Stars So Sweet (14 page)

ONE FISH FRIED

W
HEN ELAINE ONCE AGAIN FAILED TO
make an appearance at lunch on Monday, Gladys had to reconsider her plan to confront the girl. After all, Elaine hadn't showed up at her last bake sale, and hadn't bothered her in over a week. Maybe she'd decided to give up whatever vendetta she had against Gladys.

But then, when she remembered the article Elaine had written about her in the
Telegraph
—and the threat she'd made about keeping an eye on Gladys going forward—her resolve steeled again. Elaine was probably trying to trick Gladys into
thinking
she'd given up, while really she was lying low like a snake in the grass, waiting for her next opportunity to strike. And Gladys refused to remain on the defensive.

But that didn't mean she wasn't nervous as she approached the Media Room door after school. Pulling Elaine aside at lunchtime or at a bake sale was one thing, but now Gladys was about to walk into a meeting of the club Elaine was in charge of. She'd be on Elaine's turf, surrounded by Elaine's friends. The thought was almost enough to make Gladys turn tail and run in the other direction.

Instead, she took a deep breath and stroked her lobster's fuzzy strap for comfort. Then, drawing up every last ounce of resolve she had, she opened the Media Room door.

The room was crowded with equipment—computers, scanners, and printers took up just about every inch of table space—but the one thing it was not crowded with was people. In fact, there was only one other person in the room: Elaine de la Vega, typing away at a computer with her back to the entrance.

Gladys cleared her throat, and Elaine swiveled around in her chair.

“Uh, hi,” Gladys said. “I thought there was a newspaper meeting here today. Is it canceled?”

“You're here to join the newspaper?” Elaine asked. Her expression was incredulous.

Gladys shook her head. “Actually, I just came here to talk to you. I thought I might be interrupting your meeting, but I guess you moved it?”

Elaine glanced around the room, quiet except for the low hum of machines. “Clearly, you're not interrupting anything.”

Gladys had really lucked out—she wouldn't have to make a scene after all. “Can I sit down?” she asked.

Elaine shrugged. “It's a free country.”

Gladys pulled a swivel chair out from one of the other computer stations and dropped her backpack to the floor. She sat down, and her voice shook slightly as she said the words she'd been practicing in her head all week. “I wanted to talk to you because it's pretty clear that you hate me. What's not clear to me, though, is why.” It was a hard thing for her to say, but an honest one. The question was, would Elaine be honest in return?

Elaine stared at Gladys for a long moment. “I don't hate you,” she said finally. “But what I do hate is watching someone with talent waste their potential on activities they
clearly
have no interest in.”

Gladys frowned. “Is this about the bake sales?”

Elaine gave her a withering look. “Of course it's about the bake sales. I
discovered
you on the first day of school, writing that opinion piece about school lunches. I
told
you you'd make an excellent addition to the newspaper staff, but you said you were too busy to write for the
Telegraph.
Then you turned around and joined every other club under the sun, and even wasted your time helping clubs you weren't in! I don't
get it, Gladys.” Now Elaine's voice wavered. “Did someone warn you to stay away from me or something?”

Gladys had never thought about things this way—had never considered that
Elaine's
feelings might have been hurt by her decision to join all those other clubs. “But why would you care that much if one person chooses not to join the paper?” Gladys said. “You must have a huge staff of writers to manage already.”

Elaine snorted. “Look around you, Gladys. I have
no
staff. The meeting didn't get moved to another day—this
is
the meeting. It's just that nobody ever shows up.”

Gladys could hardly believe what she was hearing. “What?”

“The
DTMS Telegraph
is just me,” Elaine said. “I mean, a few seventh-graders showed up for the first meeting of the year, but none of them came back. And all the eighth-graders who were on the paper staff last year quit. It's not me who hates you. It's everyone at this school who hates me.”

“That can't be true,” Gladys said—but, now that she thought about it, she realized she had never actually seen Elaine hanging out with anyone else at DTMS.

“It is true, and I'm used to it,” Elaine spat. “When I saw you sitting alone, writing in that journal, I thought you might be different—might be a worthy partner. But you turned out to be just like everybody else.”

Gladys picked her lobster backpack up off the floor.
“Do you remember this?” she asked. “You made a comment about it at orientation. It upset me.
That
was why I didn't want to join your paper—well, that, and because you read my private writing over my shoulder instead of asking first. Maybe if you didn't do stuff like that, people wouldn't have such a bad first impression of you.”

“I have strong opinions,” Elaine retorted. “I'm forceful and decisive. That's what makes me a good leader.”

“Yeah, but it's hard to be a leader if you can't inspire anyone to follow you.”

