All Four Stars (12 page)

When they emerged from the subway again, this time near Central Park, the sun was high and people were streaming out of the surrounding buildings to find lunch. Gladys's dad bought them both hot dogs from a vendor, and they ate in a patch of sunlight at the park's edge. (
Not exactly gourmet,
Gladys scribbled in her journal after,
but surprisingly satisfying after a hard morning's work.
) Then they crossed the street and climbed the stairs of a beautiful white building that looked like a palace.

A doorman in a black-and-gold uniform waved them into a lobby lined with oriental carpets and lit by sparkling chandeliers. “Would you believe that a fancy hotel like this is trying to avoid paying its taxes?” Gladys's father muttered with disgust.

“Unbelievable, Dad,” said Gladys, who was starting to notice a pattern.

This meeting took place in a sumptuous office with a crackling fireplace. A tower of marzipan candies beautifully sculpted into the shapes of different animals sat on a large mahogany desk. But over the course of the next hour, the hotel's chief financial officer declined to offer Gladys's dad a check and declined to offer Gladys even one of the candies, causing both of them to storm out of the meeting in a rage.

“You'll be hearing from our attorneys!” Gladys's dad cried as the office's elaborately carved wooden doors swung shut behind them.

“You tell him, Dad!” Gladys cried with no less force.

Their fourth meeting of the day was another long one with another big group of people at
another
large table, this time on the forty-seventh floor of an accounting firm in Midtown. “Accountants! My own people! They should know better,” Gladys's dad groaned as they returned their visitors' badges after. “Well, Gladdy, we've just got one meeting left. You've been a real trouper so far.”

“What's our last stop?” Gladys asked as they emerged once again onto the city streets.

“It's not far,” her father replied. “Just over at 40th Street and Eighth Avenue.” Gladys's heart skipped a beat—that was only a few blocks away from Classy Cakes! It should be easy to convince him to swing by there after the meeting was over.

“You won't
believe
what company we're going to,” her dad was saying. “The nerve of these bigwigs, thinking they're too important to pay their taxes on time . . .”

“Yeah, well, we'll show them!” Gladys chimed in.
And then,
she thought,
we'll taste cakes and pies, flans and profiteroles . . .

Her mind was still happily occupied with desserts when they turned the corner onto Eighth Avenue and headed toward a towering gray skyscraper. But when they swept through the rotating glass doors, Gladys froze.

A sign hanging high over the gleaming lobby read:

W
ELCOME TO THE
N
EW
Y
ORK
S
TANDARD
B
UILDING

LIKE A PIE TO THE FACE

“THE NEW YORK STANDARD,”
GLADYS'S
father announced, shaking his head gravely. “Those tax-evading scoundrels! Those money-plundering thieves!”

“Dad, keep your voice down!” Gladys begged, looking around. The lobby was full of people hurrying back and forth—what if someone who worked in the Dining section heard him?

“Why shouldn't the world know that the famous
Standard
thinks it's too good for taxes? It's not like they're going to print the story themselves!”

Gladys's mind was racing, but there was one thing she knew—she could not take another step toward the
New York Standard
offices. What if she ran into an editor? What if they asked her name? She couldn't lie about that in front of her father. She had to do something.

“Hey, Dad,” Gladys said, trying to sound casual, “I think I'll just stay down here in the lobby for this one, like I did at Gianella.”

“Don't be silly,” he said. “This is my biggest case of the day! We'll shoot straight up to the twenty-sixth floor, and we'll really show them—you don't want to miss this!” He started toward the elevator bank.

But Gladys stayed where she was. It took her father several steps to realize that she wasn't beside him, and when he did, he looked back and gestured impatiently. “Come on, let's go!”

“Um, no thanks!” Gladys said, praying that her dad would get the hint and go on without her.

But with a grunt, he returned to his daughter's side. “Why on earth not?” he asked.

Desperately, Gladys tried to think. What would be an appropriately kid-like reason to refuse?

“I'm scared,” she finally said.

“Scared?” her dad asked. “What is there to be scared of?”

“Heights!” Gladys cried. “I won't go all the way up to the twenty-sixth floor. Please don't make me!” She hoped that her tone sounded fretful enough.

Her dad gave her a puzzled look. “But you were just up on the forty-seventh floor at our last appointment,” he said, “and you didn't seem scared then.”

Fudge,
Gladys thought.

“Um,” she said quickly, “I guess it comes and goes?”

Her dad bent over to look her in the eye, and for a moment, Gladys thought that maybe she had succeeded in convincing him—until she saw the expression on his face.

“Now, Gladdy,” he started. “Coming to work with me today was your idea. I thought that you should go to the office with your mom, but you were the one who said you were interested in learning about taxes. So let's not have any more silliness, okay? Auditing isn't for the faint of heart.” And with that, he straightened up, grabbed Gladys's hand, and marched toward the elevators.

“N-no!” Gladys cried, pulling against his grip. “I won't go!
I won't!
” It was becoming less difficult to act hysterical, since she was starting to feel genuinely panicked. The situation was spinning out of control, just like that time last year when the lid slid off the popcorn she was popping on the stove. The kernels had exploded everywhere, and she couldn't wedge the top back onto the pot.

