All Four Stars (17 page)

Gladys stayed with the usher until the last firecracker sounded and the show, thankfully, was over. Then, tired of fighting crowds, she stayed where she was and let the Bentleys come to her.

Charissa was the first one to spot her. “Gladys!” she cried, running over. “Where have you been?”

“Yes, Gladys, where
have
you been?” Mrs. Bentley asked sharply.

Gladys had her answer ready. “I tried to get back, but the usher wouldn't let me—with all the dancing in the aisles, he said it was too dangerous.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Bentley. “Well, I guess that makes sense.”

“Come on, Gladys, let's go,” Charissa said. She also seemed to find Gladys's explanation believable. “Did you see the part when the teenagers did a photo shoot at the beach? How awesome was that? And then there was the part . . .” By the time Charissa finished telling Gladys about all her favorite parts, Gladys felt like she hadn't missed any of the show at all.

The purple limo was waiting for them half a block away. People were crowded around it, trying to get a look through the tinted windows to see if there was a celebrity inside.

“Out of our way, out of our way!” Mr. Bentley shouted. Before the driver could rush around and open the door for him, he yanked it open himself and shoved them inside.

They pulled away from the curb with a jerk and started down the street. “The driver knows where to go, right, Daddy?” Charissa asked.

“Yes, cupcake, I gave him the address,” Mr. Bentley said.

“Where
are
we going?” Gladys asked. She hadn't thought much about the night beyond the Broadway show.

Charissa laughed. “We're going wherever I
say
we go!”

The limo turned left, then right, then stopped abruptly. “What's the matter?” Gladys asked.

“Nothing's the matter!” Charissa said brightly. “We're here!”

They all piled back out of the car—first Mrs. Bentley, then Mr. Bentley, then Charissa, and finally Gladys. As she stepped out, the first thing she saw was a yellow awning with black polka dots.

She gazed up in awe as Charissa chattered nonstop into her ear. “So I searched for ‘bluebarb crumble' online and found out that the chef who invented it has her own restaurant! I told Daddy that he
had
to get us a reservation, and even Mommy said it would be okay to break the salad diet on my birthday. It's called Classy Cakes, and the
whole
menu is desserts! How awesome is that?”

Gladys threw her arms around Charissa.

“Charissa,” she said, “that is the
most
awesome thing I have ever heard.”

EVERYTHING ON THE MENU

LATER THAT NIGHT, AS THE LIMOUSINE
glided back toward East Dumpsford, Gladys made a mental list of all her favorite moments from her second visit to Classy Cakes.

There was the moment when Moira's jaw dropped as they all walked into the restaurant, and Charissa's father said, “Bentley, party of four—we have a reservation.”

There was the moment when the waiter came to their table and said, “Well, folks, what can I get you this evening?” and Charissa said, “We'll have one of everything on the menu.”

“Um,” the waiter stammered, looking over at Mr. and Mrs. Bentley.

“It's her birthday!” Mrs. Bentley said, beaming.

Mr. Bentley nodded. “And whatever Charissa wants, Charissa gets.”

Gladys had to restrain herself from leaping across the table and hugging them, too.

And there was the moment when the desserts began to arrive, carried by a procession of servers in black and yellow. Creamy-looking custards were followed by beautifully decorated slices of cake. Crisp-shelled pastries were set down next to gooey-centered pies. Dainty little goblets featuring ice cream and sorbet came out on a silver tray, and a pungent aroma rose off a long wooden board that was dotted with more kinds of cheese than Gladys had ever seen, even in Mr. Eng's special fridge.

Over the next two hours, Gladys and the Bentleys ate their way through the entire menu. True to her original plan, Gladys tried at least one bite of every dessert. She ended up slipping off to the bathroom three times to write down more extensive notes—there were so many details she didn't want to forget!—but luckily, since she had already been “sick” earlier in the evening, no one questioned her about these trips.

Everyone at the table had a different favorite in the end: Charissa loved the tree-nut tart, Mr. Bentley devoured the ginger-sultana bread pudding, and Mrs. Bentley favored the papaya–passion fruit sorbet. Gladys noted them all down in her journal, along with her own favorite, which she planned to mention specially in her review.

The limo pulled into her driveway at three a.m., and Gladys dug her house key out of her purse. A light was still shining in the hallway, and to her surprise, she found both of her parents asleep on the living room sofa. An empty chicken bucket sat on the coffee table, and Gladys saw board game pieces on the floor.

“Gladys?” her mom's voice called. Gladys tiptoed to the sofa, and her mom rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “How was the party?”

“It was great,” Gladys said honestly. “The best one I've ever been to.”

