The Stars of Summer (20 page)

GLADYS GATSBY'S SIGNATURE SANDWICH

G
LADYS BLINKED, BUT WHEN SHE OPENED
her eyes, her name was still there, staring up at her from the dilapidated menu.

“I don't get it,” she said. “Did you . . . call the restaurant and tell them to put my name here?”

“Nope,” Hamilton said. “It's a real thing. Did you read the description?”

The Gatsby
, it said.
A foot-long sandwich filled with hot chips, Vienna sausage, and Indian curried pickle. A specialty of Cape Town.

“It's your signature sandwich,” he said.

Gladys was truly speechless now.

“You kids ready?” the old man behind the counter called out to them.

When Hamilton called back, “We'll split a number five, please,” Gladys wasn't even annoyed that he had ordered for her.

“One Gatsby, comin' right up!”

Gladys finally pulled her eyes away from the menu and forced herself to look at Hamilton. “How,” she asked hoarsely, “did you know that they sold this sandwich here?”

“Well, that's a funny story,” he answered. “See, I was observing you at work in the kitchen one day, and I had a kind of epiphany.” He paused. “Do you know—?”

“
Yes
, I know what an epiphany is.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Well, it struck me that for every hour I'd spent working on my new book, you'd spent the same amount of time making lunches. And it just seemed kind of unfair that I—an author—should have a sandwich named after me, but that you—an actual sandwich-maker—should not.

“So, originally, I was going to contact the Tipsy Typist and ask them to invent a signature sandwich for you. But then I thought I should check online and make sure that a Gatsby sandwich didn't already exist somewhere.”

“And when you did the search, you found this place?”

Hamilton shook his head. “First I found a lot of articles about South African food. In Cape Town, there's a stand selling Gatsby sandwiches on almost every corner! So then I wondered whether there might be any South African restaurants here in the city. And
that's
when I found this place.”

“Which just happens to be in Harlem,” Gladys said.

“Exactly,” said Hamilton. “Once I mapped it and saw how close it was to the Apollo, I knew I had to bring you here.”

“But, Hamilton,” Gladys said, “you only just invited me this morning. You couldn't have done all that research today.”

Hamilton lowered his eyes to the smudgy tabletop. “You're right,” he said. “I've actually known for weeks that my parents weren't coming. I wanted to invite you all along. I just . . . never found the right opportunity.”

He looked back up, and Gladys felt her earlier blush return. So he probably
had
been trying to invite her out last Friday—on an outing to New York City, to try the “signature sandwich” he had found just for her. And how had she repaid him? By avoiding him, so Charissa's stupid friends wouldn't make fun of her.

Their order arrived just then, saving Gladys from having to talk. The Gatsby was a huge, messy thing: a foot-long roll with all sorts of stuff sticking out. There were crispy French fries—Gladys supposed those were the “hot chips”—and a lot of reddish-orange bits, which Gladys assumed were the curried pickle. And then, peeking out from between the chips, Gladys saw something that made her heart leap.

“Are those hot dogs?” she cried.

The old man, who had been limping back to his counter, turned around. Gladys pulled a chunk of cylindrical, red-brown meat out of the sandwich and held it up to help him see.

“Those're the Viennas,” he said, “but you Americans, yeah, you'd call 'em hot dogs. Same thing.”

Gladys could hardly believe it, but when she took a bite of her half of the sandwich, she knew for sure.

Forget Times Square—Hamilton had found her the best hot dog in New York City.

• • •

Forty minutes later, her stomach full to bursting, Gladys leaned up against the sink in the restaurant's tiny restroom and pulled out her journal.

The Gatsby sandwich at Harlem's Cape Flats restaurant features snappy sausages, just-fried-enough “chips,” and a sour-sweet pickle topping. This combination of textures and flavors creates an almost-perfect hot dog–eating experience.

(truly delicious)

At long last, her hot dog review was coming together. She jotted down a final thought and was flipping her book shut when a review she had written earlier that summer caught her eye.

