Secrets at the Chocolate Mansion (18 page)

“Dare,” I said.

“That's what I was hoping you'd pick! I dare you to go to the lobby of the building and sit there for thirty seconds,” said Sonya, breaking out in a huge grin. “In your pajamas.”

“No way!” I said.

“You have to,” said Beatrix. “You chose a dare, and those are the rules.”

“Fine, but thirty seconds is a long time,” I said. “I'll only do it if you all come with me.”

“But we're in pajamas, too,” said Beatrix.

“Maybe we should change first,” said Lulu.

I shook my head. “No way.”

“Okay, but we're going to hide around the corner by the elevators. You've got to stand by the front door,” said Sonya. “That's the deal.”

“For thirty seconds,” said Beatrix. “I've got a timer on my phone.”

“If anyone from school sees me, I am never forgiving any of you!” I said.

“Why? You look cute!” said Beatrix, holding up her camera phone. “Smile!”

“Come on. No pictures!” I yelled, blocking the lens. “Now, let's get this over with.” I tiptoed out of the den and opened the front door. We all crept out into the hallway, giggling nervously.

While we were waiting for the elevator, one of Beatrix's neighbors—some tall, skinny dude with a Yankees cap on his head and the
New York Times
tucked under one arm—came out and gave us the funniest look.

I tried to keep a straight face, but Lulu, Beatrix, and Sonya were cracking up, and eventually I did, too.

When the elevator doors parted, we all stepped in.

“Start the timer,” I whispered.

“Not until you're in the lobby by the door,” Beatrix replied.

“You're strict,” I said. As soon as we made it to the ground floor, my friends pushed me toward the entrance to the lobby.

“I'm going!” I said, making my way there, relieved that so far, the coast was clear.

I felt so vulnerable. Sure, I was in my pajamas, but I felt kind of naked. I counted out the seconds.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi
…

The first ten seconds seemed more like ten minutes.

Another five. And another. I could do this, I realized. I was almost done.

But just then I heard a noise coming from the front door. Someone was fumbling with his or her key. Please don't let it be someone from school, I thought as the door began to slowly creak open.

Beatrix's building has lots of apartments, and I could think of at least six kids from school who lived there, none of whom I wanted to see at the moment.

And it wasn't any one of them, but I felt no relief.

Because the person at the door? The one who waltzed right inside? Well, it wasn't a person at all.

It was the ghost of Margaret.

I stood there completely frozen as she came in, a bag of groceries in one hand and a cane in the other. It was definitely her—the strange ghost who'd been in Beckett's bedroom the other night. When she looked up at me, I screamed as loud as I could and raced back to my friends, almost knocking Lulu over as I tried to hide behind her.

“Maggie, what's wrong?” asked Beatrix.

“You look like you've seen a ghost,” said Sonya.

“And how come you're shaking?” Lulu asked.

From the concerned looks on my friends' faces, it was clear that I was the only one who saw the ghost of Margaret.

And as this fact hit me, I was left as confused as ever. Because the ghost was walking around like a real person, checking her mail and putting her keys in her purse before turning toward us.

“I did,” I said, huddling closer to my friends. “See a ghost, I mean.”

Beatrix glanced from Lulu to Sonya. “Um,” she whispered. “There's no one here but Mrs. MacDonald, and she's alive.”

“Oh,” I said, and gulped. Because by now the “ghost” was right in front of us. And I had to admit, she looked surprisingly human. She was old, with short, curly gray hair and a pale face and small, round glasses. She wore a maroon pantsuit, the kind that might have been stylish fifty years ago.

“So you guys see her, too?” I whispered, just to confirm.

Beatrix nodded slightly as she cleared her throat and addressed the old woman. “Hi, Mrs. MacDonald.”

“Hello, dear,” said the ghost in a high-pitched, somewhat raspy voice. She pointed to the elevator. “Are you girls going up?”

“We are,” said Beatrix, putting her hand on my back and pushing me forward a bit. “And my friend has a question for you.”

