The Mapmaker and the Ghost(48)

Birch nodded. “Run and scream.”

He slowly started to walk his bike past the houses, toward the gray one with the black roof. He checked the house number against the one they had carefully copied on to the box from the Internet. Then he turned into the driveway and put on his most official-looking, most beaming smile. He didn’t turn back to look at Goldenrod, but she was watching him.

With one deep breath, he rang the doorbell. Goldenrod started to silently pray … but before she could get too far along, her prayers had already come true. She had answered the door.

“Are you Ms. Barbroff?” Birch asked brightly.

Ms. Barf looked at the tiny, moptopped person standing before her. She sniffed suspiciously. “Yes…,” she finally said.

“I have a delivery for you!” Birch held the large brown box in front of him. It was tied up with a nice blue ribbon and seemed to have the name of a fancy bakery printed on it.

Ms. Barf didn’t reach out for it. “Who’s it from?”

“I’m not sure, ma’am. There’s usually a card inside. We offer that as a free service to our customers.” Birch beamed.

“You work for this … company?” Ms. Barf pointed toward the sign on the box.

“Yes, ma’am,” Birch said.

“Humph,” Ms. Barf retorted.

Birch offered the box up again.

Come on, take it! Goldenrod silently commanded her ex-teacher.

Finally, Ms. Barf did. “Fine. I’ll take it.” She looked at Birch sharply as if daring him to ask her for a tip.

But Birch simply grinned radiantly and got back on his bike. “Have a great day, Ms. Barbroff.”

She frowned at him as he sped off, and both he and Goldenrod could hear her saying, “Humph. Looks a little too young to be working if you ask me. His parents better be careful all this early independence doesn’t turn him into a hoodlum.”

Only after she had slammed the door behind her did Goldenrod and Birch stop at a bush on the corner, trying to get over a fit of giggles.





33

SWEET REVENGE


Spitbubble lay on his bed in his darkened room. He had purposefully shut off the lights and drawn all the blinds tightly so that he could think.

Things had gone horribly wrong somehow. And he was not a person who was used to things going wrong. Since the museum debacle two days ago, he had found himself craving the dark more and more, thinking that if he could just block out the light, he could make order out of everything—like Brains could. Some of the things Snotshot had said had left him with an odd twinge at having left the four of them at the science museum to fend for themselves: it was wormy and unpleasant, and he didn’t much like to dwell on it. It made him feel almost … uncool.

There had to be a way to regain control and come out stronger.

“Stannie,” he heard his mother call from downstairs.

He didn’t stir, instead shutting his eyes to further block out the nagging voice.

“Stannie, come down here, sweetheart. I’ve got something that will cheer you up.”

Spitbubble very much doubted that was true. For one thing, there was no way his mother knew the kinds of things that actually could cheer him up—delicious things like torments and threats and, perhaps sweetest of all, revenge.

“Stannie,” his mother’s voice called. “Come downstairs!”

He sighed loudly. How could a person be expected to plot dastardly deeds with all that noise?

Heavily, he got himself out of bed and left his bedroom, making sure to slam the door and thunder down the stairs.

“What?” Spitbubble said with a huff as he came into the kitchen.

His mother was standing at the counter, a large cardboard box open in front of her. Inside the box were rows and rows of cookies. It looked like there were at least a dozen kinds, and some of them seemed very weird. One was an odd shade of green, and he could see something resembling a lima bean sticking out of another.

Spitbubble shook his head. Of course she would think that stupid gourmet cookies would be the answer to his problems. Unlike his mother, Spitbubble had never understood the whole fascination with hoity-toity foods, things like caviar (fish eggs) and paté (duck liver), which were clearly quite disgusting, but which someone had decided must taste delicious simply because they were expensive. But he also knew his mother was a woman who liked to pretend that she was fancy.

Ms. Barbroff was hovering one bony hand over the box, trying to choose the first cookie to try. She must have been feeling particularly adventurous to go for one of the green ones.

Then she offered the box to him. “Look what someone sent me,” she said. “Have one.” She took a big bite out of her cookie.

“Who sent it to you?” Spitbubble growled, eyebrows furrowed.

“Hmmm,” Ms. Barbroff said as she chewed … and chewed … and chewed. “Maybe it’s an acquired taste.” She frowned at the cookie, bits of which seemed to be stuck to her teeth.

“Who sent them to you?” Spitbubble asked again.

“Oh, wait. I think there’s a note.” Ms. Barbroff had spotted a piece of paper underneath the empty space her cookie had left in the box. She grabbed the end of it and carefully pulled it out. It was fancy, heavy beige paper.

“‘Dear Ms. Barbroff,’” she read, trying to enunciate the letters around the bits of stuck cookie in her mouth. “‘I hope this gift finds you well.’