Stars So Sweet (6 page)

“They've been a lot better,” she said quietly. “You know, about food and cooking and stuff.”

“Letting you cook dinner a couple of times a week is
not
the same as giving you permission to quit school to become a restaurant critic,” he said. “Sorry.”

Why did Sandy have to be so negative? With a bit more force than was probably necessary, Gladys swiped the last kale leaf off the plate and waved it at the Hoppers, reclaiming their loyalty.

“Well, anyway, nothing's decided yet. And in the meantime, I get to review three Latin American restaurants.” She told him about the different cuisines she would be covering for her next assignments.

This, at least, was something they could agree was pretty cool. “Excellent,” Sandy said. “Can I come on one of your research trips? Which one do you think will have the best desserts? I'll come to that one.”

Gladys laughed. “Well, chocolate does originally come from Central America . . .”

• • •

They parted a short while later, Sandy wishing Gladys a good start to middle school, and Gladys wishing Sandy luck in his quest to become the gross-foods
king of his sixth-grade class. “Thanks,” Sandy said as he let Gladys onto his front porch. “A slightly mushy dragon fruit in my lunch box should definitely get me off to a good start!”

As she crossed the lawn, Gladys could only wish she had a fraction of his confidence about her own first day.

A SOUR NOTE

T
HE NEXT MORNING, THE MIDDLE-SCHOOL
hallways were loud and crowded, just as Gladys had expected. Keeping her head down, she wove in and out of groups of students, grateful that she had carefully charted a course to homeroom at orientation.

The thick canvas straps of the plain blue backpack she had found at the back of the hall closet felt strange on her shoulders, and she was happy to shrug it off onto one of the desks when she reached her classroom. Right now, it only contained a few blank notebooks, a pencil case, and a carefully sealed container of leftover vichyssoise for lunch. But Gladys knew it would only get heavier as she received textbooks from each class throughout the day.

The morning bell rang, and Gladys glanced around the room. There were a couple of kids she recognized—Peter Yang and Marina Trillesby—but a lot more she didn't. The homeroom teacher, a man in a bow tie named Mr. Swanberg, took attendance, then made an announcement.

“Since it's your first day of school, there will be a special assembly today,” he said. “Instead of having your regular eighth-period class, you're all to proceed to the auditorium.”

Gladys stifled a groan. Eighth period was when she had French, the
one
class she was truly looking forward to. Why couldn't the assembly have been scheduled during gym?

Peter Yang waved a hand in the air. “What's the assembly about?” he asked.

“I believe you will be hearing from a special guest speaker.” The teacher adjusted his bow tie and glanced over at the clock. “There are three minutes left in the homeroom period, so I'll let you go a little early in case you need to deposit anything in your lockers.”

The noise level in the classroom rose as kids made their way to the door. Marina was already chatting with a girl Gladys didn't know, and Peter was getting grunted compliments on his
Keep Calm and Carry a Lightsaber
T-shirt.

How is it so easy for some kids to make new friends?
Gladys wondered. Most days, she could barely believe
there were four people in the world who liked hanging out with her. But then again, Sandy didn't go to her school, she hadn't heard from Hamilton in weeks, she had no classes with Parm, and Charissa had plenty of other admirers. Plus, each grade at DTMS had five times as many kids as her sixth-grade class had in elementary school. Now even four friends didn't sound like a very strong number.

The rest of the morning passed in an adrenalinefueled blur; in every class, the teachers introduced themselves, passed out textbooks, and talked about what they would be teaching over the coming year.

Some of the teachers assigned seats, and some let students pick their own. In third-period social studies, the first class she had with Charissa, their teacher, Ms. Webster, let them choose their own seats, so the girls sat side by side. Something about Charissa seemed different today, but Gladys couldn't put her finger on it. Still, she felt relieved to have her friend nearby.

“What have you got next?” Charissa asked as they packed their bags at the end of the period.

Gladys double-checked her schedule. “Oh, right,” she said. “I have lunch.”

“Fourth-period lunch?”
Charissa screeched. “How is that a thing? It's not even eleven o'clock yet!”

