Wax (25 page)

Yet Poppy could only make educated guesses about the current status of the Bursaws, trapped as she was in the sticky mess of parade preparations, sneering at the unacceptable amount of merriment around her. She was
so
not where she wanted to be at the moment: far from the center of town, hair braided, and wearing itchy lederhosen, ready to assault Main Street with a grenade of musical theater.

She shot a quick glance at the Price Chopper dumpster. Dud's eyes poked out of it.

She shook her head. He disappeared back inside.

The other members of the Giddy Committee, wearing the vaguely Alpine costumes Jill had cobbled together from their meager supplies, were nervously preparing around her, warming up their vocal chords and practicing their skip-two-threes.

“Madame Director,” Connor said with a deep bow, “I took it upon myself to bring a prop that I felt would add to the performance. What say you?”

Poppy studied the stuffed animal he presented. “Let me guess. Doe, a deer?”

“A
female
deer.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Poppy couldn't have cared less. Sure, their performance would reflect on her, the school, and the Giddy Committee​—​and if she'd been in a better frame of mind, she might have seen it as an opportunity for redemption in the eyes of the townspeople​—​but for once in her life, she had more important things to deal with than theater.

Especially when she spotted the crew of the Grosholtz Candle Factory float making their final preparations.

Jill turned to her. “So I think we should open with ‘The Lonely Goatherd'​—​Poppy! Come back here!”

Poppy returned a moment later, her face flushed and candles in hand. “They gave me free samples of today's BiScentennials!” She read the two labels aloud. “Italian Leather and Sour Grapes. Who could those be?”

“I don't know,” said Jill. “What are your thoughts on the opening number?”

Poppy tapped her chin. “And whoever they are, the question remains: How are the BiScentennial candles being manufactured?”

“Probably with wax,” Jill said.

“Well, yes, obviously with wax,” Poppy said testily. “But remember, on the tour, how the tour guide said they'd be using that Potion stuff to extract people's essences? She said they'd be using ‘data' from Paraffiners, but what does that
mean?
”

“No clue.”

“Here's what I'm thinking​—”

“Oh, now there's thinking involved? Because up until now it has seemed as though you've thrown rational thought out the window.”

“Would you shut up and listen to me for once?” Poppy snapped. “I'm trying to make sense of a completely nonsensical situation by turning to my best friend for help, but all my best friend wants to do is be a skeptical bitch about it!”

Jill's mouth dropped open. They called each other bitches all the time, but always with love, never in earnest. She took a breath and started to reply​—​

“Good morning, ladies!” Mr. Crawford said, jogging up to Poppy's side. “Is your crew ready for the performance of a lifetime?”

Both Poppy and Jill froze. The fight was imminent, bubbling up behind their teeth, but neither wanted to start it in front of Mr. Crawford. “Yeah,” Poppy eventually managed. “I think so . . .”

“Poppy hates
The Sound of Music,
” Jill blurted. Now all three of them looked shocked, even Jill, but her expression quickly turned to one of malice. “
Hates
it. She always has, from before she was on
Triple Threat.
She only performed it because the producers made her. It's her least favorite musical of
all time.
”

Mr. Crawford frowned. “Is that true?”

“No,” Poppy said numbly. “No, it isn't.”

“Yes, it is,” Jill said. “At the end, she roots for the Nazis.”

Poppy gasped. “I do not
root
for the
Nazis.
”

“She shouts, ‘The helpless children are right over that hill! Hurry up! Don't let them get to Switzerland!'”

“That's not true,” she told Mr. Crawford, who was now looking at her as though she'd committed a war crime. “She's lying.”

“Oh, but I'm not,” Jill said with relish. “I believe Miss Palladino's exact words were, ‘I hope little Gretl falls off the mountain. So long! Farewell!
Auf Wiedersehen,
goodDIE!'”

If Mr. Crawford had a response to that, Poppy didn't hear it. She turned and ran to the farthest corner of the parking lot, keeping her back to the crowds and staring straight into the trees. Her shoulders heaved as she tried not to cry, two little words scampering like demonic squirrels through her mind.

