by Wendy Mass
As he slipped on his freshly pressed suit, he couldn’t help thinking that after the contest he would go to his father’s tailor and have a whole closetful of suits made just for him. This one had belonged to his brother, Andrew, who had outgrown it long ago and had left it behind when he went off to college. It didn’t fit quite right in the shoulders, but he doubted any of the other contestants would know how a suit was supposed to fit.
Dad always said that success was the best revenge. But Philip believed that revenge itself was the best revenge. And winning this contest would be excellent revenge. Plus, as a bonus, he’d get to prove he could win a contest that his brother hadn’t won. Andrew hadn’t even entered when he was twelve. Andrew never missed the chance to win anything, so he must have been unaware of its existence.
Philip gave his tie a final tug and turned toward his shelves. Even though he kept his windows firmly closed, dust and pollen and dander and who-knows-what other tiny particles were constantly landing on his trophies. He gave them a quick polishing with the cloth he kept on his desk.
To Philip, the outdoors existed only as a means of getting from one indoor place to another. Outside was either too bright, too hot, or too cold. He knew there had been a time when he hadn’t felt that way, when he and Mom and Andrew would play in the grass for hours. But Philip preferred to look at the past only as a way to motivate himself in the present, not as a source of nostalgia. Looking back only kept a person trapped.
Once he won the contest, he’d finally be able to put that humiliating day at the factory behind him. To achieve true greatness, he’d have to plant his feet firmly in the here and now and focus his head on the future.
Or at least that’s what Andrew had told him when he left for college last year. His brother had left him with those words of wisdom, the suit, his old briefcase, and a secret.
Actually, it wasn’t much of a secret. Philip had known it for years. In fact, it was thanks to Andrew keeping such accurate records of his secret that Philip had won many of his awards and trophies. His brother believed that it was better to hide something in plain sight than to lock it inside a hidden box.
Philip disagreed. To him, hiding something in plain sight simply meant it wasn’t hidden at all and therefore was fair game. That’s how he’d first stumbled across his brother’s notebook. When he flipped it open, he figured he’d see notes from class or perhaps an article Andrew was writing for his school paper. Instead, he found detailed instructions on Andrew’s methods for cheating and lying his way through every contest he’d ever participated in. The classic bait and switch. Subtle distractions at precisely timed moments. Breaking and entering, lock picking, bribery. Sabotage.
When Andrew officially handed off the notebook, Philip had to pretend he’d never seen it before. Years of putting his brother’s techniques to use had prepared him well for this lie. Andrew assured Philip that the end justified the means. His goal had been to get into one of the world’s most prestigious universities, and he’d done it. He no longer needed the book.
Philip had graciously accepted the gift and hidden it in a locked box in his lower dresser drawer. He still consulted it every once in a while, but he had his own notebook now. Although what he wrote in it was quite different, his notebook contained even greater secrets than his brother’s.
“We leave in five,” Reggie called from the hallway.
“My father’s taking me,” Philip replied, checking his reflection one more time. He adjusted his collar, then opened the door.
Reggie, his father’s longtime driver/bodyguard/assistant, finished tying one black patent leather shoe and rose slowly. Reggie always dressed impeccably. Philip’s father insisted on it. As one of the most successful businessmen in the state, his father believed that everyone around him should reflect his success.
Philip glanced down at his own shoes, an old brown pair that didn’t really match his suit. He hoped the other contestants were as ignorant about shoes as he believed they’d be about suits.
Reggie shook his head. “Your dad’s in a meeting. You’re stuck with me again.” He held up the limo keys and jiggled them.
With his graying hair and bad back, Reggie was now less of a bodyguard and more of a babysitter. Although neither of them would ever dare use the word.
“What a surprise,” Philip grumbled, picking up his briefcase.
“Nice suit,” Reggie said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Didn’t your brother wear that to his middle-school graduation? I bet your dad would have spotted you a new one.”
Philip didn’t reply. He’d actually asked for a new suit, but his father said he was growing so fast it didn’t make sense. Philip had been annoyed but figured at least it meant his dad had noticed he was growing.
“Seriously,” Reggie said, “why are you wearing that?”
Philip still didn’t answer.
Reggie began to whistle, then moved on to inspecting his fingernails.
“Oh, all right,” Philip snapped. “Look at me like you don’t know me.”
Reggie stepped back, sizing him up.
“I look sophisticated, wouldn’t you say?”
Reggie tilted his head. “I suppose one might say that.”
“I look important. Like someone not to be messed with.”
“Sure, okay.”
“Well, that’s why I’m wearing it.”
Reggie turned toward the stairs. “So much for you making any new friends today.”
Philip started to follow, but then the battle that raged inside his head every time he ventured into the outside world began. Just leave it at home! But I need it. No, you don’t! Yes, I do! The struggle kept his feet glued to the hardwood floor.
“Oh, just get it,” Reggie said, turning around. “You know you’re going to in the end.”
Philip threw him a withering look, then darted back inside his room, tugged the notebook out from under the mattress, and slipped it into his briefcase. He didn’t meet Reggie’s eyes on the way down to the kitchen, where the maid handed him his breakfast wrapped in a paper towel. He kept his eyes straight ahead as they climbed into the car.