The ghost looked to me, but I was too scared to speak. What was I supposed to ask, anyway?

“Go ahead,” Lulu whispered.

But I couldn't find the words. I shook my head slightly, unable to take my eyes off the old woman.

“Okay, fine. I'll do it,” Lulu said as she turned to Mrs. MacDonald, or the ghost, or whoever she was. “Is your first name Margaret?”

Mrs. MacDonald beamed at us. “It sure is. Do I know you girls from somewhere?”

Suddenly everything clicked into place.

Okay—not
everything
, but a few things.

“You were in Beckett's room last night!” I said.

She blinked at me from behind her glasses in silence.

I waited for her to argue with me, but she didn't.

“How did you get there? I know you didn't use the front door, because it was locked, and my brother and I were right there in the living room. We'd have noticed if someone came in.”

Margaret tilted her head to one side and smiled at me. “I wasn't in Beckett's room,” she said. “My reflection was.”

“Huh?” I asked.

“My living-room window faces his bedroom window, and from his bed he sees my reflection in the mirror.”

“He said you visit him at night,” I argued, trying to sort this all out.

“And I do—or at least my image does. I go to my window every night, and if Beckett is there and if he's in the mood for a song, I sing to him.”

I shook my head, trying to process this. Surprisingly, it made sense. Beckett's closet was lined with mirrors, and from the very first time I babysat he asked me to leave the closet door open—so he could get a better view of Margaret's reflection, although obviously I didn't realize it at the time. One thing still left me puzzled, however. “Why do you sing to him?” I asked.

Mrs. MacDonald smiled. “That's an excellent question, my dear. I suppose the simplest answer is, he asked me to. It happened for the first time last month, right when he moved in. He got very chatty and told me all about himself. His moms, the fact that they moved from just a few blocks away, his dog, Nofarm, and his old dog, Cookie.”

“I know all about Cookie,” I said.

“Anyway,” said Margaret, “after chatting away, he suddenly asked me to sing him to sleep. So I did. And he must've enjoyed it, because he asked me the next night, too. It's become a funny little tradition, I suppose. Sweet little boy.”

“He's great,” I agreed. “You, um, surprised me and my brother the other night.”

“You two surprised me, as well,” Margaret said, smiling gently. “I didn't mean to scare you; I was just feeling shy. I'm surprised Beckett's parents didn't tell you about me.”

“You know Caroline and Lisa?” I asked.

“Oh, no. I've never met them in person,” she said. “But from the very first time I chatted with Beckett, I insisted that he tell his parents all about me. And he told me he did. I feel terrible for not going over there myself to explain and ask permission. But like I said, I'm shy. Plus, there are too many steps. I could never make it to the fifth floor on my own, now that the elevator is out of commission.”

I shook my head, unable to keep from smiling at this news. “Beckett's moms think you're his imaginary friend.”

“Oh, dear,” said Margaret. “Please let them know that I'm real.” Suddenly she gasped. “And I suppose you thought I was the ghost of Margaret—the one who's rumored to be haunting the Adams mansion.”

I was almost too embarrassed to answer, but I managed a small nod.

“So, you know about Margaret the ghost?” asked Beatrix.

Margaret chuckled. “Of course I know about the rumors. I've lived here for a very long time. I even knew Jonas Adams when I was a little girl.”

“You did?” asked Sonya, her eyes getting wide. “Did he give you free chocolate?”

Margaret chuckled. “Oh, he was very old by then,
and he'd retired. He got sick, too; had to spend a lot of time in bed. I know, because I was very good friends with his granddaughter, Trixie. I still am, in fact. But when we were girls, whenever we played at the mansion, we had to keep our voices down.”

“Do you still speak to her?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Margaret. “She lives a few blocks away.”

“Is his whole family still in the neighborhood?”

“They sure are, but there aren't so many of them. Trixie had one daughter, and that daughter one son. He just started college this year. And all of them have stayed right here in Park Slope. Anyway, dear, I'm so sorry to have scared you. Please do explain the situation to Beckett's parents. I hope they don't mind.”

