Stars So Sweet (18 page)

Gladys nearly choked on her punch—but that was nothing compared with Charissa's reaction. As Parm and Owen walked together out onto the dance floor, her lower lip trembled in wordless shock. A moment later, when Owen put his hands on Parm's waist, Charissa ripped off her headband, flung it to the ground, and raced toward the door that led to the hallway.

Gladys stared at the couple on the dance floor, then at Charissa's retreating back—which, ironically, said
Singh.
Something was coming together in her head.

“I'm sorry, Hamilton,” she said. “I'd better go see if Charissa's okay.”

“Of course,” Hamilton said. “I'll be right here.”

Gladys took off into the hallway and just caught sight of the girls' bathroom door swinging shut behind her friend. She found Charissa standing by the sinks, gazing down into one of them. No one else was in the bathroom.

“Charissa,” Gladys said. “I'm sorry.”

Charissa turned to her and sniffled. “Am I that obvious?”

“No! I mean, I doubt anyone else noticed anything. And definitely not Owen.”

“What do I care if Owen notices?” Charissa said.

Now Gladys was confused. “Wait. Don't you have a crush on him? I thought that was why you were upset.”

Charissa stared at her. “
What?
No way! Owen Green . . . I mean . . . he didn't even wear a costume!” She kicked the toe of one of Parm's soccer cleats into the cinder-block bathroom wall. “I'm upset because Parm is dancing with him, and . . . because I like her.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear that,” Gladys said. “I think it's really great that the two of you have become friends.”

“No,” Charissa said quietly. Her gray eyes locked onto Gladys's. “I
like
her.”

“Oh.” Gladys blinked.
“Oh.”

Charissa turned and looked at herself in the mirror. She balled up the front of Parm's soccer jersey in her fist, then let it fall back against her torso. “God, I wish I'd brought a different outfit to change into. I look so stupid.”

“Charissa—” Gladys started.

“Let's not make a big deal of this, okay?” Charissa said. “Owen's into Parm, and she's apparently into him. Parm and I are just friends, and that's how it is.”

Gladys bit her lip. “Okay,” she said. “But if you ever want to talk more . . . well, I'm here.”

Charissa tried to smile. “I know.”

Gladys stepped forward and gathered her friend into a hug. Charissa sank into her, her body shaking slightly. Gladys squeezed her tighter.

“Don't say anything to her, okay?” Charissa whispered. “I'm not ready for anyone else to know.”

“Of course,” Gladys said. This was Charissa's business, to share whenever and with whomever she chose.

“Thanks.” Charissa stepped back, then pulled out her phone. “I'm gonna text Daddy to come pick me up. I'm not really in the mood for dancing anymore. Do you think you can get a ride home with someone else?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Gladys said.

Charissa finished sending her text, then Gladys walked her out to the front exit. They waited together in silence for Charissa's father to come, and when his dark sedan pulled up, Gladys gave Charissa another hug.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Gladys asked.

“Yeah, don't worry about me,” Charissa said. “If the others ask, you can tell them I got sick—too much candy corn or something.”

“There's no such thing,” Gladys said, and they exchanged a smile.

“You're a good friend, Gladys,” Charissa said. “And Hamilton's lucky to be your boyfriend.”

“He's not—” Gladys started, but Charissa was already dashing toward her dad's car.

Gladys was halfway down the hallway that led back to the gym when a zombie shuffled up to her.

“Gladys!” Hamilton cried. “I was starting to worry.”

“Sorry,” she said. “Charissa wasn't feeling great, so I waited with her 'til her dad could come take her home.”

“Ah.” Though it was hard to tell under the makeup, she thought she saw his expression soften. “I thought maybe you'd decided to abandon me here—you know, give me a taste of my own medicine for disappearing on you.”

Gladys shook her head. “I'm not that vengeful. And I'm really glad you're back in town.”

“I'm glad, too.” He smiled. “Well, shall we return to the gymnasium?”

Gladys stepped up close to him, then took his hand into her own. It was warm and slightly moist. He didn't pull it away.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let's go.”

They made it back to the dance just in time for the last slow song of the night.

RETURN OF THE BLOWTORCH

“
SO, GIRLS, HOW WAS THE BIG DANCE?”
Parm's mother asked as Parm and Gladys climbed into her car.

“Fine!” Parm said quickly. “Right, Gladys?”

“Yeah, it was fine,” Gladys said. She hadn't actually had much of a chance to talk to Parm other than to ask if she could catch a ride home with her. Parm and Owen had spent the rest of the dance together, which pretty much made them an official DTMS couple—though it didn't sound like Parm was eager to share that news with her mother. Then again, Gladys wasn't exactly planning to blab all the details of her time with Hamilton to her own parents, so she understood.

Mrs. Singh started the engine. “Parminder, what are you wearing?”

