Текст книги " Bittersweet"

Автор книги: Sarah Ockler

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“Miss, can we get some coffees?” A woman calls from the next-door booth. “We’ve been here five minutes already.”

“Be right with you, ma’am.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“What I wanted,” Cowboy drawls on, “was the bacon and cheese.”

“We’ll remake it for you.” I reach over to take the western plate, but he grabs it out of my hands, fingers lingering on my skin. Gross.

“No use letting it go to waste,” he says. “Just take it off my bill. I’m gonna need a regular coffee, too.” He swirls his empty mug. “The one you gave me was decaf.”

I look at him dubiously. You know the old saying—never trust a man wearing assless leather chaps in the snowbelt. Still, no point in arguing. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you much, sweet thing.” He winks at me and clicks his tongue. Dani was so not kidding about this guy. And for a lousy one-dollar tip? Speaking of tips, here’s a hot one, Cowboy: Don’t piss off the girl responsible for serving your food. A lot can happen on that long, lonely stretch of road from the kitchen to your cozy little booth by the window. Just saying.

“My pleasure, sir.” I smile and refill his mug with leaded coffee, pour some for the cranky booth lady, then scoot back to the front counter, where Bug is laughing it up with the hockey boy.

“I see you like my friend,” I say to Bug.

“Friend?” Bug leans across the counter and squinches up his face. “Or friend with benefits?”

“Bug! Where did you—”

“Mrs. Ferris has cable.”

“Now you know why we don’t.” I top off Josh’s coffee and snag a cupcake from the bakery case for my brother.

“Because they took away the box when Mom didn’t pay the—”

“Look, a Cookies-N-Creamcake,” I say. “Yum!”

He jams a bite in. “Anyway,” he says through a chocolaty mouthful, “if someone was my friend with benefits, I could get them free fries. And you make the best cupcakes ever, so I definitely see that as a benefit.”

“Got a point there, man.” Josh gives him a fist-bump. My brother. Josh. Together. Joking around. I think the planet is seriously falling out of orbit.

“Don’t encourage him,” I say. “It’s bad enough he—”

“Waitress? Can we get some more coffee?” Cranky booth lady again.

“Gotta go.” I kiss Bug on the forehead and zip over to refill those mugs as Dani seats three more tables. On my way back, Cowboy waves me over.

“Can I get a little more water, toots?” His hand slips out from beneath the table and makes a beeline for my ass. I lean forward instinctively, still rockin’ that happy-to-serve-you grin, water pitcher balanced precariously over his lap—the parts those fashionable leather chaps don’t cover. Tricky thing, this balancing stuff.

“Oops! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry about that! Here’s a few extra napkins.” Before he can demand help cleaning up his pants, I run back to the kitchen with the empty water pitcher, nearly crashing into Mom.

“Whoa, what’s going on?” she asks.

The pitcher hits the counter with a crash. “Cowboy out there is one grab away from a restraining order. And why are people so impatient around here? Can’t they see we’re busy? Like I was just put on this earth to fetch drinks, you dumb—”

“It’s the diner biz, hon. Difficult customers are just part of the deal.” Mom sighs. “Better get used to it.”

Get used to it. There’s that word again—used.

“That guy probably wants his whole check comped.”

“He’s in here all the time. Just give him a coupon. And if he touches you again, send Trick out for a little chat.” Mom smooths her hand over my cheek. “Sure you don’t want me to stay?”

Through the window over the grill, I see Bug licking frosting off his fingers, laughing at something Josh said. “I’m fine. You guys have a good time.”

Mom smiles. “All right, we’re off to the North Pole. Assuming your brother doesn’t engage Santa in another hour-long debate about the physics of flying reindeer, we’ll see you after dinner. Take some of the turkey and potatoes home so you don’t have to fix anything.” She zips up her coat and digs the keys from her pocket, scooping up my chocolate-smudged little brother on the way out.

“Do you like it? Working here, I mean?” Josh inspects one of the new flyers Dani and I put together for my cupcakes, all pink and yellow and creamy-looking.

