The Stars of Summer (5 page)

I did it!
Gladys thought. Her heart was still thundering, but slowly her hearing returned.

“There he is, next to the stage,” Charissa whispered in Gladys's ear. “I've never seen an actual celebrity before, have you? I mean, I guess on Broadway, but that doesn't count. Wow, he's so tall in person!”

“He—what? Who?” Gladys asked.

Mrs. Bentley's echoing voice answered that question for her. “Campers, please give a warm welcome to our other brand-new CIT, who has just moved here from upstate New York: Hamilton Herbertson!”

The tall boy dressed in all black strolled casually onto the stage.

Hamilton Herbertson,
Gladys thought as she stared up at him.
I've heard that name somewhere before.

Up on the stage, Hamilton leaned in close to Mrs. Bentley's microphone. “Thanks, Mrs. Bentley,” he said. “I've prepared a short speech to introduce myself. May I?”

“Oh, um . . . of course!” Mrs. Bentley seemed a bit flustered at this request, but stepped back from the microphone as Hamilton cleared his throat and puffed out his chest once again.

“Greetings, fellow campers,” he began, his voice resonating across the field. “As some of you probably know, I've recently made a name for myself in the literary world.” To Charissa's left, Marti let out a small, excited squeal (though Gladys was pretty sure she had no idea what the word
literary
even meant).

“Earlier this year, my essay about a zombie-ridden future won the
New York Standard
sixth-grade essay contest.”

That's it!
Gladys thought. That was why she knew his name. She had never actually read the essay, but her sixth-grade teacher, Ms. Quincy, had been annoyed on her behalf, since Gladys's own essay had lost to his zombie entry.

“After that essay was published, an editor at FutureFlame Publishing offered to publish the book I'd been working on. So just last month my novel,
Zombietown, U.S.A.
, was published, and now I'm officially a
New York Standard
number one best-selling author!”

A series of
ooh
s and
aah
s rippled through the crowd.

“I've heard that
Zombietown, U.S.A.
is
so
good!” Rolanda breathed.

“So,” Hamilton said, “I know lots of celebrities say they just want to be treated like regular people”—he paused dramatically here, peering through his black-framed glasses at the crowd—“but I'm not like most celebrities.”

The crowd hushed.

“I'm only attending this camp because my parents are forcing me,” Hamilton went on. “But I will
not
be wearing the Camp Bentley uniform, and I will
not
be participating in any CIT duties. I'll be using my time at camp to work on my next book in that pavilion over there.” He pointed to a covered patio, where rows of lunch tables were set up.

Mrs. Bentley stepped forward. “Now, Hamilton,” she said, “while we're all very impressed with your accomplishments—”

But Hamilton wasn't finished. “However,” he interrupted, “I'm not entirely without respect for my fans. I'll reserve one half hour every day for book signings. You can bring your copies of
Zombietown, U.S.A.
to my table between eleven thirty and noon for an autograph, though I request that no flash photographs be taken at that time.” Hamilton then took a small bow and said, “Thank you for your attention. Over to you, Mrs. Bentley.”

He stepped away then, leaving the microphone clear, but at this point Mrs. Bentley's mouth was hanging so far open that it was pretty clear no words would be coming out of it for a while. The entire audience watched in near-silence as Hamilton vaulted himself off the front of the stage and loped across the field toward the lunch patio. There, true to his promise, he turned his back on the campers, pulled a notebook out of his black messenger bag, and sat down to write.

Charissa's face, meanwhile, had turned as red as the flamenco dress she'd worn on Gladys's birthday. “Who does that kid think he is?” she fumed. “No one gets out of CIT duties. Being a CIT is an
honor.
” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “And no one gets away with not wearing the uniform. I don't care if he
is
a celebrity—Mommy and Daddy will kick him out of this camp before lunchtime.”

Gladys didn't always agree with Charissa's snap judgments, but in this case, she was pretty sure her friend had it right. Sure, Gladys herself had had similar thoughts about the purple T-shirts . . . and the CIT duties . . . and, okay, she may also have fantasized about slipping away to find a quiet place to write. But she would never have stood up in front of the whole camp and made such a braggy speech about it.

