All Four Stars (16 page)

“Just try to hold it,” Mrs. Bentley said coolly. “It's almost intermission.”

“Actually,” Gladys hissed back, “intermission's not for another thirty-four min—” but her words were drowned out by a crash of cymbals. The orchestra started blasting a new song, and someone tapped Gladys sharply on the shoulder and whispered for her to sit down.

She couldn't believe it. Mrs. Bentley really wasn't going to let her out! As she sank helplessly back into her seat, she mentally cursed the person who designed the theater with rows so narrow that you couldn't get out without the cooperation of the person next to you, unless you wanted to crawl over her lap or under her legs. Gladys considered both of these options, but quickly dismissed them. They'd cause too much of a scene, and she wanted to slip away as quietly as possible so that hopefully the Bentleys would forget she was even gone.

Gladys only had one choice left: She'd have to try to get out on Charissa's side. The new song seemed to go on forever, but when it finally ended (
8:34!
Gladys's watch screamed), Gladys leaned over to the right. “Sorry, Charissa,” she whispered, “I need to go to the bathroom. Can I squeeze out?”

Charissa turned to look at her with wide eyes. “But you can't go
now
!” she insisted. “You'll miss ‘Rock the Teenage World,' and that's the best number in the whole show! Oh, look, it's starting!” And she grabbed Gladys's arm excitedly as a woman in a fluorescent orange tank top backflipped across the stage to a blaring electric guitar.

Charissa's grip was strong. Gladys wasn't going anywhere.

“Rock the Teenage World” was an epic number, complete with indoor fireworks and dancing in the aisles. Charissa squealed with delight and gripped Gladys harder with each new flash or bang. Gladys could only jealously watch the dancers, moving so freely up and down the aisles, as time ticked away.

8:40 . . . 8:50 . . .

Gladys's stomach now seemed to lurch in time with the dancers' high kicks.
Okay,
she thought to herself.
Plan A is toast. Burnt, charred, blackened toast. Time for Plan B.

Clearly, she couldn't get out until intermission; she'd just have to make her escape then and visit Classy Cakes during the second half of the show. The second half was shorter—only forty-five minutes, according to the program—but if all went well, she should be able to get back with a little time to spare.

When the curtain came down and the lights came up at 9 p.m., Gladys was ready to sprint. She had her purse—containing her journal and her life savings in cash—over her shoulder and waited impatiently while the audience finished applauding. But then the aisles got jammed within seconds. Kids, wanting snacks and souvenir T-shirts, pulled their parents this way and that, and everyone tripped over the sleepy grandparents who were slowly making their way to the bathrooms. It took Gladys's row almost five minutes to clear.

“Okay, I'm going to the bathroom,” Gladys said to the Bentleys when they finally reached the aisle. She turned to go when, to her horror, she heard Charissa say, “Hang on, I have to go, too!”

“So do I,” Mrs. Bentley announced. “We'll all go together.” And just like that, Mrs. Bentley's hand was gripping Gladys's shoulder, guiding her to the back of the theater.

Gladys went along miserably, her eyes darting around for possible escape routes. The bathrooms were on the lower level, and the stairs were extremely crowded—it took them another three minutes just to get down. Mrs. Bentley was grasping both girls at this point to keep from being separated, and she didn't let go.

The line for the women's room snaked out the door and halfway across the lounge. Mrs. Bentley groaned when she saw it, but there was nothing they could do. It inched forward at a slow but steady pace, and finally, after another few minutes, they were inside.

The bathroom only had three stalls, and as the door to the middle one opened, they heard a set of chimes over the theater's sound system. “We'll have to be fast,” Mrs. Bentley said. “That sound means the show is about to start again.” Charissa, who looked horrified at the idea of missing even a minute of the second half, let out a yelp and dove into the free stall. The door on the right opened next, and Mrs. Bentley practically shoved Gladys in the moment its occupant emerged.

Gladys stood in the stall and tried to think. She heard a toilet flush on the other end of the bathroom and a door squeak open, then the clack of Mrs. Bentley's heels as she took over that stall. A second set of chimes sounded.

Gladys had hoped to spend some time in a bathroom stall that night, just not this one. If only she could teleport herself from one locked bathroom stall to another one three blocks away! But Gladys knew that she needed to pull herself together and come up with yet another plan. If she let the Bentleys drag her back upstairs, she would never get to Classy Cakes.

She looked around wildly for inspiration. She was in the corner stall. Behind the toilet, over her head, was a small window, propped open to lend a breath of air to the stuffy bathroom.

