“Dani,” I whisper as the room darkens and the presentation begins—French Impressionism. Much better than watching Madame traipse through the City of Light with her mall bangs and stirrup pants.
“Dani!” I say again, a little louder. Still no response.
I sneak my phone out of my pocket and send her a text, but when her purse buzzes on the floor, she ignores it, twirling her corkscrew curls around a pencil. Desperate, I go low-tech, pen and paper, and quickly sketch a pirate with Dani’s name tattooed on his chest. I even dot the i with a little heart and add a parrot on his shoulder. At the top I write, “A Pirate Sonnet: Roses arrr red. Violets arrr blue. I know we arrr fighting. But I miss talking to you. Arr.”
Pretty impressive, considering I’m not exactly a sketch artist. Or a poet.
I fold it into a triangle and toss it onto her desk. Casually, she stretches out her arm and nudges my note to the floor, unopened and unacknowledged.
At least … unacknowledged by Dani. Madame Fromme, on the other hand, swoops down like a vulture, capturing my note in her talon and tossing it into the trash without missing a beat on the slide show narration.
For the rest of class, I sit with my hands folded on my desk, face forward, soaking up some art en français. It’s slightly less lame than I predicted. Madame shows a bunch of winter scenes from Alfred Sisley, and they totally remind me of Watonka. Like first thing in the morning, when the sun’s just coming up and everything is quiet and undisturbed, snow still fresh and white, the day uncharted—on those mornings, you look out the window and you know anything can happen, because nothing’s gone wrong yet. No best friend fights or lying to your mom or kissing boys in the hallway. It’s just clean, pure potential. Hope.
I haven’t had a Sisley kind of day in a long time.
When the class bell buzzes, Madame Fromme flips on the lights and Dani packs up her stuff, rapid-fire. Before I can say attende, s’il vous plaît, she’s out the door, and Trina Dawes is perching her tiny little ass on the edge of my desk.
The girl is glammed to the max, eyes coated with thick black liner and hair pinned into a prom-style updo behind a rhinestone tiara. In her left hand she’s holding a thin silver wand.
“Hey, Hudson.” The queen bee fairy hooker taps me with the wand and sticks out her chest, letting her tight white T-shirt do the explaining:
Kiss Me, I’m the Birthday Girl!
“Happy—” Ohmygod. It’s January tenth. Friday, January tenth. A hundred people at least …
“Birthday,” I stammer.
She whirls her magic wand between us and bounces on her toes. “Are the cupcakes just so amazing?”
I nod emphatically. Bubble-Gum Bling, her signature theme? I had major plans. Heart-shaped dark chocolate and white chocolate cupcakes, a thick pillow of pink strawberry whipped cream frosting with a light sugar glaze, edible silver glitter, hard candy gemstone accents, all arranged on mirrored trays twined with white Christmas lights. Photo-worthy, cupcake-archive quality all the way.
Too bad they don’t exist.
“So amazing,” I say.
“Yay! Mom will be at Harley’s at five to pick them up.” Trina taps me once more with the magic wand and bounces into the hallway with her girlfriends, giggling about their so amazing Friday-night party plans. Best birthday ever!
“Hurley’s,” I say, but she’s already gone.
I look at the clock over Madame’s desk and do some quick calculations. I still have three more hours of classes, which leaves less than two hours after school to make two hundred blinged-out cupcakes for the birthday fairy. That’s barely enough time to mix and bake them, let alone cool, frost, and hand-decorate. I don’t even remember where I stashed the mirrored trays.
Attention, ladies and gentlemen, this is not a test. I repeat, this is not a test. This is a bona fide, break-the-glass cupcake emergency.
And there’s only one desperately shameful way to fix it.
Operation Bake-and-Switch commences at the Front Street Fresh ’n’ Fast immediately after school.
I check my last shred of self-respect at the entrance, snag a rusty shopping cart, and beeline for the bakery. And by bakery, clearly I’m talking about the shelves where they stack all the stuff that was created by machines on an assembly line in Tulsa, injected with preservatives and high-fructose chemicalness, and shipped here on a truck for our postproduction enjoyment.
