by Tara Dairman
Gladys picked absently at the silver “Finalist for Best Kids Author at the Kids Rock Awards!” sticker on the cover of Hamilton’s book. Its corner lifted, revealing some tiny print that she had never noticed before. It said Visit www.ZombietownUSA.com for more info about the book and tween author sensation Hamilton Herbertson.
Bingo!
A few moments later, Gladys had the website up on the computer; it featured the black cover of Hamilton’s book, with the tagline “The literary phenomenon that’s sweeping the nation!”
Gladys clicked on the book cover, and the main site came up; there were tabs labeled “About the Book” and “About the Author.” Gladys clicked on the second one and was greeted with a black-and-white headshot of Hamilton that took up half the screen. She had never really thought about it before, but in this picture, with his signature fedora angled jauntily, he actually looked sort of . . . cute.
Stop it, Gladys told herself. Hamilton Herbertson was many things—annoying, self-centered, clueless about basic social interactions—but “cute” was definitely not one of them. Just the same, Gladys didn’t feel comfortable looking at his picture anymore, and quickly clicked back to the home page. There, she noticed another tab, “Contact,” and clicked over to it.
Hey, readers—got a question for Hamilton? Send it in to us at [email protected].
Well, that was a start. Gladys clicked on the e-mail address, which automatically opened a DumpMail message, and started typing.
To Whom It May Concern,
I’m a friend of Hamilton’s, and I’m trying to get ahold of him. Would you please ask him to e-mail me at [email protected]? It’s important. Thank you very much.
Sincerely,
Gladys Gatsby
There, she thought as she sent the e-mail, that should do it.
She was about to log off and start on her homework when her DumpChat chime dinged.
rabbitboy: backyard plz
Today had been Sandy’s gross-off at school—he probably wanted to celebrate his victory. Gladys wished she had thought to snag at least one brownie from the bake sale for him, but he’d just have to accept her empty-handed congratulations. She bounded down the stairs, outside, and across the yard—but the expression on Sandy’s face when she reached the gap in the hedge stopped her in her tracks.
Chapter 15
DEATH BY DURIAN
“I LOST,” SANDY SAID MISERABLY. “IT wasn’t even close.”
“What?” Gladys couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But that cheese—it was so disgusting! What could possibly have topped that?”
Sandy took a deep, shaky breath. His normally red cheeks weren’t tearstained, but they were as pale as Gladys had ever seen them. “It was a fruit,” he said. “Of all things, a fruit! On the outside, it looked kind of like a mutant pineapple, and on the inside it had these alien-like pods of yellow flesh. But ugh, you could smell it before Jonah even cut into it. Like a combination of raw onions and metal and . . . I don’t know, just rot.”
“A durian,” Gladys said quietly.
“Wait—you knew this fruit existed?” Sandy glared at Gladys accusingly, as if she had been withholding important information from him on purpose.
“Well, yeah,” Gladys said. “Some people like it; some people despise it. I’ve always been curious to try it, actually, but I have no idea where to find it in America. It’s from Southeast Asia.”
“Chinatown, in the city,” Sandy said with a sigh. “Jonah got his parents to take him over the weekend; he said he spent hours asking around at different fruit stands until he found one. And all I did was walk to Mr. Eng’s and grab the first thing I tried. I deserved to lose.”
“Don’t say that!” Gladys cried. “That Limburger cheese was a great choice! I mean, the other kids must have at least agreed that it was pretty gross, right?”
“They did at first,” Sandy said. “I even offered some to the others to try, and a few did. But then Jonah took out his fruit, and everything about it was disgusting. The texture was goopy and slimy. And the flavor . . . well, it was sort of sweet at first—just enough to trick you into trying another bite—but then the true, horrible taste came out. And that taste stayed in your mouth for hours, no matter what else you ate, even more Limburger cheese.” Sandy sighed again. “Jonah won fair and square.”
Gladys hated to admit it, but it sounded like Sandy was right.