He hated that Reggie knew his secret. He supposed it was inevitable, though. Reggie had been a constant shadow since the day his mother died, when he was three.
Philip had just turned eight when Reggie caught him. He thought he was alone in the spare room behind his father’s study. He had discovered the room a year before and had gone there often. The small room was filled with his mother’s old stuff—art supplies and gardening books and an old violin. He hadn’t known any of it even existed. He didn’t remember her ever making art or growing flowers or playing a violin. He didn’t remember much about her at all, which suited him just fine. You can’t miss what you don’t remember having in the first place.
That day he’d just finished playing Air on the G String by Bach (which he had taught himself on his mother’s violin) when a sniffling sound led him to the back hallway. He found Reggie leaning against a bookshelf, tears running down his face.
Before he could ask if something terrible had happened, Reggie took Philip’s hands and told him he had a gift, a real gift. Something that came from deep inside the soul.
Philip, of course, didn’t believe in souls or any other spiritual junk. Why should he? He’d certainly never seen any signs of it in his life. Truth be told, his “gift” embarrassed him. So what if Reggie had said he could play so well the gods would come down from heaven to listen? Or, as Reggie told him in later years when he heard him playing his own compositions, that he could write music as if the ghost of Mozart was whispering in his ear?
None of what Reggie said mattered, though. Philip Ransford the Third’s path in life would not be making music. He would follow in his father’s and brother’s illustrious footsteps. He would go to a top college and business school, buy out companies, break them apart, and resell them for fun and profit. Yes, that would be his future. Not some crazy instrument made of wood.
And yet… he never seemed able to leave the house without his music notebook. He ate his egg sandwich in the back of the limo while Reggie tried to engage him in conversation.
“Big day for you, eh?” Reggie asked.
Philip didn’t answer. He didn’t feel like talking.
“I mean, heck, you’ve been waiting, what, five, six years?”
“Seven,” Philip muttered.
“Seven years!” Reggie whistled. “That’s a long time to hold a grudge.”
Philip finished off his piece of toast and carefully wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. Tucking it back in his pocket, he said, “I’ve told you a hundred times. I’m not holding a grudge. I just want to get back at that kid for what he did to me.”
“Oh, I see. That’s different, then.”
Reggie was being sarcastic, but Philip didn’t really care. He didn’t expect anyone else to understand what he’d gone through.
They were in downtown Spring Haven now, only a few blocks from the factory. Reggie turned down a side street and parked. Philip glanced out the window. They were sitting outside Miss Paulina’s Candy Palace. “Why did you stop here?”
Reggie turned around in his seat, swinging his arm over the back of it. He pointed to the store window. “You see this candy store?”
“Of course I see it.”
“You can go in there anytime you want, right? Well, anytime it’s open, I mean.”
Philip rolled his eyes. They both knew he could get in whether it was open or not. “And your point is?”
“My point is, you can get all the candy you want a hundred different ways. Why is it such a big deal that you were kicked out of the factory?”
Philip didn’t answer right away. He had to decide what to say and what to leave out. He hated being put on the spot. Finally he just said, “Because it was… humiliating. And unfair. Logan had asked to see the little plastic truck. It wasn’t my fault he didn’t catch it and it landed in the vat of chocolate and broke their stupid machine. Then he just stood there, watching it slide deeper into the vat while Dad dragged me out of the room.”
He hated how whiny his voice sounded. This whole thing just brought out the worst in him. He’d be relieved when it was behind him.
Reggie clearly wasn’t going to let it go so easily, though. “You expected the boy, only five years old, to stand up to your father?” he asked.
Reggie didn’t have to say the rest. Philip knew he was thinking, when you can’t even stand up to him.
He glanced at his watch in exasperation. “It’s not that Logan didn’t stand up to my father, it’s that he didn’t stand up to his. He just let the Candymaker pull Dad aside and tell him I wasn’t welcome to come back. Logan just stood there, watching that stupid truck fall into the stupid chocolate.”
Reggie stared at him, shaking his head slowly. “A lot of things can change in seven years, remember that.”
Philip scowled. He knew a lot of things could change. He’d changed a lot himself. He’d grown much taller, his hair had darkened, and his freckles had disappeared, coming back only when he was forced to spend time in the sun.
He bore no resemblance to the boy he’d been at five, the one whose favorite day of the year had been the candy factory’s annual picnic. The one who thought he’d finally made a friend.
He stared out at the candy store as they drove past it. He’d never been inside, not even once since it opened five years earlier. He hadn’t eaten a single piece of candy since the day they kicked him out of Life Is Sweet. He’d tried a jelly bean at Easter once, but it tasted like sand and he spit it out.
They drove the rest of the way in silence. When they reached the front entrance of the factory, Reggie opened the car door for him. Philip brushed past him without a word. Let Reggie think what he would, Philip had every intention of following through with his plan to win the contest and humiliate the Candymaker’s son. And he would use any means necessary.
