Goldenrod and Birch loved every minute of it. But, on this day, although they were glad as always to be a part of their father’s kooky chemical warfare, they realized part of the reason they were baking was a rather sad one.
Their mother had been inconsolable for a whole day now—ever since she had woken up to discover that the entire garden and lawn was a wasteland of wilted plants. The grass hadn’t just dried up; it had basically disintegrated so that all that were left were small patches of cropped, dark brown stalks. The chrysanthemums, hydrangeas, dahlias, and tulips were just blackened silhouettes of themselves. Only a few lone goldenrod stalks had survived Brains’s very effective attack, looking like a couple of sad flowers stuck on a badly balding head.
Cookies were just one item in a long list of ideas the rest of the Morams had cooked up in order to try and make Mrs. Moram feel better (various crayon drawings, “#1 Mom” mugs, and even a plastic dancing flower that moved when you whistled Pachelbel’s Canon quite precisely had all preceded it).
But Mr. Moram looked hopeful as he peered at his kids through his safety goggles. “This could be it, kiddos. This could be the cheering potion your mom needs.” He took a big bite out of a nutmeg-basil-jelly roll, and screwed up his face as he chewed slowly and thoughtfully. “Hmmm,” he finally said. “I’m not sure the basil is cooperating here. Perhaps it’s time to call in the parsley!” And with that he had dashed off to round up the leafy green and attempt a new blend.
But even if Mom doesn’t like that one, Goldenrod thought, there are so many others to choose from: strawberry-cranberry-lemon snaps; peanut-butter–popcorn clusters; choco-vanilla–oyster-cracker crumbles. And with every batch, Goldenrod made sure to take the most appetizing, scrumptious-looking ones and set them aside in a large brown cardboard box that she and Birch had hidden in one of the lower cabinets.
By midafternoon, the Morams were out of supplies, and all they had managed was a very weak smile out of Mrs. Moram as she had bitten into an oatmeal-carrot-cinnamon concoction. Goldenrod and Birch still felt pretty awful, but it gave them more of a boost to put the second part of their baking plan into action.
Around 3:00 p.m., they told their mom they were going to go bike riding, promising to stay close. They took the big brown box full of cookies with them.
Goldenrod strapped it down straight to the handlebars of her bike, first wrapping the box in tissue paper and then using a large wad of duct tape. It was extremely important that the box and cookies looked as pristine and delectable as possible.
Then they set off with Goldenrod leading the way. They rode slowly so as not to disturb the cookies. It took them almost half an hour to reach the block they wanted.
As soon as they turned the corner, Goldenrod stopped her bike.
“Okay, Birch. This is my stop. You sure you’re cool with doing this?”
Birch nodded. “I’m ready.” He hopped off his bike and started to help unduct-tape the package from Goldenrod’s handlebars. The tissue paper left the box looking perfect.
“And if he answers the door?” Goldenrod asked.
“Well … then I guess he’s just gonna have to face me again,” Birch said.
Goldenrod laughed. “All right, I’m going to hang back here. She can’t see me. But I can see you from here. And you know the signal if you need help.”
Birch nodded. “Run and scream.”
He slowly started to walk his bike past the houses, toward the gray one with the black roof. He checked the house number against the one they had carefully copied on to the box from the Internet. Then he turned into the driveway and put on his most official-looking, most beaming smile. He didn’t turn back to look at Goldenrod, but she was watching him.
With one deep breath, he rang the doorbell. Goldenrod started to silently pray … but before she could get too far along, her prayers had already come true. She had answered the door.
“Are you Ms. Barbroff?” Birch asked brightly.
Ms. Barf looked at the tiny, moptopped person standing before her. She sniffed suspiciously. “Yes…,” she finally said.
“I have a delivery for you!” Birch held the large brown box in front of him. It was tied up with a nice blue ribbon and seemed to have the name of a fancy bakery printed on it.
Ms. Barf didn’t reach out for it. “Who’s it from?”
