All Four Stars (8 page)

PINK = DELICIOUS

OVER AT THE N
EW
Y
ORK
S
TANDARD
OFFICES
in Manhattan, editor Fiona Q. Inglethorpe was engaged in a food fight of her own.

At ten a.m., she had received a phone call from her head restaurant critic, Gilbert Gadfly.

“Iggleforpe!” his voice shrieked. “I burft my thung om hoth chocorip! I camp pashte emmyfing!”

“Mr. Gadfly, calm down,” she said. “I can hardly understand you.”

He did not calm down. “My thung ish scalgid!”

“Why don't you send me an e-mail, Mr. Gadfly?” she suggested. “Whatever the problem is, I'm sure that we can sort it out.”

The e-mail that arrived in her inbox a few minutes later looked like this:

INGLETHORPE!

I HAVE SCALDED MY TONGUE DRINKING HOT CHOCOLATE FOR THAT WRETCHED CAFÉ CACAO REVIEW! THE AWFUL STUFF HAS BURNT ALL MY TASTE BUDS OFF! I CAN'T TASTE ANYTHING!!!

THE DOCTOR SAYS THAT IT COULD BE WEEKS BEFORE MY TONGUE IS WORKING PROPERLY AGAIN. I AM SO UPSET THAT I LITERALLY CANNOT SPEAK.

YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO FIND ANOTHER CRITIC TO DO THE REVIEWING. AND EVEN WHEN I'VE RECOVERED, I AM THROUGH WITH THESE MISERABLE DESSERT PLACES AND CAFÉS! I NEED TO SAVE MY POOR TASTE BUDS FOR ESSENTIAL FOODS, LIKE MEAT!!

NUMBLY YOURS,

GILBERT GADFLY

Fiona stared at the screen in disbelief. All caps—her biggest pet peeve. She fingered the fringe on the hot pink scarf around her throat with a sigh.

Fiona Inglethorpe loved the color pink. She wore at least one pink article of clothing every day, and it was not unusual to see her dressed in several shades of pink from head to toe. But what she called her “predilection for pink” didn't stop there.

She liked her ice cream pink (strawberries and cream was her favorite flavor), and her steaks had to be pink on the inside (“medium rare” was what she always told her waiters). Her signature pink pasta sauce (made with just the right amount of ripe red tomatoes and bright white cream) was the recipe that had first gotten her published in the
Standard.

But that had been fifteen years ago. Since then, she'd reviewed eateries around New York City until her wardrobe became so well-known that maître d's and waiters recognized her and gave her special treatment—which isn't fair if you're there to write a review. So when she put her reviewing days behind her, there was only one thing left to do: become an editor.

Now, instead of eating pink foods all over the city, Fiona worked in an office. Her walls were gray. Her desk was gray. Gray sleet spattered against her fourteenth-story window. In the gray-walled cubicle just outside the door, her secretary's hair was turning gray.

Fiona typed an e-mail to the Human Resources department, asking them to post a job opening for a freelance restaurant critic. She had one more Gadfly review that she could print this week, but after that, she was in trouble. She could send the secondary critic out to cover next week's big steakhouse opening, but he already had a lot of other stories to work on. And maybe an intern could finish up the work on Café Cacao . . . but what about the week after next? She would definitely need more help.

Fiona clicked “Send” and turned back to the pile of papers on her desk that she needed to edit. But the black text on white paper looked so forbiddingly gray that she started to daydream about sneaking out of the office for lunch, even though it was barely ten thirty in the morning. She wondered how early her favorite Japanese restaurant started serving its bright pink salmon sushi. In fact, she was reaching under her desk to pull out her carnation-pink hat when her secretary walked in.

“Here's your mail,” she said, dumping a new heap of papers on top of what was already there.

Fiona sank back into her seat. She'd been out of the office yesterday at a cheese convention, so now she had two days of mail to deal with on top of her editing. With a grunt of resignation, she began to sort through the pile.

It was all looking even grayer than usual when something unexpected caught her eye. Peeking out from underneath all the memos, letters, and articles was a pink piece of stationery. She pulled it free and saw that it was a cover letter—a letter applying for a restaurant critic position at the
Standard.

