Secrets at the Chocolate Mansion (9 page)

“Good.”

“I really hope you figure something out soon. Felicity is driving me crazy! It's bad enough being roomies with her now, but if she's just living with us and not working at the store, she'll be around twenty-four-seven.”

“What's wrong with having her around the house?” I asked.

“She's a bathroom hog. And she always wants to watch dumb TV shows. And she keeps me up at night, texting at crazy hours.”

“Who is she texting?” I asked.

“Don't know; she's totally super secretive about it,” said Sonya. “I looked at her phone, and it's someone she calls ‘JAM.'”

“‘JAM'?” I asked.

“Yeah. I think it's her boyfriend, but she won't admit it. Maybe because he's got such a dumb nickname,” said Sonya. “When I get older and Joshua and I can be together, I'll only call him by his real name.”

I looked at Lulu and Beatrix just to make sure I heard her right. They were both looking at Sonya like she was crazy. So, yeah, I guess I had. But she didn't even notice the weird looks.

“Did you know he told me he'd teach me how to make chocolate cream pie?” Sonya went on. “Can you think of anything more romantic than that?”

“‘Chocolate cream pie' and ‘romantic' have probably never been used in the same sentence before,” Beatrix said.

“Whatever! Make fun of me now—but guess who's going to be laughing at my and Joshua's wedding in fifteen years?” asked Sonya.

I looked from Beatrix to Lulu to Sonya, and the four of us cracked up.

“Okay, fine,” said Sonya. “Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. But he is super cute and an awesome baker. Speaking of—I brought treats for everyone.” She doled out lemon bars to us all.

“Mmm,” I said, biting into one. “This is amazing. I love the sweet and sour combination.”

“Delicious,” said Lulu, polishing off hers in three quick bites and licking her fingers afterward.

Sonya looked to Beatrix, who hadn't even picked her bar up. She stared at it pensively. “Aren't you going to try it, B?” Sonya asked.

“I'm still full from lunch,” said Beatrix, placing her palm on her belly. “I'll try it after school, though. It'll be the perfect after-school snack.”

“Okay,” said Sonya. “But definitely tell me what you think.”

“I will,” said Beatrix. She looked at her watch and stood up. “I've gotta run. See you guys later?”

“Sure,” I said with a wave.

Once she was gone, Sonya said, “We still have ten minutes until the first bell rings. What's up with her?”

Lulu shrugged. “Maybe she's on a diet.”

“That would be crazy, because she's super skinny,” said Sonya.

I agreed with my friends, but I had bigger things to worry about—like school. “I
so
do not want to go to
history right now,” I said as I packed up my lunch. “Mr. Phelps is going to have sandwich crumbs stuck in his beard; he always does. Plus, I didn't study for last week's test.”

“I'm sure you did fine,” said Lulu.

Twenty minutes later I proved Lulu wrong. I held up my test so she could see the big, fat D+ at the top of the page.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

I shrugged. Worse than my lousy grade was the note from Mr. Phelps:
Please see me after class
.

History ran longer than usual, and when the bell finally rang I dragged myself slowly to the front of the room. I couldn't help but feel totally queasy, because the thing is, I usually do pretty well in school. I'm not a straight-A student or anything, but I'd never gotten a D+ before.

“Sorry about the test,” I said.

“I am, too,” said Mr. Phelps, crossing his arms over his chest. When he frowned, the crumbs in his beard moved but didn't fall out. “What happened?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. I guess I didn't study enough.”

“Did you study at all?” he asked.

I didn't know how to answer him because I couldn't admit that his class bored me to tears, or that every
time I tried to open the textbook I got sleepy. “It won't happen again,” I promised.

“I hope not. You're normally a better student, Maggie. Everyone can have bad luck on a test; I don't want this to ruin your grade for the entire semester. That's why I'm going to give you the opportunity to earn some extra credit. You can write a report. If it's good, and thorough, then I'll bring your grade up a letter.”

“To a C-plus?” I asked.

“Yes—which is not amazing because I know you can do better. But it's a start, at least.”

