The Stars of Summer (9 page)

Three slices later, her dad was like lime-flavored putty in her hands. He agreed to her plan immediately, and everything was all set: On Friday, Gladys would once again head into the city with her dad. Operation Top Dog was a go.

THE RIGHT BALANCE

W
HEN GLADYS MET CHARISSA AT THE
end of camp the next day, her high ponytail was still wet from the pool. “Man,” Charissa said, “it is
such
abummer that you can't do Free Swim with us. What have you been doing with your afternoons?”

“Oh,” Gladys said. “I've been going to the archery range.”

Despite her determination not to like anything about Camp Bentley, Gladys had to admit that the archery range wasn't bad. For starters, no kids under ten were allowed, so it tended to be pretty quiet. Plus the archery counselor, a college student named Lanie, was really nice. Just today, she'd advised Gladys to imagine the faces of her least favorite people on the targets—and once Gladys began picturing Hamilton, Coach Mike, and Mrs. Spinelli, her aim improved quite a bit.

“See?” Charissa said. “I told you you'd love camp! Oh, look, there's Daddy.” She waved to her father. “Come on, Daddy, let's go!”

Mr. Bentley strode toward them, his purple Camp Bentley T-shirt stretched tight across his ample midriff. “Where to, cupcake?”

“First to Mr. Eng's,” Charissa said, “and then straight home. Gladys and I are going to make—what are they called again, Gladys?”

“Tatale,” Gladys said. “They're pancakes made with plantains, ginger, and cornmeal.” It was a recipe that Gladys had found while researching West African cuisine, and even though she didn't have to do the Café Accra review anymore, she still wanted to try making them. Luckily, Charissa said she had a nice big griddle, which would certainly make the cooking easier.

Gladys had also purposely selected a recipe that Charissa wouldn't have all the ingredients for. That way, they would have to make a stop at Mr. Eng's, where Gladys could look at a copy of the
New York Standard.
Her review of Fusión Tapas had been published today, and while she'd already sneaked a peek at it online before camp, there was nothing quite like seeing her words in the physical paper.

Charissa had the door open almost before the car was parked in front of Mr. Eng's. “Come on!” she cried, and Gladys scrambled to follow her. Moments later, Charissa was tearing down the aisles like a cornmealseeking missile.

Gladys stepped inside more quietly, though she was just as excited as Charissa to be visiting her favorite spot in East Dumpsford. The Gourmet Grocery was filled with ingredients for any kind of cooking project you could imagine: fresh local produce, fancy meats and cheeses, and imported delicacies that changed on a weekly basis, meaning there was always something new to discover.

Mr. Eng, the owner, was standing at the checkout counter, and a smile split his wrinkled face when Gladys gave him a wave.

“Gladys!” he said. “I was wondering whether I'd see you today.” Then, lowering his voice, he informed her, “I have five copies of the
Standard
saved here for you behind the counter. Do you want them now?”

Gladys glanced over her shoulder, and saw Mr. Bentley with a shopping basket weighing down his arm. “Keep up, Daddy!” Charissa demanded as she finished loading the basket with heavy plantains and moved on to the ginger bin.

“Um, better not,” Gladys said. “Charissa can be a little nosy. I wouldn't want to have to hide the papers from her.”

Mr. Eng nodded knowingly. “Are you sure I can't tempt you with a peek right now, though?” he asked.

“Well, maybe just a little one.”

Mr. Eng passed one of the papers to Gladys, then stepped out from behind his counter. “Miss Bentley! Mr. Bentley!” he called. “Why don't you come back to the storeroom with me for a moment? I've just received a shipment of premium Brazil nuts, and would be pleased to offer you a sample.” He left Gladys with a wink as he led the Bentleys away.

Grateful for the moment of privacy, Gladys flipped to the Dining section to examine her second-ever published review. “Tradition and Creativity Collide at Fusión Tapas,” read the headline, and under that was “by G. Gatsby” in slightly smaller print. Gladys couldn't help but run a finger across the smudgy ink that spelled out her name.

Thanks to her thoroughness and attention to detail, now diners would have an idea of what to order if they visited Fusión Tapas. And the chef there might even get some ideas for how to improve his less successful dishes. Overall, Gladys was very pleased with her work on this review. And she'd thought Fiona was, too—at least until the editor had sent her that awful hot dog assignment.