Wow, Human Resources works fast!
Fiona thought. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes since she'd sent them an e-mail. Maybe they already had this letter on file? If so, she was surprised that they had held on to a pink application; she knew that HR hated any deviation from the standard black and white.

This one must be especially good,
she thought,
or they wouldn't have rushed it up to me.
And putting aside all thoughts of sushi, she read the letter with interest.

FREE SAMPLES

GLADYS'S AFTERNOON HURRIED BY AS
her class watched a nature video about the Amazon rain forest. Ms. Quincy occasionally paused the video to explain more about the Amazon's exceptionally damp climate—but if she noticed Nicky's pear-juice-dampened shirt or the glob of pudding moistening Joanna's hair, she didn't mention them.

When the final bell rang, Gladys grabbed her bag and headed straight to the bike rack. The food fight at lunchtime had cheered her some, but she was still feeling depressed about the contest. At least her mom wasn't picking her up, so she wouldn't have to answer the “How was school?” question right away.

At home, Gladys wandered aimlessly from quiet room to quiet room. In her previous life as a secret chef, she would have cooked something to make herself feel better . . . but under her parents' new rules, she didn't think it was worth the risk. Having no better ideas, Gladys decided to do her “normal kid” thing for the day and play on the computer in her parents' office.

She clicked to check her e-mail first. Maybe Sandy had sent her a message—when she'd told him about her new DumpMail account, he'd been excited that they could chat online. But that didn't make much sense to Gladys, because they lived close enough to chat in person through their bedroom windows.

In any case, when she opened her inbox, there was one solitary e-mail waiting for her; not from Sandy, but from the address [email protected]. The subject header was “Your writing.” Gladys's heart started beating a little faster—what was this?

Dear Ms. Gatsby,

I was quite impressed with the letter you sent me. I believe that a colorful new voice like yours may be just what the Dining section is looking for!

I was hoping that you could provide me with more details about your professional food writing experience. Could you send along a few samples of your past restaurant reviews?

Cheers,

Fiona Inglethorpe

Chief Editor/Dining

The New York Standard

Gladys's mouth hung open—a position it didn't usually find itself in unless a big spoonful of something tasty was headed its way. Was Fiona Inglethorpe one of the contest judges? But if so, why was she calling Gladys's essay a letter?

The questions continued to pile up in Gladys's mind like layers on a cake. Had someone given Fiona Inglethorpe a copy of her essay? How else could
the
Fiona Inglethorpe, whose legendary recipes filled Gladys's dog-eared copy of
Cooking Pink for Pleasure,
have gotten Gladys's e-mail address?

The longer she thought about it, the more Gladys convinced herself that there were only two possible explanations for this strange e-mail: 1) She had been hit by a car on her way home, died, and was now going to become a writer for the
New York Standard
in heaven, or 2) this was a practical joke.

She didn't think that the first case was too likely, so she focused on the second. Maybe one of the kids at school sent it; she now knew firsthand how easy it was to create an e-mail account. Her top suspect was Charissa—she seemed like she would be good at forgery.

She knew one person who would be able to tell for sure.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: FWD: Your writing—Is this a prank?

Hi, Sandy.

I just got this e-mail, and I think it must be a prank. Maybe from someone at my school? Is there any way to find out who it's really from?

Thanks,

Gladys

Gladys frowned as she clicked “Send.” She would almost rather be dead and a restaurant critic than alive and just the butt of a stupid joke.

A few minutes later, the phone next to the computer rang, startling her (she'd become mesmerized by an online video on how to make your own cream cheese). It was Sandy.

“Hey, Gatsby!” he said. “I got your e-mail. But then my mom kicked me off the computer—
as usual
—so I'll have to get back on later and check it out for you. Or maybe tomorrow. Anyway, it shouldn't be too hard.”

“Thanks,” Gladys said.

“So what else is new?”

For some reason, even though she hadn't wanted to talk about it earlier, Gladys felt okay telling Sandy about the disappointing contest results.

“ZOMBIES?!” Sandy cried angrily when he heard about the winning entry. “I mean, zombies are excellent, don't get me wrong—but I'm sure your essay was better. Who judged this contest, the aquituary writers?”

“Um, do you mean
obituary
writers?” Gladys asked.