“I know,” Gladys said. “I guess it's the only time they could fit some of us in.”

Charissa scowled. “Well, that's ridiculous. I'm going
to take this up with the Student Leadership Council, for sure—our first meeting is tomorrow. You should come, too!”

“Oh, uh . . .” Gladys knew that joining clubs might be her best bet for building her roster of friends, but Student Leadership
really
didn't sound like the right fit for her. She knew she was much better at lurking behind the scenes—observing and scribbling in her journal—than she would be at leading the masses that thronged this school's halls. “That's okay,” she said, “but I think you'll be great at it.”

“Of course I will.” Charissa tossed her chestnut hair over her shoulder, and Gladys finally realized what was different about her friend today: Her locks hung long and loose, free of their signature high ponytail.

“Hey!” Gladys cried. “Your hair!”

“You like?” Charissa tossed it again and posed with a hand on her hip. “I decided to try something new. I mean, we're in middle school now. Stuff's changing.”

“Yeah,” Gladys murmured. “You can say that again.”

She and Charissa parted ways at the door, and Gladys stopped at her locker before heading to the cafeteria. It was already bustling, and she recognized a few kids at different tables, but nobody waved her over to sit with them.
That's okay,
Gladys told herself.
I could use a little downtime.
She even sort of believed it—after all, she hadn't had time to write in her reviewing journal in ages.

She found an empty seat at a table in the corner and took out her soup and the small blue notebook she had picked up with her school supplies. Who needed lunch friends when she had blank pages to fill? Her aunt would surely appreciate a review of the vichyssoise, even though today it would be served closer to room temperature than cold. Gladys began to eat and write.

With time, the potato soup has thickened and its flavors mellowed. Now, each spoonful has a delightfully velvety texture and subtle taste that truly allows the simple ingredients—potatoes and leeks, but also butter, good chicken stock, and cream—to shine.

If only the atmosphere in which it was served was as elegant as the soup itself! Unfortunately, the DTMS cafeteria has walls the color of an avocado—an old avocado that's starting to brown. It makes a rather less-than-appetizing atmosphere for lunch, and added to the fact that it's way too early in the day to eat lunch, this critic really does have to question whether the administration of this school has its diners' best interests at heart.

“What are you writing?”

Gladys whirled around to see a girl with sharp black eyes and very short hair peeking over her shoulder.

Quickly, Gladys closed her notebook. “Nothing.”

“That's not true—I saw you writing. I even read some of it. A critique of the school's lunch-scheduling priorities, huh? That could make a really good op-ed.”

Something about the girl's voice rang a bell, but the bell played a sour note. Who was she?

“I'm Elaine de la Vega,” the girl said, as if she had read Gladys's mind. Without asking, she slid into the adjacent empty seat. “Eighth-grader. And editor in chief of the
DTMS Telegraph.
”

“The what?” Gladys knew she wasn't being very polite, but she hadn't quite caught up with this conversation. Should she be grateful that someone (an eighth-grader!) was talking to her? Or annoyed that the girl had been reading over her shoulder without permission?

“The
Telegraph.
The school newspaper,” Elaine explained. “You haven't heard of it? Our first issue comes out next week, and we're always looking for good writers. From what I just saw, it looks like you can string a sentence together.”

“Oh. Um, yeah,” Gladys said.

Elaine raised a dark eyebrow. “Well, on paper at least. Might have to work on the conversationl skills if you want to be assigned interviews.”

Something was pressing into Gladys's thigh—the buckle of the girl's messenger bag. A
green
messenger bag.

“Nice stuffed animal.”

It all came flooding back. “I saw you at orientation!” Gladys blurted. “Except . . . isn't orientation for seventh-graders only?”

“Sharp observation skills!” Elaine nodded approvingly. “I was covering it for the paper. An interesting story could break at any time. You know—
Rising Seventh-Grader Wets His Pants, Has to Call Home for Mommy.
” She let out a laugh that sounded more like a cackle.

