Stars So Sweet (5 page)

“That sounds great!” Gladys cried—but this time, it was her turn to get a kick under the table from Aunt Lydia.
Oh, right—Fiona wasn't talking to her.

“What I think Coraline means,” Aunt Lydia said through tight lips, “is that sounds like a great fit for
me.
She knows how much I enjoy those cuisines.”

“Oh, good,” Fiona said. “I'd like to start publishing these pieces within a month, starting on September twenty-fifth.”

“No problem,” Aunt Lydia said. “I can't wait to get started.” She tucked the envelope into Gladys's purse. Gladys smiled.

Lydia and Fiona then spent the next few minutes discussing more details about the job offer. It seemed that a full-time critic reviewed at least one restaurant every week rather than one a month, which was Gladys's usual pace. And as Gladys had suspected, she would also be given an office in the
Standard
building, where she would be expected to write her reviews and attend brainstorming meetings with the rest of the department. The offered salary sounded like a lot of money, but then again, she was used to writing her reviews for free. By the time Fiona signed their lunch bill, Gladys's brain felt like a hot broth in which
endless number- and dollar-sign-shaped noodles were bobbing around.

Fiona stood up from the table, and Aunt Lydia and Gladys quickly followed. Gladys was a little bummed that the executive lunch hadn't included a dessert—but then again, she probably would have been served a boring dish of chocolate ice cream while the adults got something more interesting, like pomelo bread pudding or rosewater flan.

On their way out, Fiona shook Aunt Lydia's hand again, then reached out and gave Gladys an awkward pat on the head. “Well, good luck with middle school, Coraline,” she said, “and do try to persuade your mom to come work for us, okay?”

“Um, I'll do my best,” Gladys said.

As they rode down in the elevator, Gladys pinched herself. The pinch hurt, which meant that the job offer hadn't been a dream. But if it
had
been a dream, would it have been a good one or a nightmare?

PIE IN THE SKY

O
N THE TRAIN BACK TO EAST DUMPSFORD,
Gladys opened the envelope from Fiona. The restaurants listed were all in Queens. She glanced across at her aunt, who was applying dark lipstick now that their lunch was over.

Lydia had been quiet since they'd left the
Standard,
and Gladys appreciated that she hadn't pressed her to talk about everything that had happened. Gladys needed time to think about Fiona's proposal and her new assignment. She couldn't accept the full-time position at the
New York Standard
—but she also didn't want to lose her freelance job.

Finally, Gladys cleared her throat. “Thanks so much, Aunt Lydia, for everything,” she said. “You were terrific today.”

Her aunt shook her head as she
snapped her lipstick case shut. “I can't believe how nervous I was. I would have failed utterly without all of your quick thinking. Thank
you.
”

Gladys smiled. “We make a good team.”

“Well, I meant what I said in there,” Aunt Lydia said, her voice starting to sound more enthusiastic. “I bet we could find a way to do this full-time job together. We could both visit the restaurants; I could be the one to go into the office, and you could help me write the reviews. You were talking about my getting a job here in New York,” she added. “Well, this could be it!”

Gladys paused to consider. Could it really work? This was certainly the most excited she had seen her aunt get about anything since arriving on the Gatsbys' doorstep. But still, critiquing restaurants had always been Gladys's job, and Gladys's alone. She wasn't sure she was ready to share.

“I didn't know you were interested in becoming a restaurant critic,” she said.

“Well, my pie-in-the-sky dream would be owning my own café,” Aunt Lydia replied, “but you need savings to start your own business, and if I had any savings . . . well, I wouldn't be living in your parents' guest room now, would I?” A sad little laugh escaped her crimson lips. “So maybe ‘restaurant critic' isn't a job I thought I'd ever be doing . . . but I think I'd be happy as long as I was working with food.”

Gladys thought hard. She needed a way to get to those three restaurants over the next few weeks, and her aunt certainly had time to take her. They could partner up for these freelance assignments, and see how it worked out . . .

“I'll think about it,” Gladys said. “In the meantime, though, how would you feel about an outing to eat Salvadoran food in Queens?”

• • •

As they walked home from the train station, Gladys and Aunt Lydia passed Mr. Eng's.

“I remember this place!” her aunt exclaimed. “It has that wonderful refrigerator filled with cheeses from around the world. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.”

“Let's stop in,” Gladys suggested. She wanted to scope out the Latin ingredients section, anyway—maybe they could try out some Salvadoran recipes together before visiting that first restaurant.