Hamilton Herbertson is the worst!!!

No stars! (completely irredeemable)

Gladys paused, then gently drew a line through her words.

• • •

Hamilton was waiting for her by the restaurant door. “I took care of the bill,” he said, and when she began to protest, he held up a hand. “I just put it on my parents' credit card. If they couldn't make the effort to come, then I think paying for dinner is the least they can do.”

“Hamilton,” Gladys said, “if you wanted your parents to come, maybe you should have just
told
them that it was really important to you.”

He shook his head. “No, I wanted you to come. Honest.” He paused. “Well, maybe it would have been nice if you
all
came.”

Gladys smiled. “Well, next time, I think you should tell them how you really feel, instead of pretending it doesn't matter to you, or . . .” She took a deep breath. “Or writing about it as a metaphor in a novel.”

Hamilton gaped at her. “How did you know?”

Gladys wanted to say
Because I'm a writer, too,
but stopped herself. First, before she told any more friends her secret, she needed to come clean to her parents. She would send in her review to the
New York Standard
this weekend; then, after it was published, she'd have a long talk with her mom and dad.

As she resolved to do this, Hamilton spoke. “So you're saying I'll feel better if I tell the truth to the people I care about? That I shouldn't hold my feelings about them inside anymore?”

“
Exactly
,” Gladys said. Then she reached forward and squeezed her friend's hand. Finally, he was listening to her instead of talking over her, and she was proud of him for it.

“Okay,” Hamilton said. He nodded, like he had just talked himself into doing something. “Okay.” Then, still holding Gladys's hand, he leaned forward and kissed her square on the mouth.

Tiny explosions went off in Gladys's brain. The first thought she had was that the paparazzi must have found them somehow and were now taking pictures . . . of
this
. Horrified, she stumbled back, pulling her lips away from Hamilton's slightly-curry-flavored ones. But once they were apart, she realized that there was no one else in the room with them; even the old man was out of sight, washing dishes loudly in the back kitchen.

Hamilton smiled then, showing off a smidgen of pickle between his two front teeth. “You're right,” he said. “It feels good to share your feelings.”

Gladys felt like someone had flash frozen her in place, but Hamilton didn't seem bothered by her reaction. “Come on,” he said, opening the restaurant door. “Our car is waiting.”

NOT SO STALE

D
URING THE LONG RIDE BACK TO EAST
Dumpsford, Gladys stayed as silent as possible—and Hamilton, thankfully, stayed on his own side of the spacious backseat. He was definitely in a good mood, though, sighing a lot and shooting Gladys moony-looking smiles. “How are you feeling?” he asked her about a dozen times, and each time she managed to squeak out a “Fine.”

Hamilton's loss at the Kids Rock Awards appeared to be completely forgotten, but Gladys still felt stunned about what had happened at the restaurant. It was one thing to worry about her fellow CITs thinking she and Hamilton had been on a date . . . but it was quite another to think that
Hamilton
had been under the same impression. He'd probably even thought Gladys wanted him to kiss her.

Had she?

Gladys pushed the preposterous thought out of her mind.

When the car pulled up in front of her house, Gladys said good night and jumped out before Hamilton could even think about leaning her way again. She hurried up the path toward her front door, her hand fumbling around in Charissa's purse for the keys. It wasn't until the door shut behind her and she heard Hamilton's car roar off down the street that she was able to take a proper breath.

The house was dark, and Gladys crumpled against the heavy door. She had only meant to lean on it for support, but the slippery fabric of her dress sent her sliding down to the floor. She couldn't help but giggle when her butt hit the carpet—but a moment later, her laugh turned into a sob.

Was she happy? Was she sad? She didn't even know. She had outsmarted Gilbert Gadfly, saved her boss's job, and found the best hot dog in the city.

She just might have accidentally gained a boyfriend in the process.

“Gatsby!”

The whisper was so faint that Gladys thought she might have imagined it—but then she heard it again, coming from the bushes outside the open window in the living room.

