All Four Stars (3 page)

A TASTE OF THE FUTURE

TRUE TO GLADYS'S SUSPICIONS, NO
one bothered to say hello to her as she made her way through the front entrance of East Dumpsford Elementary. But when she walked into classroom 116 a minute later, total mayhem greeted her.

Several desks were pushed out of their neat rows. Jake Wheeler had apparently stolen Owen Green's snow boot, and Owen was hopping around and swiping at Jake, trying to get it back. Three other kids were standing at the blackboard, drawing funny faces with chalk. And in the middle of the classroom, sitting haughtily on top of a desk and surveying her surroundings, was Charissa Bentley.

Deeply tanned from her Caribbean vacation, sporting designer jeans and a purple top, and with her shiny brown hair gathered up into a very high ponytail, Charissa looked around as if she owned the place. When she saw Gladys in the doorway, she shouted, “Gladys Gatsby!” for everyone to hear.

Gladys's heart thudded like a lump of dough being slapped onto a countertop. She heard giggles and noticed that to Charissa's left and right sat her two best friends, Rolanda Royce and Marti Astin. They were also wearing jeans and purple shirts, and except for Rolanda's tiny black braids and Marti's wild orange curls, they looked like Charissa clones.

Gladys was usually far beneath the notice of the most popular girl in her grade, but if Charissa had decided to pick on her, Gladys might as well turn around and ask to be homeschooled. Charissa could make anyone she chose miserable. What would she make fun of first? Gladys's pageboy haircut? Her super-pale skin? The new lobster backpack Aunt Lydia had sent this Christmas? (It had seemed like a cool present when Gladys took it out of the box, but now she wasn't so sure.) Charissa opened her pink lip gloss–stained mouth again to speak, and Gladys braced for an insult—but was surprised to hear the words “Jesse Wall!” come out instead.

Gladys turned around and almost smacked right into Jesse, a skinny boy with glasses who was coming through the doorway behind her. So Charissa wasn't picking on anybody yet—she had simply taken it upon herself to announce everyone's arrivals. That was a very Charissa-like thing to do, since she liked to be in charge. Relieved, Gladys hurried to her desk and took a seat, and she saw Jesse (a little pink around the ears at having his entrance announced) do the same. A moment later, everyone else was scurrying for their seats when the new teacher entered.

The teacher turned out to be a tall woman with skin the color of a walnut shell and short, licorice-black hair. She wore a straight purple skirt that came down to her knees, a green blouse, and brown boots that reached halfway up her legs. A thick string of turquoise beads hung around her neck, as did a pair of red-framed eyeglasses on a string. Gladys couldn't help but think she looked a little ridiculous.

“Good morning,” the teacher said crisply, setting a leopard-print briefcase down on her desk. If she heard the giggles from Charissa and her cronies, she ignored them. “My name is Ms. Quincy. Please take your seats.” She placed the red glasses on her nose and peered around the room until her eyes came to rest on Charissa, Rolanda, and Marti. “Rest assured, however, that if I find you talking to your neighbors during lessons, you
will
be moved.”

Charissa scowled. Gladys liked Ms. Quincy already.

“Now,” Ms. Quincy continued, “I am aware that some teachers like to start the term off by having their students write about what they did during their vacations.” She paused and picked up a piece of chalk. “But I think that is an idiotic assignment.”

Gladys's heart nearly leapt for joy.

“Instead,” Ms. Quincy went on, “I would like our first assignment together to be something more meaningful. You will all be writing stories about your futures, which I imagine—which I
hope
—will be much more interesting than anything that happened to you over the last two weeks.”

Ms. Quincy turned to the board and wrote the word
Future.
Gladys heard a muffled noise and turned to see Charissa whispering to Rolanda. A moment later, Rolanda's hand was waving frantically in the air.

“Yes?” said the teacher, laying her chalk back down in its tray.

“But Ms. Quincy,” Rolanda cried breathlessly, “how can we write about the future when we don't know what's going to
happen
?”

“Aha,” replied Ms. Quincy. “That is where your imagination comes in. With a little creativity, anything is possible. It will be up to you to figure out what your future may hold.”

Charissa looked unhappy. Unless it was coming up with new insults, creativity was not her strong suit. Gladys's brain, meanwhile, was immediately buzzing with thoughts of all the delicious meals her future might bring.

“The most exciting news,” Ms. Quincy was saying, “is that ‘My Future' is the topic for this year's
New York Standard
Student Essay Contest. The best essay from every sixth-grade class in the state will be sent in to the newspaper, and the winning essay will be published for everyone to read!”

