All Four Stars

by Tara Dairman

  “Well, I’m glad you remembered,” Mrs. Anderson said. “I’ll have to make a note of that on my recipe for next time.” She pulled a slim book out of the cookbookcase, which caused all of the other ones on that shelf to shift. The last book in the row—an enormous, dark blue volume—tumbled to the floor with a thud.

  “The Larousse Gastronomique!” Gladys could barely suppress a squeal. It was the original French cookbook, with over a thousand pages of classic recipes. Gladys had paged through it at the library, but could never convince her parents to buy the expensive book, not even for her birthday and Christmas combined.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Anderson said, kneeling to pick up the hefty tome. “It was my grandmother’s, the original English translation. I probably don’t take care of it like I should.”

  Gladys shook her head. “Cookbooks are meant to be used. I don’t think they should be kept on a shelf looking pretty.”

  Mrs. Anderson bit her lip thoughtfully. “That’s very wise. Sandy, I think your new friend has a lot more cooking experience than she’s letting on!”

  Gladys looked over at Sandy, who shrugged noncommittally and swallowed his last bite of brownie. “Mom, can we take a carrot in for the Hoppers?”

  “Sure, honey.” Mrs. Anderson turned back to Gladys. “Would you like to take a closer look at the Larousse?”

  A warm, happy feeling coursed through Gladys, like the kind you get from a sip of hot cider on the first cold day of fall. “I’d love to,” she said.

  And so, a minute later, Gladys was following Sandy back down the hall, staggering under the weight of the huge cookbook. They spent the rest of the afternoon playing with the Hoppers and flipping through the cookbook’s pages. Sandy showed Gladys his trick of getting Edward Hopper to “walk” on his hind legs by dangling a carrot over the rabbit’s nose, and Gladys, with the help of the Larousse, showed Sandy seventeen different ways to cook that carrot, if he was ever so inclined.

  Chapter 8

  AN UNFORTUNATE MESS

  “GLADYS,” MS. QUINCY SAID QUIETLY. It was silent reading time, and the teacher was patrolling the aisles as usual. Gladys had been absorbed in her book about a radiant, humble pig and hadn’t noticed Ms. Quincy sneaking up behind her. “I’d like to speak with you after class.”

  Gladys swallowed. Her mouth felt like she’d just eaten a boxful of crackers and was all out of milk. Unable to speak, she nodded.

  “Very good,” Ms. Quincy whispered, and she moved on down the aisle without another word.

  Ms. Quincy had been their teacher for three weeks now, and so far Gladys thought she was a huge improvement over Mrs. Wellchurch. She’d even set up a suggestion box on her desk, where students could submit their own ideas for activities or lessons. Gladys hadn’t seen anyone use it yet, but she liked that her teacher was open to their opinions.

  But why did Ms. Quincy want to see her after class? She didn’t think she could be in trouble, but still, she could hardly concentrate on her book for the last ten minutes of the school day.

  When the bell finally rang, the kids around her leapt out of their seats and noisily started gathering their things. Gladys packed her lobster backpack carefully, dragging the process out pencil by pencil until the classroom was empty.

  “Gladys, grab a chair and have a seat,” Ms. Quincy said, pointing to the spot next to her own chair behind the desk. “I have your essay, ‘My Future as a Veterinarian,’ here.”

  Gladys had gotten the idea while she was playing with the Hoppers at Sandy’s house, and had handed her essay in that Monday with the rest of the class. But Ms. Quincy said that they wouldn’t get them back until the following week, and it was only Wednesday now. Gladys’s breath caught in her throat as her teacher turned over the piece of paper on her desk. It was covered with red ink.

  Ms. Quincy seemed to read her mind. “Now, don’t be put off by all the red marks,” she said. “Your writing has a lot of potential. With a little help, I think that you could have an excellent chance of winning the New York Standard contest.”

  “Oh,” Gladys said, taken aback. She was having trouble reconciling what she saw on the marked-up page with the words that were coming out of her teacher’s mouth.