Jill too?

But her tears quickly turned into hot streams of anger. How
dare
she? Jill had been right there on the front lines for the worst moments of Poppy's life, and now she was using it as ammo.
In front of Mr. Crawford.
How cruel was that?

A light breeze blew through the trees as she stared steely-eyed into the woods, running through the comebacks she wished she'd thought of in the moment​—​when an odd aroma wafted into her nose.

Instantaneously her mind went blank.

Then, slowly, one thought occurred to her​—​then grew stronger and stronger until it drowned out everything else, screaming through her brain at a deafening volume.

She allowed herself a brief glance at the throngs assembled for the parade. The Giddy Committee would probably be fine without her. The Soulless Ice Demon Heretofore Known as Jill would have things under control. And Mr. Crawford was never going to speak to her or look at her or kindly rebuke her misplaced flirtations again, so really, what did she have to lose?

With a deep breath, Poppy plunged into the woods.

∗ ∗ ∗

The forest was disorienting​—​plus the lederhosen weren't doing her any favors in the speed department. It wasn't until Poppy caught sight of the big white tanks that she realized she'd been heading toward the candle factory. The flame on top of Tank #1 was lit, calling her forth like a beacon.

Of course,
she thought as she walked up the metal staircase of #1 without hesitation,
of course that's where I need to go . . . the Grosholtz Candle Factory is a wonderful place . . .

When she took the final steps onto the roof, a big, silly grin smacked onto her face as she looked at the flame.
“So beautiful,”
she said, her tone oddly high-pitched.

“Poppy?”

She whirled around, her shoes scraping on the rough surface of the roof. “Dud? What are you doing here?”

He let go of the staircase's railing and took a few slow steps toward her. “I saw you go into the woods, and you looked mad and sad and then kind of scary, so I got out of the dumpster to follow you, to make sure you were okay. And now you climbed up onto this roof, so I don't think you are okay.”

“Go away, Dud,” she said in a harsh voice that did not sound anything like her. “I'm busy.” She turned her back on him and continued on toward the flame at the center of the tank's roof, sniffing manically.

“But, Poppy, wait​—”

“I said go away!”

She heard an abrupt rush of footsteps behind her. Before she realized what he was doing, Dud clamped his hand over her face. Poppy screamed into his hand, but her scream was too muffled for anyone to hear . . .

. . . Oh my God, he was bad all along . . .

. . . He's gonna kill me . . . I'm gonna die right here on this roof . . . and I never got to find out what the flame had to tell me . . .

. . . Wait, is that really my dying thought?

Poppy stopped struggling. The fog that had clouded her mind at first sniff began to clear.

She blinked hard.

What am I doing on the roof of this tank?

As she straightened up, now calm, Dud relaxed his grip​—​except for his fingers, still tightly squeezing her nostrils shut.

“Let go of by dose,” she burbled.

Wide-eyed, Dud shook his head. “No way. Whatever you smelled made you go crazy!”

“I realize that. Let go​—​I'll hold by own dose, I probise.”

Terms settled, Dud let go. Poppy pinched her nostrils and looked up at the tall flame, gulping air into her mouth to clear out any residual toxins. The base of it looked like that of a giant lantern, the fuel in its well flecked with a golden, sparkly powder. “Do
you
sbell that?” she asked Dud, not daring to get too close.

“No.”

“Well, whatever that sbell is​—​it, like, hijacked by brain. I kept thinking I had to get up here at all costs!”

Not that the roof was much to look at. It was old and rusted, with a hinged, closed hatch in the center. She peered at the roof of the other tank; it was largely the same, except for a big, unpatched hole​—​the result of the lightning strike, judging by the burn marks.

Poppy glanced back at the golden flecks in the fuel well of the flame. “I thidk this is that additive they talked about at the tour​—​the powder you add to a flabe to lure people in!”

Footsteps sounded on the metal steps.

