The Candymakers

by Wendy Mass

  He hated the feeling of not being in control. He’d been working on this piece ever since he’d discovered the violin under a box of his mother’s old summer clothes. It wasn’t as if anyone was going to hear it performed—why did his brain insist on putting it down on paper? At school he was sure the other kids thought he was just taking notes. He didn’t know what the kids here were thinking, but he hoped it was the same thing.

  “There won’t be a test on this,” Max said.

  Philip wrote the last note and stuck the pencil back inside the notebook. Why hadn’t he just left it at home?

  A few minutes later, Daisy disappeared to go to the bathroom, and Philip felt both relieved (not to have her glaring at him) and annoyed (he wanted to get this show on the road). If he had to wait for the group all the time, it was going to drive him crazy.

  He leaned his forehead on the cool glass windows of the Cocoa Room and closed his eyes. He could remember standing on the other side of that very wall, just inches away from the machines.

  “In the afterlife,” Miles said, “no one has to use the bathroom.”

  Philip wanted to bang his head against the wall. What was it with this kid and the afterlife? Why couldn’t he understand that when you left the party, you left for good?

  Daisy finally came back with some excuse about getting lost. He doubted her story. She was probably scoping out the place, getting in good with the workers so they’d help her in the contest.

  He tried to pay attention to Max’s explanation of the chocolate-making process, but how could he concentrate with the Candymaker’s son standing a few feet away from him, just as he had seven years earlier? Philip glanced over at Logan, who seemed totally absorbed in watching the process unfold, as though he hadn’t seen it every day of his life. You’d think it would have lost some of its appeal. He turned away quickly, not willing to linger too long on the scars. Better to ignore them, as Logan apparently did. In a way, he almost flaunted them, wearing short sleeves instead of long, pushing his hair back instead of letting it fall over the sides of his face.

  Then Max told Daisy, “Ah, my dear. You have stumbled upon one of the Candymaker’s few trade secrets.”

  Philip’s ears perked up. He watched the worker place the tin back into the cabinet. If he could get his hands on whatever was in that box, he’d win the contest for sure.

  “What’s a trade secret?” Daisy asked.

  Philip explained it, but what he really wanted to say was, “I knew it! My brother was right! Girls can be pretty or smart, but not both.” He managed to keep that inside, though. Antagonizing her was one thing, but letting her know he thought she was pretty was another thing altogether. For a few seconds he allowed himself to plot how he’d sneak away from the group, slip into the room, and take some of the secret ingredient before anyone even knew he was missing.

  He quickly realized that that would be totally unnecessary. The secret ingredient was already mixed into the chocolate he’d be using. That meant, of course, that the other three contestants from Spring Haven would all have the same advantage, which was annoying. But he wasn’t too concerned. No way would their contest entry be better than his.

  As Max led them to the Taffy Room, Philip had to work hard to keep from smiling. He’d done it! He was back at the factory on his own terms, walking the halls like he owned the place. If the others hadn’t been there, he would have patted himself on the back.

  Of course Daisy volunteered to stretch the taffy. She clearly wanted to get on everyone’s good side and didn’t care how obvious she was about it. As he watched her, something strange began to happen. A memory floated into his head that he hadn’t seen before. He and his mother were sitting on a bench by a pond. She handed him a piece of warm taffy and said, “Try it. But make sure you chew really well before you swallow it.”

  “But it’s purple,” he had replied. He hadn’t eaten anything purple up to that point.

  She’d laughed and said, “Sometimes the best things look the strangest.”

  So he popped it into his mouth and chewed, as she’d said to do.

  That was it. There wasn’t any more to the memory.

  When Max tossed him a piece of freshly made purple taffy, he quickly tossed it back. If he tried to eat it, he’d throw up.

  Daisy practically launched herself at him. “Why would you want to create the world’s best new candy if you don’t even eat candy?”

  He couldn’t very well tell her the truth about why he was there. Or why he didn’t want to eat that taffy. It was much easier to lie.

