The Stars of Summer (6 page)

Gladys rushed over. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I looked and looked, but that was the only lettuce I could find in the whole refrigerator.”

“Lettuce!” Mrs. Spinelli spat the word like it was poisoned. “Why would I want to put lettuce on my sandwiches? Just so I could watch the campers pull them apart and throw the green stuff away? No thanks! I'm not in the business of wasting this camp's money on food that kids don't eat.”

“But,” Gladys said, “maybe if you used a bettertasting green, like red leaf lettuce or arugula . . .” Her voice trailed off under the cook's stare.

“Back talk,” Mrs. Spinelli said simply. “That's strike one.” She tucked her wooden spoon into a loop on her apron. “Now, you grab that mayonnaise and meet me in the kitchen.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Gladys mumbled. She took two steps back toward the condiments and slid the enormous mayonnaise jar off the shelf while Mrs. Spinelli shoved the box of iceberg into a corner with her heel.

“I know what the kids like,” the cook murmured half to herself as Gladys followed her out of the refrigerator. “Been feeding 'em for decades, and oh, I know. Bologna sandwiches. Hot dogs and French fries. And sloppy joes on Tuesdays for variety. Salty meat on white bread and nothing too fancy, that's what the kids go for. I know.”

THE “HAM HERB”

G
LADYS SPENT THE REST OF THE MORN-
ing keeping her mouth shut and doing whatever Mrs. Spinelli told her to do. Spreading mayonnaise carefully onto two hundred and twenty pieces of bread took almost an hour. Layering three slices of meat and one slice of cheese onto them took almost another. And of course, Mrs. Spinelli saved the only fun part—chopping the sandwiches in half with the biggest knife Gladys had ever seen—for herself.

By the time eleven o'clock rolled around, Gladys was already sick of kitchen duty. Her hands were moist inside their gloves, bits of meat and cheese were stuck to her arms, and she could feel sweaty strands of hair plastered to her scalp under her hairnet. But the sandwiches still had to be plated, and Mrs. Spinelli was wheeling a barrel toward the sink.

“Apples!” she announced cheerily, and Gladys looked over in surprise. Apples didn't seem to fit into Mrs. Spinelli's “salty meat on white bread” lunch plan, but Gladys stopped herself from saying anything before she got another strike for sass.

“I'll plate the sandwiches,” the cook told her. “You wash these apples, then wrap each one individually.” She patted a large box of aluminum foil.

Gladys was too surprised to stop herself from saying something this time. “Wrap them? Why?”

Mrs. Spinelli looked down at Gladys like her brain was smaller than a fruit fly's. “Don't you know anything, girlie? Kids like unwrapping stuff. You can trick 'em into eating fruit if they think it's a present.” Shaking her head, she moved toward the cupboards to get plates.

Gladys sighed as she reached into the barrel. These apples were Red Delicious, her least favorite kind, and based on how mushy they felt, they weren't exactly fresh, either. “Maybe kids would eat more fruit if it wasn't
going bad
,” she muttered under her breath.

The sink was right under an open window that looked out onto the cafeteria patio, and as Gladys rinsed the apples, movement outside caught her eye. Hamilton was standing and stretching his arms over his head, his writing notebook open on the table in front of him. So he was still here, scrawling stories to his heart's content while she followed orders like a scullery maid. Resentment boiled inside Gladys like someone had turned a burner on beneath her.

She glanced up again several apple washings later, expecting to see Hamilton hunched over his notebook, but this time the book was closed and he was staring off into the distance. Then he glanced at his watch. Was he waiting for somebody? Gladys checked the clock on the kitchen wall and saw that it was eleven thirty. Oh, yes—this was the half hour that Hamilton set aside for book signings.

After rinsing the apples, Gladys moved to the counter, where she started ripping off sheets of foil to mold around the fruits. Of every job she had done this morning this one seemed like the most ridiculous use of her time, so to take her mind off it she kept watching Hamilton out the open window. Eleven thirty-five came and went, then eleven forty. At 11:43, the boy tossed his fedora onto the table, stood up, and started to pace.

At 11:47, someone finally arrived. “Oh, hello,” Gladys heard Hamilton say. “Have you come to have a book signed?”

Gladys craned her neck and saw a portly figure approaching the patio: Charissa's dad, who was handing something to Hamilton. It wasn't a copy of
Zombietown, U.S.A.,
though. It was a phone.

