“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.”

Bug continues to stir, scraping the sides at regular intervals, just like I taught him. “It makes me sad.”

“Me too.”

“Then again, if Dad never left, you probably wouldn’t be the Cupcake Queen. And if you weren’t the Cupcake Queen, I wouldn’t be the Cupcake Prince. And then I couldn’t do this.” He spoons out a huge dollop of chocolate batter and shoves it straight into his goofy, giggling mouth.

“Hey!” I laugh. “Save some for the customers, Prince!”

“It’s quality control, Hud. We are a rare oasis in the culinary tundra. We can’t feed the good people of Watonka any old garbage.”

“Just don’t put that spoon back in the bowl, okay? We already dodged one health code violation this month—let’s not push it.”

“NBD.” He flings the spoon into the sink and grabs a fresh one.

I back off and let him work, loading the used bowls into the dishwasher. As I pack up his extra ingredients, I glance at the frame hanging above the pantry—the picture Dani finally submitted for her photo project. She took it last week—me and Mom and Bug, all leaning over a bowl of cupcake batter that Bug accidentally exploded when he set the mixer too high. Mom’s laughing with her eyes closed and Bug’s got chocolate goo all over his face and glasses. And me, I’m just digging right in there with a spoon.

Passion.

She got an A.

“I think the Chocolate Cherry Fixer-Uppers are ready for the cups,” Bug says.

“Fixer-Uppers?”

Bug nods, his grin lighting up the whole kitchen. “Once they’re cool, we break them apart and then spackle them back together with cherry cream cheese frosting, mini chocolate chips, and chopped Martian cherries or whatever those things are. I was thinking of using a little whipped cream in the frosting so it doesn’t get too pasty.”

“Um, okay, wow.”

He shrugs, pushing his glasses up his nose with a chocolate-smudged finger. “Mr. Napkins thought they had potential when we discussed them last night.”

“More than potential.” I kiss him on the forehead and set out the silicone baking cups. “I gotta watch my back. These babies are gonna be best sellers, kiddo.”

After we pour out the batter and slide the CC Fixer-Uppers into the oven, Bug retreats to the dining room for grilled cheese and gravy fries and I head out back for my nonsmoke break. The sky has darkened to a deep purple, flecks of faraway lights flickering on the other side of the hill. Beyond the rise, the train screeches against the tracks, chugging and idling until it decides where it’s off to next.

“They never stay long, do they?”

I know that voice.

Josh.

I turn to find him behind me, looking over the hill toward the plume of smoke billowing from the train engine. We haven’t spoken since they came into Hurley’s after the finals. A wave at school here, a half smile in the parking lot there, but no real words. Nothing close. Nothing like before.

“Five minutes, give or take,” I say.

“Your brother told me you were back here. I hope it’s cool. I mean, I know you’re on break. I don’t want to—”

“It’s cool.” I force myself to meet his gaze, the icy blue-gray of his eyes, intense as ever. He’s got a short, scruffy beard now. They all do—some playoffs superstition thing. I shiver and pull the coat close around my neck.

“Look,” he says. “I know things got kind of … weird between us. I didn’t mean to freak out like that at the semis. I was pissed at Will, and when he said that stuff about you, it just … it bugged me. And everything with the coach …” Josh shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I understand.” Until that night at semifinals, I didn’t know the extent of Will’s plans, but it doesn’t matter. I was willing to keep his secrets because I needed mine kept, too. I was doing the same thing—using the team to get what I needed, running away from the truth.

“Will told Dodd about you, by the way,” Josh says. “The night after the fight, he told him everything. How you’ve been helping us, how the whole team came together because of you. He also told Dodd he’s not interested in ditching us, and that the coach can either come back and start acting like a real coach, or let us do it on our own. Either way, he’s pretty convinced we’ll go to nationals, with or without Dodd’s stamp of approval.”