“Good morning, dear,” Mrs. Marblecook replied. “I understand you met my sister yesterday, Mrs. Cookmarble.”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” Edie said. “She made an appointment for me to meet with you to make an appointment with Dr. Kaboom. So here I am, right on time.”
“Yes, yes. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to cancel that appointment.”
“Really.” Edie crossed her arms, her patience wearing thin.
“Yes, I’ve had an accident.” Mrs. Marblecook held up her hand. Her thumb was wrapped in gauze. “I’ve stubbed my thumb.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It makes it very painful for me to hold a pen.”
“That’s awful.”
“It is awful. Tragic, even. I’m going to have a temporary secretary come in next week to take over my writing duties. You’ll have to come back Monday.”
“Maybe you can try writing with your left hand,” Edie suggested, but the idea was met with sorrowful head shaking.
“Oh, if only! But my left hand has palsy.” Mrs. Marblecook lifted her left hand, which wobbled and shook in a most exaggerated manner.
“That’s interesting—it wasn’t shaking like that until just after you mentioned it,” Edie pointed out.
“It only shakes when I’m thinking of writing something,” Mrs. Marblecook explained.
Edie was done pussyfooting around. “All right, Mrs. Marblecook—Mrs. Marianne Marblecook of sixteen-oh-three Cherry Tree Lane—I want to see Dr. Kaboom, and I want to see him as soon as possible. So open that appointment book, please, and make my appointment.”
“How … how do you know where I live?”
“I know a lot about you, and if you don’t do as I ask, please, I will let everybody know what I know. You’ll be ruined. You’ll be fired. Anyone who knows you will mock you—that is, if they don’t run you out of town.”
“You’re bluffing,” Mrs. Marblecook said warily.
“I’m not bluffing,” Edie said. “You, Mrs. Marblecook, Mrs. Marianne Marblecook of sixteen-oh-three Cherry Tree Lane, are a hoarder.”
“Why, I never!”
“Oh yes, you are. I looked you up on the Internet. It wasn’t hard. You’re such an extreme case there is tons of information about you. You’ve been documented in Psychology Weekly; that’s where I got most of your story, though twelve years ago there were plenty of newspaper articles about you, before you … went away.” Mrs. Marblecook chewed her lip nervously, eyes darting guiltily from side to side. She didn’t deny the charge, so Edie continued, flaunting her impeccable research.
“You are obsessed with office supplies. Over the years you’ve collected tons, and by ‘collected’ I mean looted. You’ve stolen from every office you’ve worked at. I’ve been to your house and, whoa, is that a sight to see! Mountains of paper, pencils, pens, markers, notepads, paper clips, staplers, whiteboards, and corkboards! Forests of floor lamps! Oceans of coffeemakers and watercoolers! I don’t know how you did it, but I counted at least fifty swivel chairs, twenty desks, and twelve copy machines, just stacked on top of one another.”
Mrs. Marblecook squeezed her not-very-injured thumb with her perfectly good left hand, tears streaming down her face. “It’s true. It’s true! I am a hoarder … and yes, a thief. And I’m not a twin, I only pretend to be so that I can take twice as many office supplies. But pity me! Because of my illness I lost all my friends!”
“I can’t say I blame them,” Edie scolded. “No one wants to hang around a pack rat.”
“No, you don’t understand. I literally lost them in all that clutter. One night Mary, Sandy, and Gloria came over to play bridge. But during the evening one lost her way to the bathroom, one lost her way to the kitchen, and one lost her way to the front door. They disappeared in that maze of tunnels and passageways through all my stuff. I searched for them, I could hear them calling, but I just couldn’t find them! Eventually, Mary and Sandy dug their own tunnels to escape through the dog door. But Gloria … poor Gloria. She was reported missing. The police came in … and … and …” Mrs. Marblecook hung her head, unable to continue.
“You were committed to a psychiatric facility.”
“Yes. It was a lovely place, though. My room was two rooms down from Mr. Mister’s.”
Edie startled. “What did you say?”
Mrs. Marblecook’s mouth fell open as she realized she’d probably said too much. “Oh, you didn’t know about that?”
“I didn’t know about what?”
“I’ve got to go,” Mrs. Marblecook said, rising quickly. She hastened down the hall but then turned abruptly, rushing back to her desk and scooping as many of the items as she could into her large purse, including two cups brimming with hot coffee. She gave Edie a tight smile and hurried away.
Edie wasn’t sure what all this meant. Would Mrs. Marblecook return with Mr. Gruber? In making such a threat to a school employee, had she seriously overstepped her boundaries? Probably. Was she going to get in big trouble? Most definitely. Well, she’d gotten in trouble before. At least she could meet Dr. Kaboom, conduct the interview, and write the story before she was expelled. If she could figure out the truth surrounding this bizarre school, it might actually be worth it.
