“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
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.
“You ready?” I ask Bug over the flawless horn work of Charlie Parker.
Bug checks the ties on his apron and pushes up his sleeves, looking at me across the counter. “First, let’s get one thing straight. Since I’m no longer just the Glitter Czar, I need a new title.”
“Have something in mind?”
Bug nods. “Since you’re the Cupcake Queen, I should be the Cupcake King.”
I wash my hands and join him at the counter. “How about the Cupcake Prince? You can work your way up.”
He considers the compromise. “Okay. One year as the prince, then we reevaluate. I also want stock options.”
“Done and done.”
“Awesome. Let’s do this thing, girlfriend.”
As Bug measures out ingredients for his custom-made batter, I make very minor corrections, but otherwise let him experiment. That’s how I learned—a blank canvas, trial and error. Sometimes the flavors you think would be perfect together form a disastrous combo, while the ones you’d never imagine hooking up blend to perfection. Sampling and tasting, burning and undercooking, sweetening and mellowing—it rarely comes out great on the first try, but developing the focus and energy and passion for these experiments is what saved me when my father left. What helped me put a smile on my baby brother’s face when sadness was all we knew. What kept Hurley’s alive at times when our chances didn’t look so hot.
Like I always say: I’ve never met a problem a proper cupcake couldn’t fix.
“Dad’s never coming back, is he?” Bug asks, showing off his mind-reading skills. His eyes stay fixed on the mixing bowl as he dumps in a measure of melted chocolate.
“I don’t … why would you say that?”
“It’s okay, Hudson. I’m not a kid anymore.”
I smile at my baby brother, his arms stretched across the counter, elbows-deep in ingredients for his first official batch of cupcakes. Maybe he’s right; he’s not a kid, even though he’s only eight. His father left. His mother works a lot. As resident big sister in a single-parent home, it’s been my job to look after him. I promised Mom I’d never relinquish the role of chief Bug protector and homework helper, but I think we could all use a little more honesty around here.
“No. He’s not coming back.”
“Is it that lady? The one who does Elvis stuff?” He licks a smudge of chocolate from his hand and goes back to stirring. “I didn’t know he was a fan.”
“How do you know about Shelvis?”
“Google. Dad used his real name on the domain registration for his blog.”
“Um … I don’t even know what that means.” I lean over his shoulder to check the consistency of the batter and guide his hand into a slower stir. “Dad’s gone, sweet pea. I don’t think he stopped loving us, he just doesn’t really know how to show it right now. Pretty lame, if you ask me.”