Wax

by Gina Damico

  Poppy brought the screen closer to her face. Putting aside for a moment his striking good looks and dazzling teeth, she immediately perceived that Colt looked off. To be fair, he had always seemed a little otherworldly, but now his eyes appeared glassed over and his nose seemed crooked​—​hardly noticeable at all if you weren’t looking for it. She hadn’t noticed it at the parade.

  “Thank goodness for high definition,” she said, staring at the screen.

  “And look,” said Connor. “Look at his shoes!”

  The camera had panned to the confetti-blanketed ground, catching Colt’s feet in the action. “So?” Poppy said. “What about his shoes?”

  “Leather. Fancy leather!”

  Poppy gasped. “Oh. My. God​—”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  She looked up. Her father’s head poked through her bedroom door.

  Poppy ripped out her earbuds without saying goodbye to Connor. “Just watching the news,” she tried to tell her dad in a breezy voice. She showed him the phone. “There’s . . . footage of the parade. I wanted to see if we were on it.”

  “Oh, right!” Her father took a seat on her bed and gave her head a hug as he looked at the screen. “You know, I missed you, Pops. There were so many people there, of course, it was hard to see. I caught part of the Giddy Committee​—​and definitely heard them​—​but I couldn’t find you.”

  Poppy was beginning to see the flaw in her plan. She’d just invited her father to watch video evidence of her absence. “You know what?” she said, putting her phone away. “I changed my mind. I don’t want to watch it.”

  He frowned. “Why not?”

  “Oh, you know . . .” She got that haunted look in her eye, the one that always accompanied Triple Threat flashbacks. “I don’t think I’m ready to see myself on TV again.”

  “Ah. Of course. Well, I’m sure you were great, sweetie.”

  “She was!” Dud said from Owen’s room. “She did a backflip!”

  Evidently Dud had learned the subtle art of passive aggression.

  Her father gaped at her. “I didn’t know you could do a backflip.”

  Poppy held his gaze. “I can. Apparently.”

  “You’ll have to show me!”

  “Um​—”

  “But for now, bed.”

  “Yes!” She hurriedly got under the covers. “Bed. Bed is what I will go to.” She raised her voice. “Dud and I will both go to bed.”

  Her father gave her a wink. “But not together, right?”

  “Dad.”

  20

  Abandon personal hygiene

  “GOOD HEAVENS,” HER FATHER SAID FROM THE BREAKFAST TABLE, “you look like a malnourished zombie.”

  Poppy gave him a cranky look. “As opposed to a well-nourished zombie?”

  “I imagine there are different levels of healthfulness, even in the zombie world. What do you think?” he asked his wife, who was adding something nauseating to a tub of yogurt.

  “You know, I’m not up to date on my knowledge of undead nutrition,” she said, spooning a glob into her mouth. “Where’s Dud, Owen?”

  Oh, Dud? Poppy thought. He wanted to make an immortal version of me, and I broke his heart for his troubles. I even made him destroy it​—​that’s right, I forced him to systematically smush up that beautiful, flawlessly crafted head of mine. Because there are body snatchers in them there hills, and I don’t want any of them to steal my identity. It would have been a nice gift from a good friend, but you know, life sucks and everything turns to dust and I feel like a piece of absolute garbage.

  Owen shrugged at his mother. “He said he doesn’t feel good.”

  “Oh, dear. Would he like some hot oatmeal?”

  “No,” Poppy interrupted. “In accordance with his island tradition, we are to stay far, far away from him while he battles the ‘gods of pestilence.’ Or he’ll, like, implode.”

  “Don’t be silly, Poppy. He won’t implode.”

  “You want to go tell him his gods are silly?”

  She did not. “I’ll just leave a bowl outside the room.”

  Poppy’s father jumped up. “And I’ll slip some immune boosters under the door!”

  Good luck, thought Poppy.

  She’d already knocked on Owen’s door. She’d pled. She’d apologized.

