The Stars of Summer (17 page)

“Okay,” Charissa said. “In the name of our best friendship, I'll tell Rolanda that she needs to save Hamilton on Friday if he starts to sink.
But,
” she added, before Gladys could even thank her, “let's not have any more secrets between us. If you've got a problem in the future, just . . .
tell
me about it. Isn't that what friends do?”

Gladys looked into Charissa's eyes again, and felt like something had changed between them. She was no longer afraid of Charissa dropping her, or of what kind of revenge she might exact if she thought Gladys had crossed her. They were beyond that now. Charissa had been honest about her fears and feelings . . . and, for the first time, Gladys realized that she wanted to be completely honest back.

“There's one more thing I should tell you,” she said quietly. “See, I sort of have this top secret job working for the
New York Standard 
. . .”

Miraculously, Charissa stayed quiet as Gladys explained the entire situation; then she let out an excited sort of squeal.

“Gladys!” she cried. “That is so, so awesome! Oh my goodness—and I helped you research your first two reviews, even if I didn't know it!”

“Yeah,” Gladys said, “I couldn't have done either one without you.”

“So, hey, is that why you asked if my parents would take us into the city this weekend? Because you have to do another review?”

“Sort of,” Gladys admitted. “Though it would have been totally fun to hang out with you, too.”

Charissa waved this pronouncement away with one hand. “You were totally using me,” she said, “but, whatever—it's not like I haven't done that plenty of times.”

Hmm,
Gladys thought. Maybe she and Charissa were even more alike than she'd realized.

“Anyway,” Charissa said, “we need to make a plan to get you into the city on Friday.”

“Oh,” Gladys said. “Actually, I've already got one. I just . . . well, I was going to call in sick to camp.” An hour ago, she would have been terrified to say that. But now, Gladys wasn't worried. Charissa would understand . . . wouldn't she?

“Yeah, sounds like that's the only way,” she said. “Luckily, you've got a friend in the front office.” She winked. “I'll just make sure that you get marked as present when I file the attendance sheets.”

“Wow,” Gladys said. “Thanks, Charissa!”

Charissa nodded, brisk and businesslike now. “I'm not going to be able to do anything about your swim test results, though,” she said. “Those come straight from Coach Mike, and he'll know if you aren't there.”

Gladys sighed. There was no getting around it—she was going to be stuck in remedial lessons for the rest of the summer. She'd have to give up her CIT duties. But if that meant finishing her hot dog review, it was a trade she had to be willing to make.

“How can I ever pay you back?” she asked Charissa.

Her friend smiled. “Let me tag along on your next reviewing assignment?” she said.

“Absolutely,” said Gladys, though she added
if I ever get another one
in her head. Suddenly, nailing her hot dog story, proving Gilbert Gadfly wrong, and getting assigned another review seemed more important than ever.

A STUDY OF TECHNIQUE

O
N FRIDAY MORNING, GLADYS CAREFULLY
stuffed her lobster backpack with all her regular camp gear, just in case her mom peeked inside.

“Hey, Mom,” she said when she reached the kitchen. “Do you think you might be able to drop me off at camp early this morning? Today's my big swim test, and I thought I might squeeze in some extra practice.”

“Swim test?” her mom said. “Oh, honey, why didn't you tell me? I could have planned to come with you, but now I have an early appointment.”

“That's okay,” Gladys said quickly. “It's really not a big deal.”

Gladys's mom wrapped her muffin in a napkin. “Well, with the improvements you've made lately, you're sure to pass,” she said. “But if you want to squeeze in one last practice, I understand. Let's go!”

When they pulled up in front of the Camp Bentley arch ten minutes later, the place looked deserted. “Oh, goodness—are you sure it's all right for me to leave you here?” Gladys's mom asked. “I don't see anyone else around.”

“Don't worry, Mom,” Gladys said. “Charissa said she'd meet me at the pool, and she's a junior lifeguard. I won't go in unless she's there.”

“Okay,” her mom breathed. “Well, have a good day. And good luck on that test, even though I know you won't need it! I'm so proud of you.” She reached across the seat and squeezed Gladys into a one-armed hug.

“Thanks, Mom,” Gladys murmured. She was feeling guiltier by the minute. She really would have had a good shot at passing—if she were actually planning to take the test.

As her mom's car zoomed away, Gladys glanced around again. There was no one under the arch or in the parking lot—no one to see her sneaking away. Hitching her lobster backpack higher up on her back, she started toward the train station.

“Gladys!”

Fudge.

Hamilton stepped out from under a tree. “I thought that was you,” he said.

