The Stars of Summer (12 page)

BEIGE GLOP ON BUTT-BREAD

T
HE NEXT HALF HOUR SAW GLADYS
blending the oil and seeds into a great vat of tahini, then blending that tahini with chickpeas, fresh-squeezed lemon juice, cloves of garlic, and salt. Some water and a little more oil thinned out the mixture, and finally Gladys was able to taste her hummus. Not bad! She pulled the bowl off the food processor, threw it into the refrigerator, and turned to the next items on her mental list.

There were two hundred twenty mini baguettes to slice in half, and two six-pound wheels of Sardo to cut into one hundred ten wedges each. The watercress was prewashed, so at least she wouldn't have to worry about how to clean such a large volume of greens. After forty minutes of work with Mrs. Spinelli's knives, Gladys's arm felt like it was going to fall off, but the cutting was done. All she had left to do was spread the hummus onto the baguette slices and assemble her sandwiches.

In twenty minutes. That was eleven sandwiches a minute. Could she do it?

As Gladys hauled the hummus out of the refrigerator and set to work, she wondered what was taking Mrs. Spinelli so long. At first she'd been happy to have the kitchen to herself, but now that it was crunch time, she could really use the extra set of hands. Had the cook spent the last hour yelling at Foodstuffs? Or had she quickly canceled their account and spent the rest of the time placing rush orders with somebody else? Gladys hoped Charissa would have the scoop that afternoon. Maybe she should even tell her friend what she'd done. After all, it was Charissa who had encouraged Gladys to teach Mrs. Spinelli some new recipes.

Gladys glanced at the kitchen clock: 11:57. Her arms whipping like crazed eggbeaters, she upped her sandwich-making speed. Schmear of hummus, hunk of Sardo, handful of watercress, close the sandwich. Schmear of hummus . . .

Outside, she could hear the first campers arriving for lunch, and the unmistakable, high-pitched whine of Kyra Astin told her that it was the Flamingo Fives. “I'm huuuuuungry,” Kyra moaned. “Why isn't lunch reaaaaaady yet?”

“Yeah!” called another voice. “It had better be burgers today!”

“No
way
!” shouted a third voice. “Monday is always bologna day!”

“I want sloppy joes!” squealed another voice.

A louder, deeper voice inserted itself into the lunch debate. “I, for one, hope that today's menu includes ham. I brought the herbs to construct a Ham Herb.”

Gladys couldn't help but smile as all the little voices quieted. “What's a Ham Herb?” one of the kids asked.

As Hamilton launched into his story about his signature sandwich, Gladys took a final glance over her handiwork. The last few sandwiches were a little messy, but overall, she was proud of them. This was going to be the best lunch of these campers' lives.

When Gladys finally eased the serving window open, twenty heads swiveled in her direction.

“LUNCH!” one of the kids screamed, and in seconds, the window was mobbed.

“One at a time!” Gladys shouted. “Line up, or you won't get any lunch at all!”

The kids finally formed some semblance of a line, and Gladys passed a plate out to the first set of little hands.

“Where's my dessert?” the boy demanded.

Dessert!
Gladys had totally forgotten that camp lunch always included a dessert, even if it was just an apple or an orange. Today's dessert was supposed to be lemon bars, but of course Gladys had swapped them out for real lemons. She couldn't very well give out lemons for dessert, even if she had any left after squeezing juice for her hummus.

“Um . . . sorry, but there's no dessert today,” Gladys said.

This set off a chain reaction down the line of five-year-olds.

“No dessert?”

“WHAT?”

“Boooo!”

“I want dessert!”

Then the boy in front of her opened up his sandwich and looked inside. “What is this stuff?” he asked.

“It's hummus with Sardo cheese and fresh watercress,” Gladys said. “It's really good, I promise.”

The boy just shrugged, turned away, and headed for a nearby table.

But the next girl wasn't so easy. “There's beige glop in my sandwich!” she shrieked.

“That's not glop; it's hummus,” Gladys explained as patiently as she could. “It's a Middle Eastern staple that people have enjoyed for hundreds of years. Just try it.”

With every kid, the reaction got worse.

“What's the matter with this cheese? It's hard!”

“Ugh, why's the lettuce so stringy?”

“The crust on my bread feels like it's made of wood!”

Gladys kept trying to explain the different components of the meal, but her patience quickly wore out. She finally gave up, and when someone asked, “What is this?” she answered, “It's a cheese sandwich.”

The Squirrel Sixes and Scorpion Sevens were just as whiny about their sandwiches as the Flamingo Fives. Gladys hoped that the Emu Eights would act more mature, but if anything, they were worse.

“What did you do with the normal bread?” one boy asked Gladys accusingly. “This bread looks like a butt!”

The mini baguette looked nothing like a butt, but once the words were out of his mouth, there was no stopping them from spreading around the patio.