I’m pretty sure it’s one of those moments where everything is supposed to stand still for a few seconds so you can recognize the impending disaster and redirect the course of your life, but I don’t have time for any of that nonsense, because there’s a two-for-one special on prepackaged confections today, and I’m about to go bulk wild on this bargain.
Shame creeps along my neck and face, but I ignore it and load up the cart with enough flats of white-frosted cupcakes to feed Trina’s party people. Two hundred and ten tasty treats later, I zoom through self-checkout, stack the goodies in the backseat of the Tetanus Taxi, and floor it over to Hurley’s, eighty bucks less independently wealthy than when I left the apartment this morning.
Inside the diner, Mom’s office door is closed; her all-consuming preparations for the food critic should keep her off my apron strings awhile. In three quick trips, I unload the cupcakes and trash all the packaging, just in case Mom pokes her nose out of the office for a report. I ignore Trick’s raised eyebrows as I dive into the walk-in cooler for my leftover stash of buttercream, add a few drops of red tint, whip it into a nice, mellow pink, and load the whole mess into a frosting gun. I’m generally more of a pastry bag kind of girl, but hey, this is war. Or it will be, if I don’t get these babies done in time.
“What are you doin’?” Trick finally demands.
“Target shooting, Trick. What does it look like?” I raise my cupcake weaponry and get to work, squirting pink, lopsided hearts into the center of the white-frosted Fresh ’n’ Fast cakes.
Trick stomps over and grabs my arm. “Hudson Avery, you been doin’ some messed up stuff lately, but I know this isn’t what it looks like. Right?”
“Um … no.” I swallow hard. I’ve never seen him angry—not even when I screw up orders or we run out of bread on French toast day. “I don’t know. What does it look like?”
He lowers his voice and leans in close, bacon fumes emanating from his pores. “It looks like you’re tryin’ to pass off those cupcakes as your own, but I must be wrong. The Hudson Avery I know would never sink to that level.”
I look at the floor and shrug, eyes burning with near tears.
Trick sighs, but he doesn’t loosen his grip on my arm. “Let’s forget for a minute that there’s probably some kinda tax law against reselling those things. But come on, girl. Cupcakes are your art. How can you put your name on something like that? That’d be like Dani buying a frame and telling everyone the fake picture that comes with it is hers.”
“No, it’d be like Dani forgetting a major order and trying her best to make it right before it’s too late.”
Trick shakes his head. “That’s a load of crap and you know it.”
My cheeks go hot. Trick’s the closest thing to a dad I’ve had in years, and the disappointment in his voice stings. But still, I’m out of options on this one, and the clock is ticking. I pull free from his grip.
“You think I’m proud of this? Think it’s my shining moment? I’m barely keeping it together over here, okay?” I continue my mission, applying pink hearts with machine-gun speed. They’re actually less heart-y and more round-y, but to the untrained eye, which I hope includes the Dawes family, they still look halfway decent. “Mom’s breathing down my neck, Dani’s not speaking to me, I haven’t seen my brother for more than five minutes all month, and—”
“Your brother’s in the dining room,” Trick says. “You can see him right now. Last time I checked, Fresh ’n’ Fast don’t sell stand-in brothers, so get him while he’s hot.”
“Bug’s here? Perfect.” I poke my head out
the dining room doors and wave him back into the kitchen. “Hey, sweet pea. Want to learn some cupcake tricks and help me with an order?”
His eyes get huge. “You said I’m not allowed to work on customer projects until I’m older.”
“Well, now you’re older.” I steer him over to the sink to wash his hands, then set him up at the prep counter. Some people call it child labor. I call it … let’s not get technical.
“When I hand you the cupcake, dip it lightly, like this.” I roll the top of a cupcake in a flat bowl of edible silver glitter and set it in front of him. “See?”
“Yum.”
“Don’t eat it.” I squirt a pink buttercream heart over a new cupcake and pass it over. “Let me see you try one.”
He’s a little slow, but he gets the job done.
“Beautiful,” I say. “Congratulations, you’re my new Vice President of Glitter. Any questions?”
