All Four Stars (14 page)

THE PROOF IS IN THE (CARROT) PUDDING

BY THE TIME THE MORNING BELL RANG
the next day, Charissa's desk was covered with brightly wrapped packages . . . and surrounded by girls eager to see her open their gifts.

“What is all this?” Ms. Quincy demanded as Charissa casually took her seat behind the mountain of presents.

“It's almost her birthday, Ms. Quincy!” Rolanda cried.

“
Almost
her birthday?”

Ms. Quincy was not a fan of classroom parties (she thought they took away too much learning time), but she grudgingly allowed small celebrations for students whose birthdays happened to fall on a school day. An almost-birthday, however, was entirely different.

Ms. Quincy disappeared behind her desk, and after a minute of banging and clanging her way through the metal drawers, marched down the aisle to Charissa and thrust a giant black trash bag at the almost-birthday girl.

“You can open those at home,” she said. “Not on class time.” And despite the moans and groans all around, she made Charissa load her gifts into the bag and stick it in the corner.

Gladys watched silently from across the room. So far, things were going even better than she hoped. She had predicted that everyone else would try to press their gifts on Charissa first thing in the morning, so she made sure to stay out of that fray. That way her offering would be more memorable.

At lunchtime, everyone else tried to sit as close to Charissa as possible, but Gladys took her regular seat far down the table, across from Parm. Still, she kept an eye on Charissa all through the meal, and when the last bite of salad disappeared into her mouth, Gladys jumped up. Her time had come.

She reached into the depths of her lunch bag and unearthed her small package, simply wrapped in foil. Then, breathing deeply to steady her nerves, she started up the table, package in hand.

Her target was chatting with her neighbor (Mira Winters today), but Gladys forced herself to butt in. “Charissa, this is for you,” she said. “I thought you might like some dessert.” She placed the package next to Charissa's lunch bag and slipped back down the table to her own seat.

Parm let out an exasperated sigh. “So now you're joining the race to be Charissa's best friend, too?”

What could Gladys say? She couldn't tell Parm about the
Standard
assignment—at least not right now in the middle of the cafeteria. But she also didn't want Parm—the closest person she had to a friend at school—to think badly of her. Gladys thought fast.

“It's not about Charissa,” she whispered across the table, truthfully enough. “It's just that I love, um . . . Broadway shows!”

Parm's expression changed from disappointment to puzzlement. “You do?” she said.

Gladys couldn't blame Parm for being confused. The year before, the fifth grade had taken a class trip to see a Broadway show full of people singing about how miserable life used to be in France. Parm and Gladys had spent the entire bus ride back to East Dumpsford laughing about how silly the show was.

“Yeah, it's kind of a new passion,” Gladys said.

“I had no idea,” said Parm. “Well, maybe you should join Drama Club.”

With all the acting I've been doing lately,
Gladys thought to herself,
maybe I should!

Meanwhile, the glances Gladys kept stealing up the table showed that Charissa was still talking to Mira as if nothing had happened. Had she even looked at the package? Gladys's spirits sank.

As the seconds ticked by, she found herself growing more and more angry. Parm was right—who did Charissa think she was? How dare she make everyone compete for her attention like this! Gladys ought to march down the table, snatch her dessert back, and tell that girl to stick her stupid limo—

Oh, wait, there was Charissa's left hand, starting to open the package.

Charissa's face never turned away from Mira's as she tore through the foil and lifted a rectangle of pancake into her mouth. She started to chew as she nodded at something Mira was saying . . . then the nodding stopped. But the chewing, Gladys could see, was still happening as Charissa turned her head away from her neighbor and toward the dessert in front of her. Slowly, as if in a trance, Charissa's hand reached for another piece. Then another.

Then Mira made the terrible mistake of poking Charissa on the shoulder and leaning over to whisper something in her ear.

“Shut UP!” Charissa snapped. “Can't you see I'm eating?”

