Stars So Sweet

by Tara Dairman

  “But . . .” Gladys’s voice cracked. With so much else going on this week, she had pushed the job situation to the back of her mind. She certainly didn’t feel ready to make any permanent decisions about it. There had to be another solution to this situation—at least a temporary one.

  “But the Standard job wouldn’t start until January,” she said, “and it’s only September! I thought you wanted to save up some money. And won’t you get bored if you’re stuck in this house until then with nothing to do?”

  Aunt Lydia glanced over at the TV, then down at the open bag of chips on the table. “I suppose so.”

  “Come on, then,” Gladys said in her most rousing voice. “You have to fight for your job! Just try a little harder to follow Mr. Eng’s directions at work, and everything will be fine.”

  A small smile crossed her aunt’s face. “All right,” she said. “I can try.”

  Gladys forced herself to smile back. “Great. So, uh, what time does Mr. Eng want you to come in tomorrow?”

  “Eight o’clock,” Aunt Lydia said.

  Then I’ll be there at seven twenty, Gladys thought. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her aunt to save her own job—but she figured a little extra help couldn’t hurt.

  • • •

  The next morning, Gladys rode her bike so that she would have time to make a detour to the Gourmet Grocery before school. She caught Mr. Eng just as he was unlocking the security gate.

  “Good morning, Gladys!” he said. The gate made a rap-bap-bap-bap noise as it rose to reveal the glass door behind it. “You’re here very early.”

  “Middle school starts earlier than elementary,” Gladys told him, parking her bike.

  “And it’s in the opposite direction,” Mr. Eng said with a wink. “So this must be a special trip for you. Come on in.”

  Inside, the store was dark and silent, and Gladys imagined the groceries sleeping quietly in their bins and on their shelves. Then Mr. Eng flipped a switch; the fluorescent lights overhead came on with a buzz, and all around her the muted tones of fruits and vegetables and spices burst into vibrant life.

  “Mr. Eng,” Gladys said, suddenly energized. “You can’t fire my aunt today.”

  “Ah, I thought that’s what this might be about.” Mr. Eng dropped his keys on the counter and leaned forward on it. “I’m sorry, Gladys, but she’s just not a good worker. I’ve given her two full trial days, which I really think is more than fair.”

  Gladys’s stomach bottomed out. She had half hoped that Mr. Eng would tell her she was crazy and that he had no intention of firing Aunt Lydia. But for once, the awful thing that Gladys had suspected was exactly the thing that was in danger of happening.

  “I don’t mean to hurt you or your family,” Mr. Eng continued, and indeed, his voice sounded the opposite of callous. “This is a business decision, not a personal one. Having your aunt here has made me realize that I really do need an assistant at the shop; it just needs to be someone who can follow orders.”

  “I know that she’s made some mistakes,” Gladys said hurriedly, “but she’s still adjusting to life in America. If you could just give her a little more time—”

  But Mr. Eng was shaking his head. “I need someone here whom I can trust to run the store entirely in my absence,” he said. “I’ve registered for several trade shows over the next couple of months. They’re like big conventions with lots of different types of food products on display and available for sampling so attendees can find new products to sell in their stores,” he explained. “But they’re all on Saturdays, and weekends are now the busiest time here. I just don’t feel I can trust your aunt to hold down the fort on a Saturday.”

  Gladys sighed. If she was honest with herself, she couldn’t really picture her aunt managing the shop alone, either. But what she could easily picture was her aunt hurrying around from one booth to another at a convention, snatching up samples and making decisions about which variety of artisan cracker or balsamic vinegar tasted the best.

  “What if you sent Aunt Lydia to the trade shows?” Gladys said.

  Mr. Eng, who was now breaking a fresh roll of quarters into the cash register drawer, looked up. “What?”

  “She loves samples,” Gladys said. Mr. Eng grimaced, and Gladys realized that maybe that hadn’t been the best example to bring up. “I mean, she has a great palate. And like you just said, she’s always flitting from one thing to the next. Who better to send off to taste-test food at a big convention on your behalf?”