“Hamilton, I have your father on the line,” Mr. Bentley said. “He'd like to speak with you.”

Hamilton's back was to Gladys, so she couldn't see his face, but the boy took the phone from Mr. Bentley with a grunt.

“Hullo, Dad,” he said. His voice already sounded much less boisterous than it had a moment ago. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. But, Dad . . .” There was a long pause. Then, in an even quieter voice, Hamilton said, “Yes, I can compromise. I know that's something adults do.” He said good-bye and returned the phone to Mr. Bentley.

“So we're all settled, then, Hamilton?” Mr. Bentley's voice had none of the warmth with which his wife had introduced the boy just a few hours earlier. “You'll write in the mornings, but then participate in all regularly scheduled camp activities in the afternoons? And take whatever level of swimming lessons your test places you in?”

“Yes, of course!” Hamilton's voice, by contrast, had grown warm and hearty. Too hearty. “I'm
so
glad we could come to this understanding. We're all grown-ups here, after all.” He patted Mr. Bentley on the arm.

Mr. Bentley shook his head and turned back toward the office.

Mrs. Spinelli's voice called Gladys's attention back to the kitchen. “How many apples are left, girlie? Lunch starts in ten minutes!”

CIT duty was supposed to end at noon so that the CITs could eat lunch with the other campers, but when Gladys started to untie her apron, Mrs. Spinelli balked. “Where do you think you're going? Who's going to help me serve?”

“I . . .” Gladys started, but then she thought better of it. If she complained about staying late, Mrs. Spinelli might decide to get rid of her—and as bad as this kitchen job was, Gladys wasn't sure there were any other CIT duties she would be better at.

So she took the spot next to Mrs. Spinelli at the serving window as the first kids lined up with their trays. “Ham or bologna?” Mrs. Spinelli asked each one, then passed them a plate. Gladys was in charge of handing out the apples, so at least she didn't need to say anything to anybody, and the kids helped themselves to drinks from a cooler on the patio.

Charissa showed up at the window about halfway through the lunch rush. “Hey, Gladys!” she cried. “How was your first morning in the kitchen?”

“Oh, um—”

“No talking!” Mrs. Spinelli barked. “You're holding up the line!”

Charissa rolled her eyes but accepted her apple from Gladys and moved on.

Ten minutes later, the lunch supplies were running low, and the line had thinned out. Gladys was bending over to scoop one of the last wrapped apples out of her barrel when she heard a voice respond to Mrs. Spinelli's “Ham or bologna?” question with “Excuse me, but have you got any herbs handy?”

“Any
what
?”

Gladys straightened up to see Mrs. Spinelli's incredulous stare beaming through the window at Hamilton Herbertson.

Hamilton smiled. “Herbs. You know, those green things that people use for seasoning. Maybe some basil, or oregano? Even arugula would work.”

Mrs. Spinelli swung her gaze from Hamilton to Gladys. “Arugula?
You
put him up to this, didn't you?”

“What?” Gladys asked.

“Oh, I see what you're up to,” the cook said. “You think I won't listen to you about the lettuce, so you got one of your friends to ask me for it instead!”

Gladys was outraged. “I did not!” she cried. “And he's not my friend!”

But Mrs. Spinelli wouldn't listen. “Your tricks won't work on me,” she muttered. “That's strike two for attempted sabotage. You're on thin ice now, girlie.” She turned back to Hamilton. “And you—you'll eat the lunch you're given, or nothing at all.” She shoved a ham sandwich at him and stepped away from the window. “You can serve the rest of the lunches yourself,” she told Gladys. “I'm taking my break.”

Gladys's mouth opened and closed wordlessly as she watched Mrs. Spinelli disappear through the screen door. Then she turned back to the window where, to her annoyance, Hamilton was still standing.

“I didn't get my apple,” he said.

Gladys thought about throwing it at him. “What was that all about?” she demanded. “You just got me in a lot of trouble—and for something I didn't even
do
!”

Hamilton looked flustered. “Well, I'm sorry about that,” he said, his tone not unkind. “It's just that I always like to have herbs on my ham sandwiches.”

Gladys's fury ebbed a tiny bit. “I guess I understand,” she said. “I mean, they're pretty disgusting otherwise.”