Gladys heard the storeroom door squeak open and hurriedly closed the paper. There was no use dwelling on her new assignment now—not when there were plantain pancakes to cook!

• • •

Gladys had never been in Charissa's house before, and it turned out to be just as impressive inside as it was on the outside. In the living room, pristine white couches sat atop white carpeting. The dining room was paneled in gleaming dark wood, and the breezes wafting through floor-to-ceiling windows brought in smells of the nearby ocean. There was no hint of the stench of Mount Dumpsford, the local landfill that made Gladys's part of town smell icky on hot summer days.

But nothing compared to the kitchen. Everything was state of the art, from the giant super-cold freezer to the double-decker oven. The stovetop featured six burners instead of the usual four, plus a built-in griddle. Copper pans hung from the ceiling like shiny mobiles, gleaming knives clung to a magnetic strip on the wall, and the countertop held the thickest wooden cutting board Gladys had ever seen.

“Okay,” she said, heading for the knives. “The first step will be to peel the plantains and mash them. Where do you keep the mixing bowls?”

Gladys didn't even realize how much she was bossing Charissa around until the first set of pancakes were sizzling on the griddle. But if Charissa minded being the sous-chef in her own kitchen, she didn't say so. In fact, even with her clothes dusted with yellow cornmeal and bits of sticky plantain goo in her hair, Charissa looked more relaxed and happy than Gladys had ever seen her at school or camp. Gladys hadn't thought about it much before, but being the person everyone always looked to for leadership was probably exhausting. She remembered the few weeks when her classmates had all badgered her for cooking advice at recess; she hadn't liked it one bit.

As the girls flipped the pancakes (of course, the Bentleys had
two
no-slip, easy-grip spatulas), Charissa asked Gladys what it was like taking swimming lessons with Hamilton.

“Oh, well, you know . . .” Gladys said, “it's not like we really talk much.”

Or at all,
she added mentally. Today, Hamilton hadn't needed any reminding to show up on time, and after their lesson, he had beelined back to his writing spot on the patio. Which, of course, was just fine by Gladys.

“Well, you're not missing out,” Charissa said, poking at a freshly flipped pancake. “From what I can tell, he's, like, a first-class jerkface. I begged Mommy to just kick him out after his outburst on Monday, but apparently his parents paid a boatload of extra fees so he could register at the last minute and stay all summer.” She leaned in closer to Gladys. “And then, when my dad called his parents and said he was refusing to do the morning activities and stuff? They just offered to pay
more
! ‘Whatever it takes to keep him in camp,' they said.” She shook her head. “He must be as annoying at home as he is to us.”

Gladys nodded—Hamilton certainly was annoying—but even as she did, she felt the tiniest pang in her gut for him. Her own parents hadn't always supported her passions, but at least they'd never
forced
her to go to camp.

“Oh,” Charissa said, “and I almost forgot. Rolanda heard him talking about you!”

“About me?” Gladys almost dropped a pancake onto the griddle wrong-side down. “What did he say?”

“He was asking one of the little kids about you before swim class—Marti's sister, Kyra.”

“The red-headed girl?” Gladys hadn't realized that that was Marti's sister, but it made sense. The two of them shared the same shrill voice and frequently nasty expression.

Charissa nodded. “Rolanda said he wanted to know the name of the girl who worked in the kitchen and never smiled.”

“What?” Gladys blurted. “I do smile! I just . . . concentrate hard in swim class and in the kitchen! I—”

“Whoa, Gladys, calm down,” Charissa said. “I told you, he's a jerkface. Everyone says so. Well, I mean, I'm the one who said it first, but by now everyone else is saying it, too.” She grinned. “So don't worry. Look, if I hear that he's said anything else about you, I'll make sure he pays. I've got your back, okay?”

“Okay.” Gladys took a deep breath to steady herself—and noticed a charred smell. “Fudge!” She'd gotten so caught up in the Hamilton drama that she'd let the first batch of pancakes burn. “Quick, grab that platter,” she instructed Charissa, and a moment later they were scraping pancakes off the griddle.