Bug crinkles up his face. “Can I be Glitter Czar instead?”
“Done.”
“One last thing.” Bug pulls the spiral notebook from his back pocket and tears off a strip of paper. “Can you give me a blood sample?”
I look deep into my brother’s pleading brown eyes and raise an eyebrow. “Bug, seriously … did Mom drop you on your head? Like, last night?”
“You can’t trust anyone these days, Hud. Even relatives. And I don’t want to go into business with someone who won’t submit to a basic drug test.”
“Give me that.” I snatch the paper from his hand and smear on a sample with red frosting tint. “Does this work? Stabbing myself with a fork is probably a health code violation.”
“Good point.” The Glitter Czar takes the red-smeared paper, shoves it in his pocket, and gets to work.
With Bug’s meticulous help, we finish decorating relatively quickly. I add chocolate piping around a few dozen for a little flair and arrange them carefully into bakery boxes. Then I wrap ten metal trays in foil sheets and stack them together with the order. Some assembly required, but I think we pulled it off.
“Very classy, if you ask me.” Bug high-fives me with a glittery hand. “We make a good team.”
“The best.” I pass him the frosting gun, dinner of champions and Glitter Czars alike. “Couldn’t have done it without—”
“Trick?” Nat sticks her pink-haired head through the window over the grill. “Some lady’s here for a cupcake order. Did Hudson leave anything to—”
“I’m here, Nat. Tell her I’ll be right out.”
Operation Bake-and-Switch is a raging success. Back in the kitchen, I lean against the counter and untie my baker’s apron, Mrs. Dawes satisfied, cupcake crisis averted. Time to wolf down—pun intended—dinner and get to the game. Less than an hour till face-off.
Just as I bite into my chicken Caesar wrap, Mom’s office door flies open. “Hud, that you?”
I swallow and give her a half wave. “Hey, Ma.”
“Marianne’s got the flu. Can you stay for the dinner shift?”
“Not really. Did you call Dani?”
“Tried. She’s got plans tonight.”
“So do I.” As if to remind me, my phone buzzes with Josh’s number, but I silence it. What does she mean, Dani’s got plans? With who?
Mom crosses the kitchen and takes the stool across from me and Bug. “You going out with that Josh boy?”
“Is that the friend with benefits guy?” Bug swipes one of my sweet potato fries. “He’s funny. I like that guy.”
Under the table, I kick his foot.
“Ow! Hudson—”
“No,” I say. “I mean, I don’t have a friend with … I’m not going out with Josh tonight. I just wanted to go out. For coffee. With … um … a girl from my French class. Trina. It’s her birthday. Besides, I don’t have my uniform here.”
Mom frowns and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Hud. It’s only till about eight—Nat and I can handle it after that. It’s not a school night, so I’ll keep Bug here. You can scoot out after first shift. Sound okay?”
I shrug and jam a few fries into my mouth. Like I have a choice.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asks.
“Nothing.” I shake my head and smile through the food. I can’t let her see me crack. Trick, either—not after the cupcake disaster I so narrowly dodged. I have to find a way to handle this. It’s just a few more weeks, anyway. Once I nail that competition, no more Hurley’s shifts. No more scraping by. Everything will change. “I really wanted to go out early tonight, that’s all.”
Mom stands and shoves her stool back under the counter. “Excuse me, darlin’, but there’s a lot going on these next couple of months, and most of the time, you come and go as you please. In return, I expect—”
“No, it’s fine, Ma.” She’s right. I should be grateful that she doesn’t bug me about my every move. I am. I know she does a lot to keep us all going. I just wish those expectations of hers had better timing. “I’ll stay.”
“Thank you.” She leans over and kisses me on the cheek, then swoops in for a Bug-hug. “There should be extra uniforms in the closet. I’ll be counting milk cartons in the walk-in cooler if you need me.”
I relinquish the rest of my fries to Bug, grab a spare uniform, and change in the ladies’ room. There’s an unidentifiable red streak crusted down the front of the dress like a jagged zipper. Who knows how many decades old it is.
