by Tara Dairman
“Sorry,” Gladys said, taking a seat beside him. “I just . . . well . . . lots of first-day craziness. But how about you? Was the dragon fruit a hit?”
A crispy piece of Sandy’s gelled hair came loose at his temple as he shook his head. “Turns out there’s this new kid, Jonah; I guess he was basically the King of Gross at his old school. All through lunch, he kept telling stories about the disgusting stuff he ate last year. He actually laughed at my dragon fruit.”
“Oh, no!” Gladys still felt kind of ambivalent about the whole idea of a grossness champion—but if there was going to be one, she wanted it to be Sandy.
“Yeah.” He sighed. “And then, he pulled this . . . thing out of his lunch box. Have you ever heard of gefilte fish? It’s basically a pale, slimy fish meatball. Jonah’s family is half Jewish, and I guess they eat them during holidays. Anyway, he held it up for everyone to smell, and then, once all the other kids were completely grossed out by it, he ate it in one big bite.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” Gladys said. “He should have at least given you a chance to try some, too—you know, to prove he wasn’t the only one brave enough to eat it.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what I said.” Sandy pushed the rogue piece of hair back into place on his head. “I said he couldn’t just waltz in and claim the title of Gross Foods King without giving other people a shot at a comeback. So then he said; ‘Okay, let’s have a rematch next week—whoever brings and eats the sickest thing on Monday wins for good.’ He pretty much challenged me to a duel.”
“So what did you say?” Gladys asked.
Sandy looked at her like she had just sprouted a second head. “I said yes, obviously! What, don’t you think I can win?”
“Of course you can!” Gladys cried. “I didn’t mean that. I just . . .” She thought about how she had run away from Hamilton earlier. “I guess head-on conflict isn’t really my thing.”
“Yeah, well, you can stay behind the scenes all you want on this,” Sandy said, “but I’m definitely going to need your help. You know more about food than anyone, even my mom. What’s the grossest thing you can think of?”
They spent the next few minutes brainstorming nasty-yet-edible school lunch ideas, and Gladys promised to save time that weekend to go on a yucky-food shopping spree together.
When she rose to return home, though, Gladys’s brain circled back to what had happened at school. Sandy was bravely taking on his challenge, even though it might lead to some uncomfortable situations. Gladys, though, had chosen to turn her back on Hamilton rather than let him know why she was upset with him. She had chickened out. Was that really how she wanted to kick off her middle-school years—by running away from every complicated situation?
Gladys made her way up to her bedroom and scanned her bookshelf for her copy of Zombietown, U.S.A., its black spine standing in a spot of honor between her other favorites: Matilda and the Harry Potter series.
She flipped it open to the inscription Hamilton had written on their last day of camp.
For Gladys,
Chef, swimming coach, muse, and friend extraordinaire.
Hamilton Herbertson
He had included his phone number under his name.
Gladys carried the book into the office, picked up the phone, and—before she could lose her nerve—dialed.
A voice-mail recording picked up on the first ring. “You’ve reached the Herbertsons. Please leave a message.”
Gladys gulped. “Hey, Hamilton,” she said after the beep. “Um, I’m sorry I ran off like that today. I’d like to talk to you, so . . . just give me a call when you have a chance. Bye.”
She hung the receiver up gingerly; then, determined not to waste the rest of her afternoon staring at it, headed to the kitchen and began pulling ingredients out for a baking project.
Since her aunt had arrived from Paris, Gladys had thought about attempting macarons, the notoriously delicate and tricky French sandwich cookies made with egg whites and almond flour. Aunt Lydia might still be missing her old life in Paris, but if Gladys did a good job, maybe the macarons would give her a taste of home.
She had just finished piping careful rounds of macaron batter onto a baking sheet when her parents arrived home from work.
“Well, well—what have we here?” Her dad placed his briefcase on the table and approached the baking sheet; Gladys had to shift her body to block him just as he was about to dunk an unwashed finger into one of her perfect circles.
“No way,” she said. “You can try these when they’re done, just like everyone else.”
Her dad laughed, but when her mom spoke, her voice was noticeably cooler. “Cooking, Gladys? On the first night of school?”
“Well, I don’t have any homework yet,” Gladys said.
“Then I would think you might have time to hang out with some of your friends.” Gladys’s mom was always getting on her case about being more social; sometimes she wondered if her mom was more paranoid about Gladys’s friends dumping her than Gladys was.
“I saw Sandy earlier,” Gladys told her, “and Parm and Charissa both had after-school activities.” She left out the drama with Hamilton—her parents didn’t need to know about that.
“After-school activities—now that sounds like fun,” Gladys’s dad said. “I still remember my first Debate Club meet in middle school . . . talk about adrenaline!”
Gladys nodded as politely as she could. Debate sounded almost as awful as Student Leadership Council, with the possible exception of a debate about the merits of superfine sugar versus confectioner’s sugar. But somehow she doubted that was a topic on the debate team’s agenda.
“Gladys,” her mom said, “have a seat for a moment.”
The macarons needed to rest before they went into the oven anyway, so Gladys followed her parents to the kitchen table.
