The Candy Shop War

by Brandon Mull

  “If all else fails, we break out the Shock Bits,” Trevor said, as if that idea ended the discussion.

  “Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”

  “Depends on what they’re trying to do.”

  “What if it stops their hearts?” she asked. “When I shocked that guy, he flew a long ways. A lot farther than any stun gun would throw him. And stun guns can give people heart attacks.”

  “We’ll do what we have to,” Trevor said. “Now that we started fighting back, we can’t let up, or they’ll make us pay for years.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Nate said, approaching with Pigeon. “They asked for it. Once they stop asking for it, we’ll stop giving it to them. But not before. Besides, after today we should add some new weapons to our arsenal.”

  “I hope you guys are right,” Summer said.

  “You’re as bad as Pigeon,” Nate accused. “There is nothing wrong with giving a stupid, mean bully a taste of his own medicine.”

  “Except Denny isn’t stupid,” Summer said. “Mean, yes. Stupid, no. And unlike some bullies, he’s not a coward. Last year he thrashed a sixth grader who was bigger than him.”

  “Tom Turrel?” Trevor said. “He was big, but it was all fat.”

  “Would you have fought him?” Summer asked.

  “No way—what if he sat on me!”

  “Sounds like Summer might have a thing for Denny,” Nate said.

  Summer clenched her teeth. She wanted to slap Nate for saying something so stupid and embarrassing, but managed to restrain the impulse. “I’m just saying we should be ready for Denny to come looking for revenge, no matter how scared he should be.”

  “We’re with you there!” Trevor said. “Why do you think we’re sneaking home a different way?”

  “We want to be careful,” Nate said diplomatically. “We’re also having fun enjoying the victory.”

  Summer resisted a smile. “It was pretty funny,” she admitted. “They were freaked out.”

  “It was the most hilarious thing that has ever happened,” Pigeon agreed. “I’m just worried it might cost me my life. And that my mom won’t be able to stop eating fudge long enough to hold a funeral. They’ll probably just dump me in a hole in the backyard.”

  The four of them walked west along Oak Grove Avenue, the street that granted access to the school parking lot. Going home this way would make the walk nearly twice as long, since they all lived south of the school, and the first few southbound cross streets west of Mt. Diablo Elementary ended in cul-de-sacs. The slope at the rear of the school continued west for some distance before the incline diminished, allowing a road to connect the top of the ridge to the bottom.

  A block down from the school on Oak Grove waited a boxy old ice cream truck. The shabby vehicle was painted a faded blue. Music chimed from hidden speakers. The words Candy Wagon were emblazoned on the side in black cursive. A semicircle of kids huddled around the opening in the side of the truck.

  “Is that Mr. Stott?” Pigeon asked hopefully.

  “Looks like it,” Trevor said, hurrying forward with Pigeon at his heels.

  “Who’s Mr. Stott?” Nate inquired, continuing alongside Summer.

  “He’s the best ice cream man,” she said, “but he hasn’t come around for over a year.”

  Summer and Nate caught up to Trevor and Pigeon, who were waiting behind other kids. Mr. Stott was handing a red-white-and-blue Popsicle to a young black girl. He looked to be in his late sixties or seventies. His silver beard hung halfway down his chest and had a pair of dark streaks that ran from his chin almost to the end of his whiskers. His bushy eyebrows dipped and bobbed expressively, and he wore his silver hair smoothed back close to his scalp. Notwithstanding his age, Mr. Stott was robust, with a gruff, grandfatherly voice.

  “Any of you guys have money?” Trevor begged. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “My mom gave me a ten this morning,” Pigeon said reluctantly. “I’m supposed to buy white fudge on the way home.”

  “Spot me?” Trevor persisted. “What I want is only fifty cents.”

  Pigeon had reached the front of the line. Only the four of them remained beside the truck.

  “Here are some familiar faces,” Mr. Stott chuckled. “Trevor, Pigeon, Summer . . . and I’m not sure I’ve met you.”

  “Nate,” Summer said.

  “Hi,” Nate said with a little wave.

  “Good to meet you,” Mr. Stott boomed. “Sebastian Stott, at your service.”

  “Where have you been, Mr. Stott?” Trevor asked.

  “Here and there,” Mr. Stott said. “At my age, an extended vacation now and again helps keep the motor running. Why, were you looking for me down at the cemetery?”

  “No,” Trevor and Pigeon said together.

  “I hope not. I anticipate several more encores before the curtain falls. What can I get you?”

  “Whatever Trevor wants and a frozen banana,” Pigeon said.

  “You’re putting up the cash today, huh?” Mr. Stott said, pulling a chocolate-dipped banana out of the freezer. “Hope that means he’ll be paying tomorrow.”

  “I’ll pay him back,” Trevor promised. “I’ll have a Lightning Rod.”

  “Good choices,” Mr. Stott said, taking a striped frozen fruit bar from the freezer. “I dip the bananas and make the Lightning Rods myself, you know.”

  “They’re the best,” Pigeon said.

  “I was correct to assume you’re still going by ‘Pigeon’?” Mr. Stott asked.

