The Candymakers

by Wendy Mass

  Philip reluctantly took the boots, clutching them in one hand and his briefcase in the other.

  “Marshmallow?” Henry asked, holding one out to him.

  Philip hadn’t even seen him reach for it. He shook his head.

  “C’mon then, we’re headed this way.” Henry popped the marshmallow into his mouth and led them around the side of the factory to the huge lawn in back. Philip trudged behind. He slipped a few times on the dew-covered grass but managed not to fall. A toddler played catch on the lawn with her mother, and some workers waved as they walked to the fields. Other than that, only birds and the occasional bullfrog made any noise. Philip felt very out of place.

  “You can leave your briefcase here.” Henry pointed to a bench beside the pond. “We’re going to walk around to the left side of the pond, but it gets a little marshy. I recommend putting your boots on now.”

  Philip sat down on the bench but didn’t make a move to slip on the boots. “I can just watch from here, if it’s all the same to you.”

  Henry lifted a boot from where Philip had set them down and silently handed it to him.

  Philip couldn’t believe he was doing this, but Henry had the power to get him kicked out of the contest. He didn’t have a choice. On went the boots.

  He trudged behind Henry once again, this time making sure his feet didn’t slip out of the boots with every step. The ground beneath his feet gradually got mushier, until he couldn’t tell where the ground ended and the pond began.

  Henry pointed a few yards ahead to where a large canvas tarp was lying spread out on the ground. “That’s where we’re heading.”

  By the time they reached the tarp, the water was up past Philip’s ankles. Instead of grass, the vegetation here was denser—large green plants with long, flat leaves, smaller plants with spindly brown stalks. Frankly, to Philip they all looked like weeds.

  Henry walked right into the pond, and after a brief hesitation, Philip followed. The cold water encircled his legs but didn’t seep in.

  When they came to a section filled with the weedlike plants, Henry reached out, grabbed one of the largest stalks, and yanked. It seemed to come up pretty easily. He tossed it onto the tarp. “Give it a go,” he said, gesturing to the stalk next to the one he had pulled.

  Philip doubted he’d ever touched a plant in his life, let alone a wet, slimy one. But he did as Henry instructed. Water splattered up at him as the plant flew out of the ground. When he tossed it, it fell a foot or so short of the tarp. Henry waded over and flung it onto the shore.

  “Well done,” he said, grinning at Philip. “That’s all there is to it.”

  So they kept pulling and flinging. Philip learned to adjust how hard he pulled, and by the fifth or sixth time, he didn’t even cause a splash. He had to admit there was something relaxing about the process. It became almost rhythmic.

  He had just tossed his eighth mallow root onto the tarp when Henry, not looking at him, said, “Do you know how Logan got his scars?”

  Surprised, Philip let go of the stalk he’d been about to pull up. “It’s none of my business,” he said. He figured the less he knew about Logan, the easier it was to go on hating him.

  But Henry continued talking as he pulled up another root. Philip had no choice but to listen. “One day about seven years ago, the Candymaker was giving a tour of the factory to a local businessman and his two sons. At that time they were still offering tours to the public, you see. Anyway, one of the boys was Logan’s age, and growing up in the factory as he was, well, Logan didn’t have much chance to be around kids his own age.”

  Philip felt a shiver run though him that had nothing to do with the cold water.

  “So this other boy, he was real nice to Logan and seemed interested in being his friend. They ran around the factory together, sampling all the candy until the Candymaker’s wife warned them they’d get a bellyache. Then in the Cocoa Room, this other little boy tossed a toy truck to Logan, but he missed and it landed square in a vat of chocolate.”

  “I’ve heard this story,” Philip said, interrupting him. “Max already told us. They stopped giving tours because the truck messed everything up.”

  Henry shook his head. “Not exactly. So anyway, the truck went in, the little boy’s father yelled at him, and the boy started to cry. The Candymaker assured the businessman that it was no big deal, not to worry the boy over it.”