There weren't
so
many people in the shop today—maybe five or six—but Gladys could tell immediately that Mr. Eng was still overwhelmed. The light in the cheese refrigerator was out, the shelf of canned tomato products was a mess, and a half-open cardboard box of cinnamon bottles by the spice wall suggested that Mr. Eng had been interrupted while restocking.

Suddenly, an idea came to Gladys. “Mr. Eng!” she cried when she spotted him moving down an aisle.

“Oh, hello, Gladys!” He hurried forward. “How can I help you?”

“This is my aunt Lydia,” she said, indicating her aunt. “You met her once before, a long time ago.”

“Nice to see you both,” Mr. Eng said, though his eyes were already cutting over to the disarrayed shelf; it was clear he didn't have much time for pleasantries.

“Aunt Lydia is new in town,” Gladys continued. “She has a lot of experience in the food industry, and she's looking for a paying job. And
you
look like you could use some help around the store.” Gladys glanced between their surprised faces. “Sooo . . . what do you think? Maybe she could be your assistant?”

“Gladys!” Aunt Lydia cried. Her cheeks were turning red enough to match her lipstick. “How could you put this nice man on the spot like that? I didn't put her up to this, Mr. Eng, I swear.”

“Well, she's an observant one, our Gladys,” Mr. Eng said with a chuckle. “I
could
use some help around here.” He removed his spectacles to rub his weary eyes, and when he put them back on, he gave Lydia a piercing look. “Let's see now,” he said. “Can you tell me which kind of fruit paste matches best with manchego cheese?”

Aunt Lydia thought for a moment. “Quince paste,” she said finally.

Mr. Eng nodded, then glanced over at his wall of spices. “What would you sell someone who wanted to
make garam masala powder at home?”

This time, Aunt Lydia didn't miss a beat. “Cumin, coriander, cardamom, peppercorns, and cinnamon,” she said. “Plus maybe some nutmeg and cloves—or hot pepper if they like it spicy.”

Mr. Eng nodded again, looking more impressed this time. “And what kind of potato would you sell someone looking to make a traditional French potato-and-leek soup?”

This time, instead of answering, Aunt Lydia smiled as she strolled over to a vegetable bin, plucked out two large brown-skinned baking potatoes, and held them up. “Vichyssoise is my specialty,” she said proudly.

“You're hired!” Mr. Eng beamed. “You can begin on Monday at eight a.m.; we'll be doing inventory.”

“Well, thank you!” Aunt Lydia said, sounding a bit shocked.

“Don't thank me,” Mr. Eng replied. “Thank this young lady here. Somehow, she always manages to bring me the help I need.”

Now Gladys felt herself blush.

“Go ahead and keep those potatoes,” Mr. Eng told her, “and grab any other ingredients you need to make your soup—on the house.”

Ten minutes later, Gladys and Aunt Lydia were on their way home with bags filled with beans and fine masa corn flour for Salvadoran cooking, plus potatoes, cream, and leeks for Aunt Lydia's soup.

“Two job offers in one day!” Aunt Lydia crowed. “I'll finally have an income again—I can hardly believe it!”

“See?” Gladys said. “Good things happen when you leave the house.”

Aunt Lydia beamed at her. “Thank you, my Gladiola,” she murmured. “You're my sweet star.”

That evening, the Gatsbys celebrated Aunt Lydia's new position at the Gourmet Grocery with deep, creamy bowls of homemade vichyssoise.

• • •

That Sunday—the night before the first day of school—Gladys met Sandy next door in the Rabbit Room. Sandy let his rabbits out to hop freely around his obstacle course of toys, and chubby brown Dennis Hopper made his usual slow progress toward his favorite resting spot on the beanbag chair. But feisty little black-and-white Edward Hopper shot straight across the room toward Sandy's computer.

“Oh, no you don't!” Sandy cried, bounding after him. He scooped up the kicking rabbit just before he reached his destination. “He's been in a real wire-nibbling phase recently,” he explained as he carried Edward back over toward the toy area, “and I
don't
want him chewing through any important cables. Hey, Gladys, could you grab that kale? It might distract him for a little while.”

Gladys took a fan-shaped leaf of the dark green vegetable off a plate Mrs. Anderson had left with them.
In seconds, Edward was happily munching kale out of her hand, and Dennis soon hopped over, enticed, as always, by the promise of food. Mrs. Anderson's garden had produced an abundant crop this year, so there was plenty on hand for rabbit snacks.

