The Stars of Summer (15 page)

SOMETHING FISHY

H
ONESTY HAD WORKED SO WELL FOR
Gladys in Brooklyn that she decided to try it out again the next day at breakfast. “I've been doing some research online,” she told her parents, “and there are actually a lot of really interesting hot dogs at the beaches of New York City. I thought maybe we could make it a kind of family project to try them all out.”

“Ooh!” said her mom through a mouthful of coconut waffle. “Visiting more beaches means more swimming! We can really work on your skills, honey.”

Her dad agreed to the plan, too. “You know, I'm impressed with you, Gladdy,” he said. “First, you ate all those hot dogs with me in Manhattan, and now you want to try hot dogs in other boroughs. It's like you're finally learning how to eat like a kid!”

So they made a plan to visit beaches in Queens and Staten Island the next Saturday, and to go to Orchard Beach in the Bronx the Saturday after that. For once, Gladys wouldn't be scrambling at the last minute to finish her assignment; she would have more than a week after the Bronx trip to get her review into perfect shape before Fiona returned from her vacation.

During swimming lessons the next week, Gladys managed to tune out Coach Mike's shouts and concentrate on the tips her mother had given her at Brighton Beach. She found that if she spent the first few minutes of class getting her usually panicked breathing under control, she could breathe in the water much better.

Life in the kitchen with Mrs. Spinelli was going more smoothly, too, since they each had their own projects to work on. And, if Gladys wasn't mistaken, the cook was starting to look a little less skeletal. Maybe that was because she was now eating two lunches a day: the one she made herself and the one Gladys made.

Gladys had more free time after camp each day, too, now that her hot dog research trips were squared away, so she decided to make another care package for Sandy. She stopped by his house on Monday afternoon to steal more underwear, baked peanut-butter-chocolate-chip cookies for him on Tuesday, and on Wednesday boxed everything up and cycled to the post office to mail the package.

On the way home, she stopped at Mr. Eng's. Postage for Sandy's packages had cost her more than fifteen dollars, so her funds were pretty low, but she did have just enough change left to buy a copy of that day's
Standard.
Even on weeks when she didn't have a review scheduled, Gladys liked to read the Dining section. Maybe today there would be a delicious new recipe, or a report on an emerging culinary trend.

“Anything good in there today?” she asked Mr. Eng. She knew he always read the Dining section first thing in the morning—he was the one who had originally gotten her hooked on reading it.

“Not if you're a restaurant called Café Accra,” he replied. “Honestly, I'm not sure why your editor even sent Gilbert Gadfly there. It's pretty clear from the first sentence of his review that he despises African food.”

“Wait—Café Accra?” Gladys had already seen Mr. Gadfly's notes for Ristorante Massimo in his reviewing notebook, but Café Accra was the
other
restaurant Gladys was supposed to review! She flipped the paper open on Mr. Eng's counter and saw the headline “Cuisine of West Africa Disappoints.”

Gladys only had to skim the first few lines to confirm that Mr. Eng was right. Mr. Gadfly wasn't critiquing Café Accra's menu so much as the culinary traditions of western Africa as a whole.
Too many beans make the belly grow gassy,
he wrote, and then, later,
The chef might want to replace some of the chopped peanuts in his signature stew with a tastier protein—like pork.

Gladys's teacher, Ms. Quincy, had grown up in western Africa, and her geography lessons had been particularly memorable. Thanks to her, Gladys knew that peanuts were a major crop grown in several West African countries, but that pigs were not widely raised, in part because the region's large Muslim population didn't eat pork.

Had Mr. Gadfly done
any
background research before slamming the new café?

And had Fiona edited this review before she left for vacation? Somehow, Gladys didn't think so. This was the kind of sloppiness readers might expect to see in the
Dumpsford Township Intelligencer,
but not in the country's top newspaper
.
Gladys wondered how long the eatery would stay in business with such a poor write-up in the
Standard
.

“I could have done a better job with this review,” she grumbled.

Mr. Eng smiled. “You always do.”

“Thanks, Mr. Eng.”

When she got home, Gladys found that he had slipped a free peach into her bag.

She sliced it up to eat while perusing the rest of the Dining section. There were three recipes, an interview with a vegan chef, and an article about a new super-fruit from Malaysia. All of it seemed to be up to the
Standard
's usual . . . well, standard. Only the Gadfly review stood out.

Something seemed fishy about this whole situation.

