The Candymakers

by Wendy Mass

  He barely noticed when Logan and Miles left. He was still getting down the last few notes when Max said, “If you don’t mind me asking, what is it you’re always so intent on writing in that notebook of yours? Are you a budding young author, perhaps? Daisy loves to read, maybe the two of you could work on a story together one day.”

  “I do,” Philip replied, not looking up.

  “Sorry?” said Max.

  “I do,” Philip repeated, “mind you asking.”

  “Oh.” Max chuckled. “I see. Well, I’ll let you keep at it then.”

  But he had finished for now. “Can we go make some candy? The contest is in two days.”

  Max swallowed his last bite. “Go get Daisy, and we’ll find the other boys.”

  He let Max take his tray for him, and headed over to Daisy. He hoped the grass wouldn’t leave stains on the bottoms of his pant legs.

  She was leaning against the tree trunk, her eyes closed. He watched her for a few seconds, wondering what she was thinking about. Probably girl stuff, like hair and makeup and boys. He’d heard girls in school whisper about which boys they thought were cute. Once or twice he’d heard his name mentioned, and he had to admit, it was a lot better than most things people whispered about him.

  He wanted to tell her she looked pretty, with those wisps of blond hair flying free from her ponytail. Instead, he said, “Thinking about how you’re going to lose on Saturday?”

  She snapped at him, then stomped off with Max to find Logan and Miles.

  Philip trailed behind. As much as he didn’t enjoy being out in nature, he enjoyed being around Logan even less. He arrived at the row of low bushes to find everyone peering at something white dangling from a leaf. He bent for a closer look and then pulled back. It looked like something from a horror movie, like a mummy. Like something trapped. It gave him the creeps. He wanted to be far away from it.

  The lab was a welcome change, with its temperature-controlled environment and stations for each of them to work at. It was a relief to have some breathing room from the others.

  Since he already knew what candy he was going to make, Philip paid attention only when Max discussed things that could actually be of use to him. While the others were entertaining themselves by making things fizz and smoke (or, in Logan’s case, boiling things till they overflowed), he was laying out the ingredients he’d need and experimenting with adding just the right amount of mint oil to just the right amount of cocoa powder. He knew they weren’t supposed to be working on their projects until the next day, but he didn’t win all the time by following other people’s schedules.

  At the exact moment that the container of powdered sugar flew up in his face, he was thinking about how easy it was going to be to win this competition. As the sugar floated down on his head and shoulders, a piece or two landed on his lips. He quickly licked them clean, surprised by the brief sweetness.

  He knew the others were laughing at him, but he figured he’d let them have their fun. After all, their fun would end on Saturday in total humiliation. He threatened to send Max the dry-cleaning bill and stormed out.

  The halls were quiet for a change. That morning they had been filled with a steady stream of workers pushing carts loaded with trays of candy in various stages. He supposed the machines were up and running full force at this time of day. He brushed the powdered sugar from his arms, but succeeded only in smearing it more.

  A young guy carrying a bucket of strawberries turned the corner. He took one look at Philip and burst out laughing. “Guess you’re looking for a bathroom?”

  Philip nodded grimly.

  The man shifted his bucket under one arm and pointed to a door down the hall. “There’s a sink right in that storage room. If it’s locked, the regular bathroom is back that way, next to the Taffy Room.”

  Philip shuddered. He didn’t plan to go near the Taffy Room again. “Thanks,” he muttered.

  The guy chuckled and headed off, whistling.

  Philip hurried over to the storage room, hoping to find it unlocked. He hadn’t noticed the room before, and he knew they’d been in this corridor before. All the other doors at the factory were the kind that swung open. This one had a regular knob and blended into the white walls.

  He put his hand on the knob and was relieved when it turned easily. He opened the door and felt around for a light switch. All he could feel was rough, unpainted wood. His fingertips were so toughened from years of pressing on violin strings, though, that he didn’t fear any splinters. He had to open the door wider to let in more light from the hall, and that’s when he saw the string hanging from the ceiling. As he stepped toward it, something squeaked under his foot. He bent down and retrieved a small yellow duck wearing a sailor’s hat. He stashed it in his jacket pocket. The factory had finally given him his duck.

  It took two tries, but finally a dim lightbulb crackled on. He shut the door and looked around. All the stuff he remembered from the factory’s annual picnics waited in the small room, piled high in boxes and barrels or just bound together with twine. His eyes landed on a stack of instrument cases in one corner, and he made his way over to them.

  The black violin case on top of the pile had a good half inch of dust on it. He almost blew it off but realized the dust would just fly up in his face. He reached around the side for the latch, and the case popped right open. For a minute, all Philip could do was stare down at the most beautiful violin he had ever seen. Then, with shaking fingers, he gently lifted it out.

  The shimmering pine of the belly. The deep, dark ebony of the chin rest and tuning pegs. The golden scroll at the top carved into the shape of a lion’s head. The craftsmanship was far superior not only to anything he’d ever played but to anything he’d seen outside a museum.