In her mind, Gladys added one more item to the short list of things she and Charissa had in common: They both thought Hamilton Herbertson was a jerk.

SALTY MEAT ON WHITE BREAD

M
ORE NEW CAMPERS WERE INTRODUCED
after Hamilton, but Gladys didn't pay attention to their names. She wasn't sure any of the other kids did, either, since their glances all kept trailing over toward the lunch patio. Even Mrs. Bentley seemed distracted, stumbling over one-syllable last names and running her hand repeatedly through her auburn bob. Finally, she wrapped up the announcements with a feeble “New campers . . . er . . . please kneel for the Oath of Loyalty, led by Counselor Jamie.”

A perky-looking teenage girl with short black hair bounded up onto the stage to take the microphone. Gladys would have gladly stayed seated and skipped the oath, but Charissa elbowed her. “C'mon,” she hissed, “this will make it official! The words are on that paper my mom gave you.”

Reluctantly, Gladys pushed herself onto one knee and looked at the paper just as Counselor Jamie's squeaky voice began to lead the new campers through the words.

We new campers solemnly swear

to brush our teeth and comb our hair

each day before we climb the ramp

to enter this most awesome camp!

We'll mind our manners, won't throw punches,

won't complain about our lunches,

will not fret, or squeal, or bawl,

and won't start any fights at all!

And so we make this oath today

to fill our summers up with play

and rise like new-anointed knights

as fully fledged Camp Bentleyites!

The entire camp burst into applause yet again—well, everyone except Hamilton Herbertson. Under the awning, he scribbled away as if nothing was happening on the neighboring field.

Mrs. Bentley retook the microphone. “Counselors,” she said, “please take charge of your groups, and, um . . . Charissa, honey, will you give out the CIT assignments? Happy camping, everyone.” Then, still looking slightly lost, she shuffled offstage toward the camp office.

“I'm sure she's going to call that idiot's parents this second,” Charissa said, shooting a death glance over her shoulder at Hamilton. Then, in a much louder voice, she cried, “CITs! Attention, CITs! Please line up here to get your assignments!”

Out of her bag, Charissa pulled a set of cards. “Rolanda, Marti, you already know yours,” she said, handing them their cards first. “Please report to your supervising staff member or counselor. Next I've got Jake Wheeler. Jake! Where's Jake?”

“Here I am,” the dark-haired boy said, pushing to the front of the line.

Charissa glanced down at the card. “You're on music duty. Report to Counselor Linda in the Melody Tent.”

Jake left whistling.

“Owen Green and Ethan Slezak?” Charissa called.

Owen strode forward, and Gladys wondered if it was possible that he'd grown another inch since school let out. “Am I helping on the basketball court?” he asked.

Charissa's eyes narrowed. “You wish. You'll be at the front gate with Counselor Dave on security detail. You too, Ethan,” she told the shorter boy.

“Sweet!” Owen cried. “Do we get guns?”

“
No
, you don't get
guns
,” Charissa snapped. “And now I wonder if I need to switch you with someone else. I'm not sure you're smart enough to learn security. Anyone have a pen?”

“That Herbertson jerk does,” Mira Winters said.

“Want me to go steal it from him, Charissa?” Ethan asked, pushing his floppy red hair out of his eyes. “I've got the moves!” He karate-chopped the air to demonstrate, coming within millimeters of whacking Charissa on the nose.

“You're gonna have janitor duty in a minute,” she snarled.

“Okay, okay, we'll go,” Owen said, snatching the card out of Charissa's hand. He and Ethan took off for the front gate, glancing over their shoulders to make sure she wasn't coming after them.

Charissa went on handing out assignments and sending kids to the far corners of the camp. Finally, only she and Gladys were left.

“I saved yours for last on purpose,” she said with a grin, “because it's so awesome. Anticipation is just the best feeling ever, don't you think?”

Gladys, who wanted to shake Charissa by her purple-clad shoulders, didn't think that at all, but she managed just to give her friend a tiny nod.

“Okay, your CIT assignment is . . . kitchen assistant! See, I knew you'd love it!”