Tears sprang into Mira's eyes; she pushed her chair back and dashed off in the direction of the bathroom. Charissa didn't notice—her attention was completely consumed by her dessert, and it stayed that way until every last piece of pancake was eaten, and every stray bit of peanut and sugar licked from the foil.

Finally, Charissa looked up. She wore the slightly muddled expression of someone who has just woken up from a long nap, or surfaced from a deep dive. She gazed around, taking stock of her surroundings. Finally, her eyes met Gladys's.

Gladys, of course, had been watching the whole time. Wondering,
Was my cooking good enough?

Charissa beckoned Gladys over to the now-empty seat beside her, and, with an apologetic glance to Parm, Gladys made her way up the table once again. She had barely lowered herself onto the chair when Charissa started firing questions at her.

“What
was
that?”

“It's called apam balik—it's a Malaysian peanut pancake.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I made it.”

“You
made
it?”

“Yes.”

“How did you learn to make it?”

“From my neighbor and a book.”

“What else can you make?”

Just then, the bell rang. Lunch was over, and kids started shoving on their coats and streaming toward the door for recess. “Lots of things,” Gladys answered with a smile as she and Charissa rose from their seats.

As their classmates made their way toward the exit, Gladys saw Parm step out of her line and hurry toward the bathroom. Gladys caught a glimpse of her expression, and it looked alarmingly like the one on Mira's face when she ran out of the cafeteria a few minutes ago.

Fudge,
Gladys thought. Clearly, her story about loving the theater hadn't done the trick. In an instant, she ducked out of line, too.

“Parm?” she called as she pushed open the girls' room door. Muffled sobs were coming from the first stall on the right. She rushed over to the door and knocked gently. “Parm, can we talk?”

“Over here, Broadway Queen.” Gladys whirled around and found herself face-to-face with Parm. Her eyes were dry and her expression didn't look very friendly. “That's Mira,” Parm said, tilting her head toward the stall. “Anyway, what do you want?”

Gladys grabbed Parm's arm and pulled her toward the sinks. It was time to come clean. In a voice barely above a whisper, Gladys told her everything—about the e-mails from Fiona Inglethorpe, her failed attempt to get to Classy Cakes with her dad, and her desperate new plan to get a spot in Charissa's limo. By the time she finished, Parm's expression had gone from angry to surprised to concerned to amused.

“So
that's
why you've been acting so strange,” she exclaimed in a low voice. “A review for the
New York Standard
! Wow. This is sort of a big deal.”

“I know.”

“I wish you had told me sooner. I might have been able to help!”

“Thanks,” Gladys said, “but I think at this point I just need to stick to the plan I have and hope that it works.”

“Well, it might,” Parm said, but she looked doubtful. “What are you planning to feed her tomorrow?”

“I'm not sure yet,” Gladys said. “I was thinking I'd just go back to my neighbor's after school and ask her to help me make something else.”

“No,” Parm said. “I have a better plan.”

At that moment, the stall door at the end of the row creaked, and Mira stumbled out, glaring at them through red, puffy eyes.

“I've been waiting for you two nerdmuffins to get out of here for fifteen minutes.” She sniffed. “Can't a person even cry in peace at this school?” She shoved past them to the sinks, washed her face quickly, and stormed out.

“Do you think she heard us?” Gladys asked nervously.

“No way,” Parm said. “She only has ears for Charissa. Anyway, as I was saying, I have a much better plan. Tonight you'll come over to
my
house, and my father will teach you how to make gajar ka halwa.”

“What's gajar ka halwa?” Gladys was intrigued.

“It's a traditional north Indian pudding made with carrots.”

“Carrots?”

“Trust me, it's the best dessert on earth. My whole family goes gaga over it—every time we visit India, my cousins are asking my dad to make it
all
the time.”

Gladys felt torn. On the one hand, she knew that the Singhs were wonderful cooks, and she didn't want to pass up the chance to learn how to make one of their signature dishes. But on the other hand, she'd already taken a leap of faith giving Charissa the Malaysian pancake. Would feeding her another foreign dessert—one made of vegetables—be too risky?

