Authors: Gina Damico
Wax (33 page)
“It will,” he said with a nod, leaving no room for argument. “You'll make it work. I'll help if you need it, but you won't. You're Poppy.” He grabbed the sides of her head and stared intently into her eyes. “You are the most healthful benefit I know.”
She smiled, feeling a little warmer. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “And you're not such a dud after all. More like a . . . a rousing success.”
“That is a terrible name. Let's stick with Dud.”
She let out a small laugh. “Happy to.”
She uncapped her black Sharpie and looked at her watch.
It
had
to go perfectly.
âââââ
Smitty's churned and bubbled with its usual crowd of early-morning regulars. A table of Paraffin High students pounded down crullers while quizzing one another on Spanish vocabulary. The coop of old hens pecked and chattered and sniped from across their booths, trading old gossip and spinning new yarns. Anita and Preston Chandler sat at the counter, sipping lattes and talking to each other in hushed tones.
It was into the blue vinyl stool next to them that Jesus slipped.
“What can I getcha?” Smitty asked him, looking askance at the ridiculous hoodie and sunglasses that hid the boy's face.
“Coffee.”
Smitty gave him a gruff nod and shuffled over to the pot. He looked wary, tense; every so often his gaze flickered to the Chandlers.
When he returned with the coffee, Jesus reached out to grab it. “Thanks, broââ”
But the cup slipped between his fingers. Coffee flooded the counter, soaking the Chandlers' morning newspaperâââand Smitty's apron.
“Dammit!” Smitty shouted, holding out his arms to keep them from getting wet. His apron failed to live up to its aspirations; coffee had already run off onto his pants.
The Chandlers had recoiled from the spill as well, but they looked more upset with Smitty than with Jesus. They shot the increasingly enraged baker a warning glance. A
don't rock the boat
glance.
Smitty scowled at them, then at Jesus, but managed to curtail his temper. “Just be more careful next time, kid.” The apron was swiftly removed and rolled into a ball. Smitty stalked down the length of the counter and informed the waitress that he would be right backâââand she should mop up the counter.
She gave him a sour look as he retreated into the back room; then she grabbed a dishtowel and began to sop up the coffee.
Jesus, meanwhile, removed his sunglasses, turned to the Chandlers, and said, “My deepest apologies, sir and madam. It was never my intention to soak your newspaper in coffee, but you seeââ” He broke off, affixed a look of pain to his face, and wrung his hands, massaging each finger. “Ever since I lit that candle, I've been feeling a numbness in my extremitiesââ”
“Candle?” Anita shot a laser-sharp stare at him. “What candle?”
“Oh, it was a gift from my mother, from the Grosholtz Candle Factory. Forty Winks
,
I think it was called? I know it was supposed to help me sleep, but the fumes made me dizzy. I even puked! And ever since, I've felt really weird, like, neurological-damage weird . . .”
Horror-stricken, the Chandlers folded themselves into a huddle and traded panic.
“ââalready a bestsellerââ”
“ââsabotage, maybeââ”
“ââthere'll be an investigationââ”
“ââand lawsuits!”
âââââ
“I think next time I'll do zebra stripes,” the cashier at Cash Register Number One said to the cashier at Cash Register Number Two. The store had just opened, so business was slowâââbut it would be picking up with the first wave of the senior citizen tour buses arriving any minute. “Or maybe cheetah spots. What do you think?” She fanned out her fingers, wiggling her nails at him.
The other cashier yawned. “How about giraffe prints?” he suggested.
“Ew, no. Giraffes aren't sexy.”
“And zebras are?”
The phone rang. Deciding that whoever was on the other line had to be more interesting than his partner in cashierdom, Cashier Number Two lunged for the phone. “Thank you for calling the Grosholtz Candle Factory,” he said, “where every candle is heaven-scentââ”
“Shut up and get me Barbara!”
Cashier Number Two was momentarily paralyzed by the sound of Anita Chandler's voice. A common side effect. “Uh . . .”
“Now!”
He slapped his hand over the mouthpiece and scooted out onto the floor, slamming into two teenage girls as he rounded the corner to the main entrance. “Sorry! Sorry, ladies.” He reached into the closest display and handed the girls the first thing he could grab. “Here, have a birdhouse.”
He rushed on to the esteemed map distributor and held the phone out to her as if it were a squirming eel. “Barbara, Anita's on the line. She sounds
pissed.
”
Barbara accepted the phone. “Anita? What?ââSlow down, I can't understand you.
What?
Okay. Okay, I'm on it.”
She put her game face on and leered at the outlandish display of Forty Winks candles. “Get a box,” she told Cashier Number Two. “We're pulling the Winks.”
“What? Why?”
“Just do it!”
He nodded and began to sprint off, but not before once again running into those two teenage girls, who had been standing so close, they must have overheard the entire conversation.
One of them smiled sweetly.
“Is something wrong with the candles?”