Edie took a deep breath and approached Dr. Kaboom’s office. She knocked on the door, right below a nameplate that read DR. MARCEL S. KABOOM—HEADMASTER. “Headmaster”? So that was what “Hot Mustard” meant! Edie listened for a response, but there was none. She knocked again. Nothing. She glanced around to see if anyone was watching her, but Mrs. Marblecook was nowhere to be seen.
Edie opened the door just a crack and put her mouth up to the opening. “Helloooo? Dr. Kaboom? Anybody in here?” she called. Like Goldilocks, she took the ensuing silence as an open invitation and let herself in, closing the door behind her.
Dr. Kaboom’s office seemed stark. A desk was near the window, but it had nothing on it—no supplies, desk toys, family pictures, or coffee mugs; not even a computer. The only things on it were a dead fly and dust. In another part of the room sat a sofa and an armchair with the price tags still on them. The walls were blank save for a small evacuation-procedure map for fire or other disaster, and a fire extinguisher. No doctoral certificates or college diplomas. No fun artwork that might reveal his personality. Just blank. Even the plastic plant in the corner still had the price sticker on it, stuck to one of the dusty leaves.
There were two doors to the right of the desk. Edie opened the one on the left. It was a closet, containing two suits, one dark blue, the other tan. She remembered that Dr. Kaboom had worn the dark blue suit at the opening assembly. There were also two collared shirts, two ties, and two pairs of shoes. Why Dr. Kaboom needed two complete outfits in his closet she couldn’t fathom. Did he arrive at school in his underwear? Quickly, she checked the pockets. The blue suit was clean, but in the tan suit she found several business cards for the Bravington Bijou, a beautiful old theater in nearby Bravington. She’d been there before to see a play—The Jungle Book. Pocketing the cards, adding theft to her list of school infractions, she proceeded to open the second door.
When Edie saw what was behind it, her eyes lit up. She felt like Aladdin stumbling on the Cave of Wonders. This was the file room. Gray metal file cabinets lined both walls, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lighting. Most people would greet this vision with a wide yawn, but not Edie. She knew that this room was Kaboom Academy’s information center. Within these cabinets were files on every student, every teacher, and every school employee. She couldn’t believe her luck. She’d struck oil!
Edie stuck her head outside the office door and glanced around again, knowing there was no one there, but still … what she was about to do was so awful, so repulsive, and so, so exciting she just couldn’t stand it. She checked her watch. Already she was late to her first class, and there were only forty-five minutes before her next one started. That wouldn’t be nearly enough time; she had a lot of reading to do. Breathlessly,
Edie pulled out the top drawer of the first cabinet and plucked out the front file.
MARGO’S STORY
Spices of Life
By MARGO FASSBINDER
Most high school cafeterias are known for tasteless, overcooked food that students would never eat in a million years, or for unhealthy food that contributes to teenage obesity. But Kaboom Academy has the most delicious food many students have ever tasted. It’s not just a lunch; it’s an experience. Sixth grader Aaron Butkovitch states, “After eating in the cafeteria, I have more energy, I feel smarter, and no matter what I’ve eaten, my breath is really fresh. It’s like going to the gym, the library, and the dentist all in one.”
Yes, the food is amazing, yet some of these meals have suspiciously vague names: Meat-ish loaf. Tastes-like-chicken nuggets. Fishy sticks. Hamlike burgery surprise. What’s the deal? What precisely are we eating? I decided to find out what’s going on behind the kitchen doors.
The day before Edie confronted Mrs. Marblecook and discovered the file room, Margo steeled herself for her own confrontation. She had prepared for this day all week, gathering the courage to confront Lunch Lady Lois about the strange menu options. Now here she was, only a few feet from the lunch counter. The period was over and she could see Lunch Lady Lois going through the day’s receipts. Her black hair was still packed under the hairnet, though a few wisps had fallen out over her forehead. She was an imposing woman, tall and bony, with a long nose that had a weird growth on the side of it and a chin that reached out so far you might be able to hang an ornament from it if you were so inclined.
Of course, nobody would dare do such a thing. Lunch Lady Lois had a bit of a temper and would certainly not tolerate that kind of foolishness. She was often heard screeching at students to keep the lines straight and moving and to clean up after themselves once they were finished eating. She also had a strict rule about backpacks. Because of their bulkiness and people’s tendency to trip over them, backpacks were not allowed in the cafeteria. If Lunch Lady Lois spied a backpack, she would march out from behind the counter, snatch it up, carry it to the door, and hurl it out into the courtyard. She was very strong and could chuck backpacks quite a distance. Students wondered if she had ever competed at the Olympics in discus throwing.
But Lunch Lady Lois’s temper wasn’t the only thing that held Margo back. She knew that the story she was writing had the potential for being big. Really big. It could open up an incredible scandal. Practically all the students ate the cafeteria food, and if it turned out that they were eating something improper, it would affect everybody. She knew that in investigating food quality, one ran the risk of uncovering something very unpleasant. In the 1900s a book called The Jungle by Upton Sinclair had described horrible conditions in meat-packing plants and drawn attention to the need to clean up that industry. And now … nobody wanted to know what hot dogs, sausage, Spam, head cheese, and blood pudding were really made of. She was certain that once she found out what was really in meat-ish loaf and tastes-like-chicken nuggets, she would get sick to her stomach. There was also a good chance she would become an avowed vegetarian. She didn’t particularly like vegetables, but she knew it would probably happen just the same. It would be worth it.
