The Stars of Summer (19 page)

THE BITTERNESS OF DEFEAT

G
LADYS SAT THROUGH THE FIRST HALF
hour of the ceremony as patiently as she could. The emcee, a famous comedienne, talked about the history of the Kids Rock Awards (“three years of kids voting online for their favorite artists and entertainers!”) and poked fun at some of the famous people in the audience.

When it was time for the first award—Best Kid Supporting Actress in a Movie—Delilah Banks and action star Gabrielle Crawford swept onstage and read out a list of nominees. Gladys did her best to clap politely as she craned her neck to see if she could catch a glimpse of Fiona, Rory, or Sasha in the wings, but the only people she saw were a fresh pair of presenters she didn't know.

More awards followed the first one, and when the winner in the Best Kid Modern Dancer category finally left the stage with his trophy, the emcee retook the mike. “When we come back,” she announced, “the awards for Best Kid Chef and Best Kid Author!” The orchestra played a few quick notes, and then they were on a commercial break.

Her heart thumping now, Gladys peered again into the wings, but still she saw no one she recognized. She did, however, catch a glimpse of Hamilton next to her as she twisted half out of her seat. He looked deathly pale and was staring down at the note card in his hand. Gladys read the first line:
I would like to thank my parents, without whom I never would have become the author I am today.

Remembering Sasha's words—and Grady's painful relationship with his parents in Hamilton's novel—Gladys settled back into her seat and patted Hamilton on the shoulder. “Hey,” she said. “You have nothing to worry about. I've heard you make loads of speeches!”

Hamilton let out a breath. “Thanks, Gladys,” he said. “I'm really glad you're here.”

A minute later, the lights dimmed, and the orchestra struck up again. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee cried, “please welcome your presenters for the Best Kid Chef Award:
Purgatory Pantry
host Chef Rory Graham, and
New York Standard
Chief Dining Editor Fiona Inglethorpe!”

The audience applauded as Rory swept onstage from one wing and Fiona entered from the other. Gladys was relieved to see that her editor looked perfectly respectable in an only slightly rumpled pale pink pants suit. Her previously ponytailed hair was swept up now into a simple bun, and her sneakers had been replaced by pink stilettos, which gave her an inch or two on Rory when they met at the microphone in the center of the stage. A flash of annoyance crossed Rory's face as she took in Fiona's appearance; clearly, she and Gilbert had not expected the editor to pull herself together so easily.

But when Rory turned to face the crowd, she was all smiles. “The nominees,” she read from a teleprompter, “for Best Kid Chef are . . .”

Rory and Fiona traded off reading out the names, and cameras zoomed around the audience to get close-up shots of each nominee in his or her seat. Some of the kid chefs' products sounded really good, and in spite of everything that was running through her mind, Gladys couldn't help but make a mental note to look up Masie Alfonzo's Fresh Pie Company and Avery Paul's Jammin' Beef Jerkies when she got home.

Fiona leaned in to the microphone. “And the winner is . . .” She reached into her suit pocket. But instead of pulling out a white envelope, like all the other presenters had, she pulled out a small lined sheet of paper and passed it to Rory.

A wave of horror crashed over Gladys. That wasn't the winner's name—it was her very own note!

Noooo!
she wanted to scream. She couldn't believe that, after pulling off an almost-perfect performance, Fiona had messed things up so spectacularly. Now Rory was reading Gladys's words to herself.

Fiona,

Gilbert Gadfly is plotting against you. He broke into your e-mail account to steal Gladys Gatsby's assignments, and tonight he's conspiring with Rory Graham to embarrass you onstage, so be on your guard against any funny business.

Please don't worry about Ms. Gatsby, though—she'll have a replacement review for you this week that'll blow Gadfly right out of the water!

—A Friend

In despair, Gladys slid down low in her seat—but up onstage, Fiona wasn't acting like she had made a mistake at all. In fact, one of her hands had moved to her hip, and she was now regarding Rory smugly. Meanwhile, Rory's green-taloned fingers—the ones holding the note—had started to shake.

And then, all at once, Gladys realized what was going on. Fiona had passed Rory the note
on purpose
, to let Rory know that she was on to her! Now, instead of Rory embarrassing Fiona onstage, it was the other way around.

While Rory's crimson lower lip trembled, Fiona reached into a different pocket and pulled out the winning envelope. She ripped it open herself, leaned into the microphone once more, and announced that Masie Alfonso was the category's winner. The orchestra swelled as pint-size Masie made her way up onstage. Rory, meanwhile—still clutching Gladys's note—stumbled into the wings.

During Masie's speech, Gladys took a moment to reassess the
New York Standard
situation. Her editor had escaped public humiliation, and would hopefully be able to look into the e-mail break-in and assignmentstealing situation quickly. The only piece left in the puzzle now was the replacement review Gladys had promised in her note. Maybe no one at the
Standard
had ever thought hot dogs were worthy of a review before . . . but she would have to change their minds.

