by Tara Dairman
Gladys had to smile at that. “So, how did you celebrate? Did the other boys hoist you up onto their shoulders and parade you around? Did someone make you a crown?”
“Yeah, and they sang ‘Rat-Boy Is Our King,’ too.” Sandy laughed. “Is that really what you think people do at private school? You read too much Harry Potter.”
She shoved him. “Don’t mock the Potter.”
“Okay, okay—joking!” Sandy held up his hands in surrender. “So hey, your last review is in. What are you going to tell Fiona about the full-time job?”
“I have some ideas,” Gladys said, though that was a bit of an exaggeration. She had precisely one idea—but she thought it had some potential.
“Cryptic,” Sandy said. “So you’re not gonna tell me?”
Gladys sighed. “I just think this is a step I’m going to have to take on my own.”
He nodded. “Fair enough. Just don’t go doing anything stupid, like spilling the beans to your parents first.”
Gladys didn’t say anything. Sandy was probably right; it probably was a stupid idea. But that was exactly what she was planning to do.
• • •
Gladys knew the whole parental situation had to be handled with care, and she decided to talk to them on a night when she could cook some of their favorite foods. She also thought it would be best to do it without Aunt Lydia present. Since her aunt had one last foodie trade show to attend that coming Saturday afternoon, Gladys planned to wait until the weekend to have the discussion.
But then, that Friday after school, something unexpected happened.
Gladys was once again behind the bake sale table, this time with the Chess Club. Jason Mitty had purchased silicone molds online, and Gladys and the other members had spent the previous evening at his house, microwaving dark and white chocolate chunks and filling the molds to create edible chess pieces. It had been one of her easier projects to oversee, especially since there was no baking, icing, or frying involved.
She was just wrapping up the white-chocolate knight Parm had bought for Charissa (“You know, to say thanks for last time,” Parm said) when she noticed a figure lurking just outside the lobby’s smudged glass doors. She couldn’t see his face, but he was dressed all in black.
It’s not him, Gladys told herself. You’re hallucinating. Besides, even though this person was wearing a hat, it wasn’t Hamilton’s signature fedora; it was a black beret, like the kind poets and painters wore. Maybe it was someone from the Art Club, Gladys thought, come to spy on her and find out why she was skipping today’s meeting.
She kept selling chess pieces, waiting for the figure to come into the building or leave. But it didn’t do either. Finally, Gladys’s curiosity got the better of her.
“Hey, Jason, can you handle things for a while?” she asked. The boy said he could, and Gladys headed for the exit. She pushed open the door and stepped out into the October chill.
“Gladys.”
She knew that voice; what she didn’t know was how to react to it. The same old mix of contradictory emotions flooded through her: happiness and annoyance. Relief and fury. If there was one thing she knew, though, it was that this time, she wasn’t going to run away from her feelings. She turned to Hamilton and looked him straight in the face.
“Hey,” she said. “New hat?”
Hamilton reached up and touched the rim of the beret. “I got it in Paris,” he said. “It was a gift from my French publisher, actually. They flew me out the same night I came here for the school assembly, and I only just got back.” He glanced down at the black-banded watch on his wrist. “Like, an hour ago.”
Gladys nodded slowly. Hamilton had been out of the country; that explained a few things. Though they had phones and Internet in France, didn’t they?
She reminded herself not to jump to any conclusions. Unlike last time, she should at least give Hamilton a chance to explain himself. She glanced back inside, but it looked like Jason and the rest of the Chess Club had the sale under control. “Want to take a walk?” Gladys asked. “I could show you around.”
As soon as she said that, though, she felt stupid. Why would a boy who had just gotten off a plane from Paris want a tour of the local middle school? “Never mind,” she said quickly. “There’s nothing to see, unless you want to watch the sports teams practicing or something.”
“No, that sounds great!” Hamilton protested. “I’ve never seen a middle-school sports team practice. It’ll be a new experience for me.”
Gladys blinked in surprise. “Okay, then.” She led the way down the steps and around the side of the building.
She must have been striding quickly, because Hamilton had to jog a few steps to catch up with her. “Hey, so, I brought you something from France,” he said. Gladys slowed as he reached into his black messenger bag and pulled out a long rectangular box. It was made of clear plastic, and held an assortment of perfectly circular, rainbow-colored cookies.
“They’re called macarons,” he said.
“I know what macarons are,” she replied, though she left out the fact that the recipe had given her fits on the first day of school.
“They sell them all over,” Hamilton said. “Even in gift shops at the airport. But I got these from a town called Montmorillon, about three hours outside of Paris. They’re supposed to make the best in the country.”
They had just come to the edge of an empty field. The teams that were practicing were a bit farther out, but Gladys stopped walking.
“Hamilton,” she said, “you didn’t have to bring me a fancy present. I mean, don’t get me wrong—these macarons look incredible. But I would have been happy if you had just called me once after camp ended . . . or answered one of my e-mails.”
“One of your e-mails?” Hamilton looked confused. “But I didn’t get any e-mails from you.”
Yeah, sure, Gladys thought.
“What address did you use?”
“The one I found on ZombietownUSA.com.”