Gladys hadn't even had time to react, but for once she could admit that Charissa was right—that did sound like the perfect assignment for her. “Wow, thanks,” Gladys said, taking her card.

“Now, I have to warn you: Our camp cook can be a little . . . prickly,” Charissa said. “Like, she insists that we call her ‘Mrs. Spinelli,' even though all the other counselors go by their first names. And, well”—Charissa glanced toward the kitchen, then lowered her voice—“her last couple of CITs haven't exactly worked out.”

“Oh,” Gladys said.

“But you have
so
much more cooking experience than they did,” Charissa continued, “so I'm sure she'll love working with you. And who knows, maybe you can even teach her a couple of new recipes! I mean, our food is
fine,
” she added quickly. “Camp Bentley would never serve anything horrible. But there's definitely room for improvement, and I think you're just the CIT to do it.”

Gladys grinned. “Challenge accepted.” She couldn't wait to see the camp's kitchen. If it fed two hundred campers a day—plus the counselors and staff—it had to be much bigger and better than her kitchen at home. Gladys pictured gleaming stainless-steel appliances, counters covered with thick cutting boards, an assortment of razor-edged knives.

And she was pretty sure she'd be able to handle this Mrs. Spinelli—after all, she'd seen every episode of
Purgatory Pantry,
the cooking competition show on Planet Food. No one could be meaner than Head Chef Rory Graham, who was famous for making contestants cry—usually with her sharp tongue, though sometimes with actual sharp kitchen utensils, which had a tendency to slip out of her hands when she got angry.

“The kitchen is right next to the lunch patio,” Charissa said, pointing to a small building near where Hamilton was writing. “Ugh, you'll have to walk past
him
—but I'm sure he'll be gone by the time lunch is served. I'll catch up with you then, okay? I need to get to the office.”

After waving good-bye, Charissa took off across the field at a jog, and Gladys made her way to the lunch patio. Hamilton didn't even look up as she passed.

She let herself into the kitchen through a screen door and found a much smaller space than she'd imagined—just one counter by the window and an island in the center. The room smelled a lot more like bleach than food, and the appliances on the counter were older and less gleamy than Gladys had hoped. In fact, the only thing that really appeared to be gleaming was the sweaty forehead of the sunken-cheeked woman who stood next to the island, ripping open bags of white bread and laying the slices out in an enormous grid-like pattern.

The door creaked shut behind Gladys, and the woman looked up.

“Hi!” Gladys said as cheerfully as she could. “I'm Gladys, your CIT.”

The slice of bread in the woman's hand fell to the countertop. “You have
got
to be kidding me,” she said in a voice that seemed way too big for her skinny body. “I asked them for a boy! A big, strapping boy who could haul fifty-pound bags of French fries out of the walk-in freezer. And this is what they send me—some little shrimp who can't even reach the top shelf?” The woman's hands moved to her aproned hips as she looked Gladys up and down. “How tall are you, girlie, three foot two?”

“I'm—I'm four foot nine,” Gladys sputtered.

A curly, graying lock fell out of the cook's hairnet as she shook her head. “That won't cut the mustard in this kitchen,” she said. “Now, you march right on over to that front office and tell 'em that Mrs. Spinelli says thanks, but no thanks. What I need is an experienced prep cook, not some scrawny little camper whose momma's gonna yell down the phone at me every time I send her home with a few boiling-oil burns.”

Gladys opened her mouth to respond but didn't even know where to begin. Should she tell Mrs. Spinelli that she
was
an experienced cook? Or that if she burned herself in the kitchen, her mother was the last person she would tell?

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Mrs. Spinelli reached again for the bread. “And tell 'em to send your replacement on the double. These sandwiches aren't gonna make themselves.”

“What kind of sandwiches are they?” Gladys asked.

Mrs. Spinelli gave an irritated snort. “You sure like wasting time, don't you, girlie?”

Gladys bristled. She was many things, but a time waster wasn't one of them. She turned away from Mrs. Spinelli only to catch a glimpse of Hamilton Herbertson through the window.
He wouldn't take this,
she thought.
He would stand up for himself, and make an obnoxious speech, and get what he wanted.

