Stars So Sweet (3 page)

IN HOT WATER

T
HE PHONE RANG A SECOND TIME, THEN
a third. “Gladys!” Aunt Lydia called up from the den. “Do you want me to pick up?”

“No!” Gladys lunged for the office phone. There was no time to even make a plan.

“Hello?” she said, trying to keep her voice from squeaking.

“Hello, I'm trying to reach Gladys Gatsby. This is Fiona Inglethorpe at the
New York Standard.
” Fiona's voice was as crisp as a just-picked apple.

Gladys racked her brain, trying to figure out how to play this situation. Her first instinct was to lower her voice and impersonate an adult. That worked in movies sometimes, but could it work in real life? The last time Gladys had
attempted to act was in her third-grade play, but it didn't take a lot of performance skills to play a tree with no lines.

Her lack of confidence got the better of her. “She's not home,” she said. “She, uh . . . just stepped out to go to the store. Sorry.”

She heard Fiona let out an exasperated sigh. “Drat—I was really hoping to catch her,” she said. “And to whom am I speaking, please?”

Gladys could only think of one plausible explanation. “I'm her daughter.”

“Yes, of course,” Fiona said. “And do you have a name, Gladys's daughter?”

Geez—did they teach you interrogation skills at editing school? Gladys glanced wildly around her mom's desk for inspiration, and her eyes fell on a pile of her own library books that needed to be returned. The book at the top was a creepy one about a girl who stumbles into a parallel world—which was kind of how Gladys felt, spinning stories for her editor right now.

“Coraline,” she blurted, and immediately winced. Why couldn't she have said a normal name, like Emma or Sophie? Surely now Fiona would see through her ruse.

But the editor did not appear to be as familiar with children's literature as Gladys was. “Well, Coraline,” she said, “can you give me Gladys's cell phone number, please?”

“She doesn't have a cell phone,” Gladys said, finally telling the truth.

Fiona sighed again. “Well, then I'd like for you to give her a message. I'm really hoping she can meet me in the city for lunch this week—I have a very important matter to discuss with her. Are you writing this down?”

“Oh, yes,” Gladys assured her.

“Good. Then please tell her that I'm making us a reservation for noon tomorrow at the
Standard
's executive dining room.”

“Tomorrow?” Gladys cried. “But she can't! I mean . . . she promised to spend the day with me. This is my last week before middle school starts.”

“Yes,” Fiona said, “her e-mail mentioned that. So that's why I'll make the reservation for three people. She can bring you along. A lunch in the city—won't that be fun?”

Gladys tried to think of something else to say, but her jaw hung slack. Fiona had finally stumped her.

“So please tell your mom to be at the
Standard
building at noon—I'll meet you both in the lobby. You'll recognize me by my pink suit.”

Of course Fiona didn't know that Gladys had already spotted her in person two times before: once at the
Standard
building, and much more recently at the Kids Rock Awards. But Gladys couldn't tell her that,
just as she couldn't seem to come up with an excuse to get out of the next day's lunch.

“I'll see you then,” Fiona said, and the line went dead.

• • •

Double, triple, quadruple fudge.
What was Gladys supposed to do now? In a daze, Gladys got to her feet and shuffled out of the room. She wandered downstairs without thinking about where she was going and found herself in the den. Aunt Lydia shifted on the couch, then reached for the remote to turn down the TV's volume. “Who was on the phone?” she asked.

Gladys considered her answer. On one hand, she didn't want to burden Aunt Lydia with more problems when she clearly had plenty of her own. But then again, who else did she have to turn to?

“It was my editor at the
Standard,
” she said finally. “I think . . . I think I'm going to lose my job.”

The TV snapped off with a click. “Lose your job?” Aunt Lydia cried. “Your reviewing job? Oh, my Gladiola—what's happened?”

Aunt Lydia's face no longer wore the blank expression Gladys had gotten used to; instead, it was full of concern, and the story came bursting out of Gladys like icing from an overfull pastry bag. She told her aunt about the e-mail from Fiona, the clever excuse she and Sandy had come up with to get her out of
going to lunch, Fiona's phone call, and the meeting that was now set for tomorrow.

As she listened, Aunt Lydia's spine grew straighter and her eyes brighter.
Maybe the best way to forget about your own troubles is to help somebody else with theirs,
Gladys thought.

“My Glammarylis,” Aunt Lydia said when Gladys finished speaking, “why didn't you come straight to me for help when you first got the e-mail?”

“Well . . .” Gladys glanced around the room. The coffee table was covered with crumpled-up fast-food wrappers, and the couch still had an Aunt-Lydia-shaped indentation in it, now sprinkled liberally with nacho crumbs.

