by Tara Dairman
“Um, I don’t actually need anything right now,” she said in a small voice. “I was hoping I could just . . . hang out for a while.”
If Mr. Eng was disappointed in this answer, he didn’t show it. A kind smile crossed his lips and his eyes crinkled happily. “Of course you can, Gladys. I’m always happy to have some company—especially when it’s someone who appreciates fine food as much as you do.”
Gladys couldn’t help but smile back. “Thanks. So, hey, what exciting stuff do you have this week?”
Mr. Eng’s eyes lit up. “Well, I’ve got a new Brie from Jouarre, a village in northern France,” he started, “and a new shipment of baklava from Gaziantep—that’s a city in Turkey known for its pistachios. And oh! I have something in the storeroom fridge that I think you’ll like especially. Why don’t you come on back?”
Gladys had never been invited into the storeroom before, and eagerly followed Mr. Eng’s footsteps. Seeing what kinds of foods were waiting to hit the shelves would be like getting a glimpse of the future.
The storeroom was dimly lit and had shelves full of boxes as well as a large refrigerator. Through the clear glass door, Gladys noticed a display of several plastic cones with what looked like fuzzy green leaves blooming out of them.
“Basil!” she cried.
“Very good,” said Mr. Eng. “This organic farm in California just started sending me samples of their herbs. They grow about ten different varieties of basil alone. Here, try this one.” He opened the fridge door, snapped a leaf off one of the stems, and handed it to Gladys. She took a nibble. It tasted like pesto, like fresh thin-crusted pizza straight out of the oven, like summer.
“That’s the sweet basil,” Mr. Eng explained. “Now here’s the Thai one.” He snapped a leaf out of another cone and handed it to her. This one tasted different—spicier, somehow. Gladys thought of rice noodles, of soupy pink curry full of peanuts and potatoes.
Mr. Eng was about to snap a leaf off of a third variety when the shop door’s bell sounded. “Another customer!” he exclaimed. “See, Gladys, you’ve brought me luck. I’d better go see if they need help, but you’re welcome to stay back here and keep sampling.”
Gladys nodded, eager to survey the rest of the storeroom’s delights. “Oh, hello there,” she heard Mr. Eng say from the shop. “Would you like your usual order today?”
“More than the usual, please.”
Gladys froze, her hand halfway to her mouth with a sprig of something that smelled like rosemary. She knew that voice. The only thing that was odd was how polite it sounded. She’d never heard it utter the word please before.
Gladys crept toward the storeroom door to peek out. Her suspicions were confirmed: Charissa Bentley. She was fidgeting by the checkout counter, and even more strangely, she was alone—no mob of girls in sight.
“Of course,” Mr. Eng was saying. “Now, I have a few different varieties this week: black walnuts from Missouri, butternut walnuts from Canada, and English walnuts, which, interestingly enough, don’t come from England at all but from—”
“Whatever would be best in brownies,” Charissa interrupted.
“Well, black walnuts are excellent for baking,” said Mr. Eng. “Would you like to try a sample?”
Charissa’s expression brightened at this suggestion. “Sure!”
Gladys watched as she followed Mr. Eng over to the nut bins. He scooped her a few nuts, and soon she was munching happily.
“Mmm, yes, these are definitely the best,” she said.
“How much would you like?” Mr. Eng asked.
“Um . . .” Charissa swallowed. “I guess . . . about that much?” Mr. Eng kept a variety of containers stacked above the nut display, and Charissa was pointing to the biggest one.
“My dear,” Mr. Eng began, “if I fill that container, it will weigh at least five pounds.”
“So? It’s what I want.” Charissa was starting to sound more like her normal self now.
“Well, these nuts cost $16.99 a pound. So that would be an $85 order of walnuts.”
Charissa shrugged. “Whatever. I can afford it.”
Gladys couldn’t see Mr. Eng’s face from where she stood, but she imagined his bushy eyebrows sailing well over the rims of his glasses. “Very well, then, miss,” he said. “Let me get that scooped for you.”