  She’d gotten no reply but silence.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Upset, and facing a dead end when it came to Dud, Poppy refocused her thoughts on the Hollows. Her hands, slick with sweat, slid around the steering wheel as she drove to school. She didn’t want to waste time with school at all​—​saving the town from invaders seemed like a pretty good reason to skip​—​but the Giddy Committee was a big part of The Plan, and to get to the Giddy Committee, she had to attend rehearsal. And to attend rehearsal, she had to attend school.

  But not all of it.

  Poppy hurried up to Jill’s locker and whispered, “Skip homeroom with me.”

  “My, my,” Jill said with a grin. “You sure know how to drop a girl’s drawers.”

  “Stay long enough to be counted for attendance, then meet me at Clementine.”

  Her homeroom teacher took roll call more slowly than usual, it seemed. Poppy was nervous; she’d never skipped school before. She sat ramrod straight in her chair, her nerves stretched taut and ready to snap like a rubber band.

  As soon as attendance was over, Poppy asked to use the bathroom and booked it through the main hallway.

  “No running,” a deep voice rumbled behind her.

  Poppy stopped, then slowly turned around. Wax Principal Lincoln emerged from his office, cutting an imposing profile as he stared her down.

  “Sorry,” Poppy said breathlessly.

  He gave her a stern nod, then turned and went back into his office.

  Poppy speed-walked the rest of the way, shuddering and whispering “Creepycreepycreepy,” all the way to her car.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “But you already know who the BiScentennial is going to be today,” Jill said as they turned up Secret Service Way. “Mrs. Goodwin, I thought.”

  “Right. But in order to stay one step ahead of things, we need to figure out who the BiScentennials are going to be tomorrow. Those are the ones who would have been lured into the Potion this morning.”

  “Why didn’t you just do a stakeout at the tanks?”

  “Because I don’t know if they stick to the same time, and I’m sure not camping out in the danger zone all day.”

  “But you were willing to let said luring happen without trying to warn or stop innocent people from getting shoved into a tank?”

  “Of course not! But I also have parents. Parents who would definitely notice if their daughter up and left to go do an overnight stakeout.”

  “But​—”

  “No, no more. Silence.”

  Any objections Jill could raise, Poppy had already wrestled with. She simply could not be everywhere. She could not thwart every one of the Chandlers’ plans. This thing had gotten too big too fast, and at this point there was bound to be some collateral damage. All she could do was use the tools at her disposal to prevent it from getting worse.

  As Clementine crested the hill and the tanks came into view, Poppy rolled down the car windows. “Okay. Smell.”

  Poppy took a deep breath. Two scents began dueling for her attention, switching off with each gust of wind.

  One was sweet.

  The other reeked of some pungent, toxic substance.

  “What is that?” Poppy asked, wincing. “Ammonia? Vinegar?”

  Jill frowned. “Chemicals.”

  “Who do we know that would smell of​—” Poppy gasped. “JEAN!”

  “Who in the heck is Jean?”

  “She’s the new pharmacist at CVS​—​and I’ve never seen her before, so I’m pretty sure she just recently moved here! Which totally makes sense. Less of a chance that neighbors will know her well enough to notice a change in her
appearance or personality.”

  “Hmm. Good point.”

  “But the other one . . .” Poppy took another whiff. “It’s sweet, definitely​—​but I can’t​—”

  Jill started to snicker. “You don’t know what it is?”

  “No, what?” Poppy asked. “Candy? Cream soda?”

  “Nope.” Jill gave her an inside-joke smile. “It’s Forbidden Chocolate.”

  Poppy stared back at her. “Oh, get the hell out. Are you sure?”

  “You insult me, dear Poppy. Of course I’m sure. I’d stake my life on it.”

  Goose bumps trickled up Poppy’s neck. “ If Greg were a candle, he’d be Forbidden Chocolate! Of course!”

  “He’s such an upright, dare I say friendly, guy,” Jill replied, equally excited. “Who wouldn’t trust that face of his?”