She pushed herself up off the floor and wiped at her eyes, her hands coming away streaked with makeup.
Fudge
. She snatched a tissue from the box on the end table as she tiptoed over to the window.

Sandy was peeking up out of a bush, barely visible in the moonlight—though, thankfully, he had skipped the camo face paint this time.

“Come inside,” Gladys insisted, but Sandy shook his head.

“Too risky!” he hissed. “What if your parents catch me? I'm finally getting back on Mom's good side—I don't want to ruin it.”

Gladys had to smile. “What are you doing out here, then?”

“I snuck out after she went to sleep—I couldn't miss my chance to talk to you before you left for the weekend.” Sandy shoved a leaf away from his face. “
So
, how was it?”

“The Kids Rock Awards?” Gladys asked.

“No, Gatsby, the hot dog place in Times Square!”

“Oh,” Gladys said with a laugh. “We actually ended up going somewhere else—a place that Hamilton found.” She stopped there, not sure she could describe the Gatsby sandwich without her brain getting stuck on what had happened to her mouth just a few minutes after she'd finished eating.

“Wait,” Sandy said, “after all that work we did to plan your trip to Heavenly Hot Dogs, you didn't even go?”

“I . . . no,” Gladys admitted. “The night didn't exactly go the way I thought it would. But this other hot dog place was really good,” she added quickly. “The best in the city, I think. So it all worked out.”

Sandy shook his head, causing the leaves around him to rustle. “That is so
you
—throwing out all your plans at the last minute only to come up with something even better.”

“I didn't mean—” Gladys started, but Sandy cut her off.

“I'm not saying that's a bad thing. I mean, it's probably the only way you
can
operate, given the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“You know,” Sandy said, dropping his voice even lower. “Keeping all your reviewing a secret from . . .” He nodded up in the direction of Gladys's parents' bedroom window.

Gladys took a deep breath. “Actually,” she said, “I think I'm going to tell them.”

Sandy nearly fell over in the bush. “WHAT??”

“Shhh!”

“Sorry,” Sandy whispered, righting himself. “But . . . Gatsby, that sounds like the worst idea in the world. Remember how badly they freaked when you had your little crème brûlée accident?”

“That was ages ago,” she said. “We've spent a lot of time together this summer, and now . . . well, things feel different.”

“So you think your parents will suddenly be okay with the fact that you've been sneaking around for months, keeping secrets and breaking rules? Because in
my
experience, parents don't like that.”

It was true that Sandy's mom had not reacted well to his behavior at camp—and generally, Gladys considered Mrs. Anderson to be a lot cooler than her own parents.

“Well—” she started, but Sandy wasn't finished yet.

“Not to mention all that money you stole from their account on your birthday,” he continued. “How do you think they're going to react when they find out that was you?”

“Okay, you have a point,” she said. “But if I
keep
lying, it's only going to get worse. And what if they find out all this stuff some other way, from someone else?”

It was hard to read Sandy's expression in the dark, but he didn't look terribly convinced. “I dunno, Gatsby,” he said. “You've got a good thing going now. I wouldn't mess with it if I were you—not unless you get some kind of huge sign that they'd suddenly be okay with it all, or something.”

Gladys sighed. “Well, thanks for the advice,” she said. “I'll take it into consideration.”

Sandy gave her a lopsided grin. “Anytime. And hey, congrats on finding New York's best hot dog. I can't wait to read your review.” He yawned then. “Okay, I'd better go back to bed.”

Gladys watched him crawl out from the bush and run across the yard, and then she slipped upstairs to her room, where she could finally change out of the awful red dress and into her favorite writerly uniform: her pajamas.

• • •

Gladys stayed up until the wee hours drafting her hot dog review in her journal. As a result, she was so tired the next day that she slept through the car ride to Pennsylvania, then nodded off again in the afternoon during a particularly boring game of Scrabble with Grandma Rosa.

“Look sharp, Gladys!” her grandma cried, jolting her awake. “You could have played that
Z
for three times the points in the corner! Your parents told me you were very good with words . . .”