Parm was still talking. “My aunty and uncle in Delhi have a personal chef, but they
still
insist my dad make this for them. There's just something about the way he cooks the carrots and milk and raisins together that makes it extra delicious.”

Parm had a faraway look in her eyes, and a smile on her face.

“Wait a minute,” Gladys said. “Have
you
eaten this dessert?”

Parm glanced around to make sure no one else had come into the bathroom, then lowered her voice for good measure. “From time to time . . . yes, I have been known to eat a bowl of gajar ka halwa. Look, don't tell anyone, okay? If the other kids find out that there's a third thing I eat, I'll never hear the end of it. They'll probably all start trying to trade with me again—like, carrot sticks for my cereal or something.” She shuddered with disgust.

But Gladys just smiled. If there was a dessert out there that Parm Singh would actually eat, it had to be amazing.

• • •

That afternoon, Gladys found herself grating carrots by hand in Parm's kitchen under the watchful eye of Mr. Singh, who had just come off a shift at his medical lab.

“I should have warned you that he wouldn't let us use the food processor,” Parm said. Her father had set her up with a box grater and a bowl right next to Gladys's, but she had only grated one carrot so far compared to Gladys's four.

Mr. Singh chuckled, shaking his head. “A little manual labor won't kill you, Parminder. Do you want this halwa done fast, or done right?”

“Fast,” Parm muttered.

“Besides, our food processor grates things too fine,” Mr. Singh continued. “We don't want the carrot shreds to turn to mush as they cook.”

Gladys finished grating her last carrot, and as soon as Mr. Singh turned his back, she snuck a few more out of Parm's pile to help.

When the carrots were ready, Mr. Singh heated up a lump of glistening butterfat called ghee in a large pan, then let Gladys and Parm take turns sautéing cashews, almonds, and golden raisins. When the raisins were plump and the nuts toasted, he instructed Gladys to scoop them out onto a separate plate, and Parm added the carrots to the pan. Then, after a few minutes of cooking, they poured in some milk.

“My recipe calls for a lot of nuts,” Mr. Singh explained as the mixture bubbled on the stove. “Some people might say that's not traditional, but since the carrots get so soft, I like the contrast in texture that the nuts provide.” Gladys was happy to hear this.

Once the carrots were cooked, Mr. Singh announced that it was time to add sugar and cardamom. Gladys knew about cardamom from Mr. Eng's spice wall, but it was very expensive and she had never cooked with it. Now, Mr. Singh showed her how to crush the black seeds with a mortar and pestle. Gladys didn't mind the work. As she smashed them, the seeds released a deliciously sweet and sharp aroma into the warm kitchen air.

Fifteen minutes later, when the pudding had cooled down and the nuts and raisins were added, Mr. Singh dished out three small bowls. Parm's mom and brother weren't home yet. “No need to tell them we tried a little before dinner,” he said with a wink. “And anyway, it's so filling, you really can't eat more than a few bites at a time.”

Gladys disagreed with this last statement—she was pretty sure she could have eaten the whole panful! Who knew carrots could taste so good? The halwa was like a warm, creamy version of carrot cake, except way better than any cake she'd ever tasted.

Mr. Singh invited Gladys for dinner, but sadly, she couldn't stay—when she called to say that she was going home with Parm, her mom had arranged to pick her up on the way home from work. So when Gladys heard the car horn honk outside, she thanked Mr. Singh for the container of halwa he had dished out for her. Parm followed her to the front door.

“What will you give Charissa the day after tomorrow?” Parm asked as Gladys pulled on her coat. “I don't think your parents will let you come over every night.”

“They'll be out for a few hours at Parents' Night tomorrow,” Gladys said. “So I should be able to throw something together while they're gone.”

“Good luck,” Parm said.

“Thanks,” Gladys replied. “And thanks for getting your dad to teach me this recipe. It's amazing.”

“I told you!” she cried. “No one can resist his gajar ka halwa!”