  Poppy let out a squeal. “Jill, you magnificent genius!”

  Someone popped up from under the blanket in the back seat. “What about me?”

  There was much screaming.

  “Dud!” Poppy yelled. “What are you doing in here? Why are you hiding? Are you trying to give us massive heart attacks?”

  Dud had not yet mastered the skill of answering Poppy’s multiple questions at once. “Um​—”

  “I’ll translate,” said Jill, turning in her seat. “What’s going on, Waxy? I thought you were sick.”

  “No, I’m okay.” He looked at Poppy’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “I just didn’t want to be alone in the house.”

  “Do you want to go back to school?” Poppy asked. “To sculpt some more?”

  He looked down at his hands. “No.”

  Poppy’s heart broke in yet another place. She’d killed his passion for the only thing he loved. Great. “What do you want to do, then?”

  “Can I . . .”

  “What?”

  He looked at Poppy again. “Can I go sit by the lake?”

  “The lake? Why the lake?”

  “Well​—​I really want to go to the melty place​—”

  “Madame Grosholtz’s studio?”

  “Yeah, but that seems too dangerous. So I can just look at it from across the lake. I can sit on a bench.”

  “You want to sit on a bench and look at the lake,” Poppy said unsurely. “You know that’s something that mostly only old men do, right?”

  “That’s fine,” Dud said.

  Poppy looked at Jill, then shrugged. “Seems harmless enough.”

  Jill furrowed her brow but said nothing.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  When they got to the lake, Dud’s bad mood instantly dissipated. “Goose monsters!” he yelped.

  “Don’t talk to strangers,” Poppy said as he got out of the car. “And if you feel like you’re in danger, hide. Remember hide-and-seek?”

  “Okay!” he said, barreling down toward the shore.

  Poppy bit her lip. “He’s actually not all that good at hide-and-seek​—”

  “Listen to me, Poppy,” Jill interrupted, fixing an intense stare on Dud’s receding form. “You need to pay attention to him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know I like Dud. I do. But​—” Jill’s mouth twisted. “Look, I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and​—​I don’t trust him. I can’t.”

  “Oh, Jill. He’s harmless.”

  “Is he? If all the other Hollows are being controlled by the Chandlers, how do we know that Dud isn’t too?”

  “Because he isn’t.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I do.”

  Jill raised an eyebrow. “Do you? Without a doubt?”

  Poppy shifted uncomfortably. “No, not without a doubt, but it’s Dud. He’s​—” His smile could be seen from a hundred feet away. “He’s one of the good guys.”

  But Jill was right; Poppy couldn’t know that for sure. Even if Dud himself were pure and good, one of the other Hollows could have easily booby-trapped him. She thought that Madame Grosholtz was the one who planted him in her trunk, but she couldn’t prove that. A grenade of evil could be lying in wait somewhere deep inside him, ready to explode as soon as one of them thought it could best be used to their advantage.

  He was potentially dangerous.

  He was a liability.

  “He should be dealt with,” said Jill.

  Poppy reeled back as if she’d been slapped.

  “No.” She wrung her increasingly clammy hands. “We’re not going to do that. He may be a liability, but he could just as easily be an asset.”

  “You’re letting your feelings cloud your judgment.”

  Of course she was. Of course it was ridiculous that she should have any emotional connection to a person-shaped ball of wax. Of course she could be putting the town in further danger by trusting him.

  But he trusted her. Didn’t that count for something? How could she betray him like that?

  “We’re not going after Dud,” Poppy said, struggling to keep her voice from breaking. “Don’t bring it up again.”

  Jill leaned back in her seat. “Fine.”

  Dud chose that moment to run back to the car. “Poppy! I saw a snake monster!” he said, his face exploding with wonder.

  “Cool, Dud.” Poppy gave him a tight smile but couldn’t keep it for long​—​not after she’d spotted Jill out of the corner of her eye, mouthing, “Snake.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The ride back to school was decidedly frosty.