  Ms. Quincy removed her glasses and picked up the paper. “This is actually a very good essay, Gladys. It has strong descriptions and some truly lovely metaphors. There’s really only one problem.” She laid the paper back down on the desk and turned to look Gladys in the eye. “I don’t believe a word of it.”

  Gladys’s heart plummeted like a too-dense matzo ball in a pot of soup.

  “What’s missing here,” Ms. Quincy continued matter-of-factly, “is passion. Tell me, Gladys—do you really want to be a veterinarian when you grow up?”

  “I love animals,” Gladys said in a small voice.

  Ms. Quincy leaned in closer. “And there’s nothing else you love more?”

  Gladys didn’t respond, and the teacher sat up straighter. “I’ll be returning the rest of the class’s essays next week,” she said, “but I’d like to give you a chance to rewrite yours if you want. Whatever you decide, you can hand in your final essay on Friday.” She passed Gladys the marked-up paper.

  “And I have something else for you,” the teacher added. She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a sealed envelope. “It’s something that I wrote. Have you ever heard of a cover letter before?”

  Gladys shook her head no.

  “I thought you might not have,” Ms. Quincy said. “It’s a special kind of letter that adults write when they’re applying for a new job. I think it might help you understand what I mean about passion.” She handed Gladys the envelope. “Now, I don’t think I need to remind you that this is a private letter that is not meant to be passed around to other students.” Ms. Quincy raised one eyebrow, and Gladys shook her head vigorously.

  “Very well, you may go now,” Ms. Quincy said, placing her glasses back across her nose. Then she smiled and her eyes lit up behind the lenses. “And good luck!”

  On the way home, Gladys pedaled her bike furiously. Her mind was racing, too. Ms. Quincy seemed to see right through her, and Gladys didn’t know whether to be mad about that or glad. Of course she wanted to write the best essay she could to win that five hundred dollars . . . but at the same time, the thought of her parents—and everyone at school—reading that her true passion was food made her feel so nauseous that she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to eat again.

  And what’s the deal with this secret letter? Gladys thought as she skidded around the corner. Would reading it really be able to help her figure things out?

  She had the envelope in her hand the moment she’d parked her bike in the garage, but for some reason she was too nervous to open it. Not knowing what else to do, she crossed the lawn and rang Sandy’s doorbell.

  Over the last few weeks, Gladys had been going over to Sandy’s almost every day after school. Not only was it much more fun than hanging out alone, but it made her parents happy, too. Ever since they’d found out that she had a new friend—and that it was a boy, who was surely not interested in cooking—they’d barely been able to contain their enthusiasm.

  “Whatsh up?” Sandy asked, stepping out onto the front porch with a full mouth. “Wanna cookie?”

  Gladys was tempted, but her stomach was doing too many flip-flops for food. “I have this letter from my teacher—” she started.

  “Ooh, are you in trouble?” Sandy asked.

  “No!” Gladys said. “It’s supposed to help me with this essay I have to write, somehow. But she said it’s private . . . I’m not supposed to show it to anyone else.”

  “Aw, man.”

  “Well, anyone else in my class, actually . . .” Gladys continued. “I mean, I think it would be okay if I showed it to you. You don’t even go to my school.”

  “Let’s see!” Sandy said, grabbin
g the envelope out of Gladys’s hand. In one swift movement, he tore it open.

  “Hey!” Gladys cried (but secretly, she was glad he’d opened it).

  Sandy handed Gladys a single sheet of cream-colored stationery. As she unfolded it, Sandy leaned in to read over her shoulder. The letter said:

  Violetta Quincy

  violetta.quincy@worldmail.com

  Rafael Brinkley

  Principal

  East Dumpsford Elementary School

  328 Landfill View Road

  East Dumpsford, NY 11573

  Dear Mr. Brinkley:

  I am writing you to apply for the position of sixth-grade teacher, which I saw advertised online. I am sure you will agree that I am well-qualified for the job.

  “Pretty boring so far,” said Sandy.

  “Shhh!” said Gladys.

  As the daughter of aid workers, I grew up in the small African nation of Togo and was educated by my parents in a one-room schoolhouse through the age of twelve.