“We'll get it right on the next batch,” Gladys insisted. “And if not, then the one after that.” There was plenty of batter—Charissa had bought a
lot
of plantains.

Batch number three turned out perfectly, with just the right balance of savory and sweet, crispy and chewy, in each pancake. Gladys grabbed a bottle of hot sauce, and she and Charissa brought their plates upstairs to Charissa's very purple bedroom. They settled in together on the canopy bed and gorged themselves while watching a marathon of
Purgatory Pantry
, which Charissa had recently started recording at Gladys's suggestion. Gladys had already seen all the episodes, but she didn't mind viewing them again—she loved to watch her favorite contestant, BeBe Watkins, show off her knife skills.

Charissa, though, seemed much more enamored with the host, Rory Graham. “Wow,” she commented during the third episode. “Everyone is so afraid of her! I need to study her techniques.” Somehow, Gladys didn't think Charissa was talking about Rory's cooking skills.

Eventually, Charissa put on an album by a pop singer named Sasha McRay, whom Gladys was careful not to admit she'd never heard of. The music was fun and upbeat, though, and the two girls bounced around Charissa's room dancing until their tatale-stuffed stomachs couldn't take it anymore. Finally, Gladys's mom arrived to take her home, but Charissa made Gladys promise to come back soon.

It only took Gladys half a second to agree. Spending time at Charissa's had been a lot more fun than she'd expected.

• • •

The next day was decidedly less fun, as Gladys's parents insisted on heading to Dumpy Beach for the Fourth of July.

Gladys wasn't surprised—her family did this every year. Her parents would spend their day off from work swimming and playing Frisbee while Gladys sat under a large umbrella, reading a book about techniques for cooking fish. She didn't expect this year's beach outing to be any different and brought along a large volume called
Ocean to Mouth: A Fish Lover's Guide.
She had just finished a particularly interesting section about searing and closed her eyes to imagine how, one day, she might lay a fillet of cod in a panful of sizzling butter when her mom's voice broke into her daydream.

“You know,” she said, “you might actually get to see some fish if you put that book down and came in the water.”

Gladys opened her eyes and looked at her mom skeptically. “I don't know,” she said. “I'm not a very good swimmer.”

“But haven't you started lessons at camp?” her mom asked. “Come on, you can show me what you've learned.” She grabbed Gladys's hand and hoisted her to her feet. Apparently, Gladys didn't have a choice about this.

At the water's edge, the surf rushed in over her toes. It was freezing, and she gave an involuntary yelp.

Her mom laughed. “It's not that bad once you start moving,” she said. “Let's go!” Then, before Gladys could protest, her mom pulled on her hand and ran into the icy Atlantic.

In seconds, Gladys's lower body was numb. Salty water sprayed her in the face, stinging her eyes, and they only felt worse when she stupidly rubbed them with her salt-coated hands. Her mom was out ahead of her now, her arms and legs propelling her quickly through the surf with form that was even better than Rolanda's.

Gladys knew that she should follow, but her body was paralyzed with cold and fear; in fact, she felt seconds away from a full-on panic attack. She was about to take a step back toward the shore when her mom resurfaced by her side.

“Let me give you a few pointers,” she said.

Gladys's teeth chattered. “O-o . . . k-kay . . .”

First, Gladys's mom told her that salt water would actually keep her more buoyant than pool water, making it easier to stay afloat. Gladys was skeptical, but then her mom explained it in a different way.

“Remember that day when you showed us how to boil water for pasta?” her mom asked. Gladys managed a shivery nod. “Well, you had us add salt to the water.”

“For seasoning,” Gladys said. “And to make it boil faster.”

“Yes, well, you may not have noticed,” her mom said, “but the salt also made the pasta float in the water more easily.” She laughed. “Listen to me, trying to teach
you
something about cooking! I should just stick to what I know, huh?”

“No, Mom—that actually helps,” Gladys said.

And her mom was right. Once Gladys got used to the waves, she was able to float on her back much more easily than she had during Wednesday's lesson at camp. And with her mom by her side, Gladys even grew brave enough to flip over and try floating on her stomach, with her face in the water for seconds at a time.

Gladys could hardly believe it, but on the car ride home she realized that her fish book had sat unread on her towel all afternoon.