The Stars of Summer (18 page)

“Hey,” she said. “Didn't we need to get off there?”

“Where?” Hamilton asked.

“Forty-Second Street. You said that the awards ceremony was at a theater, right? Aren't all the big Broadway theaters around Times Square?”

“Oh, the Kids Rock Awards aren't held at a Broadway theater. They're at the Apollo,” Hamilton said.

“The Apollo?!” Gladys cried. “Where's that?”

“In Harlem, I think.” Hamilton leaned forward. “Hey, Marcus, where's the Apollo?”

“West 125th Street,” the driver answered.

Hamilton sat back. “West 125th Street,” he repeated helpfully.

But she'd heard the first time. They were going to be eighty-three blocks away from Heavenly Hot Dogs!

The car whipped past the 61st Street exit, then the 96th Street exit. Even with an hour and a half to spare before the show, there was no way Gladys could get down to Times Square and back. Now she just had to hope that Hamilton would really be in the mood to eat a celebratory hot dog (or four) after his big win.

Gladys slumped back in her seat, her huge skirt billowing up around her. The car finally pulled off FDR Drive onto 125th Street, then jerked to a stop a few minutes later in front of an ornate white building. Under a huge red A
POLLO
sign, letters on a lightbulb-laden marquee spelled out “Tonight: The 3rd Annual Kids Rock Awards!” And under the marquee, spread out on the sidewalk, was . . .

“Come on,” Hamilton said, reaching for Gladys's hand as he opened the car door. “Time for us to walk the red carpet.”

MORE ROTTEN THAN ROTTEN EGGS

G
LADYS BARELY HAD TIME TO BLINK
before the first camera flashes exploded in her face.

“You didn't tell me there would be a red carpet!” she hissed as Hamilton tugged her out of the car. She ducked her head down, wishing more than ever that Charissa had not shellacked her hair back from her face. She knew it was a long shot, but if a photographer somehow learned her name and paired it with her photograph, her future as a restaurant critic could be in jeopardy.

Gladys could still see flashes out of the corners of her eyes as they moved down the carpet, but she didn't dare lift her head. “Don't worry,” Hamilton said in her ear. “The paparazzi are mostly here for the actors and pop stars. Though if we play our cards right, maybe we'll end up on some literary blogs tomorrow morning!”

Someone shouted, and a moment later, feet pounded all around them. Gladys took a peek and saw that the photographers on either side of the carpet were abandoning their posts and rushing to crowd around a limousine pulling up to the curb. “Sasha!” they cried. “Sasha, Sasha, over here!”

Hamilton nudged Gladys. “See what I mean?”

The limo door opened, and when a silver platformheeled shoe emerged, the photographers went wild snapping pictures of it. A second shoe touched pavement, and finally Sasha McRay, twelve-year-old pop singer, emerged. A shiny silver minidress showed off her perfect caramel skin, which was accented by silver bangles up her arms and silver eye shadow that reached all the way to her eyebrows. As she stepped onto the red carpet, she shook her signature Afro—teased tonight into a mane worthy of a lion—and struck a few poses before teetering forward on her platforms toward the door.

Seeing how the photographers were following Sasha's every step, Gladys yanked Hamilton toward the theater entrance, too. If they could beat Sasha inside, she might avoid being in any more photos.

She was just pulling him through the open doors when a voice cried, “Ham! Ham, is that you?!”

It took Gladys a moment to realize that the person shouting those words was Sasha McRay.

“You know her?” Gladys asked Hamilton incredulously.

“Of course,” Hamilton said. “We met at the Preteen Choice Awards.”

Sasha was running toward them now—or trying to run, if only her shoes would let her.

“She's really smart,” Hamilton said. “She writes all her own songs, you know.”

Somehow, Gladys didn't think you had to be
that
smart to rhyme
maybe
with
baby
, but before she had a chance to say anything, Sasha hobbled across the threshold and threw herself into Hamilton's arms.

“It's so good to see you!” she cried.