Aunt Lydia's eyes followed Gladys's glances, and her lips puckered as if she'd just sucked on a lemon.
“Mon dieu,”
she murmured in French. “It looks like a junk-food hurricane hit this place.”

Gladys placed a hand on her aunt's arm. “Don't beat yourself up,” she said. “Plenty of people eat things they normally wouldn't when they're worried or sad.” She thought back to last Halloween and the moment she'd realized that her red spatula costume actually made her look like a giant misshapen stop sign. She'd stress-eaten an entire plastic pail of candy corn, even though it was full of artificial flavors that she would never use in her own cooking.

“I
have
been feeling sorry for myself,” Aunt Lydia
said. “But just because
my
job got sucked down the drain like old spaghetti water doesn't mean that we should sit idly by and let you lose yours!”

Gladys's heart took a tiny leap. She wasn't alone. Aunt Lydia would help her figure out what to do.

“Now,” Lydia said, brushing some nacho crumbs aside so Gladys could join her on the couch, “you've convinced your editor that you're not Gladys Gatsby, but her lovely daughter, correct?”

“Yep,” Gladys said glumly. “Pretty dumb, huh?”

Aunt Lydia thought for a moment. “Not necessarily. It was a smart move to get yourself—as Coraline—invited to the lunch as well. So all you really need is for someone to go along with you and
pretend
to be your mother. That way, you'll be able to listen in on the whole meeting and get the information you need.”

“I guess . . .” Gladys said slowly.

“But who can play the role of the grown-up Gladys Gatsby?”

Gladys was starting to get an idea. “Well, clearly it'd be best to choose someone with some familial resemblance to me, and that person will have to already know about my secret career,” she said. “And it would also be ideal if that person has a foodie background herself—that way she could discuss lunch with Fiona without looking like a total ninny.” She looked at her aunt expectantly.

Aunt Lydia blinked. “Gladys,” she said, “you can't possibly be talking about . . .
moi
?”

Gladys broke out into a grin. “Of course I am!”

“But . . .” Her aunt scanned the room frantically again, then looked down at her pizza-sauce-stained T-shirt. “I'm in no state to be seen in public!” she protested. “And besides, the taint of recent job loss is fresh upon me. I'd only bring bad luck to your meeting. No, my Gladiola—you don't want me.”

“Yes, I do,” Gladys insisted. “It's got to be you, Aunt Lydia! You're the best fit—the
only
fit. And besides, getting out there and talking to other adults will be good practice for when you start looking for a new job, won't it?”

Aunt Lydia seemed to be out of arguments—which was a good thing, since Gladys was already worried that she was pushing her aunt too hard. If she said no again, Gladys would stop asking. But luckily, she didn't.

“Has anyone ever told you that you're very wise for your age?” Aunt Lydia said. A hint of a smile was playing across her face now. “Well, all right—you've talked me into it. I'll have to make an effort to prepare for my New York debut, though.” She gazed around again. “And my first step will be cleaning up this room.”

She got to her feet and started gathering up trash from the coffee table. “Then,” she said, “we should probably move this conversation to the porch. Lydia
Winslow may be a couch potato, but Gladys Gatsby enjoys the sunshine,
n'est-ce pas
?”

Aunt Lydia led the way out of the room, and Gladys scurried after her. Thinking that she and her aunt had found a solution to her lunch date dilemma was exciting. But the fact that she'd gotten her aunt off the couch—and possibly on a path out of her funk—made Gladys feel even better.

AUNT LYDIA'S SPECIALTY

T
HE NEXT MORNING, GLADYS STOOD IN
front of her closet, trying to figure out what to wear. She finally decided on the striped sundress her mother had bought for her birthday and added a cardigan just in case the executive dining room at the
Standard
was cold. She then loaded her trusty reviewing notebook and pencils into a small purse. If her lobster backpack was too babyish for middle school, then it definitely wasn't the right accessory for the most important business lunch of her career.

“Well, my Gladiola—how do I look?”

Aunt Lydia stood in Gladys's doorway wrapped from head to toe in sky-blue chiffon. Even her hair was caught up in a turban-like head scarf. It was quite a change from her couch-potato uniform . . .
but still, she looked kind of like a fluffy, pastel mummy.

“Er . . .” Gladys said, “your outfit's a little . . . noticeable, don't you think? I mean, restaurant critics are supposed to blend into the background.”

Aunt Lydia frowned. “But I'm not critiquing today, right? Just having a meeting.”

“Right,” Gladys said, “but still, we want to show Fiona that Gladys takes her job seriously at all times, don't we?”

“I suppose,” Aunt Lydia said with a sigh. “All right, why don't you come help me pick something out?”