“It has its moments.”

“Seems like there’s tons of little stuff to keep track of.”

“It’s the little stuff that makes it so special.” I laugh, thinking of that perpetual issue with the third toilet. And the joy of clearing away a table and accidentally dipping your boob in a bowl of cold gravy. And the particular inner peace one finds whilst kneeling under a table, scraping at old gum with a butter knife.

“Anyway, enough about my exotic life. Here.” I pass him one of the Peachy Keens from the case. “You’re the inaugural taster. Tell me what you think.”

“Okay, but first, the real reason I’m here today.”

“It wasn’t for the award-winning coffee?”

“Not even for the show.” Josh winks. “Not that it wasn’t highly entertaining.”

I turn away to rearrange the salt and pepper shakers on the counter, secretly cursing Bug for not being genius enough to invent a time machine. I’ve seen enough sci-fi movies to know you’re not supposed to mess around with the past, but erasing one humiliating event from the last hour of our lives can’t hurt, can it?

“Will sent me,” Josh says, draining the last of his coffee. “He’s nervous about Friday’s game and wants to call an extra practice before Thursday. Can you meet Tuesday after school?”

“She’s working Tuesday,” Dani announces. I love how she just magically apparates at exactly the right moment.

“What?” she says when I shoot her the patented STFU glare. “Your mom posted the schedule.”

I grab the big sugar jar from under the counter and unscrew the caps on the dispensers that need refills. “I’ll get Nat to switch. Her last test is Monday—she’ll be looking to pick up shifts.”

“I thought you—”

I cut her off with another warning look. “It’s fine, Dani. Josh, it’s fine. Tell Will I’ll be there.”

A wave of frustration passes over Dani’s face, but it’s gone in a blink, replaced with something closer to mild annoyance.

“Nat needs the money,” I say. “It’s cool.”

“Just once a week, right Hudson?” She reaches behind me for the coffeepot, still grumbling under her breath. Fortunately, I don’t think Josh heard.

“You haven’t tried your cupcake yet,” I say once Dani goes back to her tables.

“Working my way up to it.” Josh makes a show of rolling up his sleeves, hefting the cupcake from the plate, and scarfing down the first bite. His eyes close and I sneak a covert glance, refilling the sugar dispensers as the smile rises on his face. I love that part. I mean, the part when people appreciate the cupcakes, not when Josh smiles. Not that I don’t love his smile, just that I was thinking more about the—

“Waitress?”

I drop the sugar jar, spilling a bunch on the counter. On the other side of the dining room, Cowboy holds up his empty plate.

“I didn’t like these eggs after all,” he shouts. “Can I get something else?”

“We’re all out of something else.” I grab a rag and sweep some of the sugar into my hand, making more of a mess.

“Ready for a few more tables?” Dani scoots behind me to restart the coffee. “Big party heading in. I think it’s that birthday group from last month.”

“The crazy one with all the Karens?”

“You guessed it. Hopefully we won’t get any noise complaints this time.”

She speeds back to the floor and I look for something to focus on—a stain on the wall, a chipped mug on the rack below the counter. Anything to keep my head from exploding all over my lavender Hurley Girl dress, right in front of Josh.

“Miss, why don’t you have the ham quiche today?” An elderly woman taps on the counter at the other end. “I always get quiche on Saturdays, and I bring some back to the senior center for Bess, and now I don’t know what to do, because broccoli gives her gas, and I—”

“Take your seat, ma’am. Your waitress will be right with you.” I close my eyes and try to disappear, but that trick never works.

“Hudson?” My name is close on the air, caressing my cheek. I open my eyes. Josh is leaning forward on his elbows, his eyes bright and clear, his smile warm. Behind me, something crashes in the kitchen. Trick swears. The birthday group ladies blow through the front door like a blizzard, bearing presents and balloons and big, cackling laughs. Dani rushes to greet them with an armload of menus and they cheer. The other customers raise their voices to compensate. Cowboy rings the silver bell at the register again and again. Ding ding ding dingdingdingdingding …

“You okay?” Josh asks. “You look like you’re about to—”

“I can handle it.” I have to. I swore I could. “Did you like the cupcake?”

