by Tara Dairman
Gladys let out an enormous sigh of relief. She’d been lucky—this time.
• • •
Gladys was nervous to present the crumble to Charissa the next day. Maybe she should have gone with a less unusual flavor, like cherry or apple. Charissa had a sophisticated palate, but was bluebarb asking her to stretch her taste buds too far?
As Charissa chewed her first bite, her face went through many expressions. She puckered up at the tang of the rhubarb, but then smiled at the sweetness of the berries; her eyes lit up at a hint of cinnamon, then closed dreamily as the nutty topping crunched between her teeth.
Gladys couldn’t help herself. “Do you like it?” she burst out after what felt like an hour of silence. Charissa’s head turned slowly just as Gladys remembered what happened to the last girl who interrupted Charissa’s dessert.
But Charissa had no harsh words for Gladys—she had no words at all. Instead, she threw her arms around her and squeezed for a long minute.
“Thank you,” Charissa finally whispered in Gladys’s ear, and Gladys realized that was probably the first time she had ever heard Charissa thank anyone for anything.
“Um, no problem,” Gladys murmured. “I’m really glad you like it.”
She was glad, and not just because it increased her chances of getting to New York City and Classy Cakes. In fact, “the plan” had totally slipped Gladys’s mind for the moment, and she simply basked in the feeling of having her cooking appreciated by another person. When she had cooked all those other meals in the past, Gladys only had herself to feed and give feedback on how a recipe turned out. But Charissa not only devoured Gladys’s cooking, she even seemed interested in learning how it was made.
“So what’s it called?” Charissa started.
“Bluebarb crumble.”
“Bluebarb?”
“It’s short for blueberry-rhubarb.”
“What’s rhubarb?”
“Well,” Gladys began, “it looks kind of like celery, but you can’t eat it raw. It tastes sour, and it grows like a weed . . .”
Their discussion lasted for the rest of the lunch period. When the bell rang, Charissa said, almost meekly, “Gladys? Um, do you think that instead of something new, I could have some more of this bluebarb stuff tomorrow?”
“Of course!” Gladys cried, thinking about all the leftover crumble in the garage. She wouldn’t mind having a night off from the stresses of secret dessert-making.
• • •
At recess the next day, her belly full of another serving of bluebarb crumble, Charissa climbed back up onto her mound of pebbles and turned to address the crowd.
Gladys stood near the back of the group next to Parm, who insisted she was “just along to watch the circus.” As she waited for the announcement, Gladys caught snatches of whispered conversations around her.
“Who d’you think it’ll be?” one voice said.
“I dunno,” said a second, “but have you noticed that Charissa’s been, like, less horrible this week than usual?”
“Yeah!” a third voice hissed. “I mean, I wouldn’t say she’s been nice or anything, but she hasn’t made fun of anyone . . .”
“Yeah, or told anyone to shut up . . .”
“. . . in almost three days! I wonder what’s gotten into her?”
Crumble, Gladys thought happily. And halwa, and pancakes . . .
Charissa cleared her throat, and all the whispering died. “I’ve made my decision,” she said simply, and her eyes scanned the crowd until they found the person they were looking for. “Gladys, you’re in.”
Charissa jumped off the mound, and the crowd parted before her, fallen faces and tear-filled eyes watching as she made a beeline for Gladys.
“The limo will pick you up tomorrow at six,” Charissa said, crisp and businesslike. “Wear purple.”
Gladys’s voice didn’t seem to be working, so she simply nodded. But this must have been an acceptable response because Charissa said, “Good.” Then, after flashing Gladys a grin so brief that Gladys later thought she might have imagined it, Charissa took off across the playground, alone.
The eyes of most of the sixth-grade girls (and quite a few boys who had also turned up for the big announcement) were now on Gladys Gatsby, a person most of them forgot existed most of the time. And suddenly those eyes were looking a lot less teary and a lot more . . . thirsty. Not thirsty for a milk shake, or a juice box. Thirsty for blood.