THE SECRET NIGHTTIME PASTRY CHEF

CHARISSA SAVED A SPOT FOR GLADYS
at lunch the next day and bypassed her salad to dig straight into the halwa. Gladys received several jealous glances (and a thumbs-up from Parm) when Charissa once again started an intense conversation with her about the dessert she was devouring.

“What is it? What's in it? How did you get it so creamy? What makes yellow raisins different from normal raisins?” Gladys could hardly keep up with the questions.

The next day would be Thursday, the day before Charissa made her decision, and Gladys intended to pull out all the stops. In her research on Classy Cakes, she had come across a collection of recipes by Allison Sconestein-Alforno, the bistro's head pastry chef. The recipe that caught Gladys's eye was called bluebarb crumble, made with blueberries and rhubarb.

Gladys knew that strawberry-rhubarb was a classic dessert combination, with the sweetness of the strawberries balancing the sourness of the rhubarb. But she'd never thought of using blueberries for sweetness instead, and the idea fascinated her. Plus, she thought it was a good idea to make one of the chef's recipes to get an idea of her style before reviewing her restaurant.

But it wasn't going to be easy. For starters, Gladys didn't have any of the right ingredients at home. And what's more, a crumble baking in the oven wafts its delicious smell all over the house, which is very nice—unless you're trying to keep your baking a secret, in which case it's very inconvenient.

At the end of the school day, Ms. Quincy made an announcement: “Now don't forget that tonight is Parents' Night for the sixth grade! Please remind your parents that we'll begin at six thirty p.m.—and that I won't tolerate tardiness from them any more than I do from you!”

The bell rang, and everyone stampeded for the doorway as usual. But as Gladys passed Ms. Quincy's desk, a wild idea struck her, and she slowed her steps until all of the other kids had left the room.

“Ms. Quincy?” she said. “I've been thinking about the letter you gave me.”

The teacher looked up from her leopard-print briefcase. “Yes, Gladys?”

“Well,” Gladys said, “you know how you wrote that teaching was your passion, even when you were a little girl? I was wondering . . . did your parents ever let you teach a class when you were a kid? In the one-room schoolhouse?”

Ms. Quincy smiled. “Why yes, they did, actually. Sometimes they'd even assign me a whole lesson to give the class, all on my own. My parents have always been my biggest supporters.”

Gladys nodded. “That must be nice.”

Ms. Quincy pushed her glasses farther up her nose and gave Gladys an appraising look. “Do your parents not support your dream, Gladys?” she asked. “Are they against the idea of your becoming a restaurant critic?”

“Oh, I don't think they even know about that,” Gladys said quickly. “But they've never been happy about me spending time in the kitchen. And it's hard to, um . . . keep the flame of your passion alive, I guess, when you're not allowed to light a burner at home.”

Ms. Quincy's smile returned. “That was a very nice metaphor.”

“Oh,” Gladys said, feeling her face grow warm. “Thank you.”

“So,” the teacher said shrewdly, “you'd like for me to speak to your parents about this issue tonight.”

Gladys could hardly believe her luck—it had taken even less convincing than she'd thought. “Would you?” she asked. “Maybe you could ask them to stay after the Parents' Night meeting?”

“I can bring it up, Gladys,” Ms. Quincy said, “but you must understand that your parents have the final say about how they run their house. You shouldn't count on my being able to convince them to change anything.”

“I understand,” Gladys said. Honestly, she didn't think that Ms. Quincy's opinion would make a bit of difference to her parents—but every extra minute she kept them out of the house was another minute Gladys could work on her crumble. “If you'll just talk to them as long as they'll listen, then maybe something will break through.”

Ms. Quincy locked her briefcase and gave Gladys a sharp nod. “I'll do my best.”

• • •

Unfortunately, rain had kept Gladys off her bike that morning, so she had to ride home with her mom and couldn't stop for groceries. She spent the next few hours finishing her homework so she'd be free to start on the crumble the moment her parents left for school.

