by Tara Dairman
By the time she got to her house, a new idea was knocking around in her head. She hurried straight to the office and picked up the phone to dial the number she had written in her journal only a short while earlier.
“Hamilton?” she said when she got him on the phone. “I have an idea, and I was hoping you might help me.” She took a deep breath. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
Chapter 25
SPILLING THE BEANS
GLADYS WAS SETTING THE TABLE THAT Saturday evening when her mom wandered into the dining room. “Four places?” she asked. “But your aunt’s working in the city tonight. It’ll just be the three of us.”
“Actually,” Gladys said, “I invited a friend over. I hope that’s okay.”
“A friend?” Her mom suddenly perked up. “Well, sure, honey, that sounds great.” As if on cue, the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it!” Gladys’s dad called. A moment later, he appeared in the dining room entryway, his voice lowered to a whisper. “Jen!” he hissed. “It’s that author kid—the one who wrote Zombietown, U.S.A.!”
“Hamilton Herbertson?” Gladys’s mom gasped.
“He told me Gladdy invited him for dinner.”
“I did,” Gladys said. “We became friends at camp, remember?”
Gladys’s dad looked down at his Saturday sweatpants and shook his head. “I wish you’d told me sooner, Gladdy. I would have gotten dressed.”
“Oh, Hamilton doesn’t care about those things,” Gladys said, though as the words came out, she wondered if they were true. Hamilton did have a very strict dress code for himself.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Gladys’s mom said to her dad. “Offer the boy a soda or something!”
“Or you could just invite him in here,” Gladys said. “Dinner’s ready.”
As Gladys’s dad led him into the dining room, Hamilton caught her eye and smiled. He was dressed in his usual black, and carried a bright bouquet of flowers that he presented to Gladys’s mom. Smooth, Gladys thought. They hadn’t planned that detail, but it was a clever move on Hamilton’s part. “How very polite!” Gladys’s mom exclaimed, her eyes shining as she left to put the flowers in some water.
A few minutes later, everyone was seated, and the meal Gladys made was laid out on the table. The dinner was an eclectic one: she’d baked a pizza with three cheeses and bacon (her dad’s favorite from the nowdefunct Pathetti’s); she’d roasted asparagus (her mom’s favorite vegetable) with olive oil and salt; and she’d oven-baked French fries (everyone’s favorite!) with a side of spicy aioli. Her parents happily gobbled up everything she put on their plates, and Hamilton answered as many questions as they could throw at him about his career as a child author and what might be coming next for the characters of their favorite novel.
Finally, when everyone’s stomach was full, it was time for Gladys and Hamilton to put their plan into action.
“You know, Mr. and Mrs. Gatsby,” Hamilton said, “I’m not the only young writer in this room.”
“Oh, yes, we know that,” Gladys’s dad said. “Our Gladdy is very talented. Her sixth-grade teacher read us something she wrote for a contest last year, and it was really very good.”
Gladys’s mom agreed with a smile.
“Well,” Hamilton continued, “I think that people who are good writers deserve to have their work published for others to read. Don’t you think so?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Gladys’s mom said.
Gladys crossed her toes inside her sneakers. Hamilton had done a great job of setting her up, but now it was her turn to talk.
“Mom, Dad,” she said, “what would you say if I told you I had a chance to write about food for a real newspaper?”
“For the school paper?” Gladys’s mom asked. Gladys shook her head.
“What, then—for the Intelligencer?” Gladys’s dad asked, referring to the local paper. “Are they starting up a student opinions column or something?”
“That sounds like a great idea,” her mom said.
“It’s not for the Intelligencer,” Gladys said. The moment of truth had finally arrived. “It’s for the New York Standard.”
“The Standard?” Gladys’s dad took off his glasses. “How on earth would that have come about?”
“It’s a long story,” Gladys said.
“I don’t doubt it.” Gladys’s father rubbed his eyes, then put his glasses back on. “You know how we feel about that newspaper here in East Dumpsford, Gladdy. They weren’t very nice the last time they wrote about our town.”
“I know,” Gladys said. “But do you think you might be willing to give them another chance? Especially if they were the publisher of your own daughter’s restaurant reviews?”
“Restaurant reviews? Gladys, what are you talking about?” Her mom glanced confusedly at Hamilton. “Do you have some sort of connection there, Hamilton?”
“No, Mom,” Gladys said. “He had nothing to do with it. Hang on.”
She left the table and crossed into the living room, her legs quaking beneath her with each step. Her parents were going to have to see the evidence. She reached under the couch for the papers she had stashed there two months earlier, still open to the Dining section.
When she handed them to her parents, they still had baffled expressions on their faces.
“Just look,” Gladys said, and miraculously, without asking any more questions, they did.
She had just enough time to exchange a worried glance with Hamilton before her dad lowered his paper to the table.
“These are all those hot dog places we visited together over the summer,” he said. “G. Gatsby—is that you?”
“Well, it’s certainly not you, George,” Gladys’s mom said, lowering her own paper. She stared at her daughter, then turned to Hamilton. “Hamilton,” she said, “would you mind excusing us for a moment?”