  Philip felt himself sway and grabbed onto a tall stalk for support. The Candymaker had said it was no big deal? But that made no sense.

  “You all right?” Henry asked.

  Philip gave a tiny nod.

  Henry continued, “In fact, the Candymaker asked the businessman if his son could come back to play, since Logan enjoyed his company so much.”

  A numbness began to spread up Philip’s fingertips into his palms. He squeezed his hands hard, but it didn’t help. He wanted to tell Henry he’d heard enough, but the man just kept on.

  Henry pulled up another stalk, tossed it on the pile, and continued. “Then the family left, and the Candymaker went to get his tools. He hoped to get the toy out before it entered the pipes. Alone in the room, Logan was fascinated by the patterns the truck made as it descended into the thick chocolate. He decided that as interesting as it was to watch, he wanted to get the truck out to give it back to his new friend. By the time he realized how hot the liquid was, his arms were all the way submerged, and half of his face.”

  Philip felt as if all of the air around them had turned to brick. It was his fault Logan had those burns? Guilt was not an emotion he had ever entertained. He had no experience with it at all. But now he felt it in his gut like a punch in the stomach. The blue sky above seemed to swirl and swoop downward. He swayed and nearly toppled into the marsh. Henry reached out and steadied him.

  “All that trouble,” Henry said, continuing the story as though Philip weren’t about to pass out, “and the little boy never even came back to play with him. Broke Logan’s heart, although he never complained. Bless him, that boy never stopped being the great kid he always was. Kind and generous, and happy, too, even after what had happened.”

  “But… but,” Philip stammered, struggling to get enough air to speak. “The boy was banned from the factory. He couldn’t come back.”

  “Banned?” Henry repeated, seeming genuinely surprised. “Why would he have been banned? No. The Candymaker even called the boy’s father afterward, but the boy never came back. Wasn’t interested, I suppose.”

  Philip literally pinched his arm to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “Are you making all this up?”

  Henry shook his head. “Just thought you might find the story interesting, is all.”

  “Just so I’m clear,” Philip said, his voice shaking. “The boy was never banned at all?”

  Henry shook his head again. “To my knowledge, the Candymaker has never kept anyone out of the factory. That’d be against his very nature.”

  The shock Philip felt at Henry’s words was nothing compared with the fury that now entered his veins. It overpowered even the guilt. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, his voice like ice, “I have to go make a call.”

  Without waiting for Henry’s permission, Philip stormed out of the pond. Water splashed up at him, but he barely noticed. When he reached the bench, he flung off his wet, slimy boots and dug the cell phone out of his briefcase. He pressed speed dial and began to pace up and down the path. Reggie answered on the third ring.

  “Have fun in the water?” he joked. “Those boots looked real—”

  “Reggie!” he shouted. “I wasn’t banned from the factory at all!”

  At first all he got was silence from the other end. He thought for a second that he’d lost the connection. Then Reggie said, “I wondered about that.”

  “What do you mean? You knew this and you didn’t tell me?” As far as he knew, Reggie had always been honest with him.

  “I didn’t know for sure,” Reggie insisted. “I was out in the car the whol
e time. I only knew what I was told.”

  “But why would my father say something like that? Why would he want to keep me from the factory?” He wanted to tell Reggie about Logan’s burns but couldn’t make himself say the words.

  “Who knows your father’s motives for anything?” Reggie said. “From what he said in the car yesterday, it sounds like he was interested in taking over the factory even back then. Maybe he thought a friendship between you and the Candymaker’s son would complicate things in the future. He could have been looking out for your best interests.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  Reggie paused. “Anything’s possible.”

  “Where is my father now?”

  “Still at his breakfast meeting in town.”

  Philip thought for only a minute. He knew what he needed to do. He’d known it since the car had pulled away from his mother’s old apartment. He said a quick goodbye and dialed his father’s cell.

  After seven long rings, his father finally picked up. “I’m in a meeting, Philip. Can this wait?”