Margo girded herself, clutching her voice-recording cell phone firmly as she approached the cash register, where Lunch Lady Lois was going through the receipts. She stood there for a full two minutes trying to figure out what to say.
Lunch Lady Lois spoke first. “You’re blocking my light,” she said, a strange comment since the room was illuminated by overhead fluorescent lights and Margo couldn’t possibly be blocking them.
“I’m sorry,” Margo mumbled. Then she remembered how important her story was and gained some confidence. “Good morning, Lunch Lady Lois.…”
“It’s afternoon.”
“Right you are. Good afternoon. My name is Margo Fassbinder, and I was wondering if I could interview you for the Daily Dynamite, our school newspaper.”
“Really? What about?” Lunch Lady Lois stopped what she was doing and put her pencil down, regarding Margo through narrowed eyes.
Margo gulped. “Ma’am, I would like to know, what exactly are the ingredients that you put in the food? What are our meals made of? You should know that I am recording your answer.” She started the recording application and held her phone forward, waiting for Lunch Lady Lois to explode. Instead, she frowned.
“I don’t understand. Are you planning on following these recipes at home?”
“No, I just want a clear explanation as to why the menu options have suspicious names. For instance, exactly what kind of meat is in meat-ish loaf?”
“Oh, that’s easy. My recipe calls for a mixture of ground beef and ground pork.”
“And what else?” Margo said accusingly. “Sawdust? Horse hooves? Rat hair?”
“What a peculiar little girl you are,” Lunch Lady Lois said, crossing her arms over her chest. “There are some seasoned bread crumbs, egg, chopped onion, and a little milk, if that’s what you mean.”
“If there’s nothing odd in the mixture, then why do you call it meat-ish loaf instead of meat loaf?”
“Well, you can hardly argue that beef and pork aren’t meat-ish.”
“Yes I can. ‘Meat-ish’ implies that it is like meat, or that it approximates meat. Beef and pork are actual meat.”
“Have you tried the meat-ish loaf? It’s really good.”
“What it tastes like is beside the point,” Margo said, frustrated. Lunch Lady Lois was acting very cool. Margo had to find a way to break her. “What about tastes-like-chicken nuggets? What kind of meat is that?”
“It’s chicken.”
“Then why do you call it tastes-like-chicken?”
“Chicken does taste like chicken, doesn’t it?”
“Well, yes,” Margo had to admit. “But a lot of things that people wouldn’t want to eat taste like chicken. Rats, for instance. And lizards.”
“How do you know that?” Lunch Lady Lois asked.
“I’m not the one on trial here,” Margo snapped.
“I wasn’t aware that I was on trial either,” Lunch Lady Lois said, her eyebrows raised. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
Lunch Lady Lois crooked a long knobby finger. Margo hesitated for a moment, then followed her into the kitchen. They passed the counters, the ovens, and the sinks, where Manny, the kitchen attendant, was scrubbing pots and pans. They stopped in front of the freezer. “You want to know what I put in the food? I keep all the meat in here,” Lunch Lady Lois said, opening the huge stainless steel freezer door. Immediately, a blast of cold air hit Margo and she shivered. “Go ahead. Go on in,” Lunch Lady Lois prompted.
“Why, so you can lock me in there? I know you’re up to something.”
“My, how distrustful you are. I’ll go in first. You can stand between me and the door.”
Lunch Lady Lois walked into the freezer and waited while Margo checked the shelves. The freezer wasn’t large, maybe twelve feet by fifteen feet. There were five levels of shelving, which were organized according to types of food: a variety of ground meats, bacon, beef, chicken, and fish, all clearly labeled. They looked clean and delicious, even though they were frozen. There was also a lot of ice cream.
“How do I know this is the only freezer?” Margo said.
“You can look around,” Lunch Lady Lois said. “It’s not that big a kitchen. Listen, I don’t have time to play anymore. I need to make a shopping list.” She gestured for Margo to exit the freezer, which she did. “Sorry I couldn’t be more controversial,” Lunch Lady Lois said, closing the freezer door behind her. She quickly left the kitchen to go back to her receipts.
Margo plunked herself down on a stool, hitting her head with her fist a few times. This was so typical! She’d gotten all excited about an idea and it turned out to be 100 percent wrong. There was no story here at all. Once again, the only thing she’d proved was that she was a big screwup.
Because her sisters were so amazing, Margo’s utter lack of ability in everything she attempted glared all the more harshly. She had hoped journalism would be her thing, the activity that set her apart from her four sisters, a pursuit in which she could excel. After all, none of her sisters had claimed the mantle of being the writer of the family, and since she did like to write, maybe this would be her slot. But if her failure to find a story was any indication, that position in her family would remain unfilled.
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