Of course, there was the small issue of Gladys still not having a top dog to feature in her article. Could Heavenly Hot Dogs really be as bad as Rory said? Gladys hoped the chef had just been letting her nasty side show when she'd insulted the new hot dog joint.

Before she knew it, Masie was off the stage, and writers Darren Carmichael and Serenity James were at the microphone. Hamilton found Gladys's arm and squeezed it as they introduced the Best Kid Author category.

“The nominees,” Serenity announced, “are . . . Caroline Giotta, for her memoir
My Father the Hitman
!”

Across the aisle from Gladys and Hamilton, a camera focused on a girl with thick dark hair, and a second later, her smiling face flashed up on the huge screen at the corner of the stage. Next to her, a gray-haired man was grinning, too—or, at least, Gladys thought he was grinning. He had so many scars on his face that it was kind of hard to tell.

“. . . Max Finkelstein, for his picture book
I Like Rainbows
!”

The camera swept off to the right to show a tiny boy who was practically bouncing up and down in his seat. On either side of him sat adults who must have been his parents—they kept squeezing the kid's chubby little arms and pointing up at the jumbo screen excitedly.

“. . . and finally, Hamilton Herbertson, for
Zombietown, U.S.A.
!”

A camera zoomed in on Hamilton and Gladys. But in spite of her instinct to duck under the seat—or at least pull her arm out of Hamilton's sweaty grip—Gladys stayed put. Her fellow CITs from camp were surely watching, and would probably jump to the wrong conclusion. She'd be in for a lot of teasing on Monday. But after everything else she'd dealt with so far tonight, she was pretty sure she'd find a way to deal with that, too. There had to be worse things in the world than people thinking you were on a date with Hamilton Herbertson.

Up on stage, Darren Carmichael pulled an envelope out of his jacket. “And the winner is . . . Max Finkelstein, for
I Like Rainbows
!”

The orchestra burst into song, the audience cheered, and little Max catapulted out of his seat. He started to climb the stairs to the stage, tripped halfway, then looked back at his parents for help. Hamilton's grip on Gladys's arm finally slackened as Max's father picked the boy up and carried him to the podium.

“I won!” Max screeched into the microphone. Max's mom laid a hand on his shoulder, but there was no calming the kid down. “Mommy, Daddy, I
won
!”

A titter rose up from the audience at this, but Hamilton didn't laugh. “I feel sick,” he murmured.

That was exactly what poor, friendless Grady had said in
Zombietown, U.S.A.
the first time he'd forced himself to eat brains.

“Come on,” Gladys whispered, scooping up her purse. “Let's get out of here.”

She reached for his hand, and when he took it, she pulled him up and out into the aisle. Luckily, the audience seemed so engrossed with little Max onstage that no one paid any attention to them. A camera was blocking the exit at the back of the theater, but there was an emergency exit just a few feet away. Praying that it wouldn't set off an alarm, Gladys led Hamilton out into the alleyway.

The door slammed shut behind them—no alarm had gone off, thankfully—and Gladys collapsed against the side of the building in relief. The sky had grown dusky, and next to her Hamilton took deep gulps of the cool night air.

“I just can't believe it,” he said finally. “How could the judges give that twerp the award over me? He didn't even
need
it. Clearly his parents would be proud of him whether he won or not.”

Gladys took her own deep breath. “Look,” she said. “I know what it's like to have parents who don't appreciate you. Mine were like that for years about my cooking. But if you just spend some more time together, and try to learn to trust each other . . .” She thought about her beach outings this summer and couldn't help but smile. “Things can get better. I promise.”

A tear streaked Hamilton's cheek. “Maybe with your parents,” he said, his voice a quiet rasp now. “But not with mine.”

Gladys didn't know how to respond to that. She'd never met Hamilton's parents, so she couldn't tell him he was wrong. After all, they hadn't even found the time to come support him tonight. Gladys, meanwhile—despite everything she'd just told Hamilton—hadn't trusted her own parents enough to share her biggest accomplishment with them. Had that been the right decision?

Hamilton dried his face on the sleeve of his jacket. “Can we get going?” he asked.

“Definitely,” Gladys said.

A TASTE OF THE RSA

A
S THEY EMERGED FROM THE ALLEY
onto 125th Street, Gladys noticed a handful of photographers and journalists perched on stools and lawn chairs around the red carpet. They were watching the theater's entrance intently; she and Hamilton would be able to sneak right past them, unnoticed.

But then Hamilton waved a hand high in the air and yelled, “Marcus, over here!”