“I’m not sure, ma’am. There’s usually a card inside. We offer that as a free service to our customers.” Birch beamed.
“You work for this … company?” Ms. Barf pointed toward the sign on the box.
“Yes, ma’am,” Birch said.
“Humph,” Ms. Barf retorted.
Birch offered the box up again.
Come on, take it! Goldenrod silently commanded her ex-teacher.
Finally, Ms. Barf did. “Fine. I’ll take it.” She looked at Birch sharply as if daring him to ask her for a tip.
But Birch simply grinned radiantly and got back on his bike. “Have a great day, Ms. Barbroff.”
She frowned at him as he sped off, and both he and Goldenrod could hear her saying, “Humph. Looks a little too young to be working if you ask me. His parents better be careful all this early independence doesn’t turn him into a hoodlum.”
Only after she had slammed the door behind her did Goldenrod and Birch stop at a bush on the corner, trying to get over a fit of giggles.
33
SWEET REVENGE
Spitbubble lay on his bed in his darkened room. He had purposefully shut off the lights and drawn all the blinds tightly so that he could think.
Things had gone horribly wrong somehow. And he was not a person who was used to things going wrong. Since the museum debacle two days ago, he had found himself craving the dark more and more, thinking that if he could just block out the light, he could make order out of everything—like Brains could. Some of the things Snotshot had said had left him with an odd twinge at having left the four of them at the science museum to fend for themselves: it was wormy and unpleasant, and he didn’t much like to dwell on it. It made him feel almost … uncool.
There had to be a way to regain control and come out stronger.
“Stannie,” he heard his mother call from downstairs.
He didn’t stir, instead shutting his eyes to further block out the nagging voice.
“Stannie, come down here, sweetheart. I’ve got something that will cheer you up.”
Spitbubble very much doubted that was true. For one thing, there was no way his mother knew the kinds of things that actually could cheer him up—delicious things like torments and threats and, perhaps sweetest of all, revenge.
“Stannie,” his mother’s voice called. “Come downstairs!”
He sighed loudly. How could a person be expected to plot dastardly deeds with all that noise?
Heavily, he got himself out of bed and left his bedroom, making sure to slam the door and thunder down the stairs.
“What?” Spitbubble said with a huff as he came into the kitchen.
His mother was standing at the counter, a large cardboard box open in front of her. Inside the box were rows and rows of cookies. It looked like there were at least a dozen kinds, and some of them seemed very weird. One was an odd shade of green, and he could see something resembling a lima bean sticking out of another.
Spitbubble shook his head. Of course she would think that stupid gourmet cookies would be the answer to his problems. Unlike his mother, Spitbubble had never understood the whole fascination with hoity-toity foods, things like caviar (fish eggs) and pâté (duck liver), which were clearly quite disgusting, but which someone had decided must taste delicious simply because they were expensive. But he also knew his mother was a woman who liked to pretend that she was fancy.
Ms. Barbroff was hovering one bony hand over the box, trying to choose the first cookie to try. She must have been feeling particularly adventurous to go for one of the green ones.
Then she offered the box to him. “Look what someone sent me,” she sai
d. “Have one.” She took a big bite out of her cookie.
“Who sent it to you?” Spitbubble growled, eyebrows furrowed.
“Hmmm,” Ms. Barbroff said as she chewed … and chewed … and chewed. “Maybe it’s an acquired taste.” She frowned at the cookie, bits of which seemed to be stuck to her teeth.
“Who sent them to you?” Spitbubble asked again.
“Oh, wait. I think there’s a note.” Ms. Barbroff had spotted a piece of paper underneath the empty space her cookie had left in the box. She grabbed the end of it and carefully pulled it out. It was fancy, heavy beige paper.
“‘Dear Ms. Barbroff,’” she read, trying to enunciate the letters around the bits of stuck cookie in her mouth. “‘I hope this gift finds you well.’
“‘Your son is a thief, a kidnapper, and a general bad guy. For the past few months, he has been leading a group of young, for lack of a better word, hoodlums.’”