Her parents, on the other hand, dawdled as long as they possibly could, and didn't leave the house until 6:22. “She hates tardiness!” Gladys cried, practically pushing them out the front door. Once their car was safely off the block, Gladys grabbed the cash her dad had left on the counter for pizza delivery and shot off on her bike through the darkening streets. She made it to Mr. Eng's just as he was locking the shop's front door.

“Gladys!” he cried. “What a pleasant surprise—two days in one week! How can I help you?”

“Crumblemergency!” Gladys blurted, gasping for breath. “Need rhubarb! And blueberries!”

Mr. Eng chuckled as he turned the key the other way, reopening the lock.

“It's not quite blueberry or rhubarb season yet here in the Northeast,” he explained once they were inside the shop, “but I think I can help you.” From the storeroom he produced some plump berries from Florida, and he dug a bag of frozen rhubarb pieces out of the freezer. Meanwhile, Gladys ran around the store grabbing sacks of flour and sugar, a stick of butter, and a handful of the black walnuts that she knew Charissa loved. The total came out to just about the amount she had in her pocket, and after handing her money over gratefully to Mr. Eng, she cycled home to get to work.

Thanks to birthday and Christmas gifts she had received from Aunt Lydia over the years, Gladys actually had some of the kitchen gear she needed for this project. She slid her stoneware baking pan out from the rack under the stove and retrieved her block of super-sharp Japanese knives from the crawl space. Picking one out to chop nuts with, she couldn't help remembering how horrified her mother had been when the set arrived on her ninth birthday. Her mom had immediately called Aunt Lydia to lecture her about how “inappropriate” it was to send “dangerous weapons” to a child, while her dad quickly stashed them away under the stairs. He said Gladys could have them back “when she was older”—but he never said
how much
older, so whenever Gladys snuck them out after that, she wasn't technically breaking the rules.

She was definitely breaking the rules when she turned the oven on, though.
Just this one time,
Gladys told herself. After all, it wasn't like she was cooking for pleasure—she had a job now.

The recipe wasn't particularly complicated, and less than an hour after she started, Gladys had a delicious-smelling crumble cooling out on the back patio. She wiped the kitchen down like it was a crime scene and ran around the house opening windows and turning on fans to let any lingering baking smells out. Finally, she brought the crumble back inside and scooped two large pieces. Following Mrs. Anderson's advice to always do a taste test, she ate one piece for dinner and put the other in a container for Charissa.

It only took one bite for Gladys to conclude that this crumble was the best thing she'd ever cooked. It was the perfect mix of sweet and sour, and even though Gladys didn't love walnuts, she had to admit they added just the right amount of crunch to the topping. But as she stashed the rest of it in the garage fridge, she wondered,
Will Charissa agree?

Gladys's parents got home around nine thirty to find Gladys curled up on the sofa with her favorite book—the one about the large, sociable giant. “My goodness, that teacher of yours can
talk
!” her mom exclaimed as she kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the recliner. “First it was the importance of education, then the importance of each subject specifically, then the strengths and weaknesses of each individual child . . . and she had the nerve to yell at Mr. Wall for falling asleep!”

Gladys grinned behind the pages of her book. That sounded like Ms. Quincy, all right.

“And then she wanted us to stay behind to talk even more,” her dad complained, “but your mom had a craving for Sticky's, so we had to hurry to get there before it closed.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “How was your pizza, by the way?”

“Oh,” Gladys said. She had her answer all prepared. “It was so good, I ate the whole thing.”

Her mother's head whipped in her direction. “You did?”

“Uh-huh,” Gladys lied, burying her nose deeper in her book so they wouldn't see her face. “And then I took the trash out. I figured you guys would be tired.”

Her dad ruffled her hair. “That's our girl,” he said. “The only kid on the block who voluntarily does extra chores!”

Gladys's mom didn't seem quite so tickled by her response—but she also looked way too exhausted to go outside and check the trash for a pizza box. She shrugged a padded shoulder. “We are tired, it's true,” she said. “Thanks, honey.” Then she pushed herself up, shuffled past the kitchen without checking for signs of cooking, and climbed the stairs to bed. A moment later, Gladys's dad followed.