Elaine glanced around the empty Media Room. “I guess that's true.” She sighed. “My big hope was to produce a really incredible first issue—and then, when everyone saw how great the paper was, they'd want to join. What I
really
wanted was to have high-quality color photos, but the paper doesn't have the budget for color printing.” She looked up at Gladys. “I don't know why I'm even telling you this.”

“If you need more money for color printing, why don't you hold a fund-raiser?” Gladys asked.

“I'm no baker,” Elaine said. “And even if I was, where would I find the time? Producing an entire newspaper is a lot of work for one person. I even got special permission from Dr. Sloane to spend my lunch periods in here working, but I'm still behind schedule.”

So that was why Elaine had been absent from the cafeteria last week. “Look,” Gladys said. “My own
schedule should be clearing up next week. If you need some help—”

But Elaine cut her off. “Thanks, Gladys, but I'm not gonna sell your pity cookies. No offense.”

Gladys bristled at this, but then decided to let it go. Elaine clearly still had some work to do on her people skills—but she had been honest with Gladys, and that was all Gladys had wanted. Their conversation had gone about as well as she could have hoped.

“Okay,” she said, “but I'm not sure that a bake sale would be the best fund-raising fit for the paper, anyway. It would make more sense to come up with something that would provide a steady stream of income for the
Telegraph
going forward.”

The scowl disappeared from Elaine's face, and she leaned forward in her seat. “All right, I'm listening.”

Gladys leaned in, too. “Why don't you sell advertising space instead? You could get ads from local businesses . . . and you could even ask clubs to pay to advertise their meeting days, too. That bulletin board outside the cafeteria is getting pretty crowded—it's hard to keep track of which group meets when.”

Elaine cocked her head to one side, considering. “That's actually not a terrible idea.”

Gladys figured that was the closest to a compliment she was going to get from this girl. “I'm glad I could help.” She rose to her feet. “All right, I'd better let you get back to work. Oh, and if you need some photos of
the Mathletes bake sale for an article or something, Charissa Bentley has some on her phone.”

“Good to know,” Elaine said. Gladys was two steps from the door when Elaine spoke again. “And Gladys . . .”

Gladys turned back to her.

Elaine's cheeks colored, but she continued to speak anyway. “I really am sorry about that article about you. I let my resentment eclipse my commitment to responsible journalism, and that's not okay.”

“Thanks for saying that,” Gladys said quietly.

They both stood there awkwardly for a moment, then Gladys stepped forward and offered her hand. Elaine took it, and they shook.

“Good luck with the new edition,” Gladys said. “I look forward to reading it.”

When she reached her locker, Gladys unzipped one of her lobster's claw pockets and pulled out Ms. Quincy's green pen. She then pulled out her page of honest thoughts and reread the first paragraph.

Plus, there's Elaine de la Vega. Why does she hate me so much? I wish I could figure that out.

Gladys drew a thin line through those words.

One fish fried. Four more to go.

THE MACARONS OF PEACE

S
ANDY WAS WAITING ON GLADYS'S
front stoop when she got home. “I did it!” he cried. “Operation Eat the Rodent's Face Off was a success!”

“Really?!” Disgusted as she was by the name he had given his mission, Gladys was thrilled to hear Sandy's good news. “Tell me everything!”

Sandy beamed as Gladys took a seat next to him. “Jonah had no chance! Though what he brought in was actually kind of cool. It was this little pill made from a berry from West Africa, and taking it makes sour foods taste really sweet for about half an hour. So after he took it, he ate a lemon—the flesh and everything—and then drank a whole cupful of vinegar.”

“A cup of vinegar?” Gladys's stomach
gave a lurch. “That
is
pretty gross.” The berry sounded fascinating, though—she'd definitely have to do more research on it.

“It was nasty,” Sandy agreed, “so he did get some points. Just not as many as me. I mean, I ate the cuy in front of everyone without taking any sort of cheaty pill first! Xavier Martin was so disgusted, he had to run to the nurse's office to puke.” Sandy beamed at this accomplishment.

“Well, if that's the test, then it sounds like you passed with flying colors,” Gladys said.

“I'll be known as Rat-Boy forever,” Sandy said proudly. “Already a legend at St. Joe's! Though I couldn't have done it without you, Gatsby. Thanks again for all the help. You can totally claim the title of Rat-Girl if you want.”

Gladys had to smile at that. “So, how did you celebrate? Did the other boys hoist you up onto their shoulders and parade you around? Did someone make you a crown?”

“Yeah, and they sang ‘Rat-Boy Is Our King,' too.” Sandy laughed. “Is that really what you think people do at private school? You read too much Harry Potter.”