“Honey,” her mom started, “your dad and I have talked about this, and we think it would be best to impose some limits on your cooking during the school year. You know, to make sure you’ll have plenty of time to meet new people, try new activities, and really get the most out of your middle-school experience.”
“What?” Gladys couldn’t believe her ears. The last time her parents had restricted her cooking privileges, it was because she had started a fire in the kitchen. “But I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“This isn’t a punishment, Gladdy,” her dad said. “It’s just an effort to make sure you have a healthy balance in your schedule. Now, there must be some after-school activities you’ll want to try in your spare time.”
“There’s just one,” she said. “French Club. And that doesn’t even start up until next week!”
“Then maybe you should find a few more,” Gladys’s mom suggested. “Or maybe a sports team you’d like to try out for?”
Gladys stared down at the fake-wood pattern of the kitchen table. She’d thought that her parents had made a lot of progress over the summer—that they’d really started to understand her passion for food and cooking. But this just proved that they didn’t understand her at all.
“You can still finish your cookies tonight,” her dad said, “but starting tomorrow, your kitchen access will be restricted to once a week.”
“Once a week?” Gladys had a list of recipes to try that was almost three pages long. If she was only allowed to cook one time a week, it would take her years to perfect them all. “This is so unfair!”
“We thought you might feel that way,” her mom said, “but we’ve discussed this, and we think it’s for your own good. I bet you’ll even thank us once you get more involved in other activities. You might find something else you love to do just as much as cooking!”
“But I already know what I love to do.” Gladys could tell she was not going to win this battle, but she couldn’t help trying anyway.
Her dad reached over and ruffled her
hair. “Just give this a shot, kiddo. Don’t be afraid of having new experiences.”
Gladys found this statement particularly ironic coming from the man who’d been ordering the same exact chicken lo mein from Palace of Wong every week for the last nine years.
When her parents left the table, Gladys slumped back in her chair. Baking always helped her let off steam, and cooking new international dishes helped her prepare for her restaurant-reviewing trips. Now, in one fell swoop, her parents had taken away her ability to do both.
How on earth had she ever thought they were ready to hear about her secret job?
Relieved that she hadn’t gone through with telling them weeks ago, Gladys got up to preheat the oven. In her unfocused state, though, she turned the temperature a bit too high, and when her macarons came out half an hour later, they had lost their shape and spread out on the pan, turning into what looked like slightly burnt, sticky fried eggs.
Gladys banged the pan onto the range top in frustration. Her cookies were ruined, and who knew when she would have a chance to try the recipe again?
She barely touched the quiche that an exhausted Aunt Lydia brought home from Mr. Eng’s for dinner that night, and made a mental note to tell her aunt that she finally understood what it felt like to be too depressed to enjoy good food. But tonight wasn’t the night for that; Aunt Lydia had had a trying day of her own.
“Lydia’s first day of work and Gladys’s first day of middle school,” Gladys’s mom crowed as she cleared the table. “It’s new beginnings for everyone!”
Gladys heaved herself up from her chair and headed for the stairs. She made one last pit stop on the way to bed, to stare again hopefully at the phone in the office. If anyone she knew could commiserate about having parents who didn’t get them, it was Hamilton. But as strongly as she willed him to return her call, the phone stayed silent.
Chapter 11
SNACKS FOR ZOMBIES
GLADYS HAD ALWAYS HEARD THAT THE first day at a new school was the hardest. But by the time she stumbled into French class the next afternoon with a backpack full of homework assignments, she thoroughly disagreed. Really, the first day was pretty easy, with all that seat shuffling and introducing; it was the second day when you started to do actual work.
At least her scene onstage the day before didn’t seem to have made a big impression on her fellow students. In social studies, Charissa had reassured her that many of her classmates had already left the auditorium by the time she’d climbed up there, plus most people probably wouldn’t recognize her even if they had seen her. Thankfully, it seemed that she was right. Gladys’s status as a nobody at DTMS was still intact.
“Bonjour, class!” the teacher cried once the bell had rung. “My name is Madame Goldstein, and this is Introduction to French. Now, the first thing we must do is give you all new names.”
“New names?” an unfamiliar boy called out. “What’s wrong with our old ones?”
The class tittered, and Madame Goldstein smiled. “This is a French class, so we must all have French names! I will take attendance, and after I call out each of your names, I will suggest a French name for you. If you like it, then that will become your name in this class. D’accord?”
Gladys and her classmates nodded.
“Bon. Now, first we have Amanda Abbey? There you are. How about Amandine?” Madame Goldstein said the new name with a beautiful accent, and Amanda nodded eagerly. “Très bien,” Madame Goldstein said. “Very good.” And she spelled Amanda’s new name out on the chalkboard.
She continued to call attendance—a boy named Ryan became Rolande, Charissa became Charisse.
“Gladys Gatsby?” Madame Goldstein called. Gladys felt her breath catch and slowly raised her hand. “Ah, bon. How about . . . Giselle?”
Giselle—that sounded lovely. “Merci beaucoup,” Gladys said, using the phrase for “thank you very much” that she had learned from her aunt.
Madame’s thin eyebrows shot up. “Does our Giselle already know some français?”
