I take a scientific whiff. “Gardenia. Looks like those Mary Kay terrorists are at it again.”
“Don’t laugh. Your stuff is on the ‘highly suspicious’ list, too.” He pulls a bright yellow, junk mail–looking envelope from the stack and busts out his game show face. “Hudson Avery, You’re Future Is Closer Than You Think.”
“My future? Hmm. Working at Hurley’s is pretty dangerous.”
Bug sighs. “Don’t be so literal. They spelled ‘your’ wrong. It’s one of the signs.”
“Of stupidity?” I’ve asked Mrs. Ferris—our downstairs neighbor, landlady, and chief Bug-sitter—not to let him watch the news. Ever since they busted that terror cell a few blocks over, it’s like CSI Watonka in our house. Last month he told me he was installing metal detectors for the bathroom and that starting this summer, I’d need a government-issued ID just to pee. “Hey, I’m sure Mom appreciates your vigilant counterterrorism efforts, but try not to waste the Ziplocs. They’re expensive.”
“It’s cool. I recycle.” He flings the anthrax-detecting candy cane into the trash along with a red envelope from the gas company. Miraculously, my grammatically incorrect letter and Mom’s makeup catalog get a pass.
“I need this.” I dig the bill from the trash and slit open the envelope, even though I already know what it says: THIS IS YOUR FINAL NOTICE BEFORE SHUTOFF. Mom made a partial payment last month, but technically the gas bill’s mine—trade-off for keeping the cupcake profits—and there’s still a balance due. I’ll have to stop by the service center again this week. They probably have my picture on the wall, like those people in department stores who write bad checks. Beware of Hudson Avery, master groveler and avoider of late fees great and small!
“What are you doing now?” Bug asks as I slip the bill into my backpack. “Wanna play Special Victims Unit? You can be the victim this time.” He’s out of the chair before I can answer.
“Sorry, bud. I have to run out for a while.”
He frowns, tiny glasses slipping back down his nose.
“Don’t be sad.” I kneel in front of him so we’re the same height and squeeze his shoulders. Beneath my hands, his bones feel small and hollow like a bird’s; I resist the urge to zip him up in my jacket.
“How about we hang out tonight—just you and me. I’ll bring home some extra cupcakes.” I push his glasses back up and lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll let you stay up late, too. Sound like a date?”
“Hmm.” He considers my bribe. “Four cupcakes, and I stay up until midnight.”
“I was thinking two and ten thirty.”
He hefts my backpack off the floor and hands it over. “I was thinking three and eleven, and I won’t tell Mom you’re ice-skating again.”
“What? I’m not—”
“I saw you cleaning the skates in your room last night, Hud. I’m not stupid.”
Like I needed the reminder.
I swing the bag over my shoulder, skates kicking me hard in the back. “Three and eleven it is, Detective Avery. Just remember the number one rule of good police work: Never rat out your sources.”
His eyes go wide. “Don’t say ‘rat’! You’ll give Mr. Napkins a complex!”
I grab his arms. “Please tell me you didn’t bring your hamster to the diner.”
“He’s at home, but that’s not the point. Just don’t say the R-word. It offends me.”
“Sorry. Don’t narc on your sources.”
“No narcing. Got it.” He pulls a pen and a spiral notepad from the piles on the desk and makes a note. “Hey, don’t forget your letter.” He stretches to reach the yellow envelope and gives it a closer look. “What’s a foundation, anyway?”
“Oh, like a charity. Some gajillionaire sets them up to help a good cause. Why? Rich old uncle Mom forgot to mention?”
He inspects the return address. “Not unless his name is Uncle Lola.”
“Uncle who?” My throat goes dry, and I cough to clear the knot from it.
Bug scrunches up his face and checks again. “Lola Cap … Cap-something.”
“Capriani?” I whisper. It can’t be her.
“Whoa—you know a gajillionaire?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I used to … I knew her before. A long time ago.” I take the envelope from my brother, ignoring the tremor in my fingers. My stomach twists when I see her name, all fancy black script on canary-colored paper.
“Who is it?” Bug asks.
I crush the letter in my hand. “Lola Capriani was my skating coach.”
Chapter Two
Cupcakes of Destiny
White chocolate cupcakes with pale blue vanilla icing formed into peaks and dusted with silver sprinkles
Dear Hudson Avery:
Lola Capriani knew a thing or two about chasing dreams.
The daughter of poor Italian immigrants who settled right here in Western New York, Lola worked hard her entire life, overcoming obstacle after obstacle until she achieved her dream of becoming a professional figure skater. With four Olympic gold medals and nearly five decades as a top-level international competitor and entertainer, Lola returned home to follow a new dream: nurturing athletic talent in young skaters. Through her private coaching practice, she mentored girls like yourself as they worked toward their own dreams.
Following Lola’s death last year, her family established The Lola Capriani Foundation for Winter Athletics to provide financial assistance to emerging athletes for training, equipment, travel, entry fees, and other costs associated with winter athletic competition. In honor of that undertaking, and in memory of Lola’s lifelong dedication and spirit, we are pleased to announce the Capriani Cup, an exciting new competition for junior and senior class female figure skaters in Erie County who wish to continue skating at the college level. Registered skaters will compete on Saturday, February 1st, for a $50,000 scholarship for collegiate studies and related skating expenses.
As a former Lola Capriani student, you are encouraged to enter this rewarding competition. Additional information and registration forms are available online at caprianifoundation.org.
We hope to see you on the ice soon, and we wish you success and happiness in all your endeavors, wherever your future takes you!
Sincerely,
Amy
Amy Hains
Director, Foundation Special Projects
I was Bug’s age when I met the legendary Lola Capriani. She’d just nailed a triple-axel/triple-loop combo at the Buffalo Skate Club downtown, and I’d just ducked into the third stall of the ladies’ room to reconsider my career path (*cough* throw up). When I hobbled back out on my rubber skate guards, hair plastered across my forehead and skin as white as the ice, she was on the sidelines with my father, looking a whole lot meaner than she did in the posters on my bedroom wall.
“I got four gold medals and two titanium joints older than you, greenblades,” she said to me then, slapping her gloves against her hip and nodding toward the bathroom where I’d just been. “I don’t know what that was all about, but you’d betta walk it off. Capisce?”
I just about peed my pink leotard when she looked at me, but there’s something downright instinctive about yes-ma’am-ing a septuagenarian with a scorpion tattooed between her shoulder blades and an accent that says I don’t take crap from nobody—especially when she could still bang out gold-medaling moves like old Lola could. I nodded like a wooden puppet, head on a string, and followed her out onto the rink.
She worked me for nearly two hours.