“Butt-bread, butt-bread!” a group of Ninja Nines chanted as they waited in line. And when they got to the window, things went downhill even faster.

“Ewwwwww—my butt-bread's got poop in it!” cried a skinny boy with curly brown hair. With his fingers, he scraped out a glob of Gladys's homemade hummus and flung it onto the patio.

That did it.

Gladys lunged through the window at the boy. Her fingers grazed the sleeve of his purple camp shirt, but the boy managed to back out of her reach just in time.

“Hey!” he shouted. “The crazy lunch CIT's trying to kill me!”

Heads whipped toward her, but Gladys was beyond caring. How did Mrs. Spinelli deal with these monsters every summer? Right now, it was all she could do not to storm out to the lunch patio and find that kid. She envisioned knocking him to the ground and forcing him to lick up the hummus he'd thrown.

She was in the midst of taking a deep breath, trying to get hold of herself, when the high-pitched squeal of a microphone sounded.

“You children should be ashamed of yourselves!” a booming voice scolded.

Gladys peered through the serving window. On the other side of the patio, up on the platform that Mrs. Bentley sometimes used for lunchtime announcements, stood Hamilton. He had the microphone in one hand, and one of her sandwiches in the other—which was odd, because she didn't remember serving him.

“I just found this sandwich
in the trash can
,” he announced, answering Gladys's unasked question. “With not even
one
bite taken!” He held the sandwich high overhead for everyone to see. “Yes, the ingredients are a little strange. No, it's probably not as tasty as, say, a ham sandwich with herbs. But you should at least
try
it. That's the mature thing to do.”

The lunch patio fell silent as Hamilton pointed at the kitchen. “That drudge in there worked very hard to make these for you—I watched her do it myself. So pull yourselves together. Rise above your childlike instincts for once, and eat your darn lunches.”

Hamilton clicked off the microphone just as a gasp rose from the crowd. “He said a bad word!” one of the little kids cried.

But still—for one glittering moment—it looked as though his speech really might have gotten through to them. Most of the kids were like statues in their seats, and at a nearby table, one girl's hand was raising her sandwich to her mouth as though she was hypnotized. But then it passed her mouth unbitten and arched back over her shoulder before sailing through the air, raining watercress leaves on the heads of the Flamingo Fives and Scorpion Sevens. The sandwich slammed directly into Hamilton's chest.

He staggered back, his black T-shirt now streaked with pale hummus. A moment later, a hunk of mini baguette from a different hurler caught him on the arm.

Mrs. Bentley finally rushed up onto the platform, calling for order as Hamilton slunk off toward the bathroom. Gladys, meanwhile, spotted Charissa standing with Rolanda and Marti at the end of the lunch line. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she was glaring at Hamilton's retreating back—probably remembering the first time he had grabbed the microphone to make a speech insulting the other campers.

But this time was different. Yes, Hamilton had once again shown off his pompous side—but he had done it to defend Gladys.

She felt her own rage softening like a pat of butter in a frying pan . . . but as it melted away, it left a film of confusion. The morning hadn't gone at all like she'd expected. There really was something to Mrs. Spinelli's assertions that she knew what kids liked to eat, and that it was salty meat on white bread. Maybe the camp cook was a tiny bit more knowledgeable in that culinary area than Gladys was.

And maybe Hamilton wasn't quite as horrible as she had originally thought.

CARROTS AND CUPCAKES

S
HORTLY AFTER HAMILTON'S SPEECH,
Mrs. Spinelli burst into the kitchen. Mrs. Bentley followed close behind.

“She's just a child, Yolanda!” Mrs. Bentley cried. “What were you thinking, leaving her in charge of lunch?”

Gladys jumped in before the cook could say a word. “Please don't yell at Mrs. Spinelli,” she begged Charissa's mom. “This was my idea, and I promised her I could handle it.”

She glanced over at the cook, whose angular face now wore an expression of surprise. Clearly, she hadn't expected Gladys to stand up for her, but she was happy to play along. “That's right,” she huffed. “It was all the girl's idea.”

Looking exceptionally weary, Mrs. Bentley sank into a battered old kitchen chair and grabbed a sandwich off the serving line. She took a bite—and her droopy features perked up.

“This is what you made for the campers?” she asked Gladys.

Gladys nodded, and Mrs. Bentley swallowed.

“Well, I can see why kids might not go for it,” Mrs. Bentley said, “but I think it's delicious! Here, try one, Yolanda.”

Mrs. Spinelli lifted a sandwich to her dried-up lips and took a tiny bite. “Hmpf,” was all she said after chewing and swallowing.

Some review,
Gladys thought.