“Thanks, Mr. Phelps.” I blinked and nodded. “I'll take it. And I need it, too. I've never gotten a D before.”

“D-plus,” Mr. Phelps said.

“Not much better,” I said. “Um, what's the assignment?”

Mr. Phelps ran one hand down his beard, which only served to lodge the crumbs more firmly in place.

“Pick a famous person in history and write about his or her life,” he said.

“I can choose anyone?” I asked.

“Anyone from the past, yes,” said Mr. Phelps.

“Does the person have to be famous?” I asked. “Because I'd like to write about a maid who immigrated here from Ireland a hundred years ago. She worked for
Jonas Adams—you know, the guy who built the chocolate factory here in Park Slope. So she's not famous, exactly; but she worked for someone who was. Famous, that is.”

Mr. Phelps smiled. “So you're telling me you want to write about the ghost who lives in Jonas Adams's house?”

“You know about the haunted mansion?” I asked, surprised. “I mean, the mansion that's rumored to be haunted.”

“I've lived in this town for thirty years, and every so often the ghost of Margaret makes an appearance and rumors circulate,” he explained. “And I agree with you—writing about her life sounds like a fine project, but you might have a hard time finding much information on Margaret. Why don't you write about Irish immigrants in general? And you can definitely research Margaret's real story and include anything you find. Maybe you'll want to read about Jonas Adams, too. You know, for context. I'm sure you'll learn a lot.”

“Okay,” I said with a nod. “That sounds great.”

“I agree. I'd like three typed pages within the next three weeks.”

“That's no problem, Mr. Phelps.”

“Oh, and one more thing: I'll need you to have your parents sign the test.”

I cringed at this news. “Are you sure that's necessary?” I asked. “I promise to do better. Seriously—this will never happen again. You said yourself that I'm normally a better student.”

“I believe you, but I still need the signatures,” said Mr. Phelps.

“My mom is going to flip out,” I said. “My entire social life will be over. And she'll make me quit my job.”

“You have a job?”

“I walk dogs after school,” I said. “And I love it. And these dogs depend on me. I can't give it up. Do I really have to get my parents to sign the test? I promise this will never happen again. I'll even write a five-page paper if you want.”

“I'm sorry, Maggie, but this is school policy. Any students who get a grade under a C-minus must inform their parents or guardians.” Mr. Phelps thought for a moment. “The only thing I can do is give you more time. How about this—get me the signed test by next week, when you turn in the extra-credit assignment.”

“Okay,” I said. “I'll do that. Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Good,” said Mr. Phelps. “Now please get to your next class, and try not to get anymore Ds this year.”

“I won't. I mean, I'll try not to,” I said. “See you later.”
The rest of the day passed in a blur, and I could hardly focus on my classes. My mind felt totally cluttered because of everything going on in my life: a lousy test for my parents to sign, a boyfriend who won't speak to me, and a mystery I can't solve. I couldn't see things getting any worse.

As soon as school ended I raced off campus, hoping to find comfort in my regular routine. I was still a dog walker, for this week anyway. And I wasn't ready to turn in my leashes.

My first stop was Bean, the six-pound Maltese. She's my best-dressed dog with the worst attitude. Basically, she snarls, barks, or yaps at anything with a pulse. Today was no exception: her cotton blouse was black with purple stripes on it, her matching cap fell off when she lunged for a squirrel that was almost the same size as her, and she almost tripped on her tie when she tried to go after a pigeon.

Most days I'm amused by her antics, but today I had no patience. “Come on, Bean,” I called as I pulled her in the other direction and retrieved her hat. “Let's skip the park today, okay?”

Bean didn't respond, because she was too busy growling at the bulldog across the street.

“Let's go to Sonya's Sweets,” I said. “You'll like it there because you'll be the only dog. Okay, sweetie pie?
And as you know, I'm only calling you ‘sweetie pie' ironically.”

I scooped up Bean and carried her the rest of the way.

When I got to Sonya's Sweets, I found both Sonya and Ricki busy behind the counter. The place was packed.