“Why are you
always
doing that?!” Gladys cried.

“Doing what?”

Gladys tried to control her breathing. “Hiding. In. The. Shadows!” she gasped. “And sneaking up on me!”

Behind his black-rimmed glasses, Hamilton blinked. “Am I? I don't mean to be. I suppose it's just my authorial nature, always prompting me to stand back and observe.”

Gladys groaned. She couldn't very well stroll out of the parking lot now that he'd seen her. “Well, your authorial observational skills have probably cost me my job,” she snapped, “so thanks a lot.”

“Your job?” Hamilton asked. “You mean your drudgery in the camp kitchen? How? That lunch lady you work for usually doesn't arrive until 8:47, and”— Hamilton glanced at his watch—“it's only 8:22.”

“Do you always lurk under a tree and time everyone's arrivals?” Gladys asked bitterly.

Hamilton looked down at the pavement. “I have to pass the time somehow,” he said. “I write a little, too, but it usually gets too noisy once the campers start arriving.”

The old tug-of-war started up inside Gladys again: be annoyed with Hamilton, or feel bad for him? In spite of herself, she could feel sympathy winning out. “Do your parents drop you off this early every morning?” she asked.

“Oh, earlier than this,” he said. “I'm always here by 8. My parents are both authors, too, and they need to start their writing by 8:30. I've learned my discipline from them!” He smiled. “Anyway, what brings you to camp at 8:22?”

Gladys was about to lie and say that her mom had to get to work early, but then she paused. She knew Hamilton had no great love for the rules of Camp Bentley. Could she trust him to cover for her?

“Look, Hamilton,” Gladys started, “if I told you that I was considering sneaking out of camp today . . . what would you think?”

“Ah,” Hamilton said, “I know what this is all about.”

“You do?” Gladys panicked as she tried to remember if her reviewing journal might have ever accidentally fallen into Hamilton's hands. Telling Charissa her secret had been one thing, but she had no plans to let anybody else find out.

Hamilton nodded. “Of course I do. You're worried about the swim test, like me.”

“What? No, I'm not,” Gladys huffed, but Hamilton kept talking right over her.

“You shouldn't be nervous,” he said. “I've been observing you carefully in the pool, though I have to admit that it's been for selfish reasons. Those swimming tips you gave me really helped, so I thought you might have more to teach me and have been studying your techniques. I even thought for a while that observing your posture out of the pool might teach me something about poise and balance, but I eventually gave up on that theory.”

“You've been watching me . . . to learn my swimming techniques?” Gladys couldn't believe it. “Why didn't you just ask me for more help?”

“Well,” Hamilton said, his cheeks reddening slightly, “I did try to ask once, but then you spotted a seagull and took off. You seemed stressed out with everything else on your plate, so I decided not to bother you about it again.”

Gladys was dumbfounded. So he hadn't been trying to ask her out on a date at all!

“Anyway,” Hamilton continued, “I hope you won't ditch camp today, of all days. I was planning to observe you in the pool one more time before taking my test.”

“Look,” Gladys said, “I don't really want to skip the test, either, but . . .” On instinct, she decided to trust him. “There's somewhere I really need to go in New York City, and today's the only day that I can get there.”

“Oh!” said Hamilton. “How interesting. I'll actually be in New York City tonight, for the Kids Rock Awards.”

Gladys stared at him. “The what?”

“For the Kids Rock Awards,” he repeated. “It's an awards ceremony for kids who have made great accomplishments in areas of the arts usually reserved for adults. I'm nominated for Best Kid Author
.
Haven't you noticed the sticker on my book's cover?” Hamilton reached into his backpack and pulled out a copy of
Zombietown, U.S.A.
to show her. “So, the awards ceremony is tonight in the city, and I'm heading there right after camp. My agent says I'm basically guaranteed to win!”

Gladys wasn't sure what to say about any of this. “Um, congratulations?”

“Thank you,” he said. “The support of my muse means a lot to me.”

Gladys glanced at her watch: 8:27. The next train into Manhattan left at 8:45, and the station was three blocks away. She had to get moving if she wanted to make it.

“Say, Gladys,” said Hamilton, “this is last minute, but . . . would you want to come with me to the ceremony tonight?”

“What?”

Hamilton sighed. “I'm afraid that all that drudgery has affected your hearing somehow.” He took a step closer, so that there was barely an inch of space between them, and ducked down to bring his face right to her level. “I SAID,” he bellowed in her ear, “WOULD YOU LIKE TO COME WITH ME TONIGHT TO WATCH ME GET MY AWARD?”

