Stars So Sweet (15 page)

“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.

LIKE A SHAKEN-UP SODA

T
HE 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 modest 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?

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?”

SPILLING THE BEANS

G
LADYS 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 request 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?”