The Stars of Summer (3 page)

Gladys nudged Sandy.

“Uh, hey, Mr. Gatsby,” Sandy said. “Just let me pay for dinner. You know, as an extra birthday present for Gladys.” He held the bundle of cash out to Gladys's dad, who stared down at it in disbelief.

“Good gracious!” Gladys's mother exclaimed, still sounding fairly hysterical. “Sandy Anderson, why do you have that kind of money with you?”

Gladys quickly realized her mistake. She should have slipped the money to Charissa, who everyone at the table knew was rich, or at least to Parm, whose family Gladys's parents didn't know very well. But they knew that Mrs. Anderson was a single mother who worked two jobs to support herself and Sandy. Of course it was suspicious for him to offer to pay.

But Sandy didn't miss a beat. “My grandparents,” he said with a shrug. “They're always giving me money. They actually pay for my private school, too.”

Gladys could have kissed him. Her mom, meanwhile, blinked rapidly, and her dad harrumphed. “Well,” he said, “I guess it's this or wash dishes all night. Thanks, Sandy—I'll pay you back as soon as the bank sends me a new card.”

Gladys, trying not to grin too hard, shoved a bite of birthday flan into her mouth. (
A bit watery,
she thought,
though that isn't exactly the chef's fault.
) Then she offered it around to her friends. Parm passed; Sandy cried, “It's alive!” and jiggled his forkful around for at least thirty seconds before eating it; and Charissa scarfed down far more than her fair portion before their change arrived.

Happy birthday to me,
Gladys thought as they all left the restaurant. Her secret identity was intact, and her notebook was full of notes for her next review; she couldn't have asked for better birthday gifts. And as she climbed into the family station wagon, she made a mental note to give her parents a present, too: her dad's stolen debit card, returned to his wallet that night after he had gone to sleep.

CAKE AND PRESENTS

B
ACK AT THE GATSBYS' HOUSE, EVERY-
one piled into the kitchen to sing “Happy Birthday” and eat the cake Gladys had baked. It had a strawberry-puree-and-lime-juice-infused frosting that she'd invented herself, and she watched everyone's reactions carefully as they took their first bites.

“Wow, Gladys!” Charissa cried. “This is the best dessert I've had since Classy Cakes!” No one else in the room had been to Classy Cakes on Charissa's birthday outing, but Sandy and Gladys's parents nodded in agreement, anyway.

“Itsh sho good,” Sandy said through a mouthful—and after he swallowed, “I'm sure my mom will want the recipe.”

Even Parm tried a tiny bite of the cake, and although she shuddered as she put it in her mouth, she didn't spit it out, either. Gladys decided to take that as a compliment.

“Is it time for presents now?” Charissa cried the moment Gladys finished her last bite. “Mine is the most awesome present ever. You're going to have
so
much fun using it!” She glanced over at Sandy and Parm then, and lowered her voice. “But maybe you should open theirs first. You know, save the best for last.”

“Yeah, presents!” Sandy cried, and everyone trooped into the living room where the gifts were waiting on the coffee table. Gladys's mom pulled out her camera and started snapping shots as Gladys reached for the ribbon-tied bag from Parm.

Inside was a large jar of cardamom pods: green on the outside, though Gladys knew that the fragrant little seeds inside the pods were black. Cardamom was one of the most expensive spices at Mr. Eng's shop, and Gladys had never bought any for herself. But with this much cardamom, she'd be set for at least a year. “Thank you, Parm!” she cried. “This is perfect!”

“Oh, good—I thought you'd like it,” Parm said. “My dad's recipe for gajar ka halwa is in the bag, too, in case you want to make it.”

Gajar ka halwa was a delicious Indian dessert with carrots, nuts, and plenty of cardamom that Mr. Singh had taught Gladys and Parm how to make. “I can't wait to try,” Gladys said.