“Jeez!” Gladys cried, taking a step back. “I heard you the first time! I was just . . . surprised, that's all.” She glanced around. There still weren't any cars nearby; despite his booming voice, no one else could have heard him shout-ask her to come to the ceremony.

“Yes, well, that's understandable,” Hamilton said. “It's not every day that you get asked to a fancy event at one of Manhattan's most famous theaters.”

Gladys took a second to absorb this new piece of information. Manhattan's Theater District was right near Times Square—and therefore right near Heavenly Hot Dogs! This seemed almost too good to be true.

“My parents are sending a car to pick me up at 4:30,” Hamilton continued.

“Are they coming, too?” Gladys asked.

Hamilton shook his head. “My dad was going to—but then he told me yesterday that he, um, was too busy with his deadline. My mom, too. That's why I have an extra ticket. So . . .” He looked at her hopefully. “Would you like it?”

Gladys considered her options. On one hand, spending an entire evening with Hamilton while he got another ego-stroking award sounded unpleasant. But on the other hand, this way she could take her swim test and still get into the city. Maybe she could even get Hamilton to come with her to Heavenly Hot Dogs and order a couple of things off the menu so she wouldn't look suspicious getting six hot dogs just for herself.

“Sure,” she said finally. “I would love to come.”

LIKE A KNIFE THROUGH BUTTER

J
UST BEFORE THE MORNING ANNOUNCE-
ments started, Gladys caught sight of Charissa in the crowd and waved her over.

“What are you doing here?” Charissa hissed.

“Change of plans,” Gladys said quietly. “Believe it or not, Hamilton is going to get me into the city tonight. He's nominated for something called a Kids Rock Award.”

Charissa gripped Gladys's arm, her purple-polished nails digging in hard. “The Kids Rock Awards??” she squealed. “Omigosh, are you
going
? I'll have to look for you on TV!”

Wait. What?

“TV?” Gladys asked.

“Of course!” Charissa said. “On Channel 12—they've been advertising all week! Haven't you noticed?”

For the first time ever, Gladys kicked herself for spending her free time reading cookbooks instead of watching TV. “I guess not,” she said. “So is this awards thing a big deal?”

“Um,
yes
,” Charissa said. “There are going to be
so many
celebrities there—Jeffy Marx, Sasha McRay. I'm so jealous. What are you going to wear?”

“Uh . . .” Gladys looked down at her purple camp T-shirt and shorts. Somehow, she didn't think they were going to cut it. “I'm not sure.”

“Don't worry,” Charissa said. “You can borrow a dress from me. Daddy's at camp today—I'll just send him home at lunchtime to pick it up. You'll look amazing. This is so cool!”

But Gladys was feeling anything but cool; in fact, nervous sweat was now streaming down her back. The number one rule of restaurant reviewing was to stay anonymous and avoid making a spectacle of yourself—but she had just signed up to attend a televised awards ceremony. What had she gotten herself into?

She hardly had time to think about it, though—because, before anything else, she had to take her swim test.

“No beating around the bush!” Coach Mike bellowed when the Basic Beginners reached the pool. “Your tests will begin right away! First up: Astin, Chu, Corning, and Gatsby—we'll be using lanes one through four! Remember, you need to swim a full length of the pool cleanly to pass!”

Gladys shuffled toward the edge of the pool, blood pounding in her ears.
You've got this,
she told herself.
You're ready.
She was actually looking forward to the whistle, if only because no one would be able to see her knees shaking underwater.

Finally, a sharp blast sounded, and she crouched and sprang. As her body soared, she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of a tall boy in a black swimsuit, giving her a thumbs-up. “Go, Gla—” he called, but the rest of his words were swallowed up by a rush of water in her ears.

For an agonizing second, the pool water felt like honey, or molasses, or some other thick liquid meant for baking, not swimming in. Gladys's arms and legs, feeling simultaneously heavy and weak, beat against it, like the whisks of an electric mixer stuck in too-goopy batter. But then her mother's words came to her: “Swim like your limbs are knives, cutting through soft butter.”

Her arms and legs sliced through the water, and she broke the surface.

Just a few short knife-strokes later, Gladys's hand touched the far wall of the pool. She'd done it! She'd used the crawl stroke and swum an entire lap!

But she wasn't ready to stop. Shoving off from that wall, she dove under the water again, undulating her body like a flexible spatula. When she broke the surface again, she started a breaststroke, pretending that she was pulling apart bread dough and kneading it back together with each circle of her arms. Then, when she hit the wall where she'd started, she flipped over onto her back for a lap of backstroke, churning through the water with her arms like it was cream she was turning into butter.