Mrs. Bentley took another bite of her own sandwich and looked Gladys over while she chewed. “You know,” she said, “some of the staff and counselors have been complaining about having to eat the same lunches as the kids. I wonder . . . well, Yolanda, how would you feel about putting Gladys in charge of the staff lunches?” She turned to Gladys. “That would only be about twenty meals you'd be responsible for, rather than two hundred. Well, maybe a few more if the CITs decide they want the grown-up lunches, too—I'll have Charissa do a survey.”

“But,” Mrs. Spinelli said, “who will help me with the rest of the food?”

Mrs. Bentley licked a dollop of hummus off her finger. “Gladys can still assist you with the campers' lunches,” she said. “But if she takes the staff lunches off your hands, that will decrease your workload, too.”

Mrs. Spinelli looked over at Gladys, who was trying to look as disappointed as possible. She had a feeling that if the cook saw how much she wanted this job, she'd say no.

“Well,” Mrs. Spinelli said finally, “if you think that's for the best, Laura, then I won't question your decision.”

“Good, it's settled, then. Gladys, come on down to my office before the end of the day so you can fill out an order form for the ingredients you'll need. That is, if this plan sounds all right to you?”

Of course, it sounded more than all right to Gladys. Maybe it wasn't the camp-wide lunchtime revolution she had hoped for, but in a way, this was even better. She'd be able to completely control her own small menu every day—it would be almost like having her own restaurant!

“I'd be happy to prepare the staff lunches,” she said.

Mrs. Bentley left—sandwich in hand—and once the door swung shut behind her, Mrs. Spinelli gazed around the messy kitchen. Dirty utensils were scattered all around, and bread crumbs, hummus smears, stray watercress leaves, and cheese bits coated almost every available surface.

“You've still got a lot to learn about kitchen management, girlie,” the cook said with a chuckle. “But, well . . . you could have done worse.” And then, to Gladys's utter astonishment, she took a second bite of her sandwich. “Yep,” she repeated, “could've done worse. Now, start cleaning.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Gladys said. Then she made a quick show of hanging her head—which helped hide her smile.

• • •

The sky grew dark and drizzly after lunch, forcing all the usual poolgoers to do inside activities, and Charissa roped Gladys into joining her group in the Arts & Crafts Tent.

As Gladys had suspected, her friend was livid over Hamilton's display at lunch. “I can't believe the nerve of that kid, making
another
speech. I mean, he's not even an active CIT. If anyone was going to defend Gladys's sandwiches, it should've been me!” Charissa flung her ponytail over her shoulder, almost whacking a passing Emu Eight in the face. “He thinks he's
so
high and mighty,” she continued, “because of that idiotic book.”

“My mom's reading it right now,” Leah said, reaching across the table for a piece of papier-mâché.

“Mine, too,” said Marti as she pressed a wet strip onto her blob in progress. Everyone's projects looked like blobs to Gladys, including her own attempt at a pear.

“My parents bought two copies this past weekend,” Gladys admitted, “so neither would have to wait to read it.” She left out the fact that they'd also asked her to get Hamilton's autograph—a request she'd avoided, for today at least, by “accidentally” leaving the books at home.

“Well, I've told Mommy and Daddy that I'd better not catch them with their noses in it,” Charissa said with a huff. “And I'm certainly not reading it, either. I don't think any of the CITs should!”

The other girls at the art table fell over one another to agree, though that didn't surprise Gladys—she was used to seeing everyone follow Charissa's lead. The question was whether
she
wanted to follow, too. Hamilton had stood up for her in front of the entire camp, and taken a sandwich to the chest for his troubles. That had to count for something, right?

• • •

As soon as she got home that day, Gladys opened her journal and looked at her list.

Step One: Ask people about the best hot dogs they've ever had.

-Aunt Lydia

-Mrs. Anderson

-Mr. Eng

-Parm

Paris, where Aunt Lydia lived, was six hours ahead of New York, meaning it was ten thirty p.m. there. Gladys knew that her aunt worked the late shift at the local café on Monday nights, so calling her right now was out. Instead, she decided to start closer to home, and five minutes later, she was knocking on the Andersons' front door.

“Gladys, what a nice surprise!” Mrs. Anderson cried. She was holding her laptop under one arm, and a streak of flour ran down the front of her leggings. She always seemed a bit frazzled, juggling both of her jobs and her passion for baking, and it didn't look like sending Sandy off to camp had slowed her down at all.

“Are you baking something?” Gladys asked. She thought she smelled a hint of vanilla in the air.

“Oh, just cupcakes,” Mrs. Anderson said. “It's Tallie's birthday down at the yoga studio, so I thought I'd surprise her. But she's vegan and doesn't eat gluten or white sugar, so I had to get creative.”

“I'm sure they'll be delicious,” Gladys said.

“Well, thank you, sweetie.” Mrs. Anderson moved aside so Gladys could step into the foyer. “You can go straight on back, and grab a carrot from the fridge if you'd like.”