“Of course not.” Hamilton quickly pushed his chair back, and Gladys’s heart sank. She had hoped that having him around would keep things from getting too ugly. But she supposed it was fair for her parents to want to talk to her alone.
Gladys’s mom waited until he’d left the room before she spoke again. “You had an article published in the New York Standard?” she asked quietly. She looked back at the top of the newspaper page in her hand. “In August? Gladys, why didn’t you tell us?”
“I was going to,” Gladys said. “I was all set to tell you the day the review came out. But that was the day Aunt Lydia got here, and things got complicated.” She looked down at her plate. “But that’s not the whole truth. I’ve had other reviews published before that one, and after, too.”
“How many?” her dad asked.
“Six,” Gladys admitted. “The first one was of Classy Cakes, the restaurant I visited with Charissa on her birthday, back in April.”
“April!” Gladys’s mom cried. “So this has been going on for more than six months?”
“It’s been a while,” Gladys admitted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep it a secret for so long. I was just worried about how you would react. You were so angry last year when you found out I’d been cooking behind your backs . . .”
“We were angry because you set the kitchen on fire,” Gladys’s mom corrected her. “And because you seemed . . . well . . . overly obsessed with cooking. We wanted to make sure you weren’t missing out on your childhood. This, though”—she glanced back down at the newspaper—“well, this situation seems a bit different.” She leaned forward. “Can you tell us more about it? How did you get this job? What other restaurants have you reviewed?”
And so Gladys spilled the beans. She explained about the mix-up that happened when she entered the New York Standard student essay contest. And about accepting the Classy Cakes assignment, and getting to eat there thanks to Charissa’s birthday reservation. And how that had inspired her to req
uest her own birthday outing to Fusión Tapas (review #2), how she had written all about the hot dogs they’d eaten together that summer (review #3), and how she’d been visiting Latin American restaurants with Aunt Lydia and publishing write-ups of them after (reviews #4, #5, and #6).
“So Lydia knew about all of this?” Gladys’s mom asked.
Gladys winced—she knew this would be a sore point with her parents. It was part of the reason she hadn’t wanted Aunt Lydia to be home when she told them.
“Yes,” she said, “and so did Mr. Eng. They’re both foodies, so I felt like I could trust them . . .”
“But you couldn’t trust us,” Gladys’s dad said.
“I’m trusting you now,” Gladys said in a shaky voice. “I know I should have told you sooner, but I hope that my coming clean with you now counts for something.” She took a deep breath to get her voice back under control. “I’ve always been responsible about my reviews. I’ve always had someone else with me. I’ve never snuck off into the city by myself. And I didn’t lie to my editor at first about my age; I just . . . didn’t correct her when she assumed I was older than I am. But I don’t want to keep secrets anymore.” She looked up at both of her parents with pleading eyes. “I really liked it when we spent time together this summer looking for fun hot dogs. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could keep doing that kind of thing? As a family?”
Her question hung in the air like ripe fruit on a drooping branch.
Gladys’s parents were doing the thing where they communicated silently with each other through raised eyebrows and lip twitches. Finally, her father spoke.
“I’m afraid this kind of deception just can’t be tolerated, Gladdy.” His expression was grim. “It seems that our last punishment didn’t do the trick. This time, we’ll have to restrict you to your room.”
“What?” Gladys’s voice sounded so small, she hardly recognized it.
“Yes,” her mom said. “And once again, there will be nothing for you to eat but Sticky Burger, Palace of Wong, Fred’s Fried Fowl, and our own miserable cooking.”
Wait—had her mom just cracked a smile?
“And,” her dad continued, “whenever your mom and I cook, we’ll torture you by making you listen to all our mistakes without ever being allowed to come down and help, and— Jen, you’re ruining it!”
Gladys’s mom was laughing now. “I’m sorry!” she gasped. “I tried to keep a straight face, I really did!” Now Gladys’s dad was chuckling, too.
“What’s going on?” Gladys asked. Suddenly, she was the only stone-faced one in the room.
“Oh, Gladdy,” her dad said, “we’re just messing with you. Look at this!” He shook his copy of the paper. “Multiple articles in the New York Standard, and all written while you were also going to school or camp! How could we punish you for that?”
“We’re proud,” her mom said. “So proud.” Her eyes were teary now—probably from all the laughter, but maybe not.
“Really?” Gladys could hardly let herself believe what she was hearing.
“Really.” Her mom launched out of her seat to smother Gladys in a hug. Her dad swooped in as well, and Gladys felt like a mini hot dog, all wrapped up in a puff pastry of love. Suddenly her eyes were full of tears, too.
She had told the truth, and everything was okay.
Well, almost everything.
“I still need to talk to my editor,” Gladys said when her parents released her. “I want to come clean with her, too.” She turned to her dad. “Do you think you could take me back to the New York Standard building on a weekday?”
“Don’t you have school?” her dad asked.
“Well, yeah,” Gladys said, “but if we went on Halloween, I wouldn’t miss much. Half my classes are just having parties that day, anyway. So as long as I could get home in time for the dance that night . . .” She blushed then, thinking about Hamilton sitting quietly in the next room.