“Oh . . . Charissa lent me a costume,” Parm said. “And actually, she has my soccer stuff. But I'm sure we can swap back at school.”

“The last I heard, you were dead set against dressing up.” Mrs. Singh sounded amused. “What's next—will I find you at the refrigerator at midnight, stuffing yourself with my cooking?”

“Geez, Mom—a person can change her mind about one thing, can't she?”

“I believe she can,” Mrs. Singh said merrily.

When Gladys arrived home, she found her mother rereading
Zombietown, U.S.A.
—her own copy now finally signed by the author. “Aunt Lydia and Dad went to bed,” she told Gladys. “But
I
stayed up to wait for you. What an exciting day you've had! I want to hear all about it.”

Gladys told her mom about her meeting with Fiona, her lunch review “test,” and the Halloween dance—leaving out certain bits, of course. “But getting back to the
Standard
job,” she said. “Fiona gave me a check. A pretty big one.”

“Yes, your father showed me,” her mom said. “We'll take it to the bank tomorrow and put it straight into your savings account.”

“Actually,” Gladys said, “I had another idea of what to do with it. Kind of . . . an investment. But I'd need your help to make it happen.”

Gladys explained her idea. Her mom was skeptical
at first, but Gladys made her argument convincingly and, in the end, managed to win her mother over.

“There's no guarantee you'll make your money back,” her mom warned, “but it sounds like you've thought through the risks.”

“I have,” Gladys said.

“Then I'll put in the paperwork tomorrow morning,” her mom said, “and if all goes well, you can make the announcement at dinner.”

• • •

The next day at school couldn't go by fast enough. Once again, Gladys found herself wishing she had a phone, if only to text her mom and find out how their plan was coming along.

Okay, and she wouldn't have minded texting Hamilton, either. She wondered if there was any wiggle room in the “no phone 'til you're thirteen” plan; if so, she might be willing to scrap her Christmas wish list in exchange for one.

Between fourth and fifth periods, Gladys spotted Charissa and Parm leaving their math classroom together. Their usual roles were reversed: Parm was chattering happily while Charissa listened, her expression rather blank. As she passed them, Gladys caught a wisp of their conversation. “And then he said, ‘Ya wanna get some ice cream on Saturday?' And, well, I don't
like
ice cream, but I said okay anyway, so . . .”

Gladys's heart gave a pang for Charissa as her two friends were swallowed up in the crowd.

At the end of French class, Madame Goldstein reminded them that the French Club would meet after school as usual the following Tuesday. “And those of you who are members, please bring some ideas for our bake sale fund-raiser in two weeks!”

Gladys groaned inwardly—after soccer, Drama Club, Mathletes, and Chess Club, she had hoped to be done with bake sales for a while. But she supposed that, for the one club she actually
wanted
to be a member of, she could make an exception. With her green pen, she made a note on her hand to ask her aunt if she had any tips for making macarons at home.

That night, after a Gladys-cooked dinner of butternut squash soup and fresh corn bread, her mom stood up. “I believe that Gladys has some important documents to share,” she said with a smile, pulling some papers out of her briefcase.

Gladys took the pages from her mother. “It's a lease on the old Pathetti's Pies building,” she announced.

Aunt Lydia laughed. “On top of everything else, are you opening a restaurant?”

Gladys shook her head, then passed the papers over to her aunt. “No, Aunt Lydia.
You're
opening a restaurant.”

Aunt Lydia blinked at her.
“Excusez-moi?”

Gladys's dad—who had been updated on the plan by her mom—jumped in. “Gladys has chosen to invest her
Standard
earnings in a local small business,” he said. “Instead of sticking them in the bank, she's used them to lease the building. Jen and I thought it sounded like such a good idea that we've thrown in some of our own funds as well. Gladys requested that the lease be in your name, Lydia, and that you be given full control of the menu and décor—though she'll be available to consult on these things if her opinion is needed.”

“It really worked out perfectly,” Gladys's mom added. “The building's owner doesn't want to pay for a renovation, but Gladys said you would want to decorate the café yourself anyway. In exchange—and because, to be honest, he had no other offers—I was able to negotiate a nice discount on the rent. For our combined investment, the place is yours for six months.”

Aunt Lydia's mouth opened and closed like she was a fish that had just been yanked out of the water.

“I know it's not Paris,” Gladys said, “but this town's tastes are changing. I can tell just by how busy Mr. Eng's is now! People are cooking more, and have higher expectations of their meals. I think the time is finally right for East Dumpsford to have a decent restaurant—don't you?”

Aunt Lydia still seemed unable to speak.

“And once my new column for the
Standard
starts
up,” Gladys said, “hopefully even more kids around here will be interested in eating adventurously. In fact, the French Club at school is raising money for a field trip to a French restaurant. Usually they go into the city, but if your place is up and running, I bet I could get them to keep the trip here this year. Less money spent on transportation means more for cassoulet and vichyssoise, right?”