“Okay, so maybe this round went to Jonah,” she said, “but he’s got to give you another chance! When’s the rematch? I know we can find you something even better than a durian.”
She expected Sandy to perk up at this, but like the taste of durian that had apparently lingered in his mouth all day, his glum demeanor stuck around. “I dunno, Gatsby. Maybe I should just know when I’m beaten and accept it.”
Gladys had never heard Sandy sound so pessimistic—it was almost like he had temporarily swapped personalities with Parm. “No way,” she said. “This is not the Sandy Anderson I know. You can win this thing! You’ve just got to . . . you know, believe in yourself and stuff!”
Finally, a small grin cracked Sandy’s face. “Wow, Gatsby. That’s some motivational speech.”
“Sorry.” Gladys shook her head. This was why she loved writing—you could take hours to come up with the perfect phrase if you needed to. Face-to-face communication was so much harder.
“Nah, it’s okay. I’m glad you believe in me.” Sandy reached a fist through the gap in the hedge, and Gladys bumped it. “Jonah did say he’d take on any fool who was still willing to challenge him, but of course, no one spoke up. Maybe, though . . . if I can find something really amazingly disgusting . . .”
“You can!” Gladys cried. “I know you can. We’ll do it together. I’m planning to head into the city this weekend to visit my first restaurant for the new reviews—you can come and we’ll start looking.”
But Sandy shook his head. “Can’t do this weekend—yoga retreat with Mom upstate. She’s teaching, and they’re letting her bring me for free. I’ll do my own sleuthing there, but the whole menu’s vegan, so my hopes aren’t high.”
“Oh. Okay.” Gladys wondered what Sandy would do during the retreat—would he take his mom’s classes? Would that be weird for him? Gladys had gone to work with her dad a couple of times in the past year, though the hours she’d spent in his accounting meetings had been some of the most boring of her life. Yoga, at least, sounded more interesting.
“So let me know the next time you’re heading into the city, and hopefully I can come,” Sandy said.
Gladys nodded. “And I’ll keep my eyes . . . and nose . . . open in the meantime.”
• • •
When Parm called her that night, Gladys found even more evidence for her personality-swapping theory: Parm’s voice was more upbeat than Gladys had ever heard it. “We sold every last treat!” she cried. “By the end, I’d raised the prices on the barfi to two bucks apiece, and even then, kids were fighting over them. We made six hundred dollars—that’s more than one-third of our fund-raising goal for the trip!”
“That’s great!” Gladys said.
“Coach was so happy,” Parm continued, “and now I’m pretty much the most popular girl on the team. Not that popularity is important to me at all,” she added quickly. “Like I tell Charissa over and over, being popular is stupid. But money is good! We’re just a couple more bake sales away from going to Pennsylvania!”
Gladys smiled. “I’m so glad it all worked out.”
“We couldn’t have done it without you, obviously,” Parm said. “And the rest of the team is really grateful, too. They were talking about making you an honorary member.”
“Honorary member?” Gladys smiled, imagining the look on Elaine de la Vega’s face if she actually saw Gladys’s name listed on the soccer team roster after all.
“Well, if you ever want t
o come work out with us one day after school or something, you’d be welcome,” Parm said.
Gladys laughed then, trying to imagine herself dribbling or passing a soccer ball. “I think I’ll stick to dribbling icing on scones and passing the salt at the dinner table—but thanks.”
“Well, anyway, I owe you big. Is there something I can do to help you with”—here, Parm lowered her voice—“you know, your job?”
Gladys nudged the office door shut with her foot, then lowered her own voice for good measure. “Well,” she said, “you could come with me and my aunt on one of our restaurant research trips and order extra food. Asking for half the stuff on the menu will look less weird with three people eating instead of two, you know?”
“Done—as long as you don’t make me eat the stuff I order,” Parm said. “Just let me know when you need me, and as long as I don’t have practice, I’ll be there.”
