Stars So Sweet (11 page)

BAKE SALE FAIRY GODMOTHER?

G
LADYS'S IMPRESSION THAT HER LIFE
was under control lasted all of twelve hours.

Students were posted at either side of the school's main entrance the next morning, reaching into boxes to hand something to each kid who went through the doors. “Get your paper!” one of them shouted as Gladys approached. “Special back-to-school edition of the
DTMS Telegraph
!”

Although Gladys still had absolutely no desire to join the school paper, she couldn't help but feel a little curious about how Elaine's pet project would read. Would its features be up to
New York Standard
level? Or more along the
lines of stories found in the typo-ridden
Dumpsford Township Intelligencer
?

Whatever the quality, this first issue of the school year looked short: just the front and back of one legalsized sheet of paper, folded in half. Gladys accepted her copy from the paperboy to her right, unfolded it—and froze.

There was one picture on the front page of the paper, and it was of her.

Someone bumped into her from behind. “Hey!” a kid farther back shouted. “Who's holding up the line?”

“It's her!” another voice shouted. “The girl in the paper!”

Gladys finally forced herself to move forward, faster and faster until she was practically running down the hallway. She spotted a bathroom and ducked inside, then locked herself in the first empty stall. Finally, heart pounding more from nerves than from her sprint, she opened the newspaper sheet again.

The picture wasn't very flattering—it had been taken from an odd angle, and Gladys was cringing away rather than looking at the camera. Still, she noticed Owen and Charissa and the table of treats from the bake sale in the background.

But much worse than the picture was the article that went along with it.

GLADYS GATSBY: Bake Sale Fairy Godmother or Blatant Rule-Breaker?

Special Investigative Report by Editor in Chief Elaine de la Vega

Seventh-grader Gladys Gatsby is new to DTMS, but that doesn't mean that she's eager to learn our school's rules.

At yesterday's well-attended soccer team bake sale (see “Super-Successful Bake Sale Breaks School Records” by Elaine de la Vega, pg. 2), Ms. Gatsby stood front and center. One would assume that this sale was organized by members of the soccer team. But when this reporter spoke to seventh-grade player Parminder Singh and asked what the team's secret ingredient was, she said, “Talk to . . . Gladys Gatsby.”

Ms. Gatsby herself admitted that she had designed treats for the sale and supervised the baking, and she did not appear at all apologetic. Instead, she said that she would “help any club out with a bake sale if they asked me”—in short, guaranteeing that she plans to keep up with this unethical practice.

These shenanigans appear to be nothing new for Ms. Gatsby, who also had a record of dodgy
behavior at East Dumpsford Elementary School last year. “She totally started a food fight in the cafeteria,” says ex-classmate Mira Winters. “Or, at least, she was involved. I saw her throw a sandwich, but she never got in trouble.”

Perhaps this pattern of escaping punishments in the past has led Ms. Gatsby to believe that she will be invincible at DTMS. But if she's asked to “consult” on another soccer team bake sale, this reporter suggests that Ms. Gatsby design a cookie in the shape of a “red card.”

• • •

Gladys stared at the article in disbelief. The homeroom bell rang, but she didn't move—might as well add a tardy to her growing list of “crimes.”

She had only wanted to help Parm—okay, and maybe get in a little extra kitchen time. She had really thought that the only rule she was breaking was her parents' dumb one about only cooking once a week. But now . . .

Gladys pictured the boxes full of newspapers at the school entrance. How long before a copy made its way onto the desk of Parm's soccer coach, or Dr. Sloane? What if they made Parm's team return all the money they raised? Gladys's stomach filled with liquid dread. More than any potential embarrassment for herself, she worried over what Elaine's “investigative report” could mean for her friend.

Well, about that, at least, she could try to do something. If she explained herself to the authorities, and swore that it was her mistake alone, she might be able to stop the team from suffering any consequences. Gladys pushed open the stall door and hurried out of the bathroom.

A sour-faced aide stood only a few feet away. “Hall pass?”

“I don't have one,” Gladys said.

“Then you'll be going straight to the principal's office, young lady.”

“Great,” Gladys muttered. “I was heading there anyway.”

The aide stuck to her side and kept a beady eye on her as they progressed down the hallway and turned the corner to the office. Gladys wondered if she, too, had read the article in the paper or just treated all passless students like juvenile delinquents.

The secretary asked Gladys to have a seat and wait since the principal was in with another student. Gladys wondered who had managed to get into trouble even before she had that morning. It didn't take long for her to find out—Dr. Sloane's raised voice carried right through her closed door.

