Wax by Gina Damico Read Free Book Online Page A

once!” he boasted. “Stick
that
in your bagel hole!”
    Jill lingered outside the café’s entrance, staring with disgust at the nattering hordes. “Maybe we should go somewhere else.”
    â€œNonsense, poopypants,” Poppy said, striding toward the café with all the confidence of a victorious general returning home from the war. “We continue unabated.” She opened the door for Jill, who stopped short to make way for an exiting couple.
    â€œOh, sorry,” Jill said, skittering out of their way with more speed once she saw who they were.
    Anita and Preston Chandler, CEO and president of the Grosholtz Candle Factory, respectively, looked at Jill with expressions of . . . nothing. Her presence barely registered as a blip on their worldview​—​nothing but a faint gust of wind between them and the next sip of their vanilla lattes.
    The Chandlers had swooped into Paraffin years ago, and though the story went that they had inherited the Grosholtz Candle Factory through some nebulous family connections, it sometimes seemed as though they had taken control solely through brute force charm. Anita and Preston were beautiful, beautiful people. Their skin was flawless, their smiles achingly wide. They were a wedding cake topper come to life​—​plastic, eyes straight ahead, solidly standing on top of the world.
    â€œGutbag,” Anita muttered dismissively at Jill, putting a French-tip manicured finger on the door. “Are you coming?” she asked Preston.
    â€œMy tie got coffee on it​—”
    â€œYou have one hundred and eighty-three ties, Preston. Surely one of them will be a suitable replacement.”
    He followed her out the door, muttering, “Hundred and eighty-
two
now.”
    Jill watched them go. “Did she call me a gutbag?” she asked Poppy.
    â€œWe continue unabated!”
    They continued, unabated, into the café.
    Everyone stared, as Poppy knew they would. Everyone stopped eating, as she knew they would. Everyone looked confused, as she knew they would, when she waved and smiled and marched right up to the counter to order half a dozen chocolate glazed donuts. As she
hoped
they would.
    She refused to cower. She refused to be embarrassed for the myriad misfortunes that had befallen her. They weren’t remotely her fault. Embarrassment was the most useless of emotions in this situation, and Poppy was sick of letting it wash over her without her permission.
    She was in charge now.
    She would have her donuts.
    Â 
    âˆ— ∗ ∗
    Â 
    â€œThat was bitchin’,” Jill said as they left, stuffing several hundred calories’ worth of chocolate into her face. “Did you see Mrs. Debenport? I think she choked on her bagel.”
    â€œOh yeah?”
    â€œI couldn’t tell for sure. A glob of cream cheese was spat into her coffee, at least.”
    Mrs. Debenport’s ruined coffee did brighten Poppy’s spirits, but it was time to focus​—​and to ignore the many eyes watching her pull out of the parking space. Though Poppy had lost many things during her time on
Triple Threat
—​dignity, confidence, a pint of blood​—​she did win a car, having received the most (pity) votes for Audience Favorite. Clementine was bright orange, somehow simultaneously boxy and bulbous, and made Poppy immediately identifiable wherever she drove​—​but humiliation perks, humiliating as they were, were still perks.
    As she steered Clementine around the lake, the Grosholtz Candle Factory loomed ahead of them like a mullet: jolly commercialized store out front, creepy Gothic dungeon out back. Its spires seemed taller today, their emaciated fingers stretching imploringly toward the sky while its storefront welcomed them with open arms, a sunny hello, and a color-coded map.
    â€œHere’s your map!” the greeter bubbled, handing Poppy and Jill