Candy Shop War (14 page)

“We got this,” Trevor said, pulling out the pocket watch.

Mrs. White looked delighted. “Clever children! And the book?”

“I had to leave the book,” Nate said. “Some guy showed up and tried to grab us.”

Mrs. White sat up a little straighter. Her smile faltered. “What guy?”

“Big guy, dark hair,” Summer said. “He wore a trench coat and an old-fashioned hat.”

“He had a crossbow,” Pigeon said. “He tried to apprehend me and Summer, but we used the Shock Bits and got away.”

“Summer blew a whistle to warn us,” Trevor said. “Nate snagged the watch, and we ran off. The guy chased us. He was fast and tough-looking. He almost caught Nate, but I shocked him.”

“You were using the Melting Pot Mixers?” Mrs. White asked.

“Yeah,” Summer said. “He didn’t see what any of us really look like.”

Mrs. White was inspecting the timepiece. She fingered the glass covering the face. “Was this cracked when you found it?”

“My fault,” Nate said, unable to make eye contact with Mrs. White. “I had to jump from the cabinet after Summer sounded the alarm. I sort of panicked.”

“I see,” Mrs. White said, frowning. She peered at the watch from several angles and held it to her ear before setting it down on the table. “Under the circumstances, you children surpassed expectations. I did not anticipate any opposition, or you would have been better equipped. I considered this a trial run—a severe miscalculation. Shock Bits and Moon Rocks are insufficient protections from a determined foe.”

“The weird thing about that guy,” Nate said, “was that he didn’t seem very surprised about our powers. He just came out of nowhere and chased us down.”

“Do you have enemies?” Pigeon asked. “Do you know who he is?”

“I suspect who he represents,” Mrs. White said, looking at each of them in turn.

“What’s really going on?” Nate asked.

Mrs. White folded her hands in her lap. “I suppose you children deserve to know more about what is really transpiring. You see, I have come to town in pursuit of a hidden treasure. As you must have guessed, I am something of a magician. The treasure I am chasing is most valuable, but of particular worth to me, because it could help broaden the range of magical treats I produce. Others would like to lay hands on the treasure simply for the monetary value it represents. If you four help me find the hidden cache, you’ll get your fair share. There will be plenty to go around.”

“You lucked out,” Summer said. “We used to be a treasure-hunting society.”

“Only we couldn’t find any treasures to hunt,” Trevor mumbled.

“That guy who chased us is after the same treasure?” Nate asked.

“Apparently word is out that the treasure is in this vicinity,” Mrs. White said. “The treasure is ancient, dating back to the mighty civilizations who inhabited the American continents before European colonization. The treasure has been relocated numerous times, and sought by many adventurers, but some recent discoveries have given those who take an interest in such matters good reason to believe its final resting place is in or near this town. My ancestor, Hanaver Mills, was in possession of clues regarding the location of the treasure. He passed out of this life without realizing his dream of uncovering it. I intend to pick up where he left off.”

“That’s why you wanted the book,” Nate said. “To look for clues.”

“Precisely,” Mrs. White affirmed. “Hard to say where the clues I am seeking will be found—the book and the pocket watch are possible starting points. Hanaver was an eccentric man. It is tough to anticipate where his secrets might be hidden. You four did nice work this weekend, and should feel entitled to a reward.”

Mrs. White reached under the table and lifted a metal box that had a keyhole in the front. Turning a key in the hole, she raised the top of the box and removed six pieces of candy. There appeared to be three different kinds—two of each. “Trick candy,” she announced, “to baffle and dismay your enemies.”

“Cool,” Trevor said, stretching out the word so it lasted a few seconds.

“Like the majority of my candy, it will have little effect on individuals who have already consumed white fudge. And it is more potent on youngsters than adults.”

“What does it do?” Pigeon asked.