Mr. Eng pulled a large container off the shelf and filled it while Charissa wandered around the shop. She spent an extra-long time at the pastry case before looking up when Mr. Eng cleared his throat. The container was about two-thirds full.
“This barrel is empty, so I’ll have to get more from the storeroom,” he said. Charissa shrugged and went back to contemplating the sweets.
Gladys scurried away from the storeroom door just as Mr. Eng came striding in. He whistled a cheery tune under his breath as he reached for a box from one of the higher shelves.
“Mr. Eng,” Gladys said quietly. He jumped as if he’d forgotten she was there. “The baklava, from Turkey—you said it’s full of pistachios, right? I bet she’ll love it.”
Mr. Eng glanced from the heavy box in his arms to Gladys to the storeroom door. “Oh, my customer? Do you know her?”
“Um,” Gladys said, “sort of.”
“But you don’t want to come out and say hello?”
Gladys shook her head no.
“All right, I won’t ask. The baklava, you said?” Mr. Eng shifted his grip on the heavy case of nuts and took a step toward the door. “Okay, I’ll see if she’s interested.”
She was, especially after Mr. Eng sliced her a generous sample. In the end, Charissa bought a pound of the honey-soaked, nut-filled pastries, bringing her total at the checkout counter up to $92. The bell clanged as she staggered out of the store, balancing the baklava atop the bucket of walnuts in her arms. Gladys hoped Charissa’s bike had a bigger basket than her own.
Mr. Eng was smiling and shaking his head when Gladys crept out from the storeroom. “Well, that’ll keep the lights on for another week,” he murmured. Gladys wasn’t sure what he meant, but he certainly seemed happy. “So you know that girl?” he asked.
“Yeah, she goes to my school.”
“She’s been coming in for a few weeks now. Very bossy, but she spends an awful lot of money here, so I can’t complain.” Mr. Eng polished his glasses against his white apron. “Well, Gladys, I don’t know how you knew she would like the baklava, but you were right. How can I thank you?”
And then, all at once, Gladys knew the perfect present to give Charissa.
“No need,” she said quickly, zipping up her coat. “I just got the idea I came in for!”
Chapter 24
ALMOST-PERFECT PANCAKES
TEN MINUTES LATER, GLADYS RANG THE Andersons’ doorbell. Sandy’s mom appeared at the door.
“Oh, hello, Gladys,” she said. She was wearing black yoga pants and had her hair tied back with a bright blue bandanna. “I’m sorry, but Sandy’s still at karate.”
“That’s okay,” Gladys said, breathless from her breakneck bike ride. “I was actually hoping to talk to you.”
“To me?” Mrs. Anderson looked surprised, but pulled the door open wide anyway. “Well, come on in. What’s on your mind?”
Gladys stepped into the house. “I was wondering,” she said, “if maybe you could give me a baking lesson today. My, um, friend”—Gladys nearly choked on this word—“is having a birthday, and I want to make her something special. And since you’re the best baker I know . . . well, I just thought I’d ask.”
Gladys didn’t like pretending that Charissa was her friend, but at least the part about Mrs. Anderson being the best baker she knew was true.
Mrs. Anderson smiled. “How flattering,” she said. “Well, Gladys, I’d love to help out, but I’ve got to be at the studio in less than an hour to teach my class. So that doesn’t really leave
much time for a baking project.”
“Oh,” Gladys said, trying not to show her disappointment. It had been silly to assume that Mrs. Anderson would be able to drop everything to bake with her.
But Mrs. Anderson wasn’t finished. “Hang on,” she said. “There is one dessert I like to make that’s pretty fast, because it doesn’t require baking. Does your friend like nuts?”
“Oh, yes,” Gladys said. “She definitely does!”
“Well, then, let’s give this a try!”
Gleefully, Gladys followed Mrs. Anderson into the kitchen. Mrs. Anderson pulled a battered brown volume called Street (and Dirt Road) Foods of the Malay Peninsula from her cookbookcase and passed it to Gladys.
“The recipe’s on page twenty-seven,” Mrs. Anderson told her. She was already pulling ingredients out of the cupboard—flour, sugar, peanuts. “What do you think?”