“Come on,” Parm whispered, grabbing Gladys’s arm and dragging her away from the crowd. “This mob looks like it might attack.”
Feeling triumphant and embarrassed, thrilled and confused all at the same time, Gladys let Parm pull her away to the relative safety of the space beneath the monkey bars.
Chapter 27
PLAN A IS TOAST
GLADYS WAS WAITING BY THE WINDOW when the limo pulled up to her house the next day at precisely six p.m. She had seen limos on TV and in movies and was expecting it to be black or white, but to her surprise it was eggplant purple with green trim, as if Barney the Dinosaur had swallowed a stretched-out Cadillac.
“They’re here!” Gladys called. She knew her parents wanted to thank the Bentleys for including Gladys in the birthday outing.
Gladys’s mom had been visibly shocked when Gladys told them that she was invited to a Broadway show for Charissa Bentley’s birthday, simply because Gladys hardly ever got invited to anyone’s birthday party. Gladys’s dad, on the other hand, was more shocked that anyone would spend that much money on a party for a twelve-year-old.
“Oh, hush, George,” Gladys’s mom said. “I just think it’s wonderful that Gladys is making new friends!”
“New friends who are apparently millionaires,” her husband grumbled. “Gladdy, you’d better not expect a party like that for your twelfth.”
“Don’t worry, Dad,” Gladys said. “Like I’ve said, all I want for my birthday is permission to bake my own birthday cake.” Gladys’s birthday wasn’t until June—after her kitchen ban was set to expire—but she figured that it couldn’t hurt to start lobbying for this privilege early.
While Gladys was putting on her peacoat, the limousine sounded its horn, which played “Happy Birthday to You” loudly for the whole neighborhood to hear. Gladys grabbed her purse (which held her all-important journal and pencil) and Charissa’s present. Then the whole family trooped out to the front lawn just as the Bentleys emerged from the limo door.
Mr. Bentley came out first. A portly man with a bald head, he was dressed in a dark suit and overcoat and a bright purple tie that matched the limousine.
Mrs. Bentley emerged next, in a full-length velvet ball gown and matching wrap in a rich shade of plum. She was a tall woman with glossy auburn hair swept into an elegant updo.
Charissa came out last. She wore a poufy purple dress, her soft purple coat, and sparkling purple Mary Janes, and her regular high ponytail was done in bouncy ringlet curls. Her lips shimmered with gloss, and pale purple shadow colored her eyelids.
Mr. Bentley shook hands with Gladys’s dad. “Mr. Gatsby,” he said gruffly.
“Mr. Bentley,” Gladys’s dad replied. “Er, nice ride.”
“This ridiculous thing? Ha!” Mr. Bentley jerked his thumb back toward the limo. “Do you have any idea how much it costs to rent per hour?”
“Why, the question never crossed my mind,” Gladys’s dad said.
Gladys’s mom was talking to Mrs. Bentley. “Thank you so much for inviting Gladys tonight. I know that she’s so excited to be included!”
Mrs. Bentley shrugged one velvet-wrapped shoulder. “I was surprised that Charissa didn’t pick one of her other friends. But I guess she wanted your daughter to come, and whatever Charissa wants, Charissa gets!”
And Gladys was talking to Charissa. “Happy birthday,” she said, handing Charissa a wrapped package. In
side was a sequined purple purse that Gladys’s mother had picked out that morning at the department store where she’d also bought Gladys her own purple dress for the outing. As much as Gladys didn’t like Charissa telling her what to wear, in this case she figured it was a small price to pay for a ride to New York City. And at least the dress wasn’t terribly poufy.
Charissa tore into the present immediately. “Cool,” she said when she pulled out the purse. “It matches my shoes.” Then she tossed her curly ponytail and looked at Gladys expectantly.
Gladys wasn’t sure what else to say or do. She hadn’t really prepared for the part of the night when she’d have to talk to Charissa and her family. Instead, she’d spent every spare moment that day with Sandy, formulating her plan for getting to Classy Cakes once she made it to New York City.
