Read Online The Stars of Summer by Tara Dairman - Free Book Online

cook, not some scrawny little camper whose momma’s gonna yell down the phone at me every time I send her home with a few boiling-oil burns.”
    Gladys opened her mouth to respond but didn’t even know where to begin. Should she tell Mrs. Spinelli that she
was
an experienced cook? Or that if she burned herself in the kitchen, her mother was the last person she would tell?
    â€œWell, what are you waiting for?” Mrs. Spinelli reached again for the bread. “And tell ’em to send your replacement on the double. These sandwiches aren’t gonna make themselves.”
    â€œWhat kind of sandwiches are they?” Gladys asked.
    Mrs. Spinelli gave an irritated snort. “You sure like wasting time, don’t you, girlie?”
    Gladys bristled. She was many things, but a time waster wasn’t one of them. She turned away from Mrs. Spinelli only to catch a glimpse of Hamilton Herbertson through the window.
He wouldn’t take this,
she thought.
He would stand up for himself, and make an obnoxious speech, and get what he wanted.
    She puffed out her chest. “Actually, I
hate
wasting time,” she told Mrs. Spinelli. “So that’s why I’m going to wash my hands while you tell me what kind of sandwiches we’re making.” She shrugged off her lobster backpack, stepped over to the sink, and turned it on.
    Mrs. Spinelli gaped at her. “What kind
we’re
 . . . ? You’ve got some kind of moxie!”
    Gladys soaped her hands silently, hoping that the lather might hide the fact that they were shaking.
    â€œNow, let’s get one thing straight,” the cook said. “A kitchen is like a country, and not the democratic kind, either. In this kitchen,
I’m
the queen, and what
I
say goes.”
    Gladys turned off the sink, took a deep breath, and drew upon her final reserve of courage.
    â€œThen all you have to do is tell me where to start,” she said. “And what I don’t already know how to do, I’ll learn.”
    The cook gave Gladys another once-over, then let out a bark of laughter. “All right,” she said. “You’ll do exactly what I tell you,
when
I tell you, with no back talk. And if you mess things up, it’s three strikes and you’re out. Is that clear?”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” Gladys said.
    â€œThen go find an apron in the closet and get a hairnet and gloves from those boxes over there. And don’t dally.”
    Gladys raced to the closet at the back of the kitchen and threw on the first apron she found. It happened to be adult-size, so its hem brushed the floor, but she didn’t stop to look for another one. Somehow she suspected that Mrs. Spinelli cared more about her assistant being quick than having the right accessories. Next she shoved her hair under a tight hairnet and yanked on a pair of latex gloves.
    â€œToday’s sandwich choices are going to be ham and cheese or bologna and cheese,” Mrs. Spinelli announced when Gladys returned to the counter. “I’ve got the bread laid out already. Go to the walk-in refrigerator and bring me the other ingredients.”
    Gladys waited a moment longer to see whether Mrs. Spinelli would specify what ingredients those were, but when she said nothing more, Gladys scurried off. She was a professional restaurant critic—surely she could figure out what went into those sandwiches herself. She wondered what her cheese choices would be, and whether the kitchen stocked different kinds of lettuce or just one. Meat and cheese wasn’t the most exciting sandwich combination, but with some fresh mozzarella, a ripe tomato slice, and a zingy green like arugula, even a bologna sandwich could be saved.
    Arctic air from the walk-in refrigerator blasted Gladys’s face when she pulled open the heavy door, and a light blinked on automatically when she stepped inside. But rather than containing an explosion of colorful produce, the