  A jumble of words tried to make their way out of Philip’s mouth. Why lie about the banning? Why not follow Mom’s wishes about how to raise him? But all that would have to wait. He couldn’t risk getting into a fight. Instead he said, “If I win the candy contest—”

  “Philip, we’ve been through this. You’re not going to win. So what? You’ll win the next contest.”

  Philip would not be distracted. “But if I do win,” he insisted, “if I can pull it off, will you agree to drop your plans to take over the factory?”

  He heard silverware clinking against a plate. He heard his father chewing, then swallowing. It took all his self-control not to scream.

  Finally, his father said, “Philip, why would I do that? I’ve been working on this deal for a long time. I’m a businessman, it’s what I do. It’s nothing personal against the candy factory.”

  Philip began to pace again. He knew Henry was watching, but he didn’t care. “If you’re so sure I won’t win, you’ve got nothing to lose. And if I do win, I could give you all the prize money and whatever money I’d earn on the candy once they start making it. That way you’d still make money on the deal. Come on, Dad. I don’t ask you for much.”

  His father laughed. “You’re serious about this?”

  “Yes.”

  His father held his hand over the phone for a few seconds, and Philip could tell by the muffled laughter that he was sharing the offer with the people at the meeting. Philip clutched his phone tighter.

  “All right,” his father said, returning to the line. “You’ve got a deal. But don’t worry, if you do win, you can keep the prize money. That’s how sure I am that you won’t. Again, no offense or anything.”

  “Fine.” Philip hung up before he could say anything he’d regret. He looked up to see Henry standing on the other side of the bench, the tarp rolled up under his arm. Clearly he’d heard the whole thing. “I have to get to the lab,” Philip told him, grabbing his briefcase. “I’ve got a contest to win.”

  “I can help you.”

  Philip hesitated. The only time people had ever helped him win something was when they didn’t know they were helping. Andrew’s notebook said that if someone else knew more than you did and wasn’t actually competing against you, it could be valuable to enlist his help. Henry fell into that category. Plus he was the only person who knew what was going on. Or at least knew enough. Philip gave a single nod.

  “Good,” Henry said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a surprisingly dry marshmallow. He held it out to Philip.

  “No thanks.”

  “Too soon?” Henry asked.

  “Yes.”

  They walked across the lawn toward the back door. Laughter reached them from all sides as groups of workers took the last sips of their coffee and the last bites of their chocolate chip bagels before starting their shift. Philip watched them wearily. Could saving a hundred people’s jobs really be on his shoulders? Would he be doing it for them or only for Logan? Or for himself?

  They passed the bush with the chrysalis hanging from the leaf. Philip glanced over at it. It was still there, maybe a little more translucent now. He thought the outline of the butterfly was easier to see. He felt as trapped as it must feel.

  “What are you planning on making for the contest?” Henry asked, pushing the back door open.

  Philip hesitated again. He hadn’t planned on telling anyone his idea. Once you do that, you lose the element of surprise and, therefore, the upper hand. But things had changed. He’d have to adapt.

  He waited for two workers to pass by on their way to the Pepsicle Room before whispering, “It’s a square of chocolate with mint in the center.”

  Henry stared. “That’s it?”

  This reaction unnerved Philip. “Actually,” he said, crossing his arms, “if you must know, there are crushed-up pieces of cashew nuts and a little marshmallow in the mint.”

  Henry crossed his arms, too. “Again I must ask, that’s it? ”

  “It tastes very good!” Philip insisted.

  “Have you actually tasted it?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have.” He didn’t mention that it had been nearly ten years since he’d eaten his mother’s World-Famous Chocolate Mint Squares. But he had no doubt they’d taste as good now as they did then. People used to come from the other side of town when they heard she’d cooked up a fresh batch.

  “Listen,” Henry said, putting his hand on Philip’s shoulder. “I’m not trying to put down your idea. It’s just that the candy industry moves really fast, with new products competing for shelf space in every candy store. The candy that wins this contest has to be so new, so special, that no one has ever even conceived of it before. Do you understand?”

