Stars So Sweet (10 page)

A FULL PLATE

O
KAY,
GLADYS TOLD HERSELF AS SHE
barreled down the hallway.
I'll stop REALLY fast to see Parm, then go straight home to look at the letter.
She rounded a corner and picked up speed.

The halls were weirdly empty, but Gladys soon found out where all the kids were: the bake sale. The table of treats was absolutely mobbed, and even with three other team members on hand to help, it looked like Parm was barely keeping up with demand. Gladys recognized several kids from her lunch period pushing toward the front of the line, including Elaine de la Vega, who Gladys knew was supposed to be at the
Telegraph
meeting. She had to smile; she'd been right to predict that a bake sale would be a big hit with the early lunchers.

The soccer-ball-shaped cookies were by far the most popular item; in fact, by the time Gladys squeezed her way up to the table, there was only one left.

“Hey, Parm, how much for that cookie?” the boy next to Gladys asked. She recognized his voice—it was Owen Green, who had gotten Parm embroiled in a food fight in the East Dumpsford Elementary cafeteria the year before.

“Three dollars,” Parm said automatically, but when she looked up and saw who had asked, her eyes narrowed. “Oh—for you?
Four
dollars.”

Owen grunted, but dug into his pocket anyway. “Okay.”

“Wait!” cried a voice, and a round-cheeked girl pushed her way forward. “Don't sell it to him. I'll give you five dollars for it.”

“What?” Owen spluttered. “No fair!”

“I'll give you six bucks!” another voice shouted from the crowd.

“Seven!”

“Forty-two!”

The crowd hushed at that offer, then split as Charissa Bentley glided forward, bills fanned out in her hand like a peacock's display.

“Aaaand, sold!” Parm cried. She accepted Charissa's money to a chorus of groans. “Sorry, guys, but this
is
a fund-raiser. And hey, there are still plenty of brownies and barf—I mean,
gluten-free sweet squares
—left.”
She passed Charissa her soccer-ball cookie with a smile. Maybe, Gladys thought, her two best school friends really might be starting to like each other.

At Gladys's left, Elaine de la Vega was snapping pictures of the bake sale goodies with a small camera. “Excuse me,” she said to Parm, “but I don't think DTMS has ever seen such a successful fund-raiser before. This is a newsworthy event! Do you have a few minutes for an interview with the
Telegraph
?”

Parm passed a “sweet square” over to another paying customer. “Um, we're a little busy right now,” she replied. “But the person you really should talk to is Gladys Gatsby. She picked out the recipes and oversaw all the baking. And actually, the whole sale was her idea in the first place! There she is.” Gladys didn't even have time to think about ducking away before Parm pointed her out.

Elaine's camera flashed as she whirled around; her finger must have accidentally depressed the button in surprise. “Gladys Gatsby?” she said. “This was
your
idea?”

“Uh . . .” Gladys rubbed her eyes, still blinded by the flash. Hamilton's letter was practically burning a hole through her backpack, and the last thing she wanted to do was get enmeshed in a long interview about bake sale planning. “Sort of,” she said quickly. “I mean, I like to bake, so I was happy to jump in.”

Elaine's camera was gone faster than seemed humanly possible, replaced by a small pad on which she scribbled furious notes. “So let me get this straight,” she said. “You don't have time to join clubs like, say,
the newspaper
 . . . but you
do
have time to bake hundreds of cookies for a team you're not actually on?”

Was it bad to help a team with their fund-raiser if you weren't a member? Gladys didn't think so, but figured it couldn't hurt to clarify. “I didn't do any of the actual baking,” she said quickly. “I just sort of . . . supervised and consulted.”

“But to be clear, you're
not
on the soccer team, right?” Elaine gave Gladys a cool stare. “Never mind, no need to answer. The roster's public information—I can always pop by the gym and check.”

Now it really sounded like Elaine was trying to get Gladys into trouble. “Look,” Gladys said, “I was just trying to do something nice for a friend. I mean, I'd be happy to help any club out with a bake sale if they asked me.”

“Help a friend. How sweet.” Elaine sneered like friendship was something she had stopped having time for in first grade. “Well, I've got everything I need for now. Thanks, Gladys. Very enlightening.” With that, she flipped her pad shut and disappeared.

Fudge.
Gladys had enough going on—she certainly
didn't need a vindictive middle-school reporter on her case, too.