After she got off the phone, Gladys crossed the hallway and tapped on the guest room door. When Aunt Lydia opened it, Gladys could tell she was in a better mood than the night before, since she was dressed for bed in silk mint-green pajamas rather than her old sweats.
Gladys sat on the edge of her aunt’s bed. “So, how did it go at Mr. Eng’s today?” she asked. They hadn’t been able to discuss things in front of Gladys’s parents at dinner.
“I could hardly believe it,” Aunt Lydia said. “He didn’t want to fire me at all! Instead, he wants to send me to some foodie trade shows to scout out new products for the store.”
As tired as Gladys was of keeping secrets, she didn’t think it would be right to let on that the whole send-Aunt-Lydia-to-conventions plan had been her idea. So instead, she simply smiled and said, “That’s great, Aunt Lydia!”
“The first one is a dried-meats convention this Saturday in the city,” Aunt Lydia said. “Mr. Eng even suggested it might be fun for you to tag along—you know, sort of as my assistant.”
Gladys grinned, and not just because that had also been her idea. A dried-meats convention sounded like the perfect place to hunt for something stomachturning for Sandy. Maybe there would even be actual dried stomach!
“I’d love to,” Gladys said. “And can we visit the Salvadoran restaurant in Queens after?”
“Absolutely,” Aunt Lydia said. “I can call tomorrow and make us a reservation—under my name, of course.”
“Make it for three,” Gladys said. “I’m going to see if Charissa can join us—I think she’d be helpful.”
Aunt Lydia nodded, and after they had exchanged good night bisoux on each cheek, Gladys headed for her own bedroom.
Parm’s bake sale had been a success, she had found an e-mail address for Hamilton, she and Sandy had a plan for his next battle, and her first reviewing outing was scheduled. Plus, the French Club would be meeting tomorrow.
Gladys fell asleep feeling like maybe she was finally starting to get the hang of life in middle school.
Chapter 16
BAKE SALE FAIRY GODMOTHER?
GLADYS’S IMPRESSION THAT HER LIFE was under control lasted all of twelve hours.
Students were posted at either side of the school’s main entrance the next morning, reaching into boxes to hand something to each kid who went through the doors. “Get your paper!” one of them shouted as Gladys approached. “Special back-to-school edition of the DTMS Telegraph!”
Although Gladys still had absolutely no desire to join the school paper, she couldn’t help but feel a little curious about how Elaine’s pet project would read. Would its features be up to New York Standard level? Or more along the lines of stories found in the typo-ridden Dumpsford Township Intelligencer?
Whatever the quality, this first issue of the school year looked short: just the front and back of one legalsized sheet of paper, folded in half. Gladys accepted her copy from the paperboy to her right, unfolded it—and froze.
There was one picture on the front page of the paper, and it was of her.
Someone bumped into her from behind. “Hey!” a kid farther back shouted. “Who’s holding up the line?”
“It’s her!” another voice shouted. “The girl in the paper!”
Gladys finally forced herself to move forward, faster and faster until she was practically running down the hallway. She spotted a bathroom and ducked inside, then locked herself in the first empty stall. Finally, heart pounding more from nerves than from her sprint, she opened the newspaper sheet again.
The picture wasn’t very flattering—it had been taken from an odd angle, and Gladys was cringing away rather than looking at the camera. Still, she noticed Owen and Charissa and the table of treats from the bake sale in the background.
But much worse than the picture was the article that went along with it.
GLADYS GATSBY: Bake Sale Fairy Godmother or Blatant Rule-Breaker?
Special Investigative Report by Editor in Chief Elaine de la Vega
Seventh-grader Gladys Gatsby is new to DTMS, but that doesn’t mean that she’s eager to learn our school’s rules.
At yesterday’s well-attended soccer team bake sale (see “Super-Successful Bake Sale Breaks School Records” by Elaine de la Vega, pg. 2), Ms. Gatsby stood front and center. One would assume that this sale was organized by members of the soccer team. But when this reporter spoke to seventh-grade player Parminder Singh and asked what the team’s secret ingredient was, she said, “Talk to . . . Gladys Gatsby.”