  “Wow!” said Sandy.

  “I knew it would get better,” Gladys said.

  I was then sent to an elite boarding school in Switzerland as a teenager. At sixteen, I chose to attend the University of Hong Kong to work on my Cantonese, and finally I completed a graduate program in teaching at City College in New York.

  I have had a passion for education since the earliest days of my own childhood. As a young girl, I did chores for my Togolese friends so that they could have more time to study in the schoolhouse. In my teenage years, I volunteered to tutor local Swiss children who could not afford to attend my academy. I believe strongly in every child’s right to learn as much as he or she possibly can and have always been willing to do everything within my power to help them.

  As you know, Mr. Brinkley, East Dumpsford’s schools have a reputation for being among the weakest in the county. To remedy this situation, I plan to continue doing what I have always done, which is to grant my students the personal attention they deserve. In this manner I am quite sure that I can help bring East Dumpsford Elementary up to scratch, eventually turning it into one of the finest schools in the area.

  I look forward to hearing back from you about this opportunity.

  Sincerely,

  Violetta Quincy

  “That explains why she didn’t want you to show it to anyone else, at least,” Sandy said. “She must not want the other kids to know what she really thinks about your school.”

  “I guess so,” Gladys agreed.

  “Well,” Sandy said, “your school might suck, but it sounds like you’ve got a pretty cool teacher! She lived in Africa and China and stuff!”

  Gladys had to agree—and now she was thinking about all of the yummy international recipes Ms. Quincy might know from her travels.

  “So how is this supposed to help with your essay?” Sandy asked, taking another bite of cookie.

  Gladys sighed. “It’s supposed to inspire me, I think. She said that my essay doesn’t have any passion—she doesn’t believe I really want to be a vet.”

  Sandy let out a hoot of laughter, spraying cookie crumbs all over the porch. “A vet? I thought you wanted to be a food writer. You’d be so good at it—that journal entry you read me about the pork chops was hilarious!”

  Gladys jammed her hands deep into her coat pockets. It was a nice thing to say, but she wished that Sandy hadn’t mentioned her journal. She’d never considered showing an entry to anyone before she met him . . . but when her parents actually followed through on their promise to start cooking more, she’d needed to share the horrifying results with someone. She’d written this entry a few days earlier:

  The pork chop, though burnt around the edges, still oozed blood from its center. The peas, which had been microwaved past the point of bursting, arrived at the table in a soggy, mushy state fit for a baby. And someone obviously forgot to add the instant potato flakes to the mashed potatoes, which led to an unfortunate mess of melted margarine, hot milk, and salt being ladled onto my plate by the absentminded server, who was talking on her cell phone at the time.

  Not wanting to be too mean, though, she’d added,

  The ice cream that Dad the chef brought home from the store selected for dessert was pretty good.

  (saved by the ice cream)

  The day after that meal, Gladys had brought her journal over to Sandy’s house. Once he heard that review, he insisted on reading more. She’d been happy that he liked her writing, but now she wasn’t so sure that sharing had been a good idea. Having him remind her of her real career goal—the one she couldn’t write about in her essay—was the last thing she needed right now. What she needed was to prove to Ms. Quincy, and her parents, and the New York Standard that she really, really wanted to become a vet.

  Sandy didn’t seem to get that, though. “Have you written any new reviews?” he asked excitedly. “What did your mom pack you for lunch today?”

  “Can’t we talk about anything other than food?” Gladys snapped. The words came out harsher than she’d meant them to, but she just needed Sandy to stop going on about her reviews. Her outburst seemed to have worked—Sandy’s mouth was hanging open now, but no more sounds were coming out.

  His blue eyes were watering, though, like he’d just sniffed a jarful of hot peppers.

  Fudge, Gladys thought. Food was getting her into nothing but trouble these days. Maybe she really should become a vet!

  Feeling her cheeks grow warm, Gladys shuffled backward toward the edge of the porch. She knew that she should apologize, but when she opened her mouth again, all that came out was, “I’ve got to start my homework.” Then, turning away, she jumped down the steps and took off across the lawn.