“Oh, just a few words,” Gladys said, embarrassed that she’d said anything. “My aunt lived in Paris for a long time.”
“Well, I hope you’ll be joining our French Club, then!” Madame Goldstein said. “In fact, I hope you all will. It’s a wonderful chance to learn more about French culture and get in a little extra language practice. And every year, we take a field trip to a French restaurant in New York City . . .” Madame sighed. “Well, this year, our club will have to brainstorm some new ideas for funding such a trip. Our first meeting will be next week.”
An outing to a French restaurant in the city sounded wonderful; Gladys was determined to help the club make sure the outing could still happen.
Once everyone in the class had been rechristened, Madame Goldstein asked them to rearrange their seats in alphabetical order by their new French names. But first, she taught everyone how to ask what someone else’s name was in French, and how to answer. Then they were turned loose to figure out what order they belonged in.
It was a lot of fun, and by the end of the lesson, Gladys was pretty sure she had a new favorite teacher.
After class, Gladys headed to her locker to pack up. Between all the heavy books now weighing down her blue backpack and the fact that she hadn’t eaten since brunch time, she felt slightly dizzy. She wasn’t the only one, either—a lot of the other kids around her looked like exhausted zombies as they tottered toward the school exit, and she overheard more than one complain about being hungry. “I’d gnaw someone’s face off for a brownie right now,” one boy muttered to his friend.
Gladys wasn’t sure about the face-gnawing, but something sweet did sound pretty appealing right now. She was debating whether to stop at Mr. Eng’s for a fresh-baked cookie or head straight home to see if Hamilton had called when Parm came flying up to her.
“I made it!” she cried. “I’m a starter on the soccer team!”
Gladys’s backpack fell to the ground with a thud. “That’s terrific!” she cried. “Congrats!” She threw her arms around her friend, who could barely stay still long enough to be hugged.
“I really didn’t know how I did at tryouts,” Parm said breathlessly, “but the list just got posted. Almost all the other starters are eighth-graders. I can’t believe it! Okay, I’d better run or I’ll be late for drills, plus Coach said she had to talk to us about fund-raising today. I hope she has a good idea for how to get us to the tournament—I really want to go!”
Gladys grinned at Parm; it was nice to see her so excited.
“Call me later and let me know how your first practice went,” Gladys said.
As Parm turned to leave, Gladys’s empty stomach gave a particularly ferocious growl—which gave her an idea.
“Parm!” she cried, and her friend whirled around—as did several other kids at their lockers. Gladys shrank from their stares, but took a step closer to her friend. “Bake sale,” she whispered.
“Huh?”
“If you need a fund-raising idea,” Gladys elaborated, “I think an after-school bake sale could make a lot of money. Especially for the kids who have fourth-period lunch—we’re starving!”
Comprehension dawned in Parm’s brown eyes. “Great idea! You know that I still think most desserts are gross, but I can see how other people might want to buy them. Thanks, Gladys!” She took off then, expertly dodging the kids in her way as her feet dribbled a ghost soccer ball down the hall.
Gladys shook her head. In elementary school, Parm had only ever eaten two things—plain spaghetti and cold cereal with milk—and it sounded like she was still as picky as ever. But Gladys was glad she had liked her idea. An after-school bake sale couldn’t come soon enough.
• • •
The phone rang that night just as Gladys was getting into her pajamas, and her heart leapt—maybe Hamilton was getting back to her at last! Her father called h
er to the phone a moment later, but when she picked up, the voice on the other end belonged not to Hamilton but to Parm.
“Hey,” Parm said. “Sorry I didn’t call sooner—my parents made me sit with them through their entire dinner, even though all I ate was one bowl of noodles.” Parm sounded annoyed—more than her family dinner situation warranted.
“Is something wrong?” Gladys asked.
Parm sighed. “Well, yeah. At practice, Coach asked for fund-raising plans, and I mentioned your bake sale idea—”
“Oh, no—she didn’t like it?” Gladys asked. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no, Coach loved it, and so did everyone else.” Parm sounded glummer than ever.
“Oh,” Gladys replied. “So what’s the problem?”
“They want me to be in charge of it!” Parm burst out. “I’m supposed to come up with the recipes and organize the team to get the baking done. I think Coach assumed that since I brought the idea up, I must . . . you know . . . like to bake. She said she was gonna try to set up a series of sales, with the first one scheduled for next Monday. But to get ready for the first game of the season, we’ve got practice every day after school plus Saturday and Sunday! So I don’t know when I’d even have time, but it doesn’t matter. You know I can’t cook.” She groaned. “I’ll just have to tell her tomorrow that I can’t do it.”
A grin was starting to spread across Gladys’s face. “No way,” she said. “You may not be the world’s best baker—yet—but you’ve got a friend who can help you.”
“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Parm said. “You suggested this to help me out, not to get pulled into a ring of soccer-baking madness.”
Gladys laughed. “You forget that I actually like to cook. And anyway,” she said, lowering her voice, “right now my parents are only letting me use the kitchen once a week. So if you let me come over to your house for a baking project, you’d actually be doing me a favor.”