Gladys sensed that Elaine expected her to laugh along, but she didn't. “You wouldn't actually publish an article like that, would you?” she asked. “The school wouldn't let you.”

Elaine sighed and leaned in closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Sadly, you're right. Freedom of the press has some real limits in an institution like this. But we have to keep pushing the boundaries.” She sat up a little straighter. “You seem to have a critical eye about things here—I think you'd be a great addition to our staff.”

Gladys wondered whether Elaine would have said the same thing if she had still been carrying her “stuffed animal” backpack. “Thanks for the offer,” she said, trying to be diplomatic, “but my after-school schedule's already pretty full.”

At this, Elaine's warm caramel demeanor seemed to harden into peanut brittle. “Seriously? The
Telegraph
is a prestigious publication; most student writers don't make the cut. You're turning down a rare opportunity here.”

“Sorry,” Gladys said, “but I just don't have time.” She wished that she felt brave enough to say the real reason—“
I don't want to join because you don't seem like a very nice person”
—but given how touchy Elaine was already acting, Gladys preferred not to provoke her any further.

“Well, that's too bad,” Elaine retorted. “But if you change your mind, we meet on Mondays in the Media Room after school.” She pushed her chair back. “What's your name, by the way? Oh, never mind—there it is on your book.”

Gladys felt her neck burn as Elaine read from the cover of her new notebook. “
This reviewing journal belongs to: Gladys Gatsby.
Well, hope to see you around, Gladys.” She stood up and slung her messenger bag over her shoulder.

Hope to see you nowhere,
Gladys thought as Elaine marched off.

The awkward conversation had made Gladys lose what little appetite she had, but she forced herself to finish her soup in the few remaining minutes of the lunch period anyway. She knew she wouldn't have another chance to eat until the end of the day. If there was one thing all her teachers had agreed on so far, it was that there were no snacks allowed in class.

• • •

When the bell rang at the end of seventh period, everyone made their way through the halls to the auditorium for the special assembly. It was a mob scene, but Gladys managed to catch sight of Charissa and Parm exiting their English classroom together. Charissa was whispering something in Parm's ear, and Parm was actually laughing. Gladys was surprised, but pleased, to see the two of them getting along.

“Hey, guys,” she said, walking up to them. “Wanna head down to the auditorium together?”

Parm immediately stopped laughing and glanced at her shoes. It was as if she was embarrassed to have been caught in the midst of such merriment, especially with a girl she allegedly did not like.

Charissa, though, was more chipper. “Gladys!” she cried. “Yes, absolutely! Marti and Ro are gonna meet me down there, too. We can all sit together!” She took a few steps ahead, leading the way to the stairs.

“Great,”
Parm grumbled, sidling up close to Gladys. “Eighth period is one of the only times of day I'm supposed to be able to escape from her.”

In the auditorium, Charissa blocked off an entire row of seats, laying her backpack, cardigan, and even one of her shoes out to keep potential interlopers at bay. Since the row she had picked was the first row, though, there wasn't a lot of competition.

“Seriously, Charissa?” Parm asked. “Right down
front? I was planning to use this time to relax before soccer tryouts—maybe grab a nap.”

“Come on,” Charissa said. “Whoever's speaking might really have something important to teach us, and by sitting up front, we'll get to bask in all that knowledge! Here, sit by me—I'll make sure you stay awake.”

Parm grumbled again, but took the seat next to Charissa anyway; Gladys knew well that sometimes it was easier to just give in to Charissa's demands than find the energy to debate her. Gladys slid in next to Parm, and Marti and Rolanda scooted in on Charissa's other side a few moments later, passing the lavender sweater and purple clog back to Charissa as they took their seats.

When everyone had settled down, Dr. Sloane took the stage. “Boys and girls,” she announced, “it is my immense pleasure to welcome you to a special, inspirational presentation by one of the most exciting novelists of our time. Please put your hands together for thirteen-year-old literary phenom Mr. Hamilton Herbertson!”

At that moment, the boy Gladys hadn't seen or heard from since the end of summer camp strode across the DTMS stage, clad all in black and grinning from ear to ear.