by Tara Dairman
Something about the girl’s voice rang a bell, but the bell played a sour note. Who was she?
“I’m Elaine de la Vega,” the girl said, as if she had read Gladys’s mind. Without asking, she slid into the adjacent empty seat. “Eighth-grader. And editor in chief of the DTMS Telegraph.”
“The what?” Gladys knew she wasn’t being very polite, but she hadn’t quite caught up with this conversation. Should she be grateful that someone (an eighth-grader!) was talking to her? Or annoyed that the girl had been reading over her shoulder without permission?
“The Telegraph. The school newspaper,” Elaine explained. “You haven’t heard of it? Our first issue comes out next week, and we’re always looking for good writers. From what I just saw, it looks like you can string a sentence together.”
“Oh. Um, yeah,” Gladys said.
Elaine raised a dark eyebrow. “Well, on paper at least. Might have to work on the conversationl skills if you want to be assigned interviews.”
Something was pressing into Gladys’s thigh—the buckle of the girl’s messenger bag. A green messenger bag.
“Nice stuffed animal.”
It all came flooding back. “I saw you at orientation!” Gladys blurted. “Except . . . isn’t orientation for seventh-graders only?”
“Sharp observation skills!” Elaine nodded approvingly. “I was covering it for the paper. An interesting story could break at any time. You know—Rising Seventh-Grader Wets His Pants, Has to Call Home for Mommy.” She let out a laugh that sounded more like a cackle.
Gladys sensed that Elaine expected her to laugh along, but she didn’t. “You wouldn’t actually publish an article like that, would you?” she asked. “The school wouldn’t let you.”
Elaine sighed and leaned in closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Sadly, you’re right. Freedom of the press has some real limits in an institution like this. But we have to keep pushing the boundaries.” She sat up a little straighter. “You seem to have a critical eye about things here—I think you’d be a great addition to our staff.”
Gladys wondered whether Elaine would have said the same thing if she had still been carrying her “stuffed animal” backpack. “Thanks for the offer,” she said, trying to be diplomatic, “but my after-school schedule’s already pretty full.”
At this, Elaine’s warm caramel demeanor seemed to harden into peanut brittle. “Seriously? The Telegraph is a prestigious publication; most student writers don’t make the cut. You’re turning down a rare opportunity here.”
“Sorry,” Gladys said, “but I just don’t have time.” She wished that she felt brave enough to say the real reason—“I don’t want to join because you don’t seem like a very nice person”—but given how touchy Elaine was already acting, Gladys preferred not to provoke her any further.
“Well, that’s too bad,” Elaine retorted. “But if you change your mind, we meet on Mondays in the Media Room after school.” She pushed her chair back. “What’s your name, by the way? Oh, never mind—there it is on your book.”
Gladys felt her neck burn as Elaine read from the cover of her new notebook. “This reviewing journal belongs to: Gladys Gatsby. Well, hope to see you around, Gladys.” She stood up and slung her messenger bag over her shoulder.
Hope to see you nowhere, Gladys thought as Elaine marched off.
The awkward conversation had made Gladys lose what little appetite she had, but she forced herself to finish her soup in the few remaining minutes of the lunch period anyway. She knew she wouldn’t have another chance to eat until the end of the day. If there was one thing all her teachers had agreed on so far, it was that there were no snacks allowed in class.
• • •
When the bell rang at the end of seventh period, everyone made their way through the halls to the auditorium for the special assembly. It was a mob scene, but Gladys managed to catch sight of Charissa and Parm exiting their English classroom together. Charissa was whispering something in Parm’s ear, and Parm was actually laughing. Gladys was surprised, but pleased, to see the two of them getting along.
“Hey, guys,” she said, walking up to them. “Wanna head down to the auditorium together?”
Parm immediately stopped laughing and glanced at her shoes. It was as if she was embarrassed to have been caught in the midst of such merriment, especially with a girl she allegedly did not like.