She could see that the sale was going fine without her help, and although she was hungry enough to eat all the treats left on the table, she was even more eager to read her letter. She made a phone with her hand to signal Parm to call her later, then wiggled her way out of the crowd toward the exit.

Extra glad that she had ridden her bike that morning, Gladys pedaled the few blocks home as though that comet from the teachers' orientation shirts was on her tail.

The house was empty; both of her parents were at work, and Aunt Lydia must have been out shopping or something. Still, Gladys retreated to her bedroom and closed the door before taking the letter out of her backpack. She ripped into the envelope and pulled out the single typed sheet inside.

But as soon as she glimpsed the signature, she realized that she had been wrong. This letter wasn't from Hamilton at all.

Dear Gladys,

I've just discovered that this year you are taking French with my neighbor Lillian Goldstein. I've informed her that, based on my own interactions
with you, she is very lucky to have you in her class!

I hope that you'll excuse the cloak-and-dagger maneuvers I have undertaken to get this letter into your hands, but I imagine that as soon as you saw the way I wrote your name on the envelope, you understood my reasoning. I didn't want to mention anything last year when you were still in my class, for fear of making you feel uncomfortable or exposed. But now that you're not my student anymore, I figure that we can be more honest with each other, peer-to-peer—or perhaps I should say foodie-to-foodie?

In any case, I wanted to let you know that I am extremely proud of your accomplishments so far in the field of restaurant criticism and that I am following your career with the greatest interest. You cannot imagine the rush of pride I feel, as your former teacher, every time I see your byline appear in the
Standard
.

I'm hoping to see many more mouthwatering articles from you. I also wanted to say that if you ever need an adult to talk to—discreetly, of course—about your work, I would be happy
to be of service. You can contact me anytime at the e-mail address or phone number below (or, if you prefer, reply by letter via our mutual
amie
, Madame Goldstein).

All my best,

Violetta Quincy

Gladys finished reading the letter, then reached for the torn envelope she had cast aside so quickly.
G. Gatsby,
it said in neat block letters. The abbreviated byline she used on her reviews for the
Standard.

Really, it was wonderful to hear from her sixth-grade teacher. Ms. Quincy was, after all, the one who had encouraged her to be true to her passion and write about becoming a restaurant critic for the
New York Standard
essay contest. It was that essay that had somehow fallen into the hands of Fiona Inglethorpe and led to Gladys's first professional reviewing assignment.

Gladys had been pretty sure that Aunt Lydia and Mr. Eng were the only two adults in the world who knew about her secret job—but it seemed that her former teacher had figured it out as well. And it was so nice of Ms. Quincy to get in touch now and offer her support. She would definitely have to write back to her soon to thank her.

But despite the way the letter had buoyed her, Gladys couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment
that it wasn't from Hamilton. She had started making excuses to herself for why he hadn't returned her call, but still, she wasn't ready to give up on him completely. She took down her copy of
Zombietown, U.S.A.,
went to the office, and dialed his number again. But, just like last time, a recording answered on the first ring.

It was a different recording from last time, though. “We're sorry,” said a robotic voice, “but the voice-mail box of the person you are trying to reach is full.”

How strange—had no one in Hamilton's family been checking the voice mail? If that was the case, then maybe Hamilton hadn't even gotten Gladys's original message.

She sighed. How to reach him, if not by phone? If Hamilton was on DumpChat, the local online instantmessaging service, she didn't know his username. And they hadn't exchanged e-mail addresses that summer, which Gladys was starting to see as a major oversight. She supposed that Charissa might have an e-mail address for the Herbertsons on file at her parents' camp office, but Gladys really didn't want to ask; Charissa was not a big fan of Hamilton, and his most recent display at school hadn't done him any favors with her.

Gladys picked absently at the silver “Finalist for Best Kids Author at the Kids Rock Awards!” sticker on the cover of Hamilton's book. Its corner lifted, revealing some tiny print that she had never noticed before.
It said
Visit www.ZombietownUSA.com for more info about the book and tween author sensation Hamilton Herbertson.

Bingo!

A few moments later, Gladys had the website up on the computer; it featured the black cover of Hamilton's book, with the tagline “The literary phenomenon that's sweeping the nation!”

Gladys clicked on the book cover, and the main site came up; there were tabs labeled “About the Book” and “About the Author.” Gladys clicked on the second one and was greeted with a black-and-white headshot of Hamilton that took up half the screen. She had never really thought about it before, but in this picture, with his signature fedora angled jauntily, he actually looked sort of . . . cute.