“Not really.” He smiles again. “Love is a better word. But I should go—you’re slammed.”

He digs into his pocket and drops a five on the counter, then bundles into his winter stuff. “Hang in there, Hud. Text me later about Tuesday.”

He disappears out the front door, and reality rushes over me like an avalanche. I tighten my apron again, stick a fresh order pad in the front pocket, and swipe the just-brewed coffee from the warmer, armed and ready for the birthday group.

Hudson Avery, ladies and gentlemen! Fresh from the frigid shores of Lake Erie in the biggest comeback of the century!

“Whoa!” Dani jumps out of the way right before I sideswipe her. “Watch it!”

“Ow!” I shake a splash of hot coffee from my hand, recoiling from the sudden sting. “Sorry. Didn’t see you.”

“You’re not paying attention.”

“I’m busy!” I reach behind her and grab a clean towel from the shelf.

“Hud, listen to yourself.” She sets her tray down on the counter, louder than necessary, if you ask me. “You sure you know what you’re getting into with all this?”

“I said I can handle it.” I toss the towel over my shoulder and scoot around her, marching off to greet the Karens et al with my best birthday grin.

Two, three months tops.

Chapter Nine

Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones, but Falling Down Hurts Real Bad, Too, Cupcakes

Red velvet cupcakes with warm raspberry center and cream cheese icing, topped with mashed mixed berries and served on a chocolate-drizzled plate

Tuesday afternoon. Four p.m. Four below zero.

I bombed my eighth-period government quiz.

I’m behind on the reading group questions for The Scarlet Letter, and Hester Prynne is totally mad at me.

My tray-carrying shoulder is about to go on strike.

And twelve seconds into Will’s emergency extra practice, Chuck Felzner’s already starting with me.

“Aw, man,” he says when I skate forward. “She’s here again?”

I take in an icy breath and yank my gloves off. Sure, I could definitely do without the whining, but I’m not here to be anyone’s bestie. I just need to show up, get them to improve their game. Show them how much they need me, just like Will says. In exchange, I get the ice time. Quid pro whatever.

“Stuff it, Felzner,” I say. “We don’t have time for your antics today.”

“Ooooh!” Brad Nelson whistles from the front of the line. “Looks like Princess Pink got her balls back. Bring it, baby!”

Josh elbows him in the ribs, which I totally would have done myself if Brad would kindly stop looking like Tyson. Refreshingly, Felzner takes the hint, and in the momentary silence, I plow ahead.

“The other day, you guys asked me if I had a point,” I say. “Here it is: Somewhere under all that trash talk, you love this game. You’ve got a crazy losing streak, but there’s no reason you can’t end it. Josh and Will say you’re good. You could be better. You will be.” The boys are so quiet I can hear the hum of the cooling machines under the ice, ticking and whirring.

“I know skating,” I continue, “and I know I can help you. But you need to let me. And I need to see what you’ve got.”

I take a chug of water. When no one protests, Will smiles at me and I press on. “We’ll start with drills. Who wants to go first?”

Silence. Eye rolls. One sneeze, two spits, and a cup-adjust.

Just when I begin to sense that my ability to “bring it” has been severely overhyped, Will skates forward.

“Since none of you wolf pups wanna man up,” he says, “I’ll go.”

I send him up and down the rink twice, goal to goal with his stick and a puck. It’s like there’s an entire eighties Jock Jams soundtrack pumping through his head—all those songs the cheerleaders play at the basketball games to psych up the crowd, electrifying his stride. He’s hard, fast, and more than a little showy, and the prone-to-swooning part of me flashes back to that kiss in the closet all those years ago. I shudder. He’s good. Really good.

Thankfully, the objective, focused, professional-skater-type part of me tips her head sideways and dumps that dirty little thought right out on the ice, stabbing the life out of it with a toe pick. Aaaand, movingrightalong.