Ms. Quincy paused here and glanced around the room with a smile, but her face fell when nobody else looked excited. “You have all heard of the
New York Standard,
I hope?” she asked. “It's only the most-read newspaper in the country.”

But not in East Dumpsford,
Gladys thought.

The teacher brushed chalk dust briskly from her hands. “The deadline for this contest is in February,” she continued, “which doesn't leave us much time. In fact, I was surprised to learn that your previous teacher wasn't already working on this project with you. But no matter—we'll write very diligently, and I'm sure that we'll find an excellent class representative.”

She beamed at the class again, but everyone just stared back silently.

Finally, in the second row, Leah Klein's hand slowly rose into the air.

“Um, Ms. Quincy?” she said. “Sorry, but no one in East Dumpsford reads the
New York Standard.
Not since . . . well . . . you know.”

Ms. Quincy looked down at Leah. “I'm afraid I don't know,” she said. “Would you care to explain?”

“Um, well,” Leah started, “there was this list, a couple of years ago, in the
Standard
? Of the least desirable places to live in New York State? And, well, East Dumpsford was kind of at the top. Because of the landfill, I guess.”

Gladys glanced out the window at the lumpy, trash-filled mountain that loomed over East Dumpsford's rooftops and made the streets smell terrible on hot days. No one in town had ever had much good to say about it—that is, until the
New York Standard
attack. Then it had become “our beloved Mount Dumpsford” and “the grand icon of Dumpsford Township” almost overnight.

“There was a riot!” Jake Wheeler cried gleefully, picking up the story where Leah had left off. “Everyone marched down to the train station and tore out the vending machines that sold the
Standard
!”

“Right,” Leah said. “Now no one in town even sells it anymore.”

Gladys knew that last bit wasn't exactly the case—Mr. Eng always had a few copies for sale in his shop. But it was true that there weren't many buyers, so he often ended up giving them away. That was how Gladys first started reading the
Standard
's Dining section, which came out once a week and was full of intricate recipes and reviews of restaurants in the city. Mr. Eng would always sneak it into her bag somehow if Gladys went to his shop on a Wednesday; once he even wrapped a piece of catfish in it.

“So that's probably why Mrs. Wellchurch didn't want us to enter the contest,” Leah was saying. “I don't think anyone entered last year, or the year before, either.”

Ms. Quincy had been shaking her head as the tale unfolded. “Well, thank you for telling me,” she said. “What an unfortunate situation. Nevertheless, you
will
be entering the contest this year. And did I mention that the winner will also receive a five-hundred-dollar cash prize?”

This
news finally seemed to provoke the reaction Ms. Quincy was waiting for. A ripple of excitement ran through the classroom. Five hundred dollars! The teacher let the hubbub go on for a few moments before asking everyone to settle down.

“We'll start working on the project this afternoon,” she announced, “but if you get any good ideas for an essay throughout the morning, make sure to jot them down in your language arts notebook.” Then she picked up the chalk again. “Now, who's ready for some fraction-to-decimal conversion?”

Just like that, the room fell silent.

“I'm joking, I'm joking!” She laughed when she saw the sea of crestfallen faces. “We haven't even taken attendance yet! No math for at least ten minutes.”

But Gladys didn't wait—as Ms. Quincy called roll, she did some quick math in her head. Five hundred dollars would more than pay off the fire damages at home. And if she wrote a winning essay about a future that sounded really fun—and had nothing to do with food—maybe her parents would be so proud, they'd release her from her punishment early.

This assignment sounded like just the solution she'd been hoping for.

AN AVALANCHE OF POTATOES

“WHAT WOULD YOU BUY WITH FIVE
hundred dollars?” was the question echoing all around the sixth-grade cafeteria table at lunchtime. Nicky McDonald and Peter Yang were talking about the latest video games they would splurge on, and Mira Winters was whispering something to Joanna Rodriguez about a clothes-shopping spree. “
I
would give it all to charity,” Gladys heard Charissa Bentley saying. “It's not like my family needs the money.”

“What will you write about for the contest, Charissa?” Marti Astin asked.

Charissa laughed. “I'm not telling,” she said. “You'd probably steal my idea!”

“Why would I do that?”

Charissa looked at Marti coolly. “Because you're not smart enough to think of your own.”

Marti's face turned pink.

“You've probably never had an original idea in your whole life,” Charissa continued. “You had to call me this morning just to ask what you should wear to school!”

A few of the kids at that end of the table laughed, and Marti's face turned redder. Gladys, sitting several seats away but just within earshot, was about to feel sorry for her when Marti's expression changed to a smirk. “But Charissa,” Marti said, “you know who should have called you this morning?
Ms. Quincy.
Did you
see
her outfit?”