She shoved him. “Don't mock the Potter.”

“Okay, okay—joking!” Sandy held up his hands in surrender. “So hey, your last review is in. What are you going to tell Fiona about the full-time job?”

“I have some ideas,” Gladys said, though that was
a bit of an exaggeration. She had precisely one idea—but she thought it had some potential.

“Cryptic,” Sandy said. “So you're not gonna tell me?”

Gladys sighed. “I just think this is a step I'm going to have to take on my own.”

He nodded. “Fair enough. Just don't go doing anything stupid, like spilling the beans to your parents first.”

Gladys didn't say anything. Sandy was probably right; it probably was a stupid idea. But that was exactly what she was planning to do.

• • •

Gladys knew the whole parental situation had to be handled with care, and she decided to talk to them on a night when she could cook some of their favorite foods. She also thought it would be best to do it without Aunt Lydia present. Since her aunt had one last foodie trade show to attend that coming Saturday afternoon, Gladys planned to wait until the weekend to have the discussion.

But then, that Friday after school, something unexpected happened.

Gladys was once again behind the bake sale table, this time with the Chess Club. Jason Mitty had purchased silicone molds online, and Gladys and the other members had spent the previous evening at his house, microwaving dark and white chocolate chunks and
filling the molds to create edible chess pieces. It had been one of her easier projects to oversee, especially since there was no baking, icing, or frying involved.

She was just wrapping up the white-chocolate knight Parm had bought for Charissa (“You know, to say thanks for last time,” Parm said) when she noticed a figure lurking just outside the lobby's smudged glass doors. She couldn't see his face, but he was dressed all in black.

It's not him,
Gladys told herself.
You're hallucinating.
Besides, even though this person was wearing a hat, it wasn't Hamilton's signature fedora; it was a black beret, like the kind poets and painters wore. Maybe it was someone from the Art Club, Gladys thought, come to spy on her and find out why she was skipping today's meeting.

She kept selling chess pieces, waiting for the figure to come into the building or leave. But it didn't do either. Finally, Gladys's curiosity got the better of her.

“Hey, Jason, can you handle things for a while?” she asked. The boy said he could, and Gladys headed for the exit. She pushed open the door and stepped out into the October chill.

“Gladys.”

She knew that voice; what she didn't know was how to react to it. The same old mix of contradictory emotions flooded through her: happiness and annoyance. Relief and fury. If there was one thing she knew,
though, it was that this time, she wasn't going to run away from her feelings. She turned to Hamilton and looked him straight in the face.

“Hey,” she said. “New hat?”

Hamilton reached up and touched the rim of the beret. “I got it in Paris,” he said. “It was a gift from my French publisher, actually. They flew me out the same night I came here for the school assembly, and I only just got back.” He glanced down at the black-banded watch on his wrist. “Like, an hour ago.”

Gladys nodded slowly. Hamilton had been out of the country; that explained a few things. Though they had phones and Internet in France, didn't they?

She reminded herself not to jump to any conclusions. Unlike last time, she should at least give Hamilton a chance to explain himself. She glanced back inside, but it looked like Jason and the rest of the Chess Club had the sale under control. “Want to take a walk?” Gladys asked. “I could show you around.”

As soon as she said that, though, she felt stupid. Why would a boy who had just gotten off a plane from Paris want a tour of the local middle school? “Never mind,” she said quickly. “There's nothing to see, unless you want to watch the sports teams practicing or something.”

“No, that sounds great!” Hamilton protested. “I've never seen a middle-school sports team practice. It'll be a new experience for me.”

Gladys blinked in surprise. “Okay, then.” She led the way down the steps and around the side of the building.

She must have been striding quickly, because Hamilton had to jog a few steps to catch up with her. “Hey, so, I brought you something from France,” he said. Gladys slowed as he reached into his black messenger bag and pulled out a long rectangular box. It was made of clear plastic, and held an assortment of perfectly circular, rainbow-colored cookies.

“They're called macarons,” he said.

“I know what macarons are,” she replied, though she left out the fact that the recipe had given her fits on the first day of school.

“They sell them all over,” Hamilton said. “Even in gift shops at the airport. But I got these from a town called Montmorillon, about three hours outside of Paris. They're supposed to make the best in the country.”

They had just come to the edge of an empty field. The teams that were practicing were a bit farther out, but Gladys stopped walking.

“Hamilton,” she said, “you didn't have to bring me a fancy present. I mean, don't get me wrong—these macarons look incredible. But I would have been happy if you had just called me once after camp ended . . . or answered one of my e-mails.”