“I'm
so
glad.” Her mom smiled. Gladys's dad let out a snorty kind of snore. “I think that means that Dad is glad, too,” her mom whispered, and she and Gladys both giggled.

“You should head up to bed,” her mom continued, but as she said it she scooted forward and reached an arm around the waist of Gladys's purple dress, pulling her closer. “I'm really proud of you for making new friends,” she murmured. “I know that it's not easy to do.”

Gladys didn't know what to say, so she just gave her mom a kiss on the cheek. Her mom smiled, then closed her eyes and let her head roll back against the sofa cushion.

Gladys carried an afghan over from the recliner and smoothed it onto her sleeping parents' legs. Then she switched off the hallway light and felt her way up the staircase in the dark.

• • •

It was past noon when Gladys woke up the next day. She was eager to get to work writing her review, but was also dying to talk to Sandy. She checked the window, but didn't see him in his room; she'd have to call him. Still in her pajamas (her favorite spring ones, with strawberries all over them), Gladys hurried down the stairs—and found both of her parents sitting in the kitchen, waiting for her.

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead,” her dad said. “Notice anything different in here?”

Gladys looked around the room. She saw the same old toaster, the same old microwave, the same old fridge with its same old Approved and Unapproved Activities lists. But then her eyes came to the window . . .

“You got new curtains!”

Gladys's mom rose from her seat and walked over to the window. “We picked them up this morning, while you were sleeping. And they're not just
any
curtains,” she said. “Come here, feel them.”

Gladys walked over and rubbed the material between her fingers. The curtains were a drab gray color with tiny orange flecks, and the fabric felt sort of rubbery to the touch.

“Um, interesting,” Gladys said. They definitely weren't as pretty as the old curtains, which had been blue-and-white chiffon. In fact, Gladys thought, if Charissa were here, she would probably call these new curtains “hideous.”

“They're
flameproof,
” Gladys's mom announced happily.

“Oh!” Gladys said, though she wasn't really sure why her mom seemed so excited about this. Her parents hardly ever cooked with the stove, much less with a blowtorch, so the chance of their ever causing a kitchen fire seemed small.

“Gladdy, come sit down,” her dad said. Still confused, Gladys took a seat. Her mom followed suit.

“We got a phone call from your teacher yesterday, while you were at Sandy's,” he said.

“You did?” Gladys asked.

“Yes,” her mom said. “Remember, she wanted to talk to us after Parents' Night, but there wasn't time?”

Gladys's dad pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Gladdy, why didn't you tell us about winning that essay contest?”

“I didn't win the whole contest,” Gladys said quickly. “I was just the winner for my class. I didn't think it was a big deal.”

“Well,” her mom said, scratching at a spot of dried pizza sauce on the table, “Ms. Quincy says that you're a very talented writer, and that your essay showed a real passion for cooking. She even read it to us over the phone.”

“She did?” Gladys cringed slightly. Her essay went into a lot of detail about her secret cooking projects.

“She did,” her dad said. “And, well, it got us thinking about your punishment.”

Uh-oh,
Gladys thought. What would they use this time to make sure she stayed out of the kitchen—surveillance cameras? Heat sensors?

“First of all, the curtains are paid off,” he continued, “so we have no more reason to hold back your allowance.”

“Uh-huh,” Gladys said miserably. Who cared if she had money to spend if she was about to get banned from the kitchen for life?

“And secondly, we told you that you needed to have some fun, to do more normal activities for a kid your age. And, well—you've done a terrific job with that.”

“I have?” Gladys thought of the list on the fridge. She hadn't thrown a single snowball, or been to the mall even one time.

“Don't think that we haven't been paying attention,” Gladys's mom said. “It's wonderful that you and Sandy have become so close, but now you've got Parm and Charissa, too! From zero friends to three in three months—that's very impressive, honey! Now, tell the truth. Isn't it nice to have friends?”

“Yeah,” Gladys admitted. She still missed cooking most of the time, but it was definitely good to have other kids to talk to—especially when she needed help making new desserts or planning secret missions into New York City.

“Well, you've proven that you can have a normal social life,” her dad said. “So the real question now is, can you balance that with your passion?”

“My passion?” Gladys said. “What do you mean?”

“Something else is different about this kitchen,” her mom announced with a smile. “It's small, so you probably didn't notice it the first time. Go ahead, take another look around.”

Slowly, Gladys scraped her chair back and stood up. She took a few tentative steps around the kitchen. Same old toaster. Same old microwave. Same old fridge with its same old Approved and Unapproved . . .

Wait.

Gladys looked closer at the two lists. A word had been crossed out on the Unapproved list and added to the bottom of the Approved list.

Cooking.

Gladys let out a squeak and turned back to face her parents. They were beaming.