“Is it okay if I come in with her?” I asked, pointing to Bean.

“Of course,” said Ricki. “As long as you hold her the whole time. Those are the health department laws, and we all know I can't afford a fine.”

“Okay, I'll be careful with her,” I said. “Where's Felicity?”

“Great question,” said Sonya as she served up a delicious-looking banana split to a young woman in a purple sweaterdress. “She was supposed to be here an hour ago.”

“Did you try her cell again?” asked Ricki.

“I did,” said Sonya. “And there's still no answer.”

“I hope she's okay,” said Ricki.

“I'm sure she's fine. All she's got is an acute case of not-wanting-to-go-to-work-itis,” said Sonya.

“Leave your cousin alone,” said Ricki.

“Why?” asked Sonya. “I have every right to be annoyed. We've been totally swamped because Joshua isn't here either, but at least he called in sick.”

“Excuse me, miss?” asked a new customer, an older man wearing a Brookyln Dodgers cap, who stood at the counter.

“I'm on it,” said Sonya, heading over to where he stood. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I'll take two dozen chocolate-chip cookies to go,” he said.

“Oh, we don't have any cookies at the moment because we're all out of chocolate chips,” said Sonya.

“What do you mean, you're out of chocolate chips?”

“The shipment never came in,” said Sonya, forcing a smile. “Or it got lost. We're not sure, because we're still trying to track it down. Why don't you try the apple pie instead? It's delicious.”

“I had my heart set on something chocolaty,” said the man.

“We're hoping it comes in later; perhaps you could try back tonight?” asked Sonya.

“Or maybe I could just go to the Cocoa Bar down the street,” he said, handing back the menu and heading outside.

“Well, that's an option, too,” Sonya whispered to herself. “If you want to be a jerk about it.”

“What's that about?” I asked.

“Don't ask,” said Sonya. “Oh, wait—you already did, so I'll tell you. None of our supplies arrived this morning,
so we couldn't bake anything fresh.” She glanced at her mom, who was on the phone, seemingly stressed out. “My mom is talking with the supplier now.

A few seconds later, Ricki hung up and walked over to us. “They claimed they delivered everything this morning and someone named Samoa signed for it, Ricki said.”

“Samoa?” asked Sonya. “I've never heard of that name before.”

I pulled out my notebook and wrote this down.

Missing chocolate—signed for by Samoa.

Then I stared at my note, hoping it would spark an idea. But no—I had nothing else to write, so I put the notebook away.

Meanwhile, Ricki paced back and forth across the shop, looking super stressed. She pressed her fingers to her temples. “I have the worst headache. Who told me running a soda fountain would be fun and profitable? This job is stressful, and it's costing us a fortune!”

“It's going to be okay,” said Sonya.

“Maybe it's time to close up shop,” said Ricki. “I mean, at this rate, why delay the inevitable?”

“We can't close the store because of one tiny little missing box of chocolate,” said Sonya.

“It's actually a very large box, and as you know, we have a gazillion other little problems.”

“Come on, Mom. We're fine. This is business as usual. It's—”

But before Sonya finished her thought, the lights went out.

Things go wrong when you open a new business. That's what Ricki assured her customers as she escorted them out the door with a smile.

“Come back soon,” she called. “I'm sure the power will be on in no time.”

“Yeah, right,” said Sonya once everyone was gone.

“Hush, someone will hear you,” said Ricki as she flipped the sign from
OPEN
to
CLOSED
and locked the doors from the inside. “There's got to be an explanation for this. I'm going to go out back and check the wires.”

“Sorry about this,” I said as I shifted Bean from one arm to the other.

Sonya reached out to pet Bean but the dog bared her teeth, so she pulled her hand away.

“Has your mom uploaded the pictures from the opening yet?” I asked.

“Nope.” Sonya shook her head. “With everything
going on, she hasn't had a moment of free time. Plus, I think she lost the cable. I'm sure it'll turn up, though. Or maybe not. Maybe that'll be one more problem we have.”

“I'm sorry, Sonya.” I didn't know what else to say.