Sandy pushed his gift toward Gladys. “Here, open mine next.” She tore through the reindeer paper (“Sorry—it was all I had,” he said) to find a small yellow notebook. Its spine creaked as she opened it, and the paper inside felt thicker than normal paper and slightly fuzzy.

“Ooh, a diary,” Gladys's mom exclaimed. “What a thoughtful gift, Sandy.”

Sandy scooted closer to Gladys as her mom took a photo of them with the book. “It's waterproof,” he whispered. “So you don't have to worry about ruining it at the beach or the pool or”—he grinned—“at restaurants with clumsy busboys.”

Gladys grinned back. She didn't have any big plans to go to a beach or pool this summer, but a waterproof journal could definitely come in handy in places where she needed to write—like restaurant bathrooms. “Thanks, Sandy,” she said. It really was a thoughtful gift.

“Okay, time for mine, time for mine!” Charissa was bouncing up and down on the edge of the sofa, her shiny red skirt crinkling and crumpling with each little jump. Gladys set the journal aside and felt her heart speed up as she reached for the huge gold box Charissa had given her in the car. Parm's and Sandy's presents were terrific, but she couldn't deny that she was especially excited to open this one. Charissa loved to shop, and she seemed to share Gladys's appreciation of good food like no one else. Could her friend have bought her a new set of shiny copper pots—or maybe even a standing mixer?

These fantasies evaporated the moment Gladys picked up the box; it may have been huge, but it was way too light to hold any of the kitchen equipment she'd been thinking of. In fact, when she pried off the top, the box appeared to be completely empty . . . until she saw an envelope sitting at the bottom.

“Okay, I sort of tricked you with the big box,” Charissa admitted (though, of course, she didn't apologize). “It's just that this present is
so huge and awesome
that it deserved a big package!”

Gladys's mind started racing all over again, this time with thoughts of what could be in the envelope. A gift certificate to one of Manhattan's best restaurants? A picture of the new, professional oven that Charissa was having delivered to her house tomorrow?

She opened the seal and pulled out a piece of paper.

C
ONGRATULATIONS
! it said in bold purple typeface. Y
OU HAVE BEEN AWARDED ONE FREE SUMMER
AT
E
AST
D
UMPSFORD'S
FAVORITE DAY CAMP:
C
A
MP
B
ENTLEY!!!

Gladys's stomach dropped.

Y
OUR SUM
MER OF FUN BEGINS TH
IS
M
ONDAY,
J
ULY 1, AT
8:30 AM.
P
LEASE WEAR SHORTS AND SNEAK
ERS AND BRING A SWIM
SUIT FOR YOUR INITIA
L SWIMMING EVALUATIO
N.

Y
OURS TRULY,

L
AURA &
C
ARL
B
ENTLEY, COFOUNDERS & DIREC
TORS

AND
C
HARISSA
B
E
NTLEY, COUNSELOR-IN-T
RAINING!!

“We'll spend the
whole
summer together!” Charissa shrieked, leaping to her feet. “Is this the best present ever, or what? Camp Bentley has arts and crafts, and relay races, and there's swimming time
every
day . . .”

Gladys sat stone-stiff, trying to process the words on the paper. She got sunburned after about one minute outside, was a terrible swimmer, and hated being in big groups. Camp sounded like her own personal nightmare; in fact, she'd been refusing to go for years, even when her parents begged her to try it. For the last couple of summers, Gladys had appealed to her father's penny-pinching side and convinced him that it would be a huge waste of his money. But now that it was free . . .

Charissa was dancing around the shreds of wrapping paper on the floor, her arms opening wide for the big hug of gratitude she no doubt thought she deserved. Meanwhile, Gladys's dad leaned over her shoulder, reading the letter. “Jen, have a look at this,” he said. “Charissa's family has given Gladdy a free summer at Camp Bentley!” He plucked the paper out of Gladys's hand and passed it to her mom.

“Oh, how generous!” she exclaimed. “Honey, what a great opportunity for you to make even more friends!”

But Gladys didn't want more friends. In fact, she wasn't sure she wanted to keep all the ones she had at the moment.