More than ever now, Gladys wished that Sandy was home from camp—she was sure they could get to the bottom of this mystery together. But she didn't expect to hear from him anytime soon. She imagined her tablet sitting in the camp director's office, propped up against the wall like a magic mirror that would reveal her to him the moment she signed in to video-chat. Which, of course, she had no intention of doing. In fact, she'd made sure to change her DumpMail privacy settings to never reveal when she was online. She thought Sandy would be proud of this move, but of course she had no easy way to tell him about it now.

She supposed she could talk to Parm, but her friend probably wouldn't find the Gadfly review as weird as she did. “Beans?” she imagined Parm saying. “Peanuts? Ugh! No wonder he gave it a bad review—that all sounds disgusting!”

Charissa would be more understanding, but Gladys still wasn't ready to trust her with her secret. Charissa seemed like the kind of person who would keep quiet about something until you got in a fight with her . . . and then the rumors would start. No, it was still too dangerous to confide in her.

But who did that leave?

• • •

The next day, Gladys caught up with Hamilton as he crossed the lawn after their swimming lesson. “Hey, Hamilton,” she said.

“Gladys!” He immediately swept his fedora off his head. “My favorite muse. Do you have more swimming advice for me today?”

“Er . . .” Gladys hadn't expected that question, but she supposed that passing along another tip from her mom couldn't hurt. Quickly, she explained the breathing technique she had practiced at Brighton Beach.

“Now,” she went on, “I have a question for you.”

“Fire away.”

“You have an editor, right?” Gladys asked. “For your books?”

“Of course I do. She's terrific.”

“And your editor—does she work with other writers, or just with you?”

“Oh, she has other authors, too.”

They had reached the lunch patio now, and Hamilton pulled his notebook out of his bag. “Have you read any of their books?” Gladys asked quickly. “These other authors your editor works with?” She was trying to get some insight into how editors operated, to see if she could figure out whether Fiona had actually edited Gilbert Gadfly's review before it was published.

“I've read a few,” Hamilton said, zipping his bag back up. “But if I'm honest, none of the other books are that great. So if you're looking for a good read, I really must recommend
Zombietown, U.S.A.
”

An all-too-familiar feeling of exasperation flooded through Gladys. “That's
not
what I—” she started, but she managed to cut herself off before saying something rude. Hamilton was the only other published writer she knew, the only person who might be able to answer her questions.

“What I meant to ask was, can you tell when your editor has worked on a book?”

Hamilton frowned as he flipped his notebook open. “Well, I'm sure my editor helps her other authors. But if you're asking whether every book she edits is up to my standards, then I'd have to say no.” And with that, he uncapped his pen, hunched his long torso over his notebook, and began to scribble—a sure sign that their conversation was over.

Gladys fumed as she marched into the kitchen. It had been ridiculous to think that her questions would get through to Hamilton. Charissa was right—she'd need a supersonic fighter jet to navigate around an ego that size! The goodwill she'd been feeling toward him over the last week was disappearing fast.

Gladys's sour mood even seeped into the lunches that day. “Whew!” Mrs. Spinelli cried when she took a bite of her seared tofu and pomegranate seed salad. “Maybe use a little less vinegar in that dressing next time, huh, girlie?”

• • •

When the weekend finally arrived, Gladys couldn't wait to get to Rockaway Beach in Queens. For once, she actually
wanted
to hang out with her parents. She might not be able to talk to them about her confusing Gilbert Gadfly problem, but she was pretty sure that another day of sun, sand, and hot dog tasting would at least help put it out of her mind. She wasn't even that nervous about swimming—two weeks of practicing her mom's techniques in the pool had really improved her confidence.

Gladys and her mom spent the morning in the ocean, working on the crawl stroke. “Slice! Chop! Whip!” her mom called out, reminding Gladys what she should be doing with her arms and legs. Once her mom was satisfied with her progress, they moved onto the breaststroke, which Gladys actually found much easier.

Gladys's dad joined them for a while, and by the time they found the Royal Bangkok stand on the boardwalk, they had all worked up an appetite. Gladys made a conscious effort to focus on her delicately fried hot dog on a stick and supersweet cup of Thai iced tea, but she couldn't help but get distracted. The sun's reflection on the water was bright and beautiful, and the shrieks of little kids racing down the boardwalk were loud and excited. And then there were her parents, who kept shooting straw-wrapper missiles at each other until Gladys yelled at them for littering and made them find a trash can.

Maybe they weren't growing up as quickly as she'd thought.