She picked up a yellow, crystalline treat. “I call these Sun Stones. They function like the opposite of a Moon Rock, increasing the pull of gravity. The candy reinforces the anatomy of the recipient to prevent the crushing force from inflicting lasting damage.” She indicated a second candy that looked like a miniature brownie. “That is a Whisker Cake. Makes hair grow at an unusual rate.” She tapped the last kind of candy, which looked like a solid sphere of root beer. “And one of my trick candy masterpieces—the Dizzy Fizzer. I’ll let you see for yourselves what it does. What are the names of your bullies?”

“Denny Clegg, Eric Andrews, and Kyle Knowles,” Summer said.

“Any of those treats should give them a memorable payback for whatever wrongs they’ve inflicted,” Mrs. White said.

“Do we get any candy we can use for ourselves?” asked Nate.

“You get to keep the leftover candy from the museum mission, which should include several mouthfuls of Shock Bits along with your stash of Moon Rocks. And I’ll be coming up with another task for you soon, which no doubt will involve a bunch of new candy. Check back with me tomorrow.” Mrs. White stood up in a way that suggested the conversation was over.

“I have a question,” Pigeon said. “The white fudge seems stronger than you described. It’s like my mom hardly notices me anymore.”

“She notices you,” Mrs. White said. “She just doesn’t pay enough attention to get you in trouble. The effect will go away when I stop making white fudge. For now, be glad you have the diversion you need to go adventuring in the night.”

“My dad forgot to take me to school today,” Summer said.

“You may have to help your parents remember to include you in their plans from time to time,” Mrs. White said. “A necessary side effect.”

“Our teacher, Miss Doulin, ate the fudge and is acting strange too,” Nate said. “Not just to us, to all the kids.”

“I’m guessing your teacher has a fairly extreme personality,” Mrs. White said.

“She’s pretty strict,” Nate said. “Or was.”

Mrs. White nodded as if this were to be expected. “The white fudge tends to normalize extreme personalities. Again, the effect is temporary, lasting only as long as the subject continues to consume the fudge. I won’t keep selling it forever. When I am done here, I’ll move on, and all will return to normal.” She ushered the kids toward the door.

“Are they becoming addicted to the fudge?” Trevor asked. “My parents keep buying tons.”

“No more addicted than some people are to a favorite breakfast cereal,” Mrs. White said. “The fudge is just really yummy.”

The kids returned to the front of the store. It was even more packed with customers than before. A middle-aged man with a mustache was walking away from the counter holding a tower of stacked white fudge boxes.

“Really, really, really yummy,” Nate muttered to Trevor.

*****

Nate folded the lined paper and creased it, smoothing his hands over it carefully. Miss Doulin had given them thirty minutes before lunch to study. She had not specified what they should study, nor did she seem to care, as she sat at her desk, sneaking pieces of white fudge from her drawers. Nate had elected to study the science of folding and throwing paper airplanes.

He put the finishing touches on the plane and sent it sailing to the front of the room. It veered left, sliding onto the floor beside Miss Doulin’s desk. She sat hunched over a stack of papers, green marker in hand, chewing with her eyes closed. She did not notice the paper airplane, just as she had not noticed the four others, including the one that had bounced off her shoulder.

The lunch bell rang, interrupting the steady murmur of talking in the room. There had not been much teaching since the first bell rang, and even less discipline. It was as if Miss Doulin were a day away from retirement and just didn’t care anymore.

Miss Doulin looked up. “Have a good lunch,” she said. “Get ready to hit the books when you get back.”

Yesterday when class had ended, she had pledged that the next day would be very busy. Which meant today should have gone a lot differently. Somewhere in the fudge-addled haze of her mind, Miss Doulin seemed to feel guilty enough about how she was slacking to at least pretend she had plans to improve. But Nate suspected that the class would keep getting less orderly.

“You ready?” Pigeon asked.

“Of course,” Nate said.

They strolled out of the room with Summer and met Trevor among the tables in the lunch area. Most of the lunch tables were either indoors or on a central concrete patio surrounded by buildings on three sides. But there were a few isolated lunch tables around the corner from the main area. They were rarely used, but Trevor, Summer, Nate, and Pigeon hurried to the exiled tables to claim their spot. They did not want the supernatural spectacle to play out in front of the whole school.