When she hit the far wall again, she flipped over and pulled herself up out of the pool. Kyra Astin, Mason Chu, and Deric Corning were all gawking at her, and Rolanda had her hands on her hips like she couldn't believe what she'd just seen.

But Coach Mike was beaming. “Gatsby, pass!” he cried. “I've never seen so much improvement in such a short time.”

Gladys grinned back. She'd passed! No thanks to Coach Mike, of course—but she kept that thought to herself.

“All right!” he shouted. “Group two will be Herbertson, Jacoby, Jenkins, and Malone! Go on my whistle!”

Gladys looked back across the pool as Hamilton stepped up to the edge, his focus on the water. On her side of the pool, the little kids from the first group cheered for their friends.

“Come on, Hamilton!” Gladys heard herself yell. “Just pretend that zombies are chasing you!”

Hamilton glanced up and shot Gladys a big smile. Then the whistle sounded, and the second group jumped into the water.

Given that his body was practically twice as long as the other kids' in the pool, it was a little embarrassing that Hamilton finished dead last in his heat. But he did finish—and his form was impeccable. Gone were the thrashing, flailing strokes Gladys had seen on the first day of camp, now replaced by long, smooth movements and even breaths. Had Hamilton really learned how to do all that just from watching her?

“Herbertson, pass!” Coach Mike cried as Hamilton pulled himself out of the water, and Hamilton's face froze in shock.

“Really?” he squeaked. “I really passed?”

“You really did,” the coach said, and Hamilton pumped a fist into the air. Then he turned toward the kids assembled on that side of the pool, took a huge breath in, puffed his chest out . . .

“Aw, cripes,” Mason Chu muttered. “He's gonna make a speech.”

But just as Hamilton cleared his throat, Coach Mike's voice boomed: “Third group, on your marks!” His whistle blasted.

Gladys sidled up to Hamilton. “Just save your speech for tonight,” she whispered.

“Ah, good idea,” Hamilton said, turning toward her. “Thank goodness I have my muse looking out for me.”

Gladys was suddenly aware of how close they were standing; his ribs poked out through his pale skin like the pleats of a very tall accordion. She took a step back. “Well, um, great job out there.”

“I was inspired by the best,” he said.

• • •

The rest of the day passed in a blur. For lunch, Gladys chopped and roasted peppers to make a paste she spread on focaccia and served with white-bean soup; then, after lunch, she called her mom from the kitchen's phone to tell her about the swim test and that evening's plans.

“Congratulations! I knew you'd pass,” her mom said.

“Thanks, Mom,” Gladys replied. “I couldn't have done it without your help.”

“And the famous author Hamilton Herbertson asked you on a date, too?”

“It's
not
a date, Mom,” Gladys insisted. “It's just sort of a . . . thank-you outing, I think, since I helped him with his swimming.”

“Well, have a great time,” her mom said. “We'll look for you on camera!”

Gladys hung up, then quickly dialed Sandy's number. So far that week, Mrs. Anderson had been true to her word, and hadn't let Sandy near the phone or the Internet. She hadn't nailed his bedroom window shut, though, so he and Gladys were still able to talk face-to-face if they were careful. Just last night, they had firmed up her plans for sneaking into the city on the train, but she wanted to let him know that those plans had changed.

Unfortunately, it was Sandy's mom who picked up the phone. “Hi, Mrs. Anderson,” Gladys said. “Any chance I could talk to Sandy? Please?”

Mrs. Anderson sighed at the other end of the line. “Not yet, Gladys. Sandy still has some thinking to do about the choices he made at camp.”

“Okay, well, could you give him a message for me? It's important.”

There was a pause as Mrs. Anderson contemplated this. “All right,” she said finally. “Go ahead.”

Gladys opened her mouth—but then realized that she actually had no idea what to say. How could she pass the information along to Sandy without his mom getting wind of what they'd been planning?

Only the truth was going to work.

“Could you tell him that I'm going to be on TV tonight?” she said. “I got invited to the Kids Rock Awards by a friend from camp. So I'll be heading into the city for the ceremony—and for dinner.”

“Well, isn't that exciting!” Mrs. Anderson said. “I'll make sure to look for you, though I'm afraid Sandy isn't allowed to watch TV right now, either.”

“Oh, right,” Gladys said. “But . . . could you still tell him for me?” She wanted to make sure Sandy understood that, even though her plans had changed, she was definitely still going to eat at Heavenly Hot Dogs that night.

Mrs. Anderson agreed to tell him, and they said good-bye.

