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

sick of kitchen duty. Her hands were moist inside their gloves, bits of meat and cheese were stuck to her arms, and she could feel sweaty strands of hair plastered to her scalp under her hairnet. But the sandwiches still had to be plated, and Mrs. Spinelli was wheeling a barrel toward the sink.
    â€œApples!” she announced cheerily, and Gladys looked over in surprise. Apples didn’t seem to fit into Mrs. Spinelli’s “salty meat on white bread” lunch plan, but Gladys stopped herself from saying anything before she got another strike for sass.
    â€œI’ll plate the sandwiches,” the cook told her. “You wash these apples, then wrap each one individually.” She patted a large box of aluminum foil.
    Gladys was too surprised to stop herself from saying something this time. “Wrap them? Why?”
    Mrs. Spinelli looked down at Gladys like her brain was smaller than a fruit fly’s. “Don’t you know anything, girlie? Kids like unwrapping stuff. You can trick ’em into eating fruit if they think it’s a present.” Shaking her head, she moved toward the cupboards to get plates.
    Gladys sighed as she reached into the barrel. These apples were Red Delicious, her least favorite kind, and based on how mushy they felt, they weren’t exactly fresh, either. “Maybe kids would eat more fruit if it wasn’t
going bad
,” she muttered under her breath.
    The sink was right under an open window that looked out onto the cafeteria patio, and as Gladys rinsed the apples, movement outside caught her eye. Hamilton was standing and stretching his arms over his head, his writing notebook open on the table in front of him. So he was still here, scrawling stories to his heart’s content while she followed orders like a scullery maid. Resentment boiled inside Gladys like someone had turned a burner on beneath her.
    She glanced up again several apple washings later, expecting to see Hamilton hunched over his notebook, but this time the book was closed and he was staring off into the distance. Then he glanced at his watch. Was he waiting for somebody? Gladys checked the clock on the kitchen wall and saw that it was eleven thirty. Oh, yes—this was the half hour that Hamilton set aside for book signings.
    After rinsing the apples, Gladys moved to the counter, where she started ripping off sheets of foil to mold around the fruits. Of every job she had done this morning this one seemed like the most ridiculous use of her time, so to take her mind off it she kept watching Hamilton out the open window. Eleven thirty-five came and went, then eleven forty. At 11:43, the boy tossed his fedora onto the table, stood up, and started to pace.
    At 11:47, someone finally arrived. “Oh, hello,” Gladys heard Hamilton say. “Have you come to have a book signed?”
    Gladys craned her neck and saw a portly figure approaching the patio: Charissa’s dad, who was handing something to Hamilton. It wasn’t a copy of
Zombietown, U.S.A.,
though. It was a phone.
    â€œHamilton, I have your father on the line,” Mr. Bentley said. “He’d like to speak with you.”
    Hamilton’s back was to Gladys, so she couldn’t see his face, but the boy took the phone from Mr. Bentley with a grunt.
    â€œHullo, Dad,” he said. His voice already sounded much less boisterous than it had a moment ago. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. But, Dad . . .” There was a long pause. Then, in an even quieter voice, Hamilton said, “Yes, I can compromise. I know that’s something adults do.” He said good-bye and returned the phone to Mr. Bentley.
    â€œSo we’re all settled, then, Hamilton?” Mr. Bentley’s voice had none of the warmth with which his wife had introduced the boy just a few hours earlier. “You’ll write in the mornings, but then participate in all regularly scheduled camp activities in the afternoons? And take whatever