Charissa didn't see her expression, though—her arms were already around Gladys's torso, squeezing like a boa constrictor. “You're welcome,” she said into Gladys's ear. “It's going to be the
funnest
summer of your life.”

THE CAMP CRITIC

“
LOOK, I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT IT,”
Sandy said the next day as he ushered Gladys through the door of his room, “and . . . maybe Camp Bentley isn't such a bad idea for you.”

“
What?
”

“Just hear me out.”

He motioned for her to sit down on the floor—which was pretty much her only choice since every other surface in the room was covered with stuff he needed to pack for karate camp. White practice pants exploded out of the big gray duffel bag on his bed; his desk was covered with bottles of sunscreen and bug repellant; and his desk chair could barely be seen under a pile of socks and underwear.

“So,” Sandy continued, “you're probably going to get assigned more reviews for the
Standard
this summer, right?”

“I hope so,” Gladys said.

“And do you have a plan for how you're going to get into the city for the next one?”

She sighed. “Not yet.”

Sandy pulled a pair of socks off the desk chair and began to ball them up. “Well, you can't use birthdays anymore—yours and Charissa's have already passed, and mine's not until October, plus me and Parm will both be away. So you probably won't be able to come up with an excuse to get someone's parents to take you.”

Gladys ran a fingernail along the crack between the two nearest floorboards. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that you might need to sneak into the city on your own—take the train and just do the reviews yourself. And if that's the plan, well . . . camp may give you the perfect opportunity.”

Gladys looked up from the floor. “I don't get it.”

“Think about it this way,” Sandy said. “If you're supposed to be home and your mom drops in to check on you, she'll freak out if you're missing. But if you're supposed to be at camp . . . well, there are so many kids at camp, they probably won't even notice that you're gone!”

Hmm.
Gladys hadn't thought about it that way. “So are you saying that camp could be, like . . . a cover?” she asked.

Sandy tossed his balled socks in the general direction of the duffel bag, but they landed short, rolling under his bed. He shrugged and reached for another pair from his chair. “Exactly,” he said. “I mean, I wouldn't play hooky right away. I'd take a week or two to figure out the system—when they take attendance, when you could sneak away.”

“Yeah, but . . . I don't
want
to go to camp, even for a couple of weeks!” Gladys could hear the whine in her voice, but she couldn't help it. “I thought summer was supposed to be fun—a time to do stuff you like but can't fit in during the school year. And for me, that's cooking!” She slumped back against the side of the bed. She expected her parents and Charissa to be all gung ho about the camp plan, but now Sandy, too? He was supposed to help her think of a way
out
of this mess.

“Well, my camp isn't gonna be so amazing, either,” Sandy said.

“But you really like karate!”

“I like the karate classes I take
here
,” he explained. “But I also really like my computer. And there aren't going to be any computers for the kids at camp! We're supposed to ‘divorce ourselves from technology' or something—that's what the brochure said.” He flung another pair of socks at the duffel bag—too hard this time, and they bounced off the wall behind it. “My camp is in the middle of the woods in New Hampshire. My mom says it'll be good for me—she thinks I'm addicted to my computer. But what's really unfair is that I
know
the adults are allowed to go online, 'cause my mom's been e-mailing with the camp director!”

“Ugh, that is unfair,” Gladys said. “I hate it when there are different rules for adults and kids.”

“Tell me about it.” Sandy threw a third sock ball, but this time he didn't even seem to be aiming for the duffel; Gladys heard a crinkle as it ricocheted off the corner of his Nikola Tesla poster. “I mean, if you go to Camp Bentley, at least you'll be able to cook at night and on the weekends,” he said. “But I won't be able to use screens at all.”

This was true, and suddenly Gladys felt bad for discounting Sandy's plan. Really, using camp as a cover for sneaking into the city was a pretty good idea.

“I guess if you can handle a whole summer at a camp without computers, then I can
try
going to Camp Bentley,” Gladys said. “I mean, we may not be together, but at least we'll both be miserable at the same time!”