  He held it up to the dim bulb to read the inscription on the back. Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1727. He almost dropped it. His heart rate doubled. He was holding a Stradivarius. One of only four hundred thought to exist in the world. The D string was missing entirely, and the others were loose and a little frayed, but it wouldn’t take much effort to fix that.

  The pegs turned smoothly, and he quickly tightened the three remaining strings. A tuning fork would have helped him make sure that they were perfectly adjusted, but he usually relied on his ears for that anyway.

  He checked the case and found a cloth, an empty tin of rosin, and a pair of earplugs. But no bow. He quickly wiped down the strings, then plucked the E string with his fingers and held his breath for the fraction of a second it took the instrument to respond.

  Like a single raindrop falling on a tin roof. A perfect note. He plucked G. And then A. Both flawless. Every ounce of him wished he could stay there and experiment with what the violin could do. And, of course, he hated that he wanted to.

  Hearing a voice outside the door made the decision for him. The violin went back into its case, and the case back on the pile. He had one hand on the lightbulb string when he realized he hadn’t done what he came to do. The workers on this hallway must use this sink pretty regularly, he thought, because the paper-towel roll and soap dispenser looked quite new. He dampened a few pieces of paper towel and ran them over his arms, chest, shoulders, even his hair. A quick look in the mirror assured him he’d gotten everything.

  He pulled the string and was halfway out the door when he realized that the voice he’d heard had been Daisy’s. He hoped she hadn’t heard him tuning the violin. She was standing a few yards away from the lab, leaning her right hip against the wall. He couldn’t catch her words, but she was definitely still talking. He wondered who was on the other end of the phone. One of her parents? Her friend Magpie that she always talked about?

  A boyfriend?

  But when he got closer, he realized she had no phone. She was talking to herself. He thought he’d seen her doing that before, but each time he listened more closely, she had stopped. This time it wasn’t his imagination.

  He snuck up behind her so close that he could s
mell her flowery shampoo again. “Talking to yourself can be a sign of a serious problem. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you do it.”

  She whirled around in surprise. Before she could answer, Philip walked around her and into the lab. He loved getting the last word.

  “Dad?” Philip said, slipping into the backseat of the limo. “What are you doing here?”

  “Can’t a father come pick up his own son?”

  You never have before, he almost said. Instead, he just nodded. Reggie closed the door behind him, and he stashed his briefcase on the seat.

  “So?” his father asked as the car pulled away from the factory. “How was it? Have you gotten this whole crazy idea out of your system?”

  Philip felt his palms begin to sweat. Only his dad could make him feel like a little kid who didn’t know what he was doing. “Why is it so crazy to think that I could win the contest?” he asked. “I win all the time.”

  “Come on, son. This is different. It’s a baking contest. I’m not certain you’d know how to find the oven in our own house. And how many other contestants did you say there are?”

  Philip wanted to yell that it wasn’t a baking contest, like at a state fair. He wasn’t trying to make the world’s best apple pie. But he had learned that it was futile to argue with his father. He tried to keep his voice level. “Four from each region. Eight regions, so thirty-two kids.”

  “And the Candymaker’s son? He’s in the contest, too?”

  Philip nodded.

  His father shook his head. “Sorry, kiddo. If you win I’ll eat my hat.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.” He caught Reggie’s eye in the rearview mirror. Reggie winked at him.

  “You know I have confidence in you,” his father said, folding up his newspaper. “I simply don’t believe in wasting time on a contest you can’t win. I don’t start a business deal if I’m not nearly a hundred percent certain I’ll be able to make it happen. Just makes good sense.”

  Philip didn’t respond.

  “Now tell me about the factory itself. Tell me everything.”

  So Philip did. He told him about the different rooms, the grounds, the people. He left out mention of the Taffy Room and the Cocoa Room, not wanting to jog his father’s memory about the whole banning episode. His father must have completely forgotten about the incident, because when Philip had originally been accepted and told him Life Is Sweet was going to host the local contestants, he’d just nodded and said nothing.

  “How about the chocolate?” his father asked now. “Did you see any being made?”

  Philip paused, then nodded. So much for leaving things out.

  “You saw the whole process? From beginning to end? You saw them add something from a small tin box?”

  “Uh-huh,” Philip said, raising his brows. “Why do you ask?”

  His father didn’t answer. “So in your opinion the com-pany is thriving?”

  “I guess so, but why are you asking me this stuff?”

  His father just smiled and flipped open his cell phone. When someone answered, he said, “Got confirmation. As soon as our inside man gets the secret ingredient you’ll be able to put ’em out of business. Yes, I knew you’d be pleased.” He shut the phone, leaned over, and ruffled Philip’s hair. “Good job, son.”

  Philip was only vaguely aware that his father had actually complimented him for something. That alone would normally have been a shocker. But if that conversation meant what it seemed to mean, then Logan and his factory were about to be dealt a much greater blow than the one he had planned to deliver.

  Forget about losing a contest. They were going to lose everything. He should feel happy about that. Shouldn’t he? Oddly, the thing that popped into his mind was the Stradivarius. The perfect heft of it. The softness of the polished wood. The purity of the tone. He wondered what would happen to it when the factory was sold off.