It was a bit of a shocker to hear this coming out of a cookie box. Spitbubble immediately lifted the cover and looked at the fancy label on it for the first time. BIRCH’S BATCHES, it said in scrawling cursive, A DIVISION OF G-ROD™ BAKERIES. It was overlaid upon a stunning picture of a bouquet of yellow flowers fanning over a white tree trunk. There was a golden embossed seal closing the box that had the words LEGENDARY ADVENTURERS stamped on it.
With horror, Spitbubble looked at the cookies. “What the…,” he started.
But his mother read on. “‘They have been doing horrible things all over town. You might have read about some of his followers in the paper yesterday in relation to a particular science museum.’”
“Is this a joke?” Spitbubble yelled, something his low and level voice was not used to doing. With a swing of his hand, he knocked the entire box of cookies to the floor.
But Ms. Barbroff did not pay much attention to the mess. “‘If you don’t believe me, I have drawn a map that approximately shows where their hideout is. (It would be more accurate, except your son caused me to lose a lot of my possessions in the forest a few days ago.)’” Ms. Barbroff stared at the map that adorned the bottom of the note. PILMILTON WOODS it said in block letters, and there were pictures of trees and bushes with annotations like SUGAR MAPLE TREES. In the center of all the foliage was a detailed drawing of a very odd structure labeled STAN’S EVIL LAIR.
“This is … this is…,” Stan sputtered, realizing he was losing control of the situation.
“‘If you still don’t believe me’”—Ms. Barbroff seemed almost in a trance now as she continued reading the letter—“‘I have also included the phone number of a Mrs. Cassandra Lewis of the famous Lewis family. She can give you a very detailed list of items Stan has stolen.’
“‘Hope you enjoy the rest of your summer! Dutifully, Goldenrod Moram. P.S. The cookies are not poisoned.’”
Slowly, Ms. Barbroff looked at her son, who was surrounded by scattered cookies and looked as if his legs were stuck to the ground with the same paste that was finally starting to disintegrate in her mouth. “Goldenrod Moram,” she said quietly. “But how … how does she know you?”
Spitbubble straightened up and cleared his throat. It was time to play to his strengths. “I think … I think I might have run into her in town somewhere,” he started, concentrating at first on controlling his voice again.
“She was one of my students …”
“Yes, she seemed like she would have been a difficult one.” He hesitated only slightly.
“Yes…,” Ms. Barbroff started.
“Rather nasty to me actually … Was she nasty to you?” He was much more confident now.
“She gave me a lot of grief,” Ms. Barbroff said shakily, and he could see her eyeing yesterday’s newspaper, which was still sitting on the kitchen table.
“That must be it, then. She must know I’m your son. That would explain her attitude.” His voice was back to normal, he was thankful to notice, and he was back to being in charge.
Ms. Barbroff looked down at the note. He could almost see the sedating voice in her head saying to her, “Yes, that must be it.”
“Don’t be upset, Ma. Why don’t you go relax on the couch? I’ll clean this up.” It was a nice touch, if Spitbubble did say so himself. And once his mom was out of the room, he would figure out exactly what to do about that girl.
Ms. Barbroff nodded, back to normal again. “Yes, all right,” she said slowly and walked to the kitchen door.
But then, as she passed the wall phone on the way out, she suddenly grabbed the receiver. “I’ll just make one phone call,” she said as she looked down at the beige piece of paper.
For once in his life, Spitbubble was speechless.
34
THE GOLDENROD AND BIRCH EXPEDITION
The day Goldenrod found herself in the forest clearing again was another beautiful and sunny summer day. Amid the chirping birds and buzzing insects, her voice rang out, calling Meriwether’s name.
A part of her was afraid that she was too late. She very much wanted to see the ghost again, but she had decided to wait until she was sure the quest was complete so that she could bring him the good news herself. She had then realized, of course, that she didn’t quite know how this part would work. At what point exactly did Meriwether’s spirit get set free? And what did that even really mean?