Stop it,
Gladys told herself. Hamilton Herbertson was many things—annoying, self-centered, clueless about basic social interactions—but “cute” was definitely not one of them. Just the same, Gladys didn't feel comfortable looking at his picture anymore, and quickly clicked back to the home page. There, she noticed another tab, “Contact,” and clicked over to it.

Hey, readers—got a question for Hamilton? Send it in to us at [email protected].

Well, that was a start. Gladys clicked on the e-mail address, which automatically opened a DumpMail message, and started typing.

To Whom It May Concern,

I'm a friend of Hamilton's, and I'm trying to get ahold of him. Would you please ask him to e-mail me at [email protected]? It's important. Thank you very much.

Sincerely,

Gladys Gatsby

There,
she thought as she sent the e-mail,
that should do it.

She was about to log off and start on her homework when her DumpChat chime dinged.

rabbitboy: backyard plz

Today had been Sandy's gross-off at school—he probably wanted to celebrate his victory. Gladys wished she had thought to snag at least one brownie from the bake sale for him, but he'd just have to accept her empty-handed congratulations. She bounded down the stairs, outside, and across the yard—but the expression on Sandy's face when she reached the gap in the hedge stopped her in her tracks.

DEATH BY DURIAN

“
I LOST,” SANDY SAID MISERABLY. “IT
wasn't even close.”

“What?”
Gladys couldn't believe what she was hearing. “But that cheese—it was
so
disgusting! What could possibly have topped that?”

Sandy took a deep, shaky breath. His normally red cheeks weren't tearstained, but they were as pale as Gladys had ever seen them. “It was a fruit,” he said. “Of all things, a
fruit
! On the outside, it looked kind of like a mutant pineapple, and on the inside it had these alien-like pods of yellow flesh. But ugh, you could smell it before Jonah even cut into it. Like a combination of raw onions and metal and . . . I don't know, just rot.”

“A durian,” Gladys said quietly.

“Wait—you knew this fruit existed?”
Sandy glared at Gladys accusingly, as if she had been withholding important information from him on purpose.

“Well, yeah,” Gladys said. “Some people like it; some people despise it. I've always been curious to try it, actually, but I have no idea where to find it in America. It's from Southeast Asia.”

“Chinatown, in the city,” Sandy said with a sigh. “Jonah got his parents to take him over the weekend; he said he spent hours asking around at different fruit stands until he found one. And all I did was walk to Mr. Eng's and grab the first thing I tried. I deserved to lose.”

“Don't say that!” Gladys cried. “That Limburger cheese was a great choice! I mean, the other kids must have at least agreed that it was pretty gross, right?”

“They did at first,” Sandy said. “I even offered some to the others to try, and a few did. But then Jonah took out his fruit, and
everything
about it was disgusting. The texture was goopy and slimy. And the flavor . . . well, it was sort of sweet at first—just enough to trick you into trying another bite—but then the true, horrible taste came out. And
that
taste stayed in your mouth for hours, no matter what else you ate, even more Limburger cheese.” Sandy sighed again. “Jonah won fair and square.”

Gladys hated to admit it, but it sounded like Sandy was right.

“Okay, so maybe this round went to Jonah,” she said, “but he's got to give you another chance! When's the rematch? I know we can find you something even better than a durian.”

She expected Sandy to perk up at this, but like the taste of durian that had apparently lingered in his mouth all day, his glum demeanor stuck around. “I dunno, Gatsby. Maybe I should just know when I'm beaten and accept it.”

Gladys had never heard Sandy sound so pessimistic—it was almost like he had temporarily swapped personalities with Parm. “No
way,
” she said. “This is not the Sandy Anderson I know. You can win this thing! You've just got to . . . you know, believe in yourself and stuff!”

Finally, a small grin cracked Sandy's face. “Wow, Gatsby. That's some motivational speech.”

“Sorry.” Gladys shook her head. This was why she loved writing—you could take hours to come up with the perfect phrase if you needed to. Face-to-face communication was so much harder.

“Nah, it's okay. I'm glad you believe in me.” Sandy reached a fist through the gap in the hedge, and Gladys bumped it. “Jonah did say he'd take on any fool who was still willing to challenge him, but of course, no one spoke up. Maybe, though . . . if I can find something
really
amazingly disgusting . . .”

“You can!” Gladys cried. “I know you can. We'll do it
together. I'm planning to head into the city this weekend to visit my first restaurant for the new reviews—you can come and we'll start looking.”