“I'll let them know,” I said as the elevator doors parted.

Margaret stepped inside.

“Are you girls coming?” she asked.

As we all filed into the elevator, Margaret surveyed us in our pajamas and smiled. “I never understood teenage fashion,” she said.

My friends giggled.

And as the doors closed and the elevator ascended, I realized that Margaret seemed like a perfectly sweet
old woman. How lucky Beckett was to have a friend next door, someone who was willing to give him a live concert every single night.

As I told myself all of this, I also reminded myself that there's no such thing as ghosts. The refrain was a familiar one—I'd been reminding myself of that fact ever since my fight with Milo.

And yet, the thing that struck me now was, I'd still been so scared when I thought I saw a ghost myself. I had to ask myself—
did
I believe in ghosts? Some of my closest friends did, and that news couldn't have surprised me more. Sonya and Beatrix were so sincere and so earnest in their beliefs about their grandparents wanting to reconnect with them, even from the grave. It gave me the chills.

“Where have you girls been?” asked Beatrix's mom as we all walked back into the apartment.

“We had to go to the lobby for something,” said Beatrix.

“In your pajamas?” asked her mom.

“Yeah, it's kind of a long story,” said Beatrix.

“Well, I'm making blueberry pancakes,” she said. “So I hope you're all hungry.”

“Starved!” said Beatrix. “But I'm going to get dressed before I eat.”

“Me, too,” I said. And after I threw on my jeans
and striped long-sleeve shirt, I went back to my notebook.

The Adams mansion is not haunted. It's a creaky old building with uneven floors. The walls are a maze for two cats named Samoa and Thin Mint. And Margaret MacDonald, the neighbor, likes to sing Beckett to sleep.

As I studied my notes, I realized all of the explanations were perfectly reasonable. The Adams mansion is not haunted. It's just creepy, with some quirks and a lot of horrible history.

But as I told myself once again that there's no such thing as ghosts, I found that I didn't really believe it.

More important, though? I needed to talk to Milo. Immediately. Because suddenly something that hadn't made sense at all before, now did.

By the time I put my notebook away and packed up my sleeping bag and the rest of my things, my friends were at the dining room table eating pancakes.

I had a couple, too. Then I excused myself from the table and pulled my phone out of my coat pocket.

I sent Milo the following text:

Sorry about before. My fault. I get that now. Can we talk?

I wasn't expecting a reply right away, but Milo texted me back immediately.

Sure. Want to come over?

There in twenty.

I hugged all of my friends good-bye and wished Beatrix a happy birthday.

“And thanks for inviting me,” I said.

“Thanks for coming,” said Beatrix. “I had a blast.”

“Even though I woke everyone up with my bloodcurdling scream?” I asked.

“Hmm,” said Beatrix, narrowing her eyes, scratching her head, and pretending to think really, really hard. “You're right. That was ridiculous! Please never speak to me again.”

We all cracked up, and then I thanked Beatrix's mom for everything and walked out the door.

Milo lives seventeen blocks away from Beatrix. Normally, it would feel like a super-long trek, and I'd take the bus. But this morning I decided to walk. I needed time to figure out what I was going to say to him.
I felt bad that it had been so long since we'd spoken, and confused and upset and annoyed that he'd been avoiding me. But after listening to Beatrix and Sonya last night, I was kind of starting to understand why he believed in ghosts—why it was so important to him, and why it was so insulting when I'd laughed at him for it.

But my inkling of understanding didn't mean I had a clue about what to say to Milo now. By the time I made it to his house I still hadn't figured it out, but I couldn't turn back. He was expecting me.

I ran my fingers through my hair, took a deep breath, and then rang the bell. Milo's grandma, Valerie, answered the door. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose French braid that hung down her back. She wore overalls and clogs and a navy blue bandana around her head. She seemed surprised to see me, but happy, too. “Good morning, Maggie,” she said, smiling warmly.

“Morning. Is Milo home?” I asked. “I mean, I know he's home, because we just texted; I guess what I mean is—well, I don't know what I mean.”