  “She did impress me with her knowledge of cheeses and spices when I first met her . . .” Mr. Eng said slowly. “Plus, those conventions do require a lot of walking. And on these old knees . . .”

  Gladys could tell that she was making progress. It was time to drive her point home. “And you know that I’m good at doing research and taking notes,” she added, “so I could work with her at home and make sure she has a good system for keeping track of the stuff she tries! Maybe I could even go with her to the first one to help out.”

  Now a hint of a smile played across Mr. Eng’s face. “This is not a terrible idea, Gladys,” he said. “All right—I’m willing to send her to the first convention and see how she does. If I’m happy with her work, she can represent the store at the others. But once they wrap up in October, that will be the end of your aunt’s employment here. Business is doing better now, for sure, but I still can’t afford to throw money away.”

  “I understand,” Gladys said quietly. She hadn’t fixed things forever, but at least she had saved her aunt’s job for a little while longer. And maybe, she thought, if Aunt Lydia does really well, she’ll persuade Mr. Eng to reconsider.

  • • •

  Gladys’s classes seemed to drag by that day as she waited for the final bell and Parm’s bake sale.

  She ran into Parm in the hallway after third period, and her friend assured her that the baked goods were safe in the teachers’ break room, where she had gotten special permission to store them. “And me and three of the other girls have a pass to get out of class fifteen minutes early to set up,” Parm told her, “so things should be all ready by the time the last bell rings.”

  “Super,” Gladys said. “I’ll come down as soon as French lets out.”

  But at the end of French class, Madame Goldstein called Gladys up to her desk.

  “Giselle, a word, s’il vous plaît,” she said.

  Gladys and Charissa exchanged a glance; what could this be about? “I’d wait for you outside, but I’ve gotta get to gymnastics,” Charissa whispered as Gladys stood up.

  “No worries,” Gladys replied. “But hey, make sure you stop in the lobby on your way—there are gonna be some awesome desserts for sale today.”

  “Ooh, thanks!” Charissa slung her purple backpack over one shoulder and sauntered out of the classroom after the other kids.

  Gladys approached her teacher’s desk. “Yes, Madame?” she said.

  Madame smiled. “Giselle, I believe that we have a good friend in common.”

  “We—we do?” Gladys was completely baffled now. What was her teacher talking about?

  “Oui,” Madame replied. “This person is actually my neighbor. It is someone who is extremely fond of you.”

  Gladys’s own heart took a tiny leap. Could it be Hamilton? His family had only moved to the area at the beginning of the summer; she didn’t know which part of town they lived in, but they must be neighbors with her French teacher. She almost let out a giddy laugh. What were the odds?

  “This person,” Madame continued, “just learned that you are in my class, and asked if I would pass a letter along to you.” She held out a sealed white envelope; her thumb was covering up part of the writing, but Gladys spotted her own last name on it in neat block letters. “Excusez-moi for being so mysterious, but the writer asked that I not reveal any more—and also told me to make it cl
ear that I was ignorant of the letter’s contents, as they might be considered somewhat personal.”

  Considered somewhat personal—that sounded like Hamilton, all right.

  Gladys accepted the letter with a trembling hand. So that was why he hadn’t called her back; he’d wanted to write to her instead. It was such a grand, old-fashioned gesture that she was almost willing to forgive all of his past transgressions right then and there.

  Almost.

  Gladys was dying to rip right into the envelope, but if there was “personal” content . . . well, it would be better if she could take it somewhere private. She had been looking forward to the bake sale all day, but now she couldn’t wait to get home.

  “Merci, Madame,” Gladys said.

  “De rien,” Madame replied.

  And with that, Gladys burst out of the classroom with more energy than she had ever been able to summon at the end of a day of middle school.

  Chapter 14

  A FULL PLATE

  OKAY, GLADYS TOLD HERSELF AS SHE barreled down the hallway. I’ll stop REALLY fast to see Parm, then go straight home to look at the letter. She rounded a corner and picked up speed.