Gladys glanced nervously out the door, but it seemed that the photographers were not allowed to follow them inside. Sasha grabbed Hamilton's hand and started to pull him across the lobby to a table covered with fancy shopping bags. “C'mon, let's get our swag,” she said, “and then we can sit down. These shoes are already killing me!”

“Sasha,” Hamilton said, “this is Gladys.”

Sasha dropped Hamilton's hand and whirled around. “Oh!” she cried. “Gladys! It's so great to finally meet you!”

Then, before Gladys knew it, one of Sasha's bangleencased arms was wrapped around her shoulders. “Ham has told me so much about you!”

“He has?”

“We e-mail sometimes,” Hamilton explained.

Sasha punched Hamilton lightly on one tweedy arm. “That's an understatement,” she said. “We're, like, online besties! Ham's been telling me all about camp. I wish I could go to camp, but I get followed
everywhere
now, so normal kid stuff like that is out.” She said this not in a braggy way, but just sort of matter-of-factly. And based on what had just happened outside, Gladys could see she was telling the truth.

As they joined the line of people waiting for “swag”—whatever that was—Sasha continued to talk. “It's kind of ironic, though, because if
anyone
here should be a household name, it's Ham. I mean, have you read his book?”

“Um,” Gladys said—but Sasha didn't wait for her answer.

“Well,
of course
you have—so you know it's brilliant. I mean, I spend a ton of time on my tour bus, so I'm always reading. And Ham's book is, like, my favorite book
ever.
”

Hamilton's cheeks turned slightly pink at this. “Sasha, you're embarrassing me,” he said.

“Ham, I told you my summer reading list, and your book is better than all of them. Seriously!” she cried. She turned back to Gladys. “So, which part is your favorite?”

“Oh,” Gladys said. “Um, I don't know. I mean, all the parts are so . . . good.”

Hamilton beamed at her. “You really think that? You've never told me before.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Gladys blundered on, “I didn't want you to think I liked you just because of your book.”

What was she saying?

They had reached the front of the line, and a man holding a scanner gun ran it over the bar code on Gladys's ticket. Then he handed her one of the fancy shopping bags and said, “Enjoy.”

“Okay, let's see what they're giving us this year,” Sasha said. She plunked herself down onto a nearby velvet couch and kicked off her platforms, then started pulling items out of her bag. “Look, there's something representing every nominee.”

Gladys dug into her own bag. There was a DVD set of the first season of
Cory Missouri
starring Jeffy Marx, a CD of Sasha's own nominated album, a giant cellophane-wrapped oatmeal raisin cookie . . .

“A cookie?” Gladys couldn't help asking. “Who does that represent?”

“Oh, probably one of the nominees for Best Kid Chef,” Hamilton said, taking a seat on the couch. “Have you heard of Notorious Gloria's Cookie Kitchen? Gloria is only nine.”

“I guess not,” Gladys said. She had never really thought about there being other kid chefs out there.
What do you have to do to get your cooking nominated for one of these awards?
she wondered.

A tall woman with a clipboard strode over to the couch. “Sasha! Hamilton!” she said. “Come with me, please—time to take photos.”

Sasha groaned. “All right.” She shoved her feet back into her shoes—but before she stood up, she turned toward Gladys again and laid a glittery-nailed hand on her arm. “It's been great meeting you, Gladys,” she said seriously, then lowered her voice so it was barely above a whisper. “So many people just want to get close to people like me and Ham because we're celebrities, but he's super-lucky to have someone who likes him just for
him.
” She pushed herself up to her feet then and gave Gladys a finger wave before following the woman around a corner.

“I'll meet you out here before the show, okay?” Hamilton asked. Gladys nodded, and then he was gone, too.

Alone at last, Gladys stared down at her poufy red skirt. She felt more rotten than an entire carton of rotten eggs after what Sasha had just said. And Hamilton had looked so excited when Gladys said that she'd read and liked his book. Of all the lies she'd told to get herself here today, that one felt the most awful.

She reached absently into her swag bag, thinking that that cookie might make her feel better. But when she pulled her hand out, it was holding a copy of
Zombietown, U.S.A.