Gladys turned to the page and found a picture of what looked like a pancake folded in half over some kind of filling. It might be risky to serve Charissa an exotic foreign dessert—Gladys had been thinking more along the lines of brownies or cupcakes. Then again, Charissa did just buy a pound of baklava. The heading for the recipe said Apam Balik, which small letters underneath translated as Malaysian Peanut Pancake. That might not be so bad.
“Trust me, if she likes nuts, she’ll love this,” Mrs. Anderson said, lifting the book out of Gladys’s hands and propping it open against the toaster. “Now, we start by mixing a simple batter. Have you ever used a whisk?”
“Um . . .” Gladys wasn’t sure how much of her cooking experience she wanted to reveal to Sandy’s mom. “Once or twice,” she said finally.
The next few minutes found Gladys whisking eggs, water, milk, and oil together in a large bowl, then adding flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Every time she caught Mrs. Anderson looking at her, she tried to mess up a little—hold the whisk at the wrong angle, or change direction midwhip so batter slopped over the side of the bowl. “Oops,” she said, hoping that Mrs. Anderson was buying the amateur act. So far, it seemed to be working; twice Mrs. Anderson left her peanuts on the cutting board to come over and help Gladys get her technique right.
When the batter was ready, Mrs. Anderson heated a frying pan on the stovetop and splashed a little oil inside so the pancakes wouldn’t stick.
“Ready?” she said, passing Gladys a ladle.
“Ready!” Gladys answered, and gently ladled a scoop of batter into the pan. It felt great to be cooking again.
“Wow, you really have a knack for this,” Mrs. Anderson gushed. “It took me years to be able to make perfect circles like that.”
Fudge, Gladys thought. She would make the next one less perfect.
Mrs. Anderson continued to talk as the pancake cooked. “This was my favorite snack when I traveled in Malaysia,” she said.
“Wow, you’ve actually been to Malaysia?” Gladys said.
“Oh, yes, I backpacked all around Asia before Sandy was born,” she said. “But I spent the most time in India, studying yoga.”
India! Ever since Gladys had eaten at the Singhs’ house, she’d dreamed of traveling there. She had about a hundred questions to ask, but just then Mrs. Anderson handed her a spatula and said “Okay, I think it’s time to check whether the bottom’s finished cooking.” She winked. “I bet you know what to do.”
The bottom of the pancake was a lovely golden brown, so Mrs. Anderson dropped some bits of butter across the surface and spread a thick layer of peanuts and sugar on top. She instructed Gladys to fold the pancake in half with the spatula and press on it.
“Done!” Mrs. Anderson cried, and Gladys lifted the finished pancake out onto a waiting plate.
While she ladled more batter into the pan (in a much-less-perfectly-round shape this time), Mrs. Anderson sliced up the first pancake. “We’d better do a taste test,” she said. “One of the most important rules about cooking is that you never want to serve something you haven’t tasted yourself.” She popped a strip of pancake into her mouth. “Plus,” she said while chewing, “it’s no fun to make something yummy if you don’t get to eat it, too!”
Gladys tasted the pancake and thought it was delicious—the perfect combination of fluffy and crunchy, sweet and savory. But would Charissa like it?
On the next pancake, Gladys spread the butter and filling herself—“So you can tell your friend you made the whole thing!” said Mrs. Anderson—and wrapped the finished product in foil. Then she helped Mrs. Anderson wash the dishes and return Street (and Dirt Road) Foods to the shelf.
Once the kitchen was clean, they walked out of the house together, Gladys carrying her pancake and Mrs. Anderson shouldering her yoga bag. “Thank you so much,” Gladys said.
“Oh, no problem, Gladys,” Mrs. Anderson said. “It’s fun to have someone to cook with. Sandy’s not that interested, I’m afraid.” She gave Gladys a wave as she jogged off to her car. “Let’s do this again sometime!”
Chapter 25
THE PROOF IS IN THE (CARROT) PUDDING
BY THE TIME THE MORNING BELL RANG the next day, Charissa’s desk was covered with brightly wrapped packages . . . and surrounded by girls eager to see her open their gifts.