The plan was this: Shortly after the Broadway show started, Gladys would tell the Bentleys that she needed to use the bathroom; then she would slip outside and run to Classy Cakes (which, luckily, was only three blocks from the theater). There would be no time to sit down and eat, so instead Gladys would head straight to the takeout counter and order one of everything on the menu. While her order was being filled, she would observe everything about the restaurant’s décor and service that she possibly could. Then, once she had her desserts in a bag, she would ask to use the restaurant’s bathroom. Hidden in a stall, she would take one bite of every dessert and write down her impressions as best she could. Finally, she would dispose of the evidence in a trash can and run back to the theater just in time for the play’s intermission, when she would find the Bentleys and tell them that she felt so much better now, thank you.
They had been over the plan about a hundred times, and Sandy and Gladys agreed that it was the best they could do. Still, it was far from perfect. Wolfing mouthfuls from takeout containers while locked in a toilet stall didn’t really sound like the best way to taste delicate desserts.
“Don’t worry about that!” Sandy had exclaimed. “If the food’s good, it’ll be good wherever you eat it. Worry about getting your butt back in your seat at the theater before the Bentleys call the cops on you!”
Of course, the plan had no chance of working if Gladys didn’t make it into the city—and, she realized as she stood under the weight of Charissa’s stare, it wasn’t too late for Charissa to change her mind. They were still in East Dumpsford . . . one word from Charissa and the limo could pull away from the Gatsbys’ house and swing across town to pick up Rolanda, or Marti, or anyone else of Charissa’s choosing.
Gladys gulped. Say something! her brain screamed. Anything!
“Edamame!” she cried.
“What?” Charissa asked.
“Oh, nothing, sorry.” Apparently, her subconscious was filled with steamed soybeans. “Can I see the inside of the limo?”
At this, Charissa brightened. “Sure!” she said. “It’s awesome. It’s purple on the inside, too! Daddy had to call around to rental companies in three different states to find one like this.”
The inside of the limo was indeed very purple, and very plush. There was an icebox with sodas and fancy chilled glasses, and a TV that came down from the ceiling. There was enough room for everyone to lie down if they wanted to, and when Charissa pressed a button on the ceiling, a sunroof yawned open. The girls kicked off their shoes and climbed up on the seats to stick their heads out into the night air.
Outside, the adults were now standing in a little circle. “So, what show are you taking the girls to?” Gladys’s mom asked.
“It’s called Glossy Girl: The Musical,” Mrs. Bentley answered. “It’s the first musical ever to be based on a teen magazine.”
“Is that so?” said Gladys’s dad.
“Oh, yes,” replied Mrs. Bentley excitedly. “There have been musicals based on books and movies, but never on a teen magazine. The Dumpsford Township Intelligencer called it ‘a pioneering triumph!’”
“And the New York Standard called it ‘the worst musical in the history of Broadway,’” grumbled Mr. Bentley, who seemed much less excited.
“We don’t read the New York Standard,” said Gladys’s dad.
“We don’t, either,” said Mr. Bentley, “but my cousin, Bradford Bentley, happens to be the theater critic there. This show’s been sold out for months, and he was the only one who could get us tickets. He showed me his review to try to convince us to see something else, but Charissa only wanted Glossy Girl, and what Charissa wants . . .” He sighed. “Charissa gets.”
“We should get going, dear,” Mrs. Bentley said, and after another round of handshakes, they climbed back into the limo.
The girls waved good-bye to Gladys’s parents through the sunroof as the car pulled away, then settled back down into the purple cushions. Minutes later, the limo merged onto the expressway. It’s really happening, Gladys thought. She was on her way to New York City to visit the first real restaurant of her reviewing career.
• • •
By the time the limo got close to the tunnel that would take them into Manhattan, it had slowed to a crawl. Mr. Bentley muttered about the traffic, and Mrs. Bentley reassured him that they had factored in plenty of extra time to get to the theater. “Time that I’m paying for,” Mr. Bentley grumbled.