Hamilton groaned softly. “Gladys, that e-mail address is for fans. Do you have any idea how many messages go to that account every day?”
Gladys didn’t have any idea—and found that, actually, she didn’t really want to know.
“And anyway,” Hamilton continued, “those e-mails don’t come to me; they go to my publicist. She hardly ever forwards any to me. Most go into a long queue and get answered with some kind of generic response.”
Gladys let out a puff of air, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. “But I clearly said in the e-mails that I was your friend,” she told him, “and that I needed to get in touch with you urgently!”
“That’s what they all say.” Hamilton sighed. “How was my publicist supposed to know that of all the people who write and claim to be a close friend with an urgent message, you were the one telling the truth?”
Now that Hamilton had explained it, Gladys supposed it did make some sense that her e-mails wouldn’t have gotten through the gatekeeper. So he hadn’t known she was trying to contact him.
“Okay, well, I called your house, too,” she told him.
“My parents came with me to France,” Hamilton replied, “so no one would have been home to answer.”
“And what about before then?” she asked. “I gave you my number on the last day of camp. How come you never called me?”
Now a blush crept up over the rim of Hamilton’s black turtleneck, and he leaned against the outer wall of the school. “I’m so embarrassed,” he said, “but your number . . . it got destroyed.”
“Destroyed?”
“Well, you did write it on a napkin,” he retorted. “Not exactly the sturdiest surface in the world.”
A twinge of annoyance shot through Gladys—probably because Hamilton was right. She had grabbed at the first thing she saw in the camp kitchen when he’d asked for her number. Still, she
felt weirdly defensive about it. “I’m sorry,” she said, a snide note sneaking into her voice, “but not all of us are lucky enough to have a three-hundred-page novel to record our numbers in for posterity. Some of us just use whatever materials we have around.”
To her surprise, Hamilton nodded; he seemed content to concede the point. “I should have been more careful with it,” he said, and he really did look pained about the whole thing. “But I stuck it in my jeans pocket, and, well, if you remember, that day was a real scorcher. By the time I got home, the ink had bled and the napkin was in tatters.”
Gladys shook her head. Heaven forbid Hamilton should ever consider wearing weather-appropriate clothes—like shorts—when it got hot out.
“I tried to find your number online and in the phone book,” he continued, “but your family’s unlisted. So then I just kept hoping you would call me, but you never did.”
“I figured you were busy writing,” Gladys said. “I didn’t want to be a nuisance.”
Hamilton glanced down at his black boots. “You couldn’t be a nuisance.”
Now it was Gladys’s turn to blush—and her face grew even hotter when she remembered how she had stomped away from Hamilton at school weeks ago. “So when you came here to do the school assembly . . .” she started.
“Well, I couldn’t get in touch with you,” he said, “but I knew that you went to public school in East Dumpsford. So I asked my publicist to book a school visit for me here. I figured it was my best chance of . . . you know . . .”
Gladys stared at him. “Are you saying that you set up that whole assembly just in the hopes of bumping into me?”
Hamilton stood up a bit straighter. “Of course,” he replied. “Do you think I like showing a slide show about my life to kids my own age? I know no one here wants to see that. Ugh, it’s humiliating!”
“Huh.” Maybe Hamilton wasn’t quite as socially clueless as Gladys had initially imagined.
“I tried one more time to track you down from France,” Hamilton said, “just by doing a search online for your name. But I couldn’t find any information. In fact, the only person who kept popping up was this writer for the New York Standard named G. Gatsby. Who, by the way, is a big fan of Cape Flats, that South African restaurant we went to together. Have you seen the review?”
“Hamilton,” Gladys said, exasperated. “I wrote that review! I’m G. Gatsby!”
Fudge—she certainly hadn’t meant to let it just slip out like that.
“What?” Hamilton said. “You’re a reporter for the New York Standard?”
“Restaurant critic,” Gladys corrected him. “Just freelance for now, though that could change. Not a lot of people know, though, so if you could, um, not tell anyone . . .”
“Of course,” Hamilton said. “Wow. You know, I read all of G. Gatsby’s—I mean, your—reviews. They were really good. I almost tried to contact them through the paper to see if they were a relative of yours or something.”
Gladys sighed. “Sounds like we just kept missing each other.”
“Well, it’s all worked out in the end,” Hamilton said, chancing a tentative smile. “When I got home from the airport, I finally heard your message. I figured there might still be time to catch you at school. And here we are now, two old friends, together again.”
“Two old friends,” Gladys repeated. She realized that Hamilton was still holding out the box of macarons. She accepted it, taking care not to jostle the delicate cookies or touch Hamilton’s long fingers. Friends, she repeated to herself.
She took a deep breath. “Hamilton, I’m sorry for the way I treated you that day you came to school. I should have stopped and listened instead of jumping to conclusions. I . . . I guess I was just upset, because I assumed you had forgotten all about me.”
Hamilton shook his head. “I couldn’t forget about you, Gladys.”
And just like that, the space between them was closed, and he had swept her up in an enormous hug. Gladys embraced him back, standing on her tiptoes. Over his shoulder, she spotted the girls’ soccer team pouring out of the gym doors and onto the field for their drills; any moment, they’d be surrounded.