“Sorry?” Gladys supposed it was nice of Mrs. Anderson to offer her a snack, though she would have preferred to wait for one of the cupcakes.

“Sandy said he told you to come by to play with the rabbits?”

“Oh!” Gladys had completely forgotten about that conversation. “Right!”

“I'll come back and get you when the cupcakes have cooled, and maybe you can taste test one for me,” Mrs. Anderson said. “How about that?”

“Sounds great.”

Passing through the kitchen, Gladys helped herself to a carrot from the refrigerator and headed back to the Rabbit Room. After closing the door so they wouldn't get out into the hallway, she liberated tiny black-and-white Edward and fat brown Dennis from their hutch. Then she dropped to sit on the floor and let the Hoppers fight each other for the carrot in her hand. Edward, friendly and fearless, quickly climbed into her lap for better access, while skittish Dennis danced around her elbow, taking one hop back for every two hops he dared to take forward.

“Hey, have you guys ever eaten a hot dog?” she asked. “Probably not. I'm pretty sure rabbits are supposed to be vegetarians. Maybe a veggie dog?”

Edward was now balancing in her lap on his hind legs, stretching taller and taller to reach the carrot Gladys dangled high above him. Dennis, meanwhile, seemed to have gotten over his fear of Gladys and was now head-butting her other arm with the flat part of his face. Gladys finally gave in, broke the carrot in half, and let both animals go to town. If only feeding the kids at camp had been this easy!

A few minutes later, Mrs. Anderson arrived with a frosted cupcake on a small plate. “It's maple-flavored,” she said as she set it down on Sandy's computer desk, out of jumping range of the hungry rabbits. “I had to use maple syrup to sweeten it, so I figured I might as well embrace the flavor. I hope Tallie likes them.”

Leaving the Hoppers to their carrot, Gladys popped into the bathroom next door to wash her hands, then returned to try the cupcake. The icing was wonderfully creamy, and the cake itself was moist and sweet with a tiny but pleasant hint of coffeelike bitterness.

“Mmmm,” Gladys said.

“You like it?”

“I really do. Thank you, Mrs. Anderson!”

From the depths of the beanbag chair she had settled into, Sandy's mom smiled.

Gladys quickly swallowed her cupcake bite. As much as she wanted to go on eating it, she had come over for a reason.

“Mrs. Anderson, I was wondering . . .” she started, “if you've ever had a really, really good hot dog.”

Gladys couldn't blame Sandy's mom for shooting her a perplexed look. The question
was
coming out of nowhere.

“I mean, in all your travels,” Gladys added quickly. “You mentioned once that you backpacked all around Asia, so I just wondered if, um . . . maybe they have hot dogs there?”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Gladys realized how dumb they sounded. Even at Palace of Wong, East Dumpsford's very Americanized Chinese take-out joint, Gladys had never seen a hot dog on the menu.

But Mrs. Anderson was nodding. “Actually,” she said, “I
do
remember being surprised by all the hot dog vendors I saw on the streets in Thailand!”

“Really?” Gladys asked.

“I know—who thinks of Thailand and hot dogs? But they were a very popular snack. People don't eat them on buns like we do here, though—usually they come on sticks. Sometimes the vendors carve the dogs up with fancy patterns. And actually, the one I remember being the best was fried!”

“Like a corn dog?” Gladys asked.

“No, not really,” Mrs. Anderson answered. “The coating was more like a Japanese tempura batter—do you know what that is?”

Gladys nodded. She had cooked tempura vegetables once
,
carefully coating chunks of different veggies in a delicate floury batter before frying them.

“Then you know that it's very light and crispy. Ha, I haven't thought about that hot dog in years.” She smiled. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I was just curious,” Gladys said. Then she added, “The lunch lady I'm assisting at camp really likes hot dogs, and I was wondering if there might be a more interesting way to cook them than how she does it.”

Mrs. Anderson's eyes lit up. “I think there are a lot of interesting ways if you look to other countries! Marisol, at my yoga studio? She's from Chile, and when she had a cookout last summer, she served us these great hot dogs called completo Italiano.”

“Completo Italiano?” Gladys repeated. Who knew that Mrs. Anderson would be such a trove of hot dog information? “Are they Italian-style or something?”

Mrs. Anderson shook her head. “No, the name actually comes from the colors of the toppings, because they look like the stripes on an Italian flag! There's a layer of red tomatoes, then white mayonnaise, and finally chopped-up green avocado.”

When Mrs. Anderson excused herself to frost the rest of the cupcakes, Gladys pulled her reviewing notebook out of her pocket.
Thai deep-fried hot dog on a stick,
she wrote.
Chilean completo Italiano.
She would have to get online later to do more research—and hopefully find some vendors in New York City who sold them.