by Tara Dairman
“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.”
“They’ve been a lot better,” she said quietly. “You know, about food and cooking and stuff.”
“Letting you cook dinner a couple of times a week is not the same as giving you permission to quit school to become a restaurant critic,” he said. “Sorry.”
Why did Sandy have to be so negative? With a bit more force than was probably necessary, Gladys swiped the last kale leaf off the plate and waved it at the Hoppers, reclaiming their loyalty.
“Well, anyway, nothing’s decided yet. And in the meantime, I get to review three Latin American restaurants.” She told him about the different cuisines she would be covering for her next assignments.
This, at least, was something they could agree was pretty cool. “Excellent,” Sandy said. “Can I come on one of your research trips? Which one do you think will have the best desserts? I’ll come to that one.”
Gladys laughed. “Well, chocolate does originally come from Central America . . .”
• • •
They parted a short while later, Sandy wishing Gladys a good start to middle school, and Gladys wishing Sandy luck in his quest to become the gross-foods king of his sixth-grade class. “Thanks,” Sandy said as he let Gladys onto his front porch. “A slightly mushy dragon fruit in my lunch box should definitely get me off to a good start!”
As she crossed the lawn, Gladys could only wish she had a fraction of his confidence about her own first day.
Chapter 8
A SOUR NOTE
THE NEXT MORNING, THE MIDDLE-SCHOOL hallways were loud and crowded, just as Gladys had expected. Keeping her head down, she wove in and out of groups of students, grateful that she had carefully charted a course to homeroom at orientation.
The thick canvas straps of the plain blue backpack she had found at the back of the hall closet felt strange on her shoulders, and she was happy to shrug it off onto one of the desks when she reached her classroom. Right now, it only contained a few blank notebooks, a pencil case, and a carefully sealed container of leftover vichyssoise for lunch. But Gladys knew it would only get heavier as she received textbooks from each class throughout the day.
The morning bell rang, and Gladys glanced around the room. There were a couple of kids she recognized—Peter Yang and Marina Trillesby—but a lot more she didn’t. The homeroom teacher, a man in a bow tie named Mr. Swanberg, took attendance, then made an announcement.
“Since it’s your first day of school, there will be a special assembly today,” he said. “Instead of having your regular eighth-period class, you’re all to proceed to the auditorium.”
Gladys stifled a groan. Eighth period was when she had French, the one class she was truly looking forward to. Why couldn’t the assembly have been scheduled during gym?
Peter Yang waved a hand in the air. “What’s the assembly about?” he asked.
“I believe you will be hearing from a special guest speaker.” The teacher adjusted his bow tie and glanced over at the clock. “There are three minutes left in the homeroom period, so I’ll let you go a little early in case you need to deposit anything in your lockers.”
The noise level in the classroom rose as kids made their way to the door. Marina was already chatting with a girl Gladys didn’t know, and Peter was getting grunted compliments on his Keep Calm and Carry a Lightsaber T-shirt.
How is it so easy for some kids to make new friends? Gladys wondered. Most days, she could barely believe there were four people in the world who liked hanging out with her. But then again, Sandy didn’t go to her school, she hadn’t heard from Hamilton in weeks, she had no classes with Parm, and Charissa had plenty of other admirers. Plus, each grade at DTMS had five times as many kids as her sixth-grade class had in elementary school. Now even four friends didn’t sound like a very strong number.
The rest of the morning passed in an adrenalinefueled blur; in every class, the teachers introduced themselves, passed out textbooks, and talked about what they would be teaching over the coming year.
Some of the teachers assigned seats, and some let students pick their own. In third-period social studies, the first class she had with Charissa, their teacher, Ms. Webster, let them choose their own seats, so the girls sat side by side. Something about Charissa seemed different today, but Gladys couldn’t put her finger on it. Still, she felt relieved to have her friend nearby.
“What have you got next?” Charissa asked as they packed their bags at the end of the period.
Gladys double-checked her schedule. “Oh, right,” she said. “I have lunch.”
“Fourth-period lunch?” Charissa screeched. “How is that a thing? It’s not even eleven o’clock yet!”
“I know,” Gladys said. “I guess it’s the only time they could fit some of us in.”
Charissa scowled. “Well, that’s ridiculous. I’m going to take this up with the Student Leadership Council, for sure—our first meeting is tomorrow. You should come, too!”
“Oh, uh . . .” Gladys knew that joining clubs might be her best bet for building her roster of friends, but Student Leadership really didn’t sound like the right fit for her. She knew she was much better at lurking behind the scenes—observing and scribbling in her journal—than she would be at leading the masses that thronged this school’s halls. “That’s okay,” she said, “but I think you’ll be great at it.”
“Of course I will.” Charissa tossed her chestnut hair over her shoulder, and Gladys finally realized what was different about her friend today: Her locks hung long and loose, free of their signature high ponytail.
“Hey!” Gladys cried. “Your hair!”
“You like?” Charissa to
ssed it again and posed with a hand on her hip. “I decided to try something new. I mean, we’re in middle school now. Stuff’s changing.”
“Yeah,” Gladys murmured. “You can say that again.”
She and Charissa parted ways at the door, and Gladys stopped at her locker before heading to the cafeteria. It was already bustling, and she recognized a few kids at different tables, but nobody waved her over to sit with them. That’s okay, Gladys told herself. I could use a little downtime. She even sort of believed it—after all, she hadn’t had time to write in her reviewing journal in ages.
She found an empty seat at a table in the corner and took out her soup and the small blue notebook she had picked up with her school supplies. Who needed lunch friends when she had blank pages to fill? Her aunt would surely appreciate a review of the vichyssoise, even though today it would be served closer to room temperature than cold. Gladys began to eat and write.
With time, the potato soup has thickened and its flavors mellowed. Now, each spoonful has a delightfully velvety texture and subtle taste that truly allows the simple ingredients—potatoes and leeks, but also butter, good chicken stock, and cream—to shine.
If only the atmosphere in which it was served was as elegant as the soup itself! Unfortunately, the DTMS cafeteria has walls the color of an avocado—an old avocado that’s starting to brown. It makes a rather less-than-appetizing atmosphere for lunch, and added to the fact that it’s way too early in the day to eat lunch, this critic really does have to question whether the administration of this school has its diners’ best interests at heart.
“What are you writing?”
Gladys whirled around to see a girl with sharp black eyes and very short hair peeking over her shoulder.
Quickly, Gladys closed her notebook. “Nothing.”
“That’s not true—I saw you writing. I even read some of it. A critique of the school’s lunch-scheduling priorities, huh? That could make a really good op-ed.”