“This is completely unacceptable!” she bellowed. “Your adviser and I had both approved the other version. Did you really think we wouldn't notice that you switched the files?”

The student's response was too muffled for Gladys to hear.

“Switched by accident before you hit ‘Print'? That's quite a story, Elaine—possibly almost as libelous as the one you chose to publish about a fellow student.”

Gladys's heart gave a tiny jolt of surprise. Was Dr. Sloane talking about the newspaper? She listened more closely.

“It was just . . . an early draft . . . never meant to publish . . .” Elaine's voice, still quiet, seemed to be broken up by sobs, and when Dr. Sloane responded, her voice sounded a bit kinder.

“All right, Elaine. I understand that you're under a lot of pressure with such a small newspaper staff,” she said. “Maybe you really never meant for that article to see the light of day. But still, we can't have such sloppy work. You'll need to retract that story and issue a correction in your next issue. And I'd also like for you to apologize to Ms. Gatsby.”

A moment later, the intercom on the secretary's desk buzzed. “Kate, would you call down to Gladys Gatsby's homeroom and have her sent to the office, please?”

The secretary looked down at the intercom, then up at Gladys. “Um, she's already here, Dr. Sloane. Waiting to see you.”

“She is? Well . . . send her in then, please.”

Gladys shot to her feet, though her first instinct
was to bolt for the exit. The last person she wanted to face this morning was Elaine—even a weepy Elaine.

Come on now,
she told herself. Parm didn't shy away from her opponents on the soccer field; Sandy was gearing up for a
third
gross foods match with Jonah even though he'd lost the first two. And Charissa wasn't afraid of anybody. Couldn't Gladys draw on a little bit of their courage, too?

She turned to the principal's door, squared her shoulders, and marched in.

Elaine was on her feet, her fierce demeanor not quite able to make up for her blotchy face.

“Ah, Gladys—I see that you've already seen the newspaper,” Dr. Sloane said.

Gladys realized that her copy of the paper was still clutched in her left hand. She let her grip relax and laid the copy down on the principal's desk. Then she cleared her throat and looked straight at Dr. Sloane, ignoring Elaine as best she could. “I just wanted to say, Dr. Sloane, that helping the soccer team with their bake sale was my idea, and mine alone. If I'd realized that it was against the rules, I never would have offered, and I really hope that you won't penalize them for my mistake.”

Dr. Sloane shook her head. “It's not against any rule, Gladys; Elaine's article was quite exaggerated. Now, if you'd done all the work for them and let them
take the credit, that would be a problem, but if you just offered help of your own free will, no one's going to fault you for that.”

Gladys let out a huge sigh of relief. Dr. Sloane, though, wasn't finished. “Of course, in the future I hope that you'll consider actually joining some clubs here rather than simply helping with fund-raising without gaining the benefits of membership. Does that sound fair?”

Membership in a bunch of clubs sounded more like a burden to Gladys than a benefit, but she nodded anyway.

“And as for the article . . .” Dr. Sloane continued. “Elaine tells me that it was something she drafted for her own amusement, and that she never meant to publish it for a wide readership. Elaine, do you have something that you'd like to add?”

Dr. Sloane looked pointedly at Elaine, whose bloodshot gaze turned upon Gladys. “I'm sorry that I sent the wrong file to the printer yesterday,” Elaine said robotically. “I'll be more careful in the future.”

Wrong file, my foot,
Gladys thought. Thanks to her work with the
Standard,
she knew how much time and effort went into newspaper layout every day; it really wasn't possible to accidentally stick in a major story and picture.

Thinking about the
Standard,
though, reminded Gladys that she had much bigger secrets to protect
than the fact that she'd helped out with a middleschool bake sale. If she could get “Investigative Reporter” Elaine de la Vega on her good side—or, at least, off her bad side—she should probably do it.

“I accept your apology,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Very good,” Dr. Sloane said. “I'm glad to see you girls are both being mature about this. Now, Gladys, Elaine assures me she'll print a retraction in the paper's next issue, so I believe we're finished here. You can both go back to class.”

Gladys shot out the door before Elaine had even reached for the strap of her messenger bag. Soon enough, she was lost in the crowd of students making their way to first period, and she didn't look back. In fact, she was wondering how hard it would be to avoid coming face-to-face with Elaine de la Vega ever again.

BAKED GOODS AND BRAINS

“
SO IS IT REALLY TRUE?”