  The limo pulled into their driveway. “How long have you been planning this, Dad?”

  His father chuckled and picked up his own briefcase from between his feet. “About seven years, give or take.”

  “Seven years? ”

  “Some projects take longer than others.”

  Reggie opened the car door, and his father swung his long legs out of the car. “But as I said, I only do the deals I’m confident will succeed.” He got out the rest of the way, and Reggie shut the door behind him.

  The conversation, apparently, had ended. Philip waited for Reggie to come around to his side of the car, but instead he returned to the front seat and began to back out of the driveway.

  “Um, I’m still in here,” Philip called out.

  “We need to go for a little drive,” Reggie replied.

  Philip lowered his window to tell his father he’d be back shortly, but his father had already disappeared inside the house. He hadn’t even looked back to see if Philip was with him. By now he was used to his father’s short attention span. After all, he was a busy man.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just lean back and enjoy the ride.”

  Philip groaned. “We’re not going back to the candy store, are we? Because I can have all the candy I want now and I still don’t want any.”

  Reggie shook his head as they headed away from the center of town.

  Philip leaned back and closed his eyes. He hoped the ride wouldn’t be long. He had a lot to do in the twelve hours before he had to return to the factory. To his surprise, the car stopped only a few minutes later. Philip looked around. They were in the old section of town in front of a four-story apartment building that had seen better days.

  “Why are we here?”

  Reggie shut off the car and got out.

  Philip waited for him to get in the back, as he had that morning. But Reggie opened the door and gestured for him to get out. Philip hesitated. He had a strange feeling this wasn’t the first time he’d been at this building, but more than that he couldn’t recall.

  “Come on,” Reggie said. “It will only take a minute.”

  Philip sighed and stepped out onto the sidewalk. “This better be good.”

  Reggie said only, “Do you remember this place?”

  Philip shook his head. “Should I?”

  “Probably not,” Reggie admitted. “You were very young the last time you were here.”

  Philip turned to look at the building more closely. Gray brick. Nondescript iron railing. A cracked window on the third floor. He certainly didn’t remember ever being inside. “Is this one of the buildings Dad owns or something?”

  Reggie shook his head. “This is where your mother grew up. She used to bring you and your brother here to visit.”

  Philip felt an icy chill, as if someone had just splashed cold water on his back. He whipped his head around to face the building again. He had no memory of it at all other than that initial fleeting familiarity. Not meeting Reggie’s gaze, he asked, “Why did you bring me here?”

  “Because your mother wanted more for you than what she’d had. But not at a price. She never quite felt comfortable with your father’s way of doing business. When she got sick she made him promise to teach you boys about art and music and about being grateful for what you have, not just how to compete and make money.”

  Philip still wouldn’t turn around.

  Reggie continued. “Well, as you know, your father didn’t do too good a job with that. Can’t really blame him. Winning in business is all he knows.”

  Philip slowly turned to face Reggie. “What’s your point?”

  “I think you know.”

  They stared at each other for a few seconds. “I’m getting back in the car,” Philip said, breaking away. “I’d like to go home now.”

  He climbed in, lay down on the backseat, and pulled his knees up tight. In only one day, he’d gone back to the candy factory where he’d been banned, spent eight hours with his archenemy, found a Stradivarius (arguably one of the most valuable instruments on the planet), learned t
hat his father was trying to destroy Life Is Sweet for his own financial gain, and visited the house his mother grew up in.

  He didn’t expect to get much sleep that night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  By the time Philip awoke the following morning, his father had already left for work. He had been out at a dinner meeting until very late the night before, and although Philip heard him come in around midnight, he didn’t go down to greet him. He had no idea what he would say or where even to start. Better to take some time to figure it out first.

  He slipped on his suit, which the maid had already cleaned and pressed. He knotted his tie, then stepped back to admire his reflection. Hopefully no one would look close enough to see the dark circles under his eyes.

  Reggie was already waiting in the limo by the time Philip got outside. “Wearing the suit again, eh?”

  “Nothing’s changed,” Philip said, climbing in. Once he had set a plan in motion, he saw it through, that’s all there was to it. He had come to this conclusion after tossing and turning half the night. It was the only thing that made sense. He would make an excellent candy (or cheat, if need be), and he would win. That’s all he had to concern himself with.

  Reggie slid into the driver’s seat and turned around. “What about your father?”

  Philip unwrapped his egg sandwich. “Nothing to do with me.”

  “What about your mother, then?” Reggie asked.

  “What about her?”

  “I thought perhaps you gave some thought to what I told you. Maybe you’d want to rethink your plan.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  Reggie sighed loudly and turned back around.

  Philip pushed the button to close the window between them. He didn’t expect Reggie to understand.

  “Here you go,” Henry said, barely waiting until Philip got out of the car to thrust a pair of tall yellow rubber boots at him. Henry was already wearing boots that went all the way up to his knees. He looked like a deep-sea fisherman.