  “Yep,” Pigeon said, unwrapping his treat.

  “You might outgrow that moniker soon. You’re going to have to upgrade to a bigger bird. Let’s see . . . how about Condor?”

  “Maybe,” Pigeon said noncommittally. He looked over his shoulder. “You guys want anything?”

  “What about your mom?” Summer said.

  “Honestly, as long as I come home with fudge, I don’t think she’ll be counting the change,” Pigeon said.

  “You wouldn’t be referring to fudge from that new Sweet Tooth place?” Mr. Stott interjected. “That shop is going to run me out of business.”

  “No way,” Trevor said. “She doesn’t drive around.”

  Mr. Stott scrunched his eyebrows. “I don’t know . . . have you kids tried that white fudge of hers?”

  They all shook their heads.

  Mr. Stott scratched his beard just below the corner of his mouth. “Might be safer to keep it that way. I don’t know what she puts in that stuff, but after the first bite, it is hard to resist. I’m not sure she needs to drive through neighborhoods in order to ruin me.”

  “I’ll have a Tooty Fruity,” Summer said.

  “Sure you have enough to cover all this?” Mr. Stott asked Pigeon in a confidential tone.

  Pigeon proudly flashed the ten-dollar bill.

  “And Mrs. Bowen won’t mind?” Mr. Stott pursued.

  “I’m feeling good about my chances,” Pigeon said.

  “One Tooty Fruity coming up,” Mr. Stott announced in a more boisterous voice. “How about you, Nate?”

  “You have candy too?” Nate asked.

  “It’s the Candy Wagon,” Mr. Stott said, slapping the poster beneath the window that listed a broad array of treats and snacks. He handed Summer her Tooty Fruity.

  “I’ll just have a piece of red licorice,” Nate said.

  “Just a piece of licorice? Licorice is part of a proud candy tradition. I’ll even spice it up for you, if you want, make it a Powder Keg.”

  “A Powder Keg?” Nate repeated.

  “Easiest thing in the world,” Mr. Stott said. “An old favorite with some extra kick.” His hands began doing the work he was describing. “Tear off the end of a piece of red licorice. Dump in the contents of a Pixie Stick. And voila! Instant Powder Keg!”

  “Thanks,” Nate said, accepting the candy.

  Mr. Stott winked. “You stay in this business as long as I have, you learn a trick or two. That will be a dollar seventy.”


  “Your prices are so low,” Nate remarked.

  “Easier to say when you’re not paying, right, Pigeon?” Mr. Stott took the ten and handed Pigeon his change. “But yes, I take pride in the fact that I have not raised my prices for almost twenty years.”

  “If Mrs. White is putting on the pressure with her candy shop,” Trevor said, “we’d be glad to pay a little more.”

  “Very kind,” Mr. Stott said, “but somehow I think I’ll survive. You can’t take those long vacations unless you’ve put aside a healthy nest egg.” He winked. “You youngsters keep out of trouble.”

  “You bet,” Pigeon said, trying to pocket his change with one hand while holding the frozen banana in the other. He was having trouble stuffing in the cash because his jeans fit too tight.

  They turned down a road called Winding Way and descended into the little valley that housed much of Colson. Many shade trees grew along Winding Way, and the modest houses along it had tidy yards.

  Summer noticed Nate eyeing her Tooty Fruity. “Want the last of it?” she offered.

  “I’m okay,” Nate said. “That Powder Keg was pretty good.”

  “I’m not sick or anything,” Summer said. “Tastes like peaches and cream, with a hint of strawberry.”

  “Okay, you sold me,” Nate said, accepting the Tooty Fruity and finishing it off.

  “What do you think Mrs. White will want us to do this time?” Pigeon asked. “Rob a bank?”

  “If she does,” Nate said, “I think Condor is the man for the job.”

  Summer and Trevor giggled.

  “We should make you a feathery costume,” Nate said.

  Pigeon rolled his eyes, trying to keep a smile from creeping onto his face. “I’m going to stick with Pigeon.”

  “We could still make a costume,” Nate said. “You still haven’t told me how you got the name. Have I been in the club long enough?”

  Pigeon glanced at Trevor and Summer. “Should I tell him?”

  “Up to you,” Summer said.

  “Tell him, it’s funny,” Trevor prodded.

  “You tell it,” Pigeon said.

  “Okay,” Trevor began, excited to have permission, “so, almost three years ago, during second grade, Pigeon used to sit alone at lunch. My family had moved here that year, and I hadn’t really met Summer or Pigeon yet. Anyhow, you’ve probably noticed our school has a lot of seagulls hanging around at lunchtime. Don’t ask me why, we’re what, fifty miles from the ocean? Anyhow, the point is, we get lots of seagulls, but you never see any pigeons.”

  “Right,” Nate said.

  “Well, one day this pigeon shows up, and Pigeon, he was Paul back then, starts feeding it. They became friends. That same pigeon would show up at lunch and sit with Paul without fail, eating little crumbs of his sandwich or whatever.”