  Philip opened his mouth to argue, but he had to admit that what Henry said made sense. He should have known his mom’s candy wouldn’t stand out enough to win. “Well, what should I make, then?”

  Henry shook his head. “That’s up to you.”

  Philip threw up his arms. “But I don’t know anything about candy. How am I supposed to come up with something in one day that’s good enough to win?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Henry said. “Are you smart?”

  “Yes,” Philip replied without hesitation.

  “Enterprising?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Then I’m sure you’ll come up with something. Think of things that interest you and start there.”

  The workers had begun to stream in, and Philip knew he had to get to the lab. “You’re not gonna tell anyone, I mean, that I, um—”

  “I’m not going to tell anyone anything,” Henry assured him.

  “Thanks,” Philip said, then turned and ran in the direction of the lab.

  “Your tie is wet!” Henry called from down the hall.

  Philip undid his tie as he ran, the wet ooze of the marsh seeping into his fingers. He balled it up and looked around for a trash can. He didn’t see one. He was about to shove it down deep into his suit-jacket pocket when he came to the storeroom where he’d washed off the sugar the day before. For the briefest of seconds he pictured himself cradling the Stradivarius in his arms instead of facing what was ahead of him. Without coming to a full stop, he opened the door, threw in the tie, and kept running.

  He stopped short right before he got to the lab. How was he supposed to act now? Did he go to the others for help? Maybe they’d agree to drop out of the contest so he’d have a greater chance of winning. But what would he tell them? Everything? Or just the stuff about his father trying to buy the factory? He knew he’d never be able to tell Logan the whole truth. He wouldn’t be able to handle the look on his face when he heard.

  If he told them about the deal he’d made with his father, they’d probably think he was making up the whole thing just so he’d win. No, he had only two options. One was to come up with an idea amazing enough to win; failing that, he had to
get the others to believe that his idea was so amazing they shouldn’t even bother to compete.

  Only Max was in the lab, fully absorbed in taste-testing something from a tray in front of him. Philip was surprised that none of the other contestants had arrived yet. According to his watch, they all should have been here by now. He was relieved that he wouldn’t have to face Logan just yet. It was hard enough yesterday, but now, knowing he had been the cause of his scars, it would be a million times harder.

  Philip watched as Max picked up what looked like a pink-and-yellow blob the size of a quarter, took the tiniest nibble, jotted something on his clipboard, took a bigger bite, made another notation, then popped the whole thing in his mouth.

  Philip cleared his throat.

  Max swallowed and smiled. “Good morning, Philip, didn’t hear you come in. Would you like to try something we’ve been working on?” He picked up the tray and held it out. “It’s the inside of—”

  “No,” Philip snapped.

  “Oh, right,” Max said, plunking the tray back down on the table. “I keep forgetting. Candy is bad.”

  “That’s not exactly what I said,” Philip began, then stopped himself. He couldn’t apologize for anything. If he did, he might actually find himself being nice, and that wouldn’t do at all. Not now. He quickly turned away and got busy organizing the ingredients at his station as they’d been instructed the day before.

  Miles and Logan arrived, and Philip did his best to ignore them. It helped that they didn’t expect him to do anything else. Daisy came in a little later, looking a bit rumpled. As she passed by him on the way to her own station, he got a distinct whiff of peppermint and something else. Horse?

  He didn’t have time to think about Daisy or anyone else. Max jumped right into demonstrating the candy machines that had been set up in the center of the room. Philip hadn’t really noticed them before—he couldn’t focus on anything but what kind of candy he should make. Hard? Soft? Chocolate? Gum? What other categories were there? Perhaps he should have paid a little more attention yesterday. Henry had said to think of his interests. His interests were winning trophies, ribbons, plaques, and, on the rare occasion, cash. He didn’t think a chocolate trophy was what the judges were looking for.