“Yeah, the ones who write about dead guys. I mean, I could see why
they
would go for zombies, but . . .”

She had definitely found a sympathetic ear. In fact, Sandy seemed even angrier about the outcome than she was.

“Who is this Hamilton Herbertson?” he continued. “Did he write the essay as a joke?”

“It might be a she,” Gladys said, “and I haven't even read the essay. Maybe it's very good.”

“I doubt it!” Sandy muttered. “And if it is, I bet his parents wrote it for him.”

When they hung up, Gladys was smiling for the first time that afternoon.

• • •

Gladys didn't hear from Sandy again that night. She fell asleep thinking about the mysterious e-mail, and when she woke up the next morning, it was the first thing to pop into her mind. Could anyone other than Charissa have written it?

During social studies, Gladys went through a mental list of all the other sixth-graders who might have pulled this prank. Nicky McDonald? No, his spelling was atrocious. Jake Wheeler? No, she sat next to him in computer class and he could barely type. Marti Astin? No, there was some truth to Charissa's accusation that Marti had never had an original idea in her life . . .

Gladys was so lost in thought that Ms. Quincy called her name to give an answer three times before she heard it. After that, Gladys tried to pay more attention, but it was hard not to slip back into examining her list. What about Mira Winters? No, Gladys had heard her say she didn't have Internet at home . . .

Gladys paid special attention to the conversations at the lunch table that day, but didn't hear anything about a prank, joke, or e-mail. Charissa continued to drop vague clues about her birthday plans, which kept most of the girls hanging on her every word. And at recess on the playground, no one said anything to Gladys at all—which was the perfectly normal state of things since Charissa had regained her most-popular-girl status. Perched atop the icy monkey bars, Gladys finally allowed herself to consider what had seemed impossible yesterday. Could the e-mail be
real
?

• • •

A cold drizzle was falling later that afternoon when Gladys got home from school. Once inside, she made a beeline for the computer, where she found two new messages in her Inbox. The first was another message from [email protected], with that day's date and the subject “Your writing (follow-up).”

Dear Ms. Gatsby,

I attempted to reach you yesterday at this e-mail address, but received no reply, so I am trying again. I was hoping that you might be able to send me some samples of your professional restaurant criticism, since I am trying to assess whether you might be a candidate for future assignments with the Dining section.

Would you please let me know whether you have received my e-mails?

Cheers,

Fiona Inglethorpe

Chief Editor/Dining

The New York Standard

Gladys read this new e-mail, then reread it, her pulse pounding. If this was a joke, someone sure was putting in a lot of effort.

Too much effort. There was only one kid Gladys knew who would work this hard to make her writing sound adult and professional, and that was Gladys herself.

The second e-mail was from Sandy.

Hey Gladys,

Sorry this took so long but my mom just started this dumb new rule that I have to finish all my homework before I can go on the web.

Anyway I checked the servers that the e-mail was sent through and it looks real to me. I even did a search on the IP address and guess what, it belongs to “The New York Standard Company”! Crazy huh?

Sandy

So it wasn't a joke at all. Fiona Inglethorpe must have seen Gladys's essay and thought it was a
real
cover letter from a real adult writer. She even thought it was good enough to ask Gladys for more writing.

Gladys had been keeping one of the most important food editors in the world waiting more than twenty-four hours for a response!

Breathing fast now, Gladys clicked back to the original e-mail and began to type.

Dear Ms. Inglethorpe,

Thank you so much for e-mailing me. I'm sorry I didn't write back sooner. I've been very busy with

Here Gladys paused and tried to think of the right thing to say. Homework? No. Social studies? Definitely not. Finally, she settled on:

I've been very busy with other assignments.

Content with that, she hurried on.

I'll be happy to send you some samples of my professional restaurant reviews tomorrow. I hope that won't be too late!

Sincerely,

Gladys Gatsby

Gladys read the note over one more time—it wasn't great writing, but she had waited too long to respond to fuss over every word. It wasn't until after she clicked “Send” that she let herself slow down and think.

She'd just sent an e-mail to the chief editor of the Dining section of the
New York Standard,
promising to send in professional restaurant reviews. Professional reviews that didn't exist.

Fudge,
she
thought. What was she going to do now?