Charissa, though, was more chipper. “Gladys!” she cried. “Yes, absolutely! Marti and Ro are gonna meet me down there, too. We can all sit together!” She took a few steps ahead, leading the way to the stairs.
“Great,” Parm grumbled, sidling up close to Gladys. “Eighth period is one of the only times of day I’m supposed to be able to escape from her.”
In the auditorium, Charissa blocked off an entire row of seats, laying her backpack, cardigan, and even one of her shoes out to keep potential interlopers at bay. Since the row she had picked was the first row, though, there wasn’t a lot of competition.
“Seriously, Charissa?” Parm asked. “Right down front? I was planning to use this time to relax before soccer tryouts—maybe grab a nap.”
“Come on,” Charissa said. “Whoever’s speaking might really have something important to teach us, and by sitting up front, we’ll get to bask in all that knowledge! Here, sit by me—I’ll make sure you stay awake.”
Parm grumbled again, but took the seat next to Charissa anyway; Gladys knew well that sometimes it was easier to just give in to Charissa’s demands than find the energy to debate her. Gladys slid in next to Parm, and Marti and Rolanda scooted in on Charissa’s other side a few moments later, passing the lavender sweater and purple clog back to Charissa as they took their seats.
When everyone had settled down, Dr. Sloane took the stage. “Boys and girls,” she announced, “it is my immense pleasure to welcome you to a special, inspirational presentation by one of the most exciting novelists of our time. Please put your hands together for thirteen-year-old literary phenom Mr. Hamilton Herbertson!”
At that moment, the boy Gladys hadn’t seen or heard from since the end of summer camp strode across the DTMS stage, clad all in black and grinning from ear to ear.
Chapter 9
A SWIRL OF RAGE
GLADYS’S HEART THUDDED SO LOUDLY, she was sure her fellow seventh-graders could hear it all the way at the back of the auditorium—or would have been able to, if they hadn’t been so noisy themselves. There were a lot of cheers from fans of Hamilton’s best-selling novel, Zombietown, U.S.A., but also a few boos, probably from fellow Camp Bentley attendees. Hamilton’s snooty opinions about the childishness of summer camp had not won him many fans there.
Gladys wasn’t sure if she wanted to cheer or boo herself. She and Hamilton had exchanged phone numbers at the end of camp, but he had never called her. She’d told herself that he must be busy finishing up the sequel to his novel, and she knew how demanding deadlines could be. Several times, she had thought about calling, but in the end she’d always decided not to disturb him. Surely he would get in touch when he had time.
What if she had been wrong, though? If Hamilton had time to make a presentation at her school, he couldn’t be that busy. Maybe he had decided that his friendship with Gladys wasn’t worth continuing after all. In fact, he’d probably already forgotten about her.
Now Gladys felt an overwhelming urge to disappear. She slumped down in her seat and shook her hair forward into her face, though it would be hard to hide since she was sitting in the very first row.
Thanks a lot, Charissa.
Hamilton pulled a set of index cards from his black jeans pocket and cleared his throat in anticipation of his favorite activity: giving speeches.
“Thank you, Principal Sloane,” his voice boomed into the microphone, “and thank you, students, for that enthusiastic welcome. I’m honored to be here in my adopted hometown of East Dumpsfor
d, speaking to you all today.”
He looked up from his cards, and Gladys cringed. Any moment now, he would spot her—and even though he had been the one to fall off the face of the earth, she still felt embarrassed. After all, she had thought their friendship meant more to him than it really did.
Hamilton glanced back at his notes before his eyes reached her side of the auditorium, and Gladys let out a small sigh of relief.
“I am here,” he continued, “on this first day of school, to speak to you about the value of perseverance. Without it, I would not be one of the youngest number one New York Standard best-selling authors of all time. Now, in case you don’t already know, perseverance is defined as . . .”
“Ugh!” Parm whispered as Hamilton pompously launched into a definition of the word. “He’s so arrogant!”
“I know, right?” Charissa whispered back.