“Aggressive,” I tell him on his last return. “Looking good, especially on the straightaway. Watch the right foot near the net—it drags a little on the hard turns in the goal crease.”

“Goal crease?” Josh asks as Will skates to the back of the line. “Where did you—”

“YouTube. And Google.” I don’t admit how many hours I logged on the sites last night, totally blowing off my homegirl Hester Prynne and all that government class stuff about how a bill becomes a law, but that’s not important. “Oh, the NHL site, too.”

Josh laughs. “You probably know more about this sport than most of us put together.”

“Probably. But hey, the Internet is a democracy. Check it out.”

I call on Micah Baumler next. Issuing only a minor protest growl, he pulls a pair of goggles over his glasses and follows my instructions. Then DeVries. Nelson. Jordan. Torres. Even Felzner. One by one, they do as I ask. Not without a lot more eye-rolling than should be legal for a boys’ varsity team, but somehow we get through it, and I wave them back to the sidelines for a water break.

“Nice work, guys. Looks like we can skip the basics and start with—”

“You do figure skating, right?” Nelson again.

I think I liked him better when he was just grabbing himself and winking at me in silence. “That’s right.”

“I’m not trying to be a dick or anything—”

“Not trying? So dickness just comes naturally for you?”

For a second nothing happens. I cross my arms over my chest, bracing for his next comeback, but he doesn’t say a word about it. Suddenly he doubles over, a smile splitting his formerly too-cool-for-school face.

“Damn, I like you. For real.” He holds up his hand for a high five, and I concede, smacking his palm.

“You’re starting to grow on me, too.”

“Look,” he says, softer this time. “I’m not saying your kind of skating isn’t hard work, but twirls and jumps can’t help us against a bunch of Sharks or Bulldogs or Hawks. We need speed, strength, balance, raw stuff like that. So unless you know how to dodge a two-hundred-pound center comin’ at you like a freight train, you’re wasting your time.”

I consider his point. Ten percent valid. Ninety percent I-spent-too-much-time-watching-Rambo-as-a-kid macho bull—

“You guys aren’t giving this a chance,” Will says. “All those other teams got the same basic training, right? The same stuff Dodd used to give us when he was still around. But who else has a secret weapon like this? She can teach us tons of crazy stuff. They won’t even see it coming.”

I skate to the center again, buoyed by Will’s vote of confidence and the fact that no one has called me Princess Pink for at least five minutes. These practices will be a lot more productive for all of us if I can just get them to see what I’m made of—to see that they really can trust me on the ice.

“Will one of you guys try something with me?” I ask.

“I’ll try something with you.” Luke Russet, number twenty-two, defense. Dangerously good-looking in that my-motorcycle-will-definitely-piss-off-your-dad kind of way. He rubs the stubble along his jaw and wiggles his eyebrows at me. Will claps him on the shoulder before his hands complete whatever lewd gesture they were about to make, and I continue.

“Give me a helmet,” I say.

Will passes his helmet and skates up behind Luke, nudging him forward. “Go on, Russet,” he taunts. “Show her what’s up, dude.”

I tighten Will’s helmet under my chin and point to the net at the other end of the rink. “I’ll start down there. Luke, pretend you’re the two-hundred-pound center and I have the puck for the opposing team. What do you do?”

“I steal it from you or knock you down trying. Not that I’d mind knocking you up. I mean, down.” His eyebrows are still propositioning me, but I ignore them. Honestly, my father is clear across the country—way out of pissing-off-with-a-motorcycle range. Luke’s particular charms are lost on me.

“Do it,” I say. “Knock me down trying.”

Josh steps up. “Hudson, come on—”

“It’s okay.” I smile. “Trust me.”

Luke pipes up again. “Baby, you’re just gonna get laid out. I can’t do that to a girl.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t.”

He laughs and licks his lips. “Look at you, Princess Pink, tryin’ to be badass. Wanna bet?”

“Fine, bet me. If you knock me down, you get free dinner at Hurley’s every night for a week.”

“You’re on.”