A small smile crossed Sandy's face. “I don't plan to be miserable the
whole
time,” he said. “I think the karate parts will still be fun.”

“Well, you're never going to find out if you don't finish packing.” Gladys stood up. “C'mon, I'll help.” She started on a circuit of the room, collecting stray balled-up socks and other clothes. The underwear, though, she left for Sandy.

In the end, they stuffed his duffel so full that Gladys had to sit on it while Sandy closed the zipper. Then they made their way down to the Rabbit Room, where Sandy let tiny black-and-white Edward and fat brown Dennis out of their hutch to hop around.

“Will you visit them while I'm away?” he asked Gladys. “I'm sure my mom will let you in whenever you want.”

“Sure,” Gladys said. She loved playing with the rabbits—though between camp, cooking, and reviewing restaurants, her summer schedule was starting to look very full.

“And, hey, if any of the other restaurants you review have rabbit on the menu . . .” Sandy started.

“Don't worry,” Gladys said. “I won't order it.”

“Or, well . . . just don't tell me if you do, okay?”

Gladys grinned. “Okay.”

• • •

That evening, back at her house, Gladys surprised her parents by announcing that she was excited to give Camp Bentley a try.

“Well, good for you, Gladdy,” her dad said as he stuck a cup of take-out wonton soup in the microwave. Gladys had spent so long helping Sandy pack that she hadn't had time to cook dinner. Her parents had recently given her permission to cook for them twice a week, though she wasn't supposed to light the stove burners unless one of her parents was with her.

“I really thought you'd fight us on this one,” her dad continued, “but I'm glad you're opening yourself up to new experiences. That's very mature of you.”

Gladys wasn't sure how making silly crafts and playing in a pool was a more mature choice than teaching herself advanced cooking techniques, but she kept her mouth shut.

Her mom stabbed at a wonton with her fork. “I should be able to drop you off at camp on my way to work in the mornings,” she said. “And the website says that lunch is provided, so we won't have to worry about that.”

Ugh,
Gladys thought. Camp lunch was at the top of a long list of things that she
should
be worried about.

As she lay in bed that night, her tummy tossing lo mein noodles around like shoelaces in a clothes dryer, Gladys's eyes wandered toward the window that faced her best friend's house. She was staring down a summer of ridiculous activities, bad meals, and secret reviewing missions—and she was going to have to do it all without Sandy. If only there was some way they could communicate, even while he was out in the middle of nowhere! Maybe he could sneak into the camp director's office and use the computer. Or maybe . . .

Gladys bolted upright in her bed. She had an idea—but she'd have to do it before Sandy left for camp first thing in the morning. She set her alarm for five a.m.

• • •

Gladys woke up suddenly, jarred out of a dream in which Charissa had grown shark teeth and kept trying to bite off Gladys's toes. After checking to make sure that all ten were still intact, she slipped out of bed and into shorts and a T-shirt. Then she grabbed another T-shirt from her drawer and wrapped her present for Sandy in it.

The light outside was pale gray, and Sandy and his mom looked like shadows as they loaded Sandy's duffel into their trunk. “I'll go get the snacks,” Gladys heard Mrs. Anderson say as she headed back toward the house. Gladys's moment had arrived.

She stepped outside and dashed across the lawn. “Sandy!” she hissed.

He looked up, surprise brightening his blue eyes. “Hey, Gatsby! What are you doing up?”

“I brought you this!” she said, a little breathless.

“An ‘I heart cupcakes' T-shirt? Uh, thanks.”

“No! It's inside the T-shirt.”

Sandy took the shirt out of her hands, then slid the corner of something hard and rectangular out through the neck hole. His mouth fell open. “Your tablet? I can't take this!”

“Yes, you can,” Gladys insisted. “It's not like I use it that much, and anyway I've still got my parents' computer. This way, you can hunt for a Wi-Fi signal—there must be one if the adults are getting online, right? And then, if you can hack into the network, you can e-mail me.”