Before they could hide​—​or figure out if it was possible to hide atop a flat roof​—​a figure in gardening clogs appeared, taking heavy, zombielike steps toward the flame.

“Bissus Goodwid?” Poppy asked her addled next-door neighbor. “What are you doing here? I thought you were on the Rotary Club float!”

“Float,” Mrs. Goodwin repeated in a monotone. She stopped just short of the flame, taking deep breaths and staring at it with a blank expression.

“I think the sbell lured her id too,” Poppy whispered to Dud. “Bissus Goodwid, the scent is hypdotizing you! Breathe through your bouth!”

More footsteps on the stairs.

Poppy hurried to the stairs and took a quick peek down, then retreated. “It's Prestod Chaddler!” she whispered to Dud. “We have to get out of here!”

He looked around nervously. “There's nowhere to hide and seek.”

Poppy gave Mrs. Goodwin a hard shake. “What do we do?”

“Do,” Mrs. Goodwin replied, still captivated by the flame.

Panic began to set in. Preston was almost at the top​—​

Dud grabbed Poppy and flung her onto his back. “Hold on,” he instructed, sprinting to the edge of the roof. And then, to Poppy's utter terror, he sat down, turned around, and lowered them both over the side, holding on to the lip of the roof by his fingertips.

Poppy frantically clung to his shoulders but remained quiet​—​and managed to pull herself up enough to see what was going on.

Preston was on the roof now. He had his back to her, but she could hear what he was saying. “Where's the other one?” he asked Mrs. Goodwin. “Where's the girl?”

“Girl.”

Preston let out a frustrated sigh. “Forget it.” He used a large key to unlock the hatch, and then, without any hint of ceremony or consequence, shoved Mrs. Goodwin into the hole. A second later, a splash sounded below.

“I'm gonna get an earful on this one,” he muttered to himself, irked, as he locked the hatch and disappeared back down the steps.

Once they were sure he was gone, Dud climbed back up, safely depositing Poppy on the roof. She ran to the hatch. “Bissus Goodwid!” she shouted, madly pounding on the hatch. If the fall alone didn't kill her, being trapped in a giant drum of liquid would. The woman had to be in her eighties — she'd drown in no time. “Bissus Goodwid!”

No answer.

She pulled on the hatch's handle, but it wasn't budging. Poppy pounded down the stairs of the tank and tried to peel back the repair patch, but the plastic was too thick and the Tackety Wax too strong.

“I can't,” Poppy said, panting, tears springing to her eyes as Dud came down the stairs. “I can't save her. What do we do?”

“I don't know.” He knitted his fingers together. “This is dangerous.”

Poppy wiped her face and steeled her resolve. “Add it's about to get a lot bore so.”

∗ ∗ ∗

Poppy led Dud through the path down the hill, remembering to hang a left at the Paraffin Spa personal sauna. After a while she gave the air a small test whiff. “I think it's gone,” she said, taking a deeper breath.

She climbed up into the ruins of Madame Grosholtz's studio and approached the trapdoor. “We're going down there,” she told Dud. “And we don't know what or who we're going to find, so from here on out, zip it.”

“Zip what?”

“Zip your mouth.”

“How do I do that?”

“Just be quiet.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Poppy took a deep breath, hitched up her lederhosen, and stepped down onto the​—​

“Poppy?”

“What?”

“Should I be actually zipping my mouth somehow, or is that an expression?”

“Shh!
It's an expression. It means no more talking.”

“Okay.”

She stepped through the jagged wood into the hole, found her balance on the first step, and​—​

“Poppy?”

She looked up at Dud, eyes blazing.
“What?”

“Break a leg.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Or is it shake a leg?”

“
Please
stop talking.”

The staircase was narrower and darker than she remembered. Poppy had to slowly slide her toes down and make sure she had her footing before taking each step. With every second that passed, she was sure that Dud, blindly flailing behind her, was about to crash and send them both tumbling​—​ironically breaking a leg in the process​—​but he turned out to be surprisingly graceful.

“Where are we going?” Dud whispered as they made their way through the icy tunnel.