Suddenly, Gladys knew exactly what she was going to do until the awards show started.

ICING ON THE CAKE

O
VER THE NEXT HOUR, GLADYS TORE
through the pages of
Zombietown, U.S.A.
It turned out to be the story of Grady Masterson, a twelve-year-old boy who lived in the seemingly normal town of Appleton in upstate New York. But then one day both his parents became zombies and forgot their son existed.

Slowly, they turned all their friends into zombies. Then they turned all of
Grady's
friends into zombies. But even when Grady was standing right in front of them, they wouldn't give him the zombie bite.

Grady tried to fit in with the zombies. He changed his walk to a shuffle and, in one disgusting chapter, tried to develop a taste for brains. But nothing he did could get his zombie parents' attention.

Gladys didn't have time to read the whole thing, so when she noticed that kids were starting to return to the lobby from the photo shoot, she flipped quickly to the end. In the final pages, Grady realized he would never again fit in in his “zombietown” and set off for New York City in search of nonzombified people who would understand him.

Gladys closed the book slowly. She had never been so depressed by a story's ending, and was glad that Hamilton was working so hard on the sequel. Maybe, in the second book, Grady and his parents would finally figure out how to communicate with each other.

She was just dropping the book back into her swag bag when shouts sounded from outside the building.

“Randy!”

“Delilah, over here!”

“Darren, which award are you presenting?!”

The adult celebrities were arriving.

Gladys recognized a few of the people who were now sweeping into the theater lobby. There was Randy Ritter, the sequined fringes of his signature cowboy shirt glinting beneath a dinner jacket; Oscar winner Delilah Banks, dazzling in a gold evening dress; and a tuxedoed Darren Carmichael, whose face Gladys recognized from a highway billboard advertising his latest sappy romance novel. But there was one adult who wasn't very dressed up: a tall lady in pink sweatpants. She was wheeling a hot-pink suitcase around, and amid all the glittering celebrities, she looked lost. She also looked kind of familiar.

More than familiar. Gladys had seen her before—in the lobby of the
New York Standard
building earlier that year.

She was looking at her editor, Fiona Inglethorpe!

A million thoughts flashed through Gladys's mind. She should run away—as fast as possible! No, that might draw unwanted attention. She should sit completely still and try to look nonchalant. But then what if Hamilton or Sasha came back and called her name loud enough for Fiona to hear?

Before she could decide what to do, a shrill voice called a different name from across the room. “Fifi! Yoo-hoo, Fifi!”

Fiona looked up, and Gladys followed her editor's gaze until she was staring at yet another face she recognized:
Purgatory Pantry
's very own Rory Graham, dressed in a sea-green gown that hugged her hips and legs.

Rory glided across the lobby and kissed Fiona on each cheek, leaving deep-crimson lipstick marks.

“Well, would you look at who the cat dragged in?” she exclaimed. “Now, Fifi, I know that you like to be comfortable at your desk—but really, when co-presenting an award on TV, one usually tries to spruce up a little, no?”

It looked to Gladys like Fiona might be on the verge of sprucing up her punching arm and testing it on Rory's face. “I'm not dressed this way
on purpose
,” she hissed. “I didn't even know I was coming here until twenty minutes ago! I'd just barely made it through customs at the airport when who should I find waiting for me but—”

“Speak of the devil!” Rory cried, and waved over Fiona's shoulder. Fiona spun around, and Gladys felt her jaw drop even lower. Gilbert Gadfly, his gold button shining at his midriff, was striding across the room and parting the cluster of dressed-up adults like it was a celebrity Red Sea.

“Ah, Inglethorpe,” he said when he reached them, “I'm sorry to have abandoned you like that on the red carpet. Had to use the side entrance—can't let a picture of this face get out in public, you know!” He turned then to Rory. “Rory, you're looking smashing this evening—like the Little Mermaid's evil cousin.”

Rory cackled with delight. “Gil, you have such a way with words!”