Her dad seemed bewildered now, too. “Don't make a scene,” he hissed. Gladys looked around—people were starting to glance their way. Maybe if she embarrassed him enough, he would have to call off the entire appointment! Struggling with all her might to stay in place, she began to yank on her dad's arm in a sort of tug-of-war motion. But her feet, in their stupid patent leather shoes, continued to slide across the slick lobby floor toward the elevator doors.

“No, no,
no,
NO,
NO!
” she squealed over the
ding!
that sounded as the elevator doors opened. Gladys tried again to wrench her arm free, but instead her feet slid out from under her so she was almost lying on the floor—though her hand was still caught in her father's firm grip.

Shiny black and brown men's dress shoes shuffled by and high heels of many colors clicked around her as a crowd of people spilled out of the elevator.

Suddenly, a pair of stiletto-heeled pink boots skidded to a halt right in front of Gladys's face. Then, before she even had time to think, a strong arm grabbed her around her middle and hoisted her up off the floor and into the air.

It was in this way that Gladys found herself face-to-face with her editor—whom she recognized immediately from her picture on the back of
Cooking Pink for Pleasure
—while being carried by her father like a football.

“My goodness, would you watch that child, please?” Fiona Inglethorpe cried. “I could have put her eye out with my heel!”

“I'm terribly sorry, ma'am,” Gladys's dad replied.

“This building is not a place for children!” Fiona said, looking down to adjust the strap on her mauve purse, which had gotten knocked off her arm.

“I agree completely. Gladdy is much too old to be acting like this.”

Fiona barely looked up and, dangling there in her father's arms, Gladys knew she had never been so happy to hear him use her silly nickname. Then, of course, he ruined the moment by giving Gladys an extra-firm squeeze and saying, “Now, tell this nice lady that you're sorry for getting in her way.”

Gladys felt her face turning as red as if it had just been hit with a cherry pie. “I-I'm sorry,” she mumbled quietly, staring at the floor.

“Well, I should hope so!” was Fiona's response. Purse fixed, she nodded quickly and turned to walk off toward the exit.

Everything felt like it was going in slow motion as Gladys's dad lowered her to the floor.
It's okay,
Gladys tried to tell herself, taking in gulps of air.
She didn't find out your name. You're safe.
But her cheeks still burned like she had stuck her head in an oven. That was not at all how she'd imagined her first meeting with the famous editor.

Then her dad said the only thing that could have made the situation worse: “With behavior like that, you can forget about dessert.”

A STICKY SITUATION

NO CAKE. NO COOKIES. NO PARFAIT.

No FAIR,
Gladys thought bitterly as the train rumbled back toward East Dumpsford. She'd pleaded, and apologized, and behaved like a complete angel in her father's last meeting. But he'd stuck to his decision like caramel sauce . . . or shoofly pie . . . or some other dessert that should've been sticking to the roof of Gladys's mouth right now, but wasn't.

The city skyline faded fast outside the train window, and Gladys wished she had fought harder. Maybe if she had begged more, or cried, or promised to spend this summer at (shudder) Camp Bentley, her dad would have changed his mind. Then she would have been riding the train home with a belly full of sweets and a journal full of notes. Instead, her stomach and her pages were empty, and every jerk and shudder of the train took her farther away from Classy Cakes and any chance of completing her assignment.

Gladys's father dozed off, and Gladys sat in silence as the train stopped at Kew Gardens, Jamaica, Far Dumpsford. She'd been too nervous to notice much this morning, but now the smudged windows and sticky vinyl seats brought back memories of riding home with Aunt Lydia after a long day of eating delicious food around the city. What would her aunt say when Gladys told her that their plan hadn't worked?

Her dad let out a snore as the train pulled into Middle Dumpsford station, the last stop before theirs. Gladys watched as commuters shuffled toward the exits, and was seized with a crazy urge to join them. She could wait on the platform for the next train back to Manhattan, run the ten blocks from Penn Station to Classy Cakes, and get her review!

But her dad would be furious when he realized she was missing. Her parents would surely call the police. Plus, Gladys didn't have any money with her for train tickets or cakes. A bell rang, the exit doors slid shut, and the train lurched toward home.

• • •

Gladys spent most of the rest of spring break—when she wasn't writing the world's most boring report on tax-collecting—with Sandy in the Rabbit Room, trying to come up with new ideas for getting into the city. But every plan they thought up required her to sneak out of the house, cut school, or actually tell her parents about the assignment. Since Gladys wasn't willing to do any of those things, they were stuck.

“Hey, don't panic,” Sandy told her after another useless brainstorming session the last night before school started. “You've still got two weeks. We'll think of something!”

But Gladys was panicking. Two weeks didn't sound like a lot of time.

At school the next day, she had even more trouble than usual concentrating, and when recess rolled around, she paced up and down the playground with worry. She was so consumed with her own thoughts that she hardly looked where she was going and walked smack into Parm.

“Ack, sorry!” Gladys said.

But Parm didn't seem to mind. “Hey, Gladys,” she said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“What's up?” Gladys asked. “How come you're not playing soccer?”

