. Text me the score.”
Outside, the evening air tastes like tap water, cold and a little overchlorinated as my lungs turn it into hazy white puffs. As I warm up the truck, thoughts of everything flicker through my head like a slideshow: Coach Dodd. All that kissing. All that smoldering. The New Year’s party date. The other party guests. More specifically, one other party guest.
This is crazy. I just made out with Will Harper, and all I can think about is his co-captain?
W.W.H.D (What Would Hester Do)? I wonder. Then I totally laugh at myself, because Hester didn’t have it so hot, either, what with all the public scorn and sneaking around. Not to mention the fact that I’m seeking advice from a four-hundred-year-old fictional character about high school boys—never a good sign.
I back out of the Harpers’ driveway and onto the street. As I shift gears and roll forward, a plastic bag swirls in the current overhead, following me until it tangles into the branches of a bare oak, and I make a right turn toward the railroad tracks, toward home.
Chapter Thirteen
Bah Humbug and a Merry Who Cares to You, Too, Cupcakes
Dark chocolate cupcakes iced with white peppermint buttercream, piped with red stripes; to finish, jam a black jelly bean right in the middle with your thumb
I know I’m dreaming, because I was just swallowed up by an ice-fishing hole in the middle of Lake Erie and I can totally breathe underwater. I can see, too—all of my fingers are turning blue before my eyes. It doesn’t hurt, but I’m shivering. Will swims toward me in his Wolves uniform, but each time I’m about to grab his hand, he morphs into Josh and slips away. Through the bright white hole over my head, a polar bear reaches in and pokes me with his giant paw. “Wake up, Hudson,” he says evenly, like he’s just passing through Watonka on his way to Antarctica and thought I should know. “Wake up.”
I open my eyes. Will and Josh are gone. I’m no longer underwater. And the polar bear has turned into my brother, wrapped up in his silver-and-white astronaut-themed snowsuit.
“Why is it so cold in here?” I sit up, stretch, and pull the blankets to my neck. “It’s like there’s no heat.”
“Mom wants you in the kitchen.” Bug’s got this weird, you’re-pretty-much-dead warning in his tone that’s rather off-putting, especially since he just yanked me out of a potentially good dream about number seventy-seven and/or fifty-six.
“But it’s freezing in—” Oh no. No no no! My stomach drops as the red warning strip from the gas bill—shoved somewhere in the bottom of my backpack and forgotten—flashes in front of my eyes.
I throw off my blankets, bolt out of bed, and yank a sweatshirt over my head, almost flattening Bug. In our tiny kitchen down the hall, Mom’s on the phone, pacing, one hand wrapped around a mug. The steam from her coffee is so thick it looks like her hand is boiling the liquid on its own.
“How soon before it can be turned on?” she asks. “I realize that, but it’s Christmas Eve. No. I’ve got two children here. I already—yes. I’ll hold.”
I make for the coat closet and dig out my boots. Strolling down to the service center in my pajamas is not high on my Christmas Eve priority list, but if I don’t kick into proactive overdrive before Mom gets off that call, I might not be alive to see another holiday.
“I c-c-c-can’t believe you didn’t p-p-p-pay the bill.” Bug’s teeth chatter as he tucks his hands inside his snowsuit.
“You’re the one who tried to throw it out,” I remind him.
“Anthrax detection is an imperfect science.”
“You’re not helping.” I pull on my gloves and avoid Mom’s stare. The gas company—and Mom—knows we’re always late, but I’ve never totally missed a last-chance payment before. Not like this. They don’t usually shut off service in the winter. If the pipes freeze, they could burst, and dealing with burst pipes is way more expensive for them than chasing down a few late payments.
They must be really mad at us this time.
“I’m still here,” Mom says into the phone. “Oh, thank God. No, we’ll make the payment today. Okay, Thursday then. Do I need to do anything else? Thanks again—you have no idea—right. Merry—bye.” She sets the phone back into the receiver and lets out a gust of breath. “Should be back on in an hour or two. They’ll call later to make sure it’s working.”
“Mom, I’m sorry. I’ll go now. I had the bill in my bag and I totally forgot. I was busy with—”
“It’s okay.” She downs her coffee, shoves a few things from the counter into her purse, and grabs her keys. “Go on Thursday as soon as they open. And please let me know if you don’t have the cash. I don’t want to find out like this again.”
“Sorry. I won’t—”
“Since you have your coat on, run and get some milk? We’re out, and Trick needs help with the Christmas Eve specials, and—”
“When are you coming home?” Bug’s bouncing up and down like—well, like a kid on Christmas. “Are we gonna do the tree tonight?”
“I’ll probably be pretty late,” Mom says. “Hudson will help you.”
The bouncing stops. I fight off a shiver.
Mom kneels in front of him. “The good news is that Hurley’s is closed tomorrow, and we’ll have the whole day together. Just the three of us.” She looks at me to confirm. I was planning to hit Dani’s for brunch with her parents, but no way I’m risking Mom’s disappointment now. I nod.
“Great. Trick’s coming for dinner tomorrow,” she says. “He’s cooking up a bunch of stuff for me to bring home tonight. Sound good?”
“What about pumpkin pie?” Bug asks.
“We don’t have pie, sweetie. Maybe your sister can do pumpkin cupcakes?” Mom looks at me with the same anguish that flooded her voice with the gas company. It’s quickly becoming her signature scent. What’s on everyone’s holiday wish list this year? Desperation, the hot new fragrance line by Beth Avery.
“Whatever you want,” I tell Bug. And I mean it, too, because if one lousy batch of cupcakes is all it takes to give my brother a merry merry and atone for practically freezing out the whole family on Christmas, well … deck the halls with boughs of frosting, fa la la la la, la freaking la.
They’re showing a retro Smurfs Christmas special on TV, so I leave Bug in front of the electronic babysitter with Trick’s box of robot parts and an extra wool blanket and head out for Operation Find a Store That Isn’t Closed. No way I’ll get anything nearby—all the local mom-and-pops are locked down for the holiday, except of course for Hurley’s. The world could be in the final throes of the apocalypse and Mom would find some way to keep the coffee on in that joint.