  As fun as it was to upset Logan, Philip knew he needed to get out of that room. The sickly sweet smell and the hostile glares and the ghost of long-ago taffy were just too much.

  The hallway was better. He could breathe there. No one followed him, not that he’d expected anyone to. He was angry at himself for allowing himself to get so upset. He had to pull himself together. He faced the wall, using the shiny surface of the Taffy Room sign as a mirror to straighten his tie and smooth his hair.

  “Are you all right, young man?” a woman asked.

  Philip turned around, startled. He’d thought he was alone. The woman wore the same outfit as the rest of the employees, had the same dusting of sugar in her hair and splattering of chocolate on her apron, but he’d know her anywhere. Logan’s mom. The Candymaker’s wife.

  He squared his shoulders. “I’m fine, Mrs. Sweet,” he replied, then immediately wanted to bite his tongue for adding her name. He forced a smile. “Just getting some air.”

  “Are you one of the contestants?”

  He nodded. “Philip.”

  Her cheery expression didn’t change at the mention of his name. His pulse slowed back down again.

  “You enjoying yourself so far, Philip?”

  He nodded again.

  She pulled a tissue out of her apron pocket. Quick as a whip, she leaned toward him and wiped the wetness from under his eye. He stepped back, horrified that he’d let his emotions get the better of him.

  “Nice to meet you, Philip,” she said, tucking the tissue away. “I’ve got to go find out why the bags of Snorting Wingbats are coming off the line with fifteen wingbats instead of sixteen.” She laughed. “Rough job, eh?”

  He watched her dash down the hallway. If he saw her again, he would tell her he was allergic to something in the factory. What she’d seen was nothing more than his eye watering.

  He could hear the others saying their goodbyes to the taffy workers. He took a deep breath and arranged his face into a mask of disinterest.

  Daisy glared at him as the group filed out of the room. No one said anything, so he just fell into step. The rest of the tour was uneventful. In each room, the candymakers couldn’t wait to show them their particular candy. Smell how the peppermint and spearmint oils combine to make the Icy Mint Blobs so icy! See how the Some More S’mores have exactly the correct ratio of marshmallow to chocolate to cracker! Feel how the Oozing Crunchoramas ooze onto your tongue from tiny holes in the wafer-thin crust!

  He would smell and he would look, but he would not taste. Every ten minutes or so, he’d have to write down a few bars of his concerto. He knew what he needed to make his candy, and all this felt like a waste of time.

  As they trudged to yet another candy room, Miles asked Max why they didn’t hold tours anymore.

  Philip, who had begun to tune out whenever Miles began to speak, almost missed Max’s reply. The words toy truck reached his ears, and he stopped to listen. His eyes grew wide as Max explained that the truck had jammed up the machines and it had been really hard to fix.

  “After that, we had to stop giving tours.”

  Daisy and Miles started to speak, but all Philip could hear was the voice in his head yelling, IT WAS ME. I’M STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO YOU! IT WAS MY FAULT THEY STOPPED GIVING TOURS. He forgot to breathe. He must have made some sort of gasping or choking sound, because everyone suddenly turned toward him.

  Then the hiccups began.
He couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. Max brought him water, and he gulped it down. Finally, they stopped, leaving him spent. He’d sabotaged the factory, and he hadn’t even realized it. It should have made him feel great. Why didn’t it, then?

  “Serves you right,” Daisy whispered.

  If she only knew! But she didn’t know. None of them did. They didn’t even ask why he had reacted that way. He started to feel hotter and hotter as they walked, although he did his best to ignore it. Had his choking fit given him a fever or something? Then he realized that everyone was sweating. Max pushed a button, sliding doors swished open, and he saw why.

  A jungle inside a room! Tall, smooth trees with bright green and yellow leaves. Short trees with huge pods hanging from low branches. Bushes and grass and nuts and vines. The outdoors wasn’t supposed to be indoors. It violated the whole natural order of things.

