Bittersweet

Chapter One: Enjoy Hell

I stand alone in a dark tunnel, bathing my feet in three inches of the world's finest chocolate. Its familiar, viscous warmth laps at my ankles. Horrifying visions rocket up and down the Tube of Wonder at my periphery – wounded animals, rotting corpses, snakes on piles of bones ... 

"Charlie!" Michaelson snaps.

I tap out an earbud. Lo-fi music echoes down the tunnel. Its LED screens react to the sound with a burst of color like the skin of a cuttlefish.

Why is Mr. Wylie's personal assistant interrupting my meditation? "Yes?"

"He's gone," says Michaelson. "Finally passed this morning."

I should feel something in this moment. One would hope that I would feel grief for the philanthropist who took me in to be his ward. I would expect myself to feel relief – he'd been in pain for months. The greediest among us would feel giddiness at finally inheriting Wylie's Wonders, the highest-grossing candy company in America, a Fortune 100 powerhouse.

But I am numb, watching the horrors of the Tube of Wonder dance. "Oh."

"The dooloo dalumps want to know if you'd like to see the body before it's cremated," he says.

Smooth, jazzy beats are still tapping in my other ear. When I bite my lip, it tastes like black licorice. "I suppose I should, shouldn't I?"

"Only if you want to." Michaelson's bony hand grips my shoulder. The bags under his eyes are as pronounced as if he'd taken our black Halloween Krazy Kake icing and wiped it on like war paint. "To be honest, Charlie, he never wanted you to see him like that. He expressly asked me not to let you see his body once he was gone. But that doesn't matter. He can't be angry with me anymore. It's about what you want, now."

It's all about what I want, now.

I'm running the factory. The board meetings. The product design. The test samples. The candy invention. No more Wylie to tell me what to do. No more Wylie to coach me when I'm stuck on a chemistry equation or a tax spreadsheet. It's beginning to sink in.

"I want to see him," I say.

We make our way through the antechamber, which slows me, jaded as I am to its wonders, to stop and smell the rice-paper peonies. I eat one. It's been misted with lavender and honey. Dewdrops of crystallized sugar hang from windows like spider webs. Fluffy mushrooms of hardened marshmallow part the thick matcha-infused moss. Mint chocolate trees shaped like baby ferns unfurl toward the ceiling, each as tall as a streetlamp.

That experiment is coming along nicely, though gummy worms have suctioned themselves to their gnarled stems. I pick a couple off and eat one. They're peppery, with a bumpy exterior of nonpareils – not gummy worms but gummy caterpillars. If I let them stay and grow, they'll sprout iridescent, flapping wings of poured sugar, which would make great lollipops for children.

"Charlie," says Michaelson.

"I know," I say, a half-bitten writhing caterpillar in one hand and the peony in the other. "I shouldn't be stress-eating."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Just make sure you're keeping track of your intake."

I stuff my face with the peony and chomp the thin cookie stem. "M'fine." I snarf down the caterpillar, which wriggles in my mouth like the tentacles of a freshly chopped octopus, and tap my wristwatch to record the calories.

We reach a grassy knoll, turning back to take in the Antechamber, with its streams of chocolate and forests of candy – Wylie's masterpiece. I whisper, "He had such a profound impact on the world, didn't he?"