“
I
KNOW
!
” Charissa squealed. “It's
so
hideous!” Just like that, Marti was back in her good graces, and they leaned in together with Rolanda to pick apart the particular horrors of their new teacher's ensemble.

Across the table from Gladys, Parm Singh rolled her eyes.

To say that Gladys had absolutely no friends at school would be an exaggeration, because she did have Parm. A pessimist and a picky eater, Parm wasn't always the most fun to be around. But she and Gladys had been partners on a lot of class projects in the fourth and fifth grades, which made her the closest thing Gladys had to a school friend. Parm's family went away every year for winter break, though, and Gladys couldn't help but worry that by the time they came back, Parm would have forgotten about her. What's more, this year Parm was in the other sixth-grade class, so they didn't get to see each other much outside of lunch.

Still, it seemed that for now, Parm wanted to talk. She leaned across the table, flicking her long black braid over her shoulder to keep it from dangling into her food, and said quietly, “So it sounds like your new teacher has a fashion problem?”

“Her style is very . . . unique,” Gladys told her, reluctant to say anything too bad about a teacher she might actually like. “So,” she said, quickly changing the subject, “how was India? Did you try any of the food this time?”

Both of Parm's parents had been born in India, and every winter they packed the entire family onto a plane and went back for two weeks. To Gladys, the trip sounded terribly exotic, but Parm always said it was just plain terrible. The problem was the food. There were only two dishes in the world that Parm liked: cold cereal with milk and plain spaghetti.

Nothing else could tempt her—not even the cookies and snack cakes that other kids traded at lunchtime. Last year, Parm had told their teacher she had strict religious dietary restrictions (even though this wasn't true) just to get out of eating things she didn't like on International Culture Day. Gladys had been both appalled and impressed by Parm's boldness.

Parm's parents had given up trying to change their daughter's eating habits a long time ago. Gladys learned this one night in fifth grade when she stayed at Parm's house for dinner after they worked together on a book report. The Singhs' house was filled with warm, spicy aromas unlike any Gladys had ever smelled, and when the kids were called to the table, Gladys could barely believe the riches displayed there. Parm's older brother Jagmeet said that the crispy-looking, potato-filled triangles were called samosas, then went on to explain what was in the other dishes. A series of huge white bowls contained channa masala (golden-brown chickpeas in a thick, fragrant sauce), palak paneer (bright green pureed spinach with cubes of white cheese), and aloo gobi (potato and cauliflower pieces speckled with mustard seeds and a spice Gladys already knew from Mr. Eng's: cumin). There was also a huge plate of scented white rice, a pile of steaming round breads called rotis, and a bowl of cool yogurt with bits of mint in it called raita.

Gladys's eyes and mouth watered all at once, and she took a seat between Jagmeet and Parm. Jagmeet was already reaching for a samosa, and Gladys was about to do the same when Mrs. Singh came out of the kitchen and plopped two bowls of unadorned spaghetti noodles down in front of the girls.

“Thanks, Mom,” said Parm, digging right in. But Gladys didn't touch her noodles.

“Um, if it's all right,” Gladys said to Mrs. Singh, “I'd like to have what you're having, please. It smells delicious.”

“No it doesn't,” Parm said, lifting a forkful of clumped noodles out of her bowl. “It smells gross.”

“Parminder
Singh
!” her mother cried. “This young lady is our guest, and she will have whatever she likes!”

Just then, Mr. Singh walked in from the kitchen with a pitcher of water and took his seat at the table, raising his eyebrows at the commotion. Mrs. Singh, meanwhile, grabbed a plate from the sideboard and piled rice onto it with determination.

“You know that I do not like that word,” she said to Parm, ladling scoop after scoop of food onto the plate. “What is ‘gross,' anyway? It is only your opinion. It is bad enough that you must insult our cooking in front of a guest”—here Mrs. Singh shot Gladys a toothy smile as she reached for a samosa—“but your insult does not carry any weight. Details, Parminder. You know the rule—if you can explain to me why you don't like it, then you don't have to eat it.”

Parm groaned, and what came out of her mouth next sounded dull and practiced, like she'd repeated it hundreds of times. “Samosas too crispy, masala too moist, rice too pointy, raita too slippery. Okay?”

“Okay,” Mrs. Singh said with a sigh. “Here, dear.” She held the full plate out to Gladys as she sank into a chair.

Gladys stared at the huge pile of food in disbelief. Surely Mrs. Singh couldn't expect her to eat
all
of it, could she?