A series of flushes and squeaks told Gladys that Charissa and her mother had both emerged from their stalls into the now-empty bathroom. She heard the sink water running briefly and then the rumble of a paper towel being pulled from its dispenser.

“Gladys?” Mrs. Bentley called. “Time to go!”

Gladys took a deep breath. It was now or never. “I need a few more minutes,” she called back. “I'm not feeling so great. But you guys go back without me! I don't want you to miss the show!”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Bentley replied firmly. “If you're sick, we'll stay with you. What exactly is the matter?”

“It's . . . it's nothing, really,” Gladys called. “My stomach hurts a little. I'll be fine, you should go!”

The chimes sounded for a third time, and Gladys heard Charissa whimper, “Mom-
my . . .”

Mrs. Bentley sighed. Was she changing her mind? Gladys decided to make one last plea. “Please, don't let me ruin Charissa's birthday!” she called through the stall door. “I'll see you upstairs as soon as I feel better!”

There was a moment of silence, and then Mrs. Bentley said, “All right. Come on, Charissa, let's scoot!” Heels clacked, and a flood of relief washed over Gladys as the bathroom door opened and shut. Finally, she was alone.

She supposed she could wait until they got back to their seats, then dash upstairs and out the front door—but with all this time already wasted, every second mattered. In a moment, she was up on the toilet seat, then pushing the little window all the way open. Finally, slinging her purse over one shoulder, Gladys hoisted herself up over the sill and tumbled into the middle of New York City.

CLASSY CAKES

GLADYS LANDED ON HER HANDS AND
knees and jumped up to brush herself off. A quick look around told her that she was in an alleyway next to the theater. To her left was a large Dumpster, and to her right was the theater's stage door—beside which two actors and an actress, coats thrown on over their neon tank tops, stood sipping from bottles of water and staring at her.

“Sneaking out at halftime, eh?” said the taller actor, raising an eyebrow.

“Well,” the actress said, “she isn't the first!”

All three laughed, shaking their heads. Standing just a few feet away, they looked even older than they had onstage.

“Brooke would sneak out if she could,” said the shorter actor, elbowing the actress.

“So would you,” said Brooke.

The taller actor sighed. “I can't believe I left
Phantom
for this.”

“Oh, don't start with that again, Mike,” Brooke groaned. Then she turned to Gladys. “Look, it's not our fault the show sucks, okay? We didn't write it.”

“Nobody wrote it!” shrieked the shorter actor. “That's the problem!”

Gladys felt sorry for the miserable actors but couldn't stand there all night listening to them complain—she had her own writing to do, and needed to figure out where she was going. “Excuse me,” she said, “but which way is Ninth Avenue?”

The shorter actor jerked his thumb over his shoulder, then pointed to the left.

“Thanks!” Gladys cried, and hurried past the group. She was almost at the end of the alley when she paused—something about this situation didn't make sense.

“Sorry,” she said, turning back to them, “but if you really hate being in the show, why do you all look so happy onstage?”

“Kid,” said Brooke, tossing her bottle into the Dumpster, “that's why they call it
acting.
”

• • •

The streets were blazingly lit with streetlights, and the sidewalks were full of people. Gladys darted around people in long coats and short coats, puffy coats and sleek coats. Her peacoat was in her seat at the theater, but she didn't feel cold—she didn't feel much of anything but her heart racing and her legs pumping. At Ninth Avenue, she turned left to run the final block. Near the corner she could see a large crowd of people jostling underneath a yellow-and-black polka-dotted awning. When she got closer, she saw the words C
LASSY
C
AKES
written across the awning in elegant script.

She'd made it! She was there! Unfortunately, so were about a hundred other people. At the door to the restaurant, a young woman in a yellow blouse and black skirt was trying to make an announcement. “Excuse me! Hello!” she was calling. Finally, the crowd quieted enough to hear her.

“There is currently a three-hour wait for tables if you do not have a reservation!” she shouted. Some people in the crowd groaned, and a few walked away. But most stayed. The woman was still yelling, something about putting your name on a list. Suddenly, the crowd surged forward, pinning her against the glass door. “One at a time, one at a time!” she shrieked as people pushed and shoved to get their names on the list.

Using her small size to her advantage, Gladys elbowed her way into the mob and squeezed over, under, and through until she was standing in front of the woman with the clipboard. A small name tag on the woman's blouse said M
OIRA
.

