Wax

  “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

  Waving, Poppy backed away from Jill’s car and walked across the parking lot to Clementine. “Did I do okay?” Dud asked when she got in.

  “Shh. Wait,” Poppy said, watching.

  Jill backed up out of her parking space, drove through the lot, turned onto the main road​—​

  And drove out of sight.

  Poppy exploded out of Clementine, shouting, “Go go go!” Dud followed, and Connor, waiting in his own car, did the same. Banks and Louisa could be seen running back toward the school. They all converged in the main hallway, each of them clutching their copies of THE PLAN—​but unlike Jill’s and Poppy’s copies, at the top of theirs was printed, in gigantic letters:

  JILL IS A HOLLOW.

  THIS IS NOT THE PLAN.

  BUT YOU MUST PRETEND THAT IT IS. GO ALONG WITH EVERYTHING I’M SAYING TO YOU—REACT AS YOU NORMALLY WOULD, ASK QUESTIONS AS YOU NORMALLY WOULD, LEAVE THE BUILDING AS YOU NORMALLY WOULD ONCE THE MEETING IS ADJOURNED.

  BUT ONCE JILL IS OUT OF SIGHT, RETURN TO SCHOOL AS FAST AS YOU CAN.

  “Back to the auditorium,” Poppy said breathlessly, pulling her bulging notebook out of her bag once they all arrived. “For the real Plan.”

  23

  Bundle up

  6:59 A.M.

  Poppy looked at Blake’s colossal scuba diver watch. It was the only timepiece she had left, now that her cell phone was broken. With a pang, she figured he would have been okay with her borrowing it if it helped save a life or two.

  Because time, in this instance, was definitely of the essence. It wasn’t going to be easy, setting off a chain of events without any of the Hollows catching on or warning the others or calling the police. It wasn’t going to be easy to pick off the Hollows without the Chandlers catching wind that something was awry.

  It had to go perfectly.

  She looked over the inventory of items they’d gathered the night before​—​oregano, Tackety Wax, microphone—​and frowned when she sniffed her hands, which still smelled like lighter fluid from the fire she’d started an hour earlier. Dud was watching the fast-moving clouds; it was a chilly day, but of course that didn’t bother him. Poppy, on the other hand, was wrapped up tight in a sweater, scarf, jacket, mittens, and a hat. It was a lot windier up there, and her nose was so cold, she could have chipped it off with an ice pick.

  At least the view was nice.

  For what felt like the millionth time, she read over The Plan. Each to-do item was to be crossed off as it was completed. Each Hollow was to be marked as witnessed (noted with a pair of eyes

  ) by at least one other Hollow. Each member of the Giddy Committee was to play a part, scheduled down to the minute.

  “It’s going to work,” Dud said out of nowhere.

  Poppy rubbed her mittened hands together. “I hope so.”

  “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.

  7:00 a.m.: Commence The Plan

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  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, bro​—”

  But the cup slipped between his fingers. Coffee flooded the counter, soaking the Chandlers’ morning newspaper​—​and 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.

  7:02 a.m.: Anita and Preston

  Smitty

  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 back​—​and 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 see​—” 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 extremities​—”

  “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.

  “—​already a bestseller​—”

  “—​sabotage, maybe​—”

  “—​there’ll be an investigation​—”

  “—​and lawsuits!”

  7:05 a.m.: Anita and Preston Chandler leave Smitty’s

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “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 slow​—​but 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-scent​—”

  “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??
?? Slow 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?”

  7:10 a.m.: Escalate a scandal

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  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.

  7:15 a.m.: Melt Smitty in New England’s largest bagel oven

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “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 candles​—”

  “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 that​—”

  “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.”

  7:20 a.m.: Upload interview to Channel Six YouNews

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  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 indeed​—​

  Until his YouNews notification pinged.

  7:25 a.m.: Colt

  Anita and Preston

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “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 not​—”

  “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!”

  She froze. All four of them slowly looked toward the display window, where a dozen elderly tourists stood, each of their mouths open in shock at seeing the CEO of a multimillion-dollar company manhandling a teenage girl.

  Several took photos.

  Anita dropped Louisa back into her chair and flashed a winning smile at the group. “Hello!” she said, waving like a beauty queen. “Welcome to our factory!”

  Sensing a bit of urgency, the tour guide ushered the group away from the window and closed the curtain, encouraging them on toward the wicking room.

  “Should I go get their cameras?” Preston asked Anita.

  “No,” she said, thinking. “We’ll have to spin this a different way now. We were . . . I don’t know, we were rehearsing a play or something. Engaging with the local theater youth, or some nonsense. Yes, that’s it!” She lit up. The roaring fire behind her​—​reeking of lighter fluid, much larger than its hologram version​—​made her glow, as if she’d been sent from hell. “It was all performance art! We can say the interview was scripted, and turn the contamination rumors into something marketing came up with. Contaminated . . . with fun! Infected . . . with love!”

  Preston got into the spirit. “Poisoned . . . with safety!”

  Anita was beaming now. “Girls, what do you think?” she asked, extending her hand. “Do we have a deal?”

  Louisa looked at Banks. Banks looked at Louisa.

&nbs
p; They stood up and extended their hands.

  7:30 a.m.: Push Anita and Preston Chandler into their office fireplace

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Colt Lamberty’s expensive sports car bumped and jostled over the craggy surface of Channel Six’s back-roads shortcut into town. He was about to hang a left when a large boy appeared from nowhere, landing with a disturbing crunch on his windshield.

  Colt sighed impatiently.

  He got out of the car and assessed the damage. The hood had not been dented, nor the windshield cracked. The boy looked dead, but the paint job seemed to be intact.

  “Help!” Connor sprang back to life, gasping and grasping at Colt’s lapel. “Sir, you gotta help me!”

  Colt recoiled. “Oh. You’re alive.” As if handling a large insect, he peeled Connor’s fingers off his jacket. “Here,” he said, pulling a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and tossing it at Connor. “A little something for your troubles.”

  Connor watched it flutter to the ground. “I don’t need help! My friend does!”

  “I do not care about your friend.”

  “But, sir​—​he’s in danger!”

  Colt raised a splendidly groomed eyebrow.

  “Danger?”

  7:35 a.m.: Intercept Colt Lamberty

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Mr. Kosnitzky finished washing his storefront window, put the Windex away, and looked at the clock: 7:36.

  Just enough time left over to do a little spying.

  He sat down in his chair and stared, eagle-eyed, at the town center. No teenagers in the gazebo. No teenagers at the lake. One teenager over by the post office, but he supposed that she could just be mailing something, not up to anything nefarious.

  But he could not be certain.

  Just then a flash of shiny crimson Euro-ness screeched around the corner. That dolt Colt Lamberty was at the wheel, as usual, chasing some ridiculous lead. A cat trapped in a tree, probably, or the Virgin Mary in someone’s pancakes.