“There are still some rules!” Gladys's mom said quickly as Gladys barreled into her with a hug. “You're not allowed to cook alone—there always has to be someone to help you so things don't get out of hand!”

“That's right,” her dad chimed in. “Even real chefs have sous-chefs to help them out.”

Gladys gaped at her father. “How do you know that word?” He'd pronounced the word more like
sauce
than the correct
sue
—but still, she was impressed.

He reddened slightly. “I looked it up online. Turns out your tablet has all sorts of cool cooking apps! Anyway, it's French for ‘assistant to the chef,' right?”

Gladys threw her arms around him, too.

“And any cooking you do cannot take time away from schoolwork or from hanging out with your new friends,” her mom continued. “Agreed?”

Gladys nodded vigorously. Yesterday may have been the best day of her life, but this was turning into a close second.

• • •

Ironically, in the week that followed, Gladys had no time for cooking at all. She had a review to write, homework to do, and friends who insisted on hearing all about her adventure in the city.

Sandy called her that afternoon. “Gatsby, I've been waiting all day for the news!” he said. “How did it go? Did the plan work?”

“The plan?” Gladys laughed. “Which plan?” Then, making sure that her parents were far enough away in the living room that they couldn't hear her, she told him the whole story.

At school on Monday, Parm cornered Gladys in the hallway before class and demanded to know how the trip to Classy Cakes had gone. Speaking as quietly as she could, Gladys filled her in.

“Well, it's too bad you had to eat all of those disgusting desserts,” Parm said when Gladys finally finished. “But I suppose that's what a professional does. You really pulled it off!” And she gave Gladys a hearty slap on the back. It hurt a bit, but Gladys didn't complain—she knew it was the same kind of slap Parm gave her soccer teammates when they scored a goal, and it made her feel good.

During lunch, everyone else wanted to hear all about Charissa's birthday party in the city. Charissa was more than happy to provide detailed descriptions of the limo, the musical, and the desserts, and Gladys was more than happy to let Charissa do all the talking. By the end of the day, most people seemed to forget that Gladys had even been along for the ride.

But Charissa hadn't. She caught up with Gladys at the bike rack after school. “Gladys!” she cried. “Omigosh, wasn't Saturday so
fun
? I keep thinking about that tree-nut tart. Do you think you could find a recipe for it?”

“Probably,” Gladys said. “Although I'm not sure I have the right kind of pan at home.”

“Whatever,” Charissa said with a wave of her hand. “My parents own every kitchen utensil ever invented, so we'll just make it at my house. Maybe Thursday? Oh, wait, Thursday is horseback. Maybe Sunday? Oh, wait, that's my dance recital. Let me check my activities calendar and get back to you, okay?”

“Okay,” Gladys said. She half expected Charissa to forget all about this by tomorrow, but if she didn't . . . well, the Bentleys lived in a very nice house, and Gladys wouldn't mind having access to their kitchen! Plus, when she was in a good, stuffed-with-dessert mood, Charissa could be almost fun to hang out with.

“It's a date,” Gladys said. “Or, a date for a date.”

“Don't say
date
!” Charissa squealed. “It just makes me hungry for that sticky date pudding from Classy Cakes!”

• • •

Gladys worked on her review every day after school that week, and finally e-mailed it to Fiona Inglethorpe on Saturday. Once she clicked “Send,” Gladys felt a lightness flood through her, like she was a marshmallow bobbing in a sea of Mrs. Anderson's cinnamon hot chocolate. She'd done it! She had written a restaurant review for the
New York Standard
! She would have liked to bake a cake to celebrate, but since she hadn't found time to stock up on ingredients at Mr. Eng's yet, she settled for simply dancing around the house.

Fiona e-mailed her back on Monday. She made some small corrections, but overall she loved the review. It would run that Wednesday in the Dining section.

And just to confirm,
Fiona wrote,
Gladys Gatsby is the byline you use? No middle initial or anything?

Gladys had to do a Web search to find a definition for
byline,
and was a little embarrassed when she found out that it was literally just the line in the article that said “
by
” and the author's name. She was about to write back that “Gladys Gatsby” was fine when she remembered a conversation she'd had with Sandy weeks ago about her parents.

Dear Ms. Inglethorpe,

I'm so glad you liked the review. For my byline, I would prefer to use “G. Gatsby.” Thank you!

Sincerely,

Gladys

Gladys wasn't sure what the protocol was for choosing your byline, but she hoped that the editor would honor her request. That way, if by some small chance someone
did
show the review to her parents, or anyone else she knew, they wouldn't know she had written it. The writer could be named Greg Gatsby, or Geraldine Gatsby. There had to be other Gatsbys in New York.