A boy and a girl were watching him with curiosity from the front steps. Philip figured the boy must be Logan. His mind raced with all the things he wanted to say to him, but he knew he couldn’t, not until he’d won the contest. The fact that he had received the invitation to the factory in the first place meant that they no longer remembered him. He needed to keep it that way. It would make everything much easier.
As he got closer, Philip realized with disappointment that this boy was much too small, his hair much too dark, to be Logan. He turned his attention to the girl, who stuck out her hand and said her name, which he only half heard. As he met her eyes, four thoughts ran through his head:
THOUGHT NUMBER ONE: she’s very pretty.
THOUGHT NUMBER TWO: she hates me already.
THOUGHT NUMBER THREE: same as number one.
THOUGHT NUMBER FOUR: the more people dislike you, the more they stay away from you and the more you can get away with.
He hadn’t really considered how he would act around his fellow contestants, how he would get the privacy he needed, but this girl—he couldn’t remember her name, some kind of tree or flower—had made the decision for him. He would be as unpleasant as possible.
Daisy started making a fuss about not bothering Logan with something, but Philip had no idea what she was talking about. For the past seven years he had tuned out any news about the factory or its inhabitants. In his mind, Logan was still five years old, still staring into that vat of chocolate as the toy truck sank, although of course Philip knew that wasn’t the case.
It didn’t take long to get the other boy, Miles, to dislike him as well. All he had to do was tell him the truth about the afterlife, which really, no one but little kids (and perhaps Reggie) believed in anymore.
The longer they stood out there, the more eager he was to get things moving. Unable to wait any longer, he tried and failed to get inside the factory. This only made him more anxious, although it seemed to entertain the girl (Fern? Rose?).
His hand twitched with the need to pull out his notebook and jot down a scale or two, but he didn’t want the others to see it. Instead he started arguing with Miles until the door finally swung open. “It’s about time,” he said, ready to step inside.
Then he looked up.
A lot could change in seven years, Reggie had said. True words, as it turned out. Logan, whose face Philip still recognized, had most definitely changed. He guessed this was what the others had been referring to earlier. Logan began to recite some poem, which gave Philip a few seconds to gather himself. Whatever had happened to Logan didn’t change what he had come there to do. Not at all.
And if he didn’t look at Logan, not directly anyway, he could almost believe that.
CHAPTER TWO
Philip tried to ignore the others as they oohed and aahed about the factory and its wonders. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the Cocoa Room. Here’s where it all went down. The machines had clearly been upgraded since he had seen them last, but he still recognized them. One of the workers popped out from behind the bean grinder and waved at Philip. He quickly turned around and rejoined the group before the guy could get a good look at him.
Daisy was reading the awards on the wall. Time to ramp up the obnoxiousness. He took a deep breath. Without looking directly at Logan, he said, “Must be a lot of pressure on you, huh? I bet your parents expect to see your name right here. Too bad you have to be up against me. I don’t lose.”
That did it. The others jumped right in to stand up for this kid whom they’d only met five minutes before. Too bad they didn’t know that Logan would never show them the same loyalty. He would turn his back on them just as he had on Philip seven years ago.
Philip’s dad always said people didn’t change, they just got taller. He doubted that a few scars had changed Logan.
He knew he couldn’t let his guard down, so he continued to argue with Daisy, who honestly got prettier as her cheeks got pinker. She got so mad when he asked if her father was a carpenter that she swung her ponytail at h
im. The smell of flowers and fruit instantly filled his nose. Not entirely unpleasant.
When Daisy said her father was a violinist, all he could think to do was make fun of it as his grip tightened on his briefcase. The mere mention of the instrument had caused music to explode in his brain. He turned on his heel and saw the fountain with its bubbling chocolate right in front of him. He did the only thing he could think of to keep from reaching into his briefcase and grabbing his notebook. He reached into the fountain instead.
So warm. So soft. But instead of distracting him, the chocolate had the opposite effect. The feel of it on his hand made the notes pop into his head all the more. A line of melody he’d been working on for the last few months suddenly burst into his mind, fully formed and perfect. It would be futile to fight against it.
He wiped off his hand, announced something about the fountain being unsanitary, and grabbed his notebook. He wrote down the sequence of notes so he wouldn’t forget them and slammed the cover shut before the others could see. It was bad enough that he was cursed with this; he certainly didn’t intend to let any of them know about it. He needed to keep the upper hand.
Logan introduced Max Pinkus, and Philip recognized him right away. He considered ducking his head, but how could he do that for two whole days? His brother’s words about hiding in plain sight came back to him. Might as well try that. So he stuck out his hand, put on his most polite voice, and prayed the man wouldn’t recognize him and kick him out.
When that didn’t happen, Philip breathed easier. If Logan and Max hadn’t recognized him, the only ones left to worry about were Logan’s parents. Hopefully they’d be too busy running the factory to pay much attention to the other kids.
Max began to talk about touring the factory, and before Philip could stop himself, he had pulled out his notebook again. His hand drew F-sharps and B-flats and quarter notes and, his favorite, eighth notes. He knew the others were watching, but his hand refused to quit moving across the page.