In the afternoon, they drove across the Verrazano Bridge to Staten Island and swam for another couple of hours at South Beach. Here, Gladys's mom taught her how to fill up her lungs and dive under the surface, covering extra distance with a few strong underwater strokes. “Pretend you're one of those turkey baster doodads,” her mom said. “Just make sure it's air you're sucking in before you dive, not water.”

After swimming, the Gatsbys dropped in at Arizona Arthur's for an early dinner. A large concrete-floored space with sauce-splattered, cafeteria-style tables, it was full of loud beachgoers swigging margaritas and digging in to dripping burritos. Gladys's dad took care of the ordering and came back to their table with three Sonorans—bacon-wrapped hot dogs tucked inside oval buns and smothered with pinto beans, onions, tomatoes, mayonnaise, mustard, and jalapeño sauce. Gladys reached for her journal in her beach bag, excited that she could actually take notes this time since they were at a real table.

“You know, your father took me to a place a lot like this one for our first date,” her mom said loudly over the bar noise.

Gladys's dad nearly choked on his first bite of hot dog. “It was
nothing
like this!” he insisted.

“I guess you're right,” Gladys's mom said, glancing around at the neon cacti that decorated Arizona Arthur's walls. “This place is much, much nicer.”

Pretty soon, Gladys was giggling as her parents argued about their first night out together: Her dad made their destination sound like a four-star restaurant, while her mom described something closer to a filthy dungeon. Whatever the truth, their debate definitely got Gladys's mind off her crazy reviewing assignment.

Too far off. It wasn't until the last bite of her own Sonoran hot dog had disappeared that Gladys realized she'd completely forgotten to take any notes. Again.

Fudge
.

THE ONION TRICK

“
IS SOMETHING THE MATTER?” HAMILTON
asked Gladys through the lunch window that Monday at camp.

“What?” Gladys snapped. “No, why?”

“Well,” Hamilton said, “I just asked you for a ham sandwich, but you gave me turkey. Usually you're sharper than that. Also, I noticed you struggling in the pool this morning, which is surprising after your week of solid improvement.”

Gladys snatched the sandwich back from his tray and passed him the right one. “Here. And why were you watching me so closely, anyway?”

Hamilton shrugged. “If I'm basing a character on someone, I have to observe them closely. It's my job.”

“Yeah, well, you're not the only one with a job to worry about,” Gladys mumbled.

“What's that?”

“Nothing.” She had already said too much.

Gladys was still angry at herself for paying such poor attention to that Sonoran hot dog on Saturday. Why did she keep letting herself get distracted? The
New York Standard
already had one critic who didn't give his work the attention it deserved; it didn't need another.

It rained that afternoon, and Charissa once again dragged her CIT friends to the Arts & Crafts Tent to work on pottery projects. Predictably, the conversation soon turned to Hamilton.

“He's such a creeper,” Rolanda said as she brushed glaze over a lopsided vase. “You guys should see the way he stares at Gladys during their swim lessons.”

Gladys, who had been rolling pieces of clay into spaghettilike strands, froze.

“Oh, it's not just at swimming,” Mira said. She set her paintbrush down and laid a purple-stained hand on Gladys's arm. “I
totally
saw him checking you out in the lunch line last Friday. Owen and Jake just cut right in front of him, and he didn't even notice! He was, like, on another planet.”

Leah giggled. “Yeah, Planet Gladys.”

“Omigosh,” Marti cried. “Do you think he
like
-likes you?”

Noses all around the table wrinkled in disgust, and Mira mimed sticking a purple-coated finger down her throat. Gladys's cheeks burned.

“O-of course he doesn't,” she stammered. “If he's staring at me, it's . . .”

She was about to explain that it must be because he was basing a character on her—but suddenly that sounded awfully weird, too.

Luckily, Charissa chose that moment to intercede. “Leave Gladys alone, guys,” she said. “If that nutcase has taken a liking to her, it's not her fault. Gladys just happens to be extremely
likable,
that's all. I mean, don't
we
all like her so much?”

The other girls at the table agreed immediately.

“Oh, yeah!”

“Definitely!”

“She's
so
super-likable!”

Gladys didn't buy it, but she shot Charissa a grateful smile anyway. Charissa didn't smile back, though—in fact, her glossy lips were now set in a very thin line.

“But this business with Hamilton Herbertson has gone on long enough,” she told the group. “I promised that if he messed with Gladys again, I'd make him pay.”

