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?”