“Meriwether,” she called out again, crossing her fingers behind her back in the hopes that he would answer.
The fifth time that she said his name, he did.
With a pop, the tall, elegant ghost appeared, beaming at Goldenrod, though he was most certainly much fainter than ever before.
“You’re still here. I’m so glad!” Goldenrod said.
“You completed the quest,” Meriwether said.
“Yes, I gave a rose to my dad who took it to the head of his department, and my mom took one to her gardening club. And I had Charla check them against her Encyclopedia of North American Flora and Fauna. Your lost discovery has officially been discovered. I even brought the letter from the Horticultural Society.” Goldenrod unzipped her backpack and took out a much folded, unfolded, and refolded piece of stationery. “You were right, of course. They said it’s looking likely that this is one of the most important natural discoveries of the past fifty years.”
“More like the past two hundred years, I’d say,” Meriwether said with a smile as he nodded at Goldenrod’s letter. “Will they be crediting you with the discovery?”
“Well, yes…,” Goldenrod said.
“Good,” Meriwether replied.
“Meriwether,” Goldenrod started sheepishly, “I also wanted to say I’m sorry for getting mad about the twin roses.”
“Oh, no need. No need,” Meriwether said cheerfully. “I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a time or two Billy Clark and I had a little tiff, eh?”
Goldenrod smiled. “But, anyway. I am sorry.”
Meriwether tilted his head, his transparent eyes beaming. “I think I always had an inkling that you would be the one to finally beat the obstacles. Well done, Goldenrod.”
“Obstacles? You mean Spitbubble?”
Meriwether nodded.
“But … he hasn’t been here for two hundred years, has he?” Goldenrod asked with widened eyes.
Meriwether chuckled. “Oh no. Of course not. He and his band are just a bunch of regular kids … well, a bit more diabolical than most, perhaps. But anyone sent on the quest would have had their own set of obstacles to overcome. You have been the only one to fully succeed, obviously.”
As Meriwether talked, Goldenrod noticed that he was growing fainter still. His maroon overcoat seemed a creamy pink color now, and there were parts of it that almost blended into the sunlight completely.
Goldenrod frowned slightly. “So what happens to you now?”
“I’m free to go.”
“Go where?”
“On,” Meriwether said simply.
“But will you be …”
“Don’t worry about me, Golde
nrod,” Meriwether said gently. “I’m an explorer. On to new places and new adventures. And so are you, my girl. So are you.” The ghost gave her one more fond look and then was suddenly tree and twine and dappled sunlight. He was gone.
Goldenrod stared at the place where he had been. She would probably never see him again, she thought sadly.
Then again, if she had learned anything this summer, it was to never concede to the impossibility of anything and that things like limping ghosts, fantastic flowers, groups of children hiding out in the forest, and fascinatingly odd old ladies were all out there, just waiting to be discovered.
As she turned around to leave the clearing, her heart swelled at that thought and then again when she remembered Meriwether’s last words: that she was every bit an explorer too.
Birch held the measuring tape against one oak tree while Toe Jam took the other end and pulled it to another oak.
“Four feet two and a half inches,” Toe Jam read off as Birch jotted the number down in his almost-full notebook. Toe Jam let go of the tape, and it went zooming back to Birch’s hand.
When Birch looked up, he saw Goldenrod making her way over to them. She had been gone for the past twenty minutes, claiming that she needed to use the bathroom in the old lady’s cottage. However, that was most definitely not the direction she was coming from now.
Birch frowned. If there was something else going on in this forest that wasn’t what it seemed, he would very much like to know about it in advance this time.
“Where were you?” he asked Goldenrod.
“Oh, I took a detour. For a second, I thought maybe we had forgotten a part in that little clearing back there.” She pointed behind her.
Birch flipped through the notebook quickly. “We definitely haven’t,” he said after he had made sure.
The Mapmaker and the Ghost Page 15