“Oh,” Gladys said. “No, Charissa, I really don't think that's—”

“You're my friend,” Charissa snapped, “and no one messes with my friends. It's that simple.”

But it wasn't so simple to Gladys. Hamilton certainly wasn't her favorite person, but she didn't hate him anymore, either. How could she explain that to Charissa, though? If she said something nice about Hamilton in front of this group, they'd make fun of her forever.

“I don't know exactly what I'll do about him yet,” Charissa went on, “but once I have a plan, I'll expect everyone here to pitch in. Got it?”

“Absolutely!”

“Can't wait!”

Gladys shuddered. It sounded like Hamilton's fate was sealed.

• • •

Over the next few days, Gladys tried to keep an extra eye on Hamilton to see whether he might be keeping an extra eye on
her
. To her dismay, Rolanda and the other girls were right. When her head popped out of the water during the crawl stroke, there he was, watching her from the next lane. As she served campers in the lunch line, he lurked by the garbage cans, observing. And when she stepped out onto the archery range in the afternoon, she noticed that he had seated himself under the tree right next to it with his notebook, all but blending into the shadows in his black camouflage.

Was this the way authors normally worked?

That Thursday, Hamilton came up beside her as she crossed the field after swimming lessons. “Hello, Gladys,” he said, sweeping his fedora off as usual. “I've been meaning to ask you something.”

Gladys glanced around, but there were no CITs in sight—no one to tell Charissa that she was talking to him. “Okay,” she said, “what is it?”

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his black jeans, pulled them out, then shoved them in again. Was he actually
nervous
about something?

He cleared his throat. “Well, next Friday is the big swim test, and I'm hoping that, once it's over, we'll both have something to celebrate. So . . . I was wondering if you might . . .”

Suddenly, Gladys knew that she didn't want to hear the end of this question. “Oh my goodness, a seagull!” she cried.

Hamilton looked bewildered. “A . . . what?”

Gladys pointed at the garbage bin outside the camp kitchen. “There's a seagull! In the Dumpster!”

“There are always seagulls in that Dumpster,” Hamilton said. “Haven't you seen them before?”

“
What?
” Gladys cried in mock outrage. “We have an infestation of seagulls? Mrs. Spinelli isn't going to like that. Sorry, Hamilton, but I've got to run and tell her right away!”

Without another word, she tore across the field and burst into the kitchen; in fact, she didn't stop running until she was alone in the pantry with the door shut tightly behind her.

Gladys sank down onto the floor beside a giant box of quinoa. Could Marti have been right? Had Hamilton actually been about to ask her out on a
date
?

“Aghhhhhhh!” She buried her head in her hands. Thanks to Sandy, she'd finally gotten used to the idea of having boys as friends—but going out with a boy was a whole other idea. Really, she'd had no choice but to run away. What would she have answered when he finished asking his question?

If she said yes, Charissa and her cronies would never let her hear the end of it. And anyway, if she went on a date with Hamilton, what would they talk about? More about his book, and his book signings, and his fabulous life as a celebrity kid author?

No thanks.

But somehow, no didn't seem like the right answer, either.

The pantry door squeaked open, and Gladys scrambled back—but it was only Mrs. Spinelli. “I thought I heard moaning and groaning in here. You sick, girlie?”

Gladys shook her head, and Mrs. Spinelli clicked her tongue. “Must be boy trouble, then. Ah, yes, I know all about that.” She was nodding to herself now, her loose gray bun bouncing against the back of her neck. “Let me guess—the one who hangs around on the patio and stares at you from the lunch line?”

Gladys's mouth fell open. Had
everybody
figured out that Hamilton had a crush on her before she had?

Mrs. Spinelli held out a hand and pulled Gladys to her feet. “Come on. I know just the thing to help you out today.”

“You do?”

Mrs. Spinelli raised an eyebrow. “Don't look so surprised,” she said. “Even I was nine years old once.”

“I'm twelve,” Gladys told her.

“Sure you are, girlie.” Mrs. Spinelli led Gladys out of the pantry and pointed to the far counter, which was covered with baseball-size onions. “As a special favor, I'm going to let you slice all those up. That way, when everyone notices that your eyes are red and puffy, you can say truthfully that it was the onions that made you cry, rather than that boy.”

“I wasn't crying,” Gladys pointed out, but the cook didn't seem to hear her.

“No need to thank me,” she said breezily. “I'll just be over in my chair with my magazine; you let me know when you're done.”