  The room seemed to make his competitors do strange things. First Logan hugged a sticky, gooey gum tree, then Daisy hugged and sniffed a cinnamon tree, and later Miles looked like he was about to faint just because Max pulled a lever and the ceiling started to move. Honestly, the three of them were just no competition at all.

  At this point, all he wanted to do was get to work, but no, some sort of crisis had arisen in the Bee Room that only Logan, apparently, could fix. This he had to see.

  Not surprisingly, Miles was scared of the bees and didn’t want to go in. That kid really had to get some backbone or he wasn’t going to survive in this world, let alone the contest.

  Philip was slightly annoyed to see that Daisy didn’t look any less pretty wearing the silly goggles. If anything, it made her green eyes even brighter.

  He kept to himself in the Bee Room, glad not to have anyone looking at him for a change. Miles had some sort of crisis over a butterfly, of all things. The boy was so easily distracted. He often had this faraway look on his face that made him seem like he was half here and half somewhere else entirely. Philip hoped he didn’t look like that. It didn’t inspire confidence.

  Paulo, the bee guy, was yet another person who greeted Logan as if he were some kind of god, making him out to be this helpful, caring person, when anyone could tell he was a few cards short of a full deck. First Max, then all the workers in the candy rooms, Avery in the Tropical Room, and now Paulo. They must all feel sorry for him because of the scars, and Logan milked it for all it was worth.

  As he watched Logan pretend to care about helping the bees, a thought occurred to him. Maybe the scars aren’t even real.

  That idea was still churning in Philip’s head when the group (minus Logan) entered the Marshmallow Room. He actually planned to pay attention here, because he intended to use marshmallows as part of his project. Max introduced them to Henry, the marshmallow maker.

  Henry shook Daisy’s hand first, then Miles’s. Philip stuck his hand out, but Henry didn’t take it at first. Instead he stared directly into Philip’s eyes. It felt like hours, but was probably only a few seconds, before Henry finally shook his hand. No one else seemed to notice, but Philip knew exactly what had just happened.

  Henry had recognized him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Philip inched away from Henry. The only place to go was toward a large steel kettle full of some bubbling yellow liquid. He could feel the heat rising from it.

  “Wonderful to meet you all,” Henry said, glancing back at Philip, who stopped inching. “Are you here to see how we make marshmallows? It’s a fascinating process. I never tire of it.”

  “Not right now, Henry, ol’ boy,” Max said, checking the huge glass thermometer sticking out of the kettle. He gave a satisfied nod, then continued. “We just stopped by on our way to lunch to tell you to expect a fresh batch of honey. The bee problem has been dealt with.”

  “Excellent,” Henry said, rubbing his hands together in excitement like a little kid who was told he could have another cookie for dessert.

  “Would you like to join us for lunch?” Daisy asked. “Logan told us it’s chocolate pizza day!”

  Would the girl never stop? Why did she care if the marshmallow man liked her? Why’d she have to go and do that? Philip shrank back even farther, until he was practically on top of the kettle.

  “Careful there, son,” Henry said, switching off the flame.

  Philip scurried out of the way.

  “Lunch sounds lovely,” Henry said, placing the sticky thermometer in a bucket of water. “I never pass up chocolate pizza!”

  Henry didn’t even glance back at him as they all walked to lunch. Perhaps he was being paranoid. Maybe Henry just thought he looked like someone he knew. A grandson or something.

  But that theory went out the window when Henry volunteered to stay behind with him in the cafeteria while he waited for some real pizza. The firmness of the hand clamped on his shoulder told Philip all he needed to know. Why couldn’t he have just taken the chocolate pizza? He could have thrown it out and avoided this situation.

  Henry guided him toward a small round table to wait. “Would you like a taste?” he asked, holding up a slice.

  Philip glanced at the mixture of dark and light chocolate sauce, the melted marshmallow cheese, the flaky crust. He had to admit it looked delicious. But he knew it would taste like cardboard. He shook his head.

  “Suit yourself,” Henry said, taking a big bite.