She puffed out her chest. “Actually, I
hate
wasting time,” she told Mrs. Spinelli. “So that's why I'm going to wash my hands while you tell me what kind of sandwiches we're making.” She shrugged off her lobster backpack, stepped over to the sink, and turned it on.

Mrs. Spinelli gaped at her. “What kind
we're
 . . . ? You've got some kind of moxie!”

Gladys soaped her hands silently, hoping that the lather might hide the fact that they were shaking.

“Now, let's get one thing straight,” the cook said. “A kitchen is like a country, and not the democratic kind, either. In this kitchen,
I'm
the queen, and what
I
say goes.”

Gladys turned off the sink, took a deep breath, and drew upon her final reserve of courage.

“Then all you have to do is tell me where to start,” she said. “And what I don't already know how to do, I'll learn.”

The cook gave Gladys another once-over, then let out a bark of laughter. “All right,” she said. “You'll do exactly what I tell you,
when
I tell you, with no back talk. And if you mess things up, it's three strikes and you're out. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Gladys said.

“Then go find an apron in the closet and get a hairnet and gloves from those boxes over there. And don't dally.”

Gladys raced to the closet at the back of the kitchen and threw on the first apron she found. It happened to be adult-size, so its hem brushed the floor, but she didn't stop to look for another one. Somehow she suspected that Mrs. Spinelli cared more about her assistant being quick than having the right accessories. Next she shoved her hair under a tight hairnet and yanked on a pair of latex gloves.

“Today's sandwich choices are going to be ham and cheese or bologna and cheese,” Mrs. Spinelli announced when Gladys returned to the counter. “I've got the bread laid out already. Go to the walk-in refrigerator and bring me the other ingredients.”

Gladys waited a moment longer to see whether Mrs. Spinelli would specify what ingredients those were, but when she said nothing more, Gladys scurried off. She was a professional restaurant critic—surely she could figure out what went into those sandwiches herself. She wondered what her cheese choices would be, and whether the kitchen stocked different kinds of lettuce or just one. Meat and cheese wasn't the most exciting sandwich combination, but with some fresh mozzarella, a ripe tomato slice, and a zingy green like arugula, even a bologna sandwich could be saved.

Arctic air from the walk-in refrigerator blasted Gladys's face when she pulled open the heavy door, and a light blinked on automatically when she stepped inside. But rather than containing an explosion of colorful produce, the shelves around her held dull brown cardboard boxes. One box simply read
HAM
. Another read
BOLOGNA
. Gladys scanned the boxes for cheese names, but the only one she came across was A
ME
RICAN
, which barely counted as cheese at all.

The results were even worse when she started looking for vegetables. There were no tomatoes, and she had to shift several heavy boxes out of the way on the bottom shelf before she revealed a small one labeled
ICEBERG
. Pulling open the flaps, she found a single soccer-ball-shaped head of the pale, tasteless lettuce, its leaves already brown around the edges. Still, it seemed to be her only option, so she added it to the pile of boxes she was amassing by the door.

The sandwiches probably also needed a condiment, and Gladys advanced farther into the fridge to search for one. She found industrial-size jars of peanut butter, grape jelly, and mayonnaise before she spotted an enormous carton of butter on a high shelf. A vision of sandwiches sizzling in a pan came to her: boring white bread crisping up, bright orange American cheese melting slowly over the edges. She could save the sandwiches from mediocrity by grilling them! Standing on her tiptoes, Gladys stretched toward the butter and was just edging the carton off the shelf when—

“What do you think you're doing?”

Mrs. Spinelli stood in the refrigerator doorway, her left hand on her hip and her right gripping a long wooden spoon. Then she charged into the refrigerator, holding the spoon like a sword, and for a moment Gladys was sure the cook was going to whack her with it. But she stepped around Gladys at the last second, reached up, and used the spoon to shove the butter carton back into its place on the shelf.

“Butter?!” she bellowed. “Haven't you ever made a lunch-meat sandwich before, girlie?” She turned back toward the door and noticed the small box on the top of Gladys's pile. “And what on earth is this?”