“Oh, look at this, how ridiculous of me,” Mrs. Singh said, pulling the plate back. “I forgot to give you any roti.” She reached across the table, grasped two pieces of the browned, flat bread, and layered them on top of Gladys's plate. “There,” she said, handing Gladys the plate again. “Enjoy, dear.”

Although she couldn't finish even half of it, the dinner Gladys was served at the Singhs' went down as one of the greatest meals of her life. She wrote all about it in her journal the moment she got home.

When I first saw how much food Mrs. Singh had put on my plate, I couldn't believe my eyes. It smelled amazing, but how was I supposed to eat a mountain of rice with an avalanche of potatoes sliding down it? Not to mention a forest of cauliflower, endless fields of spinach, and a boulder pile of chickpeas? I decided that the best way to climb the peak would be to go in circles: Start by using the roti like a shovel to pick up some chickpeas, then dig into the rice mountain with a fork(lift) . . .

Gladys went on to describe how the samosa shell did a good job of soaking up the extra chickpea gravy, and how the minty yogurt cooled her mouth down when the spices tickling her tongue threatened to turn into a tornado. Before she knew it, she had written three whole pages, wrapping the review up with an exuberant:

(setting the standard for all dinners to come!)

After particularly horrible meals the following year, Gladys would turn back to her review and reread it to relive that glorious feast. In this way, she could sometimes trick herself into thinking her indigestion was from too many spicy chickpeas and crunchy samosas, instead of from the rubbery chicken nuggets she'd eaten for dinner or the mystery-meat sandwiches her parents packed her for lunch.

Gladys forced herself to bite into one such sandwich now. The slimy meat had no flavor other than salt, and her mom's favorite fat-free mayonnaise oozed through the squishy white bread.

“India was all right,” Parm told her. “My cousin got married, and there was a party that went on for three days and three nights straight! The bride and groom got to parade through the streets of the village on elephants, and everyone was dancing, and you should have seen the food. There was more than I've ever seen in my life.”

“Did you eat any?” Gladys asked excitedly.

Parm gave her a funny look. “Of course not,” she said. “But it
looked
very pretty.”

Gladys sighed. It amazed her that there were people in the world who ate the kind of food Parm's parents cooked every day, and it amazed her even more that Parm had a chance to be one of them and declined. But after a disastrous trip to India when Parm was six and lost almost ten pounds, her parents had stopped trying to change her. Now they packed an enormous extra suitcase full of Apple Snax, Wheaty Squares, Choco-Rings, powdered milk, and boxed spaghetti for the family's trips across the world, despite the shame it brought upon them in the eyes of their relatives.

Parm took another bite of the cereal she'd brought for lunch and looked like she might be about to ask Gladys how
her
vacation had been. So Gladys quickly asked her, “What do you think of this essay contest?” Apparently, Ms. Quincy had convinced Parm's teacher to participate this year, too.

“I think it's a big waste of time,” Parm said, crunching on her last Choco-Ring. “Do you know how many elementary schools there are in this state?
Thousands.
Even if you wrote the best essay in your class, your chances of winning would be tiny.”

“But,” said Gladys, “somebody has to win, don't they?”

Parm shrugged. “I guess.”

As they lined up for recess after the bell rang, Gladys's mind was still on the contest—or, more specifically, the prize money. After she paid for new curtains, she might even have enough left over to buy herself one of those fancy stand mixers like the chefs on Planet Food used.

They reached the playground, and Gladys's classmates broke off into their cliques and headed for different areas. Even Parm, who played in a soccer league after school, had a small group to run drills or play two-on-two with during recess. She was at least polite enough to wave good-bye as she ran to the far field. Everyone else ignored Gladys, leaving her alone at her usual spot by the fence.

That's okay,
she told herself, pulling her journal and pencil out of her coat pocket.
I really need the time to think of a good essay topic.

But it was hard to think of the future without thinking about food. Ever since she'd read her first Dining section, Gladys had known what she wanted to be when she grew up—the restaurant critic for the
New York Standard.
She would eat incredible meals all over New York City and write about them for millions of people to read. She would probably have to eat some bad meals, too, but at least then her reviews could help other people avoid eating the same awful things she had.

She couldn't write about that for the contest, though. It definitely wouldn't get her back into her parents' good graces, and it would probably cause her classmates to upgrade her status from Weird Quiet Kid to Total Freak. She'd seen the way they'd made fun of Parm last year when she turned down a Sticky Meal at the end-of-year party. (Gladys had taken one for appearance's sake, then slipped it into the trash when no one was looking.) What if the other kids found out that Gladys not only hated fast food, but also wanted to work for East Dumpsford's least favorite newspaper when she grew up? That would be like icing on the Cake of Social Doom.