• • •

At the end of the camp day, Charissa met Gladys in the changing room by the kitchen. She was carrying a dress bag in one hand and a large purple plastic case in the other. “C'mon,” she said. “Let's get you TV-ready! Put this on.”

Gladys slipped into a stall, shimmied out of her camp uniform, and unzipped the dress bag. There, staring back at her, was the blazingly red flamenco dress Charissa had worn to Gladys's birthday party.

“Isn't it great?” Charissa called from the other side of the stall door. “I told Daddy to bring that one especially.
Everyone
was staring at me when I wore it to your party, remember?”

“Um, yeah,” Gladys answered.
Because it was the brightest thing in the room!

“Okay, hurry up and put it on—I want to see it on you!”

Gladys didn't have much of a choice. She released the froufy dress from its bag and pulled it over her head. It was kind of long—Charissa had a couple of inches on Gladys—and when she emerged from the stall and caught sight of herself in the mirror, she winced. The dress practically glowed.

“You look amazing!” Charissa screeched. “Now we just have to do your hair and makeup.”

“What?”

But Charissa was already opening her purple case on the counter. Inside were more shades of sparkly lip gloss and eye shadow than Gladys had ever seen.

She considered bolting, but she wasn't much of a sprinter—Charissa would surely catch her. It was better to just submit now; Gladys could always undo the damage in the car.

Or so she thought. Fifteen minutes later, her lips were stained red with all-day lipstick (“Won't fade for eighteen hours!” Charissa exclaimed), and her hair was sculpted into a sort of cinnamon roll–esque swirl with extra-strong, super-hold hairspray. When Gladys pressed a finger to it, it felt crispier than a fried noodle from Palace of Wong.

“Don't touch!” Charissa commanded. “You'll ruin it. I wish you had enough hair for a high ponytail, but this'll have to do.” She took a deep breath of the now-hairspray-scented air. “Okay, Gladys—you're ready. Go meet some celebrities and eat some awesome hot dogs! Wave to me on TV!”

Gladys nodded, noticing that her sprayed hair didn't move at all as her head did. “Thanks, Charissa,” she managed to say. Even if this new look wasn't really her style, she did appreciate her friend's effort.

Luckily, Charissa's dad had brought her flats instead of high heels, so at least Gladys could walk without tripping. Grateful that the camp had already cleared out for the day, Gladys slowly made her way to the parking lot.

• • •

Hamilton was waiting for her beside a sleek black car—but for once, he wasn't clad in all black himself. Instead, he wore a white collared shirt, a brown bow tie, a gray sweater-vest, and a hideous tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.

“Wow,” Hamilton said as she approached. “You look . . . different. I mean, nice! Very nice.”

“Uh, thanks,” Gladys said. “You too.”

Hamilton stood up straighter. “I'm so glad you think so,” he said. “This is my ‘author formal' outfit. I can't just wear my everyday writing clothes to special events like this.”

“Sure,” Gladys said.

“Well, shall we?” Hamilton gestured toward the car door being held open by a uniformed driver. They climbed into the dark, air-conditioned interior, and a minute later were heading toward the expressway.

Even sitting down, Charissa's dress poufed out well past Gladys's knees, and she felt like she was being swallowed by crinoline. “So,” she said, desperate to talk about something that had nothing to do with her appearance, “who else is nominated for Best Kid Author?”

“There are two other nominees,” Hamilton said. “A twelve-year-old named Caroline Giotta wrote a memoir about her life growing up in a Mafia family—but her prose really isn't up to the same standard as mine. And the other author, Max Finkelstein, is just four years old, so clearly he's out of the running.”

“He's four?” Gladys asked. Her own publications were feeling less significant by the second. “What did he write?”

Hamilton snorted. “He wrote and illustrated a picture book called
I Like Rainbows.
Even the title is horrible, don't you think? But somehow he got himself nominated—or his parents did. Rumor has it that they're the driving force behind his whole career.”

Gladys wasn't sure what to say about that.

“In any case,” Hamilton continued, “the actual awards ceremony doesn't start until seven, but there are some preliminary events I need to attend. A photo shoot and some schmoozing with the organizers. Do you think you'll be able to keep yourself busy?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Gladys said. Actually, this was the best news she'd heard all day. She could walk over to Heavenly Hot Dogs and sample a couple of dogs before the show even started! Then, she and Hamilton could go back together after and order more.

The rest of the ride passed mostly in silence, though Gladys noticed that the closer they got to the Midtown Tunnel into Manhattan, the faster Hamilton's right foot tapped against the back of the driver's seat. Was he getting nervous? She was about to try to comfort him when she realized that their car had just shot past the exit for 42nd Street.