Now Fiona looked like she wanted to punch
both
of them in the face.

“Fifi was just telling me how you were sweet enough to surprise her at the airport,” Rory continued.

“I did not—” Fiona started, but Gilbert cut her off.

“It wouldn't have been a surprise if she had bothered to check her e-mail,” he said. “I sent her a message three days ago saying that I volunteered her to copresent with you!”

“Gilbert, you knew full well that I was unplugging during my vacation,” Fiona said. “Honestly, of all the irresponsible things you could have done—”

“Irresponsible?” Gilbert gasped. “Was it irresponsible of me to try to help poor Rory, high and dry and in need of a copresenter? After all, it's not like
I
can be seen on camera, or I surely would have volunteered myself!”

Gladys stifled a groan. The more she saw and heard Gilbert Gadfly, the more she loathed him; she couldn't blame her editor for barely managing to hang on to her cool.

“Well, I guess I'll head backstage and see what I can rustle up to wear,” Fiona grumbled. “At least I had my laundry done before I flew home.”

She had barely wheeled her suitcase around the corner when her two former companions burst out laughing. Then, to Gladys's horror, Gilbert took Rory by the elbow and escorted her right over to the
very couch on which Gladys was sitting
! Gladys immediately grabbed
Zombietown, U.S.A.
from her swag bag and opened it in front of her face. What if Gilbert recognized her from the subway?

But the critic didn't even spare her a glance. Apparently, unless she was throwing up on his shoes, she was invisible to him.

“Gil, you devil,” Rory purred, taking a seat on Gilbert's far side. “Are you really going to send that poor woman onstage in her pajamas? Do you really think your publishers will fire her over just one embarrassing television performance?”

Gladys froze. Gadfly was trying to get Fiona
fired
?

“Of course not,” Gilbert said. “But her ridiculous appearance will be icing on the cake. Don't forget that I've had other plans in motion the whole time she's been away.”

“With that other restaurant critic?”

Now Gladys hardly dared to breathe.

“How did you end up taking care of her?” Rory asked.

“It was a stroke of genius, really,” Gilbert said. “Sneaking onto Fiona's computer right before she logged off for her vacation. At first I was just going to e-mail Gatsby and cancel her assignments, but then I thought it would be even better to send her on an impossible quest—keep her busy, you know? So she's been running all over town for a month, looking for the perfect hot dog.”

“The perfect hot dog?” Rory snorted. “Ha! As if the
Standard
would ever print that review!”

It was a good thing Gladys was sitting down, because now she felt dizzy. She had suspected that Gilbert Gadfly disliked her—and that he even, somehow, might have stolen her original assignments. But she'd never imagined that her entire project had been made up!

“After all,” Rory continued, “it's not like any dish centered on such an inferior, overprocessed meat product could ever be considered perfect.”

“Well,” Gilbert said, “your friend von Schnitz gave me a bit of a scare with his new Heavenly Hot Dogs venture—but you've assured me that his offerings are awful.”

“Oh, yes,” Rory said, and Gladys felt her heart sinking down into her fancy flats. “He brought some samples into the studio this week, and they were absolutely inedible. Even with BeBe Watkins's new recipe on the menu, that place won't last a month, I assure you.”

“Good,” Gilbert said. “Then I have nothing to worry about. Gatsby will fail at her assignment, and there will be no review to publish next Wednesday. They'll both be fired—”

“And you'll be made the new head of the Dining section!” Rory crowed. “Oh, bravo!”

But Gilbert's bulbous nose wrinkled. “Oh, heavens no, Rory. I don't ever want to become an editor! I just want to keep my position as head critic and have more control over my assignments. And that'll be much easier with Jackson Stone in the chief editor's chair. He's a pushover—he'll let me write whatever I like.”

Rory shook her head in wonderment. “And if you don't try to take her job, Fifi will never even suspect that it was you pulling the strings!”

“Exactly.” Gilbert flashed her a toothy grin. “Now, don't forget the role you have to play in all this,” he added.