Joanna Rodriguez, one of Gladys's old classmates from East Dumpsford Elementary, was waiting for her in first-period science. She had a copy of the newspaper in her hand.

Great.
Dr. Sloane may have made Elaine promise to print a retraction, but until then, the story was still out there for everyone to read.

“What, that I'm a giant rule-breaker?” Gladys couldn't help but snarl.

Joanna's big brown eyes widened. “What? No, not that part. The part where it says you designed the whole bake sale—and that you'd be willing to help other clubs with theirs.”

“Oh.” Gladys felt sheepish now for having snapped at her. “Uh, sure. Why?”

The bell rang just then, and their teacher barked at Joanna to take her seat. She did, but the moment his back was turned, a tiny folded-up note landed on Gladys's desk.

She snatched it up and shoved it into her pocket, caution winning out over curiosity—she'd already had enough brushes with serious trouble that morning.

When class ended, Gladys took the note with her and read it on the way to gym:
I'm in Art Club, and we'd love to have you help us plan our fund-raiser! We meet on Fridays. Come this week!—JoRo

An invitation to join another club? That was the last thing Gladys had expected to result from this debacle. But as it turned out, Joanna's invitation was only the first of many.

In the gym locker room, two girls Gladys had never talked to before asked if she had ever thought about running cross-country. Gladys was sure they must be pranking her, until one mentioned that the team hoped to raise money with a bake sale.

Then, at lunchtime, Gladys didn't even need to make a special effort to avoid Elaine de la Vega, because a small group was waiting for her at her regular lunch table. Charissa's friend Rolanda was one of them, and she spoke first.

“Hey, Gladys—how are you?” She shot Gladys a gleaming-toothed grin and tossed her tiny braids over her shoulder. “So, I'm in Drama Club now, and I was
wondering if you might consider trying out for the fall musical. We'd
really
love to have you in the cast! And to raise money for new costumes, we were thinking of holding a bake—”

“Hey, Gladys, I'm Jason Mitty.” Before Rolanda could finish, a boy pushed past her, his hand outstretched. “Newly elected president of the Chess Club. Have you ever played?”

Gladys shook her head.

“Well, no worries—we can teach you! Beginners are always welcome. And hey, let me get your opinion on something: chess-piece candies. How hard would they be to make? Because we were thinking, for our bake sale—”

At this, a lanky, freckled girl stepped in front of him. “Forget all of them,” she insisted. “I'm Shayla Brown. Your buddy Charissa is already a Mathlete—why don't you join us, too? Unlike these jokers, we want you for your brain, not just your baking expertise. Although, I've got to say, some sort of brain-shaped baked good
would
be pretty fitting for our sale . . .”

Gladys was starting to feel smothered by all the attention—but at the same time, she couldn't help but feel a tiny bit triumphant. Elaine had clearly meant to sabotage her reputation with that article, but it turned out she had advertised Gladys's baking skills much more effectively than Gladys could have done on her own. And with the cooking restrictions still
firmly in place at her house, these clubs might be her only chance to get back into the kitchen regularly!

“Okay,” she told the kids clustered around her. “I'll join.”

“Wait—which one?” Rolanda asked. “Which club do you pick?”

“I pick all of them,” Gladys said simply.

“But . . .” Shayla gaped at her like a bigmouthed fish. “But Mathletes is a big commitment!”

“Yeah, and so is Chess Club!” Jason said. “We meet once a week after school, and then there are tournaments—”

“Shh!” Rolanda hissed at them both. “If Gladys says she wants to join all of our clubs, then she can join them. She obviously knows how much she can handle.” She shot Gladys another grin. “Drama meets after school today in the auditorium. We'll see you at two-thirty.”

“Chess Club's next meeting is Thursday in the music annex,” Jason said.

“And Mathletes meets tomorrow in Mrs. Vicole's classroom,” Shayla said. “See you then?”

“Sure,” Gladys said, but as the three club leaders walked away, she felt a twinge of apprehension. In less than five minutes, she'd somehow managed to commit herself to an extracurricular agenda that rivaled Charissa's. Hadn't she told her friend that was a bad idea?

When Gladys saw Charissa again in French that
afternoon, she started to doubt her decision even more. Charissa was already looking fried—and not in a crispy, appealing way. There were bags under her eyes, her normally glowing skin was sallow, and her knuckles were white as she clutched a small notebook, muttering about that evening's schedule. “After the bell, Student Leadership Council. If that lets out early, switch to French Club.”