Tears streamed down Aunt Lydia's cheeks. “I don't deserve you,” she blubbered. “I don't deserve any of you!”

The Gatsbys piled in on Lydia with hugs, words of encouragement, and fresh napkins into which she could blow her nose. Finally, she pulled herself together.

“I'll pay back every penny,” she promised them. “With interest—a magnificent amount of interest. Even if this project fails, I will find a way.”

“We believe in you, Aunt Lydia,” Gladys said. “I know things were rough at your old job, and at Mr. Eng's at the beginning, but you really thrived when he sent you out to those trade shows. You know good food, and you know how to follow your vision. You'll be great at launching your own restaurant.”

A fresh set of tears was welling up in her aunt's eyes, though she smiled through them. “Your faith in me means so much, my sweet star.”

“Ditto,” Gladys said. “Now, let's start planning! Mom, do you have the keys yet? We can go in and
start repainting this weekend! Dad, can we borrow some of your power tools?”

“We'll see . . .” he replied, giving Gladys a long look. “We all know what happened the last time you got your hands on a blowtorch.”

THE CAFÉ DE PARIS

The Dumpsford Township Middle School
Telegraph
—January 14 issue

FRENCH CLUB MEMBERS EXPAND THEIR PALATES AT NEWLY OPENED RESTAURANT

A Special Report by Gladys Gatsby

Opened to the public only last week, Café de Paris is in the old Pathetti's Pies building, though you would never know that from looking at it. Repainted a cheerful eggshell blue and sporting wrought-iron chairs and tables, the restaurant has instantly become the most chic dining spot our town has to offer.
DTMS's French Club took a trip there last week.

A New York native, owner Lydia Winslow has spent the last decade living in Paris, where she managed a small café in the Montmartre neighborhood. While the French Club students enjoyed an
amuse-bouche
(literally translated as “mouth amuser”—in other words, a small, complimentary appetizer), Ms. Winslow regaled them with tales of her years in France, peppering her speech with French phrases, much to the delight of club adviser and French teacher Lillian Goldstein.

The four-course menu featured something for every palate, beginning with an enticingly flavored cold vichyssoise (potato soup). The club's outing was funded by the proceeds from their November bake sale, which introduced middle-school students to macarons and madeleines, two delicate French confections. It also raised the club's profile at the school and increased membership by 50 percent.

One of the newest members is Hamilton Herbertson, who is actually homeschooled because of his busy career as a best-selling author. “I recently learned that homeschooled students in East Dumpsford are permitted to participate in public school extracurricular activities!” he told the
Telegraph
excitedly. “So I signed up for French Club right away. I toured in France, you know, so I picked up a bit of the language.” When asked how the Café
de Paris stacked up to some of the French restaurants he ate at during his tour, he said, “Oh, this café can stand with any of them. In fact, I'd say it's superior to most—and much more romantic.”

Another new French Club member is Elaine de la Vega, editor in chief of the
Telegraph
. “It's nice to enjoy a night off from reporting,” she said, slurping her soup, “especially now that I have trustworthy staffers covering news for the paper.”

The French Club members were not the only patrons visiting the café on the night in question. While they dug into their main course of cassoulet (a stew from the southern region of France consisting of white beans and various flavorful meats), a mother and son sitting at a smaller table by the door were finishing their dinner with a cheese plate.

“It's been just lovely,” local resident Jayne Anderson replied when asked about her experience dining at the café. “Every course cooked to perfection.” Her son, eleven-year-old Sandy, seemed to agree. Although his mouth was full of cheese when asked what he thought of the food, he uttered the word
odoriferous!
with gusto. He was later observed asking Ms. Winslow for a doggy bag of her stinkiest chèvre to take with him into school the next day.

Other patrons that night included Robert Eng, owner of Mr. Eng's Gourmet Grocery. “I supply
the produce for this restaurant,” he told the
Telegraph
proudly. “Ms. Winslow is a former employee of mine, and I'm happy to see her running her own establishment—and making such nice use of my shop's gourmet ingredients.” He was enjoying a frisée salad with a delicate poached egg on top.

When surveyed, all but one of the French Club members said that they would be happy to return to the restaurant and try more dishes. The only holdout was Parminder Singh, who did not touch a bite, despite the coaching of her friend Charissa Bentley. When asked whether she thought her tastes might change in the future, she shrugged.

It's been a long journey for Ms. Winslow, but she told the
Telegraph
that she's “happy to be home at last.” And East Dumpsford is
très heureux
(that is, very happy) to have her.

To see Café de Paris's hours and find a coupon for a 20 percent student discount, please turn to the restaurant's full-color ad on page
3.