Their car swerved toward them—and the journalists' heads snapped toward Hamilton like sharks catching the scent of blood. Maybe they wouldn't have swooped in so quickly if there had been other celebrities around, but it was still the middle of the show, so everyone else was inside.

“Mr. Herbertson!” a squat journalist cried, pulling a notepad out of her pocket, “Marjorie Daly from the
New York Sun
. How did it feel to be beaten by a four-year-old?”

Another journalist—a lanky blond man—all but shoved Marjorie aside to stick a microphone in Hamilton's face. “Hamilton, I'm Eli Winterspoon with Manhattan Municipal Radio. Our listeners would love a comment on the literary merit of your competitors!”

A third journalist elbowed her way forward. “Jillian Worthy with the
Empire State Reporter
!” she cried. “Hamilton, is this your girlfriend?”

There was a photographer standing next to Jillian Worthy, and Gladys saw him lift his camera.

Fudge.

She spun around just as the flash went off, only to find herself facing another photographer on the other side.

The sound of squealing brakes had never been as sweet as when it came from their black sedan jerking to a stop at the curb. “Let's go!” Gladys cried. She yanked the door open, and they tumbled into the car. Marcus pulled them back out into traffic as more cameras flashed, and Gladys thanked the gods of car service for tinted windows.

“Where to, kids?” Marcus asked.

Gladys was about to tell him the address for Heavenly Hot Dogs when Hamilton passed a slip of paper up to the front seat.

“This address, please, Marcus. I don't think it's far.”

Marcus hit the brakes at a stoplight and took the paper from Hamilton. “Not far at all,” he said. “I'll have you there in just a few minutes.” He flicked his signal on and turned left, crossing West 124th Street, then West 123rd.

“Where are we going?” Gladys asked.

Hamilton's expression betrayed nothing. “It's a surprise.”

Marcus pulled the car to the curb at the corner of West 114th Street and Frederick Douglass Boulevard, and Gladys followed Hamilton out of the car.

At first, she barely noticed the place; it was squished between a bank and a dollar store, with an entrance barely wider than the lobby holding the bank's ATMs. It didn't have an awning or a lighted sign, either—just some faded letters in the window that read C
APE
F
LATS:
A T
ASTE OF
THE
RSA. When she looked through the window, Gladys spotted a lone metal table and two chairs, and behind that, a counter with a few stools.

“Is this . . . a restaurant?” she asked Hamilton.

“Yep,” he answered.

“Okay, but I kind of had a different place in mind for dinner,” she said quickly. “This new place in Times Square. The owner is a famous German chef, and—”

“You'll like this place better,” said Hamilton, reaching for the door. “Trust me.”

What nerve this boy has,
Gladys thought.
Picking out a restaurant and insisting I'll like it!
She had half a mind to storm back over to the car and insist that Marcus drive her to Times Square, Hamilton or no Hamilton. But when she looked up at him holding the door—and saw a hint of a smile on his face for the first time since he'd lost the Kids Rock Award—her resistance dissolved.

“All right,” she said, and followed him inside.

A grizzled old man with deep-brown skin and white hair stood behind the counter, but otherwise, the place was empty. Hamilton waved Gladys over to the metal table, collected a pair of laminated menus from the old man, and brought them over.

“So what's the RSA, anyway?” she asked. Her menu was covered with sticky spots, and its edges were frayed.

“The Republic of South Africa,” Hamilton said.

Okay
, Gladys thought.
Kind of random, but interesting.
“Why did you want to come to a South African restaurant?”

Hamilton made an impatient kind of noise. “Would you just read your menu, please?”

“Fine.” She started at the top, scanning down a list of unfamiliar dishes. Number one was Bobotie, described as “A Cape Malay specialty: meat loaf with raisins and egg, served on rice with tropical garnishes.” Number two was Bunny Chow: Durban-style vegetarian curry served in a hollowed-out bread loaf. (No actual rabbit, Gladys noted with relief, so Sandy would be okay with it.) Number three was Peri-Peri Chicken: marinated in the traditional spicy pepper sauce and grilled.

Now Gladys's mouth was watering, and not just because she hadn't eaten anything since noon. These were dishes she didn't know—but they all sounded delicious! Heavenly Hot Dogs suddenly far from her mind, she wondered how many items she could order without looking greedy.

And she also wondered how Hamilton had found this place. Could the boy whose favorite lunch was a ham sandwich actually be a secret gourmet food lover?

She glanced up over the top of her menu and saw that he was staring at her. Immediately, she looked back down, but felt herself starting to blush.

“Have you chosen yet?” he asked.

“No, I . . . well, everything sounds so good.”

“Well, if you can't decide,” he said, “I'd recommend you try number five.”

“Oh, thanks. I haven't gotten that far.” Gladys looked down the list again—but when she reached number five, her breath caught.

It was called the Gatsby.