“What if they don’t find us over here?” Pigeon asked.

“They’ll find us,” Summer assured him. “They’ll think we’re trying to hide because we’re not in our regular spot. They’ll wonder what special dessert Pigeon has today.”

“Do I look like I’m eating casually?” Pigeon asked, taking a bite from his sandwich.

“Lean back a little more,” Nate instructed. “And kind of dip your shoulder.”

“Your right eye is open too wide,” Trevor said. “Close it halfway.”

“Tilt your head,” Nate suggested.

Pigeon looked increasingly silly as he followed their directions.

“Knock it off, you guys,” Summer said. “Pigeon, don’t try to
act
casual, just
be
casual. Or be nervous. Just don’t be fake.”

“Hey!” called a voice coming around the corner of the building. Denny walked toward them, followed by Eric and Kyle. “What’s with the new table? You guys too cool to eat with everybody else?”

“More like they’re hiding,” Eric said.

“Where’s the jacket, Pigeon?” Kyle teased. “I’m starting to miss it!”

“At least you still have your army jacket to keep you company,” Nate said. Kyle was wearing the same jacket he had worn at the creek. He wore it most days. “Does it remind you of your days serving our country?”

“Man, Dirt Face,” Denny said in disbelief, “you do not know when to shut up. That mouth is going to get you in trouble one of these days. Hey, Pigeon, what’s for dessert today?”

Pigeon clutched his lunch bag close to his chest. “Nothing you’d want.”

“We’re not picky,” Eric said, reaching for the bag.

Pigeon let him have it. Eric handed it to Denny.

“See, Dirt Face, Pigeon knows how to keep things simple,” Denny said, rummaging through the sack. He pulled out a sandwich bag with three unusual pieces of candy inside. “What have we here? A special treat? What are these, Pigeon?”

“Candy,” he said.

“Not a lot, though,” Denny said. “Only one for each of us.” He sniffed the yellow crystalline candy, kept that, and handed the sandwich bag to Eric. Flat-faced Eric chose the one that looked like the little brownie, and Kyle received the root beer sphere.

“I’ve never seen candy like this,” Kyle said, eying the brown ball. “Where’d you get it?”

“My mom picked it up somewhere,” Pigeon said.

Eric started chewing his candy. Denny and Kyle popped theirs into their mouths. “Not bad,” Denny said. “Like lemon meringue pie. Sort of sticks to my mouth, though.” Denny swayed, a worried look crossing his face, and began to stoop. Straining, he managed to wrench himself upright. His features drooped, and his arms hung trembling at his sides. Suddenly, as if his legs were loaded with mousetrap springs, his body whipped down to the concrete patio with a mighty slap.

“What did you give us?” Eric asked, his hair already down to his shoulders, his eyebrows getting bushier, wispy whiskers emerging on his chin.

Kyle staggered and clutched the end of a lunch table to steady himself. “Oh, no,” he moaned, eyes wide, one hand on his stomach.

Denny did not move. He groaned, but his entire body appeared to be glued to the patio. Eric crouched beside Denny, hair growing so swiftly that his head looked like a fountain, but he could not even budge one of Denny’s arms. Kyle dropped to his knees, still gripping the end of the table.

“This is impossible!” Eric stammered, rising to his feet. The hair on his scalp already reached the ground. The long hairs of his sparse beard reached beyond his waist. Tufts of fur protruded from his ears and nostrils. “You okay, Kyle?”

Kyle opened his mouth to respond and amber foam frothed from his lips. He covered his mouth, but despite his efforts to contain it, a bubbly stream of foam gushed out, much of it splashing onto Denny’s immobilized legs. Eric ran away, his hair trailing behind him on the ground like a long bridal train, his beard dangling between his legs. Froth continued to faucet from Kyle’s nose and mouth, as well as to foam up from the waistband of his pants and spew out the bottoms of his pant legs.