“And if you don’t knock me down, you shut up. All of you.” I turn to face them. “Let’s get something straight, wolf pack. I have my own reasons for being here, and they have nothing to do with your sparkling personalities.”

“Point?” Felzner says.

“I’m not leaving.”

Felzner laughs. “If you say so.”

“I say so.” I tug my gloves on and skate down the line, beatdown-avoiding, territory-claiming eye contact all the way. “When I’m done kicking Russet’s ass, that’s it. No more whining about who’s tired and who’s hungry and who needs a diaper change. Got it?”

Nelson oohs again, Josh shakes his head, the rest of the boys laugh, and Luke’s eyes lock on mine, smirk erased as he skates backward to the net. “You’re on, sweetheart. I like my burgers well-done, fries extra crisp. Vanilla shake, hold the whip. And I’ll take one of your mint chocolate chip cupcakes, too. Make a note.”

“Noted. Now … try to keep up, okay?”

I’m sure his response is laced with more ice than the expanse under my feet, but I don’t hear it. I glide to the net at the other end, stop, take a deep breath, and push forward on my toe pick. I zoom across the rink, cold air snapping my face, two hundred pounds of motorcycle-riding hockey god heading right for me.

Slash-slash, slash-slash …

A train leaves Los Angeles for New York at eight o’clock, traveling at a hundred miles per hour.

Slash-slash …

In New York, a train leaves on the same track at nine-oh-five, traveling at seventy-five miles per hour toward Los Angeles.

Slash-slash … slash …

At what time will they collide inside Baylor’s Rink, causing an explosion of silver blades and hot-pink dust where the girl formerly known as Hudson Avery used to be?

As Luke fast approaches my personal space, my brain checks out and my body takes over, shifting weight to my left leg and bending like a ribbon in the wind. He zooms past me and I pick up speed, pumping harder until I reach the other end of the rink, crossing over into a seamless turn and heading back toward him. His blades grind on the ice and I know he’s coming at me faster this time, the rest of the team whooping and shouting from the sidelines. Even Marcus, the ponytailed rink manager, has joined the pack, pumping his fist with the others.

On our second high-speed face-off, I lean into a twist, turning just as he stretches forward and hugs the wind between us. We whip around the rink for another go, and though he’s fast and determined and rock steady on the blades, he misses me again, and after the fourth miss, the boys still laughing and whistling on the rails, I signal to Luke that it’s over.

I skate fast and furious for the edge, skidding in on my blades, spraying the wolf pack with a shower of ice as I come to a graceful halt.

Marcus winks at me and disappears behind the stands.

No one speaks.

That’s right. And you boys haven’t even seen my triple/triple!

Luke slides up next to me, panting as he unfastens his helmet. He doesn’t say anything or meet my eyes—just pats me on the back once, skates to the rail, and punches Will in the shoulder like he means the hell out of it.

“After today, we’ve got one more practice before Friday’s game,” I say to my newly captive audience. “Can I assume we’re done with the theatrics?”

All of them nod, speechless. A warmth radiates from my stomach, the tension floating out of my limbs. It’s like every air molecule in the rink has registered the change, and now that I have their attention—and maybe even their respect—I want to be here. Not just for the ice time, but to help them. To really make a difference, just like Will and Josh always believed I could.

“Excellent,” I say. “Now strap on your helmets. You’ve got drills to do.”

Will glides over to me. “I guess this means you’re in.”

I look out over the boys, all muscle and sweat and swagger, momentarily brought together as they harass Luke about his inability to, in the parlance of our times, “grow a pair.”

I turn back to Will, his eyes fixed on mine, and mirror his radiant smile. “Princess Pink, at your service.”

Once hockey practice ends, it’s time for round two: Capriani Cup training. Certain the Wolves have all filed out into the parking lot, I soar back to the center of the rink alone, and with all the confidence of a girl in a hot-pink zip-up who just kicked about two metric tons of hockey-player ass, launch into a double-axel, double-toe-loop combo jump, landing flawlessly.

Ladies and gentlemen, Princess Pink has officially brung it.