And there it was: mixed in with Gladys’s annoyance and embarrassment, a pang of sympathy. Hamilton didn’t mean to be so condescending; he had just never spent any time around other kids his age, so he had no idea how to act. She understood why Parm and Charissa would be offended by the way he talked down to them, since she’d felt that way once, too. But they just didn’t know him the way she did—or the way she thought she had.
Opposing feelings were twisting together in Gladys’s gut like a frozen-yogurt swirl. Relief to see Hamilton alive and well. Anger that he had not bothered to get in touch with her. Pity over his awful stage demeanor. Humiliation at thinking he’d forgotten her completely.
She had stopped listening to what he was actually saying, so she was surprised when the lights dimmed even further and the large screen behind him burst to life with the first slide of a multimedia presentation. Hamilton, a clicker in one hand and a microphone in the other, moved off to his right so as not to block the screen, bringing him to stand literally right in front of Gladys. Grateful now for the cover of darkness, she was able to observe her former friend as he clicked through pictures of himself signing books and droned on about following your dreams.
There was a picture of him at the Tipsy Typist restaurant, showing off the “Ham Herb” signature sandwich they had named after him. Gladys thought back to the ham-and-herbs sandwiches he had demanded from the Camp Bentley kitchen, and how she had gone out of her way to make some especially for him. Had he just used her to gain access to the camp’s arugula supply?
Suddenly, her melty swirl of feelings crystallized into one single emotion: rage.
By the end of the summer, Gladys really had thought Hamilton had become a less selfish, more thoughtful person. But as she watched him now onstage, cocking his head to show off his stupid fedora and basking in the attention of his audience, she saw that she’d been wrong.
Hamilton Herbertson was still number one in his own book.
The lights came up after he clicked through his last slide—a shot of him alongside several foreign editions of his book—and the boy strode back to the center of the stage. “In conclusion,” he said, returning his microphone to its stand, “you should strive hard toward achieving your goals and not let your young age stand in your way. After all, if I could do it . . . well, then at least one or two of you probably can, too.”
Hamilton bowed, but before anyone could decide whether to applaud this final, backhanded nugget of wisdom, the bell rang out. Kids grabbed their bags, leapt to their feet, and turned away from their “inspirational speaker” to stream down the aisles.
Gladys followed, eager to be gone—but the exits were in the back of the room, and the aisles were jammed up in seconds. Fudge. She glanced back just in time to see Hamilton rise out of his bow, which reminded her of all the times he had swept off his fedora and bowed awkwardly to her at Camp Bentley. She let her gaze linger for a second too long, and Hamilton’s eye caught hers.
“Gladys??”
At first, Gladys thought her name only sounded loud and echoey in her head, but then she realized Hamilton was still standing in front of the microphone. Her feet froze in place.
“Gladys!” he cried again. “It’s really you!”
So he remembered her name, at least. And not only that, but it sounded like he was on the brink of sucking her in to his second-favorite activity: making an embarrassing scene. In fact, some of the kids who hadn’t made it out of the auditorium yet were turning around now, and Parm—who had not attended Camp Bentley—stared at Gladys. “Wait a second,” she hissed. “Do you know him?”
Charissa waggled her eyebrows at Gladys, then linked arms with Parm. “Come on,” she told her. “I’ll explain everything outside.” Then, along with Marti and Rolanda, they slipped past Gladys and down the aisle.
At last, Gladys got her feet to wake up. I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. But the rear exit was still too far away. Making a split-second decision, she spun around and climbed the stairs that led to the stage instead.
The lights up there were surprisingly hot and bright; the faces of the students still in the auditorium all blurred together into one dark mass. She heard one titter rise from the audience, then another.
Fuuudge. Now she’d made it easier for everyone to stare at her. This had been a terrible decision.
“Gladys!” Hamilton said again, still talking into the microphone. “I’ve been dying to tell you—”
But she hadn’t climbed up there to talk to him; he had already used, infuriated, and embarrassed her enough. She barreled past him into the wings, where she spotted an emergency exit. Without breaking her stride, she slammed through the heavy door.
