Wax by Gina Damico Read Free Book Online Page B

one copy each. She wore a red vest and a customized pin that said BARBARA’S FAVORITE GROSHOLTZ CANDLE SCENT IS: NEW-FALLEN SNOW! “If you have questions, ask any of our Waxperts in the red vests. Enjoy your day at the Grosholtz Candle Factory!”
    Poppy and Jill nodded their thanks, because for the next thirty seconds, they could not speak. They made it a few feet into the foyer of the store, until they couldn’t hold their breath any longer. Jill was the first to blow, followed a few seconds later by Poppy.
    The first inhalation was the worst.
    â€œBluuugh,”
Poppy moaned, sticking out her tongue.
    â€œGaargh,”
Jill gagged, crinkling her nose.
    Hazelnut-melon Christmas. Buttercream-pumpkin seaweed. Herbal-sandcastle coffee. Berry-rubber holiday. Autumn-hamburger landfill. Patchouli-patchouli patchouli.
    Poppy fanned her hand across her nose and exchanged a foul glance with Jill. “Instead of maps, they should hand out gas masks.”
    â€œAnd suicide pills.”
    But the agony had just begun. The entrance area alone boasted no less than forty varieties of jams and jellies, a greasy food court, a kiosk offering freshly made fudge, several Scent Stations, and, of course, the main attraction: walls and walls and walls of jars and tins and molds of candles.
    â€œI am going to be sick,” Jill announced. “Excuse me while I duck into one of these Scent Stations and unload the contents of my stomach.”
    â€œDon’t. They’ll probably make it into a candle.”
    â€œHalf-Digested Donut.”
    â€œChocolate-Glazed Upchuck.”
    The line for the make-your-own-candle area was growing by the minute, winding slowly past a conveniently placed price list​—​ CUSTOM LABELS: $5.00; RAINBOW SWIRLS: $3.00; HIDE A SECRET NOTE IN A CANDLE: $10.00​ —​that kids looked upon with delight and parents looked upon with abject hatred. Another vestibule held bottles of Tackety Wax, the Grosholtz Candle Factory’s first foray into infomercial-worthy products​—​a sticky wax that promised a tight seal on anything that needed sealing. And eclipsing them all: a large display with a sign that read INTRODUCING: B I S CENTENNIALS! COMING TOMORROW!
    â€œâ€˜In honor of our town’s bicentennial celebrations,’” Poppy read off the sign, “‘the Grosholtz Candle Factory will be releasing two brand-new, small-batch, exclusive special-edition BiScentennial candles
every day.
For the rest of our bicentennial
year!
’”
    â€œMy heavens,” Jill said as they walked farther into the store. “We’ll need another full year to recover from the excitement.”
    Poppy tried to ignore the costumed musical atrocity that was befalling the food court, but it was not designed to be ignored. A dancing pig dressed in overalls swung his bucket oh so merrily across a raised stage while a trio of cows sang and wiggled their udders. There was also a terrifying anthropomorphic representation of the state of Vermont ambling and cavorting about, his ceaseless, dead stare no doubt sucking the souls from the slack-jawed children who had the misfortune to fall under his tyranny.
    â€œI will miss my eyes,” said Jill, “when I gouge them out. But I see no other course of action.”
    â€œWaterbury gets Ben and Jerry’s,” Poppy lamented. “Cabot gets endless cheese. Paraffin gets candles and Vermonty, New England’s most beloved nightmare goblin.”
    It was then that Vermonty entreated the audience to join him in a stirring rendition of Vermont’s state song, “These Green Mountains,” at which point Poppy and Jill bolted as fast as their loganberry-laden lungs would allow.
    They found themselves in a waiting room of sorts, where a large sign announced that the next tour would begin in five minutes. Beside it stood the Waxpert tour guide, a perky-looking girl wearing a red vest and a