Secrets at the Chocolate Mansion by Leslie Margolis

conclusions.

Chapter 12
    When Saturday night rolled around, I showed up early to Beckett’s house—and I showed up prepared. I lugged my biggest tote bag, filled with a bunch of fun stuff. Or at least, stuff I thought would be fun for a three-year-old: washable Magic Markers, the leftover clay from my Claymation workshop, scissors, and plenty of paper in all different colors. I’d also studied up on knock-knock jokes. Hopefully he wouldn’t think they were all dumb.
    I was a little nervous, but not about any potential ghosts.
Rumors
of ghosts, I mean. I don’t believe in ghosts. I was nervous about humans. Well, one human in particular: Beckett. Taking care of dogs is one thing; I’ve been doing it for a while, and I know the score. But taking care of an actual human being? A three-year-old boy with a huge capacity for mischief and mayhem? That was going to be hard.
    Of course, that’s not all that worried me. In the back of my mind I also feared that Beckett didn’t like me. We’d never spent much time together, and usually when I picked up Nofarm, Beckett completely ignored me.
    The kid is only three years old, but I had jitters similar to the ones I felt before Milo and I went out on a date. Back when Milo and I actually went out on dates, that is. He hadn’t been at school all week, and I still hadn’t heard from him. I didn’t know whether I should feel nervous for him or angry with him. At the moment, I felt both.
    Also? I couldn’t help but think at least a little bit about the ghost of Margaret. Like I said, I don’t believe in ghosts, but the story of her demise gave me the creepy crawlies.
    When I knocked on the door, someone shouted, “Door’s open,” so I walked inside.
    Beckett sat on the living-room floor, playing with blocks. He wore space-themed pajamas, dark blue with starbursts and rocket ships shooting across the front. When he saw me, he raced over and butted his head into my stomach.
    â€œYeeouch!” I shouted. Because being sucker punched—sorry, sucker headed—in the stomach? It hurts.
    And let me tell you, Beckett’s ample mound of blondcurls did nothing to soften the blow. He managed to get strawberry ice cream on my favorite sweater, too. My fault for wearing white to a babysitting gig, I suppose. Last time that’ll happen!
    â€œHi, Maggie,” Caroline said. “Beckett, you remember Maggie, right?”
    â€œNo,” said Beckett. Then he giggled, and lucky for him his giggle was cute.
    â€œYou mean you head-butt everyone who comes through the door?” I asked, hands on my hips, playfully indignant.
    â€œCan I come with you to walk Nofarm?” he asked.
    â€œOh, Maggie’s not here to walk Nofarm. She’s here to babysit,” Caroline explained.
    â€œNo!” yelled Beckett, clinging to his mom’s leg.
    â€œWe talked about this, Beckett. You knew Maggie was coming.”
    â€œDon’t leave!” Beckett screamed. He held on to his mom like a clamp.
    Yikes. Separation anxiety. We read about that in Babysitting 101, and not only that—I remembered the feeling from when I was little and my own parents left me for the evening. I really felt for poor Beckett. There’s nothing like parents getting dressed up to go somewhere fun and abandoning you for the night with a near stranger.
    It’s been a couple of years since Finn and I have needed babysitters, and I must say, weekends have been a lot better since.
    I bent down so Beckett and I were at eye level. “Hey, Beckett. Guess what? I brought something for you.”
    I pulled out a big ball of yellow clay and started to explain to him that we could build something with it. “This is just one. I’ve got about eight different colors and lots of—” But before I finished my sentence, Beckett grabbed the ball of clay from my hand and took off.
    Caroline shook her head. “I’m so sorry,