French Club! Gladys knew she had forgotten something important when she'd committed to going to Drama Club that afternoon. She groaned. She had told Rolanda she would be there; she supposed she'd just have to pick up with French Club next week.

Charissa, meanwhile, was still talking to herself. “Pickup at four and straight on to ballet. Dinner at six. Homework at seven. Science quiz tomorrow—don't forget to study . . .”

Gladys hated to interrupt, but back at camp, Charissa had made Gladys promise to let her know when her next restaurant-reviewing trip was scheduled. “Hey, Charissa,” she whispered, “want to come with me on Saturday to a Salvadoran restaurant in Queens?”

Charissa paused in her schedule recitation and turned to Gladys, her weary eyes brightening momentarily. “Yeah!” she said. “Awesome! Is Parm coming, too?”

“Oh—um, no,” Gladys said. “It'll just be you, me, and Aunt Lydia.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Was Gladys imagining it, or did Charissa sound a little sad about that?

“Just let me know what time I need to be ready,” she said, “and I'll put it in my planner.” She flipped open her small notebook, and Gladys saw an elaborate, color-coded schedule. “I'll label it in green—that's the color I reserve for fun.” At first glance, Gladys didn't notice any other “fun” slots reserved for the month of September.

After class—and after apologizing to Madame Goldstein—Gladys proceeded to the Drama Club meeting as promised. There she learned, thankfully, that you could be a member without having to perform onstage, and she quickly signed up to paint scenery instead. Although she wasn't really confident that her painting skills were any better than her acting ones, she figured that job held less potential for public humiliation. And who knew—maybe she would even pick up some skills at an Art Club meeting that would help her.

Once the crew sign-ups were done and the audition schedule was announced, the Drama Club adviser, Mr. Hollon, asked everybody to huddle up onstage so they could brainstorm ideas for their fund-raiser bake sale the next week. As Gladys climbed the stage steps, she couldn't help but think back to the last time she'd stood up there, after Hamilton's presentation. She
wondered whether he had gotten her e-mail yet.

The brainstorming part of the meeting was by far the most fun for Gladys; it seemed that everyone had read the article in the
Telegraph,
and they automatically looked to her for guidance. In the end, they took her suggestion of baking a variation on black-and-white iced cookies featuring the traditional comedy and tragedy masks of Greek drama. Icing the cookies properly would take some work, but when Gladys passed a sign-up sheet around, almost twenty kids volunteered to meet her the next Monday evening at Rolanda's house to bake.

That night at the dinner table, Gladys's parents were thrilled to hear that she had joined some new clubs—though she conveniently left out the detail that she'd be running all their bake sales.

“Well, I have some good news, too,” her mom announced as she served herself more of the pasta bolognaise Aunt Lydia had prepared. “I finally got ahold of the owner of the Pathetti's Pies property, and he's going to give me the listing.”

“That's great!” Gladys's dad crowed, and Aunt Lydia and Gladys added their congratulations, too.

“Yes, well, don't get too excited yet,” her mom said. “I don't think it's going to be easy to find a new tenant.”

Gladys's dad reached for the cheese. “Why not?”

“The interior needs a lot of work,” her mom said.
“New paint job, new light fixtures, and so on, but Bob doesn't want to take care of any of those details. Whoever leases the space is going to need to do a lot of work on their own.” She sighed.

“At least you got the listing, Jen,” Aunt Lydia piped up. “That's something!”

“Thanks,” her mom said. “Well, if you hear any customers at Mr. Eng's talking about wanting to lease a dilapidated former pizzeria, make sure you give them my card.” She laughed. “And you too, Gladys—keep your ears open at all those club meetings. You never know where a lead might come from!”

Gladys had reserved the next day with her parents for kitchen access, and she was planning, at long last, to try her hand at some Salvadoran specialties. After dinner, she made some preparations, like setting a pot of beans out on the counter with water to soak and retrieving a shoulder of pork from the freezer to thaw overnight. Before she left for school the next morning, she would set it up in the slow cooker with liquid and spices so that when she got home, she'd have pulled pork ready to stuff into her pupusa dough.

Finally, before she went to bed, Gladys checked her e-mail, but there was no response yet from Hamilton.
Maybe my note hasn't been forwarded to him yet,
she told herself, and attempted to put it out of her mind. Instead, she DumpChatted with Sandy and asked if
he and his mom would like to come over for pupusas the following night. At first, Sandy was excited because the word
pupusa
—like
barfi
—sounded a little disgusting in English. But even when Gladys told him it was just a stuffed cornmeal pancake, he agreed to come try it.