“So,” Sandy said, dropping to the floor beside her. “Did you see my dragon fruit up in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, your mom showed me,” Gladys said. She'd been relieved, actually—there were no signs of mold. It certainly didn't look as appetizing as it had a few days ago, but Gladys didn't think that Sandy would be in danger of food poisoning or anything when he ate it. “Looks like you're all set for tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I'm excited,” Sandy said. “How about you? Middle school should be fun, huh?”

“Uh, sure,” Gladys said, though all she could really think about was how many new people there would be, and how few friends shared her classes. She ran her fingers over Dennis Hopper's soft brown head, which calmed her a little—and thankfully, Sandy's lightning-quick brain was already on to a new subject.

“Okay, so you have to tell me all about your date with you-know-who.”

“My . . . w-what?” The panic surged back, even stronger this time. It had been weeks since Gladys's night out with famous tween author Hamilton Herbertson in New York City at the Kids Rock Awards and then
a South African restaurant. Sandy had never asked her for any details about the outing—Gladys refused to think of it as a “date.” But that was just as well, because she definitely didn't want to tell him about the awkward kiss that had ended the evening. Plus, Gladys hadn't even heard from Hamilton since camp had ended.

Why was Sandy suddenly bringing it up, out of the blue?

“Yeah,” he continued. “You know, your lunch date? With . . .” He glanced at the Rabbit Room door to make sure it was shut, then lowered his voice anyway.
“Fiona?”

“Oh.”
Gladys breathed an enormous sigh of relief; Sandy wasn't talking about Hamilton at all. “Right. There's a
lot
to tell!”

As Edward and Dennis munched their kale leaf down to its ribs, Gladys filled Sandy in about Aunt Lydia's spotty acting, the mention of her uncashed checks, the chicken fingers, and the kicker: her job offer to work full-time for the
New York Standard.

“And if I don't take the offer, I won't be able to work there as a freelancer anymore,” she said. “So it's basically make-or-break time for me. I have until the end of October to decide.”

Sandy let out a low whistle. “Whoa, Gatsby. That's a lot to take in.”

“It is,” Gladys said, “but Aunt Lydia and I have an idea. Maybe we could keep working as a team, with her going into the office and me writing the actual reviews. We're gonna work together on my next three freelance assignments and see how that goes.”

Sandy shook his head.

“What? You don't think that's a good plan?” Gladys asked.

He sighed. “I just think there could be a lot of logisteral problems, that's all.”

“Um . . .
logistical
?” Gladys asked.

“Yeah, that,” Sandy replied. “I mean, you said Fiona was already asking questions about your freelance checks—it's basically a miracle that you've gotten away with not cashing them. But if they put ‘Gladys Gatsby' on the full-time payroll, then surely
someone
will figure out that the person they're paying is only twelve!”

Gladys frowned; she hadn't exactly thought that detail through. “Well, maybe they could make the checks out to Aunt Lydia,” she proposed. “We could tell them that ‘Gladys Gatsby' has been a pen name all along, and that she doesn't really exist.”

Sandy stretched up to grab a fresh piece of kale off the table; to Gladys's annoyance, the rabbits immediately abandoned her and hopped over to him.

“Your aunt's name on your checks and your published reviews,” he said as Edward and Dennis took
their first crunchy bites from his leaf. “Is that really what you want?”

“I don't know,” Gladys admitted quietly. A couple of days ago, she had felt excited by the prospect of teaming up to take on this full-time job, but Sandy's arguments were making her feel a lot less sure. Letting Aunt Lydia be the “face” of Gladys Gatsby was one thing, but was she really ready to let her aunt's byline replace hers, too?

“And there's another problem,” Sandy continued. “How would you manage all those extra reviews on top of the homework you're bound to get in middle school?”

Gladys thought of Hamilton Herbertson once again. He managed his demanding career as a best-selling author because he was homeschooled. Could that work for her, too? The prospect of never setting foot back in that huge middle-school building actually sounded kind of nice. “There's always homeschooling,” she said. “I know someone else who does it.”

Sandy still didn't seem convinced. “Are your parents gonna go for that? Especially if they don't even know the reason you want to do it?”

“Well, I'd have to tell them about my job,” Gladys said. “I mean, I almost told them a few weeks ago, but then my aunt showed up and sort of messed up my plan.”

A loud crunch sounded as Dennis bit into the thick stem of the kale leaf, and at the same time, a groan of exasperation escaped Sandy's lips. “Gatsby, you
can't
tell them! I mean, Mr. and Mrs. Microwave? They are
not
gonna get it.”