Gladys followed her aunt into the guest room, where her suitcase was thrown open on the bed. In the month that she'd been there, it seemed she hadn't yet gotten around to unpacking. Gladys began to sift through its contents, but soon discovered that pale blue chiffon was the subtlest material her aunt owned. She cast aside one brightly colored, wildly patterned item after another until her hand was scraping the bottom of the suitcase.

Gladys could hardly believe what she was about to say. “Um—maybe you could borrow an outfit from Mom?”

Aunt Lydia looked as though Gladys had just asked her to eat a bowlful of pig slop. “From Jennifer?” she cried. “My Gladysanthemum, you
must
be joking.”

“Remember, my name is Coraline today,” Gladys said with a grin, “and no. Mom has a lot of good businessy
outfits, and you guys are pretty much the same size.”

Aunt Lydia made another horrible face, but she reluctantly followed Gladys across the hall into the bedroom that belonged to her parents, who were both already long gone to work. They'd been excited at Aunt Lydia's sudden interest in getting out of the house and happily okayed the plan for an outing to the city. Gladys opened her mom's closet, and it took her only a minute to find a perfectly respectable beige pantsuit for her aunt.

“Ugh,” Aunt Lydia said, holding the suit in front of her as she looked into the full-length mirror. “This color will completely wash me out. I
never
wear beige!”

“Then it'll be the perfect disguise,” Gladys said. “Now come on, get dressed—we need to leave for the station.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were walking toward the East Dumpsford train station, Aunt Lydia fidgeting and tugging on her beige blazer. Twinges of nervousness were starting to ping at Gladys's stomach now; hopefully her aunt would be used to the borrowed outfit by the time they met Fiona.

As the train carried them into the city, Lydia unbuttoned her blazer, leaned back, and finally told Gladys the story of her inglorious exit from Paris.

“It all began when Monsieur and Madame Devereaux—my bosses at the café—decided to retire,” she told Gladys. “They had been wonderful to me for
twelve years; I started off as a waitress, but eventually they had me do some of the cooking, too. By the end, customers were regularly requesting my specialties. And they also had me oversee the last renovation, which brought quite a lot of color into the formerly plain café.”

Thinking of her aunt's suitcase filled with boldly patterned clothes, Gladys could only imagine.

“But when they sold the business this summer,” Aunt Lydia continued, “the new owner had different ideas. She said I could stay on as a waitress, but that all the cooking would be done by her brother,
le chef.
And she also had the entire café repainted the most hideous shade of taupe.” Her nose wrinkled. “I can't imagine how she thought anyone would want to eat in a café the color of vomit!”

“Blech,” Gladys said.

“I tried to tell her that, but that was my first mistake. Then, when one of the regular customers requested my vichyssoise—that's a chilled potato soup, made with leeks and cream—she made me tell him it was off the menu permanently. And
then,
when that customer never came back, she blamed
me
!”

Gladys could hardly believe this unfair turn of events. “That's terrible!”

Aunt Lydia's eyes were moist, and Gladys could see how much, even now, the injustice stung her. “My job in the café had never paid much,” she said, “but I
had my routine there, and I was happy. Having my responsibilities taken away from me, though . . . that was painful.”

Gladys nodded, and her aunt took a deep, cleansing breath.

“I knew that my new boss was just looking for a reason to fire me, so I decided not to give her that satisfaction. I quit. But finding a new job in Paris turned out to be impossible. So I packed up my things, and here I am.”

“I'm so sorry, Aunt Lydia,” Gladys murmured. “We'll help you find a new job here. Something even better!”

Aunt Lydia smiled, but underneath she still seemed sad. “I miss Paris every day,” she said quietly. “The food, the energy, the people out on the sidewalks. As much as I love being near you, my flower, life in East Dumpsford just cannot compare.” She gazed out the train window as the skyscrapers of Midtown came into view. “Though perhaps, if I could find work in New York City . . .” She let the thought hang in the air, unfinished, as the train dove into the tunnel that would take them into Manhattan.

• • •

It was an eight-block walk from where their train ride ended at Penn Station to their destination near Times Square, and Gladys and her aunt spent the entire length of it calling each other by their new names so it would feel more natural.

“Would you look at that billboard, my dear
Coraline
?” Aunt Lydia said as they passed a Broadway theater.
“Glossy Girl: The Musical,
now in its sixth smash month!”

“Oh, I've already seen that one,
Mom,
” Gladys replied. “It was atrocious. Zero stars!”

They were still laughing when the
New York Standard
building came into view. Aunt Lydia stopped short.

“Are you ready?” Gladys asked.

Aunt Lydia stared up at the building and nodded, though she suddenly looked a bit pale.

It's probably just Mom's suit, washing her out,
Gladys told herself—but still, she gave her aunt's hand a fortifying squeeze.

“Come on,” she said. “You're gonna be great.”

Then, together, they stepped inside.