“Excuse me,” Gladys said as politely as she could. But Moira, busy scribbling names, clearly didn't hear her. So Gladys was forced to shout.

“EXCUSE ME!”

Moira looked up briefly. “Three-hour wait,” she said, then turned back to her clipboard.

“Sorry!” Gladys shouted with a smile. “But I don't need a table! I'm just here to get takeout!”

“We don't do takeout,” Moira snapped, not even looking up from her board this time.

Gladys felt dizzy. Every restaurant she knew in East Dumpsford offered takeout; it had never occurred to her that a restaurant in New York City might not.

“But,” Gladys started again, “I really need—”

In one quick movement, Moira lowered her clipboard and looked Gladys straight in the face. “Little girl, let me make it real simple for you. Do you have a reservation?”

“No, but—”

“Then it's a Three. Hour. Wait.”

With that, Moira straightened back up and smoothed her skirt. “Thanks for your patience!” she shouted at the crowd. “We'll see some of you in three hours!” And she yanked the door open and disappeared into the restaurant.

The crowd began to disperse, carrying Gladys a short way down the street with it. She looked through one of the restaurant's plate glass windows. At the table just inside, a young couple shared each other's desserts: she fed him a bite from a tall slice of cake, then he scooped her a spoonful of his parfait. The woman closed her eyes with an expression of perfect contentment and licked her lips.

This happy scene made Gladys snap. She had not worked so hard to get the spot in Charissa's limo and gone through so much trouble to sneak out of the theater just to watch other people eat dessert! She wasn't going to let Moira and the three-hour wait stop her; she wasn't giving up yet.

Gladys marched back to the restaurant's front door and let herself in. Moira, who was now standing behind a small podium, looked up when she felt the draft and said irritably, “There's a THREE-HOUR— Oh, it's you again.”

Gladys took a moment to observe her surroundings. To Moira's left was the dining room filled with people, a comfortable-looking area with wrought iron tables and chairs and subtly polka-dotted tablecloths and napkins. To her right were double doors that, based on the clanging noises coming from behind them, Gladys thought must lead to the kitchen.

“Can I help you with something?” Moira asked in a tone that made it clear she didn't want to help Gladys at all.

“Yes,” Gladys answered. “I'd like to use the restroom, please.”

“Sorry,” Moira said. “Restrooms are for customers only.”

“But I
am
a customer!” Gladys said. “I forgot, but I do have a reservation. I mean, my parents do. They're at the theater now, but they're going to come meet me here after.” Gladys was pretty pleased with this story, which she'd just come up with on the spot.

Moira's eyes narrowed. “What are their names?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Your parents. The people who made the reservation.”

“Oh. Um . . . Bentley!” Gladys blurted, saying the first name she could think of that wasn't her own. “Our last name is Bentley.”

“Bentley, huh?” said Moira, smirking. “Well, let me just see if I can find you . . .” And she turned a page in the large book on the podium labeled R
ESERVATIONS
.

“Look,” Gladys stammered, “they're kind of absentminded. I
think
they made a reservation. I mean, I know that they
meant
to make a—” But she was cut off as a man dressed in white burst out of the kitchen door.

“Moira!” he said breathlessly. “Allison needs to see you out back ASAP. Something about the—” Suddenly he noticed Gladys standing there and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Something about the C-O-O-K-I-E-S.”

Gladys couldn't help herself. “You know, I
can
spell,” she said. The man ignored her.

Moira slammed the reservations book shut. “You wait here,” she commanded Gladys, and followed the man back to the kitchen.

Of course, Gladys didn't wait there—and she didn't go to the restroom, either. She headed straight into the dining room.

The room was lit mostly by candles and swirly-looking light fixtures along the walls, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness. But when they did, she saw that the couple at the window was leaving their table. The man took the woman's hand, and Gladys jumped to one side to let them pass. The woman had left a large bite of cake on her plate.

Gladys glanced around. The place was packed, and waiters and waitresses were hurrying about, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to her. So she strolled casually over to the now-empty table, reached out her hand—no time for forks!—and shoved the bite of cake into her mouth.

Tastes of allspice, pistachio, and cardamom—yes, definitely cardamom—burst onto her tongue, and the cake's moist, almost juicy texture helped it go down easily. Then Gladys noticed there was a dollop of parfait left in the glass across the table. Did she dare? She looked around again and, when she saw no one watching, helped herself to a spoonful of the velvety, raspberry-flavored dessert.

