The Mapmaker and the Ghost(36)

“Oh. Is he feeling well enough, you think?”

“Yeah, I feel fine,” Birch said as he entered the kitchen. “I really would like to go outside with Goldenrod. I feel like I was cooped up all day yesterday …” Which, if Birch had to justify it, was definitely sort of the truth.

“Okay. I suppose some fresh air might be good. But walk him right back home if he starts feeling sick, Goldenrod, okay?”

Goldenrod nodded and she and Birch left the house. They both looked carefully at their front lawn as they walked past it. It still seemed as perfect as ever, though Goldenrod thought she saw a slight wilt to some of the stems and stalks.

The night before, Goldenrod had gone into Birch’s room and they had had a little chat about everything that had happened. And beyond being scared, beyond being upset, they had realized that they were both very angry. It wasn’t fair that these bullies could just get away with everything.

There was one—okay, never mind—there were many problems. But the most glaring one was that they were just two kids against a massively sinister gang. They didn’t want to hurt anyone, and they didn’t really want to get in trouble. But they weren’t very happy sitting back and doing nothing either.

Privately, Goldenrod had another issue eating away at her. She had to figure out a way to get the blue rose back from under Snotshot’s indelicate claws.

After a lot of consideration, Goldenrod had suggested they ask for help from the old lady. It was true that Goldenrod still didn’t quite know what to think of her involvement in everything and whether she could fully be trusted. Undoubtedly, however, Cassandra Lewis was the one adult who would at least understand the significance of the blue rose. Besides which, Goldenrod realized, she had never even had the chance to tell her that she’d actually found it.

So the cottage was where they were heading now, walking quickly because it was the first of many things on their to-do list for the day. When they got there, they decided to knock on the door this time.

The old lady opened it and immediately let them inside.

“Come in, come in. Straight to the back. Randall is here.” She led them through the dusty kitchen and into a back room that had glass walls on three sides of it with massive rosebushes clinging to each one. At the center of the wooden floor was a green metallic table and matching chairs—more lawn furniture, Goldenrod noted. It was almost like being in a greenhouse. Toe Jam sat on one of the chairs. His face had been scrubbed clean, and he had a china cup of chalky chocolate milk in front of him.

Cassandra followed them in with two more flowered china cups. She poured each of them some chocolate milk.

“Randall, did you say hello?” she asked sternly.

“Hi,” Randy sulked.

“Well … what happened?” She turned to Goldenrod and Birch.

“They destroyed our mom’s garden—or, at least, it will be destroyed once the poisoned insecticide sets in,” Goldenrod said.

The old lady gave a loud sigh. “That Stanley Barbroff is a no-good, dirty—”

“Barbroff?” Goldenrod interjected. “Like, Ms. Barbroff? My fifth-grade teacher?”

“The very one. Stanley is her son,” Cassandra said.

“Um, who’s Stanley?” Birch asked.

“Stanley Barbroff, aka Spitbubble,” Cassandra said.

Goldenrod gave a sharp intake of breath. “Spitbubble is Ms. Barf’s son?”

Cassandra nodded.

“And—and all those times she warned me about—about turning into a hoodlum …” Goldenrod was indignant.

“Yes, well, as so often happens with parents, dear, sometimes they can’t see their own children for the forest.”

“But, she was such a … such a …” Goldenrod was fuming.

The old lady patted her on the hand. “Believe me, I can imagine what she must be like to have parented that conniving criminal.”

Randall sniffed loudly at the comment and looked a little miffed.

“What exactly is he doing in the forest anyway?” Goldenrod asked. “I mean, I know they’re planning on breaking into the museum or something …”

“You’ve hit the nail pretty much on the head. Spitbubble and his Gross-Out Gang, as they like to call themselves. Breaking into places, stealing family heirlooms”—she gave a sharp glance at Randy who stared down at his chocolate milk—“and basically creating petty sorts of havoc. Spitbubble himself doesn’t do much of it, of course. Like any good leader, he delegates. And like any good dictator, he doesn’t exactly have the most savory methods of getting recruits.”

“What do you mean?” Goldenrod asked.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why those kids could spend all their time in that cavern without anyone noticing?”

The truth was, Goldenrod hadn’t. Between not knowing the old lady’s name the day before and this, she was once again feeling a little ashamed at her own lack of curiosity.

“It’s because most of them don’t really have anyone to notice. They’re either orphans or maybe just have parents who should pay more attention …” At this she stared again at Randy, but this time with a soft gleam in her eye. “But that’s what Spitbubble feeds on. He knows these kids have no family, so he gives them one. Of sorts. Only, of course, there’s a due for getting in.”