  The halls were weirdly empty, but Gladys soon found out where all the kids were: the bake sale. The table of treats was absolutely mobbed, and even with three other team members on hand to help, it looked like Parm was barely keeping up with demand. Gladys recognized several kids from her lunch period pushing toward the front of the line, including Elaine de la Vega, who Gladys knew was supposed to be at the Telegraph meeting. She had to smile; she’d been right to predict that a bake sale would be a big hit with the early lunchers.

  The soccer-ball-shaped cookies were by far the most popular item; in fact, by the time Gladys squeezed her way up to the table, there was only one left.

  “Hey, Parm, how much for that cookie?” the boy next to Gladys asked. She recognized his voice—it was Owen Green, who had gotten Parm embroiled in a food fight in the East Dumpsford Elementary cafeteria the year before.

  “Three dollars,” Parm said automatically, but when she looked up and saw who had asked, her eyes narrowed. “Oh—for you? Four dollars.”

  Owen grunted, but dug into his pocket anyway. “Okay.”

  “Wait!” cried a voice, and a round-cheeked girl pushed her way forward. “Don’t sell it to him. I’ll give you five dollars for it.”

  “What?” Owen spluttered. “No fair!”

  “I’ll give you six bucks!” another voice shouted from the crowd.

  “Seven!”

  “Forty-two!”

  The crowd hushed at that offer, then split as Charissa Bentley glided forward, bills fanned out in her hand like a peacock’s display.

  “Aaaand, sold!” Parm cried. She accepted Charissa’s money to a chorus of groans. “Sorry, guys, but this is a fund-raiser. And hey, there are still plenty of brownies and barf—I mean, gluten-free sweet squares—left.” She passed Charissa her soccer-ball cookie with a smile. Maybe, Gladys thought, her two best school friends really might be starting to like each other.

  At Gladys’s left, Elaine de la Vega was snapping pictures of the bake sale goodies with a small camera. “Excuse me,” she said to Parm, “but I don’t think DTMS has ever seen such a successful fund-raiser before. This is a newsworthy event! Do you have a few minutes for an interview with the Telegraph?”

  Parm passed a “sweet square” over to another paying customer. “Um, we’re a little busy right now,” she replied. “But the person you really should talk to is Gladys Gatsby. She picked out the recipes and oversaw all the baking. And actually, the whole sale was her idea in the first place! There she is.” Gladys didn’t even have time to think about ducking away before Parm pointed her out.

  Elaine’s camera flashed as she whirled around; her finger must have accidentally depressed the button in surprise. “Gladys Gatsby?” she said. “This was your idea?”

  “Uh . . .” Gladys rubbed her eyes, still blinded by the flash. Hamilton’s letter was practically burning a hole through her backpack, and the last thing she wanted to do was get enmeshed in a long interview about bake sale planning. “Sort of,” she said quickly. “I mean, I like to bake, so I was happy to jump in.”

  Elaine’s camera was gone faster than seemed humanly possible, replaced by a small pad on which she scribbled furious notes. “So let me get this straight,” she said. “You don’t have time to join clubs like, say, the newspaper . . . but you do have time to bake hundreds of cookies for a team you’re not actually on?”

  Was it bad to help a team with their fund-raiser if you weren’t a member? Gladys didn’t think so, but figured it couldn’t hurt to clarify. “I didn’t do any of the actual baking,” she said quickly. “I just sort of . . . supervised and consulted.”

  “But to be clear, you’re not on the soccer team, right?” Elaine gave Gladys a cool stare. “Never mind, no need to answer. The roster’s public information—I can always pop by the gym and check.”

  Now it really sounded like Elaine was trying to get Gladys into trouble. “Look,” Gladys said, “I was just trying to do something nice for a friend. I mean, I’d be happy to help any club out with a bake sale if they asked me.”

  “Help a friend. How sweet.” Elaine sneered like friendship was something she had stopped having time for in first grade. “Well, I’ve got everything I need for now. Thanks, Gladys. Very enlightening.” With that, she flipped her pad shut and disappeared.