“I think it’s okay, George,” Gladys’s mom said. “One day off from school won’t kill her.”
“All right,” her dad said. “You set it up, and I’ll get you to the Standard building.”
The plan was fixed. Gladys called Hamilton back into the dining room, then retrieved dessert: the box of macarons he had given her the day before. Gladys’s mom went straight for the pink one, which turned out to be cherry, while her dad selected a pale green pistachio cookie. There were no black cookies for Hamilton, so he picked a deep purple one, while Gladys plucked out one that was orange in both hue and flavor.
She grinned at Hamilton, and he shot her back a purple-tinged smile. Like making macarons, tonight’s operation had required delicacy and precision—but together, they had pulled it off with flying colors.
• • •
Gladys met Aunt Lydia on the porch when she got home that night. She had saved her aunt several macarons—the boldest colors—and waited to hear all about that day’s sheep-and-goat-cheese convention before filling her in on what happened over dinner.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what I was planning,” Gladys said, “but I knew it was something I had to do on my own. And Mom and Dad didn’t freak out—they’re actually being supportive. Can you believe it?”
Aunt Lydia took a thoughtful bite of a bright yellow macaron, chewed, and swallowed. “What I can believe,” she said finally, “is that you figured out how to deal with this situation all on your own. I’m very impressed, my Gladiola—as usual. But if you tell your editor the truth, she’ll likely take back that full-time job offer.”
Be honest, Gladys reminded herself. “I’ve thought about it a lot, and I’ve decided I’m not ready to go full-time. I’m sorry, Aunt Lydia. I know you were excited about the idea of us working together.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Aunt Lydia said quickly. “Thanks to my work for Mr. Eng, I have more experience now—even if he lets me go, I bet I can find some other kind of job in the food industry. But, Gladys,” she continued, placing a hand on her niece’s arm, “doesn’t this mean you’ll have to stop reviewing? You heard Fiona—she won’t have a budget left for freelancers in the new year.”
“She did say that,” Gladys said, “and I understand that’s a risk I’ll have to take. But I do have one more idea to pitch to her . . . well, if she doesn’t have security drag me from the building when she finds out how old I really am.”
Aunt Lydia smiled. “Drag you out? Never. If she has any sense at all, she’ll find a way to keep you on board. And if she doesn’t . . . well, more time for us to cook and practice French together at home! Win-win, n’est-ce pas?”
Gladys nodded. She had worried about what Aunt Lydia’s reaction would be, but her aunt had pleasantly surprised her almost as much as her parents had. “Thanks, Aunt Lydia,” she said. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
“And without you, my dear, I would probably still be on that couch in that awful T-shirt.” Aunt Lydia laughed. “Like I’ve said before, we make a good team.”
Her aunt slipped an arm around Gladys’s shoulder and pulled her close, and Gladys hugged her right back. Her whole family was in her corner now; she was ready to take the next step.
Chapter 26
SOMETHING SPECIAL, OFF MENU
FIONA INGLETHORPE STOOD, ONCE AGAIN, in the lobby of the New York Standard building, waiting for Gladys Gatsby. She had made another reservation in the Standard’s executive dining room, though this time it was only for two people. She supposed that Gladys’s daughter was at school today, dressed up in a costume and munching on cheap candy like all the other children. Fiona shuddered. She enjoyed an occasional square of sea-salt-dusted dark chocolate, or a nice artisan truffle, but supersweet American confections generally left her cold.
“Ms. Inglethorpe?”
Fiona spun around, then had to look down to address the speaker. “Coraline?” It seemed that the girl
was not off gobbling candy at school after all. “Your—your mother didn’t tell me you were coming today.” Fiona looked around. “Where is your mother, by the way?”
“My mother’s not here,” the girl said. “My dad came with me, but he has a business meeting, so he’ll pick me up in an hour.” She turned and waved through the building’s glass doors, and a man with glasses and a beaky nose waved back before taking off down the street.
“Wait!” Fiona cried—but it was too late, the man was gone. She turned to the girl, trying to stay calm. “I don’t know what’s going on here, dear, but I’m a busy woman and I really don’t have time to babysit.”
“You don’t have to babysit anyone,” the girl said, “and I’ll explain everything over lunch, I promise.”
“I’m sorry, Coraline,” Fiona replied, “but unless I can speak to Gladys, I really don’t think—”
“But that’s the thing,” the girl said, lowering her voice. “My name’s not Coraline. I’m Gladys Gatsby.”
With a claim like that hanging in the air between them, Fiona had no choice but to usher the girl upstairs.
• • •
The elevator ride up to the forty-ninth floor had to be the longest one of Gladys’s life. Fiona stared at her with a mixture of confusion, anger, and disappointment on her face, but didn’t say a word—probably because there were several other people in the small space with them.
Gladys took advantage of the painful silence to review her proposal for Fiona once more. She had spent a lot of time in the Rabbit Room the previous weekend hammering out the details with Sandy (who had finally wrapped his head around the fact that Gladys had told her parents the truth and the world hadn’t ended). They had both agreed that breaking the news to Fiona, though—and proposing a plan by which Gladys could still keep her job with the New York Standard—would be trickier.