“What is all this?” Ms. Quincy demanded as Charissa casually took her seat behind the mountain of presents.
“It’s almost her birthday, Ms. Quincy!” Rolanda cried.
“Almost her birthday?”
Ms. Quincy was not a fan of classroom parties (she thought they took away too much learning time), but she grudgingly allowed small celebrations for students whose birthdays happened to fall on a school day. An almost-birthday, however, was entirely different.
Ms. Quincy disappeared behind her desk, and after a minute of banging and clanging her way through the metal drawers, marched down the aisle to Charissa and thrust a giant black trash bag at the almost-birthday girl.
“You can open those at home,” she said. “Not on class time.” And despite the moans and groans all around, she made Charissa load her gifts into the bag and stick it in the corner.
Gladys watched silently from across the room. So far, things were going even better than she hoped. She had predicted that everyone else would try to press their gifts on Charissa first thing in the morning, so she made sure to stay out of that fray. That way her offering would be more memorable.
At lunchtime, everyone else tried to sit as close to Charissa as possible, but Gladys took her regular seat far down the table, across from Parm. Still, she kept an eye on Charissa all through the meal, and when the last bite of salad disappeared into her mouth, Gladys jumped up. Her time had come.
She reached into the depths of her lunch bag and unearthed her small package, simply wrapped in foil. Then, breathing deeply to steady her nerves, she started up the table, package in hand.
Her target was chatting with her neighbor (Mira Winters today), but Gladys forced herself to butt in. “Charissa, this is for you,” she said. “I thought you might like some dessert.” She placed the package next to Charissa’s lunch bag and slipped back down the table to her own seat.
Parm let out an exasperated sigh. “So now you’re joining the race to be Charissa’s best friend, too?”
What could Gladys say? She couldn’t tell Parm about the Standard assignment—at least not right now in the middle of the cafeteria. But she also didn’t want Parm—the closest person she had to a friend at school—to think badly of her. Gladys thought fast.
“It’s not about Charissa,” she whispered across the table, truthfully enough. “It’s just that I love, um . . . Broadway shows!”
Parm’s expression changed from disappointment to puzzlement. “You do?” she said.
Gladys couldn’t blame Parm for being confused. The year before, the fifth grade had taken a class trip to see a Broadway show full of people singing about how miserable life used to be
in France. Parm and Gladys had spent the entire bus ride back to East Dumpsford laughing about how silly the show was.
“Yeah, it’s kind of a new passion,” Gladys said.
“I had no idea,” said Parm. “Well, maybe you should join Drama Club.”
With all the acting I’ve been doing lately, Gladys thought to herself, maybe I should!
Meanwhile, the glances Gladys kept stealing up the table showed that Charissa was still talking to Mira as if nothing had happened. Had she even looked at the package? Gladys’s spirits sank.
As the seconds ticked by, she found herself growing more and more angry. Parm was right—who did Charissa think she was? How dare she make everyone compete for her attention like this! Gladys ought to march down the table, snatch her dessert back, and tell that girl to stick her stupid limo—
Oh, wait, there was Charissa’s left hand, starting to open the package.
Charissa’s face never turned away from Mira’s as she tore through the foil and lifted a rectangle of pancake into her mouth. She started to chew as she nodded at something Mira was saying . . . then the nodding stopped. But the chewing, Gladys could see, was still happening as Charissa turned her head away from her neighbor and toward the dessert in front of her. Slowly, as if in a trance, Charissa’s hand reached for another piece. Then another.
Then Mira made the terrible mistake of poking Charissa on the shoulder and leaning over to whisper something in her ear.
“Shut UP!” Charissa snapped. “Can’t you see I’m eating?”
Tears sprang into Mira’s eyes; she pushed her chair back and dashed off in the direction of the bathroom. Charissa didn’t notice—her attention was completely consumed by her dessert, and it stayed that way until every last piece of pancake was eaten, and every stray bit of peanut and sugar licked from the foil.