Charissa didn’t hear, or at least pretended not to hear, her father’s complaints. She was too busy raiding the icebox for soda, flipping through the TV channels, and generally talking Gladys’s ear off about how excited she was to finally be twelve.
“I’m gonna be a counselor-in-training at Camp Bentley this year, which means I get a whole new uniform . . . no more barrettes, barrettes are for babies, from now on it’s headbands all the way . . . ankle socks are out, knee socks are in . . . really, anyone who’s serious about being twelve should get a whole new wardrobe! I read that in Glossy Girl. Gladys, are you listening?”
“Yes!” cried Gladys, who had of course been reviewing her plan and only been half listening at best. Luckily, she’d caught the last thing Charissa said. “Whole new wardrobe, got it!”
“Good,” Charissa said. And then, “Hey, look! It’s the show we’re going to see!” Gladys looked to the TV screen to see an army of teenagers wearing headbands and knee socks jumping around a stage and singing a very annoying song.
“Dancin’ to the beat of a teenage heart—yeah!” Charissa sang along. “I have the sound track, and I know all the songs by heart. Hey, Mommy, let’s listen to it now!”
“Great idea!” cried Mrs. Bentley, who had been tapping one high-heeled foot along to the commercial. She fished her phone out of her purse and plugged it into the limo’s audio jack. A minute later, Charissa was singing along to the opening number (“U Can’t Tame a Glossy Girl!”), and Mr. Bentley was massaging his temples. Gladys listened as patiently as she could—she figured it was the least she could do, considering she was planning to miss a big chunk of the live show.
The limo finally pulled up to the theater at seven forty-five. Mrs. Bentley shepherded her husband and the girls into the lobby, where they had to fight through a crowd to get to the ticket-taker.
Once they were finally inside the main auditorium, things were a little calmer—an usher handed them programs and showed them to their seats. “Here we are!” he cried cheerfully, waving the Bentleys and Gladys into the third row. The seats were, as Charissa had claimed at school, excellent—close to the stage and in the exact center of the theater. However, that also meant they were nowhere near an aisle. Gladys did a quick count and realized she would have to climb over a lot of legs to get out from her seat sandwiched in between Charissa and Mrs. Bentley. Fudge, Gladys thought. In her planning with Sandy, she’d imagined herself sitting much closer to an aisle.
According to the program, there was a fifteen-minute intermission one hour into the show. Gladys and Sandy had estimated that, if she was fast, Gladys might be able to get to Classy Cakes, do her t
asting, and get back to the theater in thirty minutes, but that it would probably take more like forty-five. That meant she had to escape within the first thirty minutes of the show to have any hope of getting back to her seat by the end of intermission.
All of the seats around Gladys and the Bentleys were filling up fast. The crowd was mostly made up of kids around Gladys’s age, their slightly apprehensive-looking parents, and several sets of terrified-looking grandparents. “Have you seen this song list?” Gladys heard the white-haired man in front of her ask the silver-haired lady next to him. “‘Make-Up for Making Out’? ‘Ten Tips for the Perfect Party’? What are we doing here?”
“Just remember to turn off your hearing aid the moment the music starts,” the lady said. “That’s what Mabel did last week when she came with her granddaughter, and she made it through just fine.”
Then the lights dimmed and the orchestra started up with the opening drumbeats of “U Can’t Tame a Glossy Girl!”
“Turn it off now, now!” the old lady hissed as she and the man fumbled for their ears.
The musical was filled with bright lights, loud music, and songs that didn’t make any sense, since they were based on magazine articles instead of a story with a plot. The cartwheeling actors and actresses who made up the cast were supposed to be playing teenagers, but from the third row you could see through the layers of makeup that most of them were way older than that. (One “teen,” according to his bio in the program, had just finished performing in The Phantom of the Opera for twelve years straight. Still, he cartwheeled and screeched with the best of them.)
The kids in the audience clapped and sang along while parents glanced at watches and grandparents dozed. Gladys checked her watch, too, as often as she dared, the butterflies in her stomach growing more and more fluttery with every passing minute.