âââââ
The Smitty's waitress mopped up the last of the spilled coffee from the counter and rinsed the soaked dishrag in the sink. “You want another cup, hon?” she asked through a yawn, turning back to Jesus.
But the seat was vacant.
No one had seen Jesus slip into the kitchen. He was so skinny, he hadn't needed to open the door any farther than the crack Smitty had left in his wake. And, as Smitty was a man of such well-publicized self-sufficiency, Jesus knew there wouldn't be anyone else back there.
Smitty stood in front of the bagel oven, drying his clothes. Mindful of the heat, he was obviously trying not to get too close, but small drops of wax had already fallen onto the concrete floor where he'd started to melt.
So really, Jesus was just finishing the job.
âââââ
“Excuse me!” Banks shouted from the front steps of the Grosholtz Candle Factory. “Mr. and Mrs. Chandler, can we have a word with you?”
The distraught candle factory executives stormed across the parking lot, a task made difficult by the plentiful tour buses unloading their passengers. Every time the Chandlers made a substantial leap forward, a wayward cane or a slow-moving scooter moved in to block them, which made it all the easier for Banks and Louisa to jump into the fray.
Banks shoved a microphone into Preston's face. “Mr. Chandler,” she said while Louisa filmed with her phone, “is it true that the Grosholtz Candle Factory is selling contaminated, harmful candles to the public?”
“No!” he shot back, dislodging himself from the geriatric labyrinth and yanking Anita along with him. They kept on marching toward the main entrance. “There is no evidence to suggest that any of our candlesââ”
“No comment!” Anita shouted over him, elbowing him in the side.
“No comment.”
Banks followed right alongside them, jogging and holding out the microphone while Louisa ran backwards ahead of them like a paparazzo, keeping her phone's camera recording. “I heard a kid died,” Banks said, bopping Preston Chandler in the nose with the microphone. “What words of comfort, if any, do you have for his grieving family?”
“
Died?
I didn't hear thatââ”
“No comment!”
Anita interjected.
“What about the Forty Winks that have already been shipped across the country?” Louisa asked. “Are they contaminated as well?”
“Will there be a recall?” Banks asked.
“What early symptoms should candle lovers be on the lookout for?”
“How quickly do the seizures set in?”
“Is the blindness permanent?”
“How many limbs can your candle lovers expect to lose?”
As they reached the main entrance, Anita spun around, her chest heaving, her face twisted with rage.
“NO. COMMENT.”
Banks put a hand on her hip. “The people have a right to know.”
Preston stepped in and put his hand over Louisa's phone. “Tell you what, girls. Just turn off that camera, step into our office, and we can all sit down for a nice, unrecorded chat.”
Banks gave him a winning smile. “That sounds great, Mr. Chandler.”
Preston nodded at Louisa, who was fiddling with her phone. “Sound good to you, kid? You stopped recording, right?”
“Right.” Louisa tapped the screen a couple more times, then slid it into her pocket. “All done.”
âââââ
Colt Lamberty sat in the Channel Six conference room, practicing his eyebrow raising in the window's reflection. “Colt?” said the station manager, heading up the meeting. “Could you stop that for a minute?”
“These exercises are essential to my gravitas,” Colt explained impatiently, not stopping. “Up . . . down. Up . . . down,” he whispered to himself. “Miraculous . . . tragic. Intrigued . . . suspicious. Late-breaking . . . hard-hitting. Saucy . . . sexy.”
“Please pay attention, Colt.”
Colt let out an unnecessarily loud sigh and reached for his phone instead. No emails. No tweets. No tips. It was shaping up to be a slow news day indeedâââ
Until his YouNews notification pinged.
âââââ
“Now, girls.” Anita delicately swirled the contents of her latte and leaned forward to expose her cleavage in case either or both of them were into that. “I'm sure we can come to an understanding.”
Louisa and Banks felt small in the large velvety armchairs by the fireplace, and they felt even smaller once the Chandlers stood over them and started lecturing, too furious to notice the one major change that Poppy had made to their office. But the girls kept their cool and listened politely. “That depends,” said Louisa. “Are the rumors true?”
Preston let out a condescending laugh. “Of course notââ”
“No comment.”
Anita shot him a fiery look and whispered, “You are such an
idiot.
”
All smiles again as she faced the girls. “Now, about that recording. I'm going to need you to erase that.”
Louisa crossed her arms. “Why? It's on my phone. I own it.”
“Yeah, and it's going on my acting reel,” said Banks. “I'm gonna make it big in Hollywood.”
“Of course you are,” Anita said sarcastically. “But you'll have to do it without that interview.” She took two fast, terrifying steps toward Louisa. “Give me your phone!” she demanded in that tone of voice adults think they can use to get children to instantly obey.
Louisa kept her arms crossed and narrowed her eyes like an insolent brat. “Make me.”
Losing control, Anita lunged forward, grabbed Louisa's wrists, and pulled her up out of the chair.
“Anita, stop!” Preston shouted, putting a hand on her shoulder. “The tour!”