13 HAVE YOU SEEN, MUFFIN MAN

CHAPTER THIRTEEN HAVE YOU SEEN, MUFFIN MAN? In the short time Franny had been gone, the muffins were already piling up in the lobby and spilling out the doors of the school. It wouldn't be long before the Muffin Man really did have enough for the whole world.

She made her way back down into the basement. "Looks like you are really cooking," she said with a nervous laugh. Igor whirled round and eyed her suspiciously. Muffins were all that mattered to him now, and he knew that Franny could be very tricky.

"I, um, brought a special helmet," Franny said, pulling the invention out of her backpack. "It will let us download all of your awesome baking skills into the brains of all your helpers here." "That sounds wonderful," the Muffin Man said. "Who should go first?" "Oh, anybody, I guess," Franny said. "How about Mona?" Igor let out a low growl. Franny positioned the helmet on top of Mona's head and smiled at the Muffin Man. "Pretty soon she'll be almost as good at baking as you," she said.

Mona smiled at Franny and said, "That's perfect. I always wanted to be a muffin maker." "I thought you always wanted to be an artist?" Franny whispered to her, and she shrugged. Igor began to move toward them. Franny leaned in close so that nobody but Mona could hear her. "Mona, this is my Visualizer Helmet. When I turn this on, you're going to get a look at the future that awaits you. You're going to see what these muffins will bring you." "I'll bet it's going to be great," Mona said. "Now visualize your future, Mona," Franny said, and she flipped the switch.

Mona saw herself as a teenager, making muffins and selling them to people. She did not look very happy. As the helmet hummed, she saw farther into her future. She looked even worse-she was alone and her brushes and canvases were unused in the corner. She looked sick.

She saw her little brother and her friends eating the muffins, and never accomplishing much more than that. She got older and older and it never got better. A tear rolled down her cheek. "You're right. I did want to be an artist," she whimpered. Franny took the helmet off her. "Franny, I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to do this to myself." "Just keep these thoughts to yourself for now," Franny told her softly, "and go get Vincent." Soon Vincent was visualizing his future. He wasn't a musician. He wasn't really anything. He was just an unhappy adult who had sold his flute to buy muffins.