  Paraffin High’s rotating class schedule had deposited Mr. Crawford’s class into the second period of the day, so Poppy made sure to get there in time​—​but she was so distracted that she didn’t get to enjoy her usual ten full minutes of excitement and preparatory primping. She blustered into the biology lab, took her seat, and began nervously tapping her pen against the leg of the desk.

  “Mitochondria,” Mr. Crawford began after the bell had rung. “Your friends and mine. Let’s muck around for a bit in their squirrelly ways, shall we?”

  God, he’s gorgeous, Poppy allowed herself to think for a brief moment, before remembering, Oh, right, the town is doomed. A surge of nausea pounded through her stomach, the odor of the lab definitely not helping.

  Mr. Crawford grabbed a marker from his desk and turned around to write something on the board. But Poppy wasn’t paying attention.

  She was sniffing the air, detecting the chemical smell of the preservative used to keep the dissected animals.

  She was listening to the inflections of Mr. Crawford’s voice, the way they sounded slightly unnatural, almost rehearsed.

  And she was staring at the back of his head.

  “. . . and of course, all those folds increase surface area. Any questions? Yes, Poppy?”

  “What’s wrong with your ear?”

  His hand flew up to his right earlobe, which had sagged down about half an inch longer than the one on the left. He quickly massaged it between his fingers, and by the time he let go, it was back to normal. “Guess I missed a bit of hair gel,” he said, letting out a small self-effacing laugh. “Thank you, Poppy, for pointing it out. In front of everyone.”

  She should have been embarrassed. She should have wanted to die. And she would have, if he’d been the real Mr. Crawford.

  But judging by the infinitesimal sneer he shot at her right before turning back to the board, he was not.

  21

  Self-preserve

  POPPY HAD NO IDEA HOW SHE MADE IT THROUGH THE REST of that class. She may have somehow put herself into a catatonic play-dead state the way some animals do when they feel threatened.

  It shouldn’t have come down to a melted earlobe. She should have figured it out sooner​—​of course the chemical smell was his, not JEAN!’s. She knew Mr. Crawford’s scent better than her own!

  My beloved, she thought, biting her lip to keep it from quivering. Could he still be alive in the Potion tank? Or is he dead? And​—​oh, God, what about his family?—​for the first time consid
ering his wife and children with a sense of something other than abject jealousy.

  She’d been there at the tank that very morning! She should have tried to save him! But no, she’d already tried to get to Mrs. Goodwin and had gotten nowhere. That tank was secured too well for her to break through in a pinch.

  Better to do things right than rushed. It killed her to have to think that way, so callous and calculating, but the greater good of the town had to come first. The Plan would go into effect tomorrow, no matter what.

  Her comatose classroom strategy lasted straight on through calculus, music, history, and gym, which was the easiest of all​—​she just showed up looking as grim and unenthusiastic as she always did, lingering around the sidelines as basketball happened in front of her. It wasn’t until she left the locker room that her nerves ramped up again, when she ran into Jesus.

  And the day immediately and without hesitation got worse.

  “Hey, Poppy, guess what?” he said. “I melted the principal.”

  “What?”

  He fluffed himself up, looking proud. “I. Melted. The​—”

  “Oh my God, shhh. Come on.”

  Poppy grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the alcove under the staircase, where kids sometimes went to make out. “Slobber Junction, Palladino?” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her. “I’m flattered.”

  “No. Never. Please reiterate what you said, and then explain it to me in the greatest of detail.”

  “I melted the principal!”

  “Elaborate.”

  “It went down like this.” He spread his hands out to set the scene. “When I got to school ’bout a half hour ago, that orc of a lunch lady caught me smoking outside. Sent me to the principal’s office. So I went, and you know, this ain’t my first barbecue​—​I know how to sweet-talk my way out of detention. So I swagger into the office, bump fists with Miss Fitzgerald​—​have you met her? The new secretary? Damn, the booty on that woman​—”