  “Then one day,” Pigeon jumped in, “I put a breadcrumb on my arm. And the pigeon hops up onto my sleeve and eats it. So I put a piece of bread on my shoulder. And the pigeon perched up there and ate it.”

  “Everybody starts noticing this pigeon on Paul,” Summer said, holding back laughter. “And everybody starts gathering around him, checking it out.”

  “Then the pigeon hops on top of his head,” Trevor said. “It stands there for a minute, just staring at everybody.”

  “And then it made a mess on me,” Pigeon said. Nate cracked up, and the others laughed hard as well. “I had all this gooey white gunk in my hair.”

  “Everybody saw it,” Summer gasped through her laughter.

  “And he’s been Pigeon ever since,” Trevor finished.

  “Did you ever see the pigeon again?” Nate asked once the laughter died down.

  “No, never,” Pigeon said. “I’ve never seen another pigeon at our school, before or since. It was like he deliberately showed up long enough to humiliate me, then took off forever.”

  “That is hysterical,” Nate said. “I guess you should be glad you aren’t called Condor.”

  They all cackled again.

  *****

  The line at the Sweet Tooth Ice Cream and Candy Shoppe spilled out the front door and along the walkway. Old and young, male and female, dozens of people waited anxiously for their sugar fix.

  The crowd made Nate recall what Mr. Stott had said about being run out of business. Maybe he was right. To have a line like that at 3:00 p.m. on a Tuesday meant Sweet Tooth was becoming a major fad.

  Nate led Summer, Trevor, and Pigeon through the front doors, shouldering past the people in line. The dwarf and the guy with the lurid birthmark looked frazzled as they hustled to fill orders. Mrs. White was handing two boxes of white fudge to a young man with stubbly facial hair and an earring. Nate noticed envious looks from many of the waiting customers as Mrs. White greeted the four of them enthusiastically, raised the counter, and escorted them into the back.

  There was no indication that the back of the store had ever been as frigid as a meat locker. Dozens of trays of white fudge rested on the worktables and filled tall racks.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Mrs. White said, “we’re in the midst of our busiest day yet. You wouldn’t believe the orders we’ve been getting. I’ll be up all night replenishing our supply of white fudge! Maybe I should spoil a batch or two, slow things down a bit. I need to do more hiring! How are you doing? Did you repay your bullies?”

  “Repaid them and then some,” Nate said.

  “How wonderful, I’m glad the trick candy went to good use,” Mrs. White said. “I’m a little overwhelmed today, so we’ll have to be quick, but I do have a new assignment for you. Turns out it was fortunate you opted for the pocket watch over the book, Nate. I dismantled the watch and discovered a message on the back of the face. The letters were so miniscule, they could have been written with an eyelash. The note indicated that Hanaver Mills was buried with an important item hidden in an ivory box. By implication, the message granted permission to exhume him.”

  “What?” Trevor asked.

  “To unbury him,” Pigeon interpreted.

  “Of course, we would suffer an endless runaround if we tried to obtain permission through formal channels. I would prefer you four visit the Colson Valley Cemetery tomorrow night and see what you can dig up.”

  “You want us to rob a grave?” Nate asked.

  “Goodness, no,” Mrs. White said. “I want you to seek out the item referenced in the pocket watch message. Take the item in the box, an item meant to be claimed, and rebury the rest.”

  “What if we get caught?” Trevor asked.

  “You’ll be much better equipped than last time,” Mrs. White promised. “Let’s see, for Summer I have a package of Flame Outs. I would prefer if she were the only person to use them. It might be gender bias, but I believe that she has the coolest head of all of you. Summer, when you put one of these in your mouth, it will emerge as a searing ball of fire. Use a Flame Out only under dire circumstances, for the effect can be lethal. Never chew it or use more than one at a time. Never use one indoors, or you may very well incinerate yourself along with your target.”

  “I don’t want candy that could kill someone,” Summer said.

  Mrs. White sighed, glancing at her wristwatch. “Lots of things have the potential to kill someone, my dear. A baseball bat. A ladder. A bicycle. It all depends on how you use them. I don’t give you these Flame Outs to cremate people. Maybe you’ll need a distraction. Maybe you’ll need to disable an unoccupied car. Who knows?” She passed the candy to Summer. “Might come in handy to have some extra fire power.”

  Mrs. White turned to Nate. “You did a fine job operating the Proxy Doll last time, so I am giving you more Proxy Dust, along with a new subject to control. I call him the Forty-niner.” She pointed to a squat caricature of an old miner carved out of wood standing beside one of the worktables. The figure had crazed eyes, a shapeless hat, and a white beard, and stood about three feet tall. He clutched a pickax in one hand and a shovel in the other. The pickax and shovel were made of metal.
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  “The Forty-niner is designed for tunneling,” Mrs. White went on. “Like the surgeon doll, he is stronger than he looks. Using him, you should have no trouble burrowing down to the burial vault and accessing the casket. You know what I mean by a burial vault?”

  “Pigeon?” Nate asked.

  “The container that encloses the coffin?” he ventured.

  “In this instance made of stone,” Mrs. White approved.