  Chapter 9

  MEATBRAIN

  A COLD GUST OF WIND WHIPPED ACROSS the yard as Gladys jogged back to her house. Sandy just doesn’t understand how much is riding on this contest, she thought. His mom might shoo him away from the computer sometimes, but she had never all-out banned him from his favorite activity. Gladys’s parents would never let her back in the kitchen unless they believed that she had other interests in life, too.

  At home, Gladys wandered around the kitchen, poking through the cupboards in search of a snack. But all she found was the old box of energy bars from her first day back at school. There was a faded picture of a mountain biker on the box, which seemed fitting to Gladys, since the bars tasted like gravel.

  Wishing now that she had taken a cookie from next door, Gladys climbed the stairs to her parents’ home office. She turned on the computer and settled into the enormous swivel chair. Maybe she could change the format of her essay and write it like a cover letter applying for a veterinary job. That probably wasn’t what Ms. Quincy was expecting, but it might impress her a little anyway.

  The monitor came to life, and the log-in page for DumpMail popped up automatically. DumpMail was the local e-mail service that everyone in town used, including Gladys’s parents. Gladys knew that most of the kids at school had DumpMail accounts because she sometimes heard them talking about the Instant DumpMessages they sent to one another.

  Gladys didn’t have an account, but this had never seemed like a big deal to her, since she didn’t have friends to e-mail with anyway. She would have liked to e-mail with Aunt Lydia, but her aunt didn’t believe in the Internet. She said it disturbed the vibrations of the universe, or something, so they stuck to letters and phone calls.

  But looking at the heading on Ms. Quincy’s letter, Gladys saw that real professionals had e-mail addresses. And if she wanted her letter/essay to show that she was serious about becoming a vet, she’d better have one, too.

  With a click on the Sign up now! link and a few quick keystrokes, the task was done. Gladys made sure to choose a professional-looking e-mail address (ggatsby@dumpmail.com), rather than a silly one like her dad’s (kookycpa@dumpmail.com) or her mom’s (iluvtosellhouses
4u@dumpmail.com).

  Next, Gladys had to will herself not to open a new window and surf directly to the New York Standard website. It was Wednesday, the day that new reviews and recipes came out in the Dining section, and she liked to look at them online when she couldn’t get a paper copy at Mr. Eng’s. But instead she opened a new document and typed her name and new e-mail address in the upper right-hand corner. Then, looking between the screen, Ms. Quincy’s neatly typed letter, and her own marked-up paper, she began to rewrite “My Future as a Veterinarian.”

  She was a couple of paragraphs in when the will to keep going failed her. Ms. Quincy was right—the essay was boring. Passionless. But how could she fix it? She stared at the screen, but no great ideas came to her. She was considering picking a new fake future profession—pro cyclist?—when the doorbell rang.

  Grateful for an excuse to take a break, Gladys leapt out of the swivel chair and bounded down the stairs. But her excitement faded when she looked out the peephole and saw Sandy and his mom standing on the porch.

  She knew that she’d been rude to Sandy earlier. Had they come over to force her to apologize? Sheepishly, Gladys opened the door.

  “Hello, Gladys!” Mrs. Anderson said. She didn’t seem like she was angry. Her hands were tying an orange bandanna over her curly hair. “I just got called in as an emergency sub at the yoga studio, so I gave your mom a ring at her office. She said it would be fine to drop Sandy off here.”

  Sandy didn’t look particularly thrilled. “I tried to tell her that I’m old enough to stay home alone,” he said.

  “Not ’til you’re eleven,” Mrs. Anderson insisted, adjusting the yoga mat that was strapped across her back. “Besides, I didn’t have time to make you dinner, and Gladys’s mom was nice enough to invite you to eat with them. Isn’t that great? She said they were going to make a meatloaf.”

  Gladys felt the blood drain from her face. “Great” was not the word she’d use to describe this situation. She’d been avoiding inviting Sandy to her house precisely to save him from her parents’ cooking.