  Fudge. Gladys had enough going on—she certainly didn’t need a vindictive middle-school reporter on her case, too.

  She could see that the sale was going fine without her help, and although she was hungry enough to eat all the treats left on the table, she was even more eager to read her letter. She made a phone with her hand to signal Parm to call her later, then wiggled her way out of the crowd toward the exit.

  Extra glad that she had ridden her bike that morning, Gladys pedaled the few blocks home as though that comet from the teachers’ orientation shirts was on her tail.

  The house was empty; both of her parents were at work, and Aunt Lydia must have been out shopping or something. Still, Gladys retreated to her bedroom and closed the door before taking the letter out of her backpack. She ripped into the envelope and pulled out the single typed sheet inside.

  But as soon as she glimpsed the signature, she realized that she had been wrong. This letter wasn’t from Hamilton at all.

  Dear Gladys,

  I’ve just discovered that this year you are taking French with my neighbor Lillian Goldstein. I’ve informed her that, based on my own interactions with you, she is very lucky to have you in her class!

  I hope that you’ll excuse the cloak-and-dagger maneuvers I have undertaken to get this letter into your hands, but I imagine that as soon as you saw the way I wrote your name on the envelope, you understood my reasoning. I didn’t want to mention anything last year when you were still in my class, for fear of making you feel uncomfortable or exposed. But now that you’re not my student anymore, I figure that we can be more honest with each other, peer-to-peer—or perhaps I should say foodie-to-foodie?

  In any case, I wanted to let you know that I am extremely proud of your accomplishments so far in the field of restaurant criticism and that I am following your career with the greatest interest. You cannot imagine the rush of pride I feel, as your former teacher, every time I see your byline appear in the Standard.

  I’m hoping to see many more mouthwatering articles from you. I also wanted to say that if you ever need an adult to talk to—discreetly, of course—about your work, I would be happy to be of service. You can contact me anytime at the e-mail address or phone number below (or, if you prefer, reply by letter via our mutual amie, Madame Goldstein).

  All my best,

  Violetta Quincy

  Gladys finished reading the letter, then reached for the t
orn envelope she had cast aside so quickly. G. Gatsby, it said in neat block letters. The abbreviated byline she used on her reviews for the Standard.

  Really, it was wonderful to hear from her sixth-grade teacher. Ms. Quincy was, after all, the one who had encouraged her to be true to her passion and write about becoming a restaurant critic for the New York Standard essay contest. It was that essay that had somehow fallen into the hands of Fiona Inglethorpe and led to Gladys’s first professional reviewing assignment.

  Gladys had been pretty sure that Aunt Lydia and Mr. Eng were the only two adults in the world who knew about her secret job—but it seemed that her former teacher had figured it out as well. And it was so nice of Ms. Quincy to get in touch now and offer her support. She would definitely have to write back to her soon to thank her.

  But despite the way the letter had buoyed her, Gladys couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment that it wasn’t from Hamilton. She had started making excuses to herself for why he hadn’t returned her call, but still, she wasn’t ready to give up on him completely. She took down her copy of Zombietown, U.S.A., went to the office, and dialed his number again. But, just like last time, a recording answered on the first ring.

  It was a different recording from last time, though. “We’re sorry,” said a robotic voice, “but the voice-mail box of the person you are trying to reach is full.”

  How strange—had no one in Hamilton’s family been checking the voice mail? If that was the case, then maybe Hamilton hadn’t even gotten Gladys’s original message.

  She sighed. How to reach him, if not by phone? If Hamilton was on DumpChat, the local online instantmessaging service, she didn’t know his username. And they hadn’t exchanged e-mail addresses that summer, which Gladys was starting to see as a major oversight. She supposed that Charissa might have an e-mail address for the Herbertsons on file at her parents’ camp office, but Gladys really didn’t want to ask; Charissa was not a big fan of Hamilton, and his most recent display at school hadn’t done him any favors with her.