Chapter 10
DON’T CHICKEN OUT
AS GLADYS STORMED DOWN THE SIDE street that led away from school, she considered the possibility of homeschooling more seriously than ever before. Her parents both worked full-time, so there was the small issue of who would teach her . . . but Aunt Lydia could take care of French lessons, and there were surely online programs she could do for the rest of it.
As long as she never had to show her face at school again, she was game for anything.
Well, except for the fact that Hamilton was homeschooled, and Gladys really didn’t want to follow in that boy’s footsteps. She could only imagine how pompously he would crow about being a leader in educational trends if he found out.
Ugh. Why did every decision in her life have to be so complicated?
One choice was simple, at least: Gladys knew she wanted to get as far away from DTMS as possible. As she hoofed the long blocks to Mr. Eng’s, she regretted not having ridden her bike that morning. She would have preferred to go straight home, but she’d promised her aunt she would stop in on her first day of work. And maybe, if things weren’t too busy, they could start to plan for how to pull Gladys out of middle school for good.
The bell rang overhead as she pushed open the Gourmet Grocery’s door. Gladys had expected things to be under better control now that Mr. Eng had help, but in fact, the shop looked worse than ever. The light was still out in the cheese fridge, two produce bins were empty, and the spice wall was partially dismantled. Standing in front of that wall having a discussion were Mr. Eng and Aunt Lydia—and Mr. Eng didn’t sound happy.
“I simply asked you to restock the cinnamon,” he said, “not to rearrange the entire wall!”
“I—I’m sorry,” Aunt Lydia stammered. “I just had this vision of how nice the spices would look rearranged by color, and—”
“But that wasn’t the task you were assigned!” Mr. Eng snapped. “The spices are arranged alphabetically so that customers can find them easily. Please put them back the way you found them, and then finish restocking.”
Aunt Lydia stared at the tiles at her feet. “Of course.”
Mr. Eng turned on his heel and stalked back into the storeroom; there were no other customers in the shop just then, and in the heat of the exchange, he hadn’t even heard the bell over the door ring.
Gladys was starting to wonder whether she could just back out of the store quietly when Aunt Lydia spotted her.
“My Gladiola!” She hastily wiped her eye, smudging eyeliner across her cheek in the process. Then, placing the bright yellow bottle of turmeric she was holding onto the nearest shelf—not the right one at all, Gladys noticed—she hurried over to hug her niece. “Bonjour, bonjour! How was your first day of school? My first day here has been magnifique!”
Clearly, Aunt Lydia was exaggerating; even if Gladys hadn’t just overheard Mr. Eng scolding her, she looked exhausted and slightly disheveled. There was no way Gladys could now dump her own problems at her aunt’s impractically sandaled, slightly swollen feet.
“Oh . . . my day was fine,” Gladys lied. “I mean, a few bumps along the way, but nothing serious.”
“That’s my sweet star,” Aunt Lydia said, giving her a squeeze. “Mature enough to handle anything life throws her way.”
Gladys couldn’t help but chafe at this undeserved praise. Yeah, really mature, she thought. Ready to quit school just because someone embarrassed me!
In any case, she was pretty sure that her aunt needed her help right now more than she needed her aunt’s. “Hey, Aunt Lydia,” Gladys said, “I don’t really have any homework yet. How about I hang out here for a while and help you put this wall back together? Mr. Eng keeps the spices alphabetical, right? I can take A through L, and you take M through Z.”
Aunt Lydia grunted something about alphabets being uncreative—but, to Gladys’s relief, she agreed. “Thank you, my Gladragon. That would be a huge help.”
Thirty minutes later, the spice wall was fixed, and Gladys had even coaxed her aunt into filling the empty bins by asking her what was supposed to be in them. When her aunt headed back to the storeroom for produce, Mr. Eng quickly emerged; it seemed he wasn’t too keen on being in the same area as his new assistant.
• • •
When Gladys arrived home, Sandy was sitting on his front stoop, still in his school uniform. “Jeez, Gatsby, where’ve you been?” he cried. “I’ve been waiting out here for ages.”