“Wow,” Sandy said softly.

Gladys grinned. “Stuff it into your bag, quick, before your mom comes back.”

Sandy had just wedged the T-shirt-wrapped tablet into his duffel when Mrs. Anderson reappeared, carrying a cooler.

“Good morning, Gladys!” she said. “You're up early!”

“I just wanted to say good-bye,” Gladys told her.

“How sweet of you,” said Mrs. Anderson. “Well, make it quick, kids—it's a long drive up to New Hampshire.”

As she started the car, Gladys and Sandy stood looking at each other.

“Thanks,” Sandy said. “I'll e-mail you as soon as I can.”

“And I'll keep you posted on what's going on here,” Gladys replied.

“Excellent. Well, have a great summer.”

“You too.”

They stared at each other for another moment.
Should we hug?
Gladys thought.
Shake hands?
Sandy looked just as unsure as she felt. Finally, she gave him a dopey little wave, which he returned before climbing into the car. He waved again as they backed out of their driveway, and then they were gone.

Gladys trudged home and removed the last piece of her homemade birthday cake from the fridge. That seemed like a better breakfast choice than anything else in the house, at least until she got a chance to stock up on pancake ingredients from Mr. Eng's. She carried the cake upstairs and grabbed her reviewing notebook on the way into her parents' office. They liked to sleep in on Sundays, so she would have a few hours to work on her review of Fusión Tapas before they woke up.

Three hours later, the cake long gone, Gladys clicked “Send” on an e-mail to her editor, Fiona Inglethorpe
.
The e-mail contained her review, and Gladys was proud of herself for meeting her deadline; she knew that Fiona was going on vacation tomorrow afternoon, and this would give her enough time to edit the article and send it to the Production department before catching her flight.

The
New York Standard
's Dining section was always published on Wednesday, so that was when Gladys expected her review to come out. She hoped that, like the first time she'd had a review published, Mr. Eng would save her a few copies of the paper at his store. The chances that he would have extras seemed good since almost no one in East Dumpsford read the
Standard
—least of all Gladys's parents, who were devotees of the local paper, the
Dumpsford Township Intelligencer
.

Gladys didn't have to worry about her parents seeing her byline in the newspaper—the much bigger threat to her secret was that the
New York Standard
would mail her another check. She shuddered as she remembered when the first one had arrived unexpectedly and her mother had opened it in front of the whole family. The envelope was addressed to “Gladys Gatsby,” but the check itself was made out to “G. Gatsby,” the name under which she published her reviews.

Gladys had had to think fast. Luckily, her dad's name, George, started with a
G
, too. “This check must be meant for you,” she'd told him.

It was a stretch, but Gladys's dad was an IRS agent and had recently visited the
Standard
offices demanding payment of back taxes. Gladys knew this because she had been with him that day (and very narrowly avoided catastrophe when she ran into her editor in the lobby).

Thankfully, her dad had swallowed her explanation like a spoonful of silky banana pudding.

“What idiots,” he'd muttered. “Don't those
New York Standard
accountants know they're supposed to send the check to my office?”

“And then to put your daughter's name on the envelope,” Gladys's mom had added. “How confused can one department get?”

“It must be because I came to work with you that day,” Gladys had said quickly. “They probably mixed up our name tags or something.”

Gladys's dad shook his head. “I'll have to have Silverstein file the paperwork for a misdirected tax payment. This could take months to sort out!”

So Gladys had watched her payment for reviewing Classy Cakes disappear into her father's briefcase. Losing the money hadn't felt like a big deal to her then, since she'd never expected to get paid in the first place. The much bigger problem was what would happen once the people at her father's office figured out that the check actually hadn't been meant for him. And now that Gladys had submitted a new review, a fresh check would be heading her way soon. A check that she'd have to intercept at the mailbox and destroy before her parents got a glimpse of it.

Just one more thing to worry about this summer.