CHAPTER 9

The Wrong Time for Wright

There are some things about Mr. Wright you need to know before you judge him for being a little strange. Because he’s not. And maybe I shouldn’t have said that, because I bet you’re not the judgy type anyway.

Let me start over.

Remember how I told you I have to help Mr. Wright bring in his groceries so I can get my allowance? It’s not as straightforward as I made it seem. Mr. Wright has agoraphobia. It sounds like this: ah-go-ro-fo-bee-ah, and it means he’s afraid to leave his house. Well, he’s afraid of things that happen in new places or something like that, so he always stays home. And it’s not like with you and me, how going to summer camp without a friend can make us nervous. It’s a lot more serious.

Mr. Wright does everything he can to stay inside. One of those things is ordering his groceries online to be delivered at exactly 4:15 p.m. on Mondays. The delivery driver won’t go inside, and Mr. Wright won’t go outside, so that’s where I come in.

“Hello, Wednesday!” says Mr. Wright from his living room window as I run up his front steps.

The delivery driver has just plopped down four bags on his front porch. I quickly sign for them, which Mr. Wright always lets me do, since it’s good practice for all the important papers I’ll have to sign someday.

I hear the familiar click of the door unlocking, then grab all four bags at once and push the door handle open with my elbow. I need to get this done fast. “Hi, Mr. Wright. I’m in a bit of a hurry toda—”

“Great to see you!” he says, coming over to help me with the bags. “One of my clients sent me something I think you and your brother will like! Let me see where I put the box …”

“That’s okay, Mr. Wright,” I tell him, even though I know it’s cookies. Mr. Wright’s job is doing the voice-over for TV commercials, right from his computer in his living room. He even does commercials for a cookie company and gets sent free cookies! Fortunately, the boxes fit through the mail slot.

“Nonsense! I insist,” he says, looking around his kitchen. “It’s the least I can do for my entrepreneurial friend!”

As I watch him, I picture Charlie and Mister sitting in my room talking about how awful I was to them. Perhaps they’re even considering giving up right this second.

“Aha!” Mr. Wright exclaims as he finds the box.

Sure enough, it’s triple-chocolate-chunk-marshmallow-hazelnut cookies — the kind my moms would never even think of buying.

“Thank you for the cookies,” I say, edging closer to the door. Mr. Wright doesn’t notice.

“Any new business ideas you’re working on these days?” he asks, dipping his cookie into a glass of chocolate milk. “One day I’ll be telling the world about how I lived next to the famous entrepreneur Wednesday Wilson.”

At that moment, I feel like laughing and crying at the same time. Laughing because at this point the idea that I will ever have a successful business seems like a big fat joke. And crying because I think I just majorly messed up with Charlie and Mister, the two people I need now the most.

“I’m trying out a new idea,” I explain, “but it’s not going well. And it’s my fault. I owe some people an apology.”

Mr. Wright pops the rest of the cookie into his mouth and slurps down his chocolate milk. I just know he’s scanning his brain for one of his Mr. Wright-isms, which always start the same way.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned …” he finally says, “it’s to never ruin an apology with an excuse.”

I think about what Mr. Wright said as I run home. When I reach my bedroom, I hand Charlie and Mister some cookies and clear my throat.

“I’m sorry for getting so mad. And for getting you into this mess in the first place. I’m also scared this won’t work.”

“It’s okay, Wednesday,” says Charlie. “There’s no one else I’d rather get into trouble with.”

“Wednesday,” my mom calls out, “time for Charlie to leave for his swimming lesson!” We hear her walking up the stairs to my room. We’re almost done, but I can’t let her see all the cut-up pages from the library book on my bed, or she’ll know something is up.

I throw myself over the mess just as she walks in.

“Aren’t you going to walk your friend to the door?” she asks when I don’t get up.

“Nope,” I say.

“Pardon me, Wednesday?” she asks in her don’t-even-think-about-repeating-what-you-just-said voice.

Charlie freezes and his face turns red. He blurts out, “Just like thumbprints, everyone’s tongue prints are different!” Rushing past my mom, he calls out, “Thank you for having me, Phoebe!”

“Anytime, Charlie,” she says, smiling after him. “You’re always a pleasure.”

I’m pretty sure Mom is about to tell me she’s not amused when I’m saved by the Mum-joke we hear every day.

“Did somebody order a pizza?” Mum calls from her truck outside.

Mom laughs as usual and heads downstairs.