  Philip watched the others leave through the back door. He had thought he’d be happy to see them go, but now he’d give anything to be with them.

  Among the many things Andrew’s notebook had taught him was that when you’re cornered, you always make the first move. So he pushed his chair back, wincing at the scraping sound it made. “I should check on the pizza. I’ll just wait up there if it’s not ready.”

  Henry waved him back down.

  Philip hesitated, then sighed and sat down again. This guy wasn’t going to make it easy.

  “Mary will bring it,” Henry said. “Let’s you and I get to know each other.”

  “What do you want to know?” Philip asked, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking but fearing that it was.

  Henry folded his napkin and laid it neatly beside him. “Well, for starters, I’d like to know why you came back after all this time.”

  “Um, I don’t know what you mean.” Where was that pizza!

  “I never forget a face,” Henry said.

  Seriously. How long did it take to throw some tomato sauce and cheese on a slab of dough? Philip tried to recall what the notebook said to do if the first move failed. All he could remember was something about giving your opponent the silent treatment.

  So he crossed his arms over his chest.

  Henry waited for a minute and then began to eat his second slice. About halfway through, Mary showed up. She placed two paper plates on the center of Philip’s empty tray with a steaming piece of pizza on each.

  “Just one is fine,” Philip told her, handing her back one of the slices.

  She raised an eyebrow but took the plate.

  “Looks good,” Henry said.

  Philip stood up. “I should go now. Er, thanks for waiting with me.” He picked up his tray with one hand, his briefcase with the other, and turned to go.

  Henry put down what was left of his last piece. “You don’t want to talk?”

  Philip shook his head. Nothing got past this guy.

  Henry stood up as well. The unmistakable smell of marshmallows rose from him. Did the man bathe in them?

  “If you don’t want to talk, perhaps you’ll agree to just listen.”

  Philip glanced at the door. “They’re probably waiting for me.”

  “I always prefer to talk while working anyway,” Henry said, picking up his own tray. “How about you come by early tomorrow morning before you meet the others. We’ll go down to the pond. Pick us some mallow roots.”

  Going down to the pond to pick mallow roots with Henry ranked as the last thing Philip would ever want to do at any point, ever, even once. “Thanks for t
he offer,” he said, “but I really don’t think I—”

  “Do come,” Henry insisted. “It’ll be fun. Wear tall rubber boots.”

  “I don’t have tall rubber boots.” Philip began walking toward the door the others had gone through.

  Henry followed. “Logan keeps a spare pair in the Marshmallow Room. You can wear his. He wouldn’t mind.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t,” Philip muttered.

  “What’s that?” Henry asked.

  “Nothing,” Philip said, pushing the door open with his hip only far enough to let him squeeze through.

  “Okay, then,” Henry called after him. “I’ll meet you out front at seven o’clock.”

  The door swung shut. Philip groaned. Looked like he’d be picking mallow roots, whatever they were. He debated going back inside and telling Henry he couldn’t possibly meet him that early, but he had a strong feeling the invitation wasn’t optional.

  He had no idea what Henry could want to talk to him about, but he was afraid that if he didn’t go, Henry might decide to tell Logan what he knew. Philip had always intended for Logan to find out, but on his terms.

  He looked around the huge lawn covered with red-and-white-checked picnic blankets. With the pond and rowboats in the background, the corn and wheat fields to the left, the perfect rows of blueberries and raspberries alongside the red barn, he felt like he’d walked into a postcard. The air smelled so… fresh. And clean.

  He had only the vaguest memory of being out here before. He remembered that there was only one rubber duck left for the race and he let some other little kid have it. His mom had been proud of him then.

  Max’s bald head made him easy to spot. Philip just wanted to eat in peace, and he refused to get drawn into a stupid game of Name That Cloud. Unfortunately, when he saw the cloud out of the corner of his eye, four more measures of his concerto popped into his head. He put down his pizza. Nothing he could do except get it out of his head and onto paper.