Mad hot, Hudson. As usual.
My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter—Josh again.
“Hud, where are you?” he asks when I pick up. “It’s almost time. The crowd’s awesome. The news is here tonight—it’s crazy.”
I lean against the tiled wall, facing the mirror. “Will told me the news would be there.”
“Why aren’t you here?”
“Dude, I’m stuck at work.”
“You can’t be! That’s so lame!”
I scrape my thumbnail over the red streak—no change. “Seriously. You should see what I’m wearing.”
“Mmmm,” he says, his voice going low and smoky. “What are you wearing?”
I know he’s trying to be all cheesy porn star, but the way he’s breathing into the phone sends a squiggly shiver down my back. “Um … it’s … I’m … the Hurley’s dress … thing.”
“Kidding, Avery.”
“I know.” I shake my head at my reflection. Thankfully, Josh can’t see my bright pink face through the phone. “So, um, yeah. What’s going on?”
“Nothing now. I only spent all afternoon hooking up this Deaf Buddha mix. All imports. Guess I’ll have to find some other girl who digs—”
“Deaf Buddha? That is so not fair, fifty-six.”
Josh laughs. “You know I’ll save it for you. Just get here as soon—wait, hold up.”
He mumbles something to the other guys, all of them suddenly cheering in the background.
“Hud, turn on Channel Seven,” he says over the noise. “Hurry! They’re about to do a live shot!”
“Okay, I’m going. Hang on.” I run to Mom’s office and flip on the news.
“I’m waving at you right now!” Josh says.
“I know!” I wave back. I can’t help it. “I totally see you guys!”
Unlike Will’s solo interview last week, this one features all of them, the camera closing in on each face, then panning out to the crowd. For the first time in recent history, the stands at Baylor’s are at least half-full. Tons of people are dressed in the Watonka blue-and-silver, waving homemade signs and banners plastered with wolf heads and puff-paint jersey numbers.
“Told you.” Josh tugs on Brad Nelson’s jersey and points to the camera. Both of them blow kisses, and on the other end of the signal, though they can’t see me, I smile.
The camera pans out again, up to the seats above the center line, where a dozen hockey wives and groupies whistle and cheer. Ellie’s standing on her seat, howling just like her boyfriend Amir. Next to her, Kara’s shaking a big glittery “Hungry Like a Wolf” sign, waving it ove
r her head.
The camera shifts left and zooms in on the next seat, and my phone slips out of my hand and hits Mom’s desk with a thud.
Right next to the hockey wives sits a girl in a blue-and-silver Watonka hoodie, one hand holding a Nikon, the other tucking a fuzzy wolf-eared headband into a sleek, unmistakable fountain of corkscrew curls.
Chapter Nineteen
Desolation Angels
Chilled angel food cupcakes topped with white cream cheese icing and shaved white chocolate, dusted with silver and white granulated sugar
I smell like bacon. Again. I smell and my face is shiny and my arms feel like Trick’s spinach fettuccine when he leaves it in the water too long. I missed all but the last twenty minutes of the game, which they won, and now I’m standing on the sidelines behind all the other Wolves groupies, staring at Kara’s glittery poster board and the back of Dani’s wolf ears.
She doesn’t notice me. I take a step closer and poke her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
She turns around, completely unruffled. “Celebrating the win. Hello.”
“You don’t even like hockey. Hello.”
“Not true.” She raises an index finger. “I don’t like getting blown off for hockey. I never said I didn’t like the sport itself.”
“So now you’re all BFF with the wives?”
Dani pulls me aside and shakes her head, but not in a no-why-would-I-be-friends-with-them way. More like an I’m-disappointed-and-saddened-by-your-very-existence-I-wish-we-never-met way. My stomach hurts. Fighting with Dani is one thing. But losing my best friend to a new clique? One that includes my ex–best friend?
This can’t be happening.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” she says, brushing a crumb of glitter from her shirt, “but they waved me over when they saw me sitting alone. And then we started talking, and they passed me some wolf ears and invited me to sit with them. Which I did. And now we’re down here, cheering for the team. Okay?”