Ms. Gatsby herself admitted that she had designed treats for the sale and supervised the baking, and she did not appear at all apologetic. Instead, she said that she would “help any club out with a bake sale if they asked me”—in short, guaranteeing that she plans to keep up with this unethical practice.
These shenanigans appear to be nothing new for Ms. Gatsby, who also had a record of dodgy behavior at East Dumpsford Elementary School last year. “She totally started a food fight in the cafeteria,” says ex-classmate Mira Winters. “Or, at least, she was involved. I saw her throw a sandwich, but she never got in trouble.”
Perhaps this pattern of escaping punishments in the past has led Ms. Gatsby to believe that she will be invincible at DTMS. But if she’s asked to “consult” on another soccer team bake sale, this reporter suggests that Ms. Gatsby design a cookie in the shape of a “red card.”
• • •
Gladys stared at the article in disbelief. The homeroom bell rang, but she didn’t move—might as well add a tardy to her growing list of “crimes.”
She had only wanted to help Parm—okay, and maybe get in a little extra kitchen time. She had really thought that the only rule she was breaking was her parents’ dumb one about only cooking once a week. But now . . .
Gladys pictured the boxes full of newspapers at the school entrance. How long before a copy made its way onto the desk of Parm’s soccer coach, or Dr. Sloane? What if they made Parm’s team return all the money they raised? Gladys’s stomach filled with liquid dread. More than any potential embarrassment for herself, she worried over what Elaine’s “investigative report” could mean for her friend.
Well, about that, at least, she could try to do something. If she explained herself to the authorities, and swore that it was her mistake alone, she might be able to stop the team from suffering any consequences. Gladys pushed open the stall door and hurried out of the bathroom.
A sour-faced aide stood only a few feet away. “Hall pass?”
“I don’t have one,” Gladys said.
“Then you’ll be going straight to the principal’s office, young lady.”
“Great,” Gladys muttered. “I was heading there anyway.”
The aide stuck to her side and kept a beady eye on her as they progressed down the hallway and turned the corner to the office. Gladys wondered if she, too, had read the article in the paper or just treated all passless students like juvenile delinquents.
The se
cretary asked Gladys to have a seat and wait since the principal was in with another student. Gladys wondered who had managed to get into trouble even before she had that morning. It didn’t take long for her to find out—Dr. Sloane’s raised voice carried right through her closed door.
“This is completely unacceptable!” she bellowed. “Your adviser and I had both approved the other version. Did you really think we wouldn’t notice that you switched the files?”
The student’s response was too muffled for Gladys to hear.
“Switched by accident before you hit ‘Print’? That’s quite a story, Elaine—possibly almost as libelous as the one you chose to publish about a fellow student.”
Gladys’s heart gave a tiny jolt of surprise. Was Dr. Sloane talking about the newspaper? She listened more closely.
“It was just . . . an early draft . . . never meant to publish . . .” Elaine’s voice, still quiet, seemed to be broken up by sobs, and when Dr. Sloane responded, her voice sounded a bit kinder.
“All right, Elaine. I understand that you’re under a lot of pressure with such a small newspaper staff,” she said. “Maybe you really never meant for that article to see the light of day. But still, we can’t have such sloppy work. You’ll need to retract that story and issue a correction in your next issue. And I’d also like for you to apologize to Ms. Gatsby.”
A moment later, the intercom on the secretary’s desk buzzed. “Kate, would you call down to Gladys Gatsby’s homeroom and have her sent to the office, please?”
The secretary looked down at the intercom, then up at Gladys. “Um, she’s already here, Dr. Sloane. Waiting to see you.”
“She is? Well . . . send her in then, please.”
Gladys shot to her feet, though her first instinct was to bolt for the exit. The last person she wanted to face this morning was Elaine—even a weepy Elaine.