“Yes, yes,” said Rory, tossing her blond curls over a bare shoulder. “I'm to look gorgeous and confident onstage, and show Fiona up at every opportunity.”

“Which should be the easiest thing in the world for you,” Gilbert said throatily, and Rory blushed.

If Gladys had had anything in her stomach at that point, she was pretty sure she easily could have retched it up for a repeat barf bombing. Blech!

But, more seriously, she needed to find Fiona. She needed to warn her that they were being sabotaged, that their jobs were at stake, that—

“Gladys!” Hamilton was waving at her from across the room, Sasha by his side. They were lining up at the theater entrance for the awards ceremony.

Fudge!

As fast as she could, Gladys whipped her reviewing journal and a pencil out of the fancy purse Charissa had lent her. She scrawled a note, tore it out of the journal, grabbed the rest of her stuff, and started across the room. Now she just had to get her message to Fiona.

Joining the crush of people at the theater door, Gladys sidled up close to Sasha. “Hey, Sasha,” she said quietly. “Could you do me a huge favor?”

Sasha's silver-tipped eyelashes blinked. “Sure.”

Gladys glanced over her shoulder to make sure that Gilbert and Rory were still on the other side of the room, well out of earshot. “When you go backstage for your performance, do you think you could give this note to Fiona Inglethorpe?” she asked. “She's one of the presenters for Best Kid Chef—the one who's not Rory Graham.”

“Sure,” Sasha said again. “What is it—like, a fan letter?”

Sasha, you
are
brilliant!
Gladys thought, and she felt bad for ever having thought otherwise. “Exactly, a fan letter,” she said. “I didn't want to bother her in person when she was out here, but I just want to let her know how great I think she is. Um, preferably before she goes out onstage.”

“No problem,” Sasha said. “Oh, but I don't know what she looks like. How will I find her?”

“She's tall and wears glasses,” Gladys said. “I'm not sure what she'll be wearing—but there's a good chance it'll be pink. That's her favorite color.”

Sasha smiled. “You really are a big fan!” she said. “Okay—tall lady, glasses, pink outfit. Got it.” Sasha took the folded-up note from Gladys and tucked it into her tiny silver purse. “I'm heading back there right now.”

“Thanks so much,” Gladys said, and then she stepped over to Hamilton's side.

“It's nice to see you two becoming friends,” Hamilton said as he waved good-bye to Sasha.

“Oh, yeah, Sasha's great!” Gladys said. “I'm really glad I met her.”
And not just because she has backstage access,
she added in her head. Hamilton's famous friend really did seem like a nice person.

Together, she and Hamilton stepped through the doors into the Apollo's main theater. It was a massive space, filled with more than 1,500 red-upholstered seats and dominated by a wide black stage. Giant television cameras on wheels zoomed up and down the aisles, and excited chatter reverberated around the room, broken up here and there by the notes of an orchestra warming up.

With the amount of glitz and glitter all around them, Gladys now felt like her dress hardly stood out. Maybe Charissa's makeover hadn't been so over the top after all. Gladys directed a little wave at the nearest TV camera for her friend and her parents.

As they waited to be ushered to their seats, Hamilton kept turning to Gladys every few seconds and grinning. It was weird.

“How did the photo shoot go?” Gladys asked.

“Oh, fine,” Hamilton said. “I'm getting pretty used to these things. Max Finkelstein threw a fit when they made his parents leave the room, though. He really is unhealthily attached.”

Finally, an usher in a gleaming blue dress beckoned them forward. Their seats were only five rows back from the stage, and right on the aisle. Because of their angle, Gladys could see behind the curtain on one side of the stage, where people wearing headsets and carrying clipboards were rushing around. Was Sasha somewhere back there? Had she found Fiona?

Gladys and Hamilton had barely settled into their seats when the house lights dimmed. “Ladies and gentlemen!” an announcer's voice boomed. “Live, from the Apollo Theater in New York City, it's the Third Annual Kids Rock Awards!” The orchestra struck up a lively song, and the audience burst into cheers. The show was officially starting.