“Oh, no, it's not that,” Hamilton said. “It's just that ham with herbs is my signature sandwich. ‘Ham Herb'—short for Hamilton Herbertson. Get it?”

“Huh?” Gladys had definitely not expected this explanation.

“There's a bar in Manhattan called the Tipsy Typist, where writers hang out,” Hamilton explained. “The bartenders name cocktails after famous customers. But since I'm too young to drink alcohol, they invented a sandwich for me instead: the ‘Ham Herb'! So now, whenever I eat it, I'm reminded of how many people love my book.”

He gave Gladys a toothy smile, but her teeth were clenched way too tight to return it. Why did everything about this boy have to come back to how famous and special he was? “Well, sorry,” she said finally, “but there are no herbs here. I've checked.”

Hamilton sighed. “I guess I shouldn't have expected that a kitchen like this would be up on the latest culinary trends,” he said. “I'll just bring my own herbs tomorrow.” Then, after snatching the forgotten apple out of Gladys's hand, he turned away from the window and headed for an empty table in the corner.

SABOTAGE (ON A SESAME SEED BUN)

W
HEN THE FINAL CAMPER HAD BEEN
served, Gladys made herself a tray. A sandwich was really the last thing she wanted after hours of smelling lunch meat and cheese—but at the same time, she
was
hungry, and still had an afternoon of camp to survive before she could make something better at home.

The moment she stepped out of the kitchen, though, Gladys knew she had made a mistake. The patio was crammed with kids laughing, shouting, and flinging bits of food at one another, and she couldn't spot a single open seat except at the farthest table. It was empty except for Hamilton, who sat hunched over a fat book, reading.

Probably his own book,
Gladys thought.
To remind himself what a good writer he is.
No way was she sitting there.

“Gladys!” Charissa waved at her from two tables away. “Over here!”

Gladys could have wept with relief. She hurried over and settled into the spot her friend had saved, murmuring “Thanks.” Charissa grinned, but nobody else at the table looked particularly happy that Gladys had joined them. Mira Winters scowled openly, and Rolanda and Marti leaned in to each other to whisper. Gladys's face grew warm as she picked up her sandwich.

“Hey, Gladys,” Leah Klein called from farther down the table. Leah had always been nice to Gladys, and Gladys knew that she played soccer with Parm. “Charissa said you're the kitchen CIT now?”

Gladys swallowed her first bite quickly. “Yeah!” she called back.

“So does that mean you made these?” Leah asked. “They're good!” She shot Gladys a sweet smile.

One seat closer to Gladys, Mira's head snapped to attention.
“You
made these?” she asked in a much less complimentary tone. She glanced at Leah, then back at Gladys. “Yeah, they're great,” she said, her voice oozing sarcasm. “Really gourmet.”

Rolanda and Marti snickered, and Gladys gulped. How could she explain that she had no control over the menu?

Charissa beat her to it. “Chill, you guys,” she commanded, and the snickers died. “It's only Gladys's first day on the job. Trust me, she'll have the entire lunch program overhauled before you know it. She's an amazing cook!” Under the table, she squeezed Gladys's knee. “In fact,” she went on, “on Wednesday, she's coming over to
my
house after camp, and we're gonna spend the whole afternoon cooking, just the two of us. Right, Gladys?”

That was the first Gladys had heard of this plan, but it sounded good to her. “Yep,” she said.

Around the table, eyes narrowed. Clearly, the other girls had all hoped to get the first invitation of the summer to Charissa's.

“Girlie!” Mrs. Spinelli's voice boomed so loudly in Gladys's ear that she almost spat her boring sandwich back out onto her plate. She turned around to see the cook waving a piece of paper in the air. “Take this order form down to the camp office, and tell Mrs. Bentley to fax it to Foodstuffs, Inc. before the end of the day. Otherwise, we won't get our ingredients in time for next week.”

Shoving one last bite of sandwich into her mouth, Gladys pushed herself out of her seat and slung her lobster backpack over her shoulder. She was happy for an excuse to get away from the table of death stares, but would her CIT duties never end?

As she crossed the field toward the camp office, she looked over the form. It listed hundreds of food items in alphabetical order, and Mrs. Spinelli had checked off the ones she wanted and written in quantities next to them. Five hundred sesame seed buns. Ten bags of frozen chicken pieces. Three cases of prepackaged lemon bars.