Grandma Rosa gleefully scored seventy-six points using that corner spot, but Gladys didn't care. If her parents had been bragging about her writing just based on her essay from school, wouldn't they be proud to learn that she'd already been published for a national audience? Maybe this was exactly the sign Sandy had told her to look for!

When they finally returned home on Sunday night, Gladys made a beeline for the computer, telling her parents that she had made plans to chat online with Parm.
My last lie,
she told herself. She was feeling even more confident now in her decision to come clean on Wednesday.

• • •

Back at camp on Monday, Gladys noticed Hamilton writing in his usual spot on the patio during morning announcements. For once, she was glad he didn't have any friends at camp other than her—at least that meant he had no one to tell about what had happened between them on Friday night.

Charissa and her friends, meanwhile, kept Gladys surrounded in a near-constant mob.

“What's Sasha McRay like?”

“Did you get Delilah Banks's autograph?”

“Is it true that Jeffy Marx is even cuter in person?”

The girls seemed to have forgotten that Hamilton had even been there, and their questions only stopped when Gladys disappeared into the kitchen for CIT duty. Grateful for the break, she threw herself into transforming last week's stale baguettes into a moist panzanella salad.

Floating in a quiet corner of the pool that afternoon during her first Free Swim, Gladys was finally able to reflect on things. She had e-mailed her review to Fiona before camp that morning, lunch had earned her raves from the staff and CITs, and she still had two days before the time would come to reveal her secret to her parents. There was really only one unresolved issue gnawing at her, and when she looked toward the bleachers at the edge of the pool, she spotted him, dressed all in black.

He was hunched over his notebook as usual, but he wasn't scribbling at his regular speed. Maybe Hamilton hadn't planned to write this afternoon; maybe he'd thought Gladys would want to spend her free time with him. Or that she'd at least have said more to him today than “Here's your ham sandwich” at lunchtime. All at once, she felt terrible for avoiding him. He had been brave enough to admit how he felt about her—couldn't she at least do the same for him?

With a few efficient crawl strokes, Gladys reached the pool's ladder. She climbed out, wrapped a towel around herself, and jogged up the bleachers to where Hamilton sat.

“Hey,” she said, sliding in next to him.

Hamilton finally looked up from his notebook. “Oh,” he said. “Hello, Gladys.” But he didn't stand, or sweep his hat off, or even hold her gaze. In fact, he scooted a tiny bit farther away from her on the bench.

“Look, Hamilton,” she said. “I've been thinking about Friday, and—well, I think it would be better if you and I just stayed friends.”

“Oh!” Hamilton sat up a bit straighter. “I was actually going to suggest the same thing.”

“You were?”

Hamilton cleared his throat. “Gladys, an artist and a muse don't usually . . . um . . .” He shook his head, as if that might convince his brain to send the right words to his mouth. Gladys knew the feeling.

He tried again. “I mean, I'm at a point in my career where I really need to just . . . well, focus on my career. You understand, don't you?”

“Absolutely,” Gladys said. After all, she had a career to focus on herself.

About twenty furrows seemed to disappear from Hamilton's brow all at once. “Oh, good,” he said. “So everything can go back to the way it was before . . . um, before we—”

“Yes!” Gladys said, cutting him off as quickly as she could. “Just like before.”

He nodded, then glanced down at the pool. “So, how's the water today?”

“It's not bad, actually,” Gladys said. “Swimming is a lot more fun without Coach Mike shouting from the sidelines.” She paused. “Do you want to come in?”

“Oh,” Hamilton said. “I . . . I shouldn't. I'm right in the middle of this crucial scene, and—”

“Come
on
,” Gladys said. “You have years of writing ahead of you, but who knows how many more summers at ‘the funnest camp ever'?”

They both laughed, and Hamilton looked toward the pool again.

“You're right,” he said. “I'll go change into my swimsuit. Meet you in the water?”

Gladys nodded and led the way down the bleacher steps.