steep hill.
Mom frowns, still watching me closely, and my throat tightens up. No matter how much time I put in at the ovens of Hurley’s, no matter how many cupcakes I ice, I’ve always held on to one simple fact: Baking is the one thing Mom never did. She was the waitress who got promoted to manager, the manager who became the owner, the owner who gives a little more of her life to that place every day. She’s always joked about leaving me the family business, but I never took it seriously. How could I? All this time, as long as I was just baking, my destiny could be separate from hers. Parallel, never overlapping. Close, but not the same.
“I don’t want to waitress.” My voice cracks. “I like my cupcakes.”
“We’ll find a way for you to do both.” Mom shuffles the papers on the table again, tapping them against the edge three times. “We have to pull together on this.”
I take a deep breath and reassemble the pastry bag. Pulling together. If only that strategy applied three years ago.
“You’re young, Hudson.” Mom flashes the everything’s-gonna-be-just-fine smile again. “A little more hard work won’t kill you.”
“You can’t prove that. Look at all those people from the steel mill with black lung.”
“You won’t get lung disease from waiting tables.”
“No, but I might get carpal tunnel from carrying the trays, and back problems, and …”
“And if I had another choice, I’d take it.”
I squeeze a spiral of bright orange icing onto a waiting cupcake, turning it to cover all the edges. Squeeze and turn. Squeeze and turn.
“It’s only for a little while,” Mom says. “Just until thingsget back on track. And look at the bright side—it’s a chance for you to finally learn some other aspects of the business. I was younger than you when I got my start, remember?”
Squeeze and turn. Squeeze and turn.
“Hudson, please?” she asks, softer than before. “I really need your help with this—at least on Sunday to Wednesday dinners. Right now the diner is the only thing paying Mrs. Ferris for the roof over our heads.”
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt . Pass the freakin’ butter.
“Speaking of paying Mrs. Ferris,” I say, “you know you owe me forty bucks, right?”
Mom stands, her shoulders slumped. I can almost feel the ache in her bones, radiating out through her skin. Her eyes are red and puffy, dark-circled as if she hasn’t slept in days. I know she just wants to kiss me good night and crawl between the cool sheets of her bed, but quickly, quietly, she digs two tens from her purse and hands them over. “I’ll get the rest for you tomorrow, okay?”
“Fine.” I stuff the money into my pocket and go back to icing the cupcakes.
“Can I … you want some help?” she asks.
Yes. I want some help getting out of this job, out of this apartment, out of this place. I want some help figuring out what to do with my life. I want some help believing that there’s more to it than unclogging toilets and inventorying milk and sorting money from a drawer that’s always just short of enough.
I hand her the box of animal crackers. “I need all the lions, tigers, and bears in separate piles. Um, please.”
She dumps the box into a bowl and picks through the crackers, snacking on the ones with missing limbs. While we work, she hums an old Bob Dylan tune, and the melody reminds me of this time we got stranded in the diner during a blizzard, us and Bug, and Dad couldn’t get to us because there was a citywide driving ban. We were there for two days, and without its usual crowds and smells, the place took on a kind of magic. We had all the food we needed and slept sideways in the big booths with the heat cranked up. On the second morning, the wind settled down and Mom took us outside to make a snowman in the parking lot. It had a carrot nose and cut potatoes for eyes and a Hurley’s apron tied around the middle. Later, when our noses froze and our fingers ached, Mom made us hot
Mom frowns, still watching me closely, and my throat tightens up. No matter how much time I put in at the ovens of Hurley’s, no matter how many cupcakes I ice, I’ve always held on to one simple fact: Baking is the one thing Mom never did. She was the waitress who got promoted to manager, the manager who became the owner, the owner who gives a little more of her life to that place every day. She’s always joked about leaving me the family business, but I never took it seriously. How could I? All this time, as long as I was just baking, my destiny could be separate from hers. Parallel, never overlapping. Close, but not the same.
“I don’t want to waitress.” My voice cracks. “I like my cupcakes.”
“We’ll find a way for you to do both.” Mom shuffles the papers on the table again, tapping them against the edge three times. “We have to pull together on this.”
I take a deep breath and reassemble the pastry bag. Pulling together. If only that strategy applied three years ago.
“You’re young, Hudson.” Mom flashes the everything’s-gonna-be-just-fine smile again. “A little more hard work won’t kill you.”
“You can’t prove that. Look at all those people from the steel mill with black lung.”
“You won’t get lung disease from waiting tables.”
“No, but I might get carpal tunnel from carrying the trays, and back problems, and …”
“And if I had another choice, I’d take it.”
I squeeze a spiral of bright orange icing onto a waiting cupcake, turning it to cover all the edges. Squeeze and turn. Squeeze and turn.
“It’s only for a little while,” Mom says. “Just until thingsget back on track. And look at the bright side—it’s a chance for you to finally learn some other aspects of the business. I was younger than you when I got my start, remember?”
Squeeze and turn. Squeeze and turn.
“Hudson, please?” she asks, softer than before. “I really need your help with this—at least on Sunday to Wednesday dinners. Right now the diner is the only thing paying Mrs. Ferris for the roof over our heads.”
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt . Pass the freakin’ butter.
“Speaking of paying Mrs. Ferris,” I say, “you know you owe me forty bucks, right?”
Mom stands, her shoulders slumped. I can almost feel the ache in her bones, radiating out through her skin. Her eyes are red and puffy, dark-circled as if she hasn’t slept in days. I know she just wants to kiss me good night and crawl between the cool sheets of her bed, but quickly, quietly, she digs two tens from her purse and hands them over. “I’ll get the rest for you tomorrow, okay?”
“Fine.” I stuff the money into my pocket and go back to icing the cupcakes.
“Can I … you want some help?” she asks.
Yes. I want some help getting out of this job, out of this apartment, out of this place. I want some help figuring out what to do with my life. I want some help believing that there’s more to it than unclogging toilets and inventorying milk and sorting money from a drawer that’s always just short of enough.
I hand her the box of animal crackers. “I need all the lions, tigers, and bears in separate piles. Um, please.”
She dumps the box into a bowl and picks through the crackers, snacking on the ones with missing limbs. While we work, she hums an old Bob Dylan tune, and the melody reminds me of this time we got stranded in the diner during a blizzard, us and Bug, and Dad couldn’t get to us because there was a citywide driving ban. We were there for two days, and without its usual crowds and smells, the place took on a kind of magic. We had all the food we needed and slept sideways in the big booths with the heat cranked up. On the second morning, the wind settled down and Mom took us outside to make a snowman in the parking lot. It had a carrot nose and cut potatoes for eyes and a Hurley’s apron tied around the middle. Later, when our noses froze and our fingers ached, Mom made us hot
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