“Come on,” she said. “Let me walk you home. Where do you live, by the way?”
“It’s not far,” Hamilton said. “I’ll show you.” And they set off together toward the gap in the chain-link fence that surrounded the field.
Chapter 24
LIKE A SHAKEN-UP SODA
THE SIDE STREET THEY HAD EXITED ONTO was quiet; most of the other kids caught a bus home or got picked up in front of the school.
“So,” Gladys said, “are you back in East Dumpsford for good?”
“For now,” Hamilton replied. “When the sequel is published, I’ll have to head back onto the road—my fans demand it.” He didn’t sound so excited about it, though. “You know, I think you have the right idea, Gladys, publishing somewhat anonymously. You get all the pleasure of practicing your craft without having it completely upend your normal life.”
“You think my life is normal?” Gladys laughed. “My parents have no idea I’ve been writing for the Standard. Try sneaking into the city every time you have a restaurant to visit, and sneaking onto the computer at home every time you need to type something up. Plus, my editor thinks I’m a professional adult writer; she has no idea I’m just a kid.”
“All right,” Hamilton said. “I suppose that sounds a bit more complicated than I imagined. But at least you’re able to go to a regular school. Other than at my assembly and in a few movies, I’ve never even seen one.” He sighed. “I passed a bulletin board on my way into the auditorium that day, and it was filled with notices for the most fascinating-sounding activities. Debate Club. French Club. You know, I picked up a little while I was on tour in France—it would be nice to learn more.”
“You can’t study French as part of your homeschooling?” Gladys asked as they turned a corner.
“Oh, I could,” Hamilton said, “but it would still be nice to have other people my age to practice with.”
Gladys nodded. It would be nice if, one of these days, she could find the time to go to a French Club meeting, too.
“But it’s not just that. I also saw a flyer for the Halloween dance your school is having in a couple of weeks. I’ve never been to a dance,” Hamilton said sadly.
“Hamilton,” Gladys said, “you’ve been on TV. You’ve been to Europe. You really want to go to a middle-school dance?”
Hamilton stopped short and turned to face her. “Are you asking me to the dance, Gladys Gatsby?”
Gladys blushed all over again. That hadn’t been her intention—but Hamilton clearly wanted to go. Was that what she wanted, too?
“Um, sure,” she said. “Do you wanna go with me?”
Hamilton grinned. “I’d love to. I’ll wear my finest suit.”
“Actually, I think you’re supposed to wear a costume,” Gladys said. “Since it’s Halloween and all.”
“Right. Well, I’ll come up with something.”
They resumed their stroll through the neighborhood, walking another half block in silence. Gladys had one more thing that she wanted to ask Hamilton, but she had to work up her courage. Finally, she spoke.
“Hamilton,” she said, “are things any better with your parents now? You know, since you told them how you felt about them not supporting your career?”
Hamilton frowned, thinking for a moment. “I think so,” he said finally. “After all, they did both come to France with me, which I don’t think they would have done if I hadn’t said I wanted them to. So I’m glad I told them how I felt.”
Gladys nodded. She was glad to hear that Hamilton’s discussion with his parents had been successful. It gave her some hope for her own.
“There’s my house,” he said, pointing out a squat white ranch with gingerbread trim. It was more mod
est than Gladys had expected; for some reason she’d imagined Hamilton living in a mansion in The Seabreeze, Charissa’s posh neighborhood. Hamilton seemed to sense Gladys’s surprise. “I know, not necessarily the abode you’d expect for an internationally best-selling author. But my parents insist that I save all my book earnings for college.”
“That sounds smart,” Gladys said.
Hamilton shrugged. “I keep trying to tell them that one dirt bike won’t stop me from being able to pay for Harvard, but so far, they’ve been strict.”
“A dirt bike?” That didn’t fit with Gladys’s image of Hamilton at all. “You know you can’t wear a fedora or a beret under your helmet, right?”
A smile crossed Hamilton’s face. “Yes, I know.”
“Well, if you get them to change their minds, I’ll have to introduce you to my friend Sandy. He’ll definitely want a ride.”
They were standing at the base of Hamilton’s driveway now; he pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. “Just got this in September,” he explained. “You’d better give me your phone number one more time—and your e-mail—so we don’t fall out of touch all over again.”
Gladys gave him her contact information gladly, then pulled out her reviewing notebook and green pen to take his.
“No cell for you?” he asked.
She shook her head. “My parents say not ’til I’m thirteen. I don’t mind, though.” Or she hadn’t, at least, until this moment. Suddenly, she thought she might like to have a way to exchange a few private texts.
“Well,” Hamilton said, “I guess I’ll see you at the dance, if not sooner. Shall I pick you up beforehand?”
“Nah, it’s out of your way,” Gladys said. “We can just meet at the school.”
“Until then,” Hamilton said.
Gladys set off down the street. Thinking about potentially dancing with Hamilton on Halloween kind of made her feel like a shaken-up can of soda—so instead, all the way home, she tried to focus on what he had said about talking with his parents. It had worked for him. Would it work for her, too?