In short, the makings of hundreds more mediocre lunches. And the sad thing was that Foodstuffs, Inc. seemed to sell plenty of interesting and delicious ingredients.

A wild idea struck Gladys. All the markings on the form were made in pencil—they'd be so easy to change. But did she dare? Mrs. Spinelli would be livid if the wrong ingredients got delivered, and would surely blame Gladys.

Then again, Charissa had pretty much promised everyone that Gladys was going to reform the camp's lunch program, and Gladys didn't want to let her down. Plus, if she got caught, she could say that she was technically acting on the Bentleys' (or, at least,
a
Bentley's) orders.

Gladys ducked behind a tree and rummaged for a pencil in her backpack. A few minutes of furious erasing and scribbling later, the task was done.

After she dropped off the revised form at the office, she saw Charissa beckoning to her from where she stood with the other CIT girls, who were now all in their swimsuits. They must have changed after lunch. Rolanda's braids still looked damp after her morning with the swim coach, and muscles rippled under the deep-brown skin of her bare arms and legs. Gladys's limbs, by contrast, looked like floppy white worms.

“Quick, go get changed and meet us by the pool,” Charissa told Gladys. “Once we've all passed our swim tests, we can have Free Swim time! It's the
best
way to spend the afternoon.”

The bites of sandwich in Gladys's stomach turned over. She'd completely forgotten about the swim test.

Charissa pointed Gladys toward the changing room next to the kitchen building, and Gladys plodded inside on heavy legs. She couldn't disappear on the very first day of camp, could she? No, everyone would notice if she didn't turn up at the pool. Besides, she really needed to save her hooky playing for days when she had to go into the city, and she hadn't gotten a new assignment yet.

Once she'd changed into her plain blue swimsuit, Gladys made her way toward the pool area. It had a huge twisty waterslide on one side, but all the action seemed to be taking place at the other end of the pool, which was roped off into lanes. A bald, stocky man in swim trunks and a Camp Bentley T-shirt was hunched over the side of the pool, alternately blasting his whistle and shouting, and Rolanda was perched beside him, taking frantic notes on a clipboard.

“Stein, lane three, you've got a lazy arm on that crawl stroke!” the man bellowed. “Rolanda, stick him in Intermediate! And Percheski, lane one, don't bend those knees so much when you kick! Rolanda, it's Advanced Beginners for her!”

Gladys couldn't believe how nervous she'd been just to walk across the stage that morning. This was going to be so much worse.

Charissa spotted her. “C'mon, Gladys,” she called. “CITs are up next!”

The smell of chlorine wafted up from the pool as Gladys moved closer, making her feel even more nauseous than she did already. She must have looked sick, too, because Charissa hurried over and put an arm around her. “Don't worry,” she said. “Coach Mike is a lot harder on the younger kids. I'm sure you'll pass!”

“Charissa,” Gladys started, “I've never actually—”

But a sharp whistle cut her off. “Squirrel Sixes, out of the pool!” the coach shouted. “CIT group, line up!”

The kids around Gladys scurried to the edge of the pool, and she could do nothing but follow. There were six lanes and—Gladys counted quickly—nineteen CITs who needed to be tested, so they would have to take turns. She knew that she didn't want to go in the first group, but she also realized that three rounds of swimming would cover eighteen kids, so one kid was going to have to swim on his or her own. She
definitely
didn't want to be that kid, so she made sure to join a line that only had two swimmers in it.

She ended up behind Rolanda and Charissa. The coach's whistle blew again, and the first wave of kids jumped into the pool. Gladys watched as Rolanda's limbs cut a graceful line through the water; in fact, she made it to the other end of the pool and pulled herself out before most of the other swimmers had even reached the halfway point. Barely stopping to towel herself off, Rolanda retook her place at Coach Mike's side and started taking notes about her peers on the clipboard.

“Wheeler, lane six, square those shoulders! Don't make me knock you back to Intro Lifeguarding!” the coach cried. Over in lane six, Jake's torso immediately straightened.

Before Gladys knew it, the first round of swimmers had finished. “Congratulations!” Coach Mike shouted. “You can all enjoy Free Swim! Next group!” He blew his whistle again, and a new row of kids jumped into the pool.