Gladys let out an enormous sigh of relief. She'd been lucky—this time.

• • •

Gladys was nervous to present the crumble to Charissa the next day. Maybe she should have gone with a less unusual flavor, like cherry or apple. Charissa had a sophisticated palate, but was bluebarb asking her to stretch her taste buds too far?

As Charissa chewed her first bite, her face went through many expressions. She puckered up at the tang of the rhubarb, but then smiled at the sweetness of the berries; her eyes lit up at a hint of cinnamon, then closed dreamily as the nutty topping crunched between her teeth.

Gladys couldn't help herself. “Do you like it?” she burst out after what felt like an hour of silence. Charissa's head turned slowly just as Gladys remembered what happened to the last girl who interrupted Charissa's dessert.

But Charissa had no harsh words for Gladys—she had no words at all. Instead, she threw her arms around her and squeezed for a long minute.

“Thank you,” Charissa finally whispered in Gladys's ear, and Gladys realized that was probably the first time she had ever heard Charissa thank anyone for anything.

“Um, no problem,” Gladys murmured. “I'm really glad you like it.”

She
was
glad, and not just because it increased her chances of getting to New York City and Classy Cakes. In fact, “the plan” had totally slipped Gladys's mind for the moment, and she simply basked in the feeling of having her cooking appreciated by another person. When she had cooked all those other meals in the past, Gladys only had herself to feed and give feedback on how a recipe turned out. But Charissa not only devoured Gladys's cooking, she even seemed interested in learning how it was made.

“So what's it called?” Charissa started.

“Bluebarb crumble.”

“Bluebarb?”

“It's short for blueberry-rhubarb.”

“What's rhubarb?”

“Well,” Gladys began, “it looks kind of like celery, but you can't eat it raw. It tastes sour, and it grows like a weed . . .”

Their discussion lasted for the rest of the lunch period. When the bell rang, Charissa said, almost meekly, “Gladys? Um, do you think that instead of something new, I could have some more of this bluebarb stuff tomorrow?”

“Of course!” Gladys cried, thinking about all the leftover crumble in the garage. She wouldn't mind having a night off from the stresses of secret dessert-making.

• • •

At recess the next day, her belly full of another serving of bluebarb crumble, Charissa climbed back up onto her mound of pebbles and turned to address the crowd.

Gladys stood near the back of the group next to Parm, who insisted she was “just along to watch the circus.” As she waited for the announcement, Gladys caught snatches of whispered conversations around her.

“Who d'you think it'll be?” one voice said.

“I dunno,” said a second, “but have you noticed that Charissa's been, like, less horrible this week than usual?”

“Yeah!” a third voice hissed. “I mean, I wouldn't say she's been nice or anything, but she hasn't made fun of anyone . . .”

“Yeah, or told anyone to shut up . . .”

“. . . in almost three days! I wonder what's gotten into her?”

Crumble,
Gladys thought happily.
And halwa, and pancakes . . .

Charissa cleared her throat, and all the whispering died. “I've made my decision,” she said simply, and her eyes scanned the crowd until they found the person they were looking for. “Gladys, you're in.”

Charissa jumped off the mound, and the crowd parted before her, fallen faces and tear-filled eyes watching as she made a beeline for Gladys.

“The limo will pick you up tomorrow at six,” Charissa said, crisp and businesslike. “Wear purple.”

Gladys's voice didn't seem to be working, so she simply nodded. But this must have been an acceptable response because Charissa said, “Good.” Then, after flashing Gladys a grin so brief that Gladys later thought she might have imagined it, Charissa took off across the playground, alone.

The eyes of most of the sixth-grade girls (and quite a few boys who had also turned up for the big announcement) were now on Gladys Gatsby, a person most of them forgot existed most of the time. And suddenly those eyes were looking a lot less teary and a lot more . . . thirsty. Not thirsty for a milk shake, or a juice box. Thirsty for blood.

“Come on,” Parm whispered, grabbing Gladys's arm and dragging her away from the crowd. “This mob looks like it might attack.”