But Sandy shook his head. “Can't do this weekend—yoga retreat with Mom upstate. She's teaching, and they're letting her bring me for free. I'll do my own sleuthing there, but the whole menu's vegan, so my hopes aren't high.”

“Oh. Okay.” Gladys wondered what Sandy would do during the retreat—would he take his mom's classes? Would that be weird for him? Gladys had gone to work with her dad a couple of times in the past year, though the hours she'd spent in his accounting meetings had been some of the most boring of her life. Yoga, at least, sounded more interesting.

“So let me know the next time you're heading into the city, and hopefully I can come,” Sandy said.

Gladys nodded. “And I'll keep my eyes . . . and nose . . . open in the meantime.”

• • •

When Parm called her that night, Gladys found even more evidence for her personality-swapping theory: Parm's voice was more upbeat than Gladys had ever heard it. “We sold every last treat!” she cried. “By the end, I'd raised the prices on the barfi to two bucks apiece, and even then, kids were fighting over them. We made six hundred dollars—that's more than one-third of our fund-raising goal for the trip!”

“That's great!” Gladys said.

“Coach was so happy,” Parm continued, “and now I'm pretty much the most popular girl on the team.
Not
that popularity is important to me
at all,
” she added quickly. “Like I tell Charissa over and over, being popular is stupid. But money is good! We're just a couple more bake sales away from going to Pennsylvania!”

Gladys smiled. “I'm so glad it all worked out.”

“We couldn't have done it without you, obviously,” Parm said. “And the rest of the team is really grateful, too. They were talking about making you an honorary member.”

“Honorary member?” Gladys smiled, imagining the look on Elaine de la Vega's face if she actually saw Gladys's name listed on the soccer team roster after all.

“Well, if you ever want to come work out with us one day after school or something, you'd be welcome,” Parm said.

Gladys laughed then, trying to imagine herself dribbling or passing a soccer ball. “I think I'll stick to dribbling icing on scones and passing the salt at the dinner table—but thanks.”

“Well, anyway, I owe you big. Is there something I can do to help you with”—here, Parm lowered her voice—“you know, your job?”

Gladys nudged the office door shut with her foot, then lowered her own voice for good measure. “Well,”
she said, “you could come with me and my aunt on one of our restaurant research trips and order extra food. Asking for half the stuff on the menu will look less weird with three people eating instead of two, you know?”

“Done—as long as you don't make me
eat
the stuff I order,” Parm said. “Just let me know when you need me, and as long as I don't have practice, I'll be there.”

After she got off the phone, Gladys crossed the hallway and tapped on the guest room door. When Aunt Lydia opened it, Gladys could tell she was in a better mood than the night before, since she was dressed for bed in silk mint-green pajamas rather than her old sweats.

Gladys sat on the edge of her aunt's bed. “So, how did it go at Mr. Eng's today?” she asked. They hadn't been able to discuss things in front of Gladys's parents at dinner.

“I could hardly believe it,” Aunt Lydia said. “He didn't want to fire me at all! Instead, he wants to send me to some foodie trade shows to scout out new products for the store.”

As tired as Gladys was of keeping secrets, she didn't think it would be right to let on that the whole send-Aunt-Lydia-to-conventions plan had been her idea. So instead, she simply smiled and said, “That's great, Aunt Lydia!”

“The first one is a dried-meats convention this
Saturday in the city,” Aunt Lydia said. “Mr. Eng even suggested it might be fun for you to tag along—you know, sort of as my assistant.”

Gladys grinned, and not just because that had also been her idea. A dried-meats convention sounded like the perfect place to hunt for something stomachturning for Sandy. Maybe there would even be actual dried stomach!

“I'd love to,” Gladys said. “And can we visit the Salvadoran restaurant in Queens after?”

“Absolutely,” Aunt Lydia said. “I can call tomorrow and make us a reservation—under my name, of course.”

“Make it for three,” Gladys said. “I'm going to see if Charissa can join us—I think she'd be helpful.”

Aunt Lydia nodded, and after they had exchanged good night
bisoux
on each cheek, Gladys headed for her own bedroom.

Parm's bake sale had been a success, she had found an e-mail address for Hamilton, she and Sandy had a plan for his next battle, and her first reviewing outing was scheduled. Plus, the French Club would be meeting tomorrow.

Gladys fell asleep feeling like maybe she was finally starting to get the hang of life in middle school.