Free The Stars of Summer by Tara Dairman Page A

“I guess I understand,” she said. “I mean, they’re pretty disgusting otherwise.”
    â€œOh, 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?”
    â€œHuh?” Gladys had definitely not expected this explanation.
    â€œThere’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.

Chapter 8
    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.
    â€œGladys!” 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.
    â€œHey, 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.
    â€œSo 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