“One of your e-mails?” Hamilton looked confused. “But I didn't get any e-mails from you.”

Yeah, sure,
Gladys thought.

“What address did you use?”

“The one I found on ZombietownUSA.com.”

Hamilton groaned softly. “Gladys, that e-mail address is for
fans.
Do you have any idea how many messages go to that account every day?”

Gladys didn't have any idea—and found that, actually, she didn't really want to know.

“And anyway,” Hamilton continued, “those e-mails don't come to me; they go to my publicist. She hardly ever forwards any to me. Most go into a long queue and get answered with some kind of generic response.”

Gladys let out a puff of air, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. “But I clearly said in the e-mails that I was your friend,” she told him, “and that I needed to get in touch with you urgently!”

“That's what they
all
say.” Hamilton sighed. “How was my publicist supposed to know that of all the people who write and claim to be a close friend with an urgent message, you were the one telling the truth?”

Now that Hamilton had explained it, Gladys supposed it did make some sense that her e-mails wouldn't have gotten through the gatekeeper. So he hadn't known she was trying to contact him.

“Okay, well, I called your house, too,” she told him.

“My parents came with me to France,” Hamilton replied, “so no one would have been home to answer.”

“And what about before then?” she asked. “I gave
you my number on the last day of camp. How come you never called
me
?”

Now a blush crept up over the rim of Hamilton's black turtleneck, and he leaned against the outer wall of the school. “I'm so embarrassed,” he said, “but your number . . . it got destroyed.”

“Destroyed?”

“Well, you
did
write it on a napkin,” he retorted. “Not exactly the sturdiest surface in the world.”

A twinge of annoyance shot through Gladys—probably because Hamilton was right. She had grabbed at the first thing she saw in the camp kitchen when he'd asked for her number. Still, she felt weirdly defensive about it. “I'm sorry,” she said, a snide note sneaking into her voice, “but not all of us are lucky enough to have a three-hundred-page novel to record our numbers in for posterity.
Some
of us just use whatever materials we have around.”

To her surprise, Hamilton nodded; he seemed content to concede the point. “I should have been more careful with it,” he said, and he really did look pained about the whole thing. “But I stuck it in my jeans pocket, and, well, if you remember, that day was a real scorcher. By the time I got home, the ink had bled and the napkin was in tatters.”

Gladys shook her head. Heaven forbid Hamilton should ever consider wearing weather-appropriate clothes—like shorts—when it got hot out.

“I tried to find your number online and in the phone book,” he continued, “but your family's unlisted. So then I just kept hoping you would call me, but you never did.”

“I figured you were busy writing,” Gladys said. “I didn't want to be a nuisance.”

Hamilton glanced down at his black boots. “You couldn't be a nuisance.”

Now it was Gladys's turn to blush—and her face grew even hotter when she remembered how she had stomped away from Hamilton at school weeks ago. “So when you came here to do the school assembly . . .” she started.

“Well, I couldn't get in touch with you,” he said, “but I knew that you went to public school in East Dumpsford. So I asked my publicist to book a school visit for me here. I figured it was my best chance of . . . you know . . .”

Gladys stared at him. “Are you saying that you set up that whole assembly
just
in the hopes of bumping into me?”

Hamilton stood up a bit straighter. “Of course,” he replied. “Do you think I
like
showing a slide show about my life to kids my own age? I know no one here wants to see that. Ugh, it's humiliating!”

“Huh.” Maybe Hamilton wasn't quite as socially clueless as Gladys had initially imagined.

“I tried one more time to track you down from
France,” Hamilton said, “just by doing a search online for your name. But I couldn't find any information. In fact, the only person who kept popping up was this writer for the
New York Standard
named G. Gatsby. Who, by the way, is a big fan of Cape Flats, that South African restaurant we went to together. Have you seen the review?”

“Hamilton,” Gladys said, exasperated. “I
wrote
that review!
I'm
G. Gatsby!”

Fudge
—she certainly hadn't meant to let it just slip out like that.

“What?” Hamilton said. “You're a reporter for the
New York Standard
?”

“Restaurant critic,” Gladys corrected him. “Just freelance for now, though that could change. Not a lot of people know, though, so if you could, um, not tell anyone . . .”

“Of course,” Hamilton said. “Wow. You know, I read all of G. Gatsby's—I mean, your—reviews. They were really good. I almost tried to contact them through the paper to see if they were a relative of yours or something.”

Gladys sighed. “Sounds like we just kept missing each other.”

“Well, it's all worked out in the end,” Hamilton said, chancing a tentative smile. “When I got home from the airport, I finally heard your message. I figured there
might still be time to catch you at school. And here we are now, two old friends, together again.”