Across the room, an older couple was rising, the man helping the woman with her coat. From what Gladys could see, they were leaving even more dessert behind than the young couple! As soon as they were a few steps away from their table, Gladys swooped in. She hurriedly gobbled up several bites of a lavender-scented, lemon-flavored custard, then moved on to the chunk of a nutty tart that was sitting on the other plate. Who were these people who left half of their delicious (and expensive) desserts on their plates?

But there was no time to wonder—a party of four was leaving in the middle of the room. Gladys could see a dish half-f of melting ice cream, several cookies, a mini fruit tart, and the remains of a cheese plate.
Jackpot,
she thought, and had taken two steps in that direction when she spotted Moira leading a pair of women to their seats at the now-cleared table by the window.

Fudge!

In a flash, Gladys backtracked and ducked underneath the last table. The polka-dotted tablecloth reached halfway to the floor, so it didn't hide her completely, but Gladys hoped that, in the low lighting, it would be enough to keep her out of sight until Moira was gone.

Gladys stayed there for a minute, watching the black-clad legs of the serving staff hurry back and forth. Then, just when she felt reasonably sure that it was safe to come out, a pair of those legs stopped right beside her. The dishes above her head clattered as the legs' owner cleared them away. When the legs finally left, she prepared to crawl out again, but almost instantly three new pairs of legs were blocking her exit.

“Please, have a seat,” Gladys heard Moira coo. “And I hope you enjoy your dessert!”

The chairs next to Gladys scraped back, and a moment later the space under the table was a lot more crowded. It was the woman's feet, clad in pointy-toed, zebra-striped pumps, that kicked Gladys first.

“Is that you, Bernard?” the woman asked.

“Is what me?” said Bernard.

“Is that you that I'm kicking?” And she kicked again, this time catching Gladys in the shoulder. Gladys stifled a groan.

“Um, no,” Bernard answered.

“Well, what the heck is it, then?” And the woman reared up for a third kick. But Gladys was ready this time—she grabbed the woman's shoe as it came toward her face and yanked it right off.

The woman screamed. In seconds, more feet came running toward the table. “My shoe!” the woman screeched. “There's something down there, and it's eaten my shoe!”

It was Moira who lifted the tablecloth. “You!” she cried. “Come out of there right now! And leave that shoe!”

Gladys knew that the game was up, and she did as she was told. Moira grabbed Gladys by one arm, and a busboy took her by the other. “Out!” Moira cried. “Out, out, out!” Half escorting, half carrying her, they brought Gladys to the nearest emergency exit and shoved her into the cold.

The one-way door slammed shut and, for the second time that night, Gladys found herself in an alleyway, standing next to a Dumpster.

Her breath puffed visibly in front of her as she sighed. On the one hand, she was proud of herself for having gotten into the restaurant—proud that even with Mrs. Bentley and Moira trying to stop her, she had managed to get her taste buds on a few of Classy Cakes's unique desserts. But she also knew that she didn't have enough material to write a review. Classy Cakes had more than twenty desserts on its menu, and Gladys had only tasted four. If only she'd had the chance to try a few more! But she hadn't, and there was no way she'd be able to come back before her deadline.

She had failed, and would have to e-mail Fiona Inglethorpe and admit it.

The editor would find another critic to review Classy Cakes—someone who lived in New York City, who could visit without any sneaking; someone who made reservations; someone who wasn't a sixth-grader at East Dumpsford Elementary.

Gladys checked her watch: 9:33. If she hurried, she could get back for the show's finale and find the Bentleys before they called the police and reported her missing. She jogged to the end of the alley, turned right, and took off for the theater.

Ten minutes later, Gladys was standing in the lobby. The ticket-taker was nowhere in sight, so she quietly let herself into the darkened theater. She was about to slip down the aisle when she felt a strong hand on her shoulder and looked around to see an usher's uniform.

“What do you think you're doing?” the usher hissed. “The finale's about to start—you wanna get trampled?”

“Trampled?” Gladys asked, but no sooner had she spoken than the house lights burst on and more indoor fireworks exploded with a deafening roar. “Teenagers” poured into the aisles from every direction. Some leapt off the stage while others tore in from the back and sides of the theater. The usher grabbed Gladys and flattened her against the wall next to him as one actor after another cartwheeled past.

“Thanks!” Gladys shouted.

“No problem!” the usher shouted back. “We don't want any more fatalities!”

Gladys recognized the last person to burst in from the back—it was the shorter actor from the stage door. “Hey!” he cried as he danced past Gladys. “You came back!” He looked pleased . . . but maybe that was just more acting.