“Oh, everyone else joined that mob,” Parm said, gesturing to the far end of the playground. A huge crowd was gathered around—of course—Charissa Bentley. “I wish Charissa'd just pick someone already and get it over with.”

“Pick someone for what?” Gladys asked.

“You know, the whole birthday thing.”

“Oh.” But then she realized that she still had no idea what Parm was talking about. “Wait,” she said. “What
is
the whole birthday thing?”

Parm gave Gladys a look of mild incredulity. “Don't you know? She hasn't shut up about it for weeks.”

Gladys racked her brain—she remembered Charissa talking about her birthday that time she had called Gladys on the phone, but she couldn't remember any details. “I guess I've gotten good at tuning her out,” Gladys said.

“Well, you'll have to teach me your trick,” said Parm, “because I've heard enough about it to last my whole life. Basically, the story is that her parents bought her tickets to some Broadway show for her birthday, and she gets to bring one friend. So, of course, everyone's bending over backward to be her best friend . . . except for us, of course.”

“Ah,” said Gladys. So that was why Charissa had that fight with Rolanda, and why the rest of the sixth-grade girls were following Charissa around even more than usual. Most other kids, Gladys mused, would try to have the biggest birthday party possible to show how popular they were . . . but only Charissa would think to pit all her friends against one another and make going to her birthday party the ultimate prize. You had to hand it to her: She really was a genius when it came to making sure she was always the center of attention.

“Well, she's got to pick someone soon; her birthday's, like, this weekend,” Parm was saying. “I can't wait 'til it's over—the whole thing is so ridiculous, don't you think?”

Gladys was nodding in agreement when something clicked in her brain. “Did you say a Broadway show?” she asked. “Like, in New York City?”

“Well, duh,” Parm said. “I'm pretty sure that's where Broadway is. Anyway, who cares? Look, we've got almost the whole playground to ourselves. Let's take advantage, huh?”

Normally, an empty playground and someone who actually wanted to spend recess with her would have made Gladys's day, but she had to find out more about this birthday trip.

“I'm sorry, Parm,” she said, “but there's something important I need to do. I'll explain later!”

“Oh. Okay,” Parm said. “Well maybe—”

But Gladys didn't hear the end of that sentence—she was already sprinting across the playground at top speed.

Charissa was standing on a mound of pebbles, taking questions from the crowd. She wore a purple coat and matching fuzzy earmuffs with the band stretched behind her head, under the base of her high ponytail. A quick glance around showed Gladys that several other girls were wearing earmuffs in this silly way, too. Joanna Rodriguez was even sweating, but she didn't take them off.

“Is it true that you're going to ride to the show in a stretch limo?” Leah Klein shouted.

Charissa let out a dramatic sigh. “I don't know
how
these ridiculous rumors get started,” she said. “It's just a
normal
limo, not a
stretch
limo.”

“Will the limo still be big?” called a voice from the back of the crowd.

Charissa laughed, and several of the girls closest to her quickly did the same. “Well
of course
it'll still be big,” she said. “It's a limo!”

“Yeah, well, if it's so big,” Marti Astin piped up, “shouldn't it have room for more than one of your friends?”

Based on the murmurs that rippled through the crowd, several others thought this was a fair point.

Mira Winters jumped to Charissa's aid and rounded on Marti. “She's only got four tickets to the show, stupid,” she said. “One for her mom, one for her dad, one for herself, and one for me. Right, Charissa?” Mira gave Charissa a big wink.

Charissa's eyes narrowed shrewdly. “We'll see, Mira, we'll see. I haven't made any decisions yet. But it's true, there
are
only four tickets to the show. If there's extra space in the limo, we'll all just have to stretch out while we're watching TV.” Another excited murmur went through the crowd. “Oh, yeah,” Charissa drawled, “did I mention that the limo has a big-screen TV?”

Things went on like this for a while longer. Gladys learned that the seats at the Broadway show were “orchestra,” which meant that they were very good, and that after the show the limo would take Charissa and her lucky friend anywhere in the city that they wanted to go. As the end of recess drew near, Charissa tossed her ponytail a final time and said, “Okay, enough questions. I've decided”—here everyone in the crowd seemed to take a deep breath at once—“not to make a decision until Friday.” Everyone sighed in relief. “Meanwhile, if anyone has an early birthday present for me, they can leave it on my desk this week!”

The bell rang. Charissa hopped down from her mound of pebbles and headed for the school doors, the mob trailing desperately after her.

Gladys caught up with Parm as they entered the building. “Sorry I ran off,” Gladys told her. “I just . . . needed to see for myself what all the fuss was about.”

Parm still looked a little miffed, but she seemed to accept this explanation. “So, I guess you've heard the latest then,” she said. “She's asking for presents now! What a nerve! What's she going to do, take the person who gives her the best present?”

“I hope so,” Gladys said without thinking.

“What?”

“Oh, I mean . . . um, that's disgusting!”

Parm liked this answer much better. “Yeah!” she said. “
So
disgusting! Honestly . . .”

Parm kept talking until they parted ways for their separate classrooms, but Gladys's mind was only on one thing. She had to be the one who got the spot in that limo to New York City.