Charissa's strokes weren't quite as graceful as Rolanda's, but her form was strong enough that she made it across without any trouble. Gladys observed her friend as closely as she could, trying to figure out how she propelled herself down the lane so easily, but by the time Charissa climbed out on the other side, Gladys still didn't have an answer. Her heart felt like it was beating in her mouth.

“You all pass!” Coach Mike shouted. “Group three, you're up!”

Next to Gladys, Ethan Slezak stepped forward, curling his feet over the lip of the pool. Gladys did the same, and when the cold water touched her toes, a shiver spasmed through her whole body. She glanced up and saw Charissa and everyone else who had already passed watching her group from across the pool.

The whistle sounded.

Gladys tried to jump in feetfirst, but somehow her body got tilted on its way into the pool, and she landed on her belly with a
smack
! Pain radiated through her midsection, and chlorinated water flooded her nose. Groping for the surface with her arms and legs, Gladys felt her throat and nasal passages burn. It was like she'd just jumped into a pool of fire, not water.

Her head finally broke the surface, and she gasped for air, managing to get in one good lungful before she sank again. Flailing her arms and legs, she tried to make her body obey her brain's commands.
Stretch out!
she told herself.
Straighten those elbows and knees! No lazy arms!

But it was no use. Gladys had never learned how to swim, and as good as she was at picking up cooking techniques by watching other people, that skill didn't seem to extend to the pool.

Terror gripped her now as she bobbed in and out of the water, and she barely caught snatches of the coach's shouts. “Lane tw—” “Gats—” “Oh my—” Then she sank under again, deeper this time, and everything went quiet.

A moment later, she felt a strong arm wrap around her waist and drag her upward. Then her head was above the surface, and Rolanda was towing her coughing, spluttering self backward toward Coach Mike's end of the pool. Gladys glanced around—somehow she'd made it almost halfway across on her own, though she doubted that would count for anything.

All the other CITs were standing at the pool's edge, staring down at Gladys and Rolanda. “The rest of you pass,” the coach told them, “but Gatsby . . . well.” He looked into the pool at her. “It'll be Basic Beginners for you.”

Gladys pulled herself out of the water quietly, too mortified now to look anyone in the face. Her worst fear about the swim test had come true—she'd failed spectacularly, humiliating herself in front of almost everyone she knew. The only saving grace, she supposed, was that she hadn't actually died.

“Okay, fourth group!” Coach Mike called. “Ready?” He tooted on the whistle one more time, and a splash sounded three lanes away as the final swimmer jumped into the pool.

Gladys turned to find out who was taking the test last and saw the long, lanky form of Hamilton Herbertson in the water. Of
course
Hamilton would have the confidence to take the test alone. He wore sleek black swim trunks and a black swimming cap—but when Gladys looked more closely, she realized that his movements were anything but sleek. He thrashed around in the water, hardly making any progress toward their side of the pool. In fact, if she didn't already know that she was the worst swimmer in the group, Gladys might have suspected that . . .

“Holy Toledo!” Coach Mike cried. “This one's going under, too!”

It only took Rolanda a few seconds to dive back into the pool and reach Hamilton. Gripping him around the midriff, Rolanda hauled him to safety, just like she had done for Gladys. When he climbed out of the pool, Gladys observed that Hamilton's limbs were just about as pale and unmuscled as her own, though his face was flushed with effort.

“Do I pass?” he asked breathlessly.

The coach barreled over, nearly as red in the face as Hamilton was. “I would
hope,
” he barked, “that after
just
seeing a girl almost drown, you might think twice about jumping into a pool with such an appalling lack of swimming skills. Have you ever been swimming before, Herbertson?”

All eyes were on Hamilton now, but that didn't seem to bother him. “I've been too busy developing my writing skills to learn things like swimming,” he said. “But I figured that it couldn't be too hard if all these other kids could do it.”

Gladys cringed. It sounded incredibly stuck-up coming out of Hamilton's mouth—but hadn't she hoped almost the same exact thing herself?

The coach let out a squeak of rage, then finally managed to say, “It's Basic Beginners, Herbertson, for you and Gatsby both.”

Hamilton shrugged, seemingly not bothered by this turn of events. But Gladys felt like sinking back to the bottom of the pool. The only thing worse than being stuck in beginner swimming lessons had to be having the most annoying person at camp condemned to them right along with her.